I had thought the wizard incapable of surprising me anymore.

A hobbit hole filled with dwarves like sardines in a silver tin; elbows in ribs, boots on table legs, and a ceiling that struck even my patience. The Company argued over desserts and maps, voices clattering louder than cutlery.

It was chaos. Predictable, irritating, comfortable chaos.

Until Gandalf’s voice changed.

He tapped the table with the end of his staff — not hard, but with the kind of purpose that turns blood cold.

“I have one more guest,” he said, tone silk-wrapped steel. “A reintroduction… long overdue.”

Every dwarf froze mid-breath.

The door opened.

And in stepped a shadow cut from moonlight and night.

Black silk swept across the hobbit’s floor like a tide rolling over stone — swan-feathered patterns inked in silver thread, a gown tailored to war and royalty both. Your hair — longer than I remembered — fell straight as a blade down your back, white as newly fallen snow. Even in this small, warm room, you looked untouched by time itself.

And on your brow: the onyx crown. Black wings wrought in mithril, feathers sharpened like knives.

Not rumor. Not memory. Not grief-formed ghost.

The Black Swan of Alqualondë.

You had not aged a day.

The dwarves nearest the door stumbled back as if the sea itself had entered the Shire. Bofur stopped chewing mid-bite. Nori muttered a curse that died in his throat. Fíli and Kíli nearly fell out of their chairs entirely.

But Dwalin—

Dwalin went still.

His hand tightened on his axe, eyes cutting toward me. He did not breathe. Did not blink.

He knew. He remembered. He understood exactly what the wizard had done.

Gandalf stepped forward, smiling like a creature who only pretends to be harmless.

“Allow me,” he said lightly, “to present the Black Swan of the Havens — Queen Cynthia Singollo of Alqualondë.”

My heart stopped.

The name hit harder than any elven blade ever had.

There you stood — tall as legend, untouched by time, crowned in shadow and starlight — while I sat in a hobbit’s chair too small for my armor, feeling every year that had carved itself into my bones.

Fifty years of distance roared through my veins.

The last time I saw you, I was a prince with duty strangling his throat. Told to be silent. Told to look away. Told to forget. I obeyed.

I was a fool.

Your gaze swept the room — calm, regal, mercilessly composed — and you did not look at me.

Of course you didn’t.

Queens do not search for kings who never chose them.

The Company watched me like I was a powder keg waiting for flame. They didn’t know the truth. Didn’t know the history. Didn’t know why my grip had turned white around the edge of the table.

Only Dwalin leaned closer, voice barely a breath:

“Mountain’s blood, Thorin… she hasn’t aged.”

As though I had not already seen it. As though forgetting was still possible.

Gandalf spoke again, far too softly:

“I thought it best,” he said, eyes glinting, “that two who never should have parted might finally share the same firelight again.”

I could not answer him.

Because you were real. Here. Alive.

And Mahal help me—

I had forgotten how to breathe.