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You sleep surprisingly well for having only a thin blanket as a mattress. The clanking of breakfast preparation rouses you. The sun is up, but it can't be after eight. You growl to yourself and rise, throwing your top blanket over your head to fend off the early morning chill. The Dwarves stare unashamedly at this un-elf-like behavior, but you really couldn't care less. You're cold and grouchy and your back hurts a bit, and you're almost contemplating whining about it. You accept the sausage and eggs with a murmur of thanks.

Bilbo sits next to you with his own plate. He waits until no one is paying attention, then whispers to you, "I know the feeling."

You groan but smile. "I miss having a bed already."

"Didn't I tell you about adventures? Nasty and uncomfortable things. Perhaps you're not the only one with foresight!"

You laugh delightedly at the joke. Bilbo smiles, pleased that you find him amusing. You giggle, "Uncomfortable indeed, but bearable with company like you!"

"You are too kind, my lady."

"No, you're too kind. I haven't thanked you properly for taking me in and dealing with me acting crazy. How would you like me to thank you?"

"Well, I heard Kili shouting about his true love or something of that nature. If you know, you could tell me if this quest will succeed."

"Of course we're gonna get into Erebor!" you scoff. "Is that even a question? Isn't there anything else you want to know?"

Bilbo hesitates, then murmurs, "About the dragon?"

"Don't worry about Smaug. You'll do fine."

"I'll do fine?!"

"You're the burglar; did you think you were gonna steal us some snacks? Really, don't worry about it. You're the perfect hobbit for the job."

Bilbo does not look any more encouraged.

You set off on the day's ride. Soon the trees thin and disappear completely, leaving open scrub land in all direction. You recognize the area as somewhere near Weathertop. You hope the next camp will be in the ruins of the ancient watchtower; you can't wait to hear the story of Azalnubizar live and in person. It then occurs to you that the storyteller himself is only a few horses ahead of you.

You urge your pony, Thistle, ahead. You take a deep breath before coming up beside Balin; though he is the most courteous of the Dwarves, you still fear rejection. "Master Balin?" you say meekly.

The old Dwarf seems surprised that you're addressing him, but responds with a polite, "Yes, m'lady?"

"I was wondering if I could trouble you for a story?"

Balin raises his eyebrows. "A story? On what subject?"

"Anything. Everything. I'd even listen to genealogies."

"But don't you already know all my stories?" he asks slyly.

You giggle. "Fortunately, no! And even if I did, I'd be glad to hear them again."

Balin succumbs to your flattery and regales you with tale after tale. You hang on his every word, gasping and laughing and ahhing in all the right places. All the while your brain is squealing like a teenager at a boy band concert at the sheer awesomeness of the situation. If only you had a camera to record everything so you'd never lose it!

The day flies by with your source of entertainment. You hardly notice when the ponies take to an incline for a time and then stop. You look around and gasp in delight: you've reached Weathertop already! You dismount Thistle and flit to and fro, examining every rock and pillar still standing. It's as good as a museum, not only because Thorin's backstory is revealed, but also because Aragorn brings the hobbits here -

You freeze solid and your breath catches in your chest. You're standing in almost the exact place that Frodo will lie over sixty years from now. It hadn't occurred to you until now that Frodo was part of the equation of Middle Earth, however far down the line. It hadn't occurred to you until now that, eventually, after Erebor is retaken, the trinket found by Bilbo in the goblin caves will pass to his nephew and a whole new adventure will begin. It hadn't occurred to you until now that the stars had given you more than you bargained for and then some.

"Aniel?" Bilbo's hesitant voice sound from behind you. "Are you alright?"

"I'm - I - " You swallow hard. "Need to sit." You plop down where you are to try to make sense of the chaos in your mind.

"Are you ill again? Should I tell - "

"No," you say a bit more strongly. "Don't tell Thorin. I just need to collect myself."

Bilbo dithers between staying by you and pretending nothing is wrong and eventually chooses the latter. You stay on the ground, again watching some of your favorite movies at super speed. The overwhelming amount of information makes you wonder if you made a mistake in your wish; you never realized how much different things could be on the other side of the screen. But here in Middle Earth, you were facing another six decades after reclaiming Erebor until things picked up again. Infinite catastrophes could occur within that period, especially with the way you intended to drastically alter the timeline. Of course, you had no choice but to join the War of the Ring; there were plenty of things in that story you could tweak for the better. All this, and you were only two days into your first quest.

Boots step quietly up to you. You recognize them as Kili's. You uncurl from your protective ball in an attempt to seem more elf-ly and look up at him with the fragile start of a smile.

"You're troubled," Kili begins. He seems uncomfortable even broaching the subject.

"No, I'm fine." You rub away any stray tears of distress that might have formed. "Don't worry about it."

"Is it...something I could help with?"

You laugh in spite of yourself. "That's an extraordinarily kind offer, Kili, but no. It's very far in the future anyway."

"It must be a burden, knowing things before they happen."

"I didn't think it would be, but yeah, it's shaping up to be kind of annoying."

"Well, dinner's ready, if you're interested..."

You realize that you're starving; riding horseback all day burns a surprising amount of calories. Kili offers you his hand, which you take while trying to suppress a blush. He lifts you from the ground with all of the strength you expected. You scold yourself for swooning. He has Tauriel coming! But Fili's single, and so is Thorin, so your menu isn't exactly lacking.

Through and after dinner you remain preoccupied with your latest revelation. You borrow paper and charcoal from Ori to get your buzzing thoughts out of your head. The but of parchment is soon covered in complicated diagrams and webs and side notes as you try to plan for every contingency from now until after Mount Doom. Had you not the veritable library of Tolkien knowledge you possess, the process would have been completely impossible, but you're comforted slightly as you read over your intricate plotting. The road will be long and hard and probably extremely irritating, but at least you have a plan.

A distant unearthly shriek rents the air. You jump and drop the charcoal. "What was that?" you and Bilbo gasp at he same time.

"Orcs..." Kili murmurs. He then grins and elbows Fili, who continues, "Throat-cutters. There'll be dozens of them out there. The lowlands are crawling with them."

Kili keeps an impressively straight face. "They strike in the middle of the night when everyone's asleep, quick and quiet - no screams, just lots of blood."

Bilbo looks terrified. You're about to scold the brothers, but Thorin beats you to it: he snaps, "You think that's funny? You think a night raid by orcs is a joke?"

"We didn't mean anything by it," Kili murmurs, avoiding his uncle's glare.

"No you didn't. You know nothing of the world." Thorin rises and stalks to the edge of Weathertop, either to keep watch or to keep up his brooding appearance. You'd be annoyed with him, but you're too excited to hear the story of Azalnubizar in real time.

"Don't mind him, laddie," Balin says gently. "Thorin has more cause than most to hate orcs."

You fold your planning paper and tuck it between your vest and shirt. You swivel to face Balin and get cozy for the tale. You already know each word, but hearing it live and in person, under the dark of the open sky and in the chill of the night air, you find yourself utterly entranced. You picture the events as Balin recounts them. Somehow it's much more vivid in your head than they ever had been onscreen.

"...and I thought to myself then, there is one I could follow. There is one I could call king."

You rise with the other Dwarves and gaze adoringly at Thorin, who seems to be over his brief bout of temper. It overwhelms you how proud you are of him. You're embarrassed by the few tears that well in your eyes at the surge of emotion, but hey, you've cried more over less. Things settle down after that. You retire to your "bed" to try and net a few hours of sleep before sunrise.

A few hours is all you net. You rise more undead-looking than the previous day. Again you wrap yourself in your blanket as if to trick yourself into thinking you'll be allowed to return to slumber. No one is bemused by your behavior this time. You pack your belongings onto Thistle after breakfast and resign yourself to another long day in the saddle.

"You were crying," a deep voice accuses from behind you.

You jump and fumble your bedroll. Thorin doesn't pick it up for you. You scowl and return pointedly, "A word of warning would have been nice."

Thorin ignores that. "Last night, after Balin was finished, there were tears in your eyes. Why?"

"Does it matter?"

"It matters to me."

"Well, it's not exactly a happy story, is it? But here you are, about to take back your throne. I guess I was just happy with the way things turned out." You say this in lieu of squishing his cheeks and cooing over how proud he made you.

Thorin regards you like he doesn't quite believe you. "And why would an elf have such emotion?"

You sigh and secure your bedroll with the rest of your things. "One day, Thorin, I'm going to prove to you that I'm a friend, and we'll be on better terms."

"You know this for certain?"

You gaze into his cold blue eyes, wishing they weren't so icy. "No, not for certain. It's just something I'm working towards."

At this, Thorin makes a bit of a face and returns to his own pony. You shake your head. Watching his annoying personality quirks was one thing; being on the receiving end of them was quite another.