Author's note: I'm posting multiple chapters today only; I hope you'll leave a review.
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Zerinya and her team left the courtyard, silently following the Elven guards ahead of them. Ciri, Zoltan, and the other dwarves who had joined them did not waste any time, following Gilan's footsteps right behind Igris. When the crowd dispersed and only the Elves of Rivendell remained in the courtyard, Elrond approached his wounded sons with calm steps. He gave priority to Elladan, who had sustained a deep wound to his chest. Arwen, who was hovering over her older brother, quickly stepped back to give her father space when she saw him approaching, yet she was determined not to let go of Elladan's hand.
Elrond gently knelt beside his son. He reached out and carefully placed his hand over the wound on Elladan's chest. After briefly assessing the state of the injury, a few words in the ancient Elven tongue slipped from his lips. Simultaneously with his murmurs, the ring on his finger began to glow faintly, and with this radiance, the agonizing expression on Elladan's face visibly relaxed. As the young elf smiled at his father with a grateful look, Arwen, who had been eaten up inside from the very beginning, asked with deep concern.
"Father, when will he recover?"
Arwen, being nearly two thousand years old, was a competent individual trained in the healing arts and could more or less grasp her brother's physical condition. However, what truly left her feeling helpless was the nature of the poison used. She had never made contact with Dark Elves in her entire life, nor had she ever found the opportunity or the need to study their poisons. After a brief final check, Elrond turned his head and looked at his daughter.
"Do not worry, Arwen. They are under the effects of a very potent paralytic poison, but they will recover in a few days."
Hearing these words, Arwen took a deep, relieved breath and rested her forehead against her brother's hand. Elrond, meanwhile, slowly stood up. Exhaling as if a massive burden had been lifted from his shoulders, he knelt this time beside Elrohir, directly across from his wife Celebrian. Placing his hand on his son's wounded leg, he began to murmur in Elvish just as he had done moments before. The soothing light radiating from Elrond's hands soon took effect. Feeling the pain in his leg rapidly diminish, Elrohir, even though he could only watch the sky from where he lay, recognized his father's touch.
"Thank you, father."
Elrond calmly straightened up, looked at his son's exhausted face, smiled sincerely, and affectionately placed a hand on his chest.
"It is no trouble, just focus on resting."
Then, shifting his gaze to the waiting guards nearby, he spoke in an authoritative tone.
"Take them to their rooms and make them comfortable."
The guards who received the order immediately sprang into action, carefully lifting the stretchers, while Elrond turned to his wife and daughter.
"You two change their bandages and clean their wounds, I will go and prepare an antidote."
Celebrian met the situation with understanding, nodded, and looked at Arwen.
"Let us go."
Arwen nodded and quickly followed her mother. As they walked away, Elrond turned to another guard beside him and gave a new instruction.
"You go and ask Igris if he has a vial of poison with him. Perhaps he took a sample from the Dark Elves."
The guard bowed respectfully and rushed off in the direction Igris had gone without wasting a second. Elrond then turned to another Elven commander waiting by his side.
"Take a detachment of men and head to the watchtowers near the Misty Mountains, and check on their status."
As soon as the commander received the order, he nodded and prepared to leave, but he paused for a moment and looked at Lady Galadriel. After remaining motionless for a few seconds with a whisper echoing in his mind, he bowed his head in confirmation.
"As you command, My Lady."
As the guard swiftly departed, Galadriel had telepathically transmitted to him the exact locations of the bodies of the Elven guards that the Dark Elves had sacrificed earlier. With matters finally falling into order, Elrond gazed for a brief moment at the countless stars stretching across the sky and the profound silence of the night, before slowly turning his steps toward his palace.
-The Quarters of the Oakenshield Company-
"... You were right, Gilan..."
When Igris and Gilan stepped into the grand hall of the Elven palace that had been allocated to them, they stood frozen in astonishment at the scene that greeted them. The Oakenshield company was scattered across all four corners of the hall, everyone amusing themselves in their own way, but what truly commanded attention was the deafening roar rising from the very center of the room. The Dwarves and the Vaegirs had formed a wide circle, cheering at the absolute top of their lungs.
"MATHELD! MATHELD! MATHELD!"
"DWALIN! DWALIN! DWALIN!"
At a sturdy wooden table right in the middle of the circle, a human woman and a burly, half-bald dwarf sat opposite each other, their hands locked together in a fierce, unrelenting arm-wrestling match. The veins on Dwalin's arm and face bulged prominently; the immense effort he was exerting was evident from the strain etched into his features. His opponent, Matheld, wasn't faring much differently. The muscles on her graceful yet remarkably powerful arm were taut, and beads of sweat had gathered on her forehead. The two locked hands swayed back and forth over the table, but neither side could establish a definitive advantage.
While Altay and his team stood slightly off to the side, watching this fiercely contested spectacle, Halt had moved to a table in a quiet corner of the hall, studying a large map alongside Kili and Bilbo. Thorin and Balin, on the other hand, were observing the absolute pandemonium from a completely different corner. As Gilan and Igris stood side by side, taking in this chaotic scene, two dwarves who had just entered right behind them noticed the spectacle and eagerly lunged forward.
"BOFUR! I WANT TO PLACE A BET! 30 SILVER ON DWALIN!"
"I'VE GOT 25 SILVER!"
As Gloin and Fili mingled with the crowd, jingling the coins in their pockets, Zoltan, who had just walked through the door, let out a roaring burst of laughter.
"Hahahaha! Looks like there is some fun to be had!"
When he saw the betting table and the fierce competition before him, his eyes gleamed with a greedy excitement, and he dashed toward the crowd without a second thought.
"I WANT TO PLACE A BET!"
Kargan, who entered the hall right after him, looked at what was happening and let out a weary, exasperated sigh.
"Just don't come crying on my shoulder when you lose everything you have..."
At that moment, Bamsı, who came charging inside, paused curiously upon seeing the scene. The energy of the room instantly infected him, and his eyes sparkled.
"Aha! Exactly my kind of entertainment!"
He eagerly stepped forward and took his place among the crowd. Doğan, who arrived right behind him, silently shook his head at Bamsı's typical demeanor and followed him with more relaxed, cautious steps. Ciri, the last to enter the room, observed the commotion for a while before picking a quiet corner for herself. With graceful steps, she went and leaned her back against the wall, crossed her arms over her chest, and began to watch the chaos in silence.
After observing this chaotic environment for a while, the Dark Knight and the former Ranger commander looked at each other, shrugged helplessly, and parted ways. While Gilan walked towards the map table where Halt was working, Igris altered his course toward the corner where Thorin and Balin stood. As he approached them, he gave a slight raise of his hand in greeting.
"Thorin, Balin."
Balin stroked his thick beard, turned to Igris, and smiled with a fatherly warmth.
"Igris! I am glad you returned safe and sound!"
Igris sighed, nodding with a faintly exhausted expression on his face. He was wearing nothing but a simple cloth tunic.
"... I wish I could say the same for my armor..."
His armor, which he had received brand-new from repairs just this morning, had ended up in an even worse state than before following the recent events. Balin, however, did not seem to mind this situation much and responded cheerfully.
"Hahahaha! No problem, Igris! We'll hammer out a few scratches and dents in no time!"
Hearing these words, Igris scratched the back of his neck and cast a troubled look. The deep slash marks left by the Dread Lord's sword, the warped plates, and the heavy dents on his armor flashed vividly in his mind.
"... I hope so..."
Right at that moment, something caught Igris's attention. Thorin hadn't spoken a word to him since he arrived. Looking closely, he noticed that the Dwarf King's gaze was focused somewhere else entirely—specifically, he was staring blankly at the crowd, his mind clearly far away. He called out curiously.
"Thorin?"
But there was no reaction. Igris raised his voice a little more.
"Thorin!!"
When there was still no movement, Igris raised his eyebrows in surprise and turned to Balin. The old dwarf chuckled suggestively at the distracted state of his former student and current king, then brought his thick hand down hard on Thorin's shoulder. Slightly startled by the sudden blow, Thorin snapped out of it and quickly turned to Balin. Balin, without saying a word, calmly gestured with his head toward Igris standing in front of him. Thorin blinked, as if only just noticing Igris.
"How long have you been standing here?"
Unable to make sense of how deeply distracted the man before him was, Igris stared at him for a brief moment before answering.
"For a few minutes... What were you so focused on?"
Slightly flustered by the question, Thorin cleared his throat as if to collect himself.
"Ahem... Nothing... I was just thinking about the journey."
Balin, right beside him, chuckled softly and interjected in a highly suggestive tone.
"Are you sure?"
Thorin, as if fully understanding what the old dwarf was implying, turned his head and shot him a sharp glare.
"I am sure."
Igris was just about to turn to Balin to figure out the reason behind this silent exchange when a dull, heavy thud echoed from the center of the hall.
SMACK!
The trio quickly turned towards the source of the sound, utterly stunned to see that the arm-wrestling match at the table had ended and Dwalin's wrist was pinned flat against the wood. Around the table, after a brief moment of silence, those who had bet on Matheld let out a massive roar of joy, while those siding with Dwalin were left in profound shock and disappointment. As Dwalin slowly rubbed his aching arm, he looked at the woman opposite him with respect and congratulated her.
"You are a fierce warrior."
Matheld chuckled lightly as she picked up her mug of ale from the edge of the table, speaking with a rather tough, self-assured swagger.
"So are you. Are you an axeman?"
Dwalin raised his eyebrows in surprise at the woman's precise deduction.
"You are one too, aren't you?"
The two seasoned axe masters had recognized each other by the familiar placement of the calluses on their palms and knuckles, formed by years of gripping their weapons. Dwalin asked, a newfound curiosity awakening within him.
"Do you prefer a great axe or a small one?"
Matheld didn't hide that this talk of weapons piqued her interest and replied,
"As long as it's an axe, it makes no difference. But preferably, I would choose a one-handed axe paired with a shield; archers can be a real pain in the ass."
As she uttered that last sentence, she deliberately and pointedly fixed her gaze on the Vaegirs standing in the corner. The Vaegirs, despite their demoralized state, continued to stare back at the woman without breaking their composure. The dwarves in the room were already grumbling as they tossed the pouches of money they had lost to the winners. The Vaegirs had also lost a considerable amount of coin; watching the money they had entrusted to Bofur go straight into the pockets of other dwarves made their hearts bleed. However, just then, they were surprised to see Bofur walking directly toward them. Bofur handed a rather bulging coin pouch to Ordo.
"Here, Ordo. Your winnings."
While the other Vaegirs couldn't believe their eyes, Ordo smiled quite calmly and took the pouch.
"Thanks, friend."
Bofur nodded. He wasn't in a great mood since he had bet on Dwalin and lost; he walked away to find the other people he needed to distribute money to. Ordo lightly tossed the heavy coin pouch in his hand, listening to the sweet clinking sound coming from within. He was quite pleased with himself, but after a while, feeling intense stares burning into him, he turned his head. All his brothers-in-arms were glaring at him as if he had just committed high treason. He shrugged curiously.
"What?"
Fin spoke, his voice tinged with reproach and anger.
"Did you bet on that Nord scum?"
Ordo nodded, confirming it as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Yeah? Why didn't you guys?"
Another man from the group, unable to contain his anger, snapped harshly.
"Because we are enemies with them! Why the hell did you bet on her!?"
Ordo shrugged with a perfectly relaxed demeanor.
"That's one thing, this is another. The Nords have the finest infantry on the continent, whereas we are a kingdom that focuses much more on archery. I figured the woman was strong, so I bet on her."
After finishing his words, he turned to the blonde woman who was looking at him from afar with a mixture of surprise and slight irritation. With a mocking smirk settling on his face, he shook the pouch full of money at Matheld. The heavy clinking of the metal coins was clearly heard even amidst the low hum of the hall. Meeting Matheld's gaze, Ordo turned back to his friends and continued.
"Besides, my enemy just earned me free coin. She did all the hard work and I made the money; now I've sextupled my silver."
Hearing these words, Matheld's nerves tightened even further, while a slow, devilish epiphany dawned on the faces of the Vaegirs who realized what had just happened. The moment they realized they could irritate a Nord so simply and effectively—without ever laying a finger on her, merely by profiting off her own labor—the bitter resentment they felt towards Matheld began to give way to sheer delight. Fin was still staring at Ordo in astonishment; he had never expected such an economically, strategically, and subtly political maneuver to come from his friend.
Just as Ordo, immensely satisfied with himself, was preparing to walk over to an empty table in the corner with proud steps, a booming voice echoed from the other end of the hall.
"Brother Ordo! Let's arm-wrestle!"
Hearing his name, the smile on Ordo's face instantly vanished, replaced by a surge of sheer enthusiasm and energy. He turned around and shouted back at Bamsı.
"You're on, brother Bamsı!"
As the two massive men eagerly took their places at opposite ends of the sturdy table in the center of the hall, the fading energy of the dwarves reignited in an instant. The more than fifty dwarves in the hall plunged into a new, even more intense betting war without wasting a second. The Oakenshield dwarves, who already knew Bamsı and Ordo, did not hesitate to pick sides.
"10 silver on Bamsı!"
"30 silver on Ordo!"
The revitalized Vaegirs also stood firmly behind their comrade, throwing their support behind Ordo.
"10 silver!"
"20 silver!"
The newly arrived dwarves from the Witcher universe, on the other hand, were placing their bets based solely on their physical analysis of these two men they didn't even know.
"This one looks solidly built. 25 silver on the guy named Bamsı!"
"No, the other one is an axe user, he must definitely be sturdier. 21 silver on the guy named Ordo!"
Another dwarf fiercely interjected.
"No way, this guy wields dual swords! Do you know how incredibly difficult that is? How many dual-sword wielders have you seen in your life? I'm putting 30 silver on Bamsı!"
Zoltan was carefully examining the two men facing each other at the table. He scrutinized both sides' shoulder width, arm structure, and posture as if he were trying to unravel a matter of vital military strategy. He turned to Kargan next to him with curiosity.
"Who do you think will take it?"
Kargan studied the two men at the table for a brief moment. Since he himself was an experienced axeman, a sense of martial brotherhood led him to cast his lot with the other side.
"I think the guy named Ordo will win."
Zoltan, however, wasn't so sure. He scratched his beard suspiciously and pondered.
"I think so too, but Geralt once told me he fought someone who used dual swords and he had a really hard time. There aren't many people who fight with two swords, I've never even seen one in my life... actually, Geralt fought using two swords at the same time once."
Kargan rolled his eyes at Zoltan's completely unnecessary comparison and took a deep breath.
"One is a combination of brute strength and technique, the other is a combination of technique and agility. I still say Ordo takes it."
Right at that moment, an unexpected, youthful, and clear voice was heard from right behind the two dwarves.
"I wouldn't be so sure."
When the two dwarves quickly spun around to see the owner of this unfamiliar voice, they found a small human child standing before them. Zoltan furrowed his brows and asked curiously.
"What is a human child doing around here?"
Kargan shrugged, not caring much about the boy's presence.
"Who cares."
Then, turning back to the boy, he asked directly,
"What's your name, lad?"
The boy looked up at these two dwarves—who were far older and larger than him—without a shred of fear, bearing a calm demeanor and a faint smile that reflected the vibrant energy in his eyes.
"My name is Estel, at your service."