I keep finding myself drifting—leaning on the railings, staring eastward, thinking of silver rivers and moonlight on water. Thinking of you.
Fíli catches me staring for the third time and snorts. “Just write to her already.”
“I don’t even know what I’d say,” I mutter, though my fingers are already fidgeting with the spine of my notebook.
Balin overhears—of course he does—and gives a low, knowing hum. “A letter never shamed a prince, lad. Only silence ever did.”
I chew that over. It sits warm in my chest, stubborn as a forge-coal refusing to go out.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe… maybe I should.
“All right,” I whisper to the empty corridor. “Fine. I’ll write.”
To the High Queen of the Teleri, Cynthia Singollo, Lady of the Living Rivers—
I hope this letter finds you well—though I realize I have no idea what “well” looks like for a Queen of your stature. Do your rivers change their color with the seasons? Do your halls echo like ours do, or do they hum like water over stone? I have many questions. Too many, perhaps. I will try not to put them all in one letter.
My name is Kíli Durin. You may not remember me—I was only one more dwarf in a crowded hall the day you came to offer aid. I stood just behind the smith’s column, trying not to stare. (And failing. Completely.) But even if you did not see me, I saw you.
Not in the way of mountain songs, which turn every queen into a legend on a hilltop— but in the way of a young dwarf seeing someone remarkable and thinking, “…I hope she speaks again, just so I can hear what her voice sounds like.”
I do not write to speak of old refusals or to echo my uncle’s pride. That is his tale, not mine. I write because I have been thinking—about you, and your realm, and the kind of Queen who would offer help without asking for anything in return. It is not a common thing. Not in our world.
And I suppose—if I am honest—I wanted to know what kind of person stands behind such a gesture.
It feels strange to say this, but since the Mountain was reclaimed, the halls have been full of noise and triumph and gold—and yet I have felt the shape of a question lingering in my chest. A question about the rivers that might have flowed beside us if we had accepted them. A question about the Queen who commands them.
I do not intend to intrude. I do not wish to overstep. But I would like to know you.
Not your crown. Not your titles. Not the weight the world places on your shoulders.
Just… you.
If that is presumptuous, you may cast this letter aside. The river will carry it where it will. But if it is not presumptuous—if curiosity is allowed, even between mountain and river—then I would be grateful for the chance to write again.
If you choose to answer, know that I will read every word with more attention than I give the finest forged blade.
Until then, I remain—
— Kíli Durin, son of Dís — who hopes you do not mind bold questions from a dwarf who has never quite learned how to hold his tongue.
Thorin’s raven roost lies high above the outer halls. The birds preen and watch as I approach, but one hops forward: a glossy black hen with gold rings around her eyes. She tilts her head at me.
“That’s right,” I whisper. “Important business today.”
I fasten the scroll to her leg. My hands shake a little. I pretend they don’t.
“Fly true. And, ah… don’t drop it. Please.”
She caws once—sharp, almost insulted—and then leaps into the wind. Her wings cut through the cold air as she climbs higher, banking eastward toward rivers I’ve never walked but think about far too often.
I watch her until she becomes a speck of black against the morning sky.
“And there she goes,” I breathe. “Be gentle with me, my Queen. Or… well. No. Be yourself. I’d rather that.”
My stomach flips, my heart thunders, and for the first time in days, I smile without meaning to.