How I Leave You

Heart of Gold

 When the letter arrives, I cannot help but fear the worst.

For the letter is from Bilbo, and though we have remained close friends over the years, it has been sixty since I stood on his doorstep for the first time. In my heart of hearts, I know that the hobbit should have succumbed to age by now. I know it, though I do not want to acknowledge it.

And here it is, a letter from Bag End signed Baggins. A letter that is not replying to my last. A letter that brings news whose nature I can only fear.

"What is it?" Thorin asks, protectively holding onto my arm as though he could stop all things bad from reaching me.

"It's from Bilbo," I say, incapable of doing anything but look down at the unopened message in my hands.

"Would you like me to open it, my heart?"

I nod, turning away as I give it to him. My fist covering my mouth, I stand waiting. The sound of paper being torn open. The scratchiness of the letter against the envelope. Of parchment being unfolded.

The silence.

It wraps itself around my brain as he reads, until all I can hear is the distant turmoil of the sea. Waves crashing against the shore of my ears.

When I cannot wait any longer, I peak over my shoulder.

"Well?" I say.

But Thorin is just smiling, his eyes skimming Bilbo's beautiful handwriting. Finally, my husband looks up at me.

"It would seem we have been invited to a birthday party this summer."

*      *      *

In a kingdom in the mountain, there lives a naiad.

She is not a young naiad by any means, but rather a somewhat old one, except for her children, of course, both of whom still have so much to see. Apparently, she resides in a place called Erebor, where the doors are always oak, and the company is merry, no matter who you might meet. They call her the Heart of the Mountain, for she captured that of its king.

It is in Erebor that I am ending my journey.

Or starting it, depending on how one looks at such things.

"Do you have everything packed, Ama?" Soldís asks, bringing a battalion of possessions herself.

"Only the necessities," I tell her, which consists of the clothes on my back and the gift I am giving Bilbo and his nephew, both of whose birthdays we will be celebrating.

The mithril armor Thorin gave me sixty years ago. I hope it might protect them against the shadows that are approaching.

"Just like me," my daughter says, half of Erebor packed into her bags behind us.

"Well, unlike you two," I say to both her and her brother, "your father and I will only be away for a month or so."

All four members of our little family will be traveling out today. Only two of them will return to our mountain again.

Soldís can barely keep herself grounded, jumping up and down with excitement, the crystals in her skin reflecting the light's rays. Thrór, on the other hand, remains somber. Staring out at nothing in particular, his face is blank, eyes unseeing, as though he already knows what is to come. But he cannot know. Just like I do not, for if I did, I would never have let him go.

Looking back at this moment now, I realize it was my last opportunity to cut the threads of fate. To reweave his, and beg him to stay, to not go to Moria. To remain here instead. But I will not know any of this as I look at him that morning, admiring his beautiful hair and how it is as though the sun is captured in his eyes.

I will not know that when he goes, he will not return again.

I will not know that this is the last time I will ever see him.

For if I did, if I knew, I would have dug my nails into his skin to stop him from taking another step. I would have swallowed the key as I locked him into the mountain. Chained him to its very stone if I had to.

But I will not know any of this. Will not know that, mere months after arriving in Moria, it will be overrun by goblins. Thousands of them will emerge from the darkness, swarming the mines and halls, killing everything in their way.

I will not know that the dwarves never stood a chance. That both Ori and Oin fall in the attack, though not before they manage to write down the events of the slaughter with the last of their ink and might.

One day, years from now, I will read those words. I will read about how both Thrór and Tillion were among the first to defend their people. Thrór, my son of books and crafts, will grab the weapon he forged from the metal of his homeland, and he will be the last to run to the safety of Balin's tomb. For he will want to buy them time, his people, doing so by defending the room with the last of his strength and his husband by his side, not knowing that it will all be for naught. Not knowing that Balin's tomb is a dead end. A grave. For there will be no way out.

There will be no survivors.

I will not know any of this. Will not want to know, but when the time is right, I am going to. Together with Thorin, we are to learn the fate of our son.

That is when I will wish to go back to this moment. To when I am looking at Thrór in the careful rays of the morning sun, noting how it shines from within his very eyes, and how, when he looks at Tillion, they fill with love. I will wish that I could change everything. Change the outcome of the meeting where we voted on Thrór's future. Stop myself from calling for it in the first place.

For it will be my fault. My fault that he leaves. My fault that he will not return. If I could, I would pick up the pen of fate and rewrite his. One by one, I would pluck out the rest of my years just so he could have a bit more time.

But I will not do any of this. Cannot, for in this moment, I do not know anything but that Thrór is going to be a great king one day. That he is going to be just like his father.

So instead, I look at my son, the heir to my kingdom and the blood of my blood, and I say:

"Go make something grand of this world."

He takes my hand, a smile on his face as his eyes finally refocus.

"I will, Ama," he says. "I promise."

"You make me proud, son," Thorin says, putting a hand on Thrór's shoulder, and another on that of Soldís. "And you, too, daughter."

"Do not think that just because you are grown," I say, taking my daughter's hand in my other, "you cannot come back home to your parents. The gates of Erebor will always be open to you, no matter how old you grow."

"We know," they say in unison, both of them rolling their eyes.

Thorin and I send a look at each other.

We have done well.

"Are you prepared to leave, your majesties?" a servant asks, looking from me to the king.

I look at my husband. My children.

"Yes," Soldís says before I can, already speaking like a queen.

Thorin squeezes my hand, and I nod.

I believe I am ready for another adventure.