Chapter 7: The Language Barrier
The crunch of gravel under worn boots marked their progress down the meandering cobblestone path towards Bree. Hills rolled gently on either side, dotted with the unmistakable round doors and colourful gardens of Hobbit-holes, smoke curling lazily from chimneys into the late afternoon air. The scent of pipe tobacco, sweet and earthy, mingled with the fragrance of wildflowers and damp grass. Distant bursts of laughter echoed from unseen gardens.
Brittany walked steadily beside Bilba, the Hobbit lass still looking a bit wide-eyed after the troll encounter, her feet padding softly on the stones. Ahead of them, Fili and Kili strode with a forced cheerfulness that didn't quite mask the lingering shadows under their eyes. "Troll breath," Kili muttered, wrinkling his nose dramatically though the creatures were leagues behind them now. "Think it'll ever come out of my beard, Fee?"
"Only if you actually wash it, brother," Fili retorted, elbowing him lightly. Brittany watched them, her gaze assessing. The bruises from their rough handling were fading, thanks to Oin’s salves and her own discreetly accelerated healing, but the memory clearly lingered. Oin himself stumped along beside them, his healer's bag thumping against his hip, occasionally casting a professional eye over the princes.
Behind them, the main group of dwarves maintained a loose formation. Dwalin walked near Thorin, his gaze frequently flickering towards Brittany and the princes, his expression unreadable beneath the elaborate braids of his beard. Gloin, walking nearby, nudged Bofur and nodded towards Brittany. He spoke low in the guttural, complex sounds of Khuzdul. "See how she watches them? Like a she-wolf guarding cubs. Dwalin chose well. Strong."
"Aye," Bofur agreed in the same tongue, adjusting his hat. "Surprising, for a gabil... an outsider. But she stood fast against the stone-trolls. Held her ground like seasoned rock. Dwalin's mark is clear upon her spirit now." Nori muttered something too low to catch, earning a sharp look from Dori.
Brittany kept her face smooth, her long blonde hair swaying with her stride, pretending deep interest in a passing cluster of foxgloves. Every word, every grunt in the secret dwarf-tongue registered perfectly in her mind - the approval, the lingering surprise at her resilience, the possessive undertone when they spoke of Dwalin's 'claim'. The corner of her mouth threatened to quirk upwards. If only they knew.
Dwalin shifted his weight, his knuckles whitening slightly on the haft of his axe, clearly uncomfortable with the open discussion of his personal life, even in their private language. He shot a glare in Gloin’s direction that promised a future discussion, preferably involving fists. Thorin, walking slightly ahead, remained silent, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, though his shoulders were less rigid than they'd been the day before. The setting sun painted the hills in hues of gold and lavender.
Bilba glanced up at Brittany. "Is it always this... eventful?" she asked quietly, pulling her waistcoat tighter.
Brittany chuckled softly. "This? This is practically a stroll in the park, Bilba. Just wait." She gestured ahead as the path crested a small rise. The first twinkling lights of Bree-town appeared in the distance, nestled in its protective hill, promising rest and, hopefully, a hot meal at the Prancing Pony. Dwalin quickened his pace to walk beside her as they descended the slope towards the town gate, the dwarven chatter fading into a wary silence as civilization loomed.
Dwalin quickened his pace to walk beside her as they descended the slope towards the town gate, the dwarven chatter fading into a wary silence as civilization loomed. The heavy oak gates of Bree, studded with iron, seemed to swallow the path ahead, guarded by watchful, shadowed figures atop the worn stone walls. A low murmur drifted out, the mingled sounds of carts, livestock, and many voices, thick with the smell of woodsmoke, roasting meat, and unwashed humanity. "Keep close," Dwalin rumbled, his voice barely audible, his hand resting near the axe handle tucked conspicuously under his travel cloak. His nearness was a solid, grounding warmth against the evening chill and the unknown ahead.
Behind them, Gloin chuckled quietly, nudging Bofur again. "Baruf sa," he muttered in Khuzdul, "Azaghâl kurdu mahal menu. Trussed tighter than a prize boar for market." Bofur stifled a snort, adjusting his hat lower over his eyes as if studying the cobbles. "Kazad rukhs astû," he agreed conspiratorially. "He found his fire-mountain. Burns bright enough to blind him." Dori hissed a warning shush, glancing nervously towards the gate guards.
Brittany kept her gaze forward, her expression neutral, but the corners of her lips tightened almost imperceptibly. Trussed up? Fire-mountain? The imagery was vivid, if not particularly flattering. She resisted the urge to elbow Dwalin, whose own jaw clenched, clearly catching the gist despite not hearing every word. Thorin shot a single, sharp glance backwards, a silent command that instantly silenced the whispered Khuzdul gossip. His blue eyes scanned the gate towers, calculating, distrustful. The guards shifted, peering down at the unusual group approaching – a tall woman, a Hobbit, and thirteen heavily armed dwarves.
Oh, this is priceless, Saphira's rich, amused voice resonated suddenly in Brittany's mind, a sound like stones tumbling in a deep stream. The gruff warrior shadowing you like a lost pup, while his kin discuss his... ardent affections in a language they think is secret. Mortals and their courting rituals. Utterly primitive, yet strangely endearing. The ancient dragon's mental chuckle vibrated faintly. Do try not to let them start brawling over you before we even get inside. It would spoil the atmosphere.
Dwalin stepped slightly in front of Brittany as they reached the deep shadow of the gate arch, his broad shoulders blocking her partially from the guards' view. "State your business," a rough voice called down, tinged with suspicion.
Thorin shouldered forward, his deep voice cutting through the clamor. "Travelers seeking rest and provisions at the inn." He didn't flinch under the guards' scrutiny, his bearing radiating authority despite the road dust. "Merchant escort, bound for the eastern markets." A half-truth, smooth and believable.
The guard leaned over the parapet, lantern light glinting off a chipped tooth. "Merchants, eh? Lot of armed 'merchants'." His eyes lingered on the axes barely concealed beneath cloaks, on the sheer number of them. "Bit late in the day for honest trade."
"Long roads breed caution," Thorin countered, his tone hardening a fraction. "The Pony expects us." He held the man's gaze, unyielding. The silence stretched, thick with the smell of damp stone, stale beer, and unwashed bodies drifting from within.
"Two silvers per head," the guard finally grunted, spitting over the wall. "Gate tax." A blatant shakedown. Bofur muttered something foul in Khuzdul about greedy badgers digging in the wrong holes. Dwalin’s fingers twitched near his axe, a low growl rumbling in his chest barely audible to anyone but Brittany standing close.
Brittany felt the tension coil in the air like a spring. She subtly shifted her weight, ready. Thorin didn't react to the Khuzdul insult, merely reached into his coin pouch with deliberate slowness. The clink of silver hitting the guard’s lowered bucket was the only sound. "See you cause no trouble," the guard warned, clearly disappointed he couldn't provoke more. The heavy gate creaked open just wide enough for single file.
Dwalin went first, a solid wall of muscle and suspicion, scanning the shadowed tunnel beneath the wall. "Stay sharp," he grunted back at Brittany, his eyes sweeping the dim archway for ambush. She nodded, her own senses extending – not just sight and sound, but an almost predatory awareness honed by countless firefights and darker threats. Bilba pressed close to her side, wide-eyed.
The gate passage swallowed them, damp and echoing with the clatter of their boots. The stench intensified: piss, rotting vegetables, cheap ale, and the metallic tang of old bloodstains on the cobbles. They emerged into a cramped, muddy courtyard choked with carts and milling folk who fell silent, staring at the heavily armed dwarves and the unusually tall woman. Whispers started like dry leaves skittering across stone.
"Keep moving," Thorin commanded, forging a path towards the glow and raucous noise spilling from the inn's doorway down the street. Bifur shouldered aside a burly man who looked ready to comment, his scarred face a silent deterrent. The crowd parted reluctantly.
Dwalin stayed glued to Brittany’s elbow, radiating menace that kept curious hands at bay. Behind them, Gloin’s voice, pitched low in Khuzdul, carried clearly to Brittany's ears: "Baruk Khazâd! See how he shields her? Like she’s mithril in a goblin market." Bofur chuckled, a rough sound. "Told you. Smitten worse than a badger in springtime."
They reached the worn steps of the Prancing Pony. Raucous laughter, the thump of a dropped tankard, and a drunken ballad crashed over them. Warm, yeasty air thick with smoke billowed from the doorway. Dwalin paused, taking a final scan of the chaotic street behind them before meeting Brittany’s eyes. "Ready for this circus, amrâlimê?" His voice was gravelly, a private question laden with unspoken concern. He pushed the door open. The wave of noise, light, and the press of bodies inside hit them like a physical force.
The wave of noise, light, and the press of bodies inside The Prancing Pony hit them like a physical force. Yeasty ale, woodsmoke, unwashed bodies, and roasting meat formed a thick, almost visible fog. Dwalin immediately shouldered forward, creating space around Brittany and Bilba with his sheer bulk, his gaze scanning the crowded, low-beamed common room like a hawk spotting field mice. Rough-looking men, a few weary travelers, and local farmers occupied scarred tables; conversation dipped noticeably as thirteen dwarves, a tall woman, and a Hobbit pushed in.
"Find a corner," Thorin commanded over the din, his voice cutting through the chatter like a knife. "Somewhere defensible." His eyes, hard and assessing, missed nothing – the calculating stares, the hands lingering near belt knives. Bofur spotted a large table near the back wall, partially shielded by a worn tapestry depicting a confused-looking horse. "Over there!" he yelled, already weaving through the press.
They moved as a unit, dwarves instinctively forming a protective cordon, shields subtly angled outward. Bilba clung to Brittany's sleeve, looking utterly overwhelmed. "It's... loud," she whispered, flinching as a drunkard banged his tankard on the table. "Smells like my Uncle Bingo's cellar after a very bad year." Brittany gave her arm a reassuring squeeze, her own senses cataloging exits, potential threats, the weight of hidden weapons on nearby patrons. Her Marine training kicked in automatically, hyper-aware.
Dwalin stayed plastered to her side, his knuckles white on his axe haft beneath his cloak. He guided her firmly towards the claimed table, his shoulder deliberately bumping a gawking man who stumbled back. "Watch yer step," Dwalin growled, the low rumble promising worse than a stumble. The man paled and melted into the crowd.
As they settled onto benches, the wood groaning under dwarven weight, Gloin leaned towards Bofur, his voice a conspiratorial murmur in Khuzdul. "Baruf sa zhantulmenu. See how he herds her? Like precious ore through a goblin den." Bofur grinned into his ale, already procured by Nori. "Aye. More protective than a dragon on its gold. Poor sod hasn't blinked since the gate." Dwalin shifted uncomfortably, catching the tone if not every word, his ears reddening above his braided beard.
Thorin ignored the commentary, signaling a harried barmaid. "Ale. Food. Lots of it." He scanned the room again, his expression grim. "We need information. And a wizard who can't be bothered to arrive on time."
The harried barmaid scurried off towards the kitchens, dodging a swaying patron. Thorin drummed thick fingers on the scarred tabletop, his gaze fixed on the inn’s main entrance like he could summon Gandalf by will alone. "Late. Always late when inconvenient," he grumbled, the low vibration of his voice cutting through the surrounding din.
Dwalin shifted beside Brittany, his shoulder a solid pressure against her arm as he scanned the room again. His usual stoic expression was tight, alert, eyes flicking from shadowed corner to boisterous group. "Place crawls with cutpurses and informants," he muttered, low enough only for her. "Keep yer wits sharp."
Behind them, the Khuzdul whispers resumed, Gloin’s voice a conspiratorial rasp. "See? Barely an inch between 'em. Practically fused at the hip since the Trollshaws. Dwalin’s lost his wits entirely." Bofur chuckled into his quickly acquired ale. "Lost? Nay. Buried 'em deep under that mountain of muscle. Poor sod’s drowning, not waving."
Brittany kept her face neutral, focusing on the sticky grain of the wooden table. A flicker of genuine amusement warmed her, shared instantly across her mental link. Drowning, Saphira? More like perpetually face-planted into a particularly ample pillow, the dragon's rich mental voice purred, thick with dry mirth. The sheer, oblivious devotion is… charming. Especially considering the altitude difference places his nose precisely at D-cup level during these protective shuffles.
Brittany choked back a laugh, turning it into a cough, her shoulders shaking slightly. The image was absurdly vivid. Bilba patted her arm, concerned. "Dusty in here, isn't it?" she offered sympathetically. Dwalin glanced sharply at Brittany, suspicion warring with concern in his dark eyes before snapping back to the room.
The inn door suddenly crashed open, banging against the stone wall. Every head swiveled. Framed in the doorway, backlit by the fading twilight, stood not Gandalf, but three hulking, rough-clad Men. Their eyes, hard and assessing, swept the crowded room before landing unerringly on the cluster of dwarves. The leader, his nose a flattened ruin, grinned, revealing several missing teeth. "Well now," he drawled, his voice slicing through the sudden quiet. "Look what crawled outta the hills." He took a deliberate step inside, his heavy boots thudding on the flagstones, his companions fanning out behind him.
The leader’s grin widened, predatory and cruel, as his gaze locked onto the dwarves. "Heard there was fresh coin come in," he announced, his voice a gravelly sneer that silenced the nearby chatter. His companions, one hulking with thick arms, the other leaner with scarred knuckles, mirrored his leer, hands resting on belt knives.
Dwalin surged upright, his bench scraping harshly against the stone floor, the massive head of his axe glinting as he freed it halfway from its harness. "Back off, maggot," he snarled, the low rumble cutting through the sudden quiet, his body tensed like a coiled spring ready to unleash violence. Thorin’s hand shot out, a silent command for restraint, his own eyes narrowed to icy slits, assessing the threat and potential fallout.
Brittany was already moving, a fluid motion that bypassed the bristling dwarves entirely. "Easy, fellas," she called out, her tone disarmingly light, almost conversational, as she stepped smoothly into the space between the dwarves and the advancing men. She held her hands slightly away from her hips, projecting non-threat, but her stance remained balanced, her weight perfectly distributed on the balls of her feet, ready to pivot. The lead man snorted, his ruined nose wrinkling in contempt as his eyes raked over her height and form. "Out the way, woman. This ain't yer concern," he spat, taking another deliberate step forward, his breath reeking of sour ale and rotten teeth.
"See, that’s where you're mistaken," Brittany replied, her voice dropping to a calm, dangerous register that carried clearly despite the ambient noise. The leaner thug on the right lunged, a clumsy grab aimed at her arm, thinking to shove her aside. Brittany flowed with the motion, redirecting his momentum with a subtle twist of her hips and shoulder, sending him stumbling face-first into the sticky edge of a neighboring table with a grunt of surprise and pain. Before the leader could react, she closed the distance with deceptive speed, her hand snapping out not with brute force, but with pinpoint precision.
Her knuckles drove hard into the soft nerve cluster just below his ear. A choked gasp escaped him, his eyes rolling back as his legs buckled; he dropped like a sack of rocks, unconscious before he hit the filthy floorboards. The hulking man roared, swinging a meaty fist the size of a ham towards her head. Brittany ducked under it effortlessly, the air whistling where her face had been, and drove a sharp, rising elbow strike up under his ribcage. The breath exploded from his lungs in a pained whoosh.
Before he could recover, she hooked her foot behind his ankle and shoved his massive chest, using his own momentum against him. He crashed backwards, landing heavily on his stunned companion by the table, a tangle of limbs and groans. Brittany stepped back smoothly, barely winded, the entire confrontation resolved in a handful of precise, economical movements. She turned slightly, her gaze meeting Thorin’s assessing stare, then flicking to Dwalin, whose axe was still half-drawn, his expression caught between fierce pride and profound shock. The silence in the common room was absolute now, broken only by the groans of the three men on the floor. Dwalin slowly, deliberately, slid his axe back into its harness, his eyes never leaving Brittany. Thorin gave a single, curt nod, his expression unreadable but undoubtedly recalibrating.
The stunned silence curdled. Spilled ale dripped onto the unconscious thug’s face, mixing with the thin trickle of blood from his ruined nose. Thorin’s curt nod wasn’t praise; it was tactical reassessment. He scanned the room, gauging if this display invited more trouble. "Get them out," he commanded lowly, jerking his chin towards the groaning pile of muscle near the table leg. Bifur and Bofur moved swiftly, hauling the stunned men towards the door like sacks of dirty laundry, ignoring the indignant sputters.
Dwalin hadn’t moved an inch, rooted beside Brittany. His eyes, wide and dark with something far beyond shock, raked over her – the relaxed stance, the unnerving lack of exertion, the precise economy of the violence she’d unleashed. "Mahal's hammer," he breathed, the Khuzdul oath rough with disbelief, his knuckles still white where they gripped his concealed axe. He hadn’t even drawn it fully. The sheer, terrifying efficiency of her dismantling those men resonated deep in his warrior’s bones.
Gloin leaned across the sticky table, his whisper in Khuzdul sharp. "Baruf! Did you see that? Moved like... like water finding cracks!" Beside him, Bofur whistled softly, a tremor of awe in his usually jovial tone. "Water? More like lightning wrapped in silk. Dwalin, yer woman fights like a demon woken early." Dwalin visibly flinched at the words "yer woman," his gaze snapping to Brittany’s face, a fierce possessiveness warring with profound confusion. He hadn’t seen skill like that outside a dwarven master-at-arms, and never in such a frame.
Brittany met his stare calmly, offering the faintest, almost imperceptible shrug. Oh, he’s definitely reassessing the pillow situation, Saphira chuckled internally, the sound like rocks grinding in amusement. Probably wondering if cuddling requires armor now.
The tavern’s murmur resumed, a cautious, wary hum now, eyes darting away when Brittany’s gaze swept past. Bilba clutched her sleeve, trembling slightly. "That was... quick," she managed, her voice thin. Before Brittany could respond, the heavy door swung open again, revealing not more thugs, but the worn hat and suddenly very alert face of Gandalf the Grey, his staff thumping decisively on the threshold. "Well," his deep voice boomed, cutting through the lingering tension, "it seems I missed some excitement." His keen eyes took in the scene: the wary crowd, the dwarves poised, Dwalin looming protectively over Brittany, and Thorin’s expression, stony but calculating. "Shall we adjourn to somewhere marginally less... fragrant?"