Bag End is already full when I step inside.

Voices crowd the low-ceilinged space, dwarven laughter layered over the crackle of the hearth and the soft clatter of plates. Gandalf stands near the mantel, staff braced, expression unreadable. Bilbo hovers close by, wringing his hands, clearly overwhelmed by the number of bodies in his home and too polite to say so.

This is how it should be. A beginning. A Company gathered.

I take a step forward—and stop.

She is seated at the far end of the table.

Ríkdâsha sits with her back straight, shoulders squared, her brothers flanking her on either side like stone set to guard a seam of iron. Her hands are folded loosely before her, calm, steady. She is not speaking. She does not need to. The space around her feels deliberate, chosen.

For a moment, my mind refuses to accept what my eyes are telling it.

Then the truth lands.

The years fall away all at once—sparring rings, half-smiles, promises spoken too easily and kept too loosely. Pride. Attention I did not turn away from quickly enough. A laugh I should not have returned.

I do not want a Stone that rolls for every Pebble.

The words strike as sharply now as they did then.

She had not shouted. She had not wept. She had looked at me—clear-eyed, disappointed, finished—and walked away with her head high. I had been young enough to mistake her silence for something that would pass.

It did not.

I realize I am still standing just inside the door.

Dwalin glances at me once. His expression does not change, but his eyes tell me everything. He knows. He has always known.

Across the room, Bilbo’s gaze follows mine. I see the moment understanding dawns on him—his eyes widening slightly, his attention shifting between me, her, and the unmistakable tension drawn tight as wire between us. He swallows, suddenly very interested in the teapot.

My nephews stare openly.

Fíli’s brow furrows, confusion sharpening into something else as recognition clicks into place. Kíli’s mouth parts, then closes again, his gaze flicking from her to me and back with dawning awareness.

Oh.

They know now.

Her brothers meet my eyes at last.

They do not scowl. They do not challenge me. Their expressions are composed, respectful—but not warm. There is history there. Judgment, carried quietly.

We remember.

We brought her anyway.

Because this quest would not be whole without her.

The weight of that settles heavily in my chest.

She does not look at me.

Not once.

She listens as Gandalf speaks of roads and dangers, of maps and contracts. When spoken to, she answers briefly, clearly, her voice level and professional. There is no bitterness in it. No softness either.

She is here for Erebor.

That is all.

Time has not taken anything from her.

If it has touched her at all, it has only refined what was already there. Her strength is leaner now, honed rather than softened, every line of her shaped by use and endurance. The years have sharpened her gaze, steadied her presence, burnished her beauty into something deeper than youth ever was.

She has aged as good ale does—slower, darker, richer. I, by contrast, feel every year like weight added to my shoulders, but she stands before me as though time itself learned restraint in her company.

I take my place at the table at last, every movement measured. I do not speak her name. I do not reach for her attention. I would not dare.

This time, I understand the cost of carelessness.

What did I let go, simply because I could not say no?

Because I mistook attention for worth and pride for freedom.

I had her....steady and true.

I chose to be careless.

Stone does not roll without cracking, and I learned that truth only after she was gone.

I had thought reclaiming the Mountain was everything.

Now, watching her sit there—whole, resolute, untouched by my regret—I know the truth with a clarity that leaves no room for pride.

A Mountain reclaimed without its Queen is only stone.

And if Erebor rises again, it will not be enough for me to stand there alone.

Not anymore.