Arien shoved open the door to the training room.

Glorfindel had gone, riding off into the afternoon sun after saying goodbye. She had not apologised to him for her choice. She had nothing to be sorry for.

What Thror had said; that she would never marry Thorin, that one day he would wed someone else, someone worthy... Because he was Thorin's grandfather and king, because Thorin was a prince of the realm, Thror could forbid him from marrying her despite her being queen. He had the power and without any doubt the inclination to, and she could lose him, lose her prince to some no-name dwarf woman that Thror had deemed up to his lofty standards, someone Thorin did not love. She could lose him forever.

There was a number of dwarves in the room, sparring or knife-throwing or spear-throwing or practising archery. Arien made her way toward the sandbags hung from the ceiling. She squared off before them, the wave of reckless rage she'd been riding ever since Thror had spoken of Glorfindel as 'this elf' not quite having crashed to shore. She still wanted to beat his face to a bloody pulp for it. For everything he had done. But for now, a sandbag would do.

Cross, jab, hook, kick, duck.

She dropped to her knees when the sandbag swung back towards her and smiled grimly as she whirled and slammed her elbow into the bag where someone's gut would usually be. The thud as she made contact was very satisfying.

Thorin had left to be by himself after thanking her for what she'd said. When he asked her if she meant it, she told him yes.

My queen, he had called her.

A queen, yes, but always his. Always.

She slammed her fist into the sandbag, savouring the pain as her skin split. Each time she made contact her thoughts were on something new.

Cross. Thror.

Kick. Rivendell.

Jab. Banished.

Duck. Thorin.

Hook. My queen.

Arien did not leave the training room until long into the night.