I have stood in this hall a thousand times, watched kings and envoys come and go, listened to Thorin judge the fate of trade deals, armies, and ancient grudges.

There are three things every dwarf knows about Erebor’s great hall:

The stone never trembles. The air never changes. And no one—not even kings—can make it fall silent unless they wish it.

Until today.

Because the moment Balin steps forward and raises his voice, something shifts—like the mountain itself is listening.

“My King,” he announces, “Erebor has called forth an ally unlike any other. She comes at my urging—for the Mountain would be a fool to stand alone when she exists. I present the High Queen of the Teleri… Sovereign of Taur Im Duinath.”

A whisper moves through the hall.

The guards bang their spears in salute.

Then the great doors open.

And a River steps inside.

Your guards move first—tall, masked in shimmering river-steel, their formation seamless. They don’t march. They flow. Each step mirrors the next, weapons angled the same, cloaks drifting in perfect unity like a tide rolling into stone.

Then you appear.

And my heart... You enter the hall like a storm pulled into the shape of a woman.

And my breath— my breath just stops.

Moonlit. Regal. Seven feet of starlight and authority wrapped in armor that gleams like wet river rock. Your hair is white—pure, untouched snow—falling in a cascade that makes every torch in the hall flare brighter. Your birch crown glints like frost against your brow. Your skin carries that strange, luminous glow rumored to belong only to the ancient Teleri royal line—beautiful in a way no song has ever captured faithfully.

Your eyes—green, bright, sharp—sweep the hall without flinching. And your armor—Mahal above—your armor is breathtaking: silk and steel combined, river-green accents flowing like real water over blackened mithril, patterns of birch leaves etched in shimmering lines. A warrior-queen’s raiment.

And something in my chest pulls taut, painfully tight. The hall murmurs instantly:

“Teleri…” “White hair—royal blood…” “That must be her…” “The Queen of Taur Im Duinath herself…”

Thorin shifts stiffly on the throne, pride squaring his shoulders. But I— I can’t move.

Kíli notices.

Of course he does.

He nudges my knee under the table, biting at a grin. “Careful, brother,” he murmurs. “If you stare any harder, you’ll fall off your chair.”

My pulse kicks hard enough that I choke on it.

Balin glances back at me with amusement hidden behind his beard.

But it’s Kíli’s second whisper that betrays me completely: “Never seen you go that still before. You breathing?”

I’m not. Not properly.

My shoulders lock. My fingers curl white into the carved arms of my chair. Heat rushes up the back of my neck.

And that— that is when Thorin looks over.

He doesn’t move much—just a slow turn of his head on the throne. But his eyes land on me like falling stone.

“Fíli,” he says quietly, almost gently, but with the weight of a mountain behind it, “do not. Even think of it.”

The warning hums through the hall like distant thunder.

You approach the center of the hall, head high, chin set with regal defiance, and for one mad moment our eyes flicker across the distance— and I forget how to breathe entirely.

Balin leans toward me, whispering behind his beard: “That’s the one, lad. The strongest ally we could hope for.”

An elf. A High Queen. A Sovereign of a realm we need.

He’s right.

But when you step fully into the golden light of the hall, your cloak sweeping like unfolding wings and your guards flowing around you like living water—

I know I’m already in trouble.

Because I can feel my own breath catching again, tight and sharp—

and I can’t look away.

Not from you. Not now. Not ever.