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Clarity of Purpose, Chapter 12
Title: Clarity of Purpose, Chap. 12
Chapter Summary: When Khazad-dum is assailed by the Balrog from within and Azog and his troops from without, the Fellowship must flee east.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield, Dwalin, Galadriel, Gandalf, Arwen, Elladan, Elrohir, Glorfindel
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: Character death lies within!
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2600
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.
“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.
---
Note: I have taken Galadriel's farewell song from Fellowship and given it to Arwen; the words are by Tolkien.
Chapter Summary: When Khazad-dum is assailed by the Balrog from within and Azog and his troops from without, the Fellowship must flee east.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield, Dwalin, Galadriel, Gandalf, Arwen, Elladan, Elrohir, Glorfindel
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: Character death lies within!
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2600
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.
“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.
---
Note: I have taken Galadriel's farewell song from Fellowship and given it to Arwen; the words are by Tolkien.