Chapter 24,

Behind them, the dwarves had fallen quiet as Lake-town grew closer, the creak of towers and the distant clang of bells beginning to cut through the fog. Bard tightened his grip on the tiller and lowered his voice. "When we reach the gate, let me speak. The Master's men are always watching; we're not bringing in empty barrels this time. Keep your head down. Do not draw attention."

Elena arched a brow, dry amusement flickering across her expression. "You picked the wrong woman for that advice."

"I figured," Bard muttered, though a flicker of a smirk played at the corner of his mouth. "And yet... here we are."

As the mist began to thin and the weathered silhouette of Lake-town rose from the morning fog, Bard steered the barge into a narrow channel hidden among tall reeds. Wooden pylons jutted from the water, some leaning at odd angles like ancient bones, marking the outskirts of the city's supply route. The soft sloshing of water beneath the hull was the only sound for a long moment as the company gathered their breath. It felt like they had been running forever, from one peril to the next, but the town offered a fragile hope—if they could get inside unnoticed.

Bard anchored the barge with a firm hand and turned back to them, his expression grim with purpose. "We're close now," he said. "Too close to risk marching a dozen dwarves and a hobbit into the gate. If the Master's men see you, there will be questions. Difficult ones. So you'll need to get into the barrels."

There was a heavy pause. The dwarves stared at him in stunned silence, as if he'd asked them to leap into a dragon's mouth rather than fish-stained cargo. Dwalin was the first to react, folding his arms. "You're joking."

"I'm not," Bard replied with a tired grunt. "You'll be covered with fish. That's how I get my cargo through. Smells horrible. Works perfectly."

Bofur gave a dramatic groan. "Not this again..."

Behind them, Elena raised a brow, folding her arms and watching the scene unfold like a bemused spectator at a play she'd seen before. She didn't speak, just shifted her weight and leaned slightly against a barrel, her silver eyes glinting with restrained amusement.

Grumbling, the dwarves began lowering themselves into the barrels individually, each with varying levels of complaint and embarrassment. Fili and Kili tried to act dignified but nearly tripped into the same barrel. Balin gave a noble sigh and settled into his chair like a scholar preparing for his funeral. Thorin, on the other hand, looked down at the container as if it had personally insulted his ancestry.

"It's either the barrel," Bard said dryly, "or the Lake-town dungeons."

"I'm beginning to wonder which is worse," Thorin muttered before reluctantly stepping in.

And then came the fish.

Bard and a young dockhand began dumping crate after crate of slimy, glistening fish into the barrels, the smell hitting like a slap. The dwarves yelped, cursed, and gagged rapidly as they disappeared beneath flopping, silvery heaps. Bombur let out a wail. "I think something's still alive in here!"

Elena couldn't hold it in anymore. She laughed loudly and without apology. It started as a chuckle but soon turned into a full, unrestrained fit of laughter that left her wiping tears from her eyes. "By the gods," she managed, "you look like pickled vegetables!"

Sitting stiffly at the edge of the barge, Bilbo glanced at the barrels and paled. "Do I... have to get in, too?"

"Yes," Bard replied flatly.

"He's small," Elena offered, still grinning. "Can't we just smuggle him in under a hat?"

Bilbo scowled at her. "Remind me to never travel with you again."

"Oh, you'll miss me," she teased, patting his shoulder before he slid reluctantly into a barrel of his own, muttering down.

Once everyone was stowed and covered, Bard secured the tarps over the barrels with tight knots. The boat now looked like a humble fish shipment—precisely the kind that would pass through Lake-town's gates without a glance. Elena remained the only one still above deck, standing near the bow, her expression composed once more, but her amusement still dancing behind her eyes.

Bard looked over at her. "You sure you're not getting in one, too?"

She tilted her head. "You put me in a barrel, Bard, and we'll see how long your town stays afloat."

He snorted softly and turned back to the tiller, steering them toward the docks as the sun climbed above the lake. The creaking of the main gate echoed through the fog. Soon, they'd be in Lake-town—and the next chapter of their perilous journey would begin.

The barge drifted slowly toward the waterlogged piers of Lake-town, its hull groaning softly beneath the combined weight of soaked dwarves and too many fish. The smell hit harder the closer they came—damp wood, chimney soot, and something distinctly sour that Elena hoped was rotting kelp. Bard stood with quiet confidence at the front, his posture steady, while Elena remained near the bow, hands clasped neatly behind her back like a queen surveying enemy territory.

As they approached the outer gate, two guards, long poles in hand, peering down at the tarp-covered barrels, stepped forward. One squinted, then leaned over the rail. "Bard? You're not due for another shipment 'til tomorrow."

Bard shrugged without looking up. "Unexpected catch."

That might have been enough to let them through—until a nasal voice cut through the air, high-pitched and sour, like a goose with something caught in its throat.

"Bard the bargeman!"

Elena sighed before she even turned. She already knew who it was.

Alfrid came hurrying down the dock, his ridiculous mustache twitching with every step, his layered robes flapping around his ankles like they were trying to escape him. "What's this? You were assigned empty barrels today!" He sniffed the air and recoiled theatrically. "And you're bringing fish?"

"I thought Lake-town could use food more than air," Bard replied dryly, making no effort to hide the boredom in his voice.

"And her?" Alfrid jabbed a finger at Elena, scandal practically dripping from his tone. "You didn't have clearance to bring a woman into town! Certainly not one dressed like she's come to slay a king!"

Elena slowly turned her head toward him, one brow rising so high it could've vanished into her hairline. "You'll want to rethink how that sentence ends."

But Alfrid was already lost in his performance. He spun dramatically toward the guards. "Check the barrels! Dump them if you must! And arrest her at once! She's clearly—"

"Touch me," Elena cut in, her voice quiet but so sharp it sliced through his words like a dagger through silk, "and you'll wake up on the docks missing your teeth and your dignity."

The guards paused mid-step, uncertain now. One of them had his hand halfway to his spear but was suddenly aware that she hadn't moved and yet somehow radiated danger. Alfrid tried to rally. "You can't threaten town officials—"

"I'm not threatening you," she said sweetly, "I'm explaining the consequences."

Then, with measured grace, she removed one of her gloves and held up her right hand. A ring glittered on her finger—silver and white gold, its pale green gem gleaming like a drop of forest light. The elvish metalwork shimmered even in the murky dockyard gloom.

"I am Elena Oropherion," she said, her voice smooth as silk and twice as strong. "Wife of Thranduil, Queen of the Woodland Realm. These fish," she gestured to the barrels, "are a gift to your town. Provided, in good faith, by our people."

The silence that followed could've frozen the lake solid. One of the guards dropped his spear with a dull clatter. The other took a step back. Alfrid's face contorted in horror and confusion, his mouth opening and closing like a trout gasping on the deck.

" I-well-I didn't one told me," he sputtered.

"You didn't ask," Bard muttered.

Elena's smile returned, serene and just a touch smug. "Perhaps next time, you should."

Bard gave the rope a final tug, and the barge creaked past the stunned gatekeepers, gliding smoothly into Lake-town proper. The guards parted without a word. Alfrid was still frozen, staring after them like a man who'd just been dethroned by a woman who hadn't even drawn a blade.

Beneath the tarps, muffled snickers could be heard among the dwarves.

"Well," came Thorin's voice through a pile of fish, "I believe that was the most dignified entrance I've ever made."

"I think I swallowed a sardine," Bofur wheezed.

Elena didn't look back, but her smirk widened just a little.

The barge nudged gently against the waterlogged dock, its wooden hull sighing under the weight of soggy barrels and fish-soaked dwarves. Bard moved fluidly, looping the rope around a warped piling slick with moss, securing their arrival without drawing too much attention. Mist still clung to the water's surface, swirling between the gaps in the boards as if the lake exhaled slowly. The city rose around them in a jagged maze of wooden beams and creaking walkways—its rot masked only by the busy hum of morning labor.

Without ceremony, Bard turned and delivered a swift kick to the nearest barrel. "Alright. Out. Now."

A chorus of muffled grunts and groans followed. Thorin emerged first, every inch the disgruntled king, soaked through and wearing a frown that could split stone. Dwalin came next, muttering curses under his breath, followed by Fili and Kili, one of whom nearly fell headfirst into the dock while trying to climb free. Bombur had to roll out of his barrel entirely, flopping onto the deck with a wet thud that echoed. Bofur stared at the sky, lips thin, as if praying for patience.

Still standing at the barge's bow, Elena observed it all with a barely restrained smile. Her cloak rippled slightly in the morning breeze, but she didn't move. The pungent stink of lakewater, rotting fish, and damp wood clung to everything, and when a silver-scaled trout flopped dramatically onto her boot, she gave a soft sound of distaste and gently flicked it off with her toe.

"You'll need to move fast and quietly," Bard said, scanning the docks. "Stick to the shadows behind the boathouses. There's a path along the water—filthy, but hidden. Follow it until you reach a crooked fence with a black lantern above it. That's my home. Get in, stay low, and for God's sake, don't speak."

"You're sending us through fishwater again?" Ori asked grimly, already dabbing at his face with a soaked sleeve.

"Do you want a welcome parade instead?" Bard snapped. "Because that's what you'll get if anyone sees thirteen strangers marching into the district."

Elena raised her eyebrows but said nothing. It had been years since she'd seen Lake-town with her own eyes, and it hadn't improved with age. "It's more ramshackle than I remember," she murmured, finally stepping down from the barge. "Though I imagine the smell's always been this tragic."

Bard gave her a half-smirk, but his amusement was short-lived.

"Da!"

A sharp voice rang out from between two buildings, and Bard's head snapped around. A boy, perhaps eleven or twelve, came sprinting into view, hair windswept and breath short. He reached his father's side in seconds, his expression full of worry.

"Our house—it's being watched!" he panted. "Three men, cloaked. I saw them on the roof across the lane. They pretend to work but keep looking toward our door."

Bard's face darkened. He placed a steady hand on his son's shoulder. "Did they see you?"

"I don't think so," the boy replied, shaking his head. "I ducked out the back as soon as I spotted them."

Elena's brow furrowed as she instinctively rested her hand on the hilt of one of her blades. "They're expecting you to bring us there, then," she said, voice low. "How long have they been watching?"

"I don't know," Bard admitted. "But someone knew I'd bring help. And they're not waiting to welcome us."

He looked over his shoulder at Elena. "We'll need another way inside. And quickly—before anyone notices we're not already in place."

They moved quickly along the water's edge, the city creaking and groaning like an old beast roused from sleep. Lake-town was quiet this time of morning, but not asleep. Smoke coiled lazily from chimneys, voices murmured behind shuttered windows, and every boot splash against wet planks echoed louder than it should have. Bard kept his stride measured, purposeful, as if daring anyone to question him. Elena matched him step for step, her cloak trailing behind her like a shadow, her hand still resting near her blade, though not out of fear, simply readiness.

As they neared the last turn before Bard's home, two men came into view, seated casually on overturned crates by the water's edge. Their fishing poles dangled into the lake, but neither looked interested in the catch. Their eyes followed Bard and Elena with subtle but unmistakable attention. Though their mouths said nothing, their posture spoke volumes—rigid backs, still shoulders, and the slight twitch of fingers near belt knives.

Bard didn't slow. With practiced ease, he reached into his coat and withdrew a single apple, red with a smudge of dirt still clinging to its side. Without looking directly at them, he tossed it lightly toward the pair. One of the men caught it, startled, the fruit thumping into his palm as Bard spoke with cool authority.

"You can tell the Master I'm done for the day," he said, his voice carrying clearly across the dock. "And that Queen Oropherion has accepted my offer to stay in my home. She'll be under my roof tonight—and under my protection."

There was no mistaking the weight of his words. They hung in the air like fog clinging to still water. The man with the apple blinked, glanced at his companion, and gave the barest nods. The second man bit into the fruit, loud and deliberate, though the defiant crunch sounded more like a cover for his discomfort than a challenge.

Elena's gaze never left them, her eyes narrowed slightly as she walked past. She didn't reach for her weapon, but there was no need—her presence alone made them shift in place. When they rounded the corner and were out of sight, she turned slightly toward Bard, her voice low and dry with amusement.

"Didn't know you threw threats as well as you throw apples."

Bard allowed himself the slightest smirk. "In this town, they're the same. You don't survive here by talking pretty. You survive by making sure people know where your line is drawn."

Behind them, Bard's son trotted along with quick steps, trying not to fall behind. "Da," he said quietly, "you think they'll leave us alone?"

"No," Bard replied simply, glancing over his shoulder. "But I didn't say we're hiding. I said she's under my protection. That's enough for now."

Elena didn't reply, but her silence said more than words. At that moment, she realized Bard wasn't just clever but brave. Not foolishly so, not in the way of soldiers or kings, but in the quiet, dangerous way of a man who knew how far he could push before the rope snapped.

The upper chambers of Lake-town's Master were heavy with warmth and indulgence. The hearth crackled lazily with perfumed wood, scenting the air with clove and cherry bark, while layers of velvet curtains shut out the chill beyond the windows. Rich silks were draped over mismatched furniture, all faded at the edges but expensive once, like the man who slept half-buried beneath them, his crown askew and his stomach rising and falling beneath a tapestry of furs.

A door creaked open. Cold air seeped in like an unwanted guest.

"My lord… Master." The voice that entered was soft at first—almost rehearsed. "Forgive the intrusion…"

Alfrid's pointed nose led the way, tiptoed inside with exaggerated care. A covered tray balanced in one hand, a crystal decanter in the other. He kicked the door shut behind him and crossed the plush rug, each step rehearsed to seem more obedient than necessary.

The Master groaned from beneath his pile of cushions but did not rise.

"I brought your brandy, sir. Cherry cask, the one from the upper vault," Alfrid said, pouring it neatly into a glass as he approached. "A fresh bottle, as you like it. Not a soul has touched it but me."

That got a reaction. One bejeweled hand flopped from the blanket mound, feeling unquestioningly for the glass. Alfrid placed it in his master's hand and stepped back like a well-trained butler.

The Master took a sip, sighed, and cracked open one bloodshot eye. "What time is it?"

"Mid-morning, sire," Alfrid replied with a faint smile. "There's been a rather unexpected development."

"If this is about taxes," the Master muttered, "the only number I care to hear is more."

Alfrid gave a strained chuckle. "No, no—not taxes. It's Bard. Bard the bargeman."

The Master grimaced. "Ugh. What's he done now? Complained about the fish tariffs? Again?"

"This time," Alfrid said, stepping closer and lowering his voice, "he's returned from the docks with… company."

The Master raised his brow a fraction but kept sipping.

"A woman," Alfrid went on. "Elven. Tall. Armed to the teeth and bearing herself like royalty. She claimed to be Queen Elena Oropherion—wife of Thranduil himself."

That made the Master pause. He blinked, letting the name settle like a coin dropped into water.

"Thranduil?" he echoed. "The woodland king with the crown of twigs?"

"Yes," Alfrid hissed. "Her. She arrived by barge with Bard—and, if I may say, not quietly. There were barrels of fish, but something was… off. He covered them quickly. I suspect contraband. Possibly refugees."

The Master leaned back into his cushions, swirling his brandy. His voice was amused, almost lazy. "So Bard's smuggling now. Well, well."

"I believe he may be harboring dwarves," Alfrid added quickly, eyes gleaming. "There was talk months ago of a company passing through the wilds—strange folk, bearded and grumbling. The guards say Bard's path is always suspicious. Perhaps this queen has brought them into our walls."

The Master chuckled, raising his glass again. "Then let her. Let them all in."

Alfrid blinked. "I… beg your pardon?"

"If she's royalty, she'll spend like it. And if there are dwarves, I'll tax them until they regret having coin. Either way, it ends with gold in my vaults and fish back in the markets." The Master smirked, pleased with his cleverness.

"But what if they're dangerous?" Alfrid asked, his voice pinched.

"Then we smile, bow, and keep the guards nearby." The Master settled deeper into the cushions, already losing interest. "Tell the men to watch Bard's house. If they break anything, send them a bill. If they threaten anyone, send the watch. Otherwise… let them have their little adventure."

Alfrid hesitated. "And if this Queen Elena is trouble?"

The Master smiled into his brandy. "Then let her buy something before she becomes it."

Elena stood with her arms crossed just outside the crooked little wooden outhouse that sat awkwardly attached to the side of Bard's home, a structure built more for function than dignity. The scent of lakewater clung to the boards like a curse, and each time the makeshift flap door creaked open, it carried a sharp wave of damp fish, mildew, and dwarvish indignation.

One by one, the dwarves emerged—soaked to the bone, dripping with lake muck, and wearing various expressions of disgust. Bofur nearly slipped on the last step and muttered something too vulgar to repeat. Bombur grumbled as he wrung out his beard like a sponge. Ever the proud one, Thorin stepped out with as much composure as he could muster, only to catch Elena leaning against the house, openly laughing.

"Oh, don't stop now," she teased, her voice bright with mirth. "You all look like very grumpy river goblins."

"You're enjoying this far too much," Thorin muttered, narrowing his eyes before giving her a light punch to the hip as he passed. It wasn't hard, but it made her laugh harder. He shook his head, dragging his dripping boots up the stairs, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him.