Bella wanted to leave, but the long-faced Elf maiden Arwen hoped she would stay a little longer. "My grandmother says there is something very important she needs to discuss with you."
"Miss Arwen, that lady has more business with me?"
Arwen's smile was serene. She shook her head. "It probably concerns some matters relating to Lothlórien. I'm sorry—I don't know the specifics. Like you, I'm just a guest here."
The implication was plain enough: don't go anywhere yet.
The Elf maiden seemed to have duties of her own and took her leave shortly after.
The room wasn't locked. Bella was free to come and go as she pleased.
She spent a while studying the Balrog's core. The thing looked utterly unremarkable at first glance—a rough lump of coal-like stone. But when she touched it lightly with one finger, she felt it: a savage, smoldering heat radiating from the core outward, from the inside out.
After some examination, she concluded that most experiments would be impossible to conduct here. She set the core aside, left the treehouse, and wandered aimlessly through what the Elves called Lothlórien's public areas.
Galadriel and her long-faced granddaughter went barefoot everywhere—barefoot on horseback, barefoot on the forest paths—as though dust and grit were simply beneath their notice. Bella had no such gift. That had to qualify as some kind of bloodline blessing. When she went out for a walk, she needed shoes.
A moon-white gown paired with cloth shoes was, admittedly, a somewhat eccentric combination. But she'd never been particularly concerned with others' opinions, and besides, no matter how well she dressed, the Elves would never compliment her. Why bother making the effort?
So: long skirt, cloth shoes, staff. She studied the Elves the way one might study a scenic landscape. The Elves studied her back the way one might study an animal at the zoo.
No one jumped out to mock her. No one stepped forward to introduce her to the sights. The Elves and Bella alike maintained an equally composed indifference.
What does Galadriel want with me? Various possibilities surfaced in her mind, one by one—and she dismissed them, one by one.
After wandering a full circuit, she had actually worked up an appetite. Not a single Elf had thought to offer her food. Not even a glimpse of the Elven waybread she'd read about—the kind supposedly given to the Fellowship in the original timeline.
She gave up and went back to the treehouse to read.
She retrieved a book from her dimensional space, pulled out a leg of mutton along with it, and settled in to read and eat simultaneously.
Lothlórien had no visible sun. Bella could only estimate the time by feel. Roughly three-quarters of a day had passed when Galadriel's voice finally surfaced in her mind.
"I am truly sorry to have kept you waiting so long. My other invited guest has arrived as well. Please come to the highest canopy—I believe we have a great deal to discuss."
Bella looked up, gauging Galadriel's position. The Elves' attitude toward her was hardly warm, and she had no intention of climbing stairs. She opened a portal, stepped through, and arrived.
Galadriel stood at the edge of the highest canopy, her back to Bella, gazing into the distance.
At the central stone table sat a tall, dark-haired male Elf wearing a silver crown. His gaze carried a quality of measured assessment—as though Bella's sudden appearance had been entirely expected.
"Good day, Lord Elrond." Bella's address was scrupulously formal. Many Dwarves and Men called him King Elrond, but Elrond had never actually held a king's title. From first to last, he had only ever been the Lord of Rivendell.
Elrond's face was austere. The wariness in his eyes was undisguised. He inclined his head—barely perceptibly.
"Good day, Miss Mithrandir."
Mithrandir was characteristic of the Elves—they loved giving others Elvish nicknames. In the Elvish tongue, Mithrandir meant Grey Pilgrim, or Grey Wizard. Whatever others called her, Bella genuinely didn't care.
She and Elrond took seats on opposite sides of the stone table. A shimmer of rosy light stirred on the Ring of Fire. On Elrond's right hand, a blue radiance bloomed—Vilya, the Ring of Air, mightiest of the Three Elven Rings.
Narya, the Ring of Fire, in Bella's hand. Nenya, the Ring of Water, in Galadriel's. And now Vilya, the Ring of Air, in Elrond's. After many long years, the Three Elven Rings had gathered in the same place again.
Neither Bella nor Elrond spoke. They simply sat in silence.
Galadriel continued gazing serenely into the distance, as though something far away had permanently claimed her attention.
Watching her remain utterly unmoved, Elrond was finally forced to begin. "Miss Mithrandir, I greatly admire your courage in slaying the Balrog. It is a landmark victory for all of Middle-earth."
His opening was pure diplomacy. Bella nodded and accepted the praise without modesty—at this point, styling herself Balrog Slayer would have been entirely justified.
"Speaking for myself," he continued, "I would very much hope that you might share the news from the Mines of Moria with your Dwarf companions. This world needs the strength of the Dwarves. And the Mines of Moria should rightfully be returned to Dwarf governance."
The corner of Bella's mouth curved upward. She saw through the Elf lord's calculation at a glance.
The words sounded generous: return the Mines to the Dwarves. But what was actually in those Mines? It wasn't only the Balrog. There were tens of thousands of Orcs living throughout those tunnels—every passage, every hall.
The Dwarves would need enormous effort and manpower just to clear the place out. And when they'd finished? That was only the beginning.
The Mines of Moria ran through much of the Misty Mountains, which sat squarely at the center of the continent. If the Dwarves held this position, they could serve as a buffer protecting Rivendell in the north, while forming a pincer with Lothlórien's Golden Wood to the east of the mountains.
And to the west of both—beyond the Great River Anduin—stood one of the Dark Lord Sauron's military fortresses: Dol Guldur. In the original timeline, it was there that Gandalf had gone to investigate and been captured and caged. One army in the Battle of the Five Armies—the Orc host under Azog—had marched north from Dol Guldur to attack the Lonely Mountain. The other—led by Azog's son, the massive Orc Bolg—had come south from Mount Gundabad. It was a classic north-south pincer strategy.
Currently, the entire stretch from the Mines of Moria to Dol Guldur was Orc-held territory. For the Dwarves to try rebuilding their homeland here would be to walk straight into the tiger's jaws.
But once the Dwarves established a foothold in Moria, the Orcs of Dol Guldur would be in no position to march on the Lonely Mountain at all. Who would tolerate an enemy right on their doorstep? At that point, the Dwarves would be left to absorb wave after wave of Orc attacks alone.
Bella refused without a second thought. "I believe Thorin would rather return to the Lonely Mountain. After all, his crown comes from Erebor—not from Moria."
Elrond countered. "And what do you intend to do about the dragon in the Lonely Mountain? Forgive my candor, but I do not believe you can defeat Smaug. Smaug's power far exceeds the Balrog's."
The unspoken implication was clear: You nearly broke yourself killing a Balrog. You think you can take on a dragon?
Bella was, if she was honest, a little unsettled. She had thrown everything she had at the Balrog and scraped by. Against a dragon—she genuinely had no idea if she could win.