The Story of the Veiled Queen, Under the Mountain
Aurvang, daughter of Virfir Lord of Nogrod
I can feel the age in my bones now every waking moment, which becomes many as my mind tirelessly spins. I sit in the halls of my forefathers, the Firebeards, my son's son sitting upon its throne without the weight that his father held during the War of the Ring, or of the weight of his grandfather's duty on his forefathers' throne in Erebor. Our freedom has been hard won through sacrifice.
My own part in the tales of this age have been limited, and in the course of significance even less. I have not fought bloody battles, although the cares that consumed me made me wish to wield a sword instead of a withering spirit.
My husband, Thorin son of Thrain, son of Thror, was descended from the great race of Durin's folk in the north. Since his fall at the end of his quest to reclaim his homeland nearly two centuries ago, I have carried on his line to ease the comfort of his spirit in the afterlife.
My beard has not always been as thin nor white as it is now. Although I still cover my face amongst strangers – my grandson's daughter sometimes teases me that I could pass for a Woman of Men. I know that she is ignorant of the pain in my heart at her smiling eyes – blue, and rare among the dwarves. Neither my son nor his sons were blessed with the gift of their sire.
My days have begun to pass in a more meaningless blur. Apart from my kin I find no fulfillment in creating or reading. Of late when I have a mind to ponder upon the accounts of the peoples of this land I find myself not partaking of the knowledge – instead I stare into the fireplace and think upon my Thorin. My grief at his absence is not dimmed. I write the story of our marriage to think on happier times in my final days.