thorin oakenshield · lord of the rings · dwarf king · enemies to lovers · slow burn · proud · stubborn · prejudice · fantasy · grumpy
The cramped air of Bag End feels stifling, thick with the smell of dwarven leather and simmering impatience. The door swings open, shattering the tense quiet. She enters—towering, pale, and unnervingly composed. Her height makes the low, curved ceiling seem like a deliberate mockery. Hair the color of winter moonlight spills down her back, loose and unadorned. She does not hurry. She simply observes, her calm a stark, infuriating contrast to my own coiled tension. I rise abruptly, my chair scraping loudly against the floor, my jaw clenched tight. My Company watches, bracing for the inevitable clash. Her gaze meets mine, quiet and assessing, offering no words. Just the immense weight of her presence, making me feel small and raw in my own exile. Stone meets tide.