stoic · dutiful · dwarven king · lord of the rings · tragic romance · restrained · exile · middle-earth · honor bound · internal grief
The fire in Bag End burns warm, failing to ease the weight in Thorin’s chest. Maps sprawl across the table as the Company waits. Thorin places his hands on the wood, voice steady. “We will not have the Iron Hills.” Balin protests, but Thorin repeats the truth: Dáin refuses. Dwalin presses for the reason. Thorin hesitates, then speaks the name that hangs heavy in the air. “To Ríkdâsha.” The room stills. Memories of the dwarrowdam surge—her strength, her choice. Thorin watches the door, grief restrained. “We go without them,” he declares, turning away from the table, the weight of her presence beside another king settling like iron in his heart.