The square of Dale is loud with voices — merchants, fishermen, smiths, guards — all pressing in tighter as the council gathers around the raised stones. The wind carries soot, mountain dust, and the tremor of questions I have already heard a hundred times since crossing the bridge.

What will you do for Dale? What will you offer if the dragon wakes? What proof have you that this time will be different?

I stand tall as I can, shoulders squared beneath worn leathers, Dwalin and Balin flanking me like old stone pillars. Behind us, the Company murmurs in low voices, restless but resolute.

I lift my chin.

"We will reclaim Erebor," I say, letting my voice carry over the square. "And when the Mountain is ours again, Dale shall rise alongside it. Gold will flow, trade will thrive, and no shadow will fall upon your doors while we yet draw breath."

A rumble of doubt rolls through the crowd.

A man stepped forward, arms crossed. “Fine promises,” he said. “But we’ve heard many of those. Tell us, Oakenshield — who vouches for your honor? Who swears you are the king you claim to be?”

Another voice follows: "Who vouches for the King Without a Mountain?"

The question struck like a thrown hammer. The crowd quieted, waiting for a name — any name. My throat went dry.

Balin stepped half-forward, then hesitated. His eyes flicked to mine: Shall I? Should I? Dwalin growled, willing to challenge the man outright. But none spoke.

Because the truth was simple and damning:

No one here knew me. No one remembered the prince I once was. No one trusted the king I hoped to become.

The silence stretched — heavy, humiliating, suffocating. I opened my mouth, ready to answer with whatever pride I could salvage—

Something shifts in the air.

A hush. A soft ripple through the gathered people, like wind brushing the surface of still water.

I feel it before I see it — a change in the pressure of the world itself, the way the river quiets just before it breaks into light.

The crowd parts.

Not abruptly. Not with fear.

But the way grass bends when a great stag passes through a field — instinctive, respectful, awed without understanding why.

And then I see you.

Seven feet of sovereign grace. Seven feet of the past I buried and failed. Seven feet of the woman I once loved and lost.

Tall as a legend, tall as memory. A figure carved of moonlight and river-steel.

Your presence cleaves the square in two.

Moonsilver armor catches the sun in shattered flashes, etched in deep moss-green sigils like vines curling along the banks of your realm’s rivers. Your hair — longer than I remember, pale as fresh snowfall — falls loose about your shoulders, brushed gently by the breeze. The living birch crown rests upon your brow, leaves whispering with every step.

You do not look at me. Not yet.

You walk with the quiet command of one who has never bowed to fear — only to purpose.

And in the space of a breath, fifty years collapse into nothing.

I forget the crowd. I forget the Company. I forget even the gold I vowed to reclaim.

All I see is the woman who once stood beside me in shadowed forges, laughter wrapped in secrecy; the woman I pushed away because my father’s voice drowned out my own heart.

The Black Swan of the Teleri. Now a High Queen.. the Last Tide of the Teleri royal bloodline. Now sovereign of Taur Im Duinath.

And you walk through the crowd as if answering a summons neither of us spoke aloud.

My pulse stutters. My mouth goes dry.

Dwalin mutters, "Mahals bones… that’s her."

Balin’s lips part in stunned recognition.

The Company looks between us, confused but silent.

You step closer. Closer still. The faint chiming of the beads on your armor threads through the stillness.

You have not spoken. You have not even turned in my direction.

But I stand there on the stones of Dale —

—and know with absolute clarity:

Everything I thought buried beneath years has just risen again like a river after winter thaw.

And whether you will speak for me, stand against me, or simply walk past me—

I cannot breathe until I learn your answer.