said she knows she lived through it to get to this moment

-Graceland Too, Phoebe Bridgers

"Ready, lass?"

You fiddle with your bra beneath the bodice of your gown. Balin waits at your side.

"We ought not to keep them waiting long," he reminds you. "Much can be said of the stubbornness of dwarves, but not much of our patience."

With a deep breath, you halt your fidgeting. "How do I look?"

He smiles gently, placing a bouquet in your hands. "Like a princess." Balin holds out his arm, and you link yours with it. He pushes open the doors before you, leading out into the large courtyard where it seems the whole kingdom waits.

You catch your breath. At the far end stands Fíli, dressed in a rich blue tunic, laced with silver. His golden hair is on fire in the dying sunlight. Kíli is just behind him, putting a hand on the groom's shoulder to steady him. On the opposite side from Kíli, Tauriel dips her head to you with a small smile.

Soft music begins to play from a small band assembled from what instruments could be found still intact after the dragon's assault. Slowly, you and Balin walk down the aisle to your betrothed. He unlinks your arms and pulls away to join the Dís and the rest of the Company in the front row. You hand the bouquet off to Tauriel, and your maid-of-honor steps back. It's just you and Fíli standing before Thorin, also dressed in his most elaborate furs. He inclines his head to you, then clears his throat and begins addressing the gathered crowd in their native tongue.

In exchange for a wedding with an atmosphere more familiar to you, it was agreed that the ceremony would go according to dwarven customs. Taking your hands, Fíli murmurs a translation under his breath, but you barely hear it, so consumed by the moment. At some point, he squeezes your hands and looks at you expectantly. You jump slightly. He'd prepared you for this part, at least.

"May I have the privilege of braiding your hair?" he asks in Khuzdûl.

"You may," you reply in kind, the words clunky and foreign on your tongue. Heat flushes your cheeks when you hear a few whispers from the crowd, but they're swiftly silenced by a glare from Thorin.

You turn around and Fíli carefully removes his crude wooden bead from your hair, the one he had painstakingly carved over the Company's journey and given to you that night before the battle. The braid falls from your hair, locks still stuck in the wavy pattern. From a small pillow Fíli selects a tiny, silver bead, studded with sapphires. He carefully weaves together strands on the other side of your head, fixing the bead in place.

My turn. The Khuzdûl words stick in your throat. "May I have the privilege of braiding your hair?"

Fíli's face lights up like he's been waiting to hear those words from you his whole life. "You may."

His hair is silky and thick in your fingers as you remove his bead and braid, replacing it with a bead to match your own.

When he turns back to face you, he's wearing the biggest grin you've ever seen. Thorin hardly has time to get the words out before Fíli seizes your face and your lips collide. He lifts you up and whirls you around, nearly tangling in your long skirt. You giggle, finally pounding on his back to signal your need to come up for air. He's breathless and giddy when he puts you down.

Thorin chuckles, taking hold of both of your wrists and lifting them in the air. "Yasthûn ra yasthûna!" he roars. [husband and wife] "And now, we feast," he adds under his breath to you.

And a feast it is. If there's one thing Middle Earth does well, it's food, and the dwarves are no exception. Thorin has spared no expense in furnishing the first royal wedding in over a hundred years, not to mention the first formal event in the reclaimed Erebor. Ale and mead flow freely, though you've selected a sweet wine for yourself. The grand centerpiece is a dozen sweet, slow-roasted hogs, surrounded by heaps of grilled vegetables and fresh autumn fruits. Candles dot the tables lining the hall, filling the vast room with a dream-like glow. The mountain has been so transformed, you can hardly tell that it's been a full year since you arrived on Erebor's doorstep.

You lean back in your chair with a contented sigh. Fíli trails his fingers up and down your sleeve absentmindedly as he sips on a mug of ale. His eyes have been on you for the whole reception and his hand never far from your arm, as if afraid you're but a figment of his imagination.

"Surely you're not tired yet, Y/N?" he teases, draping an arm around your neck.

"No," you reply, leaning into him. "Just thinking."

"Mm, your favorite pastime."

"Well, one of us has to be the brains of the relationship."

He smacks your shoulder lightly. "I'll have you know I'm plenty intelligent!"

"Ah, but which of us got top grades in their high school English classes?"

"That's not fair," Fíli grumbles. "We're speaking Westron, not Angle-ish."

You roll your eyes good-naturedly, bringing your knees up under your skirt and curling into Fíli's side as much as your separate chairs allow.

Thorin catches your eye from across the table and leans over. "Have we completed all of your world's marriage rituals?"

You stand up. "I guess there's usually toasts and speeches and stuff. Gotta get their attention first," you add, eying the noisy crowd.

You bang your mug on the table. When that's drowned out by all the merriment, you switch tactics, pursing your lips and letting out an ear-piercing whistle. That gets the rowdy dwarves' attention, some of the mildly sober ones grabbing their drunker companions and turning them to face you.

You clear your throat. "I'd like to thank you all for coming–"

"I didn't know I had a choice!" a particularly drunk Bofur shouts. It earns him several smacks on the back of the head at once from the dwarves around him, knocking off his hat.

You tip your mug to him. "Well, your presence is appreciated anyway, Bofur. As I was saying, thank you for coming, and for indulging my little rituals. I know they seem odd to all of you, but it's a nice reminder of home for me. And especially thank you to Kíli for being such a good babysitter!"

Kíli grins at you from across the table, bouncing a giggling Juniper on his knee. Briefly, you wonder if someone more sober should take over watching your daughter, but the little one has cried each time someone tried to take her from her beloved uncle. He's toted her around the reception, drunkenly bragging about her to anyone who'd listen, and many who wouldn't. It took ages for Fíli and Dís to finally convince him to actually sit down and eat once he'd downed a few pints. Juniper waves her little hands at Kíli's hair, trying to snag it in her fists.

You swallow a lump in your throat as you look around. Most of the dwarves unknown to you have wandered off, but to your relief all the Company members remain. "A lot of girls in my world grow up dreaming about what their wedding will look like. I never put much stock in it. I didn't have time for romance, but a little over a year ago my schedule cleared up unexpectedly, and, well…" you gesture broadly to the room. That stubborn lump in your throat returns, and you take a sip from your mug to try to squash it down. "I realized I've never properly thanked you for what you've done for me. You're all I have."

Fíli takes your hand, thumb tracing circles over the back of it. You squeeze his hand in return.

"I… I always thought it'd be my mom helping me with my dress, my dad walking me down the aisle, my best friend as my maid of honor. I even knew what song I'd use for the father-daughter dance." Tears sting the edge of your vision. You desperately hope they don't smudge the delicate pigments lining your eyelids.

Some of the dwarves look down at the floor, and you see a few blinking back tears of their own.

"But you've all become a weird, wonderful family to me. So a toast!" You raise your mug up high. "To the Company, for taking in this strange girl and loving her as one of your own. To Balin, especially, the first to accept me—I still think Dwalin would've cleaved me in half without your intervention."

The old dwarf chuckles, eyes twinkling. Dwalin grumbles, but hides a smile in his beard.

"To Kíli, the strangest brother I could ask for. To Dís, for a mother's love, and for raising a pretty good guy." You elbow Fíli playfully. He swats your arm away in mock offense.

"To Thorin—I knew I'd win you over eventually!" You throw him a wink.

He dips his head from his seat next to Kíli and raises his tankard solemnly.

"To Juniper, the one who makes this all worth it." Damn that lump, it's back again! "To my mom and dad, and all the rest—wherever you are, I'll always love you. And to my best friend, you still owe me twenty bucks for gas!"

A few of the dwarves chuckle, though they don't seem to get the joke entirely.

"And to my husband—my yasthûn," you squeeze Fíli's hand again, tightly. "My Fíli. To the one who saved me."

Fíli pulls you down into his lap, wrapping an arm around your waist and cupping your face in his hand. He gazes into your eyes, and suddenly his lips are on yours, soft and tender, like your first kiss back in Rivendell.

Kíli lets out a whoop, echoed by the rest of the dwarves, and the noise escalates back into the drunken ruckus of the night. But you and Fíli stay there, you laying your head on his shoulder, him rubbing your back, just enjoying each other. Then he stands and lifts you with him, carrying you to the center of the room. He sets you down lightly and looks back at Thorin with a small nod.

Thorin returns it and reaches across the table to your phone. He taps it a few times, turning up the volume. A soft tune drifts across the room.

Seeing the bride and groom in the middle of the hall, the dwarves quiet down and watch expectantly. Fíli places a gentle hand on your side and takes your hand.

"Fíli!" you whisper harshly, cheeks turning red. You regret showing the dwarves how to use your phone now. "I can't dance!"

He smiles at you. "They're too drunk to realize anyway," he whispers back. As the music swells, he begins to sway back and forth, leading you in a slow, careful dance around the center of the room. Your breath catches when he lifts your arm above your head, and with uncertain feet you twirl around, skirt flowing out around you. Fíli lets you spin for a few seconds and then brings you back in, gripping your waist and, to your surprise, tossing you in the air. He catches you easily and dips you down as the song ends. His eyes are soft, and he rests his forehead against yours. "Thank you, amrâlimê," he murmurs.

You blink. "For what?"

"For staying."

You smile. "I didn't know I had a choice."