Chapter 16: Ashes of Vengeance
The warm, pipe-scented air of Orik’s chambers felt thick after the crispness of the training grounds. Brittany eased deeper into the large, stone tub set near the hearth, the heated water a welcome balm on muscles still singing from the prolonged, brutal spar with Glorfindel and Elrond. Steam curled around her, condensing on the intricate dwarven carvings adorning the walls. Orik, King Under the Beor Mountains, her brother, sat on a low stool nearby, methodically polishing a rune-etched axe head, the rhythmic scrape of cloth on metal strangely comforting.
She watched him, the familiar bulk of him, the thick braids woven with beads of mountain crystal, the scar running through one bushy eyebrow – a souvenir from a particularly nasty Urgal. Her own agitation, simmering since the unsettling whispers she’d felt emanating from the Lonely Mountain’s cursed hoard, bubbled up. The cool water suddenly felt confining. Her powerful tail, shimmering scales catching the firelight, lashed out violently beneath the surface. Water sloshed heavily over the tub's stone edge, splashing onto the thick rug. Before the ripples settled, she leaned forward, droplets clinging to her shoulders and long blonde hair, and grabbed Orik’s thick forearm.
“Saphira killed Smaug,” she said, the words sharp, cutting through the quiet. Her eyes, usually a cool, assessing blue, held an intensity that made the firelight seem dim. “She swept down on him weeks ago. While the dragon sickness still clung to the air, before it could sink its claws deep into the mountain’s bones again. She burned the rot from the sky.” Her grip tightened, not painfully, but with an urgency that demanded his full attention. “I’m cleansing the rest. The mountain. The treasure. Draining the lingering evil, Orik. Scrubbing it clean.”
Orik didn’t flinch. He didn’t drop the axe head. He merely stopped polishing. His deep-set eyes, dark as the heart of a gemstone, met hers. There was no shock, no disbelief. Only a slow, deep understanding, etched with the grim lines of hard-fought battles.
“Aye,” he rumbled, his voice like stones grinding together. He patted her wet hand where it gripped his arm, a surprisingly gentle gesture from such a formidable warrior. “Knew it was her the moment I sensed the shift in the air currents, smelled the ozone tang beneath the ash. Recognized the feel of her fire.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips, hidden mostly by his beard. “Fought beside that blue terror long enough to know her signature, little sister. Clean burn. Efficient. No fuss. Just like she took down Galbatorix’s beasts back home.” He lifted the axe head, examining its edge in the firelight. “Good riddance to Smaug. Dragonfire cleansing dragon-taint. Poetic, almost.”
Brittany released his arm, sinking back into the water with a sigh that stirred the surface. Relief, sharp and sudden, washed over her, almost as potent as the heat. She hadn’t realized how much she’d needed his immediate, unquestioning acceptance. “Poetic,” she echoed, a wry twist to her mouth. “More like necessary triage. The sickness was already whispering, Orik. Trying to coil around Thorin’s mind, whispering greed and paranoia. Dangerous whispers.”
Orik grunted, setting the axe head aside. He picked up a clay pipe, tamping down fragrant leaf into its bowl. “Cleansing the hoard… that’s a bigger job than roasting one oversized lizard, Brittany. That’s centuries of avarice, malice, the despair of a fallen kingdom all soaked into the gold.” He lit the pipe with a taper from the hearth, puffing until fragrant smoke wreathed his head. “You sure you can handle that kind of… residue? Even with that sea-witch-granddad mojo and whatever else you’ve got tucked up your sleeve?”
She flicked her tail again, a gentler motion this time, sending small waves lapping against the stone. “It’s… draining. Like trying to filter poisoned water through a sieve made of hope. But it’s working. Slowly. The sea recognizes corruption; it wants to scour it clean. My magic… amplifies that.” She traced a finger over a scale near her hip, iridescent in the firelight. “And the Force helps me sense the taint’s threads, isolate them.” She never spoke of that power aloud, but Orik was one of the few exceptions. He’d seen her do stranger things in the sky above Alagaësia.
“Just don’t burn yourself out,” Orik advised, his voice gruff with concern beneath the practicality. “This isn’t a sprint. It’s digging out a mountain of slag with a teaspoon. Pace yourself.” He puffed thoughtfully. “Thorin and his lot… they sense it too, I reckon? The cleansing?”
“Thorin feels the absence of the dragon’s presence, the weakening of the sickness,” Brittany corrected, closing her eyes, letting the water soothe the lingering phantom aches from the elves' blades. “He doesn’t know the cause. Doesn’t know about Saphira. Thinks it’s… providence. Or his own resilience.” She snorted softly. “Dwalin… Dwalin watches. Like he always does. Sees the cracks where the light gets in. He doesn’t ask. Just… observes.”
“Good man, Dwalin,” Orik stated firmly. “Solid. Loyal. Doesn’t need explanations, just actions he can trust.” He eyed her, the smoke curling around his head like a grey halo. “Speaking of watching… word reached me about your little tussle today. Sparring blindfolded against Elrond and the Balrog-slayer? And winning?” He shook his head, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “You do enjoy making ancient, powerful beings question their life choices, don’t you?”
A genuine smile touched Brittany’s lips, the first easy one since entering the bath. “They asked.” She shrugged, the movement causing water to ripple. “It seemed rude to say no. Besides, it was… bracing. Good practice for sensing malice without sight. Glorfindel moves like liquid light. Elrond… he’s old power, deep and calm like bedrock. Tricky combination.”
“And you moved like… well, like you,” Orik finished for her, pride warming his voice. “Fast, unpredictable, utterly terrifying. Probably gave old Elrond a few new grey hairs. Good. Keeps everyone on their toes.” He paused, his expression turning serious again. “But this cleansing… you need anything? From me? Resources? Distraction?”
Brittany opened her eyes, meeting his steady gaze. “Just your silence, brother. And maybe another pitcher of hot water. This mountain-scale scrubbing takes it out of me.” She flexed her tail, sending another small wave over the edge. “Thorin reclaiming Erebor… it needs to be clean. Truly clean. Not just free of a dragon, but free of the shadow it cast.”
Orik nodded, pushing himself up from the stool with a grunt. “Silence you’ve got. Water’s coming.” He lumbered towards a large earthenware jug steaming near the hearth. “Just remember, little sister,” he added, his voice softening, “even the ocean needs the shore to rest against sometimes. Don’t try to hold back the tide alone.” He hefted the jug.
Before he could pour, a firm knock echoed on the heavy chamber door. It opened before Orik could respond. Thorin Oakenshield stood framed in the entrance, his expression unreadable, his gaze sweeping the room – the tub, Brittany submerged to her shoulders, her hair fanned out in the water, Orik holding the steaming jug. Dwalin stood just behind him, arms crossed, his usual stoic mask firmly in place, though his eyes flickered with a hint of something unreadable as they briefly met Brittany’s.
“Orik,” Thorin said, his voice low and measured, ignoring the intimate domesticity of the scene for the moment. “We require your counsel. There are… matters regarding the approach to the mountain. Urgent matters.” His eyes finally settled on Brittany, lingering for a fraction of a second on the water droplets tracing paths down her neck. “Lady Brittany. Your insights may also prove… valuable.”
Steam curled thickly between them, sharp with pipe-smoke and wet stone. Thorin’s gaze, heavy as slate, finally pulled away from the water clinging to Brittany’s collarbone, fixing instead on Orik. “The High Pass whispers of early snows,” he stated, voice tight. “Scouts report movement in the foothills – shapes unseen, but felt. Orcs? Spies? The mountain…” He hesitated, a rare flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. “It feels… different. Lighter, perhaps. An absence we did not expect so soon after Smaug’s fall.” His eyes cut back to the tub. “Your insights, Lady Brittany, are often… unnervingly acute.”
Dwalin shifted his weight behind Thorin, a solid, silent presence. His gaze, unlike Thorin’s assessing stare, remained fixed somewhere near the damp flagstones, though Brittany felt its weight, observant and steady. He said nothing. Just watched.
Brittany didn’t flinch under the scrutiny. She exhaled slowly, sending ripples across the water’s surface. The warmth seeped into her bones, battling the sudden chill Thorin’s presence brought. “Different how, Thorin? Describe the feeling.” Her voice was calm, neutral, cutting through the awkward tension like a blade.
“Silence,” Thorin replied after a beat. “A deep quiet where before there was… pressure. A constant, grating hum of greed and malice, like nails on stone. Now it’s gone. Vanished overnight, it seems. Only the echo of stone remains. It feels… empty.” He frowned, as if the admission cost him. “Is it a trick? A lull before a greater storm?”
Orik grunted, lowering the heavy water jug with a thud. “Orcs gathering ain't a lull, Thorin Oakenshield. It's a warning klaxon.” He scratched his beard, beads clicking softly. “As for the mountain… empty ain't necessarily bad. Sometimes silence just means the rot's been cut out.” He glanced at Brittany, a silent understanding passing between them.
Brittany met Thorin’s intense stare. “The absence of poison doesn't make a wound heal instantly, Thorin. It just stops it from festering deeper. The mountain breathes easier without Smaug’s shadow, true. That lightness you feel? That’s Erebor beginning to remember itself, beneath centuries of dragon-stench and stolen gold.” Her words were measured, careful not to reveal the scorch-marks of Saphira’s fire or the relentless, unseen tide of her own cleansing. “But empty? No. Not empty. Just… purified. Awaiting its true king.”
Thorin’s jaw tightened. Her words seemed to both reassure and unsettle him. “Purified,” he repeated, the word tasting unfamiliar. He clearly craved the mountain’s wealth, its power, its presence – not an abstract sense of cleanliness. “And the scouts? These movements?”
“Could be Azog probing,” Dwalin finally spoke, his voice a low rumble from the doorway. His eyes lifted, meeting Brittany’s for a fleeting second – not challenging, just… including her in the tactical assessment. “Testing our readiness. Or scavengers drawn by the dragon’s death stink. Either way, ignoring it is bollocks.”
Brittany nodded, the water shifting around her shoulders. “Dwalin’s right. Assume it's hostile. Bolster the forward patrols, double the night watch. Use the terrain – the narrow defiles near the eastern approach are perfect for ambushes against them.” Her mind flashed, unbidden, to thermal imaging and overlapping fields of fire from her sniper days, concepts utterly alien here but the principle the same: control the high ground, funnel the enemy. “Don’t let them pick the ground.”
Thorin studied her, a flicker of grudging respect beneath the wariness. Her tactical mind, honed in stranger wars than his, was undeniable. “We will strengthen the watch,” he conceded. “Orik, your warriors know these high valleys best. Coordinate with Balin.” He stepped back, signaling the discussion’s end for now. “We convene in the map chamber within the hour.” His gaze swept back to the tub, a flicker of discomfort returning. “Lady Brittany… when you are… presentable.”
He turned, the heavy doorframe barely containing his broad shoulders as he disappeared into the corridor without another word. Dwalin lingered a fraction longer, his gaze once again finding Brittany’s. There was no leer, no judgment, just that intense, silent observation. He gave the barest nod – acknowledgment, perhaps, or simple readiness – before turning to follow his king.
The thick oak door thudded shut, leaving the chamber suddenly quieter, the crackle of the hearth louder. Orik let out a long, slow breath, puffing his pipe back to life. “Purified,” he echoed Thorin, a wry twist to his mouth. “He liked the sound of ‘true king’ more, I reckon.”
Brittany pushed herself up, water cascading off her in sheets, the soaked, thin shift clinging to powerful curves and the powerful outline of her tail fading back into limbs as she rose. She stepped onto the thick rug, rivulets tracing paths down her skin, utterly unconcerned with modesty. “He wants his birthright. The mountain’s state is secondary to its possession.” She reached for a large, coarse towel. “But a sick kingdom is a weak kingdom. He’ll learn.”
The damp towel rasped against Brittany’s skin as she dried off, the fire’s warmth battling the chill where water evaporated. Orik watched her, puffing his pipe, the scent of cherry-wood tobacco a familiar anchor. "‘He’ll learn,’" he quoted her earlier words back at her, his voice thick with skepticism. "Aye. Likely the hard way, knowing that stubborn sod. Like teaching a boulder to waltz." He knocked the ash from his pipe bowl against the hearthstone, the grey powder disappearing into the cracks. "Right then. Enough stewing. Cleansing mountains and dealing with brooding dwarf-kings gives a body a fierce hunger." He heaved himself up from the stool, the thick muscles of his shoulders rolling beneath his tunic. "Dining hall. Now. Before Bombur eats all the roast boar again. Dwalin looked peckish earlier."
Brittany pulled on fresh, simple trousers and a tunic, the fabric soft but sturdy, a far cry from elven grace or dwarven mail. Her damp hair, already beginning to dry into its usual heavy fall, she braided swiftly down her back. The lingering ache from the spar and the deep, marrow-deep fatigue from channeling her sea-grandfather's power through Erebor’s foundations weighed on her. Food wasn't just desirable; it was fuel. "Lead on, brother," she said, her voice holding a touch of the weariness she usually masked. "If Bombur’s already started, we might need a tactical assault on the serving platters."
Orik chuckled, a sound like gravel tumbling down a slope, and opened the heavy chamber door. The corridor outside was cooler, the air scented with polished wood, ancient stone, and the distant, enticing aroma of roasting meat and herbs. Rivendell’s serene elegance felt almost jarring after the closeness of Orik’s dwarvish den. They walked in comfortable silence, their footsteps echoing differently – Orik’s a solid thump-thump, Brittany’s a lighter, almost silent tread honed by years of stalking targets.
The murmur of voices and the clatter of cutlery grew louder as they approached the grand dining hall. Light spilled from the high, arched doorway, warm and inviting. Inside, the scene was a controlled chaos of fellowship. Long tables were laden with platters of glazed vegetables, crusty bread, wheels of cheese, and the promised boar, its skin crackling invitingly. Elves conversed in melodious tones, while the dwarves’ deeper voices rumbled, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional thump of a tankard. Gandalf sat near the head of one table, smoke rings curling from his pipe, deep in conversation with Elrond, whose expression was thoughtful, perhaps still processing the afternoon’s blindfolded humiliation. The twin sons of Elrond were conspicuously absent, likely licking their metaphorical wounds.
Brittany scanned the room instinctively: exits, sightlines, potential threats. Her gaze snagged almost immediately on the knot of dwarves clustered around Thorin near the far end. Balin was speaking earnestly, gesturing with a bread roll. Fili and Kili were attempting to juggle roasted potatoes, much to Dori’s disapproval. And Dwalin… Dwalin sat slightly apart, his broad back against the wall, a heavy pewter tankard dwarfed in his massive hand. He wasn't looking at the potato jugglers or Balin. His eyes, sharp and watchful beneath the shelf of his brow, were fixed unwaveringly on the hall's entrance. On her.
As Brittany and Orik stepped fully into the light, Dwalin’s gaze didn’t waver. It held hers for a suspended moment – not a challenge, not an invitation, just an intense, focused acknowledgment. He saw the lingering tightness around her eyes, the way her shoulders carried an invisible weight even as she moved with her usual lethal grace. He gave the barest nod, a silent "I see you," before his attention flickered to Orik and then deliberately away, back to his king. But the awareness remained, a silent thrum in the space between them.
"Right," Orik muttered, elbowing her gently towards a less crowded stretch of table near Bombur, who was indeed making significant inroads on a mountain of mashed turnips. "Defensive perimeter around the meat platter. You take the flank." He grabbed two plates, shoving one into her hands. "Load up. You look like you wrestled a cave troll and lost the scenic route."
Brittany managed a faint smirk, the familiar banter a small comfort. She piled roasted root vegetables and generous slices of the fragrant boar onto her plate, her stomach growling in anticipation. The warmth of the hall, the rich smells, the comforting din – it was a stark, welcome contrast to the cold, silent battle she waged leagues away within Erebor’s heart. She glanced towards Thorin’s table again. He was listening to Balin, but his gaze, dark and heavy-lidded, drifted towards her as well. The "purified" mountain, the cleansing he didn't understand, it hung between them like an unanswered question. He lifted his own tankard, not in greeting, but his eyes held hers for a fraction too long before he looked away, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
Orik nudged her again, pointing his fork at a particularly succulent-looking joint. "Stop strategizing the political landscape and start strategizing how much of that you can fit on your plate." He ripped off a chunk of bread, dunking it heartily into a rich gravy. "Eat. Rebuild. The mountain isn't going anywhere tonight."
Taking a seat on a sturdy wooden bench, Brittany focused on the simple, vital task before her. She sliced into the tender boar, the juices mingling with the earthy sweetness of roasted parsnips. The flavors burst on her tongue – real, grounding. Around her, the rumble of dwarven conversation, the clear chime of elvish voices, the crackle of the great hearth fires… it was life, loud and messy and immediate. Yet, beneath it all, the phantom echo of dark whispers from the Lonely Mountain’s hoard still vibrated faintly in her bones, a counterpoint to the warmth and the scent of herbs. Dwalin’s eyes felt like a brand on the back of her neck. And Thorin’s troubled gaze promised storms far closer than the High Pass.
The rich scent of roast boar and pipe smoke couldn't quite mask the lingering tension thickening the air near Thorin’s end of the table. Brittany chewed mechanically, the savory meat suddenly tasting like ash. Thorin’s scowl was a physical weight, his distrust a cold draft in the warm hall. Dwalin’s unwavering gaze remained a steady pressure point between her shoulder blades.
Orik nudged her plate. "Oi. Earth to little sister. That boar didn’t insult your ancestors. Eat it before I do." He forked another slice off her untouched portion. "Brooding over Thorin’s sourpuss face won’t fill your belly or fix his." He tore into the stolen meat. "Man’s got a stick so far up his–"
The grand hall doors burst open with surprising force, momentarily silencing the clatter and chatter. A small figure, dwarfed by the arched entrance, stood silhouetted against the fading twilight outside. Ragged dark hair framed an earnest, youthful face flushed with exertion. His eyes, wide and bright grey, scanned the crowded room urgently.
They landed on Brittany.
"Brittany!" The boy’s voice, high and clear, cut through the murmur like a bell. He sprinted, weaving past startled Elves and bemused Dwarves, small boots skidding slightly on the polished stone floor. His focus was absolute, fixed solely on her.
He crashed into the space beside her bench, small hands clutching at the rough wood, breathing hard. A wide, relieved smile split his face, chasing away the urgency. "You’re here! I looked everywhere after lessons. Glorfindel said you were busy but I thought... I missed you!" The words tumbled out in a breathless rush, laden with pure, uncomplicated relief and affection. His grey eyes held hers, utterly earnest. "Did you fight the Balrog-slayer again? Was it brilliant?"
Orik choked on his mouthful of boar, coughing out a chuckle. Thorin’s scowl deepened into a thunderous frown, his knuckles white around his tankard handle. Dwalin, still leaning against the wall, simply raised one thick eyebrow, his stoic expression shifting into something faintly, unexpectedly amused as he watched the boy cling to the edge of Brittany’s bench. The weight of the mountain, Thorin’s suspicion, the fatigue dragging at her bones – for Estel, none of it existed. Only her.