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You peered down at the mystery package with an excited grin, carrying it over to the chair in front of your computer. “It came, Nicole!”
“Good,” your friend said, grinning over your Skype chat. “Is it all in one piece?”
You turned the box, wrapped in plain brown paper, over in your hands. “Pristine,” you assured her.
“Awesome,” she said. “Nothing but the best for your birthday. Are you going to open it?”
You beamed down at the package for another moment, savoring the excitement and mystery of the unopened gift, before turning it over. There was writing on the front where the return address would usually be.
“Speak friend and enter,” you murmured to yourself, the reference immediately clicking.
“What?” Nicole asked, leaning towards her webcam.
“That’s a Lord of the Rings reference!” you exclaim, turning to your best friend. You knew she wasn’t as into the fandom as you were, and felt a rush of warmth that she put this much effort into your gift.
“Lord of the Rings?” she muttered.
“It’s from the Mines of Moria! As if you don’t know,” you scoffed, peering down at the smooth, almost runic writing. She’d even copied Tolkein’s style of writing! “This is the best gift ever,” you declared, bouncing a bit in your seat.
“Mines of, what?” you heard from the speakers. “I sent you a muffin-maker.”
“MORIA!” you proclaimed, ignoring her spoiling of your present in your zeal to explain your fandom. “And it's a riddle because even though it's a dwarven mine the gate is elven made and you have to say mellon because that’s the elvish word for-“
“Friend,” you finished, looking up into the startled eyes of an old man. You looked back down at your hands, and the package had disappeared. Looking up, your computer was gone, your room was gone. There was no Nicole. Instead there was an old man with a long beard and a pointy hat. At his side was a rather tiny man, a full head shorter than you despite your median height, who also had rather long hair. And a pointy sword. Which was pointed right at you.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!” you screamed, and tumbled backwards off of the log you’d been sitting on. You thumped down on your back and quickly scrambled to your feet, looking around with wide eyes. There was a whole group of men, though the one you’d been sitting next to was probably the oldest. The tallest too. Many of the others had jumped to their feet and seemed to be holding weapons. The roundest one was brandishing a ladle at you.
You blinked.
“Um,” you started. Your voice dried up. There were… fifteen, all together. Fourteen, as mentioned earlier, were rather short. And hairy, you observed. Though one stood out, for having only a mop of curls on his head and some scruff on his.. really.. large… feet.
You turned to stare at the Man you’d landed next to. Or should you say, Maiar.
“You’re fucking Gandalf the Grey!” you screamed in disbelief, pointing a finger up at his face. His eyes twinkled down at you. That twinkle dimmed when one of the dwarves (“DWARVES!!” your inner fangirl squealed) muttered, “Fucking himself would be a real wizardly talent.”
Dori, (you identified him by his prettily braided silver hair, and oh look, he’d pushed little Ori behind him, how cute) punched the red-headed dwarf beside him. (“Norinorinorinori,” chanted your inner fangirl.)
“That would be I,” Gandalf said maganimously, eyes once again lighting up.
Any reply you might have made was interrupted by the crackling of dried wood, and the already on alert dwarves turned as a sled barrelled into their camp. Gandalf greeted Radagast, and the dwarves eyed you suspiciously.
“I’m not with him,” you claimed as Radagast took a puff of the pipe and crossed his eyes. “I don’t do drugs. I don’t even smoke.”
Someone muffled a laugh.
Warg howls broke through the silence, and soon enough you were all running, Gandalf herding you along with his staff. You huffed, wishing you’d run more. Why didn’t you ever join a gym?
Dwalin (easily identified by his mohawk and axes) ran past you despite his shorter legs, axes extended and roaring a battle cry. Seriously. What was up with these dwarves?
Your chest was burning but panic kept you running. All the adrenaline in the world couldn’t stop you from tripping over an untied shoe lace though. “FUCK,” you yelled, falling to the ground. “Why didn’t I take Macklemore’s advice?” you wondered aloud. Velcros wouldn’t have betrayed you like this.
A growl brought you back to the present, and you stared up into the snarling face of a warg, creeping towards you, an orc leering at you from its back. Drool dripped from its jowls onto your jeans. You stared into teeth as long as your fingers. “That was the worst present ever,” you realized.
A cry sounded from behind you and a golden blur rushed past you, twin blades flashing as it cut the warg down, an arrow hitting the orc square in the chest. Some blood got on your pants, mixing with drool, but you were fixated by Fili turning and sheathing one of his blades, holding out a hand. You took it automatically, noting absently how effortlessly he lifted you to your feet. He flashed you a charming grin before dragging you across the field, heading towards an impatient looking Thorin, your hand still trapped in his.
“This was the best gift ever,” you corrected yourself under your breath.