#I had to choose between this and a drawing of thorin so stay tuned

[artbyleav]

“I think a servant of the enemy would look fairer and feel fouler”

Friendly reminder that Frodo called Aragorn ugly ☝🏻

[the-marvel-ous-hobbit]

To Slay A Dragon: Ch. 5

Summary: A short stay in Rivendell.

Word count: ~6800

A/N: Happy holidays! Thank you for all the support so far :)

part four ||

The staircase takes us on a long, winding path down into the valley. At the bottom, a stone bridge spans the gorge. It’s barely wide enough for two human-sized people to walk side by side, and a quick glance over the edge sends my stomach into panicked flips. If anyone were to ever choose to attack Rivendell, they would have an extremely difficult time.

Gandalf leads the way across the bridge with long, confident strides. The Dwarves follow more cautiously, and I take a couple of deep breaths before forcing my feet onwards. Bilbo walks close to my side, though his head whips back and forth so rapidly my heart trips over itself.

Through the intricate archways bracketing the bridge, I glimpse the elegant white buildings I saw from above nestled amongst a vast array of trees, shrubs and flowers I can’t even begin to name. It’s unlike anything I have seen before in my life—such ancient, serene beauty could never be found between the surly mountains and weary cities of Skyrim. 

With each careful step, a stillness seeps into my body through my boots, easing the vertigo-induced nausea. The warmth in my chest floods to my fingers and toes, chasing away the residual tension left from the encounter with the Orcs.

For the first time since beginning this journey, I feel almost at peace.

The bridge leads us into a large, circular courtyard. A waterfall gushes over the cliff behind it, a soothing background roar in the stillness of the evening. The Dwarves drift about the space, their heads tipped back and eyes open wide. Thorin remains still, his brow furrowed and arms crossed as his company swirls about him like a current around an anchor. Bilbo hasn’t stopped smiling since we emerged from the passage, his green eyes alight with unrestrained joy.

“Mithrandir.”

A figure dressed in dark purple robes descends a staircase across the courtyard. Gandalf turns, as though they had called him by name.

“Ah!” He beams. “Lindir.”

Lindir echoes Gandalf’s smile, extending a hand in greeting. His skin is pale and ageless, his features a contrast of sharp angles and smooth planes. A silver circlet glitters across his brow, and the tips of his pointed ears peek out beneath a sleek curtain of dark hair cascading down his back.

I pat my own short hair, wincing at how matted and filthy it feels beneath my fingers, and how ragged the ends are from being sheared with a knife. Though we may be distantly related, I could never hope to look so refined and effortlessly beautiful as this Elf. I can’t recall ever feeling self-conscious about my looks—I’ve never had the time or energy—but now the scar on my face seems to mock me. 

The Dwarves’ irritation is tangible enough to raise the hairs on my arms as Lindir speaks to Gandalf in a language I assume is Elvish. The Wizard casts a look in our direction before replying in the common tongue. 

“I must speak with Lord Elrond.” 

Lindir’s placid expression doesn’t change. “My Lord Elrond is not here.”

The air shifts again as the Dwarves shuffle and mutter. Thorin glares at Gandalf hard enough to set his robes on fire.

“Not here?” Gandalf repeats. “Where is he?”

The jarring blast of a hunting horn echoes somewhere behind us. A dozen horses thunder towards us, barely slowing as they cross the bridge.

“Close ranks!” 

Solid bodies crush close, knocking the breath from my lungs. I barely have time to draw the Blade before the horses enclose us in a rotating wall of steaming bodies. The usually comforting smell of sweat and sweet hay fills my nose.  Clattering hooves and rattling armour drown out the Dwarves’ agitated shouts.

The Elves whose faces are uncovered by helmets gaze down their perfect noses at us, unfazed by the weapons pointed in their direction. They draw to a halt as one and silence descends, broken only by the Dwarves’ heavy breathing. I lift my chin to stare at the nearest Elf. He regards me with a faintly quirked brow. I scowl harder.

“Gandalf!”

I’d almost forgotten the Wizard was there—I can barely see him past the wall of horse and metal penning us in like farm animals. Gandalf greets the rider of a beautiful black stallion with a smile that I suspect is partly amusement at our expense.

“Lord Elrond!”

The Dwarves grumble again as Gandalf steps forward to speak to Lord Elrond in Elvish. Even in Gandalf’s gruff voice, the words seem to dance in the air between them like music. Bilbo stands on his toes in a vain attempt to see over Dwalin’s head.

Lord Elrond dismounts and embraces Gandalf. He moves with a purposeful, fluid grace that holds my attention captive. He shares Lindir’s pale skin, ageless face and flowing dark hair, but his features are strong and broad where Lindir’s are fine and delicate. The circle of silver across his brow sparkles in the dying light. 

“Strange for Orcs to come so close to our borders,” Lord Elrond says in the common tongue, passing a sheathed sword to Lindir. His voice is deep and smooth, each word precisely formed. “Something or someone has drawn them near.”

“Ah, that may have been us.”

At Gandalf’s gesture, the Elf-lord turns to survey us. His gaze snags briefly on me, sending a jolt down my spine, before coming to rest on Thorin. Thorin takes a few steps forward, followed closely by Dwalin. The others surge to fill the gaps, flanking them on every side. 

Elrond inclines his head slightly. “Welcome Thorin, son of Thrain.”

Thorin lifts his chin. “I do not believe we have met.”

“You have your Grandfather’s bearing,” Lord Elrond says, and it almost sounds like a compliment. “I knew Thror when he ruled under the mountain.”

“Indeed? He made no mention of you.”

I gaze up at the pale pink sky, inhaling deeply through my nose. If Thorin ruins my hopes of a bath, I’m going to murder him. Treasure be damned.

Elrond keeps his dark, steady gaze on Thorin’s face as he says something in Elvish. The words are like the whisper of a breeze through the boughs of an ancient oak, and though I don’t understand them, something within me responds. The dragon lays its head down and listens.

“What is he saying? Does he offer us insult?”

A ruckus breaks out, shattering my brief moment of calm. Gandalf cuts in quickly before the Dwarves can actually start a brawl right there in the courtyard.

“No Master Gloin, he’s offering you food.”

Whilst the Dwarves huddle together to discuss the implications of accepting the offer, Bilbo glances at me with an expression that perfectly mirrors my earlier thoughts of homicide. I don’t see what possible need there is to talk about it—if I don’t eat something soon I won’t be responsible for my actions.

Luckily, the Dwarves don’t take long to reach a decision.

“In that case, lead on.”

*

To my immense gratitude, we are escorted to a large, open-air pavilion with a perfect view of the sunset. Three tables occupy the centre of the mosaic-tiled floor—a circular one at Elf height, and two at a more comfortable level for Dwarves and Hobbits, separated by a small walkway with an empty pedestal in the middle. Elves dressed in flowing white float around the space like dandelion seeds carrying trays and covered platters. Along the open edge overlooking a vertical drop into the valley, a string orchestra plays a gentle, soothing tune.

The company—minus Thorin, who has disappeared somewhere with Gandalf and Lord Elrond—crowd around the two low tables. I fold myself onto the cushions beside Bilbo and inspect the spread, which consists of bowls brimming with salad, platters of colourful vegetables and mountains of fruit arranged like works of art. Crystal jugs brim with rich plum wine—the smell alone is enough to make me giddy.

I resist the temptation to fill my glass only when Fili flops down beside me, close enough to jostle my elbow. He grins and winks at me, but barely breaks the animated conversation he’s having with Dori, who sits down beside his youngest brother.

Ori’s picks up a lettuce leaf, wrinkling his nose at it, and Dori instantly turns into a mother hen.

“Try it,” he urges. “Just a mouthful.”

Ori looks at the lettuce as though it has personally insulted him. “I don’t like green food.”

The air fills with grumbling as I reach for the nearest plate of vegetables. I’m in no position to deny a free meal. I catch Fili’s raised eyebrow and shove the platter at him a bit too quickly. He grins again, his rough fingers brushing mine as he takes it. 

What is it about this fair-haired Dwarf prince that gets me so rattled?

Movement beyond the tables and circling Elves distracts me from the unbearable proximity of Fili’s knee to my thigh: Gandalf and Lord Elrond weave through the orchestra towards the high table, their profiles outlined in gold and pink from the west. Our host has changed out of his armour into a flowing robe of gold satin that shimmers in the soft light. Beside him, Gandalf looks every bit the vagabond he was mistaken for on the night we first met.

“Kind of you to invite us,” Gandalf says as they pass between our tables. “I’m not really dressed for dinner.”

“You never are,” our host replies with a smile.

Thorin follows several paces behind wearing his usual scowl—I think I would be alarmed if he smiled. His passage doesn’t go unnoticed—the Dwarves all but stop what they’re doing to watch him pass. His eyes flit between them all, quite obviously skipping over me and Bilbo, and he gives a slight nod before trudging after Gandalf and Elrond to the high table. I squash down the prickle of annoyance at the blatant shun and concentrate on my food, keeping my eyes on my plate in case my expression gives anything away.

After several weeks of travelling with them, the Dwarves’ attitude towards me seems to be shifting. I wasn’t sure of it before, since I always made an effort to keep my distance whilst we were on the road, but now that we’re all in close proximity it’s clear that some of their suspicion has been replaced by obvious curiosity. Some of them still take great pains to ignore me—namely Dwalin and the older ones—but the itch of probing eyes on my skin is incredibly distracting.

I look up once during the meal to find Ori openly staring at me. Dori’s elbow shatters the beat of discomfort before I can decide whether to try for a smile. He gives me a look that douses my insides with cold water, and I drop my gaze back to my plate.

Suspicion has been my shadow ever since I can remember, but its constant company is no easier to bear. Even if I have no intention of forming relationships with these Dwarves, it might be nice to actually have a conversation with one of them.

How soft I’m getting in my old age.

A flash of light draws my attention to the high table. Lord Elrond has a sword balanced across his palms and is inspecting the blade with great interest. With some effort, I tune out the music and the Dwarves’ noise—apparently Kili has just said something uproariously funny—and focus on his voice.

“This is Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver,” he says with a note of fascination as he holds the sword up towards the sun. “A famous blade, forged by the High Elves of the West. My kin.” He passes the sword to Thorin with a slight nod. “May it serve you well.”

Thorin sits ramrod straight in his chair, feet dangling absurdly above the ground and shoulders like granite beneath his mane of dark hair. He’s poised for a fight, as though he expects Elrond to launch across the table and throttle him at any second. It must be hard for him to be surrounded by the people who abandoned him in his hour of need—that’s the sort of betrayal you don’t just get over.

Elrond turns his attention to Gandalf, and I stomp down on that sympathetic thought process before it can go any further.

“And this is Glamdring, the Foe-hammer,” Elrond says as Gandalf offers up his blade for evaluation. “Sword of the King of Gondolin. These swords were made for the Goblin wars of the First Age.”

Bilbo shifts beside me, pulling my attention away from Elrond’s explanation of the Goblin wars. He draws his dagger partially from its sheath, inspecting it beneath the table. Something tightens in my abdomen—I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable seeing a blade in Bilbo’s hand.

“I wouldn’t bother, laddie,” Balin says from Bilbo’s other side, “Swords are named for their great deeds they do in war.”

“What are you saying?” Bilbo asks. “My sword hasn’t seen battle?”

Bushy white brows draw together over a red nose. “I’m not actually sure it is a sword,” Balin tells him. “More of a letter-opener, really.”

Bilbo hurriedly sheathes the dagger. Despite myself, I frown at Balin over Bilbo’s head. Though  it’s a little concerning that Bilbo seems to be growing more interested in the dagger, I still hate the disappointment he’s trying so hard to keep off his face. I think about patting his arm, nudging his shoulder, anything to bridge the distance and bring him some semblance of comfort. But my hands remain in my lap, and the moment passes.

“How did you come by these?” Elrond asks, passing Glamdring back to Gandalf.

“We found them in a Troll-hoard on the Great East road,” Gandalf tells him with a mouth full of bread, waving the goblet held precariously in his right hand. “Shortly before we were ambushed by Orcs.”

“And what were you doing on the Great East road?”

Thorin’s chair scrapes back as Gandalf snaps his fat mouth shut. All eyes follow him as he strides past us. A few of the Dwarves exchange glances, but Thorin’s unpredictable moods aren’t enough to distract them from their food.

Elrond watches us across the courtyard. “Thirteen Dwarves, an Elf and a Halfling.” He catches my eye and I freeze under the weight of his gaze. He regards me with faint curiosity, his head tipped slightly to one side as though I’m another artefact to inspect. “Strange travelling companions, Gandalf.”

“These are descendants of the house of Durin.” Gandalf gestures at the Dwarves, defending them more readily than I would have guessed given the events of the past few days alone. “They’re noble, decent folk—“

Nori stashes something inside his jacket that looks suspiciously like a salt cellar.

“And they’re surprisingly cultured—“

Bombur shoves a handful of lettuce into his mouth and chews with his mouth open.

“They’ve got a deep love of the arts—”

“Change the tune, why don’t you?” Nori complains at the nearest harpist. “I feel like I’m at a funeral!”

“Did somebody die?” Oin squints at his ear trumpet.

Bofur slams his hands on the table, upsetting the nearby crockery. “Alright, lads!” He turns to me and tips his hat. “And lass, of course. There’s only one thing for it!”

Bilbo flinches beside me as Bofur climbs onto the pedestal between the tables and launches  into a rousing tune. The Dwarves immediately join in, prompting a bewildered stare from our host and a resigned eye-roll from Gandalf. I snatch my plate and goblet from the line of fire and settle back to watch the carnage.

Food flies around the courtyard, splattering against spotless white pillars and statues like paint. The expression on Lindir’s face makes me choke on a mouthful of apple—clearly this is his first experience of Dwarven table manners. I settle back on the cushions, cheered by the song and Lindir’s wrinkled nose. Gandalf takes another swig of wine.

*

After dinner, the Dwarves settle in for the night in a modest but cosy set of rooms with an open balcony that overlooks the lower portion of the valley. I choose a corner and tuck myself into it, aching and exhausted. The Dwarves still seem full of energy, laughing and throwing things at one another in their usual boisterous way. I take out the Blade and a cloth, tucking my legs close and bending over my work, trying in vain to block out their noise.

Over the laughter and shouts, a murmured conversation pulls my attention away from the Blade. Gandalf, Balin and Bilbo stand in a small cluster away from the group. After a brief discussion, the three of them set off into the still night. I wait a few seconds, then tuck the Blade back into my belt and follow.

Along the path, which winds gently uphill from the guest house, a figure awaits the trio in the semi-darkness. Thorin’s eyes glitter in the silver light of the lanterns illuminating the walkways. He glances briefly at Bilbo, but the darkness and distance disguise his expression. Ultimately he says nothing, and joins the others as they continue along the path.

None of them speak as they walk, impeding my progress as I struggle to keep my footsteps silent. Sneaking around has never been my forte, despite Brynjolf’s efforts to teach me the skills coveted by the Thieves Guild. Eventually he was forced to admit that stealth just isn’t something I’m capable of, and I’m much better suited to charging at things head-on.

By some miracle, Gandalf and the others remain unaware of my pursuit until they reach their destination: a large, dome-shaped building atop the hill which, upon entering, reveals itself to be some kind of museum. Elrond’s extensive knowledge of those swords suddenly makes sense—there are artefacts of all kinds on display, from paintings to full suits of armour. Though many of them bear signs of age, every single one is polished and free from any dust. The room is open and airy, free of the must and damp synonymous with old things.

Intrigued as I am by the collection, I almost don’t notice when Gandalf and the others come to a halt in the centre of a room with a large, circular hole in the ceiling. Shafts of moonlight spill into the room, providing ample light to see by and illuminating the regal figure of Lord Elrond. His dark eyes examine each of them in his quiet, probing way. I quickly duck behind a wall and a conveniently-placed and probably ancient vase, only daring to peek my head out once Elrond clears his throat to speak.

“I am pleased you have come,” he says. “How may I be of assistance?”    

Thorin doesn’t miss a beat. “Our business is no concern of Elves.”

Gandalf’s robes rustle, his staff scraping the floor as though sharing his annoyance. “For goodness sake, Thorin. Show him the map!”

Thorin folds his hands before him, shoulder’s straight and eyes fixed on Lord Elrond whilst Balin paces back and forth at his side. “It is the legacy of my people. It’s mine to protect. As are its secrets.”

Elrond watches Thorin with the endless patience granted by immortality. I’m reminded suddenly of the Greybeards—Lord Elrond exudes the same quiet power, the same level and faintly unnerving stare and soft, resonant speech. Though he has done nothing to even hint at a desire to harm us, I can’t help the uneasy feeling in my stomach that insists he would be more than capable.

“Save me from the stubbornness of Dwarves,” Gandalf mutters. He gestures at Thorin with his staff. “Your pride will be your downfall. You stand in the presence of one of the few in Middle-earth who can read that map. Show it to Lord Elrond!”

Thorin’s eyes glow piercing blue in the moonlight. For a moment he seems about to refuse again, but instead he reaches slowly into his doublet and pulls out the map.

“Thorin, no!” Balin grips his arm, but Thorin doesn’t take his gaze off Elrond as he steps forward to hand over his precious map.

Elrond unfolds it, handling the parchment with careful precision. “Erebor.” His brows meet at a sharp angle over his nose as he looks at Thorin. “What is your interest in this map?”

Before Thorin can open his mouth, Gandalf steps in. “It’s mainly academic. As you know, this sort of artefact sometimes contains hidden text.”

I’m not sure who he thinks he’s fooling, but Elrond is already moving away towards the back of the room and a large stained glass window. Thorin shoots Gandalf a grateful look.

“You still read ancient Dwarvish, do you not?” Gandalf asks as Elrond angles the map inside the cascade of moonlight.

“Cirth ithil,” he murmurs.

“Moon runes? Of course.” Gandalf glances at Bilbo. “An easy thing to miss.”

“Well in this case, that is true,” Elrond says. “Moon runes can only be read by the light of the moon of the same shape and season as the day on which they were written.”

That sounds unnecessarily complicated.

“Can you read them?” Thorin’s voice is unusually soft, a deep rumble that sends vibrations through the stone under my feet. 

Gesturing for them to follow, Elrond leads the way through the back of the hall to a narrow, rough-hewn passage in the rock. Water thunders in the distance, covering the sound of my boots on the tile as I creep after them.

Bilbo lags behind the others, pausing occasionally to take in some of the items in Elrond’s collection. He’s so close I could reach out and touch him. 

My toe catches on something solid, sending a stab of pain through my foot. I yelp, and Bilbo whirls, catching me before I can dive around a corner. His eyes and mouth open wide, and he glances over his shoulder towards the passage.

“What are you doing?” he hisses.

I shake my head, clutching my throbbing foot. “Nothing. I was just curious, that’s all.”

Gandalf’s voice echoes off the walls. “Bilbo?”

“Coming!” He offers me a hand and hoists me back into a crouch. A small smile eases the tension in my jaw as he releases my hand. “I won’t tell,” he says.

He turns to head through the hall. I steal after him, ducking behind a rocky protrusion as we emerge onto a wide ledge beneath a roaring waterfall. Bilbo angles himself in a way that conceals me from the others, but still allows me to see Elrond peering at the map.

“These runes were written on a mid-summer’s eve by the light of a crescent moon nearly two hundred years ago. It would seem you were meant to come to Rivendell.” Elrond lays the map gently on a stone slab near the water. “Fate is with you, Thorin Oakenshield. The same moon shines upon us tonight.”

As if on cue, the crescent moon emerges from behind a cloud, its light spilling onto the ledge and across the map. Thorin sidles closer to the map, still keeping a healthy distance between himself and Elrond. Bilbo tries to lean around Gandalf, and I shift position as much as I dare. A faint blue glow emanates from the parchment that definitely wasn’t there before.

“‘Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks,” Elrond reads, following the words with a finger, “and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the keyhole.’”

Bilbo looks at Balin. “Durin’s Day?”

“It is the start of the Dwarves’ new year,” Gandalf says. “When the last moon of Autumn and the first sun of Winter appear in the sky together.”

“This is ill news.” Thorin looks up at Balin, his troubled expression etched in silver. “Summer is passing, Durin’s Day will soon be upon us.”

Balin holds up a pacifying hand. “We still have time.”

“Time? For what?” Bilbo asks.

“To find the entrance,” Balin says. “We have to be standing at exactly the right spot at exactly the right time. Then, and only then, can the door be opened.”

I grimace as Elrond looks between Thorin and Balin. “So this is your purpose, to enter the mountain?” 

“What of it?” Thorin growls.

“There are some who would not deem it wise.” He holds out the map. Thorin snatches it from him, tucking it safely away.

“What do you mean?” Gandalf asks.

“You are not the only guardian to stand watch over Middle-earth.” Elrond gives Gandalf a long look before departing, leaving the four of us to stare at Gandalf in bewilderment.

*

The next day, after waking early to the gentle sounds of birdsong, trickling water and thirteen snoring Dwarves, Bilbo and I break away from the others to wander through Rivendell’s halls and gardens. Bilbo seems determined to absorb as much of the Hidden Valley as possible before we move on, and I’m content to accompany him because it means spending less time around Thorin. We don’t talk much, both content to walk in amiable silence and occasionally point something out—an interesting painting or a flower Bilbo has never encountered before. I don’t know much about flowers and even less about paintings, but it cheers me a little to listen to Bilbo talk about his garden and modest art collection at Bag End. 

After returning from last night’s meeting under the pretence of a nighttime stroll, I overheard Thorin explaining our new time constraints to the others. He said very little beyond that, and spent the rest of the night in a moody silence, puffing away at a pipe. I expected him to declare we were to leave Rivendell immediately and continue on, but so far he has said nothing of the sort. It’s unclear how the Dwarves will spend their time here, but I’m willing to bet they’ll find a way to disrupt the peace.

Time passes oddly in the Last Homely House—days feel like weeks, and a few hours is no time at all. I lose track of how long we’ve been in the valley by the second or third day, when Bilbo and I take our exploration to the cluster of grand halls higher up the cliff that house Lord Elrond’s extensive collection of relics.

Upon entering the first building, something immediately catches my eye. Golden light—the light is always golden here, no matter the time of day—streams through an intricate window that resembles the roots of a tree and spills across a sword. The sharp edges glitter so bright I’m tempted to shield my eyes. Something about the way the light catches the blade doesn’t seem right. I step closer to the sword, and my breath catches.

The blade is splintered into six fragments, each a jagged shard of broken metal. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen, and doesn’t seem like it should be possible. My hand hovers above the shard still attached to the sword’s hilt, pulled by some invisible force that seems beyond my control. 

A jolt shoots up my arm and I snatch my hand back. This broken blade has been touched by evil. The chill in my veins is one I have experienced too many times before in the presence of Daedric princes, and there’s no mistaking it. A cold lump settles in my stomach at the thought that the same evil could exist here.

I look around for Bilbo and find him examining a painting across the room. It depicts a soldier—human, from the looks of him—brandishing a glowing sword against a huge, faceless figure shrouded in darkness. The sword is broken, with just the hilt and a jagged portion of the blade remaining.

Shuddering, I turn away from the sword and the painting. Bilbo remains transfixed, staring at the painting.

“Bilbo?”

He doesn’t move, and I follow his gaze to a band of gold around the shadow figure’s forefinger. It’s such a small detail that I didn’t notice it. I touch his shoulder and he jumps as though he had forgotten I was there at all.

“Are you alright?” I ask. His eyes are wide and he’s blinking rapidly, as though breaking free of a nightmare.

“I—yes. Yes, fine.” He offers me a smile that’s almost convincing, and we continue on our way, following the hallway out onto a balcony bathed in the golden afternoon.

The whole valley spreads out below us, serene and perfect. Bilbo sighs happily as a light breeze ruffles my hair and sends up a fresh burst of perfume from the flowers. I lean my elbows on the railing and take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the sweet air.

Aside from the brief moment of unease just now, my mind has never been so still. I didn’t even think I was capable of being so completely at peace with myself and my surroundings—the magic that blankets this valley is powerful indeed. Even with the distant, looming threat of the Durin’s Day deadline and whatever awaits us inside the mountain, it’s difficult to feel anything but calm.

Perhaps that’s why Thorin has been unusually subdued of late, and it’s been days since I daydreamed about his demise. 

In the midst of my contemplation, Lord Elrond steps out onto the balcony through the doorway behind us. His approach was so silent that it completely escaped my notice, or else I was too consumed by my own musings. For once, though, my initial instinct isn’t to reach for the Blade. Aside from its nightly cleaning, I haven’t even thought about it since we arrived.

Elrond stops on Bilbo’s other side, looking between us with his usual air of light curiosity. “Not with your companions?”

Bilbo looks up at me, then smiles ruefully at our host. “I shan’t be missed.”

“They’re probably glad to be rid of me.” The bitterness in my own voice makes me cringe. Bilbo sends me a pitying glance, and I clamp my back teeth together.

“The truth is that most of them don’t think I should even be on this journey,” Bilbo tells Elrond.

Doubly so for me. I don’t say the words, but somehow I sense the Elf-lord hears them anyway. I won’t be at all surprised if he can read minds. The urge to cower from him and his ancient, fathomless eyes seizes me by the shoulders, practically yelling in my face to hide. 

Bilbo’s shoulder presses against to my arm as Elrond looks down at him. “Indeed? I’ve heard that Hobbits are very resilient.”

A chuckle, but Elrond’s expression is perfectly serious. “Really?”

Elrond nods. The sun catches in the silver band across his forehead, and the delicate engravings etched into its surface. “I have also heard they are fond of the comforts of home.”

“I’ve heard that it is unwise to seek the counsel of Elves, for they will answer both ‘yes’ and ’no’.”

A second after speaking, Bilbo’s body goes very still against my arm. Elrond says nothing for a long moment, and Bilbo trembles ever so slightly under his gaze. Then, the Elf-lord smiles.

“You are more than welcome to stay here, if that is your wish.” He lays a gentle hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo manages to nod, and Elrond’s gaze finds mine. “You are unlike any Elf I have encountered in all my years. I sense the immense power in you. It is ancient, and beyond my understanding, but all magic can be used to accomplish great things.” 

The dragon within me stirs, raising its head to regard the Elf. The air between us shifts as something akin to an understanding forms between two eternal beings. Elrond’s head tilts, as though he also felt it.

“Seek to understand yourself, and your path will become clear. Though your homeland lies far from Middle-earth, we are still kin. You have a place here, should you choose it.” A strange light enters his eyes. “Though I sense your heart lies elsewhere.”    

I’ve forgotten how to breathe. My throat is so dry I can barely swallow. I feel as exposed as if I were standing atop the Throat of the World, my body and soul laid bare to the fierce wind.

Before I can drag up any kind of reply, Elrond walks away, leaving Bilbo and I to contemplate our futures.

*

Though we spend the rest of the day together, actively avoiding the Dwarves save for mealtimes, Bilbo and I exchange very few words. Around sunset, we stop to rest beside a still pond. Pink water lilies drift across the surface, and beneath them countless fish dart in and out of the shadows, iridescent scales flashing like tiny gemstones in the sun. I sit on a stone bench near the water’s edge to watch them. Bilbo wanders to a flowerbed along the border of the small garden and bends to examine the riot of coloured petals. The dreamy expression on his face hasn’t budged since Elrond extended the invitation for him to live in Rivendell.

It doesn’t take a genius to realise he’ll be happy staying here—certainly much happier than he could ever be in Thorin’s company. I almost wish he would accept the offer, even if that means continuing on without his steady companionship for the remainder of the journey to Erebor. At least here he’ll be safe, and he’ll feel like he belongs. I couldn’t wish for anything more for him.

As I watch the fish, Elrond’s words swirl around my head like a dog chasing its tail. What had he meant by saying my magic could accomplish great things? Aside from the inevitable encounter with the dragon waiting for us at the end of this journey, I plan never to use my magic again. That part of my life ended with Alduin. The only reason I agreed to go on this quest is the huge reward waiting in the vaults of Erebor.

It’s also the only reason Thorin Oakenshield still lives.

A shiver skitters across my shoulders. That moment of weakness in the Prancing Pony, when I decided not to end Thorin’s life as my contract demanded… Had Elrond somehow sensed all of that? Did he also notice the brewing regret and the thoughts of betrayal I’ve tried so hard to keep buried? If so, did he mean what he said as a warning?

I press my palms against my eyes, pushing out the brewing headache. The questions are never-ending, and the time I spend fretting over the answers is time wasted when I could be enjoying the evening’s peace.

Though no one has expressed the thought aloud, I could sense the restless energy amongst the Dwarves at dinner. They seem fully rested and ready to move on—perhaps as early as tomorrow. To spend these last few hours in Rivendell caught in my own turmoil would be a tremendous waste.

So I rise from the bench and cross over to Bilbo, crouching beside him on the springy grass. The perfume of the flowers is strong enough to make me dizzy, but I do my best to listen as Bilbo points out various clusters of plants with vibrant blue, orange and purple petals. When he’s finished, I straighten and offer him my elbow. It feels strange and silly, but my self-consciousness vanishes as Bilbo smiles and takes my arm.

 We continue our walk well into the night. Golden sunlight fades and gives way to brilliant silver moonlight. The air turns pleasantly cool, and the birds hand over the evening chorus to cicadas and crickets.

Soft glowing lanterns light our path, and we meander along the walkways and up and down staircases that I have come to know by heart. We pass the balcony where the Dwarves are gathered, and the air fills with their discordant laughter. Though it clashes horribly with the serenity of the night, I can’t help but feel a certain fondness for their noise beneath the urge to cringe.   

As we crest a staircase, Bilbo pauses to admire the moon. I lean against the wall beside him, tracing the convex outline with my eyes. The moon never fails to bring me peace—she is one of the few constants in my life, and has stuck by me through every ordeal. Part of me insists it’s silly to feel such a connection with something like the moon, but lonely nights spent camping out in the wilderness with unknown dangers lurking just out of sight are always made slightly more bearable by her comforting presence.

“Bryn always loved the moon.”

I sense Bilbo shift to look at me. “Bryn?” he asks.

“Someone I knew. A long time ago.” The words spill out of me from some deep recess inside me, and I can’t look at Bilbo as I say them. I keep my eyes on the moon, and breathe through the bittersweet ache in my chest. “We used to sit for hours and just watch her together. Being with him like that…it was like a rare moment of stillness when the rest of the world was in chaos.” I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the sweet night air. “Being here in Rivendell reminds me of that feeling.”

Bilbo doesn’t move closer or attempt to comfort me, but stands quietly beside me, his head tipped back as moonlight spills over us. 

 “Of course I was going to tell you. I was waiting for this very chance. And really, I think you can trust that I know what I’m doing.”

Bilbo shifts, turning to follow the direction of the familiar voice. A long stone bridge spans a large pond to the left of us, far enough away that the shadows obscure us from view. Gandalf and Elrond stride side by side across the bridge, deep in conversation.

“Do you?” Elrond’s tone is almost scolding. “That dragon has slept for sixty years. What will happen if your plan should fail? If you wake that beast?”

“What if we succeed?” Gandalf asks. “If the Dwarves take back the mountain our defences in the east will be strengthened.”

Defences? Against what? I glance at Bilbo, and the shadowy figure from the painting flashes in my mind. 

“It is a dangerous move, Gandalf.”

“It is also dangerous to do nothing! The throne of Erebor is Thorin’s birthright.”

During this exchange, another presence enters my awareness. The commanding aura it gives off is unmistakeable, and immediately sets my teeth on edge.

The culprit lurks behind us in the shadows, the moonlight catching the silver in his hair. Thorin doesn’t look at me or Bilbo, but keeps his gaze fixed on Gandalf and Elrond as they continue across the bridge. 

“Have you forgotten?” Elrond turns to face Gandalf, lowering his voice. “A strain of madness runs deep in that family. His grandfather lost his mind. His father succumbed to the same sickness. Can you swear Thorin Oakenshield will not also fall?”

I peer at Thorin over my shoulder. Though nothing in his expression betrays his feelings, he raises his chin just a fraction, and cold fingers crawl across the back of my neck. 

“Gandalf, these decisions do not rest with us alone,” Elrond continues as they begin walking again, heading towards a set of spiralling stairs that will take them out of our eyeline. “It is not up to you or me to redraw the map of Middle-earth.”

“With or without our help, these Dwarves will march on the mountain,” Gandalf says. “They’re determined to reclaim their homeland. I do not believe Thorin Oakenshield feels that he is answerable to anyone.”

Their voices fade into silence as they vanish around a corner. Thorin remains still for a heartbeat, then turns and marches down the steps without acknowledging my or Bilbo’s presence. Without a word, he draws us after him like ripples in the wake of a ship.

We arrive to find the others already packed. They move quietly around the space, rolling up blankets and rechecking their bags. Balin gestures for us to do the same, urging us to hurry without uttering a word.

“What about Gandalf?” Bilbo asks in a hushed whisper as he knots the strings on his pack. “Isn’t he coming with us?”

Thorin speaks from the doorway. “He will meet us in the mountains when his business is done.” He looks around at his company, now on their feet and awaiting his orders. His eyes find me for a brief moment, and Elrond’s words replay in my mind: A strain of madness runs deep in that family.

Thorin’s gaze flits away, but the chill in my blood remains.

*

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