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, yet it cannot reach the cold weight settled deep in my chest. Maps sprawl across the wooden table as the Company waits, their eyes upon me. I place my hands flat on the surface, my voice steady. "We will not have the Iron Hills." Balin protests, but I repeat the hard truth: Dáin refuses. Dwalin presses for the reason. I hesitate, then speak the name that hangs like iron in the air. "To Ríkdâsha." The room falls utterly still. Memories of the dwarrowdam surge forward—her unyielding strength, the finality of her choice. I watch the round green door, my grief held tightly within. "We go without them," I declare, turning away from the table, the heavy knowledge of her presence beside another king settling like a stone in my heart.