Clarity of Purpose, Chapter 6
Jul. 10th, 2014 03:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mithenTitle: Clarity of Purpose, Chap. 6
Chapter Summary: Gandalf has shown up at Moria with a contingent of elves from Rivendell, and Thorin is having to handle a tricky diplomatic situation. At least there should be no more unexpected visitors...
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield, Gandalf, Balin, Dwalin, Saruman, Arwen, Glorfindel, Elladan, Elrohir, Theoden
Fandom: Hobbit/Lord of the Rings. Begins in 2968, twenty-six years after the events of "Clarity of Vision" and fifty years before the canonical events of "Lord of the Rings." Thus, characters' ages and the geopolitical situation will be different than LoTR canon!
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3400
Summary: Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins have been parted for many years now, despite the love they bear each other. Now Thorin's research has uncovered a dire threat to Middle Earth--the Ring he carried a little while and then gave to Bilbo. Together with a group of companions composed of the different Free Peoples of Middle Earth, they must attempt to destroy the artifact before its Dark Lord can re-capture it.
"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 Summary: Gandalf has shown up at Moria with a contingent of elves from Rivendell, and Thorin is having to handle a tricky diplomatic situation. At least there should be no more unexpected visitors...
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield, Gandalf, Balin, Dwalin, Saruman, Arwen, Glorfindel, Elladan, Elrohir, Theoden
Fandom: Hobbit/Lord of the Rings. Begins in 2968, twenty-six years after the events of "Clarity of Vision" and fifty years before the canonical events of "Lord of the Rings." Thus, characters' ages and the geopolitical situation will be different than LoTR canon!
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3400
Summary: Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins have been parted for many years now, despite the love they bear each other. Now Thorin's research has uncovered a dire threat to Middle Earth--the Ring he carried a little while and then gave to Bilbo. Together with a group of companions composed of the different Free Peoples of Middle Earth, they must attempt to destroy the artifact before its Dark Lord can re-capture it.
"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.