A.N: I do not own Skyrim, Lord of the Rings or the characters. I only own the character I create.
P.S: This will be a bit AU, not badly but obviously since i am combining two different things it will be different. If there is any issues let me know, and I am going off the Hobbit Script so I am trying to keep it as close as I can.
Chapter 1,
My dear Frodo:You asked me once if I had told you everything there was to know about my adventures. And while I can honestly say I have told you the truth I may not have told you all of it. I am old now, Frodo. I'm not the same Hobbit I once was. I think it is time for you to know what really happened.
It began long ago in a land far away to the east the like of which you will not find in the world today. There was the city of Dale. Its markets known far and wide. Full of the bounties of vine and vale. Peaceful and prosperous. For this city lay before the doors of the greatest kingdom in Middle-earth: Erebor. Stronghold of Thror, King Under the Mountain. Mightiest of the Dwarf Lords. Thror ruled with utter surety never doubting his house would endure for his line lay secure in the lives of his son and grandson.
Ah, Frodo. Erebor. Built deep within the mountain itself the beauty of this fortress city was legend. Its wealth lay in the earth in precious gems hewn from rock and in great seams of gold running like rivers through stone. The skill of the Dwarves was unequaled fashioning objects of great beauty out of diamond, emerald, ruby and sapphire. Ever they delved deeper, down into the dark. And that is where they found it. The Heart of the Mountain. The Arkenstone. Thror named it "The King's Jewel." He took it as a sign, a sign that his right to rule was divine. All would pay homage to him. Even the great Elven King, Thranduil. As the great wealth of the Dwarves grew their store of good will ran thin. No one knows exactly what began the rift. The Elves say the Dwarves stole their treasure. The Dwarves tell another tale. They say the Elf King refused to give them their rightful pay.
It is sad, Frodo, how old alliances can be broken. How friendships between peoples can be lost. And for what? But the years of peace and plenty were not to last. Slowly the days turned sour and the watchful nights closed in. Thror's love of gold had grown too fierce. A sickness had begun to grow within him. It was a sickness of the mind. And where sickness thrives bad things will follow. The first they heard was a noise like a hurricane coming down from the North. The pines on the mountain creaked and cracked in the hot, dry wind.
He was a firedrake from the North. Smaug had come. Such wanton death was dealt that day. For this city of Men was nothing to Smaug. His eye was set on another prize. For dragons covet gold with a dark and fierce desire. For a dragon will guard his plunder as long as he lives.
Thranduil would not risk the lives of his kin against the wrath of the dragon. No help came from the Elves that day nor any day since. Robbed of their homeland, the Dwarves of Erebor wandered the wilderness a once mighty people brought low. The young Dwarf prince took work where he could find it laboring in the villages of Men. But always he remembered the mountain smoke beneath the moon the trees like torches blazing bright. For he had seen dragon fire in the sky and a city turned to ash. And he never forgave and he never forgot.
That, my dear Frodo, is where I come in. For, quite by chance, and the will of a Wizard fate decided I would become part of this tale. It began... Well, it began as you might expect. In a hole in the ground there lived a Hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole full of worms and oozy smells. This was a Hobbit hole. And that means good food, a warm hearth and all the comforts of home.
With a heavy sigh, Bilbo stood in the doorway of his beloved kitchen, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His normally pristine counter-tops were now buried under piles of mismatched pots, stray crumbs, and sloshing tankards. A trail of mud clung stubbornly to his once-gleaming floors, evidence of boots that were far too large and far too careless for a respectable hobbit's home.
The dwarves ransacked and pillaged his cupboards like a pack of hungry wolves, pulling out jars of preserves, wedges of cheese, and loaves of bread he had baked just that morning. One particularly boisterous dwarf was gnawing on an entire sausage, grinning ear to ear as he waved it about mid-conversation. Another clambered up onto a stool, stretching precariously to reach the honey jar perched high on a shelf.
And then there was Gandalf. The tall wizard loomed near the hearth, his gray robes brushing the floor as he leaned on his staff. His sharp eyes twinkled beneath the wide brim of his hat, his expression one of calm amusement, as if this entire scene were perfectly ordinary and, worse still, entirely acceptable. He puffed on his pipe, the faintest curl of a smile playing on his lips as he surveyed the chaos.
"Content and happy, are you?" Bilbo muttered under his breath, glancing warily at Gandalf. "Well, I'm not. Not one bit."
The wizard's gaze flicked toward him, but he said nothing, only lifting his bushy brows as though daring Bilbo to protest further.
The hobbit's shoulders slumped as he took in the scene once more. His cozy little hole in the ground—his sanctuary of peace and quiet—had been transformed into a battlefield of merriment and mess. It wasn't just the clutter or the noise; it was the very spirit of it all, the careless disruption of the routine he had so carefully cultivated.
"Excuse me," Bilbo said at last, his voice rising over the din. He cleared his throat, louder this time. "Excuse me! I don't mean to interrupt your—your rampage—but might I remind you that this is my home!"
The dwarves paused, if only briefly, some casting guilty glances his way. But soon enough, one of them—the one with the sausage—clapped him on the shoulder and laughed heartily.
"Ah, don't fret, Master Baggins!" the dwarf said, his voice booming. "We'll clean up—eventually."
Bilbo gaped, his protests dying on his tongue. Gandalf chuckled softly, shaking his head as he leaned toward the hobbit.
"You'll find, my dear Bilbo," the wizard said, his voice rich and calm, "that adventures rarely start tidy and organized."
Bilbo's frown deepened, but somewhere, beneath his irritation, a spark of curiosity flickered to life. Adventures. That word had a strange, almost magical ring to it.
For now, though, he kept his face set in a scowl, even as he reached out to snatch the honey jar before the clumsy dwarf on the stool could topple it.
oving out of the horde, Bilbo clutched the jar of fresh honey protectively, holding it close as though it were a rare treasure. Navigating through the throng of dwarves wasn't easy; they were everywhere—lounging on his chairs, leaning against his walls, and generally treating his home like their personal tavern. He squeezed past a particularly large one who was busy uncorking a bottle of his finest wine and muttering something about "toasting the burglar."
"Not my wine too!" Bilbo hissed under his breath, his face growing redder by the second.
At last, he reached the sitting room, a small sanctuary amidst the chaos. He placed the honey jar on the edge of a small table with great care, as if setting down a fragile artifact. He straightened up, dusting his hands off with a huff, when there came a light rap at the door.
His head snapped toward the sound. His brow furrowed. Another visitor? Tonight of all nights?
"What the—!" Bilbo muttered, his voice rising as he clenched his fists. He stomped a step forward, his frustration bubbling to the surface like a kettle on the boil. His furry feet thudded against the wooden floor, a rare display of irritation for the normally mild-mannered hobbit. "How many more are there?" he grumbled aloud, though no one seemed to be paying attention.
By the time he reached the hallway, his thoughts were a flurry of indignation. The front door—his front door—had already been opened far too many times this evening for his liking. Every time he latched it, someone new seemed to push their way in as though Bag End were some sort of inn.
With a firm yank, Bilbo swung the door open, fully prepared to tell off whoever was on the other side.
"Yes?!" he barked, the words sharper than he intended. But the sight before him stole the rest of his tirade.
Standing in the doorway was a figure unlike any he had ever seen. Tall and cloaked, the person exuded an aura of quiet authority, their presence immediately commanding attention. The hood of their cloak was pulled low, casting their face into deep shadows. Despite the obscured features, it was unmistakable—the slim, elegant figure was that of a woman.
Her attire was as peculiar as it was striking. Beneath the dark cloak, Bilbo caught the faint glint of armor, a stark contrast to the simple leather jerkin she wore underneath. The armor itself was piecemeal, designed for both mobility and protection: sturdy gauntlets covered her hands, each finger jointed with meticulous craftsmanship. Her shoulder pauldrons gleamed faintly in the dim light spilling out from Bag End, engraved with swirling patterns that looked almost elvish but weren't quite. Plates of armor hugged her hips, curving down to guard her upper thighs. From her knees downward, sleek metal coverings protected the tops of her black boots, each segment articulated to allow fluid movement.
Her black pants, practical and unadorned, peeked out between the armor pieces, emphasizing the utilitarian nature of her gear. Despite the absence of ostentation, everything about her appearance radiated competence and purpose. She looked like someone who had seen battle and walked away stronger for it.
Bilbo's eyes darted back to the hood, trying to make out her face, but the shadows concealed her features entirely. There was only the faintest hint of her jawline—a smooth, pale curve beneath the hood's edge.
The woman stood silently for a moment, as if studying him. Then she tilted her head slightly, the movement both deliberate and unnervingly calm.
"Am I late?" she asked, her voice smooth and low, carrying a faint, lilting accent that Bilbo couldn't quite place. It wasn't dwarvish, that much he was certain. There was an unmistakable strength in her tone, like tempered steel wrapped in silk.
Bilbo blinked, momentarily dumbstruck. His irritation wavered, replaced by a mix of confusion and unease. Who was this woman, and what business did she have at his door?
"I—uh—" he stammered, before snapping himself back to the present. "That depends! Late for what, exactly?" He straightened up, clutching the door frame with one hand as if to ground himself amidst the oddity of the evening.
The woman didn't answer immediately. Instead, she shifted slightly, the faintest movement of her shoulders beneath the cloak. The subtle sound of leather and metal shifting filled the air, unnervingly precise, as though her very presence were deliberate in every way.
"For the meeting," she said at last, her tone unchanging, calm but pointed. "Surely Gandalf informed you."
Bilbo's heart sank. Of course. Gandalf. Who else would involve him in this madness? He cast a quick glance over his shoulder toward the sitting room, where the wizard was no doubt enjoying the chaos as though it were a festival in his honor.
"Well, he didn't mention... you," Bilbo replied hesitantly, his words catching in his throat. "Though that seems to be a running theme tonight."
The woman tilted her head again, just enough to suggest a faint smile beneath the shadows of her hood. There was a subtle grace in the motion, a quiet elegance that seemed at odds with the heavy armor she wore. Her voice, when she spoke again, softened ever so slightly, though it still carried an undeniable strength.
"My apologies for the inconvenience," she said, her tone measured, almost disarming. "My name is Elena Stormborn. May I come in?"
Bilbo blinked, his irritation battling with his inherent politeness. The name lingered in the air, unfamiliar yet carrying a weight that made him feel it should mean something. "Stormborn" had a dramatic ring to it, the kind of name that belonged to a story—or perhaps to someone who was used to being in the thick of things.
He glanced behind him, where the muffled clamor of the dwarves continued unabated. A quick flicker of his eyes landed on Gandalf, still looming near the hearth in the sitting room, puffing on his pipe with the same infuriatingly serene expression as before.
"Elena Stormborn?" Bilbo repeated cautiously, his voice rising slightly with incredulity. "Well, that's all very proper and polite, but I must say—this is hardly the sort of evening for unexpected callers! My home has been invaded—absolutely ransacked—by a horde of dwarves, and now you…" He trailed off, realizing he was rambling.
Elena remained silent, her hooded face still tilted slightly toward him, patiently awaiting his answer. There was no hint of impatience or irritation, just an air of quiet expectation.
Bilbo exhaled sharply, running a hand through his curly hair. "I suppose refusing wouldn't make much difference at this point," he muttered under his breath, before stepping back and gesturing reluctantly toward the hallway. "Fine. Come in."
Elena inclined her head in thanks, the faintest rustle of fabric and metal accompanying the motion. "Thank you, Master Baggins," she said softly, the corners of her hood dipping slightly as though she were suppressing another smile. She stepped over the threshold, her movements smooth and deliberate, her boots clicking softly against the wooden floor.
Once inside, she paused, her eyes—still hidden—seemingly taking in the warm, if now cluttered, interior of Bag End. The sound of laughter and clattering dishes from the other room was unmistakable, and a faint crease formed at the edge of her hood as if she were smirking.
"You weren't exaggerating," she remarked lightly. "It seems you've had quite the evening."
Bilbo groaned, closing the door firmly behind her. "You don't know the half of it," he muttered. "And just what brings you into the madness, Miss Stormborn? Or should I even ask?"
Chuckling lightly, Elena shook her head, the soft sound of amusement breaking through the din of the chaotic evening. "You can just call me Elena," she said, her voice warm yet composed, as if trying to set him at ease. "No need for all the 'Miss' bits."
Bilbo blinked, momentarily caught off guard by her easy candor. He opened his mouth to reply—perhaps to protest the informality, or maybe to remark on how peculiar the night had become—but before he could form a single coherent thought, Gandalf appeared in the hallway.
"Ah! You've arrived!" the wizard said, his voice booming with delight as he stepped into view. His tall frame filled the corridor, his gray robes swishing lightly as he leaned on his staff. A large smile graced his face, his bright eyes twinkling under the brim of his hat. "I was starting to wonder if you'd gotten yourself lost, Elena."
Bilbo hesitated in the doorway to the sitting room, curiosity and unease warring within him. As he moved to step forward, something unusual happened. The boisterous hum of activity quieted, and the clatter of mugs and laughter began to dwindle.
The first to still was the white-haired dwarf, Balin—one of the few names Bilbo had managed to commit to memory amidst the chaos of introductions earlier. His movements froze mid-reach for a platter of bread, his sharp eyes narrowing before going wide with what looked like disbelief. Beside him, Dwalin, ever stoic and imposing, seemed to sense the shift as well, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his weapon even though there was no visible threat.
Both dwarves turned toward the hallway, their focus landing squarely on Elena. For a moment, neither spoke, the weight of unspoken recognition hanging thick in the air.
Balin was the first to break the silence. Slowly, he stepped forward, his expression a mixture of awe and uncertainty. His weathered hands trembled slightly, his wide eyes locked on the hooded figure before him. "Elena?" he asked at last, his voice carrying a tremor that Bilbo had never heard before.
The way he said her name was not simply an acknowledgment—it was a question, a hope, and a plea all wrapped into a single word.
Elena smiled warmly at the old dwarf, a gesture that seemed to soften the tension in the room. Slowly, she reached up, her gauntleted hands brushing against the edges of her cloak, and pulled back her hood, revealing her face to the room. The flickering light from the hearth illuminated her features, drawing a collective intake of breath from those gathered.
To Bilbo, her face was unlike any he had seen before, and it seemed to tell a story all on its own—a tale of strength, hardship, and resilience. Her features were sharp and angular, her cheeks hollow, with not a trace of softness to them. This was a face carved by time and struggle, not indulgence. Her nose was small and straight, perfectly balanced with her slim mouth, the lips a soft shade of pink as if kissed by frost.
It was her eyes, however, that held his attention. Or rather, the one eye he could see clearly. It was unlike any he had ever encountered—molten silver, alive with an intensity that made him feel both small and captivated, as though she could see straight through him. An arched brow above it lent her an air of quiet authority.
Her left eye, however, was another matter entirely. Three jagged scars tore through her skin, starting from her hairline and slashing diagonally across her face. They crossed through her left eye and extended down to her chin, the violent paths of each mark telling of a brutal and harrowing encounter. The eye itself was concealed beneath a sleek, black leather eye patch, fitted snugly and securely over the socket. The scars around it were rough, the skin raised and pale against her complexion, a testament to wounds that had healed but never truly faded.
Her hair, dark as a moonless night, was pulled back into a high ponytail, the strands catching the light like polished obsidian. Though restrained, the length of it hinted at a natural thickness, a cascade of untamed wildness carefully subdued. The ponytail swayed slightly as she turned her head to regard Balin with a mix of warmth and familiarity.
"Balin," she said softly, her voice gentle yet firm, filled with recognition and something deeper—affection, perhaps, or respect.
The old dwarf took another step closer, his hands still trembling. His eyes shimmered with emotion, and for a moment, it seemed as though words failed him. Finally, he spoke, his voice thick with feeling.
"It is you," he murmured, almost disbelieving. "By Durin's beard, it's been years… we thought… I thought…" He trailed off, unable to finish the thought, his voice cracking with the weight of it.
Dwalin stepped forward, placing a steady, comforting hand on his brother's shoulder. His usual stern demeanor softened just slightly as he looked at Elena, his deep voice filled with the weight of old pain. "We thought you perished in the dragon attack, lass. After Smaug took Erebor, we went to Dale to check, to make sure you were okay. But all we found were the smoking ruins of your smithy and home."
Elena nodded, her gaze dropping momentarily as she shifted slightly on her feet. The weight of their words didn't surprise her—it wasn't the first time she'd heard them. Still, the memories they stirred were no easier to face now than they had been years ago.
"I don't remember much of the attack, honestly," she admitted, her voice quieter than before. She glanced up, her silver eye meeting Dwalin's, steady but shadowed with pain. "One moment, I was working in the smithy, just like any other day. The next… the world was fire and chaos. I remember the roar of Smaug—so loud it shook the ground beneath me—and the heat, so blistering it felt like it would melt the very air."
She paused, swallowing hard as her hand brushed the edge of her cloak, a subtle gesture that spoke of lingering pain. "Something hit me—debris, maybe, or the shockwave from one of his attacks. I was buried beneath the smithy's collapse before I could even think of escaping. I blacked out."
Balin's eyes widened, his voice trembling as he asked, "And yet… you survived?"
Elena nodded slowly, a faint, almost wry smile tugging at her lips. "Trust me, I have no clue how I managed to survive the smithy collapsing on me. It was sheer instinct, I think. I must have thrown up some kind of barrier—purely reflexive. I don't even remember doing it." She let out a soft sigh, her gaze distant as if reliving the moment. "The next thing I knew, I was being carried to the Woodland Elves by Beorn, a close friend of mine."
"Beorn?" Balin asked, tilting his head as he tried to place the name.
Elena nodded, her smile growing warmer as she spoke. "He's a woodsman who lives on the edge of the Woodland Forest. He would come to Dale occasionally to trade for tools, ones I often crafted for him. He'd been visiting that day, hoping to barter for some new equipment, only to find the city in ruins."
Her voice softened, the memory of her friend bringing a hint of light to her otherwise somber tale. "He said he searched everywhere for me, thinking I might have escaped. When he found the smithy in pieces, he almost gave up… but something told him to dig. He said he felt it in his gut that I was still alive, and, well, Beorn is a man who trusts his instincts."
Dwalin let out a low, approving grunt. "A good friend, then. A rare thing in times like that."
"The best," Elena agreed. "He carried me to the Woodland Elves for healing. I was in no condition to argue, not that I would have. He said they were the only ones nearby with the skill to save me."
Balin frowned slightly, his tone laced with surprise and skepticism. "The Woodland Elves? And they helped you?"
Elena chuckled softly, her smile tinged with amusement as she nodded. "Well," she began, glancing between the stunned faces before her, "I suppose I should say it wasn't just the Woodland Elves' good nature that helped. I'm married to one of them, you see." She paused, her tone light but her words deliberate. "Well… to Lord Thranduil, actually."
The silence that followed was palpable, as though the very air in the room had been sucked away. Even Gandalf arched an eyebrow, his pipe momentarily forgotten in his hand. Balin stared at her, his mouth opening and closing as if trying to find the right words. Dwalin's expression darkened with a mix of confusion and disbelief, and Bilbo simply blinked, utterly lost.
Finally, Balin managed to stammer, "Thranduil? The Elvenking? That Thranduil?"
Elena nodded, a small, knowing smile on her lips. "Yes, that Thranduil," she confirmed warmly. "You did know, Balin. I distinctly remember telling you—and Thror—back in the days when Erebor still stood. But, I suppose it has been a long time."
Balin's brow furrowed as he searched his memory, and then his eyes widened in dawning recognition. "By Durin's beard," he muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper. "You did tell us, didn't you? I thought you were jesting… or that it was some fleeting alliance."
Elena shook her head with a chuckle. "Not a jest, and not fleeting. Thranduil and I have been married for many years now. It's why he agreed so readily to let the healers take me in. He may be proud, stubborn, and infuriatingly aloof at times"—she smirked at the thought—"but he loves me fiercely."
Dwalin crossed his arms, his expression still skeptical. "And does the Elvenking share that love for dwarves?"
Elena tilted her head slightly, her silver eye glinting with humor. "Not particularly," she admitted. "But he's fond enough of me to tolerate the occasional… exception." She glanced pointedly at Balin. "He didn't stop me from befriending you or Thror, did he?"
Balin stroked his beard thoughtfully, still trying to process the revelation. "No," he conceded. "But Thranduil and dwarves have never been on the best of terms."
"That's true," Elena said, her tone growing serious. "But I've spent years trying to change his mind. He's stubborn—more stubborn than the lot of you combined—but he's not heartless." She paused, her expression softening. "He's seen what I've been through, and he's supported me in ways I never imagined. For all his flaws, I wouldn't trade him for anything."
Bilbo finally found his voice, his tone hesitant but curious. "You're… married to an elven king?" he asked, his incredulity plain. "But how does that even happen?"
Elena chuckled warmly, her expression softening as she glanced at him. "With a great deal of patience, Master Baggins. And an even greater deal of trust."
Gandalf finally spoke, his tone rich with amusement. "Well, this certainly explains much. I was wondering how you managed to gain the Woodland Realm's aid so effortlessly."
Elena smiled at the wizard. "It does have its advantages, I'll admit."
Dwalin grumbled, his skepticism giving way to reluctant respect. "Well, I suppose if anyone could manage to tame an elf like Thranduil, it'd be you, lass."
Elena laughed, her voice light and genuine. "Tame him? Hardly. But we make it work, one way or another."
By this time, the commotion had drawn the attention of the other dwarves, who had gathered in the hallway to watch the exchange unfold. Each of them wore a different expression—curiosity, confusion, skepticism, and even a hint of awe in some cases. Their murmurs quieted as Gandalf stepped forward, his presence commanding their attention.
The wizard patted Elena's shoulder, his expression one of certainty and approval. "She is here to help us," he announced, his voice steady and authoritative. "Her abilities and strength will be a great asset to our journey."
Elena nodded in agreement, her silver eye sweeping over the gathered dwarves. Her expression was warm but resolute, her voice calm as she added, "And I need no payment. I'm not here for gold or treasure. I just want to help my friends reclaim their home."
The dwarves exchanged glances, their expressions shifting as her words sank in. Balin's eyes shone with a mix of gratitude and admiration, while Dwalin gave a small, approving nod. Others, like Bofur and Fili, looked intrigued, their initial skepticism melting into curiosity.
Kili, standing near the back of the group, leaned toward Bofur and whispered, "Married to Thranduil and doesn't want payment? She's either the bravest person I've ever met—or the craziest."
Bofur smirked but said nothing, though his eyes twinkled with amusement.
Bilbo, still hovering near the doorway, couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt for his earlier doubts. Despite her striking appearance and formidable presence, there was an undeniable kindness in her words—a sincerity he hadn't expected.
Gandalf, sensing the shifting mood in the room, nodded sagely. "It is settled, then. Elena Stormborn will join us on this quest. Her knowledge, skill, and loyalty will prove invaluable."
The wizard's words carried weight, silencing any lingering objections. The dwarves, though some remained cautious, began to nod in agreement, their respect for her growing by the moment.
Elena smiled faintly, her gaze returning to Balin and Dwalin. "I won't let you down," she said softly, her voice carrying a quiet determination. "Not this time."
Balin placed a hand over his heart, his eyes shining. "You never have, lass. Not once."
Shaking his head and letting out a soft chuckle, Balin turned back to the group of dwarves gathered in the hallway. "Alright, alright," he said, his voice firm but kind, "back to what you were doing. No point in standing around gawking like a bunch of wide-eyed lads."
He made a shooing motion with his hands, waving them off. Slowly, the dwarves began to disperse, grumbling good-naturedly as they headed back to the kitchen. Their chatter picked up again, though several of them glanced back over their shoulders at Elena, curiosity still plain on their faces.
Fili and Kili lingered the longest, whispering to each other with barely concealed grins, though they offered Elena a polite nod before disappearing into the next room.
As the last of them left, Bofur paused in the doorway, tipping his hat to Elena with a cheeky smile. "Well, lass, it's not every day we meet someone married to an elven king. I reckon you'll keep things interesting."
Elena chuckled, inclining her head. "I'll do my best, Bofur."
He winked before retreating back to the kitchen, leaving the hallway much quieter. Only Gandalf, Balin, Dwalin, and Bilbo remained, the latter still lingering near the wall, trying to make sense of everything he had just heard.
Balin turned back to Elena, his expression softening as he shot her a small, warm smile. "It's good to have you here, lass," he said quietly. "It's been far too long."
Elena smiled back, the warmth in her gaze matching his. "It has," she replied. "But I'm here now, and I'll see this through."
Dwalin grunted approvingly, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall. "Aye, and we'll make sure you do. Now, let's get to it. There's still work to be done before Thorin arrives."
Gandalf nodded sagely. "Indeed. And when he does, I suspect things will only get more... lively."
Elena raised an eyebrow, her smile turning wry. "Lively, you say? I'm starting to think I've joined a rather interesting company."
As Balin and Dwalin left the hallway, the sound of their conversation fading into the kitchen, Gandalf and Bilbo remained behind with Elena. The wizard glanced down at the hobbit, his bushy brows lifting slightly as he gave a small gesture toward the kitchen.
"Bilbo," Gandalf said, his tone amiable but firm, "would you be so kind as to fetch our friend a mug of beer?" He paused, glancing back at Elena with a raised brow. "You do still drink beer, don't you?"
Elena chuckled softly, nodding. "I do, Gandalf. Some things never change."
Satisfied, the wizard smiled and turned back to Bilbo, who gave an obliging sigh and shuffled off toward the kitchen, muttering something about being reduced to a barkeep in his own home.
Taking the opportunity, Gandalf motioned toward the sitting room. "Come," he said, gesturing for Elena to follow. He made his way to one of the two chairs in the room that were sized for someone taller than a hobbit, settling himself comfortably into the seat with a creak of wood. "Have a seat, my dear," he offered, motioning to the chair opposite him.
Elena followed, lowering herself gracefully into the chair, her cloak billowing slightly as she did. The firelight from the hearth danced across the intricate armor that adorned her figure, lending her an almost otherworldly presence.
Gandalf rested his staff against the arm of his chair and leaned forward slightly, his sharp eyes studying her with a mixture of curiosity and concern. "You're a bit later than I expected," he said, his tone turning more serious. "What happened?"
Elena sighed softly, rubbing her temple as if trying to smooth away the weight of her memories. "I ran into a pack of orcs," she admitted, her tone even but carrying a weight that drew Gandalf's full attention.
The wizard's sharp eyes narrowed, his posture straightening. "Orcs, you say?" he asked, his voice low and serious. "Why would they attack you, Elena? Orcs don't often roam without purpose."
Elena leaned back in her chair, the faintest hint of a wry smile tugging at her lips. "Because they know of me—and my abilities," she explained, her tone steady but with an undercurrent of irritation. "Azog has been after me for decades now. He's determined to capture me and exploit my powers. To him, I'd be a valuable weapon."
"Azog," Gandalf repeated, his voice darkening. "A foe not easily shaken, and one who seldom lets grudges lie. What drove him to such relentless pursuit?"
Elena chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Oh, I've given him plenty of reasons to hate me, Gandalf. For starters, I killed one of his lieutenants years ago, back when Dale fell. That put me squarely on his radar." She paused, her silver eye glinting with a mix of amusement and defiance. "And then, about six years ago, I stole something very precious to him."
Gandalf arched a brow. "Stole something? From Azog? And what, pray tell, might that have been?"
"A warg," Elena replied with a faint grin. "One of his prized white ones. She was injured and being mistreated. I couldn't leave her to that fate, so I freed her."
Gandalf let out a low hum of intrigue, his expression unreadable. "You stole a white warg from Azog?"
"I didn't just steal her," Elena clarified, her tone light with humor. "I kept her. Her name's Sable. She's been my companion ever since."
Bilbo, standing quietly in the doorway, listened intently, though his brow furrowed in confusion. "What's a… warg?" he asked hesitantly, his curiosity finally overcoming his silence.
Elena turned to the hobbit, her expression softening. "A warg is… well, they're like wolves, but much larger and far more vicious. Orcs breed and train them as mounts, though they're often as dangerous to their riders as they are to anyone else."
Bilbo's eyes widened, and he swallowed hard. "Larger than wolves?" he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. "And you… kept one as a pet?"
Elena chuckled at his reaction, shaking her head. "Not a pet, Master Baggins. Sable is a companion. She's intelligent, loyal, and far better company than any orc."
Bilbo still looked dubious, but he remained quiet, processing the unexpected information. Gandalf, meanwhile, leaned forward, his expression grave. "And these orcs you encountered? Did you manage to deal with them?"
Elena's humor faded, replaced by a steely resolve. "I did," she said simply. "They set an ambush, likely hoping to drag me back to Azog. But they underestimated me—and Sable. Let's just say they won't be reporting back to their master."
The wizard nodded, though his brow remained furrowed in thought. "Azog's reach is troubling, even this far from his stronghold. His grudge against you may bring danger to our journey."
Elena nodded, her voice quiet but firm. "I know, Gandalf. But I'm not going to let him—or anyone else—stand in the way of helping my friends reclaim their home."
Gandalf regarded her for a long moment before nodding. "Very well, Elena. We'll face whatever comes, together."
A.N; Thank you for reading! Please review if you like and let me know what you like about it or what I could fix!
P.S: do not send me a pm asking to draw something please. It will be ignored and deleted. As grateful as I am that you would want to draw something.