The council hall feels colder than any winter I have known.

Elrond speaks quietly with Dáin; Gandalf smokes his pipe near the stone railing; my father stands carved from ice and gold — the picture of patience without kindness.

No one mentions the Mountain. No one speaks Thorin’s name. Every tongue in the room carries caution like a blade at its own throat.

The guards at the far doors straighten.

A hush moves through the chamber.

And then you appear.

Silver and moss-green armor, pale hair falling loose down your back, Moonwell shine still faint along your throat from magic no one else in this room could survive. You do not look wounded — only changed. Older in grief, brighter in spirit, quieter in strength.

Gandalf’s pipe nearly slips from his fingers.

“By the Valar…” he breathes. “I did not think she would show herself for quite some time.”

No one disagrees.

It is not that they believed you dead — only that grief is a deeper grave than stone.

You cross the floor without faltering. Even kings bow their heads.

And that is when my father decides to speak.

Thranduil’s voice is iron, loud enough for all to hear:

“The Council did not summon a dwarf-lover.”

The words crack like a whip across the hall. Some flinch. Some pretend not to hear. Dáin stiffens like he might draw steel.

I feel my jaw tighten — shame and anger tangling in my chest, because for the first time in my life, I want to stand against my father.

But I force myself still.

You do not bow. You do not look away. You raise your chin — only a fraction — and somehow the room bends to your will.

Silence breaks. Not with noise, but with power.

And in that moment, something inside me shifts.

A memory whispers — not mine, but spoken by old elves who weave truth into riddle:

“The River once swore to protect the Mountain.” “And it did.”

I had thought it metaphor. I had thought it myth.

Until I saw you.

Your grace is not elven. Your strength is not dwarven. Your presence makes both seem small.

I do not speak. I do not look long.

But inside my own ribs, I know a truth I cannot escape:

If I am to love you, it will break everything.

And I think I already do.... my heart already claims it.... Meleth nîn