Chapter 13: A Warrior's Silence
The heavy oak door clicked shut behind them, muffling the low rumble of Thorin’s furious muttering. Elrond’s study enveloped Brittany and Dwalin in its hushed reverence. Towering shelves, crammed with leather-bound tomes and delicate scrolls, loomed like ancient sentinels. The scent of aged parchment, dried herbs, and the faint ozone tang of preserved magic hung thick in the air. Warmth radiated from the crackling fireplace, casting flickering, elongated shadows that danced across intricate tapestries depicting forgotten battles and star maps. Dwalin shifted his weight, his boots scuffing the polished stone floor, the sound unnervingly loud in the stillness. His gaze, sharp beneath heavy brows, never left Brittany as she moved towards a large, carved table scattered with star charts.
"Lass," he rumbled, his voice low and gravelly with concern, breaking the quiet. "That was... unwise. Provokin' Thorin in his cups."
Brittany traced a fingertip over a constellation she didn't recognize, her expression unreadable. "He needed the cold splash of reality, Dwalin. Not my problem if he drowns in his own arrogance." She didn't look up, but her shoulders held a tension that hadn't been there moments before.
Just then, the door opened again. Balin entered first, his face etched with weary resignation, followed closely by Fili, Kili, Oin, Gloin, and Gandalf, who moved with silent grace to stand near the fireplace, his keen eyes observing. The room felt suddenly crowded, filled with the scent of pipe smoke, leather, and dwarf. Balin sighed, smoothing his beard. "He'll be stewing on that for days now, lass. You've a rare talent for stoking his fire."
Fili, ever curious, leaned against the table beside Brittany. "Aye, but what was that you said? Back there? 'Leave him to his wounded pride'... and that name... Saphira?" Kili, mirroring his brother's stance on her other side, nodded eagerly. "Yeah! Who's Saphira? Sounded important."
The question hung in the air. Balin’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. Oin cupped his ear trumpet, leaning in. Gloin crossed his arms, his expression skeptical but intrigued. Even Gandalf’s bushy eyebrows lifted slightly, his attention fully fixed on Brittany. Orik, standing quietly near the door, watched her with knowing eyes, remaining silent.
Brittany finally lifted her head. Her gaze swept across the expectant faces – Fili and Kili bright with curiosity, Balin contemplative, Gloin guarded, Gandalf piercingly observant. Only Orik’s expression held no question. The firelight caught the gold in her long hair and the sudden, deep blue flicker deep within her eyes, like a storm cloud passing over the sea. She offered a small, enigmatic smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Saphira," she repeated softly, the name laden with unspoken weight, "is... complicated. And a story for another fire." She turned back to the star chart, effectively closing the subject, leaving the question unanswered and the room thick with unspoken mysteries. The shadows seemed to deepen around her.
The shadows seemed to deepen around her, thickening the air with unspoken secrets. Kili opened his mouth, likely to push, but Dwalin stepped forward, a solid wall of muscle and intimidation between the young dwarf and Brittany. "Leave it," he growled, the command low but absolute. Fili nudged his brother sharply.
Brittany exhaled slowly, the tension in her jaw easing minutely. She traced a finger along the edge of the star chart, the vellum cool beneath her skin. "Some histories aren't meant for casual fireside chats," she murmured, her gaze distant, seeing something far beyond the ink and parchment. The faint scent of pipe smoke from Gloin's neglected pipe mingled with the parchment and herbs.
Balin cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence. "Well. Thorin's likely gnawing the furniture by now, but supper won't eat itself." He offered a weary, pragmatic smile. "Elrond’s kitchens do wonders with roasted quail, I hear. Might take the edge off."
"Aye," Gloin grumbled, patting his substantial stomach. "Better than starin' at dusty books and sour faces. Lead on, Balin." He shot one last, lingering look at Brittany, filed away the mystery for later.
Relieved by the shift, Fili and Kili practically bounced towards the door. "Last one there gets the gristly bit!" Kili challenged, already darting out. Fili followed with a laugh, momentarily forgetting the unanswered question.
Gandalf observed Brittany for a beat longer, his eyes thoughtful beneath his brim, then turned with a swish of grey robes to follow the others. Oin shuffled after, adjusting his ear trumpet. Only Orik lingered near Brittany and Dwalin, his expression still knowing but silent.
Dwalin remained beside Brittany, his presence a steady anchor. "He was bein' a right arse," he offered grudgingly, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. "Needed someone to knock him off that high horse. Even if it was you."
A genuine, small smile touched Brittany’s lips this time. "Just applying a little reality check. Wounded pride stings, but it beats delusion." She pushed away from the table, the star chart forgotten. "Now, about that quail. I could eat a warg." The invitation hung unspoken as she moved towards the corridor where the sounds of the others faded. Dwalin fell into step beside her, a silent shadow once more.
The cool, torchlit corridor stretched before them, quieter now that the others had hurried ahead towards the promised feast. Dwalin’s heavy tread echoed softly beside Brittany’s sharper clicks, a comforting counterpoint. "He’ll demand answers about the name, eventually," Dwalin grunted, breaking the companionable silence, his gaze fixed ahead but his attention entirely on her profile. "Thorin doesn’t let mysteries lie. Especially when they knock him flat."
Brittany shrugged, the movement fluid beneath her simple tunic. "He can demand all he likes." She glanced sidelong at him, a ghost of amusement in her eyes. "Not my first stubborn mule. Won’t be the last." They passed an open archway where moonlight streamed in, illuminating intricate elvish carvings on the walls. "Pretty," she murmured, genuinely appreciating the delicate craftsmanship despite the dwarves' likely disdain for it.
Dwalin huffed, following her gaze. "Pointy-eared nonsense. Give me good, solid stone any day." He paused, the braids in his thick beard shifting. "Still... knockin' him flat took stones, lass." His tone held reluctant admiration, mixed with a thread of lingering concern. "He carries the weight of a kingdom. Makes him sharp where he should bend."
The delicious aroma of roasting meat and herbs grew stronger, guiding them towards a distant murmur of voices and clattering plates. Brittany’s expression softened slightly, a distant look clouding her eyes for a heartbeat. "Weight’s no excuse for treating allies like dirt," she said, her voice low and suddenly weary. "Gibbs taught me that loyalty goes both ways... before he forgot it himself." She quickened her pace, shaking off the memory. "Come on. That warg isn’t gonna eat itself." Light and chatter spilled from the arched entrance to the dining hall just ahead.
The rich aroma of roasted quail, rosemary, and baking bread hit them first, a tangible wave of warmth emanating from the feasting hall. Inside, torches flickered, casting dancing light on laden tables where most of the company were already enthusiastically attacking their portions, laughter and boisterous talk filling the high-ceilinged space. Fili and Kili waved them over from a bench near the fireplace, mouths full, cheeks bulging comically. "Saved you seats!" Kili managed to shout through a mouthful of potato.
"Took your time," Fili added, grinning. "Thought Dwalin got lost admiring the fancy leaf-work." He gestured vaguely at the intricate Elvish carvings arching overhead.
Dwalin grunted, sliding onto the bench beside a preoccupied Bombur, who was meticulously arranging three extra servings of dumplings on his plate. "Admirin' my knuckles, more like, if anyone comments on architecture." Brittany settled beside him, the simple wooden bench creaking slightly under Dwalin’s weight. Her eyes instinctively scanned the room – a habit ingrained deeper than any memory – noting exits, shadows, and the notable absence at the head of the main table.
Thorin wasn't there. His empty chair was stark against the lively backdrop. The space around it felt charged, cold despite the hearth’s glow. She reached for a platter of roasted roots, her movements economical. Dwalin noticed the direction of her gaze, his own expression hardening into grim lines. He tore a chunk of bread with more force than necessary.
"Let him sulk," Brittany murmured, spearing a piece of quail. The meat was succulent, perfectly seasoned, but tasted like ash with the unspoken tension thickening the air. "Eat. We’ve leagues to walk tomorrow." She took another deliberate bite, projecting calm she didn't entirely feel. Dwalin watched her profile, the firelight catching the gold in her hair and the determined set of her jaw, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.
Suddenly, the hall’s chatter dipped. A shadow filled the arched entrance. Thorin stood there, his posture rigid, his eyes like chips of flint scanning the room. They locked onto Brittany with unnerving intensity. He didn't join the feast. He didn't move. He simply stared, a silent accusation, a king surveying an unwelcome variable in his carefully calculated quest. The weight of his gaze pressed down, heavier than stone. Every dwarf felt it; the easy laughter died, replaced by an awkward scraping of utensils.
Finally, Thorin spoke, his voice cutting through the silence like cold steel. "Brittany." One word. Laden. Demanding. "My quarters. Now. We talk." He turned sharply, his heavy boots echoing on the stone as he vanished back into the corridor, leaving behind a hall frozen mid-bite, the aroma of food suddenly cloying, the path forward fraught.
The echo of Thorin's boots faded into the corridor's gloom, leaving the feasting hall in brittle silence. Every dwarf stared at Brittany, utensils frozen midway to mouths, the rich aromas of roast quail and herbs suddenly turning thick and sour in the air. Dwalin shifted beside her, his knuckles whitening around his tankard, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest. "Lass..." he murmured, a warning and a question rolled into one gravelly syllable.
Brittany deliberately speared another piece of quail. She brought it to her mouth, chewed slowly, deliberately, her gaze fixed on her plate. The scrape of her fork against the stoneware plate was obscenely loud in the hush. She swallowed, took a measured sip of water, then finally lifted her eyes. They swept the table, cool and assessing, meeting each anxious or wary dwarf gaze before settling pointedly back on her meal. "He issued an invitation," she stated, her voice cutting through the tension like glass, utterly calm. "I decline."
A collective intake of breath hissed around the table. Balin closed his eyes briefly, sighing. Fili and Kili exchanged wide-eyed glances, a mixture of awe and dread. "Mahal's beard," Kili whispered. "She didn't."
Dwalin let out a sharp bark of laughter, rough but genuine. "Stones of Erebor," he muttered, a fierce glint of approval in his eyes despite the obvious trouble brewing. He picked up his own knife and fork, the clatter deliberate. "Pass the taters, Bombur," he announced, loud enough to be heard in the corridor. "Cold quail's an insult to good cookin'."
The hall remained tense, every ear straining, waiting for the inevitable eruption. It came seconds later: a furious roar, "BRITTANY!", shaking dust from the rafters, followed by the unmistakable, heavier, faster tread of Thorin storming back. Brittany simply took another bite, her expression unreadable, the storm approaching.
Thorin slammed back into the feasting hall, the heavy door banging against the stone wall like a thunderclap, silencing even the crackling fire. He stood framed in the archway, trembling with suppressed rage, his eyes burning coals fixed solely on Brittany. "You defy a direct order?" he roared, the veins standing out on his neck, spittle flying. "You spit on the hospitality offered? Who do you think you are?"
Brittany set her fork down with deliberate calm, the soft clink absurdly loud in the frozen silence. She pushed her plate aside and slowly rose to her full height, meeting Thorin's furious glare across the wreckage of the interrupted feast. The air crackled, thick enough to choke on.
"I am Brittany," she stated, her voice a low, cutting calm that sliced through his bluster. "Not your subject. Not your soldier." Her gaze never wavered, icy blue locking onto his dark fire. "The only king who has my loyalty is Orik."
A ripple of shock went through the watching dwarves; heads swivelled towards Orik, who stood near the back, his expression grave but unwavering. Thorin blinked, momentarily thrown. "Orik?" he spat the name like poison. "What nonsense is this? He is of my company!"
"Orik is King Under the Mountain in Alagaësia," Brittany continued, each word precise and heavy as falling stone, silencing Thorin's burgeoning retort. "He is King of our people there." She paused, letting the weight of this impossible claim settle over the stunned hall. "And he is my brother. That bond commands my loyalty. Not your crown. Not your quest."
Thorin’s face purpled, disbelief warring with fury. He took a menacing step forward, hand instinctively dropping towards Orcrist’s hilt. "You dare-"
Orik moved then, stepping forward with a quiet authority that instantly drew every eye. He placed himself subtly, not blocking Thorin's path to Brittany, but marking his presence as undeniable. "Thorin Oakenshield," Orik said, his voice steady and resonant, cutting through the tension. "Hear me clearly. I do not command Brittany." He met Thorin's furious gaze without flinching. "She walks her own path. Her aid here is freely given, or not at all. You cannot compel her."
The silence after Orik's words stretched, taut as a bowstring. Thorin's knuckles were bone-white on Orcrist's grip, his gaze locked on Brittany like a predator sighting prey. "Another world?" The words scraped raw from his throat. "Another mountain? You expect me to swallow this... madness?" Disbelief warred with a dawning, unsettling realization in his eyes.
Brittany didn't flinch. "Your world isn't the only one with stones and starlight, Thorin." Her voice was flat, final. "Believe it or don't. Your problem." She shifted her stance, subtly weight-forward, a Marine assessing hostile territory. "My allegiance stands where I choose."
Dwalin moved then, not aggressively, but placing his broad frame subtly closer to Brittany, his own hand resting near his axe haft. A silent declaration. "Heard the lass," he grunted, his low voice cutting through the thick air. "Clear enough." His eyes, sharp as flint, met Thorin’s, a challenge without words. Balin sighed, a world-weary sound. "Thorin... perhaps cooler heads..."
Thorin ignored him, still staring at Brittany. The initial volcanic rage had banked, replaced by a cold, calculating fury. "Your 'freely given' aid," he spat, the words laced with venomous skepticism. "What does it cost me, this generosity? What does Alagaësia demand?" He gestured sharply at Orik. "Or him?"
Orik answered, his voice calm but carrying an undeniable weight of sovereignty. "Nothing you do not freely offer in return, Oakenshield. Understanding. Respect." He held Thorin’s glare. "We seek only to see the Shadow driven back. Here. Everywhere."
A muscle ticked in Thorin’s jaw. The firelight caught the faint tremor in his hand before he forcibly stilled it. He scanned the room, seeing the apprehension on his kin's faces, the unwavering presence of Orik, Brittany’s unnerving stillness, Dwalin’s stubborn loyalty. The cost of pushing further suddenly became tangible, heavy.
He took a harsh, deliberate breath, the sound loud in the hush. "Very well." The concession was clipped, bitter. "Your... king... speaks for you." He turned his glare fully onto Brittany, the accusation burning. "But know this: cross me on this quest, woman, undermine my company, and no king, no world, will shield you from my wrath."
He spun on his heel, cloak flaring, and stalked from the hall without another word. The heavy door thudded shut behind him, the sound echoing like a tomb sealing. The tension didn't break; it merely settled, cold and heavy, over the remnants of the feast.
The cold silence lingered, thicker than Bombur’s gravy congealing on plates. Torchlight flickered, making the uneaten food look greasy, unappetizing. Bombur himself stared mournfully at his untouched third helping.
Fili nudged Kili, a silent question passing between them. Kili just shook his head minutely, eyes wide. Balin sighed, the sound like stones shifting in a landslide. "Well," he murmured, rubbing his temples, "that went about as well as a goblin tea party."
Dwalin hadn't moved from Brittany's side, his posture rigid, a solid bulwark facing the door Thorin had stormed through. "Stubborn as a mule in quicksand, that one," he rumbled, low enough only for Brittany to hear. His knuckles were still white.
Brittany pushed back from the table, the bench scraping harshly on stone. The sound echoed, sharp. "Air," she stated, her voice tight, clipped. The warmth of the hall suddenly felt stifling, cloying with the scent of rosemary and disappointment.
She didn't look at anyone, her gaze fixed on the archway leading out to the moonlit corridors. The memory of Gibbs’s back, walking away all those years ago, flashed unwanted behind her eyes, cold and sharp as an elvish blade. "He can keep his wounded pride. It’s the only company he seems to want."
Dwalin stood instantly, a shadow detaching itself from the bench. "Lass," he started, concern etching lines around his eyes.
"Just need a minute, Dwalin," Brittany cut him off, not unkindly, but with a finality that brooked no argument. She strode towards the exit, her boot heels clicking a precise, staccato rhythm on the polished floor, each step carrying her away from the suffocating aftermath and Thorin's lingering, toxic fury. The cool night air of the corridor hit her face like a blessing.
The cool night air of the corridor hit her face like a blessing, washing away the cloying scent of uneaten food and simmering resentment. Brittany inhaled deeply, the faint, clean aroma of moon-washed stone and distant pine replacing Thorin’s lingering fury. Her boot heels clicked a precise rhythm on the polished floor, echoing slightly in the vaulted passageway as she left the feasting hall's oppressive atmosphere far behind.
She moved silently past archways open to star-filled courtyards, the soft murmur of hidden waterfalls a constant whisper beneath the quiet. Moonlight streamed through intricate latticework, casting delicate, shifting patterns across the smooth flagstones beneath her feet. Her senses, always partially alert, now fully relaxed their guard; Rivendell felt safe, genuinely peaceful.
A large shadow detached itself from a pillar further down the corridor. Dwalin. He hadn't followed immediately, giving her space, but he’d clearly waited. He leaned against the cool stone, arms crossed, watching her approach without a word. The torchlight flickered across the intricate tattoos on his bald head and the heavy braids woven into his beard.
"You alright, lass?" His voice was a low rumble, stripped of its usual battlefield bark, holding only quiet concern. He pushed off the pillar, falling into step beside her without needing direction.
Brittany didn't break stride, but her shoulders eased minutely. "Peachy," she murmured, the ghost of wryness in her tone. "Just needed out of the oven before I roasted alongside the quail. Thorin’s temper throws off a lot of heat." She glanced sidelong at him. "Didn't need a babysitter."
"Wasn't babysittin'," Dwalin grunted, matching her pace easily. "Was standin' guard. Against pointy-eared eavesdroppers." He gestured vaguely down an empty side passage. "Or kings sulkin' in shadows." His presence wasn't crowding; it was a solid, familiar comfort, an anchor in the surreal beauty of the Elven haven.
They walked in companionable silence for a moment, the tension of the feast hall fading with each step. Her chambers lay ahead, a heavy oak door marked with a subtle rune. "He’ll stew on it," Dwalin said finally, breaking the quiet near her door. "Thorin. Like a bad stew, gets tougher the longer it sits. But you spoke truth. Needed saying."
"Truth often tastes bitter," Brittany replied, stopping before her door. She offered him a small, tired smile, genuine this time. "Thanks, Dwalin. For not being another stubborn arse tonight."
He gave a sharp, single nod, a flicker of something warm in his dark eyes. "Get some rest. Looks like you could use it. Big day tomorrow, mountains to climb, dragons to fret about." He turned to head back towards the company’s quarters. "Sleep well, lass."
"Sleep well, Dwalin," she echoed softly. "As well as I ever do." She pushed open the heavy oak door to her chamber, the scent of clean linen and dried lavender welcoming her inward. Moonlight streamed through the tall, arched window, illuminating the simple, elegant furnishings and the large, inviting bed. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing out the world, the quest, and the weight of kings. Brittany leaned back against the solid wood, exhaling a long, slow breath, finally alone. She kicked off her boots, the cool stone floor a relief under her feet, and crossed the moonlit room towards the waiting bed, the day's confrontations and revelations settling like dust around her. She needed oblivion.