A/N: This chapter is dedicated to YOU. To you who have read this story from beginning to end. Through all the ups and down. To you who put up with all my typos because I'm often lazy when it comes to proof reading. To you who reviewed and told me how much this story meant to you. To you who haven't reviewed and this story still means a lot to you. To you who aren't a huge fan of this story but still managed to make it through what is 668 pages on a word document.

On second thought, I don't dedicated this chapter to you. I dedicate this story to you. Because I would never have made it this far without you. So thank you.

PART ONE: ANACHRONISM

LXXVIII: And That Bring Us To The Present

I had Skipped. I had thrown away the Senturiel and yet I had Skipped. I didn't understand it. I had been sitting on the rock, surrounded by death and lava. I had thrown away the Senturiel. I had watched it disappear beneath the fires of Mount Doom—the one thing that could destroy the frigging Ring of Sauron. I had embraced whatever came next with a lack of caring. It had been a surprisingly nice feeling. A moment of calm that I hadn't felt in a long time. And then, the next thing I knew, I was standing in the middle of a busy street.

My first response was to reach for the locket around my neck, but of course, it wasn't there. My hand found only air. I checked my pockets and boots and other place on my clothes it could be hiding, but the Senturiel was nowhere to be found.

Which meant I was stuck where the Skip had dropped me.

Unless, of course, the Skip decided to take me somewhere else, because apparently I didn't even need the Senturiel anymore.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to be back on my rock in Mordor, letting whatever fate awaited me happen.

Instead, I was in a town. People were all round me, talking in excited voices, as the warm midday sun beat down. A stable boy led two horses past me, their hooves sloshing in the puddles and their smooth coats flecked with mud. An old woman limped along the stone sidewalk, her rough shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. A group of middle-aged women, gray hairs spotting their hair, chattered on the side of the street. A young man with a cap on his head squinted up at the sky. Children played a game with sticks, chasing one another through the crowds. A hobbit waddled along beside a tall, black-haired man, as they conducted business in low voices. Two men, dressed in black with swords strapped at their sides, moved towards a wooden door over which hung a sign with the words "Inn of the Prancing Pony" printed on it.

I was in Bree. I took a deep breath. The Skip had taken me to Bree.

Bree. The home of my father and my grandparents. If I didn't know for a fact that the Senturiel was an absolute ass, I would have thought it was getting sentimental.

Suddenly, the humor of the whole situations caught up to me and I was laughing. Not like a little giggle kind of laugh. A full blown, booming laugh that caused everyone in the street to turn and stare at me.

If you're going to ask me how I Skipped without the Senturiel, I'm going to go right ahead and tell you: I didn't know. I definitely threw the Senturiel into the lava. I didn't imagine that. For awhile, I theorized that maybe the stone had left behind some sort of residue that would be in my stomach forever. Or that maybe the rock had somehow split in two in my stomach and the surgeon had missed the second half.

I would spend nights in Bree, lying awake, trying to figure out how this had happened. Each explanation I came up with was more ridiculous than the last. I will tell you that I did one day learn how I Skipped from Mordor to Bree, but that is a longer story yet.

My laughter faded away, and I found myself still standing in the streets of Bree surrounded by a crowd of people who were trying to decide whether to stare openly or just pretend I didn't exist. I smile and waved at them, which promptly made them choose the latter option.

Except for one woman who was carrying a shopping basket on her right arm. She was a rather large woman with red cheeks and a button nose. Her brown eyes were warm with hospitality and curiosity and she smiled at me, not quite showing her teeth.

"You are not from these parts I take it," she said.

"Is it really that obvious?" I asked. There was no energy in my voice for sarcasm. "What gave it away?"

"The pants," she said, kind enough to answer me seriously. "I have never seen a woman wear mean's attire before."

I glanced down at my black jeans. They were splattered with dried mud and I think there was a blood stain above the right knee. Hopefully, no one saw it. I didn't feel like explaining that I'd been transported from multiple battlefields.

"They're insanely comfy," I said, patting my jeans. "Skirts just aren't practical when running for my life. Pants are easy to maneuver in and I don't have to worry about flashing anyone. You should try them some time."

For a second, the woman seemed torn between laughing or looking scandalized. Then, a broad smile spread across her face and she let loose choking laugh.

"If my husband will lend me a pair," she said.

For a moment, I was thrown. I hadn't expected kindness or even smile. Finally, I said, "I'm Ana Stonbit. Nice to meet you."

She frowned and her eyes flickered upwards as she scanned her memory of any relatives. "Any relation to the Stonerows?"

"I don't think so…" (Though, I had no idea who my Middle Earth relations were. For all I knew, I very well could be related to the Stonerows.) "I'm pretty foreign. Like, it's a whole other world kind of foreign."

"Ah, well. My name is Elsa Finchwater."

"Nice to meet you, Elsa."

"Nice to meet you, Ana," she said with the wide smile returning to her face.

"You…" I glanced around at the wooden buildings that lined the streets of Bree. "You wouldn't happen to know what time it is?"

"It is around three in the afternoon."

"Ah, not that time." I scratched the back of my head and grinned sheepishly at her. "What time is it? Like, what year?"

Elsa stared at me. Her lips opened and closed soundlessly. All traces of a smile had disappeared and she could only gawk. I kept my smile, however. I found that strangers often accepted my oddness more easily when I smiled. That way, they could write me off as a prankster.

"It is the Year 2793," Elsa said, finally. She pulled her basket of food closer to her chest. "I hate to leave, but I must get home. The children are waiting—"

I frowned. "What age is that in?"

Her eyes went really wide at that and she was practically running away from me as she called over her shoulder. "It is the Third Age."

She left me as fast as her legs could carry her, and I found myself standing alone in the crowded street yet again. Passers-by were still shooting curious/frightened/WTF glances at me.

I made my way across the street towards the Inn of the Prancing Pony. In my mind, Barliman Butterbur was the owner of the inn, even though if I had paused to think, I would have realized that he hadn't been born yet. The sense of familiarity drew me, and I imagined strolling in and greeting Barliman as if we were old friends. I could already picture the confused on his face.

I crossed the street and moved towards the entrance…but something stopped me. My hand was extended toward the handle, ready to open up the door and step inside. But I stopped. I didn't touch the door.

Why, you ask, what stopped me?

I saw you.

Not full you. Just a glimpse. I saw a sliver of your face, a side view. You were turning away from me at the time, so I could really only see that little bit. But that little bit of your face was enough.

Slowly, I looked around. I don't know what I was expecting. I wasn't really expecting you to be you. I mean, that was just so unlikely. If I remember correctly, I thought it was a lookalike. They say every person in the world has someone who looks exactly like them—a doppelganger. And I was certain I had found your doppelganger.

I started walking towards you, and then you turned to speak to someone beside you.

And that's when the truth dawned on me. It was actually you standing on the other side of the street. It was you. Not a doppelganger. Not a figment of my imagination. It was you.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't even make a sound. I just sort of stood there. You. A younger you, yes, but still you.

And, I have to say, you were majestic even when you were fifty years old.

"Thorin!"

And with that, I sprinted across the street and flung my arms around your neck.

You were very confused. That is very understandable. I had forgotten that younger you wouldn't know me. You stood there for a second, frozen in surprise. And then, the situation finally hit home. You promptly pushed me away.

"Thorin!" I cried again.

You raised your blacksmith hammer like you might need it as protection from me.

"Okay, okay," I said. "I know this seems really weird right now, but I can explain. You see, you're going to know me in the future, and we're going to be really good friends, and we're going to go on all these insane adventures together so you can reclaim your homeland, and it's a really emotional time for us but we have a lot of fun."

I stood there, bobbing up and down on my toes and staring at you eagerly.

"I believe you have mistaken me for someone else," you said.

"No, I haven't," I said. "I would know you anywhere. I would know your majesty anywhere."

You stared.

"Okay," I said, holding up my hands and trying to slow myself down. "I'm going too fast for you. Hi, my name is Ana Stonbit. We met in the Lonely Mountain during Smaug's invasion. I am the little human girl you carried down the hall until you dropped me. You think I died in Smaug's flames, but actually I Skipped. I do that, you see. One moment I'm here. The next I'm in a different time and a different place. Sometimes even a different world."

You stared.

"I know you remember me," I said. "Because when we met in your future, you remembered the little girl who died in Smaug's fire."

After a long moment, you begrudgingly admitted: "Yes, I remember that girl."

"Well, we are going to meet again in your future. In fact, we meet right as you are beginning your question reclaim the Lonely Mountain…" My voice trailed off.

Something clicked into place and I was beginning to see the whole picture. Things that hadn't made sense before were starting to make sense now. I stared at you. Thorin but also not the Thorin I'd known. You were going to become the Thorin who would set out to reclaim the Lonely Mountain and the Thorin choose to die because he knew the chain of events that would follow. But right then, you were not that Thorin. You were only meeting me for the second time in your life.

I took a deep breath.

"Let me tell you the whole story."

And then, after much persuasion on my part and many protests about needing to work on your part, I managed to convince you to join me in the Inn Of The Prancing Pony for a drink.

Thorin sat opposite me. His arms were folded across his chest, and his empty mug of ale rested on the tabletop in front of him. As the day dragged on, the number of people drinking and talking in the inn had dwindled. It would pick up again at night, but for the time being, the inn only contained the innkeeper Butterbur Senior, a couple if Dúnedain who sat in the far corner, and a hobbit who worked at the inn who was currently cleaning dishes behind the bar counter.

My story had taken a good few days to tell and, thankfully, Butterbur Senior had agreed to give me housing if I helped out around the inn. Thorin, I found out, was working as a blacksmith in Bree. I'd asked him questions about how he came to be in Bree, but Thorin had been reluctant to tell me anything more than the bare minimum. The dwarrows of the Lonely Mountain were living in Dunland, going where work was needed.

After I finished my story, Thorin watched me from the other side of the table. I don't think he had decided whether or not to he could trust me yet. Though, he had put up with me long enough to listen to the full, ridiculously long story—so that was a good sign.

"You did not have to tell me the part where we met," he said at last. "It was three days ago. I remember."

"Yeah, but I got really excited and wanted to relive that part."

Thorin said nothing. He stared at me what felt like an eternity, and then he asked, "Are you truly descended from dwarrows of the Misty Mountains?"

The grin on my face widened, and I nodded enthusiastically. "Geirfast the Stone Biter."

Thorin groaned. "I am going to need another drink."

I couldn't stop smiling. To be honest, I'd been smiling for almost three days. Even when I helped the hobbit wash dishes in the back after the inn had closed down for the night. The only times I hadn't been smiling were when I had to recall the darker parts of my story. I'd even cried at times, and Butterbur Senior had needed to bring me a handkerchief.

"You mentioned that you should not share the future," said Thorin, after he'd gotten himself another pint. "Yet you have told me all you know."

"Well, yes." I hesitated. I wasn't certain how to put this next part into words.

Thorin frowned. "Why am I the exception?"

A silence stretched between us. Thorin sat there, taking long sips of his drink and avoiding eye contact with me. I watched him. Even after three days, I could not believe that Thorin was in front of me. Younger, yes, but still Thorin. The same dark hair. The same blue eyes. The same moody scowl. It was Thorin. He was here. In front of me.

"Would you refrain from staring?" asked Thorin finally.

"Sorry," I said, quickly looking anyway but at him. "It's just that…"

"Yes, I know," said Thorin. "You saw me die."

I winced. Perhaps I shouldn't have told him everything. If nothing else, he should know the reason. Most likely, he already suspected, but he wanted to hear me say it aloud.

"You know how I mentioned the Senturiel messes with people memories?" My voice trembled ever so slightly as I spoke. "Sometimes I meet them in their past when I've already met them in the future, and it changes the future where I met them, but I don't remember the new future. And then, sometimes I meet people and they've met me in their past, but I don't remember it because that meeting occurs in my future."

Thorin watched me but remained silent.

"Thorin knew that he was supposed to die in order for Frodo and Sam to live. He knew with certainly that he had to die. He told me it was a prophecy, and I believed him. I didn't understand how he could have so much faith in a prophecy. And then I came here. And I saw you. And I realized that I told Thorin everything, or rather, I told you everything."

Thorin's face remain inscrutable. I had no idea what he was thinking. I could only imagine what I would be thinking in his shoes, and I knew, deep in my heart I knew, that I would hate me in his position.

I buried my face in my hands and took a deep, shuddering breath. Then, I looked up, met Thorin's gaze, and said, "I am telling you the future now so you can help me one-hundred-and-fifty-years in your future. One-hundred-and-fifty years from now you are going to meet me again. And you have to make sure events turn out exactly as I recounted them to you. That is the only way to save Middle Earth. You must pretend not to know me. You must pretend to dislike me in the beginning and slowly befriend me. You must refuse to give money to the elvenking and the men of Dale. And, and, and…" My voice faltered. The last part. I had to say the last part. Even if he already knew what it was, I still needed to say it aloud. "And you have to die in the Battle of Five Armies."

The heavy silence that followed that statement was unbearable.

I felt like someone had dropped an anvil on my chest and just left it there, slowly crushing me. I couldn't breathe. Who could breathe at a time like this? Trivial things like breathing were not important. All I could do was stare at Thorin. The rest of the world seemed to turn white and blurry while Thorin grew clearer and clearer in my vision. I had no idea what was running through his mind. His face simply looked…empty.

And then, at last, Thorin spoke. "Well, I suppose most do not have the luxury of knowing how and when they are going to die. There are still many years before then, and at least I can pass knowing that the Lonely Mountain will once more belong to my people."

I could breathe again. It was in short, shallow breath, but at least I could breathe. And then I was crying.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." I kept repeating the words over and over as salty tears rolled down my face.

It would be the last time I cried for a good, long while. For a good, long while following that day at the Inn of the Prancing Pony, I would have a comfortable bed and a place to call home. I wouldn't Skip, and I would find the world around me to be the exact same day after day. For a good, long while, I would have the life I'd always wanted. But first, I had to have one last cry.

Butterbur Senior brought over yet another handkerchief for me. Thorin sat, his arms folded over his chest, watching as I wiped my eyes and blew by nose. To be fair, after three days of listening to my story, Thorin was quite used to my ugly, crying face. He watched me now with a thoughtful expression.

Only when my sniffling had finally come to an end did Thorin ask, "What will you do now?"

I shook my head. I had briefly forgotten how to talk. Finally, I said, "I don't know. I can't Skip voluntarily anywhere, and I certainly don't want to try jumping off a roof. I could just hang around until the Senturiel decides to take me away…"

"I need some help around the forge."

I blinked. A small part of me had hoped, but mostly I figured I'd end up wandering around Bree, searching for some distant relatives. In a small voice, I found myself asking, "Can I stay?"

Thorin pushed his chair back from the table and got to his feet. "We will see."

He moved to the door, and I followed him eagerly. We got a whole two feet before Thorin turned to look at me.

"You ought to wash your face."

"What?" I cried. "How mean! I have risked my life, I have crossed time and space to come here and give you news from the future, and all you can say to thank me is 'go wash your face'! What kind of a dwarf are you?"

Thorin smirked. "A majestic one."

END OF PART ONE: ANACHRONISM