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The great hall had naturally split into three groups.
At the upper end, Gandalf, Elrond, and Thorin Oakenshield were examining the swords recovered from the troll cave.
Elven craftsmanship had a language of its own, and Elrond spoke it fluently.
He recognized the forging style at a glance, named the workshops where the blades had been made, and even identified their original owners, recalling whose hands had once wielded each sword.
Nearby stood the thirteen dwarves and Bilbo Baggins, staring suspiciously at the plates of vegetables in their hands.
Earlier, they had watched Jimmy eat with enthusiasm while the Elves scrambled to keep up with refilling his dishes.
Encouraged, the dwarves had decided to try as well.
It did not go well.
"I refuse to eat leaves," Ori muttered. "I am not a rabbit."
"What if it tastes good," someone asked.
"Even if it does, I still refuse."
Jimmy, meanwhile, had separated himself entirely.
He was already planning how to secure a steady supply of Elven waybread. Preferably with seeds of the blueheart fruit included.
He approached Lindir again.
"Steward Lindir, I truly believe your waybread is remarkable. To be honest, I have long struggled with food that simply does not contain enough energy for me."
He spoke carefully, respectfully.
"I have a request. When I leave Rivendell, would it be possible for me to take some of the high-energy waybread with me? I am willing to compensate the Elves in gold, or repay the favor in service should you ever need it."
Lindir blinked, then smiled.
"That will not be necessary. Those waybreads have been kept in storage for a long time. Elven custom forbids waste. If you wish to take them, you may take as much as you need."
Jimmy's expression brightened immediately.
"That is incredibly generous. May I also ask where the blueheart fruit can be cultivated?"
Lindir already knew where this was going. He shook his head gently.
"I fear that will disappoint you. Blueheart fruit only grows here, in Rivendell, where the ambient magic is strong enough to sustain it."
He paused, then added.
"I can give you seeds. But I would advise you not to expect much. In all these years, I have never seen blueheart fruit grow anywhere else. Even planted seeds fail to sprout."
Elves were a practical people. When something was impossible, they said so plainly.
Jimmy ate three more pieces of waybread and finally felt full.
Only then did the conversation drift to other topics.
---
They spoke at length about weapons and armor.
Jimmy's blades drew admiration, but it was his armor that truly fascinated Lindir.
At first glance, the patterns etched into it seemed decorative. But under the rain, the grooves guided water away with precise efficiency. The armor was breathable, functional, and elegant all at once.
It was art.
More than that, it was perfectly fitted.
Gain or lose even a fraction of weight, and the drainage channels would lose their precision. Every line had been calculated with master-level accuracy.
Lindir assumed it had all been done by hand.
He did not know about an artificial intelligence called JARVIS. To it, these calculations were trivial.
Fortunately, Tony Stark had explained the design philosophy to Jimmy often enough that Jimmy could describe it clearly.
He shared everything freely.
When the feast ended, Lindir personally invited Jimmy to the storehouses to collect the waybread and blueheart seeds.
Along the way, he explained the waybread's production process.
Jimmy picked up a leaf-wrapped piece, green in color and noticeably hard.
"Why are these green. And why do they feel so solid?"
He took a cautious bite.
"These are freshly made," Lindir explained. "Their energy content is much lower. The ones stored ahead are the high-density batches."
"As for why those are white," he added thoughtfully, "time. They have… aged."
"Aged how long," Jimmy asked, knocking lightly on the bread. It sounded like stone.
Lindir thought for a moment.
"Roughly two thousand one hundred years. I remember seeing them when I was a child, They are just ahead."
Jimmy stopped walking.
Two thousand one hundred years Fucking years??!!
He froze.
So this was what Elves meant when they said "a long time".
I just ate a biscuit older than most religions.
How does that even work? Do Elves not believe in expiration dates, or do they just not acknowledge the concept of food going bad?
"Lindir," Jimmy asked cautiously, "this stuff has been sitting here for centuries. Are you sure it hasn't… gone off?"
"Of course not," Lindir replied calmly. "Elves have specialized preservation methods. We also possess the ability to detect poison in food. These contain no toxins. They are perfectly safe."
Jimmy relaxed slightly.
Then Lindir added another sentence.
"Although," Lindir said thoughtfully, "we are unsure whether such prolonged aging might produce other effects."
Jimmy's shoulders tensed again.
"Other effects."
"I mean," Lindir clarified, "we do not know whether it could cause intoxication."
Silence.
"…Intoxication."
They stopped.
Shelves lined both sides of the storehouse, stacked from floor to ceiling.
Every single one held white Elven waybread.
"You may take as much as you wish," Lindir said evenly. "All of it, if you are able."
"Deal."
At this point, courtesy was unnecessary.
Jimmy activated the Horadric Cube.
Lindir stared as the entire stock vanished in moments, leaving bare shelves behind.
"…A remarkable artifact," Lindir said after a long pause.
Jimmy laughed. "You travel long enough, you run into strange things. Like a box that eats space Or Elven food that finally lets me feel full."
Lindir recovered himself, retrieved several pouches of blueheart fruit seeds, and personally escorted Jimmy to the guest quarters.
---
They passed a pavilion along the way.
Inside, several dwarves were dismantling the wooden table and chairs, snapping them apart for firewood. A fire crackled cheerfully in the center, sausages and bread roasting above the flames.
Jimmy stopped walking.
He even noticed Lindir's eye twitch.
If there was one group capable of testing Elven composure, it was dwarves.
"Dwarves can be rough," Jimmy said diplomatically. "But they are honest people. They prefer meat over leaves. Probably still hungry from the feast."
Lindir took a breath, composed himself, and nodded.
"The guest rooms are just ahead. Please rest well. I will not disturb you further."
He stepped back, placed a hand over his chest in a formal Elven salute, and turned away with practiced grace.
"Hey, Jimmy. Want a sausage."
Bifur waved a skewer with a sausage on it. Steam rose from the surface, though one side was badly charred.
Bifur's mouth was just as blackened.
Jimmy sighed. "Bifur, I mean this sincerely. You have absolutely no talent for cooking."
"If I were you, I would hand those over to Bilbo Baggins. Anything he cooks is actually edible."
"Oh right. Our burglar-chef," Bifur said. He tossed the sausage toward Bombur, then skewered another and passed it to Bilbo instead.
"I told you," Bilbo muttered while working, "you don't cook it directly over the flames. And you don't skewer it like that."
He threaded the sausage properly, tested the heat with his hand, and positioned it carefully at the edge of the fire.
"Jimmy," Bilbo asked, "would you like one?"
"No thanks," Jimmy replied. "But I do have something better. Anyone still hungry?"
The night in Rivendell was far from over.
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