PART ONE: ANACHRONISM

Chapter XLI: Do Not Let The Ship Sink

I don't trust angry elves with weapons. I mean, anything could happen. By "anything", I mean that they could kill me, because well, you know, the elves and I have issues. And to make matters worse, the elves and Thorin have issues. So if, by some miracle, I managed to not piss the elves off, there was a very likely chance that Thorin would piss the elves off.

So there we were: Thorin and I, in Mirkwood, surrounded by angry elves with weapons.

We were so screwed.

"So," I said, trying to not to succumb to my fear and make jokes inappropriate for the situation, "long time no see, Thranduil. What's up?"

One of the elves frowned. "Your words make no sense. Are you asking what is up? Can you not look up yourself?"

"Do not trust her words," said Tauriel. "She is an ally of dwarves."

"Elves," I muttered in disgust. Then I realized that insulting them probably wasn't the best way to live through this situation. I plastered my best fake smile on my face and said, "I'm asking how your life is going at the moment. Good? Bad?"

"Bad," said Thranduil. "I happen to have encountered you and this dwarf today."

I gasped. All thoughts of getting on Thranduil's good side went out the window. "Did you just refer to Thorin as 'this dwarf'—he is the most majestic thing to walk this earth—and you, on your frigging party moose, have the nerve to call him 'this dwarf'."

We stood between several crooked trees, their gnarly branches forming a roof overhead. There were about a dozen elves around us, their eyes filled with intense dislike. I recognized some of their faces from the Mirkwood party I had crashed and found Bonnie at. Tauriel, Lastaeon, and Valior were all present—which I don't think did me any favors, since Valior wanted to murder me last we met. Thranduil stood in the front of the group. Unlike the other elves, he had no weapon, only the crown upon his head and the arrogance in his brow. And the hatred in his eyes. Let's not forget that.

There was one elf, however, who was not angry. A broad grin covered his incredibly good-looking face.

"Sister!" Riadan pushed his way to the front of the group to get a good look at me. "I thought I would never see you again! You vanished into nothing!"

"She does that," said Thorin gruffly. He turned to me, his eyes narrowed in annoyance. "Who is this?"

"This is my estranged step-brother, Riadan," I said. "I met him during my Skipping. Oh, I found Bonnie by the way—she was staying in the Woodland Realm."

"I thought you did not like elves," said Thorin. "But you are related to one?"

"They are not related," said Tauriel flatly. "Riadan, step away from the dwarf and his ally."

"Not really," I said, ignoring Tauriel. "He's like the elvish version of me. Besides." I crossed my arms and pouted my lips. "I'm allowed to like some of them. Not all elves are bad, some of them are decent. Like Riadan here. And Lastaeon—he was almost majestic. Except he's an elf. So that's impossible."

"I would be majestic too!" cried Riadan. "Except I was cursed at birth to be an elf."

Thorin stared at Riadan for a long moment, judging him with blue eyes. Then, Thorin said, "You could be a dwarf, Riadan, and you would still not be majestic."

"It's because you don't have a beard," I whispered. "You'd be best friends with Kíli though. He's a beardless wannabe majestic."

Riadan started to say something about how he could grow a beard, but Thranduil silenced him with a sharp glare.

"These are our prisoners," said Thranduil. "We are not supposed to befriend our prisoners."

"That's such bullshit," I said. "I befriend my captors call the time. Éomer has tried to arrest me multiple times, but we've become besties, I'm telling you. And Denethor… Well, Denethor doesn't exactly like me, but I'm really great friends with his sons." Cue cringe of pain. I shook my head and tried to smile. "I don't think I've been arrested by elves or dwarves before, now that I think about it."

"Dwarves would never arrest you," said Thorin. "They would kill you on sight rather than endure you any longer than necessary."

"I love you too," I said, sticking my tongue out at Thorin.

"Who is this?" asked Riadan, eyeing Thorn suspiciously.

"This is the King of Majesty," I said, "Thorin Oakenshield."

Tauriel shifted uneasily, and her grip on her bow tightened. A twisted frown crossed Thranduil's flawless face, while Lastaeon and another elf exchanged masked glances.

"Do not tell them who I am so easily," said Thorin.

Unlike the other elves, Riadan gawked at Thorin, his mouth hanging somewhere around ground level. "Ana…" whispered Riadan, grabbing hold of my right arm. "Not the Majestic Thorin?"

"The very same," I said, nodding solemnly.

Riadan placed one hand over his chest. "My heart is beating rapidly. Ana, I don't think I can take this."

"What is he?" asked Thorin, turning to me.

"I think the correct term is fanboy," I said.

"He is even more majestic than I had imagined." Riadan covered his mouth with his hands. "Mister Oakenshield…may I hug you?"

"No."

Riadan sniffled. "Even his rejection is majestic."

"It's scary how majestic he is," I said.

Thranduil sighed. "Riadan, sometimes I am ashamed to call you my kin."

"Move away from them, Riadan," snapped Tauriel.

"Poor Riadan!" I cried. "Such a tragic back story! Cast out by elves for admiring a dwarf, but rejected by dwarves for being an elf!"

"A tragic backstory? That's requirement one for being majestic," cried Riadan. "Does this mean I now have majestic potential?"

"No," I said. "You have to be a dwarf to have majestic potential."

Riadan groaned. "Cursed! Cursed from birth!"

Thranduil turned to Tauriel. "Deal with this."

Tauriel nodded. She flicked her long, brown hair over her shoulder and stepped forward. She drew back her right hand and then brought it forward—whacking Riadan over the back of the head. "Calm down."

Riadan rubbed the spot where he'd been struck. "That hurt, Tauriel."

"Good." She stepped back to join Thranduil's side. "Now listen to your king."

Riadan glanced at me, offered a small smile, before stepping back to join the ranks of the elves. I tried to understand that he was an elf of the Woodland Realm and he had to respect his king, but it still hurt a bit to know that my step-brother would choose his king over me.

Thranduil turned back to Thorin and me, his eyes narrowed in dislike. "Not once, not twice, but thrice you interrupted my elves' festivities."

"Not by choice," said Thorin gruffly.

"When did this happen?" I asked.

Thorin sighed. "It was before your arrival, Ana."

"You have talked amongst yourselves more than enough," said Thranduil. The elven arrows pointed at us supported Thranduil's words. He turned back to Thorin. "You interrupted our merrymaking."

"That is capital sin to elves," I muttered.

"Do not act like you are such an expert in our mannerisms," said one of the elves. He stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Hold," said Thranduil. "They will answer soon." He turned his attention back to Thorin. "Why did you and your folk try to interrupt my elves in their merrymaking?"

"We did not attack them," said Thorin stiffly. "We came to ask for food because we were starving."

Thranduil's eyes narrowed. "Where are your friends now? What are they doing?"

"I do not know," said Thorin. "But I expect they are starving in the forest."

"What were you doing in the forest?" asked Thranduil.

"Looking for food and drink," said Thorin. "Because we were starving."

I covered my mouth with my hand and tried to muffle my laughter. I was supposed be on my best behavior so the elves didn't kill me. Tauriel glared at me. I swallowed but nothing could hold back my giggles.

"What is her problem?" asked Thranduil.

"She has lost her wits from hunger," said Thorin. "No doubt the rest of my kin are wandering through the forest witless and starving."

I clutched my stomach and laughed until my sides felt like bursting. "Oh my God. Thorin, stop! Stop! I'm dying here."

Thranduil scowled. "They are mocking us."

Thorin kicked me in the shin. "We are just hungry."

I thought of the spider poison and the dreams it had given me, and almost immediately, my laughter disappeared. There, I was improving. I could be serious from time to time.

Unfortunately, my seriousness came too late. Thranduil glared down at Thorin and me from his elk and then snapped, "Throw them in prison until they are willing to talk."

"Will you feed us in prison?" asked Thorin.

I swear, Thranduil had turned a bright shade of red. He looked like a ticking time bomb about to explode at any second. However, he refrained from yelling, and in a practiced, even voice, said, "No. You will not see a scrap of food until you tell me the truth." He turned to his fellow elves. "Throw them into the darkest dungeon we have."

The elves grabbed Thorin by the shoulders, and he struggled against their grip, but there were many of them and only one of him. Tauriel moved towards me, but before she could even lay a hand on me, I Skipped.

Sorry, Thorin, I didn't willingly leave you to face the elves alone.

I sat in a wooden chair surrounded by the buzz of conversation. I had Skipped to an inn. The main room of the inn, by the looks of the tables, chairs, roaring, brick fireplace and crowds of people holding pints. Hobbits and men were gathered around the tables and bar, chatting in low voices. There was a warmth to the inn, a buttery, golden glow that felt comfortable and homey.

After a moment, I recognized it as the Inn of the Prancing Pony in Bree. I'd been here before when I met Thorin and Gandalf and once when I was a teenager. When I'd Skipped as a teenager, I'd spent the night listening to stories about an elf with a voice so beautiful the children of Bree followed her home, a woman who wore pants and ran away from home to fight trolls, and a dwarf who wielded a hammer twice his size. I'd listened to the villagers talk until I fell asleep by the fire, wrapped in warmth. I'd woken up the next morning in my own bed with an alarm clock going off for school.

I leaned back in my chair and peered around the inn. No one had noticed my arrival, always good news.

A large group of hobbits had gathered around the fire, talking, as hobbits tended to do, about their family origins. I examined the group and saw a familiar face: dark, curly hair and ridiculously large, blue eyes—Frodo Baggins.

"Hey," I said, casually inserting myself into the group of hobbits. "How have you been?"

Frodo looked away from his fellow hobbits and stared up at me. "Ana?" He leapt up from his seat and embraced me in greeting. "How have you been? Still dressed as peculiarly as always, I see."

I glanced down at my clothes. Black jeans and a gray button-up shirt. I frowned, this was one of my more acceptable Middle Earth outfits. In the past, I'd trekked through Middle Earth in swimsuits, underwear, pajamas, school uniforms, and Halloween outfits (that was the year I dressed as a glittering fairy, since then I've medieval characters every Halloween just in case I Skipped).

"How have you been?" I asked, as Frodo led me away from the group of strange hobbits. "Where's the rest of the Fellowship?"

"Listen," said Frodo in an undertone as soon as we were out of earshot. "Here I am known as Mister Underhill. I am going by a different name for safety reasons."

"Okay…" I said slowly. "Whatever you say, Mister Underhill."

Frodo smiled in relief. "Thank you, Ana."

"So what time is it?" I asked, looking around. "Is my hubby here? Or Aragorn? Or Legolas?" I dared not ask about a certain person. I didn't want to get my hopes up.

Frodo frowned. "Who?"

"What do you mean who?" I asked. "The Fellowship?"

"The Fellowship?" Frodo shook his head. "I am afraid I do not follow you."

"Mister Fro—Underhill," called out Sam as he made his way across the room, squeezing his way through the crowds. He held two pints of ale, one in each hand, and he was careful not to spill a drop. When he reached us, Sam handed Frodo one of the pints. "Here you go."

"Thank you," said Frodo. He took a sip of the ale and nodded. "Not the same as the Green Dragon, but good none the less."

"I've never been to the Green Dragon," I said. "Is their ale good?"

"You have had their ale," said Frodo. "You tried some at Bilbo's and my birthday party."

"I did?" I frowned, wondering if I'd forgotten something during all my Skipping. But no matter how hard I thought about it, I couldn't recall any birthdays. "No, I didn't. I've never been to any of Bilbo's or your birthday parties."

"Yes, you did." Now it was Frodo's turn to frown. "That was where we first met, at Bilbo's one-hundred-and-eleventh and my thirty-third joint birthday party where you commented that the ale was good but not as good as the drinks in Gondor."

"No," I said, drawing out the vowel. "That never happened. I'm sure of it"

"Are you sure that you do not remember?" asked Frodo. "Have you suffered a nasty fall recently?"

"No, no, no," I said. "I may be going insane, but I'm not forgetting things. I have a really good memory. The first time you and I meet is in Rivendell at the Council of Elrond. But you said you don't know the Fellowship and you haven't met Aragorn yet…" I stared at Frodo, my eyes grower wider and wider. "We haven't met before."

Frodo and Sam exchanged confused glances.

"Yes, we did," said Frodo. "We met at the birthday party."

"No, we didn't."

"Yes, we—"

"Frodo!" cried Pippin, pushing his way through the crowd. "Have you seen Merry? He is missing all the fun!" Pippin caught sight of me, and a wide grin spread across his face. "Hullo, I did not see you there! I am Peregrin Took, though most simply call me Pippin."

"Yeah, I know," I said. "We haven't met yet, but we're going to be good friends."

Pippin's eyes widened. "Can you see the future? Are you a witch?"

"Close," I said. "I'm a psychic. I know that you are going to meet a strange man called Aragorn. Soon."

Pippin glanced nervously over his shoulder. "Is Aragorn a bad man?"

"He's grim," I said. "And serious. And dangerous. But bad? Well, it depends. Are you an orc?"

"No…"

"Then you're safe."

Pippin breathed a sigh of relief before crying, "Quick! We must sit down, and you must tell my future. Am I going to die any time soon?"

"I will happily tell you what I can see." I wrapped an arm around Pippin's shoulders (it was nice to have someone shorter than me around). "But first, you must order me a pint of whatever it is that you have."

"Agreed."

Pippin ducked from under my arm and raced back to the counter to buy me a pint. As we watched him disappear in the crowd of men and hobbits, Sam rolled his eyes. "What will we do with that hobbit?"

"Aw, he's adorable," I said.

Sam took a seat at the nearest empty table, and I sat down in the chair opposite him. Frodo followed, but his attention was captured by a shadowed man who sat in the far corner of the room, smoking a pipe.

It took me a minute to recognize the man. He was dressed entirely in black, and his clothes—from his long cloak to his boots—were stained with mud. He looked worn and weary, as if he had not had a good night's rest in years. At first, I was kind of appalled by his appearance, but when I stared at him a little longer, I realized who it was. Beneath the drawn up black hood was the handsome face I had come to know so well. The same black hair and blue eyes. The same well-defined face. It was Aragorn.

I laughed—it looked as though my "prophecy" was going to come true sooner than I had expected.

I elbowed Frodo in the side and asked, "Do you wish to talk to him?"

Frodo glanced at me. "Talk to who?"

"The man in the corner." I couldn't keep the wide grin off my face.

"Do you know him" asked Frodo.

"Not yet," I said. "But it might be just a little beneficial to you if you talk to him."

Frodo regarded me carefully.

"I do not trust her," said Sam. "She says things that no one ought to know. She could be lying."

"Or she could be telling the truth," said Frodo. He turned his head and caught sight of the innkeeper who just so happened to be passing by our table, and called out, "Mister Butterbur."

The fat innkeeper paused. "Yes, Mister Underhill?"

"Who is that man over there?" asked Frodo, nodding towards Aragorn. "You did not introduce him earlier."

"Him?" Butterbur seemed almost terrified at the prospect of discussing Aragorn. He lowered his voice and practically whispered his reply. "I do not rightly know. He is one of those wandering folk from the north. Rangers, we call them. He does not talk often. He comes and goes as he pleases. He will disappear for a month or a year and then appear again on one lonely evening. He was in and out often last spring, but he comes not so often lately. His actual name, I do not know, but in these parts, he is known as Strider. Goes about at a great pace on his long shanks, though he does not tell anyone to where he hurries. I would avoid him, Mister Underhill. No good can come about when you converse with Rangers."

Before he could impart more gossip, Butterbur was distracted by someone calling his name, and he scurried off to tend to his inn. Frodo and Sam exchanged cautious murmurs, while I tried to hide my laughter. Poor Aragorn did not have a good rep in these parts.

Aragorn made a sudden movement, causing Frodo and Sam to jump in their seats. We stared at Aragorn in confusion, trying to puzzle out the meaning behind his gesture. It was Sam who realized that Aragorn was motioning for Frodo to come join him in his corner. I had to hide another laugh—did Aragorn know how creepy his subtle gestures were?

"Go," I said, pushing Frodo in the back. "Go talk."

Frodo glanced at me, and I nodded encouragingly. Sam was shaking his head, but thankfully, Frodo decided to satisfy his curiosity and listen to me. I watched as he wove his way through the crowds of people. Slowly, Frodo lowered himself into the seat opposite Aragorn.

Sam could not take his eyes away from Aragorn and Frodo. He seemed to be debating whether or not he should run over there and separate the two by force.

"Don't worry," I said. "Ar—Strider won't harm Frodo. The opposite, in fact."

"Who is he?" asked Sam.

"You heard Butterbur," I said. "He's a Ranger."

"But are Rangers safe?"

"Hardly." I laughed. "Just trust me."

"I have your pint!" Pippin slid into the seat next to me and handed me the ale.

"Thanks." I took a tentative sip. "Not bad. But not as good as the ale in Gondor. Or the elvish wine. As much as I hate elves, they make good wine."

"You have met elves?" asked Sam in awe. (He seemed to trust me a little more after hearing this.)

"I've met plenty of elves," I said. "I've met Lothlórien elves. I've met Rivendell elves. I've met Mirkwood elves. Rivendell elves are pretty cool. Elrond's a little too grand for my taste—and he wears his daughter's tiara. But his children are awesome. Elladan and Elrohir are frigging insane, but they taught me how to drink. And Arwen is gorgeous. Lothlórien elves are creepy. Galadriel is all like, 'I know your soul.' It's weird. But Mirkwood elves. They are constantly drunk and constantly rude. You can tell them that you're starving and desperate and lost in the woods—and they'll throw you in a dark prison cell without so much as a bite to eat. Those jerks." I sent another silent apology to Thorin for leaving him all alone with the Mirkwood elves.

Pippin and Sam gawked at me.

"You do not like elves very much," said Sam.

"Dwarves are where it's at," I said, nodding. I chugged down the rest of my ale. "This is good stuff. Pippin, can you get me another?"

I think Pippin was still in too much shock to say no. He took the pint from me and headed back to the bar to get a refill. Sam was staring at me, his mouth hanging open.

"Did I destroy you image of elves?" I asked.

Sam nodded slightly.

"Sorry. I've spent too much time around dwarves." I grinned and rose from my seat. "I'll just go talk to Frodo and Ara—Strider. Hope I didn't crush your dreams too much."

I made my way across the room, careful not to bump into anyone and accidentally spill their alcohol (it's happened before and didn't end well). I managed to reach the dark corner where Frodo and Aragorn resided. Aragorn had finally taken off his hood and was talking to Frodo in undertones. Frodo did not seem at all pleased with what he was hearing, though he listened with open ears.

"How are you?" I asked, taking the last open seat at the table.

Aragorn stared at me in surprise. His hand flying to what I suspected was a dagger at his waist. "Who are you?"

"You do not know her?" Frodo's eyes widened. "She seems to know you well."

"You seem to know me well," I said to Frodo, "considering we don't meet until the future."

"We met at Bilbo's and my birthday party."

"No, the first time we meet is in Rivendell," I said.

Frodo sighed and glanced over at Aragorn. "You should not say such things so casually."

"Secrets are not my strong point," I said. "I like to talk too much." I turned to Aragorn. "We're going to meet again in Rivendell. How's Arwen? Have you seen her recently? Maybe not. She's super pretty. You two make an adorable couple. I will support you two until my dying day."

Aragorn stared at me. "Who are you again?"

"I'm Ana Stonbit."

"I have never heard of you."

"Oh, but you will." I laughed. "Quite a lot. We're going to get to know each other very well over the next year or so."

Aragorn frowned. "I have the feeling that I am going to enjoy this."

Something across the room caught Aragorn's eyes. He lifted himself from the seat a little so he could peer over the heads of the crowd. His gaze darkened and he lowered himself back into his seat.

"Mister Underhill," said Aragorn. "As poor as you are at keeping you identity a secret, you companions are even worse. I suggest you keep Mister Took from talking too much."

Frodo and I looked over our shoulders at the bar counter. Pippin was sitting there, waiting for a refill on my pint. He was telling a story enthusiastically, a story about Bilbo disappearing at his birthday party. From what I could hear, I figured the Ring was involved, though I didn't know for certain—despite what Frodo said—I hadn't been at the party.

Frodo, however, seemed rather distressed with the story Pippin was telling. He leapt up from his seat and sprinted across the room. He grabbed Pippin's arm and interrupted the story. All eyes turned to Frodo and he seemed suddenly aware that he had the attention of the entire inn. And they expected him to entertain them.

Pale and shaking a little, Frodo stood up on a table and began to sing. It was a silly little tune about an inn and the Man on the Moon.

I listened to one verse of the song, and then I saw the glint of metal out of the corner of my eyes. I looked down and saw that Aragorn was holding a knife.

After making certain that I had seen the knife, Aragorn asked, "Who are you?"

"Hey now," I said, inching my chair away from him. "Let's not get violent. You can't kill me so don't even try. I will just disappear before you can harm me."

Aragorn tensed. "Who are you?"

"The Senturiel."

"I do not know that word."

"The elves know," I said. "Elladan called me the Senturiel once. You know Elladan, right? You were raised in the House of Elrond. You're friends with Elladan. Well, I'm friends will him too. It wouldn't be right to attack the friend of a friend. I don't think Elladan would forgive you. He wouldn't let you marry his sister—and I don't want that any more than you do. Like I said, I totally ship you and Arwen together. And I don't like my ships to sink!"

Aragorn stared.

"Just roll with me on this one, okay?" I pleaded.

There was a thud. I spun around just in time to see Frodo was fall off the table. His left hand scrambled for something to hold onto, while his right hand was trapped in his pocket. There was flash (the Ring) and Frodo disappeared. People screamed. I Skipped. I was sitting on the kitchen floor. Half of the spilled ramen was on the tile floor next to me. My apartment was exactly how I had left it.

"It's good to be back," I grumbled.