Prelude: I started this story after reading too many Thorin/OC and MGiME Fix-It stories. While I enjoyed them, I wanted to challenge myself to write one which flipped, challenged or otherwise was the antithesis of most of those stories. This is the result: a majorly flawed OC who has every reason to not want to be the hero and no ability to be so even if she did; a romance that's complicated to the point of impossibility; not everyone will like her or trust her and with good reason; and with major consequences for adding a new player on the board of Arda.

CW: Grief, trauma, PTSD, terminal illness, parental death, and past child abuse throughout. Some chapters will have individual CWs as noted. There will be no explicit child abuse, but it will be discussed/mentioned. PTSD/flashbacks/triggers will be explored and discussed.

Major canon divergence incoming, this is technically movie-verse but you'll find little from the movies or books in terms of scenes here.

Prologue: Nascence

Lights, strewn over navy velvet to hearken to memories old.

Sometimes, I feel as though my tale threatens to burst free of me; a beast with blood-red ink, teeth of rending sacrifices, perilous claws sharpened on unfulfilled promises, roaring and beating at the confines of my mind.

When the night closes in, and the Shadow in the East grows ever darker, I find myself chewing over my thoughts, the past events, over and over, relentlessly, endlessly circling—was that the pattern of blood as it spilled in the dark water of the caves in the Misty Mountains? Or the sight of clothes tumbling in a drier? Even now, my memories blend together and I cannot say which seems more true.

All my mistakes, all I have done—

Ori once spent the greater part of a day badgering me for my recounting of events—even offering to help me write them. But the idea of spilling my soul to parchment only to hand it over to the dwarves, after all I have done, is untenable.

For Bilbo then? I owe him so much. Perhaps in writing this, I can go some way towards balancing my debt. Perhaps I may finally visit him, as I once promised, clutching a sheaf of parchment in hand, my story finally told in full. I like to imagine it is not too late to do so.

Myself? Ah. Now here is something that stings like the truth. A grandiose, self-absorbed confession. There is no one who I dare tell my full tale to. Such secrets I hold! They would uproot the tatters of peace that remained on Arda.

Yet here I am, wasting the fine ink and parchment we have traded hard for. And when I write, it is in Cirth runes and Westron, rather than the Latin Alphabet and English. Every one of the Wise has already admonished me for recklessness and foolishness both, yet I persist—

Perhaps I am a fool. Certainly, at least one person has named me thus.

If I was wise, this parchment would be consigned to flames before the ink dried.

If I was wise, I would have walked away sooner.

I was lying face up on the ground, while my head span and my breath deserted me. Where had I been? My mind worked groggily, like I'd awoken from a fever dream; memories and thoughts scattering like ash in my hands, leaving only the rudest trace of their presence. After a long moment, I was able to roll to one side to dry heave as the feeling of infinite endlessness receded.

Through the spinning void replacing my thoughts, I became aware of him: Half-kneeling, sword planted in the dirt like a crutch. He was breathing harshly, and as I stared at him, he lifted his head to stare back at me.

Deja vu. We had been there before; the two of us regarding each other for an eternity. That frozen moment lasted no longer than the beat of a butterfly's wings—then it was gone, leaving me empty and grasping for my thoughts.

"What—what was that? What did you do to me, woman?" His voice was harsh and filled with fury. Cold sweat drenched me, followed by dizzying heat like that of a fever.

Westron, he spoke Westron, and I—

"What did I do?" I asked through broken breaths. My shaky legs refused all attempts to stand, and I folded back to the ground to twist my hands in the wet earth and decomposing leaves of the forest floor. "You grabbed me. What did you do to me?"

I spoke in English, as I had before, yet this time when he looked at me, there was horror running deep through him.

—

I thought the room would be colder.

It was not.

It was, after all, a very warm summer day. The aircon pumped in sterile air, and I casually wiped my forehead with the back of my hand.

And it was unaccountably bright. There was something almost cheery about it in that regard.

My brother seemed more visibly uncomfortable than me in the room, while my mum seemed blank. She took the lead, striding forward to greet the woman who stood there, clearly waiting on us.

"Mrs. Santos?" said the woman, and I couldn't help but note she was wearing not hospital scrubs, but just a simple flowery blouse and slacks and a pair of polished heels.

My mum nodded. "You were expecting us?"

"Just through here," said the woman, indicating behind her.

I turned and stared at the heavy curtains that divided us from the room she gestured to. There was a door, plain, unlabelled.

A pit of dread opened in my stomach.

—

The sword was red with blood.

My blood?

No.

Though my heart pounded in my ears, and I could barely see straight through the blurring in my eyes, it wasn't blood, couldn't be my blood, it was only the setting sun colouring the blade, a premonition—

I saw my own death. Certainty born in the steady sword point against my throat and barely-restrained violence burning behind dark eyes.

"Release this fell enchantment!" he roared, and the ringing in my ears diminished. "What spell you ensnared me with, release it."

"I didn't do shit!" I managed, though the words caused my throat to scrape against the blade uncomfortably.

He advanced, shifting the sword so it was the edge rather than the point pressing against me, his eyes burning, and I saw the conflict, the uncertainty and the anger; and yes, the fear so stark and great it drove the breath from him.

Words burst out from me, unbidden: "'Urd-Ablâkbagd."

Shock. Disbelief. He reeled with it. His voice emerged a strained whisper. "What did you say?"

I wanted to stop, but the words were blood I couldn't stem, spilling out of me to paint the spaces between us with awful gore. "'Urd-Ablâkbagd," I whispered once more, the Khuzdul words seared in my heart but clumsy on my tongue.

His sword fell back to his side, though his knuckles turned white with his grip, white like his face, frozen, while beneath that broken mask he thrashed, rage, disbelief and suspicion in nauseous waves.

"Gabrielle," Thorin said, and I knew then that I was as lost as him.

The door was so unassuming, yet I still struggled to make myself walk through it. My brother gritted his teeth, face pale, looking back at me helplessly.

That was enough to force myself to move, striding through the door after my mum.

The moment I stepped through, my legs locked, and my brother almost crashed into me.

"You can go closer."

My eyes were drawn to first my mum, then my brother, but neither looked at me.

"Take your time," continued the woman, and I couldn't help but notice she remained in the doorway. What was her name? My eyes skated over her nametag, but the letters didn't take.

"Don't be afraid," said my mum, and I realised I still hadn't moved, staring at the nameless woman. Sharon, said her name tag. Or maybe Sherry. "Go up."

My brother said nothing. His face was frozen. Had he spoken at all the whole morning? I couldn't recall.

All I remembered was the bright morning light, too bright, bright like the fluorescent lights overhead—

—

How long we stayed there, staring at another, I do not know.

A cold breeze reminded me that I was dressed for an Australian summer. The little light that made its way through the trees faded, and a handful of stars began to peek overhead. Goosebumps trailed up my arms and raised the hairs at the back of my neck.

Thorin re-sheathed his sword. "I will light a fire." Then he wheeled about and walked away without a backwards glance.

When the first shivers started, I hesitantly stood. The fire was well and truly going, and Thorin was pretending to ignore me by looking through his pack. I turned and looked through the trees, eyes tracking the barest of trails as it wound into the dark. No electric lights in sight. I stared down it anyway, eyes straining. I could run down that dark path, lose myself in the wilds. Perhaps if I went far enough, I would reappear back on Earth.

I approached the fire, Thorin watching me with eyes hardened to chips of ice.

—

Why was the room so bright? It wasn't right, not at all.

Any moment now, people would burst out from behind the curtains, hidden cameras would emerge, because surely, surely this was a prank.

My shoes squeaked on the tiles as I turned away.

"No," I said.

"Ellie? Saan ka pupubta?"

"No." I turned, pushing past both my mum and brother; the nameless woman, Shelby or Sheila, with her flowery blouse and well-pressed slacks, in the doorway—I pushed past them all and ran back out the door.

I burst not into a waiting room, but into a forest.

—

Overhead, the stars and moon and clear night sky.

Across me, a foreboding dwarf king out of books and movies.

Inside, a pit that grew and grew, swallowing all.

Thorin offered me food and drink; his own cloak when the cold crept in, around the edges of the fire.

His eyes gleamed under lowered dark brows, shadows dancing across his aristocratic face. One moment awash in an orange glow, the next swallowed by the night.

I wanted to ask why he had decided not to kill me, and then, why deciding not to kill me had become feeding me, giving me water and keeping me warm. Still, the same could almost be asked of myself. Why was I sitting in a camp with my near killer, even if he was a dwarf from a story I'd read? Perhaps the answer was the same for us both.

I broke my silence with a clearing of my throat. "Why are you out here? Where are you going?" We were not anywhere I could place. There was the faintest of whispers of knowledge as I eyed the trees and the broken path, but they faded as quickly as they rose.

"Do you not know already know?" Wariness. Caution. Thorin's voice dropped low so his rumble was barely audible.

I shook my head and tasted his relief alongside my own frustration. When were we? I wanted to ask. But if Thorin knew—if he knew that I held his future, he gave no sign—

"I will escort you as far as Bree," he said, breaking me from my thoughts.

Jolted, I blurted, "Bree? Why Bree?"

His expression grew foreboding, disquiet emanating from him until I forced myself to ignore it. "It is the only mannish settlement that I will be travelling close to."

My arms wrapped around my knees, drawn up to my chest. "Why take me anywhere at all?"

The silence held for but a moment, then, "It would be dishonourable to leave you to die," he said, quietly.

"But it would be easier," I said, and did not know if I wanted to hear him argue or agree.

Thorin said nothing to that.

My skin prickled. "I appreciate your help here, but I'd rather go my own way from here."

He looked at me as though I was mad, his own disbelief clear. "And where would you go? And by what means?"

"I do have legs. They're used for walking."

He stared at me and I knew, suddenly, how rare it was that someone spoke in such a way to this dwarven king.

At least, not a stranger like myself—

"All I really need is the direction to walk in. Fun fact about me, I'm an adult and don't need my hand held to walk to a town." My sarcasm had more of a bite than normal and I found I couldn't care.

His head lifted, but he still did not respond. I looked into his eyes and saw the conflicting feelings: his contempt, his shame, his fear, his concern, his anger, all swirling together, overwhelming, dizzying—

"You cannot run from this," he said evenly, his temper tightly contained.

I did not bother to contain mine. "Watch me," I said and stood.

"Sit down, Gabrielle."

"I'll do what I like, 'Urd-Ablâkbagd."

"Enough," he said, and his sudden burst of anger cut through my own. "You will travel with me, and it is your choice whether you travel on your feet, or bound and dragged behind me." And he meant it too. There was no hesitation in him.

Fear gripped me tight. I clenched my jaw until it hurt. But I looked away from him and curled into myself, trying to will myself back to calm.

(just keep your head down, and don't draw attention to yourself—)

I swallowed and looked at my feet as the shame rose up to rend my heart. Thorin made a noise of frustration, of annoyance, but I blocked him out. The world swam in and out of focus and I breathed deep and thought of the fire, of the ground under me, the grass my hands could touch, naming each of these things until—

There was a void in my heart as deep as the one Melkor had been forced to reside in. At a distance, there was anger, and shame, and fear, and hate, but there, in the core of me, I was—

(the bright noonday sun, the chatter of busy people, luggage wheels over pavement, eyes that were not hard and black with rage, but soft brown, cataracts showing, yellow in the whites—)

Empty.

There was regret, suddenly, from the dwarven king, louder than the clamour of bells, but I refused it.

—

Before me was a man. Short, broad, and armed. He looked like he'd walked from a convention. Or perhaps from a movie set.

Perhaps I should've been more concerned; my head was spinning from the sudden change in scenery, the temperature drop, the assault on my senses from moving from a sterile room to a forest—

I turned back, thinking I would see the doorway I had run through, but no, it was only trees.

Overhead the sky was darkening through the leaves. It had been before midday, hadn't it? Yet now, it was unmistakably sunset.

My eyes were drawn back to the man, his eyes wide, face pale.

"Where am I? What happened?" I asked.

He shook his head and then spoke and my heart lurched for his words were not in English.

A sense of foreboding rolled over me. The sudden change in scenery. The loss of time. What had happened to me?

The man approached me, his words sounding demanding. I couldn't help but step back.

He grabbed my arm and—

—

The fire was down to embers.

It was not dissimilar to Thorin's rage; banked so a false calm could be drawn over the top. Smoke spilled from his pipe in a steady stream, his eyes wandering the darkness beyond.

I stared into the dying flames and touched the edges of anger carefully, before sighing and stretching out onto the ground, pulling Thorin's cloak over me. Above me, Arda's night sky stretched, a gleaming tapestry of shining lights in navy velvet.

What would my dad think of it?

Thorin's voice broke into my thoughts, a low rumble like an oncoming storm. "Gabrielle—"

"Fuck you." I rolled so my back was to him.

Thorin's irritation rebuked me soundlessly.

Somehow, I fell asleep though I don't recall how. My last clear memory was returning to my back to stare at the night sky, unpolluted and gleaming with stars like diamonds in ink. Or like the lights of the city that was my home, through eyes half-lidded and blurry with tears.

—

I was staring at myself, gripping my own wrist. My own dark eyes flung wide, face bloodless with shock and fear. Then I sank—or I flew. I looked at myself and saw him reflected in my eyes. We beheld each other in entirety. Thorin, his name was Thorin. And something else.

I fell deeper. Oakenshield. 'Urd-Ablâkbagd. The King in Exile. Brother and son and uncle. The hope for his people. A desperate dream. Grief and sorrow. Loss and ruin. Pride and honour. An entire lifetime compressed into a blink, enough to drown in, to be lost in—

—

It took me a moment to remember where I was.

Who I was—

I sat up.

Thorin's presence was a solid wall close by, even if I could barely see him by the light of the moon. From one of the many trees, he had taken a long stick across his lap and he worked at it with his knife, shaving off twigs and rough edges until it was smooth to touch. When I looked at him, he looked back, his eyes a mirror to mine.

My hands scrubbed over my face and I wanted to scream. All my thoughts a jumble, my memories scrambled—

"Go back to sleep." He didn't disguise the exhaustion in his voice.

I surged to my feet and stamped into the dark a few steps. Petulant. I was being petulant, and I knew it. It didn't help that I nearly tripped over my own feet in the dark, or that Thorin was suddenly the patient one, rather than the angry one of the two of us—

Why? Why why why why why—

I blew out a snarling breath, hating the darkness, the dew on the grass that my shoes slid on, Thorin, myself—

The anger swelled and just as suddenly burst, and I found myself empty.

I sank to the ground, heedless of the damp beneath me, burying my face in my knees. My words were muffled, but I knew he heard me. "Don't you care? You should be angrier. Why aren't you—" Breaking things. Killing things. Screaming. Crying.

Anything. Anything but empty. Anything but accepting.

How could one simply accept the storm of their changed circumstances like this? The rapidity of a calamity so beyond understanding—

My entire world had changed, the rug pulled out from under me, everything I'd ever known, held dear to me, gone in a burst of light—

"What good would come of it?" His voice betrayed nothing, but I sensed him, rolling like a thunderstorm over the sea: Suspicion was the strongest, prickling along my skin like static, the portent of danger; anger followed just behind, a deep unrelenting fury striking suddenly and retreating, driven by agitation, roiling and unsettling; the undercurrent was despair, a black tide that threatened to pull me under.

(I stared up at my doom, and knew that to fight would lead to my death, but could not turn, could not leave—)

I retreated from it all and took a deep shaky breath as though I emerged from the depths of dark water. It had taken less than a blink, a grain of sand falling in an hourglass. Thorin's form was a dark shape against a dark sky that grew as he stood suddenly. "Mind yourself," he snarled.

Ah, there was the anger.

It was infectious. But I was a cup with a crack, anger pouring in and spilling out. I couldn't hold it.

Eventually, he sat again.

Thorin, with his legendary stubbornness, thought it futile to fight.

The cracks spread and widened. I slipped through and fell away into an endless pit—

Thorin was giving up—

Coward, I wanted to scream. How dare you. How dare you—

Why did you give up?

My eyes screwed shut. "How long till Bree?"

"Three weeks, if we travel at our current speed."

"And Rivendell?"

Thorin's anger swelled. "What of it?"

"How long from Bree to Rivendell?"

"That is not my path."

I lifted my eyes to his and switched from English to Westron, the familiar, unfamiliar syllables clumsy on my tongue. "What distance from Bree to Rivendell?"

"Do you not already know?" he asked bitingly.

I shook my head. "I don't seem to."

His pent fury grew. Perhaps I should have been afraid. And I was afraid, surely, of this dwarf-king who knew only the righteousness of his cause and strength in arms. But that consuming numbness was there and it swallowed that fear whole.

Finally, he bit out, "A month's travel on foot."

"Okay." I hugged my knees. Dew had soaked through the thin cotton of my dress, and I knew I should move. Return to sleep. Yet— "I dreamt about it," I said. Thorin listened, even though he didn't want to. I knew by the faintest tilt of his head, the reluctant curiosity that he tried to stifle.

"And what wisdom did you glean?" Thorin said eventually when the silence grew long.

Softly, I said, "Now I know how our dinner must have felt."

He did not respond, but he did not have to.

We were both familiar with how rabbits felt in a snare.

—

Deja vu. We had been there before; the two of us regarding each other for an eternity. The last light of the setting sun lining us both in red like blood, both of us hunched over on the ground—

This is how it was:

I, a woman of Earth, with my faux-designer bag and overpriced sneakers, and Thorin of Erebor, in his rich furs and worn travel clothes.

A bright turn, dizzying light, infinity in a wound cord, each strand containing a universe.

From my place on the ground, I could only stare at him, and he at me.

All of Thorin's life, in my head, an endless unspooling thread, near two hundred years—thoughts, feelings, memories all pushed through into a single moment, all happening all at once.

Impossible.

Yet there it was.

But, no, the worst was yet to come.

For even as it receded, even as we spoke, and I realised, to my horror, that I could understand Westron, and he understood English—

When he held a sword to my throat—

While his true name, tumbled out of my mouth—

His anger, his fear, his suspicion—

I felt them as though they were my own.

It was not just his life that I stole, but his heart too. Every beat of it, every emotion that filtered through him was mine too.

Thus were we bound, though perhaps only one of us had known it at the time.

A/N: I promise the rest of this story won't be as disjointed as this first chapter; it's reflective of Ellie's headspace at the yes, there is indeed a lot of irony in her thoughts. She has her own reasons for being so self-absorbed and dramatic and uh *checks notes* forgetting that Thorin also knows what it's like to go through a CALAMITY.

'Saan ka pupubta?' is Tagalog for 'Where're you going?'

Tolkien lore stuff:

Cirth runes are the chief writing system in Middle Earth. The other being Tengwar, but that was mostly by elves. We English speakers use the Roman Alphabet, which of course does not exist in Middle Earth. It's important to distinguish between the languages and writing systems because even though the language barrier has been solved for the moment, it will still come into play.

Dwarves keep their true names utterly secret, rarely disclosing it to anyone outside of close family, not even adorning their tombs, which is why it rattles Thorin completely to have a stranger just drop it into the conversation. Thorin's true name is not canon, but is Neo-Khuzdul (that I've perhaps butchered) for 'Mountain Storm', evocative of an avalanche.

Melkor aka Morgoth is the original true evil, pre-Sauron.