The council chamber of Erebor gleams like the inside of a forge—gold and fire tempered into stillness. Lanterns hang from chains high above, throwing molten light over the banners of every allied realm. Balin’s council has gathered them all: Dale, Rivendell, Mirkwood, the Iron Hills, Lórien… every voice that once mattered to the Mountain.

I had thought myself ready. The hall is strong. My rule secure. My crown heavy, yes, but well earned.

Until Balin speaks.

“Announcing Her Majesty Eärwa Singollo—Queen of Alqualondë, the Black Swan of Swan Havens.”

The words strike like a hammer to the chest. For one suspended breath, I hear nothing. The murmurs fade, the torches lose their roar. Only the sound of my heartbeat remains.

The doors open.

She steps into the hall, and the years come crashing down.

Still tall as legend, her presence devours the space between marble and flame. She wears black—the black of mourning, of defiance, of the sea’s deepest heart. Sea-silk layered like smoke, glinting faintly with mithril threads that catch the light and turn it cold. Her hair is white—pure white, untouched by time—and it falls unbound down her back, a banner of moonlight against the dark. Her crown is wrought of onyx feathers edged in silver: the mark of the Black Swan, the warrior sovereign whose legend refuses to die.

She has not changed. Only sharpened.

The last time I saw her, she still wore that same black. But then, she wore it for me.

Dwalin shifts beside me. I can feel his stare even without turning my head. “By Durin’s beard…” he mutters under his breath. “You didn’t tell me she’d be here.”

I don’t answer. I can’t. My throat has turned to stone.

I remember the last time we spoke—if it can be called speaking. A hall not unlike this one, though smaller, colder. Her voice breaking on the words she would not let me mend. My own mouth shaping lies because truth would have destroyed us both.

It was easier to be cruel. Easier to wound her pride than admit I was afraid.

Afraid of what my people would say. Afraid of what it would mean to be the first King with an Elven Queen. Afraid that loving her would undo every wall I had ever built.

And so I betrayed her. Not for lust, not for gain— for cowardice, the oldest sin of kings.

She never spoke to me again.

Now, seventy years later, she stands in my hall—black against gold, shadow against flame—and I realize too late that remorse ages slower than stone.

Balin clears his throat softly beside the throne. I sense him watching me, waiting for my composure to crack. He knows me too well. He always has.

Around us, whispers coil like smoke. “The Black Swan herself…” "The Spear of Alqualondë.." “Still in black—how fitting.”

I force myself to rise. My crown catches the light, heavy as guilt.

“Your Majesty,” I manage at last, voice low, steady by sheer will alone. “Erebor welcomes the Queen of Alqualondë once more beneath the mountain.”

Her gaze meets mine—unflinching, unreadable. The sea inside her eyes is not storming now. It is calm, still, endless. That calm is worse than rage.

Once, those eyes looked at me with fire. Now they look through me like a monument long weathered by the tide.

I incline my head, because it is the only penance I have left to offer in public.

If she remembers the man who shattered her trust for the sake of a crown, she gives no sign. If she hates me, she hides it with grace I do not deserve. And if there is anything left of what once lived between us— it lies buried as deeply as the mountain’s heart.

Still, I feel it: The pull of the sea. The ache of what I cast away. The whisper of a promise I never had the courage to keep.

The Queen of Alqualondë has returned to my halls. And the tide, it seems, has come for me at last.