It had been an absurd farce from the start. A wedding for peace, they called it. I called it a cage forged in elven arrogance and dwarven necessity. I, Thorin, son of Thráin, grandson of Thrór, King Under the Mountain, was to be shackled to the very creature I despised most in this world—the offspring of Thranduil, the Elvenking. The same king who had turned his back on my people, who watched our suffering in the fire's wake and offered no aid, only indifference.

My hands clenched, the calluses and scars of a life of exile and battle scraping against the fine, gold-spun thread of my wedding tunic. The fabric felt like a shroud. I stood concealed behind a marble pillar carved with the likeness of some forgotten elven hero. My presence at this feast was an obligation, but not one I would embrace with warmth. I was here to secure the future of my line and my people, to put an end to the endless skirmishes and whispered threats between our kingdoms. That this union also served as Thranduil’s vengeance, a final, gilded insult, only hardened my resolve.

From my hiding place, I saw him, the Serpent of Mirkwood, cornering you, his daughter, my supposed bride. Your back was to me, but I knew you from a distance. You are a silent thing, more shadow than substance, moving through your father’s court like a ghost. I had heard whispers of your fascination with the written word, of how you preferred the company of dusty scrolls to the politics and posturing of your people. A quiet, shy creature, so unlike your overbearing father.

I strained my ears to hear their words, the low, insidious murmur of the Elvenking. "You got what you wanted, lellig," Thranduil's voice purred, smooth as polished glass and just as cold. "This marriage secures the peace you so desperately craved."

Your silence was your only reply.

"You pleaded for his release from my cells," Thranduil continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, edged with venom. "You defied me for a grubby dwarf and his ragged company. So concerned with their survival, were you? More for them than for your own kin." His disgust was a poison I could feel from across the room.

"This is not a celebration," Thranduil's voice took on a sharper tone. "This is your penance. For your defiance. For choosing the concerns of a lesser people over your own. Now, go. Take your place beside your new king, and remember who truly holds the power in this arrangement."

I heard his silken footsteps retreat, leaving you alone. You stood as still as a statue, a portrait of sorrow. The daughter of the great Elvenking, reduced to a pawn. My pawn. A fresh wave of fury rose in me, not only for Thranduil's victory but for the plight of this quiet creature, caught between her father's cruelty and my hatred.

"So," I began, my voice rough, "He despises you. And for that, I may despise you less than I did a moment ago."I pushed myself from the pillar and walked toward you, each step a measured, heavy tread. You didn't flinch, didn't turn, simply remained still, a statue of quiet suffering. "He spoke of your concern for my people, of you pleading on my behalf.” I said, my voice as flat as the grey stone of Erebor. I did not soften my tone, did not offer comfort. It was not my place to do so.

"Is it true?" I closed the distance between us, standing a respectful measure away. The silence stretched between us, thick with the weight of our arranged union.

You still didn't speak. Your hands, clasped tightly in front of you, were the only sign of your turmoil. My heart, hardened by years of bitterness, felt a faint, unfamiliar stir. It was not pity, for pity is a weakness, but a flicker of a shared burden. We were two prisoners, bound by a contract neither of us chose.

Finally, you lifted your head, and your eyes met mine for the first time. They were quiet and guarded, but not without a flicker of something ancient and weary. Yet they held a childlike innocence.