Chapter 5: The River's Omen
The Ford of Bruinen glittered under the late afternoon sun, its gentle current a deceptive barrier. The dwarves clustered on the grassy bank, scratching beards and eyeing the water warily. "Looks shallow enough," Gloin muttered, prodding the pebbly edge with a boot.
"Looks can drown fools," Thorin rumbled, scanning the far bank where the path disappeared into deepening woods. "We cross carefully. Two abreast, brace against the current." He began issuing orders, his voice clipped. Ori fumbled nervously with his pack straps.
Bilba Baggins shuffled her feet, peering at the water with visible apprehension. "Oh dear, it seems rather... brisk." She remembered the icy chill of the Brandywine all too well.
Brittany, her long blonde hair tied back practically, observed the hobbit's discomfort. "Hobbits sink like stones in current," she stated matter-of-factly, stepping beside Bilba. Before the hobbit could protest, Brittany effortlessly scooped her up, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back. Bilba squeaked in surprise.
"Mind the pack!" Bilba gasped, clinging to Brittany’s neck as the tall woman strode into the river without hesitation. The cool water swirled around Brittany’s thighs, soaking her worn trousers, but her steps remained solid, unerring on the slippery stones beneath. The dwarves watched, momentarily silenced.
Dwalin, already knee-deep beside Thorin, grunted. "Strong as she looks," he observed, his eyes tracking Brittany’s steady progress. The memory of her flashing knife and cold warning in Bag End's kitchen – one wrong word, and I'll serve your tongues as tonight's appetizer – flashed in his mind, tempering any doubt about her capability.
Thorin merely nodded, his expression unreadable but his gaze sharp. He’d seen warriors falter at far lesser tasks. Brittany reached the opposite bank, setting Bilba down gently on dry grass. The hobbit smoothed her waistcoat, flustered but relieved. "Thank you, Miss Brittany! That was... efficient."
Brittany offered a small, almost imperceptible smirk back towards the dwarves still crossing. "You're welcome, Bilba. Just ensuring the menu stays... varied." Her eyes held a spark of dark amusement that made Bombur, wading nearby, swallow hard and pick up his pace. Dwalin huffed a sound that might have been the beginning of a laugh, quickly suppressed. Trust, he mused, watching her wring water from her sleeve, was a strange thing found in strange currents. The path east awaited.
The path east awaited. Kíli grinned, nudging Fíli as they splashed into the shallows after Thorin and Dwalin. "Race you to the other side, brother!" Fíli laughed, already pushing ahead into the deeper, faster channel near the center. The smooth, algae-slick stones betrayed them simultaneously. One boot slid, then the other. Arms windmilling wildly, they pitched sideways into the main flow with startled yelps swallowed by the churn.
The current seized them instantly, pulling them under and downstream with shocking force. "KÍLI! FILI!" Thorin's roar cracked across the water, raw panic stripping away his usual stern control. He lunged, boots skidding on submerged rock, eyes wide with primal fear. Dwalin was already moving, powerful legs churning against the drag, his axe strap forgotten as he dove towards the swirling spot where blond and dark heads briefly surfaced, gasping.
Brittany moved before thought, a blur of soaked fabric and determined muscle. She plunged into the icy torrent downstream of the flailing princes, bracing herself against a large, half-submerged boulder, ignoring the numbing cold. Her focus narrowed to the two forms tumbling towards her, arms reaching instinctively. She snagged Fíli's collar as he swept past, the force nearly wrenching her arm from its socket. Using the boulder as an anchor, she hauled him sideways, shoving him towards the shallower, slower water near the bank Dwalin was frantically reaching from.
Kíli, choking on water, was swept past her position. Brittany pushed off the rock, throwing herself bodily downstream after him, her powerful strokes cutting through the churn. She snaked an arm around his chest just before the current could drag him under a fallen log. Planting her boots firmly on the gravel bed, she dug in, muscles straining against the insistent pull, water surging past her waist. Step by agonizing step, she hauled the sputtering dwarf backwards towards safety.
Dwalin met her halfway, grabbing Kíli under the arms, his face etched with fierce relief. Together they dragged the coughing prince onto the muddy bank. Thorin crashed through the shallows, grabbing Fíli and pulling him the last few feet, his hands trembling as he checked his nephews. Brittany stood dripping, pushing wet blonde hair from her face, her breathing steady despite the exertion. She offered Thorin a flat look as he clutched his gasping nephews. "You dropped these." Her tone was casual, almost bored, but her eyes held a flicker of the same dark promise they had in Bilbo’s kitchen. Thorin’s gaze met hers, the fear in his eyes slowly hardening into something else entirely.
Thorin’s gaze met hers, the fear in his eyes slowly hardening into something else entirely: a grudging, undeniable respect tinged with residual anger – mostly at himself. He gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod towards Brittany, the gesture stiff but deliberate. "You have my thanks," he stated, his voice rough as he pulled Kíli upright, checking him over again with brusque efficiency. "And my nephews' lives."
"Just doing my duty," Brittany replied flatly, wringing more water from her thick blonde hair, her gaze drifting back to the deceptive sparkle of the Bruinen. The river flowed on, indifferent.
Kíli coughed violently, spitting out river water and gasping. "Tasted... better than Bombur's turnip stew," he rasped, managing a weak, lopsided grin that didn't quite reach his terrified eyes.
Fíli, shivering beside him, punched his brother’s arm feebly. "Speak for yourself." He looked up at Brittany, genuine awe mixing with his lingering fear. "That current... you pulled like a draft horse."
"Stronger, likely," Dwalin rumbled, clapping a heavy, reassuring hand on Fíli’s shoulder. He studied Brittany, his usual gruff skepticism replaced by open appraisal. "Never seen anyone anchor like that against a mountain stream's pull. Not even Thorin."
Thorin shot him a sharp look but didn't contradict him. "Enough chatter. We've lost time." He scanned the company, soaked and shaken on the eastern bank. "Check your gear. Dry what you can while there's sun. We move in ten minutes." His command brooked no argument, though his eyes lingered on his nephews, ensuring they were truly steady.
Bilba wrung out the hem of her skirt, her face pale but composed. "Quite the unexpected bath," she murmured, trying to sound brave. Ori offered her a damp handkerchief.
Brittany simply adjusted the strap of her pack, her movements economical. The chill breeze raised gooseflesh on her wet forearms, but she ignored it. Her expression remained unreadable, but a flicker of something – perhaps awareness of Thorin's shifted regard – passed through her eyes before vanishing. "Any deeper and we'd be fishing for boots instead of princes," she observed drily.
Dwalin chuckled, a low, gravelly sound. "Aye. Lucky for them Bombur didn't fall in. We'd never get him unstuck from the mud." He stomped his own boots, sending water droplets flying, then glanced meaningfully at Brittany's steady hands. "Good work, lass."
Bombur, overhearing, patted his stomach nervously. "I’m quite secure on dry land, thank you." He sighed, looking mournfully at his sodden provisions bag. "Though the seed cakes are likely ruined."
"Priorities, Bombur," Bofur grinned, clapping him on the back. "We're alive. Mostly dry will come later." He shot a quick, grateful look at Brittany, who was already scanning the treeline ahead, her posture alert and ready.
Thorin watched her too, his earlier assessment solidified. This woman was more than unexpected aid; she was formidable. "Pack up," he ordered again, his voice carrying across the bank. The sun dipped lower, casting long, damp shadows. "Night won't wait." He shouldered his own wet pack, his gaze fixed eastward, the near-disaster adding a grim layer to their purpose. Bombur's stomach growled, loud and plaintive in the sudden quiet.
Bombur's stomach growled, loud and plaintive in the sudden quiet. Brittany ignored it, her focus instantly snapping to the two dripping princes shivering on the muddy bank. "Sit," she ordered, her voice flat but leaving no room for argument as she knelt beside Kíli.
She tilted his chin up, her fingers pressing firmly but not harshly against the pulse point on his neck. Her other hand pressed against his soaked tunic, feeling the rapid, shallow lift of his ribs beneath. "Deep breath," she commanded, leaning in close to listen to his chest, ignoring the river water dripping from her hair onto his shoulder.
Fíli tried to wave her off. "We're fine, really, just wet—" A sudden, sharp cough cut him off, rattling deep in his chest. Brittany’s head whipped around, her piercing blue eyes locking onto him. "You," she pointed, her tone brooking no argument. "Quiet. Now."
Bilba hovered nervously at Brittany's elbow, wringing her hands. "Are they alright? Truly?" She reached out, her small hand briefly touching Brittany's soaked sleeve as if seeking reassurance.
"Lungs sound clear," Brittany murmured after listening intently to Kíli, ignoring Fíli’s attempt at bravado. "No fluid yet. But you," she shifted to Fíli, placing a hand firmly over his sternum as another cough threatened. "That’s not good. Deep, slow breaths. Force them." She watched his lips, noting the faint bluish tinge around the edges despite the cold.
Thorin loomed over them, his own fear momentarily overriding his pride. "What is it? Speak plainly." His knuckles were white where they gripped his sword belt.
"Secondary drowning," Brittany stated, her gaze never leaving Fíli’s effortful breathing. "Water in the lungs. Can sneak up later. His oxygen is borderline." She pulled a small, unfamiliar pouch from her own dripping pack. "Lean forward, Fíli." From the pouch, she extracted a smooth, polished stone that glowed faintly amber.
Dwalin grunted, watching intently. "Elf trickery?" His tone held wary curiosity, not accusation.
"Better than drowning trickery," Brittany shot back, pressing the warm stone firmly against Fíli’s upper back. "Hold this here," she instructed Bilba, guiding the hobbit's small hand to the stone’s position. "Don’t let him slump."
A soft, resonant hum emanated from the stone. Fíli gasped, then drew in a deeper, easier breath, the blue tinge receding from his lips. The harsh rattle in his chest softened. Kíli watched wide-eyed, suddenly looking younger than his years.
"Better?" Brittany’s question was clipped, professional.
"Much," Fíli rasped, genuine relief washing over his face as the stone’s warmth seeped into his core. "Feels... clearer."
"Good." Brittany’s posture relaxed a fraction, the immediate crisis averted. She retrieved the stone, its glow fading. "Keep him moving, not resting. Walk slowly." She stood, water dripping from her clothes. "Let's move."
The sodden company trudged east along the muddy path, the fading sunlight doing little to warm their wet clothes. Muffled curses about soaked socks and chafing boots punctuated the squelching rhythm of their footsteps. Brittany kept pace easily beside Bilba, her gaze constantly scanning the deepening shadows beneath the trees, her posture alert even while dripping.
Fíli walked between Thorin and Dwalin, his breathing easier but still producing a faint, wet rasp. "Breathe through your nose," Brittany instructed without turning around, her voice cutting through the damp air. "Slowly. Like blowing out a candle."
Thorin shot her a sharp look but nudged Fíli gently. "Do as she says, lad." Concern tightened his features, a stark contrast to his usual stern mask. The image of his nephews being swept away was still raw.
Dwalin walked slightly behind Brittany, his eyes fixed on the way her wet tunic clung to the powerful muscles of her back, the long blonde braid dripping down her spine. He remembered the sheer, unyielding strength she’d shown anchoring against the current. "That stone," he rumbled, catching up slightly. "Not a dwarf craft."
"Does it matter?" Brittany asked flatly, her eyes still on the treeline. "It worked."
"Aye." Dwalin conceded, his gruff tone thoughtful. "Just... unexpected." He fell silent again, noting how she carried her soaked pack as if it weighed nothing, the way her stride never faltered on the uneven ground. There was a coiled readiness in her, a stillness that felt more predatory than weary.
Bilba shivered violently beside her. "I fear I might never be warm again," she whispered, teeth chattering. "Or dry."
Brittany slowed, pulling a compact, watertight pouch from inside her jacket – a remnant from another world. She shook out a thin, silver-grey emergency blanket. "Wrap this," she ordered, handing it to the hobbit. "Tuck it close."
"Oh!" Bilba fumbled with the crinkling material. "Thank you, truly. It feels... strange. But warm!"
Kíli, walking just ahead, glanced back, his usual bravado dimmed. "Got another one of those? Fíli could—"
"Fíli is walking," Brittany interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument. "He needs the movement. The blanket traps cold if you're still." She scanned the darkening path ahead, her expression hardening. "We stop soon. Real fire. Dry gear."
Thorin grunted agreement, his own discomfort evident. "Agreed. Watch the tree line. Troll country isn't far." He adjusted his grip on his wet sword hilt, the worn leather slick. The wet wool smell and the rhythmic squelch of boots were the only constants in the deepening gloom. Dwalin saw Brittany’s hand drift subtly towards the hilt of her own concealed blade, her eyes like chips of ice in the twilight. That stillness deepened. Something was out there.
The unnatural stillness beneath the trees clamped down, thick and sudden. Every dwarf froze mid-step, hands instinctively tightening on weapons, breath held. Even the birdsong choked off.
Brittany didn't flinch; her head tilted slightly, listening to the silence itself. "Deeper in," she murmured, her voice barely disturbing the heavy air, her knuckles white on the hilt beneath her damp cloak.
The warmth hit Dwalin then, not from the fading sun, but radiating from her proximity – a sudden, unexpected heat blooming in his own chest, sharp as a forge-fire’s breath. It wasn't just the near-drowning, or her strength against the river. It was the terrifying, deep-rooted rightness settling over him like an anvil. He shifted, unsettled, the unfamiliar sensation warring with the immediate threat. His gaze locked onto her tense back, the line of her jaw set against the shadows. Mahal’s hammer, what is this?
They pushed on, finding a defensible hollow just off the path as dusk bled into true night. A small fire crackled reluctantly, fighting the damp air, casting long, dancing shadows. Dwarves huddled close, drying cloaks steaming, the silence punctuated only by the crackle of flames and Fíli’s faintly rattling breaths. Brittany moved silently on the perimeter, a shadow among shadows, her senses seemingly stretched into the dark beyond the firelight. She paused near Dwalin’s watch post, her profile stark against the gloom.
He cleared his throat, low and rough. "Saw nothing yet." The heat flared again, insistent, making his pulse skip.
"Doesn't mean nothing’s not there," she replied, her gaze sweeping the treeline. "Stay sharp." She moved on, the warmth receding with her, leaving a strange hollow.
Later, under the indifferent stars, Dwalin stood watch beside Balin. The older dwarf was methodically cleaning his pipes. The unsettling warmth Brittany had ignited hadn't faded; it simmered low, a constant thrum beneath his ribs. He stared into the dark, jaw clenched. "Balin," he began, the word heavy, reluctant.
"Aye, brother?" Balin didn't look up, sensing the weight in Dwalin's tone.
"That woman... Brittany." Dwalin struggled, unused to naming the feeling clawing inside him. "When she’s near... it’s like... the Forge’s heart." He couldn't bring himself to say the ancient words, the ghivashel bond. "A heat. Deep inside. Settling."
Balin paused, pipe stem halfway to his lips. He turned, his wise eyes sharp in the dim firelight, studying Dwalin's troubled face. He didn't scoff. "A warmth that roots?" he asked quietly, the question hanging heavy in the night air. Before Dwalin could confirm, a distant, guttural roar shattered the silence, echoing from the woods ahead – deep, stupid, and terribly hungry. Trolls.
The guttural roar shook the leaves. Silence, thick and sudden, fell over the hollow. Then, crashing. Heavy. Stupid. Getting closer. Wet earth and something rotten filled the air.
Thorin’s sword hissed free. "Trolls! Defensive ring! Protect Bilba!" His voice was a whip-crack.
Dwarves scrambled, forming a bristling circle around the fire and the hobbit, wet cloaks forgotten. Weapons gleamed dully. Bilba pressed herself against Bombur's broad back, eyes wide.
Brittany vanished into the deeper shadow beyond the firelight. A heartbeat later, Dwalin saw movement – a flicker near a massive oak. Where did she—?
Three hulking shapes lumbered into the edge of the firelight, blotting out the trees. Smelled worse than a week-dead warg. Snot dripped from flat noses. "Oi, Bert!" one rumbled, sniffing the air. "Smell that? Not pony. Summat... tasty."
"Shut yer gob, Tom," the largest, Bert, grunted, beady eyes scanning the dwarves. "Lookit all the little armored snacks! An' a wee soft one!" He pointed a grimy finger at Bilba.
Kíli nocked an arrow, hand steady despite his recent drenching. Fíli braced, breathing shallow but determined. Thorin stood like stone, ready.
Tom took a thundering step towards the circle, raising a crude tree-branch club. "Gimme the soft 'un first!"
A dark shape dropped silently from the oak branch above Tom. Brittany landed squarely on his broad, sloping shoulders, knife already a silver flash in the firelight. She drove it deep behind his collarbone, angled downward towards the lung. No scream, just a wet gurgle as the massive troll staggered, flailing.
"Wha—?!" Bert bellowed, swiveling his lumpy head.
Brittany yanked her knife free as Tom collapsed sideways, crashing to the earth. She rolled off the falling body, coming up in a low crouch between Bert and the third troll, William. Her borrowed dwarf axe was suddenly in her other hand, held low and ready. Her expression was utterly calm, focused. Deadly.
"Me brother!" William howled, swinging a massive fist blindly at the spot where Brittany had been. She wasn't there. She darted low, axe blade biting deep into the thick tendon at the back of William’s ankle. He bellowed in pain, stumbling.
The unnatural warmth flared in Dwalin’s chest, fierce as dragonfire now, watching her move – pure, terrifying precision. Not magic. Skill. Ferocious, honed skill. She fought like… like no one he’d ever seen. Bert swung his massive club wildly at her fleeting form, splintering a sapling.
Thorin, seeing the opening Brittany created, roared. "NOW! Attack!" Dwarves surged forward with answering cries, axes and swords swinging, rushing the off-balance William and the enraged Bert.
Brittany, blood dark on her sleeve, snapped her gaze to Dwalin, still momentarily stunned near the fire. "Move!" Her command cut through the din, sharp as her knife. No tremor. Just action required. Immediately.