Author's notes:
It has been a year since I have written the first part of The Weeping Willow. You are about to read the second and final part of this fic. Originally, I hadn't planned for it to have a sequel, but your enormous support, comments, messages and kudos on other platforms made me return to this work and write a proper happy ending our star-crossed lovers deserved. It wouldn't have been possible without you. This is the magic of feedback, my lovely readers! Thank you so much!

Before you start reading, there is something you need to know:

️Warning: This part contains mentions (not descriptions) of violence and rape/non-con. If you decide to read it, prepare for a lot of angst and suffering. Think Brothers Grimm tales. Proceed at your own caution.

"If I will not have you, I will have no other woman as wife."

After all these years, Thorin still remembered his own words branded in his mind forever.

He still remembered the bliss that came with your sweet kisses. He still remembered the warmth of your embrace when you said your farewells as he was leaving to reclaim his kingdom in early spring. He still remembered the stabbing pain of seeing you with another man, a babe in your arms.

He closed his eyes and scolded himself. Not again. He promised himself not to think of you again. He reclaimed his birthright, he had power and immeasurable wealth, but his nights were filled with the silence of loneliness.

There were many women who offered their hand in marriage to him, but his heart had turned to ice. None of them was his One. None of them was you.

The memories of the stolen moments with you, those bright rays of hope in the dark, circled him like vultures, tormenting him day and night, year after year. With all his strength he fought against them, guarding the scattered shards of his broken heart.

Yet another spring came into its rights, and he found himself once again defeated. Once every few years he would travel to the only place that could mitigate his pain for a while. The last place that brought him happiness in his life.

The weeping willow.

And so it happened this time. After countless days of internal struggle, after many a sleepless night, after weeks of perilous travel Thorin arrived at the familiar meadow by the mountain stream. Sleep welcomed him into its arms almost instantly as soon as he rested his back against the trunk of the solitary willow tree, the only witness of your long lost love, of affectionate embraces and stolen kisses.

"Amad, who was my true father?" your son's words rang in your ears. He was a bright young dwarf, and you expected this moment would come.

As you carefully sat down among the soft grass, you took in the familiar shape of the weeping willow, its branches drooping into the water in a silent lament.
"How do you know, dushtel?" you spoke in a trembling voice.

"I believe I have always known. I am nothing like him. The blood of another runs in my veins. My lord fath-," he cleared his throat, "Lord Hogní made it painfully clear."
"What did he do?" your breath hitched in terror. Your son's growing independence, the defiance he constantly showed against your husband, undoubtedly inherited from his father, quite often didn't end well. As much as you tried, you could not shield your son from Hogní's wrath. Your husband was a burly, strong dwarf, and he had his ways to enforce obedience.
"Do not worry, amad, he did nothing. Not this time. Do you remember…" he looked away, a shadow passing over his face, "Last time when… when he forced himself on you, when I fought him… He called me the spawn of a… whore. I am sorry, amad."
You flinched, subconsciously resting your hand against your throat. It was hard not to remember neither that night nor the bruises and marks on your body that would not fade for weeks.
"Today he informed me that he had no use for a bastard under his roof any longer," your son said in a detached tone of voice, scanning the horizon.
"He did not!" you shook your head, but deep inside you knew it to be true. And you knew why. After your father's death, your husband had recently become the new Lord of Belegost. He did not wish his line of succession sullied by his wife's illegitimate son. By the spawn of a whore.

Your son, one of the few joys in your life, took your hand, "He ordered me to leave Belegost on the morrow, amad."
The news chilled you to the bone more than any winter wind could.

"You are not leaving the city, Náin. I will speak with my lord husband. He shall listen to me now," you protested, sure of your words. Your position in Lord Hogní's house has slightly improved in the last few months, even though his touch was still cold and ruthless, his gaze still merciless.
"We both know that he shall not. He does not need me any more," he grunted, hiding his young face behind a veil of wavy, dark hair. Like a raven's wing. So like his father's hair when you braided it for the first and last time.

You closed your eyes, ignoring the dull ache in your chest. How much more were you to endure? How much loss could your heart be expected to endure? Were you truly to lose your beautiful boy, your spark of hope, as well?

The weeping willow's branches soughed nearby in a wordless plea.

"Tell me about my father, amad, before I leave," your son's bright blue eyes searched your face. So alike his father's eyes on that last night together, never to be reunited again. Your hand drifted to the ring that hung on a chain around your neck. A simple iron band engraved with dwarven runes. You didn't dare to wear it on your finger for your husband to see. It was a token of love, one that a young traveling blacksmith made for you before you parted.

It was time for Náin, your young prince, the living and breathing proof of your affection, to hear the truth. And so you told him your greatest secret. Of the dwarf you were forbidden to speak of, forbidden to shed your tears over. Of your One. You told him how you met your beloved, how he was a skilled but humble blacksmith with the blood of kings flowing through his veins. You told him of the most honorable of dwarves you have ever known, and of the great warrior he had become. You told him of your mutual love, and of his great destiny that kept you apart.
You did not tell him about your gushed hopes and despair, about your humiliation, about how you learned how your father sold you as if you were a cow and not his daughter.

Both of you sat in silence, faint wind rustling in the branches of the weeping willow.

"Thank you, amad, I understand so much now," your son nodded, a flicker of hope gone from his eyes. "Will you tell me how my father died?"

"He lives," you admitted in defeat, your voice barely a whisper, the ache in your heart growing.

"Then why are you not married to him? Why have you wedded fa… Lord Hogní?"

"This was the only decision I could make," words spilled from your mouth like an avalanche after years of forced silence. "They told me your true father died on the battlefield of Erebor. My heart broke on that day. At that time, my father, your grandfather, was about to become the Lord of Belegost. My hand in marriage was Hogní's price for his support. And I could no longer hide that I carried you under my heart. I was either to be disowned and banished or to marry Hogní."

"Oh, amad…" your son rested his head on your shoulder. "So that is why Lord Hogní treats you as if you were..."
"It was a small price to pay for a roof over my head and for your safety, Náin" you interrupted, caressing his hair, just like you used to do when he was but a pebble, trying not to think that perhaps you were doing it for the last time. "And when I realized that your father lived, it was too late…"

As Náin embraced you, a wave of silent sobs shook your body and yet you whispered in an attempt to comfort your son, "It is all in the past now, my son."
The weeping willow's branches rustled in a sudden gust of wind.
"And yet you are here," a low, deep voice came from somewhere behind the tree.

You knew that voice. No, it could not be true. It had to be the wind playing tricks with your ears.

"Who are you, my lord, to sneak upon us in such fashion?!" Náin rose immediately to his feet.

And then you saw him. The dwarf you had no right to call your One any longer. Thorin was standing above you. Under your weeping willow. Almost as if all that time hadn't passed, as if you still were a dwarven maiden and he – a crownless blacksmith. He was as tall and broad-shouldered as you remembered, perhaps even more so; the azure pools of his eyes as deep and alluring as they used to be. And yet his dark mane was now adorned with argentine streaks, like veins of silver against black marble. And there were the stern, harsh lines that time had mercilessly carved in his face. A deep frown and a solemn look in his eyes. The eyes that rested on you now, cold as ice.

"I am but a humble traveler on my way to Belegost who decided to rest under this tree," Thorin spoke to your son, but his adamant gaze rested on you. There was nothing humble in the way he carried himself nor in the way he was clothed.

"You…" you gasped, covering your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening.
"My lady," he greeted you officially with a slight nod of his head, as if you were someone he knew only in passing. But perhaps now you were nothing more than that to him, you thought. It was all in the past.
And then his attention moved to Náin. For Thorin, it must have been like looking in the mirror and seeing a younger version of himself. For you, it was like a dream come true; your heart brimming with love for the two most important dwarf-men in your life who have finally met. You forgot how to speak. You forgot how to blink. You forgot how to breathe.

"And who might you be?" Thorin asked your son. His son.

"Me and my mother are the citizens of Belegost and that is all you need to know, my lord."

A dry chuckle left Thorin's throat, "You show remarkably strong spirits, lad. How many winters have you seen?"

"I am half battle-age and four, my lord," Náin puffed up his chest proudly.

Thorin grunted in acknowledgement. Twenty-four. Not yet a fully grown dwarf, but not a child either. He was the exact same age when the vile Smaug attacked Erebor.

And it had been almost twenty-five years since that night of passion under the weeping willow. Thorin's azure gaze rested on you heavily.
"Would you go and see to the ponies, dushtel?" you turned to Náin.
"But I have already done it, amad. I do not wish to leave you alone," he cast an uneasy glance at Thorin.
"Please, my son, go. I will be quite safe here."
"Amad…"
"Náin."
You followed your son with your gaze as he walked reluctantly towards the ponies, kicking a stone that dared to find itself in his way.
"As stubborn as Frerin his age," Thorin spoke under his breath, as if to himself, sitting down in the grass, just as he used to do a lifetime ago.

You turned to him slowly, observing his regal profile, his face unmoving, as if it was carved from stone. Desperately you tried to find the right words, the words that would tell him how much you missed him, how your heart yearned for him. But those words refused to come.
"You named him Náin," he rumbled, not an emotion gracing his features.

"A name of kings, of his father's bloodline," you offered carefully.
Thorin's face didn't betray any internal turmoil, if there was any; only his shoulders stiffened.

Silence fell, and yet you truly wished to close the aching gap between you, the distance of years filled with misery and loneliness.

"Thorin… I thought you were dead," you whispered, your eyes welling with tears, facing him for the first time in years.
"My wounds were such that the healers believed that I would not survive," he stated coldly.
"But you did! You are alive!" you exclaimed. You still remember the overwhelming joy you felt for those few brief moments between realizing that he was truly alive and that you could not be his any longer. That it was too late. Your fingers moved through the grass towards his hand only to stop a hairbreadth away from it.
"I am," he finally turned his face towards you, meeting your gaze. "I clung to life, because I knew the woman I loved was waiting for me in the Blue Mountains, my lady."
His words slashed through your heart like a knife. You looked at his broad hand of a warrior, noticing that it hadn't made the slightest movement towards yours, and realizing that it was not going to. You glanced up only to see his mouth pressed into a thin line, his jaw clenched, and his dark gaze piercing you straight through your core. You had been so utterly foolish, expecting to see the tender gaze of your One, to hear the words of love. Instead, you had to endure the condemnatory glare of a king: the king of Longbeards you knew nothing of.

You withdrew your hand at once, "Forgive me, my lord…"

Your Thorin would show anger, pain, he would utter venomous words and stomp around in fury. The king who sat so close to you, and yet completely out of your reach, did none of those things. As if someone turned him to stone. All of him, including his heart.

"All those years ago, I arrived to Belegost like a fool, eager to be reunited with my bride and return with her to my kingdom, but instead..." the King of Erebor shook his head slowly, as if still not believing in what had happened on that day. His eyes narrowed, his voice devoid of emotion. "Why did you not tell me about Náin?"

"My husband forbade…" you started.

It was as if something snapped inside him.

"Your husband! You married him quite hastily, did you not?!" Thorin snarled, a crack in his demeanor.

"I was living in shame, with a babe soon to come to the world, out of wedlock, and my father... as soon as news came of your demise, he offered my hand to the highest bidder."

"And where is your highest bidder now?!" he spat.

You opened your mouth only to shut it quickly. The reason why you could leave your house and visit this place with Náin was simple. Your lord husband was not there to stop you. But not a word left your mouth. You would not be able to stand the pity and disgust in Thorin's eyes if you told him the truth. He need not know that Hogní was visiting his most recent mistress.

"Forgive me," you lowered your head, a large tear falling on your wide skirts. "I have failed you, 'atmelê."

Another tear followed. And another.

The weeping willow rustled its branches softly. You did not dare to look up when you heard his words.
"'Atmelê. You used to call me that here, under this tree."
"How could I forget? But I know that I have no right any longer... I am married to another," tears ran down your cheeks, mourning the future that would not, could not ever come to pass.
"Marriage. Such a blissful state," the sarcastic tone in his voice was unmistakable.

"If I could only take back the time…" you sobbed. "Believe me, I would…"

"You made your decision clear. You could have approached me when I arrived," he cast an accusatory glance at you, his voice hoarse. "Wife of another or not, I would have taken you with me, because I loved you."

You saw the fire roaring in his eyes. His words rang in your ears, confirming the harsh truth you didn't dare to think of. Thorin used to love you. But it was all in the past.

"Would you have taken me in, even if I came to you with a child?"

He spoke after a few long heartbeats, his eyes set on the oblivious currents of the stream flowing lazily nearby. Long branches of the weeping willow stretched in yearning towards its surface, never meeting it while the cruel wind played with them.

"Náin is my son," this was more of a statement than a question.
"I discovered that I was with child a few weeks after you left to reclaim your homeland. Our little gift from Mahal. Every day I would imagine how happy you would be after you returned, and I waited…" your own voice betrayed you and a sob escaped your lips.

"Not long enough! You took the first opportunity at a comfortable life! Look at you now. The wife of a lord. Much better than a wife of a penniless blacksmith who might never return from his quest to slay the dragon for her father's amusement. Be assured that happiness was not among my feelings when I saw you with a babe in your arms, wearing opulent dresses, with your new husband, in front of a great hall. I saw you living the dream we were supposed to make true. You took that dream away from me, and you chose another!" he roared, his hand clenching into a fist.

"That choice was taken away from me, I swear," you sobbing intensified, but you tried to swallow the tears. You had to make him understand. "Every night I prayed to Mahal, hoping for my One to return to me. It would not matter if you returned rich or poor as long as you were alive. I would have given everything to be with you!"

"Then why did you not?!" Thorin snarled in response, his face contorted in anger, making you think of a feral beast, mad with rage.
"Leave my mother alone!" Náin exclaimed, his chest heaving, as he positioned himself between you and his father. You wondered how much of your conversation he had heard.

"You can not fathom what she had to suffer!" You had never seen your son in such anger before. "Can you imagine how hard it is to raise a bastard child? To be shunned and mistreated, to be the constant subject of rumours only because she loved someone else than her husband? And do you know how it is to be that child lulled to sleep by the sound of his mother crying every single night? How it is to feel your own father's hate every single day, trying to please him and failing, not knowing the reason for his disdain, only because your true father abandoned you?"
Clearly, your son heard enough. Náin's words hung low in the air like a stormcloud. Thorin gritted his teeth, his hands clenched into fists, lightning glimmering in his stormy eyes. Few insults among the dwarves were worse than being accused of abandoning one's own child.

"Until today, I did not know I had a son!" His eyes narrowed into slits.
"Until today, I thought my true father was long dead. And perhaps it would serve us all well if it stayed that way!" Your son turned on his heel and faced you.

"Náin!" you gasped. "You do not know what you speak of!"

Your son crouched beside you, offering you his arm, "Come, amad, let us leave."

But you refused to move. Disbelief washing over you, you could only stare in Thorin's face, fury and astonishment etched into his features in equal measure.

"Not yet, dushtel." You spoke quietly, bitterness of all those years taking a grip on you as you addressed the father of your child. "I wish to hear why you came back, my lord. Why did the great King of Erebor, Thorin Oakenshield, leave his kingdom only to sit idly under some old tree?"

"A king?!" Thorin rumbled, taking a step towards you, his heavy boot stomping against the ground. "You would better call me a fool who keeps returning to this place, because he cannot let go of the past!"

Your son gasped, stiffening beside you, "A king…? Of Erebor? Amad… Amad, what...? How…?"

You mustered just enough strength to rest your hand on Náin's shoulder, your gaze locked with Thorin's, "A poor but brave blacksmith who wanted to marry a princess, so he went off to slay a dragon, and then became a king".

"Just like in that fairy tale you told me when I was a pebble, amad? The one in which the poor blacksmith returns to the princess, frees her from the prison tower, and then they live happily ever after?"
"Just the one, dushtel. The one in which the princess keeps on waiting for the brave blacksmith, year after year, because she cannot let go of the past as well."

Thorin's chest heaved. His face paled, contrasting with the dark thicket of his beard.

"Life is not a fairy tale," his voice was like a rumble of a distant storm, his brow furrowed.

"But the princess still has the magic ring the blacksmith gave her under their tree along with the promise that he would return one day," overwhelmed by emotions, you reached to your neck and lifted the chain, the runes etched in the iron band glistening in the sun.

You saw Thorin move closer and fall on his knees in front of you, his fingers wrapping around the ring in disbelief.

"After all this time…?" his widened eyes brimming with sudden passion.
"Always," your fingers brushed against his over the cool surface of the ring, your cheeks wet.

You recognized the emotion that bloomed in his eyes, reigniting familiar sparks deep inside them. Your Thorin's eyes.

His thumb moved to your cheek, carefully brushing a tear away.

"Heart of my heart," Thorin murmured, intertwining his fingers with yours, just as he would all those years ago.
"Soul of my soul," you raised your head, pressing your forehead against his. Just as you would all those years ago.

Your kiss was as gentle as a summer breeze, and its warmth could melt all the ice caps in the Blue Mountains. His lips were as soft as you remembered, and there was a sweet tenderness in his caresses that made your heart flutter.

A pony neighed in the distance, reminding you of your surroundings.

"Náin…" you whispered, turning to your son, wiping away your tears of happiness. "Náin, this is…"
"Are you… are you truly…?" your son's eyes widened as he looked at his father. His true father.
Your beloved and your son were now facing each other, divided by years of experience, by their social station, and yet so alike. You bit your lip and blinked away a tear.

"They call me Thorin," the blacksmith who became a king offered his arm to Náin.

Your son tilted his head, "Thorin… like… like the king?"
"Aye, exactly like the king. Thorin, son of Thráin," the King of Erebor nodded, focusing his attention on the young dwarf, his gaze softening slightly.
"I am Náin," your son glanced at Thorin's outstretched hand and raised his chin proudly, just like his father.

"Náin… like the king?" Thorin tilted his head just like your son, his son did mere moments ago. You felt a sudden tightness in your throat.
"Like the king," your son said to his father slowly, finally clasping his arm in greeting. "Náin, son of... Thorin."

"My son," Thorin rumbled, wrapping his arms around his son. Your son.
Tears ran from your eyes as they deepened their embrace, and you gave out a sob.

"Mother?" Náin turned to you, worry ringing in his voice.

"All is well, my son, all is well," you said, emotions washing over you like a sudden wave.
That is when Thorin took your hands into his and placed small kisses on your knuckles, "Release me from my torment, Kurdelê. Release yourself and leave your old life behind."

"Thorin?" you asked, his endearment for you sounding so natural on his lips as if he spoke it only yesterday.
"Come with me to Erebor, my love. Become my wife, my queen, and you will want for nothing," he spoke earnestly. "We will take Náin with us, you will both find a new home by my side, Kurdelê. We will be together again."

"Please, Thorin, stop…" tears rolled down your cheeks. This was your One, the Thorin you remembered, and his gesture told you everything you wanted to know. Those were the words you dreamed of hearing every single night, but it was all for nothing. It was too late. The dull ache in your heart was almost unbearable.
"I will not stop, Kurdelê. Not until you agree," he squeezed your hands hopefully.

But you had to shatter his hopes.

"Know that my heart will always belong to you, 'Atmelê. There is nothing else I would rather do than to come away with you. But I cannot. Forgive me," you murmured, averting your gaze, ashamed of yourself. "I must stay here. By my lord husband's side."

With those words, you released your hands from his gentle hold, gathered your voluminous, flowing skirts that surrounded you like a grey cloud and slowly rose to your feet, supported by your son's steady arm.

You felt Thorin's gaze sliding over the layers of fabric as they fell to the ground, finally clinging to your body, exposing your rounded silhouette. After over twenty years of waiting, after countless nights of Hogní's disgusting advances that you had to endure as an obedient wife, your lord husband was finally going to get what he wanted from you. An heir.

Your hand rested on your protruding belly as you proclaimed your own sentence.
"The babe is due in a month."

In the silence that fell after your words you could clearly hear your heartbeat.

"I do not care," Thorin rose slowly and grasped your hands once again. "I do not care, Kurdelê, do you understand? We are returning to Erebor, you will bear the child there, and I shall find a legal way to end your farce of a marriage!"

You smiled sadly at the fervour in his words, "I am sorry, my love. We will not reach the Lonely Mountain before my time comes."

Náin added, "Mother can barely travel a couple of miles on her pony in her state!"
"We will take a wagon!" Thorin fumed, a scowl set on his face.

You sighed, shaking your head, not daring about the perils of travel in your condition, "Even if I could go with you, my husband is the Lord of Belegost. You would be risking a diplomatic rift between the Blue Mountains and…"

"Am I to leave you here, with your spouse, then? With that greedy woolmonger?" Thorin rumbled angrily, his face darkening. "Is that what you want?!"

"This is what I have to do, for my little one. Just like I did just before Náin was born," you offered.
"Amad," Náin touched your forearm. "Let me stay with you, I will protect you…"

You interrupted him before he could say more, casting him a warning glance.
"Náin, you cannot stay," you spoke firmly. "You have to go to Erebor with your father."

"How does he treat you? That husband of yours?" Thorin's eyes flashed with suspicion.

"I am carrying his heir. He treats me well enough," the lie left your lips easily. It was clear that he had not heard everything you spoke of with your son. "Besides, it will not be for long, Thorin. We will meet next spring."

You ignored his grunt and the huff that left your son's mouth. Náin, your gift from Mahal. You closed your eyes for a moment to clear your thoughts, and then looked into Thorin's azure eyes.
"Your mountain needs its king. Take Náin with you, for he has no place in Belegost any longer," your voice trembled yet again, but there was no other way. "I beg you, 'Atmelê."

Thorin slowly shook his head and his eyes rested on your son.

"Is that what you wish? Leave your mother behind in exchange for life in Erebor by my side?"

"I… amad?" Náin shifted in unease under his gaze, a boyish uncertainty on his face. "Are you sure?"

"I will manage. And you need to prepare everything for my arrival. I shall join you next spring," you exchanged a glance with your son, nodding almost imperceptibly.

"I will do what my mother asks of me," Náin spoke hesitantly to his father, their frowns so incredibly alike.

"Very well then. You will travel with me to Erebor, under one condition: you will try to refrain yourself from issuing death threats against kings," Thorin's face schooled into a neutral expression, but you noticed the corner of his mouth twitching. Warmth spilled in your chest as he added, "An impressive feat, I have to admit, son."
Náin paled and spoke hastily, "Your maj-, my lord father… I did not mean…"
Thorin made a dismissive gesture with his hand and spoke, "I deserved to hear your words, son. We have a lot to learn from each other."
And then you knew all three of you were one step closer to happiness.

You watched both dwarves you loved riding away, their silhouettes slowly disappearing in the distance. Your vision blurred. A lump of ice formed in your throat. Only you and the weeping willow remained.

The sun was setting when you headed to your husband's halls with a heavy heart, your hand resting on your firm, rounded belly that hid a spark of new life you had to protect.

The last words you spoke to Thorin rang in your ears, "I will wait for you under our willow next spring."

You promised to follow him to Erebor, together with your new babe. But there was something you held back from Thorin. You were painfully aware of the fact that there was no legal way to annul or end your marriage. You had spent over twenty years searching for it, studying the ancient tomes of law and not finding any favorable solution. On the contrary: since you were about to bear Lord Hogní's child, no dwarven council would deem your marriage with him null and void. It seemed that there was no way out of it for you. No escape.

They said that mother's love conquers all.

And so it did. A month later you gave birth to a sweet little baby girl, and your heart brimmed with love for your innocent babe. The birth was not easy, but with time you recovered. Your husband presented his newborn child to the people of Belegost with pride, and it was his pride that made him treat you with a bit more leniency for several weeks after her birth. Soon however his excitement faded away, giving way to his usual resentment and viciousness. To his temper. Days felt like months, and months felt like years, but you endured, knowing that come spring you would see Thorin again. Your One.

They said that one would do anything for true love.

Once again you stood under the weeping willow with your darling bundle of love in your arms. Your tiny daughter chuckled, red curls escaping from under her soft cap as she smiled, waving her hand at you.

"She has her mother's eyes," Thorin murmured to you, pressing his lips to your temple. With his arm around your shoulder, he pulled you gently against his chest, giving both you and your lively little pebble shelter from the cool wind. Love and warmth reigned in your heart.
"Have you heard that, Thora?" you placed a kiss on the tip of her button nose, making her giggle. Her chubby fingers wrapped around Thorin's temple braid, pulling it towards her.
"And she has a warrior's grip!" the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened as he smiled affectionately at your little girl.

"Perhaps she will become one. Or a blacksmith," you rested your temple against his collarbone.
"In Erebor she shall be whoever she wishes to be," Thorin murmured into your hair.

You looked into the warm azure depths of his eyes and found what you were searching for. Thorin's love for you. He was an honourable warrior. A descendant of kings and a just and noble ruler to his people. This was the dwarf you fell in love with and you would do anything to keep him on his path. He could not jeopardize his position nor his kingdom for your sake. You loved him too much for this to happen.

And that is why you had taken one more step closer to happiness before it was too late.

Basking in the warmth of Thorin's embrace, enthralled by his closeness, holding little Thora in your arms, you knew you made the right choice. This is what you wanted: your One, your baby daughter, and Náin, your son, who waited for you in Erebor. Your family. Your only dream.

This is when Thorin spoke the words you had already heard from him twenty-five years ago.

"Will you become my wife, heart of my heart? Will you come with me to Erebor?"
Your heart fluttered with joy. Finally you were able to give him the reply he hoped for.

You pressed your forehead against his and said, "I will. You know, soul of my soul, there is nothing else I wish for."

His mouth danced against yours, and in his kiss you tasted the spring wind, the fresh, life-giving water from the stream, the hope, the devotion, and the future that was about to come. After all those years, you felt alive at last, as if awakened from a dreamless slumber.

"Let us not waste any more time. Your new home awaits you both. We were stuck under this cursed tree for too many years," he murmured, your breaths intermingling.

"But it is exactly this tree that brought us back together," you placed your hand over his bearded cheek.

"I will never forget that," he covered your hand with his, tenderness welling in his eyes. "Nothing will ever keep us apart now."

"Nothing," you repeated. Feeling a sudden tightness in your throat, you closed your eyes, trying to keep the tears at bay. This was the first day of your new life. Everything else was in the past now. Everything.

A ferocious glint flashed in Thorin's eyes. "Do not fret, Kurdelê. You and Thora are safe. I shall make certain that your husband does not bother you ever again."
"There is no need, 'Atmelê," your words were but a whisper on the wind. "He has gone to the Halls of his Forefathers. I am a widow now."

The branches of the weeping willow rustled for the last time for you on that day, as you sealed the beginning of your new life with Thorin with a kiss.

Soon, you arrived in Erebor, and became the wife and queen of Thorin Oakenshield, the King Under the Mountain, with Náin and Thora by your side. You lived happily ever after, never lacking for love again.

And so the fairy tale had its happy ending.
The penniless blacksmith became a king and married his beloved princess.
After all the hardships, the princess was finally set free. From that moment on, her days were filled with joy and not with fear, and her nights – with bliss and not with tears.

And the only reminder of her past was a half empty vial of poison at the bottom of her traveling chest.

THE END

Khuzdul phrases:

Amad - mother

dushtel - son of sons

Kurdelê - my heart of hearts

'Atmelê - my breath of all breaths (here: my soul)