So here's the thing. I'm sure most of you assume if you'd met an Elf and a Dwarf out wandering the streets of Manhattan you'd know it instantly. I mean, Tolkien describes the Elves as fair 'beyond the comprehension of mortal men' or some other MarySuesque nonsense, so maybe your ladyparts would all start tingling. But for me?

…At Comic Con?

Just another set of dudes in cosplay. They seemed pretty tight, you know, dressing as a pair and as one of the fandom's least canonical OTP yaoi shippings , so sometimes a girl just has to shrug and say hey, some Elves marry Dwarves.

…I know Prerna did. And I was just moments from asking her to when I first spotted them.

I'd be informed later that they'd been following us for quite some time. But at that moment I was completely and utterly oblivious. If you've ever been to a Con you'll know what I'm talking about. The most interesting thing in Arda could be right behind you and the crowd jammed in so tight you couldn't turn, like Eowyn's nightmare, just think more Neal Patrick Harris than colossal tsunami. The floor is packed, absolutely packed, even on the final day. I'd been to artist's alley and gotten my loot already, attended all the panels a nerd could dream of (I didn't have tuition to pay, so Prerna's birthday and Comic Con were really the only two things I ever saved up for), and reserved my cosplay for the final day and the big moment*.

I'd gotten her to dress up as Tauriel, sleek vegetable leather corset cinching her waist, accenting her curvy, still somewhat child-like figure but never exaggerating it. She'd always liked her dark hair long, and with the carmel highlights and amber undertones she'd been rocking here recently and the glow of the afternoon sun through the glass it was almost on fire. And damn, with her rich earthly skin did she look fine in jewel-toned green.

Why Tauriel? Because my girl wasn't a useless royal. She worked hard to get where she was, and she risked everything to be with me. The whole Tauriel/Kili thing is non-canonical as hell, sure, and I'd rather have her know she's my Arwen Undómiel, my Lúthien Tinúviel, but her only impression of Arwen's character is as the meek, unempowered version from the movies. Then there's all the unwanted male attention Prerna has to put up with for being a woman with the audacity to be beautiful. She's got a whole host of creepy second cousins her aunties are always trying to set her up with, not to mention the collective misogyny of NYC: cat-calls, jeering, leering, horns and subway groping…For an Indian chick in a world of white women's privilege where her skin color is never good enough, the Tauriel analogy pretty much makes itself.

[Me? I went as Boromir. What can I say? We all need a little redemption. To err, the philosopher said, is human. The Professor agreed.]

But I digress. Back to the issue at hand: how do you plan the perfect proposal?

Eh. Don't ask me. I'm not an expert. But I figured—still figure—that the personal touch is so much more important than some stupid rehearsed shit like dinner with wine. My plan went something like this:

1) commissioned ring with personal significance, since you couldn't buy love from a pretty case,

2) purposeful public venue,

3) someplace special, something I love, an experience that would never be the same again without her.

I do yoga for her, eat mostly vegetarian for her, even attend her events and galas as her 'flatmate' or 'friend' when her family are present…but I wasn't about to change something fundamental about myself. I'd never ask, never expect her to do that for me. Prerna came with me that day because I asked her to, because she knew it's something I love, because she loves me. And God knows I've done the same for her countless times…

And I know how much it meant to her.

So what the hell, I found myself thinking. Do it here. Do it now...

By that time I'd sort of noticed we'd drawn some fellow Tolkien fans—foreign and fucking rich, to judge by their anxious manner and expensive clothes. I'm not an armor expert, but that chainmail and that helm on the shorter one were ornate, and they didn't look like that cheap PVC stuff either. Those wigs? And that beard? Definitely human hair. Probably virgin, too. Undyed. I'd been doing this long enough to recognize hand-sewn, legitimate museum-replica pieces when I saw them.

Another couple...Like us. I figured if anyone would film it, it'd be them.

Beside me, Prerna made a tutting noise. She turned away.

"What's up?" She'd been a bit uncomfortable with the crowd, and the floor was definitely claustrophobic. After all, this wasn't exactly the polite, reserved academia she was used to.

"Did you see those guys?" She gestured her meticulously braided head to the cosplayers in question.

"Yeah?" I asked. "What about them?"

"They're staring at us," she rushed, her voice taking that harsh tone I now recognized as nervousness. "And the taller one has been following us for quite a while."

When you're as small and helpless as Prerna is, everything seems like a threat. I glanced over her glowing hair and took a long look in their direction.

The Legolas-look-alike was eying me closely. The guy-who-would-be Gimli was leaning on his axe-head, craning his neck.

But I've been in NYC long enough, gone to Cons long enough to spot a creep or a bigot a mile away.

I laughed. Let her know it was okay. "Those? Those are just nerdy, socially awkward fanboys," I said. "They probably like our costumes and are way too weird to say so."

"The blonde one—oh, Lost-his-legs—he's been watching us since we walked onto the floor," she insisted.

[Lost-his-legs. I warned you she wasn't a Ringer.]

Definitely foreign, then. And definitely shy. And definitely—I suspected—wanting a picture. Our cosplay wasn't nearly as good as theirs, I remember thinking at the time, but it's always fun to take ensemble pics when the opportunity arises.

We were in the middle of the main mall, surrounded by milling fans, bored GF's, and flustered parents. There were Potterheads, Twihards, Whovians, Bronies, a pair of furries making out furiously—there were even two fellow Ringers, not to mention the wrinkly, fussing baby Yoda in a stroller and the helper-dog dressed up as Twilight Sparkle. We were smack dab in the middle of hustling humanity, endless excitement, experiencing the simultaneous thrill of anticipation and nostalgia of regret so I figured what the fuck. This was it. This was the moment.

I was at New York Comic Con in LotR cosplay with Prerna. Ours was the longest relationship I'd ever had. I'd never been happier. Would never be again if I ever had to come back here without her. Even with the glare from the windows, she'd never been more beautiful. I'd never been more in love with her than that very instant, and I've loved her more and more every second since.

The moment was now.

"Nah," I laughed. "They just want our picture. Come to think or it, I want our picture…" I managed to fish my iphone out of the surcoat's stiff pockets.

"You know how I feel about selfies," she reminded me with those petulant, oh-so-patient dark eyes. Oblivion is inevitable, she'd say. Stop memorializing life and just go live it.

"Yeah, well tough." I leaned in down next to her, no easy feat given our height difference. "Say cheese!"

"Bleu!" she said at the exactly same moment I blurted "provolone!"

And as usual, the photo was a blurry mess of squinty-eyed giggling. We tried taking several more to equally disastrous results. I'm not exactly photogenic even on my best days, and Prerna is just so damned adorably self-conscious in front of cameras that unless we're laughing it's impossible to get a genuine smile from either of us.

I scrolled through the pics, shading the screen. Prerna flushed in embarrassment.

"Oh, God. Promise me you'll delete those."

"Oh, definitely," I winked.

She grinned back shyly, that gap between her teeth so obvious and endearing. "At least promise not to tag me in any of them."

We locked pinkies with a laugh. Her hand, I noticed, was just as sweaty, just as shaky as mine…

It was the moment. Now or never.

"You know what, I'm a shit photographer," I told her.

"You're not a bad photographer," she amended slyly, looking up at me in that way she liked to say was 'coquettish'. "It's just a shame about the subject matter."

I put my gloved and gauntleted Gordorian knuckles into her spaulder playfully. "You know what? I'm going to go see if Lost-his-legs and Gim-bob over there can take a better picture."

[Gim-bob: n. (Pronounciation: Jim-bob.) Again, not a Ringer. Definitely not a Ringer.]

She shut her eyes and shrugged her small shoulders in that humiliated, self-conscious apology she has. And just the faintest trace of blush rose on her soft cheeks. She looked—in that instant—just so goddamned happy. I had to listen to Catcher in the Rye with her once, and there was a line, somewhere towards the end. Afterwards, I looked it up and Holden Caulfield still said it better than I ever could: I was damn near bawling, I felt so damn happy, if you want to know the truth. I don't know why. It was just that she looked so damn nice…God, I wish you could've been there.

…Me too.

So then I walked away from her, not knowing the entirety of Middle-earth was about to come between us.

That's how this whole thing started, if you care about the how, when, where's and why's of these sort of things. I didn't fall through a wormhole, didn't take the TARDIS, didn't stumble across some magical portal or enchanted wardrobe*. I didn't take a much deserved trip to the English countryside or visit New Zealand with my best friend, didn't die or receive a terrible head injury…hell, I wasn't even looking for some man to whisk me away on some unexpected erotic adventure to fill my life with meaning or purpose [which appears to be the defacto impetus for nearly all the 'modern-maiden-in-Middle-earth' fics out there].

I'd cultivated a simple, honest life. Worked hard. Loved a good woman. Sure, more money would've been nice but we'd learned to be content with the things that we had. For the record, I was perfectly happy, thank you very much. And in that exact instant I was the happiest I'd ever been.

"Here," I switched to video mode and handed my iphone over awkwardly to a startled-looking Legolas. "It's the big moment for us. Do you think you could, you know, film it?"


*For those of you who don't know, a killer cosplay will get you stopped every five feet or less for pictures. I mean, that's great and all, sharing the fandom with people, but too often it's some creepy guy who just wants to mash your boob or "accidentally" slip his hand on your butt when you move in closer for the frame. Trust me, you want to get anything done on the floor it's better just to wear a T and jeans or something.

*The Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger (chapter 25). What, did you expect there to be APA or MLA style citations? That's really more of a Prerna sort of thing…

*Although have you heard the one where the Elf and the Dwarf come out of the closet? Yeah, there's no such thing as a tasteful gay joke: I would know [But come on. Considering all the shit they put me through immediately afterwards anything that elicits a groan at their expense is just absolutely goddamned hilarious.].