In the passing years, she comes to feel some sympathy for the dwarf king. Time having healed her own wounds, the resentment she once felt now flares only under duress as any other aged scar might remember the pain it once held. She knows she and her family have a long road ahead of them still, their lives not fully settled in the hollows of their ancestral home. But what other choice have they now?
Sigrid comes to sit at his side, the great reclaimer king losing himself in the flickering of the hearthfire. For a moment, she distracts herself from the heaviness of the moment by straightening her skirts or pulling at the loose threads of her shawl. She reconsiders reaching for him, unsure of his sensitivities. Still, the newly crowned princess attempts a smile in assurance. Her attention, like Thorin’s is drawn to the warmth of the fire dancing in the stone pit of the hall’s long hearth. “Healing,” Sigrid begins, “is never easy. Like sewing a tear; it won’t be as pretty as perfect fabric, but the hole will be gone. It all depends on what spirits you have and how much care you put into the process of it all.” Her tone turns serious, the old pain flaring briefly. “Some of us may never truly return from the disasters we survived. But life will not turn back the pages and allow us to enjoy whatever it was we were before that great upheaval.”
She stands, her fingers tugging at the shawl around her shoulders, rearranging the fabric over her body. She passes him by, but pauses in her departure. Sigrid pats at the king’s shoulder. “Allow good folk to care for you, as we did, and your healing may not be as terrible as you fear.”
