Chapter 25,

Inside, the house was warm and alive with quiet movement. Bard's children had already leapt into action, fetching wool blankets, handing out mugs of warm broth, and bringing out old, though clean, tunics and trousers from wooden chests. His eldest daughter quickly directed Fili and Kili toward the hearth, herding them like soggy sheep, while Bard crouched by the fire, carefully adding kindling.

"Hang your things up near the flame," Bard instructed, glancing back at the dwarves. "They'll dry faster than stewing in them."

"I think I've gone prune-y," Ori grumbled, holding a wrinkled hand.

"You look pruney," Dwalin said flatly, tugging off his soaked cloak with a sigh.

Elena stepped inside last, pausing for a moment at the threshold. The light of the hearth spilled across her face, softening the weariness in her eyes. She took it in—the dwarves clustered around the fire, steam rising from their clothes, Bard's children moving with practiced care, and Bard himself, calm despite everything. For a moment, it felt almost like a family gathering—chaotic, loud, but strangely comforting.

Then she smirked as Bombur let out a loud sneeze, rattling the window shutters.

"I'll help him hang that tunic," Bard's daughter offered quickly, stepping in before Bombur could wipe his nose.

Elena chuckled, stepping further inside. "Hospitality in Lake-town. I must admit, it's better than I expected."

Bard glanced over his shoulder at her, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "Just don't get used to it."

The flickering fire cast long shadows across the room, dancing along Bard's home's warped wood and stone. Rain tapped against the windows in a steady rhythm, the mist outside cloaking the town in pale gray. Bilbo, ever curious, had wandered to the nearest window, his gaze drawn upward to the shape perched atop the highest spire across the rooftops.

"That bow," he murmured, pointing. "On top of that tower... what is it?"

Thorin moved beside him without a word, his eyes narrowing as they locked onto the dark silhouette in the distance. His face shifted instantly, color draining just enough to be noticed. His jaw tightened, and his hand pressed against the windowsill like he needed the support. Something old had stirred—something painful.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Bilbo said quietly, uncertain if the others shared the tension he felt.

From the other side of the room, Balin's voice dropped to a hushed tone, reverent and haunted. "He has."

Everyone turned toward the old dwarf as he stepped closer to the window. His eyes were not on the present but locked somewhere far away, deep in memory. "That weapon… the last time we saw one like it, a city was burning."

The room quieted, the fire crackling softly in the silence.

"It was the day the dragon came," Balin continued, his voice almost a whisper. "Smaug descended upon Dale like a storm of fire and shadow. The sky lit red, and stone turned to ash. Men fled in every direction. But one man stood tall—Girion, Lord of the City. He gathered his bowmen and manned the great windlance atop the tower."

As Balin spoke, the past seemed to come alive. Screams echoed in his mind, fire raining down like falling stars. People ran through smoke-clogged streets, clutching children, tripping over cobblestones slick with ash and soot.

"Dragon hide is no common armor," he went on. "Tougher than steel. Only the black arrows could pierce it—rare weapons, few. Girion had nearly run out when he made his final stand."

Elena, who had been quiet near the hearth, oversaw Thorin. She knew that expression. The clenched fists, the stillness—he wasn't just remembering the tale. He had lived through its aftermath.

Thorin finally spoke, his voice low. "Had the aim of Men been true that day, much would have been different."

The tone drew Bard's attention. He had approached silently, but now he stepped closer, suspicion tightening his features. "You speak as if you were there."

Thorin didn't flinch. "All dwarves know the tale."

Bard studied him for a long moment, his eyes narrowing. From the shadows, Bain's voice rose with quiet defiance.

"My grandfather told me the story. Girion did hit the dragon. He loosened a scale beneath its left wing. One more shot—he would've ended it."

Dwalin crossed his arms and scoffed. "A children's tale, nothing more."

But Thorin had turned fully to face Bard, his voice sharpening like a blade drawn from its sheath. "We paid you," he said coldly. "Where are the weapons?"

The question hung in the air like a threat.

Bard's eyes narrowed further, his jaw working. He gave a short nod, then turned toward the stairs. "Wait here."

The stairs creaked under his weight as he disappeared below, leaving the rest of the room in a heavy, thoughtful silence. The fire popped in the hearth. Outside, the wind rose, rattling the windowpanes as if to echo the unease settling over the room.

Elena's gaze lingered on the wind lance visible through the window, its shape striking against the haze-covered rooftops. Though time had worn away its edges and the wood bore the graying of years, it still stood defiant against the lake's bitter chill. Her fingers traced the worn edge of the windowsill, her voice quiet—almost to herself.

"I'm surprised one survived the burning of Dale," she murmured. "I didn't think any made it out."

Bain, still drying his boots by the fire, looked up sharply. "How do you know that?"

Elena blinked, as if roused from a distant dream. A faint smile curved her lips, touched by both fondness and sorrow. "Because I was there."

There was a beat of stunned silence. Sigrid's brows lifted, and Tilda leaned closer to her older sister. Even Bain looked confused for a moment before laughing nervously.

"You can't be serious," he said. "You don't look… I mean, that was over sixty years ago!"

Elena let out a chuckle, warm and wistful. "I've had a long life, Bain. Longer than most. Older than I look, by a great deal."

Sigrid stared at her, eyes wide with wonder. "But... how? You don't even look old enough to be our mother."

"I'm not quite like other women," Elena replied, gazing out the window. "Time moves differently for me. But I remember that day as clearly as if it happened yesterday."

Her voice dropped into something softer then, and the humor drained away. "I had a small smithy near the heart of Dale. Modest, but it was mine. Children often came by to watch me work—how sparks danced from the metal always fascinated them. That morning, two boys and a girl stopped by. They liked asking questions and giggling when the hammer rang against the steel."

She closed her eyes briefly, the warmth of the fire behind her not quite touching the chill in her bones. "And then I felt it. The change in the air. The pressure. The silence before the storm. Smaug's shadow passed over the city, and I knew. I could hear the beat of his wings before his roar shook the mountains."

Her voice trembled ever so slightly as she continued. "I had only moments. I pushed the children out and told them to run and not look back. I barely raised a barrier around myself before the roof collapsed. The forge came down in a storm of fire and stone."

Bain's face had gone pale. Tilda clutched at her sister's sleeve, wide-eyed, while Sigrid remained frozen in place, barely breathing.

"I was trapped," Elena said. "Buried beneath the weight of it. I could hear the city screaming, hear the crackling of fire devouring everything. I thought that would be my grave."

She smiled then, soft and aching. "But he came back for me. My husband. Thranduil. He and a handful of survivors dug through the ruin of my forge, brick by brick. I don't remember passing out, but I remember waking to his voice. I opened my eyes and saw him there, his face bruised and smudged with ash, his hands trembling."

A heavy silence had settled in the wake of Elena's story. Bard's children remained spellbound, their eyes wide with awe and wonder as they took in the image of the battle-scarred woman standing by the fire—no longer just a warrior or guest, but something much older and more profound than they'd imagined. The flames lit her profile in gold and shadow, adding an almost ethereal glow to her quiet smile.

Then Bain, ever the boldest, broke the silence with a tone somewhere between disbelief and curiosity. "So… how old are you?"

Sigrid's head whipped toward him so fast it nearly knocked over the mug in her lap. "Bain!" she hissed. "You can't just ask someone that!"

"That's rude," Tilda added, her brow furrowed as she gave her brother a scandalized glare. "You're not supposed to ask ladies that kind of question."

Elena blinked, then burst out laughing. "Oh, Divines, I haven't been a 'lady' in the traditional sense for several hundred years, I assure you."

The dwarves, having half-listened from their spots near the fire, perked up at the exchange. Bilbo sat forward, intrigued, eyes glimmering with curiosity reserved for ancient maps and unsolved riddles. Ori was already clutching a half-dry scrap of parchment, clearly debating whether to start writing this all down. Fili and Kili exchanged a look and leaned forward in perfect unison, the beginnings of a smirk forming on both their faces.

Then came the laugh—a deep, barking bellow from Dwalin. "Now that's a question I like to hear. Out with it, lass. You've got us all guessing."

"Aye," Balin added, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Not many live through the fall of Dale and still look like that."

Standing by the window, Thorin glanced over his shoulder with a rare grin curling at the edge of his mouth. "You've managed to keep it a mystery this long. Might as well indulge them."

Elena rolled her eyes and flushed lightly, regretting ever opening her mouth. She shifted her weight and folded her arms, feigning dramatic exasperation. "Honestly, I stopped counting after two thousand. Somewhere around then, birthdays start to feel repetitive."

The silence that followed was immediate and absolute.

Bain's mouth dropped open. "Two... thousand?!"

Tilda blinked. "Years?!"

Even Sigrid looked floored, her expression torn between awe and suspicion. "That's older than the town itself!"

Bilbo nearly choked on the tea he hadn't yet sipped. "That's older than… than… everything!"

Elena held up her hands in mock defense. "Yes, yes. I know. I'm old. But I prefer 'seasoned.' Or 'timeless,' if you're feeling generous."

Dwalin was grinning ear to ear. "Hah! I've met three stumps with less bark on them than you."

Now visibly amused, Thorin added, "At least now we know why you never get winded."

"I do get winded!" Elena argued, pointing at him. "You just never see it because I'm better at hiding it than you lot wheezing up a hill."

Even Bard's daughters giggled at that, and Bain gave an impressed nod as if discovering she'd just sprouted wings. "So, are you like a goddess or something?"

Elena smirked. "Only in battle. And sometimes before breakfast."

The room burst into warm, full-bodied, and genuine laughter. The tension from earlier had melted into something softer, a shared warmth rooted in wonder, humor, and the unlikely camaraderie that had formed among them. For a moment, the weight of dragons, secrets, and looming danger felt distant.

Just a house full of soaked dwarves, wide-eyed children, and one very ancient woman who was finally beginning to enjoy the look of surprise on their faces.

The door creaked open, letting in a gust of cold lake air as Bard strode into the room. His coat clung to his shoulders, damp from the mist outside, and his expression had settled into a weary, focused grimace. Without a word of greeting, he walked straight to the heavy wooden table in the center of the room, a large oil-skin bundle slung over one shoulder. He dropped it down with a thud that made the dwarves glance up from their quiet conversation.

The thick canvas was untied with swift, practiced hands. The dwarves rose and gathered slowly as Bard peeled the covering away, revealing the contents. What lay beneath was not what they expected. A rough collection of weapons—cleavers and pikes fashioned from fishing tools, iron hooks sharpened into jagged spearheads, blades made from repurposed smithing hammers. They were serviceable, but crude. Worn and handmade. Not forged in the halls of dwarves or even by skilled soldiers, but by common folk with calloused hands and no choice but to fight with what they had.

Thorin stepped forward, his brow lowering as he reached for a short staff lashed with twine and rusted metal. He turned it in his hand, unimpressed. "What is this?"

Bard didn't waver. "A pike-hook. Made from an old harpoon. If handled right, it'll tear the legs out from under a foe."

Kili stepped up beside his uncle, his limp subtle but visible, and picked up a crow-headed weapon, its haft still blackened from fire. "And this?"

"A crowbill," Bard replied. Forged from a smith's hammer. Heavy in the hand, but well-balanced, once you get the feel of it."

Kili winced as he shifted his weight, then returned the weapon to the table. The dwarves exchanged uneasy glances. This was not what they had expected when they handed over their coin.

"These may not be pretty," Bard continued, his tone calm but measured, "but in defense of your life, they'll serve you better than empty hands."

Gloin scowled and stepped forward. "We paid you for weapons. Iron-forged swords. Axes. Not this pile of scrap."

Bofur looked down at a fishing gaff and muttered, "It's a joke."

Bard's jaw tightened slightly, though his voice remained level. "You won't find better outside the city armory. And all weapons of worth are locked away—under guard, by order of the Master."

Thorin said nothing at first. His expression was unreadable as he looked down at the heap. Dwalin's eyes narrowed, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade out of habit. The disappointment in the room thickened like fog rolling in from the lake.

"Thorin," Balin spoke up, stepping forward with caution. "Why not take what's offered and go? I've fought with worse. So have you."

But before Thorin could respond, Bard's voice cut through the rising tension like a blade. "You're not going anywhere."

The dwarves all looked up sharply. Silence swept the room in an instant.

"What did you say?" Dwalin growled, straightening with a soldier's instinct.

Bard met the glare without flinching. "Spies are watching this house. Men loyal to the Master. Maybe even worse. Every dock and wharf has eyes. You walk out now, lead them straight to that mountain—and paint a target on your backs."

Elena, leaning against the far wall with arms crossed and an air of quiet observation, now stepped forward, her voice calm but firm. "He's right," she said, cutting through the growing hostility. "If you leave now, all of this was for nothing. You'll walk straight into the net."

Thorin's eyes flicked toward her, then back to Bard. Frustration lined his face, but he didn't argue. Instead, he returned to the weapons and picked up the pike-hook again. The weight of the decision was heavier than the iron in his hands.

"We wait until nightfall," Bard said, nodding to himself more than to them. "When the shadows are thick and the docks are empty, I'll get you out."

The murmurs of discontent had faded into low grumbles as the dwarves begrudgingly examined the makeshift weapons laid before them. Some sat back with crossed arms and sour expressions, others picked through the offerings with dismay, their hopes of glinting blades and dwarven-forged steel dashed. Elena, however, remained still. Her sharp gaze followed Bard as he returned to the door and latched it shut with a solid click, sealing them in until nightfall.

She stepped toward him, her cloak whispering against the floor, and stopped short of where he stood. Her voice was quiet but sure. "What if I spoke to the Master myself?" she asked. "Would he permit the purchase of the real weapons then? Not as a favor, but a transaction—coin for steel."

Bard turned to her, his jaw tightened with the frustration of too many years spent beneath a system built to suppress. He studied her face for a moment—ageless, noble, and too dignified for a place like Lake-town. Then he shook his head slowly, almost pityingly.

"No," he said, the word clipped, final. "Even if you offered gold by the bucket, the Master wouldn't budge."

Elena's brows furrowed. "Why?"

Bard exhaled through his nose and leaned slightly closer, his voice lowering so only she could hear. "Because the only iron-forged weapons in this town are kept under lock and key for the guards alone. It's by design. The Master's afraid that if the common folk had swords, they'd rise up against him."

She blinked at that, the implications falling into place like pieces of a puzzle she hadn't realized was missing. "So he keeps the town disarmed," she murmured, almost to herself. "To keep them docile."

Bard nodded, the bitterness in his tone unmistakable. "He'd rather see men starve and scrape through the snow with rusted knives than see them armed with the tools to demand better."

Elena's mouth pressed into a line, her gaze drifting back toward the dwarves seated wearily around the room. There was no glory here, no song to be sung. Just old wounds, unjust power, and desperation disguised as law.

"I hate politics," she muttered.

That drew the faintest smirk from Bard.

"Then welcome to Lake-town," he said dryly.

Meanwhile, inside the Mirkwood Throne Room…

The throne room was silent but tense, a hush that clung to the air like mist in a darkened forest. The stone walls echoed with the soft crackle of torches and the distant rustle of the wind through the high windows. Shadows stretched long across the white marble floor, reaching toward the center of the chamber where a single figure knelt—filthy, wounded, and chained. The orc's chest rose and fell with rasping breaths, blackened blood trailing from one corner of his mouth. His eyes gleamed with spite, the yellowed whites sharp against his face's bruised, mottled skin.

Thranduil stood near his throne, still and silent, bearing himself regal as ever. The pale blue robes he wore shimmered faintly with the movement of light, a whisper of elegance in a room thick with unspoken danger. His crown of twisted gold and living vines rested on his brow, and his expression was carved from cold marble. Yet something simmered beneath the surface—an old fury, slow-burning and cold as winter. His hands remained clasped behind his back, but his presence alone seemed to press down on the chamber like a storm not yet unleashed.

Before him, Legolas held the orc at bay with one smooth stroke of his blade. The silver edge was pressed just beneath the creature's chin, enough to threaten and promise what would happen if the prisoner twitched. Legolas's face was impassive, but the tension in his arms betrayed his restraint. Every time the orc shifted, the blade moved with it, fluid as a snake. Tauriel stood to the side, her gaze cold and piercing, one hand resting near the hilt of her daggers. She said nothing, but the fire in her eyes spoke volumes—she would not need an order to act.

Thranduil stepped forward, descending the stairs of his dais with the slow grace of a falling leaf. When he spoke, his voice was smooth and deep, carrying the weight of centuries. "Out there, in the vast ignorance of the world, it festers and spreads…" he said, each word measured and grave. He circled the orc like a judge passing sentence. "A shadow that grows in the dark. A sleepless malice as black as the oncoming wall of night."

Narzûg bared his teeth at Tauriel, a sneer of pure venom twisting his lips. She didn't flinch, her stance only sharpening as her hand twitched near her blade. Legolas responded with a slight shift of his sword, the edge drawing a thin line of blood at the orc's throat.

"So it ever was," Thranduil continued, standing just before the prisoner. His eyes met the orc's, cold and unblinking. "So will it always be. In time… all foul things come forth."

The room held its breath.

Legolas narrowed his eyes and leaned closer, his voice quiet but laced with steel. "You were tracking a company of thirteen dwarves," he said, pausing before the final word. "And a woman. Why?"

The torchlight flickered as he asked, casting a glint off his blade. The question hung in the air like a thread ready to snap, and the silence followed was as taut as the bow string.

Narzûg's cracked lips pulled into a grin, his bloodstained teeth bared like a wolf catching scent of weakness. He shifted slightly under Legolas's blade, seemingly unbothered by the cold edge biting his throat. His eyes—sharp and yellowed—flicked to Tauriel with poisonous amusement.

"Not thirteen," he rasped, voice low and mocking. "Not anymore. The young one—the black-haired archer…"

A flicker of something unreadable passed over Tauriel's face. Though she stood motionless, her posture straight and composed, her eyes betrayed her. A flash of fear and pain—quickly buried beneath her anger. She didn't speak, but Narzûg saw the reaction, and he pressed the blade deeper with words.

"Stuck him with a Morgul shaft," he continued, his grin widening. "The poison's already in his blood. It won't be long now before he's choking on it, writhing and gasping." He leaned forward slightly, forcing the blade closer against his neck. "And there's no cure."

A twisted, grating laugh erupted from his throat—raw and loud, echoing through the stone hall. He lifted his head as if daring them to stop him, the sound cutting through the tense silence like a blade. The sadistic delight in his voice made Tauriel's hands curl into fists.

"Answer the question," she demanded, her tone sharp, dangerous. "Why were you tracking them?"

Narzûg's grin didn't falter. He turned his head and spat—dark and wet—just inches from her feet. Then he snarled in the jagged, guttural tones of the Black Speech.

"Shâ hakhtiz khunai-go, Golgi!"
I do not answer to dogs, She-Elf!

Before anyone could react, Tauriel moved.

Her hand darted to her belt in a flash and pulled a dagger free, the polished silver gleaming with intent. She lunged, fury ignited, her blade aimed straight for the orc's throat. The restraint she had worn like armor since entering the room shattered, giving way to the raw fury beneath.

Legolas stepped in reflexively, half a heartbeat from intervening—but Thranduil moved faster.

With a swift and graceful step, the Elvenking seized Tauriel's wrist, his grip firm and commanding. His tone, though soft in volume, cracked like a whip through the air, delivered in the flowing cadence of Elvish.

"Farn!" he ordered, eyes locked on hers. "Tauriel—ego, gwau hi."
Enough. Leave. Go now.

Tauriel froze, the blade hovering inches from Narzûg's throat. Her jaw clenched tight, the muscle twitching with effort, but she didn't argue. After a moment, she sheathed her dagger and turned sharply, her boots echoing on the stone as she strode from the throne room in silence. The door closed behind her with a quiet but final thud.