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Rivendell in summer was the epitome of beauty and tranquility. A gentle breeze played in the verdant leaves glowing in the late afternoon light streaming into the valley, and the harmony of birdsong and rushing water had you sighing in bliss more than once.
Though you knew you must, you didn’t want to leave. Your company was leaving first thing tomorrow morning, and you were soaking up every last drop of peace and quiet that you could before you resumed your quest with more than a dozen loud, obnoxiously endearing dwarrows, a mysterious wizard and a gentle-mannered hobbit.
A quest that had a very high probability of failure, but you’d always enjoyed a challenge.
As you strolled along the many winding paths and arching bridges of the valley, an odd sound abruptly broke your revelry. It sounded like words—if words were a combination of two rocks grinding together and a couple of dogs fighting over a bone.
You followed the sound and ran into your company. Well, most of them.
Your cantankerous leader and the quiet hobbit were nowhere to be seen, but that was nothing new. Bilbo had an uncanny habit of disappearing whenever the opportunity arose, and Thorin…well, Thorin liked his brooding time, and you’d sooner face the orc pack on the Bruinen again than interrupt that gruff dwarf’s solitude. You liked your face and limbs the way they were, thank you very much.
Nori, Bofur, and Dwalin huddled around something—a barrel of some kind—in the middle of the balcony they had claimed for the night, scrambling and shoving each other out of the way as each one poked, prodded and pried at the top.
The “words” of rocks and dogs you’d heard was actually Dwalin growling in Khuzdul as he tried and failed to pull the top off the wooden barrel that held the attention of every company member there.
“What are you doing?” you asked with a lopsided grin.
“Tryin’ to open a barrel o’ ale, but the blasted thing’s shut up tight,” Bofur replied.
You quirked a brow. You knew for a fact that Lord Elrond had cut off the Dwarves from their supply of alcohol after Bofur, Nori, Dwalin and Kíli had started a drinking contest and nearly drank the elves out of house and home the company’s third night in the valley. “And where, pray tell, did you find this barrel of ale?”
“In the elves’ cellar,” Ori said nearby.
“Shut yer face!” Nori snapped at his brother. “Say it any louder and the buggers are sure to hear ye.”
“Let me guess,” you drawled with a smirk, “you stole it.”
“I procured it,” Nori said, looking rather offended as he went back to fighting with the barrel with Bofur and Dwalin. You shook your head, chuckling to yourself.
Three dwarves fighting with a barrel. Sounded like the start of a bad joke.
“What’s so funny?” Dwalin asked, glaring at you over his shoulder.
“Oh, nothing.”
“That twinkle in yer eyes ain’t nothin’, lass,” Bofur said with a grin.
“I just find it ironic that, with all the tales you dwarves have told me of fighting orcs and goblins and trolls and wargs, the opponent that seems to have bested you all—” You paused to give them a cheeky grin. “—is a barrel of ale.”
“Why don’t you try to open it if you’re feeling so smug?” Kíli snarked nearby.
“All right, then I will.”
The others backed away from the barrel to give you room, and you circled around it slowly. It looked like a typical wine barrel, but there was a sizeable rectangular indent crushed into the top of the wood.
“What did you lot do? Try to break it was a bloody war-hammer?” You’d asked the question as a jest, but when several heads turned towards Dwalin, your jaw dropped at the almost bashful look on the warrior’s face. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Did you really try to break it with a hammer?”
“The damned thing’s stuck! What else was I supposed to do?”
“Ask for help,” you exclaimed in exasperation. “Preferably nicely, but since you’re all so desperate for a drink, I’ll oblige you.”
“If we couldn’t get it open, do ye really think ye can?” Nori asked with a cocky smirk.
You bristled at his arrogance, setting your hands firmly against your hips. You couldn’t wait to prove him wrong. “Yes. And when I do, I get the first drink.”
You turned your attention back to the barrel and ran a hand over the lid. Your fingers caught on a deep divot on one side—and an idea struck you.
“Anyone have a knife I can borrow?”
Fíli immediately stepped forward and offered you one of his (many) knives from a sheath on his forearm. You accepted it with a small smile, and he flashed you a wink before returning to his spot beside his brother.
“Lass, don’t go hurtin’ yerself now,” Glóin cautioned. If it had come from any of the others, you might have taken offense, but Glóin was a father, so you knew his concern came from the heart of an overprotective dad.
“Worry not, Master Glóin. I know what I’m doing,” you reassured him. Aligning the point of the knife with the divot in the wood, you pressed your full weight down on the hilt, firmly wedging the blade in the gap. With a quick readjustment to your grip and stance, you jerked your arms down and to the side with a loud command, “Edro!”
A loud crack resonated through the balcony as the lid popped open.
Loud whoops and laughter poured out of the dwarves, and a few rushed towards you before Balin called out, “Hold on now, lads! A deal’s a deal.”
With that, he came towards you with two empty tankards in his hands and offered you one of them. You smiled at him, dipped the mug into the dark brew, and took a sip of the ale. Warm and sweet with a slight fruity note on the tail-end, you sighed in contentment.
“I can see why the elves had this locked up,” you said with a chuckle, and the company laughed with you. You stepped aside as they crowded the barrel, passing mug after mug of the alcohol around. Glóin and Óin had built a make-shift firepit in the center of the balcony with what looked like broken chairs and other various wooden furniture while you had your back turned.
A joyous atmosphere descended upon the group of travelers as food, spirits, and conversation flowed freely. Tomorrow, they might be heading out to meet their deaths at the hands of orcs, a dragon or even the Wilds themselves. But tonight, they would savor the rest, company and cheer that only good companionship could provide.
Fíli and Kíli came up and stood on either side of you with their own full pints, leaning up against the balcony’s railing.
“We’ve been trying to get that barrel open for nearly twenty minutes,” Fíli said with awe in his voice, accepting back his knife from you.
“How did you do that?” Kíli finished for his brother.
“Leverage,” you said with a smirk curving your lips. You took another long drag of your ale, and your smile grew wider. “That and the barrel was enchanted.”
Their eyes flared wide, and Fíli asked, “Are you secretly a wizard like Gandalf?”
You laughed heartily. “Goodness, no. I’m a regular person who just so happens to know a bit of magic.”