Oooh, Nonnie.

Whatever you do, don’t imagine her reunion with her parents. Thrain running his thumb gently across her face, across her cheekbone and stroking the side of her beard. Don’t imagine him smiling at her with trembling lips, telling her that he is so proud, nathith, so proud. Don’t imagine Fris wrapping her arms around her last child and holding her to her heart; don’t imagine Thrain tugging them both close and tight, cocooning them with his body, pressing whiskery kisses to his daughter’s temple. Don’t imagine the words they would say. Don’t imagine the tearing sound of Dis’ sobs.

Don’t imagine her grandfather kissing both her cheeks and her forehead, and then gathering her close. “Sparrow, our little sparrow,” he would murmur, and she would remember what it cost to lose him, what it cost all of them. Her grandmother’s clever hands stroking Dis’ hair, her soothing, no-nonsense voice, calling her “Dis, darling,” as she did, so so long ago. They have the same hands.

Whatever you do, don’t imagine her reunion with her (little) big brother. It has been centuries, she can’t even remember him clearly, but at the smell of his hair and the sound of his voice, it comes rushing back, so fast and powerful it is nearly a physical blow. His weight against her is so small, so slight. 

Whatever you do, don’t imagine her reunion with her sons, her madcap bright-eyed darlings. Don’t imagine her crying into their hair. Don’t even entertain the idea that she cannot stop kissing them even for a moment, her grasping hands frantic, her eyes half-blinded by her tears, gripping their clothes so tightly that her arms shake. I’d advise against dwelling on the whiteness of her knuckles, the tenderness in her kisses, how her head bows and her shoulders shudder at the sound of those voices calling her ‘Amad’ again, at long last: Amad, Amad, we missed you Amad.

Whatever you do, don’t think of her pressing her forehead against Dain’s, her cousin, her borrowed-brother, and cursing him for leaving her as well as he throws his arms around her and rocks her back and forth. The last one, she was the last one. Don’t think of Dain gently prying free and wiping her eyes (hopeless, a hopeless task) before turning her around to face the one standing behind her. Don’t picture him giving Dis a little push towards her eldest brother. 

You definitely shouldn’t visualise the look in her eye as she stares at Thorin, stricken. It’s not a good idea to imagine the harsh rasp of her breathing as she curses him and curses him, twice as hard as she ever did Dain, all the while stumbling over to him and throwing herself at him with outstretched arms. Don’t imagine how she clings to him as though he is a tree against a storm, how she buries her head against his shoulder and cries and cries, her whole body wracked with it, and he too smells just the same.

And the last thing you should ever do is imagine her greeting her husband. 

No, you shouldn’t do that at all.