Chapter 14: Blades of Two Worlds
Sunlight, thin and golden as mead, sliced through the arched window, landing squarely on Brittany’s closed eyelids. She blinked, the sterile scent of Rivendell’s guest chambers replacing the phantom smells of gunpowder and antiseptic from her dreams. Fourteen days. Trapped. Here. Among elves Thorin despised and the weight of her own unsaid secrets pressing down like stone. She stretched, muscles coiled and ready beneath the simple Elven tunic, the movement fluid, a predator momentarily at rest. Her long blonde hair fanned across the pillow like spilled sunlight.
The murmur of deep voices and the clatter of pottery drifted up from below. Breakfast. Time to face the company’s simmering frustration. She rose, pulling her hair into a practical braid that fell heavy down her back, the intricate elven braids Oin had admired yesterday already meticulously redone. A flicker of magic, subtle as a breath, smoothed the linen of⁸ her tunic.
The air in the sunlit dining hall was thick, not just with the aroma of fresh bread, honey, and dried fruits, but with palpable tension. Thorin sat at the head of the long table, his posture rigid, stabbing at a piece of cheese with unnecessary force. His eyes, dark and stormy, scanned the high, airy room as if expecting an elven ambush. Around him, the dwarves ate, but their usual boisterousness was muted, replaced by a grumbling restlessness. Bombur piled his plate high, a nervous habit. Ori sketched furiously in a small book. Bofur tried a weak joke that fell flat.
Dwalin, seated near Thorin, glanced up as Brittany entered. His sharp eyes tracked her movement, lingering for a fraction longer than necessary on the lines of her shoulders beneath the fabric, the quiet confidence in her stride. He gave a barely perceptible nod, the beads in his braided beard catching the light. A silent acknowledgment. A grounding point in the sea of unease.
"Sleep well, lass?" Balin asked mildly, pushing a platter of bread towards the empty seat beside Dwalin. His tone was polite, but his eyes held the same question everyone was thinking: What now?
Brittany slid onto the bench, the smooth wood cool beneath her palms. "Well enough," she replied, her voice calm, measured. She poured herself water from a crystal pitcher, the liquid catching the morning sun. "The quiet here is… different."
"Quiet?" Thorin’s voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp and cold. He slammed his knife down. "It is the quiet of a gilded cage. Fourteen days. Wasting time while Smaug grows fat on our gold and that thrice-damned map mocks us." He glared towards the corridor leading to Elrond’s study, as if his anger alone could unlock its secrets. "We sit idle, fed like pets, while our home lies desecrated."
A low growl of agreement rumbled around the table. Fíli and Kíli exchanged uneasy glances.
"Idle hands make for restless minds, Thorin," Balin cautioned, ever the voice of reason, though his own knuckles were white where he gripped his cup. "And restless minds in Rivendell…"
"Can lead to trouble," Dwalin finished, his deep voice a gravelly counterpoint. He tore a chunk of bread with his teeth, his gaze sweeping the hall again, ever vigilant. "Especially when folk feel caged."
"Trouble we don't need," Glóin muttered, counting imaginary coins on the tabletop. "Costs mount, even here. Supplies dwindle."
Oin, leaning close to his trumpet, nodded vigorously. "Aye! My medicinal stores need replenishing. Can't expect Elves to stock proper dwarf remedies. All their herbs smell like… like flowers." He wrinkled his nose.
Brittany spread honey thickly on a piece of dark bread. The sweetness was cloying. She understood Thorin’s fury, the gnawing impatience. She felt it too – the ticking clock, the immense distance yet to travel, the dragon waiting. But raw anger was a blunt instrument. "Wasting time," she said, her voice cutting clean through the grumbling. Every dwarf head swiveled towards her. "Or gathering strength?"
Thorin’s piercing gaze locked onto hers, challenging. "Strength? Sitting at an Elf-lord’s table?"
"Training," Brittany stated simply. She took a deliberate bite of her bread. "Sharpening blades. Honing skills. Fourteen days is time enough for rust to set in, or for edges to be made keener." She looked around at the company, meeting each pair of eyes – some skeptical, some thoughtful. "The path ahead won't be gentle. Goblin tunnels. Wilderland. A dragon." She let the words hang. "Are we truly prepared? Or just impatient?"
Dwalin grunted, a sound that could have meant anything. But he shifted slightly, his massive forearm brushing hers on the bench. A point of warmth. Solid. "The lass has a point," he rumbled, surprising even himself. "My axe could use a proper workout. Feels… dull." He flexed his fingers.
Thorin’s jaw worked. He stared at Brittany, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched, filled only by Bombur’s chewing and the distant song of Rivendell’s waterfalls. He saw not just the human woman, but the precision in her movement, the unflinching gaze, the quiet authority that had commanded troops and saved lives. He remembered the unnerving stillness of her in the wild, the impossible shot that felled the Warg. Strength. Disciplined strength.
"Aye," Thorin finally conceded, the word tight but clear. He pushed his plate away, appetite gone. "Training. We train. Every day. Dwalin, you’ll oversee weapons drills. Balin, tactics and lore of the mountain. Glóin, inventory and foraging within reason." His gaze swept the company, igniting a spark. "We will not be idle. We will be ready. When that moon-rune yields its secret, we leave this valley running."
A collective energy surged through the dwarves. Shoulders straightened. Eyes brightened. The oppressive feeling of stagnation began to lift, replaced by a focused tension. Fourteen days was an eternity, but now it had purpose. Sharpening edges.
Fíli nudged Kíli. "Bet I can still disarm you in three moves, brother."
"You wish," Kíli shot back, a grin spreading.
Brittany finished her water, the simple act grounding her. Training. Routine. Something she understood intimately. It masked the turmoil beneath – the secret of Saphira, the unspoken lineage, the constant hum of the Force she kept leashed. It masked the echo of Gibbs’ voice from another life: Control the controllables, Marine. She could control this. Sharpen their blades. Sharpen herself.
She caught Dwalin watching her again. Not just watching. Assessing. There was a depth to his gaze now, less suspicion, more… calculation. Curiosity. He saw the soldier, the surgeon, maybe even the warrior. But what else did he sense? She met his look squarely, her own expression unreadable, as the company’s chatter rose around them, already planning drills and sparring matches in Rivendell’s deceptively peaceful air. The fortnight had just begun, and the clang of steel would soon replace the murmur of waterfalls.
The clang of steel did replace the murmuring waterfalls, echoing sharply across the sun-drenched Rivendell training grounds two mornings later. Sweat already slicked Thorin's brow as he drilled Fíli and Kíli near a weathered stone wall, their movements precise but tight with restless energy. Elsewhere, Dwalin growled corrections at Bombur's axe-swing, the heavy blade whistling through the air.
Brittany emerged onto the field, and the rhythm of practice faltered. Orik, noticing her approach, paused his own warm-up stretches on the far side. Murmurs rippled through the company. She wasn't in the practical Elven tunic or travel leathers they expected. Instead, she wore snug black workout shorts that ended high on powerful thighs and a low-cut, dark blue sports bra. Her feet were bare on the cool grass.
Every scar was on brutal display. A thick, ropy burn snaked from just below her ribcage, disappearing under the bra strap. A jagged, puckered line ran parallel to her spine, stark white against her tanned skin. Smaller marks – thin knife slashes, deep punctures, the unmistakable divot of an old bullet wound near her left shoulder – formed a map of violence across her muscular torso and arms. Dwalin’s gaze locked onto the bullet scar, his own knuckles tightening around his axe haft. Fíli choked on air. Kíli stared, open-mouthed.
"Mahal's beard," Glóin breathed, looking scandalized and fascinated in equal measure. "Is that… decent?"
"It's practical," Orik stated flatly, walking towards his sister, his own heavy practice axe resting on his shoulder. He wore simple trousers and a tunic, rolled up at the sleeves. "Less to snag. Lets you move." He met Brittany's eyes; a silent understanding passed between them. He knew everything – the Force sensitivity she kept leashed, the elven grace humming beneath her skin, the witchfire potential coiled in her blood. Her heritage was their shared, guarded burden.
Brittany ignored the gawking, her expression serene. She drew her twin blades in one fluid motion. The first, Zar'roc, glinted with a deep, unsettling ruby hue, its pommel shaped like a snarling dragon's head – Brom’s legacy, heavy with history and sharp enough to split air. The second was her own creation: shorter, thicker, forged from an obsidian-dark alloy that seemed to drink the sunlight, its edge honed to a terrifying sharpness. She pulled a simple black strip of cloth from her waistband and tied it firmly over her eyes.
Blindfolded. Silence descended, thick and disbelieving. Thorin stopped drilling his nephews, his stern gaze fixed on the pair. Dwalin stepped closer, his usual skepticism replaced by intense focus. How could she possibly fight like that?
Orik didn't hesitate. He roared, a sound like grinding stone, and charged, his axe arcing in a devastating overhead blow meant to crush. Brittany didn't flinch. She flowed sideways, Zar'roc flicking out not to block, but to deflect the axe head with impossible precision, a faint clang ringing out. Her dark blade followed instantly, a viper-strike aimed low at Orik's leading knee. He barely jerked it back in time, grunting in surprise.
They moved with terrifying speed. Orik was a whirlwind of Dwarven power, blows hammering down like falling boulders. Brittany was water and shadow, her bare feet silent on the grass, her swords extensions of her senses. She parried, redirected, slipped beneath swings with inches to spare, the blindfold stark against her face. She used the flats of her blades more than the edges, pushing Orik’s axe wide, tapping his ribs with a sharp thud, forcing him off balance with minimal effort. The ring of metal was constant, a frantic, complex rhythm punctuated by Orik’s grunts and the sharp intakes of breath from the watching dwarves.
"Impossible," Bofur whispered, gripping his mattock handle. "She's seeing through the cloth!"
"Not seeing," Dwalin muttered, his eyes narrowed to slits, tracking Brittany's every subtle shift, the way she seemed to anticipate Orik’s moves a heartbeat before he made them. "Something else." He noted the scars again – the burn looked like dragonfire, the jagged spine wound like a Morgul blade. This wasn't just a soldier; this was a creature who’d walked through hells they couldn't imagine and emerged sharper than her own obsidian blade.
Orik feinted left, then spun hard right, axe blurring towards her exposed side. Brittany dropped into a low sweep, one foot kicking out to sweep his planted leg while Zar'roc licked upwards, stopping a hair's breadth from his throat. Orik froze, balanced precariously, the obsidian blade resting gently against his inner thigh. She held the pose for a breath, utterly still despite her exertion, then fluidly rose and stepped back, sheathing both swords in a single, silent motion. She pulled the blindfold off. Her breathing was steady, her face calm. Orik nodded once, a warrior acknowledging a superior, a brother proud of his sister.
"Again?" Brittany asked, her voice cool, her gaze sweeping past Orik to briefly touch Thorin’s calculating stare and Dwalin’s intense, unreadable expression. The scars, the impossible skill, the disregard for their shock – it was a silent challenge. A revelation wrapped in mystery, laid bare on the Elvish grass. The fortnight stretched ahead, suddenly charged with a tension far deeper than mere impatience. Who was this woman walking barefoot among them?
A stunned silence held the Rivendell training grounds, thick as the morning mist clinging to the distant waterfalls. Only the distant murmur of the Bruinen and the harsh rasp of Orik catching his breath broke the quiet. Dwalin’s knuckles were white where he gripped his axe haft, his gaze locked on the bullet scar near Brittany’s shoulder. Thorin’s expression was carved from granite, unreadable but intensely focused. Who was this woman walking barefoot among them?
The answer didn't come from Brittany. Movement flickered at the edge of the ancient stone archway framing the training field. Two figures emerged, stepping from the dappled shadows beneath the trees with the silent grace of stalking cats. Elladan and Elrohir, Elrond’s twin sons, stood revealed. They wore simple grey tunics edged with silver thread, practical yet unmistakably Elvish. Their expressions held a cool, detached curiosity, their eyes, sharp as flint, fixed on Brittany.
"An impressive display, Lady Brittany," Elladan stated, his voice melodious but devoid of warmth. He inclined his head slightly towards Orik. "Lord Orik."
"Indeed," Elrohir echoed, stepping forward alongside his brother, his posture mirroring Elladan's effortless poise. "Such… unconventional skill merits further observation." He gestured towards her, his gaze lingering on the blindfold she now held loosely in one hand. "Would you indulge us?"
Brittany turned fully to face them, her expression calm, almost serene. She met their assessing stares without flinching. "Indulge you how?" Her voice was level, betraying nothing.
"Allow us the honor of testing that skill ourselves," Elladan said, a faint, almost challenging smile touching his lips. "Both of us. Simultaneously." He drew his long, slender Elven blade, the metal singing faintly as it cleared the scabbard. Elrohir mirrored the action, the sound a perfect counterpoint. The air crackled with sudden tension.
Thorin stiffened, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "Elf games," he muttered under his breath, earning a cautionary glance from Balin. Dwalin shifted, his weight settling onto the balls of his feet, ready to intervene.
Brittany didn't even glance at the dwarves. Her focus remained entirely on the twins. She tilted her head, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes – amusement? Anticipation? She lifted the simple black cloth. "Simultaneously?" she repeated, her tone light, almost conversational. "Alright."
Before anyone could react, she smoothly tied the blindfold back over her eyes, plunging her world into darkness. The cloth lay stark against her skin. She settled into a ready stance, body loose but coiled, both swords held low and slightly angled. Zar'roc’s ruby hue seemed to deepen, while her obsidian blade seemed to absorb the sunlight falling on the grass. "Whenever you’re ready."
A ripple of disbelief went through the dwarves. "Two against one? Blindfolded?" Glóin sputtered. "That's madness!"
"Quiet," Dwalin ordered gruffly, his eyes narrowed, utterly riveted. He’d seen her move against Orik. This… this would be something else entirely.
The twins exchanged a glance, a silent communication passing between them perfected over centuries. They moved as one, a blur of grey silk and gleaming steel. Elladan came high and fast from her left, his blade a silver streak aimed at her shoulder. Elrohir flowed low and silent from her right, a sweeping cut targeting her legs.
Brittany didn’t block. She flowed. She pivoted on her bare left foot, a fraction of an inch letting Elladan's thrust hiss past her ear. Simultaneously, her obsidian blade dipped, catching Elrohir's low sweep on its flat with a sharp clang, directing the force down and away while her body twisted clear. She was a phantom, slipping through the spaces their attacks created before they fully existed.
The fight became a whirlwind of impossible angles and split-second evasions. The twins pressed their assault with flawless coordination, their blades weaving intricate, deadly patterns meant to entrap and overwhelm. They were speed and grace honed over millennia. Brittany was pure, reactive instinct coupled with terrifying precision. She deflected Elladan's thrust with Zar'roc's edge, the contact a shower of sparks, while simultaneously using the momentum to launch a spinning kick that forced Elrohir into a hasty parry with his own blade. Her bare feet padded silently, constantly shifting her weight on the cool grass. She used the flats of her blades, her fists, her elbows – anything to redirect, unbalance, and create openings she didn't exploit to maim, only to control.
"Mahal’s forge!" Bofur breathed, eyes wide. "She's dancing with them!"
"Not dancing," Dwalin corrected, his voice tight with awe. "Surviving. Perfectly." He saw it – the subtle shifts of her shoulders predicting a lunge, the tilt of her head anticipating a feint. It was beyond skill. It was preternatural.
Sweat beaded on the twins' brows now. Their flawless synchronicity began to show the faintest strain. Brittany moved like she could feel the air displacement, hear the subtle shift of weight on the grass before the foot landed. Elladan lunged, committed. Elrohir circled, aiming a disabling cut at her sword arm. Brittany dropped into a sudden crouch, letting Elladan's blade pass overhead, and thrust Zar'roc straight up between her own body and Elrohir's incoming strike. The move pinioned Elrohir’s blade against hers for a critical instant. Her obsidian blade snapped up like a viper’s head, the point halting a hairsbreadth from Elladan’s exposed throat as he leaned into his lunge. Simultaneously, her left foot swept out, catching Elrohir behind the ankle as he tried to recover. The elf stumbled back, off-balance.
Absolute stillness. Brittany knelt, Zar’roc locked with Elrohir’s blade, her dark sword a lethal punctuation aimed at Elladan’s neck. Her breathing remained steady, her posture utterly calm beneath the blindfold. The twins froze. Elladan felt the phantom chill of the blade point. Elrohir struggled for footing. The scent of crushed grass and warm metal hung heavy in the air.
A beat. Two. Slowly, deliberately, Elladan inclined his head, the movement slight but unmistakable. "Yield," he stated, his voice tight but clear. Elrohir, finding his balance, nodded curtly. "Yield."
Brittany moved like water retreating from a shore. She smoothly disengaged Zar'roc, sheathed both blades in a single fluid motion that seemed to absorb the sound, and rose to her full height. Only then did she reach up and pull the blindfold off. Her eyes, clear and unreadable, met theirs. "Thank you for the exercise," she said, her tone polite, impersonal. As if they’d merely shared a brisk walk.