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Chapter Text

"I thank you, my dear, for having me over for Yule Eve," Bilbo Baggins said with a bow. "Your hospitality is always much appreciated."

Primula Baggins smiled at her favorite cousin. "I just hate to think of you spending it all alone," she said, watching as he pulled on his cloak and clapped his hat onto his curls--still not a thread of gray in them. He was aging remarkably well, people always said--indeed, he looked younger than her husband Drogo, despite being a good twenty years older.

"I don't feel that alone," Bilbo said, but she thought a flicker of sadness passed over his face at her words.

In her arms, Frodo gave a little gurgling crow of delight, and Bilbo smiled fondly. "You like my brooch, don't you?" he said, leaning close so that the baby's chubby hands could bat at the sparkling star at his throat. They shared a birthday, which meant according to Shire lore their lives were linked--although Primula never put much faith in that silly superstition since she had found out that odious Otho Sackville-Baggins and she shared the same birthday. But there was no doubting that Bilbo doted on his newest relation, coming over to visit quite a few times in the months since Frodo had been born.

"Are you sure you won't stay and share a pipe with me?" asked Drogo from the library door.

"No, the hour is late and I must be getting home," said Bilbo, kissing Primula on the cheek and Frodo on top of his curly head. "But thank you so much, and a merry Yule to you all!"

"A happy Star Festival to you!" said Primula and Drogo as he waved goodbye and closed the door behind him.

"Remarkable fellow," said Drogo. "Remember how he used to travel off to visit his dwarves and come back with little baubles for all of the neighborhood children? I wonder why he stopped going."

"I'm sure I don't know," sniffed Primula, who did not approve of gossip about her beloved cousin. "But it certainly wasn't a quarrel. After all, he writes letters to that mountain once or twice a week, and there's always something coming in for him, it seems."

"Well, most likely he just grew out of his wild ways and learned better than to travel," said Drogo, who had never traveled further than Bree and had no plans to.

Primula peered out into the dusk after her cousin's dwindling form. "Most likely," she said doubtfully, remembering the brief moment of sadness in Bilbo's eyes.

Then Frodo started to fuss and Primula had to put thoughts of her dear, odd cousin from her head and focus on her son.

It was a long walk back to Bag End; usually Bilbo would have enjoyed a nice tramp, but the weather was ominous--an east wind tugging at his coat and causing clouds to scud across the winter sky until soon the moon was hidden entirely. Thunder grumbled in the distance, and Bilbo pulled his cloak tighter and quickened his steps.

As he walked, though, his mind kept turning to dark thoughts: there had been rumors of bandits roaming the roads between the Shire and Bree of late, figures on black horses. It was probably all gossip, and yet Bilbo found his hand straying to his breast pocket where he kept his golden ring. Between that and the brooch at his throat, any bandit would surely be lucky that came across him, alone on a dark road!

Far off on the wind, he heard a horse whinny, and remembered suddenly the nightmare he had a few nights ago: great iron gates opening, and black horses with hunched riders riding forth, riding--he did not know how he knew, but he did--west. He shivered, gazing wildly at the shadows blown by the wind across the path, and found himself nearly running, the sound of his breathing heavy in his ears. It was ridiculous to be afraid, he knew that--surely if any danger threatened, he could just slip on the ring and vanish away! And yet he felt terribly vulnerable in the rising gale from the east, alone and afraid indeed.

The road to Bag End had never seemed so long, so fraught with danger, and when his familiar green door finally came into view Bilbo nearly sobbed with relief. As the door slammed behind him and he turned the key in the lock, his hobbit-hole suddenly swam around him and he realized that his lungs were burning for air, his breath coming in harsh gasps. He sat down hard on the floor and struggled to calm himself as panic seemed to seize his chest in a crushing grip.

It seemed like hours went by before he could breathe easily enough to stagger to his feet once more. He stood in the middle of his hall, feeling frightened and foolish at once. Bilbo Baggins, you ridiculous being! Once you rode across the northern plains pursued by orcs thirsting for your blood, and now you're too nervous to cross the Shire without panicking! But that was a long time ago--twenty-seven years ago, he realized with a pang. He wasn't the same hobbit that sailed to Himring, or that crept through Moria, or fought brigands on the shores of the Long Lake.

You're a coward, Bilbo Baggins.

His heart heavy with the weight of that statement, he went to put the kettle on. What other word could he give himself? How he yearned to see Thorin again, to hear his voice! And yet every time he started to make plans, things would...come up. There would be responsibilities he couldn't evade, or a mild illness, or something that needed doing. And the times he actually made the plans and packed, tucked his ring away in its locked cabinet for safekeeping and left Bag End--well, those were even worse. He would suddenly remember he hadn't packed his handkerchief and have to turn back. Or he would be struck abruptly with a gnawing fear: he had left the kettle on, he had forgotten to lock the door, he had left food in the icebox. Back he would hurry to find the door locked and the fire cold and the icebox empty, and he would leave only to find himself uncertain once more, discover himself turning around again to check. Over and over, until the caravan left without him or darkness fell or he was simply too exhausted to go on and collapsed into bed with his heart pounding and his hands shaking.

The day that he had left Bag End at sunrise and then returned to check, each time convinced something was wrong, until he found the sun setting, that was the last time he tried. That was the day that he accepted that he was too much of a coward to leave the Shire, that the brave hobbit who had saved his friends in the depths of Moria was gone forever. For that was why he was making these ridiculous excuses, wasn't it? He lacked the courage to leave his comfortable home, it was as simple as that.

With trembling hands, he opened his mother's glory-box and lifted out Thorin's letter. "Help me, Thorin," he whispered as he unfolded it carefully and put it on the table with his cup of tea. On the bad nights, the nights like this where he felt the world narrowing down to just his little hole, where he wondered if he would someday be unable to leave Bag End at all, he would re-read Thorin's letter to him and imagine his hands and his voice, the amused crinkle at the corner of his eyes, and slowly as he read, the sick feeling of fading would gradually recede. But tonight even that comfort felt hollow. If his bond with Thorin was so strong, so real, he would go to him, not cower here in the Shire like a mouse.

That Yule Night, Bilbo Baggins knew that love was not enough to conquer all.

A gust of wind pelted raindrops against the windows, and Bilbo was startled out of his reverie. Rain on Yule Night! It would drench everything into cold soddenness, and he wouldn't even be able to get a glimpse of Yarndo's Star in the morn. It seemed the final straw, and for a moment Bilbo felt so crushed with despair that he felt he could never rise from his chair. But then he heard a rippling, tearing sound, and realized with a sense of dull resignation that he had to go outside and take down the star banner he had hung outdoors, lest it be shredded by the gale. In the mood he was in, he was tempted to let the wind take it and be done with it, but...Dís had made him the banner, long ago before things had gone so badly between them, and he couldn't bear to imagine it in tatters.

He hastily drained his teacup and pulled his cloak back on, then opened the door a crack.

The wind slammed it inward as a sudden bolt of lightning branched across the sky, unbearably bright.

And silhouetted against that searing light was a great black horse, rearing up practically on his doorstep.

Bilbo gasped and fell backwards as thunder crackled and boomed around him and the horse's hooves crashed to the stones.

The hooded figure on the horse leaned forward, reaching for him. "Bilbo Baggins!"

At the hobbit's terrified expression, the figure threw back his hood to reveal--long dark hair, blowing loose in the gale; a fierce nose; eyes as sharp and commanding as an eagle's. A face so familiar it snatched Bilbo's breath away, dimmed the world around him into unreality.

"Bilbo Baggins!" cried Thorin Oakenshield over the roar of the storm. "You must come with me!"

Chapter Text

Bilbo Baggins had never ridden a horse before in his life. Ponies, certainly. But horses were made for drawing wagons and ploughs, and most definitely not for perching on while flying over the ground at a breakneck pace.

Bilbo wrapped his arms more tightly around Thorin and held on for dear life.

The cottages and farms of the Shire flashed by as they galloped east and south through the icy rain and gusting winds, and Bilbo waited for the familiar terrors to grip him, waited for the unshakeable certainty that he had forgotten something, that he must turn back, to sink its claws into him and force him to beg Thorin to return. He waited, shivering with more than cold, feeling the powerful flanks of the horse beneath him carrying him further and further from Bag End, from safety, from home.

It was only as the stallion's hooves thundered on the bridge across the Brandywine, leaving the Shire irrevocably behind, that Bilbo could admit that he felt no terror, no compulsion. He didn't feel anything at all.

No, that wasn't exactly true.

As he rode through the dim and rain-washed dawn with Thorin, his destination unknown, with danger clearly stalking their every step, Bilbo realized his heart was pounding and the world seemed sharp and focused. He could smell the leather of Thorin's coat and the scent of wet horse, feel the the rattle of the rain across them, cold and bracing. There was a strange wild beauty to it, Bilbo thought as thunder muttered and rolled nearby. He felt his arms tighten once more around Thorin's waist, and for an instant Thorin leaned back slightly against him, an acknowledgement of his presence. Bilbo could feel Thorin's long loose hair brushing against his curls like a caress. It was truly Thorin, he thought, not a daydream or a fantasy, and the mysterious emotion in him flared brighter, suffusing his whole body.

Cowards who did not dare to leave their homes did not feel joy at fleeing through the night on a black horse into the unknown with a dwarven king. That was how Bilbo knew that the unknown emotion that was pulling at the corners of his mouth, making his heart race, and bringing tears to his eyes--whatever it was, it could not be joy.

By the time they camped late in the day, however, the strange feeling had long since given way to weariness and irritation. Thorin helped him off the stallion--it was far too high for him to dismount alone--and he collapsed into a groaning heap on the sodden ground.

"Couldn't we have stopped sooner?" he moaned, staggering to his feet on legs that felt made of rubber. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to walk again."

Thorin was already collecting the driest sticks he could find to make a fire under an outcropping of rock, away from the endless drizzle. "If you hadn't insisted on delaying our departure, we could have stopped sooner," he growled, his gaze flicking across the landscape, his hand on his sword hilt even as he knelt to blow a spark into life.

"Well, forgive me for wanting to make sure I had everything before you dragged me off into the wilderness!" Bilbo wobbled over to the fire, his damp clothes unpleasantly chill around him, and sat down on a stone, holding out his hands to the flame.

"We needed nothing beyond you and--and that which you carry," said Thorin.

"Well, at least you let me grab that mithril coat of yours. I have a bad feeling that might come in handy," huffed Bilbo. "Really, of all the rude behavior--barging in and insisting I leave this very minute, that the fate of the world hinges upon it, my goodness, you haven't changed a bit." Though he had, Bilbo realized with a painful twinge, seeing where the threads of gray in his hair and beard had turned to streaks of silver.

"Neither have you," Thorin snapped, gazing around the little copse as he unsaddled his horse. It lipped placidly at his hair, unconcerned by the rain. "Now," he said as he returned to the shadow of the rock where Bilbo sat, "To understand the situation, we must go back to the Second Age, when a being calling himself Annatar, the giver of gifts, came to the elves and cozened them with flattery and lies. And they--"

"--Do you really think so?" stammered Bilbo. "That I haven't changed, I mean? Because--" He broke off, looking away from Thorin's dear face with an effort--so many years, so much time lost--and into the fire, which swam and shimmered in his vision. All the shocks of the night seemed to be catching up with him at once, somehow. "Because I rather think I have; after all, I wasn't--I wasn't brave enough to come to you, all those years. I fear I have grown small and old, and--and afraid, and petty, and--"

He broke off as strong arms caught him up and held him close. "Never say such things," whispered Thorin into his hair, wrapping his arms around Bilbo's shaking frame. "Do not speak so; I shall never let you speak so, not while I am here with you at last." He held Bilbo and murmured ridiculous, extravagant endearments until Bilbo's shoulders stopped shaking, until he took a long, trembling breath and nodded against Thorin's chest.

"I'm all right," Bilbo managed finally. "So." He cleared his throat. "You were telling me about the Second Age?"

He felt Thorin's small huff of breath: not quite a laugh, not exactly a sigh. "The history lesson can wait," Thorin said, wrapping his arms more securely around Bilbo. "Sleep."

Warmed by the fire on one side and by the warmth of Thorin's body on the other, Bilbo fell asleep listening to the rain fall on the leaves.

He dreamed not of the Shire and his cozy home, but of open spaces: plains and seas and vast expanses of sand, all shining bright in the sun.

The history lesson was postponed until the next evening, as they made camp by the road. "In the Second Age, a being seemingly of great wisdom and cunning came to the elves then living in Eregion--the land through which we now ride, as a matter of fact--under the rule of Galadriel and Celeborn," said Thorin.

Bilbo looked up from the fire. "The Lord and Lady of Lothlórien? The ones I met?"

Thorin nodded. "The very same."

Bilbo frowned. "So...if that was the Second Age, and this is the Third...how long ago was that?"

"It was six thousand years ago."

Bilbo nearly dropped the piece of jerky he was nibbling on. "The world is so old," he complained.

"May I return to my utterly essential history lesson?" asked Thorin gravely, but there was laughter lurking in the depths of his eyes. When Bilbo waved at him to proceed, he cleared his throat and continued: "Galadriel could see the untruth at the heart of Annatar, but his real nature was hidden from her. He was one of the greatest of the servants of Morgoth, the Enemy of All, called by his foes Sauron, the Abhorred. But his fair guise and flattering tongue won over the hearts of many of the elves, and he convinced them to rise up against Galadriel and Celeborn and drive them from Eregion. Then were Galadriel and Celeborn sundered for a time, for Galadriel went to Khazad-dum and took shelter there before passing to Lothlórien in the east, but Celeborn would not enter the halls of the Dwarves. But Galadriel was a guest in Moria for many years, and great was her friendship with the dwarves in those days gone by."

"Oh," said Bilbo. "She...she seemed to like you," he remembered.

"She is unusually wise and sagacious, for an elf," Thorin agreed, deadpan. "But here she passes from our tale, for now Sauron, under the guise of Annatar, had sway over the smiths of Eregion. Working with them, there were made twenty rings of great power. Nine of them he gave to human kings, and seven to dwarves. The elven smith Celebrimbor made three rings for the elves, and Sauron's hand never touched them. But lastly, deep in the heart of Mount Doom in his kingdom of Mordor, he made one final ring. And this ring focused all his power, and bent its will upon the sixteen rings he had forged. The humans who held the Nine were enslaved to him utterly, and though the dwarves proved impossible to enslave, the power of the One Ring twisted the seven dwarven rings in ways more subtle and yet still baneful. And that One Ring gave Sauron immense power, until the day it was cut from his hand and he was defeated--for a time."

The shadows beyond the little campfire were deepening; Bilbo glanced at them nervously and then back at Thorin. "I'm--I'm guessing that you didn't drag me from my home in the dead of night to give me a history lesson," he stammered. "Is my ring connected to this somehow? Did Sauron make that one too?"

"Show it to me," said Thorin.

Bilbo reached into his pocket and drew it out. It had been quite a while since he had really looked at it, he realized, and as he saw it now he was enchanted anew by its beauty: so simple, yet every curve seemed so utterly right and soothing to gaze upon. He felt himself smiling as he held it up to let the firelight glint on it.

Then he caught a glimpse of Thorin's face, trapped within the golden circle, and blinked in surprise, for Thorin's expression was stiff with loathing, as if staring at a deadly snake or a handful of maggots. "What--"

He never finished his question, for Thorin reached out with a stick and flicked the ring from his hands into the fireplace.

"No!" cried Bilbo, leaping forward. He felt Thorin's hand holding him back, and realized he had been about to reach into the fire to save his ring. It lay there in the fire, reflecting the flames all around it in golden glory, and Bilbo ached to seize it back.

"It will not melt," said Thorin's voice in his ear. "It is heavier than even the purest gold; why did I never realize that in all the time I carried it?" His voice was thick with disgust. "Blind fool."

He reached out once more with the stick, spearing the golden circle and drawing it unharmed out of the flames. "Put out your hand," he said.

Bilbo hesitated, his hand trembling and uncertain, torn between his terrible desire to have his ring back and fear of being burned.

"It will not harm you," said Thorin. "Do you trust me?"

Bilbo swallowed and nodded, and the tremor left his hand.

"Truest of hearts," murmured Thorin. He let the ring fall into the palm of Bilbo's hand and turned away as if he could not bear to see it touch Bilbo's skin.

It felt heavier than before, somehow, as if it had absorbed the heat of the fire and turned it into gold; yet it was only warm to the touch. He held it up, looking at it--and caught his breath.

"There are words engraved on the inside," said Thorin without looking at it, and his voice was a dead thing, filled with bleakness.

"Yes. How did you know?" said Bilbo. He stared at the exquisite letters of flame twining and untwining along the gold.

"I have found...documents, deep in Erebor, that told me of this," said Thorin. "I cannot read the letters on the ring, but I know what they mean." He snapped the stick over his knee with a sudden, savage movement, and hurled the pieces into the dark. "Put it away," he said, and Bilbo blinked, for his voice was gentle and filled with pain, at odds with the fury of his actions.

Bilbo tucked the ring back in his breast pocket. "Tell me what they mean," he said, but somehow he already knew.

"You carry the One Ring of Sauron," said Thorin. "The essence of his corrupting power, the item that could give him total sway over all of Middle Earth. He seeks it now, Bilbo, with an unsleeping malice. He will not rest until it is his once more. He has sent out--"

He broke off suddenly, staring into the shadows beyond the campfire, which seemed pitifully small in the vast darkness. Bilbo started to say something, and Thorin made a brusque gesture to keep silent. Bilbo swallowed his words, feeling sweat prickling his skin even in the cold. Thorin motioned for Bilbo to stand against the largest of the boulders, then placed himself in front of him, barring the way, his hand on his sword hilt. An eerie silence seemed to fall across the clearing, and for a long moment they stood without moving as the fire crackled and Thorin's eyes scanned the shadows.

Then Thorin unsheathed his sword with a grating of steel and bent to seize a burning brand from the fire, all in one fluid motion. "Show yourself!" he cried into the night. "And know well that before you touch a hair on his head, you must first spill my heart's blood onto the earth!" There was a desperate ferocity in his voice as he brandished his sword, standing between Bilbo and the darkness. "And the blood of the Line of Durin shall cost you dear!"

For another long moment nothing happened. Then from the darkness came a wry chuckle. Beyond the fire a form stepped from the shadows, coalescing into a figure in a gray robe with a smile on his familiar face.

"Tharkûn." Thorin's growl mingled relief and exasperation in equal measures.

"Gandalf!" squeaked Bilbo.

Chapter Text

Thorin wasn't sure what he was feeling as Gandalf settled down next to the campfire and pulled out his pipe. His heart was still pounding and his mouth dry; he sheathed his sword, trying to banish dark thoughts from his mind. If what he suspected was pursuing them, then all his brave words would avail him and Bilbo little.

"How did you find us?" he growled at the wizard as Gandalf puffed a placid smoke ring.

"Oh, I have my ways," said Gandalf airily.

"Gandalf!" Bilbo said again, grinning happily at the wizard--the first time Thorin had seen him smile, Thorin realized. The realization pierced his heart with regret; this was not how he had imagined their reunion, all those empty years.

Despite that, he gazed at Bilbo's smile as if he were taking a long drink of cool water after a parching journey.

"What a pleasure to see you again," said Bilbo. "Is that Longbottom Leaf I smell?"

"Why Bilbo, has your sense of smell deteriorated so much?" Gandalf chided him. "This is Old Toby, my friend. Would you like a pinch?"

"I'd be delighted," said Bilbo, casting a glowering look at Thorin, "Except someone dragged me out of my home without so much as enough time to pack my pipe. I shall have to make do with the scent alone, I fear."

Thorin stared at them as they chattered about different types of pipeweed and whether a clay or briar pipe was preferable, feeling baffled exasperation roiling within him. Finally he could tolerate it no more, and burst out, "I have just finished explaining everything you and I have feared, everything you and I have been searching for clues about, is true: that Bilbo carries the Great Ring, the key to destroying the Enemy or to giving him dominion over all of Middle Earth, and that he seeks it even as we speak--so perhaps you could put off the discussion of pipeweed for later?"

Bilbo and Gandalf frowned at him as if he had been inexpressibly rude. "If you had let me bring my pipe, we could have this discussion over a good long smoke," complained Bilbo.

Thorin ground his teeth and braced himself firmly against the ground. "A messenger came to Erebor three weeks ago," he said before Gandalf could get sidetracked into another discussion of how to properly clean one's pipe. "A messenger from the east. From Mordor."

At the last word, Gandalf's gaze snapped to him and Thorin saw his whole body go still and watchful. He took a long, slow pull on the pipe and let the smoke escape his mouth in a sigh. "I see," he said.

"Do you?" Thorin paced angrily around the camp, remembering again how it had felt to face the envoy, fair of face and voice, with wrongness in every line of his body. Remembering the growing, choking terror as he had parried and deflected the poisoned words. "He bore us greetings from the Lord of Barad-Dûr," he said, "And asked if we had seen a small trifle that belonged to his master. A tiny thing, a simple gold ring."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bilbo put his hand to his breast pocket in a quick, involuntary movement.

"He mentioned that friendly relations between Erebor and Mordor could be beneficial to us both. and that the return of his master's property would go a long way toward smoothing out such relations. He seemed surprised when I said that we did not have such a ring." Thorin remembered the keen and greedy glint in the emissary's eyes. Thank Mahal the truth had been deceptive enough. "He seemed quite certain that the dwarves of Erebor held it. He--implied that we of Erebor were likely to be amenable to an alliance with Mordor." Power calls to power, and the Line of Durin has always craved dominion, the words of honey and gall had whispered from his lips.

"And you…" Gandalf let the sentence trail off, raising his eyebrows, and Thorin felt his jaw set.

"I named his master that which we dwarves call him, Zabuduzn, the Lord of Evil. I told him to crawl back to Mordor and report that none of Erebor would ever serve the Master of Lies. And then I threw him out the gate of the Lonely Mountain and sent him on his way." He had been sorely tempted to throw him from the ramparts, but he did want his message returned. "But worry haunted me from that moment. All my years of research had led me to the inescapable conclusion that the ring Bilbo had found was indeed the One Ring, and this seemed the final proof. The thought of it in the Shire, vulnerable--" Of Bilbo, alone and unaware... He broke off and shook his head, unable to express the horror that had gripped him as he had paced the floor late into the night, the nightmare visions. "So that night I slipped from Erebor by a secret way, leaving only a note to my Heir, and rode for the Shire." He glared at Gandalf. "I suppose you shall tell me it was rash and unwise to openly defy the Enemy like that, but I could not bear his insults."

The corners of Gandalf's mouth twitched. "I shall do no such thing," he murmured to Thorin's surprise. "Would that more people in Middle Earth were so quick to reject the blandishments of Mordor." He sighed. "But your decision to abandon Erebor and ride to the Shire is more troublesome," he said. "Could you not have sent Kíli, or Gimli--"

All of Thorin's worry and fear seemed to kindle against the wizard; he surged forward, snarling: "The fault is mine! Do you not understand--I gave him the Ring! It was from my hand that he received this cursed burden, it was my will that failed him." He took a deep breath that rang like a sob in his ears, then another. "It is because of me that he is in danger. I could not send anyone else to tear him from his home, to break into his life and shatter his peace. The guilt and the duty are mine, and mine alone, and I refuse to fail him again." Bilbo was staring at him, eyes wide, and the sight almost undid him entirely. "I shall keep him safe, or die."

Gandalf picked up a stick and stirred the fire thoughtfully for a while. Then he said, very softly: "Do you seek him to save him from the Ring by taking it from him?"

Thorin physically recoiled, flinching away from both the wizard and from Bilbo, remembering the sweet vile murmurs in his mind when he had possessed it, the dreams of power in his despair that had clung to him like slime, tarnishing and corroding everything he loved. He shuddered all over and grated, "I would rather die than touch that foul and beautiful thing once more."

The flicker of relief on Bilbo's face, quickly gone, filled him with a sorrow that he could hardly bear, but Gandalf looked keenly at him, as if his gaze could pierce Thorin's soul. "Could a king be willing to serve a lowly hobbit?"

"Lowly?" A disbelieving laugh thudded through Thorin's body. "Bilbo Baggins is the bravest, most noble, most compassionate--" Struggling for composure, hardly knowing what he was doing, he turned to Bilbo and went down on one knee. "If you will accept my fealty, I will be your faithful servant wherever the road may take you. By the stone from which Mahal carved my ancestors, I swear I shall not leave your side nor betray you, from this day forward until the end of all our days." He bowed his head and added in a harsh whisper, "I beg your forgiveness for destroying your peaceful life, and beseech you to let me dedicate myself to you."

"You didn't--" Bilbo's voice was thick with emotion, "You didn't shatter my peaceful life, it wasn't--it wasn't peaceful, unless you mean peaceful like the grave, silent and dead and haunted by--" He broke off and shook his head. "If you only knew how much I've wanted to see you!" he burst out, and put his arms around Thorin, joining him on the ground and resting his head on his shoulder with a sigh that seemed to rattle his small body, a sigh of terrible relief.

How very like Bilbo, thought Thorin as he drew him close, to not even notice the King of the Dwarves offering him fealty. But it made no difference if Bilbo never comprehended the depth of that oath; it mattered not at all.

"I shall take my leave of you for now, to scout ahead and make sure we are not followed," said Gandalf, rising and knocking his pipe against the boulder. He met Thorin's eyes for a moment, and Thorin realized that his vow had not gone unwitnessed after all.

The thought filled him with a sharp relief as the wizard turned and vanished into the night.

Bilbo leaned against Thorin, inhaling the scent of his hair. "I'm not afraid," he murmured after a time, hearing the surprise in his voice.

"You should be," Thorin's voice rumbled. "If you knew what dark forces sought for you, if you fully understood the baleful power of that great and lidless Eye--"

Bilbo couldn't help it; he started laughing, and Thorin's deeply offended look only made it impossible to stop. "You are--" he finally managed, "You are the most spectacularly gloomy travel companion. Truly, how could anyone be afraid, with you beside them to lift their spirits?" Laughter wrung him like a dishcloth until he was draped over Thorin's shoulder, limp with hilarity. He took a deep breath, then another, and pulled himself upright. "No," he said, more quietly. "You don't understand. Of course I'm worried. I'm even terrified, I suppose. But I have a reason." Thorin's expression remained uncomprehending, and Bilbo knew there were no words to describe the miasma of formless fear that had haunted his days and years, like a mist that blurred everything around him, closing in and blotting out the world. At Thorin's appearance it had lifted, blown away in a wind of exhilarated terror, and the world seemed sharp and new once more, filled with endless vistas of danger and possibility. He grinned at Thorin. "And I have you. So I'm not afraid."

Thorin gazed at him for a long moment, then placed his hand on his heart and bowed his head. "You have me," he said.

The black stallion chose this moment to stamp his hooves and nicker, billowing grass-scented steam around him.

"Yes, and you have Petunia as well," Thorin added with a small smile.

Bilbo choked. "Petunia?"

Thorin frowned. "You always named your horses after flowers. And his color is the same purple-black as those flowers you pointed out to me in Dale once. It seemed apt. Is there something wrong with it?"

"No!" Bilbo said hastily. "No, it's a beautiful name, for a beautiful horse. He stood to pat Petunia's neck. "And a strong one, too, to carry the both of us so far and fast."

Petunia tossed his head and looked quite boastful as Bilbo smoothed his glossy black hair.

"He hails from Rohan," said Thorin. "Sent as a gift. Few dwarves are tall enough to ride such a steed, so I felt justified in claiming him for my own, though it was selfish of me, for he is truly magnificent."

"All these compliments will go to his head and he will become insufferable," Gandalf announced, appearing from the gloom once more. Petunia shot him a baleful glance, which he ignored. "I see no sign of pursuit, Thorin. And indeed, I am unsure that the Enemy would have known to seek out the Shire. If the information came, as I suspect, from the creature named Gollum, then he knows only that Thorin of Erebor has his Precious."

"But my father saw Bilbo with the Ring," said Thorin, his voice low. "And the Blacklocks reported that Thráin had been seen traveling with a small being, not a dwarf, but wizened and stooped. They separated before he came to them, but there was no mistaking Gollum."

"Gollum and your father? Traveling together?" Bilbo felt a chill go down his spine at the idea of two such malign beings joining forces, and Thorin put a hand on his shoulder.

"It seems it," said Gandalf. "But Thráin would not have known Bilbo's name or homeland--and surely he would never have imagined that anyone would leave the glories of Erebor." He shot a small smile at Bilbo. "Neither of them would have known that the prize they so desired was safe in the West all these years, and thus it seems likely the Enemy would not either."

"I am glad to hear it," said Thorin. "Perhaps we may reach our destination safely."

"And it is of your destination I must speak next," said Gandalf. His smile was gone and he seemed taller than before, and more daunting. "Thorin of Erebor, King Under the Mountain, we have been friends these many years, but I must tell you I feel your course to be ill-advised. These affairs affect all of Middle Earth, not merely the dwarves, and it is sheerest folly to leave the other Free Peoples of Middle Earth out of this matter."

Bilbo felt Thorin's hand tense on his shoulder. "And you, wizard, have been a help and a boon, but I will not risk the fate of the world to the elves who are abandoning it, nor to the fickle and traitorous men! Elves gave Sauron the freedom to forge this dread thing, and the strength of Men failed to destroy it. Now it is time for dwarves to show their mettle!"

They glared at each other, the dwarf and the wizard, and Bilbo seemed to feel the air crackling between them. Thorin shook his head once more in angry rejection, and his voice was steeled with determination as he announced:

"We take the Ring to Khazad-dûm, and there we shall decide what is to be done with it!"

Chapter Text

There were long days spent traveling slow and steady through the empty lands that were once Eregion, its rocky hills covered with snow and dotted with holly trees of glossy green leaves and scarlet berries. Thorin gathered a wreath of them one night and laureled Bilbo's curls with it, making him laugh and redden. It grew bitterly cold, but they had blankets and a cozy fire, and Bilbo managed to make some meals from garlic and potatoes that were a pleasant change from cram. Bilbo remembered it later as a time of happiness, a strange peaceful interval of pale sunlight and ruddy firelight.

They talked of many things: of Fíli's little son, of the battle to take back Khazad-dûm, of tea and gardens and elections. But one thing they never spoke of since that first night: the ring that Bilbo carried.

Gandalf had left them after his argument with Thorin, despite Bilbo's pleas for him to stay. "If my advice shall go so disregarded, I see no point in traveling with you!" he had snapped, and strode off to the north without looking back. Thorin had ignored Bilbo's meaningful throat-clearings and had merely kicked Petunia into a trot, heading east towards the Misty Mountains and the great halls where Bilbo had once freed his friends from Azog's captivity.

The ground grew more rugged and the air more thin as they climbed into the mountains, until at last they found themselves skirting a dark, placid pool. On the far side of the lake, Bilbo could see two dwarven figures in armor, guarding a door. As they drew near, the guards dropped their weapons until Thorin threw back his hood. Then they fell back in amaze and bowed deeply.

"Be welcome, your Majesty, to the halls of Khazad-dûm," said one of the guards, "Where King Balin son of Fundin reigns in glory!"

Petunia snorted at the door in the stone, but when Thorin handed his bridle to the clearly-overawed guard he tossed his head once and allowed himself to be led inside.

Bilbo hesitated before the door, old memories of fire and blood rushing up in his mind, and Thorin gripped his shoulder. "The orcs are gone," he murmured as if he understood Bilbo's reluctance, "And our friend is king. You will find Khazad-dûm much changed, I feel."

Together they stepped into the halls that Durin the Deathless delved, and Bilbo's breath caught in his throat.

Gone was the silent darkness; the walls blazed with opals and moonstones that caught the light and cast it outward in soft prisms, and Bilbo could hear singing in the distance before they had even cleared the first hall. Mithril filigree wound across the shining granite walls in looping curves and whorls, gleaming. He gazed around in wonder: Erebor had been magnificent, but it seemed nearly as homey as the Shire compared to the glory of Khazad-dûm.

Yet it was not empty extravagance, either. The once-ominous corridors now bustled with dwarves going to and fro, their arms heaped with cloth or bread, engaged in animated conversation with each other. Singing echoed everywhere, cheerful and deep, and the dwarves that recognized Thorin stopped to bow or curtsey with a smile.

Thorin gazed with pride as they walked. "Balin has done well," he said.

"It's beautiful," said Bilbo. "But I prefer Erebor," he couldn't help but add.

For a moment he was afraid that Thorin would take offense at the slight to the greatest of all dwarvish cities, but then Thorin leaned close and whispered, "As do I," in Bilbo's ear.

So together they came to the throne room of Khazad-dûm and were announced.

The massive doors, studded with cornelians and lapis lazuli, swung open. Inside was a vast throne of pure white marble, sparkling with diamonds, perhaps the grandest thing Bilbo had ever seen.

It was empty.

"By my beard!" Bilbo turned to see Balin, dressed in the comfortable russet robes he always wore, hastening across the room to meet them. The only sign of his rank was a thin circlet of mithril resting on his forehead. "Bilbo Baggins, is it truly you?"

"And Thorin Oakenshield," said another familiar voice, and Bilbo saw Dwalin standing with his arms crossed behind a great table at the side of the room. "Both of you far from home."

Thorin looked pained at the sobriquet, but didn't complain as Bilbo came forward to embrace Balin. "I'm so glad to see you again, your majesty," Bilbo stammered, but Balin just laughed.

"Please, Bilbo. If Thorin can dispense with titles, surely an old codger like myself can too. I am always just Balin to you."

Dwalin also embraced Bilbo, but his eyes were on Thorin. "This can be no social visit, I fear," he said.

"Indeed, cousin," said Thorin. "Let us take a seat, for I have much to tell you, and we have much to plan."

"...I still cannot believe it," said Balin some time later, as Thorin finished his story and took a drink of water. "That our dear Bilbo may have been carrying the tool to the Enemy's destruction all these years! And all in a simple gold ring. It boggles the mind."

Bilbo put his hand to his pocket as if to draw out the Ring, but Thorin made a small gesture of warning and he forestalled the motion. From his research, Thorin was fairly certain the Ring would hold little sway over his kin, but… to be honest, he did not want to gaze upon it again if necessary. He had already proven to be so weak…

"This is a thing easily solved," growled Dwalin. "We go to the very depths of Moria and bury it in the darkness forever, guarded by the doughtiest of our people. After all, it is high time we cleansed the deep places," he cried, glaring at Thorin. "Only because of our promise to you have we stayed scuttling on the surface like water striders, avoiding the vast deeps. Now is the time to open up Khazad-dûm and create there a prison for the ring of Zabuduzn forever!"

Thorin shook his head. "I extracted that promise from you for a reason," he said, remembering their disbelief and even anger. "I have read of fell things in the depths of Khazad-dûm, darknesses the like of which we cannot even dream of withstanding until our strength here is unassailable. The slayer of Durin lurks there still, and I would not have us face it until we are truly ready. No, the ring cannot stay here."

"Could it not have stayed in the Shire?" asked Bilbo, and Thorin felt once more that stab of regret for the destruction of his quiet life. Bilbo was kind and brave and had sought to assuage his remorse, of course, but Thorin knew he would rather be safe in Bag End, brewing tea and listening to the fire on the hearth.

"The defense of the Shire is too uncertain," he said. "The Rangers of the North guard its borders more than most hobbits know, but if the minions of the Enemy were to come to it, they could do little. The good folk of the Shire would perish or be enslaved, and the West would fall to Sauron."

Bilbo shuddered, hunching his shoulders. "No," he said. "That's no good."

He looked utterly wretched, and Thorin saw Balin take in his exhausted and rumpled state. "A poor host am I indeed," the King of Moria said, "To not offer my old friends food and drink and comfort! We shall speak of these weighty matters later--for now, be welcome in my halls."

Their rooms were in a wing next to Balin's quarters, and were as sumptuous as any king's yet as cozy as any hobbit's: warmed by hidden vents, with a large bed piled high with eiderdown pillows and rich velvet throws. Within an hour, the table was heaped with sausages and bread and cups of mead, and Bilbo and Thorin ate and drank their fill with Balin and Dwalin, toasting their memories and sharing stories of the past decades. Dwalin told the tale of the slaying of the Watcher in the Water, leaping onto his chair to re-create the death-blow. Balin and Thorin caught up on treaties and diplomacy, while Bilbo mostly sat quietly, smiling and nursing his drink. When Dwalin asked him for tales of his time, he simply said, "Oh, nothing of note has happened to me for a long time now," and turned the conversation back to the dwarves.

"You need time to rest," Balin murmured to Thorin as he left their quarters. "Khazad-dûm is well-fortified, nothing of danger can enter unless we let it do so," he said as Thorin opened his mouth to protest. "And you have not seen each other in so long. A few days to be together before we speak of such dire matters will cost us little. Take a few days to recover your strength; then we shall speak of this thing that Bilbo carries."

Thorin sighed, feeling a sense of relief, almost ashamed of it. "Very well then," he said. "A few days to rest will be quite welcome."

"And I shall show you the wonders we have worked in Khazad-dûm," Balin added with a smile.

The next days were full of wonders indeed to Bilbo, and even to Thorin, as they traveled the subterranean streets of Moria on the shaggy, irascible goats the dwarves used to get from place to place--"For horses and ponies spook too easily in these enclosed spaces," Balin explained.

"Petunia handled it just fine," Bilbo said staunchly.

"Few of our horses have the mettle of a stallion of Rohan," Balin laughed.

The King of Moria showed them the glittering pillars of pure opal and moonstone, the mithril-worked walls, the paths studded with lambent gems that glowed as you passed over them, showing you the way.

"If we could but dwelve deeper," growled Dwalin, "We could show you even more to amaze and delight, I am sure of it."

"Peace, Dwalin," said Thorin. "The depths of Khazad-dûm shall be explored soon enough."

"It is already too late for my taste," grumbled Dwalin, but held his peace after that.

Then came the day that Balin led Bilbo and Thorin down a long, sloping shaft with the air of a person who has been saving the best for last. "You'll see," was all he said to Bilbo's puzzled look.

"Wait, is that sunlight?" Bilbo said, peering ahead at the wash of light that filled the air. "But we must be miles below ground!" He picked up the pace, his feet pattering on the smooth stone floor as he moved ahead of them, and Balin gave Thorin a look of smug anticipation.

And indeed, when Bilbo emerged into the vast cave, his face was full of wonder, flooded with golden sunlight that made his hair shine like bronze.

"Mirrors," chuckled Balin at his awestruck look. "We set up a system of mirrors to bring sunlight into the depths and make this possible."

Bilbo took a step into the cave and gasped as his feet encountered grass, a thick carpet of green that stretched out before him. "It's--It's--" He stared out at the tangled undergrowth of fleshy leaves and brilliant flowers, at the blossoming vines that draped the stalagmites, softening their rugged rock into something strange and alien. He took a deep breath, and Thorin realized that the air was heavy with a damp scent of sweet flowers, almost cloying in the closed space.

Balin shifted next to him. "They're not the plants you're used to, laddie, but--"

"No," breathed Bilbo, "It's beautiful." He shook his head. "Strange and new and beautiful." He stepped forward and took one of the succulent leaves between his fingers, almost reverently.

Balin bounced on his toes. "Now, these don't yet compare to the gardens in the depths of Erebor," he said, "But I think one day they'll rival even those." He didn't catch Thorin's quick gesture of warning, going on, "After all, the Lonely Mountain has had more time to work on them, and…"

His voice trailed off as Bilbo looked up from the leaf at Thorin, his gaze suddenly stricken. "You made gardens in Erebor?" Bilbo said.

"Oh," said Balin. "He didn't--well." He cleared his throat. "I'll just let you two explore here and I'll go back to the higher level and...do some paperwork. Sorry," he muttered to Thorin as he turned and fled.

"You made gardens," Bilbo said, his voice low. "For me." He looked down at the scarlet flower under his fingers, not needing to see Thorin's nod. "And then I never came."

Thorin felt his chest constrict at the leaden weight of his voice. Oh, for something physical to fight, something he could cleave asunder! "My people have learned to love them too," he said. "We produce the most delicious hibiscus tea, and the mangos--"

"I never came," Bilbo repeated. He swallowed hard. "I have failed you in so much."

"Never," said Thorin said helplessly. "It was not your fault."

"No?" Bilbo looked at him then, and there was anger and shame in his eyes. "Then whose fault was it that I stayed snug in my hole rather than come to you? Who can I blame but myself?"

"You don't understand, it was--"

"Your majesty!" The breathless interruption came from the entrance, from a young dwarf in messenger greens, her goat chewing its cud irritably at her side. "There is a visitor at the east gate requesting entry! A wizard!"

"The east gate? How did the meddling fool get there?" They had last seen Gandalf on the west side of the Misty Mountains; not for the first time Thorin cursed the wizard's ability to travel more quickly than anyone should.

"King Balin has gone to the gate and begs you to meet with him as soon as you can."

"Of course," said Thorin, and the guard saluted, swinging herself into the saddle and riding off at a clattering gallop. "Well, Bilbo? Shall we go see what our old friend is here to demand of us now?"

Bilbo scrubbed briefly at his eyes, his expression still miserable. "Very well," he muttered. "But this conversation is not done."

"Oh, far from it," Thorin assured him.

Together they hurried toward the East Gate.

Thorin was still annoyed when they finally reached the East Gate. He had chosen his path, and he needed no further interference from the wizard! Balin was already there, Dwalin at his side, and the gate remained closed. "I decided he could wait until both of the dwarven kings were here to receive him," Balin said wryly, and gestured to open the gate.

The heavy stone doors swung slowly open, and the noonday sun flooded in, blindingly brilliant after the comfortable dimness of Khazad-dûm, rendering the outside world a white void. Thorin's eyes watered, but he refused to squint or rub at them, standing with his hands behind his back, neither welcoming nor rejecting. Let Gandalf understand that he was the supplicant here.

"Be welcome in the halls of Khazad-dûm," said Balin in his most formal voice, "Where once Durin ruled in glory. I, Balin son of Fundin, now King of this realm, welcome you to--"

His voice broke off as two--two!--figures stepped into the hall. The second figure was shorter than the tall, lean wizard, taller than a dwarf but broader in the shoulders than any elf--a human in heavy armor, with a helmet on his head. But it was the wizard who held Thorin's attention entirely, as the sun-dazzle left his eyes and revealed flowing white robes and a staff of elegant, smooth ebony.

"I thank you for your welcome, your majesty." The voice was deep and resonant, with an undercurrent of rich amusement. "I suppose I am in some ways your neighbor, so allow me to introduce myself."

He bowed slightly, his eyes twinkling.

"I am Saruman, of Isengard."

Chapter Text

Saruman looked around him at the halls of Moria. "How amazing, that you have managed to take back Durin's halls," he said. "I would not have thought it possible. Yet you rousted Azog from his nest."

"King Thorin cut off his foul arm and sent him mewling away. With dwarves, my lord, much is possible that others could not dream of," said Balin, his tone caught between respectful and boasting.

"I will doubt you no longer," laughed Saruman. "Your realm is impressive, King Balin." His eyes went to Thorin. "And is this not the very King Thorin, son of Thráin?"

Thorin bowed stiffly. "I am the grandson of King Thrór, my Lord."

"Is it not true that you recently have gone by 'Oakenshield'?"

"I have," Thorin said--not curtly, but not warmly, either.

"Then I believe it is you I have come to see. I am sure you are wondering at my sudden arrival. Suffice to say I am here to discuss certain portents with you; signs and portents which require the attention of all who care about the fate of Middle Earth."

"Of course!" cried Balin. "Allow me to prepare a room for you--Ori! Lyn! Prepare the Red Room in the western suites for Lord Saruman immediately!"

All formality collapsed into a frenzy of preparation as the dwarves hurried to make things ready for the wizard, and soon the entrance hall was empty once more.

Or almost empty, save for two figures.

From the shadows slipped Bilbo Baggins, who, when he had realized the wizard on the doorstep was not Gandalf, had stepped into a darkened corner. If you had asked him why, he could not have said--only that a cold prickle had run down his spine at the wizard's exquisite voice and he had misliked the feeling.

The other figure was the man who had arrived at Saruman's side--some kind of guard or guide, perhaps. He took off his helmet with its high golden crest in the shape of a horse and shook out long golden hair as he gazed around the hall in wonder. His eyes were steel-blue, with wrinkles at their corners for all he was a young man, creases that spoke of much gazing into distances and much laughter. He exhaled slowly, a smile dawning on his face, and Bilbo decided suddenly that he liked him very much indeed.

"I'm afraid they may have forgotten you," he said, stepping forward.

The man's gaze snapped to him, and a look of mingled surprise and delight crossed his face. "To be honest, I do not mind," he said. "I have never seen such a place as this before, and I would not want to gawk like a unlettered savage in front of its owners at my first glimpse of it."

"It can be a little overwhelming, can't it?" said Bilbo. "I haven't been here long, but I can show you around a little bit."

"That would be a great courtesy," the man said. "My thanks to you--and allow me to introduce myself," he added. "My name is Théoden of Rohan."

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," said Bilbo. "I'm Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire."

"Mr. Baggins," Théoden said. "Forgive me if this is an impertinent question, but you are no dwarf. Are you, perhaps, what is called a halfling?"

"Indeed," Bilbo said comfortably as he led Théoden into Moria, "Some call us that, but we prefer to call ourselves hobbits."

"And how came a hobbit to this realm of the dwarves?"

"Oh," said Bilbo, less comfortably, for he had the definite feeling the Ring was not to be talked about casually, "I'm friends with some dwarves and I came here to visit them."

"A dangerous journey," observed Théoden. "You are a brave soul."

"No," said Bilbo, slightly more sharply than he had intended. "No, I am not. I haven't left the Shire for decades, and even this time--well, I'm not brave, is all." He cleared his throat. "Well. Let me show you around."

He and Théoden wandered the halls of Moria by themselves for an afternoon, and Théoden was filled with wonder. "I thought the delvings of the dwarves would be cramped and small, but truly I feel shrunk into insignificance by these marvels," he said.

When they grew hungry, Bilbo brought him back to his quarters for some tea and scones. "I haven't asked you yet how you came to be working for a wizard," Bilbo said as he poured him a steaming cup.

"Oh, I am not in his employ," Théoden said. "In fact, to be honest, it is not so much Saruman that has business here as--"

The door burst open and Thorin came through it, an unaccustomed flustered look on his face. "Here you are!" he announced. He bowed to Théoden. "A thousand apologies, your highness. Lord Saruman failed to mention who you were until recently, and then you were nowhere to be found. I'm afraid we of Khazad-dûm have been unforgivably rude."

"Not at all," said Théoden with a smile. "Bilbo has been showing me around and has given me a delicious repast; I consider myself welcome indeed."

"Wait," said Bilbo, "What did you mean, your highness?"

"I'm afraid I was sparse in my introduction," Théoden said apologetically. "I am Théoden, son of Thengel, King of Rohan."

"You're a prince?" Bilbo couldn't help but make an exasperated noise as Théoden nodded. "Why am I forever meeting royalty who don't happen to mention it to me?"

Théoden threw back his head and laughed, a delighted roar of sound. "Come now, Bilbo, tell me truthfully--would you have been so comfortable around me if I had told you?"

"He would have," said Thorin before Bilbo could answer, "And may well have been even less respectful if he had known. Bilbo Baggins is not one to be impressed by titles and such."

"Then I am even more delighted to meet him," Théoden said solemnly as Bilbo sputtered. "Kings and princes need more such people around us."

"We do indeed," said Thorin, and his gaze on Bilbo was warm enough to make him blush slightly.

"If you have spoken with Lord Saruman, then you know why I have come," said Théoden.

"He says you came to him seeking help in understanding a dream," said Thorin.

Théoden nodded. "A dream that came to me three times ere I decided to seek out counsel. It was the same each time--a light in the West, and a voice that spoke to me like the cry of an eagle. It spoke a riddle that I could not unravel, and finally it became clear that this was a message that I must take to those wiser than I. Thus I begged permission of my father the King and rode to Isengard to seek the advice of Lord Saruman."

"A riddle?" said Bilbo. "I love riddles."

Théoden smiled at him. "As do I, friend hobbit, but this one I shall not tell in full until we are in formal council. Yet I can tell you the first lines, which were: Seek for the shield which is oaken; in Khazad-dûm it dwells." He shook his head, his eyes far away. "The voice was...not one that can be ignored. And yet I had no idea to what it was referring. Luckily, Lord Saruman knew where this Khazad-dûm was, and he agreed that the portent was such that he should travel with me to discuss its meaning. And so we came together, and here I find that this oaken shield of which my dream spoke was none other than the ally of Rohan, the leader of Erebor!"

Thorin paced in front of the fireplace, tugging on his beard in the way he sometimes did when he was uneasy. "Dreams and portents," he muttered. "I like them not." He smiled at Théoden, but it was somewhat strained. "But I shall not ignore them, your highness. Balin and I agree that you are welcome at our counsels. The full tale I will save for then, but suffice to say for now that a great hazard and a great opportunity has come to us, it we are bold and strike while the iron is hot."

"May I be bold enough to aid you, then," said Théoden, bowing deeply with a flourish of his burgundy cape.

"Mphrphg," Bilbo mumbled into his pillow as Thorin tugged the furry toes that stuck out from the blankets. He always had difficulty waking up easily when in dwarvish halls, away from sunlight.

"We have tea," said Thorin, and he sat up, rubbing bleary eyes.

"Tea?" he said hopefully.

"And bacon."

Bilbo ran a hand through his hair to put it in a semblance of order and hopped out of bed. "How are our guests?" he asked around a mouthful of bacon.

Thorin frowned. "Lyn reports that Prince Théoden is still asleep, but that Saruman's quarters are untouched, as if he was never there. Pondo of the royal guard reports seeing a white light moving through the halls in the night." As if Saruman wandered the halls of Khazad-dûm through the night, seeking...what? He shook his head, unnerved somehow.

"He isn't much like Gandalf, is he?" said Bilbo. "Much grander. I can't imagine him blowing smoke rings or making fireworks." He heaped Shire-imported marmalade onto his toasted bread. "But maybe that's exactly what we need in a time like this."

"Some claim that Saruman was sent to Middle Earth as an emissary from Mahal himself, the same god who made the dwarves," Thorin said. "Certainly he shares our love for the clever and ingenious. He was very taken with the improvements we've made to the halls here." His praise for the complex communications-system they were in the process of implementing had made Balin glow with pride. "He is very wise."

"But you wish Gandalf were here instead," said Bilbo, shooting him a canny look over his toast.

"I wish no such thing," blustered Thorin. "That interfering meddler, interloping schemer, friend of elves and bearer of bad news--"

"--I do too," Bilbo said, and Thorin sighed.

"Well, in any case, he is not here, and we have our own wizard to help now. Balin has decided that we--that is to say, you and I, Saruman, Théoden, and he and Dwalin--are to meet this evening in the western meeting room to share our information, pool our resources, and discuss what must be done. I do not believe that either of our new guests is fully aware of what we are dealing with yet, but we shall see."

Bilbo muttered something into his tea that might have been "I still wish Gandalf were here," but Thorin chose to ignore it.

"We have no maps of lands so far to the west in Rohan," exclaimed Théoden, looking at Bilbo's hastily-sketched map of the Shire. He had kept Bilbo busy most of the afternoon drawing maps and detailing life in the Shire, and sharing in turn stories of the rolling fields of Rohan, its open skies and its magnificent horses. He had been so extravagant in his praise of the latter that Bilbo would have been dubious if Thorin had not confirmed that the horses of Rohan were truly the finest in the world.

Saruman Bilbo had seen nothing more of; Balin reported that he chosen to stay in his quarters studying and meditating until the Council convened. Bilbo felt somewhat guilty at being relieved about that.

"Saruman is perhaps the wisest being in Middle Earth," said Théoden when he asked, "Although we see him rarely in Rohan. Gandalf the Grey we know, for he is often a guest at Meduseld, our Golden Hall. But Isengard has ever been our ally, for it lies close on our borders."

"It is time," said Thorin, appearing from their private rooms into the sitting room. He had changed from his travel-worn and comfortable clothing into finery befitting a king: midnight blue silks and velvets, glinting with mithril thread and onyx beads. Bilbo tried not to stare as Théoden rose to his feet and bowed.

"Lead the way, King Thorin."

They walked through the great halls of Moria, their voices echoing. And then, through the clatter of carts going by and the sound of deep voices raised in dwarvish song, another sound came: light and melodious and alien.

"Is that--" Thorin stopped and put his hand on his sword-hilt. "By my beard, that is the Elvish tongue! Elvish, in the halls of Khazad-dûm?"

He broke into a run, and Théoden and Bilbo ran to keep up with him--a difficult task, for once a dwarf moved into a full run they had a steady speed that was hard to match. Eventually they skidded around a corner and found themselves face-to-face with a group of elves, locked in fierce argument with Balin and Dwalin in front of the council room doors.

The elves stared at the new arrivals; the human, dwarf and hobbit stared back.

"Lady Arwen!" cried Bilbo, spotting a familiar face among the tall, beautiful forms. "And Lord Glorfindel! What in the world brings you here?"

"I have one guess," growled Thorin, striding forward as he caught a glimpse of a grey pointed hat. "Curse you, wizard, I have told you this is no business of elves! I shall have the guard who let you in here flayed!"

The elves parted to reveal Gandalf leaning on his staff, looking amused. "You shall do no such thing, Thorin," he said, "for you know as well as I that--"

"--Well, well, well," came a voice from behind them, and Bilbo saw Gandalf's smile slip askew for a moment before he turned.

"It appears I have arrived here slightly before you this time, Mithrandir," said Saruman.

Chapter Text

"You had no right," growled Thorin, glaring up at Gandalf, flanked by his ridiculously attenuated friends. "You had no right to involve the elves!"

"Thorin, surely you can see that this is not something that can be dealt with unilaterally by dwarves!" Gandalf's bushy eyebrows drew together angrily. "This concerns the fate of all races, and must be decided by representatives from all."

"I agree with Gandalf," Saruman said. "Prince Théoden's dream is clearly an indication that this crisis must not be met with rash action, but with considered discussion among all the races of Middle Earth. We have here now dwarves, elves, men...and I believe that is a halfling, is it not?"

Everyone followed Saruman's gaze to where Bilbo stood, shifting slightly from foot to bare foot. Bilbo raised his chin and looked up at Saruman. "Some folk call us halflings," he said. "Though we do not consider ourselves half of anything."

Saruman's eyebrows twitched. "Indeed," he said.

"Apparently the wizards have decided to gang up on the dwarves," Thorin said bitterly. He looked at Balin, who looked back at him with his face wrinkled in concern. "These are your halls, not mine, Balin."

Balin sighed deeply. "Thorin, lad, much as it galls me to admit it, in your heart you know the wizards are right." He turned to the four elves standing in the hallway and bowed. "Forgive our gruff ways and be welcome in Khazad-dûm ," he said, his voice only slightly strained as Thorin and Dwalin muttered under their breaths. "The Lady Arwen I have met in the woods of Lothlórien, and the Lord Glorfindel I remember from our stay in Rivendell. Your people have shown us hospitality in the past, and we hope to prove equally generous hosts."

Glorfindel and Arwen bowed, smiling slightly.

"But I have not met these two lads," Balin went on, indicating the last two elves: dark-haired and regal, with strikingly similar features.

"These are my brothers," said Arwen. "Elrohir and Elladan."

"Glorfindel tells us we were off hunting orcs when last you came to Rivendell," said Elrohir.

"He also says Thorin Oakenshield is a renowned slayer of orcs," said Elladan, bowing deeply to Thorin. "Perhaps one day we shall have the honor of fighting side by side."

"So Elrond has sent all of his children," Saruman murmured, so low Thorin barely caught it. "Interesting indeed."

"You will be tired after your journey," Balin said. "Let us find quarters for you, and refreshment, before we meet formally." And furnish and prepare a larger meeting-room, Thorin could see him think to himself.

"The twins said that they did not need to rest," Balin said to Thorin, shaking his head. "They have high spirits and not much care for etiquette--they have managed to offend the Captain of the Guard and our Chief Scribe already. I suspect Glorfindel was sent along as a chaperon to them more than anything else."

Dwalin grunted, staring into the fire. "It's a good thing Fíli and Kíli are not here," he said.

There was a sudden, incongruous giggle from Bilbo. "Can you imagine the four of them together?" he said. "Moria might not be left standing at the end." His smile faded as he looked at Thorin. "I'm sorry, I know that this is distressing to you--elves rampaging around your ancestor's halls and all." He cast Thorin a mischievous look. "I can sympathize--after all, I had the lot of you as guests in my hobbit-hole, remember? Banging around, using the wrong forks and blowing your noses in polite company--"

He broke off as Thorin tossed a pillow at him with a growl that started annoyed and ended up surprisingly good-natured. It was difficult to stay disgruntled when Bilbo was comparing grave insults to a visit by boisterous houseguests.

There was a tentative knock at the door, and Balin went to answer it. "My lady!" he exclaimed, opening it wider to reveal Arwen.

"Forgive me," she said. "May I enter?" When Balin nodded, she came into the room. She had changed out of her traveling leathers and was wearing a gown of undyed linen whose simplicity did not conceal the fineness of its cloth. Her dark hair fell in a cascade down her back, and her eyes were wise and bright.

"My deepest apologies, your majesties," she said, bowing to both Balin and Thorin. "When Mithrandir came to us, we doubted if we would be welcome in Moria. But if what he has hinted is true, we could not turn our backs on Middle Earth in danger."

"Indeed?" Thorin looked at her keenly. "The elves have proved adept at it in recent memory."

Two spots of bright color appeared in her cheeks, and she looked ready to give an angry retort. But then she paused and sighed, and her shoulders sagged. "Some of us, yes," she admitted. "But I swear to you, Thorin of Erebor, that not all of us are willing to abandon Middle Earth to its fate." She smiled, but there was an edge of sadness to it. "Will you spurn our advice and our help for the sake of the pain in our histories?"

"Let it never be said that we would spurn help against the darkness," said Balin. "But the final decision will be in the hands of the dwarves, now."

"And the hobbit?" said Arwen pointedly, looking at Bilbo where he sat by the fire.

"Bilbo is an honorary dwarf," said Thorin.

"I'm not sure I have a strong opinion about these grand things," said Bilbo uneasily. "But I'm sure everyone here has the best interests of Middle Earth at heart, after all."

Thorin cleared his throat, unsure once again how Bilbo managed to make the grandest stance seem somehow rather petty. "I'm sure," he muttered.

"Won't you sit down and have some tea with us?" asked Bilbo. "That's fine, isn't it?" he said to the dwarves, who shuffled their feet and agreed that yes, it was fine if the elf princess wanted to have tea with them. "And what are you doing in Rivendell, my lady?" he asked as he served her a cup of steaming marigold tea. "When last we met, you were living in Lothlórien with your grandparents."

"I went back to Rivendell to live with my father some years ago," said Arwen with a smile, taking a long sip of tea. "They have been...eventful years." She held the cup up and inhaled the steam. "This is truly delicious!" she exclaimed. "Father has been importing Shire tea for some time now, but I've never had this flavor."

Soon she and Bilbo were deep in a discussion of tea, flowers, and medicinal herbs. Balin, Dwalin, and Thorin made polite noises and cast each other puzzled looks, but in truth the mood of the room had shifted from uncomfortable to homey, and Thorin found himself enjoying it. He would happily watch Bilbo in animated discussion, the firelight caught in his hair and limning his smile, for as long as possible, he thought.

Much later, after Arwen had retired for the night, Bilbo stretched and yawned. “It was nice to see Arwen again,” he said. “She’s a nice girl.”

Thorin huffed a small laugh. “A nice girl who is more than two thousand years old,” he said.

“Well, that doesn’t change her niceness,” retorted Bilbo.

Thorin was gathering up the used teacups, stacking them neatly. “You think I am being closed-minded. About the elves. No, you didn’t say anything,” he added as Bilbo opened his mouth to protest. “I can tell when you disapprove even if you keep perfectly silent.”

Bilbo took the teacups from Thorin and began to rinse them in the bucket of hot water the guard had left. “I understand how you feel,” he said. “Really I do.”

“But you disagree.”

Bilbo handed a clean teacup to Thorin, who wiped it dry and put it on the sideboard. “I think Gandalf has a point,” he said at last. “Humans and elves have made a lot of mistakes, but shutting them out of this discussion wouldn’t be fair, would it?”

“Shall I invite the orcs to Khazad-dûm as well, make sure all sides are heard from?”

“Oh, don’t be a goose,” snapped Bilbo. “You’re just being pig-headed on purpose.”

To Bilbo’s surprise, Thorin laughed. “I suppose I am,” he admitted. “But don’t tell Balin and Dwalin that. It would destroy their faith in the infallibility of the Line of Durin.” Bilbo’s incredulous snort made him start laughing again, until he had to put the teacup down to avoid breaking it. “Ah, Bilbo,” he said. “No one can make me laugh like you do.”

He wiped his eyes, and Bilbo had the impression for a moment that it had been many years since Thorin had laughed that much. Bilbo quickly dunked another teacup in the water to distract himself from the stinging in his own eyes. “Well, that’s all I’m saying--that all… this will all go more smoothly if we all get along.” He wasn’t sure what “this” was, exactly: they would meet to discuss what to do with the Ring, but none of the alternatives looked good to Bilbo. Surely one of the wizards would know a way to destroy it, though! Then everyone would be happy--except Sauron, he supposed--and things would go back to normal.

He wasn’t sure what “normal” was anymore, or even what he hoped it would be, but he knew he wanted it.

“Goats.”

Théoden looked dubiously at the shaggy goat with a saddle on its back. The goat narrowed its yellow, square-pupiled eyes and looked dubiously back at him.

“You ride around the mines on goats,” he repeated, looking at Thorin as if waiting for the dwarf to reassure him that this was a mad idea. He had wanted a tour of the Khazad-dûm stables, but had balked immediately at the goats.

“They say horses are too nervous for the task,” Bilbo explained.

“No horse of Rohan!” exclaimed Théoden, throwing out his chest.

As if on cue, there was a cheerful whinny from a few stalls down, and a glossy black nose was stuck out into the stable hall.

“Ah!” cried Théoden in pure delight, and hurried to the stallion’s side. “I remember you, my beauty,” he said. “Did the King of Erebor claim you for his own? He chose wisely, did he not, my dark star?” He turned to Thorin, beaming. “This stallion’s sire was my own Galerdeg, named after the glad dawn, and his dam was Windwynn, for she gloried always in the freedom of the open hills and would bear no rider.” Thorin had produced a sugar cube from somewhere and offered it to his steed, who lipped it off his palm with a happy nicker. “What name did you give him?” Théoden asked.

“Petunia,” Thorin said, smiling proudly at his mount.

Bilbo watched as Théoden looked at Thorin, then at Petunia, who was nudging Thorin playfully as if to suggest that another sugar cube would not be amiss, then back at Thorin.

“A warrior’s name for a magnificent steed,” Théoden proclaimed, and from that moment on Théoden of Rohan could do no wrong as far as Bilbo Baggins was concerned.

Thorin was poring over maps in the empty conference room, tracing lines and calculating travel times. With a month’s worth of provisions, and on good mounts…

He didn’t look up when he heard a familiar throat-clearing at the door. “I’m sure you’re pleased with yourself, wizard.”

Robes rustled as Gandalf entered the room and stood next to him. “As a matter of fact, I’m not. Not particularly,” said the wizard.

“You should be. After all, Khazad-dûm is now overrun with humans, and wizards, and elves,” Thorin observed. “All working together for the good of Middle Earth, setting aside our petty differences for a noble goal.”

It came out rather sarcastic, but Thorin was still startled to see Mithrandir grimace slightly at his words.

“You have doubts,” Thorin said without thinking. All the years he and Gandalf had been in communication, discussing the history of Middle Earth and the whereabouts of Sauron’s Ring--it had never truly crossed his mind that the wizard might be anything less than certain of the rightness of his opinions. Wrong Gandalf might be, but uncertain…? It was an unnerving thought.

“I always have doubts,” Gandalf murmured. “The Shadow lengthens and its influence grows, and I fear its touch may…” His words trailed off and he glanced uneasily around the room, as if wary of listening ears. Whose? After all this time, did he not trust the dwarves? Thorin felt anger spike through him and was about to open his mouth and say something when he heard running feet pounding down the hallway before a messenger burst through the door.

“More elves approach the gates, your majesty! These from the east!” His face was blank with astonishment. “They are still distant, but the lady Arwen claims it is her grandmother, Galadriel!”

The pen in Thorin’s hand clattered unheeded onto the table, splattering red ink across the maps. “You!” he whirled on Gandalf. “Is it not enough that we have elves from Rivendell here, you must invite some eldritch queen here to--”

He broke off at the look on Gandalf’s face. “This is not my doing,” said Gandalf. He was ashen, his eyes deep with worry. “I sent her no word.”

With a snarl of frustration, Thorin left the meeting-room at a run, calling for a goat to carry him quickly to the east gate.

Gandalf was already there when he arrived, as were most of their guests: Thorin spotted the four elves from Rivendell, the broader form of Théoden. Bilbo was there too, and Thorin felt a surge of relief and affection at the sight of his worried eyes. Balin was not there yet, and there was no time to wait; he was not going to risk barring Moria to the Lady of Lothlórien. “Open the gate,” he said to the guard, and stepped out into the icy winter sunlight.

There were two of them: an elf-woman, tall and dressed in green-dyed leathers, moving with an unearthly grace. Her golden hair caught the sunlight and blazed with glory; Thorin heard the dwarves around him gasp. Beside her was a slighter figure, also golden-haired. Galadriel was looking ahead at the gate as she came, but he was looking back, his bow out as if he were providing cover.

Galadriel stopped within hailing distance. “Greetings, King Thorin of Erebor,” she said. Her voice was low, conversational, and yet Thorin could tell that all could hear her as clearly as if she had murmured in their ears. “May my companion and I have leave to shelter within your walls?”

Her companion addressed Galadriel, but in a shout clearly meant to carry to all: “My lady, I suspect the dwarves would be more hospitable if you also informed them that a pack of wargs are in hot pursuit of us!”

Galadriel’s mouth curved slightly, but her voice remained unruffled. “It is as Legolas says, your majesty. May we enter?”

She had hardly finished speaking when the edge of the forest rustled and a warg burst out, silent jaws slavering. It fell instantly with an arrow through its throat; Galadriel had not moved.

“There will be more!” cried Legolas, fitting another arrow to his bow.

“Then come in!” cried Thorin as howls burst from the woods.

Galadriel didn’t seem to hurry, yet somehow she and Legolas were inside the gates only seconds after Thorin finished speaking.

“Grandmother!” cried Arwen, and she and the twins ran to embrace Galadriel.

“My Lady,” said Gandalf, bowing to her, his face worried, and she reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder briefly.

“Close the gates!” cried Thorin, and the guards ran to tug the heavy stone doors shut as a seething wave of wargs came from the trees and boiled up the hill.

“Wait!” Legolas held up a hand, then ran outside the gate to peer east. “I hear hoofbeats! A rider comes from the east--” He shaded his eyes with his hand. “--a man who wears the colors of Gondor!”

Thorin heard someone take a sharp breath; looking over, he saw Arwen’s face kindle with mingled joy and fear.

“Curse all unwanted and uninvited guests!” Thorin snarled as the rider came into view, riding hard and surrounded by wargs. “Guards! Keep the wargs from breaching the gates! I will not have travelers torn apart by wargs on our very doorstep--we leave the gates open!”

Guards ran to flank the gates, and Thorin set himself squarely in the entrance, his sword unsheathed as if he could keep any harm from entering Durin’s halls. A contingent of wargs broke away from the main group and arrowed toward the gates, but most of the force remained concentrated on the lone rider in his dark green hood. Blood streaked the flanks of his mount as he slashed at the wargs. An arrow sang out and a warg fell; Legolas made a satisfied noise. Behind him, Thorin heard Arwen breathe, “Oh, for my bow!”

Then for a time he was aware of nothing but the wave of wargs crashing into him and his guards, of hot bloody breath and scrabbling claws as he struggled to keep the force from breaking into Moria.

As the last warg fell, Thorin realized the Gondorian was still fighting in the distance; his horse had fallen but he fought on, his sword rising and falling in a blur of motion as his green cloak blazoned with the white tree of Gondor rippled around him. He was magnificently good, but he was still doomed, unless--

“Hold fast!” called Théoden abruptly from behind him, his voice a clarion call, and then the man was pushing past Thorin and running toward the beleaguered warrior. “Aid comes!”

Cursing, Thorin started toward them as well--I’m not writing a letter back to my ally apologizing for getting his son killed on my doorstep!--but Théoden was faster and reached the Gondorian’s side, hacking through the wargs to get there. The two men fought back to back, their blades gleaming against the rough and bloody tide of wargs. Arrows sang past Thorin’s head as he joined the fray, and wargs fell with elvish arrows in their throats.

And then it was over and the pack broke off, yelping, fleeing back into the brush.

Théoden slung his comrade’s arm over his shoulders and supported him as they ran back to the gate. Thorin stopped to check quickly that all of his guards were within the doors and safe, then ordered the gates shut.

The grating of stone on stone echoed in the great entrance hall; for a moment the only other sound was the harsh gasping breaths of the survivors.

The newcomer was doubled over, clutching at his side. As Théoden bent to speak to him, he stood upright abruptly and shoved back his hood, letting the torchlight shine full on his face.

He had pale, aristocratic features, fine and haughty, but there was no sense of delicacy or softness about him. Instead Thorin was reminded of a tempered blade, sharp and steely, with a fleeting impression of an underlying brittleness. His long, dark hair was pushed back severely from his face, falling to his shoulders.

Thorin caught, for just an instant, a look of terrible disappointment on Arwen’s features, and wondered at it.

“Hail, and--and well met!” he rasped between deep breaths in a voice used to command. “I, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Steward of the White City of Minas Tirith, greet thee. I come with grave portent and--”

“Oh,” said Théoden. “It’s you.”

Denethor glared at him, clearly not delighted to have his introductory speech interrupted. “And who are you?” he demanded.

Théoden clenched his hands in the air, an abrupt and annoyed motion. “Just a random stranger who just saved your life,” he snapped.

“I didn’t need your help,” Denethor snarled back. “I had things well in hand and--”

He broke off, winced and put his hand to his side, drawing it back to stare with a kind of numb surprise at the crimson staining it. Then his knees buckled and he fell heavily against Théoden.

“Send for a healer!” Thorin bellowed. “Get him to a bed!”

And in this way did Denethor, son of the last Steward of Gondor, enter the halls of Khazad-dûm borne in the arms of an extremely exasperated Prince of Rohan.

Chapter Text

“I’m afraid that the rooms in Moria will not be as spacious as you are accustomed to, my lady,” said Balin as he escorted Galadriel down the halls. Dwalin, Thorin, Bilbo and Gandalf walked with her.

Her laugh was strangely young for someone with such ageless eyes. “Have my grandsons complained about their lodging?”

Balin’s cheeks above the snow-white beard flushed. “I would not--” He started, but she merely smiled.

“I am aware that Elladan and Elrohir are sometimes undiplomatic,” she said. “And they are long-used to sleeping under the stars with not even a roof over their head. But I have fond memories of Khazad-dûm; the walls carved by King Durin could never make me feel confined. I do hate to impose, but if the Lapis Room is unoccupied...” Balin gazed at her in surprise and she went on, “Forgive my impertinence, but it has been so long since I stayed there. The lapis mosaic in the ceiling was an extravagant gesture, but Durin said he wanted to capture the feel of a deep twilight sky above me. He was always so kind.”

“You have--you have met Durin?” Dwalin’s voice was strangled; he and Balin gaped at Galadriel as she nodded.

“Which one?”

Galadriel frowned at Balin’s question. “Most of them, I think. His appearance changed slightly from incarnation to incarnation, but his memories were always the same, so there was little sense of change.” She smiled and reached out to touch the wall, her long fingers caressing it. “He would be so proud that you have brought life and joy back to the halls he delved. I have always felt that--” She paused and her fingers curled inward, a shadow crossing her face. “--That he has not returned to this world for these long centuries in part because his halls have stood empty and scourged by flame, his death unavenged.”

“My lady,” said Gandalf from behind Bilbo, his voice oddly hollow. “Why have you left the Golden Wood to come here?”

She smiled at him. “As you are so fond of saying, Mithrandir--I have my reasons.”

“Do not--” Gandalf broke off and Bilbo sensed that he was struggling for composure, although his face did not change. “Do not mock me, my lady.”

Her smile took on a hint of sadness. “I would never, my old friend. It was a vision in my Mirror that convinced me that I was needed here, as well as Prince Legolas, visiting from the Greenwood. A vision that told me my path would lead me back at last to Khazad-dûm. More than that, I cannot say..”

The dwarves stared at her, and she seemed to put aside dark thoughts, her face clearing as clouds pass from the moon, leaving it bright and pure once more. “I remember this corridor,” she said in a low, happy voice, and hurried ahead of her guides to a door at the end of the hall, touching the handle as if taking the hand of an old friend. She turned and smiled at them, a smile of utter radiance, unselfconscious and full of joy. “Your majesty, may I stay here?”

“My lady,” said Balin, and Bilbo heard a deep respect in his voice that had not been there before, “The Lapis Room is yours for as long as you desire.”

There was no question of beginning the Council while Denethor lay wounded; Óin said it would be a few days before he could rise from his bed. “Assuming no one strangles him first,” he added in a mutter--apparently Denethor was a less than congenial patient. And so the assembled mix of peoples milled around Khazad-dûm, mostly trying to stay out of each others’ way and not annoy their hosts. Some friendships were quickly born: Théoden and Elrond’s sons soon discovered they shared a love of gaming and sparring, and fortunately Théoden’s innate diplomacy reined in the worst of Elrohir and Elladan’s high spirits as they visited the forges and raced goats through the wide halls of Moria. Arwen split most of her time between Glorfindel’s quarters and her grandmother’s, as did Gandalf; the two oldest elves seemed to have decided that keeping a low profile was a good idea, and although they were friendly, they rarely emerged from their quarters. The elf from the Greenwood, Legolas, kept mostly to himself at well; he seemed ill at ease with the other elves and prickly around the dwarves. Saruman spent nearly all his days deep in discussion with the dwarven engineers, poring over blueprints and machinery, making suggestions for improvements.

And Bilbo? Bilbo was friends with everyone, able to trade riddles with the twins, discuss cloth and dyes with Glorfindel, or teach a laughing Galadriel songs of the Shire. Thorin watched him with a sort of bemused amazement as he put everyone at ease, smoothing over hurt feelings and fostering friendships. He even visited Denethor in the infirmary and came back declaring him “not so bad a fellow.”

The one person he didn’t spend time with was Saruman, but that may have been because the wizard was so busy elsewhere.

It all seemed so effortless for him that Thorin was almost surprised when he came back their quarters late one night and sank into a chair with a deep sigh. “Dori takes it so personally when Glorfindel doesn’t eat everything he’s cooked for him,” he said, grimacing and stretching his shoulders. “I had to spend an hour with him explaining that elves have light appetites and reassuring him that his food was perfectly fine.”

Thorin came up behind him and put his hands on Bilbo’s shoulders. It was easy enough to feel the tension in them, like veins of iron running through stone; he dug his fingers in and Bilbo made a blissful sound, leaning into his touch.

“You’re exhausted,” Thorin said. He put his thumbs to the base of Bilbo’s neck and circled there, eliciting a happy moan. “Forgive me. I thought this came naturally to you.”

“Natural doesn’t always mean easy,” Bilbo said. “It’s like--you can see the beauty within an uncut gemstone, something that just looks like a lump of rock to me. You know what you need to do to make it shine. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t tiring and difficult to do it. It’s satisfying work, but it’s still work.” He yawned so hugely that he made a little squeaking noise. “I wonder what’s wrong between Arwen and Galadriel?” he murmured sleepily.

Thorin frowned. “Something is wrong? I hadn’t noticed.”

“It’s not--” Bilbo broke off and grimaced. “It’s not like they’re angry at each other or anything, but there’s this…distance there, like a glass wall. Like something is between them, unsaid. I mean, it’s been more than twenty years since we saw them together in Lothlórien, of course, but twenty years isn’t so much for an elf to have changed their relationship like that.”

“Ah,” Thorin said, unwilling to remind Bilbo that when he had met Arwen and Galadriel in Lothlórien he had been deeply under the influence of the Ring, unconcerned with anyone’s existence but his own. That Bilbo had possessed the cursed thing for decades and was yet able to care so much for others, be so aware of their needs and emotions--! Thorin suppressed a shudder of something close to awe, and Bilbo smiled up at him sleepily.

“You can keep doing that,” he said, and Thorin realized he had stopped kneading Bilbo’s shoulders. He started again, and Bilbo murmured something wordless and happy, his eyes drifting closed.

Thorin grimaced to himself; he had wanted to discuss Bilbo’s assertion days ago that he had failed Thorin by not coming to Erebor. But Bilbo was working so very hard, and was so tired, and Thorin hated to bring up something that seemed to have upset him once more.

Later, he promised himself. He seems content now. Let it rest.

A soft snore rattled Bilbo’s frame, and Thorin smiled, then bent to sweep Bilbo up in his arms and carry him to bed.

“I, for one, am quite willing to start the Council without him.” Théoden paced across the room restlessly.

Elladan nodded and Elrohir made a snorting sound of agreement. The trio had shown up at Thorin and Bilbo’s door, demanding that the Council start without the recuperating Denethor.

“He is merely a Steward’s son, after all,” said Elladan.

“Wait, I thought he was a prince,” Bilbo said. “Like Théoden.” He had certainly behaved regally when Bilbo had gone to visit him in the infirmary.

Elrohir seemed to take offense at the question; leaping up from his chair he faced Bilbo, hand on his sword hilt. “A prince? There is only one ruler of Gondor, and that is its true heir.”

Théoden seemed to take pity on Bilbo’s puzzled face, explaining, “The line of the kings of Gondor ended when their last king rode out to challenge the chief of the Nazgul, Sauron’s servants, and never returned. Since that day, the Stewards of Gondor have ruled in their stead, never proclaiming themselves king. But the line is broken,” he finished heavily, “and there shall never be a king in Minas Tirith again.”

Elladan and Elrohir shared a sudden furtive look; Elladan shook his head slightly and Elrohir seemed to bite words back, but his mouth twisted as though it galled him. “If this son of a seat-warmer does not remember his proper place,” he announced, his hand tightening on his sword-hilt, “Then there are those of us here who--”

“Hold, brother.”

Elrohir spun at the sound of Arwen’s voice at the door and released the sword, which he had half-drawn from its scabbard. “Sister,” he murmured, biting his lip.

“That is not your sword to draw,” she said in a level voice. “And it was not reforged so that you could use it to threaten a man of Gondor.”

Her voice was mild, but Elrohir flushed crimson. “Forgive me,” he murmured.

“By Durin’s beard!” explained Thorin, staring at the partially-drawn sword. “That sword is of dwarven make! In fact, if my eyes do not deceive me it is the work of Telchar, one of the greatest of dwarven smiths.” He scowled. “But it has been reforged and all variety of elvish gewgaws and ornament added--no offense,” he added hastily as Elrohir’s face turned stormy once more.

“None taken,” Arwen laughed. “And your eye is good, your majesty. This sword was forged in the First Age, in Nogrod by Telchar and given to Maglor, son of Fëanor. How it came to be broken and reforged is...a long story, and one for another time. But suffice to say that my brother bears it for another for now.”

“It shall return to its rightful owner one day,” Elrohir said. “You have my word on it, sister.”

Bilbo and Théoden shared a look; Théoden shrugged eloquently. Who can puzzle out the tangled affairs of the elves? Then Théoden stood, breaking the oddly tense moment by clapping the twins on their shoulders. “We shall have to trust that King Thorin will make the right decision about the Council, friends. For now, shall we go try some of that dwarvish ale Dwalin was promising us?”

Both elves shuddered elaborately, but Bilbo noticed they did not reject the offer.

“I must apologize for my brothers,” Arwen said after the door swung shut behind them. “They are young, and being the heir to a kingdom ruled by an immortal father is not always conducive to maturity.”

“They remind me rather of my brother,” said Thorin, with a smile equal parts affectionate and wistful, “And so I could never take offense.”

“Weren’t you born after them, Lady?” Bilbo asked as he poured her a cup of tea. “You seem older than them, somehow. Oh dear, I didn’t mean--I just meant that you seemed--” Wiser, and sadder, he wanted to say, but it seemed rude to say that too, so his words sputtered into silence.

Arwen’s mouth curved slightly as she took a sip of tea. “I have had experiences my brothers have not,” she said simply, “And is has given me a...different view of the world.” She looked at Thorin and seemed to let the topic slip away as if deflected from an invisible shield. “Will you continue to delay the Council for Lord Denethor?”

Thorin frowned. “He may not be a prince, but his people are powerful and valuable allies. I would not insult his folk by ignoring their heir. I shall go have a talk with him later and see how he feels.”

Arwen nodded. “Gandalf told my father what Bilbo carries.” She looked at him, and Bilbo felt a sudden urge to flinch away from those gray eyes, deep as the sea. “If we are to deal with such an evil, I feel Gondor will be key to our success.” She smiled again, faintly. “I have never seen the walls of the White City in its glory, but I have a special fondness for it.”

And then she turned the conversation to the Shire and Dale, a comparison of their flowers and weather, and only later did Bilbo wonder at her tone: wistful and hopeful at once.

“You’re welcome to him,” Óin announced, throwing up his hands. “Oh, he’s healing well enough, but of all the fractious patients I’ve ever dealt with, I would say only one has given me more trouble.”

Thorin knew what was expected of him; smiling, he said “And who might that be, good Óin ?”

“Oh, a certain hard-headed prince who nearly drowned himself once and then was ill for a month with an inflammation of the lungs, and bickered and groused with me every moment of that long moon!”

Thorin laughed and gave Óin a friendly cuff on the shoulder. “Well, I hope that sullen prince appreciated what a patient healer he had.”

“Not at the time, my lord,” laughed Óin. “But I believe he has grown up into a fine man.”

Startled by the unexpected praise, Thorin shook his head gruffly to cover a rush of embarrassed emotion. “My thanks,” he murmured, and then hurried past Óin into the infirmary.

“You’re really not very good at letting people tell you they love you, are you?”

Thorin glared at Bilbo, but Bilbo’s smile was so knowing and affectionate that he felt the glare slip away despite himself. “You spoke with Denethor before, is he recovering well?” he asked to change the subject.

“Case in point,” Bilbo murmured, but let it go. “Yes, he’s in the room at the end of the hall. He seemed to be doing well when I came by yesterday.”

Indeed, Denethor was out of bed when they came in, pacing the room with a scowl marring his features. “Have you begun without me?” he asked without preamble when he saw Thorin in the door.

“I don’t think you should be up,” Bilbo said with a worried frown. “I’m pretty sure Óin said you should stay in bed--”

“--As if I would tarry in bed when the fate of Middle Earth hangs in the balance!” Denethor snapped. “As you see, your majesty, I am quite well. I beg of you, do not keep me prisoned here any longer while the destiny of the world is decided without me!”

Thorin had to take a moment to keep from laughing aloud at the mix of hauteur and distress on Denethor’s face. He suspected Denethor would take mortal offense to being laughed at, and would not be mollified by any explanation that he had reminded Thorin of himself. “Nothing has begun without you, my lord,” he said. “And you are not ‘prisoned’ here.”

“Tell that to my jailer and his cursed poultices and potions,” snapped Denethor. “And what is Théoden of Rohan doing here? Oh yes, I remember him,” he added irritably at Bilbo’s expression. “I do not believe I can be expected to immediately recognize a child I met more than a decade ago in a warrior on the field of battle, but eventually I made the connection. After all, I have had little to do but think, cooped up in here.”

“Well, he’ll be glad you remember him,” said Bilbo, although he sounded uncertain of it.

“Prince Théoden is here to take part in this Council, as you are, my lord,” Thorin said. “He arrived with the wizard Saruman the White.”

“Théoden, Saruman, Mithrandir, elves from Rivendell, Lothlórien, and the Greenwood--quite an august gathering! Well then, what are you waiting for?”

Thorin bit back a sigh as well as a laugh this time. “We have been waiting for you to be well enough to attend.”

Denethor threw his hands out. “Do I seem an invalid to you? I demand you begin immediately!”

Thorin could not help bowing; Bilbo shot him a sharp look and Thorin suspected he could read the irony in his posture. “Then we shall begin tomorrow morn, my lord.”

For a moment, relief made Denethor’s harsh features look almost vulnerable; he sat down on the side of his bed, nodding. “My thanks, your majesty,” he said in a low voice.

“A difficult man,” Thorin said under his breath to Bilbo as they left the infirmary after speaking to Óin.

“Prickly and imperious,” Bilbo agreed. “And terrified of showing any weakness. Did you see him as we left the room?” At Thorin’s blank look, he went on: “He had his hand to the wound in his side as if it pained him. He’s not as healed as he wants us to think.”

Thorin rolled his eyes. “Mahal preserve me from those convinced the fate of the world rests in their hands alone.”

“I’ll borrow that prayer sometime, if I may,” murmured Bilbo, and Thorin decided it was best to pretend not to hear him.

Chapter Text

“My thanks to all those assembled who have waited for me,” announced Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor. He was wearing green robes trimmed in gold, with an ornately-carved ivory horn slung at his side. His voice was strong, his eyes afire with energy; if his face was rather pale and his grip on the table seemed to be for balance as much as for dramatic effect, none but Bilbo seemed to notice. He nodded regally to the assembled lords and ladies. “And my thanks especially to King Balin of Khazad-dûm for giving us all the space in which to discuss these portents that have so recently stirred us.

“Portents, you say?” Denethor went on, although no one had interrupted him. From his quiet corner, Bilbo glanced surreptitiously around the crowded council-hall. Galadriel had a small smile on her face, as if an adult watching charming children at play. Théoden kept stopping himself from drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. Elrohir and Elladan, seated behind Glorfindel, seemed outwardly polite, but Bilbo remembered their words about Denethor and felt uneasy. And Saruman--

Well, perhaps it was Bilbo’s imagination, but Saruman seemed to keep looking to where Bilbo was sitting. Bilbo tried to unobtrusively push his chair further behind Thorin’s, but discovered it was too heavy to move easily. He certainly didn’t want to call attention to himself by straining to shove a stone chair into the shadows, so he sat still and tried not to fidget under the weight of that heavy-lidded gaze.

The other members of the Council were listening politely to Denethor; after a morning of introductions and recounted histories, Bilbo would have expected more of them to seem tired. But then, they were all nobility (or wizards) and much of ruling a nation seemed to consist of endless meetings and discussions, from what Thorin had told him. Meetings in the Shire had a good deal fewer speeches and a good deal more food. Perhaps everyone here had more stamina than Bilbo.

But his stomach was threatening to growl, and the Ring was unpleasantly heavy in his pocket.

“Dire portents indeed,” Denethor was continuing. “For I have traveled here, though much danger and peril, over plains and across rivers, because a dream came to me, a command I could not deny. A light dawned in the West, and a voice like the cry of a hawk told me to--”

”Seek for the shield that is oaken,” cried Théoden, leaping from his chair and saying the line in unison with Denethor. ”In Khazad-dûm it dwells.”

The two men glared at each other across the council-table.

“And the voice went on,” said Théoden triumphantly: ”There shall be counsels taken, stronger than Morgul-spells.”

Grudgingly, Denethor nodded and recited through gritted teeth: ”There shall be shown a token, that Doom is near at hand--”

”For Isildur’s Bane shall waken,” they finished in unison again, ”And the Halfling forth shall stand.”

Together, their gazes turned to Bilbo, who wished he were anywhere but there.

Théoden glared at Denethor again. “Why did you of all people have the same dream I had?”

Denethor’s dark eyes glittered and he bared his teeth. “Why did I--my father is the ruler of the greatest city in all of Middle Earth! The question should be why should the Powers of the West send their message to you, a princeling of sheep and horses and empty fields--”

“At least I am a prince,” retorted Théoden. “And not a stand-in for a true ruler!”

”Enough,” said Balin, standing. Besides Bilbo he was the smallest person in the room, but his voice held all the command of a king, and both Théoden and Denethor subsided, although Bilbo heard Elladan and Elrohir elbowing each other and snickering about “Prince Placeholder.” Glorfindel and Galadriel turned in unison to give them a quelling glance, and they fell silent as well.

“Clearly fell powers are afoot,” Balin went on, “If so many of the peoples of Middle Earth have found their way to this place. For indeed, Isildur’s Bane has awoken, and now we must decide what to do with this grave opportunity.”

“Bilbo Baggins.” Gandalf’s voice was gentle, but Bilbo flinched. “Show us the burden you carry.”

Everyone’s eyes turned to Bilbo, who wished desperately that the stone floor of the council room would open and swallow him up. He stood on shaky legs and started forward; as he passed Thorin’s chair to walk into the center of the room he felt Thorin’s hand touch his shoulder. A fleeting touch, but it seemed enough courage flowed into him from the contact that he was able to make it to the center of the room and the table that waited there.

Drawing his Ring out of his pocket, he placed it on the table. It made a tiny, resonant clink as he put it down on the stone, and he felt every gaze in the room shift to look at it. He should have been grateful that the attention had moved from him, but he didn’t; he felt sick and anguished, wanting nothing more than to snatch the ring up and flee the room with it. So many people, so many eyes!

He couldn’t bring himself to back away from his treasure, and so he stood in the middle of the room with his legs shaking and nausea churning his stomach as Gandalf explained the history of the Ring: how Sauron had placed much of his being within it, and how Isildur, King of Gondor, had cut the Ring from his hand in revenge and wrath at the death of his father.

“His father’s sword, Narsil, was shattered that day,” said Gandalf. “And the shards were carried back to his infant son in Rivendell, to be kept always as an heirloom of the royal family. They have stayed there ever since, even after the line failed and the rule passed to the Stewards.”

Bilbo saw Thorin frown sharply and glance to where Elrohir was sitting, but he said nothing.

“Alas!” cried Glorfindel, rising from his seat. “I know the next part of this tale well, for Elrond has told it to me: how he urged Isildur to destroy the Ring, but Isildur said him nay and kept it for his own. Yet it betrayed him, and slipped from his hand as he fled from the orc-hordes that pursued him, and he was slain, and the Ring lost.”

“So this, then, is Isildur’s Bane,” murmured Denethor, gazing at the golden band on the table. “Rumors and whispers we in Gondor had heard, but no proof. How then did it make its way from the High King’s hand to the keeping of this halfling? And what,” he asked, gazing around the room, “Are we to do with it now?”

The question fell heavy into the suddenly-silent room. On the far side of the room, Saruman stirred and glanced at Gandalf, but said nothing. Galadriel’s eyes were distant. Théoden grimaced, looking at each person’s face in turn.

“The first of your questions, Lord Denethor, I shall answer in the afternoon,” Thorin said, “For it is a long tale and I suspect some of us have need of sustenance.” To Bilbo he added in a low voice, “Take up the Ring once more, Bilbo.”

Bilbo stepped up to the table and took the Ring in his hand, relieved and reluctant at the same time to feel its sinuous weight once more. He turned, lifting it to slip into his pocket--and froze.

For a brief instant, it was as if he saw the inhabitants of the room stripped of form, as spirits only: Saruman glimmered with a thousand points of color; Gandalf was an immaculate silver light; Glorfindel and Galadriel were both a nearly-unbearable glory of gold. All of them throbbing with power, all of them dangerous, and Bilbo felt a flash of trepidation and hunger pulse through him that seemed to come from the Ring in his hand. With a startled flinch, he stepped backwards and almost ran into Thorin, glancing up at him as the Ring left his hand and dropped back into his pocket.

Thorin put a hand on his elbow and Bilbo let himself be steered to the banquet-room prepared for them, but the glimpse he had caught of Thorin before releasing the Ring still lingered in his vision: a rock-solid presence, warm as a banked fire or a sun-soaked stone, immovable and reliable.

Bilbo rubbed his fingers together quietly, feeling the fading numbness from the shock that had gone through him, and knew beyond rationality that the Ring might fear and yearn for the great powers at the Council, but it loathed Thorin Oakenshield with a dull, unceasing hatred.

“Your majesty.” Saruman bowed politely as Thorin entered his quarters. “You are kind to grant me an audience in private before we returned to the council-room.”

Thorin inclined his head in return. “You wished to speak with me?”

Saruman paced across his room, white robes swirling like fog. “Away from prying eyes and wagging tongues,” he said. “Where two people who understand how this world works can speak as equals. I did not wish to say this in front of the elves.” His voice was ingratiating, calm, reasonable: it seemed to draw a golden circle with he and Thorin on the inside and the rest of the world on the outside. “For you know how jealous they are of anything that they perceive as theirs, and I am certain they will try to claim that their role in helping to create this Ring means they have more say in what is done with it than...disinterested parties like myself, or like you, my friend.”

When Gandalf called him “my friend,” Thorin never felt like he had laid a too-heavy hand on his shoulder. But he veiled his unease and said merely, “The fate of the Ring will be decided by all.”

“By all?” Disbelief stained Saruman’s beautiful voice. “Look around your own council hall, your majesty! There are three dwarves seated there, and six elves! And Mithrandir, who will always side with the elves against you, and you know it, you have witnessed it with your own eyes. How can you hope for a fair conclusion?” He bent his tall form closer to Thorin’s ear. ”They will take the Ring from you.”

And welcome to the foul thing, Thorin thought. Aloud, he said, “And what would you suggest we do instead? Shall we give it to you?”

Saruman smiled, pleased at his perception. “If anyone at this Council has the power to destroy it, it is I,” he said. “Entrust the Ring to me, and I will unmake Sauron entirely. This I swear.”

His voice was low, compelling, filled with passion and determination. Thorin remembered the doubt in Gandalf’s voice, the uncertainty.

He met Saruman’s eyes and forced himself to smile politely.

“I shall consider your arguments, my lord,” he said. “Thank you for your insights.”

Saruman’s long fingers tightened on his ebony staff, but he smiled politely in turn as Thorin bowed and showed himself out.

In the corridor, Thorin took a long breath, unnerved. He felt suddenly an almost-overwhelming desire to be with Bilbo again, to hear his voice and see his smile, to know there was a space in the world free of ancient grudges, of doubt and suspicion.

Yes, he thought, quickening his steps toward his own quarters, Bilbo and a spot of tea before the Council began once more were just what he needed.

Chapter Text

Bilbo sat in his small chair, pushed back slightly behind Thorin and Balin’s, and watched Thorin pace in front of the council table. He had not called on Bilbo to place the Ring on display again, and for that Bilbo was profoundly grateful.

“From the Anduin, it seems that the Ring passed into the roots of the Misty Mountains,” Thorin was explaining to the Council, “where it was picked up by the creature known as Gollum. What exactly this Gollum is remains a mystery, but it seems he possessed the Ring for many thousands of years, hiding with it in the shadows and depths of the mountains.”

“What manner of being lives for so long?” asked Théoden. “Was he some kind of elf, then?”

“I think not,” said Thorin. He frowned down at the table. “I believe he was...some forerunner of the hobbits, from a time before they crossed the Misty Mountains and traveled to the Shire.”

“A hobbit?” Bilbo couldn’t help but laugh. Everyone turned to look at him, and he realized it was the first time he had spoken in the Council. Too late to call back the words now, although he keenly wished he could. “I’m afraid hobbits are not known for living for thousands of years,” he stammered instead.

Thorin’s gaze upon him was affectionate, but there was a melancholy hovering around his mouth. “Indeed,” he agreed. “But it appears that one of the qualities of the Ring is that it...prolongs the life of its bearer.”

“Oh.” Bilbo blinked at Thorin, remembering compliments received from his friends and relatives: You look so young!...Haven’t aged a day...so hale and hearty for your age… “I...I see.” He remembered Gollum’s skittering form and felt faint nausea touch his throat.

“And so Gollum lurked deep beneath the mountains, until the day that Bilbo and I came across him and took the Ring from him,” Thorin went on, turning away and gathering everyone’s gazes up with him, to Bilbo’s relief. “The Ring could make Bilbo invisible, but it had no effect on me--or so it seemed.” He swallowed hard. “I carried it with me for some weeks, and in that time I slipped deeply into an illness that affects my people. I did not realize until years later that it was the Ring that was exacerbating my illness, turning it to its own ends. And in the depths of Moria, when we were captives of the white orc, Azog, I...gave it to Bilbo to aid his escape.” He looked then at Bilbo, and his eyes were full of grief and guilt. Bilbo couldn’t seem to look away from him, even when he heard the abrupt grating of a chair.

”Gave it--” Saruman’s voice was a bark of disbelief as he stood, towering over Thorin. “You expect me to believe that you possessed the One Ring of Sauron, and you gave it up freely? Impossible!”

“I assure you it is true,” said Gandalf, and Saruman swung to stare at him. “I have talked at length with Thorin about his experiences, and--”

“You have talked at length with Thorin Oakenshield? Truly, this is a day of revelations,” Saruman announced. His mouth was set in a grim line. “And how long have the two of you been working together?”

Gandalf stood as well, meeting Saruman’s gaze. “Thorin contacted me shortly after he banished his traitorous father and took the throne of Erebor. He had...concerns, and doubts, and wished to discuss them with me. Thanks in part to his tireless researches into the libraries of Erebor, our worries eventually solidified into fears. And then a messenger came to Erebor from Mordor, seeking the Ring, and we knew that somehow Sauron had heard that the baneful artifact he had forged was once more in Middle Earth. He believed it to be in Erebor, but his Ringwraiths scour the land for it now.”

“This is grave news,” said Glorfindel as Saruman stepped back and took his seat, still gazing at Gandalf. “How did Sauron come to know that his Ring had been in Erebor?”

Gandalf cleared his throat and glanced at Thorin, who nodded grimly and picked up the narrative. “We believe he learned of it from my father. Not directly,” he added as Dwalin made an inarticulate sound of fury. “But the Blacklock Clan of the Red Mountains report that Thráin came to them twenty years ago with a tale of being cast out by his cruel son. He stayed with them for a time, until they grew weary of his machinations and manipulations, and then he left them--they say to move on to Ulankhot, capital of the Ironfist Clan.”

Thorin’s hands balled into fists and he brought them down on the council-table.

“The Blacklocks tell us that when Thráin first arrived, he was accompanied by a small, bent figure. They seemed to be traveling together, but before approaching the Blacklocks they parted, and he disappeared west, toward the Sea of Rhûn. We believe that Sauron received word of the whereabouts of the Ring from this Gollum,” Thorin said. “Tormented by his thirst for the Ring, Gollum would have been drawn to its master as a moth to a flame. From Gollum, Sauron would have learned that his Ring was held in the Lonely Mountain--for so Thráin would have told Gollum, because he could never have believed that Bilbo would leave the glories of Erebor, nor would he have known where Bilbo was from originally.”

“So then, it is your fault that the Enemy is aware of this!” cried Elrohir. “Why did you not slay Thráin rather than let him leave with this information?”

As one, Balin and Dwalin surged to their feet. “And abandon Erebor?” cried Balin.

“Thorin Oakenshield has been the greatest leader of the dwarves in generations,” growled Dwalin. “We needed him.”

Elrohir blinked at them. “No one is saying he could not have been King,” he said. “Just--”

“A parent-slayer as king?” Balin looked astonished beyond offense. “Impossible!”

“Even Thráin, mad as he was, would never have slain his own parent,” said Dwalin. “There is nothing--nothing--more profane, more obscene to a dwarf. Monstrous to even consider it!” He stared at Elrohir as if the elf were gibbering. “Perhaps you elves have no objection to being led by kinslayers, but we dwarves--”

Chaos. Elrohir and Elladan were on their feet, hands on their weapons. Gandalf hurried to stand between them and Dwalin, but they were shouting him down. Even Arwen had leapt to her feet, her fists clenched and her face stormy with anger. Legolas looked more wary, but he also stood with the Rivendell elves, eyeing the dwarves with suspicion. Of all the elves, only Galadriel and Glorfindel remained seated, their faces stony. Bilbo saw Théoden and Denethor share a brief look of commiseration: elves and dwarves!

”Enough!” Thorin’s voice cut through the cacophony; when he repeated himself in Sindarin even the elves fell silent, staring at him.

“But Thorin--!”

Thorin cut off Dwalin’s protest with a raised hand. “We shall adjourn for the evening,” he said, “And continue in the morning, when we have all had a chance to cool down a bit. Dwalin, Balin, I wish to speak to you in my quarters.”

Dwalin opened his mouth again, but closed it at the look in Thorin’s eyes. “Yes, my king,” he muttered.

Thorin turned to Bilbo. “Shall we?” he said with a small smile, and offered his arm to Bilbo.

Bilbo took it, and they left the council room together.

”Apologize?” Dwalin stared at Thorin as if he had suggested Dwalin grow wings and fly to Erebor. “They were the ones--”

Thorin sighed. “Must I repeat the history lesson?”

Balin looked dubious. “Laddie, if I understand you right--and you must admit there were a lot of names to remember, and I couldn’t keep them all straight in my head--the younger elves weren’t even born when these events took place. And if Galadriel and Glorfindel did not take part in the murder of their kin, why is everyone so very tetchy on the subject?”

“It is...complicated,” Thorin said. “They slew no kin, but the shadow of the act touches them still.”

“Considering how awful you agree it is, I should think you’d understand being ashamed at being connected with it in any way,” Bilbo said suddenly from his seat by the fire, gazing into the flames. “Even if it was eons and eons ago.” He shrugged. “I remember when I was just a fauntling, my group of friends got in trouble for throwing rocks at a stray dog. I wasn’t even there, but I still felt sick and horrible about it, like I should have done something.” He poked at the fire, not looking at the dwarves. “I still feel bad about it, sometimes. I’d hate to think of having to feel guilty about something like that for thousands and thousands of years.”

There was a long silence in which Dwalin looked down at the floor and grimaced. “Very well,” he muttered. “I shall--”

There was a knock at the door, which opened to reveal all three children of Elrond, standing in the hall looking for all the world like chastened children. Extremely tall children of unearthly beauty, but still children.

“Grandmother and Glorfindel have both told us that we must apologize,” said Elladan.

“We’re sorry that we offended you,” said Elrohir. His color was high, but he looked sincerely regretful.

“Please forgive our ignorance,” said Arwen.

Dwalin made a harrumphing noise in his throat. “There was no harm done,” he said with moderate grace. “And I beg your pardon for my own ill-tempered words.” He shot a look at Thorin. “I shall go and apologize to your elders myself.”

He had hardly left when there was yet another knock; Thorin stifled a sigh at finding a guard at the door. “Yes?”

“Your majesty, Lord Saruman has begged your presence.”

Thorin resisted an urge to grind his teeth as he glanced at Bilbo, who was sitting at the fire, looking weary and worn.

“I’ll get the lad some hot food and see he rests,” murmured Balin, too low for Bilbo to hear, and Thorin felt a wave of gratitude and affection lift him as he followed the guard from the room.

“I confess I was...surprised to discover how close you and Mithrandir are.” Saruman was pacing the room restlessly. “I would not have expected a dwarf to cherish the company of such a close friend of the elves.”

“I am eternally tired,” Thorin heard himself say before he could think better of it, “of these petty divisions between the free peoples. We fight and we squabble, and all the while the Enemy sits and waxes stronger…” He trailed off and scrubbed at his face with his hands, feeling terribly weary.

“You wish to destroy it,” said Saruman, and there was a blank surprise on his voice. “You would seek out a way to destroy the One Ring.”

“There may be a way,” Thorin said.

For a moment the room was silent but for the hissing sound of Saruman’s robes as he paced, a low sibilant rustle. When Saruman spoke again, his voice had lost all its sharpness; it was melodious and soothing. Sympathetic.

“If you are considering this course of action, then I admire your bravery, Thorin Oakenshield. But even more than that, I admire your self-sacrifice. Or perhaps I should say the good Mr. Baggins’s self-sacrifice?” Saruman’s eyes were deep with pity as he looked at Thorin. “As you note, the Ring extended Gollum’s life for centuries. Your hobbit has so little time in this world, and then he will be gone forever. It grieves me to see you sacrifice the chance for a life together.”

Thorin tried to think of something gruff and stoic to say, but his voice abruptly failed him entirely. Images filled his mind: holding Bilbo’s body with all of that great brave spirit emptied from it, gone beyond the world itself into the great Mystery, where no dwarf could follow--

“Such sadness,” murmured Saruman, and Thorin felt a hand on his shoulder, comforting. He realized his face was buried in his hands, and he struggled to compose himself as Saruman went on: “How cruel this world is, to deny two such valiant hearts their little space of time together. Your majesty,” he said urgently, “There are other ways.”

“I know of none,” Thorin said, his voice hoarse.

“Mithrandir does not know everything,” Saruman said. “I beg you to consider this alternative to the path of sorrow he wishes you to follow. Let me take the halfling to Orthanc, and there I shall bend all of my arts to finding a way to separate him from his burden without harming him. Perhaps…” Saruman hesitated, then went on as if he were reluctant to promise too much, to give too much hope. “Perhaps my arts could even find a way to confer the benefits of longevity upon your companion after he is separated from the Ring. You could be together at last. Surely you deserve this, after all you have done.”

“I shall consider your arguments,” Thorin said--the same words as the night before, but he could hear this time the hope and the yearning beneath them.

“I hope you shall,” Saruman said with a kind smile, and Thorin knew he heard them too.

Bilbo Baggins was startled when Thorin came back from his meeting and immediately swept him into a hug so tight Bilbo felt he could nearly hear his ribs creak. He would not explain his mood, but neither would he let go of Bilbo’s hand as they sat and talked of the tensions in the council. “I need you near,” was all he would say to Bilbo’s questioning face.

It was an answer Bilbo could sympathize with, so he let it go.

Chapter Text

“Bilbo,” Thorin said after returning from Saruman’s quarters, as they turned down the bed, “What do you think we should do with the Ring?” The wizard’s words still echoed in his ears, promising a life with Bilbo free of the Ring--a long life, a happy and quiet life together. Surely they deserved that much?

Bilbo looked rather startled at the question. “I don’t know much about these big questions, you know. I just brought it here, and I count on the lot of you to figure out the best path. I--” He broke off, looking rather guilty. “Thorin, I have to tell you...before the Council began, I…”

He trailed off and Thorin waited patiently for him to finish; after a moment he said in a very small voice:

“I offered to give the Ring to Galadriel a few days ago.”

”What?” Thorin sputtered, and Bilbo grimaced.

“She didn’t take it.”

“Well, obviously not! But that you would offer such an artifact of power to an--” Remembering Galadriel’s words about Durin, her joy in his halls, Thorin broke off before he could say “elf-witch.” “What did she say?”

“She laughed,” Bilbo said. “She laughed two times. The first time it was--it was rather terrible, actually. I’m not sure I can describe it, and I’m not sure I want to. And then she stopped and laughed again, and it was sweet and sad and...and still rather terrible, but in a different way. She told me that no matter how good her intentions were, that she would still end up wielding it to the harm of Middle Earth, and so she rejected it and the power that it offered. So that won’t work. I suppose--” He swallowed. “I suppose I’ll have to give it to one of the wizards, or have it hidden somewhere.”

“What if there was a way to destroy it?”

Bilbo flinched. “Destroy it? Oh, what a pity,” he murmured. “But--but if it were necessary to defeat Sauron, I suppose it would have to be done. Can Gandalf do that?”

“Alas, no,” said Thorin. “Gandalf believes that it can only be destroyed by throwing it into the fires of Mount Doom, deep in the heart of Mordor.”

Bilbo’s eyes went wide. “Really? Well, um, whoever they choose to do that will have to be very brave. My goodness.”

Thorin couldn’t help a tired chuckle at his expression. “Gandalf and I both believe that anyone else to bear the Ring would risk corruption by Sauron. Galadriel senses it too, that is why she rejected it. The greater the power, the greater the corruption. It will have to be you, Bilbo.”

“What? No, that’s--you’ve carried it before, I could give it to you--”

Thorin recoiled a step, then mastered himself. “I have already proven far too susceptible. But I swear you shall not be alone--”

To his surprise, Bilbo turned and sat down on the edge of the bed, his back to Thorin, and said nothing for a time. When he spoke again, his voice was flat: “I can’t do that.”

“You shall have help--”

“--I don’t care how much help I’ll have,” snapped Bilbo. “You don’t understand. I haven’t even left the Shire for twenty years. How could I ever make a journey like that? I wasn’t even brave enough to come see you, how could I ever go into the heart of--it’s impossible.”

“Bilbo, listen to me--”

“No.” Bilbo stood up, avoiding Thorin’s gaze. “There’s nothing to talk about. You’ll just have to find someone else. I’m--I’m going to take a walk now. I don’t want to talk about it,” he said as Thorin opened his mouth again, and bolted for the door.

He did not return that night, but the guards--who followed Bilbo at a discreet distance without Thorin having to ask--reported that he had gone to Théoden’s room after walking the halls alone for a long time, so Thorin hoped he had gotten some sleep, at least.

He was still sitting up and worrying when Dwalin entered the room, looking somewhat dazed. “I just left the Lady Galadriel’s rooms,” he said.

His thoughts still elsewhere, it took Thorin a moment to remember why Dwalin would be in the elf-queen’s quarters. “Did she accept your apology?” All the conflict and strife--elves and dwarves, Rohirrim and Gondorians--seemed small and petty, far away. All he wanted was a space of quiet, a time to drink viola tea with Bilbo and learn the names of all the ridiculously varied flowers he loved so much; a time to sleep in until the sun slanted through the windows, to stay awake and watch the stars. So soon, so soon Bilbo’s soul would pass beyond those stars, beyond the very circle of the world, where no dwarf born of the rock of Arda could follow...

Dwalin nodded, his eyes distant. “I apologized, and she accepted, and then we...just sat and talked. She spoke of the past, of her life before she left Valinor, and after. She spoke of--” He broke off. “I can’t explain it. It was like she had a great burden on her soul, the kind that can only be lessened by sharing it.” A wry smile. “Sometimes there are things that you can share better with a stranger than with those who know you well.” He frowned, remembering. “She spoke like someone in search of some kind of…” He waved his hands vaguely, searching for words. “Forgiveness?”

“Absolution?” Thorin suggested, and he beamed.

“That’s the word! I...wish I could have given it to her,” he said, looking rather ashamed. “She is...unusual.”

“She is,” Thorin agreed.

“Well,” Dwalin said with the air of a person shrugging off an uncomfortable topic. “Elves in Khazad-dûm, it’s a strange thing. We live in odd times, Thorin.” He clapped Thorin on the shoulder. “But I would never have passed up the chance to fight by your side, all these years.”

Thorin looked up from the fire, surprised. “Nor I yours, my friend.”

Dwalin smiled as if he were satisfied and left him, but sleep did not come for Thorin Oakenshield that night. He watched the flames in the fireplace consume the wood to coals which fell into ashes, and he thought of Bilbo Baggins.

“There is little left to tell of the recent history of the Ring,” Thorin said to the assembled people. He tried to meet Bilbo’s eyes, but Bilbo had pushed his chair further back into the shadows of Dwalin’s and was looking downward, his face wan and drawn. “As I said yesterday, I gave Bilbo Baggins the Ring in these very halls, to help him escape from Azog the Defiler. And he has carried it from then, keeping it safe in the heart of the Shire. He knew not that what he carried was any more than a magical trinket, but I was haunted by fears and doubts. I met with Gandalf the Grey to discuss my worries, and he agreed that there was reason to suspect the Ring was more than I had taken it to be at first. And so followed years of research, gathering up scraps from the libraries of Erebor, piecing together what I could. My suspicions were magnified a thousandfold when I wrote Bilbo and requested that he not bring the Ring with him the next time he came to Erebor. He was reluctant to agree--this in itself concerned me--but eventually he promised not to travel with the Ring. Shortly after that he had to cancel his next planned visit to Erebor, in 2951, because he fell ill with a terrible fever in the spring.”

“That spring--” Denethor broke off and swallowed. “That is the spring that Sauron declared himself openly once more in Mordor and the burning Eye was seen once more at the height of Barad-dûr. I remember it well.”

Thorin nodded. The timing of that fever had worried at him, a nagging fear that would not go away. “From then, Bilbo continued to plan to come to Erebor, but always something interfered with his plans. It became increasingly clear that he was making excuses not to leave the Shire. Indeed, that he was unable to leave the Shire. He had sworn not to travel with the Ring, and he could not bear to leave it behind. His promise to me clashed with the growing compulsion of the Ring, and so he--”

“--You mean that’s--” Everyone stared as Bilbo leaped to his feet, his voice sharp and agonized. “It was the Ring doing that to me? Keeping me from traveling? Keeping me from leaving home? Keeping me from--from being with you?” He was staring at Thorin, his mouth working as if he were struggling with nausea. “It wasn’t me? Thorin--it wasn’t me?”

“It was never you,” Thorin said gently, and Bilbo covered his mouth abruptly with a shaking hand. “That was why I knew it must be the Enemy’s Ring even before I found proof. For I knew only such an evil could hobble your great heart so.”

“Then I’m not--I’m not a coward,” Bilbo said, and for a moment relief and joy shone on his face so brightly that Thorin could hardly bear it. Then his eyes narrowed, his lips tightened, and his pale cheeks flushed red. “And that means this--” He wrenched the Ring from his pocket, held it out in a hand that trembled with fury, “This is what kept me alone and afraid, trapped in my hole? This is the reason I have been parted from you all these years? This is why we’ve lost so much time--so much time, Thorin!” His eyes brightened with pain and with a growing resolve. “Well then!”

He cast the Ring onto the council table; it fell with a dull thump like a single beat of a distant, angry heart.

“Then I will destroy the wretched thing,” cried Bilbo Baggins, “If I must cross the world alone to do it!”

Chapter Text

Bilbo Baggins dodged a dwarf carrying a bag of provisions and almost ran into another carrying a pile of blankets. Everywhere people were bustling around, making preparations for the Fellowship to leave Khazad-dûm and begin its journey. The word had gone out before the Council had even finished for the day, and already all of Khazad-dûm seemed to be involved in packing. Many dwarves smiled at Bilbo or waved as he made his way back to his quarters, and Bilbo was amazed at how fast news had apparently travelled.

His announcement that he intended to destroy the Ring had galvanized the Council. Théoden and the twin sons of Elrond had immediately leapt to their feet to pledge their support, followed a moment later by Denethor, who was clearly not to be outdone by either elves or Rohirrim. Legolas of the Greenwood had stood more slowly, but his voice had been steady and his eyes clear as he swore to stay by Bilbo’s side.

“Well, that’s five companions for Bilbo’s journey,” Gandalf had chuckled. “Elves and men together. As for dwarves--” His eyes had turned to Thorin, “--I assume we shall have a representative there as well?”

“Oh,” Bilbo stammered, “But Thorin is King of Erebor--he can’t go tramping all over Middle Earth with me--” He broke off, somehow ashamed of how hopeful he sounded.

Thorin shook his head gravely. “Erebor is in the capable hands of my nephews, and this quest is more important than any one kingdom. Besides which…” He had smiled and met Bilbo’s eyes as if no one else was in the room at all, “I will not be parted from you again, Bilbo.”

The memory of that smile and that look made Bilbo’s own lips curve again as he hurried back to his rooms. If Thorin were with him--well, the journey couldn’t be that bad.

Surely it was his imagination that the Ring had somehow grown slightly heavier since he had sworn to destroy it.

"Bilbo," said Thorin that evening, his voice oddly hesitant, "You truly desire this?"

Bilbo paused with his fork and knife poised over a particularly succulent mushroom pie. "Why wouldn't I? If there's one thing Dori has learned to make well, it's mushroom pie."

"Not--not the pie," said Thorin, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "The journey to Mordor, and the destruction of the Ring."

"Oh, that. I see." Bilbo put his utensils down, his appetite fading somewhat, and considered the question.

"You spoke so strongly and with such passion in the Council," Thorin said, "But I was not sure if perhaps you were just speaking so in support of my plan."

Bilbo picked up a crystal salt shaker and turned it over in his hands, watching the light play off it. "I meant it. I meant every word," he said. "I know it's not like me to speak so angrily, but I was angry--I am angry," he corrected himself. "We've lost so much time, and it's all the fault of this cursed Ring. We didn't have to be so alone, Thorin, and knowing that it wasn't my doing, wasn't my weakness--well, I feel strong enough to travel to the ends of the world, if you're with me. And together we'll put a stop to this nasty Sauron who makes so many peoples' lives a misery." He swallowed hard, looking down at his plate. "You see, if I can do this thing, if I can travel to Mordor, then I wasn't a coward at all. So I have to try."

"You are not a coward." Thorin's voice was vehement.

"And I know what you're afraid of," Bilbo went on, his voice dropping to nearly a whisper. "You think the Ring is the reason I don't seem much over fifty, even though I'm seventy-six. And you're afraid that if I destroy it, it will..." His voice faltered, and he swallowed before he continued, "It will kill me."

The words sounded horribly loud in the silence of the room; Bilbo felt rather than saw Thorin make a reflexive dwarven gesture of warding. "I do fear it," Thorin said.

"But Thorin-" Bilbo looked up and met his eyes. "I would rather die by your side, trying to destroy this horrid thing, than live for another day apart from you. I have had--" He choked slightly, went on, "I have had so many of those, Thorin. So many!"

Thorin looked at him gravely for a long time. Then he nodded, and some undefinable tension left his eyes. "Very well, then," he said. "Starting now, we enjoy every moment of our lives together to the fullest."

"Starting with this delicious mushroom pie," said Bilbo, just to hear Thorin's laugh ring out.

“We shall travel along the Ered Lithui, the Ash Mountains of the northern border of Mordor,” Thorin said, pointing to one of the many maps spread out on the table. “Then enter Mordor from the far eastern side. The deserts there are dry and unforgiving, but Sauron will not expect us to approach from the east. Then we shall travel across Nurn and make our way to Mount Doom, high atop the Plateau of Gorgoroth.”

“It is a long journey,” said Glorfindel, gazing at the maps.

“It is,” agreed Thorin. “But Sauron’s forces there are not what they were; he is still rebuilding. While his troops are many, they are not legion, for Gondor has kept them somewhat in check these past years--at great cost," he added to Denethor's grim nod. "Therefore we have time for stealth and caution rather than a desperate attempt to enter Mordor directly.”

“I still say the southern route is a better one,” said Denethor. “Harad is an inhospitable land, but for a time we will be traveling through Gondor and its outposts, able to rest and restock…”

“The soldiers of Gondor have been hard-pressed by the forces of Mordor in recent years,” said Arwen. “Perhaps if you were to travel south you could bring them some aid as well.”

There was an almost wistful quality to her voice, the same that had been there when she discussed Minas Tirith before, but Denethor flushed as though she had slapped him.

“I know well what you are insinuating, elf-maid,” he snapped. Arwen looked at him, surprised, but he continued: “You think that we of the race of Men will seek to take the Ring for our own, will fail to destroy it. But we of Gondor are stronger than you think! It was Isildur who failed the world in its time of need so long ago, and it is Isildur’s line who bears the guilt and shame of that weakness. The men of Minas Tirith have taken back Osgiliath, have driven back the forces of Mordor. We need not some magical trinket to prevail against evil!” He threw back his cloak to rest one hand on his sword and one on his horn, glaring around the room as if to fend off an attack. “It is Isildur’s blood which is corrupt, which lusts for power--not that of the men of Gondor. It is well that his line is extinct rather than be tempted by the Ring once more.”

Arwen’s face was pale, her hands curled into fists. Her brothers were watching her with worry on their faces, and Galadriel laid a swift hand on her arm. She took a deep breath and unclenched her hands; Bilbo could see small half-moon marks bitten into her palms. “Believe as you will, man of Gondor,” she said, and turned away.

“I have heard your thoughts,” said Thorin quickly, speaking into the silence. “But I believe still that the northern road is best.” He had stepped somehow into the role of leader of the party, and none gainsaid him now, although Denethor looked mutinous. “If we are in need of supplies, there are Easterling towns along the way--Erebor has no quarrel with the Easterlings,” he said swiftly as Denethor opened his mouth, “And I believe Bilbo and I could purchase what we need without interference while the rest of the party waited in the wilderness."

Bilbo tried to imagine shopping in an Easterling town. The mind boggled, remembering wild tales from the far east: oliphaunts and lions and camelopards, fierce warriors and lands of unending sands. Would he--could he--travel to such places?

He set his jaw once more, remembering the walls of his hobbit-hole closing in on him, tethered to the Ring like a dog on a leash. Yes, he would go wherever he must.

He came back to full attention to hear Saruman discussing the dangers of the road ahead: “For I have traveled in the east, as even my friend Mithrandir has not,” he was saying. “I have been to Saynshar, capital of the Easterlings, and beyond, to the Orocarni Mountains and the shores of the Encircling Sea itself. This is no pleasure-jaunt, no camping trip for a sheltered hobbit.”

Thorin looked amused and annoyed in equal measure. “Bilbo Baggins is far from sheltered,” he said. “He has faced down goblins and orcs, has endured great hunger and privation, and--”

There was a sudden commotion in the hall outside the council chambers: the sound of heavy boots hurrying closer, of voices raised in surprise. Then the heavy stone doors were flung open, and in strode--

“Dís!” cried Bilbo in shock at the same time Thorin said “Sister?”

The dwarf-woman in the doorway planted her feet squarely and glared at her brother. “Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain,” she said, and her voice reminded Bilbo of when his mother had used to say his full name after he fell into a puddle and returned home muddy. “You have much to answer for!”

“Your majesty!” Another familiar bearded face peered around her apologetically. “Forgive me, sire, but I could not let her travel without a guard, and she would go seeking you…”

“Peace, Gimli,” said Balin. “And be welcome in Khazad-dûm, Lady Dís,” he added, bowing.

She curtseyed to him, it seemed to Bilbo rather grudgingly, her gaze still fixed on her brother. “Your note to my son left much to be desired in the way of details,” she growled. “I have been searching for you for some time now.”

“I--” Thorin put a hand to his brow, rubbing, “--I rather thought you would stay and advise your son in the leadership of Erebor.”

“Well, perhaps you should have left me a terse, peremptory note telling me so,” she said tartly. “As it was, you seemed the person more in need of help. And so I set off to find you--and Gimli insisted on accompanying me,” she added with a slight curve of her lips, “Although I misdoubt me if his motives were not to see more of the world rather than protect me.”

”My lady!” Gimli’s voice was horrified; she touched him on the shoulder with a smile and he subsided.

“And so I find here you here in Khazad-dûm with--” For the first time her eyes left her brother to take in the rest of the room, and her dark eyebrows rose in surprise, “--with a roomful of elves and humans?” Then she spotted Bilbo, standing halfway behind a great stone chair; her smile of recognition was polite but not warm. “And Mr. Baggins. I suspected whatever caused my brother to abandon Erebor would have you at the base.”

Bilbo gave her a small, weak wave as Thorin said, “Dís, Gimli, there were events I could not ignore, events that threaten not just the Lonely Mountain, but all of Middle Earth.”

She was glaring at the maps on the council table. “Brother, what mad quest are you setting off on now? Bad enough that you spent so many years wandering the world away from Erebor. It is clear you need someone to keep an eye on you.”

“Bad enough that this expedition is being led by a dwarf,” said Legolas. “We need no more in the party.”

“There seem quite a few more elves in the group than strictly necessary,” growled Gimli, looking around the room. “Perhaps their ranks should be thinned a bit?”

There was a general grating of wood and metal as axes, swords, and arrows were adjusted.

“Oh, by the hairy feet of my grandsires!” Bilbo said in pure exasperation. “Very well, Thorin may be the leader of this quest, but it is apparently going nowhere without me, and I say I do not stir a step outside these doors until you Big People--and yes, dwarves are Relatively Big People,” he added as Thorin opened his mouth, “--stop behaving like giant babies.” Everyone was staring at him; he cleared his throat but did not back down. “Théoden and Denethor are the only Men here, and so it makes sense to include them. Thorin is the leader, so you’re not leaving him behind. Legolas, Elladan, and Elrohir make three Elves, so there’s still space for two more dwarves to keep it even, as I see it.” He turned to Gimli and Dís. “That is, if you’re willing to travel with us once you know where we’re going.”

Dís’s eyes were narrow, looking at Bilbo. “It seems my brother has much to explain to me.”

“Well I, for one, do not need to hear that history lesson again,” announced Dwalin. “I say the rest of us break for dinner!”

There was general approval of this statement and a widespread scraping of chairs on the floor, sounds Bilbo much preferred to weaponry. “Shall I fetch some food for the three of you?” he asked Thorin. Thorin smiled slightly and nodded without turning his attention from his sister.

“The tale begins thousands of years ago, in the elven lands of Eregion,” Bilbo heard him say as the door shut between them, along with the sound of Gimli’s faint sigh.

Bilbo was hurrying back to the council chambers with a hamper full of sausages and ale, whistling to himself--he felt so much cheerier lately, which was rather mad considering he was helping plan a journey to Mordor--when a bony hand landed on his shoulder, causing him to yelp a bit. He looked up into the dark, deep eyes of the wizard Saruman and suppressed another yelp.

“Mr. Baggins,” Saruman intoned, inclining his head. “May I speak with you a moment?”

“Brother, this is suicide,” said Dís, glaring at the maps. “Even if you could cross the plains of the Easterlings in the company of elves and men, even if Mordor manages to overlook your presence just slightly to the north, even if you can traverse the Desert of Nurn to enter Mordor--then you merely have to make your way through Nurn, a land crawling with orcs and enslaved thralls of Sauron. Oh, and then you must ascend the Plateau of Gorgoroth and climb Mount Doom!” She shook her head. “You will throw away all our lives.”

Thorin winced at her pronoun. “You are not--”

“--You will need more than one dwarf in your party if you hope to even make it halfway,” Gimli said. “Perhaps with three of us you will make it all the way to Mordor before you perish.”

Dís looked at him unsmiling, but her eyes were affectionate. “I will not leave you to face this alone, Thorin. My sons are defending Erebor; I shall defend you.”

There was a hesitant tap at the door and a hamper appeared around the corner, followed by Bilbo’s curly head. “I brought some food,” he said.

Dís took the hamper from him and bowed deeply, causing Bilbo to wave his hands in the air in agitation and say “It’s just some sandwiches.”

“I am apologizing, Mr. Baggins,” said Dís. “My brother has explained why you did not come to see us for so long, and I regret my harsh words even more now--although truly, I have regretted them many times since I sent them. It is unfortunate my brother did not see fit to explain your constrained situation sooner,” she added with a pointed look.

Thorin was about to explain once again about the need for secrecy and the uncertain information, but something in Bilbo’s expression stopped him. “What’s wrong, Bilbo?”

“I just had a very strange conversation,” Bilbo said, opening the hamper and handing food to the dwarves. “With Saruman. He...urged me to give him the Ring.”

Thorin’s skin prickled. “Did he? I had a similar conversation with him.” He offered me that which I desire above all things: a life with you, he did not add.

“He made me uncomfortable,” Bilbo said, and Thorin had the impression he was making a large understatement. “He was...upset. I--”

He broke off as Gandalf and Glorfindel came into the room, followed by the other elves, dwarves, and men, and he bit his lip and fell silent as the council began anew. Legolas and Gimli glowered at each other a bit, but otherwise the plans continued smoothly: discussions of what types of mounts to bring, and how much provisioning was needed, and a tentative timetable for their departure. "I would say it will take us at least a month to get everything together," said Balin. "You wouldn't want to go rushing off to Mordor unprepared, after all!"

"Where is Saruman?" asked Thorin, noticing for the first time that the wizard had never returned.

Gandalf frowned and shot a nearly-imperceptible glance at Galadriel. "I do not know. Did he return to his chambers?"

"And why is it so hot?" complained Elladan, tugging at his shirt collar. "Don't you dwarves have some way to control the temperature in these caves?"

Balin frowned. “It is unusually warm…” he murmured.

Thorin stood. “Where is Saruman?” he repeated, hearing the sudden tension in his voice, feeling his heartbeat thud against his breastbone.

That was when the first distant screams started to break out.

All the members of the Council stared wildly at each other--all but Galadriel. The Lady of Lothlórien stood then, and the light in her eyes was fierce and beautiful, and her face was utterly calm.

“Durin’s Bane walks once more the halls of Khazad-dûm,” she announced.

“The Balrog has awoken.”

Chapter Text

“We are betrayed!” cried Dís, springing to her feet. The smell of smoke, mixed with a more acrid brimstone, was beginning to burn Bilbo’s nose. “The wizard has sent Durin’s Bane against us!”

A babble of panicking voices broke out--Balin and Dwalin defending Saruman, the younger elves debating strategy, Théoden and Denethor demanding explanations. Thorin was trying to get everyone’s attention, but even his iron will could not restore order.

In the chaos, Bilbo noticed that Glorfindel had gone even paler, the gold of his hair bright as flame around his white face. He, Gandalf, and Galadriel all shared a silent look, a moment of wordless conference. Then Galadriel turned and strode from the room, the others all following in her wake, even the long-legged Men forced into a run to keep up with the pace of her strides.

“Your majesty!” a dwarven guard intercepted them, hailing Balin, his breath ragged. “A force of orcs is attacking the East Gate! They are led by--” He broke off, swallowed hard. “They are led by the White Orc, Azog, your majesty.”

“This is no coincidence,” said Thorin. “They are working in tandem, some greater force directing them. The Balrog to scatter our forces and throw us into disarray, the white orc to capture the Ring and bear it to Mordor--or to Orthanc.”

“The east is blocked to us,” Gimli said, his voice hollow. “We cannot get out.”

Dwalin spat something obscene in Khuzdul.

But Balin’s voice was steady: “There is a secret exit to the south-east,” he said. “I shall lead you there. Rally your people, Jandin,” he said to the guard. “Send half of our force to the East Gate, and the rest to the Twenty-First Hall, where they will make a stand against the Balrog.”

“Only half--” Jandin swallowed hard. “It is a large force of orcs, your majesty. We shall do our utmost, of course, but I fear--”

“--Send all your troops to the East Gate against Azog,” Galadriel said suddenly. “They can do nothing but die against such as a Balrog.”

“Then what would you have us do?” raged Dwalin. “You would have us give up, die in the darkness with no heart, no hope--”

Galadriel put her hand on his shoulder and he fell silent. “There is always hope, my friend,” she said. “Did I not tell you, the other night?”

“You said,” faltered Dwalin, “You said you saw a vision in your Mirror, and knew that it awaited you here.”

“A vision of smoke and flame,” she said. “I hoped it would not be this, yet now I know: it is my fate to face Durin’s Bane.”

She turned and strode away once more; Gandalf hurried after her and the rest of the party followed in his wake, until they stood in front of the doors to the Twenty-First Hall. The air was thick with heat and smoke, and Bilbo felt sick and dizzy. The Ring around his neck seemed hot and heavy, as if it would drag him down to where the Balrog awaited it, its scorching clawed hands ready to curl around it, claim it...

“My lady!” cried Gandalf, grabbing her arm. “You cannot--the safety of the Wood--”

She smiled and took his hands in hers. “I left the means of its protection with the Lord Celeborn. And I know next you will swear to fight by my side, but it cannot be. You must protect Bilbo and his companions. Where I go now, you cannot follow me.”

“My lady--” Gandalf broke off and Bilbo realized he was weeping, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

Galadriel’s face, on the other hand, was serene, untroubled. There was a light in it that Bilbo had never seen before, a radiance that made him feel small and awed. “Once, long ago, I swore in bitterness that I would take no ship back to Valinor,” she murmured as if to herself. “And yet it seems there are other roads that return to the Blessed Lands.”

With an abrupt motion, Elrohir suddenly unbuckled the sword at his waist. “Take it, sister,” he said, holding it out to Arwen. “Take it and give it to its proper owner.”

“No!” she cried. “I will not let you face this!”

He laughed, a merry sound, incongruous against the sound of groaning stone and distant flame beyond the door. “To fight a Balrog, Arwen! The bards will sing of it for all time, will they not, brother?”

Elladan was pale, but his bow was drawn: he nodded grimly and kissed his sister on the cheek, taking her hands to wrap them around the sword’s scabbard.

Glorfindel was binding up his long, golden hair, plaiting it into a tight braid with swift, economical movements. If his hands shook slightly it was possible only Bilbo noticed the small tremor. “I too shall stand at your side, Lady,” he said in a low voice to Galadriel. “You will have need of me.”

She gazed at him a long moment, then nodded. “My thanks.” Then she turned to the rest of the people gathered there. “The Fellowship must flee this place,” she said. “You face a hard journey, devoid of comfort, but the Ring must not stay here and risk falling into the hands of such as a Balrog, nor into the grasp of Azog. Be strong and true, and the fate of Middle Earth shall be secure.” She met each of the party’s eyes squarely in turn, and when Bilbo saw the light in them he felt serenity and comfort flow into him.

Yet when Galadriel’s gaze fell last on Arwen, her tranquil expression shattered and crumpled. “My child,” she said, and there were tears on her face. “Oh, my dear child.”

With a small, broken sound, Arwen threw herself forward and embraced her.

“Be happy, little one, and know that my love is with you always,” murmured Galadriel into the waves of her dark hair. “Wherever--wherever you may go,” she finished with something like a sob in her voice.

Then she released her and turned to throw open the great stone doors as effortlessly as if they were made of paper.

Beyond, smoke crept along the ceiling and wreathed the great stone pillars. From the far end of the hall, a ruddy light glowed and flickered, as if a vast bonfire were lit just out of sight. As Bilbo stared, transfixed in horror, he saw a massive shape come around the corner, a being of smoke and flame, a burning whip in its hand. The entire hall rumbled each time its cloven feet touched the stone. A ragged line of dwarven guards assembled to block its progress; Bilbo saw their armor glow cherry-red as it approached, and horrific screams echoed down the hall.

“Lead them, brother,” said Dwalin, drawing his axe. “What?” he said to Balin’s sound of horror, “I’m not letting a passel of elves defend our glorious halls or steal the glory of avenging Durin’s death from me! Especially not a frail and fragile elf-maid,” he added with a wry, lopsided smile. He threw his arm around Balin. “Reign long and well, King Balin!” he cried, and banged his forehead against his brother’s. Then he pushed him toward Thorin, meeting Thorin’s eyes in a silent salute. “Now go!”

He strode forward to join the elves in the doorway: Elladan and Glorfindel made space for him in their line, nodding to him: a warrior’s acknowledgement.

Together they walked into the hall to face the Balrog. Without looking back, Galadriel made a gesture and the vast stone doors slammed shut behind them, cutting off the punishing heat and the sight of the Balrog readying its whip of flame.

“We must go!” cried Gandalf, the first of the Fellowship to break from the spell of horror that seemed to lie on them all. “They are buying us time, and we must take it!” The ground shook with a sudden impact, and everyone reeled; Bilbo would have fallen if Thorin’s strong hand had not gripped his shoulder. Gandalf seized Balin and shook him. “The exit! Show us the exit!”

Balin’s face was streaked with tears, running down into his beard, but he nodded. “This way.”

They ran through the smoke-reeking tunnels, staggering as explosions and detonations shook rubble from the ceiling onto their heads. Finally they came to a small door, almost invisible against the rock wall. “This passage will take you to the Nimrodel and the borders of Lothlórien,” Balin said. “And now I return to aid my brother--or to avenge him,” he said, readying his axe and turning away from them, disappearing back into the shadows.

And so the Fellowship fled Moria into the cool of the night and the rustle of the trees, weeping and shattered and streaked with smoke and ash.

The followed the stream east, its gentle murmuring seeming to echo their grief. Behind them flashes of light seemed to glint from the mountaintops, and even now distant thunder reached their ears. Arwen and Gandalf stumbled blindly over tree roots and stones as if they were listening to something far away; when Bilbo took Arwen’s arm to guide her she didn’t seem aware of him at all. They had almost reached the verge of Lothlórien when Gandalf and Arwen both stopped still and cried out simultaneously, a terrible lorn sound, and all the trees around them trembled and bowed as if a cold wind had blown through them.

They trudged onward, staying just at the borders of Lothlórien, not entering--”For I do not think it would be wise to test the hospitality of Lord Celeborn at this time,” Gandalf murmured in a voice hoarse with weeping, steering them south. The great mallorn trees cast down their golden leaves around them until the air was full of grieving glory, and Bilbo could faintly hear distant singing, heavy with sorrow.

Legolas stopped, looking around him in wonder. “The trees carry to us the song they sing now in Caras Galedhon,” he said. “A song of mourning. It tells--” He faltered and his eyes fell.

“Tell us,” said Thorin.

“It tells of the death of the Lady Galadriel,” he said. “Who faced down the Balrog with her companions in the darkness of Moria.” Gandalf nodded; Arwen responded not at all, and there was no surprise in her face. “And it tells of the death of Dwalin, son of Fundin, who fought at her side and did not fail her or his people.” Gimli made a choked sound, and for a moment Legolas’s eyes turned to him, sudden sympathy within their eerie depths. “His war hammer it was that shattered the Balrog’s shield of flame, and he fell defending Galadriel and Glorfindel as they prepared their final stand. But their efforts were not in vain,” he went on, head tilted to listen to the faint music, “For the Balrog was in turn defeated. Durin’s Bane is broken, and Durin avenged. The orcs are thrown back in disarray. Glorfindel and the sons of Elrond bore the bodies of Galadriel and Dwalin back to safety and they lie together in honor.” A golden leaf drifted past his face, and he bowed his head. “The song speaks of the wisdom and grace of the Lady Galadriel. I cannot do it justice in the tongue of Men.”

They walked without conversation through the edge of the grieving wood, listening to the song sail upward to the listening moon. When it ended, they went on in silence for a time. And then Arwen, who had spoken no word since leaving Khazad-dûm, lifted up her voice into the night. The words she sang were of a different language than the song on the wind, older and deeper, and her voice was clear and lovely, her face as distant as the stars. When the last notes of her song came to an end Gandalf sighed and then spoke, his voice a low chant over the mourning rustle of the falling leaves, and Bilbo somehow knew he was attempting to translate her song. At the time, lost in exhaustion and grief, Bilbo hardly registered it. But in later years, he would wake from a dream with tears on his face and the memory of Arwen’s sweet voice beneath the stars:

Ah! like gold fall the leaves in the wind, long years numberless as the wings of trees! The long years have passed like swift draughts of the sweet mead, in lofty halls beyond the West beneath the blue vaults of Varda wherein the stars tremble in the song of her voice, holy and queenly.

Who now shall refill the cup for me?

In the dream Bilbo would see once more Arwen’s pale face, transfigured with a sorrow too vast for tears, singing:

For now the kindler, Varda, the Queen of the Stars, from Mount Everwhite has uplifted her hands like clouds, and all paths are drowned deep in shadow; and out of a grey country darkness lies on the foaming waves between us, and mist covers the jewels of Calacirya for ever. Now lost, lost to those from the East is Valimar!

Bilbo asked Thorin once, many years later, if Thorin ever dreamed of Arwen’s song. “Yes,” Thorin replied shortly, and said no more, but Bilbo heard in his voice an echo of the pain in Arwen’s song to Galadriel, her spirit gone across the Sea:

Farewell! Maybe thou shalt find Valimar. Maybe even thou shalt find it.

Farewell!

They walked and ran through the night, putting as much distance between themselves and Khazad-dûm as possible, and Bilbo went over in his mind all the useful things they had been forced to leave behind in its depths: blankets and tinderboxes and good strong rope. A long road it will be to Mordor now, and no mistake! he thought grimly. But the spirits of the party were already low enough without saying his thoughts aloud, so he hurried on with them until they were all too exhausted to continue.

Finally they stopped for a rest on the bank of the lamenting Nimrodel, and all were weary and grieving. But Arwen cast herself down on a bed of golden leaves and sobbed as though her heart would break. Touched by her sorrow, Bilbo tentatively said “But you’ll see her again one day, won’t you? The Elves are reborn across the sea, Thorin told me so once.”

But she turned away from him and wept, unconsoled, and none could comfort her.

“Dís. Théoden. Take the first watch,” Thorin said. “The rest of us should rest if we can, for the road ahead will be long.” And he wrapped his cloak around himself and sat down with his back against a tree, facing away from the rest of the party.

Bilbo sat down next to him, looking at his face. “Thorin,” he said softly.

“A fine leader I shall make,” Thorin said, low and bitter, “To begin such a quest with nothing but the clothes on our backs!”

There was a long silence; Bilbo drew close and rested his head on Thorin’s shoulder, wrapping one arm around him. He could feel Thorin’s arms trembling.

“We did not even bring any viola tea,” Thorin muttered.

And then he said “Dwalin,” and leaned into Bilbo’s embrace, and wept.

Chapter Text

Thorin started awake from a confused nightmare in which Azog drove him with a whip of fire while Dwalin cursed and screamed somewhere nearby, somewhere he could never quite reach. For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was, and then memory rushed back: the Balrog, the breaking of the Council, the flight from Khazad-dûm .

“Steady there,” came a familiar voice, and he looked down to see Bilbo sitting against the tree, managing a wan smile up at him.

He reached down to help the hobbit to his feet. “No one woke me for the watch,” he said irritably.

“Gandalf said you and Arwen should sleep if you could,” Bilbo said, his voice unapologetic. “Though I don’t believe she slept very well at all. She’s...not well.”

And indeed, Thorin could see at a glance that Bilbo was right. Arwen’s face was free of tears now, but she moved with the brittle, abstracted quality of a person in deep shock, wounded beyond expression. “Are you able to travel on, my lady?” he asked her in a low voice, and she nodded without looking at him.

There was a sharp rustle of leaves, and Legolas leaped down from the branches of a mallorn, landing lightly on the ground. “A host of wargs approaches from the west, from whence we came,” he said tersely. “And at their head, a white warg and a pale rider.”

“Or so he claims,” snarled Denethor, descending from the same tree more slowly and much less gracefully. “I saw nothing, but I see no reason to doubt him.”

“I suppose,” said Thorin with a grim smile, “that we have reason to be thankful we are not burdened with supplies. For now we are hunted, and we must flee to lose our pursuers.”

They ran east and south through the morning, steadily, but by mid-day Bilbo could hear the distant howls of wargs to the west, gaining on them. The terrain was gentle: rolling hills covered with lush green grass, but with no sign of habitation.

“This is the border between Rohan and the wood of Lórien,” Théoden explained to Bilbo during a brief stop at a clear spring. “The Rohirrim venture here but rarely, for they are uncanny lands to us, too close to the eldritch Wood.” He made a quick, apologetic gesture to Arwen, but she didn’t seem to have heard him.

“We make for the Anduin,” said Thorin. “And across it into the Brown Lands, where Azog’s wargs should find the jagged terrain hard going.”

“But first we must make it to the Anduin and cross it,” muttered Théoden, “and that will be no easy task.”

As the day wore on, his words proved to be prophetic: the gently undulating hills gave no hindrance to their mounted foes, and the howls drew ever closer. Bilbo struggled to keep up, but by noon even he could no longer deny that he was out of shape after years spent with no more exercise than long tramps in the Shire; when Thorin swept him onto his back without explanation he dared not protest and simply leaned into Thorin’s strength, holding his furred collar tightly. The party’s breath steamed in the frigid air around them, and Gimli muttered darkly that it least it was not snowing.

“Not yet,” answered Legolas, and they fell silent once more.

Finally, Gandalf called a halt, his head tilted, listening. “I have heard nothing for some time,” he said. “Perhaps we have--”

He broke off as fresh howls erupted once more, closer this time.

And to the north-east.

“They have circled around us,” said Gimli. “They drive us to the south and west.”

“They drive us toward Orthanc,” said Thorin.

“Where Saruman awaits us with open arms, no doubt,” snapped Dís. “Does he think we are fools, to seek shelter with him? Does he believe us unaware of his treachery?”

“I think he cares not what we believe, as long as the Ring does not escape him,” muttered Gandalf.

“I cannot believe Saruman would ally himself with the orcs,” Thorin said. “How could he?”

Gandalf raised an eyebrow. “Ally himself? I do not believe Saruman sees it that way, nor does Azog. They work together, but both crave the Ring--Saruman for his own uses, Azog for his true master, Sauron.”

The howls were growing closer, and at the mention of the Dark Lord Bilbo felt something like a hot chill go through his body, and he bit back a moan.

“Enough of conjecture,” snarled Thorin at the small sound. “Where do we go now?”

“We must flee south,” urged Théoden. “The way east is blocked to us now. We must make for Rohan.”

“Lead us, then,” said Thorin, re-adjusting Bilbo on his back.

They fled south, but it was futile: soon enough even Théoden and Denethor’s weaker eyes could see the wargs gaining on them from the east. Finally, they came to a river running steady and strong, blocking their path to the south. “The Limlight,” Théoden said, “The border to Rohan proper. My home,” he said, gazing at the hills beyond.

“It is too late,” said Denethor, unsheathing his sword. “They will cut us off and cut us down before we make the river. We must make our stand here.”

Thorin set Bilbo down, clasping his shoulder tightly. “Protect the Ringbearer with your lives,” he said.

Dís and Gimli made simultaneous dismissive sounds. “As if we would let anyone touch a hair on Bilbo’s head while we lived,” Dís said.

Arwen and Legolas had their bows out, joining the elves between Bilbo and harm. The humans took up the two flanks to the north and the south, and Gandalf stood behind Bilbo, his staff at the ready. Bilbo unsheathed his own knife, but his hands felt clumsy and awkward on the hilt. They will die, they will all die, and it will be your fault, a vicious small voice was whispering to him. Better to run, better to hide, perhaps they will be spared, you can hide…

He took a deep gulp of air and banished the voice, banished the images of Thorin pierced by spears, weltering in blood. No more hiding.

The Limlight chuckled and gurgled nearby, and from between his defenders Bilbo could see the wargs racing along its edge toward them: maybe thirty huge beasts, each with an orc-warrior on it.

“Son of Gondor, do you know this place?” Théoden’s voice sounded incongruously cheerful, and somehow Bilbo found comfort in this.

“Of course I do, horse-lord,” snapped Denethor. “It is the Field of Celebrant, where our ancestors first fought as allies.”

“You mean where my ancestor arrived to save your ancestor from utter annihilation, I believe.”

“Details, details.” Was that the faintest smile in Denethor’s grim voice?

“They come,” Gimli said. The wargs were moving into a gallop, picking up speed.

“Let them come, then!” Denethor lifted the great horn he carried to his lips, and with a mighty blast the echoes of its sound resonated from the hills and the water. Its clarion call was bright and challenging, and the wargs paused for a moment, milling about. Bilbo caught a glimpse of Azog lashing at his followers, driving them forward. Denethor blew his horn again, a second challenge.

And from the south came an answering call, clear and pure, and a thunder of hooves.

As the fellowship watched in amazement, a host of riders on horseback crested the hill to the south and galloped down its slope, plunging into the fords of the Limlight, sending up great clouds of spray as they charged the wargs. Crashing into their flank, they quickly set them into disarray, and Arwen and Legolas rained arrows down on the wargs with deadly accuracy.

For a moment, Bilbo saw Azog glare with baffled fury at his quarry. Then he spurred his warg and fled east, disappearing into the hills, abandoning his panicked and fleeing troops.

The battle was vicious and short, and soon the riders were galloping toward the fellowship, circling them. The scent of sweat and blood and horsehair was very strong, and Bilbo noticed that the elves and dwarves did not sheathe their weapons.

The lead rider stopped in front of the group and swung down from his horse. “Hail, and be welcome in Rohan,” he said.

Bilbo heard Arwen make a sudden sound, somewhere between a gasp and a sob, as the warrior removed his helm and shook out long dark hair. “Are you hurt?” Bilbo asked her quickly, turning to her.

She shook her head, but he saw tears on her cheeks once more.

“My friend!” Théoden cried, stepping forward to embrace the newcomer.

Over Théoden’s shoulder, the warrior’s keen eyes scanned the party, and Bilbo had a sudden sense of familiarity before he turned his attention back to Théoden, thumping him on the back. “Prince Théoden! It is good to see you again,” he said.

“We are in luck today,” said Théoden, turning back to the party with a broad smile on his face. “We are saved by the truest heart in all of Middle Earth, the bravest warrior, the man who taught me much of swordplay and diplomacy--”

“Thorongil,” said Denethor, the smile gone from his voice once more, leaving it flat and dry. “We are acquainted.”

“But I thought you went to Minas Tirith, to offer your services to Steward Ecthelion,” said Théoden to Thorongil later, over the crackling fire. The warriors had made sure all of the party was fed and rested, and were providing a lookout, leaving Thorongil alone to sit and talk with them. “What are you doing back in Rohan?”

Thorongil shot a quick look at Denethor, who was polishing his sword without looking up, then answered Théoden: “I am here to hunt down a scourge that haunts these borders of recent days, and your father sent warriors to assist me. A white orc--”

“Azog,” said Thorin.

Thorongil nodded. “And with your assistance today we have broken his ranks, though he once again escaped us.”

“Do you not have duties to be fulfilling in Minas Tirith?” said Denethor, looking across him in the firelight. “Or has being my father’s most valued adviser paled for you already?”

Thorongil met his gaze calmly. “It was your father’s wish and command I join the hunt for this Azog. He was most concerned that the white orc might be hunting you, his son and heir.”

Denethor made a small, disbelieving sound. “How convenient, then, that your duties lead you right to our party and--” He broke off, his jaw clenching. “I like it not,” he muttered.

Théoden laughed. “Truly you are as good a judge of men as you are of horses, then! For Thorongil is the truest and the bravest soul--”

“--and the wisest, and the most valiant, I know it well!” said Denethor. “Do they not sing his praises in the streets of Minas Tirith? Does my father not remind me of it every day?”

There was a raw pain in his voice that left the rest of the camp in uncomfortable silence; he swallowed hard and said nothing more, and after a moment Thorongil looked at Gandalf and said in a low voice: “I have explained my presence here, but what of yours? I believe a group composed of such a varied mix of folk is one with a story behind it.”

Gandalf tilted his head, letting the shadow of the brim of his hat hide his face. “I am not the leader of this group,” he said. “Thorin Oakenshield of Erebor is, and the explanation must lie with him.”

Thorin shot Gandalf a wry look that Bilbo could read quite well: You are quick with the commands, but slow with explanations, wizard! “We travel east,” he said, “And our business is our own, but you need have no fear that we mean harm to Rohan or to Gondor. Our mission is one that would help both lands, and all of Middle Earth.”

Thorongil nodded. “I know well that neither Théoden nor Denethor would ever be a party to aught that would harm their people,” he said.

Théoden leaned forward and whispered loudly: “We bear with us the One Ring, Isildur’s Bane! We travel to Mordor to destroy it and its master, Sauron!”

“Fool! Prating imbecile!” Denethor leaped to his feet, his face twisted with a combination of fury and fear. “Such words are not--”

“--Thorongil would never betray us,” Théoden growled. “I would trust him with my life.”

“You have trusted him with more than that,” cried Denethor. “You have given us away to--” He broke off and bit his lip, “--to a stranger,” he finished, but Bilbo had the impression he had been going to say something else. “I am not so easily cozened as some,” he said in a low voice to Thorongil. “Do not forget it.”

And he turned and strode off into the night, joining a different campfire on the far side of the camp and sitting to stare into the fire.

“My apologies,” said Théoden to Thorongil. “He is a sour companion indeed.”

“Nay,” said Thorongil, looking after Denethor’s retreating figure. “He bears a heavy burden, and you do not know his whole story! If he trusts me not, that is between the two of us alone. Think how unbelievable he found the idea that his father would have sent me here to protect him, and know that while Ecthelion is a good and proud leader, he has been a distant and cold father at times, not inclined to show his heir his heart.” He glanced across the fire to where Legolas and Arwen sat, and something like a smile touched the corner of his mouth. “I would not be such a father for all the world,” he murmured. “If the lady that I love above all else were to pledge her heart to me, I swear neither she nor our children would ever doubt my love for them in all the days of our lives together.”

Then he seemed to recall himself, and reached out to clasp Théoden on the back. “I value your good opinion of me, my prince. But in the future, I would advise you to be rather less open with your revelations about this party.”

Théoden looked crestfallen for a moment. “Forgive me,” he murmured to Thorin.

“What is done is done,” said Thorin. “There is no use denying it: Théoden spoke the truth.”

“Isildur’s Bane,” said Thorongil. “I can scarce believe it. How came you to be here, pursued by Azog?”

Gandalf sighed. “We believe we were betrayed by Saruman the White,” he said. “Who released a spirit of flame and smoke from another age, a Balrog, upon us.”

“We escaped Khazad-dûm to find ourselves hunted by the orcs,” said Gimli.

“The Lady of Lothlórien, Galadriel, perished to save us,” said Arwen. It was the first time she had spoken since her song the night before, and Thorongil looked sharply at her, his brows drawn.

“This is grim news,” he said, “And you bear much pain with you. It grieves me to hear it.” He stood. “Rest here in safety tonight, and tomorrow we shall discuss what help we can give you. For I would not have you feel that you grieve alone,” he added in a lower voice.

Usually Thorin could sleep through anything while on the road, but tonight the crackling campfires and the smell of roasting meat chased sleep away, and he found himself leaving Bilbo curled up on his bedroll and walking the boundaries of the camp. On the far side was a small copse of trees, and on a whim he entered it.

The moonlight cast dappled shadows on the ground through the leaves, and he heard a bird singing nearby. Rummaging through his memory of the birds Bilbo had taught him, he was able to come up with its name: a nightingale, singing sweetly with a long liquid trill that rose and fell.

He was slower to realize that he could hear voices underneath its song: a man and a woman’s in conversation together. Thorin drew close enough to recognize Thorongil’s deep voice and Arwen’s sweet tones mingled together, and to hear both laughter and tears in the elf-maiden’s voice before he broke off and retreated hastily back to the camp.

“You couldn’t sleep either?” Bilbo murmured as Thorin lay back down. “Estel,” he added sleepily.

“What?” said Thorin, unsure why Bilbo would be saying ‘hope’ in Sindarin in the middle of the night.

“I knew I’d seen him somewhere, and it finally came to me as I was drowsing--I’ve met Thorongil before, in Rivendell. He was just a boy then, of course, but there’s something about him that isn’t easy to forget. His name was Estel, then.” He yawned and pulled Thorin’s arm across him, holding him close.

“Perhaps that explains it,” murmured Thorin, and then of course he had to tell a suddenly-awake Bilbo about the conversation he had heard in the woods. “Perhaps they knew each other before, and do not want others to know it.”

“Perhaps,” said Bilbo. “He seems a deep one! But I’m glad she has someone who might comfort her a little, the poor girl,” he said before he fell asleep.

The next day, Thorin awoke to the sound of Arwen humming as she combed out her long dark hair with a silver comb. She looked...different, somehow, with the morning sun from the east bathing her face: somehow less unearthly and more present than before, with both a sadness and a joy burning within her, lighting her features. For his part, Estel--the name Bilbo gave him seemed to suit him better than Thorongil--seemed ablaze with happiness, gathering up supplies and provisions for the Fellowship with a kind of dazed and disbelieving delight. Neither Arwen nor Estel ever looked at each other, but they seemed at all times almost painfully aware of each other.

Interesting, Thorin Oakenshield thought, and he thought many other things besides, about love and about death. But he shared these thoughts with no one, not even Bilbo, as he watched Arwen Evenstar comb out her hair in the morning light.

Chapter Text

“It smells of snow coming,” said Bilbo, stamping his feet and chafing his arms. “Why couldn’t this whole confounded quest have waited until spring, I ask you?” But his grumbling lacked rancor and there was a twinkle in his eye as he scowled at Thorin, who hid his smile and scowled back.

The fellowship was packing up their meagre belongings; the Rohirrim were breaking camp as well, and Théoden was deep in conversation with a group of the warriors. Finally he nodded in satisfaction and came over to where the rest of the party stood.

“My people will give us all that we need for our journey: food and water, blankets and warm clothing. Anything more that you have need of, please ask them. And further, they can spare three pack horses to carry our provisions.”

“We were fortunate indeed to meet your people,” said Thorin.

“I only wish I could bring you south, to Edoras and the Golden Hall of Meduseld!" Théoden said. "There would the boards groan with fare aplenty, and horns overflow with mead as we toasted our lost companions for their valor. And I could see my sisters again--I have four, each one fairer than the next, although the sweetest is little Theodwyn, the youngest, who has not yet seen five summers.” He sighed, gazing south. “Someday, perhaps!”

“I too shall travel with you,” said Estel, drawing near. “Azog’s band is defeated, and my duty here in Rohan done.”

“Should you not return to Minas Tirith, to report to your ruler?” Denethor said tartly, looking up from his breakfast, but Estel’s good mood was not to be broken by petty jibes.

“Your father tasked me with keeping you safe and preventing any threats to Gondor,” he said, “And I judge that traveling with you achieves both of these goals.” He smiled. “I find myself unwilling to be parted from your fellowship so quickly.”

“How convenient!” jeered Denethor, but Thorin noted that Arwen smiled too, and turned away quickly to hide it.

The Rohirrim rode south, back across the Limlight into Rohan, and the fellowship traveled east more slowly on foot, the three pack horses clopping after. Théoden introduced them as Gléowine, Goldwine, and Guthwine--”Friend of joy, friend of gold, and friend of battle,” he said, and they nodded their shaggy heads at their names and puffed great breaths of steam into the air. Snow started to fall as they went, a light dusting that scudded across the ground and curled around the horses’ hooves, and everyone hunched further into their cloaks and shivered.

The ground grew boggy as they approached the place where the Limlight joined the Anduin, and great reeds grew in clumps higher than the hobbit and dwarves' heads, pale and brittle with the cold. The shorter members of the party were forced to let the taller ones take the lead, though not without grumbling. "For we would go around in endless circles if we let you lead us, master dwarf," Legolas said with a grin at Gimli's scowl. The going was slow, for the boggy ground sucked at their boots and even Bilbo had to admit that icy mud between the toes tended to kill any joy in traveling. But he kept his spirits up as much as possible by singing songs of the Shire: harvest songs and love ballads and nonsense ditties, whatever entered his head. When his voice grew hoarse, Gimli sang a dwarven marching-song, and Théoden spent a few hours chanting the lineage of the horses of Rohan, until even Bilbo had to admit that if he never heard another “begat” that would be fine with him.

Even Denethor had a song to give the party, for as they traveled through the marshy lands a bird winged high overhead, a gull flying south, and Denethor waved to it as if to a friend. “He flies south over the mountains, to Dol Amroth and its castle on the golden cliffs above the sea,” he said, almost as if to himself, “Dol Amroth! Fairest of all cities save Minas Tirith.” And then he looked after the gull and sang:

”My sweet brown bird in the briar sings
I have no wish to clip her wings
So high she flies, so wild and free
My sweet bird over the wide, wide sea.

My sweet brown bird no cage will bear
But soars above without a care
And my heart takes flight when I hear her song
My sweet bird over the billows strong.”

For a moment, looking south, his face seemed lost in a joyful memory, and the bitterness and pride were eased from it. Then he came to himself and laughed shortly at Bilbo’s expression. “Does it surprise you that I am capable of melody, Mr. Baggins?” he said. “But if you had ever met the Princess Finduilas of Dol Amroth, you would understand that she could move even the most joyless to song. Lucky was I the day she agreed to become my betrothed.”

“Luckily she gains the rule of Gondor in the deal, to make it worth marrying you,” smirked Théoden, but at his words the smile slipped from Denethor’s face and his mood seemed to darken once more; he did not respond to Théoden, but cast an odd glare at Estel’s back before going back to plodding through the mud in silence once more.

They came to the shores of the Anduin, at the North Undeep, the great lazy bend of the river where the waters ran shallow enough to cross on foot, and picked their way carefully across the stony shoals, leading the pack horses.

“Mercy me,” said Bilbo as they reached the other side. “What a terrible place.”

The Brown Lands were aptly named: no trees and little grass grew on the scarred and scorched land, which was broken into jagged peaks and piles of rock. The going was even slower now as they made their way across crumbling shale and treacherous icy slate, and more than once they found their way blocked by a rockfall and had to backtrack to another route.

“Once these lands were fertile and beautiful,” Gandalf said that night, as they camped for the first time since crossing the river. “But war came to them, and they were destroyed and left barren.”

Bilbo shivered and drew nearer to the feeble fire, and Thorin put an arm around him. “I feel I shall never be warm again,” Bilbo muttered, leaning into him.

“It is a bitter cold,” agreed Dís, biting off a piece of jerky and looking around the looming rock-piles with unease. Her eyes fell on Arwen, sitting on the other side of the fire. “Where did you get a needle and thread, elf-maiden?”

“My name is Arwen,” she replied without looking up from her work. “And the riders of Rohan were kind enough to give me some materials.”

Dís moved to sit next to her, gazing at her work: delicate stitches of white thread on a rough black cloth. The pattern was impossible to guess yet, but it looked like a star, or perhaps a leaf. “You have a delicate hand,” Dís said. “I left a gown for my little grandson half-finished when I departed from Erebor and my fingers itch to hold a needle again. It always cleared my mind and focused my thoughts.”

Arwen looked startled, then smiled. “I miss my mother’s embroidery hoop,” she admitted, her needle dipping in and out of the dark fabric. “It would be easier work with it, but I left it in Rivendell. It was made of ivory. She gave it to me before she--before she sailed West,” she said. Her smile slipped and her fingers stilled as she gazed down at the cloth, unseeing.

“Could you show me how you make that knot?” said Dís gently. “I’ve never seen one of quite that style.” As she watched Arwen’s nimble fingers, she went on, “My grandfather gave me my hoop when he taught me my stitches. It was made of beaten bronze.”

“Your grandfather did embroidery? The King?” There was a chuckle in Théoden’s voice, and Dís looked confused before she smiled.

“Ah yes, men and elves tend to divide things into tasks for men and tasks for women, I always forget,” she said.

“If we relied on such a small group to do all the sewing, many would have to live with rent clothing!” laughed Gimli.

“Grandfather always embroidered before diplomatic meetings,” said Dís. “He said it helped remind him of the ways our lives are interwoven.”

“Did he teach you embroidery as well, Thorin?” said Bilbo with only a hint of merriment in his tone at the image of Thorin bent over an embroidery hoop.

Thorin frowned. “I lacked the patience when I was young,” he said. “He was rather disappointed with me.” There was a thread of regret in his voice, and Bilbo found his hand and squeezed it without thinking.

The conversation moved on to other things, and Bilbo realized later Arwen had never mentioned what exactly she was stitching, or for whom.

The Brown Lands seemed to stretch on forever, though Gandalf assured them that if they had been able to walk directly, they could have covered the distance in half the time. “A pity we do not have wings,” grumbled Denethor, glaring up at the sky as they were forced to sidetrack to the west once more. The eerie landscape began to wear on everyone as the days wore on, and more than once Thorin saw members of the party starting at shadows or jumping at a cascade of pebbles.

Yet even these desolate lands were not utterly devoid of life: small hopping mice would appear on the tops of rock piles top stare at them curiously with beady black eyes, and once they spotted a nimble mountain goat clambering up a steep slope with unconcerned grace. But the wind howled and whistled through the channels and valleys as if it were being dragged across stone knives, and Thorin often could sense Bilbo tossing and turning in his sleep as the eerie wailing rose and fell.

“We shall be out of here soon,” Gandalf said one morning, leaning on his staff and nodding. “At least, I certainly hope so,” he added, looking up at the sky and frowning. “This plateau gives way to the wide fields of south Dorwinion. Then the route is simple, following the Ash Mountains to the east. There should be no trouble at all,” he concluded, smiling down at Dís and Gimli, who had been complaining.

“No trouble at all,” Dís repeated mockingly as he walked away. “Wizards!”

Days later, Thorin awoke in the middle of the night, reaching for his sword without thinking before he realized that Bilbo had woken him up, shuddering deep in a nightmare. In the northwest there was a sudden flicker of eerie violet light, a spear of magenta lightning crackling across the pewter-colored clouds.

“A storm,” said a voice, and Thorin turned to see Estel looking to the north-west. “Sweeping south, from Dol Guldur.” A low rumble of thunder reached them.

“That fell fortress was cleansed long ago,” said Legolas, perched atop a jagged stone formation. A wind was picking up, blowing grit across the stones.

“It was, yes,” said Estel. Another jagged fork of pink lightning skewered the clouds. Thunder, closer this time. “But how long has it been since the elves of the Greenwood have ventured there?”

Legolas’s gaze dropped, and he frowned.

Bilbo took a ragged breath, his eyes moving beneath their lids, and Thorin reached down to shake his shoulder. As he touched him, though, lightning crackled, much closer this time, and Bilbo sat up with a muffled shriek.

“I saw them!” he cried. “Dark riders on dark horses, riding forth from iron gates. They called out--” He closed his eyes and buried his face in Thorin’s collar, shaking.

Something landed with a thud in the middle of the campfire, sending sparks and burning twigs flying everywhere. A second missile thumped down next to Arwen, and everyone stared at it: a smooth white orb about the size of an apple.

“It’s ice,” Arwen said. “Hail.”

By now the hail was pattering all around them, bouncing off the ground: Thorin cast his coat around Bilbo and crouched over him as lightning flashed and the sky split open, shielding him with his body until they could stagger to a shallow indentation in a rock, sheltered from the worst.

“Take cover!” yelled Estel, as a hailstone nearly the size of a hobbit’s head smacked into the rocks, sending chips and fragments of ice flying everywhere. Thorin watched as he grabbed Théoden’s shield from the ground and held it over first Gimli’s head, then Legolas’s, giving them cover while they scrambled to find a sheltered spot. He tried to protect Denethor with it as well, but Denethor gave him a furious look and Estel fell back.

“Watch out!” cried Arwen. There was the twang of a bowstring, and the air above Estel exploded into chips and flying ice. Startled, he threw himself to the ground, rolling to slide under the same outcropping as Arwen.

“You shot the hailstone,” he yelled breathlessly at her over the nearly-constant roll of thunder. “Very nice.”

Thorin saw her smile at him. “Well, someone has to value your life, if you will not,” she retorted.

They exchanged a giddy smile, and Thorin felt the radiance of it like a light in the darkness. Then Bilbo shuddered against him as another thunderclap rattled the camp, and Thorin tightened his arms around him. “You’re safe,” he murmured. “I’ll keep you safe.” He felt Bilbo nod against him and for a moment he believed it himself.

Then he saw Gandalf, hunched uncomfortably under a low outcropping, watching the storm with narrowed eyes and a worried face.

Lurid lightning bathed everything in a baleful glow, and Thorin tried not to shudder himself.

The Brown Lands ended abruptly, as if the final ripples of some cataclysmic shockwave had reached their terminus many ages ago. The ground smoothed out into a plateau, and the horses gratefully cropped at the brown, sere grasses which grew there. Travel grew easier, and for a time everyone’s spirits were high enough that Gimli and Legolas could bicker and Denethor and Théoden snipe at each other more easily.

One evening it was Estel and Thorin’s turn to gather firewood, in short supply on the rolling plain. They walked together without speaking for a while, gathering sticks and twigs. Then Thorin broke the silence.

“Who are you, really?”

Estel looked as if he had been expecting the question for a while and was slightly relieved Thorin had been polite enough to ask away from the others. “I am, as I said, the captain of the guard at Minas Tirith, your majesty,” he said.

Thorin snorted. “Indeed,” he said. “I doubt not you speak the truth. But somehow I think it is not the whole truth. Bilbo remembers meeting you in Rivendell, many years ago.”

Estel bent to pick up a branch. “Ah,” he said.

“So the question is, how did a simple captain of the guard come to be raised in one of the last Elven strongholds of Middle Earth?” Thorin pondered out loud. “And how did an unremarkable man of Minas Tirith win the love of Elrond’s daughter? Oh, many would miss it,” he said quickly at the alarm in Estel’s face, “But I know the face of one who sees his beloved again after many lonely years.”

Estel lowered his gaze and bit his lip.

“Arwen carries a blade,” said Thorin, and Estel’s eyes come up to meet his again, wary. “Her brother said it had been reforged, and he bore it now for another. He gave it to her to give to its rightful owner. At our council, Gandalf explained that Isildur’s sword had been shattered and the fragments kept ever after in Rivendell.”

Silence. A wind stirred the brown grasses, but Estel said nothing.

“Why have you not yet reclaimed the sword that is your birthright, Heir of Isildur?” Thorin asked.

Estel’s back straightened, and his jaw tightened. Despite his filthy hair and unkempt beard, he looked very kingly, although he did not seem to realize it. “Isildur failed all of Middle Earth,” he said. “I am heir to that failure as well as to his crown!” He shook his head. “I must win the hearts of the people of Rohan and Gondor before I reveal myself. I have been raised among Elves and Dúnedain--what did I know of the lives of the people of the east? It would be folly to expect them to trust me, to follow some stranger who shows up at their door with a sword and a mad tale. I wanted...I wanted to know them first. To be one of them.”

“It sounds like you have won their hearts already,” said Thorin. “Does Lord Ecthelion know?”

Estel grimaced. “I have never told him, but I can tell he suspects. As does his son.” He looked, for a moment, quite young, and uncertain. “Ecthelion may well gladly cede the right to rule to me. But I fear that Denethor will never recognize me as the rightful ruler of Gondor. Were Ecthelion to step down in my favor, I would likely make an implacable enemy in his son. I cannot risk a civil war that would tear our people apart. And…” He trailed off and looked away.

“And you are afraid,” said Thorin. “Afraid that Denethor is right, and that your blood is tainted by lust for the Ring.”

“I do fear it,” whispered Estel.

“And yet you wish to travel with us?”

“The fate of Middle Earth lies in the hands of your party, and I must give you aid,” said Estel. “If I gave in to my fear, if I walked away to avoid temptation, I would be unworthy of the crown which I hope to claim.”

Thorin thought on this for a moment. “Well,” he said at last, “As it so happens, I have some experience with fearing that one comes from a lineage cursed with weakness. I trust you, Estel, future High King of Middle Earth.”

Estel’s eyes gleamed gray in the twilight, a grateful glance. “My thanks, your majesty.”

“So who else of our party knows?” Thorin asked as they turned back toward the camp with their armfuls of sticks.

“The lady Arwen, of course. And Gandalf.”

“Of course, the old meddler,” snorted Thorin without heat.

“I would rather you not tell anyone else,” Estel said. “Except Bilbo, of course.” He smiled. “If I cannot trust him I can trust no one.”

“I shall keep your secret,” said Thorin. “Even from Bilbo, for it would not matter a jot to him one way or the other. He will trust you or like you for yourself and your deeds, not for anything written in musty history books. If it becomes important, I will not keep it from him, but for now your secret is safe with me.”

Then he laughed.

“Poor Bilbo!” he said. “He shall be quite annoyed. For after Théoden and myself, this will mark the third time he has met royalty unawares!”

The day came at last when they topped a rise and looked out over a sweeping vista, a plain that stretched east nearly as far as the eye could see. In the far distance, there was a glint of water that Gandalf declared was the Sea of Rhûn. To the south, a long line of mountains, wreathed with mist and smoke--the Ered Lithui, along which they planned to travel. And in between them--

Behind him, Thorin heard Gimli gasp, heard Legolas mutter something in Sindarin as if he were spitting something foul from his mouth. To the south-east, far below them on the plain, a cloud of dust and smoke, the kind churned up by thousands of marching feet. He could see the dark specks, trudging away from Mordor: an army of orcs, on the move.

On the move north.

He felt Dís’s fingers digging into his arm, heard her hissed intake of breath.

”They travel to Erebor,” she said.

Chapter Text

Bilbo stared down at the vast army trudging north from Mordor, leaving a billowing dust-cloud behind it. Beyond them to the south, he could see a long range of jagged mountains, gray peaks scratching the sky. And then beyond even that, a lowering red light that--

Bilbo pulled his gaze away, his heart pounding. The ring in his pocket seemed hot to the touch; he barely realized he was fidgeting with it until he felt Thorin’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently until he let it go.

“There are orcs and men of Mordor,” said Legolas, shading his eyes with his hand. “And many Easterlings in bronze armor, their faces veiled. And leading them--” He hissed between his teeth, “Azog rides north from Mordor at the head of his army.”

“They travel to Erebor,” said Thorin. His voice sounded tight. “Sauron strikes at the Lonely Mountain in punishment for my defiance.”

“If we set out now,” said Gimli, “perhaps we can outpace them, reach Erebor before--”

“--No,” said Dís. She was gazing north toward Erebor, the wind in her silver-black hair. “My son is the Heir to the Lonely Mountain,” she said. “He is a worthy ruler. And he will prevail against this force. Do you doubt him?” she added fiercely when Gimli looked like he might argue. “Have faith in my sons, as I do.” Her face was pale and grim, but her voice was steady. “Azog will rue the day he set himself again the Line of Durin.”

“At least let us get a warning to them,” said Gimli. “Give them time to evacuate Dale. Erebor can withstand a siege longer than any orc can wait.” He bared his teeth. “Longer than any orc can live.”

“Is there a dwarven settlement along the road north?” asked Théoden. “Somewhere they can send a messenger from?”

“There’s Anin, at the ford of the Celduin,” said Thorin. “From there--what are you doing?”

Théoden was already stripping the luggage from the pack-horses, tossing it on the ground. “Three horses. Three of us must travel light to get to this Anin and warn them. The rest of you will hurry and cross the road ahead of the army to avoid detection, for it will take days for it to pass by--precious days we cannot waste in tarrying.” He looked around the group. “I shall go to tend the horses and encourage them to greater speed. And with me--Forgive me, but dwarves are no good with horses. Wizard, will the dwarves believe your warning?”

Gandalf inclined his head. “The folk of Erebor know I would not lie about something as grave as an approaching army.” He glanced at Thorin, and Thorin grumbled something under his breath but nodded.

“I travel with you as well,” said Legolas. “For you shall need someone to help you find the rest of the Fellowship after. And I would send a warning to the Greenwood and my father as well.”

Théoden threw the last of the baggage on the ground. “Goldwine, will you and your friends bear us swiftly to the north? Many lives may depend on it.” Goldwine nickered and nodded, and he kissed her nose before turning back to the party and saying, “We must not delay.”

“By my beard,” grumbled Gimli as the three of them mounted up, “That I should have to stand by and watch as a wizard, a man, and an elf ride off to save Erebor! It is intolerable!”

Legolas laughed, looking down from his horse. “You shall have to learn to tolerate it, master dwarf. We shall not let Dale and Erebor burn just to confirm your bad opinion of us.” He whistled, and without spur or reins his horse tossed up her head and took off north at a gallop, leaving Gimli sputtering.

“No time for farewells,” said Gandalf to Thorin. “Get across the road before the army, and then travel north of the Sea of Rhûn, for if the soldiers of the Easterlings travel with Mordor then the road east along the Ered Lithui will be swarming with their troops.”

“I’m aware of that,” snapped Thorin.

“We shall find you!” called Théoden to Estel. “Travel safe, and do not give credence to fools who doubt you!” He saluted Denethor mockingly as he said this, then galloped north after Legolas and Gandalf.

“And good riddance,” muttered Denethor at his retreating back. “I notice you did not volunteer to travel far from the Ring, Thorongil,” he added with a caustic look at Estel.

“My place is at Bilbo’s side,” said Estel, though Bilbo saw a muscle in his jaw twitch slightly.

“There is no time for this,” growled Thorin. “Even now Azog and his army move to cut us off from the east. We must make haste and cross their path before we are trapped here.”

Looking south at the army moving slowly across Dorwinion like a swarm of locusts, leaving the ground stripped bare and churned underfoot, Bilbo felt a sudden chill of fear, and a sense of keen eyes sweeping the hills, searching. “There’s something down there,” he murmured. “Something neither orc nor man.”

Arwen and Estel traded looks. “Sauron has servants at his command that we would do well to avoid,” Estel said.

“We are already avoiding an entire army of orcs and Easterners!” snorted Gimli. “Could there be anything worse?”

“Yes,” said Estel shortly. He picked up the baggage that Théoden had dropped to the ground. “Let us make haste.”

A full day’s travel brought them only about halfway to the road, for the wide-open distances of the plains were difficult to judge. They camped that night without a fire, a brief stop to rest. Far in the distance, Bilbo could faintly hear brazen horns blowing. “We shall reach the road tomorrow and cross it well before the army reaches us,” said Thorin.

“What did you mean, earlier,” Bilbo said to Estel. “About Sauron’s servants?”

“Ringwraiths,” said Thorin before Estel could speak. “Nine beings who were once Men, now enslaved by the One Ring to the will of Sauron.” He met Estel’s eyes. “You fear that one rides north to Erebor.”

“Or more than one,” Estel said. “If Saruman chose not to inform Sauron of our plans for the Ring--and we can only hope that, for his own selfish reasons, he did not--then it is likely that Sauron will assume that we are returning to Erebor bearing it, perhaps hoping in vain to destroy it there. He sends his most trusted and most powerful servants to capture it.”

As if his words had been a signal, a long, quavering cry split the night: a cold and inhuman sound that made Bilbo’s skin crawl. He hunched lower, pulling his shoulders up around his ears, and tried to think of his nice warm hobbit-hole, perhaps with a crackling fire going, and the smell of fresh-mown grass outside and fresh-baked bread inside. But the Shire seemed more than a world away now, and the eldritch creature roaming the night, searching for the Ring--searching for him!--seemed much more real.

“We cross the road at dawn tomorrow,” said Thorin. He spoke to the party, but he rested his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “For tonight, try to sleep. We shall need all of our energy tomorrow to put distance between us and this army.”

They rose in the dimmest of dawns, gathering their equipment in silence. The dust cloud to the south was closer now, and Bilbo saw Estel and Thorin casting uneasy glances at it. They hurried across bare and rocky land, topping a small hill to see the Great Road of Dorwinion stretched out before them, a brown ribbon across the plains. There were patches where it was paved with cobblestones, but strips of bare rutted dirt mottled it like scabs.

From her vantage point at the top of the rise, Arwen whistled softly like a phoebe, a pattern of high and low notes. “All clear,” muttered Estel. “Let’s go.”

The road was not terribly wide, but every step he took across it felt like an eternity to Bilbo. It seemed as if he could feel some tension like a gathering storm to the south, malignant and foul, and it made his shoulders hunch as if he expected a cry to ring out and heavy hooves to thunder toward him. Halfway across he stopped, swaying, fighting an urge to clap his hands to his ears and sink to his knees, and Thorin had to grip his elbow to keep him moving.

Once they were all across he felt somehow better, though his head was still swimming and there was a pressure on his chest as if someone had laid a heavy hand there. They stumbled into the foothills on the eastern side of the road, still undetected, and headed northeast, toward the northern shore of the Sea of Rhûn.

“Safe for now,” muttered Denethor, but Bilbo did not feel safe at all.

They angled north and east to make their way around the Sea of Rhûn--”For we do not wish to enter Taur-nu-Eleni,” Arwen said. “That is the forest on the north-west short of the Sea of Rhûn,” she added with a smile as Bilbo opened his mouth.

“The Forest Under the Stars, in Sindarin,” said Thorin thoughtfully, gazing at the line of trees far in the distance, a dark smudge on the edge of the great bright water of Rhûn.

Arwen’s smile fell away. “Indeed,” she said, and it seemed to Bilbo that she shivered.

“I thought elves loved forests,” said Denethor, glancing backwards uneasily at the dust cloud rising directly to the west, where the army continued to ride.

“Taur-nu-Eleni is the westernmost of the forests of Middle Earth held by the Avari--the Unwilling, those elves who rejected the call to travel to Valinor when the world was young, and who chose instead to stay under the stars.”

“Sounds reasonable to me,” snorted Gimli. “If some big glowy being showed up and told me to abandon everything and head west, I think I’d dig my heels in too!”

“You do not understand,” said Arwen. “If Elves do not travel to the west, if we willfully cling forever to Middle Earth--” She shivered again, and Estel moved a step closer to her side without seeming to realize he did so, “--Then we fade. Inevitably, we become disembodied, mere spirits without form, haunting the world we knew. The Avari chose this fate, and they are not always friendly to outsiders, be they human, dwarf, or even other elf.”

“There are stories of this wood among the folk of Erebor,” Thorin said. “In the time of Thorin I, my ancestor, the Lonely Mountain sent out scouting parties to determine if the forest were suitable for logging. After five parties never returned, the idea was abandoned.”

Gimli hunched his shoulders. “Then by all means, let us not enter it!”

They trudged on, trying to put as much space between themselves and the army as possible.

As it turned out, it was not enough.

“Are we far enough away to camp?” Dís’s voice was quiet, but Bilbo caught the quick look she gave him before turning to her brother.

“I’m fine,” Bilbo said.

“Are you? You are exhausted, Bilbo.” Dís frowned at him.

“No! I want to keep going.” And yet all day he had kept finding his steps lagging, his feet dragging, slowing everyone down. He yearned to be away from the hideous pressure, the ravening hunger that seemed to hang on the air behind them, and yet he could not quicken his steps. No wonder the rest of the fellowship thought he was weary.

“We will pause here for a moment,” said Thorin, and Bilbo shivered as a relief that seemed not entirely his own swept over him. “Rest,” he said to Bilbo. “I shall fetch you some water from that rivulet we passed a little while ago.”

He strode away, and the party fell quickly into their usual resting activities: Estel checked his gear, Dís re-plaited her hair, Arwen added a few stitches to the banner she was working on. Denethor and Gimli sat glumly, each looking rather lost without their usual conversational sparring partners.

Bilbo tried to close his eyes and rest, but he could not. Some feeling of rising tension made it impossible. Finally, he murmured an excuse about the call of nature and slipped away from the camp, heading west to find Thorin.

He spotted him from a distance, heading back toward camp. He was about to call out to him, when suddenly he saw something that made him stop dead in horror and duck behind a bush.

It was an orc-rider on a warg--probably a scout scouring the land to make sure that no deserters slipped away from the main bulk of the army. There was a small hillock between the orc and Thorin, so they hadn’t spotted each other, but from his hiding-spot Bilbo could see that their paths were going to intersect.

Thorin was walking into terrible danger and had no idea of his peril.

Panic seized Bilbo by the throat. If he called out, the warg-rider would almost certainly hear. He had to get to Thorin, had to warn him somehow! If only there was a way--

The panic faded abruptly into icy calm. Of course there was a way. He could put on the Ring. He could hurry to Thorin’s side, safe and invisible, and warn him, save him.

The Ring was in his hand, warm and smooth. Don’t do it! said a small voice in Bilbo’s mind that sounded rather like Gandalf’s, but he knew he had to. It wasn’t that he wanted to, but he had to save Thorin. Of course he had to! There was a buzzing muttering sound in his head, making it hard to think, but through his confusion he finally managed to move, and slide the Ring onto his finger.

Immediately, everything changed. The muttering buzzing was gone. The world seemed somehow edged with light, translucent. The figures of Thorin and the orc were strangely indistinct, wavering. Bilbo had just a moment to be shocked: this was quite different from when he had last worn the ring, almost thirty years ago.

But he barely had time to finish the thought before a wild, eerie scream clove the world asunder: a scream of hate and triumph and utter, cold malice from the west. Bilbo’s eyes were dragged westward, and in a dizzying rush of vision the leagues fell away, compressed, all the hills and trees between turned transparent and ethereal.

Bilbo stared into the eyes of a figure on a horse: a pale rider, gaunt as a corpse with eyes of burning flame, an iron diadem on its withered brow. Another keening shriek seemed to tear at his mind, and a second rider wheeled to stare at Bilbo as if he were only feet away. One skeletal hand was raised to point directly at him.

And then the two Ringwraiths wheeled their mounts away from the main army and spurred directly at him.

Bilbo shuddered, gripped by terror that seemed to crush him into the ground. They were coming for him, they were coming! Like a rabbit who spots the eagle stooping upon it, he felt frozen in place. Yet despite the fear dragging at him, he staggered forward, eyes fixed on the oblivious Thorin, and managed to make a hoarse, croaking sound, barely recognizable as a voice: “Look out!”

It was enough: the orc-rider broke into a gallop toward where Bilbo was, then stopped in surprise to realize there was no one there. By then Thorin had spotted the orc, and had his weapon ready: Bilbo heard him lift his voice in a cry of defiance as the orc spotted him and spurred forward.

But he could not see the outcome of the clash: all was lost in a weltering chaos of light and shadow. Triumph blazed from the south, and he felt it like heat all along the side of his body, a furnace of malevolence. Unable to stop himself, he turned to look toward Mordor.

The Eye! It blazed with malign purpose, as if it would obliterate everything Bilbo loved. In that scarlet light, he seemed to see the Shire go up in flames, saw Thorin’s body consumed like a candle. He staggered, felt cold dirt against his face, and then for a time he knew nothing more.

Thorin cleaned his sword off on the pelt of the dead warg, feeling rather pleased with himself: a quick kill, and he was unmarked despite his foe being mounted. He remembered suddenly the sound of a hoarse voice, almost like a raven’s caw--Look out!--and frowned.

“Bilbo?” he called softly, but there was no answer, and he saw nothing. “Bilbo!”

A sound of running footsteps, and Estel appeared at the top of a small rise, looking worried. He was followed by the remaining members of the Fellowship. “Is Bilbo here?” called Estel. “We can’t find him!”

“I thought I heard--wait.” Thorin turned, looking back to the west. From his vantage point on the hill, Estel made a choked sound. “Arwen,” he said.

“I see them,” she said. “Two Black Riders, riding hard this way.”

“Where is Bilbo?” Thorin stared wildly around. “We must--”

“You cannot fight these,” Estel said to Denethor, who had drawn his sword. Denethor looked like he was about to argue, and Estel cut him off: “None of us can!” He drew his own sword. “All we can hope to do is buy Bilbo enough time to get away,” he said tersely.

The blood drained from Denethor’s face, but he simply nodded. “Then we shall,” he said.

The Nazgûl were close enough now that Thorin could hear the hoofbeats ringing against the earth like thunder. “Bilbo!” he cried again. “Where are you?” He turned to the rest of the party and snapped, “If you can, head north to where the Celduin meets the Sea of Rhûn, and enter Taur-nu-Eleni. I misdoubt me if even the Ringwraiths will be sanguine about entering the wood of the Avari.”

Turning back, he saw the Nazgûl riding from the northwest and one from the southwest, coming together unerringly like pincers, heading straight for them.

No.

Not straight for them.

With a sudden jolt of realization, Thorin estimated their paths and realized they were converging on a point nearby, but not where the fellowship stood. “Bilbo!” he cried, and started running toward the barren patch of ground where the two riders would come together.

He could see nothing there, and knew he must look mad indeed, running directly into the paths of the Ringwraiths. But his suspicions were confirmed when he suddenly tripped over a strangely solid patch of air and went sprawling. With a gasp he scrabbled backward until his fingers closed on cloth, on a soft body--he felt the star pin he had made Bilbo catch between his fingers, the points jabbing into the palm of his hand, and with a rush of triumphant panic he heaved the invisible bulk of Bilbo’s body onto his shoulders. “Gimli! Dís! To us!” he yelled, and broke into a lumbering run, heading toward the dark line of woods on the horizon and the Celduin between them. Gimli and Dís fell in on either side of him, and they were running together with the steady, unbreakable stride of dwarves once they get up to their full speed.

Only once did he turn to look behind him. In that glimpse he saw Estel, Arwen, and Denethor blocking the path of the Nazgûl, standing shoulder to shoulder. He saw Estel lift a blade high above his head, and realized it was the sword Arwen had been carrying. The Ringwraiths shrieked and reined their horses back for an instant, milling around, their empty gazes fixed on the sword.

But Thorin saw no more, because he turned ahead again and ran with his invisible burden. “Bilbo!” he screamed as he ran, the wind catching his voice and snatching it away, “Take it off! Take off the Ring! Bilbo!” At some point Bilbo must have come to some kind of consciousness, because suddenly he was visible in Thorin’s arms again, but then he went limp with a moan as if he had fought a terrible battle.

Gimli glanced over his shoulder. “They have ridden by the humans and elf!” he yelled. “They come for us!”

Thorin could feel the ground shaking with the hoofbeats of their corrupted steeds. He nearly felt he could smell the putrescence of their rotting clothes. The Celduin was so close now, close enough that he could even see lighter sparkling water where the river ran more shallow. He changed the angle to make for the fords, sure that at any moment he would feel a dark blade stabbing at his back, that his last sight would be the Ringwraiths lifting Bilbo from his dying arms. No!

With a last desperate burst of speed, he plunged into the river, letting his momentum carry him athwart the current for as long as possible. Floundering through the shallow water, he struggled to stay upright, to keep Bilbo’s unconscious head above the water. He heard shrieks of rage behind him but did not look behind, not even when he made the far bank. Clattering splashes were all he needed to hear to know that the Nazgûl were forcing their mounts across the shallow water to continue their pursuit. Running hard on legs numb with exhaustion, he staggered forward into the dark wood on the other side of the Celduin.

Immediately it was as if all sunlight had been cut off, the towering evergreens blocking the rays of the sunset completely. Thorin lurched forward on sheer willpower, charging on for as long as he could before he stumbled, tried to catch himself, and went sprawling down a sudden incline, careening out of control through clawing brush and clinging vines. At some point he lost his grip on Bilbo and felt the hobbit slip from his fingers as he bounced and skittered down the slope, and he knew a moment of anguish and alarm before his fall was suddenly stopped by a boulder and all thought was cut off for a time. There were voices raised, searching for him: first Gimli and Dís, and then Estel and Arwen and Denethor as well, but he heard them not and they faded further into the darkness of the wood, swallowed up by shadows.

And so Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins entered Taur-nu-Eleni, the forest under the stars, where dwelt a malice as cold and detached as it was eternal.

Chapter Text

The scent of crushed juniper branches, pungent and piercing, was the first thing Bilbo Baggins became aware of. He started to sit up, then groaned and fell backwards again, his head spinning and his muscles shrieking protest. Juniper needles prickled the small of his back, but he ignored them as he tried to cast his mind back, tried to remember how he had ended up in a juniper bush in a--it was a forest, wasn’t it?

He cracked his eyes open with an effort and looked up at the canopy of dark evergreens, their dusky branches nearly blocking out the dim sunlight. There was a hushed gurgle of a creek nearby, a rich scent of loam and decay all around him. The woods were still and silent, with not even a breeze stirring the massive pines and firs.

And yet Bilbo felt somehow that he could sense a sort of vast wind moving, a current of dark malice that ebbed and flowed around him unseen.

He staggered to his feet. “Thorin?” he croaked, staring around him wildly. They had been running, he remembered that. Thorin had been carrying him, screaming at him to--to do something. With a flash of terrifying clarity, Bilbo remembered a searing weight on his finger, remembered looking behind them to see--

With a gasp of horror, he wrenched his mind away from the vision of the two Ringwraiths bearing down on them, their undead eyes kindled with hatred and hunger, their withered hands reaching for him. Scrabbling in his pocket, he reassured himself that he had put the Ring away without dropping it.

“Thorin?” he called again. “Dís? Gimli?”

The forest swallowed up his words as if they had never been spoken. He was alone.

Alone! He felt his knees trembling and it took an effort to keep standing. Always Thorin had been with him, giving him strength, helping him in. Now here he was alone in a haunted wood, far from Thorin--who could be dead or dying, slain by those terrible wraiths! The Nazgûl could be coming for him next, slipping silently through the trees, coming up behind him--

He whirled frantically, his eyes scanning trees that seemed somehow to twist and writhe as if caught in a gale. But there was no wind! A flicker of cool laughter seemed to twine with the gurgle of the little creek, licking his ears, and Bilbo shuddered. Better perhaps to simply lie down here in the bracken and wait for death, better perhaps to simply let his bones moulder here, becoming one with the earth, vines binding his bones, flowers blooming in his eyesockets, at peace and beautiful, so beautiful…

Perhaps it was that he had started to grow used to voices in his head that were not his, perhaps it was just natural hobbit resilience, but Bilbo shook his head fiercely. “No!” he said out loud. “I’m not staying here. I’m keeping away from those dark riders, and I’m going to find Thorin and the rest. So there,” he added as if he were a stubborn child, and the flicker of laughter beneath the brook’s song took on a silvery edge before fading out.

“East, east, we were to go east,” Bilbo muttered. It was difficult to tell the angle of the sun through the thick trees, but eventually he set off with the sunset at his back as best he could.

It was an eerie, unpleasant path he trod: the sense of swirling malice like a silent and invisible thunderstorm hovered over everything, and strange lights flickered in the distance. Once he thought he heard Thorin’s voice back the way he came and hurried back, calling to him, but then he heard that whisper of crackling laughter again. Gritting his teeth, he turned his back on the voice and kept going east, ignoring the lights that looked like torches beckoning off his route. As twilight fell and the woods grew ever darker, green eyes flickered at him hungrily here and there in the undergrowth, but he kept putting one foot in front of the other, stubbornly moving forward as the wood swam and swirled around him like a dream. There was a rhythm to it, a sort of blankness of mind and focus of will necessary to keep moving forward through an atmosphere that seemed to thicken and curdle, freighted with cruelty and a terrible weight of ages.

At one point, the strange not-wind broke into a peal of eldritch triumph, a tintinnabulation of silvery satisfaction that left Bilbo clutching at his head and crying out, trying to block something that was not a sound from his mind. Then it ceased, leaving Bilbo reeling and staring around himself as a kind of silent purr resonated through the forest. “If I had to describe it,” he would say many years later to fauntlings when they asked, “I would say it felt like a cat licking its paws after a large bowl of rich cream. Or after it had caught a particularly tasty canary.” The fauntlings would shiver with terrified delight, and Bilbo would try not to remember too well how it had felt to be surrounded by that sense of replete malevolence.

He kept walking forward, trying to ignore the unpleasant shudders running up and down his spine, trying not to dwell on terrible images: Estel sinking into a slough, swallowed up forever; Dís pinned down by wolves; Thorin staring upward with empty eyes, a vine wrapped around his throat. One foot in front of the other, Bilbo, he told himself. Don’t think.

And he was doing fairly well at that, plodding forward diligently, until the moment that he raised his eyes and saw the two cloaked Ringwraiths wrapped in their dark robes hovering just in front of him.

A shriek of terror bubbled from his throat, and he fell backwards onto the soft earth, trying to scramble backwards while keeping his eyes fixed on his hunters. But the Ringwraiths didn’t move, didn’t stir, and after a moment Bilbo realized that what he was seeing was merely the tattered robes of the Ringwraiths, strung up like laundry on two trees. Or like trophies, he thought, and shivered. The robes hung empty, the animating force within them fled: just rags and scraps of leather.

Once the Men of Numenor, in their pride, cut down leagues of forest. These two were lords among them, and we do not forget.

Bilbo swallowed a whimper as he realized the thought was not his own.

We have no power to destroy such as them, but we can rip them from their corporeal form and send them mewling back to their master. And so we have done.

There seemed to be a moonbeam, a shaft of pale light between Bilbo and the tattered remnants of the Nazgûl, but there was no break in the tree canopy above them to let in such a light. Faint motes danced within it like sparks of dust, rising and falling. It was a good hunt, the best in centuries, said the ice-cold voice in Bilbo’s mind.

“What--what are you?” Bilbo managed.

A curl of lazy amusement twined around him. You could see us clearly if you were to put on that trinket in your pocket.

“No thank you,” Bilbo said quickly. “You’re--the Avari, right?

Unwilling? The word was a contemptuous whip-flick. So the cowed and the cowards call us, those who heel at another’s beck and call. We are the Sadorwaith, the Faithful, Those Who Remain. A pause. And what are you, small being?

“I am--I am Bilbo Baggins.” He drew himself up to his fullest height. “A hobbit.”

A curious little thing. The voice in his mind was different this time; looking to his left he saw what seemed to be a scattering of pale green fireflies rising and falling in a column. It might be fun to play with him. We could send him dancing, dancing! Across the ferns and the thorny briars, into the bogs and the cold cold waters… The voice trailed off into something like a yawn. But the hunt was so exciting, and we spent much of our powers in sending the Numenoreans away…

Leave him be, Uial, murmured the first voice. Leave him be and rest a while.

“My companions!” Bilbo’s voice was too loud in the drowsy glade. “Will you let my companions pass as well?”

A flicker of cold amusement. Perhaps. Perhaps.

“Promise me!”

The flicker turned to a crackle like breaking ice, all humor gone. Do not try us, small thing. Be on your way, and be thankful there was more pleasurable quarry than yourself this night.

The glimmering lights faded away and Bilbo felt himself alone again in the clearing, with only the two ragged, empty robes swaying in the breeze for company.

Shivering, he pushed onwards, heading east.

He lost track of time as he trudged on: he walked when he could and rested when he had to, his sleep uneasy and troubled with whispering voices. Sometimes he called his companions’ names, but he never heard an answer. It seemed, as he walked, that the air grew warmer, the chill of winter giving way to the softness of spring. The ground grew more yielding, and there were sprouts of new growth peeking through the soil. He was hungry, he realized--as hungry as if he had gone days without eating rather than just one night, a ravenous pinching in his middle, but he dared not eat anything under the indifferent stars of Taur-nu-Eleni.

After a long and timeless time, he heard the sound of a rushing river further to the east, and he hurried toward it. The brambly evergreens thinned at last to reveal a wide, shallow river, dotted with sand bars. Beyond it, on the far side, was a thick stand of birch trees, their white branches veiled in a mist of fresh green leaves. Somehow the sight of them after nothing but gloomy pines and firs lifted Bilbo’s spirits, and he eagerly picked his way across the river. It was icy cold, but the sand felt good beneath his weary toes, and he stopped to use it to scrub the grime of his long walk from his feet.

He reached the other side mostly dry, shivering with cold and with relief, for the oppressive weight of Taur-nu-Eleni seemed to fade as he crossed the water. Wherever he was, he felt sure somehow that it was someplace different. He pushed through the line of birch trees--and stopped with a gasp of wonder.

He was in a garden.

A vista of snowdrops and crocuses stretched out before him, dotted with forsythia bushes in riotous golden bloom. Here and there a tree leaned over the flowerbeds: ash and hawthorn and birch, one of them a cherry tree covered with pale pink blossoms. Winding through the beds of flowers were paths not of stone or pebbles, but lanes where rosemary and thyme were planted like a carpet. He stepped onto the green path and the sweet scent of the crushed herbs reached his nose, causing a wave of dizzy homesickness to rush over him.

“Hello?” he called softly, but there was no answer. He heard a lark singing softly, but there were no other voices; it was as if there were no one there at all. And yet it was clearly not a wild land but a garden, well-tended and cared for.

He wandered the garden in wonder, gazing around him in utter delight at the radiant cherry-trees and the nodding daffodils, exclaiming softly at the view around each corner: “How lovely!” or “Exquisite!” He drank in the scenery like it was wine, and even the pained hunger in his belly seemed to recede as he padded down the flowery lanes.

But both wonder and hunger were banished utterly when he turned a corner and saw Thorin Oakenshield lying at the foot of a gnarled beech tree.

For a moment Bilbo’s heart thudded to a stop, for he lay so still. Then he saw one mail-clad hand move slightly, and before he could think he was running along the green path toward him, calling out his name and throwing himself down on his knees next to him under the spreading canopy of leaves.

Thorin’s eyes flickered open and he smiled at the sight of Bilbo’s face. “Heart’s-ease,” he murmured. “I feared I had lost you forever.”

For a moment Bilbo couldn’t speak at all, but merely clung to him, grasping handfuls of his long dark hair as if to tether himself to the reality of his presence. “But you’re hurt!” he cried as his hands came away smudged with half-dried blood.

“It is nothing serious,” Thorin said. “I was unconscious for a time, and then I wandered long in those fell woods.” He shivered. “I heard voices--my father’s, and my brother’s. And I nearly followed them, but then I thought of you and kept going east. Have you seen any of the others?” The hope faded from his face when Bilbo shook his head. “We must have faith that they too will resist the lures of that place, and find their way...here.”

He and Bilbo gazed together at the lush flowerbeds and blossoming trees. “Where are we?” Bilbo asked.

“I know not. Our maps held nothing of this.”

“It should be creepy,” said Bilbo. “A garden with no gardeners, perfect but empty. And last I knew it was only mid-February, far too early for even these spring flowers.”

“Unless we wandered in Taur-nu-Eleni for longer than we knew,” Thorin pointed out. “Time seemed...strange there.”

“Either way, this place should be foreboding. And yet…” He breathed in deeply, smelling mint and loam. “It’s so very beautiful, and peaceful.”

“I have felt revived since the moment I entered it,” Thorin agreed. He sat up gingerly, leaning against the tree behind him. “I have only seen the Shire in winter. Is it like this in the spring?”

“Like this, yes. But this is far beyond any garden of the Shire.”

“It puts to shame the gardens we built in the heart of the Lonely Mountain,” Thorin said ruefully. “I was so proud of them, but in comparison to this, they are paltry indeed.”

Bilbo bit his lip, and Thorin apparently caught the chagrin on his face, because he ran his hand softly through Bilbo’s curls and pulled him close.

“You shall see them one day,” he said. “And indeed, even if you choose never to visit Erebor, they brought me joy to craft and nurture. I came to love the little shoots and the furling leaves, the promise of the opening bud. I have no regrets in that regard, Bilbo.”

Bilbo was about to say something, but suddenly a voice spoke nearby:

“A garden...in a mountain?”

It was a woman’s voice, low and resonant,and somehow reminded Bilbo of the sound of his mother’s voice when she had held him to her heart and sang him lullabies as a small child.

He and Thorin stared around them, but the garden was empty save for themselves. The voice came again:

“A garden...built by dwarves?”

There was a vast creaking and rustling, and the tree they were leaning against suddenly shifted, bending over them despite there being no wind to move it. Bilbo and Thorin looked up at the tree looming over them, and Bilbo realized with a shock that there was a face carved into it--no, not carved into it, but a natural part of it, the gray bark seamed into a lined face crowned with fresh green leaves. But it was the eyes that held him most.

They were hazel, green and gold as a new spring, and though they were serious a smile lurked somehow within them as a rose lurks inside a bud or a butterfly within its cocoon. Bilbo stared in amazement and heard Thorin make a choking sound of panic as he scrambled to his feet.

“Hoom,” said the tree.

Chapter Text

“Run, Bilbo!” Thorin could hear his voice quavering, but he pulled his sword from its scabbard and faced down the hulking being, putting himself between it and the hobbit.

“But why?” said Bilbo.

“Wh--this is one of the Matassân! Created in ancient times to hunt my people and--and--” Thorin’s voice trailed off as he had to admit that the tree-like being wasn’t doing anything aggressive, just standing there and blinking at him.

“We protect the green and growing things of this world when it is necessary,” it--she--said, and her voice was like the deep sweet echoes in the heart of the mountain, but as if warmed by the sun. “But we do not attack unprovoked. And we do not call ourselves by your names, little-fierce-one.”

“Then may I ask the proper way to address you?” BIlbo asked, ever-polite.

“Hrm, hoom! The elves call us Ents, and though it is a short and a hasty name, it shall do. I myself am called--” She broke off and her leafy crown rustled as though with laughter. “Well, it is too long a name for such brief beings as yourself, but of old I was called Fimbrethil, or Wandlimb in the tongue you speak. It would please me to be called that once more.”

“Very well, my lady Wandlimb.” Bilbo sketched a small bow in her direction. “I think you can put your sword away, Thorin,” he said quietly.

Thorin did so.

“My name is Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire,” Bilbo said with another bow. “And this is my companion, Thorin Oakenshield.” Wandlimb’s great sunlit eyes widened and Bilbo added hastily, “He got that name when he defeated an orc by using an oaken branch as a shield--an already-fallen branch, that is.”

Wandlimb bent her attention to Thorin, and Thorin tried not to fidget too obviously under her scrutiny. “A dwarf with a tree in his name. That would be oddness enough. A dwarf who speaks of gardens with love in his voice? That is worthy of a day’s worth of song.”

Thorin took his turn to bow. “My lady, I know that my people are not known for our love of that which grows and blooms from the earth. But this hobbit--” He nodded at Bilbo, who bounced on his toes slightly, blushing, “--has taught me to love flower and root; to cherish the fresh growth of spring, to rejoice in the ripening of summer, to grieve for the fallen blossoms of autumn, and then to plan through the winter for the cycle to begin once more. Thanks to him, I can appreciate the wonders of your lovely garden more fully: the gold of the narcissus, the silver of the snowdrops, and the emerald of the rosemary. It is beautiful beyond compare.”

“Hrm! I see you must still use the words of metal and jewels to describe our work!” Wandlimb said, but she was clearly pleased. “You speak fair indeed, Master Thorin, fair indeed. I welcome you both to Sant Enyd, the Garden of the Ents.”

“We traveled here with other companions,” said Bilbo. “An elf, two humans, two more dwarves. Have you seen them?”

“I? I have been sleeping for many a day, resting from the work of this early spring, before your voices awakened me. I have seen none but you. But I shall send out the word.” She closed her eyes and her root-like feet seemed to grip the earth more tightly; a wave of motion rippled across the plants of the garden like a strong wind, although no wind blew. “There,” she said, opening her eyes once more. “If they find their way to our gardens, they shall come to no harm, and shall be brought to you.”

"There are more of you?" Thorin hoped his alarm at the idea of his kinsfolk walking unaware amongst sentient trees didn't show too badly.

"Many and many," said Wandlimb. "Some sleep deeply, while others walk the paths and keep them green and blooming." Her eyes scanned Thorin's face. "Fear not: for the sake of the gardens in the mountain, your people will not be hunted by mine."

Bilbo’s stomach took this moment to gurgle loudly; he looked embarrassed, but Wandlimb rustled her leaves and chuckled.

“Ah, hurm, I forget how often you small and fast-moving beings must eat. Dear me, dear me. Follow me and I shall see what I can do.”

She moved off, striding on her long roots yet somehow managing not to crush the flowerbeds, and Thorin and Bilbo hurried to keep up with her as she moved past fields of brilliant tulips and banks of lilacs, their drooping flowers rich with giddy fragrance. She sang as she walked, and Thorin could feel all the growing things around her seem to unfurl into greener, fuller life as she passed.

Finally they came to a spring that bubbled up from the ground before spilling into a tiny rill that cut a path through the flowers. Around the verge of the spring grew dark, glossy plants, and Wandlimb stopped and picked a few of them to hand to Bilbo.

“Drink and eat your fill,” she said, dipping her toes into the water with a sigh and watching with vivid curiosity as Thorin and Bilbo knelt to drink from their cupped hands.

“Watercress,” said Bilbo after chewing on some of the sprigs. “It’s good. A bit unusual for a breakfast, but good.”

Thorin would never have expected that water and some greens would fill him, but there was something unusual about the water, a sort of richness to it that was strangely invigorating. And as for the watercress--! Well, by the time he was done eating the handful of peppery herb Thorin felt that he could live off it from now on.

“And now that you have broken your fast, I have questions to ask you,” Wandlimb said as Bilbo lay stomach-down on the sunny grass and Thorin sat next to him. “Hurm, hoom! This is a tangled web of questions indeed, and to ask any one is to ignore the others, yet all are connected. Where to begin, where to begin?” She sighed and rumbled to herself for a moment. “I would like to know to where you are bound, you and your companions.”

Thorin felt Bilbo tense slightly, felt one hand almost start to move toward his pocket. “We travel east,” Thorin said.

“Hm! To the lands of your kindred, the Ironfists and the Blacklocks in the Red Mountains?” For the first time, her voice sounded angry. “To those murderers of trees and tramplers of greenery, those--”

“--We do not travel that far east,” Thorin said quickly. He had no desire to see what an Ent was like when truly roused to anger. “We go to Saynshar, capital of the Easterlings.” He was reluctant to lie to Wandlimb, but unwilling to tell the whole truth: for now, a detour to Saynshar might be necessary anyway.

“Saynshar!” Her voice thrummed, and her eyes kindled with a gentle golden light. “Ah, the city of the Easterlings, with its azure roofs. My people worked with them long, long ago, teaching them the ways of the garden, the secrets and leaf and bud, and in Saynshar they wrought hanging gardens of such beauty it would bring you to tears.” The light dimmed and she sighed. “But that was long ago, and the people of that city no longer care for gardens or for the long slow care of living things. There is a darkness in the heart of that city, a canker that eats away at all that is good in its people and turns its loyalty to the Dark Lord of Mordor.” She looked at Thorin. “Yet still I have hope, for once they revered the root and the thorn and not the cycle of blood, and I do not believe that even the fickle hearts of men can be so irrevocably changed.” She sang and hummed to herself for a time, a long slow reverie, and Thorin watched Bilbo’s eyes drift slowly shut. Then she spoke again: “And if you travel to the east, it seems likely that you come from the west. So that is my next question: where have you come from?”

“Indeed, we have come from the west,” said Thorin. “I am from the Lonely Mountain, Erebor, to the north and west, while Bilbo is from the Shire, much further to the west.”

“Ah. Hoom, hrm, hummm.” She whispered and murmured to herself for a time, and Thorin suddenly had the impression that she was trying to nerve herself up to ask something. “And in your travels,” she said at last, “Did you ever visit any of the great forests of the west?”

“We have been through the Greenwood, where Thranduil reigns,” said Thorin. “And in Lothlórien.”

A long slow rustling, like a sigh. “I see. You have not, then, seen Fangorn.”

There was a terrible sadness in her voice, so deep and raw that it hurt Thorin to have to say “I’m sorry, lady Wandlimb. We have not.”

Her branches seemed to trail downward, drooping, and there was a long silence, broken when Bilbo asked sleepily, “What’s so important about this Fangorn place?”

Wandlimb dabbled her roots in the spring, splashing. "Fangorn is not a place. Or rather, not just a place. It is also the name of its chief protector: in your language, you would call him Treebeard. He was one of the Ent-Husbands."

"Ent-Husbands?"

"Yes indeed, we Ents used to dwell with our Ent-Husbands in happiness and harmony, many ages ago. How we danced beneath the new stars, and how our branches mingled in the light of the first sunrise! Those were happy times, such happy times." Her great eyes were faraway. "But we Ents loved above all the fleeting things of the world, the berry and blossom, while the Ent-Husbands valued the long slow lives of the mighty trees. They thought us hasty, and we thought them rather stodgy and dull, and over time our joy in each other lessened, though our love did not. So we left for the east, to build our gardens in peace.

"At first we built near Fangorn Wood, but in the great wars our gardens were destroyed and we were forced to flee further east. And we have not seen the Ent-Husbands since."

Her eyes were dimmed, and Thorin said, "You miss him very much, don't you? This Treebeard. Why don't you go find your Ent-Husbands?"

She tossed her spring-green head, and for a moment Thorin could see the lissom and careless spirit she had been when the world was young. "They did not come to us, they did not seek us," she said. "Most likely they are still debating whether to do so or not, as the long ages pass! Their passion is long withered, their hearts are dry, or we would have seen them." Then she sighed again, and the fierceness went out of her voice, replaced by regret. "And we did not go to them. We were proud and--yes, we were afraid to cross the barren Brown Lands again and risk a cold welcome. And now it is too late. They will not forgive us our long silence, as we do not forgive their long absence. Too many empty ages have passed, too many even for the stalwart hearts of our people. There is no path that can bring our hearts together once more in this world."

"You're wrong!"

Wandlimb's branches rattled in alarm at the strident, fierce voice that filled the glade, and Thorin looked over to see Bilbo on his feet, his chest heaving, his eyes filled with tears.

"It's never too late," Bilbo gasped. "It's never too late to have a life with the ones you love. I believe that--I have to believe that. Your Ent-Husbands love you still, and yearn for you, and no time or distance can break that bond. Please," he said. "Please don't give up on them." He took a deep, gulping breath and nodded. "You should go to them."

Wandlimb bristled: very literally, all her leaves and twigs spiked. "Come as supplicants before them, admitting our error and begging forgiveness?"

"No!" Bilbo stepped forward, the tiny hobbit staring up at the looming Ent, naked pleading on his face. "No one is the supplicant. No one has to apologize. You love each other and you want to be together." He scrubbed a sleeve across his face and turned to look at Thorin; for a long moment their eyes met. He turned back to Wandlimb. "If there is a place in the heart of a mountain for a garden, surely there is room in the heart of a forest as well."

Silence fell, broken only by the gentle gurgling of the spring. Wandlimb seemed to have forgotten to respond, as if lost in her own thoughts. Bilbo did not seem inclined to break the Ent’s reverie, so they sat together next to the spring and waited. Thorin watched a spider spin her web with infinite patience. A falling leaf broke a strand and she started over. The clouds crept across the sun and the sun crept across the sky, and still Wandlimb stood motionless with her eyes half-closed, as if she had all the time in the world. Perhaps she did, but Thorin began to feel distinctly restless.

The sun was high in the sky when Wandlimb spoke again, her voice a low, thoughtful murmur: "I hear your words, small one, and I feel there is wisdom in them. But these things must be discussed: the Ent-Husbands called us hasty, but we are not so hasty as to make such a decision without a discussion!" Yet the way she pulled her roots from the water and showered the glade with droplets seemed close to what Thorin would consider hasty. She raised her voice in a language that Thorin didn't know, long singing syllables that echoed around the glade, and all the bushes and trees rustled in response, a ripple that rushed away from the spring. "There," she hummed with satisfaction, "I have called an Entmoot to discuss this. Hoom, hum." She peered down at Thorin and Bilbo. "You need not come, but if your friends have been found, they shall be taken to the Entmoot, so it may be wise to go there in the hopes of meeting them. Shall we travel together?"

Thorin looked to Bilbo, who nodded. "Very well. We are ready to go."

Wandlimb made her rustling laugh again. "Now now, Master Dwarf, let us not rush! I must prepare for the journey, which shall take us to the shores of the Sea of Rhun and take me far from my gardens. There are lilies of the valley to be sung to and roses to be pruned! We shall leave at twilight and travel through the night."

Thorin hesitated. "Lady Wandlimb, my eyes can adapt to darkness, but Bilbo's--"

"--Seeing or not, you cannot travel at the speed I require," Wandlimb said. "I shall carry you, if you allow it."

Thorin swallowed hard at the idea of being carried on the shoulders of a being created to hunt his kind. "If it is necessary."

Her look at him was understanding. "Stay here and rest for the day," she said. "I have things I must tend to and farewells that must be said."

"You aren't planning on coming back, are you?" said Bilbo. "No matter what this Entmoot of yours decides."

She looked at him a long while, then reached out with one long, twiggy hand and stroked his curly hair. "No, Master Hobbit, I think perhaps I shall not return. I find myself unwilling to be parted from Treebeard for much longer, and I wish to sing the old songs together with him once more." She chuckled, rich and deep as a brook. "And perhaps we shall make new ones together: about a garden in a mountain and a small, true heart."

"I have a feeling not many people have songs made for them by Ents," said Thorin as she strode away, humming to herself.

Bilbo sighed and came into his arms, and they lay together on the mint-scented grass, listening to the gurgle of the water and the breeze in the trees. "I feel so safe here," Bilbo murmured; Thorin wasn't sure if he meant in Sant Enyd or in his arms. "I hope the others are safe too."

Thorin looked up at the dappled sunlight. "Do you remember telling me about that Hobbit custom, long ago? The one where two people pledge their lives to each other in front of the community?"

"You mean a wedding?" Bilbo's voice sounded sleepy. "I remember."

"I would fain wed thee in a garden like this one, one day."

Bilbo's head came up and he blinked at Thorin. "That's quite formal."

Thorin cleared his throat. "It seemed a statement that should be made formally." He met Bilbo's bemused eyes. "If thou wilt have me, my heart's ease."

"Oh, my king," Bilbo said. "I would like nothing better." He let his head drop back to Thorin's chest and idly played with one of the dark braids as Thorin gazed up at the sky in wonder. Surely there had never been any moment in the world so perfect, so purely beautiful. "If we ever make it back to the Shire, I promise we'll do exactly that."

"When," said Thorin. "When we return to your Shire." But Bilbo was silent, and after a time Thorin could feel his chest rising and falling with the deep breaths of sleep.

All through the long spring day he held Bilbo and listened to the sounds of the garden: The wind in the grass and the trill of birdsong; and far off the sound of an Ent singing her farewells.

Chapter Text

Bilbo put a steadying hand on Thorin's shoulder as the gardens of the Ents rushed by them in a blur of greens and golds. Thorin looked at him and swallowed hard, and Bilbo had the distinct impression that of all the terrifying moments in his long life, riding on the shoulders of an Ent ranked near the top.

For Bilbo's part, he was finding it rather exhilarating. The scenery flashing by was beautiful: sometimes elaborate geometric patterns of crocuses and tulips, sometimes a more wild and unkempt look with bluebells blooming in shady dells, but all of them gardens; well-tended and well-loved. Sometimes he could catch a glimpse of another tree-like being hurrying across the fields: a birch with white papery skin, a cherry-tree leaving a trail of petals in her wake. Wandlimb called to them sometimes, a long deep call like a great bassoon, and their responses rang back to her.

They traveled through the twilight, and the gardens slowly dimmed into dusk until Bilbo could see them no more. Yet on Wandlimb strode, never tiring, while Bilbo fell into an uneasy doze.

He was caught in a fitful dream--in which he was a fauntling once more and attempting to explain to an angry apple-tree why he had been stealing its fruit--when he heard Wandlimb’s voice calling his name and felt Thorin’s hand shaking his shoulder. ”Hurm, hm!” boomed Wandlimb. “We are at the Entmoot, Master Baggins. Rouse yourself and look around!”

Bilbo blinked, and his eyes widened as he took in the sight of a vast body of water, much larger than anything he had sean besides the western sea, stretching out to the West. They were on a promontory that jutted out into the sea--for the Sea of Rhûn it had to be, after all--a green finger reaching into an expanse of blue water. The sea was calm and flat, with nary a ripple marring its surface: a mirror reflecting the sky and the clouds.

Bilbo looked out at the sea and felt the breath catch in his throat. “I’ve seen this before,” he murmured. “In Galadriel’s Mirror.”

Thorin gave him a quick, sidelong glance, but then his eyes went beyond Bilbo and widened. He made a small sound in his throat, like a cat warning off unwelcome attention, and went very still.

Bilbo turned to follow his gaze and realized that the small grove of trees on the promontory were not trees at all, but Ents, each one studying he and Thorin intently: hawthorns and poplars, laurels and dogwoods. There was a light in their eyes which was not altogether friendly, and Bilbo stepped between them and Thorin without thinking.

Wandlimb addressed the assembly in a language Bilbo didn’t understand, something long and slow and rolling as wind in branches, and the Ents’ attention shifted slowly to her, leaving Bilbo limp with relief. He and Thorin stood and waited as she spoke...and waited...and then waited some more. It eventually became clear that there was going to be no quick conclusion, so Bilbo slowly edged backwards until he and Thorin were out of range.

They walked together to the edge of the water, where the green grass fell away into smooth rocks and then the glassy sea. Behind them they could still hear Wandlimb's booming voice, interrupted now and then by other Entish voices. They sat down on the rocks, looking at the water, and Bilbo pointed and exclaimed in wonder, for wading in the water were two of the strangest birds he had ever seen: bright pink, with long knobby legs, slender curved necks, and upturned beaks that gave them a lopsided jolly look.

“We call them flammin-kûn,” Thorin said in a low rumble. “‘Carnelian-wader,’ in Khuzdul. The folk of Erebor know of them, but I have never seen one before.”

“I wonder if any hobbit in the world has seen them before,” Bilbo wondered out loud. “The world is so large! To think I once felt an excursion to Bree was an adventure.”

A great boom of sound reached them, causing the birds to startle and take flight, their pink wings caught in the ripples that spread out from the place they once were. “Master Thorin! Master Bilbo!” came Wandlimb’s voice. “Your companions are on their way!”

Wandlimb turned her gold-green eyes on them as they hurried back, satisfaction clear on her stoic features. “The voices of Mossback and Rosebriar have been heard--even now they approach with the members of your party for whom you search. All five of them, alive and unhurt--though I fear your kinspeople are somewhat…” She paused to choose her words, “...ruffled, Master Thorin.”

Bilbo could practically feel the surge of relief from Thorin; he practically sagged as Wandlimb finished speaking. “Our thanks--” he started to say hoarsely, but broke off as a new Ent strode into view.

She was holding a dwarf in each hand, clutching their collars, leaving them dangling from her grip. In her right hand, Dís had her arms crossed and seemed sullenly resigned to her situation, but in her left hand Gimli was struggling wildly, lashing out vainly with fists that could never quite reach the Ent’s trunk.

“Put me down, you overgrown log! Just let me get at my axe, you walking piece of kindling, you leaf-covered menace, you--” He broke off when he spotted Thorin. “Your majesty! Thank the Seven we’ve found you!”

Wandlimb turned to Thorin. “Mossback says she will not release your kin until she has their word they will not harm her.” There was a glint of something like humor in her eyes.

“These beings are not our enemies, Gimli,” Thorin called up to him. “As long as we do not harm their gardens. And I need you to promise you will do them no harm.”

“I’ve just been plucked off the ground by a giant tree with not so much as an if-you-please; why should I make such a promise?”

“Because we are surrounded by them, perhaps?” suggested Dís from the other side of the Ent.

“They have helped us,” said Thorin. “She brought you here because we asked her to.”

“She?” Gimli twisted to glare at the gnarled face of the moss-covered Ent. “Well, she could have asked politely.”

“I for one promise to do no harm to this place or the beings within it,” Dís said. “Seeing as I have little choice.”

After a moment, Gimli grudgingly muttered that he supposed he promised as well. Wandlimb looked questioningly at Thorin, and he nodded.

Wandlimb rumbled something, and Mossback extended her branches to put the two dwarves down as far away from her as possible. Then she scurried backwards with surprising haste, and Bilbo suspected that she had been unnerved by Gimli’s threats. But Gimli had no time to make good on them, because Thorin and Bilbo were coming forward to hug both him and Dís, and for a time happy reunions were the only thing anyone was worried about.

“The others will be here soon,” said Wandlimb. “But I believe we may have time to finish our opening statements before they arrive.”

“Opening statements?” Bilbo stammered. “But you’ve been talking for an hour at least!”

“Hrm, indeed,” agreed Wandlimb. “It is important to establish everything clearly and correctly, you know. No need to rush too much.”

Bilbo sighed. “Do either of you have any food in your packs?” he asked Dís and Gimli.

“I still say we can creep away while they are talking and get a good head start--”

Thorin shook his head at Gimli. “They are bringing Estel, Arwen, and Denethor to us, Gimli. I will not leave without the rest of the party.”

“And what about the other members?” Gimli demanded. “Shouldn’t we go looking for Gandalf and Théoden? And that confounded elf-princeling?” he added rather grudgingly.

“That ‘confounded elf-princeling,’ as you call him, can track us across any distance--though if that means they will enter Taur-nu-Eleni in search of us, I am not sure they will be grateful for the ability,” said Thorin.

Bilbo remembered the flickering voices and humming lights of the forest and shivered, and Gimli and Dís both looked grave. “But they shall have Gandalf with them,” said Bilbo, “And that will count for a lot, won’t it?”

“Of course it will,” said Thorin, but his face remained clouded, and for a time none of them spoke, and the only sounds were the light plashing of the sea and the deep woodwind concerto of the Entmoot. Bilbo wandered up and down the verge of the water, while Dís lay down and closed her eyes. Gimli started to sharpen his axe, but at a look from Thorin he put it away with a sigh.

When a familiar voice broke the silence, Bilbo leaped from the rock he was on to hurry toward it. “Hail and well met!” called Estel, and everyone turned to see him, Arwen, and Denethor hurrying toward them, guided by an Ent not much taller than Estel, slender and thorny, with a diadem of rosebuds just starting to blossom on her brow.

“I see they are to be escorted, and not carried by the scruff of their necks like so many kittens,” grumbled Gimli, but he caught Thorin’s eye and fell silent again.

“Brightbriar here told us that she was bringing us to you, but it seemed almost too much to hope for,” Estel said as the two groups came together in delighted reunion. “The Ringwraiths ignored us and pursued you into the wood, and we feared we had failed you completely.”

“Yet you gave them pause,” said Thorin, “and that bought us the time we needed to escape them.”

“And the inhabitants of the wood dealt with the Black Riders,” added Bilbo, describing what he had seen.

“We did not meet with the Avari,” said Arwen, “but we felt them everywhere. Watching.” She shivered, her eyes far away at the memory.

Denethor shook his head ruefully. “And when we finally got out, I promptly fell into a thorn bush. My chagrin was matched only by my surprise when it asked me my name!”

Brightbriar bowed to him. “I must join the Entmoot,” she fluted, patting his head affectionately with one thorny hand.

“Ow,” he said, but only after she was out of earshot.

“We have told the Ents were are traveling to Saynshar,” said Thorin when he and Bilbo had finished telling of all that had befallen them. “And indeed, it seems as good a place to go as any to wait for the rest of the party to catch up with us.”

“Saynshar,” mused Estel. “It lies to the East, on the far side of the great Plains of the Wainriders.”

“Wainriders?” Bilbo asked. “What is a wain? Some kind of animal?”

Estel shook his head. “A wain is like a wagon, or a chariot. The wainriders are nomads that live from their wains--and go to battle from them as well. If Mordor is gathering support from the East, we may have a hard journey of it. It may be good to visit the city and find out what motivates the Easterlings to march to war under the banner of the Eye.”

Denethor frowned. “Wiser yet to avoid the city entirely, if it will be crawling with enemies.”

“Do you think Sauron will be content with assaulting Erebor?” Estel asked, and Bilbo shuddered, remembering that great army creeping north toward the Lonely Mountain. “If he has allies among the humans of the East, surely it will not be long until he turns his full attention to Gondor.”

“We have been fighting the minions of Sauron for decades now without your help!” retorted Denethor, bristling, but Estel looked only grave and worried.

“Raiding parties and sorties are something very different from a full army. I know, Denethor, that it would grieve us both to see the white walls of Minas Tirith thrown down.” He looked at Thorin. “If Saynshar is on our way, I would very much like to investigate the situation there and see why they are throwing their lot in with Mordor.”

Thorin nodded. “We will need provisions--and information. It will be a good place to wait for Gandalf and the others to catch up. We shall rest here today and spend the night, then leave in the morning, striking south-east across the plains to Saynshar.”

Denethor scowled as the others nodded, but he complained no further. Arwen pulled out her embroidery--there were three intricate stars picked out on the cloth now, forming an arc above an as-yet-invisible object--and she and Dís began to talk about the Ents and their gardens as she sewed. Thorin and Estel decided to spar on the smooth grass, and soon the sound of their swords prompted Brightbriar to hurry over and make sure she wasn’t hearing axes before returning to the Entmoot. Gimli sat down and watched Thorin and Estel--though that he sat so that he could keep an eye on the Ents gathered in the distance did not seem a coincidence to Bilbo.

The Entmoot went on and on, a rising and falling sound in the distance like wind in trees, or a distant orchestra. It made Bilbo feel sleepy, so eventually he rose from listening to Dís and Arwen and excused himself to walk along the seashore and skip rocks.

“Oh! I do beg your pardon,” he said as he realized he had splashed Denethor, sitting motionless on a rock with his dark green cloak wrapped around him.

Denethor smiled, one of his rare genuine smiles. “I should be the one begging your pardon, Mr. Baggins, for being so lost in thought I did not notice you.” He bent to pick up a flat stone, then expertly skipped it along the water--five, six, seven skips. "I hope we do not stay here much longer," he added, staring out at the water. "I am a man of action, and too much contemplation..." He shrugged, looking uneasy. "It does not bring out the best in me."

His face was forbidding, but Bilbo was in no mood to be forbidden: he sat down on a rock, wrapping his cloak around himself against the cool wind off the water. "So what are you contemplating?"

Denethor didn't answer for a long moment. Then he said, "He stayed by my side."

Bilbo raised his eyebrows politely and waited.

"Thorongil," Denethor explained with a touch of annoyance, and it took Bilbo a moment to remember that was the name Estel was going by in Gondor. "When you and Oakenshield fled into the wood, he stayed to hold off the Ringwraith. He let you go with no hesitation."

Bilbo shifted his seat a bit on the cold rock. "Doesn't quite fit your image of him, does it?"

"I know he seeks power." Denethor's voice was low; he seemed to be speaking more to himself than to Bilbo. "So why would he let such awesome power pass beyond his grasp?"

"Maybe he's a better man than you think. I don't know what you've got against him--"

"--You're right," said Denethor. "You do not." His voice was cold and regal once more. With a nod, he swept past Bilbo, but then paused. "My thanks," he said without looking back, "For listening to me."

Bilbo sat for a while longer, looking out at the calm water and whistling a small tune to himself: a Shire ditty about a cat with too much pride, stuck in a tree.

When he returned to the group, he found Wandlimb deep in conversation with Thorin and the others. Bilbo could see a flicker of annoyance in her eyes as she said, with the air of one who has explained something many times: “An Entmoot is not something to be rushed, Master Dwarf. It may be days or weeks until we reach a decision on something as momentous as whether to abandon our long work here.” She threw back her branches with an rustle. “And with all respect, this is not a decision that has a bearing on your lives. We have given you food and rest, and if you must go, then go with our blessings. But I cannot give you a set time that our deliberations will be done.”

“Very well, Lady.” Thorin bowed deeply. “We are forever in your debt, and we hope that your affairs are brought to a satisfactory conclusion for all.” He turned back to the party. “Are we in agreement that we can stay here no longer? We must travel further east, across the plains, and hope to meet our companions in Saynshar.”

Everyone nodded, although Arwen looked faintly disappointed. “I had rather hoped that we would find out what your decision was,” she said to Wandlimb.

Wandlimb smiled at her. “I know not what the others will decide, but I at least shall travel west. I believe we are likely to split--some of us staying here to tend our gardens, others venturing away. And this is well with me, for I would be sad to know my gardens were falling into ruin.”

They passed the night at the shore, with the booming of the Entmoot lulling them to sleep (in Bilbo’s case) or keeping them awake (in Gimli’s). And in the morning, as the first rays of sunlight touched the lapping waters of the Sea of Rhûn, they bid farewell to the Ents.

“May your travels be smooth and your burdens light!” Wandlimb said. Brightbriar stood by her side, Mossback lurking safely behind her, and all the other Ents waved and bowed like a great wind traveling through a forest. “And as for you, Mr. Baggins--” She leaned over him. “Put out your hand.”

He did, and she dropped something smooth and heavy and hard into it: a beech nut.

“Take this with you,” she said, “A small thank you, for reminding us that time and distance are no impediment to a true heart. Plant it in your Shire, and may you and your sweetheart enjoy many years beneath its branches.”

Bilbo felt himself flushing at the word “sweetheart,” and dared not look at Thorin, but he bowed low. “Many thanks, Lady Wandlimb,” he said, “And may your journeys lead to happy endings.”

And so the Ents went back to their Entmoot; and of their journey west, and its unexpected detour that changed the course of history, more is written in the Red Book of Westmarch. But here they pass from Bilbo and Thorin’s story as the Fellowship turns East once more to cross the Plains of the Wainriders and make its way to Saynshar, capital of the Easterlings.

Chapter Text

They traveled East--at first following the shore of the Sea of Rhûn, and then striking off toward the sunrise. The gardens gave way to a sea of golden grass, still dry with the winter--but there were tiny white flowers peeping through the brittle straw, and somehow that gave Bilbo hope. Now and then they saw puffs of dust on the horizon, as if a horse were riding there; or little white specks on a hillside that may have been sheep. But mostly it was a wilderness of grass stretching endlessly out to the sky, and it made Bilbo feel both small and somehow exalted to stand beneath the great blue bowl of the heavens. It was smooth traveling, with no interference.

At least until the day Bilbo was gathering berries for a snack for everyone and found himself suddenly knocked head-over-heels, tumbling down a small slope, and coming to rest with something heavy and solid planted on his chest.

He looked up into the bright golden eyes of some impossibly large cat.

With a squeak of alarm he tried to squirm free, but the cat seemed merely to consider this a challenge and pinned him more firmly with its tawny paws. It was panting down at him, its jaw dropped open in what seemed almost like amusement, ears pricked forward as it considered him--most likely trying to find the right vein to open, Bilbo thought in a panic. Its face was broader than any house cat’s he had ever seen, with a line of dark splotches running down its face that gave it an almost comical look. It was splotched all over, Bilbo realized as its tail lashed lazily from side to side, dark irregular circles covering its body.

The cat sniffed him once, twice. Then it lifted its head and made a questioning ”Prrt?” noise.

Bilbo immediately heard rustling approaching through the grass. “Have you caught us a rabbit, Hatagi?” called a light, high voice. “What is--oh!”

Bilbo found himself looking up at a young woman with dark hair plaited in braids around her head, framing a broad-cheekboned face, tanned and ruddy. She was wearing a beige felt tunic and pants, both of them heavily embroidered with elaborate designs in red and gold.

She also had an unsheathed knife and was looking at him in surprise.

“Um, hello,” said Bilbo with a weak wave. “Would you mind, um, calling off your cat?”

“...and I’m terribly sorry that Hatagi mistook your small friend for a rabbit,” said the girl to Thorin, “but you must admit it was a natural mistake.”

Bilbo gave her an outraged look, and Thorin felt a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “The apologies should be ours, Miss…”

“My name is Chechyegin,” she said, dipping in something like a curtsey but more complex. “Of the Borogin. And this is Hatagi,” she added, indicating the cat sitting next to her with his long tail tucked neatly around his dappled body. “He’s not actually my cat,” she said to Bilbo. “I was borrowing him to go hunting. He’s Bachai’s.” Her face turned solemn. “You should not be wandering these plains, strangers. Not now. It’s too dangerous.” With an imperious gesture, she turned away, and the silver ornaments braided into her hair jangled with the motion. “I shall take you to my father. He’ll know what to do with you.”

Thorin looked back at the rest of his party, who looked uncertain in varying degrees. “Things appear to be unsettled,” Dis said in a low voice. “And it may be unwise to risk meeting up with more hostile people without knowledge of what’s going on. I say we go with her.”

“Unless there are strong objections?” Thorin looked around the group, then nodded. “Then we do so.”

The cat Hatagi trotted by Bilbo’s side with an air of pride as they walked, as if he believed that he had captured him.

Bilbo had expected something more like a city, and was surprised when they topped a low rise and saw a scattering of colorful tents in a rough circle.

“Buildings?” Chechyegin said when he asked. She spat to the side. “Buildings are for those who are willing to live in cages. The Wainriders live with the wind and the grass, and we go where we will, free as the stars.”

The tent she took them to was made of scarlet felt and had blue stitching around the door. “Father,” called Chechyegin, bowing at the door. “I bring guests, strangers I found on the plains.”

“Enter,” said a brusque voice.

The tent was just barely large enough for the whole fellowship, and Arwen had to bend slightly to keep from hitting the roof. The walls were hung with elaborate tapestries in a riot of colors, and there were no chairs, just pillows on the floor.

The inhabitant of the tent rose as they entered: a short, wide man who nevertheless seemed all muscle. His deep-set dark eyes assessed the group, widening at the sight of the dwarves and the elf but otherwise giving little away.

“Strangers, be welcome in the tents of the Borogin,” said Chechyegin formally. “This is my father, Tokujar.”

Tokujar gestured. “Please be seated, guests of the Borogin,” he said. Chechyegin sank into a cross-legged position; the others followed--Arwen gracefully, the dwarves much less so.

“What brings such a group to be traveling across the plains at these troubled times?” Tokujar said without preamble.

“We travel to Saynshar,” said Thorin.

Tokujar grimaced and looked as though he would like to spit as well. “Saynshar! Why do you go to a place of such foulness?”

“My father is the ruler of the city of Gondor,” Denethor said suddenly. “And he has heard that the people of Saynshar wage war upon the west. We wish to learn the reasons.”

Bilbo saw Thorin swallow hard as Tokujar considered Denethor. If they were to decide the son of the Steward would be a good hostage--! But after a moment Tokujar nodded. “The city-dwellers have no good reason,” he said, contempt dripping from his voice. “Once they had wisdom of a sort, and followed the old ways as best they could for a people locked in a golden trap. But now--” He shook his head. “They have deposed their Queen and say that their gods require a male ruler. They have cut the sacred thread that runs from woman to woman. They no longer understand the blood of life, but only the blood of death. We of the plains hold fast to the old ways.” He reached out and touched Chechyegin’s glossy head. “One day my daughter will take her wain and leave, return to her mother’s side to be leader of her clan. It is the way of things.”

“Are you not the leader of this clan?” asked Denethor.

Tokujar looked amused. “I am chief arrow-maker of the Borogin, and that is honor enough for me! I found favor with the leader of one of the richer clans and now I raise her daughter until she is old enough to return for her training. I shall miss her when she leaves, for it has been a happy time for me.”

“I shall find the Borogin wherever you roam! I will visit every moon!” said Chechyegin fiercely, and he smiled before turning his attention back to the fellowship.

“If your road takes you to Saynshar, it is a dark road indeed. We are traveling further east quite soon, to the Nush Argi Bazaar, if you wish to travel with our family." He eyed their weapons. "I must check with the clan leader, but frankly, we are short on warriors this season, and bandits will be less likely to find us easy prey with you along. I am certain she will agree."

Thorin looked at the other members of the party, then nodded. "This seems a good arrangement to us." He bowed. "May we assist you in any way in your preparations?"

Tokujar frowned in thought and turned back to his daughter. "Will Bachai continue on with us, or has her time with the Borogin come to an end?"

"She said she's ‘not tired of us quite yet,’" said Chechyegin, making her voice querulous in clear imitation of someone else, and her father laughed.

"Then guests, please go with my daughter and help Bachai pack up her wain, though she will complain bitterly and say she needs no help."

"Well," said Bilbo as they left the tent, "She sounds remarkably like some people I happen to know."

Thorin and Denethor both glared at him, then at the various other members of the party who were hiding smiles behind their hands.

"Lead on," said Arwen to Chechyegin, and they made their way through the center of the camp, dodging screaming children playing games and vendors with small carts carrying spiced meats on skewers, the sight and smell of which made Bilbo's mouth water. Thorin glanced at him, then quietly handed one of the vendors a few coins and came away with a handful of skewers, passing them around the Fellowship and reserving the last two for Bilbo. Hatagi mewed sharply and went up on his hind legs for a moment--making him almost taller than the hobbit--and Bilbo tossed a piece of meat to him. He snapped it out of the air, sharp teeth gleaming, then fell back alongside Bilbo as the party wove through the crowd.

Chechyegin finally made her way to a tent embroidered in silver and blue, and Hatagi made a happy chirruping noise and ran toward it. At the sound--Bilbo fell back a step in alarm as cats erupted from the tent: cats of all shapes and sizes, from normal-sized marmalade tabbies up to a rangy speckled cat that looked all muscle and was nearly as tall as Thorin. "A chitahr," said Dis, her eyebrows raised, and the lean cat butted its head against her so hard she staggered. "I had heard of the hunting cats of the Easterlings, but I had never seen one," she said as she caressed its head.

"In...deed," Estel said, as he carefully dislodged a large, fluffy lynx that seemed determined to clamber up him as if he were a tree.

Denethor sneezed, then rubbed at his nose, looking rueful.

Chechyegin pulled a rope outside the tent door, causing a cascade of silver bells to chime out. "Bachai! I've brought Hatagi back!"

"Well, don't just stand out there, come in!" called a high-pitched, creaky voice.

Chechyegin grinned at the party and threw open the tent-flap. "He didn't catch me any rabbits this time, but look what he caught us instead, Bachai!" She beckoned to Bilbo, and when he drew close, gave him a push into the tent.

"Well, well, what have we here?" said the inhabitant of the tent, turning toward him. She was tall--nearly as tall as Arwen--and slender to the point of boniness, with a face like beaten bronze, seamed and wrinkled with age. Her straight white hair fell down her back, unadorned, but her tunic and pantaloons were covered with thick sky-blue embroidery. At her feet another five or six cats gamboled and played, batting at the hem of her tunic and each other.

Bachai bent down to look at Bilbo, and her deep-set black eyes crinkled at the corners. "Are you certain this is not a rabbit?" she said.

Bilbo couldn't help huffing a bit. "I don't see why everyone feels the need to compare me to a rabbit," he said. Then he looked beyond her to a shape lying at the far side of the tent and felt his knees turn to water. "Oh," he stammered. "That's--"

"A mountain lion," Thorin said behind him, his voice impressed. The huge, tawny beast raised its heavy head to blink at all of them, then yawned, unrolling a pink tongue and then tucking it back in. The chitahr padded into the tent and curled up next to the lion; an assortment of smaller cats joined them to create a furry heap.

"What an interesting assortment of people," Bachai said, peering at the group at her tent door. "What exactly are humans, dwarves, elves, and a not-rabbit doing traveling together, eh?"

"They travel to Saynshar," Chechyegin said, and Bilbo felt Thorin relax slightly as she saved him from having to answer. "They will go as far as Nush Argi with us. Father said they could earn their way by helping you pack."

Bachai threw back her head and laughed. "Did he, now? I'm sure he thinks I will refuse the help. So, as I am a contrary old woman, I shall accept!" She clapped her hands together and beamed at them all. "Tell me, do you know how to pack a wain?"

Bilbo wheezed under the weight of a heavy box. "See here, don't drop that!" snapped Bachai, shaking her walking stick at him. She was leaning against the side of her wain, watching the fellowship packing her things with great good humor. "You! Pompous One!" She pointed at Denethor, folding tapestries with a sour look on his face. "Fold in thirds, not fourths!"

Denethor nudged an inquisitive cat away with his foot, sneezed again, and started refolding the tapestry with a martyred air.

"What are you storing in here, rocks?" Bilbo asked her as he handed the box over to Arwen to lift into the wain.

"It's no business of yours if I am," snapped Bachai. Then she seemed to soften, looking at his sweat-beaded brow. "Rest a moment," she said, tossing him a skin that sloshed in his hands.

He unstoppered it and took a long drink of water. "Thank you," he said.

He looked around at the bustling camp--everywhere he looked, tents were coming to the ground in billows of cloth, being rolled up and tossed onto wains with brisk efficiency. Soon, beyond the beaten-down grasses, there would be no sign people had been here at all. In the field behind them, a group of young people were driving around in small one- and two-person horse-drawn wains, playing some game that involved tossing a ball from person to person. Bilbo spotted Chechyegin sharing a chariot with another laughing girl, zig-zagging back and forth. She saw him watching and waved to him, and he waved back.

Then his nostrils twitched as a familiar scent reached them. He looked over to see Bachai sprinkling a line of brown leaves onto a piece of paper. "Is that--pipeweed?" he asked, astonished.

Bachai rolled the paper into a tube. Reaching out to a nearby brazier, she ignited one end, then put it to her lips for a puff. Aromatic smoke trailed from her nose. "Perhaps you call it that in the west," she said. "We call it tabaq. Would you like some?"

Bilbo hadn't enjoyed a good smoke in a long time, but he wasn't sure about this strange method. "No thank you," he said politely, and she cackled quietly to herself.

"Here I thought the Borogin were getting boring," she said. "And then you lot land in my lap!"

"You're not of this clan?" Bilbo asked, watching Gimli and Dis struggling to take down the tent without getting lost in its folds.

"Oh, my cats and I come and go," Bachai said vaguely, waving her paper tube. "Wherever things look most interesting." She smiled as Estel waded in to help the flustered dwarves. "And things suddenly look very interesting around here."

Chapter Text

“No,” said Bilbo. “No, no, no--no!”

Dís paused, an exasperated look on her face. “Bilbo, the--” She glanced around at the bustling Wainrider camp and grimaced before continuing, “The--people--that pursued us into Taur-nu-Eleni are not dead, merely defeated. They saw you. So you cannot be seen in public as a hobbit.”

Thorin tried not to look amused as Bilbo glared around the campfire at the rest of the party. The left side of his face was covered with a fake goat’s-hair beard, which lent him an air of lopsided, furry fury. The other members of the Fellowship were not doing as well as Thorin in hiding their amusement. Bachai was cackling out loud from her perch nearest the fire: “My old bones deserve the extra heat,” she had snapped when claiming it.

Bilbo met Thorin’s eyes, and Thorin gave him a wry and apologetic head-tilt. Bilbo’s shoulders slumped. “I guess there’s nothing for it. But do I really have to wear these?” He lifted his right foot, encased in a heavy boot.

“You’ll attract notice if you’re barefoot,” Dís said firmly, and went back to sticking the beard on his face.

“My feet are sweltering,” Bilbo huffed. “Besides, I’m too short to pass for a dwarf anyway.”

Dís rested her hands on his shoulders. “I don’t know about that,” she said consideringly. “You’ve definitely put on some height recently. You’re taller than Balin now.”

“What?” Bilbo looked startled. “That’s impossible, hobbits don’t get taller at my age. Besides, I can’t be taller, I still need to go on tiptoes to--”

He broke off and his cheeks beneath the fake beard went quite red.

“I believe Thorin has gotten taller recently as well,” said Arwen, looking up from her embroidery, “Which why you still need to stand on tiptoes.”

Bilbo’s blush deepened, and Thorin spoke up to deflect some of the attention away from him. “I thought my clothing had shrunk somehow after leaving the garden of the Ents,” he said. “But now that you mention it, perhaps I have grown somewhat.”

“That’s...very strange,” Bilbo said, looking at his own hands. “No one else has grown?”

“Not that I am aware of,” said Estel with a glint of humor in his dark eyes.

“Maybe it was that spring you and I drank from?” Bilbo said to Thorin. “Wandlimb’s spring?”

“Perhaps. But whatever the cause, it is fortunate for us, because it makes it easier for you to pass disguised.”

Bilbo looked down at his booted feet and sighed. “I don’t like it.”

“What’s wrong with looking like a dwarf, eh?” grumbled Gimli.

“I suggest you try frowning more, and stomping around gracelessly,” said a light, clear voice, and Legolas suddenly emerged from the shadows, his high cheekbones and merry smile catching the golden light of the fire. “And mutter imprecations about elves.”

“Legolas!” cried Estel and Arwen in unison as everyone jumped to their feet--except Gimli, who stayed seated and frowning, although Thorin could have sworn he caught a glimpse of relief on his face for just a moment when he heard Legolas’s voice. “You found us!”

“A caravan is hardly difficult to track,” noted Legolas.

“And something of a pleasant change after the unearthly sights we’ve seen while on your trail,” said Théoden from behind him. He sat down next to Denethor and three of Bachai’s cats immediately seemed to decide his was the best lap in the camp. “Haunted woods and talking trees--you’ve led us on a merry chase!”

“But where is Gandalf?” asked Bilbo with a worried expression on his face.

“After hearing from the Ents that you were making for Saynshar, he announced he would go directly there and await us.” Théoden shrugged. “We stayed on your trail--and here we find our beloved hobbit in mid-transformation! You make a handsome dwarf, Mr. Baggins.” One of the cats sat up and head-butted his chin vigorously, purring, and he scratched its chin.

Denethor rubbed at his reddened nose and cast a venomous glance at him. “I should have known you’d love cats,” he said.

“And I should have known you couldn’t stand them,” retorted Théoden. “For you never could abide someone with an independent will.”

“Gentlemen, please,” said Thorin, weary already. “Can we put off the bickering for just a little longer?”

“I think that’s how they say they’re happy to see each other,” Bilbo said with a mischievous glint in his eye as he stomped experimentally around the fire.

“It would lessen Minas Tirith if her ally lost its heir,” snapped Denethor, “So of course I am happy to see him safe, annoying as he is.”

“Speaking of lost heirs--” Théoden began, then caught Estel’s warning eye and subsided reluctantly.

“Another elf,” said Bachai, watching them intently. “Interesting and more interesting!” She took a long drag from her paper tube and knocked the ashes off the end into the fire.

“Bachai is the owner of all these cats,” Denethor said, but she shook a bony finger at him.

“Not owner, oh no. Friend only. No one owns a cat. Does not the Tale of the Ten Cats of Gondor tell us so?”

“I don’t know that story, Bachai,” said Chechyegin, sitting at her feet. “Will you tell us?”

“Well,” said Bachai, “Once there was a Queen of the south, who wed a King of Gondor and came north to live. But she was a proud and solitary woman, and she misliked the city, and felt all were set against her, and she walked alone in the night clad in black and none trusted her.

“Then ten cats of Gondor felt pity in their hearts for her and her solitary ways, and her fierce spirit, and they swore fealty to her, and bound themselves to her. But alas, she proved unworthy of the loyalty of cats, for she used that bond to torture and to torment them, and make their wills subservient to hers. She denied them the joy of the hunt and the freedom of the moonlight, and forced them to spy upon the people of Gondor as if they were servants--as if they were dogs!” Bachai made an angry hissing noise, then sighed. “The whole tale--how despite their cruel enslavement they engineered the downfall of the Queen, and how they traveled south with her into exile, and how they won their freedom once more--is too long to tell this evening, but they serve as a reminder than no cat is ‘owned,’ though some do deign to live and work with us.” The mountain lion curled up at her side yawned and rolled over onto its back, and she stroked the dawn-colored fur of its stomach.

“That is not the tale they tell in Gondor of Queen Berúthiel and her cats,” said Denethor, his eyes narrowed.

“Is it not?” Bachai cackled briefly. “Well, this is the version the cats tell, and you of the city may tell your own!”

“If it is a night for stories,” said Estel, “I shall tell one of my own--about a dog, since the lady Bachai has seen fit to slander them,” he added with a smile.

She waved her hand at him indulgently. “Go on, go on, young puppy.”

“This is a part of the Lay of Leithian, or Release from Bondage, and is the story of Huan, the Hound of Valinor, and his faithful love for Beren and Lúthien.”

Estel’s voice was strong and resonant as he told of the adventures of Huan, and his love for the elf-princess Lúthien, and how when her love Beren had left them to assail Morgoth’s stronghold alone, Huan helped her find him once more. Bilbo shivered as Estel described the confrontation between Lúthien and the dread vampire Thuringwëthil, and how Lúthien stripped her of her bat-fell and sent her spirit unhoused away, and flew with the bat-wings of Thuringwëthil to find her love, and Huan ran at her side clad in the skin of the werewolf Drauglin.

“And Beren walked alone and recked his life little,” said Estel, “And sang as he walked of the beauty of Lúthien, for he thought to never see her again, in life or in death. But lo! She came to him unlooked-for, and his path and his life made sense once more when they embraced.”

And it seemed to Bilbo that he looked at Arwen as he said then, and she looked down at her embroidery and did not meet his eye, but Bilbo saw a smile curve her mouth before Estel continued his tale: how Huan helped Beren and Lúthien in all their troubles, but in the end died to kill the great wolf Carcharoth and save the kingdom of Doriath. “He died with Beren’s hand upon his head, bidding him farewell. So ends the tale of Huan the Faithful!” said Estel. “Greatest of friends to Beren and to Lúthien the Fair.”

“And much good his loyalty did him,” snapped Bachai, but Bilbo thought her eyes were over-bright and she sniffed a few times, almost angrily. “You gathered green wood for the fire, it smokes terribly,” she complained to Chechyegin, who patted her on the knee.

“It was a good story,” said Chechyegin to Estel. “Thank you for it. We still have a few days until we reach Nush Argi, I hope you will tell us more tales.”

“The bazaar will be bustling this time of year,” said Bachai as Estel bowed, “full of city-dwellers stocking up for their zhuni, their summer stay on the plains. Pfah! They come in their silken tents for a visit, then return to their walls and their ceilings. Easterlings and Wainriders are of the same blood, but their hearts are as different as dwarves and elves.”

“Ah,” said Legolas, looking up suddenly from the plate of food Estel had handed him, “That reminds me that I have news indeed from the outpost where we passed on word of the danger facing Erebor--news you will scarcely credit. It seems that an army of dwarves and elves together march on Isengard.”

Startled exclamations around the fire. “Is such a thing possible?” said Gimli, his eyes wide.

“It seems Saruman woke more than the Balrog,” said Théoden. Bachai had a sudden coughing fit and leaked smoke from her nose; Théoden paused to see if she was all right, but she waved at him impatiently to continue. “The dwarves of Khazad-dûm and the elves of Lothlórien ride together to seek vengeance for the deaths of their people.”

Thorin felt his fists clench as he remembered the crackle of fire, the sound of sobbing in the dark. “It is good that Balin would not let his brother go unavenged,” he said.

Arwen looked pale in the firelight. “My grandfather marching to war,” she murmured. “This world is changing indeed.” She tried to return to her needlework, but her fingers trembled and she folded it up and put it away.

“Such a waste,” grumbled Bachai, throwing the last bit of her pipeweed into the fire.

“Does it bother you?” Bilbo’s voice almost didn’t carry over the sound of the creaking wain as they continued to move east. “That you’re not leading the assault on Isengard, I mean? Dwalin was your kin as well.”

Thorin considered the question. Of course he wished he could make Saruman suffer for the pain that he had caused Thorin’s people, for his violation of the sacred halls of Durin. On the other hand…

He looked at Bilbo, his face partly-obscured by the ridiculous false beard, his eyes warm and affectionate on Thorin’s. The star brooch was shining dimly on his breast, and Thorin took his hands in his.

“Remember how you told me, long ago on another road, that I must stop trying to send you away? Well, now I say to you that my place is by your side, Bilbo, from now on. I would be nowhere else.”

“Oh,” said Bilbo. Beneath the beard he was smiling as if he might just break into song. “All right then.”

The caravan moved slowly and steadily across the plains, and the days lengthened and warmed as they rode. Denethor and Théoden were given their own large wain to drive, for none could long abide the sound of their quarreling--although Bilbo privately thought that having Théoden back seemed to lessen Denethor’s gloom and keep him from brooding on his dislike of Estel. Chechyegin decided to teach Arwen and Dís how to drive one of the small, two-person chariots, and soon the pair were hunting game from it--Dís driving and Arwen wielding the bow, while Legolas and Gimli watched and agreed darkly that the world was coming to dire straits when elves and dwarves worked together. Bilbo started to adjust to his beard, although he still balked at the boots. And Thorin and Estel discussed, in quiet murmurs, their strategy when they finally reached Saynshar.

Three mornings into the journey, Thorin was sitting next to Tokujar at the front of his wain--Bilbo was sulking in the back, refusing to come out if he had to wear “those infernal boots,” he said. Tokujar clucked to the horses pulling the wain, and they pricked up their ears and trotted a little faster.

There was an ululating call, and Chechyegin shot by in her little wain, pulled by a sleek horse, her bow nocked and ready. She waved to her father and Thorin, then called to the horse and they galloped off in search of game.

“It was a relief to me indeed when the clan leaders decided we would not throw in our lot with Saynshar and send warriors to the aid of Mordor,” Tokujar said. “Chechyegin became old enough to ride to war just three moons ago, and she is one of our finest. It would have grieved me to part from her.”

“You send your daughters to battle?” Thorin asked. Of course dwarf women could fight, but there were so few that it was rare they were encouraged to.

Tokujar looked amused. “We are the Wainriders,” he said as if that explained everything. Then he relented at Thorin’s confused look. “Men fight on foot, but women fight from the small wains, in teams of two. Chechyegin and her blood sister are a team. She burns to prove herself against a foe, but she had no great desire to ride against the Lonely Mountain or Gondor.” His eyes went to Bachai’s wain, with Hatagi perched next to its wizened driver. “For this I owe Bachai a debt of gratitude.”

“Bachai?”

Tokujar grunted. “Bachai spoke long at the council of leaders, urging them against war. ‘Mordor seeks to bridle the wind to its bidding,’ she said. ‘Will you allow its Lord to put the bit between your childrens’ teeth and lead them to war?’ Chechyegin’s mother claims that speech turned the tide on that day.” Tokujar smiled at Thorin. “And so my arrows will ever be at her service.”

The bazaar at Nush Argi was an overwhelming vista of wains and tents, with flocks of goats and sheep placidly cropping the early-spring grass on the outskirts. Chechyegin led Bilbo and Thorin through the crowd, pointing out sights along the way: “The silken tents are city-dwellers’,” she said with disdain. “They have no need for felt or canvas if they spend only the summers on the plains.”

She stopped at a tent made of scarlet silk. “Chechyegin!” called the merchant at the door. “Has it been another year already? How you’ve grown.”

“Dayuu,” she said with a nod and a smile. “I assume you’ve been saving some of those iron arrowheads for my father?”

“Only the best for you,” said Dayuu. “And for your companions as well,” he added, casting a look at Thorin and Bilbo. Bilbo’s feet and face itched and resisted the urge to scratch at his makeshift beard. “We don’t see many dwarves on the plains,” Dayuu said.

“We are on our way to Saynshar,” said Thorin, picking up a pair of steel scissors from a display and admiring the workmanship.

“Are you now?” said Dayuu. “Then you’ll be wanting to buy a couple of these.” He picked up a small metal ornament, a steel triangle with an arrow etched into it, reaching toward the apex. “Mark of the Order of Life,” he said. “They’ll bring you luck--and less attention from the priests of the Order.”

“That’s not the symbol of the Order of Life,” Chechyegin said, and Dayuu’s eyes flickered left, then right before he smiled at her.

“It got changed,” he said. “Lots of things changing recently. Now, you want those arrowheads or not?”

Thorin put down a few coins. “I’ll take two of those marks,” he said.

Chechyegin was fuming as they pushed their way back toward the wains of the Borogin Clan. “The Order of Life’s sign is a circle,” she said angrily, pulling an amulet out of her robes to show them: a medallion on which a stylized hunter and cat were carved, the hunter shooting at the cat’s feet and the cat leaping at the hunter’s head in an endless loop. “I do not like this change,” she said. “I must go tell my father about it, so he can tell the clan-head.” With a hasty farewell, she pushed away through the crowd, still frowning.

Bilbo kicked at a rock on the trodden grass and missed with his clumsy, leather-encased feet. “Confound these boots,” he muttered, “I make a terrible dwarf.”

Thorin laughed and rested a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder for a moment. “Truly, Bilbo, I have no wish to make you a dwarf in anything more than an honorary sense. I think you are a much finer hobbit than dwarf.”

Bilbo was about to answer when a sudden voice cut into their conversation: “Hey! You--dwarf!”

The hissed words came from a man with a scar across his nose and a bristling black mustache, who was glaring at Thorin almost angrily. He was holding a flask in his hand, and from his breath as he leaned close Bilbo could tell he was fairly drunk.

“Are you dwarves trying to cut us out of the deal, eh? You’ve got a lot of nerve!”

Thorin shook the man’s hand off his shoulder. “I have no idea what you’re speaking of.”

“Oh you don’t, eh? Don’t you lie to me, dwarf! You think I don’t recognize those pretty sigils on your armor? He sent you along to try and do the job so he wouldn’t have to pay us, didn’t he?”

Bilbo saw Thorin’s eyes flicker to the seals etched on his armor--the seal of the royal family of Durin. His eyes went to Bilbo’s for a moment, and Bilbo could read them easily: follow my lead. When he spoke again, his voice was full of rough bluster: “Well, you haven’t gotten the job done yet, have you?”

“Haven’t gotten--” The man sputtered indignantly. “The old bastard only hired us a week ago! Do you know how hard it is to find one person in Saynshar, especially if she don’t want to be found?”

Bilbo crossed his arms and glared up at the man, adding his voice: “I bet you don’t have the faintest idea where to even find her,” he growled, and was rewarded with a flicker of a smile from Thorin.

The man glared down at him, his eyes slightly crossed with drink and with fury. “She’s good, but she ain’t that good. He followed a lead here to Nush Argi and we found ourselves someone ready to sell us some information. Oh, we know where the Kestrel comes to roost--the Crooked Leech on Slate Street. Bet you didn’t even have that much information!”

Bilbo whistled, impressed. “You’re right there. That’s some good work.”

The man nodded vigorously. “You leave the job to professionals, like me and Gamil,” he said. “I guarantee you that within this moon--” He drew a finger across his throat with a grin and made a gruesome sound. “So don’t you think about cutting in on the action and thinking to get that bounty for yourself!”

“We wouldn’t dream of it,” said Thorin gravely, and the man gave them a last snarling glower before wobbling off through the crowd.

“Let’s go,” said Thorin, taking Bilbo by the elbow. “We need to break camp and head for Saynshar right away.”

“We do?”

Thorin dodged a juggler and looked down at Bilbo, his face grim. “I think it’s safe to say that anyone my father wants dead is someone we want to keep alive.”

Saynshar was a welter of azure-tiled roofs with strange curving eaves, shockingly crowded after the free and open plains. Bilbo gazed at the city as the fellowship walked toward it and was gripped by a strange sense of familiarity: “The mirror,” he whispered under his breath.

“Eh?” Bachai poked him with her walking stick. She had decided to join them after seeing the triangular Mark of the Order Thorin had shown her, leaving Chechyegin to mind her wain and her cats, except for one small black kitten who insisted on staying on her shoulder. Thorin had explained that they were going to be on foot and moving fast, but she had just laughed at him--and indeed, she had shown no sign of tiring despite her age. “Speak up, child.”

“I saw this city once in...in a mirror,” Bilbo faltered.

“My, my,” she chortled. “The Shire sounds like quite an interesting place. Long-distance mirrors!”

Saynshar was surrounded by a white wall, with a golden gate encrusted with blue lapis set into the western side. A steady stream of walkers and riders entered and exited the city; the bored-looking guards in black armor gave the Fellowship barely a look as they walked into the city.

Once they were within, Bilbo could see why. Saynshar teemed with people of all shapes and sizes: many had the same bronzed skin and wide faces of the Wainriders, but there were also dwarves with black hair left tangled and wild; tall slender humans with dark brown skin, their heads wrapped in elaborate silken headdresses; humans that looked Gondorian but with five or six earrings piercing their ears, some with metal collars locked around their necks. Thorin and Dís had covered the signs of Durin on their clothes, and Gimli had braided his beard in a more Eastern fashion, but they would hardly have stood out even if they hadn’t. Bilbo heard seven or eight languages spoken before the constant din became mere noise in his ears, leaving his head spinning at the sights and sounds and smells of the city.

He found his steps lagging and realized that the ring, still on its fob in his pocket, was strangely heavy and hot. He had hardly thought about it at all in the gardens of the Ents, or while roaming free on the plains, but now the cacophony of the crowd seemed almost to take on sinister undertones, whispering, and the walls pressed in on him until he yearned to slip away, to escape, to hide…

He shook his head, swallowing hard, and followed his friends through the crowd.

They stopped at last at the sign of the Crooked Leech, hanging over a door in a dim alley, and Estel pushed open the door and entered.

The inn was dark, the beams smoke-blackened and the floor uneven. Herbs hung from the ceiling in bunches, adding a pungent scent to the room. As Bilbo’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he looked around and realized that no one had taken any note of their entrance except three people at a table in the far corner, a flickering candle lighting their faces. Bilbo didn’t know the first two people at the table, but the third--

With a happy cry, he began to step forward toward the gray-cloaked figure at the table, but he stopped at the sound of Bachai’s voice behind him:

“Olórin?” She stepped forward, waving her walking stick at Gandalf. “Olórin, you rascal, what are you doing in Saynshar? Why, I haven’t seen you in--” She cast her eyes up as if calculating.

“Four thousand, eight hundred and fourteen years, give or take a few decades,” said Gandalf, nodding. “You’re looking well, Alatar.”

Chapter Text

Bilbo stared from Bachai to Gandalf, blinking against the smoky air of the inn. “You know Gandalf?” he stammered.

“I should be asking ‘You know Olórin?’” said Bachai, mimicking his shocked tone. “I daresay I’ve known him a sight longer than you have, Master Baggins!”

“But you didn’t say anything when we mentioned his name.”

She waved her hand impatiently. “I can’t be expected to remember all of his ridiculous names. We all have so many--I was called Alatar in the beginning, and the Elves preferred to call me Morinehtar, but that’s such an awkward name, a terrible mouthful. For a long time now I’ve just gone by what the Easterlings call me, Bachai.”

The two people who had been sitting with Gandalf had risen and were standing on either side of him now. One was a slender young woman with glossy dark hair like a waterfall of ink that partly obscured her grave, round face. Her bearing was poised as if ready to defend herself, but there was no hostility in her dark gaze, only assessment. The other was a tall man in deep blue robes, slightly taller than Gandalf, even. He was barrel-chested and powerful, with skin as dark as walnut, and grizzled hair like lamb’s fleece cropped close to his head.

“Bachai,” he boomed. “What lures you within city walls? Did you not swear that even for my sake you would enter here no longer?”

Bachai went to him and threw her arms around his broad frame. “Pallando, my friend, your misguided love of these cramped streets remains the strangest mystery I know.”

“And you know well that my love is not of the streets, nor of the walls, but of the people. Such people this city holds! Jongleurs and healers, sages and traders and dancers, all with their own stories to tell. I could not tire of it in all my life.”

Bachai shook her head in affectionate exasperation. “But as to your question, the reason I am here is--not something we can talk about in public,” she said, looking around.

“Let us go to the roof,” said the young woman, speaking for the first time. “Follow me.”

She nodded to the innkeeper, who nodded back, then led the party down a winding corridor and to a rickety staircase. Bilbo felt a rush of claustrophobia at the narrow walls, but it gave way to a gasp of wonder as they emerged onto the roof.

The first thing that caught the eye was a sweeping vista of blue-tiled roofs, punctuated here and there by slender towers with golden tops and windows of ivory latticework. Then Bilbo noticed the birds.

Birds roosted all over the roof of the inn: eagles and kites and falcons, birds of prey with fierce golden eyes and scarlet talons. They bore no hoods or jesses, but sat freely where they would, eyeing the Fellowship with avian disdain.

To Bilbo’s surprise, Denethor gave a low cry of joy and stepped toward one of them, stopping at a respectful distance. “What a beauty,” he said as its head snapped around to glare at him. “Aren’t you a beautiful girl?”

Pallando threw out his massive chest with pride, beaming. “Is she not? The greatest hunter of my flock.”

“Oh, don’t get him started on his birds,” said Bachai. The small black kitten on her shoulder was staring at the birds, its fur bristling and its tail high in alarm. “There there,” she crooned, smoothing its fur. “Your mother was a great hunter as well, you have nothing to be intimidated about.”

Bilbo had the distinct impression this was an argument the two of them had had often. “Are you--are you both wizards? Like Gandalf and Saruman?”

Pallando snorted. “More like the former than the latter, I do hope! Treacherous snake.” One of the falcons shrieked derisively and hopped onto his shoulder, cocking its head at the party.

“But yes,” said Gandalf. “Alatar--Bachai--and Pallando have been working here in East for quite a long time: Bachai with the Wainriders and the folk of the plains, Pallando with the people of the cities, from the Haradrim in the South to the Easterlings here in Saynshar.”

“And of late he works with me,” said the woman called Kestrel, stepping forward. “Against the Order of Life.” She grimaced at her own words. “That sounds foul indeed, to fight against that which has stood for balance and peace for so long.”

Pallando bowed his head, grief crossing his wide features. “They are the Order of Life in name only now, though they claim that they have only now truly become it. Their head priestess, Il-Qaltun, claims that the Order can prevent death, can give its followers eternal life.”

Bilbo heard a hissed breath from Arwen behind him, and Estel said gravely, “Death is the fate of the Secondborn. Nothing has ever changed that, and nothing ever will.”

Kestrel’s sharp, intent gaze went to him. “So the Order of Life has always said in the past. But now Il-Qaltun promises the King that if he allies himself with Mordor, if he sends his armies to assault Erebor and Minas Tirith, then he will after help the king to assail Cuiviénen and--”

A babble of voices broke out at her words: Legolas cried out “Cuiviénen?” at the same moment Estel said “King?” and Denethor barked, ”Assault Minas Tirith?”

Kestrel waited until it was clear they were done interrupting her, then nodded at Legolas. “Yes, Master Elf, Cuiviénen. The lake by whose shores the very first of your kind awoke. Il-Qaltun has convinced the King that if he drinks from its waters, he too can share in the eternal life of the Elves.”

“That is not true,” said Legolas, frowning, and Kestrel made a sharp, impatient gesture with her hand.

“The High Priestess cares nothing of what is true and what is not! She stands behind the throne and whispers her poisoned words in the King’s ear, telling him to abandon the old ways--yes,” she said, turning to Estel, “You heard aright, I said King.”

“But Saynshar has always been ruled by its daughters,” Estel said.

Her smile was humorless. “Saynshar was indeed ruled by a queen--the fiftieth queen of the Easterlings--until five years ago. But she sickened with a wasting disease, and none could cure her, and she died. Then King Jetei, her husband, said that Il-Qaltun had had a vision. That only a land ruled by men could wrest immortality back from the gods. That--”

She choked with anger and looked away, and Pallando took up the story: “He proclaimed himself ruler and his son Jelme the heir, rather than his daughter who should have taken the throne.”

"How have his children responded?" Dís asked, frowning.

"Princess Samur..." Kestrel's mouth twisted. "She seems biddable enough. Prince Jelme is also not one to defy his father, though I believe he is not so twisted by Il-Qaltun's words. But not all have accepted this perversion of the old ways. Some of us seek to defy the Order of Life, and Il-Qaltun and the King himself.”

“And you are the leader of this rebellion,” Thorin said.

For a moment she looked irresolute, but then she nodded grimly.

“Then we are here to warn you that assassins seek your life,” said Thorin. “Hired by my father who is, I suspect, working with this King Jetei or Il-Qaltun.”

Now Kestrel looked shaken. “Working with the King…” she murmured.

Denethor pushed forward. “You spoke of an assault on Minas Tirith!” he cried. “What do you mean?”

Kestrel started to answer, but suddenly the falcon on Pallando's shoulder made a sharp clicking noise and flapped her wings at the same time Legolas and Arwen both turned sharply to gaze at the stairs.

“There are enemies below,” said Arwen.

“Then we shall face them!” said Théoden, drawing his blade and starting for the stairs.

Denethor made an annoyed sound, drawing his own blade. "Headstrong fool," he snapped, grabbing Théoden's shoulder. "We go together."

"Stay behind me," said Thorin to Bilbo as the two men charged down the stairs with a yell, "And take cover."

They descended into a maelstrom of steel and splintered wood.

The room seemed to be full of people in black clothes and masks, already surrounding Denethor and Théoden. Bilbo saw an assassin coming at him, then realized the true target was Kestrel; with a gasp he grabbed her arm and pulled her behind the bar as Estel and Thorin intercepted the killer.

The floor behind the bar was sticky with spilled alcohol and--Bilbo realized with a thrill of horror--blood. "Arik!" cried Kestrel, and scrambled to the side of the bartender, lying in a pool of blood. "Help me staunch the wound, friend Dwarf!"

Bilbo looked behind him for one of his companions, then remembered his disguise. Grabbing a rag from beneath the bar, he crouched by Kestrel's side, trying to stem the flow of blood from a wound in the man's side. There were tears on Kestrel's face, but her mouth was set and grim as she struggled to keep the man alive.

A black-masked face appeared over the edge of the bar, and without thinking Bilbo grabbed a tankard and smashed it against the side of the man's head. He heard someone--it sounded like Gimli--laugh in triumph, and the dazed assassin was dragged back into the room.

Bilbo peeked over the edge of the bar just long enough to see the three wizards standing back to back in one corner, laying about them with their staffs and knocking the heads of anyone who came near. The kitten on Bachai's shoulder was hissing wildly and laying about with its tiny claws. Théoden and Denethor were on top of a table, kicking and stabbing, while Estel and Thorin were holding off five assassins between them. There seemed to be a lot of bodies lying around. Gimli and Legolas had gotten themselves backed up to the windows, and their attackers seemed to be getting the best of them--until suddenly there was a triumphant cry and Arwen and Dís burst through the window from the outside together.

That turned the tide, and soon all of the assassins were dead or fleeing out the shattered window. "You went down the outside," Gimli said to Dís. "Good idea."

"Yes," said Arwen, cleaning off her knife. "It was."

"Please help," cried Kestrel from behind the bar, and everyone turned toward her voice.

"It's the bartender," said Bilbo. "He's--"

Estel vaulted over the bar with one smooth motion, dropping to his knees to look at Arik. "The guard will be here soon," he said to Kestrel. "You must go."

"I won't leave him!" she said, glaring at Estel. "It's my fault he's--"

"I swear to you that he will not die," said Estel, looking her gravely in the eye. "I will make sure of it. The rest of you must go. Now!"

Pallando reached over the bar and picked Kestrel up bodily. "I have worked too long with you to allow you to be captured," he said as she cursed him.

"I will not leave you," said Arwen, looking down at Estel.

"Protect Bilbo," said Estel without looking up from his patient. "He is the most important."

"Everyone scatter," said Pallando, his deep voice ringing with authority. "We meet at sunset at the bazaar outside the southern temple."

And then he was gone.

With a snarl of frustration twisting her perfect features, Arwen whirled and headed for the back door of the inn with the others. Once out in the street, everyone split up and faded into the crowd, trying to look inconspicuous. Only Arwen and Thorin stayed with Bilbo, making their way through the crowd together.

Bilbo didn't feel at all inconspicuous. His enclosed feet were sweating in their boots and his face was itching under its fake beard, and the back of his neck prickled as if in a warning, as if at any minute someone might call out "That's the hobbit! Get him!" The early spring sun seemed uncomfortably warm, and the Ring in his pocket was agonizingly heavy. Even having Arwen and Thorin on either side of him could bring him no comfort as they made their way through the crowd. How could even they protect him from the lidless Eye that was always searching, searching for him alone, blazing in the darkness...

A hand tightened on his elbow and he blinked into Thorin's concerned face. "We...we should split up," Bilbo stammered. “We’re too conspicuous together.”

"I will not leave you," Thorin said, his voice a low rumble under the surge of the crowd, and Bilbo felt a warmth that was not the sunshine glow within him.

Perhaps Thorin might not be able to protect him from the Eye, but at least Bilbo would not have to face it alone.

“The main square,” Arwen said in a low voice as they found themselves in a large tiled plaza, ringed by ochre buildings with sweeping blue roofs. “With the royal palace at its far end. We must cross it to reach the temple.”

They made their way through the crowd--looking at vendors’ wares, bickering mildly over the price of a handful of grapes, doing all the things that normal, innocent visitors to Saynshar would do. Arwen smiled and laughed, and Bilbo hid his inability to do either in his beard.

The sun slid down the afternoon sky, and was nearly halfway to the horizon when a sudden blare of trumpets shattered Bilbo’s fragile calm. He clutched at Thorin’s elbow, his heart racing, as four figures stepped out onto a balcony of the palace.

The tallest was clearly King Jetei, wearing a crown of filigreed black metal. Next to him was a young man who shared his high-cheekboned features, but not his arrogant gaze: Prince Jelme, Bilbo assumed. The woman next to him was draped in a sky-blue veil which covered all but her downcast eyes, held in place by a much more modest diadem. And the fourth figure--

Bilbo felt his heart thud strangely as he looked at the last person on the balcony, who could only be the mysterious priestess Il-Qaltun. Her hair was dark, and cascaded down her back unbound, but she had a pallor unusual among Easterlings. She was clad in a robe of black silk that was draped around her shoulders, and which shivered lightly at even the slightest breeze. Her pale eyes scanned the crowd avidly, and Bilbo felt once again that sensation of being looked for, of being hunted. Shuddering, he stepped behind Thorin, but the feeling did not dissipate.

The hubbub of the square had died down the moment the trumpets had sounded, and into the silence King Jetei spoke with a strong, ringing voice.

“People of Saynshar! I bring you tidings of war!”

The crowd muttered and murmured, then subsided.

“First, as you know, our armies have joined with our powerful and generous neighbor to the south to beseige the arrogant might of the Longbeards of Erebor! Even now, our armies have taken the once-great city of Dale and are camped outside the gates of the Lonely Mountain!”

Cheers and applause broke out, but Bilbo noticed pockets of uneasy silence as well. He could feel Thorin breathing heavily next to him, and now it was his turn to take Thorin’s arm and squeeze reassuringly. A few people turned from their cheers to look at them, and Bilbo smiled weakly as the king continued:

“The stiff-necked dwarves and humans within will have no choice but to yield eventually, and then the riches within shall be ours!”

“Hurrah!” shouted Bilbo, throwing his hands in the air. “Hurrah! Down with the Longbeards!” Thorin cast him an agonized look, but the people nearby turned away, their suspicions apparently sated.

King Jetei seemed to waver for a moment, and looked behind him to where Il-Qaltun stood. She nodded, a slight smile curving her bloodless lips, and he turned back to the square to address the people once more.

“And now I bring you grave and glorious tidings. We have captured a Gondorian spy, sent to assassinate an inn full of our good citizens and gravely wound the good innkeeper!”

Dark mutterings from the crowd around them. Bilbo heard Arwen suck in a painful breath as she gazed up at the balcony.

“Such an act of brazen aggression cannot be allowed to stand. It is an act of war!”

The mutterings of the crowd swelled upward into cheers, much more fervent than those against the Lonely Mountain.

“People of Saynshar, we must now consider ourselves at war against Gondor! The spy shall be executed here in this square at sunrise tomorrow, and our army marches for the city of Minas Tirith within the week!”

Bilbo reached out to seize Arwen’s hand; she stared down at him as if at a stranger, her eyes dry and distant. He gripped her fingers tightly, unable to speak his heart among the cheering people, unsure if she could hear him anyway.

Then Thorin said something in Sindarin, pitched low for her ears, and she blinked and focused on his face for a long moment before nodding grimly. Then her long fingers tightened around Bilbo’s small hand, and they made their way out of the square together.

“What did you say to her?” Bilbo murmured to Thorin once they were away from the worst of the chaos, making their way slowly across town as the sun turned orange and red and faded downward.

“I said we would save him, of course,” said Thorin with a wry smile.

Chapter Text

“There is no time to rescue Thorongil!” Thorin could hear a desperate urgency in Denethor’s voice, one that made his stomach knot with unwelcome empathy. “I must return to Minas Tirith and warn my father that an army is being mustered against our people!” He glared at the stony faces of the rest of the party. “And yes, I see your thoughts in your eyes, and I do not deny them. Perhaps I do think we are better off without him. I tell you, he was only with us because he desires the Ring for himself!”

“Do you truly still believe this thing of him?” said Arwen, and her voice was deadly calm. “You have traveled with him for months now, and you think this of him yet?”

Denethor looked at her, and his throat worked. He swallowed hard. When he spoke again, his voice was less strident. “Warning Gondor must be my first priority. If he is the man you claim he is,” he said with emphasis, “Then he would agree that Gondor comes first. Someone must reach my father and warn him as soon as possible, and that means--” He stopped suddenly and his eyes widened, as if with an idea. “Unless--” He whirled to face Pallando. “Your birds, wizard. Can one of them bear a message to Minas Tirith? Do they know the way?”

“My birds will fly wherever I tell them,” said Pallando with some pride. He had arrived last and alone at the bolthole. “Kestrel has her own safe places,” he had said when they asked where she was.

“Paper, I need paper,” said Denethor, scrabbling in his pack. “And a pen. Ah.” He pounced on a pen and inkstand on the desk tucked away in the corner of the tiny, dim room they had gathered in.

Thorin turned to the rest of the group. “Gandalf, Arwen and I will be entering the palace to find Thorongil this evening,” he said. “The rest of you will be finding us a means of travel southward and meeting us at the edge of town at dawn. Théoden, I trust you and Legolas to find us the best mounts.”

Théoden bowed with a grin. “You may leave it in our hands, your majesty.”

“Dís, Gimli, Bilbo--find the provisions and supplies we need. Sauron trusts the great desert to the south to prevent access to Mordor; we must be prepared for harsh climes.” Bilbo opened his mouth, frowning, and Thorin continued hurriedly, “Pallando, do you have a map of the palace?”

“I do,” said the wizard, crossing his arms in front of his broad chest.

“Then you must show us the best routes within it to where you think Thorongil will be held.”

“There,” said Denethor with some satisfaction, stepping back into the conversation as he rolled up his bit of parchment. “All I know of the war plans of the Easterlings, to be delivered to my father. Don’t worry, all is in code,” he said at Thorin’s worried look. His smile turned sardonic. “I didn’t have the space to tell him his cherished captain Thorongil was in danger, but I believe he will muster his troops nonetheless.”

“Go with Pallando to find one of his birds and send your message,” said Thorin. “Then meet us at the southern gate.” He turned to Dís. “If we do not return by dawn, take Bilbo and go.”

As Dís nodded, Thorin felt his sleeve grabbed, and he was yanked around to meet Bilbo’s eyes. “If you are done commanding everyone, your majesty,” said Bilbo, “May I have a word with you in private?”

Thorin nodded, trying to look more confident than he felt, and followed him across the hall to the smaller room of the bolthole.

“How dare you ship me off like a--like a package!” Bilbo snapped before the door finished closing. “You said we would share all dangers from now. You said--” He broke off and gulped hard. “You said we would not be parted again while you lived.”

“It is too dangerous,” said Thorin. “Listen to me, Bilbo!” he said when Bilbo shook his head as if in disbelief. “The Fellowship can go on without any of us. But the palace is swarming with agents of Mordor. If you are taken, all is lost. You must flee the city and go south.” He put his hands on Bilbo’s shoulders. “The Ring must be destroyed. If it is not, there is no future for us beyond war and bloodshed. There is no future for Erebor, for the Shire, if Sauron captures you. Please, Bilbo.”

He half-expected that Bilbo would protest that they could still be together, that surely Thorin did not have to lead this rescue mission. He saw the words nearly on Bilbo’s lips. But then Bilbo searched his eyes, and whatever he saw in Thorin’s expression caused his own to soften. “Very well,” Bilbo said, taking Thorin’s hands from his shoulders and holding them in his own. “But you must promise me something.”

“Anything in my power,” Thorin said.

“Promise me, Thorin, that--” Bilbo’s voice faltered for a moment, then he pressed his lips together and went on, “that you will not let anyone else take the Ring. Denethor desires it, I know,” he said as Thorin took a sharp, pained breath, “and he is not alone. There are so many people who want it for their own, but it--” His hands tightened on Thorin’s. “It is ours to destroy. It stole so many years from us, precious years we might have had together. Promise me that you and I, and no other, will be the ones to end it.”

His eyes were shadowed, haunted, and Thorin felt behind them the terrible weight of those years alone, tethered by the compulsion of the Ring. Such pain deserved a promise--but Thorin knew well how the Ring could twist suffering and despair to its own ends. “My dearest,” he said carefully, “none shall carry the Ring but you while I have power to prevent it, and together we shall destroy it.”

Bilbo searched his eyes for a moment. Then he nodded once, a pained jerk of his head. “You’ll return to me,” he said. “I know it. Now--go rescue Estel.” He sniffed once, hard, and rubbed at his eyes. “Go before I make a fool of myself.”

Bilbo wiped his eyes again as they made their way through the bazaar. “It’s dusty,” he complained as Dís rested a hand on his back briefly.

Legolas smiled down at him reassuringly. “I have a spare nínhammad, if you have need of one, my friend.”

“Nínhammad?”

Legolas frowned, dodging a mad-eyed goat that glared at him as they passed. “I do not know the word in Westron for it. Here--” He pulled from a pocket a small square of cloth, so gossamer-light it seemed to drift in the sunlight. “Cloth made by the master-weavers of the Greenwood from the golden flowers of mallos, sewn with thread cunningly spun of opals. Its name means ‘tear-cloth’ in Sindarin. It is said that the weavers of Nargothrond, after the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, wove nínhammad for a month without ceasing.”

“Oh,” said Bilbo as Legolas pressed the cloth into his hand. It felt finer and lighter than the purest silk. “We call it a pocket handkerchief in the Shire.” It seemed rude to blow his nose on it, so he dabbed lightly at his eyes.

Gimli made a rude noise. “We dwarves just use our sleeves,” he said loudly.

Dís stepped in between Gimli and Legolas before the squabble could escalate. “Legolas, you and Bilbo get us some food. Gimli and I will search for clothing and other items.”

Just outside the walls of Saynshar was a scattering of shacks and sheds overlooking a large lake. Bilbo pointed to one with a rough-scratched picture of a fish drawn on a board hanging in front of it. “Let’s try here.”

The inside of the store reeked strongly of smoke and fish; dried herrings hung from the ceiling. Behind the counter, the store owner was in the middle of an animated conversation with two city guards.

Bilbo shot Legolas a nervous look, but the elf shrugged and raised his eyebrows: too conspicuous to back out now, his look said.

“I’m telling you,” the store owner was saying, agitated, “That if you don’t stop the brat who is raiding my traps I’ll be put out of business! It’s got to be one of those beggar children, I know it--I saw the tiny footprints in the mud. They’re robbing me blind!”

One of the guards scratched his neck lazily. “We’ll report it to the king, Munk. Won’t we, Tomor?”

“Sure we will,” said Tomor. “Especially if we’re in a good mood after a nice meal of dried flounder.”

Munk muttered something under his breath, but tossed a bundle of dried fish at the guards. Legolas struck up a conversation with Munk as the guards left the store, but Bilbo unobtrusively wandered out after them. There was something prickling up his spine about the conversation, but he couldn’t say what it was.

“You really going to report this to the king?” asked Tomor, taking a bite of flounder jerky and looking up at the sky.

“Why not?” said his companion, apparently paying no notice to Bilbo, who was pretending to polish some mud off his detested boots. “You know the deal--important information goes to Il-Qaltun. Trifles go to the king. I’d say this counts as a trifle.”

“Il-Qaltun,” said Tomor, and his voice sounded like he had tasted something bad. “That--” He broke off suddenly and took a bite of fish. “Never mind.”

They stood in silence for a moment, and then the other guard said suddenly, “Hey, Tomor, see that bird up there? What is it, do you think?”

“A duck, ain’t it?” Tomor sounded bored.

“Are you sure? It looks kind of like a kestrel to me.”

A silence. Then Tomor said slowly, “You know, it could be a kestrel. It really could.”

There was a thumping noise as his companion slapped him on the back. “I’m glad we agree,” he said. “Let’s head back to the palace.”

As they strode off, Bilbo looked up at the sky, and the fat duck slowly making its way toward the horizon, until Legolas arrived with an armful of dried fish that he probably had paid far too much for.

“What--what is that?” stammered Bilbo as the creature in question gazed at him with dark eyes, fringed with lush eyelashes. On its shaggy brown back were two hairy mounds, like a mountain landscape. It chewed placidly on its cud, the motion reassuringly cow-like on its long, alien face, and continued to watch Bilbo.

“That is called a camel,” said Pallando. “One of the only animals that can carry us across the great wastes to the south.”

“It looks slow,” grumbled Denethor.

“Once again, you prove no judge of a mount,” Théoden said. “Though its knees are knobby and its feet strange, I can tell that when necessary this stout beast will carry its rider with both strength and speed. Will you not, O queen of the desert, O magnificent one?” he crooned, scratching the camel under the chin until it half-lidded its huge eyes and gazed at him adoringly.

Strangely, Denethor did not respond to Théoden’s teasing, but merely shook his head. “Well, I hope you are right this time,” he said. “For if our companions are successful in…” He looked around the bazaar uneasily; even at the edge of town it was bustling. “In retrieving what they seek, speed will be of the essence.”

From behind Bilbo there was a sudden trumpeting sound, shrill and terrifying; he whirled to see a huge gray creature with a long, writhing nose, decked out in a jeweled harness, being led through the bazaar. “Is--is that an oliphaunt?” he managed. “Oh! I can hardly believe someone could ride one of those.”

“They are common enough in the Harad,” said Pallando. “But not ideal mounts for traveling through the desert.”

“Here,” Bilbo turned at Dís’s voice, then blinked as she wrapped a length of muslin cloth around his neck, then loosely around his head. “It is to keep the sun off your head, and the sand out of your mouth.”

“This place we’re going sounds perfectly dreadful,” Bilbo said.

Standing next to Pallando, Bachai laughed. “I have crossed the Desert of Nurn twice now, and that was enough for me! But Pallando makes the passage often, on his way to and from Harad, and he will be an invaluable guide to you.”

“Take off your coat,” said Dís. “You will not need it where we are going, and we must travel light. Put on this robe.” Bilbo started to remove his coat, and Dís made a small sound of surprise. “I forgot,” she said in a small voice. “That my brother gave you that.”

Bilbo looked down at the mithril shirt, soft and light as silk under his coat and shirt. He often forgot it himself. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” he said as he pulled the soft, loose robe around himself.

Dís and Gimli shared a significant look that Bilbo ignored as he reached into his coat pocket and drew out the Ring. It glinted in the twilight, so innocuous and pure, and he curled his fingers around it to shield it from any other gaze. “I’m not sure--”

Gimli draped a fine golden chain around his neck. “I know, the pockets are rather loose. We thought of that,” he said. “String it on this chain and keep it tucked away.”

“Yes,” said Bilbo with a faint shiver as he strung the Ring on the chain and put it between the mithril shirt and his undershirt. “Wait--my star brooch,” he said, unpinning it from the coat. “Was there anything else--ah!” As he shook the coat to check for any forgotten items, a smooth hard oval fell out of it. “Wandlimb’s seed,” he said. “I mustn’t lose that.” He wrapped it in the elven handkerchief and slipped it into one of the robe’s roomy pockets, remembering that moment of peace in the garden of the Ents. It seemed so long ago now, so far away. He remembered Thorin’s voice asking for his hand in marriage, and tears prickled at his eyes again.

Dusk had fallen, and night was upon Saynshar. The evening star shone steadfastly over the palace. Bilbo looked up it and thought of Estel, locked in the dungeon below. He thought of Arwen, stricken with fear for her beloved, and of Gandalf’s quiet gray presence at her side.

He thought of Thorin, going away from him into danger to save a friend.

Wiping at his eyes, pinning up the loose scarf with the star brooch, he murmured, “I hope Thorin is safe. I hope they’re all safe.”

Chapter Text

Gandalf’s staff glowed faintly, just enough for them to make their way along the narrow passageway. When they reached a forking corridor, Thorin pulled out the map Pallando had given them--”It is of the secret passageways in the palace. Kestrel made it for me. Ask me no more!” he had glowered--and frowned at it, turning it left and right.

“Give me that,” said Arwen, snatching the paper from his hand before he could pull out his reading glasses. She had said little since Estel had been captured, and her graceful mouth was pressed in a sharp line of pain. “The dungeons are this way,” she said, pointing, and moved off without asking either Thorin or Gandalf their opinion.

Thorin looked at Gandalf. The wizard shrugged and turned to follow her.

There were small holes in the walls here and there, cunningly placed so as not to be visible from the other side. Spies and secrets, Thorin thought wearily. They made their way through the darkness, cautious and wary, and were almost at their destination when Thorin stopped dead at the sound of conversation on the other side of the wall. That voice!

“The siege of Erebor goes well?” said a low voice that Thorin hadn’t heard for decades, that he had last heard mocking him, taunting his inability to strike a killing blow.

“Yes, Thráin, all goes as planned,” said another voice as dark and rich as molten bronze. A woman’s voice, amused.

Thorin saw Arwen stop and turn suddenly, her eyes glinting in the dark of the passage. Slightly above eye level, he saw faint light filtering in, and stood on his toes to look furtively through the hidden peephole into the council room.

He managed to keep his breathing low and even, managed not to suck in a breath of shock when he saw his father, pacing the floor. His hands were clasped behind his back and his face drawn in harsh lines of weariness.

“Once Erebor is taken, my troops will fall back before your Ironfists.” Il-Qaltun, still wearing her cloak of black silk, stood by the fireplace. She sounded bored. “You shall be hailed as the liberator of the Lonely Mountain.”

“There need not be much bloodshed. Only the rest of the Line of Durin needs to be...dealt with,” said Thráin.

Il-Qaltun shrugged, and the silk rippled like water with the movement. “As you will. Erebor is a minor concern. My colleague to the south is concerned with larger things. Are you so certain that your...friend...can lead you to our quarry?”

Thráin snorted. “He feels it, and it is a continual torment to him. He was drawn to the Ring of Durin that I yet wield, symbol of my kingship and all that was stripped from me by my--” He broke off as Il-Qaltun rolled her silver-gray eyes and went on with less fire, “He serves me for he knows my ring is kin to his ‘precious,’ as he calls it. With him as my bloodhound, I can track the Ring where I will.”

“I could take the Ring of Durin from you,” said Il-Qaltun. “And win over your hunting hound myself.”

It seemed to Thorin that his father had gone more pale at her words, but he smiled grimly. “If you could do that, you would have done so long ago,” he said. “Therefore, I must assume that your ‘colleague’--you seem to mislike the word ‘master’--has forbidden you to take possession of a Ring of Power.”

For the first time, Il-Qaltun’s boredom fell away, and she gazed at Thráin with furious loathing for a moment before she smiled once more, her teeth a flash of white in her pale face. “Of course you have no intention of giving Sauron his due. But that is of no matter. Our alliance is pragmatic for now, and Mordor’s power grows. Our armies multiply, and we have now in our grasp the heir of Elendil.”

Thorin felt Arwen go rigid next to him.

“You are so certain he is this lost prince?” Thráin said.

“He bears the sword of his line.” Il-Qaltun grimaced. “And even after nearly a hundred generations, his blood yet stinks of the taint of ancient ancestors, elves and Maiar both. There is no mistake.”

“So am I invited to his questioning?”

“My dear Thráin,” purred Il-Qaltun, “Do not presume that because our interests coincide for a time that we are allies. Any information we get from this erstwhile heir--and we will get information from him--” She touched a tongue to her lips once, delicately, and Thorin felt a visceral shudder go through him, “--will be Sauron’s alone.”

“And surely King Jetei’s as well?”

Thráin’s voice was sardonic, and Il-Qaltun chuckled.

“Oh, certainly. Mordor has nothing to hide from our respected and wholly equal allies in Saynshar.”

She turned with a silken rustling and went to the door, clapping her hands. “Bring the prisoner to the Courtyard of Dusk,” she said to the two guards who appeared. Turning back to Thráin, she added, “Our agreement stands: you will hunt the Ring in return for the rule of Erebor when it has been conquered. I will not warn you not to double-cross us, for I know such a warning will be in vain, but be aware that when you attempt to do so, the consequences will be severe for you. And Sauron will still gain that which he seeks.”

She swept from the room, and Thráin sank down in the chair next to the fire, gazing into the flickering flames. Thorin wanted to watch him longer, but he felt Arwen’s urgent tug on his arm and let himself be led away, his thoughts whirling. Erebor to be conquered and placed under the rule of his vindictive father once more! Bilbo stalked, hunted by Thráin and his ‘bloodhound’--which could be no other than the loathsome Gollum! He felt a desperate need to escape from the stifling palace where the very rocks seemed to reek with blood and pain, to keep Bilbo safe, to keep his kingdom and his people safe--

“We must get to the courtyard!” whispered Arwen, urgent and fierce. “We must save him!”

Estel’s well-being was suddenly a distant third on Thorin’s list of concerns, but he gritted his teeth and followed her through the dim passages, winding through the secret ways.

“No time to free him from his cell,” said Gandalf, his voice tight. “My lady, we may be helpless to do aught but watch as--”

He broke off as Arwen made a small sound, denial and agony threaded through it, and continued forward in silence.

Groping in the dark, they came at last to a wall where dim silver light filtered through viewing-holes from the outside. The scent of jasmine and the sound of water splashing reached Thorin. Gandalf and Arwen were already stooping to look through two sets of peepholes--Arwen’s hands were clenched fists, the whitened knuckles standing out even in the dim light. With a twinge of annoyance Thorin found a box to stand on to raise him high enough to gaze through into the courtyard.

There were five figures in the tableau that met his eyes. Three figures he recognized as King Jetei, Prince Jelme, and the veiled Princess Samur, standing in front of a fountain. In front of them, Il-Qaltun was standing over a figure bound in chains on his knees, secured to a block of marble embedded in the grassy turf. Estel’s hair was hanging in front of his face, hiding his expression, but his body was tense and unbowed.

“If he is who you say,” King Jetei was saying with a worried touch to his voice, “Surely we risk great wrath from Gondor if we--”

“--You are already at war with Gondor, you fool,” snapped Il-Qaltun without looking away from Estel. Jetei winced but said nothing. “Elessar,” she murmured, and her voice was honey and wine. “Aragorn. Ranger. King without a kingdom. Do you know why I have brought you here to this courtyard?”

Estel lifted his head and met her eyes, and Thorin saw the corner of his bruised and bloody mouth twist in a smile. “I assume it’s not for tea,” he said.

She smiled back at him, and the sight made Thorin’s blood congeal. “This is the Courtyard of Dusk,” she said, “And the evening star shines down upon us now. I brought you here that your cursed ancestor Earendil could look down and witness how I will break you this day.” Lifting one foot, she placed it delicately on his neck, forcing his head down beneath it with what seemed like no effort at all. “You shall call me Mistress ere this night is over.” She looked at the royal family, and her smile went from hungry to cold. “Watch, and do not think to question me again.”

Removing her foot, she bent down and took Estel’s face in her long, pale fingers, lifting his chin. She leaned forward until her dark hair fell around them like a curtain, cutting off sight, and Thorin heard Arwen make a choking sound.

Then Il-Qaltun rose suddenly, turning to look at the blade pointed at her ribs. “You dare,” she said, looking at the princess, who stood straight and tall, her eyes fixed on Il-Qaltun--familiar eyes, Thorin realized with a shock.

“I do,” said Kestrel--Princess Samur--ripping aside her veil with her free hand. “You slew my mother and robbed my father of his will, but it stops today. I will not let you have this man.”

Il-Qaltun laughed, and the very water of the fountain seemed touched with ice at the sound. “Foolish child. I had thought to keep you for breeding purposes, but now I see you are more trouble than you are worth.”

Kestrel’s jaw squared, and she shoved the blade home--but Il-Qaltun merely stepped aside somehow, avoiding the blow effortlessly with only a quiver of her silken robes. “Truly?” she said, and her rich low voice held honest amusement. “You think a mortal blade can hurt one who helped to weave the very song that--”

She stopped in surprise as a second blade appeared before her and Prince Jelme stepped forward. Thorin had gotten no strong impression of the young man, and now all he glimpsed were slightly squinty eyes and a weak jaw. But Jelme’s voice was surprisingly steady as he said “Do not threaten my sister.”

Il-Qaltun took a step backward. Then she shook her head with a sigh. “Child, I expected more wisdom from you,” she said.

Stepping forward once more, she brushed the sword from his hand--it flew across the courtyard as if thrown by a catapult at the careless impact of her blow--and took the Prince’s neck in her other hand. There was a crack that turned Thorin’s stomach, and Il-Qaltun tossed the prince’s broken body at his father. “You shall have to make more,” she noted as King Jetei crumpled to the ground in horrified shock, cradling his son’s body. “But I have the means to renew even your vigor, old man.”

Thorin looked away from the horrific scene, where Kestrel was staring in blank horror and Estel was straining against the chains that held him to the ground, his face a rictus of fury--and realized that Arwen and Gandalf were gone.

Whirling, he scrambled toward the exit of the passages to follow them.

He burst into the courtyard to find Gandalf and Arwen standing on either side of Estel, facing down Il-Qaltun. Jetei was sobbing, his head bent over his son, oblivious to all but his grief. Kestrel knelt beside him, holding his shoulders. There was a silence, broken only by the chirping of some night insect in the jasmine.

“You shall not have him,” said Arwen, and her voice was steel and trumpets. “You shall have none of these people. Begone, back to the darkness, servant of Sauron!”

Il-Qaltun arched one dark eyebrow. “Servant?” she crooned, taking a swaying step forward as if dancing. Her eyes flicked to Gandalf. “Your companion could tell you how very wrong you are. But no matter.” Her silvery eyes narrowed, and there was a feral hunger and bitter hatred in them. “If this Ranger’s blood smells of his filthy ancestors, yours reeks of them, elf! The stench gives you away, descendant of cursed Lúthien!”

With a fluid motion, she threw open her silken black cloak--but to Thorin’s sick horror, it did not fall to the ground. Instead it rose up against the night sky like sails in a wind, and Thorin realized it was not cloth but wings: great black wings like a bat’s, sweeping up on either side of her exultant face, blotting out the pale stars. “A night of sweet revenge this is,” she murmured, looking at Arwen. “A night of vengeance and blood, spawn of my foe.”

Gandalf spoke for the first time, his voice shaking as he gazed at the dark-winged figure before them. “Thuringwëthil,” he said. “The vampire servant of Morgoth himself.”

Chapter Text

“Lúthien destroyed you, long ages ago,” said Arwen, staring at the shape that stood before them. Her voice seemed a tiny thing in the great silence that enveloped the courtyard.

Thuringwëthil’s gray eyes glinted. “You think me or my kin so easy to slay? The sniveling girl unhoused me, yes. She took from me my form. And for long centuries I wandered the world in spirit only, reduced to nothing but my will--and my hatred.”

She stretched one great black wing up against the starry sky once more, preening, and Thorin felt fresh horror grip him. Yet through it, he suddenly heard Bilbo’s voice in his mind, as clear as if he were standing beside him: Ancient terrors and immortal vampires are all well and good, Thorin Oakenshield, but Estel is still chained to that marble block! Someone’s going to have to do something about that if you have any chance of escaping this alive, you know, and since no one else seems to be thinking in practical terms it’ll have to be you.

Swallowing hard, Thorin edged forward slightly. Bending down, he slipped a file from his belt and began to do his best to weaken Estel’s bonds, keeping his eyes on Thuringwëthil’s face.

Thuringwëthil took no heed of him--and for once Thorin was grateful for the tendency of the high and mighty of Middle Earth to ignore folk of a lesser height. Her eyes were fixed on Arwen’s, a sneer touching her perfect lips. “And now here you are, the both of you, brought before me to destroy. Descendents of Lúthien and her churl lover…” Her eyes searched Arwen’s face, and her smile took on a gloating edge. “...and more, are you not? You two seek to retell their sordid tale with your own lives? You will give up your immortality to rot in the earth forever, two skeletons clasped together under the sod? Pfaugh!” She made a hissing noise, and for the first time Thorin saw her delicate white fangs. “What a waste. Yet I shall be happy to send you to your final rest.”

“You are wrong,” said Estel, and Thorin hastily stopped his work on his bonds as the man raised his head to glare at Thuringwëthil. “There is a Fate beyond this world for us, one that you and your ilk can never deny us.”

Thuringwëthil laughed, a silvery chime that made the edges of Thorin’s sanity fray. But her eyes turned back to Arwen, leaving him free to go back to work on Estel’s bonds. Could you please try not to wax philosophical while someone is trying to get you out of here? he thought in annoyance.

“Will you truly give up life eternal for him?” Thuringwëthil asked. She sounded honestly puzzled. “You will follow him into silence and the void?”

“If that is what awaits us, I will,” said Arwen, clear as a vow. “Where his spirit goes, mine does as well.”

“So be it,” said Thuringwëthil, her voice deadly calm.

“No,” said Gandalf. He stepped forward, raising his gnarled gray staff to block her way. “You shall not have them, vassal of Morgoth.”

“Vassal? Servant?” Thuringwëthil looked amused, but Thorin could see anger stirring beneath the humor in that icy expression. “Such language from one who chooses to grovel to the Valar, who lets his powers be bound, until he becomes a petty, trifling thing, a maker of firecrackers and smoke rings. When such power could be yours…” She shook her head in mock-pity. “But then, if you were brave enough to take the power that is your due, you would have joined me millennia ago rather than remain a slave.”

“You know nothing of me,” said Gandalf. The silver-blue light at the tip of his staff brightened as he stepped forward--and Thuringwëthil, unbelievably, fell back a step before it. “I do not expect you to understand my mind, Thuringwëthil,” he said taking another step forward, and then another. “But all you need understand is that you shall hurt no more of the Secondborn while I draw breath.”

“So be it,” said Thuringwëthil again, low and flat.

And then things happened very quickly.

With a shout, Estel lunged forward against his weakened bonds, and they gave way with a rending snap. Together, he, Arwen, and Thorin leaped forward to stand beside Gandalf.

But before they could get there, Thuringwëthil struck.

With a sinuous, inhuman speed, she seized Gandalf’s robes in her hands. Her wings clapped forward, buffeting his three companions, and in a burst of wind she launched herself and the wizard into the starry sky above the courtyard. For an instant their forms were silhouetted against the constellations, locked in struggle, soaring upward.

And then there was nothing but the careless insects in the jasmine and the weeping of Jetei over the body of his son.

“No,” whispered Arwen after a long, horrified moment, still staring up at the sky. Her knees started to give out and she sank to the ground. “It cannot be.” Estel put his arms around her, the broken chains still hanging from his wrists, and held her up.

“Your majesty--” Three guards came running into the courtyard, stopping dead at the sight before them, and Kestrel rose to her feet.

“Care for the my father,” she said in a sure voice. “He is unwell.” She bent once more, helping Jetei to his feet. He clung to her, murmuring broken pleas for forgiveness, for mercy. “Be at peace, father,” she said softly.

The guards bowed, looking relieved. “Yes, Queen Samur.”

“And see that Prince Jelme is--” She broke off, then said with tears in her voice, “That he is laid to rest with honor and respect. He defended my life at the cost of his own.”

They bowed again. “Yes, Queen Samur.”

“I shall see our guests to the outskirts of town,” said Samur, stepping close to them. “You must go,” she said in a low voice as she led them from the courtyard. “I cannot be sure all the guards will be so pleased to have a Queen once more. And if your companion fails to stop Il-Qaltun…” She shuddered.

“He will not fail,” Arwen said fiercely, her voice choked with tears. “He would never fail us.”

Samur did not contradict the pain in her voice, but led them quickly through a palace still quiet with night.

“My father,” said Thorin. “My father is here, is plotting against--”

“I will deal with him,” said Samur. “This is my kingdom, not yours,” she added sharply when it looked like he might argue. “The wizard gave his life to protect yours, and you must not stay here.”

The city was silent and dreaming as they hurried to the southern gate. Thorin wondered how he could ever tell the others what happened to Gandalf--but when they reached the group and saw Pallando and Bachai clinging to each other, weeping, he realized there was no need.

“Is it true?” Bilbo--dressed in loose robes and a scarf wrapped around his head--stepped forward, searching his eyes. His voice was sharp, but he took Thorin’s elbow as though needing to be sure he was truly back. “Is Gandalf--”

“He took on a mighty foe,” said Thorin. “With wings like night. They disappeared into the stars. He sacrificed himself for us.”

There was a wince at the corners of Bilbo’s eyes, but he turned to pat Bachai’s arm comfortingly. “He’ll be all right,” he said. “Wizards are tough.”

Bachai merely sobbed again and buried her head in Pallando’s shoulder. The small black cat on her shoulder mewed in distress and tried to burrow under her chin; her tears glistened on its fur.

It was a subdued and saddened party that eventually departed from the gates of Saynshar. Arwen’s gaze was turned inward once more, and Bilbo wondered just how much loss the elf-maiden could bear. Even the sight of Gimli seated most uncomfortably between two humps of an ornery-looking camel failed to elicit more than a fleeting smile from her.

“Oliphaunts look much more comfortable,” Bilbo noted as he tucked himself into the strange valley. “No offense, Butterscotch,” he added, putting his hands on either side of the hump and patting his mount.

“Rest assured that Saynshar’s troops will not be joining Mordor’s assault on Minas Tirith,” Samur said to Denethor. To Thorin she said, “And I shall call back my soldiers from their siege of Erebor if I can. There is much work to do. Fortunately Bachai has agreed to stay and advise me for a time.”

Pallando looked down at his fellow wizard sadly from his camel. “You will be trapped in my dirty, dusty city, my dear.”

“Well then, you must return soon to relieve me of this onerous duty!” Bachai retorted tartly. Then her face softened as she looked at her friend. “Besides, any city you love must have some redeeming qualities. I shall try to find them by the time you return.”

Samur was looking at Estel. “Is it true?” she said abruptly. “When Il-Qaltun addressed you, she called you--is it true?”

Estel looked uncomfortable, but inclined his head once.

The Queen of the Easterlings bowed low to him, as to an equal. “Until we meet again, then. Farewell, my friends.”

Bilbo, who was beginning to have some theories about Estel’s background, expected that Denethor would have something cutting to say as Pallando clucked to the lead camel and they started to move away from the city. But the Steward’s son was subdued as they headed down the road, lost in thought, and even friendly jibes from Théoden failed to rouse him from his reverie. Into the silence, Pallando lifted his voice in song in a language Bilbo did not recognize, and its melody was strange and alien, yet somehow familiar to Bilbo, as if he had heard it in his dreams, or before he was born. It was beautiful and filled with sorrow, and hearing it Bilbo felt like all the majesty and all the sadness of the world were part of something larger than he could imagine. He heard weeping, and was not sure who it was, did not turn to look. He looked instead at Thorin, riding by his side almost close enough to touch, and Thorin looked back at him and nodded.

No need to say anything, it was all in his sea-deep eyes: We will not part again, heart’s-ease. Bilbo hugged that comfort to himself in the cold desert night, carrying his burden, gazing up at the stars.

So did the Fellowship leave Saynshar, and Bilbo Baggins never saw again the cerulean tiles of that city of legend, though it proved a staunch ally of Gondor in days and years to come. They rode through the night, and grasslands gave way slowly to sand, until dunes rippled all around them like waves, silvered by the stars.

Far to the west, great battles were raging: that very night, the armies of Lothlórien and Khazad-dûm would take Isengard and overthrow Saruman the White, and the Siege of Erebor dragged on, though salvation would soon reach the Lonely Mountain from a most unlikely source. But of these events Bilbo knew nothing. He knew only that he had lost another friend, and that the great river of stars that wheeled above their little caravan seemed both lovely and lonely.

As Bilbo watched, a single point of light shook free of the blaze of glory and slid down the side of the sky, a shooting star falling far off to the East.

Chapter Text

Bilbo Baggins woke from a half-doze, his face scraping against coarse hair. “Wake up, Thorin,” he mumbled, patting at it, only slowly realizing it was the hump of his camel. He could hear the gentle chiming of bells on the harnesses of the other camels, and under that the steady clop-clop of their hooves upon the sand. Bilbo shivered, for the night was surprisingly cold, and looked up at the stars, starting to dim with the gray dawn.

The first dawn without Gandalf in it, he thought unbidden, and had to blink back tears once more.

“We should reach the first oasis by mid-morning,” called back Pallando, “And we shall stop there to water our mounts and rest through the heat of the day.”

“Heat?” Bilbo heard a querulous note in his voice as he chafed his own arms against the cold. “I’m freezing!”

Pallando looked back at him and smiled, a flash of white teeth in the pale light. “I see you are unused to the rhythm of the day here in the desert, friend hobbit,” he said. “Believe me, by midday you will be happy enough to rest in the shade.”

“Well,” huffed Bilbo, “It can’t be that bad, and will be a pleasant change from this confounded cold.”

A few hours later, Bilbo surreptitiously wiped his brow under the linen headscarf and tried to ignore the smirks from the other members of the Fellowship. A pleasant change! he grumbled to himself--but refused to say anything out loud and admit how wrong he had been. The heat felt like it was determined to suck every drop of moisture from his body out through the pores, and the sun was making him feel nearly dizzy. When he spotted a patch of green and blue against the endless rolling sand, he had to squint and stare before he could believe his eyes. His camel, however, had no such doubts; it picked up its clumsy-looking feet and moved into a shambling trot that caused Bilbo to squeak and cling to its hump in alarm, hurrying toward the emerald gem set into the golden landscape.

Soon enough they were all resting under one of the strange, slender trees that fringed the pool, while their camels drank great, thirsty draughts from its water. “We rest here until dusk,” said Pallando. “Everyone should try to sleep a little.” He looked at Denethor, who was still standing, his gaze fixed to the west. “Try to sleep, Steward’s son.”

Denethor didn’t look at him. “Do you see those mountains?” he asked, pointing to the smudged line of blue peaks against the horizon. “Those mark the northern boundary of Mordor. Within them, Sauron masses his orc army, a horde of merciless killers. Beyond them to the west lies Minas Tirith. Wizard,” he said, and his voice broke, “Have you ever seen the city of my people, with its white walls shining in the morning sun, with its banners catching the breeze? Have you seen its citizens and their valor?”

“I have,” said Pallando, his voice somber.

“Sauron would reach out his filthy hand to destroy the fairest and the best city in Middle Earth,” said Denethor. “He would blacken her walls, pillage her riches, mutilate and crush her people. She needs me, and I am not there!”

“Gondor will prevail,” said a low, clear voice, and Denethor turned to stare at Estel, still with his broken shackles on his wrists, his face beaten and bloody. “The walls of Minas Tirith will not fall, nor shall the hearts of her people falter, for your father leads them with wisdom and courage.” He looked to the west as if he could see the city he spoke of. “My heart aches also to be there, at the defense of the most beautiful city in all the world. But our destiny is otherwise, aiding in the final destruction of her foe. One day, Denethor son of Ecthelion, our paths shall lead us back to the white city, and our hearts will rejoice to see its walls once more.”

Denethor gazed at Estel, and it seemed to Bilbo that something in the passion in Estel’s voice had touched him, for his gray eyes held for a moment a kind of wonder. Then he turned away and said brusquely, “You should see to your shackles, for it would be ironic to return to the city still bound in chains, would it not?” He picked up a water skin and sat down next to Théoden on the grassy verge, splashing water on his face and rubbing at his eyes.

“Someday,” said Théoden in a loud voice, “I shall have both of you to visit in Edoras, and we shall then debate your assertion of Minas Tirith as the most beautiful city in Middle Earth.”

Denethor did not smile, but some tension in his face lightened, just a shade. “May it be so,” he said.

It was drawing near dusk, and most of the Fellowship was asleep when Thorin rose and found Arwen, bent over her embroidery in the dimming light. The silver thread against the black cloth was taking the shape of a tree, its white branches twined in complex patterns. “Lady Arwen,” said Thorin, bowing low, “May I speak with you in private?”

She smiled up at him, then folded her embroidery. “Let us take a walk together,” she said.

They walked past Estel and Gimli, who was bent over the man’s shackles, working on picking the locks with the tip of his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth and a look on intent concentration on his face. Estel smiled at Arwen as they passed, and Thorin watched her face light from within like the dawn.

He wondered what he looked like when he looked at Bilbo.

Together they made their way to the edge of the pond, where the water lapped gently against the shore and sturdy grasses clung to the thin band of damp earth. They walked in silence for a time, and then Arwen said gently, “What troubles you, King Thorin?”

Thorin picked up a stone and studied it for a time. Without looking up at Arwen’s pale face, he said, “The vampire. She said that you and Estel--that you would repeat the story of your ancestors, Beren and Lúthien.” He cleared his throat. “I happen to have learned some of the lore of your people, and I know their tale: how the elf Lúthien chose the fate of the Secondborn, and when Beren died, her soul perished also from this world, and passed to whatever unknown destiny awaits his people.” He looked up at her then; her face was grave and knowing. “Does this fate await you as well, my lady?”

After a moment, she nodded. “It is as she said. I have chosen a mortal life, and my spirit, like his, will leave the world utterly behind.”

Thorin gripped the rock in his hand, feeling the edges cut into his palm almost painfully. When he spoke again, he was surprised at how calm his own voice sounded: “Will you tell me how this came to be? Will you tell me, Lady Arwen, how you can be sure that your soul and his will not be sundered by the difference in your fates?” His eyes stung. “Tell me how to make this choice. I beg you,” he said, and his voice broke and he could say no more.

But Arwen knelt before him, taking her hands in his with a swift, sympathetic motion. “Oh, my friend,” she breathed.

“I swore to never part from him again, and I would not do so for all the world,” Thorin said, his voice catching like a sob, “But I fear such a choice is impossible for my kind--that he will go on without me, and I will prove false to my promise, and that I shall have to live with my failure for all eternity, all eternity without him.”

“He seems untroubled by such worries,” Arwen said, and Thorin choked on a laugh.

“He and his people are...not much troubled by such worries at any time. From speaking to him, I truly believe they think little and care less what happens to the soul after the body’s end. He lives life as it comes to him and is undaunted by such airy notions. It is, I believe, a great strength of his folk. It is a strength I do not share,” he said bleakly. “And so I ask you, my lady, for some scrap of comfort, some glimmer of hope that I will not sit bereft in the halls of my ancestors forever.”

Arwen’s hands tightened on his. “I would gladly give you the full measure of comfort I could, Thorin.” Her star-bright eyes were full of tears. “But alas, I have none to give. I know not how I came to be able to renounce my fate. It may be because the blood of Beren and of Tuor runs in my veins, that I could choose as did my uncle. But Lúthien was the child of an elf and a Maia, and she too received this boon.”

“From the lips of Mandos and Manwë, the Valar themselves,” said Thorin bitterly. “I know the tale! But such days of legend are over, and Valinor is sundered from our world, and the Valar will have no audience with me.” He released Arwen’s hands, saying, “So be it! I will live the life I have with him to the fullest, whether it lead us to Erebor or the Shire or no further than the Cracks of Doom, and I will have no further cause for regret.” He bowed deeply. “My thanks, lady, for your councils.”

Unable to bear it a moment longer, he walked away from her pitying eyes and back to where the Fellowship was sleeping. Bilbo was curled up on his side--which was unusual, Thorin thought, he usually slept on his back, limbs stuck out haphazardly. He looked down at Bilbo’s sleeping face and realized with a sudden pang that Bilbo was curled up around the Ring that lay on his chest. Heart’s-ease…

He lay down at Bilbo’s back, his own heart aching--but as he did, Bilbo rolled over and with a sleepy, wordless mumble, threw one arm and leg across Thorin’s body and drew close.

For a long time, Thorin Oakenshield looked up at the stars, feeling the Ring resting between their two bodies like a secret, or a promise.

The days passed monotonously: they traveled through the nights and tried to sleep through the heat of the days. At some point they turned west, traveling directly into Mordor. The Mountains of Ash to the north and the Mountains of Shadow to the south felt like jaws opening up before them, as if Mordor itself was a dragon and they were attempting to travel right down its gullet, Bilbo thought uneasily. Everyone’s spirits were oppressed by the loss of Gandalf and by the scorching heat and bitter cold, but Bilbo thought privately that Thorin’s mood seemed lower than most.

“What’s bothering you?” he asked one evening as they sat at another tiny oasis, sharing a piece of jerky and a handful of dates.

“You mean besides the fact that we are traveling into the stronghold of Sauron in an attempt to destroy an artifact of unthinkable evil; besides the fact that my home is under assault by the armies of Mordor; besides the fact that an army is ready to assault Minas Tirith?”

“Besides all that, yes,” Bilbo said with a small smile, biting a date in half.

Thorin was silent for a moment, and Bilbo had the feeling when he spoke at last that he was not speaking of his truest concern. “I did not confront my father,” he said. “He seeks to destroy his family, and we were both in Saynshar, and I did not face him.”

“I’m rather glad you didn’t,” said Bilbo, leaning against his shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to risk losing you to him.”

“He cannot be allowed to continue,” said Thorin in a low voice.

Bilbo reached up and grabbed one beaded braid, tugging until Thorin looked at him. “Don’t talk like that,” he said. “Didn’t Balin say that if you--if you ended him, you couldn’t be King of Erebor?”

After a moment, Thorin nodded.

“Erebor shouldn’t lose you to him either,” said Bilbo. “He’s not worth it.”

Thorin looked at him, and there was something so stricken and lorn in his gaze that it made Bilbo’s heart turn over. He lifted the braid he’d been tugging to his lips, pressed a kiss to the sun-warmed metal bead that held it in place.

“Thorin,” he said. “Let the future be for now. I spent twenty-six years in the Shire, yearning to be with you. And here you are with me, and for this moment I don’t care where we are. We will deal with what comes when it comes. For now, sit with me and enjoy the sunset and these delicious dates.”

For a moment, Thorin’s gaze didn’t waver. Then he sighed and the corner of his mouth tilted up slightly.

“I cannot enjoy the dates if you keep hogging them all like that,” he said gravely.

“Well!” Bilbo huffed happily. “Here you go, you greedy and ungrateful dwarf.”

He stuffed one of his handful of dates into Thorin’s mouth. Thorin closed his eyes and chewed as if he were savoring each bite, a look of bliss on his features that seemed partly there to tease Bilbo--and partly not. He reached out and put his arm around Bilbo, pulling him close.

“You’re right,” he murmured. “I am lucky indeed.”

Chapter Text

The desert gave way so gradually to plains--the dunes flattening out, the grasses going from coarse and scrubby to thicker and lusher--that Bilbo hardly noticed it until the morning that he realized that they were in a sea of waving grass, starred with white flowers.

“We have crossed over into Mordor,” said Pallando, “and left the sheltering desert behind. This is where our passage becomes truly dangerous.”

Bilbo looked around at the waves of sweet green grass, inhaling the scent of spring. “This can’t be Mordor,” he said. “It’s...pretty.”

“This is Nurn,” said Denethor. “A fertile land, where the food that fuels Sauron’s armies is grown. The people of this land have been enslaved by Sauron and his followers for more than five thousand years.”

Bilbo blinked. “That’s...a long time,” he said.

“Nurn means ‘grief’ in Sindarin,” said Denethor. “Yes. It is a long time.”

The plains gave way to fields. Tiny green sprouts were laid out in even rows; between the young leaves water gleamed, reflecting the sky. “Rice fields,” said Pallando when Bilbo asked him what the plants were. “It’s a common crop in the south.” Sometimes they saw figures in the distant fields, up to their ankles in water, stooping over. They avoided them as much as possible: “Where there are people, there will be overseers,” said Thorin. “Orcs and Black Numenoreans. It would not do to draw attention to ourselves.”

Gimli tapped his axe with a knowing look. “I might not mind,” he said.

“Arrows can silence more orcs than an axe,” said Legolas with a blandly innocent look. “For every one you slew, my arrows would find three or more.”

“There will be enemies enough in the future to satisfy the both of you,” said Thorin. “Caution will get us further than recklessness.”

Gimli sighed. “At this rate we shall never find out,” he said.

As it turned out, however, Thorin's caution won them only a few days of travel. On a cloudy, drizzly morning, they were walking along the bank that defined one of the endless rice fields when a sound reached all their ears: a young human voice, sobbing.

There was no question of ignoring the despair and hopelessness of that sound; Théoden’s sword was already unsheathed as he leaped down from the bank and ran directly toward it through the muddy rice field, water splashing around his ankles. Bilbo saw Denethor start to call out after him, then shrug and start to run along the bank. His route was less direct, but Bilbo quickly realized that the mud of the fields would suck at the feet and slow one down, so he followed the steward’s son along the bank as fast as possible.

In any case, all of the Fellowship--whether mud-splashed or not--arrived at the origin of the voice at the same time, to find a young human man on his knees in front of a huge armored orc, brandishing a whip and a knife. The man was pleading in a guttural language that struck Bilbo’s ears in all the wrong ways, harsh and painful; the orc answered back with a cruel laugh and lifted its whip.

At the apex of the whip’s arc, the orc yelled in horror and a slender elven arrow pierced the palm of its hand; the whip tumbled to the muddy ground as the orc clutched his wounded hand to his chest in shock. His shock was short-lived, as he fell to Gimli’s axe a moment later.

“That’s one for me, friend Legolas!” called Gimli as he pulled his axe free of the fallen orc’s breastbone.

“You only got the kill because I was focused on making sure he could not hurt the human,” said Legolas, his expression nettled.

Gimli shook his finger at him, grinning. “No excuses, elf!” He turned to the young man, who had collapsed backwards onto his haunches and was staring at the scene before him in a kind of frozen horror. “Are you all right, lad?” he asked, extending his hand.

The man flinched away, his hands scrabbling in the muddy ground. He blurted something in the jagged language of the orc, then swallowed hard and changed to Westron, albeit thickly-accented and with an unfamiliar cadence. “You are...Gondorians?”

“Me?” Gimli gestured at himself with his axe and laughed. “Nay, I’m from Erebor. But this lad is,” he said, indicating Denethor (whose eyebrows rose dramatically at being called “lad.”) “And his big blond friend here is from Rohan, and Estel is from--” He frowned. “Are you from Gondor, Thorongil?”

Estel opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, the human they had saved threw himself flat on his face in the mud, wailing. “I will not lead you to my family!” he cried out. “No, not though you flay me, or crush my hands, or boil me in tallow, or eat me alive from the feet up--”

“Child,” said Dís, kneeling swiftly beside him, uncaring of the muddy water, “Child, no one is going to eat you. No one is going to do any of those things to you.”

“But he said they were of Gondor, and Rohan,” stammered the young man. “And the Yrch-lords say the men of Gondor drink the blood of the people of Nurn from the skulls of the yrch.” His eyes flicked warily to Denethor, who was clearly trying to look as non-bloodthirsty as possible, even managing a small smile, which did not seem to reassure the Nurnian. “And the horse-demons of Rohan are the sworn servants of the men of Gondor, bound by unclean oaths to fulfill all their evil lusts and--”

“--Now see here!” said Théoden, and his indignation was so palpable that Bilbo had to hide a giggle behind his hand. He waved angrily at Denethor: “If you think for one second that I am bound to obey this pompous windbag, this--this vainglorious seat-warmer, this--” Denethor’s smile was quickly going from “reassuring” to “snarling” as Estel put a hand on Théoden’s shoulder, cutting him off. Théoden blinked at him, then bowed in flustered apology to the man still kneeling in the mud. “Apologies. What I meant to say was,” he coughed and considered his words, “I believe you have been gravely misinformed.”

The Nurnian looked at Bilbo’s smile, then at Théoden’s rueful face. He got slowly to his feet, taking in the people before him.

“You’re nothing but skin and bones,” tsked Dís, digging in her bag. “Here.”

He took her handful of dried dates, staring at her, and put one in his mouth. There was an awkward pause as he chewed, and then Bilbo said, “Oh! Where are my manners! I’m Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire. It’s a ways to the west. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The man swallowed his date. “My name is Muranu,” he said. “Thank you for saving my life.” He looked down at the fruit. “These are delicious. If you have some to spare, may I take a few back to share with my friends?”

They walked along the rice fields as the sun set, Muranu chatting easily with Dís and Pallando, though still keeping a wary eye on Estel, Théoden, and Denethor. There had been no real debate as to whether to accompany him: Thorin pointed out they could use allies in this enemy-occupied land, but truly no one was willing to turn their back on a village of starving people. Which it was clear the people of Nurn were: “There is little food to spare after the army of the yrch takes what they need,” Muranu said matter-of-factly. “We all must sacrifice to keep the Gondorians from overrunning us.” Denethor made an exasperated noise, and Muranu added with some asperity, “So they tell us. And we do not exactly receive constant updates on the state of the world beyond the safety of Mordor, after all.”

Bilbo couldn’t help but laugh, and when Muranu looked at him from the corner of his eye, he said, “It’s just...’the safety of Mordor’ is such an odd...never mind.”

Muranu’s village was on the shores of the Sea of Nurn, the great inland sea Bilbo had seen glinting to the west: a gathering of huts, ramshackle yet tidy. “You have slain Bukra, the overseer, so it should be safe--once I explain that you helped me,” said Muranu as a throng of ragged children tumbled out of the village to run toward him. And indeed, there were cries of shock and horror when he told his story and mentioned that he had been saved by men of Gondor and of Rohan, but as Dís shared her dates and Legolas handed out lembas with a free hand, fear subsided into a worried acceptance.

“We shall have nothing left to eat for ourselves,” Bilbo said in an undertone to Thorin as he saw their bags emptied.

“Allies are essential,” Thorin murmured back. “We shall eat what they eat.”

“Well, they don’t look like they eat very much,” muttered Bilbo, tightening his belt, but he couldn’t help but smile at the joy on the children’s faces as they tasted the lembas.

“What is the meaning of this?” called a strong voice, and a man came striding out of one of the huts. He had a thick black beard and sharp, dark eyes, and carried himself with authority for all he was dressed in rags.

“Daon!” Muranu called to him. “Bukra caught me as I was trying to find some stray grains in the fields. He would have killed me, but these people saved me and slew him.” Daon’s eyebrows rose as Muranu went on: “They are from the west, but they claim they mean us no harm.”

“Is this true?” asked Daon, crossing his arms. “Speak quickly, and know that though we may look powerless, we yet can do you great harm ere you slay us.”

“We mean the people of Nurn no harm,” said Thorin. “But we mean grave harm indeed to the Dark Lord Sauron, and if you serve him freely there will be no peace between us.”

There was a heavy silence, in which Bilbo saw Dís rest her hand on her axe and Legolas move his hand back toward his quiver. Daon looked long at the faces of each of the fellowship, with his gaze going last and longest to Estel and Denethor, standing side by side. Then he nodded, and a grim smile touched his lips.

“Though you may be from the cursed lands to the west, yet I do believe you wish the Dread Lord ill. So I say, be welcome in Manishtashnu,” he said, spreading his arms wide, “And let us consult to see what aid we can give each other.”

Bilbo politely turned down another cup of bitter black liquor, his head still spinning slightly from the first three. His friends were deep in conversation with Daon and other elders of the town: discussions of allied towns, armaments, and terrain had been going on for hours and showed no signs of stopping. The Ring on his chest seemed to be throbbing in time with an impending headache through the smoke and heat of the small hut. Rubbing his forehead, he excused himself and stepped out into the cool spring air.

The sun had gone down while they were in discussion, and the fields around the village were filled with small frogs shrilling into the moonlight. Bilbo closed his eyes for a moment and let the familiar sound carry him back to the Shire, where the crocuses would be blooming and the brooks swollen with runoff from the spring thaw. Would Hamfast be keeping the gardens of Bag End free of weeds? Or was it assumed that Bilbo Baggins had disappeared for good this time?

He felt rather than heard Thorin come up behind him; he had known at some level that Thorin would find a way to follow him out into the night. “I’m fine,” he said quickly, leaning back into Thorin’s broad chest with a sigh. “I’m just...tired.”

He half-expected Thorin would point out that he tired more easily lately, but Thorin merely put his arms around him and stood there, holding him.

As they gazed off to the west, deeper into Mordor, a sudden spot of light bloomed in the darkness like a poisonous scarlet flower, far off on the horizon. A spire of flame climbed into the sky, then subsided fitfully again. “Is that--”

“Orodruin.” Thorin’s voice was a low rumble, almost felt more than heard. “Mt. Doom.”

His arms tightened around Bilbo, as if giving--or seeking--support.

“Our destination.”

Chapter Text

“We have few weapons, and no armor,” said Daon. He was standing with most of the Fellowship, gazing off to the West. In daylight, Thorin could see the Plateau of Gorgoroth in the distance, a bleak ash-gray wall rising up from the green fields. “The strength of Nurn lies in numbers. And in desperation,” he added grimly. “We have little to lose, at this point.” He looked around the rice fields filled with tender shoots, rippling in the spring breeze. “I have sent out messengers to many villages, asking them to send their able-bodied adults here for the last stand of Nurn.”

“When will they get here?” asked Denethor.

“It will take a few days for them to gather, I think. Most villages have a secret store of poison that they can use to sicken the overseers before attempting to kill them. Even with that, many people of Nurn will die before battle can even be joined, merely for the chance to gather here.”

He tugged on his beard, a shadow crossing his face, and Estel rested a hand on his shoulder briefly. “Your people have already joined the battle against evil every time they have ever resisted, or hampered Sauron’s expansion in any way. We are not all granted grand moments and heroic gestures.”

“That’s five for me!” Gimli’s voice rang out as he and Legolas came running along the bank. “Another scout dead by my axe, elf, and I’m ahead again.”

“If Arwen had not stolen my kill this morning, we would be tied,” snapped Legolas.

“It’s not a competition, you preening coxcombs,” said Dís as she and Arwen came up behind them. “Besides which, if it were, I would be ahead of all of you.”

“How exactly do you reckon that?” said Arwen, laughing. “Gimli has five, Legolas and I four each, and you only two.”

“Ah,” said Dís, “but you are measuring by quantity, not quality. This seems simplistic to me. Surely we can agree that an overseer is worth three scouts? I have killed two overseers, so my true total is six.”

“The brute I killed yesterday was an overseer,” Gimli said. “Which puts me, by your own reckoning, at seven--my Lady,” he added hastily as her expression went stormy.

Dís chewed her lower lip for a moment, then laughed. “Very well,” she said, “I shall grant you your seven, but I shall soon overtake you once more.”

The four of them wandered off, bickering about whether or not a foot soldier was worth one or two points, and if the head of a squad was the equal of all the soldiers within that squad.

“We are lucky,” said Thorin, turning his attention back to the distant plateau, “that the scrutiny of Sauron is focused West, on the coming battle with Minas Tirith.”

Denethor made a pained noise. “I do not like to think of my father fighting for his life as a mere distraction,” he said. “Mind you, I doubt not that he will prevail! But the loss of life will be so high. So many good soldiers dead, and I am here and unable to help them…” He swallowed hard and Thorin had the impression he was keeping himself from looking at Bilbo with an effort. For his part, Bilbo was gazing toward the west; he seemed to not be paying attention, but Thorin saw him glance sideways quickly at Denethor and take a step closer to Thorin.

“The warriors of Rohan will be there to help as well!” Théoden announced, clapping Denethor on the back. “My father will not fail to send his best to aid Ecthelion, never fear.”

Denethor opened his mouth as if to say something caustic, then closed it again. “That...is a comfort,” he murmured, and sounded sincere enough that Théoden blinked at him.

“What do we do now?” murmured Bilbo.

“We wait,” said Estel. “We have no choice,” he said as Théoden, Denethor, and Bilbo all protested, frowned, or winced. “Above the Plateau of Gorgoroth lies nothing but fields of barren ash and plains of black glass. We could never pass unnoticed. We must have the aid of the people of Nurn.”

“But we’re so close,” sighed Bilbo. “So close to being rid of this cursed thing.” He touched a hand to his heart. “It feels like it grows heavier with every step I take,” he murmured. For a moment, his face was creased with pain, and Thorin remembered abruptly that he was not a young hobbit, that the Ring had kept him hale and hearty long past his prime. Then there was a trumpeting noise, and Bilbo jumped and whirled--and his face lit up with delight.

“Belit!” Daon called to the woman leading the great gray beast that dwarfed the huts of the people of Nurn. “You were able to get away with your charge, I see!”

The woman--Belit, it seemed--smiled and drew closer, and the earth trembled beneath the footfalls of the oliphaunt following behind her. “Shala and I are happy to finally have a chance to use all her training against our oppressors,” she said. “You need not be afraid of Shala, friends,” she announced to the fellowship, waving at the massive animal behind her. “She may be large, but she is--”

“Oh, you beauty.” Bilbo was saying, already patting the long gray trunk of the oliphaunt. It batted great liquid eyes fringed with impossibly long lashes at him and used its trunk to ruffle his hair. He seemed perfectly at ease, but Thorin felt uneasy at his closeness to feet that could probably squash him to a jelly without thinking. “May I ride her?” Bilbo asked Belit.

“Forgive me, sir hobbit,” she said, pronouncing the word as if it were alien to her--which it certainly was, “But Shala and I must get the tents she carries to the field, to use as shelter for the newcomers.”

“Ah, of course,” said Bilbo, giving Shala’s trunk a last pat before watching her make her swaying way past him. “Good girl.”

“So we wait,” said Denethor. “But of all the things I have had to do on this quest, this seems the most difficult.”

Indeed, waiting seemed the hardest task of all. The Fellowship kept busy helping with the fields, hunting orcs, and aiding refugees--and as the days passed, the number of people entering the town swelled from a trickle into a steady stream. And not just able-bodied adults, but children and the elderly, offspring and elders of those who refused to leave them behind to suffer. Soon all of the party’s stores of lembas, cram, and dried fish were gone, and Bilbo had to cinch his belt more than two holes more tightly. The fields were filled with tents, the tents filled with starving people, their hands gnarled and backs bent with decades of toil--and yet there was an electric energy in the air, something nearly like hope. People smiled and laughed over their meagre food, and when the wind shifted and gray ash drifted out of the west in a fine haze that coated everything, they merely knocked it off their tents and moved on.

Bilbo wished he could feel the same resiliency of spirit, but the days of waiting wore badly on him. He felt jumpy, like someone was watching him all the time, and he found his hand creeping to cup the Ring around his neck more often than he would like. It seemed everyone was looking at him oddly, even with suspicion, and he began to wonder if perhaps they were talking behind his back, perhaps even planning to take the Ring away and give it to someone more worthy to destroy it, someone stronger and braver--

When his thoughts started circling like this, he would seek out Thorin. And Thorin, no matter what he was doing--discussing strategy with Dís and Gimli, helping to set up a tent, showing the people of Nurn how to properly wield a pole as a weapon--would make his excuses and rise and walk with him through the fields without speaking, hand in hand. Or he would sit with his arms around Bilbo and ask him to talk about the Shire, to describe the fields in spring and the petty quarrels between his neighbors, until the feeling passed. He never asked for an explanation from Bilbo, he never tried to cheer him up or reassure him--he was merely there.

It was, at times, enough.

“It has been a while since all of us were in the same place,” said Thorin, looking around the faces of each of the Fellowship. “I have called you here to discuss in private our plans, as tomorrow the final push begins.”

He pointed to the map drawn on the table. “The forces of Nurn are not strong enough for a sustained frontal assault on the Mordor, even with Sauron’s attention focused toward Gondor. So we fight in small groups, striking against the supply lines and scouting parties of the orcs, moving fast and deep into the heart of Mordor. We move without a centralized command, striking and running when we can, always moving west.”

They knew all this, but Thorin found himself explaining it anyway, if only to put off the inevitable moment when… Well, this next set of information was new, at least.

“Dís and Arwen, you will be in the southern flank. Gimli and Legolas on the north. Denethor and Théoden will be in the vanguard.” The two men looked torn between pleasure at being front and center and displeasure at having to work together. “Pallando and Estel, you’ll be in the center.”

The two nodded gravely.

“And we meet up here at the foot of Mount Doom, I presume,” Denethor said, drawing a line on the map with his finger.

“No,” said Thorin. “The rest of you will press onward, west and north, harrying the forces of Sauron as you go. You will make for the Black Gate and give your aid to the armies of Rohan and Gondor on the other side.” He took a deep breath. “Bilbo and I will go alone to the Cracks of Doom. We leave this very night, after this conference, with no fanfare and none the wiser.”

There were inhalations of shock around the table, expressions of disbelief and protest. Dís leaned forward and planted her fists on the table, glowering, and beside her Gimli crossed his arms and frowned. Only Estel was nodding slowly, looking at Thorin with approval in his eyes.

And beside him, Thorin felt more than heard Bilbo sigh in relief, his shoulders sagging ever so slightly.

Denethor was shaking his head, his keen gray eyes urgent. “This is madness,” he said. “You cannot hope to win your way alone to Orodruin!”

“On the contrary,” Thorin said, “It is as a group that we have not the faintest hope of approaching the mountain. Bilbo and I will go clad in orc-mail, and as two figures we may be able to avoid detection. As a party...no, it is not possible.”

“You cannot do this,” said Denethor. His voice was ragged, and there was a hectic light in his eyes that Thorin misliked. He whirled and pointed at Estel. “He has given you this council. He hopes to send you away from the rest of the party so that he can follow you and take the Ring for himself!” Moving suddenly to the door, he drew his sword, barring the way. “I cannot let you do this,” he said, his voice cold and steely.

“You know that’s not true,” said Bilbo suddenly, his voice clear and sharp. “Denethor, listen to yourself. You don’t want to want the Ring, but you do. I know you do. I know--what it feels like. And you can’t bear feeling that in your soul, so you accuse Thorongil of it rather than admit your temptation to yourself.” His words were cool and precise, but his eyes on Denethor were full of understanding and a compassion so great it made Thorin’s heart clench. “But it’s not him, Denethor. It’s you. I know it’s hard, but you just have to--to accept it. And get past it.”

“Look at this land, Lord Steward,” said Pallando, spreading his hands to encompass the hovel they met in and beyond. “Starvation and slavery, ash and misery. Nothing of Sauron’s making can bring anything less to your lands. It must pass from us.”

Denethor looked then at Estel, and whether there were tears in his eyes the Red Book of Westmarch does not record. But Estel looked back at him--not as a lord to a lesser, but as a friend--and said: “Think of your lady fair in Dol Amroth. Think of the children you hope to have with her. What kind of world do you want them to inherit? I wish our children to share a world free of tyranny. I swear it to you.”

For a long, terrible moment Denethor stared at him. Then, with a jagged sound like a sob, he sheathed his sword. Bowing his head, he said in a low voice to Thorin: “Go then. If you fail, all my people will drown in blood and ash. Go with all my hopes.”

Thorin looked around the room. Pallando and Arwen looked relieved; Dís and Gimli were staring at him in mingled distress and resignation. Legolas was resting one hand on Gimli’s shoulder. Estel’s eyes were bright as he looked at Bilbo. Only Théoden paid Thorin and Bilbo no heed; he had moved to put his arm around Denethor, and for a moment Denethor leaned against him like a brother.

Bilbo slipped one small hand into Thorin’s. “Can we go now?” he whispered. “Please?”

Thorin looked down at him. There were lines of care around Bilbo’s eyes, and his gaze seemed somehow far away. “Yes, we will start out this very hour,” Thorin said.

Bilbo paused at the door and looked into Denethor’s face. “We won’t fail you,” he said.

And then they went out into the night together.

“I did not speak with you of my plan,” said Thorin, fastening the buckles on the orcish hauberk. The ugly black armor, looted from slain scouts, seemed crass and cruel on Bilbo’s body--and it would provide notably less protection than the light mithril coat hidden beneath it. “I did not want to burden you further. But I should have consulted with you. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” said Bilbo. “It is the path I hoped we could take, but I was too afraid to say so. You know my heart, as always.”

Thorin knelt on one knee to adjust the buckles on the spiked greaves that covered Bilbo’s legs. Looking up at Bilbo, he said, “From now on it is just the two of us.”

Bilbo’s smile was sad as he leaned to kiss the top of Thorin’s head. “I wish that were so,” he murmured. “But I think we both know better, don’t we?”

Thorin froze.

“I’ve seen him, sometimes, far off in the rice fields at night, his eyes gleaming in the dark like pale lamps,” said Bilbo. “Gollum is stalking us, isn’t he?”

Thorin found that his hands on the buckles were shaking. “And my father with him,” he whispered. “I was hoping, if we traveled light and fast--”

“We’ll try,” said Bilbo. “But I feel our fates are tied up with theirs.” He sighed, and rested his hands on Thorin’s shoulders, looking down at him. “So be it,” he said. “If I am with you, I fear nothing but failure.”

Thorin gazed up into his eyes, seeing in them exhaustion, resignation--and determination. “If I am with you,” he said, “I fear not even that.”

Chapter Text

From this point the story splits asunder for a time. The author of the Red Book of Westmarch--quite understandably--wrote most intimately of the path taken by Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins in their desperate run to Mount Doom. For the experiences of the other members of the Fellowship, this narrative has had to rely on histories and songs to piece together a picture of those great and world-changing events. The banners in the breeze, the sound of trumpets, the lone figure standing on the Black Gate with the wind in her hair--

But the story is getting ahead of itself a little, isn’t it?

Back up. For now, follow the remnants of the Fellowship in their offensive against the rear of Sauron’s forces, as they drive toward the Isenmouthe and the Iron Gate, beyond which the forces of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth assemble for their final stand.

“This is a mad venture,” said Gimli in an undertone to Legolas as he looked over the ragtag group they were traveling with, their ribs showing through the rags they were clothed in. “They are armed with scythes and sticks against the armies of Mordor!"

"They have acquitted themselves well so far, have they not?"

Gimli glared at him. "The past days have been mere skirmishes against lightly-armed supply lines. It is nothing like a battle against a standing army, and well you know it. When we reach Sauron's flank, we must cut through a horde of orcs in full armor to reach the Black Gate. Our role here is merely to throw Mordor's army into disarray in order to give the forces of Gondor and Rohan a better chance."

"The armies of the West have no hope of prevailing either, if Bilbo and Thorin fail in their quest. We are all merely distractions and diversions."

"At least their distraction wields swords rather than ploughshares! We lead lambs to the slaughter and I do not like it.”

“Soft, Gimli,” said Legolas. "I thought dwarves understood pride, and stubbornness, and doomed stands against impossible odds? Your people do not have a monopoly on such things, after all.”

Gimli snorted. “I’ve heard a thing or two about the desperate last stands of the elves as well,” he said. Then he sighed. “I simply prefer my gloriously doomed gestures to be more well-armored.”

Legolas looked at him for a long, level moment, then nodded. "We shall keep as many safe as we can."

Gimli made a grumbling sound of annoyance--aimed perhaps at Legolas, but perhaps also at his relief that the elf understood him. "Don't go thinking that will slow me down in our count!" he said. "I'm ahead and I intend to stay that way."

Legolas patted his bow. "We shall see about that."

“Show me again, Lady Dís.”

Dís reached out and adjusted Muranu’s hands on the haft of his hammer. “Shift your weight like this,” she said, “And put your shoulders into it more.”

Bracing his feet against the ground, he swung the hammer against the makeshift post, this time connecting with a thunk. “Ay-ya, Lady!” he cried, “So shall the enemies of Nurn fall before me!”

Dís smiled. “You may call me simply ‘Dís,’” she said. “Keep practicing, I shall watch from over there.”

As Muranu continued swinging wildly at his post, Dís made her way to where Arwen was sitting and sewing by the meagre campfire. “He should not have come,” she sighed as she sat down next to her companion. “He is barely more than a boy!”

“His parents died years ago at the hands of the orcs, and he wishes to strike a blow against their killers,” said Arwen. “Would you deny him the chance?”

“Perhaps,” said Dís heavily. She gazed at Muranu and beyond him to the north, and her eyes were sad. "He reminds me rather of my sons when they were boys. And now they are besieged by an army, far away, with no aid to come to them.”

“I have never visited the Lonely Mountain,” said Arwen after a silence. “One day you will have to show me its wonders.”

“And one day when you are Queen of Gondor you will have to show me the beauties of Minas Tirith,” said Dís. “Oh, do not bother to dissemble,” she said with some amount of affectionate exasperation when Arwen opened her mouth. “I have seen the design you are embroidering into that banner in my history books, and I have seen the way you look at that Thorongil, and I can put things together.” She chuckled low under her breath and stroked her beard. “You have my thanks for trying to cheer me up, however.”

Arwen looked down at the shining star she was working on, touched it lightly with a finger. Then she smiled and said, “I still do not agree that an orcish lieutenant is worth a full seven points.”

The corners of Dís’s mouth twitched. “Once we encounter one and slay him, we will discuss how many points we feel he was worth.”

“That seems fair,” said Arwen.

In the vanguard, the very front lines of the ragtag army making its scattered way west, Théoden and Denethor were looking up at the slopes of Orodruin, Mount Doom.

“That little hobbit will have to climb that mountain?” Denethor said, staring at the summit lit with sullen red light. “We are all doomed.”

“Come now, you know ‘that little hobbit’ has traveled more of Middle Earth than you and I have,” said Théoden. “Have faith in him, brother.”

Denethor raised an eyebrow at “brother,” but didn’t contradict him. Instead, he sighed, looking up at the scarlet, molten light. “Faith has never been something I have needed to rely on,” he said. “My tactical skills, my intelligence, my knowledge, yes. Now you ask me to have faith in a hobbit, faith in your father, faith in Thorongil of all people.” He shook his head, turning away from Mount Doom. “He passed the test that I would have failed,” he murmured, more to himself than to Théoden. “Perhaps...perhaps it is time."

“Test? Time?” Théoden looked puzzled. “I understand it troubles you that your father admires him so, but he is merely a skilled soldier. Why do you place such weight on him?”

Denethor stared at him for a long moment. Then he started to laugh, and laughed so hard that he had to lean on a mystified Théoden to stay upright, and would not tell him what was so amusing.

“Something stirs in the east,” said Pallando, gazing back the way the Fellowship had come.

“A force for good or for evil?” asked Estel, looking up from the armor he was tending.

Pallando frowned. “I know not. It feels…” He frowned as he held out a strip of dried meat for his falcon to snatch and gulp down, then shook his head. “Like a wind, rising. More than that I cannot say.”

Estel looked back down at the leather beneath his hands. “With the vampire defeated, I have faith that Queen Samur will not send her troops to support Mordor. Perhaps in the future Saynshar and Gondor can even be allies. I sense much potential for good there.”

“Indeed,” said Pallando. “Whoever rules Minas Tirith in the future would do well to foster stronger relations between the two nations.”

“Steward Ecthelion is a wise man,” said Estel, “and his son is a great strategist. I doubt they will waste the opportunity…” His voice trailed off at the look the wizard was giving him, and he sighed.

“Why have you not proclaimed yourself, Heir of Isildur?” said Pallando.

A spray of gold-red light jetted upward from distant Mount Doom, as if in response to the name, and Estel gave the looming mountain an uneasy look. “Denethor is young and bold, and could well be a capable ruler of Gondor.”

“But he is not its proper king.”

“Better a competent steward and a land at peace than a ‘proper’ king and a land ravaged by civil war!”

Pallando shook his head. “You underestimate Denethor, I think.”

“Perhaps you do as well, in a different way,” said Estel. He stood abruptly, putting aside his tools, and the falcon startled at the movement, beating its wings. “And perhaps this is all a moot point; perhaps neither of us shall survive the coming days. My mind is on the battles ahead, not on the finer points of lineage and succession.”

“You know that Mithrandir would tell you that the true king must be restored.”

A shadow of pain crossed Estel’s face. “Mithrandir is not here, for he died defending me.” He nodded to Pallando. “I must rest; at dawn we strike out once more for the Black Gate.”

The falcon, looking after him, let out a small, plaintive cry; Pallando smoothed the feathers on its head and sighed.

“Tell me again,” said Thorin. “Tell me what foods can be had at the Harvest Feast.”

He and Bilbo were huddled in the crevice created by two boulders leaning on each other. Ever since the climb up to the Plateau of Gorgoroth, the gentle green fields of Nurn had given way to a plain of ash and rock, bare of vegetation. The air around them reeked with sulphur, brimstone-sharp. They had moved steadily, stopping to rest only when Bilbo could walk no further. Now and then they had met patrols of orcs, but had either managed to bluff their way through or--in one notable instance--Thorin had managed to leave an entire scouting party strewn and broken behind them.

“They roast a pig,” Bilbo said, resting his forehead on one of the few smooth spots on Thorin’s ugly orc-armor. “They roast it until the skin is crisp and the meat is tender, and they serve it with broiled chestnuts and rolls fresh from the oven, slathered with butter.” He chuckled weakly. “I feel a bit roasted myself at the moment.”

One strong arm encircled him and held him close. “What do they serve in the Shire to cool down on a hot day, then?”

“Oh, apple juice,” Bilbo sighed. “Served over ice stored in cellars since the winter. Mint and cucumber salad, with lots of dill. Melons placed in nets in streams to keep them cool, until they’re cut open and feasted on, all chilled and green.” He shuddered. “Nothing green here,” he murmured. “Nothing but fire, and ash, and the Eye, looking for us.”

Thorin shifted, putting one hand to the back of Bilbo’s head and cradling it against his chest. “It will not find us,” he murmured, and for a long time they simply rested against each other.

When Bilbo spoke again his voice was a hoarse whisper. “Thorin,” he said, then stopped, swallowing hard. “Thorin,” he said again, “I’m afraid. Not--not of dying,” he added, “but I’m afraid...it’s so hard to think of letting it go,” he managed to blurt out. “I’ve had it so long, and I know, I know it needs to be destroyed, and I want to, but sometimes…” He sobbed once, feeling it tear at his chest, and the weight resting there throbbed as if in mockery. “What if I can’t do it?”

Thorin took his shoulders and moved him away just enough that he could meet Bilbo’s eyes. His own were storm-dark and solemn; Bilbo remembered suddenly that he once had compared them to the sea, and now they seemed as depthless and as strong as those waves.

“Bilbo Baggins of the Shire,” he said, “I swear to you, upon the stones of my ancestors, that if it seems you will waver in your quest, I shall myself hurl you into the Cracks of Doom.”

Bilbo blinked at him, waiting to see if this was some kind of dwarvish joke, but Thorin’s face was solemn and serious. A laugh warred in Bilbo’s chest with an intense rush of relief, and he smiled up at Thorin through sudden tears. “I wouldn’t envy you having to explain to Estel what happened to me,” he said.

Thorin brushed the tears from Bilbo’s lashes with gentle fingers. “Ah, heart’s-ease, you misunderstand me,” he murmured, “I swore I would not leave your side again, did I not?”

He smiled, and gazing in his eyes Bilbo felt his heart fill with some strange wild grace, and a peace beyond reason, beyond understanding.

“Do not think for a moment, Bilbo, that you would fall alone.”

Chapter Text

Mount Doom was behind the armies of Nurn and the Fellowship now, and the baleful light of Barad-dûr flickered over the plain, painting everything with scarlet as they struck on. Before them lay Udún, a valley ringed with bleak crags. Set into the far end of the valley was the Black Gate, a towering monstrosity of spikes and spires that the various scattered comrades could see even from this distance. And between them and the Black Gate…

“Well,” said Théoden, gazing at the rank upon rank of orc-warriors. “This day shall one of my sister-sons become heir of Rohan, it seems.” His face was almost cheerful, a berserker calm settling over him. “Yet we shall show them what it means to face men of the West, shall we not?”

Denethor bared his teeth at the hordes in front of them in a fierce smile. “On the far side of that gate lie the armies of our fathers, and any orcs we slay this day will have no chance to slay our peoples.”

“Yet will the people of Nurn bear a hard burden,” said Daon grimly. Sauron’s army was already changing formation, preparing themselves for the meagre assault on their rear ranks. “If the Black Gate were opened, then we could at least attack from two sides at once. I fear today the last hope of Nurn will be extinguished.”

A shrill cry above them made Denethor look up; a falcon was winging its way over the armies gathered on the plain. A few orc-arrows sang past it, but it gave another derisive shriek and sailed away over the Black Gate.

“Do not lose hope,” said Denethor, but his voice was so low it was unclear whether he was speaking to his companions or to himself.

“Do you remember the first time we fought side by side, that day when we met by chance on the borders of our lands?” said Théoden suddenly. “How young I was, how eager for glory!” He took a breath. “And how unwilling to admit that I was but a boy before a warrior already hardened in battle.”

Denethor looked at him, and the grim lines of his face eased almost imperceptibly. “I do remember, Prince Théoden. I remember a young man who spoke without thinking the truth about the stallion I rode, and that in my hurt pride I spoke harsh words to him.”

Théoden threw back his head and laughed. “You spoke the truth as well. It was not a good first meeting, was it?”

Denethor shook his head. “Yet also I remember a young warrior who saved my life that day, and bore himself well and bravely. Him I would fight side by side with again.”

Théoden clasped his hand. “And I am honored to face this day with you, my brother.”

“My brother,” echoed Denethor, and there was wonder in his voice.

On the western side of the Black Gate, the assembled armies of Gondor and Rohan stood waiting. King Thengel and Steward Ecthelion stood in front of them, staring at the gate. Beyond the creaking of armor and the snapping of banners in the wind, a strange silence was upon the field.

And then a low rumble reached the ears of the people there, and the silence became filled with fear and consternation as over a rise came into view a new army: row on row of Easterlings in bronze armor, their spears bright in the morning sun. At their head was a figure cloaked in gray, riding a white horse, and the sound of their shields clashing seemed a death-knell to the peoples of the West.

“Stand fast!” cried Thengel as they drew closer and his men rustled and shifted. “Today we stand for our homelands and none shall rout us!”

They faced each other, these two forces, and the wind itself seemed to fall silent, waiting. Far above them, a falcon screamed out once into the hush, as if in defiance.

“It is time,” said Legolas. “Time to join the battle in earnest, while the main body of Sauron’s armies are focused on the vanguard and yet unaware of us.”

“People of Nurn!” cried Gimli, raising his axe. “Today we strike a blow for freedom together! And as you have cast in your lot with mine, I swear that if I survive this day I shall cast in my lot with yours, and stay to help build roads and cities that would make any Westerner weep with envy!”

“And if I survive this day,” said Legolas, I pledge to help reclaim this barren waste and turn it to fertile ground once more. Trees shall flourish on the Plateau of Gorgoroth, and the free people of Nurn will plant gardens in the ruins of Barad-dûr!”

A ragged cheer went up, and the people of Nurn surged forward without any further urging, streaming down into the valley of Udún to fall upon the armies of Sauron. Ugly trumpets brayed an alarm, and the orcs swiveled to meet this threat.

And so the last battle of the Third Age was joined, in the most desperate of circumstances, with the Black Gate between the starving people of Nurn and any hope of succor.

On the other side of that gate, the armies of Gondor and Rohan stared at the army of the Easterlings, its shields glinting in the sun. The mounted figure at its head rode forward, and the soldiers of Gondor saw Steward Ecthelion grasp his sword’s hilt, saw King Thengel ready his spear.

And then the figure stood up in the stirrups and threw aside his grey cloak, and cried out “Folk of the West! Today the armies of the East stand with you against this great evil!” And a cheer of joy went up as the people on the plain recognized Mithrandir, clad all in white, riding toward them, and realized that they had gained new allies rather than new enemies.

Pallando swung his great gnarled staff and sent three orcs crumbling to the ground. “Thorongil!” he yelled. “‘Your left!”

Estel dodged a black blade, whirled to skewer an orc. “Forward!” he called to the armies of Nurn, and they surged on.

There was a cry above them, fierce and full of joy, and Pallando’s falcon plummeted from the skies to claw the face of an orc trying to strike its master. Flying to his shoulder, it shrieked again in defiance and glee, and Pallando’s face lit up.

“Oh, this is glad tidings and hope unforeseen!” he cried. “My friends! Mithrandir lives and has returned at the head of an army of Easterlings! The free peoples of the West have received aid!”

Estel’s face blazed with joy through the black blood stippling it. “Glad tidings indeed!” he breathed. Then new determination squared his jaw. “The Black Gate must be opened, and the people of Nurn saved!”

Pallando smoothed the feathers on his falcon’s head. “Sweetling, you must find Arwen and Legolas, and tell them so. Do you hear me? Seek out the elves, for they will understand your speech. Tell them the news and urge them to the Gate!”

The falcon launched itself into the air and soared west over the desperate armies.

On the western flank of the army of Nurn, Dís parried a blow, then turned to cave in the ribs of an orc with her hammer. “Fifteen!” she called breathlessly to Arwen. “And I shall race you to that five-point lieutenant!”

“My arrows will reach him faster than you can!” said Arwen, notching one and preparing the shot.

There was a shriek above her, and she looked up, then threw her arm in the air. A falcon arrowed down and landed on her outstretched forearm, talons closing around her arm. She stood unmoving and unmoved as blood stained the sleeve of her jerkin, listening intently as the falcon bobbed its head and made a series of calls. Then with a fierce cry of elation, she threw up her hand and the falcon sprang into the air and away.

“Sister!” she cried to Dís. “We must make for the Black Gate, for beyond it wait the armies of the West--and Mithrandir, returned to us this day!”

None of the sounds of battle reached the slopes of Mount Doom: not the twisted trumpets, not the clash of shields, not the cries of the dying. It was oddly still there, and the only sound was the low, constant rumbling of the molten rock within the mountain, deep beneath them.

Bilbo’s throat was parched and his tongue dry, for there were only a few precious mouthfuls of water left in their canteens. Step by painful step they made their way up the treacherous slopes that trembled beneath their feet, and sometimes Thorin leaned on Bilbo and sometimes Bilbo leaned on Thorin.

“I can see them,” Bilbo murmured to Thorin once through dry lips. “Your father and Gollum, following us.”

Thorin looked back: indeed, far behind them he could see two specks clambering over the rocks. There seemed to be some sort of chain or leash between them, as if his father was using Gollum like a hunting hound. His heart sank at the sight: Will I never be free of you, Father?

“We have to go faster,” he said to Bilbo.

“I…” The breath wheezed between Bilbo’s teeth. “I don’t know if I can, Thorin.”

Thorin wrenched the ugly orc helmet from Bilbo’s head, nearly sobbing in relief at the sight of the dear, familiar face exposed once more. He threw the helmet down the hill with a clatter. “We don’t need this anymore,” he said, and bent to pull the gnarled breastplate from Bilbo’s body, leaving him in just his linen shift and the mithril coat, which sparkled gaily even in the sullen light of Mount Doom.

“Stupid orc boots,” muttered Bilbo, and bent to pull them off as well.

“The stones,” protested Thorin, “They’ll burn your feet.”

Bilbo shook his head, sighed in relief as his bare feet touched the ground. “You underestimate hobbit feet, as usual,” he said with a wan smile. He stood up once more. “Let me face this as a true hobbit, with my feet on the earth,” he said.

They staggered forward together, their pursuers still gaining on them, but more slowly. The air grew thick with malice and heat, scorching their bodies and souls. After what seemed like years of torment Bilbo pointed. “A door,” he whispered, and Thorin could see a tiny black spot above them, set below the summit.

They made for it.

Finally they stood before the door carved into the mountain. Within was darkness lit by streaks of red and gold. “Sammath Naur,” said Thorin, “The forge in which Sauron created the One Ring.” Bilbo winced and touched his chest, and Thorin bit his lip. “Forgive me.”

“It’s no matter,” Bilbo said. “I can just...feel Him. Everywhere.” He shuddered and clasped Thorin’s hand. “We must hurry.”

And yet he paused one last time on the threshold, looking to the west, where far below Thorin could see the armies surging like ants on the battlefield, and beyond them the grim Black Gate, sealing Mordor off. “I hope they’re all right,” Bilbo whispered. “All of our friends.”

Then he squared his shoulders, and together they walked into the heart of Mount Doom.

At that moment, beyond the Black Gate, Gandalf was riding toward the leaders of the armies of the West, staff held high.

“Mithrandir,” said Ecthelion as the wizard drew close, “Glad tidings you bring to us today! How came you here to this place, leading an army of our ancient foes?”

“My Lord,” said Mithrandir,“My travels have been far, and strange, and to recount them would take much time that we do not have. But I come with aid against the armies of Sauron, and with the blessings of Queen Samur of the Saynshar, who would put aside for now the old enmity between your peoples and offer their help.”

“You will forgive me if I do not leap to embrace the descendents of those who have attacked and enslaved my people,” said Ecthelion with a wary look at the field of bronze shields. “But if they prove themselves this day, perhaps then we can look to a different future. But tell me, wizard,” he said suddenly, and his eyes were keen with worry, “What news of my son? I received a dire message from him to prepare for war, and he said you were with him. Is he safe? For if these Easterlings have done him harm, there shall be no peace between us.”

Mithrandir smiled. “Your son, and the son of King Thengel, were well the last I saw them. If all has gone according to plan--” He pointed at the Black Gate, “--They await you on the other side of that gate.”

King Thengel of Rohan laughed. “Well then,” he cried, “Why do we still wait here?” And he raised his voice and called toward the Black Gate, “Open up, you churls, you cowards! Stop cowering behind your walls and prepare to meet the Free Peoples of the West!”

The armies behind him moved restlessly, as if they would surge against the Black Gate and shatter it with the very force of their will. “For Denethor!” cried one man, and “For Théoden!” cried another, and the calls were picked up and cried out until they crashed against the Black Gate. There was exultation in their voices, and hope in their hearts.

And then all hope died as a huge dark shadow fell across them like a miasma of fear, and a grating scream caused the blood to rush from their faces. A fell beast, covered with scales and with wings as wide as a house, landed on the Black Gate--but the true terror emanated from its rider, a dark shape crowned with an iron circlet, with only shadows beneath it.

The Witch-King of Angmar, most powerful of the Nazgûl, stood atop the Black Gate and looked out at the armies of the Free Peoples, and they felt their hearts quail beneath his blank and pitiless gaze, and the sun itself seemed to pale.

Chapter Text

A hush fell across the battlefield as the Witch-King of Angmar, Lord of the Nazgûl, stood atop the Black Gate and gazed out at the armies of the West. Beside him his mount fanned its great scaly wings, and a stench of corruption and decay seemed to waft over the field. Behind him, in Mordor, the armies of Sauron broke into hoarse, baying cries and pressed forward, pushing the ragged folk of Nurn back. “Hold fast!” Daon cried, but it was of no use: shrieks of despair and terror lifted into the air as the starving, desperate people broke ranks and began to crumble.

And then a shriek of rage and defiance sliced through the air, and a slender figure in ill-fitting armor ran forward. Muranu of Manishtashnu seized a stone from the ground, throwing it at the Black Gate, though it fell pitifully short of even the base. “Curse you!” he screamed up at the Ringwraith, his voice nearly lost in the tumult. “May your soul be consumed by the Void for what you have done to my people!”

“Muranu!” Dís started to run toward him, Arwen right behind her.

The Ringwraith tilted his head as if in idle curiosity. “Young fool,” he said, and all shuddered as the voice seemed to crawl into their minds. “I am not fated to be harmed by the likes of you.” He gestured casually, and the fell beast at his side spread its wings and soared from the gate, striking down as a hawk would strike a rabbit.

It reached him before the two women could, snatching him up and into the air without a sound, then hurling him back down to the earth with vicious contempt.

Dís’s cry of horror and shock rang out over the battlefield as the boy’s crumpled body was tossed to the ground nearly at her feet. Throwing herself to her knees, she gathered him in her arms, but his heart was pierced through by cruel claws and his eyes were already empty. The Nazgûl’s mount landed on the ground in front of her and advanced, its snaky neck outstretched and its jaws dripping, but she paid it no heed, still staring down at the broken form in her arms.

It was Arwen who stepped forward, sword in hand, and stood between them.

The beast snapped at her, knocking her to the side and driving the breath from her body, but she took a firm grip on her blade and swung. Her blow sliced through the scaly neck, severing it cleanly, and its scream of fury was cut off into a gurgling choke.

The body of the beast flopped and flailed on the ground, and the blade dropped from Arwen’s nerveless fingers as she fell to one knee, gasping. Now the Ringwraith’s attention was fixed entirely on them; she glared up at him with all the defiance and hatred in her soul. “Dís!” she called to the woman behind her. “Dís, we must--”

Suddenly sensing absence at her back, she whirled to look.

Her sword was gone, as was Dís.

Legolas stared up at the figure on the Black Gate, the cruel taunting words of the Witch-King still ringing in his mind. Something was happening on the ground in front of the gate, but it was impossible to see what. He saw the unnatural mount soar downward, did not see it arise. “Gimli,” he said, grabbing his companion’s shoulder. “We must open the Gate.”

“That’s all well and good,” grumbled the dwarf, “But they use mountain trolls to leverage it open! Where are we going to get something as strong as a mountain troll--especially something willing to help us?”

Legolas looked around almost wildly. Then his face lit up. “There,” he said, pointing.

Gimli followed the line of his finger, and although his eyes were nowhere near as keen as the elves’, he could easily make out the towering gray form of Shala, the oliphaunt, wading across the battlefield and tossing orcs left and right, her trainer on her back shouting orders.

“Oh no,” said Gimli. “no, I don’t like horses, lad, and you want me to--no!” But it was too late; Legolas had already set off across the plain, shooting orcs as he went.

Gimli sighed. Then he raised his voice and cried ”Khazâd ai-mênu!,” and began to run forward after his friend.

The walls around them were smooth as glass, as though molten stone had been used to polish them. Red light flickered across the slick surface in oily streaks that seemed to beckon them onward. Thorin kept one hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, and the other on the throwing axe at his belt--he had an intuition that whatever awaited them, fighting in close quarters would not be ideal. Bilbo’s breathing was hoarse and labored, and Thorin tightened his hand on his shoulder. “Just a little more, my heart,” he said. “Just a little more and you shall return to the Shire, to the cool breezes and gentle sunlight of your home. We are almost there, my brave one, my star sapphire, my green leaf in the desert.” He kept a soothing patter of words going, hardly hearing what he was saying, but nearly sighed with relief when Bilbo reached up and clasped his hand, as if to reassure him in turn.

Together they emerged into the heart of Orodruin, where Sauron forged the One Ring in greed and malice so very long ago.

The heat was a tangible thing, waves that slapped at their faces and tossed their hair, and the roar of churning lava below them made it hard to think. Together, step by step, they made their way to where a promontory of rock jutted out above the heart of the volcano.

Bilbo stopped short of the spur and fumbled with the chain around his neck with hands that seemed to have gone clumsy and unwilling. His hair was matted with sweat, his eyes ringed with red. He pulled the chain over his head, and the Ring rested in the hollow of his hand, golden and perfect and oddly vulnerable.

Bilbo looked up at Thorin and his eyes were wide and desperate. “Please,” he said, and he held out his hand. “Can you not destroy it for me? For all of us?”

Thorin could hear what almost sounded like a pulse of pure power emanate from the gold circle, heavy and sweet and beguiling. Take me, claim me, make me yours, it whispered, Be the strong son and king you need to be. He shuddered, remembering long nights of emptiness in which he poured his pain into the greedy chasm of the Ring’s lies, and shook his head. “No,” he said over the roar of the mountain, “Bilbo, I am not strong enough. I have already given in once. The Ring must be yours to destroy.”

The anguish in Bilbo’s eyes almost undid him, but then Bilbo closed his hand around the Ring and nodded, his throat working. Unclasping the chain, he let the length of gold slip to the ground to pool unnoticed. For a long moment, he looked at the Ring in his hand, and then he started to walk to the edge of the cliff, to where the molten heart of the mountain seethed below.

“Hail and well met at last, my son,” said a familiar voice from the entrance of the passageway, and Bilbo froze, looking back.

Thráin, once King Under the Mountain, stood there. He was clad in heavy mail of a sinuous Eastern design, and in one gauntleted hand he held a chain. The chain ended at a pair of shackles bound around Gollum’s wrists. Gollum--thinner and more wizened than the last time Thorin had seen him--yearned toward the Ring, his whole body an arc of thwarted desire. “Precious,” Thorin saw him whisper, the sound drowned out by the sound of the volcano.

And so they met at last, these two pairs, like a reflection in a warped mirror: one bound by hatred and chains and obsession; one by love and hope and determination.

“Dís!” Arwen ran after the dwarf, but Dís had gotten a head start, and once a dwarf gets started running nothing at all can stop them. Orcs fell left and right by her hand, as if she were mowing down field flowers with a scythe, as she made her way straight for the western turret of the Black Gate.

By the time Arwen made the turret, Dís was already halfway up the staircase that wound up it. Bits of armor and orc rained down from above as Arwen climbed, her heart pounding as the miasma of the Nazgûl grew ever stronger. The fear that assailed her seemed to affect her friend not at all, though. Arwen staggered on until finally she emerged on the top of the Black Gate.

To the north, she could see the armies of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, could see Mithrandir exhorting them to stand firm, to not panic as the horrific aura of the Witch-King pierced their souls. To the south were the people of Nurn, crumbling and fleeing, being slaughtered with no hope of aid. And before her--

Dís had ripped her helmet off, and her long black hair streamed out in the wind, the single white streak in it shining like a star. She held up Arwen’s sword in silence and advanced on the Witch-King as if walking through water, step by painful step.

The leader of the Ringwaiths looked at her and saw her beard. He laughed, a cold sound that made the armies of the West quail and tremble. “Another mortal fool,” he said. “Come to be killed.” He brandished his morning star, twirling it above his head effortlessly. ”I shall make a lesson of you as well.”

Dís said nothing, but chuckled low in her throat and continued forward.

The great spiked ball of the morning star crashed down onto the black metal of the gate with a tortured scream--but Dís had dodged to the side at the last second. There was a cut on her cheek, trickling blood down her face. She stepped forward again.

The Ringwraith wrenched the morning star up again, and the air shrieked at its passing. He started to whip it forward once more--

And at its zenith an arrow struck the heavy metal gauntlet of the Witch-King, and the cruel spiked sphere flew wide.

The Witch-King glared at Arwen, standing with her quiver empty at last, proud and stern. Then he turned his attention back to Dís. “You cannot defeat me,” he said again, a voice like stone on ice. “I cannot be hurt by--”

Her teeth bared, Dís lunged forward the last few steps and transfixed him with the elvish blade.

The Ringwaith screamed, a high and eerie sound that buffeted the armies like a thunderclap, throwing Dís backwards and sending her tumbling across the Black Gate. There was a tormented twisting in the air, and then the heavy armor fell to the earth, empty of any animating force.

In the distance, a sudden beam of scarlet light seemed to pierce the gloom, focusing on the gate and the slain Ringwraith: Sauron’s furious attention fixed upon the two figures remaining there.

Staggering under its oppressive light, Arwen ran forward to gather Dís in her arms. “Dís,” she said, and then: “Sister. You have prevailed.” Below them there was faint cheering from the armies of Gondor, Rohan, and Saynshar, but Arwen had a care only for the woman lying in her arms. She smoothed back Dís’s hair from her cold forehead. It was all white as snow now, the black seared from it in that terrible thunderclap. “Do not leave me, my friend,” she said, and bent her head and wept.

There was a grating sound from below them, a trumpeting call of triumph, and the Black Gate began to swing open. Arwen held her friend close, cradling her against the jarring movement, and heard the armies of the Free Peoples break into a joyous cheer, heard the drums and chants start as they prepared to enter Mordor and join battle.

At the motion, Dís stirred in her arms and coughed weakly. “I won,” she whispered.

Arwen took a careful breath. “Yes, sister. You defeated the Lord of the Nazgûl.”

“Of course I did,” Dis said, a faint smile on her face. “But I mean I won...the count.”

Arwen laughed, and the tears of sorrow on her face were mixed with tears of joy. “Yes,” she agreed. “Yes, you won.”

“It has been a long time, son,” said Thráin, stepping forward into the heart of Mount Doom. Bilbo stood frozen, the Ring in the palm of his hand, but Thráin seemed to have eyes only for his son.

“A long time indeed, Thráin,” said Thorin. “Long since you chained my grandfather to his bed like a dog and usurped the Raven Crown for your brow. Long since I drove you from Erebor. And even longer since the dragon-sickness corrupted your heart against your people.”

“The dragon-sickness?” Thráin laughed, short and sharp. “You still believe in that myth, that phantasm? My mind is clear, my thinking unmarred.”

“Your heart is not,” said Thorin, resting his hand above his own. “How long did it take the corruption to creep into your soul? Perhaps--” He swallowed hard, “--perhaps it would have been better if the true dragon had destroyed Erebor, so many years ago. Perhaps, away from the mountain, away from the gold, you could have been the ruler we deserved.”

“A ruler with no kingdom is pointless indeed,” Thráin said. “As well you know.” And to Thorin’s shock he smiled, and it was the smile Thorin remembered from his earliest days, open and warm. “I am proud of you, my son.”

“Pr--” Thorin felt his mouth shape the word, but no sound came out.

“Of course! I realize now how very wrong I was about you. I felt in your youth that you were too bookish, that you lacked ambition. That you were weak and soft. But this!” He threw his arms out to take in the entire cavern, filled with golden light. “When I realized you were bound here, everything became clear to me. Such a brilliant plan--to bring the One Ring here, to the place in which it was forged, the very seat of its power, before you use it to confront and overthrow the Lord in Barad-dûr.” He gestured at Bilbo without taking his eyes from Thorin. “And to have the sense to let your servant carry the Ring in your stead, so that he is consumed and you avoid the temptation to wield it too early--” He shook his head in admiration. “Once I thought you had ceded him the power, but now I realize how very clever you are, my son. You are truly an heir I can be proud of.”

He held out his free hand, still clad in its heavy mail, toward Thorin. The other kept a tight grip on the chain that bound Gollum.

“I know that you fear I will try to take the Ring,” Thráin said, “But at this moment I would never dream of robbing you of your glory. You are the true King--not simply of Erebor, but of all the Peoples of Durin. With Sauron toppled, with the Ring in your grasp, you will lead all the dwarves of Middle Earth to a new age of strength and power. Elves and Men alike will learn the true power of our people. It will be glorious, and I wish only to be your counsellor and guide, my son--the triumph is yours and yours alone.”

There was a long, heavy silence that seemed to fill the cavern. Thráin beamed upon his son, the very look of pride and admiration Thorin had always yearned for, waiting for his answer.

Finally, Thorin shook his head. “You were wrong about me so many years ago, Father,” he said. “I was neither weak nor soft. But you are wrong about me now as well.” He looked at Bilbo and smiled, very slightly; unbelievably, even here in the heart of Mount Doom, Bilbo managed a flicker of a smile back. “I have no desire to lead the dwarves to an age of conquest and destruction. I have traveled and fought beside both elves and men, have watched them suffer and sacrifice to rid this world of tyranny. A world with so much beauty in it, so much that is gentle and kind.”

He turned his gaze back from Bilbo’s red-rimmed eyes back to his father, planting his feet more firmly against the rock, and raised his voice so it would carry clearly over the blast of flame and heat that filled the air.

“Bilbo and I have come here together for one purpose and one purpose only, Father--to destroy the One Ring.”

Chapter Text

Dís and Arwen lay on top of the Black Gate as it swung wide, opening the way into Mordor. With a flourish of trumpets and the snap of banners, the forces of the Free Peoples began to march into Mordor to face down the armies of Sauron.

From the northeast came a ululating cry, and a new force appeared on the horizon--a long row of chariots and horses, led by a woman in sky-blue robes riding an annoyed-looking lion: Bachai and the Wainriders, come to join battle.

They swarmed toward the Gate, and the alarm of the people of Gondor and Rohan quickly turned to jubilation when they realized that these were also allies and not enemies. Together they pushed forward into Mordor, though the orcish armies put up such stiff resistance that the ground was soon bathed in blood.

“I cannot see,” murmured Dís, clasping Arwen’s hand. Her fingers seemed less cold than they had been. “What news of our armies?”

“The Free Peoples of Middle Earth have entered Mordor,” said Arwen, shading her eyes to look. “Legolas and Gimli are fighting fiercely from atop an oliphaunt--Gimli seems less than happy about this. The forces of Gondor, led by their Steward, are fighting their way toward Denethor and Théoden’s location. And--” Her breath caught in her throat as she spotted a familiar figure in travel-stained armor.

Dís chuckled, looking at her expression. “Your beloved?”

“Estel fights alongside Steward Ecthelion, and Andúril shines in his hand like a flame,” said Arwen.

“Go to his side,” said Dís. “He will have need of you.”

As she spoke, Gandalf emerged from the gate turret and rushed to her side, resting a hand on her forehead. She coughed again, and he said, “Rest easy, Dís.”

She smiled up at him. “We are neither of us easy to kill, are we, old man?”

Gandalf looked at Arwen. “I will care for her. Go.”

Arwen looked as if she would argue, then looked at Dís’s face again and nodded. She smoothed back Dís's snowy hair and kissed her brow. Then she stood and drew her daggers, for her arrows were spent and her sword had been consumed in defeating the Nazgûl.

“For Rivendell!” she cried from the top of the gate, lifting her daggers in the air. “For Lothlórien! For the Lady of the Golden Wood!”

And then she leapt lightly from battlement to battlement down the Black Gate to rejoin the fray.

“Bilbo and I have come here together for one purpose and one purpose only, Father--to destroy the One Ring.”

Thráin’s face went blank at Thorin’s words. There was a horrible thin squeal, and Gollum fell to the rock floor, clawing at his shackles before going limp with a rattling groan. Thráin stared at his son, and the shock in his face was slowly replaced by fury.

“Insolent boy,” he snarled. “You would throw away such power, such potential? You are a traitor to all our kind.”

Thorin felt utterly weary, but he put his hand on the throwing axe at his belt, squared his shoulders. “Leave us to finish our quest, father. Or I shall be forced to stop you.”

Thráin laughed, a mocking sound that seemed to throb with the heat of the volcano. “We have been here before, son. Will you become a father-slayer, will you give up your right to the throne of Erebor? Will you forfeit your place in Mahal’s halls and be cast into the void upon your death?” Thorin heard Bilbo make a small agonized sound, but he couldn’t spare another look at the hobbit, not with his father so close, ready to strike.

“If that is what is needful,” he said. “To save Erebor, and the Shire, and Nurn, and all the wide lands between them.” He took the axe from his belt. “Leave us.”

Thráin laughed again and took a step forward along the edge of the chasm, dragging Gollum after him.

Or he started to, but staggered as the chain slid easily with no weight behind it. He looked, and Thorin and Bilbo looked with him: at its end was only a pair of blood-stained, empty shackles.

Before any of them could respond, there was a shriek of triumph, and Gollum sprang up from the cliff above the lava where he had been clinging, making his silent, stealthy way to where he could seize Bilbo. “Give us the Precious! Give it to us!” he shrilled, battering at Bilbo with his bloody hands in a frenzy of desperate anguish.

Bilbo threw up his hands to shield himself, and the Ring seemed to spring from them, glittering in the air. It hit the smooth stone floor, ringing like a high, sweet, corrupt bell, and rolled in a beautiful, pure arc--right to Thráin’s boot, clinking against the heavy mail and falling to its side as if in surrender.

Thráin bent and picked up the One Ring, and the volcano seemed to mutter and seethe in anticipation.

Denethor and Théoden saw the banner of the Steward waving above the fray, coming near them. "Rally to Minas Tirith!" cried Théoden to the people of Nurn, who were in no position to protest at any help, even from the hated Gondorians.

Together they cut through the fray until Denethor cried out, "My lord Father!" and threw himself forward toward Ecthelion.

Ecthelion was back to back with Thorongil, their swords flashing together. Arwen had joined them, and she and Pallando were guarding each other's flanks, laying about them with dagger and staff. "Well met, Steward's son!" Thorongil called, and saluted Denethor as he drew near before running another Orc through. But before Denethor could rejoin his father, a hail of enemy crossbow fire rained down, driving him apart from both Théoden and the rest, pinning him behind an outcropping of rock. A bolt pierced his calf, another his hand, and he cried out in anger and defiance as his sword dropped to the ground.

An Orc captain strode forward, a cruel grin twisting his face, sword raised.

There was a fierce shout, and Steward Ecthelion broke away from the fighting, plunging through the fray with his sword gleaming. A crossbow bolt hit him, then another, and he staggered, but reached his son and engaged the Orc captain. There was a brief flurry of clashing blades as Ecthelion stood between Denethor and death, and then the Orc toppled.

There was a cheer from the armies of Gondor, but it cut off as Ecthelion in turn stumbled and fell.

"My lord Father." Denethor knelt above his father. There was bright blood on Ecthelion's lips, but he smiled at his son. "You left Thorongil and came to me," Denethor said, his voice flat with shock.

"Thorongil is--" Ecthelion coughed and Denethor tried helplessly to ease him. "Is the heir of Elendil and rightful King of Gondor." He reached up and touched Denethor's face with a bloody hand, wiping away tears. "But you are my son," he whispered.

"Father," said Denethor again, but Ecthelion's spirit had fled and he was alone.

Then Denethor stood, and looking across the battlefield he saw Thorongil hard-pressed, with Arwen and Théoden and Pallando at his side. He saw the spirit of the men of Gondor wavering at the sight of their Steward's fall. He saw the ruddy light of the Eye of Sauron looking balefully upon the battlefield.

He began to make his way back to his company, limping on his pierced leg, and he slew all foes who came near him. He was running by the time he reached them, his face still marked with his father's blood and his own tears, and none could look long into his eyes.

"A spear!” he called to Théoden over the din of battle. “Give to me a spear, son of Thengel!"

Without missing a beat, Théoden swiveled and slew an Orc, grabbing the spear from its hand as it fell and tossing it to Denethor haft-first.

Denethor plucked it out of the air with his good hand and turned to Arwen. “Your banner,” he said, holding out his hand. “Give it to me!” he demanded when she hesitated, and at the look in his eyes she fumbled in her pack to draw out the black banner with its white tree and six stars, the final star only half-done.

There were tears running down Denethor’s face, but he seemed not to notice them; fastening the banner to the pole and hoisting it above his head he cried, “Men of Gondor! Rally now to the banner of the Heir of Isildur! Men of Gondor! Rally now to your rightful king!”

All across the battlefield, heads turned at his call to look at the son of the last Steward of Gondor, holding the standard high above Aragorn.

"The King has returned to his people in the hour of their need!" Denethor's voice lifted above the din of battle. "Let the Free Peoples of the West aid him this day!"

And the warriors of Gondor and of Rohan lifted up their voices and their weapons, and they were filled with new energy, and they drove forward against the enemies of the West, as Mount Doom rumbled in the distance and the Eye of Sauron glared hatred upon the battlefield.

Thráin picked up the One Ring, and the magma shifted and roiled beneath the ledge on which he stood. "At last," he murmured. "The power that should always have belonged to the dwarves is mine at last."

"Its power comes from Sauron," said Thorin. "If you wield it, you will serve his purposes."

Thráin laughed. "You think so little of my will," he sneered. "But I assure you I am not weak like men, or elves. Or you."

Thorin lifted his throwing axe, his father's image blurring through the heat haze and the sweat and tears in his eyes. "Do not make me slay you, father. I loved you truly, I swear."

"You swear?" Thráin's laugh was contemptuous. "Swear fealty to me instead." And he lifted the One Ring to place it on his finger.

Thorin threw his axe.

But the instant before he released it, he felt something suddenly shove him. But he could not look down, could see only his father standing at the edge of the volcano, staring at him in shock, Thorin's axe protruding from his shoulder. Thráin looked puzzled, and plucked at the haft of the axe with his free hand. Bright blood appeared on his lips, and his knees started to give; he staggered backwards one step.

With a shriek of pure agony, Gollum threw himself forward--to save or to destroy, Thorin never knew--his spindly arms grasping and grappling at Thráin's weight, trying to wrench the Ring from his slackening grip. His momentum toppled them backwards, over the edge.

For a timeless instant, all three--Thráin, Gollum, and the Ring--hung in the air above the seething lava. The Ring seemed to pulse as it turned in the air, a last beat of command and demand. Gollum's fingers brushed it, his eyes widened.

Thráin's dimming gaze met Thorin's.

Then all three fell backwards, plunging off the ledge and out of sight.

Thorin went to his knees, staring at the space his father had been, and felt small hands at his shoulder. “Thorin,” he heard Bilbo’s voice. “Look at me, Thorin.” Bilbo grabbed his face and turned him away from the sight of his father’s death. “Look at me!”

Bilbo’s eyes were wide, lit by volcano-light, filled with tears. Thorin let them fill his vision, and so he saw the very moment the Ring was truly destroyed, saw pain and grief contract Bilbo’s pupils to almost-vanishing. Even he, who had held the Ring such a short time, felt an unnatural sorrow and anguish wash over him. Bilbo sobbed once, a sound of utter agony.

And then his face cleared of pain, though the marks remained graven around his mouth and his eyes, and always would. Yet he was there, and not destroyed with the Ring, his own dear Bilbo, free at last of the curse that Thorin himself had handed to him. Thorin put his arms around him and felt Bilbo clasping him close, heard Bilbo’s exhausted voice at his ear: “It’s done. And I’m with you. I want nothing more.”

Thorin heard the resignation in Bilbo’s voice, the acceptance of their death. And that cut through his own grief and despair, banishing the afterimages of his father falling to his death.

“No, Bilbo,” he whispered into Bilbo’s hair. “You should know by now my people are fiercely protective of their treasure. I will fight for every single second we can have together, free at last.” He scooped Bilbo up into his arms. “I will not surrender even one of them,” he panted: to Bilbo, to himself, to Sauron and his father and the very lava rising behind them.

He began to run down the passageway, and the glassy walls heated as he ran until he could smell burning hair, and he knew the ends of his braids were starting to crisp.

When he emerged into the open air at last, he took one deep, whooping breath, but the air was only slightly less searing, and he struggled not to cough as he began to pick his way down the mountain. There was an explosion behind him, and red-hot stones whirred through the air past him; one hit him in the small of the back and he staggered, but did not fall. He could not fall, not when he carried the fairest and most precious thing in all of Middle Earth in his arms.

He staggered forward, not daring to look back. Far in the distance he could see the earth opening up as Barad-dûr collapsed into dust, the armies of the orcs falling on their faces as a shockwave spun outward from its destruction, but he had little energy to focus on anything but his own feet hitting the ground, each footstep one more second of their life together, snatched from eternity.

Thorin Oakenshield ran down the slopes of Mount Doom until he could no longer feel his legs, until his breath was a ragged wisp in his lungs. He went to his knees, hunching over Bilbo as if somehow he could protect him with his own body from the coming lava that would engulf them both.

He felt a hand touch his face and looked into Bilbo’s eyes. His hair, loose around his face, made a curtain between them and the chaos of the world outside: for a moment it was just the two of them.

“A few more moments,” Bilbo said. “Always you give me the best gifts.” He smiled through cracked and bloody lips. “And now you will go to the halls of your ancestors, to sit in glory until the end of the world. You will,” he said with sudden fervor as Thorin shook his head. “Your weapon did not slay your father. Your god cannot hold that against you.”

“I aimed to kill,” Thorin said, and felt the truth of it in his bones. Bilbo opened his mouth and Thorin touched his lips to his in a fleeting kiss, a hushing gesture. “I am unworthy of the throne of Erebor.” He smiled at Bilbo’s stricken look. “And I do not want to go anywhere that you will not be,” he added, “Whether it be the Shire or the Void itself. My body and soul will follow yours, Bilbo Baggins, from this day forward.”

“Ah,” said Bilbo. “You stubborn, cantankerous, impossible dwarf.” His smile was sweet and sad. “Very well, then,” he said, and captured Thorin’s face in his sooty hands, drawing him close. “From this day forward.”

“We truly hate to interrupt a tender moment,” came a familiar voice, “But that lava draws apace, and if you wish to escape it, speedy action will be required.”

“What the elf is trying to say,” Gimli’s annoyed voice cut in, “Is that we’re here to rescue you, so get moving!”

Thorin looked up to see--he blinked--Legolas and Gimli on top of an oliphaunt, looking very pleased with themselves. The oliphaunt reached down with a great gray trunk and plucked both of them off the ground--Bilbo made an undignified sound of delight, while Thorin made a very different but equally undignified noise--depositing them on her back.

Then the oliphaunt turned and began to trot away from Mount Doom, away from the devastation and death, toward cool air and their friends and the future.

From this day forward, Thorin thought, his arms still around Bilbo.

Chapter Text

Thorin woke to a vague and confused impression of light. His armor was gone and he seemed to be dressed in a linen shift, soft and pale. Everything seemed to be suffused with radiance, gentle and warm, and for a moment he nearly panicked: had he died on the battlefield? Was he separated from Bilbo?

He sat up and everything spun around him; he had a confused impression of walls that rippled gently. A tent, then. He looked to his right--and caught his breath as he recognized Dís, lying on the bed next to him. Her hair, fanned out on the pillow, was completely white, and her face was pale and still.

“Dís,” he croaked, and leaped from the bed--or started to, but his knees gave out from under him and he went down on the floor. “Sister,” he managed.

And then Gandalf was there, dressed all in white also, lifting him back to the bed with ease. “Rest easy, old friend,” said the wizard.

“So we are dead,” Thorin said. “Is Bilbo--where are we? Why is Dís not in Mahal’s halls? She had no part in--is she to be punished for my sin?”

“We are none of us dead, Thorin Oakenshield,” Gandalf said, pressing Thorin back down onto the bed. “Dís is recovering from a feat that will live in legend. And you are to stop talking of ‘sin’ in this ridiculous way, this self-flagellation does not suit you.” His face was kind but stern, and Thorin wondered how much he had been saying in his sleep as he recovered. He remembered his father’s eyes as he fell--

No. He shook his head firmly and looked up at Gandalf. “Where is Bilbo?”

Gandalf chuckled, and the sternness fell away into pleasure. “It is a relief to see you have your priorities in the right order after all,” he said.

“I am here, Thorin,” said a voice at the doorway, and Thorin looked to see Bilbo standing there. He was dressed all in green and brown, and instead of the golden ring he wore around his neck the beech-nut Wandlimb had given him, strung on a simple leather cord. “Hobbits clearly have much stronger constitutions than you dwarves after all,” he said with a merry smile, and came to take Thorin’s hands in his. Then the smile wavered slightly, and he touched his lips to Thorin’s hands. “Or I suppose it could be that you sheltered my body with your own, at the end.”

“The former, I am certain,” Thorin said with a laugh.

“Of course,” Bilbo said softly.

“Of course the two of you are too caught up in each other to ask the important questions,” said a new voice, hoarse but clear, and Thorin turned to see Dís smiling at him from her bed. “But I for one would like to hear why the wizard is not, after all, dead.”

Gandalf smiled again and touched Dís’s forehead. “It is a strange tale, and one I do not fully understand myself,” he said. “The vampire Thuringwëthil carried me upward, higher than any eagle, and as we flew she tore at me and I battered at her, but I feared my strength was not enough. My only thought was to harm or delay her so that you could escape.

“Higher we flew, and still higher, until the air itself became thin and the sky black and lifeless and the infinite stars shone around us. The light of the stars seemed to dazzle and burn the vampire, for she shrieked--or tried to, but there was no air left for her, and her lips were stained with her own blood, and her grip on me slackened at last. For a moment we hung there in the outer airs of the world, and as we did it seemed to me that I could hear music--” He broke off and shook his head. “And then her eyes closed, and we fell.

“A long time I fell, I know now how long indeed, but time seemed strange and askew so far above the earth. I would have thought my life over but for what I had heard in that moment of music, and so I let the earth pull me down without a struggle, and I embraced whatever destiny awaited me at the end of my fall.

“I landed in water,” said Gandalf, “The coolest, purest water that I had ever beheld, and I knew that I had landed in Cuiviénen.”

“Cuiviénen?” came a new voice, and Arwen came into the room, hand in hand with Estel. They were dressed all in dark blue velvet and brocade, and there was a peace about them that Thorin had never seen before. “Your fall brought you to the waters beside which the first elves awoke?”

Gandalf sketched a small bow at the two of them; Arwen smiled and Estel made a small scoffing noise at the gesture. “It did, my lady,” he said. “The very waters which Thuringwëthil had promised the King of the Easterlings would give him eternal life. Oh, they have no such occult properties,” he said quickly, “Nonetheless, I did somehow find myself alive, and as I struggled to shore I found my robes had turned white, as if the gray had been washed away by their touch.”

“I thought Saruman was the White Wizard,” said Bilbo, and Gandalf bowed his head.

“I fear that Saruman has met his end,” he said. “I felt it in that timeless moment among the stars, and Pallando and Alatar have told me they shared that feeling. So passed a great wisdom, turned to greed and ambition.” His eyes were sorrowful, but Thorin was more concerned about the fact that Balin had been besieging Orthanc with the elves of Lothlorien the last he had heard.

“My grandfather,” murmured Arwen, and Estel put an arm around her.

“We shall send messengers to Khazad-dûm and Erebor to see how the kith and kin of the Fellowship fare,” Aragorn said.

“So wait,” said Bilbo. “How did you get from this Queevy place (“Cuiviénen,” murmured Arwen) to here?”

Gandalf shrugged. “An eagle alighted on a pine tree at the shore and told me I was needed in Saynshar,” he said.

“This happens to you a lot, getting ferried around by eagles?” Thorin said.

Gandalf smiled, pulling out his pipe. “You should try it sometime.”

“No, thank you very much,” said Bilbo with an elaborate shudder. “I prefer to keep my feet on solid ground.”

The wizard lit his pipe and blew gently on the bowl. “The rest, anyone can tell you about,” he said. “Suffice to say a quick negotiation with Princess Samur later, I was at the head of an army heading West. And now the Dark Lord is overthrown, the battles are over, and Aragorn Elessar and his bride-to-be are preparing to begin their reign over Gondor in this new age of peace.” He smiled at Arwen and Estel again, nodding.

“Wait,” said Bilbo, crossing his arms and frowning. “Aragorn Elessar? Who is this person and why does he think he can just show up after all the fighting is done and take over? That takes a lot of nerve, I have to say.”

There was an awkward pause in which Gandalf seemed to be choking on pipe smoke. Then he stood up and said “Thorin, I leave this to you,” and exited the tent hastily.

An hour later--after Thorin had made both explanations and apologies to an extremely huffy Bilbo and promised to tell him if he was traveling with royalty in the future--a red-faced Bilbo was bowing to Aragorn and Arwen and apologizing for his familiarity to the High King and Queen.

“My dear friend,” said Aragorn, laughing, “If you treat me with any extra gravity from now I will be sorely offended.”

Two hours later Bilbo had his feet propped up on a cushion in the royal tent and was blowing smoke rings and playing riddle games with Aragorn, much to the amazement of the courtiers who came by to ask him for details of his marriage and crowning, and much to the delight of Aragorn. "Where are Theoden and Denethor?" Bilbo asked after a time. "I haven't seen them since I woke."

"Theoden is busy examining our horses," Aragorn said with a smile. "He swore to get our stud tables in order and select only the best mounts for the coronation and wedding. I told him we had weeks, but he seemed eager to be among horses again. As for Denethor... he is off on an urgent mission to Dol Amroth, to see his Finduilas. He seems to believe that now that he is no longer lord of Minas Tirith, their engagement will be annulled."

"So," Bilbo said, thinking back on their journey together, "he feared losing his love if you retook the throne." Aragorn inclined his head. "You know, I would have understood so much more of what was going on if you had just kept me informed!"

"Forgive me, Bilbo." Aragorn's apology sounded heartfelt, although there was laughter dancing in his gray eyes. "I shall make you one of my most honored advisers, and I shall never keep you in the dark again."

Bilbo's thoughts had already returned to Denethor. "But surely she won't reject him just because of that!"

Aragorn shrugged. "Dynastic marriages have been called off for much less," he said. "But I suspect that the princess of Dol Amroth will prove more true than Denethor fears."

"Well, I certainly hope so," said Bilbo. "I would hate to see him treated so shabbily by someone he loves."

The conversation turned then to Legolas and Gimli and their work with the new diplomats of Nurn--as it turned out, the Nurnians trusted elves and dwarves more than Gondorians, and the pair had broken up their fair share of brawls between the two groups. Bilbo rather got the impression they were enjoying themselves. They had discussed preparations for the wedding for a while by the time Bilbo excused himself to go check on Thorin again--"He grows crabby if I leave him alone for long," he said to Aragorn, who smiled and refrained from pointing out that Bilbo became remarkably tetchy if long separated from Thorin--but before he could leave the hall there was a flourish of trumpets and a page ran into the room, looking flustered.

"My liege," he said, bowing to Aragorn, and Bilbo had to hide a giggle behind his hand at how awed he looked, as if Aragorn was some kind of legend instead of just plain old Estel. "Messengers have arrived--from Khazad-dûm and Lothlórien. They bring tidings of the siege of Orthanc."

Aragorn stood in haste. "Send for Arwen and Thorin, for I am sure they will wish to hear such news," he said.

Soon enough, Arwen and Thorin were both seated in the royal tent on either side of Aragorn, with Gandalf in his white robes standing to the side. "Dís was not well enough to come," Thorin said, and Bilbo privately felt that Thorin looked too pale and unsteady to be out of his sickbed either. He held his tongue as Thorin took a seat in one of the chairs that flanked Aragorn's, but quietly fetched an extra pillow to put behind Thorin's back. Thorin gave him a grateful look, settling against it with a sigh. He was dressed in robes of dark midnight-blue trimmed with silver, but Bilbo noticed he was not wearing any mark of his kingly status.

Trumpets sounded again, and the doors opened to admit--

"Why, it's Haldir," cried Bilbo, "and Ori!"

The elf and dwarf stopped, startled. "Indeed, Mister Baggins," said Haldir with a bow, "Though it has been long since we met in the Golden Wood."

"And I'm surprised you remember me at all," said his companion, a nervous-looking dwarf with his golden hair cut straight across his forehead.

"You were the scribe with the caravan that brought me to Erebor," said Bilbo. "Dori is your brother, is he not? Does he still use too much pepper in his stews?"

Ori laughed in startled surprise and bowed deeply to Bilbo. "I believe you broke him of that vice, Mister Baggins!" Then he looked at Thorin and his laughter died to be replaced by solemnity. "Your majesty, I rejoice to find you here and well," he said. "I have traveled long with Haldir to bring news of the fall of Orthanc to Minas Tirith, at which point we were told to travel on to these fields--but I never looked to find you here, safe and hale."

"What news of the siege?" said Thorin eagerly. "What news of my kinsman, and of the grandfather of Lady Arwen?"

"King Balin and King Celeborn live yet," Haldir said, and Bilbo saw both of his friends sigh and relax slightly. "And we are triumphant, though perhaps we did not deserve to be."

Ori nodded, and there was a blush on his cheeks. "The siege dragged on, and the armies of Khazad-dûm and Lothlórien grew weary, and quarrels broke out between them, much as Balin and Celeborn struggled to keep the peace."

Haldir picked up the story as Ori paused. "And one day, when all were exhausted and tired of the siege and yearning for our homes, the door to Orthanc opened and Saruman came out to parley with us."

There was a long pause where neither of them spoke, but looked at each other, and there was shame on their faces. Finally, Ori said, "It grieves me to speak of this, but Saruman spoke to us with cunning words, like honey laced with secret venom. All he said seemed somehow fair and good, but he stirred up the hatred between our two groups, and fanned the spark of enmity into flame."

"Subtly he reminded us of our histories of strife, while seeming to flatter us," Haldir went on. "he spoke of the wisdom of Thingol of old, and I saw in Celeborn's eyes that he remembered then how his liege was slain by dwarves."

“And he also praised Celeborn for not betraying or abandoning his allies, as so many elves had done in the past. And these words struck Balin and indeed all of us with dark memories,” Ori said, hanging his head.

“By such blandishments and poisoned words, he turned us against each other,” Haldir said grimly. “Too late did Balin and Celeborn realize what was happening, and none saw who among the vast armies first drew weapon against the other, but soon strife broke out, and it seemed that the alliance would fail in chaos and bloodshed.”

“Yet fate and luck were with us that day,” said Ori. “For Saruman attempted to flee in the turmoil, and was caught in the crossfire. Through no strength of our own, he fell that day, pierced by a dwarvish arrow meant for an elf and an elvish arrow meant for a dwarf.”

“And so his manipulations and his cunning lead to this at last,” said Gandalf, and there was sorrow in his voice. “To die nearly-unnoticed in conflict of his own creation. He was the greatest of us, once.”

“After his fall,” said Haldir, “It was as if our eyes were suddenly unblinkered and our ears unstopped, and Balin and Celeborn were able to stop the fight from becoming a slaughter. Our armies parted not as friends, but at least not as enemies,” he said, bowing his head.

“Though some of us have become friends indeed, I like to think,” Ori observed, and Haldir smiled down at him.

“I am pleased to hear my kinsman lives and that Orthanc has fallen,” Thorin said. “We must consider what this means for--” He stood up as he spoke, and then went very pale, and his knees started to buckle.

But Bilbo was suddenly there at his side, holding him up. “Back to bed with you, Thorin,” he said sternly. “Let people who can stand up deal with the details. I’m taking care of you now.”

And indeed, Thorin soon found himself in bed once more, looking up at the rippling linen ceiling--he tried to make it a glare, but he kept drifting off into a half-doze. Bilbo had disappeared after dropping him off with stern warnings not to budge, and Thorin wondered vaguely where he was. But he felt so safe and comfortable that it was hard to worry too much.

Thorin Oakenshield lay wrapped in linen, hovering between sleep and waking, and healed.

An impossibly delicious scent woke him, and he sat up with his mouth watering. “What--”

Bilbo was there, smiling at him, with a covered platter in his hands. “I couldn’t make much with the field kitchen here, but--” He whisked off the cover to reveal slices of bread covered with broiled cheese, melted and bubbling. “I found a little garlic to grind up and add too, that should stimulate your appetite.”

“I hope you brought enough for two,” said Dís’s voice from the other side of the tent.

“I brought enough for three!” Bilbo said triumphantly.

Soon enough all of them were filled with toasted cheese and well-watered wine, and Dís was asleep again almost immediately, after declaring the meal “more healing than kingsfoil.” Thorin was drifting asleep once more when he felt small hands running through his hair, still unbraided after being washed by the healers. He sighed sleepily and heard Bilbo chuckle nearby.

“Give me a second and I’ll get you braided up right again,” he said, combing out Thorin’s hair and starting to plait it with care. “So...what next?” he said after a moment.

“Mmm,” said Thorin, not really wanting to admit that he hadn’t been thinking past this moment. “Aragorn has asked us to come to Minas Tirith, and to stay to see his coronation and wedding.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“After that, I must return to Erebor, to find out the fate of the Lonely Mountains and my kin there.”

Bilbo’s hands paused on his plait. “The Lonely Mountain isn’t too far out of the way from the Shire. Would you mind if I tagged along?” he said.

Thorin felt sudden tears stinging his eyes. He reached up and captured one of Bilbo’s hands. “Having you at my side is all I want in this world,” he said.

Bilbo leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “Then you shall have it,” he said. “In this world, and in any that come after.”

Chapter Text

Bilbo sighed as he watched the last of the tents fluttered down in a rustle of white linen to be packed away. At his back the Black Gate gaped wide, revealing the broken earth of Mordor beyond.

“You look pensive,” said a voice at his elbow, and Bilbo turned to see Dís standing there, her white hair braided with silver string. “Are you not excited to be traveling to Minas Tirith, to see the city our friends will rule? To witness the coronation and the wedding?”

“Oh, certainly,” said Bilbo. “Denethor has said so much about it, I’m sure it’s even more splendid than Bree.” Dís hid a smile behind her hand as he went on, “But this time here, healing and resting--it’s been the first peaceful time we’ve had in so long. I do hate to see it end.”

Dís smiled gently and linked her arm with Bilbo’s. “Will you walk with me a moment?” she asked, and they moved off together toward the Black Gate.

At the Gate, Legolas and Gimli were talking with Daon, promising him that they would return to Nurn to help after the wedding. Dís nodded and they walked by, stepping onto the shattered ground of Mordor.

As her feet touched the ground, Dís shuddered. “They speak of my heroism,” she said in a low voice, and Bilbo was not sure she even meant him to hear her, “but I was unable to save one small, brave child. I could not even find--”

Bilbo patted her arm, feeling helpless. “I’m sorry,” he said, because it was all he could think to say, but she looked at him with gratitude in her eyes, then let go of his arm.

She walked in a few paces, then sank to her knees, gazing to the east. “Muranu!” she called out, placing her hands on her heart. “I must return to my land. May your soul find peace where it has gone.” She wiped her eyes. “I shall tell my sons of your bravery,” she finished softly, and Bilbo felt the unspoken if they yet live lie heavy at the end of it.

She rose and took Bilbo’s hand again and they began to walk back to where the carts and caravans were getting ready to leave.

As they walked back through the Black Gate, Bilbo saw that already ivy was starting to creep up the iron, softening it into green.

Bachai patted the lion on its great shaggy mane, and it lowered its head to butt at her before turning and loping off. “Minas Tirith has never been a healthy place for cats,” Bachai sniffed as she climbed onto a cart. “I’m only going because you are a close personal friend of mine, sonny,” she said, shaking her staff at Aragorn.

The ride across the plains was uneventful, which gave Thorin far too much time to dwell on unpleasant things and brood over unwelcome thoughts. But Bilbo was merry company, laughing and bright, and distracted him without seeming to realize he was doing it.

Thorin suspected he realized it full well.

The first night on the road Thorin found silver in Bilbo’s hair, appearing there almost overnight like sudden snow. “Oh, don’t go getting gloomy on me,” Bilbo said lightly when he realized Thorin was staring at a curl wrapped around his finger. “Gray hair is perfectly normal for a hobbit of my age.”

“But...it’s so sudden,” Thorin said.

“You’ve had lovely silver in your hair for decades,” Bilbo said, yawning and running his hands through Thorin’s hair. “And you’re hardly decrepit. Don’t you worry, we have years ahead of us.” He sighed and wrapped his arms around Thorin. “I’ll be honest,” he whispered, “I feel better than I have in years. I’m tired, and my joints ache a bit--but it’s a good tired, like at the end of the day when you’ve done a hard day’s work. I don’t feel…empty anymore. My tether is broken, the leash snapped. I’m free.”

And with that he was soon snoring lightly in dreams, leaving Thorin to watch him far into the night.

“It’s a bit grander than Bree,” Thorin heard Bilbo murmur under his breath, and felt a small hand slip into his as they walked through the Great Gate of Minas Tirith.

There were banners streaming from every rampart, trumpets and harps playing in every corner, flower petals in the air as the High King returned to his city, climbing up through the streets through gate after gate, making his way to the Citadel. Finally they entered a great courtyard, with a withered tree in the center--no, Bilbo realized, blinking, for one dry branch had burst into blossom just as they entered, a garland of silvery petals that seemed to catch and embrace the sunlight.

“Your majesty!” called a voice. “Be welcome in Minas Tirith, the jewel of Middle Earth.” Thorin snorted to himself at that mis-statement, but let it pass, because Denethor was coming toward them with his arms out wide. He was dressed in simple black mourning, unadorned--but he was smiling as Thorin had never seen him smile before, and looked years younger. At his side was a slender woman with long brown hair tied back in a braid, wearing russet robes, and as Aragorn and Arwen approached she sank into a deep, graceful curtsey as Denethor bowed. “My lords and ladies,” said Denethor, “This is the Princess Finduilas of Dol Amroth, who has done me the great honor of agreeing to become my bride.”

Finduilas looked up, and Thorin blinked--from the way Denethor had spoken of her, he had rather expected her to be a great beauty rather than a rather plain sparrow of a woman.

Then she smiled at the party, and Thorin felt his breath catch, and wondered no more at Denethor’s rapturous descriptions.

“Your majesties,” she said in a low, clear voice.

Arwen came forward and took her hands. “Please,” she said, “You must call me merely Arwen, for I am sure we shall be great friends, just as our betrothed ones are.” Denethor attempted to look annoyed at this, but couldn’t quite manage it as he beamed at his beloved.

“Denethor has been working ceaselessly to prepare Minas Tirith for your return,” said Finduilas. “I hope that you find the city to your liking.”

“Minas Tirith has always been the most magnificent city in Middle Earth,” said Aragorn, taking her hand and kissing it, “But with you within it, its beauty is increased a hundredfold.” He looked at Denethor, smiling. “My friend, I find myself in an awkward position! You will always be welcome to stay in Minas Tirith, but I can also give you the rule of any city in Gondor that you wish, should you want. I hope to rebuild Osgiliath one day, and I can think of no better man for the job than you, for example.”

“My lord,” started Denethor, then stopped at the look on Aragorn’s face and said, “My friend.” He took a moment and cleared his throat, then went on: “Minas Tirith was my father’s city, and is now yours. I do indeed wish to bring my bride to a place of our own, and I would be honored indeed to be entrusted with the rebuilding of Osgiliath. However,” he said, putting his arm around Finduilas and drawing her close, “I find that I wish to live nearer the sea, where we can hear the sound of the waves and the cries of the sea-birds as we raise our children. Therefore, the boon I ask of you is to grant me the rebuilding of Pelargir, recently retaken from the Corsairs at the mouth of the Anduin.”

“Unacceptable!” cried a new voice, and Théoden shouldered his way forward to glare at Denethor. “I object!”

“You dare--”

Théoden cut him off impatiently. “Pelargir is twice as far from Edoras as Osgiliath! You would require me to be even more inconvenienced in order to visit you--for visit you I shall, and there is nothing you can say about it!”

Denethor made an annoyed sound in his throat. “Dearest,” he said to Finduilas, “This is Théoden, Prince of Rohan and exasperating travel companion.”

“My lady,” Théoden said, and kissed her soundly on each cheek. “You are far too good for Denethor, I can tell.”

“I like him,” said Finduilas, to Denethor’s horror. She addressed Théoden smiling, and said: “Prince Théoden, we shall have a special boat made that will carry you down the Anduin to Pelargir in all comfort and ease. And I promise that we shall in turn often travel to Edoras, for I have heard it is a beauteous city of great majesty and hospitality.”

“Oh, I like her!” Théoden exclaimed to the whole company. “I shall make sure that you have the fastest and strongest horses of Rohan for the journey,” he said. And indeed, his wedding-gift to Denethor and Finduilas were four Mearas, the king-horses of Rohan that before had only borne the lords of that land. Such a princely gift had never been bestowed upon any before, and the royal couple of Pelargir and their sons rode them always when they traveled to Edoras.

“And is this Mr. Baggins and King Thorin?” Finduilas said next, turning to them. “What an honor to meet you!” Bilbo blushed bright pink beneath the radiance of her smile as she went on, “Be welcome in Minas Tirith and know that the gratitude of all its people goes with you.” And then she bent close and murmured low for only them to hear: “But as for me, I thank you most for bringing Denethor back to me and giving us a future together.”

The days that followed were full of bustle and busyness, and sometimes Bilbo felt positively overlooked--and this was perfectly fine with him, because it meant he was able to wander about the city with Thorin, admiring the gardens and the architecture in turn and just feeling freedom and tranquility wash through him like a breeze, leaving him clean and happy once more.

The coronation of King Elessar was a grand affair, and the history books are full of the details of the great ceremony, but Bilbo always remembered the rest of the evening much better: how the Fellowship had gathered in Aragorn’s quarters to toast the new King, and to reminisce and make plans for the future. How Dís and Arwen convinced a blushing Finduilas to explain why Denethor always called her “Faelivrin”; how Gimli and Legolas argued ceaselessly about whether the roads or the gardens were top priority in rebuilding Nurn; how Théoden drank a little too much and loudly sang a song composed, he claimed, “to encourage a mare and stud to a successful coupling,” to Aragorn’s horror and Arwen’s amusement. Gandalf and Bachai sat in a corner and smoked and looked pleased with themselves, while Pallando tried to write down the lyrics to Théoden’s song and asked him details of its composition. The evening only ended when Bilbo realized that Aragorn had fallen asleep, his royal crown falling askew over one eye, and quietly shooed everyone out of the room so the new King could get some rest.

The wedding was a quieter affair than the coronation: “I have waited a long time, and I find myself unwilling to wait as much longer as it would take to plan another huge ceremony,” Arwen said when asked. So they were married a few days later, at dawn, when the light of the morning star still shone down on them both as they took hands and pledged their lives to each other. And in the afternoon of the same day, Denethor and Finduilas were wed, and the people of the city streamed out to see the two couples as they rode down through the city to the gates, cheering and throwing flowers and weeping with joy and sadness intermingled. For there the new King and Queen bid farewell to their companions. Gimli and Legolas rode off to the east, to Mordor; Denethor and Finduilas rode south, toward Dol Amroth and Pelargir; Théoden rode west to Edoras; and Dís, Thorin and Bilbo looked north to the Lonely Mountain. Only Gandalf stayed with the royal couple in Minas Tirith, to help them in the early days of their rule.

“Farewell!” Aragorn said through tears. “Farewell and good travels to you all, and may the road bring you back soon to Minas Tirith.” He looked at Bilbo and smiled, and said, “One day soon I hope to rebuild Annúminas, the ancient capital of Arnor. For I met you when I was but a child in Rivendell, and you spoke of its willows and its ruined glory, and since then I have yearned to restore it. You must come to visit us there when we hold court in that city, and we will welcome you with all the honor and reverence in the world.”

“Welcome me instead as a friend,” said Bilbo, his voice unsteady, “And I will be happy indeed to visit you there.”

And so they parted, and turned their faces to the north, to discover what fate had befallen Erebor and the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain, besieged by the armies of Mordor.

The road north was an easy one, though filled with fear and anxiety that none of them needed to talk about directly. The armies of Mordor had left a trail of devastation in their wake: the churned-up ground, burned trees, and strewn waste made it all too easy to follow their progress north to Erebor. Dís grew more quiet as the days went on, and Bilbo knew she was imagining her sons with their bodies broken, or starved into submission; Thorin’s gaze was far away and Bilbo knew he was seeing Erebor gutted, the shining halls drenched in blood. As they drew closer, they spurred their horses harder until they finally topped a ridge and saw--

They stopped dead, staring in shock and amazement. The mountain rose shining in the sunset, reflected in the lake below it, but at its base, in front of its gate--

“There...wasn’t a forest there the last time I visited,” Bilbo said tentatively.

“Nor was there when I left,” Thorin said, staring at the woods that stretched out in front of the gate.

“Dale,” Dís said quietly, and Bilbo looked to see that the city seemed empty, and many of the buildings were burned shells. “They abandoned it to take shelter in the mountain.”

“Well then,” said Thorin, “Let us find out what happened.”

As they drew closer, Bilbo realized that the trees were tossing as if in a high wind, although the air was calm--no, he realized with a shock, they were moving. And then he finally realized what had happened, and he spurred his pony forward, yelling “Wandlimb! Is Wandlimb there?”

The Ents--for Ents they were, gathered all together at the foot of the mountain--parted and Wandlimb came forth, her branches creaking and waving, a smile on her face. “Hoom!” she called. “Well met, well met, people of stone and earth!”

Bilbo jumped off his pony and ran forward to throw his arms around her trunk, and she shuffled her roots in the earth and made happy rustling noises. “How did you come to be here?” he asked breathlessly as Dís and Thorin rode up.

“Well, that is a tale quickly told,” Wandlimb said. “We were traveling west as we told you, in search of our Ent-Husbands, and when we came to the trail left by those monsters, those foul beings, those burners of innocent trees and tramplers of blameless shrubs, those…” She broke off and rumbled something bitter and furious in her own tongue for a time. “Suffice to say, it was no hard decision to follow their path and fall upon them as they besieged this place. Destroying them was no great exertion for us--indeed, the most difficult part came after, when we had to convince the people of the Lonely Mountain that we meant them no harm!”

“You should have seen them fight!” called a new, familiar voice from the battlements. “They threw orcs in the air like catapults, ripped the army limb from limb. And then one of them stood there and asked, oh-so-politely, if this was the mountain with a garden in its heart they had heard of!” Fíli looked down at them and Bilbo could see his smile from even that great distance. “Hullo, uncle,” he called. “Mr. Baggins. Hullo, mother. It’s a pleasure to see you again!”

The gates were thrown open and Fíli and Kíli came running out, and there were tears and hugs all around. “Your hair!” Kíli said, distressed, as his mother kissed him on the brow. “It’s gone all white!”

“It looks beautiful,” said Fíli gallantly.

“I’ll tell you how I earned it later,” Dís said.

“I think you’ll have a lot of stories to tell us,” said Kíli. “Really, Uncle, you could have said something before you took off in the middle of the night to go snatch up Mr. Baggins and have a huge adventure!”

“Would you have tried to come along?” said Thorin.

Kíli and Fíli put on identical innocent expressions. “Never!” said Kíli.

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” said Fíli.

“That’s good,” growled Thorin, “Because I needed someone here to rule Erebor, and I trusted you the most.”

“You wouldn’t believe what a good job he’s done,” said Kíli as his brother blushed to the tips of his ears. “Even when we were cooped up in here with all the refugees from Dale, he kept everything going, dealt with all the conflicts and crises, he was amazing.”

“I’m just sorry I never got the chance to prove myself in battle,” muttered Fíli. “I mean, I’m really grateful to the Ents, but…”

“There are more important qualities in a ruler than ability to cleave heads,” said Thorin, clasping his shoulder. “And I’d say you’ve proved yourself admirably.”

Fíli smiled at him, his eyes bright. “Welcome home, your majesty.”

Thorin didn’t return the smile. “Do not use that title yet,” he said.

The Chronicles of Erebor speak of what happened next with amazement: how Thorin Oakenshield addressed the peoples of Erebor in the Great Hall, telling them of all that had happened since he left Erebor five moons ago. He described the Council of Khazad-dûm and the fall of Galadriel and Dwalin, and all assembled there wept. He described Saynshar and its azure tiles gleaming in the eastern sun, and told them of the great battle between Gandalf and the vampire Thuringwëthil. A sigh swept across the hall as he told how Thráin, once King Under the Mountain, had allied with Sauron and the Easterlings, planning to reclaim Erebor for his own with their help. And finally, he told them of the confrontation at the Cracks of Doom, and the destruction of the One Ring.

“It was then, my people, that I threw my axe and struck down my own father,” Thorin said. A low moan rustled through the hall, and although the Chronicles do not record it, Bilbo Baggins was standing at Thorin’s side and felt him trembling. “He plunged to his death with my blade in his flesh.”

“Here now,” said Bilbo loudly, stung by this inaccuracy, “Aren’t you going to mention that Gollum knocked him in? You most certainly weren’t responsible for his death.”

“I attacked my own sire with the intent to kill,” Thorin said. Bilbo could see some of the dwarves in the hall wiping their eyes in sorrow, their eyes cast down. “I am no longer a fit ruler of the Lonely Mountain.”

“Wait a minute,” said Fíli from beside him, “You’re not--I mean, I don’t think I’m--Mother is actually next in line, right?”

Dís frowned. “I don’t believe so.”

The assembled dwarves were beginning to murmur as their royal family discussed the issue, and finally Thorin raised his hands, stepping forward. “People of Erebor, I know this is a strange idea, but I have learned much of the world in my travels, and I have found that in the Shire, the land from which my companion Bilbo Baggins is from, they have a process called an ‘election.’ Each person writes down the name of who they wish to lead, and the names are counted, and the person with the most ‘votes’ is crowned King or Queen.”

“Close enough,” Bilbo muttered.

“So then, I will put it to you, my people--tomorrow, we shall hold an election, and you may choose who will rule you next.”

There was halfhearted applause at first, but then it grew into something more sincere as Thorin bowed to the assembled dwarves. There seemed a general feeling that if Bilbo approved of this odd system, it must have some merit, and Bilbo felt his ears turning hot--apparently he had won over many of the folk of Erebor during his long-ago visits.

“Well, this is exciting,” Bilbo said. “An election! In Erebor!” He smiled at Thorin. “What will you do to prepare?”

Thorin took his arm. “I will show you my gardens,” he said.

The gardens at the heart of the Lonely Mountain were everything Thorin had said they were, and more. Vast mirrors flooded the caverns with golden sunlight--or silvery moonlight, as it was when Thorin and Bilbo walked among them.They were crafted to concentrate moonlight and starlight, and the result was a dazzling pale light that limned each petal and leaf with radiance. There were asters and delphiniums, hyacinths and lilies, strange gaudy flowers Bilbo had no names for. The scent of lilac and jasmine hung over everything, rich and intoxicating, and Bilbo was dazzled by the beauty of it.

“Oh Thorin,” he breathed, cupping a peony in his hands and letting the petals caress his face as he breathed in its fragrance. “How terrible it would have been if I had never seen this!”

“Alas,” said Thorin with a sad smile, “The one flower I could never manage to grow here was heart’s-ease.” He took Bilbo’s arm and walked to where water splashed in a fountain carved from a single huge opal. “There will be heart’s-ease growing over your little green door by now,” he said softly. “The linnet and lark will be singing in the mornings, and the scent of fresh-cut grass and sunlight everywhere. You have written me of it so often,” he said, “and I have never seen the spring in the Shire.”

“You don’t want to rule Erebor,” Bilbo realized, hearing the wistfulness in his voice. “You want to come back to the Shire with me.”

There was a long silence in which Thorin ran his hand along the shining fountain’s rim. “I will stay and rule Erebor if my people ask me to,” he said. “But my heart is with you, and your heart is in the bright green West.”

“If they do choose you,” said Bilbo, “I will not leave you, Thorin.”

Thorin smiled at him. “I know. Which is another reason to hope they do not ask.”

Bilbo stood at Thorin’s side as Glóin presented him with the parchment holding the final tally of votes. Thorin unrolled it, and the hall full of dwarves went so still that Bilbo could hear the crackling of the scroll as it unwound into the future. He glimpsed a few dozen names, was surprised to see his own there with a handful of marks next to it--and then Thorin sighed and rolled it shut once more.

Stepping forward, he looked out over the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain for a long moment. Then he raised his hands high and said something in Khuzdul that sounded formal, almost ritualistic. Switching back into Westron, he said: “Peoples of Erebor, you have made your choice.”

Then he turned and knelt at Fíli’s feet in one motion.

“Long live the chosen King!” he cried, and the people took up the call and tossed it upward until the very stones of Erebor sang out.

Fíli looked stricken, but he looked into his uncle’s eyes for a long moment. Bilbo wondered if he could read the hope and the fear in Thorin’s face, because he squared his shoulders and stepped forward to face the assembled throng.

“Folk of the Lonely Mountain!” he said, and his voice carried clear and strong through the hall, “I will honor your trust in me, and hope to be half the ruler my uncle was, for he--”

Here he could speak no more, for his words were drowned out by the people calling his name. He looked over to where his uncle had knelt, as if to ask for guidance.

But Thorin and Bilbo had already slipped away.

The coronation of the new King was a grand affair, and Thorin and Bilbo stayed long enough to take part in it, but the very morning after, while all but a few still slept, they were at the gates of Erebor to say their farewells.

“Hrrrm, hum.” Wandlimb rustled thoughtfully. “Thank you for the invitation to join you in your travels, Mr. Baggins, but I do not think we will leave this place for a little while. We are needed to help the gardens of Dale blossom once more, and to coax the burned slopes of the Lonely Mountain into green again.”

“Do you think you will stay here long?” asked Thorin.

“Not terribly long, not terribly long. I would doubt more than a few decades.” Wandlimb chuckled low at Bilbo’s expression. “Our Ent-Husbands have waited much longer than that, Mr. Baggins! We do not measure time as you do; such a span is like but a season to you.”

“Farewell, then, Wandlimb,” said Bilbo sadly, and embraced her.

Fíli, Kíli, and Dís escorted them to the borders of the Greenwood. “Are you sure Thranduil will welcome you?” said Dís rather dubiously.

“Not at all,” said Thorin, laughing. “Much less when I give him the news that his son has settled down in Mordor with a dwarf. He may take it even worse than Glóin did. But it is the quickest way home, and I am sure he will be happy to speed our passage and shorten our stay, at least.”

He embraced them all, and there were tears on all sides, and Thorin and Bilbo promised to come back and visit within three years--”At the latest,” Kíli said fiercely.

And then it was just the two of them, riding side by side into the dappled morning light of the Greenwood in companionable silence.

“I liked the way you said that,” Bilbo said after a time.

“What?” asked Thorin, smiling at him.

“Home,” said Bilbo.

Chapter Text

Lying on his bedroll, Bilbo looked up at the stars. “You know, I don’t think we’ve ever traveled together, just the two of us, without something chasing us,” he said.

Thorin tossed the last piece of kindling onto the campfire and raised an eyebrow, considering. “You may be right. We’ve spent many nights on the road, but nearly always with companions.”

“And another thing--most of our time together has been in fall or winter.” Bilbo closed his eyes and listened to the crickets and peepers filling the summer air with song. “I like this.”

“I like it as well,” Thorin said, and even with his eyes closed, Bilbo could hear the smile in his voice.

“Thorin. Bilbo.” The Lord of Khazad-dûm emerged from the eastern gate and came toward them, limping, to throw his arms around each of them in turn. “Orc arrow,” he said lightly when Thorin indicated the lame leg with a glance. “He did not live to gloat about scratching a dwarf-warrior!”

His laugh trailed off and he put his hands on Thorin’s shoulders, holding him at arm’s-length to get a good look at him. Then he did the same to Bilbo, gazing deep into his eyes. “You seem well,” he said at last, and smiled as if relieved. “Ori has told me of your adventures, but I yearn to hear them myself, over a pint of ale and a rasher of bacon.”

“That sounds lovely,” said Bilbo.

“And by happy chance, I have a guest here that would like to hear them as well,” Balin said, throwing his arm around Bilbo’s shoulders and drawing him inside.

“It would be a pleasure to--” Thorin broke off as they passed through the gate and his eyes adjusted to the dimness. In front of them stood a tall figure dressed in green, his silver hair loose around his shoulders: Celeborn, Lord of Lothlórien.

“Your Majesty,” said Thorin, bowing low, and Bilbo did the same.

“Your Majesty,” Celeborn responded, but Thorin laughed.

“I am majestic no longer,” he said, “But merely Thorin Oakenshield, soon to be Thorin Baggins, if I understand the customs of the Shire.”

“You do,” said Bilbo, blushing and adding in a lower voice, “And you are always majestic.”

“Lord Celeborn is here to discuss the raising of a memorial to his wife and my brother, halfway between his lands and ours,” said Balin. “And a memorial to the lives lost in the battle of Orthanc.”

Celeborn’s finely-carved features remained impassive and remote, yet somehow Thorin had an impression of regret. “If our peoples put their hands together to build such a thing...perhaps some wounds may heal.”

“Perhaps,” Balin said, and if he did not sound confident at least he did not sound despairing. Then he clapped his hands together. “But I forget! You have a friend here that has missed you deeply and yearns to be reunited with you. Follow me,” he said, beckoning.

When it became clear where they were going, Bilbo laughed with delight and ran ahead to the stables. “Petunia!”

The great purple-black stallion neighed joyously and kicked at the sides of his stall as he heard their voices.

“Indeed, Petunia has pined for you since you left,” Balin said as the horse nickered and lipped Bilbo’s silvered curls. “And in fact has been the terror of the stables, but I could not bring myself to send him back to Rohan as long as there was any chance you would return and reclaim him.”

“Would a war-stallion of Rohan be content to live in the Shire and give rides to small hobbit-children the rest of his days?” Thorin asked.

Petunia snorted and bared his teeth at Thorin, then went back to begging Bilbo to keep petting him.

“I suppose if one war-horse is happy to settle down somewhere quiet, why not another?” said Balin with a wink at Thorin.

The Bree-folk shot curious glances at Thorin and Bilbo as they entered the gates of the town--to be honest, more at their magnificent horse than at Thorin and Bilbo themselves, who were fairly nondescript. “I have no need for finery where we are going,” Thorin had said with a laugh when Balin tried to give him rich brocades and silks as they left. “Homespun and linen suit me quite well.”

And it was just as well that they were not wearing their best, for just outside Bree the skies had opened up and they became thoroughly soaked as the rain pounded down. “Apparently we are not meant to experience Bree in fair weather,” Thorin said as he brushed wet hair out of his face, and his smile warmed Bilbo right down to his toes.

“There could be no fairer weather than that in which I first met you,” Bilbo said gallantly.

Thorin threw back his dripping hair and laughed. “Be honest, you did not find the weather--or myself--fair at that moment, did you?”

“I was very young,” Bilbo demurred. “And also sitting in a very cold, muddy puddle.”

“Well, I am grateful you’ve learned to enjoy foul weather and foul-tempered dwarves,” Thorin said as they arrived at their stop for the night.

The Prancing Pony was bustling, with the scion of the current generation of Butterburs--Bilbo couldn’t remember his first name--reigning over the cheerful disorder. “Your finest room for myself and my fiance!” Thorin roared above the din. “What, is that not the correct term?” he asked, looking at Bilbo’s expression.

“No, it’s...it’s fine,” said Bilbo, pink but pleased.

The rain was heavy on the roof as they turned in for the night, a drumming drone that was oddly soothing. “It’s so strange to be back here with you,” said Bilbo, sitting down on the bed. “I came here so rarely in recent years, when...when it became harder and harder to…”

His voice trailed off and for a moment he couldn’t find words, remembering how the world had closed in on him, trapping him in his hole, all the coziness turned stifling and filled with sorrow.

“Hush,” said Thorin, pressing a kiss into his hair. “That time is past. The world is wide, and we have seen much of it, and now we return of our own free will for our well-deserved rest together.”

Bilbo sighed and turned into Thorin’s embrace, resting his cheek against rough cloth. “No more grand adventures for me, I think. I’ll be happy to be home, to enjoy my little circle of green and gold with you. No more grand adventures,” he said again, and then added in a whisper, “Except perhaps the very last. With you.”

“Always,” said Thorin.

Chapter Text

”...If you are jesting with me, dwarf, I shall…” Bilbo’s uncannily-accurate impersonation of Thranduil, King of the Greenwood broke down into sputters as he mimicked the Elven-King’s reaction to the news about his son’s life-choices.

Thorin Oakenshield, once King Under the Mountain and Lord of Erebor, now merely the betrothed of Bilbo Baggins, threw back his head at the memory and roared with laughter until Bilbo’s pony danced nervously from side to side at all the bellowing.

Bilbo shot him a laughing glance from under silver-streaked curls. “Well, he took it better than you thought he would, didn’t he?”

“As we are not locked in a dungeon and Legolas has not been dragged back to the Greenwood by an armed band of elves, yes.”

“I’ll be honest,” said Bilbo, sitting back on his pony and admiring the view of the Old Forest, shrouded in morning mist to the south, “I was more worried about what Lord Elrond’s reaction would be to the news that his daughter had gotten married.”

“It would not be like Lord Elrond to wax wroth about such a thing,” said Thorin.

“True. He just sighed and looked sad. That was...kind of worse,” admitted Bilbo. “I wonder if--”

But Thorin never found out what Bilbo wondered, because just then they topped a rise in the road and Bilbo’s words gave way to a gasp of delight.

Ahead of them, they could see the road like a ribbon of gold in the morning light, winding down to the Brandywine River and beyond to the horizon, where a cluster of houses nestled in the hills, little wisps of smoke rising from their chimneys into the summer air.

“Hobbiton,” breathed Bilbo. “We’re almost home!”

Thorin had often worried on the road about what awaited Bilbo at the other end. After all, he had been gone for eight moons now, and had gone missing abruptly in the middle of the night, leaving no note or word behind. Visions of Bag End in disrepair--or worse--had filled Thorin’s mind. But as they rode into Hobbiton, with Bilbo waving happily at the astonished Hobbits, Thorin could see the familiar green door had been freshly-painted and the window-boxes were overflowing with pink and purple flowers--phlox, he managed to remember. It looked cozy and comfortable, and Thorin felt his heart thud in his breast. Home.

“My goodness,” said Bilbo as he dismounted. “Someone’s been taking care of my hobbit-hole!” He walked up to the door and knocked politely. “Hello?”

The door flew open. “Lobelia, if you come around here one more time, I’ll--” The plumpish young woman in a flowered apron broke off and stared in amazement at Bilbo. “Cousin Bilbo! You’ve come back!”

“Primula!” Bilbo beamed at her. “Thorin, this is my cousin, Primula Baggins--though she’s a Brandybuck by birth, of course.”

“Of course,” Thorin echoed politely.

“Primula, this is my betrothed, Thorin,” Bilbo went on.

Primula’s hands fluttered wildly in front of her, finally settling on smoothing her brown hair back distractedly. “Oh, Bilbo! Oh, I’m so very glad to see you, you have no idea, but--oh dear, you must be quite angry, but the Sackville-Bagginses were trying to sell off all of your things and move in, so Drogo and I decided that no, we wouldn’t let that happen, we’d stay here until you came home and keep them away--we never intended--”

Bilbo took her hands in his soothingly. “Dear Primula! The moment you said ‘Lobelia’ I knew immediately what must have happened, and I am sure I am quite indebted to you for keeping my home safe and sound.”

“Oh!” She gasped with relief and threw her arms around him. “Oh Bilbo, please do come in--” She laughed and sobbed at the same time, “Here I am inviting you into your own home, I’m so sorry--”

“Stuff and nonsense,” Bilbo said, brushing her apologies aside as he went in. “Ah, how tidy and cozy you’ve kept it for me.”

“And this is--” Primula was staring at Thorin now. “I’m sorry, did I hear Bilbo say that you two were--”

“I believe the word is ‘engaged,’ yes,” said Thorin. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“I remember you!” she said, delighted. “I was just a little girl, but--weren’t you one of the dwarves that spent Yule here, the other time Cousin Bilbo went missing?” Thorin nodded, and she beamed at him. “That was such a happy Yule! And how delightful that Bilbo won’t be living in this huge old place alone anymore! May I…” She paused, suddenly shy. “May I hug you?”

“We are to be cousins, so that seems appropriate,” Thorin said solemnly, and she put her arms around him and squeezed.

“Why, who have we here?” exclaimed Bilbo, and Thorin looked to see a small hobbit-child crawling into the room. “Can this be little Frodo? Why, he was just a babe in arms when last I saw him, and now look at him!”

Primula scooped her son up into her arms, where he looked at Bilbo and Thorin with wide blue eyes. “Frodo, dumpling, this is your Cousin Bilbo! Remember him?”

Frodo put his thumb in his mouth and stared.

Primula turned Frodo to face Thorin. “And this is Thorin! He’s a dwarf!”

“Can you say ‘Thorin’?” said Bilbo.

Frodo took his thumb out of his mouth and smiled--a heartbreakingly beautiful smile. “T’orn!” he announced, and reached out to grab Thorin’s beard. “T’orn!”

“Oh, that’s--that’s his first word!” Primula gasped as she disentangled Frodo’s grasping chubby fingers from the patiently wincing Thorin. “How funny!”

And so Frodo Baggins’ first word was indeed “Thorin,” and his first memories were of playing in Bag End, and he had many other memories--happy and sad and bittersweet--of his uncles through his life. Those are not a part of this story proper, but some have been recorded in the Red Book of Westmarch and can be read there.

Primula insisted on moving out as soon as possible, although Bilbo told them there was no rush at all. Somewhere in the bustle of that first day back, Bilbo and Thorin slipped outside to avoid her harried packing and found Petunia happily eating the phlox out of the window-boxes. Bilbo frantically shooed him away, and Petunia snorted at him angrily, but backed up a few steps.

“Where are we going to put them?” Bilbo said helplessly, looking at the stallion with pink flowers hanging out of his mouth and the little dappled pony that was cropping the grass nearby.

“There should be space at the forge,” said Thorin.

Bilbo looked blank. “The forge?”

Thorin nodded. “I hope to help the smith there, if he will allow it.”

Bilbo touched the diamond-studded star brooch that he wore always at his throat, woven from pure mithril. “Help? Allow? But you--you’re so--”

“I do not wish to put the Shire’s smith out of business,” said Thorin. “I will be happy to make horseshoes and mend pots. It is a quiet life, and a new challenge.” He rested a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “My thanks for not introducing me by my former titles,” he said. “I have no desire to live like exiled royalty among your people. I wish only to be known as a good smith--and as the husband of the Master of Bag End.”

“Thorin,” whispered Bilbo, and looked at though he might kiss him right there in front of the road, but the door burst open and Primula bustled out, carrying Frodo in her arms.

“There’ll be movers by to pick up our boxes tomorrow,” she said, kissing Bilbo and Thorin on the cheek in turn. “I’ve sent a message off to Drogo to meet us back in our own home.”

“Truly, you could have stayed,” Bilbo said politely, though Thorin was not sure he was truly enthused at the idea. “The place is big enough for all five of us.”

She smiled at him. “Perhaps someday I’ll take you up on that offer,” she said. “But for now, I’m just so happy to let you have your own place back.” She took Frodo’s hand in hers and waved it. “Say bye-bye, Frodo!”

Frodo waved his hand around wildly. “T’orn!” he gurgled. “Bye-bye, T’orn!” He stuffed his fist in his mouth and stared back at them over his mother’s shoulder as they walked away.

Empty of Primula and Frodo, Bag End seemed very quiet as Bilbo and Thorin re-entered it. “Well,” said Bilbo, looking around at the gleaming wood, the burnished brass. His comfortable chair, just as he had left it.

“Well,” said Thorin.

Bilbo swallowed hard. “Welcome home,” he said.

“And this room is yours,” Bilbo said, dropping Thorin’s bag on the bed. “It’s one of the warmest in Bag End, and doesn’t have too much morning light, you should be very comfortable here.”

Thorin looked at the bed with its lacy worked cover, at the windows with their floating gauze curtains. Outside he could see the gardens, filled with riotous summer flowers. “But I thought…” He let the sentence trail off.

“Isn’t it all right?”

Bilbo looked worried, and Thorin hurried to reassure him: “It’s quite charming, quite comfortable. But…” He coughed. “In Erebor, we shared the same quarters.”

“Oh!” Bilbo smiled at him. “Oh, no, that wouldn’t be appropriate at all here in Shire,” he said cheerfully. “Sharing a room before we were formally wed?” He made a tsking noise with his tongue. “People would talk, people would talk. It wouldn’t do at all.”

“Oh,” said Thorin, feeling foolish.

Bilbo laughed, just a touch ruefully. “I may be a hobbit who was traveled the wide world, but I am still a Baggins of Bag End, after all.”

“You are indeed,” said Thorin, and there was enough affection in it that Bilbo turned quite pink.

They spent the afternoon bustling around Hobbiton, doing the necessary introductions and dealing with so many odd things that Thorin felt quite overwhelmed. Why was it necessary to stop by this particular house and give a note to this particular person? Why was it required to visit the Tooks before the Gamgees, but perfectly appropriate to have a drink at the Gamgees, while one must turn down the offer at the Tooks? Why did one shake hands with some hobbits, but merely nod politely at others? Thorin trailed along after Bilbo and followed his lead, smiled politely and deflected the nosier questions about his history and heritage, made arrangements to come by the forge in three days and show some of his work, stabled the horses, did grocery shopping, and came home as the sun set feeling more exhausted than he had since he stood at the Cracks of Doom.

Bilbo made a quick meal of mushrooms and fresh trout, moving about the kitchen with the ease of a person finally back on their home turf, making requests of Thorin: “Hand me the pepper, it’s that black tin. Could you grate this ginger? No, no, peel it first. Yes, that’s wonderful. Now put it in the saucepan--” Until eventually they were both seated at the table and having their first meal at home.

“My goodness, I’ve imagined this so many times, and now here we are,” Bilbo said, taking a sip of dandelion wine and gazing at Thorin by the light of the beeswax candles on the table. “Sometimes I wasn’t sure…”

“This is delicious,” said Thorin, and found himself wolfing down the meal. “I was hungrier than I thought.”

“It’ll build up an appetite, dealing with Shire customs,” laughed Bilbo. “You did very well. I’m sure they seem quite bizarre to you sometimes.”

“Not at all,” Thorin said, just to hear Bilbo laugh again, his curls turned golden once more in the candlelight, his eyes bright and peaceful.

Thorin felt the lacy coverlet catching on his callused fingers as he ran his hands over the delicate cloth. Moonlight poured through the gauze curtain like liquid mithril, spilling over the bed. Outside the window some nightbird called, a delicate trill of music, then fell silent again. Down on the main road, a voice called out: “Eleven o’clock, and all’s well!” Thorin heard the crier yawn and amble on.

His first night in Bag End. His first night home. Thorin closed his eyes and let the unfamiliar, peaceful sounds of the Shire wash over him.

Then he heard the sound of bare feet on polished wood, the quiet click of his door opening, and he opened his eyes to find Bilbo standing by his bed in a linen nightshirt, smiling.

“But I thought--” Thorin started to say as Bilbo lifted the coverlet and slipped in beside him.

“Separate rooms,” murmured Bilbo as he nestled against him, “does not mean separate beds. You have much to learn about how to keep up appearances in the Shire.”

“I suspect you will be a skilled and devious teacher,” Thorin said, drawing him closer.

“Oh, I hope so,” said Bilbo.

The wedding took a full eight months to organize and prepare for, a delay that Thorin found exasperating in the extreme. But there were apparently guest lists to be agonized over, menus to be planned, clothing to be tailored, music to be composed--in short, Bilbo said, eight months was practically rushing it.

“Besides,” he added with a wink, “This will give everyone time to get used to you.”

Thorin did take some getting used to, apparently. Many of the Shire-folk were slow to warm up to his bulk, his gruff voice, his alarming facial hair. But after he skilfully mended the favorite pot of Citrine Took, he found that the strongest of objections started to fade away. And his services were so much in demand making pretty tin star-decorations for that year’s Star Festival that he became practically popular.

And if Bilbo sometimes cried out in the night like a child for something lost, Thorin was there to draw him close and hold him until it passed. If he did the same, Bilbo never told him.

Primula and Drogo brought little Frodo often to Bag End and to the forge, where Thorin made him cunning toys: a bronze grasshopper that could really leap; a tin whistle shaped like a pig. And at their wedding, Frodo toddled down the aisle before them, throwing apple blossoms in every direction and laughing happily.

The wedding of Bilbo Baggins and Thorin Oakenshield was the talk of the Shire, and even as far as Bree. For months before, mysterious packages arrived with strange writing scrawled on them, each one full of strange objects: hand-woven linen tablecloths from some lady named “Arwen” in Gondor; a crate of spices that made everyone’s eyes water from some place called Saynshar; a set of lovely laurel garlands studded with pretty crystals that could almost be mistaken for diamonds, apparently a collaboration between someone named “Wandlimb” and someone named “Dis”; silvery paper from Pelargir that became the invitations; wooden napkin rings carved with running horses from a Mr. Theoden. All in preparation for the biggest party the Shire had seen in years. Fortunately, the weather was beautiful that day, and Bilbo made sure there were enough spun-sugar animals brought in from Bree to keep all the children sticky-fingered and sated, many of them falling asleep at the base of the Party Tree.

And so the Red Book of Westmarch records that on May 16 of the year 3969, Bilbo Baggins and Thorin Oakenshield clasped hands beneath sun and the sky and swore to cherish and protect each other, to share in hardships and in joys, and to be true of heart until the end of their days. The folk of the Shire threw flowers and sang, and everyone--even Thorin--danced until they were out of breath and merry.

The only break with tradition people noted was that the couple did not exchange rings, but it was generally concluded this was some odd dwarvish custom in which Mr. Baggins had indulged his betrothed.

But the new couple stood in front of the gathering and exchanged their wedding presents, and Bilbo gave Thorin an amethyst tie pin in the shape of a viola, and stood on tip-toes to pin his husband’s gray silk tie with it, saying “May your heart’s-ease be with you always.” Then Thorin looked embarrassed, and said, “I am not used to working with wood and paper, and it is no replacement for the one you lost so many years ago, but…”

He held out a long thin object in both hands, and Bilbo opened it to reveal an oiled-paper umbrella printed with cheerful daisies. And Bilbo Baggins laughed, and then he cried, and then he laughed again, and he held the umbrella to shield them from the cheering crowd and kissed his husband soundly from within its sheltering shadow.

The morning after the wedding, with the streamers and confetti still festooning the Party Tree and all the Shire silent and sleepy, Bilbo rose while the dawn was still a smudge of gray and woke his husband with a kiss, and taking his hand he led Thorin out of Bag End, to a corner of the garden where the soil was freshly turned. The smell of the dew-damp earth was rich and strong, and a thrush warbled in the lilac bush nearby as Bilbo took the beech-nut Wandlimb had given him from around his neck. With a smile at Thorin, he dug his fingers into the dirt to make a hole, and dropped the little nut into it. Together they covered it with soil, and gently tamped it down.

Then they walked together through the morning hand in hand, a long ramble that meandered and wandered seemingly at random, until they found themselves on the White Downs west of Hobbiton, where the long summer grass bent before the wind in great rippling waves. They stopped at the top of the tallest hill, and Bilbo looked eastward, out over the Shire, and beyond Bree, and toward all the wide lands they had been, back to where Mt. Doom still smoldered, with its molten golden heart. And he shivered, and for a moment there were tears in his eyes.

But Thorin took Bilbo’s shoulders and turned him to the west, so that they looked out together on the Tower Hills, and the gray elf-towers there on the horizon.

And a breeze came up from the West, rushing up the hill to meet them, and it seemed to Thorin that he could smell the salt of the sea on it, something clean and clear that brought tears to his eyes. Bilbo took Thorin’s hand in his, and they stood there together, looking to the west and the sea, and all was quiet and bright.

“I’m glad,” Bilbo said into that moment of sunlight and stillness, “I am so very glad indeed, that you are here with me.”

Here ends “Clarity of Purpose,” and I can never thank enough all the wonderful people who came on the journey with Thorin and Bilbo. You are my treasure true.

There will be a set of Appendices in the style of Return of the King in which certain histories are detailed, including “The Tale of Finduilas and Denethor,” “Of Frodo, Bilbo, and Thorin,” “Of Denethor and Theoden,” and “The Passing of the Ringbearers.”