Chapter 23,
Elena hit the riverbank like a shadow with purpose, water spraying behind her boots as she rolled to her feet in a fluid motion. She didn't bother looking back at the chute—she could still hear Bilbo's panicked yelp trailing behind her as he presumably landed in a less-than-graceful splash. Ahead of her, the barrels carrying the dwarves bobbed and slammed through the current, some with limbs sticking out wildly like crab legs, others filled with angry shouting in Khuzdul. It might have been chaos for anyone else. For Elena, it was oddly nostalgic.
Then the Orcs arrived.
They came howling from the trees in snarling, greasy waves, their guttural roars echoing through the woods. Without missing a beat, Elena unslung her blades and charged, meeting the first with a swift upward cut that sent it sprawling into the river, promptly run over by Bifur's barrel. A second orc lunged at her from the left, and she ducked low, spinning behind it and driving both blades into its spine before booting it into the churning water. In the chaos, Dwalin shouted, "Remind me not to get on her bad side!" Bofur, half-drowned in his barrel, replied, "That was her good side!"
But then, movement from the canopy above caught her eye.
Aela dropped down first, spinning midair and landing beside Elena with the grace of a wind-tossed leaf and the grin of a girl in trouble and loving every second of it. "Mother!" she sang over the chaos, stabbing a dagger into an orc's neck. "You always said not to sneak out of the palace alone! So technically, I followed instructions!"
Elena snorted as she parried another blade and kicked an orc square in the gut. "You used the word technically, which means I will have to ground you later."
Legolas landed lightly on a moss-covered branch above them, losing arrows faster than most could blink. His tone was dry as the bark beneath his boots. "Father is furious," he announced, as though discussing the weather.
"Of course he is," Elena called back, casually elbowing an orc into the river, where it was quickly trampled by Thorin's spinning barrel. "Tell him I'm fine and he needs to diversify his hobbies."
"I told him this would happen," Legolas continued, firing again. "He sighed, finished his wine, and muttered, 'That woman is a storm with legs.' Then poured another glass."
"That's fair," Elena replied, ducking just in time for Aela to vault off her back and kick an orc square in the face. "I am a little bit of a storm."
"You're enjoying this far too much," Tauriel said as she leapt beside them, blades already red and eyes full of fire.
"Oh, absolutely," Elena laughed, dancing past another orc with a flourish of steel. "There's nothing quite like illegal royal-assisted jailbreaks to get the blood pumping."
The barrels surged ahead, dwarves yelling, splashing, and occasionally punching orcs who dared get too close. Bofur's hat flew off and was caught midair by Ori, who shouted something triumphant before immediately smacking into a low-hanging branch. Bilbo, clinging to the side of a barrel and looking like a drowned cat, managed to lock eyes with Elena just long enough to shake his head in disbelief. She winked at him.
They moved together as a unit now—mother, son, daughter, and the commander who had once been their student—cutting down orcs along the river's edge like autumn leaves. Laughter mingled with the clash of steel, and though the danger was real, so was the joy of battle shared with those she loved most. Elena's heart thudded in her chest—not from fear, but exhilaration.
Whatever punishment awaited later, whatever diplomatic storm was brewing back in the throne room, she would face it with a grin.
And likely, another sword.
The river narrowed suddenly, the ravine walls rising high on either side as the current twisted and churned with greater force. Up ahead, a heavy iron grate blocked the passage, its spiked teeth pressed low over the water like a snarl. The dwarves shouted over one another, barrels crashing together as the current slowed. "We're trapped!" Dori yelled. "Not yet!" Thorin snapped, drawing his sword even from within the barrel.
Elena was not among them.
She was still on the riverbank, blades flashing, blood spattering her leathers as she cut through the last orcs clambering from the trees. She heard the whine of a bowstring just before she saw him—a pale, hulking figure among the others. Not Azog… but kin to him. The resemblance was unmistakable. Taller than the rest, leaner, eyes like sunless ice. He nocked a black-fletched arrow and aimed across the river. Her gaze followed the arc.
"Kili!" she shouted, but it was too late.
The arrow struck with a sickening thunk, deepening into Kili's thigh. The dwarf cried out, slumping in his barrel, gripping the wound as crimson poured into the water. The pale orc grinned, notching another arrow but not losing it. He was watching her now.
The grates creaked, the gears clanking to life above the water. The heavy metal teeth began to rise, letting the barrels surge forward with the current's sudden pull. The dwarves shouted in surprise as the way opened—but Elena wasn't watching them anymore.
She ran.
She launched across a moss-slick boulder, blades raised, feet splashing through the shallows toward the pale orc. He didn't flinch. Instead, he stepped into her path and swung a jagged axe downward. She met the blow with crossed blades, the impact sending a shock through her arms. He was strong. Stronger than he looked. The force of his swing sent her skidding backward through the mud, barely keeping her footing.
They locked eyes again, breath clouding between them. She wanted to finish it. Everything in her screamed to stay, to fight, to rip him apart for what he'd done to the boy she had sworn to protect. But she heard the river roaring louder now—listened to the panic, the movement, the escape. The barrels were disappearing. If she stayed, she'd lose them all.
She spun on her heel with a low, furious snarl, blades sheathing in a single, fluid motion. She sprinted to the river's edge and leapt, soaring above the whitecaps before plunging into the icy water. Her body hit the current hard, but she surged forward, arms cutting through until her hand slammed against a drifting barrel. She grabbed it, clinging tight, when a strong hand caught her arm and hauled her over with a grunt.
Thorin.
He gripped her vest and yanked her aboard, muttering, "Of course it's you."
She landed in a heap beside him, coughing up water, laughing breathlessly. "I take it you missed me?"
Thorin rolled his eyes, water dripping from his soaked hair, his glare unconvincing beneath the twitch of a smile. "You couldn't ride inside the barrel like a normal person?"
Elena wheezed out a laugh, pushing drenched hair from her face. "But then you wouldn't have had the joy of rescuing me. Again."
Thorin rolled his eyes and tried to hide the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You call this rescuing?"
"I call it team-building," she replied with a wink, adjusting herself so they weren't quite so entangled.
As the current swept them forward, she twisted just in time to see the figures on the bank—Legolas, still loosing arrows with terrifying precision, Tauriel covering the rear, and Aela standing with both hands on her hips, one eyebrow arched high. When their mother waved brightly at them, grinning like a misbehaving teenager, Aela groaned aloud. Legolas didn't even look over. "I'm not even surprised," he said as he loosed another arrow.
"She's waving, brother."
"I know."
Aela lifted a hand to wave back, sighing dramatically. "Do we go after her?"
Legolas let the silence answer for them both.
The river finally began to calm as it widened, the current losing ferocity as it carried them into a shallow bend lined with smooth stones and wild reeds. One by one, barrels bumped ashore, dwarves groaning, coughing, and tumbling out like laundry from an overturned basket. Thorin stood first, wringing out his coat with a scowl and a muttered curse. Bilbo stumbled onto the bank behind him, soaked from curls to toes, clutching a single shoe like it had betrayed him mid-ride.
Elena climbed from her barrel last, hopping down with a graceful thud. Her leather clung to her frame, and water dripped from her hair in steady rivulets. Her eyes swept the group immediately, sharp and focused. "Where is he?" she asked, already scanning the faces.
Bofur pointed toward a tree where Kili had slumped against the trunk, pale and clutching at his leg. His pant leg had been cut open, revealing the broken shaft of the arrow still lodged just above the knee. His jaw was clenched against the pain, but his pride was more wounded than his flesh. "I'm fine," he grumbled through gritted teeth.
"You're full of it," Elena replied as she knelt beside him, dropping her pack with a wet thump. She tugged her gloves off and set them aside, reaching for the satchel within the pack holding her salves, herbs, and wrappings. Her voice was calm but firm. "You got lucky. Another inch and you wouldn't be arguing with me right now."
Kili tried to offer a sheepish grin but winced when her fingers brushed near the wound. "So, does this mean I can sit out the next goblin attack?"
Elena arched a brow, not looking up. "You can sit out everything until I say otherwise."
That earned a few chuckles from the others, though Thorin lingered a few steps back, arms crossed, watching them both in silence. She glanced up once and caught his eye—he gave a slight nod of thanks, and she returned it with the faintest smile before returning to work.
With practiced care, she snapped the arrow's shaft cleanly and pulled the rest free in one swift, clean motion. Kili grunted but didn't cry out. Elena quickly cleaned the wound and applied a thick green salve that smelled of crushed herbs and tree sap. "You'll feel heat," she warned, "but that means it's working."
"Or it means my leg's about to fall off."
"Then I guess you'll be very grateful it's not," she said sweetly, wrapping the cloth tight around his thigh.
By the time she tied the knot, Kili was already looking more colorful in the face. He leaned back, eyes closed, and his breath was finally even. Elena stood, wiping her hands off and nodding in approval. "Keep off it as much as you can. You limp too hard, I will make you ride with Bombur."
"I'm right here, you know," Bombur muttered as he sat on a nearby rock, wringing out his beard.
As the group began to settle, Elena glanced toward the forest line. The woods of Wilderland loomed beyond, thick and whispering. Whatever calm they had now wouldn't last long, and they all knew it.
But for a moment, with sunlight dripping through the trees and the sound of distant water still trickling by, there was a sense of fragile peace—earned, fleeting, but real.
The air was thick with tension as Elena stood on the riverbank, her bow drawn, the arrow aimed with lethal precision at the shadow beneath the trees. The company froze behind her, waiting. The only sound was the wind tugging at the trees and the steady gurgle of the river around their boots. Across from her, the stranger did not flinch—his bow was drawn, the arrow notched and steady, aimed not at her, but somewhere near Thorin's chest.
"Try it," the man warned, his voice low and gritty, full of quiet steel. "And you're dead."
Elena didn't lower her weapon. Her eyes locked onto his, sharp and unflinching. "Funny," she said, voice calm and clipped, "I was about to say the same thing." For a moment, they were two statues—unmoving, ready to strike. Then the man stepped forward into the light and the sharp lines of his face became clearer: long dark hair pushed back from a weather-lined face, tired but intelligent eyes, and the kind of presence that said he'd survived more than his share of misfortune.
"I don't want a fight," he said, his aim still sure, "but I won't let a group of armed strangers wander too close to the lake without knowing why."
From behind Elena, Balin stepped forward slowly, his hands raised slightly in peace. "Aye, well, that's fair enough," he said with a grunt. "We do not quarrel with you, lad. We're just travelers seeking shelter... and transport, if such a thing is available."
The man's gaze flicked to the old dwarf, then back to Elena before he finally eased the tension in his bowstring. "Name's Bard," he said. "I run barges out of Lake-town. I wasn't looking to rent today, but I may not have much choice."
Balin tilted his head, trying for a diplomatic smile. "Would that barge of yours happen to be for hire then, Master Bard?"
There was a pause. Bard sighed through his nose and gave the dwarf a measured look. "That depends. Can you all stay quiet, keep your heads down, and avoid drawing the attention of people in power who'd rather toss you into a cell than help?"
At that, Thorin finally stepped up beside Elena, his presence stern but steady. "We're not here to cause trouble," he said. "We're headed to the mountain."
Bard's expression barely shifted, though something tightened behind his eyes. "Everyone seems to be heading to that mountain these days," he muttered.
Elena, still tense, slowly lowered her bow and slid the arrow back into her quiver. Her gaze lingered on Bard as if weighing him again, not just his threat but his intent. "You help us reach Lake-town," she said, "and I'll make sure none of these fools gets you in trouble."
Bard gave her a tired half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Too late for that, I think. But come on. I've got just enough room for the lot of you... and not a finger more."
The group gathered, helping Kili limp forward while others secured what few supplies they had left. As Bard led them into the brush toward a hidden path that curved through the reeds, Elena lingered near the rear, watching him with a thoughtful frown.
There was something about him—something worn, maybe, but solid-a survivor like her. And for now, that would have to be enough.
Dawn stretched gold across the lake's surface when Bard led them down the narrow, marsh-shadowed path to the barge. Hidden from view by swaying reeds and low-hanging branches, the vessel rocked gently against the dock, creaking with each slight movement of the current. It was long and flat, clearly built for heavy cargo rather than comfort, but its solid frame and expansive deck made it clear it would hold all of them—and then some. Bard worked silently, beginning to haul the empty barrels aboard with the ease of someone who had spent most of his life hauling weight heavier than his burdens.
The dwarves joined him with groans and curses under their breath, each one soaked and bruised but too tired to complain with real fire. They hoisted what they could, stacking the barrels toward the rear while helping Kili to a position in the boat's center. His leg was still bound, his face pale but stubborn. Elena stayed near the back, her sharp eyes never leaving the tree line until the final barrel was in place. Only then did she step forward, assisting Fili as he guided his injured brother aboard.
Once everyone was settled and the barge was free of its mooring, the dwarves began the quiet, almost embarrassed ritual of counting their coins. It wasn't much—faded silver, chipped copper, and a few odd foreign coins of questionable value. Dwalin muttered something about how even highway robbery would yield more. Bombur tried to pass off a polished button before Bofur smacked his arm and hissed at him to "at least try to be respectful."
Balin crouched beside the pathetic pile, rubbing a hand over his beard, visibly disheartened. "It's not a fortune, Master Bard," he said gently, "but it's what we can offer for your silence—and your boat."
Before Bard could speak, the soft metal jingle drew every eye toward Elena. She knelt silently beside Balin and slipped a small leather pouch beneath her belt. Untying the cord, she upended it in a practiced motion. Gold and silver spilled across the worn deck, shining like starlight against the dull planks. A few of the dwarves blinked. Even Thorin, who rarely showed surprise, shifted slightly at the unexpected generosity.
Balin looked up at her, warmth blooming in his tired eyes. "That more than helps, my dear. You have our thanks."
Elena smiled faintly and brushed back a damp lock of hair that had clung to her cheek. "Try not to spend it all on pipe weed and ale," she said, the wryness in her voice tugging a small chuckle from Bofur.
From the front of the barge, Bard had paused, one hand resting lightly on the tiller, his gaze locked on her. He hadn't spoken during the exchange, but now his voice cut through the soft murmurs with quiet interest. "You're not one of them," he said, matter-of-fact but curious. "You don't move like a dwarf. Or talk like a servant. Who are you?"
The boat stilled for just a breath as all eyes shifted toward Elena.
She stood, calm and unflinching, beneath Bard's scrutiny. "Elena Oropherion," she said clearly. "Of the Woodland Realm."
Bard's expression flickered at the name, recognition stirring behind his worn features. He didn't press her further, but his eyes narrowed faintly, not with distrust, but with the awareness that someone of weight and reputation had just stepped onto his humble barge. After a long moment, he gave a curt nod. "That explains a thing or two," he said.
Elena smirked slightly. "I get that a lot."
Without another word, Bard gave the pole a strong push off the dock and guided the barge into the open channel. The water caught them swiftly, the early light gilding the ripples as the boat slid into the morning mists. Around her, the dwarves settled into hushed conversation or dozed where they sat, exhausted from too many battles and too few hours of peace.
Elena remained standing for a while, watching Bard from the corner of her eye as he steered with the quiet focus of a man used to navigating more than rivers. She had a feeling that he saw far more than he let on—and that he'd be asking more questions before the journey ended.
The barge sliced through the mist-covered lake with ghostlike silence, the long wooden hull gliding over the dark water as the rising sun tried to burn away the morning chill. Mist clung to everything—curling along the planks, rising off the surface like tendrils searching for warmth. The water was icy and still, but beneath its mirror-like calm lay a depth that reminded Elena of the dangers that always lingered beneath beauty. She stood near the front of the boat, wrapped in her damp cloak, hair drying in dark waves as the wind played with its ends. Her gaze was locked ahead where the shadowy form of Lake-town emerged, a tangle of wooden towers and rooftops rising from the lake like a fortress forged of driftwood and desperation.
Behind her, the dwarves murmured among themselves—some making light jokes to keep the tension at bay, others whispering more seriously about Erebor, the map, and the days ahead. She heard Kili chuckle softly at something Fili said, the sound light but pained, and Bofur was trying to convince Bombur that a barrel ride counted as a noble form of travel. Still, their exhaustion weighed heavily in the silence between their words, and Elena could feel it like a low hum in the air, the same way she could feel an approaching storm.
Ever silent at the helm, Bard finally broke the quiet with a voice that was more observation than question. "You fight like someone trained by elves." He didn't glance at her, didn't try to sound impressed—just stated it like a fact, something he already knew and only wanted confirmed. His hands moved steadily on the tiller, guiding the barge with a surety born from familiarity, not ease. Elena's eyes didn't leave the shape of the approaching town as she replied, calm and straightforward, "I was."
There was a pause. Not long, but enough to show that Bard was considering what he'd heard. "But you're not one of them," he said eventually. "And yet you carry yourself like royalty—like someone who's stood beside a throne, not just defended it." His voice was quiet, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. Bard did not like mysteries, and Elena proved to be the kind that didn't resolve quickly. Her presence unnerved him, not in fear, but in caution—because men who lived on the edge of law and war learned early to be wary of powerful company.
At that, she turned her head to look at him thoroughly, her silver eyes steady, unreadable. "Elena Oropherion," she said, her voice soft but clear. "Queen of the Woodland Realm. Thranduil's wife." It wasn't a boast nor a name she wore for pride—it was simply the truth. Yet even as she spoke it, she saw the way Bard's eyes flicked sharply to her and how he re-evaluated her instantly. His hands didn't falter on the tiller, but something in his posture shifted—a man adjusting the balance of what little he controlled.
He let out a slow breath, not quite a sigh. "You're married to Thranduil?" he asked, disbelief lingering. "I've heard of him. Cold as the mountains. Fierce as winter." He didn't speak with admiration or hatred—just weary awareness, like someone who'd seen too many kings and knew how little warmth lived behind their crowns. "Then you must be forged from stone to stand beside a man like that."
Elena's smile was small, faintly amused. "He calls me fire to his frost," she said. "I think that means we cancel each other out."
That drew the ghost of a smile from Bard. He nodded slowly, more to himself than her. "Well, you've brought a storm with you, Queen Elena. Lake-town doesn't do well with storms."
Her gaze drifted back to the lake ahead. "Storms don't ask permission," she said. "They arrive."