Bag End is too warm.

The fire crackles, Bilbo hurries about with teapots and biscuits, and the Company fills every inch of the hobbit-hole. Boots scrape polished floors, armor clinks, someone is sitting on an end table that was never meant to hold a dwarf.

I sit apart, hands wrapped around a mug I have not touched.

When Gandalf closes the round green door behind him, the noise quiets at once.

His staff touches the floorboards—lightly, but it is enough.

“Thorin,” he says, “explain something to me.”

Every muscle in my back locks.

The Company goes still. Even Kíli stops talking—a rare miracle.

“There is a host of Teleri elves in Dale,” Gandalf says.

The room erupts.

“In DALE?!” “Elves?! Here for what?!” “I KNEW IT—pointy-eared cowards—” “They’re going to seize the Mountain, I knew it—”

“No,” Gandalf snaps. “They have not come for war.”

The Company mutters, unconvinced.

Gandalf’s gaze fixes on me.

“They are asking questions,” he continues. “Not of Dale’s merchants or soldiers only—but of every wandering traveler, every caravan, every farmer.”

Fili frowns. “Questions about what?”

Gandalf’s voice grows heavy.

“About Durin’s line.”

Cold creeps into my gut.

“What?” Kíli whispers. “Why would the Teleri search for… us?”

“They go from tavern to tavern,” he says. “From the Long Lake to the Mountain’s shadow. They ask: Are there any who survived? Where do they hide?”

Dwalin mutters, “Fools told them nothing, I hope.”

“They did not,” Gandalf says. “No one trusts elves—least of all the Teleri. But the host persists.”

My pulse hammers.

“And,” Gandalf adds, “this is no ordinary patrol. They march under the High Queen’s banner.”

The breath leaves my lungs.

Beside me, Balin goes rigid. His eyes flick toward me—sharp, knowing.

Kíli sputters, “Why would the High Queen of the Teleri care about dwarves?”

“She would not,” Gandalf answers, “without cause.”

He steps closer.

“The High Queen does not chase conflicts. She does not claim land. She does not send armed sentinels across Middle-earth without dire purpose. And she certainly does not seek dwarves without reason.”

The walls feel too close.

“Thorin,” he says quietly, “something is amiss. And I suspect the answer sits before me.”

My jaw clenches. The mug creaks under my grip.

“I know nothing of their purpose,” I say.

Gandalf sighs. “You do not lie well in small rooms.”

“I said—” the mug cracks in my hands “—I know nothing.”

Kíli whispers, “Uncle… what is this?”

I cannot look at him.

Gandalf comes to stand directly before me. “The Teleri search the world for someone. And every rumor points to a dwarf.”

Silence falls so sharply I almost hear it.

He lowers his voice.

“Why would their Queen cross leagues in search of Durin’s line? Why would she send a host? Why would she ask after you?”

The truth strains against the walls of my chest.

Twenty years of silence. Twenty years of distance. Twenty years of a vow spoken in a hidden chamber beneath the Mountain.

I breathe once—shallow, painful.

“…She searches,” I manage, “because she has lost something.”

Gandalf frowns. “What?”

My voice is barely a whisper.

“Not something. Someone... For her Love."

I shut my eyes.

Fíli chokes on air. “Uncle—”

Gandalf’s staff lowers. “Thorin… are you suggesting that the High Queen of the Teleri seeks—”

“I am,” I rasp, stopping him before her title can strike the air like a blow.

The room freezes.

No one breathes.

I stare down at my shattered mug, tea running cold around my fingers. “She searches for her King,” I say softly. “A King the world believes lost.”

Balin’s voice breaks. “By Durin… Thorin—”

I cannot meet his eyes.

My throat closes.

“Yes,” I whisper, “she searches for me.”

She searches for Durin’s line… for me. After all these years—does she believe I am gone? Has the River carried my memory farther than my voice ever could?

The truth hits the room like an earthquake.

And I sit in the center of it— silent, shaking, and unable to bear the weight of her name on my tongue.