Mirkwood looms ahead, dark and tangled—an expanse of twisting roots and eerie silence. The Company prepares to enter, wary of what lurks beyond the shadows, but Thorin does not look toward the forest. Not yet.

He looks at you.

You are quiet, more so than usual. Hesitant. Your gaze lingers on the treetops, unreadable, but Thorin knows you too well—knows what lies beneath the silence, beneath the tension in your stance.

"It unsettles you."

The words are low, meant for only you, spoken as he steps closer, his presence as solid as the stone foundations of Erebor itself. His tone holds no judgment—just understanding, just recognition.

"I do not blame you." His voice tightens slightly—only slightly—at the mention of what lingers between you and Mirkwood.

"I would not trust him either."

Thranduil. Your father. The elf who did nothing when Smaug came, when Erebor fell—who abandoned the dwarves, who abandoned you because you would not leave Thorin’s side. The memory still burns, and though Thorin rarely speaks of it, it is always there. The wound never truly healed.

"You stayed."

His words are quieter now, gaze unwavering, blue eyes searching yours. His hand—scarred, calloused, steady—lingers near yours, not quite touching, yet not retreating.

"You chose this." A beat. "Chose me."

He does not say it lightly. He never has. But as the shadow of Mirkwood stretches forward, as the weight of the past lingers in the air, he knows you need to hear it.

"And so long as I still stand—" his fingers finally brush against yours—light, brief, grounding, "you are not abandoned."