Chapter 12: Dismissal of Kings
The stone corridor felt colder after the crackling tension of the chamber. Brittany’s boot heels clicked, sharp and final, against the polished floor as she strode past Thorin’s prone form without a downward glance. Orik’s warhammer vanished back into its harness with a soft thud, his expression unreadable granite. "Leave him to his wounded pride, brother," she tossed over her shoulder, her voice brittle ice masking the tremor beneath. "It's the only thing keeping him company tonight." Dwalin was already a step behind her, his massive frame a solid, comforting shadow swallowing hers as they pushed through the heavy tapestry into the quiet hallway. The air felt cleaner out here, scented with night-blooming jasmine, but it did nothing to ease the tightness in her chest. Behind them, the muffled sounds of stunned dwarves and Thorin’s ragged, furious breathing faded. Orik followed silently, a grim sentinel at their backs.
They walked in charged silence for several paces, the only sounds their footsteps and the distant murmur of Rivendell’s waterfalls. Brittany focused on the cool stone beneath her palms as she brushed them against the wall, grounding herself. Dwalin kept pace beside her, radiating heat and a simmering protective fury that vibrated the air. He didn’t speak, didn’t offer platitudes. His presence was a fortress.
"Orik," Brittany finally said, her voice low, stopping near an arched window overlooking the moonlit valley. She didn’t turn. "King?"
Orik leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed. "Aye. Since Hrothgar fell." His voice was rough stone. "Didn't see the point flaunting it. Till now." He looked at Dwalin, a flicker of approval in his eyes. "You claim her true."
Dwalin met his gaze, unflinching. "With my last breath."
Brittany closed her eyes, the raw truth of Dwalin’s earlier declaration in the chamber – my One – hitting her anew, a strange anchor in the chaos. She heard Thorin’s venomous elf-spawn echo, tangled with Gibbs’s cold dismissal years ago. The cool night air prickled her revealed ears. "Thorin won't forget this."
"He won't," Orik agreed flatly. "He'll stew in it. But he needs the Company. Needs you. He knows it, even if pride chokes him." He pushed off the wall. "Dawn comes. Mountains await. Get some rest, sister. Both of you." He nodded at Dwalin, then melted into the shadows towards his own quarters, leaving them alone in the moonlit corridor.
Dwalin shifted closer, his warmth a tangible shield. "He’s right. You need sleep." His voice was gravel, gentle but insistent. He reached out, his large, calloused hand hovering near her arm, then settled it gently on her shoulder, the contact solid and real amidst the emotional wreckage. "Tomorrow’s climb won't care about kings or wounded pride."
Brittany leaned into his touch for a heartbeat, drawing strength from the unshakeable bedrock of him. She looked east, towards the looming, jagged black teeth of the Misty Mountains silhouetted against the fading stars. "No," she murmured, the ghost of resolve hardening in her voice. "It won't." The borrowed peace of Rivendell was well and truly over. The path forward was stone, ice, and fire. She turned towards the guest wing door. Dwalin’s hand slid down to rest possessively on the small of her back as they walked.
Dwalin’s hand slid down to rest possessively on the small of her back as they walked. The dwarven guest quarters offered warmer light and the rich scent of pipe smoke mingling with wood polish. "He'll come 'round, lass," Dwalin grunted, his voice a low rumble against the sudden quiet pressing in. "Or he won't. Doesn't change the path."
Brittany acknowledged it with a slight tilt of her head, her eyes scanning the corridor with a sniper’s ingrained habit, noting the position of a single elven guard at the far end. "Pride makes fools of kings and commoners alike," she murmured, her voice tight. "Especially when it's all they think they have left."
The door to their assigned chamber was thick oak, banded with iron. Dwalin pushed it open. Inside, dwarf-sized furniture dominated the space – sturdy beds, a heavy table, tapestries depicting mountains and forges softening the elven architecture. A lone lantern cast flickering shadows. "Two weeks," Brittany stated flatly, leaning her longbow against the wall near her quiver with practiced ease. "Trapped here playing diplomatic chess while Thorin fumes and Bilbo frets." She ran a hand through her waist-length blonde hair, a gesture betraying rare exhaustion.
Dwalin shed his heavy outer coat, the buckles clinking softly. He moved to the hearth, stoking the low embers into a warmer glow. "Aye, a fortnight," he agreed, the word sounding strange and measured in his deep voice. "Time for tempers to cool. Or boil over proper." He glanced at her, his tattooed face serious in the firelight. "Elrond needs it for the map?"
"Moon-runes," Brittany confirmed, slipping off her own travel-stained jacket, revealing the lean muscle beneath. Her movements were economical, precise. "Can't be forced. Needs the right moonlight." She walked to the window, looking out at the impossibly high waterfalls gleaming silver under the stars. Rivendell's beauty felt alien, unsettlingly peaceful after the raw energy of Thorin’s fury and her own exposed secrets. The cool air ghosted over her pointed ears.
Dwalin approached, the stone floor barely whispering under his boots. He stood beside her, a solid presence radiating heat. "Sleep," he urged again, softer now. "Battles wait, Brittany. Even ones with stubborn dwarf-kings." His gaze held hers, intense and grounding. "You’re safe here. Tonight."
She finally turned from the view, the moonlight catching the faint elven glow beneath her skin. "Safe," she echoed, the ghost of a wry smile touching her lips. "That’s a relative term around here." She moved towards the larger of the two beds, the one clearly intended for dwarves but just long enough for her. "Right. Fortnight starts now. Sleep it is." She began unbuckling her vambraces, the soft click of leather and metal the only sound breaking the Rivendell night. Dwalin watched her for a moment, then turned to bank the fire, his own movements heavy with the promise of needed rest.
Dwalin finished banking the fire, the embers sighing into deeper darkness. Brittany methodically unbuckled the last vambrace, the leather strap whispering as it slid free. The quiet stretched, thick with Rivendell’s unnatural stillness and Thorin’s lingering fury echoing in her bones.
She placed the vambrace beside the others on the sturdy dwarf-sized dresser. Her shoulders slumped, the weight of secrets and her newly revealed ears feeling suddenly immense. A tremor, faint but undeniable, ran through her hands.
Dwalin saw it. He saw the rigid line of her spine beneath the thin tunic, the way her head bowed just slightly. The calm, lethal surgeon and Marine was momentarily eclipsed by the abandoned girl who got dragged across worlds. He moved.
He didn’t announce himself, simply crossing the short distance on silent feet. His large, calloused hands settled gently on her hips, turning her to face him. Before she could stiffen or question, he pulled her fiercely against his broad chest, burying his face into the soft warmth between her bare collar bones and the swell of her breasts.
Her breath hitched, a sharp intake at the unexpected intimacy. The rough texture of his braided beard scraped lightly against her skin, a stark contrast to the solid, encompassing warmth of him. He smelled of leather, forge-smoke, and damp stone, a grounding anchor.
"Easy, lass," he murmured, his voice muffled against her skin, rough velvet. His massive arms wrapped around her waist and back, lifting her slightly onto her toes to hold her closer. "Just breathe."
For a heartbeat, Brittany remained rigid, millennia of defence mechanisms screaming. Then, with a shuddering exhale, the tension bled out. Her forehead dropped onto the crown of his head, her long blonde hair cascading like a curtain around them both. Her own arms slowly came up, her fingers curling tightly into the thick fabric of his tunic across his broad shoulders.
He held her, silent, solid. His breath warmed her skin through the thin cloth. The frantic pulse beneath his cheek gradually slowed, syncing with his own steady rhythm. The sheer size difference meant his face remained pressed firmly against the upper curve of her breasts, a position offering profound comfort rather than anything else in this charged quiet.
"Stubborn arse," he finally grunted, the words vibrating against her sternum. It held no heat, only weary exasperation aimed squarely at Thorin. His embrace tightened almost imperceptibly. "Doesn't know what he risks throwing away."
Brittany didn't answer verbally. A small, shaky sigh escaped her, ruffling the short hair at the nape of his neck. Her fingers tightened their grip on his tunic, knuckles white. Right here, right now, amidst the fragile peace of an Elven haven and the brewing storm of dwarf politics, this rough sanctuary was everything. The sheer, unexpected vulnerability of it, offered and accepted, hung heavy in the moonlit room. His arms were an anchor, his presence a bulwark against ghosts and pride alike.
His arms were an anchor, his presence a bulwark against ghosts and pride alike. The solid warmth of Dwalin seeped through her tunic, a counterpoint to Rivendell’s cool air whispering over her pointed ears. A faint tremor, leftover from Thorin’s venom and the raw exposure of her lineage, still hummed beneath her skin. She breathed in the scent of him – old leather, damp stone, the lingering tang of dwarven metal – and felt the frantic edge finally recede.
He shifted slightly, his beard rough against her collarbone. "Better?" The word rumbled deep in his chest, vibrating against her ribs.
"Yeah," Brittany murmured, the sound muffled against the thick braids of his hair. She didn’t pull back. The vulnerability felt strangely safe, cocooned within his strength. "Just... tired of kings and their wounded egos."
"Thorin bleeds pride like a stuck boar," Dwalin grunted, his arms tightening fractionally. "Nasty business." A moment of comfortable silence stretched, filled only by the distant rush of waterfalls and their shared breath. His hand moved slowly, tracing a rough circle on her back, the callouses catching on the thin fabric.
She tilted her head slightly, her cheek resting against the top of his head. Moonlight from the arched window painted silver streaks across the stone floor. The faint scent of night-blooming jasmine drifted in, clashing pleasantly with the earthy dwarf smell. His pulse thudded steadily against her, a slow, grounding rhythm.
She lifted her head then, just enough to look down at him. Firelight and moonlight danced in his dark eyes, reflecting a depth she rarely saw past the warrior's scowl. He met her gaze, unwavering, his usual gruffness softened into something questioning, intensely present. The air crackled, thick with unspoken things – the echo of his 'My One' declaration, the shared exhaustion, the unexpected solace.
Without overthinking, driven by a sudden surge of pure feeling – gratitude, fierce affection, the simple need to chase away the lingering chill of abandonment – she bent her head. Her lips met the weathered skin of his brow, just above his tattooed temple. It was a soft, deliberate press, warm and lingering.
He froze. Utterly still. The hand on her back stopped its motion. For a breathless second, the only sound was the crackle of the dying fire. Then, a low, rumbling sound started deep in his chest, almost like distant thunder. It wasn't a growl, but pure, stunned vibration.
She pulled back slightly, searching his face. His eyes, wide and dark, held an expression she couldn't quite name – astonishment, maybe, mixed with a profound, dwarven intensity. He blinked, slowly. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Neither spoke. The weight of the kiss, simple yet monumental, hung between them in Rivendell's fragile quiet. Outside, a lone nightingale sang.
A hesitant knock shattered the silence. "Er... Dwalin? Mistress... um... Brittany?" Bilbo’s nervous tenor piped through the thick oak door. "Lord Elrond requests your presence. Immediately. Something about the map... and King Orik."
The soft warmth of Dwalin’s brow against her lips vanished like smoke. Brittany jerked back as if scalded, her soldier’s reflexes slamming a neutral mask over the raw intimacy of seconds before. Dwalin didn’t move, his dark eyes still fixed on hers with stunned intensity, the rumble in his chest cutting off abruptly.
Bilbo’s knuckles rapped again, hesitant but insistent. "Dwalin? Mistress Brittany? Lord Elrond is quite… insistent."
"Coming, Bilbo," Brittany called, her voice miraculously steady, already turning towards the door, her fingers swiftly redoing the top buckle of her tunic Dwalin had pressed against. The cool air felt sharp on her flushed skin.
Dwalin growled, low and dangerous, the sound vibrating the air near Brittany’s shoulder as he swept past her towards the door. Not anger at Bilbo, but pure, dwarven frustration at the interruption. He yanked the heavy door open, revealing the flustered hobbit blinking up at him in the corridor’s soft lantern light.
"Map and King Orik, you say?" Dwalin’s voice was gravel scraped over stone, filling the doorway.
"Y-yes!" Bilbo stammered, shrinking slightly under the dwarf’s glower but holding his ground. "Something about the moon-runes revealing… more? And King Orik is already with him. Seemed rather urgent, actually. Almost agitated, for an Elf." Bilbo’s gaze flickered past Dwalin to Brittany, taking in her perfectly composed stance, then back to Dwalin’s thunderous expression, his eyes widening slightly at the unspoken tension crackling between them. "Oh dear."
Brittany retrieved her longbow and quiver in one smooth motion, slinging them over her shoulder. "Lead on, Master Baggins." Her tone brooked no delay, the NCIS agent surfacing fully, pushing down the lingering tremor and the ghost of Dwalin’s beard on her skin. Her boot heels clicked with purpose on the stone as she stepped past Dwalin into the hall.
Dwalin fell in beside her, a wall of simmering irritation and renewed vigilance, his axe harness creaking faintly. They followed Bilbo’s scurrying form through Rivendell’s moon-drenched arcades, the scent of night jasmine suddenly cloying. The urgent summons hung heavy, a stark counterpoint to the fragile peace they’d briefly forged. Elrond’s study awaited, promising answers neither was sure they wanted, the map’s secrets and Orik’s presence shifting the precarious balance once more.
The heavy oak door to Elrond’s study swung inward before Bilbo could knock again. Warm, golden light spilled out, thick with the scent of aged parchment, dried herbs, and something faintly metallic. Inside, Elrond stood beside a large, parchment-strewn table, his ageless face grave, illuminated by the soft glow emanating from the infamous map spread before him. Beside him, dwarfing the elegant Elven furniture, stood King Orik, his weathered face tight with barely contained urgency, the firelight catching the intricate braids woven into his thick beard.
"Ah. You came swiftly," Elrond murmured, his eyes briefly lingering on Brittany’s pointed ears, then flicking to Dwalin’s thunderous expression with detached curiosity. "Time, it seems, is a luxury we possess less of than anticipated."
Orik grunted, the sound rough and impatient. "The moon-runes didn't just point the way, Lord Elf." He jabbed a thick finger towards the map. "They screamed a warning. Loud and clear."
Dwalin shouldered past Bilbo, planting himself firmly beside Brittany, his gaze instantly locked on the map. The familiar contours of the Misty Mountains and the Lonely Mountain were now overlaid with swirling, silver script that pulsed faintly, like captured starlight. "What kind of warning?" His voice was a low growl, echoing the tension thickening the air.
Elrond traced a shimmering line snaking towards Erebor’s depiction. "The passages Thror knew, the hidden ways... they are not merely forgotten." His tone remained calm, chillingly so. "They are actively consumed."
Brittany moved closer, her sniper’s eyes scanning the shifting script, the faint elven light beneath her skin seeming to resonate with the map’s glow. "Consumed? By what?" Her voice was flat, clinical, the surgeon assessing a critical wound. The warmth of Dwalin pressed close was a stark counterpoint to the cold dread forming in her gut.
Orik slammed a fist on the table, making the inkwells jump. "Stone-sickness! But worse. Festering. Spreading like rot through the very roots of the mountain." His voice dropped to a gravelly whisper. "It whispers madness, Brittany. The sickness Thror succumbed to? It wasn't just gold-lust. The mountain itself is poisoned. And it hungers." He looked directly at her, his eyes shadowed with ancestral dread. "It hungers for the blood of Durin's line." The map pulsed ominously, bathing their shocked faces in cold, silver light. Thorin's wounded pride suddenly felt like the least of their problems.
Thorin's wounded pride suddenly felt like the least of their problems. The map’s cold light etched horror onto Orik’s face and sharpened Elrond’s already severe expression into something colder than Rivendell’s marble. Brittany felt Dwalin tense beside her, his knuckles white on his axe haft, the air thick with the sour tang of dwarf-fear and ancient stone-magic gone wrong. "Poisoned rock," Orik rasped, the title 'King' feeling suddenly like a death sentence draped over him. "Erebor bleeds darkness."
A sharp, unexpected pressure built behind Brittany’s temples, a familiar telepathic push cutting through the dread – Saphira. The mountain calls. It screams. Brittany closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, shutting out the shocked faces, focusing inward, reaching back along that mental thread woven with starlight and sea-deep magic. Saphira? Status? Her mental voice was razor-edged focus, the Marine assessing a hostile LZ.
The connection flared, impossibly bright and vast, carrying the scent of ozone and newly cracked quartz. Brittany. Saphira’s mental voice was a landslide over bedrock, impossibly deep, resonant with power that vibrated Brittany’s bones even across the leagues. Calm yourself. The screaming stopped hours ago. I heard its pain. A pause, filled with the image of colossal wings blotting out the moon over the Lonely Mountain’s peak, a shadow one and a half times larger than the memory of Smaug’s terror. It is done. I cleansed it. The telepathic words rang with finality, like a gong struck once. Every shadow. Every whisper of that old evil. Burned out. Scoured clean.
Brittany’s eyes snapped open. The map still pulsed its sinister silver warning, utterly wrong. "Elrond," she stated, her voice cutting through Orik’s rising panic and Dwalin’s low growl. "Your map is wrong. Dangerously wrong." She ignored their startled looks. "The mountain isn’t poisoned anymore. Saphira healed it. Cleansed every trace of that evil. Hours ago." She met Orik’s disbelieving stare head-on, the glow beneath her skin flaring faintly. "Your stone-sickness? Gone. Purged." Absolute silence crashed down, thick and disbelieving. Elrond’s hand froze over the glowing parchment, his ancient eyes widening a fraction.
"Impossible," Orik breathed, his voice hoarse, caught between desperate hope and ingrained dwarven skepticism about... well, everything, especially giant, benevolent dragons. "The roots… the deep places…"
"Saphira," Brittany repeated, letting the name hang, imbuing it with the weight of the impossible creature who dwarfed Smaug. "She got the job done." Dwalin let out a sharp breath, a sound like grinding stone. "Mahal's beard." He looked from Brittany to the map, then eastward, as if he could see the mountain itself. "If true…"
"It is true," Brittany said, the Force-user certainty ringing clear. She turned towards the door, the stunned silence of the room at her back. The false warning changed everything.