Chapter 17: A King's Wrath
The rich scent of roasted venison and rosemary hung thick in Rivendell’s grand dining hall, mingling with the earthier notes of pipe smoke drifting from a cluster of dwarves at the far end of the long table. Lantern light shimmered on polished elven carvings adorning the vaulted ceiling, casting dancing shadows over the spread of steaming stews, crusty bread, and flagons of ale. Brittany, dwarfed by the scale of the elvish furniture yet radiating a contained power, speared a piece of meat with focused intensity. Her long, damp blonde hair, still smelling faintly of the mountain pool, was braided back from her face. Beside her, Orik tore into a haunch of meat with dwarf gusto, grease glistening in his beard.
A small figure detatched itself from the quieter end of the hall where elves conversed in hushed tones. Estel, the young human boy fostered by Lord Elrond, padded across the stone floor, his bare feet silent. He stopped beside Brittany’s bench, his large, serious eyes fixed on her. Without a word, he scrambled up onto the polished wood next to her, his small body pressing against her armored side. He wrapped his thin arms around her waist in a tight, impulsive hug, burying his face momentarily against the cool leather of her jerkin.
The surrounding chatter hitched. Several nearby elves paused mid-sentence, their expressions a mixture of surprise and mild disapproval. Thorin Oakenshield, seated opposite and nursing a tankard, lowered it slowly, his piercing blue eyes narrowing as he observed the unexpected intimacy. Dwalin, sitting beside Thorin and methodically sawing at a thick slice of bread, froze mid-cut, his heavy brow furrowing. Such open affection, especially towards an outsider who radiated lethal competence, was… unexpected.
Brittany didn’t flinch. She didn’t stiffen or pull away. A ripple of something ancient and deep – a memory of loss, perhaps, or a protective instinct inherited from both sea gods and dwarven foster parents – washed through her. Her expression, usually a mask of sharp intelligence or focused intensity, softened almost imperceptibly. Still holding her fork, her free arm slid around Estel’s small shoulders. She gently tucked him securely against her side, shifting slightly to make him more comfortable on the wide bench. The fierce Marine sniper, the cold-eyed surgeon, held the child close as naturally as she might cradle a rifle.
"Alright there, little one?" she murmured, her voice surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the clipped tones she used with the dwarves. She tore off a small piece of bread, soft from the steam rising from a nearby bowl of stew, and offered it to him. Estel nodded silently against her, taking the bread with a small, trusting hand.
Orik chuckled, a low rumble in his chest, wiping grease from his beard with the back of his hand. He’d seen glimpses of this softer side beneath the layers of scar tissue and steel during their shared battles in Alagaësia. "Takes a liking to you, lass," he observed gruffly, completely unfazed by the stares. "Got sense, that one. Knows strength when he sees it, even wrapped in kindness."
Thorin cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the resumed, quieter hum of conversation. His gaze was fixed on Brittany, the initial shock hardening into skepticism. "Kindness is a luxury few can afford on the road we tread, Master Orik," he stated, his voice gravelly. "Especially when news travels that a dragon lies dead in our mountain, slain not by dwarven steel, but by... other means." He leaned forward, his knuckles white where they gripped his tankard. "You spoke of cleansing Erebor, Brittany. Of Saphira. You claim Smaug is no more. Yet you offer no proof beyond words. And now," his gesture encompassed her and Estel, "you display a tenderness that sits ill with the grim tidings you bring. How are we to trust the word of one who shifts her aspect so readily?"
Dwalin watched Brittany intently, his gaze flickering between her calm face and the child nestled trustingly against her. He remembered the ferocity in the mountain pass, the cold precision in her gaze when assessing threats. This juxtaposition wasn't weakness; it was... complex. Unsettlingly so. He said nothing, but the deep lines around his eyes seemed to deepen with thought.