Chapter 8: A Warrior's Principles
The thick smell of hops and roasting meat hit them as they pushed through The Prancing Pony's heavy door, the raucous noise inside momentarily overwhelming after the quiet Shire road. Dwalin immediately shouldered his way towards a large, scarred table near the fire, his eyes scanning the room like a hawk. Brittany lingered near the entrance, subtly positioning herself to keep the young princes, Fili and Kili, in her sightline as they jostled good-naturedly with Bilba about the merits of mushroom pie versus mutton stew. Oin stomped past, muttering about needing a proper pint after dealing with "over-excitable hobbit lads" all morning.
The sudden scrape of boots on the flagstones drew her attention. Three watchmen, their chainmail jingling, flanked a flushed, sweating man in a stained apron – the tavernkeeper. They approached Brittany directly, their expressions a mixture of relief and wary respect. The tavernkeeper wrung his hands, his voice trembling slightly. "Milady... we owe you a debt. Those ruffians you... dealt with... they've been terrorizing the road near Archet for months. Wanted for robbery and worse." He gestured towards the watch captain.
"Aye," the captain grunted, his eyes assessing her tall frame and steady gaze with open curiosity. "Sticky business that. We've had descriptions, but they always slipped the net. Till you snared 'em neat as you please. Sharp work." He reached into a pouch at his belt, pulling out a small, clinking leather bag. "There's a bounty posted. Ten silver pennies. Yours, by rights."
All nearby conversation hushed. Brittany felt the weight of the entire company's stares, particularly the intense, dark gaze from Dwalin across the room. Thorin watched from the bar, his expression inscrutable. She looked at the proffered coin, then squarely at the captain and the tavernkeeper. Her voice, calm and carrying, cut through the expectant silence. "Keep it." A collective murmur rippled through the watching patrons. "Nobody should ever think acting like that is okay. Payment isn't the point." She gave a small, decisive nod, turning her back on the surprised officials to rejoin her companions. Dwalin smirked into his tankard, a low rumble in Khuzdul reaching her ears. "Told you she had stone in her spine." Thorin simply gave the barest nod, his eyes thoughtful.
The tavern’s buzz returned, louder now, peppered with curious glances thrown Brittany’s way. "Ten silver pennies just... left on the table?" Fili asked, sliding onto the bench beside her, his youthful face alight with disbelief mixed with admiration. "You could've bought a lot of pipe-weed with that." He nudged Kili, who grinned.
Brittany shrugged, accepting the steaming bowl of stew Bombur slid towards her. "Money’s not the point, Fili. Letting thugs think terrorizing folks pays?" She took a deliberate spoonful, the rich gravy warming her. "Bad precedent."
Kili leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Still. Ten silver. That took stones." He glanced meaningfully towards the door where the watchmen had departed.
From across the table, Fili muttered under his breath in the guttural tones of Khuzdul, clearly confident she couldn't understand. "Adad would say she's either mad or made of tougher stuff than mithril." He poked at his own stew.
Kili snorted softly, replying in their secret tongue. "Tougher stuff, obviously. Did you see her move back on the road? Like water flowing over stone. Fast." He stole a glance at Brittany, who kept her expression neutral, focusing on Bilba discussing the merits of seed cakes nearby.
"Still, reckless," Fili insisted quietly. "Turning down coin we could use? Thorin’s brow hasn’t unfurled since."
"Maybe she doesn’t need it," Kili countered, his eyes flicking to the impossibly fine, practical weave of her tunic, a subtle contrast to their own travel-worn clothes. "Or maybe she just knows what’s right."
Brittany pretended to be engrossed in Bilba’s description of Old Took’s legendary birthday fireworks, while absorbing every word. The loyalty, the practicality, the underlying wariness – it was all laid bare in their private exchange. Dwalin watched the princes, a thoughtful frown deepening the lines around his eyes. Thorin remained by the bar, nursing his ale, his gaze occasionally drifting back to their table, weighing, assessing.
Bilba, sensing the shift, patted Brittany's arm. "Right then. Who fancies checking if they have any decent cheese before we settle the bill? All this talk of thievery has quite unsettled my appetite." She stood, smoothing her waistcoat. The moment hung, charged with unspoken thoughts, before the practicalities of the road beckoned once more.
The moment hung, charged with unspoken thoughts, before the practicalities of the road beckoned once more. "Cheese sounds excellent, Bilba," Brittany agreed, pushing back her bench and standing to her full height, stretching subtly. Her movement drew Dwalin over, his heavy boots thudding on the worn floorboards as he came to stand beside her, needing to discuss watch rotations.
Kili, still seated and picking at a crust of bread, watched them. A sudden, mischievous grin split his face as his gaze flickered between the top of Dwalin’s furrowed brow and the level it reached on Brittany’s form. He elbowed Fili hard in the ribs, nearly making him choke on his ale.
"Oi! What?" Fili sputtered, wiping his chin.
Kili leaned close, his voice a conspiratorial whisper barely audible over the tavern din, but clear to Brittany’s sharp ears. "Look at Dwalin," he snickered in Khuzdul, using the familiar term for their gruff mentor. "Right at..." He gestured subtly with his chin towards Brittany’s chest, his grin widening. "Boob height. Perfect alignment. Never noticed before." He muffled a laugh into his tankard.
Fili’s eyes widened, darting between Dwalin’s oblivious, scowling profile and the place Kili indicated. He fought down a chuckle of his own, coughing into his fist. "Shut it, nadad," he hissed back in their secret tongue, though a smile tugged at his lips. "He’ll hear you and box your ears clean off. Worth ten silver just to see that." He risked another glance, his shoulders shaking slightly.
Brittany kept her expression perfectly neutral, gazing towards the bar where Bilba was inquiring about cheeses, but a faint warmth crept up her neck. She heard Dwalin grumble beside her about the dubious quality of Bree-land ale, completely unaware his head perfectly aligned with her chest. Thorin, noticing his nephews' stifled mirth and the odd angle of their glances, pushed off from the bar with a low growl, striding towards their table.
Thorin loomed over them, the firelight catching the storm in his eyes. "Something amusing you, sister-sons?" His voice, low and dangerous, instantly silenced their choked laughter.
Fili wiped ale foam from his beard, trying for innocence. "Just... appreciating the décor, Uncle Thorin. Fine craftsmanship on that beam." He gestured vaguely upwards.
Kili nodded too quickly, eyes avoiding Brittany entirely. "Remarkable grain. Very... sturdy."
Dwalin, sensing the sudden tension beside him, shifted subtly, his shoulder brushing Brittany’s arm. He glowered at the princes, a silent warning radiating from his stance. Brittany kept her gaze level on Thorin, her own expression unreadable as pale marble. She heard Fili’s frantic whisper to Kili in Khuzdul, "Khagun thinks we mocked her. We're dead."
Thorin’s gaze swept over them all, lingering on Brittany’s calm face before snapping back to his nephews. "Save your observations for the road ahead," he growled. "We move out within the hour. Provisions secured?"
Bilba bustled back, holding a small, cloth-wrapped parcel. "Got the sharpest cheddar old Butterbur had! Should liven up the journey bread nicely." She beamed, oblivious to the tense tableau.
Brittany offered Bilba a small, genuine smile. "Perfect timing." She turned her attention fully to Thorin. "Our packs are ready. Weapons checked. Just waiting on the final word." Her tone was crisp, professional, cutting through the lingering awkwardness.
Dwalin grunted agreement, his hand resting near the hilt of his axe. "Aye. Ponies fed and watered. Ready to put Bree behind us."
Thorin held Brittany’s gaze for a beat longer, that assessing look returning, before giving a sharp nod. "See that it stays that way. We ride." He turned abruptly, calling orders to the others scattered around the tavern. Dwalin gestured towards the door, his knuckles brushing Brittany’s as they moved to gather their gear.
The heavy oak door banged shut behind them, cutting off the warm fug of pipe smoke and ale, replaced instantly by the damp chill of the Bree twilight. Brittany inhaled the cool air, the lingering scent of horse dung and wet cobblestones sharp in her nose after the tavern’s closeness. Dwalin fell into step beside her, a solid, reassuring presence radiating heat as they moved towards the stables, his shoulder deliberately angled to shield her from the curious stares still following them. Behind, Fili and Kili trudged silently, the earlier amusement replaced by wary tension radiating from Thorin’s stiff back ahead of them.
Bilba fussed with her pony’s girth strap, humming a faint Shire tune oblivious to the dwarven storm brewing. "Right then, all present? No forgotten cheese wheels?" she chirped brightly, patting her pack.
Thorin didn't turn, his voice a low rumble cutting through the stable yard's quiet. "Mount up. We've leagues to cover before moonrise." He swung onto his sturdy pony with practiced ease, his gaze fixed on the eastern road out of town. Dwalin offered Brittany a steadying hand, calloused fingers briefly gripping hers as she vaulted onto her own mount, his touch an unspoken question she answered with a slight nod. The princes scrambled onto their ponies, avoiding everyone's eyes, especially Thorin’s. Kili winced slightly as he settled into the saddle, rubbing his ribs where one of the ruffians had landed a lucky kick earlier.
"Hold up," Brittany said, her voice carrying enough authority to halt Thorin’s gathering reins. She nudged her pony alongside Kili’s. "Show me." Her tone left no room for refusal, the Marine surgeon surfacing amidst the warrior.
Kili flushed, avoiding her eyes. "It’s nothing, really. Just a bruise." He shifted uncomfortably.
"Kid," Brittany countered, her voice softening fractionally, "I saw you wince. Let me look before we're bouncing down a dark path." She held out her hand, palm up, expectant. Reluctantly, Kili pushed aside his tunic, revealing a blossoming purple bruise over his lower ribs. Brittany’s fingers probed gently, expertly. "Tender? Sharp pain breathing deep?" she asked clinically.
"Just... sore," Kili admitted, breathing shallowly. "Like punch."
"No grating. Good." Brittany gave his shoulder a firm, brief pat. "You’ll live. Try not to get kicked again." She pulled a small, unmarked pot of salve from her belt pouch, tossing it to him. "Rub that in when we stop. It’ll help." The faint herbal scent of comfrey and lavender momentarily cut through the stable smells. She glanced at Thorin, who watched the exchange impassively, then nudged her pony back into position beside Bilba and Oin, ready to move. The action felt heavy, layered with things unsaid.
The heavy silence lingered even after they left Bree’s watchful walls, hooves clopping rhythmically on the packed earth road eastward. Twilight deepened, painting the rolling hills in shades of deep blue and indigo, the air growing crisp enough to see their breath. Thorin rode stiffly at the front, a brooding silhouette against the fading light, while Fili and Kili kept their ponies close behind him, unusually subdued after his sharp rebuke. Brittany felt the familiar ache of saddle-sore muscles settling in, a counterpoint to the quiet tension radiating from the dwarves. Beside her, Bilba murmured about the constellations beginning to prick the darkening sky, her voice a soft comfort against the strained atmosphere. Dwalin rode slightly behind Brittany’s other flank, his presence a solid, watchful anchor, occasionally muttering low observations about the terrain’s defensibility to Gloin. They pushed on until the moon, a pale silver coin, rose high enough to cast long, dancing shadows, illuminating a sheltered hollow just off the road, ringed by ancient, gnarled oaks. Thorin finally raised a gauntleted hand, his voice cutting through the night. "We halt here. Fili, Kili, see to the ponies. Bombur, food. Dwalin, perimeter." Orders given, he dismounted heavily, the weariness of leadership etched deep beside the simmering displeasure. The company sprang into practiced motions, the quiet broken by the jingle of harnesses, the snuffle of ponies, and the thud of packs hitting damp ground. A fire was coaxed to life, its crackling warmth and the smell of Bombur starting a simple stew beginning to thaw the chill and the lingering awkwardness. Fili winced as he heaved a saddle off, the bruised ribs Brittany had salved earlier protesting the movement. Kili nudged him, handing over a water skin, their earlier mischief replaced by shared discomfort and a wary glance towards Thorin, who stood gazing into the flames, arms crossed. Bilba bustled near the fire, unpacking her precious Bree cheese with careful reverence. Brittany stretched, rolling her shoulders, the firelight catching the gold in her long hair as she surveyed the camp settling into routine. Dwalin finished his circuit, stomping towards the fire, his shadow merging with Brittany’s as he came to stand beside her, warming his hands. He grunted softly, a sound acknowledging the shared exhaustion, his head naturally tilting up slightly to meet her eyes. From his perch on a log, stirring the stew, Bofur’s eyes crinkled with sudden, impish delight behind his floppy hat. "Well now, Dwalin," Bofur chirped, his voice carrying clearly in the firelit circle, a grin splitting his bearded face. "Just noticed somethin' amusin'. Standin' next to our tall friend here... puts you right at the ideal height for a good view, doesn't it? Perfectly aligned, like.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively towards Brittany’s chest level.
A strangled cough erupted from Kili, quickly muffled by his hand. Fili stared fixedly at a saddle strap he was suddenly very busy adjusting. Dwalin’s head snapped towards Bofur, his expression shifting from weary to thunderous in a heartbeat. "Bofur, you great lumbering oaf!" Dwalin roared, his face flushing dark crimson beneath his tattoos, fists clenching at his sides. "I'll crack your empty skull like a walnut, see if I don't!" He took a menacing step forward, the firelight glinting dangerously in his eyes. Thorin turned slowly from the flames, his gaze freezing Bofur’s grin and halting Dwalin’s advance, the campfire crackle suddenly the loudest sound in the hollow. Brittany remained perfectly still, absorbing the raw embarrassment radiating from Dwalin and the sharp, contained fury in Thorin’s stare.
The crackling fire painted shifting shadows on Dwalin’s furious face and Thorin’s icy glare. Bofur’s grin finally faltered, shrinking under the sudden, suffocating silence that choked the campsite; even the ponies seemed to hold their breath. Brittany took one deliberate step forward, placing herself directly in the firelight’s full glare, her tall frame imposing and utterly calm. The cold night air pressed against flushed skin.
"Oakenshield’s balls, Bofur," she stated flatly, her voice slicing through the silence with perfect, unaccented Khuzdul. "If you’re that fascinated by the view, maybe you should ask nicely instead of sounding like a drunken badger comparing walnuts."
Dead silence. Utterly profound. Every dwarf froze mid-motion – Bombur stopped stirring the stew, Fili’s hand froze on the saddle strap, Kili’s suppressed cough died instantly. Bofur’s jaw actually dropped, his floppy hat seeming to sag in disbelief; all the color drained from his face, replaced by shocked, mortified pallor. Thorin’s furious gaze snapped from Bofur to Brittany, widening fractionally, the contained anger momentarily eclipsed by sheer, unadulterated astonishment. Dwalin whirled to face her, his previous rage evaporating into wide-eyed disbelief, his mouth slightly agape beneath his braided beard. "You... you understand?" he managed, the gruffness replaced by stunned confusion, his Khuzdul halting. The princes exchanged looks of pure panic, remembering every careless, private word spoken on the road. Bilba looked bewilderedly between them all, clutching her cheese.
The silence stretched, thick as Bombur’s stew, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant hoot of an owl. Bilba’s bewildered eyes darted from Brittany’s calm face to the dwarves’ expressions of utter shock and horror. Fili looked like he’d swallowed a live coal; Kili’s face had gone pale as milk. Dwalin just stared, his earlier fury completely forgotten, replaced by stunned incomprehension. Thorin’s knuckles were white where he gripped the pommel of his sword, his gaze locked on Brittany with a dangerous intensity.
Brittany sighed, the sound almost lost in the sudden quiet. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, a fleeting gesture of weary resignation. "Right," she said, her voice dropping back into Westron, deliberately casual. She began strapping her bedroll with efficient, practiced movements, ignoring the tableau of frozen dwarves. "Guess the cat’s out of the bag. Or the dwarf, rather."
She slung the roll onto her pack, the leather creaking. "Explains the language thing, huh?" she added, glancing up at Dwalin, whose mouth was still slightly open. "Picked it up young. Dead useful in the mines." She gave a faint, almost imperceptible shrug, her focus seemingly on tightening a strap. "My adopted father was a dwarf. Raised me after... well, after. Strict sod. Made sure I learned properly.”
The admission landed like a falling anvil. Dwalin finally sucked in a sharp breath, blinking rapidly. Fili and Kili exchanged another panicked look, clearly recalling every unguarded word they’d spoken. Bofur slowly closed his gaping mouth, his floppy hat seeming to wilt further. Thorin remained statue-still, his dark eyes narrowed to slits, boring into Brittany. The firelight danced across the planes of his face, etching harsh lines of suspicion and disbelief. He took a single, deliberate step forward, his voice low and gravelly, cutting through the brittle air. "Adopted." It wasn’t a question. It was a demand.
Thorin’s demand hung in the cold air like drawn steel. Brittany met his intense stare, the firelight catching the flint in her own eyes. She exhaled, a plume of frost mingling with woodsmoke. "Yeah. Adopted." Her tone stayed flat, factual, refusing apology or pleading. She turned slightly, away from the fire’s direct glare, fingers moving to the intricate strands of hair gathered tightly near her left temple. "He didn't raise me to be ashamed of stone and steel."
Her fingers worked deftly, loosening a specific, complex braid usually hidden within her thick blonde mane. It wasn't decorative like the dwarves' intricate patterns. This was different. Functional. Austere. Woven with thin bands of a dull, dark metal that seemed to absorb the firelight rather than reflect it. Geometric knots, sharp and precise as runes, marched down its length. It spoke of lineage, not ornamentation. She lifted the freed section, the metal threads cold against her fingertips.
"Recognize the pattern, Dwalin?" she asked softly, her gaze shifting from Thorin’s rigid form to the stunned warrior beside her. Her words were still Westron, but the meaning was clear. Proof.
Dwalin’s breath hitched. His eyes, wide with residual shock, fixed on the braid. They traced the stark, ancient knots, the unyielding metal weave. Recognition slammed into him, visceral and profound. "By Mahal’s forge," he breathed, the Khuzdul phrase escaping in a raw whisper. His hand lifted unconsciously, not to touch, but as if drawn by a magnet. "That’s... that’s a kin-braid. A true one." His gaze snapped to her face, disbelief warring with sudden, dawning reverence. "The Line of..."
Thorin surged forward, cutting him off. His own hand shot out, not towards the braid, but to grip Dwalin's arm, halting him. His eyes, burning with a cold fury Brittany hadn't seen before, were locked solely on her. "Impossible," he snarled, the word sharp as shattering ice. His voice dropped to a dangerous rasp. "That lineage vanished from Middle-earth. Ages ago. Who was he?" Suspicion hardened his face, the weight of kingship and skepticism crushing down. The fire crackled, the only sound in the frozen hollow.