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Chapter Twelve
The Fallen
When Bilbo awoke on their second morning in Rivendell, it took him a few moments to remember where he was, and how he came to be in the House of Elrond. He sat up, taking in the sunlit valley and inhaling a deep breath of fresh, sweet air.
The trolls and the orcs seemed thousands of lifetimes ago, far away from the safety and peaceful comfort of the Hidden Valley, and Bilbo imagined it as just a dream—a vivid nightmare that had manifested itself in his head, but he knew that wasn't the case. The sword by his side was far too real to be just a dream.
Bilbo still didn't know what to make of the sword. Though he knew Gandalf meant well when the wizard had given it to him, he also knew that he would have no use of the blade, seeing as he had had no training whatsoever and was far too small to do any real damage in a fight. Even the thought of fighting made him nauseous.
Bilbo's stomach growled when he caught the scent of frying eggs and sausage, and he looked over from his bedroll to the center of the sheltered veranda where the Company sat, chatting merrily and cooking breakfast with Bombur's frying pan and some wood they had obviously stripped from a tree surrounding the veranda.
With a slight pang, Bilbo remembered the dwarves' complete disregard for all things elvish with a flashback to their first night in Rivendell, and he shuddered a little bit as he recalled the flying food and Bofur's little jig and song. Apparently, the dwarves' discourtesy had carried over as he gave one last look at the naked tree and went to where the Company sat.
"Morning, Master Baggins," Balin said cheerfully, and Bilbo nodded sleepily to him as the old dwarf puffed on his pipe, watching the Company's proceedings with a sharp eye.
"Where did you get all this?" Bilbo asked as Bombur began to load up plates and pass them around.
"Nori did a little reconnaissance for us last night," Bofur said, winking at Bilbo.
"It wasn't that hard, really," Nori said as he shoveled a bite of scrambled eggs into his mouth with his fingers. "These elves have about as much security as a rabbit-hole."
Bilbo nodded as Bombur handed him a plate, and he dug in. Though Bilbo enjoyed food as much as the next hobbit, he valued manners very highly, and thought it was most disrespectful that the dwarves had been sneaking around stealing food from their hosts. But remembering that fateful night at Bag-End, Bilbo just decided to drop it, and he finished his breakfast in silence as the rest of the Company talked and laughed around him.
Once he had cleaned his plate, Bilbo decided he'd go do a bit of exploring. Rivendell intrigued him so, and he'd only seen glimpses of it so far. He got to his feet and walked out of the veranda, almost running into Thorin, who was walking in the other direction.
The dwarf king looked tired, with dark shadows under his stormy eyes, and Bilbo wondered if he had slept at all since coming to Rivendell.
"Master Baggins," Thorin said, his tone brusque.
Bilbo nodded his head. "Master Thorin."
The dwarf king nodded back as he swept toward the veranda, leaving Bilbo alone in the corridor he had just entered. He knew Thorin didn't want him on the quest, and that maybe he didn't even really like him all that much, but there was nothing he could do about it, either. He just hoped that by the end of this journey Thorin would come around to him, if only just a little bit.
Shrugging off the dwarf king's coolness, Bilbo began to wander the halls of the Last Homely House, pausing every so often to admire a tapestry or statue, winding his way in and out of the buildings and taking everything in. Every once in a while, he'd come across an elf, and they would smile at him fleetingly but kindly before drifting away again, going to do whatever it was that elves did.
Around late morning, Bilbo came to a hallway in one of the central houses, where the corridor curved around a circular courtyard one level below. Bilbo made his way leisurely down the hall, coming to a stop in front of a statue to his left.
The statue, like everything else in Rivendell, was gorgeous, but it was what the statue of the elf-maiden held in her stone hands that intrigued Bilbo.
On a pedestal shrouded in silvery-blue cloth lay the hilt of a sword, gleaming silver and etched with runes that spoke of great power upon the blade. The blade itself was broken, lying in five separate pieces apart from the hilt, yet still in meticulously good condition. With a shock, Bilbo recalled stories he had heard of since he was a boy, and he stared in wonder at the famous blade Narsil of the King of Gondor.
"The blade that was broken," he whispered in awe. As if some invisible force had turned him, Bilbo looked to the wall across from the shards and saw a painting, and he realized with another shock that this was the painting, of the War of the Last Alliance.
There, in the left corner, was the human figure of Isildur, bathed in white light as he wielded his father's broken blade against the might of Sauron. The whole rest of the portrait was shrouded in darkness, with only the chest, shoulders, and wicked helm of Sauron discernible through the mass of painted shadows. Even though it was merely a painting, Bilbo still shivered at the sight of Sauron. The Dark Lord wielded a massive mace in one hand, looming over Isildur for the last strike; and there, on Sauron's hand, a thin band of gold on one of his armor-clad fingers. Bilbo stared at it, mesmerized: the One Ring. The Ring that had caused so much bloodshed, so much destruction. It was curious, how small and simple the Ring was made out to be, so insignificant, but with the power to topple kingdoms and corrupt the hearts of Men. How very curious it was…
Bilbo tore his eyes away from the portrait when footsteps echoed down the hallway. A few seconds later, Alison appeared—with Ori, of all people. At the sight of Bilbo, Alison's face broke into a large grin.
"Bilbo!" she said. Her brown hair hung long and loose, still damp from washing. She was dressed in a simple, sleeveless black shirt and those peculiar dark pants she always wore, her boots unlaced slightly below the knee. She was bright-eyed and fresh; Rivendell, it seemed, had been good to her. "Ori and I were just off to find the library here. Did you know that he was an apprentice to the dwarf scholars at Ered Luin?"
Ori—young and wide-eyed, with mousy brown hair and a short beard to match—blushed when Bilbo's eyes turned to him in interest. "It's not as special as it sounds."
"Nonsense," Alison said, and Ori turned redder. She looked back to Bilbo. "What are you up to?"
He shrugged. "Ah, just exploring. I've, er, always been fascinated by elves." His eyes darted to Ori, aware of the bad blood between dwarves and elves, but he didn't look judgmental; just thoughtful. "So, I just wanted to have a look around."
Alison nodded, her eyes catching on the shards of Narsil behind him.
"What's that?" she said, her eyes widening as she stepped closer to the pedestal.
"The shards of Narsil," he said, coming up beside her, Ori on her other side. "This sword belonged to the King of Gondor, Elendil. He was slain in the War of the Last Alliance, the war against the Dark Lord Sauron in the Second Age. Sauron had created these rings, you see, Rings of Power, and he gave some to each of the races of Middle-earth: the Dwarves, the Elves, and the Men. But he had a ring as well, called the One Ring, and he used it to try and control the other rings to his will. It's a long story, but the conflict culminated in a war in Mordor—Sauron's realm—with the Free Peoples of Middle-earth against Sauron and his forces. Sauron killed Elendil, but his son, Isildur, took up the remaining hilt of his father's broken sword and used it to sever the Ring from Sauron's finger. Sauron fell, and the war was won."
"That sounds…complicated," she said, turning away from the sword and looking instead to the painting. Her eyes lingered on the Ring for a moment before turning back to Bilbo. "Was this the war Gandalf talked about at your house all those nights ago? The one where he said my ancestor Johnathan Ashburne was summoned to help?"
"I believe so," he said.
"Huh," she said, scrutinizing the painting once more. "I wonder what happened to him. Gandalf said there was no record of him going back to my world…"
Bilbo said nothing, not having an answer for her. She turned back to him and Ori. "Anyway: The library. Would you like to join us, Bilbo?"
"I think I'd like that very much," he said.
She beamed. "Good."
She led the way out of the hallway into another courtyard, Ori beside her. Bilbo glanced back one last time at the painting before it was hidden from sight.
As they wandered the halls of the House of Elrond, the three companions kept up lively chatter, entertaining each other with stories from their lives. Bilbo and Ori listened in disbelief as Alison described a place that she had always dreamed of going to in her world, called Manhattan, where they had buildings as tall as the sky that twinkled with never-ceasing lights and where the inhabitants never slept. In turn, Bilbo told them of the first time he'd met Gandalf when he was just a young hobbit-boy at Old Took's Midsummer's Eve party, and he'd decided to attack the wizard with a fake wooden sword until his mother had told him off for it. They found this story highly amusing, until Ori put Bilbo to shame by describing the time Dori had caught Nori attempting to teach an infant Ori the worst curses in Khuzdûl. The dwarf's impression of his eldest brother was so accurate that Alison and Bilbo were nearly breathless from laughter when they found the library.
"Oh, my," Bilbo gasped, coming up short when they entered the building.
It was one of the largest houses, carved from ivory, stone, and wood, and shaped like a dome. A great beech tree sprouted from the middle of the floor, towering away to the fourth and topmost level of the library, with bookshelves taller than Gandalf paneling every wall, circling the building and around the tree. The floors were polished white marble, gleaming with sunlight and the numerous lit sconces and braziers above the long beechwood tables that stretched before them on the first level. Some elves sat at the tables, reading large and ancient tomes, while others drifted along the various levels, searching for books.
Knowledge—that was what was in this place. A vast wealth of knowledge that spanned back thousands and thousands of years.
"Well," Alison said, her eyes wide, "we're not going to find anything just standing here."
She led them into the library, heading for a tall desk situated at the center of the room, the great tree itself looming behind it, its roots keeping the desk centered and growing around it like pale wooden veins.
An elf with dark hair and even darker skin sat behind the desk, poring over a piece of parchment with brilliant blue eyes. At their approach, the elf looked up.
"Lady Ashburne," he said, his voice deep and rich, like the tree behind him. He inclined his head. "Master Hobbit; Master Dwarf. What can I do for you?"
"It's Alison," she said, tilting her head up to meet the striking gaze of the elf, as the desk was nearly her height. "And I'm looking for anything related to Heroes or Eleon Ashburne."
"Certainly. Those will be on level three, facing the eastern sun." He looked to Bilbo and Ori. "And you?"
Bilbo—who hadn't thought of anything—gestured for Ori to speak.
"Do you have anything on runes?" he asked politely. "Either dwarf runes or moon runes?"
The elf nodded. "Of course. We have several volumes on runes located on this level, in the direction of the southern moon."
Ori seemed utterly perplexed as to what that meant, but he nodded, nonetheless.
The elf turned to Bilbo. "And you, Master Hobbit?"
"Er, maps for me," he said, leaning back on his heels to better look at the elf. "Any that you may have."
"Level two," he said, pointing up. "The location of the northern star."
That, Bilbo could understand. After thanking the elf, the three picked out a table near the back and agreed to sit together and work before moving off to find their respective tools.
Bilbo climbed a flight of stairs to the second level and went to the northern point of the circular floor. He found a shelf filled with all sorts of maps: colored and not; minutely detailed regions or general overviews of the continent; even maps that extended to the Eastlands, beyond the Sea of Rhûn, though not much farther than a typical Westron map.
Bilbo selected one of the eastern maps, one for Rhovanion beyond the Misty Mountains, and—more from homesickness than anything—one that detailed The Shire in full.
He was the first one to arrive back to the table, but he sat and pulled the maps closer to him, beginning to study them. As the afternoon wore on, Ori, and then Alison, came back to the table, each with a stack of dusty and worn volumes that they immediately pounced on. Ori took his time studying each page carefully, but Alison rifled through the yellowed pages, her eyes scanning quickly and her lips moving silently.
After several hours of reading, there was the hushed noise of a ghost of a footstep. Bilbo looked up, distracted, but Alison and Ori were still absorbed in their books. The tips of Bilbo's slightly pointed ears twitched as Lord Elrond appeared at their table, wearing robes of a rich red trimmed in silver.
Alison and Ori both started at the elven lord's arrival, their books forgotten as they muttered hasty greetings.
"Lady Ashburne," Elrond said, inclining his head regally to Alison. "Master Dwarf. Master Baggins," he continued with a courteous nod to Bilbo and Ori. "If I may intrude, but I wish to speak with Master Baggins for a moment," he said, and anxiety rushed through Bilbo. What did Lord Elrond want with him?
Elrond looked to Bilbo, and he swallowed nervously. "Ah, yes. Of course."
"Good," Elrond said, and he gestured for Bilbo to follow him as he drifted back out of the library.
Bilbo shot Alison a helpless look, but she only shrugged and grimaced back, as if to say, I don't know. Just go with it. So, Bilbo sucked in a deep breath and trailed after the elven lord, leaving Alison and Ori behind.
Bilbo ventured down a pathway until he came out on a balcony terrace with a stunning view of many waterfalls falling into empty space, before meeting the ground and flowing into streams surrounding the house. Elrond leaned against the balcony railing, the afternoon sunlight glinting off his dark hair and illuminating his fair skin.
He looked up as Bilbo came over and leaned on the rail beside him, taking in the view.
"Not with your other companions, I see?" the elven lord said, and Bilbo looked to him, caught off-guard at the question.
"Ah, I shan't be missed," he said, shrugging. When he noticed Elrond gazing questioningly at him, he decided to elaborate. "The truth is most of them don't think I should be here. That I should've stayed in The Shire."
"Indeed?" Elrond said, raising an eyebrow. "I've heard that hobbits are very resilient."
Bilbo laughed uneasily, but when he looked back over, he found the elven lord staring at him intently, completely serious. "Really?" he said, meeting the elf's solemn gaze.
"Mm," Elrond said, and Bilbo didn't know whether that was an agreement or no. "I've also heard that they're fond of the comforts of home."
"And I've heard that it is unwise to seek the counsel of elves, for they will answer both yes and no," he said, looking back out to the waterfalls.
When Elrond didn't answer, Bilbo glanced to the elf, wondering if he had crossed a line. Elrond looked stern for a moment, but then his mouth twitched in a smile, and he placed a slender, light-fingered hand on his shoulder.
"You are very welcome to stay here, if that is your wish," he said.
Bilbo stared, surprised at where the conversation had turned to. Elrond smiled once more, then walked away, leaving Bilbo alone at the balcony.
The elf's words left him spinning: Stay? In Rivendell? Bilbo didn't know what to think. He had been chosen for the quest, and he would be abandoning the Company if he stayed behind. But did it matter?
He'd said so himself; most of them didn't think he should even be on the journey with them in the first place. So was it really a loss if he chose not to go any further?
Bilbo stared at the waterfalls for the rest of the day, his thoughts tumbling as fast as the roaring waters above.
When the shadows lengthened and dimmed the vast dome of the library, and Bilbo still had not returned, Alison slapped her book shut and sighed.
Though it had been her idea to invite Ori and Bilbo to accompany her to the library, she'd had ulterior motives in mind. At dinner the night before with the dwarves, she'd finally gathered her courage and sat beside Ori, who'd looked surprised and vaguely alarmed at her approach.
"Miss Alison," he said, his ears turning pink. "Er, hello."
"Alison," she corrected swiftly before nodding to the leather-bound journal in his lap. "You write?"
He nodded warily. "And draw. You know—things we've encountered on our journey so far."
"Just for fun, or…?"
"I'm a scholar—or, I was an apprentice one in Ered Luin, before I came on the quest."
"That's awesome," she said, and meant it. She hadn't known that. In fact, there were a great many things she didn't know about the dwarves, and she meant to change that. "My, uh, acquaintance, Glorfindel, told me that Rivendell has a great library. Would you like to come with me tomorrow to find it?"
He perked up immediately at the mention of a library, and she knew she had him hooked. "Of course!" He looked around their circle of talking dwarves before leaning close and lowering his voice. "The others probably wouldn't think so, but I've always been interested in Elvish texts. Their history goes back much farther than ours, you know."
She winked at him conspiratorially. "Then we'll go find some for ourselves."
And so that was how she'd roped Ori into coming with her, though she wasn't interested in the elves' history—she was interested in her own.
Between Gandalf, and now Glorfindel, she realized how utterly lost and unknowledgeable she really was regarding her family—her real family, at least. So, she'd resolved to find out as much as she could about Eleon, his Oath to the Valar, and the Heroes by herself, without having to rely on others spoon-feeding her their own information and narratives. Especially after her stunt with the apple, and the realization that she might have superhero strength now. That she was curious to know more about.
But so far, she hadn't found out much of…anything, really. Not why the Valar had singled out her family to bestow their "gift" upon, what that gift actually was, or why Eleon had decided to leave Middle-earth in the first place. She'd stumbled across a quick sketch of her early family tree beginning with someone named Hador, but it had ended with Eleon and his four siblings, who had all been marked as 'deceased.' He'd had two brothers—Alaric and Deimos—and two sisters, Melione and Eirene. Eleon himself had just been left blank, so at least no one back then knew what had come of him, either, until she'd found another list containing the names of the Heroes who came before her:
Eleon Ashburne – The First Hero
Jonathan Ashburne – The Second Hero
Nadia Ashburne – The Third Hero
Ivan Ashburne – The Fourth Hero
Elizabeth Ashburne – The Fifth Hero
Michael Ashburne – The Sixth Hero
The list was recent, then, if it ended with the Sixth Hero. She didn't know who Michael Ashburne was, or when he'd lived—both in her world or Middle-earth—but at least it gave her another starting point for research.
Or so she'd thought.
"Find anything?" Ori asked her, looking up from his own book at her annoyed sigh.
"Nothing," she grumbled. She waved her hand to the pile of dusty tomes. "I have names, but nothing else to go off of. It's like no one cared enough to write about the Heroes—which doesn't make sense, if they were supposedly held in such high regard."
Ori looked sympathetic. "Maybe you just haven't found the answers yet. I'm sure they'll come."
She snorted. "Maybe." She grabbed a smaller book from the pile and waved it at him. "Once I learn how to read Elvish, that is. Half of this stuff isn't even in Eng—or, the Common Tongue, whatever."
"Westron," Ori supplied.
"Yeah. That one."
Ori pointed to another book with a cracked spine and copious amounts of dust. "Try that one."
Alison gave him a dubious look. "I already tried. I can't read it. Watch." She flipped open the cover and showed it to him. "It's in some sort of rune language."
"Huh," Ori said, his eyebrows scrunching beneath his bangs. "They're not dwarven, that's for sure; but they're not elven, either. Their writing looks much different from that."
She frowned down at the runes. "Some sort of Hero-speak, then?"
"It could be," he hedged. "I know the first Men came up with their own language system, but they borrowed heavily from both Sindarin and Khuzdûl—Sindarin is an elf language," he said to her confused look. "But those runes look like neither—not even a bastardized version of it."
"Wonderful," she muttered. "A language no one knows or can read. Splendid."
She sat back and crossed her arms with a huff. She was so intent on glowering at the table that she didn't even notice Ori straightening in his seat, or the elven lord that had approached them once more until Ori kicked her shin, and she looked up.
"Lord Elrond," she said, clearing her throat and nodding respectfully. "I'm sorry; I didn't know you were there."
"Well met again, Lady Ashburne," he replied, accepting her apology with a fleeting smile. "I had a sneaking suspicion that I would find you here still."
She smiled nervously. "Why? Did you need me for something?"
"Come," he said, ignoring her questions and beckoning her after him with a slight hand wave. She shot a look at Ori, who shrugged, and she wondered if Elrond was starting to pick them off one-by-one; after all, he'd asked for Bilbo earlier, and the hobbit had never returned. Deciding that she was being foolish, however, she ignored that train of thought and instead followed Elrond through the Last Homely House in silence, until they came to a wide, expansive study that she assumed was Elrond's. She paused to ogle at the sheer number of books lining the high shelves—how there could be more books outside the library boggled her mind—but the elven lord gestured for her to continue to follow him as he disappeared behind a thick violet curtain tucked into a secluded corner of the room.
When she pushed aside the curtain and followed him into the hidden room, she wondered if she had been magically transported to some sort of Middle-earth museum. Statues and tapestries of all different people and places stood around the small room, along with stocks of jewelry, weapons, and other fantastical things she had no name for; but there was so much stuff. It was like an antique shop had exploded.
"What is all of this?" she asked, running her fingers over a beautiful silk tapestry of a waterfall that rippled realistically at her touch.
"Relics from ages past," the elven lord replied. "Some of these artifacts once belonged to your ancestors, the First Heroes."
"Really?" Alison asked, looking around at all the armor and weapons gleaming on the walls. "I thought Eleon was the First Hero, though? What's with the plural?"
"Eleon was the First," he agreed, "but he also had four siblings."
"Alaric, Deimos, Melione, and Eirene," she recited. At his raised brows, she smiled sheepishly. "I just saw their names on a family tree I was studying earlier."
"Correct," he said. "They were the five Ashburnes, the five Heroes, making them the First. Eleon is considered the forerunner, however, because he was the eldest and the lone Ashburne to continue the line.
"Eleon was the only Ashburne to have children," Elrond said to her questioning gaze. "You saw the lineage of your ancestors; you saw that they were deceased." She frowned as he continued. "Melione vowed to be a maiden forever, Alaric and Deimos eliminated each other before they could produce heirs to the line, and Eirene remained childless, sailing for the Undying Lands in the First Age, shortly after Eleon had disappeared."
"Oh," Alison said. "That makes sense, I guess." She shook her head; the more she learned about the Heroes, the less actually made sense, in her opinion. "But why did you bring me here?"
"It is time to return some of these relics to you," he said, taking out a heavy-looking stone chest from the other side of the room. Alison went over to him, her curiosity rising as he set down the chest. It was long and thin, plain basalt stone with a simple design carved in the middle: a lone tree with bare branches, silhouetted against the sun.
"What does the tree stand for?" she asked.
"It is an ash tree," he replied. "It is the symbol of your family, created by Eleon himself when the Heroes first came to be.
Elrond gripped the lid and slowly pushed it up, revealing two thin, slightly curved objects lined with crimson velvet. After a moment, Alison realized that they were swords, wrapped in black leather and silver sheaths. Elrond took them out carefully, handing them to her.
Alison braced herself for the heavy weight that was sure to break her arms, but to her intense surprise and relief, the swords actually weren't that heavy at all as she took them in her hands. "These two blades belonged to Eirene Ashburne," he said as she stroked the soft sheaths in wonder. "They are called the Twin Blades, for they are a matching pair."
Alison brought the hilts closer to her face, examining them intently. The hilts were made of an odd black iron, the grip inlaid with silver to match the sheaths. On the butt of the sword was the Ashburne symbol again, and on the cross-guards there were runes, a different one on each blade, but they looked the same as the ones in the book she'd shown Ori earlier.
"These runes," she said, tracing her finger over the ones etched on the first blade. "What do they mean?"
"Those are part of the warrior tongue—a language that has long since been forgotten by the world." At her frown, Elrond elaborated. "The Heroes were secretive—almost as much as Dwarves. Eleon, in particular, was adamant in protecting the secrets of his line. Whether on the Valar's orders, or his own notions, that is unknown."
He nodded to the Twin Blades. "I only know the names of these because Eirene told me when she gave them to me. The one in your right hand is known as Nightbane, and the other is called Lightgiver." His dark eyes followed her movements as she lowered the swords. "Eirene was the youngest of the five Ashburnes. She was passionate; strong-willed and courageous. The people named her 'Little Fire' for it."
Alison looked up at him. "You must have known her well, then, if she gave these to you."
"If there was one Ashburne to be granted the peace and everlasting youth of Valinor, it was her," he said, and she sensed that that was all he would say on the matter.
She nodded and pulled Nightbane from its sheath, studying the actual blade. The sword was at least as long as her arm, and to her relief, not too bulky or too broad. It was slim, made from a silvery, faintly glowing steel that looked wickedly sharp as it curved to a razor point at the end. It didn't have the same elegance and splendor as the elven blades Gandalf and Thorin had found in the troll hoard, but it was still majestic in its own simple way. She felt stupid for thinking it, but for some reason, as she held the blade and studied it, it felt…right, almost natural in her hand.
"So…you said you're giving these to me?" she asked, and Elrond nodded.
"Eirene entrusted them to me when she sailed for Valinor," he said. "I've been waiting for the opportunity to come into contact with another Ashburne to pass on her legacy, and here you are."
"I…thank you," she said, flustered, sheathing Nightbane again. "I don't really know what to say other than that. Just…thank you."
He put a light hand on her shoulder. "Use them well," he said. "For wherever your journey takes you, use them well."
He gave her a knowing look, and her heart sank.
"You know, don't you?" she said anxiously. "You know what I'm supposed to do."
"There are not many things that can be hidden from me in this valley," he said, somewhat sternly. "And Thorin Oakenshield's thoughts betray him; it is obvious that he cannot be swayed from the path he has chosen. Though I disagree with his decision, I know that no matter what is said, he will not be deviated from this course, and that your presence here is for the purpose of his quest." His grip tightened on her shoulder. "But know that this is dangerous, Lady Ashburne. I fear that this quest is not at all what it seems. I am tempted to divert you from this path; but I know even better that the Valar will allow no such interference."
"So…you're going to let us go when the time comes?" she asked hesitantly.
In the growing shadows of the room, Lord Elrond looked his age—thousands of years old.
"I am," he said heavily. "But heed my words, Alison Ashburne. This quest can either blaze a trail of glory for our two worlds, or it will cause them to go up in flames. Take caution, and be brave."
Alison nodded, her throat suddenly too dry for words. Elrond patted her shoulder gently, a small, comforting smile playing on his lips. "That reminds me, though. I have one last thing to gift you."
He opened a wooden alcove upon one wall and extracted several pieces of armor from within. She set down the swords to feel the material, her eyebrows knitting together when scaly leather slipped through her fingers. It was all black, but decorated with roots and bare branches that climbed the arms and legs, combining at the chest to fashion the Ashburne sigil of the tree and sun. It wasn't steel or chainmail, as she would have expected, but a sturdy, lightweight material that felt both strong and flexible.
"Hero armor," he said.
"Let me guess," she said drily. "No one knows what it's made of?"
He smiled. "You learn quickly, Lady Ashburne."
Looking at it, combined with her new swords, Alison was overwhelmed. She was one of them now; a Hero descended from the First, with their blood and their gifts running through her veins. She knew nothing about them—but did she have to? The path laid out before her was her own; Thorin Oakenshield's quest was now her own. She was the Seventh Hero—her own Hero. Not some ancient man's legacy.
Elrond swept aside the curtain, signaling that it was time for her to leave. She followed him out of the back room and passed through his study once more. A sudden glint from the corner of her eye made her turn toward Elrond's large desk; sitting on top of it was a familiar dagger.
"This is mine," she said in surprise, striding over to the desk and picking up the blade. It was the same simple iron dagger Thorin had given her, and she was relieved to see it, yet also confused. Didn't she lose this after throwing it at some orc?
"Is it?" Elrond asked. "It is a Dwarvish blade; I didn't think it would be yours."
"Thorin gave it to me," she said, rubbing her finger over the worn grip. It already felt familiar to her, like she'd had it for years instead of a few weeks.
"We recovered it as a spoil of war," Elrond said. "But if it is yours, then you may keep it for yourself again."
Alison thought about leaving it, or at least returning it to Thorin; after all, she had the Twin Blades now, so she probably didn't need it anymore. But on impulse, she wrapped the dagger in her new armor before following Elrond out of the study.
"I wish you luck on your journey, my lady," the elven lord said as they exited. "I hope to meet again someday before all of this is said and done."
"As do I, Lord Elrond," she said, bowing her head. "And thank you again, for the swords, and for…understanding what I must do."
He dipped his chin back to her. "I am not inclined to interfere with destiny, Alison Ashburne. And I hope your destiny guides you well."
And with that, he turned and swept off, disappearing around a corner with all the grace and silence of a ghost.
Alison walked slowly, fingering the soft sheaths of her new blades and turning the elven lord's words over in her mind. She couldn't shake the foreboding creeping up on her. Twice now she had been warned of the possible disastrous consequences this quest could inflict on this world, and maybe even her own, and the warnings did not settle lightly on her heart.
She agreed with Elrond and Gandalf; this quest was beginning to shape into something more than just Erebor and the dragon Smaug, and she wasn't exactly looking forward to what was going to happen in the future with that in mind.
Fíli sat in silence as the sun began to set on the Hidden Valley. He absentmindedly traced patterns into the veranda floor with the tip of one of his smaller daggers—a habit he found himself doing whenever he was antsy. After a while, he looked down at his idle drawings and found that he had actually written out runes in Khuzdûl: home.
He didn't know where that had come from, or which home he was talking about: Ered Luin or Erebor. Both had been weighing heavily on his mind lately, but he scuffed out the runes with his boot before anyone else could see and question him.
He looked around the clearing, stowing the dagger back into the wrist sheath he wore on his right arm, under his coat sleeve. The rest of the Company was sprawled out leisurely, puffing on pipes and chatting, taking in their moments of relaxation before they were on the Road again. The only people not relaxing were Thorin, who was pacing agitatedly in the center of the veranda, and Alison, who had mysteriously gone missing with Lord Elrond, as Ori had reported an hour ago when he'd returned from the library without her.
A few minutes later, there was the sound of footsteps—too quiet for a dwarf's, yet too loud for an elf's—and Alison appeared in the entryway to the veranda, her eyebrows creased and carrying two long—were those sword sheaths?—in her hands. At her arrival, the Company all looked to her, taking in her newfound weapons with wide eyes much as Fíli was doing.
He got up and went over to her just as Thorin realized her arrival and stalked to her as well.
"Where have you been?" he demanded. "Ori said Lord Elrond summoned you. For what purpose did he—" He stopped abruptly when he noticed the swords in her arms as Fíli came to stand by his shoulder, followed by the rest of the Company.
"Yes, Lord Elrond came searching for me," she told Thorin. "These belonged to my ancestors, and he wanted to give them to me." She handed one of the blades to Thorin, and the other to Fíli, keeping a black bundle in her arms.
Fíli took the sword carefully, examining the hilt with interest as Thorin slid out his blade, studying the metalwork intently.
"This is excellent craftsmanship," his uncle said. "Not as exquisite as Elvish or Dwarvish make, but impressive, nonetheless."
He handed the blade to Bofur, who took it and looked at it closely. "What is this?" he asked, reading the hilt. "Runes?" Fíli examined the blade he was holding, also seeing runes etched into the metal, different from any Dwarvish.
"The one you're holding, Bofur, is called Nightbane. That's what the runes mean," she said. "And that one there" —she gestured to the blade Fíli held— "is Lightgiver in the ancient warrior tongue, apparently." She shrugged. "I'm guessing my ancestors had a flair for the dramatic."
"It's poetic," Bofur joked, handing around the sword to the others, and Fíli did the same, listening as the others whistled and grumbled in appreciation of the workmanship.
"You said Lord Elrond sought you out?" Thorin said as he handed back Alison's swords. "Did he ask you anything about the quest? Did you tell him our plan?"
"Of course not," she scoffed. "Our plan is still safe." Her eyes tightened a little bit as she said it, but Fíli thought he was the only one who noticed it. Thorin hesitated for a moment, but he finally nodded.
"Good," he said. "Bombur's about to start cooking. Will you be staying for dinner?"
She nodded, grinning slightly. "I wouldn't miss Bombur's cooking for the world."
The ginger dwarf went red at her praise, but he beamed brightly at her as the Company dispersed, retreating to their pipes and conversations. She caught Fíli's eye, and he beckoned her to where he sat with Kíli, propped against the low wall of the veranda.
"Hey," she said as she plopped down in front of them. She crossed her legs, discarding her swords and the black bundle on the tiles. "What'd I miss?"
Fíli shrugged, stuffing some tobacco into his wooden pipe. "Nothing exciting." He shared a mischievous grin with Kíli, who was already smoking his own. "But perhaps we bathed in a rather…public area today."
She looked between them with a grimace. "Do I wanna know?"
"Probably not," Kíli said, smoke curling from his mouth. "It was a lewd scene; lots of nudity involved. And considering your reaction to merely half naked dwarves yesterday, I'm sure you'd faint if I described a fully naked dwarf to you."
She rolled her eyes, though her face had turned a fair shade of pink. "You know, I didn't sign up for this quest just to be bullied the whole time."
"Alison, we'd never bully you!" Fíli said, pressing a hand over his mouth. "Such tomfoolery is frowned upon for Princes of Durin!"
She took the black bundle and chucked it at him while he laughed. He caught it easily, frowning at the feel of sturdy and supple fabric. "What is this?"
"Armor," she said, snatching it back. "Keep your grubby hands off. It's new." She made a face. "Well, technically it's thousands of years old, but it's new to me, so the point still stands."
"Strange armor," Kíli commented. "Whatever do you need it for?"
"For whatever you need yours for," she said, waving her hand at the assembled Company. "Which reminds me." She pointed to Kíli. "You and me: archery." She then pointed to Fíli. "You and me: swords."
Fíli frowned, baffled. "Why me?"
"I've seen your swords," she said, nodding to the blades placed lovingly under the covers of his bedroll. "You dual wield both. Since mine are a matching pair, I want to learn to do the same."
He hesitated. "If you're sure, Alison. But mastering swords takes time and dedication—"
"Which I have plenty of," she interrupted. Her gaze turned beseeching. "Please, Fíli. A month ago, I didn't think anything that's happening to me would be possible. But the impossible has already happened; so why not add one more thing to the list?"
He took in her pleading wide eyes and sighed. "Do you get everyone to do what you want back in your world, too?"
She flipped her hair over her shoulder, smug. "Usually."
Fíli smirked, glancing to Kíli. But his brother's eyes were on Alison, his pipe forgotten as he glanced her over with a look Fíli knew all too well.
Alison didn't seem to notice. Instead, she jerked her chin over her shoulder. "I'm going to see if Bombur needs help with anything," she said. "Watch these for me?"
She gestured to her pile of things, and Fíli nodded. "Of course."
She smiled at them before getting up and walking to where Bombur sat preparing their dinner. Kíli watched her go, his gaze lingering on the backside her strange trousers provided, and Fíli smacked him.
"Ow," Kíli complained, rubbing his arm. "What was that for?"
"Ogling," he said sternly. "She's a Hero, Kee, and someone who's here to help us—not a plaything for you."
Kíli rolled his eyes. "You can't be serious, Fee."
"I am," Fíli said, lowering his voice so the others wouldn't eavesdrop. "I don't care how secretive you think you're being; I know you, and I know the way you get when something catches your fancy."
"When did you turn into Mother?" his brother grumbled. "There's no need for you to be concerned, Fee. I know what I am, and I know what she is."
Fíli nodded. "Just…stick to that, aye? Don't complicate things."
"Yes, Mother," Kíli said, rolling his eyes, and Fíli sighed.
They fell into silence, not speaking as the sun set and night rolled in. Fíli took out his dagger again, tracing its sharp tip against the floor, the same runes over and over again.
Home.
