The laughter of my nephews blends with the warm clatter of plates, the scent of fresh bread, honey, herbs. Rivendell’s halls glow with soft lamps, carved columns, and the distant rush of waterfalls. It should be peaceful, should steady my mind after the road, but I cannot relax. Not in an elven house.

Elrond moves with that effortless grace of his, offering wine and counsel in equal measure. Gandalf mutters something about “hospitality” and “rest before the storm.” The Company settles in—Bofur humming, Bombur eating, Kíli and Fíli whispering mischief.

Then Gandalf lifts his head.

He goes still. That should have been my first warning.

“Ah,” he says, as if he’s just remembered a missing pack mule. “I forgot Elrond mentioned a guest—one of his river sovereigns. I suppose now is as fine a time as any for introductions.”

My stomach drops.

River sovereign. No… it couldn’t—

The great carved doors open.

Light spills in from the courtyard, silver-blue and cool. And then—

A figure steps through.

Tall. Taller than any elf in this house. A silhouette of moonlight and quiet, lethal grace. For a breath, I cannot breathe at all.

Moonsilver armor. Mithril etchings curling like vines—like running water—across the breastplate. A spear strapped to her back, blade glinting like a shard of the moon.

And her hair— White. The white I remember from torchlight in secret tunnels, the white that used to fall over her shoulders in those brief, stolen moments when she let her guard down around me.

But now it is unbound, long as a river, catching every flicker of lamplight.

And above it all—

The birch crown.

Living birch. Silver-veined leaves whispering faintly as she walks. A crown worn only by one kind of ruler.

Not princess. Not diplomat.

High Queen.

Elrond steps forward with a small bow of respect few ever receive.

“May I present to you all— Eärwa Singollo, High Queen of the Teleri.”

Everything in me goes cold.

I knew her as Princess of Alqualondë. The girl who laughed in the deep mines with me. The one I should have fought for. The one I let go—no, pushed away—because my father and grandfather snarled that no dwarf of Durin’s line would ever bind himself to Teleri blood.

I had been young. Stupid. Dutiful to the wrong people.

I had promised her a future and given her only rejection. I told myself she would forget me.

But I never forgot her. Never once.

And now she stands before me—not the girl I knew, but the woman she became despite me. A sovereign. A force. A High Queen whose very presence bends a room.

I cannot look away.

Gandalf clears his throat, oblivious. “She has been assisting Lord Elrond with matters of diplomacy. I thought this a good chance for all of you to meet another ally of Middle-earth’s rivers and realms.”

Elrond smiles politely.

I want the ground to open beneath me.

Then—

A scrape of chair legs. A sharp inhalation.

“By Mahal’s hammer…” Dwalin breathes beside me, staring at her like he’s seen a ghost from a lost age. His voice isn’t even quiet. “That’s Alqualondë’s princess.”

The Company erupts.

“Princess?” “She’s seven feet tall—princess of what, giants?” “Her hair looks like spun ice!” “Is she a Valar?” “No elf looks like that—” “Look at her eyes—sea glass—” “Bite your tongue, Kíli, don’t stare—” “Is that spear glowing—” “Thorin, you’re pale as stone—”

But I cannot speak.

Her eyes—those sea-glass eyes framed in white lashes—sweep across the room with calm sovereignty, pausing on no one, revealing nothing.

Not even when they pass over me.

And Mahal help me— that hurts more than any blade ever could.

Because she has become everything she was meant to be. While I became the king who broke his own heart to please the dead.

The hall keeps breathing. Life moves on. The Company shifts and stares.

But I— I am frozen in my seat.

Fifty years gone. And here she stands. High Queen. A river I once tried to dam. And a tide I was never strong enough to keep.

And I cannot tell if she recognizes me— or if I am nothing more than another dwarf behind another table in another hall of stone.