Chapter 4: The Silent Supper
The savory steam from Brittany’s bubbling stew curled through Bag End’s hallway like a siren’s call, overpowering the lingering scent of trampled flowers and dwarf sweat. One by one, drawn by primal hunger and the astonishing aroma, the company shuffled towards the kitchen’s warm glow. Kíli appeared first, peering around the doorframe like a wary fox, followed closely by Fíli, Bombur practically vibrating behind them, and the others crowding the threshold.
Their hesitant chatter – a murmur about rations and road dust – died an instant, strangled death.
Brittany stood at the hobbit-sized stove, her back mostly to them, effortlessly wielding a large spoon in one hand while her knife flashed with lethal precision over a bundle of rosemary on the worn counter. She didn’t turn. "Plate yourselves," she stated, her voice deceptively conversational. The knife thwacked decisively through a woody stem. "Bilba’s had enough fright for one night. One wrong word," she continued, finally glancing over her shoulder, her cool blue eyes sweeping the frozen dwarves, landing like chips of winter ice on each face in turn, "and I’ll serve your tongues as tonight’s appetizer. Understood?"
A collective gulp rippled through the group. Bombur froze mid-step towards the simmering pot. Ori instinctively covered his mouth. Fíli and Kíli exchanged a look that screamed told you so. The silence was absolute, broken only by the stew’s gentle blip-blop and the crackle of the hearth fire Dwalin had stoked.
Dwalin himself leaned against the far wall near Bilba, arms crossed, watching Brittany with an intensity that wasn’t entirely about the threat. There was calculation there, a reassessment of the strange, tall woman who humbled kings and wielded kitchen knives like scalpels. Bilba, perched nervously on her stool, managed a tiny nod, clutching her empty teacup like a shield.
Bofur, ever the pragmatist, broke the tension with a shaky grin. "Right then! Smells grand! Where’s the bowls at, Mistress Bilba?" He nudged Bombur towards the cupboard, his voice overly bright. The dwarves shuffled forward with exaggerated care, suddenly fascinated by the floorboards, the ceiling beams, anything but Brittany’s imposing figure. The scrape of chairs, the clatter of hastily grabbed crockery, filled the awkward void. Brittany turned back to the stew, her posture relaxed again, the terrifying aura receding as quickly as it had flared, leaving only the lingering echo of her promise hanging in the fragrant air. Dwalin’s gaze remained fixed on her, thoughtful, the firelight catching the dark ink of his tattoos.
The low firelight flickered across Dwalin’s weathered face as he watched Brittany move. Her hands, capable of such terrifying violence moments before, now handled Bilba’s delicate china teacup with unexpected, precise gentleness. He cataloged the contradiction: warrior and healer, threat and protector, all contained within that tall, unsettling frame.
"Stew’s ready," Brittany announced, her voice cutting through the dwarves' hushed murmurs. She poured a perfect stream of fragrant broth into Bilba’s cup before gesturing towards the large pot with her ladle. "Help yourselves. Quietly."
The subsequent scramble was notably subdued. Bowls clinked, spoons scraped, and appreciative hums replaced the earlier boisterousness. Bombur, ladle trembling slightly in his grip, managed to fill his bowl without spilling a drop, his eyes darting nervously towards Brittany. "Smells mighty fine, miss," he ventured, his voice unusually small.
"Aye," Dori agreed hastily, nudging Ori forward. "Proper cooking. Quite restorative."
Brittany ignored the forced compliments, her focus returning to Bilba. "Sip this," she instructed softly, pressing the warm teacup into the hobbit’s shaking hands. The rich scent of herbs and slow-cooked meat seemed to steady Bilba slightly; color began to seep back into her pale cheeks. "Deep breaths. They’re just loud. And rude. Mostly rude."
A muffled snort escaped Kíli, quickly stifled by Fíli’s elbow. Dwalin saw Brittany’s sharp glance flicker towards the princes, a silent warning that needed no words. He found himself oddly pleased by her efficiency, the way she commanded the room without needing to shout like Thorin.
From the shadowed hallway, Thorin Oakenshield appeared, brushing dirt and crushed petals from his coat. His expression was thunderous, jaw clenched tight enough to crack stone. Silence fell again, heavier this time. All eyes, including Brittany’s cool, assessing gaze, tracked his slow, deliberate steps into the kitchen. He stopped, radiating wounded pride and simmering fury, staring at the woman who had humiliated him. Brittany met his glare without flinching, her hand resting casually near the knife handle protruding from her boot. She picked up the teapot. "Tea, Thorin? Or are you still digesting your attitude?"
Thorin didn’t answer. His knuckles whitened where he gripped the doorframe, his gaze locked on Brittany with raw, unvarnished fury. The air crackled, thick with the competing scents of savory stew and crushed greenery clinging to his clothes.
"You overstep, woman," Thorin finally ground out, each word a chip of ice. He stepped fully into the warm room, his presence shrinking the cozy space. "This is dwarf business."
Brittany poured steaming tea into a second delicate cup, the action unhurried, precise. "And terrifying your hostess is necessary dwarf business?" she countered, her voice dangerously quiet. She slid the cup across the worn table towards him. "Sit. Eat. Calm down."
A collective, barely audible gasp rippled through the watching dwarves. Dori looked faint. Fíli gripped Kíli’s arm. The ladle trembled in Bombur’s suddenly sweaty grip. Dwalin remained motionless against the wall, his dark eyes tracking Thorin’s every micro-expression, the tension in his own shoulders mirroring his king’s.
Thorin’s eyes flicked to Bilba, who shrunk further into her stool, teacup rattling slightly in her hands. A muscle jumped in his jaw. "We don't need your interference, nor your... charity," he spat, ignoring the offered tea.
The silence stretched, broken only by the stew’s lazy bubbles and the fire’s pop. Brittany met his glare, unblinking. "I wasn't asking, Thorin Oakenshield," she stated, her tone flat, final. "And right now, you're the problem disturbing Bilba’s peace. Sit. Or leave."
Thorin vibrated with suppressed rage, the insult of her command burning hotter than dragon fire. His hand twitched towards the pommel of his sword. Dwalin shifted his weight almost imperceptibly, ready. Then, with a sound like tearing stone, Thorin spun on his heel. He stalked back out into the dark hallway, leaving a void of shock and the sharp tang of humiliation in his wake. The door to the parlour slammed shut.
Brittany turned back to the stove, her expression unreadable. Dwalin watched her smooth the tension from her shoulders, her focus returning to the simmering pot as if nothing had happened. Her calm was unnerving, fascinating. He saw the gentle way her hand briefly touched Bilba’s shoulder, a silent reassurance, a world away from the steel in her voice moments before. The sheer, terrifying contradiction of her settled deep in his bones.
The sheer, terrifying contradiction of her settled deep in his bones. Dwalin watched, fascinated and wary, as Brittany ignored Thorin’s dramatic exit completely. She simply ladled more stew into Bilba’s cup. "Eat, little one," she murmured, her voice losing its earlier ice, becoming almost gentle. "It’ll steady your nerves."
Bilba managed a shaky sip, the rich broth seeming to fortify her against the lingering tension. She peered up at Brittany, wide-eyed. "You… you just… Thorin…"
"Needed a time-out," Brittany stated flatly, grabbing a cloth to wipe Bilba’s flour-dusted table. Her movements were efficient, almost surgical. "Like a petulant child who forgot his manners."
A choked laugh escaped Kíli, instantly smothered by Fíli’s hand clapping over his brother’s mouth. Glóin choked on his stew. Dori looked scandalized. Dwalin felt his own lips twitch, a reaction he quickly suppressed. Calling Thorin that took a spine of solid mithril, or sheer, reckless power.
The silence that followed was brittle, thick with unspoken shock and the earthy scent of herbs. Bombur’s spoon scraped loudly against his bowl. Brittany surveyed the room, her gaze landing on each dwarf in turn, not threatening now, merely assessing. "Anyone else feeling chatty?" The question hung in the air, met only by the crackle of the fire and the hurried scraping of spoons. Satisfied, she turned back to Bilba. "Better?"
Bilba nodded, a fraction more color in her cheeks, her hands steadier on the cup. "Y-yes. Thank you, truly." She took another deep breath. "I… wasn’t expecting quite so many guests."
"Understatement," Brittany muttered, reaching for the kettle. She refilled Bilba’s tea, steam curling upwards. Dwalin noted the way her tall frame moved with unconscious grace in the cramped hobbit space, utterly unlike the stiff formality of elves, yet radiating an authority that dwarfed the room. He pushed off the wall, the rough stone cool against his back a moment before. The question formed, unbidden, low and gravelly. "Where’d you learn to handle kings like that?"
Brittany paused mid-pour, the teapot hovering over Bilba’s cup. Steam curled around her fingers. She didn’t look at Dwalin immediately, her gaze distant, fixed on the worn wood grain of the table. The cozy kitchen felt suddenly colder, the crackle of the fire the only sound besides Bombur’s nervous chewing.
"Handling kings?" she finally said, her voice low, almost detached. She set the teapot down with deliberate care, the porcelain clinking softly. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the counter’s edge. "Necessity teaches harsh lessons."
Dwalin shifted his weight, the leather of his boots scraping stone. He saw the shadow cross her face, fleeting but deep. "Seems like a specific necessity," he pressed, his voice a low rumble, genuinely curious despite himself. She possessed a stillness that unnerved him, different from dwarf-warrior patience. A kettle whistled sharply on the hob, breaking the moment. Brittany turned, grabbing it smoothly, her movements economical, precise.
She poured boiling water into a fresh pot, the fragrant steam blooming with chamomile and something sharper. "It’s… too fresh to tell," she murmured, her back still to him and the silent, watchful company. The simple words landed with unexpected weight, heavy with unspoken pain. She scooped loose tea leaves, the action practiced, a focus to ground herself. "Suffice it to say, misplaced trust leaves scars." Bilba reached out, patting Brittany’s arm gently, understanding flickering in her wide eyes. The dwarves exchanged uneasy glances, the threat of severed tongues momentarily forgotten, replaced by the palpable weight of her cryptic admission. Thorin’s brooding silence from the next room felt like a dark counterpoint. Dwalin just watched her profile, the firelight catching the gold in her long hair, wondering what ghosts haunted this woman who carried herself like a queen and fought like a demon. The stew's rich aroma couldn't mask the sudden chill of shared secrets.
The stew's rich aroma couldn't mask the sudden chill of shared secrets. Spoons scraped awkwardly against bowls; Bilba fidgeted with her teacup. Dwalin watched Brittany’s knuckles whiten on the counter’s edge, the only sign the admission cost her.
Kíli cleared his throat, the sound too loud. "So... supper?" he offered weakly, gesturing with his near-empty bowl. He glanced towards the hallway where Thorin had retreated.
Brittany exhaled, a controlled release of tension. She turned, her expression smoothing into pragmatic calm. "Seconds are there," she stated, gesturing towards the pot with her chin, her voice regaining its steady timbre. "Eat up. Long road ahead."
Bofur nudged Bombur. "Right you are, miss! Bombur, ladle that out proper now." The tension eased slightly with the clatter of renewed serving. Bilba managed a small, genuine smile.
The kitchen door creaked open again. Thorin stood framed in the doorway, his face carved from granite. He ignored everyone but Brittany. "We leave at dawn," he announced, his voice colder than mountain snowmelt. "With or without the burglar. Or you."
Bilba gasped softly. Brittany simply met Thorin’s icy gaze, unflinching. "We'll be ready," she replied, her tone utterly neutral, giving nothing away.
Dwalin noted the minute tightening around Thorin’s eyes. "See that you are," Thorin snapped. "This isn't a pleasure cruise. Dragons and betrayal await." He turned sharply, his coat swirling, and vanished back into the gloom.
The word 'betrayal' hung heavy, echoing Brittany’s earlier pain. She stiffened almost imperceptibly before moving to Bilba’s pantry. "Right," she said briskly, pulling out sacks. "Let’s get supplies packed." Her movements were efficient, focused.
Dwalin pushed off the wall, drawn towards her quiet intensity. He picked up an empty sack. "Need a hand?" he rumbled, his voice low beside her.
Brittany paused, meeting his gaze. A flicker of something unreadable passed between them – understanding, perhaps, or shared wariness. "The dried meats," she directed quietly. "Top shelf." Dwalin nodded, reaching up, the kitchen suddenly small again despite the dwarves' silence. She shouldered her own sack. "We go."
The predawn air bit sharp and damp as the company shuffled onto Bag End's path, packs heavy and faces grim. Bilba hovered beside Brittany, clutching a ridiculously large handkerchief, her eyes wide and darting. "I've forgotten my pipe! And my best waistcoat! Are you quite sure about second breakfast en route?" she fretted, twisting the fabric nervously.
Brittany adjusted the strap of her own sleek, compact rucksack – dwarf-made steel glimpsed beneath weathered leather. "Breathe, Bilba. We’ll manage." Her gaze swept the assembled dwarves, lingering a fraction longer on Thorin, a dark, stony silhouette ignoring everyone near the gate. His shoulders were rigid, the memory of crushed petals still clinging faintly to his boots.
Dwalin shouldered past Bofur, his heavy tread purposeful. He stopped beside Brittany, his eyes narrowing at the unfamiliar, minimal gear. "Travel light, do you?" His voice was a low rumble, assessing the practicality against dwarf custom. He caught the glint of polished metal near her hip – not a sword hilt, something else.
"Only way to move," Brittany replied, her tone clipped, professional. She double-checked the secure fastening on Bilba’s pack. "Less noise. Less weight. More speed." The ghost of Thorin’s word – betrayal – still felt like a cold blade against her ribs, a fresh sting on old, deep scars. She slammed a mental door shut on the memory of Gibbs' averted eyes.
Thorin spun abruptly, his glare sweeping the group like a physical blow. "Enough chatter! We’ve leagues to cover before dusk falls." His voice cracked like ice, daring anyone to object. He didn't spare Brittany a glance, his wounded pride a tangible barrier in the misty air. "Move out. Keep pace or be left behind."
Fíli and Kíli exchanged a look, hoisting their weapons. "Right behind you, Uncle," Kíli offered, his usual grin absent. The others shifted, the jingle of harnesses and creak of leather breaking the tense quiet. Bombur adjusted his vast pack with a sigh.
Brittany placed a steadying hand on Bilba's trembling shoulder. "One step after another, little one," she murmured, her voice losing its edge for the hobbit. "Just walk." Then she looked up, her blue eyes locking with Dwalin's watchful gaze as he fell into step beside her. Her expression was unreadable, a mask of pure focus settling over features that could shift from gentle to lethal in a heartbeat. The road ahead vanished into grey mist, uncertain and cold. Dwalin matched her stride, the damp earth silent beneath their feet.
Dwalin matched her stride, the damp earth silent beneath their feet. Mist coiled around their ankles, thickening as they left the Shire's soft hills behind, the air tasting of wet pine and cold stone. Thorin walked ahead like a storm cloud, his rigid back radiating fury that cut through the chill.
"Are we quite certain about skipping elevenses?" Bilba whispered, stumbling slightly on a root, her voice tight with anxiety. "It’s just… tradition, you see."
Brittany scanned the shadowed tree line, her posture loose but radiating coiled alertness. "Tradition won’t fill your belly if we’re caught by Orcs, Bilba. Focus on the path." Her hand rested lightly on the worn leather grip of a concealed blade at her hip, not the sword strapped to her back.
Dwalin grunted, adjusting his own axe harness. "She's got the right of it, Master Baggins. Quiet steps save loud fights." He watched Brittany’s profile; her eyes constantly tracked movement in the periphery, missing nothing, like a hawk surveying a field. Thorin’s pace abruptly quickened, forcing the trailing dwarves to scramble, their gear clattering in protest.
"Uncle, the pace!" Fíli called out, breath already frosting in the air.
Thorin didn’t slow, didn’t turn. "Keep up or be left to the wolves," he snarled, the words sharp as flint shards. Brittany’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but her gaze never wavered from the dense woods crowding the narrowing path. The mist clung thicker now, muffling sound, turning the world grey and close.
Suddenly, rough figures melted from the trees ahead, blocking the path, crude blades glinting dully. "Well, well," rasped the largest, a greasy man with broken teeth, "looks like rich pickin's stumbled our way." He leered at Bilba. "Give us yer gold, little rabbit, and maybe we won’t skin ya for stew."
Kíli’s bow was half-drawn, Fíli’s sword clearing its scabbard, Dwalin’s axe rising with a warrior’s instinct—but they were all a fraction too slow. Brittany moved. One moment she was beside Dwalin; the next, she was there, a blur of motion. A sharp crack echoed as the greasy man’s head snapped sideways, his leer vanishing into stunned agony as blood sprayed from his shattered nose, her fist a pale flash. Before his knees even buckled, her boot swept his legs out from under him. She stood over him, the borrowed dwarf-knife in her hand suddenly pressed against his throat, her voice colder than the mist. "Call off your mongrels. Now. Or I carve you a second smile." The remaining highwaymen froze, eyes wide with primal fear.
The greasy man whimpered, warm blood slick on his chin, his eyes rolling white. "B-back!" he gurgled, a wet, desperate rasp. "Get back, you fools!" His companions stumbled backwards, blades lowering, faces drained of bravado. The metallic tang of blood mixed sharply with the damp forest air.
Brittany didn't move the knife. "Drop them." Her voice, low and flat, brooked no argument. Rusty swords and a single bent dagger clattered onto the wet leaves. "Turn around. Walk. Don't stop until you taste saltwater." Her knuckles were white on the knife handle. The man beneath her nodded frantically, a terrified jerk of his head. She eased the pressure, just enough to let him scramble up, clutching his ruined face, his cronies already vanishing into the mist.
He staggered after them, a broken shadow swallowed by the grey. Silence crashed down, louder than the scuffle. Bilba trembled violently beside Dwalin, her knuckles pressed to her mouth. Kíli slowly lowered his bow, his mouth hanging open. Fíli swallowed hard, the fire gone from his eyes. Bombur’s breath wheezed out in a shaky puff. Dwalin’s gaze remained locked on Brittany, tracking the controlled fury ebbing from her frame as she wiped the blade clean on a patch of moss, her movements precise, economical.
She slid the knife back into her boot sheath without a glance at Thorin, who stood rigid a few paces away, his expression unreadable granite. "Right," she stated, her voice regaining its usual level tone, though slightly rougher. She placed a steadying hand on Bilba’s shoulder, shielding her from the sight of the trampled ground where the bandit had lain. "Everyone intact?" The question was practical, directed at the stunned company.
Thorin finally moved, stepping forward, his boots crunching deliberately on the wet ground near the discarded weapons. He stopped a few feet from Brittany. His dark eyes, hard as flint, met her cool blue gaze. A muscle pulsed in his jaw. He didn't thank her. Didn't acknowledge the threat neutralized. "Waste no more time," he growled, his voice grating. He kicked one of the abandoned swords aside with contempt. "Move." He turned abruptly, starting down the path again, his stride fierce and uncompromising. The unspoken tension crackled, thicker than the mist. Dwalin watched Thorin pull ahead, then glanced back at Brittany guiding Bilba, her profile stark against the grey woods. Her secrets felt heavier than any pack.