Clarity of Purpose, Chapter 7
Jul. 24th, 2014 08:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mithenTitle: Clarity of Purpose, Chap. 7
Chapter Summary: As Denethor recovers from his wounds, Khazad-dûm houses a mixed host of elves, dwarves, humans, and wizards (and one hobbit). Some of the folk hit it off. Others do not.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield, Gandalf, Balin, Dwalin, Saruman, Arwen, Glorfindel, Elladan, Elrohir, Theoden, Denethor
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: 3000
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.
“I’m afraid that dwarvish rooms 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. 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 Curufin, 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 Summary: As Denethor recovers from his wounds, Khazad-dûm houses a mixed host of elves, dwarves, humans, and wizards (and one hobbit). Some of the folk hit it off. Others do not.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield, Gandalf, Balin, Dwalin, Saruman, Arwen, Glorfindel, Elladan, Elrohir, Theoden, Denethor
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: 3000
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.
“I’m afraid that dwarvish rooms 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. 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 Curufin, 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.