Chapter Text
"Time takes it all, whether you want it to or not." - Stephen King
Monica pressed her lips to Elrohir's again and again. His fingers in her hair, his other arm wrapped around her.
They had to go to other places in Rivendell to avoid PDA. Elves frowned on physical displays between unmarried couples. The two of them escaped to areas less used, more wild where she could kiss her boyfriend without clucking tongues.
The whole Elrohir being a couple thousand years older than her didn’t translate as a bad thing. Unlike that professor she dated in college (the one that knocked her up, then told her that he was engaged, in a long distance relationship with his fiancée and moving to Glastonbury to be with her), and the pit boss she tried out when she first started working at the Cosmopolitan, Elrohir didn't turn into a patronizing dick bag when she didn’t understand something.
He was patient, and sweet. He smiled so easily at her. He gave her all the kisses she could ever ask for. He just wouldn’t give her the other things that usually came after kissing.
Her lips opened her tongue flicking against his lips and fuck, the sound he made as he withdrew. Desire and frustration. Gray eyes, stormy and dark pinning her with a playful glare. “You enjoy tempting me.”
Monica leaned in, nipping his lower lip gently. “Just a reminder of what we could be doing.”
Every other time they had this conversation, and they'd had it a lot by this point, Elrohir had laughed and kissed her and teased her playfully. He asked her if she was considering becoming his wife. Which would make her blush and flustered and she would laugh, ask me next time. Then they'd go back to cuddling and kissing.
This time Elrohir stood, and removed himself from her reach. What was he-
“You cannot offer me your body without offering your commitment.” He didn’t sound angry, just… disappointed. A little bit sad.
Brow furrowing, “Elrohir, it's not something to get amped up about. I'm sorry. I just low-key miss sex, okay?”
That didn’t seem to help at all. His frown got deeper and the skin between his eyes pinched. He went quiet, looking at her with serious gray eyes. He was silent long enough that Monica began to fidget, first touching her hair and then fixing it.
“We should end this.”
For someone who was definitely not getting attached because she was absolutely leaving, that was a sucker punch to the gut. Monica jumped up from sitting on the blanket he brought with them (because the cold ground didn’t bother him, but it did bother her), “I'm sorry, okay, I'll stop. I know you're not ready yet. We can wait as long as you want.”
“My brother warned me that you would never understand.” She hated the resignation his tone carried. “You are a daughter of man. I am not.”
“I know?” She replied, confused. “Elrohir, I get it, you're upset. I was just teasing. I am sorry Really. I like you a lot. I don't want to end things before we see where this goes.”
Genuine sadness etched his features. “Where this goes?” He echoed. A slow, deep breath left him as he bowed his head. When he lifted his gaze again, there was a flatness to his gorgeous face. “allow me to walk you to your room.”
Bewildered and bemused, Monica let him walk her back to the room she shared with Beats. Unlike every other night Elrohir walked her back to her room, he was completely silent. There were no questions about seeing her tomorrow or offering to escort her around Rivendell. After her first two attempts to talk to him, and his short reply of ‘no’ both times, Monica gave up.
He bowed just like always at the door. Then he turned around and walked away. Unlike every other night, he didn’t pause at the end of the hall and look back at her.
Shit.
She'd really fucked up this time.
Beats, who was (just like most nights) stretched out on the bed reading, sat up. “Wow. That was cold.”
Fuck. Monica shut the door, “I think I fucked up bad.”
Book closed and set aside, “uh, yeah, caught that. What happened?”
Monica blew out a long sigh, “I usually tease him, try to feel out how close we're getting to horizontal adult time but, like, this time-”
Beats had her hand covering her mouth in a horrified expression.
“What?” Monica demanded immediately.
“Moni, what the shit, why would you do that?”
Huh? It must have been written all over her face because Beats groaned, slapping her own forehead with her palm.
“You said you read The Lord of the Rings!” Bests almost yelled at her.
“I did!” Sort of. Maybe. “I had to in Intro to English lit, but, like, E had all the answers and stuff I needed to do my homework with and…” Monica shrugged. “Judicious skimming.”
Beats grabbed her copy, Erdene’s copy, of The Hobbit off the nightstand. She'd been through the available libraries twice. If these elves had any books from Earth or other worlds, they were not readily available to everyone. “Tolkien was a Christian writer, Moni. Who loved his wife so much he made her the most beautiful, powerful woman in this world.”
Okay, so? Monica shrugged. “And?”
“Why do you think Elrond never remarried? Why Arwen is nearly three thousand years old when she and you know who finally hook up? Why Thranduil is obsessed with his deceased wife's gems enough he's willing to take another ruler hostage to get them?”
That sinking feeling she got, the same one she had that day she escaped fucking piece of shit Paul, formed in her gut. All those times Elrohir had given her a small laugh, and an indulgent peck and the tightness around his features came rushing back. She needed to sit down.
Once she was sitting in those kind of uncomfortable chairs that seemed to be the standard decor of Rivendell, the reality of it all hit her. Full force.
“He never told me! Why the fuck wouldn't he tell me? I figured he was probably inexperienced, but…” Groaning, Monica fell back against the chair dramatically. “God fucking damn it, Beats, I really like him.”
Yeah. Beatrice knew that. Pretty much everyone knew that. Including Elrond himself.
Elladan had been grumpy about his twin falling for a human woman. Enough that he tried approaching Beatrice and requested that Beats have a talk with Monica about not playing with Elrohir's emotions. Elves felt more deeply than humans did. Whenever Monica ended up going back to Earth, Elrohir would be devastated.
“Moni,” Beats began slowly, “we're leaving eventually. As soon as we figure out how.” Though that was a conversation they were holding off on until their smartest person turned up.
Judith managed to guilt trip Gandalf the Grey into admitting he had seen someone who looked like Erdene in late April. In a city called South Yard. It was close to the Blue Mountains, past The Shire.
Elladan and Elrohir assured both Beatrice and Monica that they would happily take them to the city to look for their missing cousin/friend, once the snow cleared. Elladan probably made them that promise to get Monica out of his brother’s way. Elrohir probably made it to stay with Monica as long as he could.
The deep frown on Monica's face said a lot. Her lower lip in a pout and sad eyes.
“Moni, if you don't leave, you’ll never see your family again.” Beatrice added. “I know I only went to one party, but they throw a hell of party. Your mom, your dad, your brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins. If you don’t go home, what happens?.”
That's what Monica wanted, two years ago. To go home. To hug her abuela, her mamá and papá again. Smell the pipe tobacco her abuelo always smoked, the stuff that reminded her of home. To hear her tías chatting in the kitchen on a Sunday morning. To see her brothers, hug them, sit between them on the couch and yell at soccer games with them.
Betty knew she was twisting the knife and she felt awful about it, but, “you know they refused to declare you dead. I used to check the FBI's missing people website. Your face is still up there. Don't you want to give them closure?”
Yes. Yes she did. And to yell at them. For their stupid.
Monica also wanted to apologize to her boyfriend too. Wipe that frown off his face and kiss him and tell him she didn’t know. She didn’t mean to push him for something he couldn't give her unless they were…
Maybe it was better-
Nope. Her whole chest gave a big old not happening throb. Like her soul hurt. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
“I'm gonna apologize in the morning B.” Monica finally said after her brain started hurting from holding back on tears. “And maybe when this is over or maybe, I don't know, maybe he'll just be the one that got away.”
She went into the small water closet elves used for bathrooms. They were pretty and white and cream, and had an elegant toilet that made her feel like she was in a medieval fantasy. She sat down on the bench, put her head in her hands and cried until her brain was too exhausted to think any more.
In the morning she rose, and went searching for Elrohir. He was usually in the stables with his horse. Monica was planning to head down to the stables and apologize. Instead she found herself face to face with Lindir. Holding a letter with her name on it.
There were a lot of things Evelyn Thoroughfare always dreamed of doing in Nevada. She wanted to see Las Vegas and Lake Tahoe. Drive the winding road from Nevada to California and see the national forest dividing the two states. She had a plan to bring her daughter with her for the trip to Carson City.
She'd been saving up before her soul took a vacation from her body. Every extra shift at the bar. Every extra dime she got tipped by some hopeful patron. It all went into a bank account her parents hadn't even touched over the years.
She emptied the account after having to prove she was who she said she was. Then she went to the airport and bought a one way ticket to Reno International Airport.
Now she was standing outside the airport waiting for a Lyft.
(It used to be: don't talk to strangers, don't take rides from strangers, don't get into a stranger's car when she was little. Don't answer the door if it's a stranger. Now there was Uber and Lyft and DoorDash, GrubHub and Postmates.)
If she had the time, Evelyn might have indulged herself. She might have rented a car and done a long drive around Lake Tahoe. Maybe she might have gone to Carson City and stayed at a Bed and Breakfast somewhere near the shore.
Instead the Lyft driver dropped her off in the somewhat empty parking lot of a small shopping center. There was a large Wal-Mart shopping center across the way. Despite this being December, the sun beat down hard enough to make Evelyn strip off her jacket in exchange for her long sleeved t-shirt that declared her an alumni of Jane Austin Academy.
The internet now had so many fun things it didn't have twenty-odd years ago.
The other parts of the shopping center were quiet on this warm, sunny Thursday morning. Cars sat empty in the lot, with the exception of a bright blue Hyundai whose doors stood open. On the driver's side was a thin man, olive skinned with snowy white hair and long limbs who was arguing with the blonde woman getting out of the passenger seat opposite from him.
The woman was definitely younger than Evelyn, and no more than five foot five or six. Golden blonde hair, ruddy pale skin and sharp green eyes she rolled as the man said with a loud exasperated, “Elyria.”
Another man, taller, muscular, who was already standing outside the car, shook his head at them. He turned his head, catching Evelyn in his peripheral. His face broke into a genuine smile, “good morning ma'am.”
Elyria Duke, now thirty-three years old and having only been back on Earth a few weeks, shielded her eyes.
It's something the others will eventually know. This gut feeling. When a traveler meets another traveler. Someone else who has broken through to another world. There's something about the air around them. The way the world, the universe, reality shivers just the smallest bit around their edges. Like the world, the universe and the air they breathe knows at any moment they’ll blink out to wherever they're supposed to be.
Evelyn and Elyria smiled at one another. Knowing smiles. The kind that made Alistair hum and Fenris frown.
Elyria pushed her car door closed. Whoever she was, she was older, but not out of touch older. “Hey, pretty lady, wanna get coffee with us?”
Fenris closed his door as well. “You're not having coffee, the baby-”
Rolling her eyes, “oh my fluffy gods, I love you, but goddamn, one more word about this kid and I swear to god Fen.”
Evelyn bought Elyria a London Fog, herself a caramel macchiato, the taller man, Alistair a chair latte and the white haired man, Fenris, a cold brew. They sat at one of the round tables made for seating six, Evelyn on one side, Elyria and her husbands, yes plural, on the other.
“Where are you from?” Elyria asked.
“Georgia.” Evelyn replied, “and you three?”
Alistair cleared his throat, shifting a little uncomfortably. Frenris watched her with pointed distrust written on a very handsome face.
“I'm from New York, Brooklyn, my husbands are from Thedas.” Both men stiffened. “Fenris is from the Tevinter Imperium and Alistair is from Ferelden.”
“My husband's family is from The Lonely Mountain.” Evelyn offered.
Fenris, who had just begun reading The Hobbit on the drive last night, said, “the Lonely Mountain is occupied by a Dragon.”
Evie's smile faded at the edges. When she came back to earth her daughter and husband were both planning to go with Thorin and Company. If time kept pace with her here, she had four months before they left to figure out how to get there. She lifted her drink to her lips, “That happened after his great grandmother came to Earth.”
Alistair cleared his throat, “my lady, might I ask how you got back?”
Now wasn't that a tale?
Hours later, stomach full from the Starbucks brunch she shared with Elyria and her husbands (polyamory! Wasn't that a trip!), Evelyn Thoroughfare-Andenos returned to the quiet shopping center. She approached the building where the bookstore was, finding men working inside and outside. This part of the building seemed to be getting a makeover.
One man, not too tall, not too short with a thick accent that said he was definitely a transplant from somewhere much warmer, asked if she needed something.
Evelyn shook her head and chose to walk back to the Starbucks at the very end of the row of buildings. The sun was hotter now and she drew up her sleeves as she walked, her cane tapping on the cement. There was a line of cars now in the drive-thru. She grabbed a latte once inside and waited for the construction workers to take a break.
In the meantime, Evelyn went over everything Elyria had shared. Travelers to other worlds, other universes exist, don't believe anyone who says otherwise. Traveling hurt, your body isn’t supposed to be bent through space and time, but thankfully it was usually just a blinding headache. (Except for Alistair and Fenris. Alistair vomited up the darkspawn taint about fifteen seconds after they came to this world. He was sick for three days. Fenris’ body immediately tried to purge the lyrium in his tattoos when his feet touched Earth. His scars opened like he'd been cut and blue-silver lyrium bled from the wounds. Now they were permanent scars.) People from other worlds could travel here. They had to follow the same process it took a traveler to get back.
When questioned about how to get back, Evelyn shared her information about the portals.
Which didn’t happen to Elyria. Though, Elyria theorized, the connection to Thedas was probably newer than the connection to Middle Earth. And the magic of Middle Earth was a different beast from the magic of Thedas.
You had to believe, Elyria said. Believe in that world. Believe you could live there. Be there. Be happy. Have a life with people you loved.
Pop.
It was quiet that morning in Sparks. In a smaller Starbucks that was mostly empty at 10:15 in the morning. One minute the barista behind the counter had glimpsed the woman sitting by the far window. Then there was a drive thru order and the barista turned away. When he looked back, she was gone.
For the first time since Erdene told Thorin about his future, about what she knew, about The Hobbit, Tolkien and the future of Middle Earth, she returned to the training room. She led her father down into the depths of the halls that made up the bottom levels of the royal residence.
Derren's gaze roamed over artwork and carvings that he never would have dreamed of seeing before. Pieces of the Dwarrow history he mentally documented for later. His daughter opened the left side of the sliding door that led into thr training area, paused in the doorway, laughed lightly and said something in what he assumed was Japanese.
What he was not expecting was to see a man, a spirit rather, with a top knot and the same clothes he'd seen in school on the samurai of old. Who was rapid-fire speaking to Derren's daughter.
Who bowed deeply, and replied, “gomen nasai, sensei.”
Derren understood the word sensei. Only because he watched The Karate Kid movies. Teacher.
Huffing in annoyance, Izuku Tateyama listened while his long absent student explained the past month. Her command of his native language was better than he could have hoped for considering their circumstances. And her modern speech versus his, according to her, archaic speech.
He would have spat if he could have when she reached the part of her story when others tried to kill her. And took the life of her child. His arms uncrossed and his hands went to rest on his blade at his waist.
You live. He said finally when she was done. In his time, in his society, these things were handled much differently. Duels would have been fought. Dishonor would have fallen on the heads and houses those who attempted to kill her. As her teacher, he would have had obligations to avenge her. But this was not his world and he was well past death. He could do only so much.
He turned, nodded at the flooring of the room, and said, we train.
Derren found, after he realized Tateyama was not a harsh man, just direct, that he enjoyed the peaceful movements of the katas he was learning. His daughter smiled at the ghost repeatedly as he seemed to make some comments about Derren's improperly healed leg. Only to have Erdene explain gently to her father, how to work around his leg and its shortcomings.
When he moved to take up the second wooden practice katana he'd carved for her over her healing period (one for him, one for her), she shook her head. “No, dad, sensei wants you to,” she looked at the samurai who nodded and added something in Japanese before, “to build muscle memory before you start picking up a sword.”
That is how Fíli found them. Running through forms. Aunt Erdene with a training weapon, her father mirroring the movements without a weapon. He knew the dwarrow forms passed down from the times of Durin The Deathless, and he knew the forms that each of the seven kingdoms claimed as their own. He watched with mild fascination.
These were so different. Made for mannish folk. They had a swiftness to them that most dwarrow warriors couldn't achieve while weighted down by heavy armor. Swift and, no useless movement, slices that would no doubt cause a great deal of harm should they reach another being.
Perhaps Master Dwalin was wrong, that pig sticker Uncle Thorin gave Aunt Erdene was enough.