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Jimmy slid the blade back into its sheath and opened his hands calmly.
Around him, Wood Elf bows remained drawn, arrows trained on his chest, but Jimmy ignored them completely.
In Legolas's eyes, respect deepened.
"You are an honest warrior," Legolas said. "Lower your bows."
The elves obeyed.
Jimmy's calm had nothing to do with trust.
It was confidence.
Stark's forged armor had carried him through worse than this, battles that would have shredded lesser protection, and these arrows would at most scratch the surface.
What they mistook for generosity was simply certainty.
At this distance, even speedsters would struggle, and Jimmy had no intention of being caught unprepared.
"Human warrior." Legolas continued. "May I know your name. And why do you shield these dwarves?"
"My name is Jimmy Halstead," Jimmy replied easily. "And I am not shielding them, I am contracted."
He gestured lightly toward the group.
"I am part of their company. We also travel with someone you should recognize. He went ahead to investigate what is poisoning this forest. Gandalf the Grey."
Jimmy glanced at the fallen spiders.
"Mirkwood is not supposed to look like this. Too many things that should not exist are crawling out of the dark."
Legolas followed his gaze.
"Darkness is spreading," he said. "The servants of evil are at work. If Gandalf walks with you, then these dwarves are no ordinary band."
He turned toward the king at the center of the group.
"Dwarf, state your name."
"I am Thorin Oakenshield."
Legolas' expression shifted.
"Thorin Oakenshield. King under the Mountain."
"Just so."
Legolas considered for a moment, then spoke.
"Our halls are closed. Jimmy Halstead, would you and your companions accept my invitation?"
Jimmy glanced at Thorin.
Thorin did not want to go.
That much was obvious.
But behind him, Balin and the others could barely hide their exhaustion, days in poisoned fog had worn them down, weapons needed sharpening, quivers were light, and everyone needed proper food and rest.
"I think we should discuss it," Jimmy said.
Despite his misgivings, Thorin relented.
---
The Woodland Realm was nothing like Rivendell.
Where Rivendell flowed with stone and song, this place breathed with bark and leaf.
Gates, walls, even the slender bridges were shaped from treated wood, resistant to rot and flame; the walls themselves were formed by living trees grown close together, roots intertwined.
At the heart of it all sat the king.
Thranduil wore a crown of living thorns, his gaze cold and sharp as steel.
"Welcome," Thranduil said. "King of the Dwarves of Erebor. Thorin. Son of Thráin. Grandson of Thrór."
Thorin met his stare, fury burning behind his eyes.
It was this king who had once stood aside while dragonfire consumed the Lonely Mountain, who had watched and done nothing as Erebor fell.
"I doubt your welcome is sincere," Thorin said flatly.
"You and your father and your grandfather," Thranduil replied coolly. "Stubborn, Blind, Impossible. If fate allowed, I would never deal with your line again."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Tell me why you cross Mirkwood. You march toward the Lonely Mountain, do you not?"
"That is none of your concern."
"It is very much my concern."
Thranduil's eyes narrowed.
"I know your purposez You cannot defeat Smaug with the handful you bring. So what are you truly after?"
He paused, then smiled thinly.
"The Heart of the Mountain. The Arkenstone."
Silence fell.
"You found the secret way. You intend to reclaim it, rally the Seven Houses, drive out the dragon, and take back Erebor."
Thranduil rose.
"I will help you."
Thorin stiffened.
"But you will pay." Thranduil continued. "The Moonstones my people sent to your father for crafting were never returned. You will bring them back to me."
The bargain was laid bare.
"I do not need your help." Thorin snapped, voice cold. "Wood Elves are not to be trusted, You watched the flames swallow Erebor. You did not lose a single arrow."
"I warned your father," Thranduil replied, just as sharp. "I told him not to feed his greed. Dwarves are always the same, stubborn, deaf to reason."
His gaze did not waver.
"Elves have enemies too. We are always fighting, always watching the borders. I would not throw my people against Smaug for nothing."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Smaug was unbeatable then, at least without preparation. Charging him would have been a pointless sacrifice."
The argument burned hot, old wounds thrown back and forth, but Jimmy did not interfere.
This time they had been invited, Balin kept Thorin steady, and Thranduil, for all his pride, was willing to bend when it suited him.
In the end, an understanding was reached, or more accurately, the two most experienced minds in the room found the line they could both accept.
Thranduil agreed to aid Thorin, recognized him as King of Erebor, and promised limited support after the Arkenstone was recovered, he demanded repayment, the Moonstones, once sent for crafting, and never returned.
After that, the feast moved forward without incident.
Jimmy sampled a few Woodland Realm delicacies, then left early.
Everything else was negotiable, but after days in Mirkwood fog, sweat, webbing, and spider blood, he needed a bath more than he needed wine.
Watching Thorin and Thranduil raise their cups in tense courtesy, Jimmy allowed himself a small smile.
See, some things could be handled by talking, if you had the patience.
Jimmy rose.
"I am done, I am going to sleep."
"Oh no, Jimmy."
"By all that is stone and iron." one of the dwarves groaned. "I am sick of you saying that."
Legolas looked genuinely confused.
"What is wrong with them?"
Kíli walked over and dropped an arm across Legolas' shoulder like they were old friends.
"You do not know," Kíli said. "Every time Jimmy says he is going to rest, that night is perfectly calm, nothing happens, not a single problem."
Legolas blinked.
"That sounds good."
"It is a trap," Kíli replied, deadly serious. "Because the next day is always a nightmare, either one brutal fight, or several days of being hunted."
He pointed with his chin.
"Not once has it failed."
Legolas narrowed his eyes, unconvinced.
"This is our stronghold, No one attacks here."
"I used to say that too," Kíli said. "Just watch. Tomorrow, when we leave, it will be blood from dawn to dusk. Get your rest now."
Bombur sighed, lifted his cup, took one more reluctant drink, then set it down.
"I was hoping to enjoy the wine," he muttered.
Jimmy smiled as he walked away.
He had the same feeling.
If his memory of the pattern held, tomorrow would be chaos, orcs would strike the waterway leading toward Lake town, the company would be forced into a running battle, and somewhere in the dark, Gandalf would be in trouble.
Dol Guldur was not quiet.
Not anymore.
Azog's host would be moving too.
Experience on legs, marching straight toward him.
Jimmy's mood lifted at the thought, then he paused, frowning.
If only he had something faster than blades.
A weapon that could cut down waves of enemies without closing the distance.
He pulled out the hunting rifle and examined it carefully.
Click! Click! Click!
Empty.
The mechanism cycled, but the sound felt wrong, and the ammunition was useless, as if the world itself refused to recognize it.
Meanwhile, his armor and blades worked perfectly.
Different rules, then.
Jimmy exhaled slowly.
"Next time," he muttered. "I get Stark to build me something purely mechanical, a repeating crossbow, gears, springs, no gunpowder."
He tilted his head, thinking further.
"Poison could work too," he whispered. "Though I wonder if killing with poison counts as experience."
The thought lingered as he headed for sleep.
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