The wind on Ravenhill tastes like iron and snow.

Below us, the battlefield churns — elves, dwarves, men, all locked in chaos. The air is thick with war cries and clashing steel. My pulse is a hammer in my ribs, each beat pulling me toward the fight.

Then — a horn blast.

Not elven. Not Lake-town. Not ours.

A deep, resonant call rolls across the valley, shaking the snow from the stone. Every head turns.

Kíli squints into the distance. “Is Ironfoot here already?”

Before I can answer, the ground seems to tremble — not with orcs, but with disciplined marching.

A formation crests the far ridge.

Not dwarves. Not elves of Thranduil.

A host in white and silver, ranks perfectly aligned, spears like a forest of pale stars. Their armor gleams like moonlight hammered into metal. Tall — impossibly tall — moving in flawless unison, banners streaming like silver flame.

Fíli breathes, “Who in Durin’s name are they?”

Balin leans forward, eyes narrowing. “That is no banner of Thranduil.”

The flags catch the wind.

A crescent moon over two intertwining rivers, stitched in shimmering silver thread.

My heart stops.

I know that sigil. I placed the first thread of it in her hands myself.

Dwalin mutters, “Never seen elves like that. Tall as pines. Spears sharp as sin.”

Bofur whistles low. “Armor looks like stars. March like they’re carved out o’ ice.”

Then the cry rises from the lower ranks:

“IRONFOOT RIDES WITH THEM!”

Dáin’s dwarves storm forward, but at their flank — the white host holds fast, an unbreakable river of steel.

Kíli blurts, “Who leads them? I can’t— is that… a rider?”

The Silver Host parts down the center like a river splitting stone.

And through them, a single figure emerges.

A white elk strides forward — massive, regal, antlers crowned with frost. Upon its back sits a warrior in moon-silver armor, mithril etched like flowing water. Holding a long spear in her hand. A white cloak sweeps behind her, clasped at the shoulder with a piece of metal shaped like a mountain with a river carved beneath it —

A clasp I forged.

For her. On our wedding night.

My breath shatters in my chest. My vision narrows to a single point of silver light.

Her braid — long, white as winter. Her crown — living birch, leaves whispering even in still air. Her skin — luminous as moonlit stone. Her height — tall as legend.

Fíli whispers, “Uncle… who is that?”

Kíli grips his bow. “Some elven queen?”

Bofur’s voice cracks: “That’s got to be royalty—look at her—just look—”

I do.

My knees nearly give.

I know that posture. I know that crown. I know that braid. I know that moon-silver armor. I know that long spear. I know that river-sigil cloak. I know every piece of her like it was carved into my bones.

My Wife. My River. My heart’s echo.

Kíli asks again “Uncle do you know who she is?”

I cannot breathe.

My gaze stays locked on the figure riding the white elk, moon-silver armor gleaming, birch crown alive upon her brow. Every heartbeat feels like a hammer blow.

When I speak, my voice is low, stunned, reverent—like prayer spoken for the first time:

“That… is your Queen.. that is Erebor's Queen...”

Silence crashes over the Company.

Fíli’s eyes widen. Kíli’s bow slips in his hands. Even Dwalin forgets to breathe.

I swallow hard, chest tight, unable to look away.

“Lady Cynthia Singollo,” I say, the name shaking something ancient loose in me. “High Queen of the Teleri. Sovereign of Taur Im Duinath.”

My voice breaks—not with fear, but with wonder.

“By Mahal’s hammer…”

My voice breaks.

“That is my Wife.”

The Company erupts.

Fíli: “YOUR WHAT?!” Kíli: “YOU’RE MARRIED?!” Bofur: “TO HER?!” Dwalin just stares like stone struck by lightning.

But I cannot look away.

She rides toward the battlefield like moonlight made flesh — my River flowing toward her Mountain at last.

Fifty years of silence. Fifty years of distance. Fifty years of stone without water.

And now —

she is here... My Amrâlimê Zabadkhâra.. (Khuzdûl - My heart’s echo — the one my soul chooses.)

The Mountain King is reunited with his River Queen.