Chapter 15: Duel of the Undefeated
The hushed disbelief from Brittany's victory over Elladan and Elrohir clung to the Rivendell training grounds like morning mist. Sweat cooled on her neck as she retrieved her practice blade, the smooth wood already warm again in her hands. The scent of trampled grass and polished stone hung heavy in the crisp air, mingling with the distant murmur of the Bruinen.
A figure stepped from the dappled shadows beneath an ancient archway. Glorfindel, Lord of the Golden Flower, radiated an almost palpable aura. His return from the Halls of Mandos by the Valar’s grace was legendary, his prowess in battle undisputed for ages. His eyes, ancient and impossibly bright, assessed her with unnerving stillness.
"Your skill is... unexpected," Glorfindel stated, his voice resonant, cutting through the lingering silence. He drew his own practice sword, its balance perfect, humming faintly with latent power. "I rarely encounter beings who move with such certainty and leave elves bleeding pride instead of blood." He gave the twins, who were nursing bruised egos beside their father, a pointed glance. "Will you cross blades with one who remembers the light before the sun?"
Brittany met his gaze, unflinching. The challenge vibrated in the air, thick as the pine resin scent. From the sidelines, the dwarves collectively held their breath. Thorin’s hand tightened on Orcrist’s pommel, his expression unreadable but intense. Dwalin shifted his weight forward, knuckles white on the haft of his axe, a low growl rumbling in his chest. The sheer presence of the Balrog-slayer demanded awe, yet Brittany merely tilted her head.
"Unexpected seems to be the word of the day," she replied, her tone light but edged. "Sure. Why not?" She reached into a pocket of her worn trousers and pulled out the simple linen blindfold she’d used against the twins. With practiced ease, she tied it securely over her eyes, plunging her world into warm darkness. Her other senses sharpened instantly: the whisper of Glorfindel’s robes, the shift of gravel under his boot, the faint ozone tang of his inherent power, the collective intake of breath from the watching company – especially the sharp inhale from Dwalin.
Glorfindel moved. Not with the twins' youthful speed, but with the terrifying economy of millennia. His blade sliced the air, a silent threat aimed not to kill, but to dominate. Brittany didn't see; she knew. She flowed sideways, her own practice sword rising to kiss his with a sharp crack of wood. The impact shivered up her arm. He was strong. Frighteningly so. His footwork was flawless, his attacks flowing like liquid light – thrust, parry, riposte, each movement a deadly poem.
She met him, not with brute force, but with impossible anticipation. She occupied spaces he vacated milliseconds before, her blade deflecting his not where it was, but where it would be. She spun low, avoiding a scything cut that would have felled an oak, her own weapon licking out to tap his ribs. He grunted, more in surprise than pain, and pressed harder. The grass hissed beneath their feet. Wood clacked and screeched. She felt the controlled fury radiating from him now, the weight of his legend pressing down. Yet, she remained a step ahead, a shadow predicting the light.
Then, from her left, another presence entered the dance. Lord Elrond, his face serene but eyes alight with intense focus, moved with predatory grace. He didn't speak; he simply flowed into position. The master strategist, millennia old, paired with the Valar-blessed champion. Two of the greatest warriors of the Third Age, moving as one against a blindfolded human.
The rhythm changed. Attacks came from impossible angles. Elrond’s precise, probing strikes sought openings Glorfindel’s power created. Glorfindel became the hammer, Elrond the scalpel. They wove a net of seasoned steel and ancient skill. Brittany’s movements became smaller, tighter, deflections mere fractions of an inch. Sweat beaded on her brow under the blindfold. She felt the subtle shift in air pressure, the minute tremors through the ground, the scent of exertion from each elf. The dwarves were utterly silent now, frozen.
"Come on, lass!" Dwalin finally roared, unable to contain himself, his voice thick with tension.
It was the final, coordinated assault. Glorfindel unleashed a thunderous overhead strike designed to crush her guard. Simultaneously, Elrond lunged low and silent, his blade aimed at her lead knee. A trap of perfect timing. Brittany didn't block the overhead blow. She stepped into it. Inside Glorfindel’s guard as his huge swing descended. Her shoulder braced against his descending forearm, robbing the strike of its power, turning his momentum against him. Her own sword snaked down and out, not at Elrond’s blade, but at the precise point on his wrist where tendon met bone.
Crack-thud!
Elrond’s practice sword flew from his suddenly numb fingers, clattering onto the stones. At the same instant, Brittany pivoted, using Glorfindel’s own unbalanced force against him. She hooked his ankle with her foot and shoved hard against his chest. The mighty elf warrior stumbled backwards, not falling, but forced into an ungainly, wide-legged stagger to keep his feet. He stopped, breathing heavily, staring at the blindfolded woman with profound shock.
Silence. Utter and profound. The river’s murmur seemed deafening. The blindfold hid Brittany’s face, but her stance was relaxed, her practice sword held loosely at her side. Elrond flexed his tingling fingers, looking from his fallen weapon to Brittany with an expression of pure, unguarded astonishment. Glorfindel just stood, regaining his composure but unable to mask the dawning realization in his ancient eyes.
Then, chaos erupted from the dwarves.
"Hah!" Bofur whooped, slapping Bombur on the back, who almost choked on his last bite of waybread. "Told ya! Five copper pennies, Nori! Pay up!"
"Mahal's forge!" Dori gasped, clutching his braids. "Did you see that?"
Kili whistled, long and low. "Blindfolded! Against them!"
Ori fumbled, dropping his charcoal and parchment. Fili just shook his head, a grin spreading across his face. Balin stroked his beard, his eyes calculating. Thorin’s gaze remained fixed on Brittany, a complex mix of respect, suspicion, and something akin to grudging admiration warring beneath his stern facade.
Dwalin slammed his fist against his chestplate with a resounding clang, a fierce, proud smile breaking through his usual scowl. "Aye! That's how it's done!" he bellowed, the sound echoing off the stone walls.
Brittany slowly reached up and untied the blindfold. The late afternoon sun was blinding for a moment. She blinked, her eyes finding Elrond and Glorfindel. Both elves were visibly recovering, but the shock was etched into their noble features. She gave them a small, polite nod, no trace of arrogance, just quiet acknowledgment. "Good match," she said simply, her voice clear and calm.
Elrond inclined his head, a gesture deeper than mere courtesy. "Indeed. You possess... an extraordinary gift, Lady Brittany." His voice held a newfound gravity.
Glorfindel simply stared, his golden hair seeming less bright for a moment. "A gift born of shadows unexpected," he murmured, almost to himself. He retrieved his sword, his movements suddenly less fluid, more thoughtful.
Thorin finally moved, stepping forward. His gaze swept over the elves, then settled on Brittany. "You are full of surprises," he stated, his voice low and gravelly. "Troublesome surprises." But the corner of his mouth twitched, just slightly. "We leave at dawn. See that your... skills... are rested." He turned abruptly, gesturing for the company to follow. The dwarves scrambled, shooting awed looks back at Brittany as they trailed behind their leader, voices rising in excited chatter.
Dwalin lingered for a moment. He met Brittany's eyes, his own fierce and bright. He didn't speak, just gave a single, sharp nod that spoke volumes – respect, approval, a warrior recognizing a peer. Then he turned and stomped after Thorin, his axe held high. Brittany watched the dwarves go, the scent of pine and dwarf sweat mixing with the fading echoes of clashing wood. The sun dipped lower, painting the Misty Mountains in hues of fiery orange and deep purple. She touched the pommel of the real sword at her hip – the one that hadn't been used, the one meant for harder battles. Rivendell’s peace felt fragile, a momentary pause before the storm. She took a deep breath, the crisp air filling her lungs, and turned to follow the sound of dwarven laughter drifting towards the evening meal. The fortnight’s wait had just become infinitely more interesting.
The fortnight’s wait had just become infinitely more interesting. Distant echoes of dwarf song drifted from the hall, a raucous counterpoint to the serene chirping of evening insects in Rivendell's gardens. Brittany lingered by the training grounds' edge, the cool marble balustrade smooth under her palms, the scent of bruised grass and damp earth rising from the trampled field below. Her muscles hummed with the satisfying ache of exertion, the blindfolded victory over Glorfindel and Elrond settling like fine dust.
"Impressive," a gravelly voice rumbled beside her. Orik, the sturdy dwarf with kind eyes and a thick, dark beard braided simply, materialized from the deepening twilight shadows. He leaned against the stone, his gaze fixed not on the departing company, but on her. "Didn't think even you could manage that blindfolded against those two." There was no awe, just a deep, familiar acknowledgment.
"Yeah, well," Brittany shrugged, a ghost of a smirk touching her lips. "Kept things from getting boring while we're stuck deciphering that stubborn map." She rubbed her shoulder where Glorfindel’s final, deflected blow had landed with bruising force. "He hits like a freight train."
Orik chuckled, a sound like stones tumbling together. "Aye, he carries Mandos's blessing in his swing, they say." He pushed off the balustrade, jerking his head towards a secluded path winding deeper into the Last Homely House. "Come. You reek of elf-sweat and dwarf-stares. My chambers have a bathing pool fed by the Bruinen’s coldest springs. Do you good."
She hesitated, a flicker of wariness crossing her face. He saw it. "Peace, Brittany," Orik said quietly, his voice dropping. "I told you long ago in Farthen Dûr,, your secrets are stone within my mountain. Safe." His gaze held hers, steady and true. He knew. He'd always known a piece of her truth, a fragment of the impossible heritage she carried.
Relief, warm and unexpected, washed over her. The constant vigilance eased, just a fraction. "Lead on, Orik."
He guided her through quiet, arched corridors, the polished stone cool underfoot, the air fragrant with night-blooming jasmine and old parchment. They passed no one. Orik’s chambers were tucked away, spacious but undeniably dwarvish in their sturdy simplicity – heavy tapestries depicting mountain forges, low wooden furniture, and a large, natural bathing pool carved directly into the living rock at the far end. Steam rose gently from its surface, mingling with the cool night air drifting through an open window. The sound of falling water echoed softly.
Orik secured the heavy door with a solid thunk. "Water’s fresh and cold, straight from the heights," he stated, moving towards a side table laden with bread, cheese, and a pitcher. "Help yourself to food after." He busied himself, deliberately turning his back, giving her space. Utter trust.
Brittany approached the pool’s edge. The water shimmered invitingly, reflecting the soft glow of mithril lamps. The cool air kissed her skin. She peeled off her sweat-stained tunic and trousers, the remnants of the day's exertion clinging to her. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the pool. The water was indeed icy, a shock that stole her breath for a second before spreading relief through her tired limbs. She waded deeper, towards the center where the water reached her waist.
Then, she closed her eyes, focusing inward. Not on the Force, not on elven grace or witchfire, but on the deeper, older call. The call of the endless, crushing deep, the whisper of tides locked within her blood. She felt the familiar, strange transformation begin below the waterline. Not painful, but profound. A tingling sensation spread from her core down her legs, a shimmering ripple distorting the water around her hips.
When the ripples settled, she looked down. Gone were her legs. In their place, glimmering with captured lamplight, fanned a magnificent tail. Scales the vibrant, luminous orange of a tropical sunset flowed seamlessly over powerful muscles, tapering to wide, delicate fins that swayed gently in the current. It was pure, fluid grace – the heritage of the God of the Sea made manifest. Water beaded on the scales like liquid jewels. She flicked the fin experimentally, sending a small wave lapping against the carved stone sides. The cool water felt like home against the unfamiliar scales.
Orik turned then, holding two mugs of dark ale. He walked calmly to the edge of the pool, his eyes taking in the sight without a flicker of surprise, only a quiet, protective warmth. He handed her one mug. "Sunset suits you," he said simply, his voice rough but gentle. He settled himself on a low stool nearby, sipping his own ale, his presence a silent bulwark in the quiet room. "Better than elf-sweat."
Brittany took the mug, the cool ceramic a contrast to her hand. She leaned back against the smooth stone ledge, letting the water support the surprising weight and alien sensation of the tail. The tension of the fight, the scrutiny, the weight of hidden powers, finally began to ebb away, replaced by the simple, profound relief of being truly seen by one who knew. She took a long sip of the bitter ale, the taste grounding her. Outside, the sounds of Rivendell at night were a soft murmur. Inside Orik’s chambers, bathed in lamplight and the quiet understanding of an old friend, the orange scales shimmered like submerged fire, a secret kept safe within ancient stone walls.
The cool water lapped against Brittany's shimmering orange scales, the rhythmic pulse soothing muscles still humming from the earlier clash. Orik’s ale was dark and bitter, a grounding counterpoint to the alien sensation of the tail coiled beneath her. "Peace," she murmured, the word tasting strange after the day's violence, but the silence between them felt solid, like forged iron.
Orik grunted, raising his own mug. "More peace than most get, I reckon." He watched the lamplight dance on the water’s surface, his gaze thoughtful. "Seen you fight horrors enough to curdle milk, lass. Today… that was somethin’ else. Blindfolded against those two?" He shook his head, thick braids swaying. "Makes what you did back in Alagaësia seem almost… straightforward. Almost."
A grim smile touched Brittany’s lips. "Straightforward? Galbatorix?" The name dropped into the steamy air like a stone. Memories surged – the oppressive weight of Urgals marching under the Forsworn banners, the stench of burned villages clinging to ash-choked wind, the chilling, insane intelligence in the mad king’s eyes. "Nothing about that was straightforward, Orik. Just necessary." She took another long pull of the ale, the bitterness chasing away the phantom smell of smoke and dark magic. "Necessary and ugly."
"Ugly doesn't cover it," Orik rumbled, his voice low. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, the picture of dwarvish intensity. "Whole armies ground into dust under his dragon's shadow. Shruikan…" He shuddered, a rare break in his stoic demeanor. "Monster the size of a mountain, breath like a forge gone wrong. Saw it once, far off. Felt the tremors in my boots." He fixed her with a piercing look. "And you faced them. Both."
Brittany submerged her hand, watching the distorted orange scales ripple. "Faced them? Yeah. With Eragon. And Saphira. And Arya bleeding out half the time." The names felt like echoes from another life. "It wasn’t heroics, Orik. It was survival. Patch up the wounded, pick off key commanders from a mile away, disrupt their supply lines… use whatever advantage we had." Her voice tightened. "Sometimes the advantage was just being harder to kill than expected." She didn’t elaborate on how. Her witchfire, a desperate, searing flare in the chaos of battle. The Force, subtly nudging a crucial arrow’s path. The unnatural stamina of her bloodlines. "Galbatorix… he wasn't just strong. He was broken. Twisted magic, twisted dragons… twisted everything he touched."
"Madness wrapped in power," Orik agreed grimly. "Heard tales. Turning his own against him?" He gestured vaguely, encompassing the unspeakable horrors of the Forsworn’s fate. "How’d you crack that nut? No fortress, no army seemed proof against him."
Brittany’s gaze went distant, fixed on the shifting water patterns reflecting the ceiling. "The Name." The words were flat, devoid of triumph. "The true name of the Ancient Language. Learned it. Used it." A muscle in her jaw twitched. "Made him feel. Everything. Every ounce of pain, every scream, every life he’d shattered… poured it all back into him at once." The memory was a raw nerve – the psychic backlash, the terrifying wave of absolute despair as Galbatorix’s fractured mind finally shattered under the weight of his own atrocities. "Shruikan…" Her voice softened almost imperceptibly. "He was a prisoner too. Just… bigger." The colossal dragon’s death throes had shaken the very earth, a final, agonized release. "Got the bastard with his own weapon. His own stolen grief." She lifted the mug again, but didn't drink. The ale suddenly tasted like ash.
Orik was silent for a long moment, absorbing the brutal simplicity of it. "Name magic," he breathed, a touch of awe mixing with profound distaste. "Dangerous stuff. Like juggling live coals over gunpowder." He drained his mug, the sound loud in the quiet chamber. "But it worked. You broke him. Freed Alagaësia." He looked at her, his gaze holding a fierce, unspoken gratitude. "Lot of folk owe you quiet lives they’ll never know about."
"Quiet lives sound good," Brittany murmured, flicking her tailfin, sending a small splash onto the stone floor. "Seems hard to come by lately." She gestured vaguely towards the door, towards Rivendell, towards Thorin’s simmering impatience. "Traded one dragon problem for another."
"Aye," Orik chuckled, the sound rough but warm. "Smaug’s a different beast. Greedy, arrogant. Not… mad. Just possessive." He stood, fetching the pitcher to refill their mugs. "Still a fire-breather sittin' on a throne of gold, though. Not exactly a welcome mat." He placed the refilled mug near the pool's edge. "You think Thorin knows the half of what he’s walkin' into? What you bring?"
Brittany snorted, a dry, humorless sound. "Thorin sees what he wants to see. A useful blade. Maybe a liability. The rest?" She shrugged, the water swirling around her shoulders. "He doesn’t get a roadmap to the mess inside my head. Or my bloodline." She looked up at Orik, her blue eyes sharp in the lamplight. "You kept my secrets in Farthen Dûr. You’ll keep them here."
"Stone within the mountain," Orik affirmed instantly, his voice granite. He tapped his chestplate. "Always. Doesn’t mean I don’t worry, seein' you walk towards another mountain filled with fire." He paused, then added, almost casually, "That map. Elrond’s folk still starin' at it?"
"Like it’s written in spider webs," Brittany confirmed, pushing herself upright in the water, the scales gleaming. "Another fortnight at least, they reckon. Thorin’s pacing a trench in the library floor." She dipped her head back, soaking her blonde hair. "Means more time for Rivendell’s finest to test the strange human who beat their lords blindfolded."
"Let 'em try," Orik grunted, a fierce pride lighting his eyes. He moved towards the heavy door. "Rest, lass. That tail can’t be comfortable forever. I’ll make sure no pointy-ears come pokin' around." He paused at the threshold. "And Brittany? Whatever waits under that mountain… Galbatorix broke. You didn’t." He pulled the door shut behind him with a solid thunk, leaving her alone with the steam, the shimmering scales, and the lingering ghosts of a conquered king and his dragon. The cold water suddenly felt less like solace, more like a waiting depth. She flicked her tail again, harder this time. Rest could wait. Thorin’s impatience was a tangible thing, a storm cloud gathering outside the tranquil stone walls. The map was key. And waiting felt dangerously like standing still.