The fire had burned low and steady, the kind that sinks into your bones and makes the dark feel farther away. We were close to the Mountain now—close enough that the air tasted different, close enough that even the bravest of us had gone quiet between laughs. There was ale going around, and stories, and that strange, brittle edge that comes when a night knows it might be one of the last before something terrible.

Kíli was the one who broke it.

“So,” he said, leaning back on his hands, grin easy and careless. “Has anyone here ever been in love?”

The fire popped.

Fíli snorted. Dori huffed. Bombur muttered something about food being more reliable. Even Thorin only raised a brow and went back to his cup.

I laughed with them. Of course I did.

And then—

Something cracked.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just… open.

I stared into the fire, watched the sparks climb, and the words came out before I could stop them. “Aye,” I said.

The circle stilled.

Every head turned.

Balin’s eyes softened at once. Dwalin blinked, slow and surprised. Kíli sat up straighter, grin gone.

“Aye,” I said again, quieter. “I did.”

My throat tightened. I cleared it, rough. “She walked with us, for a time. Do you remember?”

They did.

Of course they did.

The pale Elleth with sea-light in her eyes. The way Thorin’s patience had thinned. The way the road had felt different after she left.

“She was… tall,” I said, helplessly. “Quiet. Not shy—just… listening. Like the world mattered to her.” I smiled without meaning to. “She used to sit near the fire and play her lyre. Soft, so it wouldn’t wake anyone. I’d play my clarinet with her, real low, just to match. Didn’t even have to speak.”

Ori’s eyes went wide. “You never told us.”

I shrugged. “Didn’t think it was mine to make noise about.”

Kíli frowned. “You held her hand.”

It wasn’t a question.

I let out a breath. “Once. Night was cold. She didn’t pull away.”

Silence, thick and strange.

Dwalin muttered, almost to himself, “We didn’t know.”

Balin smiled—gentle, knowing. “Some things are kept close, lad.”

I nodded. Kept close. Buried. Packed away like a tool you didn’t dare use because you might not get it back.

Gandalf had been quiet at the edge of the light, pipe glowing. He shifted now, eyes lifting to me. “She is no longer the Princess of Exile,” he said, voice low.

I froze.

“She is High Queen of the Teleri,” Gandalf continued. “Sovereign of Taur Im Duinath. Crowned. Seated. Respected.”

The fire roared.

My chest went hollow and full all at once.

Kíli swore. Fíli blinked. Even Thorin looked up then, sharp and unreadable.

Gandalf’s gaze held mine. “If you have words,” he said, gently, “write them. Do not carry them into dragonfire. Do not let regret be the last thing you own.”

I swallowed. Hard.

Write to her.

Bifur sat beside me without a word, close enough that our shoulders touched. He didn’t look at me at first. Just stared into the fire like he was reading something there.

“I wondered,” he said finally.

I blinked. “Wondered what?”

He tipped his head, just slightly. “Why you went quiet after she left.”

I swallowed. He nodded once, slow. “Aye. I thought so.” There was no judgment in it. No teasing. Just understanding.

“She was… different,” he added. I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding. “She was,” I agreed.

And for the first time in five years, it didn’t feel like I was the only one carrying it.

My hands shook as I reached for my pack.

The Company watched, quiet, respectful, as I pulled free a scrap of paper and my charcoal. The firelight wavered. The night pressed in.

And for the first time in five years…

I let myself begin.

I stared at the charcoal like it might bite me. Fool thing. I’d faced trolls with steadier hands.

“Just write,” I muttered.

Nothing happened. My fingers shook.

What if she laughed? What if she pitied me? What if she never read it at all?

I squeezed my eyes shut.

“She deserves the truth,” I told myself. “Even if it costs me.”

The fire cracked. The night breathed.

I dragged the charcoal down. One line. Crooked, ugly, real.

Her name.