Work Text:
I
They named her the Mad Queen. Sorrowed Queen. Queen in Silver.
She wore no crown, as she sat on her mountain throne, the Elf-Witch and babe by her side.
The Mad Queen’s head and beard shorn in endless grief, since the day the Ravens returned her sons promises to her; broken.
I shall not fall, said the Queen in Silver, gold shall hold no dominion over me.
The Elven-King had desired jewels that shone like white light. She brightened his halls as the trees of the Green Wood burnt to the ground.
The Bowman had wanted one twelfth of the gold of Erebor. She gave Esragoth a fourth and watched it sink to the bottom of the Lake.
Who else dares to say that Dwarves are greedy and grasping when the Queen under the Mountain gives such gifts?
Am I not kind? The Sorrowed Queen asked the quiet tombs of her beloved promise-breakers.
Am I not strong? She told the remnants of the thirteen, who but nodded and quaked or fled to the Black Pit of Moria.
Am I not loved? She whispered to the babe in the She-Elf’s arms. I will wade through blood for you, last daughter. Last princely child. Star Queen.
Behind the Mad Queen’s lullabyes, the forges of the mountain thunder and drum.
II
I hitch my skirts and stride over broken bodies to get to my beloved promise-breakers, who lay cold in the snow, so far from their mother’s hearth and warm embrace. They are still so very far from me and when I open my eyes their smiles are harder to picture.
I would walk on coals for my smiling boys, as I would now for my elf-daughter and her child.
We try our best, we Queens, mothers, mothers of Queens.
The shadows of the Lonely Mountain are long, cold and grasping – like the greedy hands of the Naugrim Queen.
I shall have them fear me, Elves and Men alike.
From the ruins of Laketown, the cinder pile that was once the Elf-Kings Court, to the East where dwelt the dark and clever men.
But more fearsome hands have these lands in thrall – so I shall look to the Kindly West, Kingless Lands to the South and the Withered Heaths of the North.
More fearsome –ha! There is none more fearsome than a mother who has lost.
When he sends his Mouth to my mountain gates asking for the Burglar’s ring, I but think of my sleeping Granddaughter and my mother’s wrath and smite his vile head from his shoulders. There shall be whispers in the East of the power of the Mad Queen.
The Great Eye will see me, and despair.
III
Beautiful and terrible, the Last Queen ascends her throne. Heart of the Mountain at her throat and Durin’s eyes full of starlight and sapphires. No true Naugrim is she, so they say, too tall and too lovely to the eyes of Men and Elves (though none of the Eldar have seen her, the last people of Mirkwood fled West as the Forest burnt to dull and bitter ash).
A feral, mongrel bastard Queen of the Lonely Mountain is crowned, among the blood and sorrow of the Battle of Dale. The Mad Queen before her died standing, twin swords holding her firm, raven on her shoulder. She goes to her Promise-breakers still cursing all that is gold.
Her mother crowns her. The Elf-Witch dressed in dwarven gown and garb does not often come down from the mountain top, gazing at stars, waiting for a Blood Moon. She will not go West. The Elf-Witch will not fade. She dances on moonlight with her strong shouldered, square-footed daughter who does not understand why sometimes her mother’s hands grip too tightly.
There are none left to call her aught but Sovereign, the wrath and ruin of the old age swept away by the Queen in Silver and paved with the broken swords of the Easterling Emperor. As the dark of Mordor washes away, the shadow of the mountain is plainer to see in the light of day. It is the Age of Men, so they say. They shall hold no dominion over me.
They call her a Lady of Elves – am I not fair?
Yet she is a Lord of rock also – am I not mighty?
The Last Queen under the Mountain, mithril crown on her brow and the promise-breakers smile on her lips. She turned her gaze to the South. She saw Elessar conquer and drew back her bow.