Night presses close around us, cold wind clawing at cloaks as we huddle around a small, struggling fire. We’re exhausted, hungry, and silent, the Mountain still a dark shape far ahead. Someone passes me a skin of ale, and I drink too much, too fast, because the quiet feels heavy enough to crush bone.

Trying to sound casual, I kick at the fire. “Ever loved someone so badly it hurt to breathe?” A few groans, a snort from Bofur, Bilbo choking on nothing. Dwalin mutters that love has no place on the road to war. But the question hangs in the air, sharp and dangerous.

I take another drink. The warmth turns bold in my veins.

“Fine,” I say, voice tight. “I’ll start.”

Fíli shoots me a warning look. Thorin doesn’t move, but I can feel his attention like a blade. My chest aches. My throat burns.

“I miss her.”

Silence slams down.

Bilbo blinks. “Her?”

I swallow hard. “Aye.”

Kíli—fool that I am—keeps talking. “She was tall. Pale. Hair white as winter. Eyes like moonlit water. A crown of birch.” The memory shakes me. “One look, and I was gone.”

Balin stiffens. “That sounds like—”

Gandalf’s head snaps up. His eyes sharpen. “Cynthia Singollo?”

My heart stops.

Fíli mutters a curse. Thorin rises, shocked.

“The High Queen of the Teleri?” Thorin’s voice is strained, disbelieving.

I try to laugh, but it shatters. “Aye.”

The Company erupts in whispers. Bilbo sputters, “You fell for an Elven Queen?!” Dwalin stares like I’ve lost my mind. My voice breaks.

“I didn’t mean to. But she walked like moonlight had learned to breathe. She spoke—and I forgot my own name. I’ve loved her in silence, in secret, in shadows she’ll never know existed.”

I drag a hand through my hair, breath shaking. “She’s a queen. I’m nothing but a wanderer in rags.”

Thorin’s voice is low, shaken. “You should have told us.”

“What would it change?” I whisper. “She’s beyond my reach.”

The fire crackles, casting ember-light on stunned faces. No one speaks. Even the wind stills.

Then Gandalf shifts, cloak settling, staff tapping once. He studies me with ancient, unsettling calm.

“Kíli,” he says softly, “are you certain she must never know?”

My voice trembles. “What choice do I have?”

Gandalf reaches into his robe and draws out a narrow strip of parchment, sealed in silver ink—a crescent moon over two flowing lines.

Her sigil.

Thorin steps forward, stunned. “Gandalf… what is that?”

“A letter once entrusted to my keeping,” the wizard murmurs, “from the High Queen’s own court.”

My pulse hammers. “You—you knew how to reach her?”

Gandalf nods. “Her realm does not answer riders or ravens. But written words carried by water will cross her borders untouched. And there are rivers yet between here and Erebor.”

The world tilts. “So… I could send her a message?”

Gandalf meets my eyes, solemn and certain.

“If you write the letter,” he says, “I know how to send it to her realms.”

Hope hits me like a blow to the chest—wild, impossible, blinding.

For the first time since I saw her last,

I dare to believe she might hear my heart.