Chapter 10: Blood of the Golden Wood
The air in the passage tasted ancient, thick with dust and the damp chill of stone untouched by sun. Thorin’s torch flickered, casting monstrous, dancing shadows on the rune-covered walls that seemed to shift as they moved. "Keep close," Thorin growled, his voice echoing strangely. "These paths are treacherous, even without Orc patrols."
Brittany moved silently beside Orik, her senses extended. She could feel the weight of the mountain above them, the subtle vibrations through the stone, the distant drip-drip-drip of water – information her Force awareness translated into a mental map. Dwalin, just ahead, glanced back, his eyes reflecting the torchlight, checking on her position with a gruff nod she’d come to recognize as concern.
The passage narrowed suddenly, forcing them into single file, shoulders scraping rough rock. The air grew colder, fresher. A faint, sweet scent drifted towards them, alien against the subterranean gloom. "We approach the valley," Gandalf murmured from the front, a note of relief in his voice. "The air sings of Imladris."
They emerged from the mountain’s throat onto a narrow ledge bathed in the pale silver light of early evening. Below, nestled like a jewel in the valley’s embrace, lay Rivendell. Waterfalls cascaded down mossy cliffs, their music a constant shimmering backdrop. Pillared halls and delicate bridges seemed to grow organically from the living rock and ancient trees. A profound sense of peace washed over the company, momentarily stilling their urgency.
As they descended the winding path towards the Last Homely House, a figure emerged onto a high balcony – tall, serene, clad in robes that flowed like twilight. Lord Elrond. His keen eyes surveyed the arrivals, lingering briefly on Gandalf, then Bilbo, then sweeping over the dwarves with detached curiosity. When his gaze fell upon Brittany, however, he went utterly still.
He descended the steps to greet them, his movements graceful, yet his focus remained fixed on her. An expression, fleeting but profound – shock, recognition, and something deeper, like the resonance of long-lost chords – crossed his ageless face. He stopped before the group, his gaze piercing yet not unkind. "Mae govannen," he greeted them, his voice like wind through leaves. His eyes held Brittany’s. "A star shines strangely upon you, child of many waters and ancient stone. The blood of my Lady sings within your veins." He paused, a tremor of emotion beneath his calm. "You are kin. Granddaughter to the Lady of Light."
A collective intake of breath came from the dwarves. Brittany felt the familiar ache of her hidden self, the constant effort to hold the glamour that masked her truest form. Here, in this sanctuary of her distant kin, beneath the gaze of one who saw through all veils, the strain eased. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, a silent release. The subtle contours of her face shifted, sharpening with an otherworldly elegance, the faintest points appearing at the tips of her ears, her skin seeming to hold an inner radiance. She looked, undeniably, like an elf.
Orik, standing beside her, let out a low grunt, a sound of immense satisfaction. He nudged her arm gently, a rare, broad smile stretching his beard. "There she is, sister," he rumbled, his voice thick with dwarven pride. "Lookin' like you're s'posed to."
The sudden shift in Brittany’s appearance sent a ripple through the dwarves. Thorin eyed her sharply, suspicion warring with the undeniable elven grace now visible. "What trickery is this?" he muttered, hand straying towards Orcrist’s hilt. Dwalin just grunted, "Told you she wasn't just tall."
Elrond remained utterly still, his gaze locked on Brittany’s transformed features, a profound sadness and wonder mingling in his ancient eyes. "The resemblance..." he breathed, his voice thick with unexpected emotion. "It is uncanny. You bear the light of Lórien within your very bones, child. How is this possible? The line of Galadriel and Celeborn... we believed it flowed solely through Arwen." He took a hesitant step closer, as if drawn by an invisible current.
Brittany met his gaze, the newly revealed points of her ears catching the fading light. "Honestly, Lord Elrond?" she said, her voice retaining its familiar pragmatic edge despite the ethereal look. "I had no clue." She gave a small, self-deprecating shrug. "Not until I got myself almost carved in half under Farthen Dûr." Orik shifted beside her, his expression grim, remembering.
"Took a poisoned spear meant for our father," Orik interjected gruffly, his voice a low rumble. "Stupidly brave, like always."
Brittany nodded. "Yeah, that. Thing was nasty. Messed me up good, beyond any surgeon's skill." She paused, a flicker of pain crossing her face, not from the memory of the wound, but the vulnerability. "Would have died. But Orik and a friend... they dragged my carcass all the way to Ellesméra." The name hung in the air, a place of deep elven power. "The Ancients there... they fixed me." Her eyes met Elrond’s again, clear and direct. "Said the only way was to... unlock what was already there. Buried deep. My elven blood." She gestured vaguely at her face. "Hence the upgrade. Guess I come by the pointy ears honestly, after all."
Elrond’s hand trembled slightly as he reached out, not to touch, but as if tracing the air near Brittany’s altered features. "Ellesméra," he murmured, the name a breath laden with ancient memory. "The Heart of the World. Their touch... it reveals truth." He looked older suddenly, millennia of loss etched onto his ageless face. "Welcome, kinswoman."
Thorin’s scoff cut through the moment, sharp as a chisel strike. "Kinswoman?" He glared at Brittany, betrayal simmering beneath the suspicion. "You walk among us concealed, bearing an axe and a braid, yet bleed elven light? Convenient." His knuckles whitened on Orcrist.
"Convenient for what, Oakenshield?" Brittany shot back, her voice cool despite the faint luminescence now clinging to her skin. "Dying wasn't exactly a career goal. The ears are a side effect, not a secret weapon." She flicked one pointed tip, a wry twist to her lips. "Relax, I haven't started quoting poetry."
Orik stepped forward, his bulk a solid barrier between Thorin and Brittany. "She bled dwarven loyalty defending my father, Thorin Oakenshield," he rumbled, low and dangerous. "That braid wasn't earned in an elven glade. That scar beneath her ribs? Dwarven steel bit her flesh saving a king." He jabbed a thick finger towards Thorin’s chest. "Question her blood oath again, and we will have words."
Bilbo, wide-eyed beside Gandalf, whispered, "Goodness." Gandalf merely puffed his pipe, observing the clash of kings with weary patience.
Elrond sighed, the sound like leaves settling. "Your weariness is deep, travelers. Suspicion serves only the shadows gathering." He gestured towards the graceful halls. "Rest. Bathe. Tonight, we decipher Thorin’s map under the moon." His gaze settled on Brittany, softening. "And you, child of sundered stars, walk freely here. Let your true light breathe." A genuine warmth, unexpected, touched his eyes. "It has been too long since the House of Elrond welcomed kin."
Brittany felt the residual tension in her shoulders ease fractionally, the ambient peace of the valley subtly reinforcing Elrond's invitation. The constant pressure of maintaining the glamour vanished completely, a weight she hadn't fully acknowledged lifting. She met Orik’s fierce gaze and gave a tiny, reassuring nod. "Guess it’s time to fly the freak flag properly, brother," she murmured, a hint of dry amusement returning.
Brittany dipped her fingers into the icy stream edging the path, the shock of cold water grounding her fully. "Feels good," she admitted, shaking droplets free, the simple sensation a stark contrast to the heavy revelations. Orik grunted agreement, scanning the elven architecture with undisguised suspicion, his hand resting near his warhammer.
Thorin stepped forward, his boots crushing a cluster of tiny blue flowers. "This elf-light changes nothing, Stonehand," he stated, his voice tight, eyes fixed on Brittany’s pointed ears. "Your oath was sworn to dwarves, in a dwarven hall. Does elven comfort loosen that bond?"
Brittany straightened, water still gleaming on her skin, meeting his glare without flinching. "Thorin, relax. The ears don't make me allergic to mountains or gold." She gestured towards the Last Homely House. "I said I’d see Smaug dealt with. That hasn’t changed. Now, can we maybe get inside before Bilbo turns blue?" Bilbo, indeed, was shivering slightly in his thin coat.
Orik stepped closer to Brittany, his shadow falling protectively over her. "She bled for Hrothgar, Oakenshield," he rumbled, low and dangerous, his gaze locked with Thorin’s. "That stain doesn’t wash out, no matter whose valley we stand in." He deliberately turned his back on Thorin, facing Brittany. "Lead on, sister. Let’s see what fancy grub these leaf-lovers serve."
A faint, genuine smile touched Brittany’s lips as they walked towards the open archways, the scent of herbs and ancient wood intensifying. The cool air felt clean in her lungs, a balm after the tunnel's dust and the warg-stench. Inside, soft light glowed from unseen sources, illuminating graceful pillars and delicate carvings of leaves and stars. Elves moved with silent grace, their curious glances lingering on the unlikely trio – the dwarf-king, the armored warrior-woman radiating both elven light and dwarven grit, and the glowering leader trailing behind.
Thorin stopped just inside the threshold, his gaze sweeping the hall before returning, burning, to Brittany. "Remember the map," he ground out. "Our path hinges on its secrets. Deal with the elf-lord. Get what we need."
After Thorin’s sharp command, "Get what we need," hung in the air, Brittany simply arched a newly revealed elven eyebrow. Elrond, serene as the valley mist, gestured them deeper into the pillared hall. "Refreshments first, King Thorin. Strength precedes wisdom."
The elves brought wine like liquid starlight and fruits glowing like jewels. Thorin barely touched his, his eyes fixed on the map case by his side. "The map, Lord Elrond. Durin's Day approaches."
Elrond accepted the worn leather tube, his long fingers tracing the ancient dwarven runes sealing it. Unrolling the brittle parchment on a moonlit table, he studied the angular script and faded ink mountains. "Moon-letters," he murmured, his gaze lifting to the open balcony where the sky deepened to indigo. "Written ithildin, visible only beneath the moon that matches their making."
Thorin leaned forward, hope warring with impatience. "Can you read them? The key to the hidden door?"
"Patience," Elrond chided softly, his finger hovering over the map. "The script is clear, but the celestial key..." He paused, his serene expression tightening almost imperceptibly. "The moon that bore these letters is waning. Its identical phase returns..." He calculated silently, the silence stretching. "...in a fortnight."
"A fortnight?" Thorin exploded, shoving back his chair with a screech. "Two weeks? Are you mad? We don't have a fortnight!" His fist slammed onto the table, making the goblets jump. "Smaug sleeps, but our path narrows!"
Brittany sighed, swirling the starlight wine. "Cool your forge, Thorin. Yelling won't speed up the moon." She glanced at the map, then at Elrond's grave face. "So, we wait. Use the time. Plan. Scout. Stock up on decent soap." Orik grunted agreement, tearing into a honeyed pastry with gusto.
"The valley offers sanctuary," Elrond stated firmly, the command of millennia in his voice. "Restore yourselves. The map cannot be read for a fortnight. Not tonight."
Thorin’s roar about the fortnight echoed off the delicate arches, shattering Rivendell’s tranquil hush. “Rest? While Smaug sits fat on my birthright?!” Spittle flew, his face dark as storm clouds beneath his beard, one hand gripping Orcrist’s pommel like he wanted to draw it right then and there. Elrond’s gaze turned icy, a silent command for restraint hanging heavy in the suddenly charged air.
The heavy oak door at the hall's end burst open with a clatter. A tiny figure, tousled dark hair sticking up, bare feet slapping the polished stone, hurtled into the hall like a scared rabbit. Big, grey eyes wide with terror scanned the room, wet tracks glistening on pale cheeks. It was a child, maybe four years old, clad only in a simple linen nightshirt.
His frantic gaze swept past the glowering dwarves, past the stern Elrond, and locked onto Brittany. He darted straight for her, a small missile of pure fear. Before anyone could react, he crashed into her legs, small arms wrapping desperately around her thigh, burying his face against the rough fabric of her pants. His thin shoulders shook with silent sobs.
Brittany froze mid-sip of wine, startled. She looked down at the small head pressed against her. Instinct, honed in med bays and war zones alike, kicked in before thought. Her expression, hardened by Thorin’s tantrum, softened instantly. The fierce warrior vanished, replaced by pure, calm competence. "Whoa. Hey there," she murmured, her voice dropping to a low, soothing register utterly unlike the tone she’d used moments before. She set her goblet aside without looking.
She crouched smoothly, bringing herself eye-level with the trembling child, her movements gentle despite her size and armor. Her hands, capable of lethal precision, settled lightly on his small back. "Bad dream, kiddo?" she asked softly, ignoring the stunned silence of the hall, the weight of Thorin’s fury momentarily forgotten. "Big spiders? Wargs?" She brushed a strand of dark hair from his damp forehead, her touch surprisingly tender.
The child – Estel – nodded against her shoulder, a fresh sob escaping. “Monsters,” he hiccuped, his voice muffled and thick with tears, fingers clutching her tunic like tiny, desperate bird claws. “They chased me.”
Thorin stood utterly still, his rant choked off mid-sentence, jaw slack. He stared, bewildered, at the terrifyingly competent, elven-tinged warrior princess now comforting a weeping elfling like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. Orik simply blinked, a half-eaten pastry forgotten in his hand, watching his battle-sister with profound confusion etched on his broad face. The hall remained silent, thick with disbelief.
Brittany didn't hesitate. She scooped Estel up with surprising gentleness, settling his slight weight easily against her armored shoulder. "Shh, little man," she murmured, her voice a low, steady rumble against his ear, utterly at odds with the fierce warrior who'd faced wargs hours before. "Monsters hate bedtime stories. Let's find a quieter spot." Ignoring the stunned tableau – Thorin rigid with fury and confusion, Bilbo gaping, even Elrond’s composed surprise – she carried the sobbing child towards a deep, cushioned alcove bathed in warm firelight opposite the moonlit map table.
She sank into the plush cushions, arranging Estel comfortably against her chest, her tall frame folding around him protectively. One strong hand rubbed slow circles on his back, the other cradled his head, her fingers smoothing his dark, tousled hair. Her movements were instinctive, practiced. "Deep breaths," she coached softly, her cheek resting lightly against his temple. "In... and out." She began rocking him with a slow, rhythmic sway, a faint, wordless hum vibrating deep in her chest – a sound older than Rivendell’s stones.
Estel’s panicked hitches gradually subsided, replaced by shuddering sighs as he burrowed deeper into the unexpected solidity and warmth she offered. The terrifying dream monsters seemed to retreat before the tangible comfort. His small fist unclenched from her tunic, resting limply against her collarbone. His eyelids grew heavy, fluttering shut, lashes damp against flushed cheeks.
Orik watched, a rare softness in his usually fierce eyes, leaning against a nearby pillar, arms crossed. His four Alagaësian guards, positioned nearby, exchanged barely perceptible nods; this quiet competence, this hidden gentleness, was the Brittany they knew beyond the battlefield. Thorin, however, looked poleaxed, his earlier rage momentarily forgotten beneath sheer incredulity. He stared at the scene – the deadly sniper, the dwarven princess-by-oath, the newly revealed elven kin, now effortlessly soothing a child to sleep – as if witnessing a fundamental law of the universe unravel. "By Mahal's beard..." he breathed, the words escaping in a strangled whisper, utterly lost.
Dwalin scratched his head, glancing from Thorin's bewildered face to Brittany's serene figure in the alcove. "Huh," he grunted, the sound laden with reluctant acceptance of yet another impossible facet of this impossible woman. Bilbo simply blinked, the sheer incongruity freezing him mid-shiver. Gandalf, observing from the shadows near Elrond, puffed thoughtfully on his pipe, a knowing glint in his eyes as he watched Brittany rock the now-sleeping Estel, the child’s breathing deep and even against her armored shoulder.
The firelight glowed softly on Estel’s peaceful face, a stark contrast to the rigid disbelief hardening Thorin’s features nearby. Gandalf’s pipe smoke curled like a grey question mark in the quiet alcove, his eyes holding ancient understanding Brittany didn’t bother deciphering. She kept rocking, the steady rhythm anchoring her in the surreal calm after the chaos of wargs, revelations, and Thorin’s erupting temper.
Across the hall, near a shelf laden with delicate elven scrolls, Balin watched Brittany cradle the child, his weathered face etched with deep thought, fingers absently stroking his white beard. Dwalin shifted beside him, arms folded over his broad chest, eyes narrowed. "See that?" Dwalin grunted, keeping his voice low enough not to carry to the alcove, but sharp with the night’s accumulating strangeness. "Handlin' the wee one like... like she’s done it a hundred times. After facin' down wargs an' kings."
Balin nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on Brittany’s unnervingly gentle hands against Estel’s back. "Aye, brother. Layers upon layers, that one," he murmured, the sound almost lost beneath the distant murmur of waterfalls. "Like the rock strata deep under Khazad-dûm. She holds the kin-braid true, bleeds loyalty for Stonehand’s line, that’s plain as runes on a tomb." He paused, tapping his temple thoughtfully. "This grace... this unexpected hearth-tenderness? It doesn't erase the axe she carries, or the fire in her when Oakenshield pushes. Just makes the whole of her... deeper. More unsettling, perhaps."
Dwalin huffed, a sound like stones grinding. "Unsettlin' doesn't cover it. Princess-blood. Elf-light. Now nursemaid?" He shook his head, beads in his beard clicking softly. "Saw her flip that warg like a flapjack back in the hollow. Smooth. Brutal." He jerked his chin towards the alcove. "This? Makes my head spin faster than a goblin drill."
Balin offered a wry, thin-lipped smile. "Perhaps, brother, true strength isn't just in the breaking of foes," he observed quietly. "But also in the quiet mending, however unexpected. Remember Azanul? Took an axe meant for her king. Same hands." He watched as Brittany carefully adjusted Estel's sleeping weight, the elven light on her skin seeming softer here, warmer. "Whether she wields a blade or comforts a bairn, her core holds fast. That’s the steel we should watch."
Dwalin grunted again, less dismissive this time, his eyes still fixed on the unlikely pair bathed in firelight. Thorin, standing rigid near the moonlit map table, finally tore his bewildered stare away from Brittany and the sleeping child. He caught Dwalin’s eye, his own expression thunderous, betrayal simmering beneath the confusion. "Elven tricks," Thorin muttered under his breath, the words grating like broken shale, his gaze flicking accusingly towards Elrond’s serene profile before settling back, burning, on Brittany’s lowered head. "Soft words and stolen children." His hand tightened on Orcrist’s worn hilt.