Arien stared into the firelight as it danced and flickered before her blurred vision, Thorin sitting a little behind her. They had returned to the Keep when it got dark and cold, waking Dis in the process. Every night the dwarves of Erebor would gather around the fire and tell stories of heroes and warriors and ages gone by when the dwarves had fought in the Wars of the Jewels in the First Age of the world. She had stopped listening, because the dwarves had a tendency to repeat tales that glorified their race or described particularly beautiful gems. Although tonight they seemed to have run out of ideas. The company around the fire had fallen into silence when Dis spoke.

"What about a tale from the west?" she suggested, looking at Arien, her brown eyes curious.

Arien stared at her. She had no stories. No tales. None, except...

Of anyone, everyone in the world, only Thorin knew her full past.

So she had no tales of warriors and dragons and heroes. No stories of battles and sieges, victories and alliances.

Only the truth.

The truth of her, undiluted and complete. And after all that she had been through and lost, all she'd been through with Thorin... It was time for her to share her grief.

So she steeled herself. "I have never told anyone this story, only one person in the world knows it. But it's mine," she said, fighting past the burning in her eyes. "And it's time for me to tell it."

Thorin put a bracing hand on her back as she took a deep breath.

"Once upon a time," she said to them, to the world, to herself. "In a land long since turned to ruins, there lived a young princess who did not know what it was to experience death or darkness or pain. Who loved her parents and her kingdom and her people –– very much."

And then she told them of the princess whose life had been torn apart so early, of the mighty kingdom in the west, of its downfall and the sacrifice of its people. It was a long story, and sometimes she grew quiet and cried –– and during those times Thorin leaned over to wipe away her tears.

When she had finished, there was silence. Dis was crying, and Thorin held his sister's hand even as he pulled Arien to him. She smiled at him. And it was a smile of peace. Of happiness.

Because of him. He had got her to this place, had guided her through her darkness and pain.

And here, with him, she would always be happy.

Together.

Every step, all of it, had led here.

From that valley in the west full of light and laughter and song; to that mountain city in the north, where a prince with eyes like blue fire had kissed her, had rebuilt her life with his heart of embers.

A king and a queen, who had found each other across mountains and forests, through darkness and shadow.

Every step. Every curve, every change and fork in the path. Every moment of despair and pain and rage.

It had led her precisely where she needed to be.

Where she wanted to be.

And as Thorin smiled back at her, that last scrap of self-loathing, of that darkness in her heart shrank further.

Shrank and fractured into nothing but dust.