Night had fallen, and Alexander sat by the small campfire he had made in the middle of a quiet, damp forest. Sparks danced into the air, flickering against the dark backdrop of trees swaying gently in the wind. His cloak was pulled tight around him as he leaned back against a fallen log, staring up at the sky. The stars here were different from the ones in his own universe.
Everything here was different.
His journey to Bree had been slower than anything he was used to. Back home, he could travel across cities in minutes, either through his wraith speed or by flying with his divine fire. But here, in Middle-earth, it felt like something was pressing down on him. A weight that made everything harder.
His fire powers still worked, but they weren't what they used to be. He could summon flames, but the intensity was nowhere near what it once was. His divine fire, which could burn gods and destroy wraiths, felt diminished. Even Narquar's power was dampened.
This universe was rejecting them.
Alexander absentmindedly reached up and touched the headband Tom Bombadil had given him. It hid the mark of Narquar on his forehead, concealed his molten eyes, and turned his burning hair back to normal. But more than that, he could feel the magic within it. It reminded him of the Ring of Power he and Celebrimbor had forged together.
His eyes drifted to his right hand.
For the first time in a long while, it was bare. No ring. No ghostly energy crackling beneath his skin. Just his own hand.
He missed Celebrimbor.
Alexander clenched his fist. The silence of the forest weighed on him, pressing against his thoughts, threatening to drag him into the pit of his own regrets.
Then he heard it—a faint rustling in the bushes.
His instincts kicked in immediately. He turned his head slightly, summoning a fireball in his right hand and hiding it behind his back. His molten eyes narrowed, scanning the darkness for movement.
Then, from the underbrush, a small figure limped into the firelight.
Alexander relaxed slightly. It was a dog. A golden retriever, thin and scrappy, with matted fur covered in dirt. One of its legs was twisted at an odd angle.
The fire in his hand flickered out.
The dog stared at him, its deep brown eyes filled with pain and fear. It took an uncertain step forward, then whimpered, unable to put weight on its injured leg.
Alexander sighed. "Just my luck."
Without thinking, he reached out and picked up the dog. It flinched but didn't struggle. He placed it gently on the ground beside him, resting a hand over its broken leg. A soft orange glow spread from his palm as he channeled his divine fire, knitting the bones and muscles back together.
The dog let out a small whimper before sighing in relief, the pain fading from its eyes.
As he worked, his mind drifted to Little Thor, his cat back on Earth. The little bastard was probably enjoying his freedom without Alexander around to pester him. He imagined the furry menace lounging on the couch, sleeping in the sun, or knocking over valuable objects just for fun.
Little shit.
The dog's leg was fully healed within minutes. It stood up and gave Alexander a grateful look, wagging its tail slightly before its ears suddenly perked up.
A howl echoed through the forest.
The retriever's body tensed, and before Alexander could react, it bolted into the darkness, disappearing into the trees.
"Damn," Alexander muttered, standing up.
More howls followed.
And then, the shadows moved.
From the treeline, five massive, dark shapes emerged.
Wargs.
Foul, wolf-like beasts—larger than any normal animal, with glowing eyes and jagged fangs. He had seen them before, in Celebrimbor's memories. They were the hunting hounds of Morgoth and Sauron, twisted and bred for war.
The wargs circled his campsite, snarling. Their breath was hot, misting in the cold night air.
Alexander sighed. "You really don't want this fight."
The beasts growled, lowering their bodies, preparing to pounce.
Fine.
Alexander reached up and ripped the headband off.
Flames exploded from his body, surging around him like a living inferno. His hair ignited, shifting from black to a brilliant, blazing fire, licking the air like a burning banner. His eyes turned molten gold, flickering like the surface of a dying star.
The wargs froze.
Alexander took a step forward, intensifying the flames, his entire form glowing with heat. The ground beneath him began to scorch, smoke rising in tendrils.
The wargs whimpered.
Then, one by one, they turned and fled, vanishing into the forest with terrified yelps.
Alexander exhaled, rolling his eyes. He reached down, grabbed the headband, and put it back on. Instantly, his fire receded, and his appearance returned to normal.
"That's what I thought."
He sat back down and finished his meal.
Four hours later, Alexander arrived at the gates of Bree.
The night was still dark, and the rain was falling in thick sheets, drenching the dirt roads and turning them into mud. His cloak was soaked, and his boots squelched with every step.
Reaching the massive wooden gate, he knocked twice.
A small sliding panel opened, revealing a tired-looking man with messy red hair and a thick, round face.
The gatekeeper frowned. "Who're you?"
"A traveler," Alexander replied flatly. "Looking for an inn."
The man yawned. "Aye, well, s'pose you can come in. Try not to cause any trouble."
With a heavy creak, the gates opened, and Alexander stepped inside.
Bree was larger than he expected. The town was built from stone and timber, its streets lined with buildings that had a mix of human and hobbit architecture. Lanterns flickered in the rain, casting warm golden glows against the wet cobblestone.
Alexander pulled his cloak tighter around himself, shielding his face from the downpour.
"Where's the Prancing Pony?" he asked.
The gatekeeper rubbed his nose. "North-east side o' town. Big sign, can't miss it."
"Thanks."
Alexander walked through the rain-soaked streets, following the directions. It didn't take long before he saw the familiar sign—a wooden carving of a rearing pony, swinging gently in the wind.
He sighed, shaking some water from his cloak.
Finally.
Stepping forward, he pushed open the door and entered the inn.
The Prancing Pony was alive with noise.
Laughter and music filled the air as men, dwarves, and hobbits sat together at wooden tables, drinking and sharing stories. Tankards clashed together in toasts, and the scent of roasted meat, ale, and pipe smoke thickened the air. It was a place of warmth and revelry, a stark contrast to the cold rain outside.
Alexander sat alone at a table near the corner, leaning back against his chair. He had removed his cloak, letting it hang over the back of his seat as he scanned the room. It was strange—seeing these people, these creatures of another world, drinking together as if nothing beyond their little town existed.
A waitress approached him, a young woman with chestnut hair tied back in a braid. She smiled at him.
"What can I get you, sir?"
Alexander glanced at the trays of food passing by. "Mead. And some meat."
The waitress nodded. "That'll be—"
Before she could finish, Alexander reached into his pocket and placed a gemstone on the table. It was one of the many he had taken from Eldhrborinn's realm—deep red, shining with an unnatural glow.
The woman's eyes widened. She hesitated, staring at the gem as if it might burn her. Then, without another word, she grabbed it and hurried off.
Alexander frowned, watching her leave.
"…The hell?"
Then, in his mind, a voice stirred.
"She probably thinks you're some sort of king or noble."
Alexander sighed. "Oh great, you're awake."
Narquar, still inside his forehead, chuckled. "Of course. I don't need sleep like you. But I can feel your irritation. You're impatient."
"I don't have time to waste here."
"And yet, here you are."
Alexander ignored her, drumming his fingers against the table.
Then, before he could think further, a man approached. He was young, with short brown hair and a round face, dressed in simple but well-kept innkeeper's clothes. In his hands was the ruby Alexander had given the waitress.
"Er—good evening, sir," the man began, shifting awkwardly. "I, uh, I believe there's been a mistake."
Alexander raised a brow. "What do you mean?"
The man—who Alexander assumed was the owner—held up the gem. "This ruby… it's too much. This could buy the entire Prancing Pony."
Alexander sighed, rubbing his temples. "Then I'll buy the Prancing Pony."
The innkeeper blinked. "…What?"
"I'll buy it," Alexander repeated. "But you keep running it. You get the profits. You keep the gem. That way, you don't have to worry about rejecting it."
There was a brief silence. Then—
"Done!" the man said quickly, stuffing the ruby into his pocket before Alexander could change his mind. "I—er—thank you! I'm Barliman Butterbur, by the way! At your service!"
With that, Barliman scurried away, practically skipping.
Alexander exhaled, leaning back again. "Well. That was easy."
"You just bought an entire inn because you couldn't be bothered to haggle," Narquar said, amused.
"I don't have time for this crap."
Before he could continue, the waitress returned, placing a plate of roasted meat and a mug of mead in front of him. "Here you go, sir."
Alexander nodded. "Thanks."
Then, without hesitation, he began to eat.
The mead was weak—at least for him. As an Asgardian, alcohol this diluted couldn't even make him tipsy. But the meat was good, roasted well with a nice glaze. He devoured his food quickly, barely paying attention to the sounds of the pub around him.
Then, the door to the Prancing Pony swung open.
The air seemed to shift.
A tall figure stepped in from the rain, shaking the water off his cloak. He wore long grey wizard robes, with a thick white beard cascading down to his chest. A large grey hat sat upon his head, and in his right hand, he carried a staff—one that radiated power.
Alexander looked up.
The wizard's gaze swept across the room before settling on him. Their eyes met.
The wizard's own eyes widened slightly in surprise.
Then, he walked forward, his boots echoing against the wooden floor.
Alexander remained still, watching as the man approached his table. When the wizard finally stood before him, he offered a small, knowing smile.
"I am Gandalf," he introduced himself, his voice deep and weathered with age. "Gandalf the Grey."
Alexander narrowed his eyes. "And?"
Gandalf's smile widened just slightly. "And I am curious. It is not often that one such as you finds their way into this world."
Alexander immediately tensed. He knows.
"How do you know I'm not from here?"
Gandalf chuckled. "Your headband bears the magic of Tom Bombadil. And Tom… well, he has a way of knowing things."
Alexander's guard lowered slightly. If Gandalf knew Tom, then he might not be a threat. Still, he remained wary. "And who are you, exactly?"
"A wizard," Gandalf answered simply.
Alexander exhaled through his nose. "That's vague as hell."
Gandalf only smiled.
They sat in silence for a moment before Alexander spoke again.
"Are you here for me?"
Gandalf nodded. "Tom asked me to come."
Alexander leaned forward. "Then you know what I want."
"Yes."
"And?"
Gandalf sighed, stroking his beard. "Your companion, Celebrimbor, has indeed returned to this world. He is in Mordor, a prisoner of Sauron."
Alexander clenched his fist. "Then I'm going there. Now."
But Gandalf's eyes darkened. "That would be unwise."
"I don't care."
"If you had your former power, perhaps you could," Gandalf said. "But you are weaker here. This world suppresses you—your fire, your abilities. You may be able to cut down orcs, but Mordor is home to things far worse than orcs."
Alexander's jaw tightened. "Then why is this world suppressing me?"
Gandalf hummed in thought. "Because you do not belong here. Your powers are unnatural to this realm. And so, the world itself keeps them contained."
Alexander cursed under his breath.
Gandalf, however, wasn't finished. "There is a way," he said. "But it will take time. Decades, even."
Alexander's eyes snapped to him. "I don't have decades."
Gandalf smiled cryptically. "Then you must be patient."
Alexander scowled. "What the hell does that mean?"
"In time, you will understand."
Alexander exhaled sharply. "You sound just like Tom."
Gandalf chuckled. "Perhaps."
Then, without another word, he turned and left the Prancing Pony.
Alexander sat back, frustrated. He raised his hand to signal for more mead.
Later That Night
Alexander sat in the best room the Prancing Pony had to offer, drinking another mug of mead. His thoughts drifted to Earth.
If I really have to stay here for decades…
Would Emma still be alive when he returned?
Would she be an old woman by the time he got back?
Would his life—the life he left behind—even still exist?
As if sensing his mood, Narquar emerged from his forehead, materializing in her human form. She sat on the edge of the bed, arms crossed. "Maybe time flows differently between universes," she said. "A decade here could be a day back home."
Alexander's spirits lifted slightly.
Then she smirked. "Or it could be the opposite. A day here could be a decade there."
Alexander groaned and threw some mead at her face.
The liquid splashed across her, and Narquar gasped. "You asshole!"
Alexander laughed.
But before he could react, she kicked him off the bed.
With a heavy thud, he landed on the wooden floor.
He groaned, rubbing the back of his head. "Fine. Enjoy the bed."
Narquar smirked and lay down, stretching her arms. "I will."
Grumbling, Alexander closed his eyes and let sleep take him.