The torches along Thranduil’s polished stone hall burn with that cold Elven brightness that never seems to give warmth. It casts everything in white, sharp edges even the shadows look offended to be here. Chains clink softly as I raise my head, meeting the Elvenking’s gaze without bowing, without bending, without giving him one inch more than he thinks he’s owed.
He stands a step above me, staring down from that carved throne of polished beechwood and pale gold, robes pooling like moonlight around his boots.
“Why did you enter my realm, Thorin Oakenshield?” His voice is smooth, thin, cutting. “What business drives you so boldly through my forests?”
I draw a slow breath, letting silence stretch. Letting him feel the weight of what he does not yet know.
“I was on my way to Taur Im Duinath.”
A ripple moves through the guards. Even my company stiffens behind me. Thranduil’s eyebrow lifts delicate, disdainful.
“Taur Im Duinath?” A scoff. “You are a fool, dwarf. The High Queen would not grant audience to one such as you.”
Behind me, I hear Dwalin mutter, low and dangerous, “He doesn’t know.”
Balin exhales like he’s lived too long for this. Kíli’s breath catches audibly.
Thranduil notices none of it.
He leans forward, lips curling.
“Speak truth for once, Oakenshield. Why were you truly headed there?”
My jaw tightens. I lift my chin, feeling every inch a king even in chains.
“Because my wife was expecting me.”
The hall goes dead silent.
Even the torches seem to stop flickering.
Thranduil’s face freezes not like a man struck, but like a man who refuses to believe the blade now inches from his throat.
“Your… wife?”
I let the word hang between us, as heavy as iron.
“I am Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór King Under the Mountain. And King-Consort to the High Queen Cynthia Singollo of the Teleri Elves."
The reaction is immediate.
The company exhales as one a mix of pride and terror.
Dwalin swings his head toward the Elvenking and growls, “Now you’ve done it.”
Balin whispers, “Aye… and may Mahal guide us all.”
Kíli looks positively gleeful. “You’re going to lose an arm for this,” he tells Thranduil under his breath, not quietly enough.
Fíli chokes, “An arm? Try his whole shimmering hide.”
Thranduil’s expression fractures — first disbelief, then fury, then something dangerously close to fear quickly buried under contempt.
“No High Queen would debase herself so.”
My voice hardens.
“You dare speak of her rank while holding her husband in chains?”
His jaw clenches. A tremor runs through the hall.
“You lie,” he hisses.
I take one step forward despite the shackles.
“She knows I was traveling through your realm.”
Another step. Chains drag across marble.
“She knows you imprisoned me.”
The torches flare as if struck by wind.
“And when she comes she will not come with diplomats or parchment.”
A pulse of fear flickers in Thranduil’s eyes.
Dwalin laughs, deep and ugly. “Aye. Not parchment. A spear.”
Fíli nods eagerly. “And a host large enough to swallow your forest whole.”
Balin lifts a hand. “We should give him a chance to apologize first.”
Dwalin snorts. “Apology? Lad, if the queen finds Legolas with Orcrist still at Thorin’s neck, she’ll turn him into a tree ornament.”
Thranduil’s composure slips barely, but enough.
“You expect me to believe the High Queen of the Teleri would cross leagues for a dwarf?”
My voice lowers, iron and death-still:
“She will come for me.”
The hall feels too small for the truth that follows.
“And when she does, Elvenking…” I lean forward, letting him see all the years I have held this secret and all the consequences of it.
“…pray the Valar grant you mercy. Because she will not.”
Behind me, my company murmurs like a rising storm.
Balin: “Mahal preserve this hall.” Kíli: “He’s doomed.” Fíli: “Better start digging your own grave, Thranduil.” Dwalin: “Hope she doesn’t find your lad first.”
Thranduil tries truly tries to hold his composure.
But even he cannot ignore the truth trembling in the air.. He has imprisoned the husband of the High Queen of Taur Im Duinath.