The air cracks with tension atop the battlements. Below, Thranduil’s army gleams like a cold blade pressed against the Mountain’s throat. I stand rigid as stone itself, palms braced against the parapet, pulse pounding like a forge hammer. Dwalin mutters oaths beside me, Balin tries to measure troop counts, but my gaze keeps slipping beyond the Elfking’s neat, arrogant ranks—searching the horizon.

Then the ground begins to tremble.

At first: distant thunder. Then: a rising roar. And finally: the unmistakable sound of thousands of hooves beating in perfect unity.

Dáin Ironfoot’s forces crest the rise, boars snorting, axes lifted high. Relief bursts in my chest—until I see the shimmer that accompanies them. A pale, silver-white flood advancing behind the dwarves like a river spilling over stone.

Steeds—white and grey—thundering forward. Moonlight splintering off their riders’ armor: pure moonsilver etched with dark moss-green patterns that ripple like flowing water. They move in absolute silence. No battle cry. No chant. Only the whisper of wind through silvered helms.

Balin’s breath catches. “By Durin… that is no host of Dale. Nor Mirkwood.”

No. It is not.

Their banners unfurl: dark green silk stitched with rivers and crescents of moonlight. A sigil I once traced along a young woman’s palm in the quiet dark of Erebor’s mines. A symbol I have not seen in fifty years.

Taur Im Duinath.

Dáin rides forward and plants his banner into the earth with a snarl sharp enough to cut stone. He glares up at me and bellows, voice carrying across the valley like a thrown axe.

“Thorin! You lock your gates against every ally and enemy alike—but I bring you one whose wrath even I fear to offend!” His voice cracks like a thrown hammer

Thranduil’s ranks shift in unease. Even Mirkwood’s archers flinch as the river-host furls outward in a perfect crescent. And then—

You.

You ride forward atop a great white cow elk, its heavy hooves crushing ruined earth with regal precision. Your armor gleams: moonsilver traced with mithril featherwork, calling up memories I spent half a lifetime trying to bury. Your hair falls unbound, white as winter starlight. Upon your brow rests a circlet of living birch, leaves stirring though the air is still.

Seven feet of impossible, sovereign grace.

And in your hand— Eärnumë. Sea-fire. The spear Ulmo himself was said to gift only once.

My breath stops.

You lift your spear—not toward Erebor.

Toward Thranduil.

Your elk steps forward once, the earth seeming to still beneath it as if afraid to move without your permission. The entire valley freezes.

When you speak, your voice carries like river-water poured into the hush.

“Oh, the Mountain never has to fear me. But your Forest, Thranduil… your forest may yet drown.”

A hush falls so total even the wind refuses to breathe.

“The River shall always protect the Mountain.”

Something in my chest breaks open, raw and wordless.

The spearhead tilts, catching the sun in a flash of cold fire.

Thranduil stiffens, shifting his grip on his bow. His captains murmur. His son reaches instinctively for his dagger.

Dáin wheels toward the Elvenking with a bark of laughter. “I told you, Elf! This is no court-bred maiden. This is the High Queen of the Teleri and she stands with the Mountain!” The words hit harder than any axe.

High Queen.

Not the girl who once walked the forges with me in secret. Not the woman I promised the world to and gave only my cowardice. Not the lover I pushed away because Thrór and Thráin deemed her unworthy.

You do not look at me. Not once. Your gaze is pinned solely upon the Elfking who dared to threaten the Mountain you have chosen to defend...

My hands curl painfully against the stone.

Dwalin whispers, stunned, “Thorin… lad… that is her.”

But there is no need to tell me.

I knew you the moment moonlight touched your brow.

And nothing in all my years of exile has struck me as deeply as the sight of the woman I loved— the woman I drove from my side— arriving as a High Queen to defend the very realm whose gates I once shut to her.