Clarity of Purpose, Chapter 13
Oct. 5th, 2014 03:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mithenTitle: Clarity of Purpose, Chap. 13
Chapter Summary: Reeling from its losses, the Fellowship flees east, pursued by Azog. All seems lost until help comes from an unexpected source...
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield, the Fellowship
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: 3100
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.
Thorin started awake from a confused nightmare in which Azog drove him with a whip of fire while Dwalin cursed and screamed somewhere nearby, somewhere he could never quite reach. For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was, and then memory rushed back: the Balrog, the breaking of the Council, the flight from Khazad-dûm .
“Steady there,” came a familiar voice, and he looked down to see Bilbo sitting against the tree, managing a wan smile up at him.
He reached down to help the hobbit to his feet. “No one woke me for the watch,” he said irritably.
“Gandalf said you and Arwen should sleep if you could,” Bilbo said, his voice unapologetic. “Though I don’t believe she slept very well at all. She’s...not well.”
And indeed, Thorin could see at a glance that Bilbo was right. Arwen’s face was free of tears now, but she moved with the brittle, abstracted quality of a person in deep shock, wounded beyond expression. “Are you able to travel on, my lady?” he asked her in a low voice, and she nodded without looking at him.
There was a sharp rustle of leaves, and Legolas leaped down from the branches of a mallorn, landing lightly on the ground. “A host of wargs approaches from the west, from whence we came,” he said tersely. “And at their head, a white warg and a pale rider.”
“Or so he claims,” snarled Denethor, descending from the same tree more slowly and much less gracefully. “I saw nothing, but I see no reason to doubt him.”
“I suppose,” said Thorin with a grim smile, “that we have reason to be thankful we are not burdened with supplies. For now we are hunted, and we must flee to lose our pursuers.”
They ran east and south through the morning, steadily, but by mid-day Bilbo could hear the distant howls of wargs to the west, gaining on them. The terrain was gentle: rolling hills covered with lush green grass, but with no sign of habitation.
“This is the border between Rohan and the wood of Lórien,” Théoden explained to Bilbo during a brief stop at a clear spring. “The Rohirrim venture here but rarely, for they are uncanny lands to us, too close to the eldritch Wood.” He made a quick, apologetic gesture to Arwen, but she didn’t seem to have heard him.
“We make for the Anduin,” said Thorin. “And across it into the Brown Lands, where Azog’s wargs should find the jagged terrain hard going.”
“But first we must make it to the Anduin and cross it,” muttered Théoden, “and that will be no easy task.”
As the day wore on, his words proved to be prophetic: the gently undulating hills gave no hindrance to their mounted foes, and the howls drew ever closer. Bilbo struggled to keep up, but by noon even he could no longer deny that he was out of shape after years spent with no more exercise than long tramps in the Shire; when Thorin swept him onto his back without explanation he dared not protest and simply leaned into Thorin’s strength, holding his furred collar tightly. The party’s breath steamed in the frigid air around them, and Gimli muttered darkly that it least it was not snowing.
“Not yet,” answered Legolas, and they fell silent once more.
Finally, Gandalf called a halt, his head tilted, listening. “I have heard nothing for some time,” he said. “Perhaps we have--”
He broke off as fresh howls erupted once more, closer this time.
And to the north-east.
“They have circled around us,” said Gimli. “They drive us to the south and west.”
“They drive us toward Orthanc,” said Thorin.
“Where Saruman awaits us with open arms, no doubt,” snapped Dís. “Does he think we are fools, to seek shelter with him? Does he believe us unaware of his treachery?”
“I think he cares not what we believe, as long as the Ring does not escape him,” muttered Gandalf.
“I cannot believe Saruman would ally himself with the orcs,” Thorin said. “How could he?”
Gandalf raised an eyebrow. “Ally himself? I do not believe Saruman sees it that way, nor does Azog. They work together, but both crave the Ring--Saruman for his own uses, Azog for his true master, Sauron.”
The howls were growing closer, and at the mention of the Dark Lord Bilbo felt something like a hot chill go through his body, and he bit back a moan.
“Enough of conjecture,” snarled Thorin at the small sound. “Where do we go now?”
“We must flee south,” urged Théoden. “The way east is blocked to us now. We must make for Rohan.”
“Lead us, then,” said Thorin, re-adjusting Bilbo on his back.
They fled south, but it was futile: soon enough even Théoden and Denethor’s weaker eyes could see the wargs gaining on them from the east. Finally, they came to a river running steady and strong, blocking their path to the south. “The Limlight,” Théoden said, “The border to Rohan proper. My home,” he said, gazing at the hills beyond.
“It is too late,” said Denethor, unsheathing his sword. “They will cut us off and cut us down before we make the river. We must make our stand here.”
Thorin set Bilbo down, clasping his shoulder tightly. “Protect the Ringbearer with your lives,” he said.
Dís and Gimli made simultaneous dismissive sounds. “As if we would let anyone touch a hair on Bilbo’s head while we lived,” Dís said.
Arwen and Legolas had their bows out, joining the elves between Bilbo and harm. The humans took up the two flanks to the north and the south, and Gandalf stood behind Bilbo, his staff at the ready. Bilbo unsheathed his own knife, but his hands felt clumsy and awkward on the hilt. They will die, they will all die, and it will be your fault, a vicious small voice was whispering to him. Better to run, better to hide, perhaps they will be spared, you can hide…
He took a deep gulp of air and banished the voice, banished the images of Thorin pierced by spears, weltering in blood. No more hiding.
The Limlight chuckled and gurgled nearby, and from between his defenders Bilbo could see the wargs racing along its edge toward them: maybe thirty huge beasts, each with an orc-warrior on it.
“Son of Gondor, do you know this place?” Théoden’s voice sounded incongruously cheerful, and somehow Bilbo found comfort in this.
“Of course I do, horse-lord,” snapped Denethor. “It is the Field of Celebrant, where our ancestors first fought as allies.”
“You mean where my ancestor arrived to save your ancestor from utter annihilation, I believe.”
“Details, details.” Was that the faintest smile in Denethor’s grim voice?
“They come,” Gimli said. The wargs were moving into a gallop, picking up speed.
“Let them come, then!” Denethor lifted the great horn he carried to his lips, and with a mighty blast the echoes of its sound resonated from the hills and the water. Its clarion call was bright and challenging, and the wargs paused for a moment, milling about. Bilbo caught a glimpse of Azog lashing at his followers, driving them forward. Denethor blew his horn again, a second challenge.
And from the south came an answering call, clear and pure, and a thunder of hooves.
As the fellowship watched in amazement, a host of riders on horseback crested the hill to the south and galloped down its slope, plunging into the fords of the Limlight, sending up great clouds of spray as they charged the wargs. Crashing into their flank, they quickly set them into disarray, and Arwen and Legolas rained arrows down on the wargs with deadly accuracy.
For a moment, Bilbo saw Azog glare with baffled fury at his quarry. Then he spurred his warg and fled east, disappearing into the hills, abandoning his panicked and fleeing troops.
The battle was vicious and short, and soon the riders were galloping toward the fellowship, circling them. The scent of sweat and blood and horsehair was very strong, and Bilbo noticed that the elves and dwarves did not sheathe their weapons.
The lead rider stopped in front of the group and swung down from his horse. “Hail, and be welcome in Rohan,” he said.
Bilbo heard Arwen make a sudden sound, somewhere between a gasp and a sob, as the warrior removed his helm and shook out long dark hair. “Are you hurt?” Bilbo asked her quickly, turning to her.
She shook her head, but he saw tears on her cheeks once more.
“My friend!” Théoden cried, stepping forward to embrace the newcomer.
Over Théoden’s shoulder, the warrior’s keen eyes scanned the party, and Bilbo had a sudden sense of familiarity before he turned his attention back to Théoden, thumping him on the back. “Prince Théoden! It is good to see you again,” he said.
“We are in luck today,” said Théoden, turning back to the party with a broad smile on his face. “We are saved by the truest heart in all of Middle Earth, the bravest warrior, the man who taught me much of swordplay and diplomacy--”
“Thorongil,” said Denethor, the smile gone from his voice once more, leaving it flat and dry. “We are acquainted.”
“But I thought you went to Minas Tirith, to offer your services to Steward Ecthelion,” said Théoden to Thorongil later, over the crackling fire. The warriors had made sure all of the party was fed and rested, and were providing a lookout, leaving Thorongil alone to sit and talk with them. “What are you doing back in Rohan?”
Thorongil shot a quick look at Denethor, who was polishing his sword without looking up, then answered Théoden: “I am here to hunt down a scourge that haunts these borders of recent days, and your father sent warriors to assist me. A white orc--”
“Azog,” said Thorin.
Thorongil nodded. “And with your assistance today we have broken his ranks, though he once again escaped us.”
“Do you not have duties to be fulfilling in Minas Tirith?” said Denethor, looking across him in the firelight. “Or has being my father’s most valued adviser paled for you already?”
Thorongil met his gaze calmly. “It was your father’s wish and command I join the hunt for this Azog. He was most concerned that the white orc might be hunting you, his son and heir.”
Denethor made a small, disbelieving sound. “How convenient, then, that your duties lead you right to our party and--” He broke off, his jaw clenching. “I like it not,” he muttered.
Théoden laughed. “Truly you are as good a judge of men as you are of horses, then! For Thorongil is the truest and the bravest soul--”
“--and the wisest, and the most valiant, I know it well!” said Denethor. “Do they not sing his praises in the streets of Minas Tirith? Does my father not remind me of it every day?”
There was a raw pain in his voice that left the rest of the camp in uncomfortable silence; he swallowed hard and said nothing more, and after a moment Thorongil looked at Gandalf and said in a low voice: “I have explained my presence here, but what of yours? I believe a group composed of such a varied mix of folk is one with a story behind it.”
Gandalf tilted his head, letting the shadow of the brim of his hat hide his face. “I am not the leader of this group,” he said. “Thorin Oakenshield of Erebor is, and the explanation must lie with him.”
Thorin shot Gandalf a wry look that Bilbo could read quite well: You are quick with the commands, but slow with explanations, wizard! “We travel east,” he said, “And our business is our own, but you need have no fear that we mean harm to Rohan or to Gondor. Our mission is one that would help both lands, and all of Middle Earth.”
Thorongil nodded. “I know well that neither Théoden nor Denethor would ever be a party to aught that would harm their people,” he said.
Théoden leaned forward and whispered loudly: “We bear with us the One Ring, Isildur’s Bane! We travel to Mordor to destroy it and its master, Sauron!”
“Fool! Prating imbecile!” Denethor leaped to his feet, his face twisted with a combination of fury and fear. “Such words are not--”
“--Thorongil would never betray us,” Théoden growled. “I would trust him with my life.”
“You have trusted him with more than that,” cried Denethor. “You have given us away to--” He broke off and bit his lip, “--to a stranger,” he finished, but Bilbo had the impression he had been going to say something else. “I am not so easily cozened as some,” he said in a low voice to Thorongil. “Do not forget it.”
And he turned and strode off into the night, joining a different campfire on the far side of the camp and sitting to stare into the fire.
“My apologies,” said Théoden to Thorongil. “He is a sour companion indeed.”
“Nay,” said Thorongil, looking after Denethor’s retreating figure. “He bears a heavy burden, and you do not know his whole story! If he trusts me not, that is between the two of us alone. Think how unbelievable he found the idea that his father would have sent me here to protect him, and know that while Ecthelion is a good and proud leader, he has been a distant and cold father at times, not inclined to show his heir his heart.” He glanced across the fire to where Legolas and Arwen sat, and something like a smile touched the corner of his mouth. “I would not be such a father for all the world,” he murmured. “If the lady that I love above all else were to pledge her heart to me, I swear neither she nor our children would ever doubt my love for them in all the days of our lives together.”
Then he seemed to recall himself, and reached out to clasp Théoden on the back. “I value your good opinion of me, my prince. But in the future, I would advise you to be rather less open with your revelations about this party.”
Théoden looked crestfallen for a moment. “Forgive me,” he murmured to Thorin.
“What is done is done,” said Thorin. “There is no use denying it: Théoden spoke the truth.”
“Isildur’s Bane,” said Thorongil. “I can scarce believe it. How came you to be here, pursued by Azog?”
Gandalf sighed. “We believe we were betrayed by Saruman the White,” he said. “Who released a spirit of flame and smoke from another age, a Balrog, upon us.”
“We escaped Khazad-dûm to find ourselves hunted by the orcs,” said Gimli.
“The Lady of Lothlórien, Galadriel, perished to save us,” said Arwen. It was the first time she had spoken since her song the night before, and Thorongil looked sharply at her, his brows drawn.
“This is grim news,” he said, “And you bear much pain with you. It grieves me to hear it.” He stood. “Rest here in safety tonight, and tomorrow we shall discuss what help we can give you. For I would not have you feel that you grieve alone,” he added in a lower voice.
Usually Thorin could sleep through anything while on the road, but tonight the crackling campfires and the smell of roasting meat chased sleep away, and he found himself leaving Bilbo curled up on his bedroll and walking the boundaries of the camp. On the far side was a small copse of trees, and on a whim he entered it.
The moonlight cast dappled shadows on the ground through the leaves, and he heard a bird singing nearby. Rummaging through his memory of the birds Bilbo had taught him, he was able to come up with its name: a nightingale, singing sweetly with a long liquid trill that rose and fell.
He was slower to realize that he could hear voices underneath its song: a man and a woman’s in conversation together. Thorin drew close enough to recognize Thorongil’s deep voice and Arwen’s sweet tones mingled together, and to hear both laughter and tears in the elf-maiden’s voice before he broke off and retreated hastily back to the camp.
“You couldn’t sleep either?” Bilbo murmured as Thorin lay back down. “Estel,” he added sleepily.
“What?” said Thorin, unsure why Bilbo would be saying ‘hope’ in Sindarin in the middle of the night.
“I knew I’d seen him somewhere, and it finally came to me as I was drowsing--I’ve met Thorongil before, in Rivendell. He was just a boy then, of course, but there’s something about him that isn’t easy to forget. His name was Estel, then.” He yawned and pulled Thorin’s arm across him, holding him close.
“Perhaps that explains it,” murmured Thorin, and then of course he had to tell a suddenly-awake Bilbo about the conversation he had heard in the woods. “Perhaps they knew each other before, and do not want others to know it.”
“Perhaps,” said Bilbo. “He seems a deep one! But I’m glad she has someone who might comfort her a little, the poor girl,” he said before he fell asleep.
The next day, Thorin awoke to the sound of Arwen humming as she combed out her long dark hair with a silver comb. She looked...different, somehow, with the morning sun from the east bathing her face: somehow less unearthly and more present than before, with both a sadness and a joy burning within her, lighting her features. For his part, Estel--the name Bilbo gave him seemed to suit him better than Thorongil--seemed ablaze with happiness, gathering up supplies and provisions for the Fellowship with a kind of dazed and disbelieving delight. Neither Arwen nor Estel ever looked at each other, but they seemed at all times almost painfully aware of each other.
Interesting, Thorin Oakenshield thought, and he thought many other things besides, about love and about death. But he shared these thoughts with no one, not even Bilbo, as he watched Arwen Evenstar comb out her hair in the morning light.
Chapter Summary: Reeling from its losses, the Fellowship flees east, pursued by Azog. All seems lost until help comes from an unexpected source...
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield, the Fellowship
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: 3100
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.
Thorin started awake from a confused nightmare in which Azog drove him with a whip of fire while Dwalin cursed and screamed somewhere nearby, somewhere he could never quite reach. For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was, and then memory rushed back: the Balrog, the breaking of the Council, the flight from Khazad-dûm .
“Steady there,” came a familiar voice, and he looked down to see Bilbo sitting against the tree, managing a wan smile up at him.
He reached down to help the hobbit to his feet. “No one woke me for the watch,” he said irritably.
“Gandalf said you and Arwen should sleep if you could,” Bilbo said, his voice unapologetic. “Though I don’t believe she slept very well at all. She’s...not well.”
And indeed, Thorin could see at a glance that Bilbo was right. Arwen’s face was free of tears now, but she moved with the brittle, abstracted quality of a person in deep shock, wounded beyond expression. “Are you able to travel on, my lady?” he asked her in a low voice, and she nodded without looking at him.
There was a sharp rustle of leaves, and Legolas leaped down from the branches of a mallorn, landing lightly on the ground. “A host of wargs approaches from the west, from whence we came,” he said tersely. “And at their head, a white warg and a pale rider.”
“Or so he claims,” snarled Denethor, descending from the same tree more slowly and much less gracefully. “I saw nothing, but I see no reason to doubt him.”
“I suppose,” said Thorin with a grim smile, “that we have reason to be thankful we are not burdened with supplies. For now we are hunted, and we must flee to lose our pursuers.”
They ran east and south through the morning, steadily, but by mid-day Bilbo could hear the distant howls of wargs to the west, gaining on them. The terrain was gentle: rolling hills covered with lush green grass, but with no sign of habitation.
“This is the border between Rohan and the wood of Lórien,” Théoden explained to Bilbo during a brief stop at a clear spring. “The Rohirrim venture here but rarely, for they are uncanny lands to us, too close to the eldritch Wood.” He made a quick, apologetic gesture to Arwen, but she didn’t seem to have heard him.
“We make for the Anduin,” said Thorin. “And across it into the Brown Lands, where Azog’s wargs should find the jagged terrain hard going.”
“But first we must make it to the Anduin and cross it,” muttered Théoden, “and that will be no easy task.”
As the day wore on, his words proved to be prophetic: the gently undulating hills gave no hindrance to their mounted foes, and the howls drew ever closer. Bilbo struggled to keep up, but by noon even he could no longer deny that he was out of shape after years spent with no more exercise than long tramps in the Shire; when Thorin swept him onto his back without explanation he dared not protest and simply leaned into Thorin’s strength, holding his furred collar tightly. The party’s breath steamed in the frigid air around them, and Gimli muttered darkly that it least it was not snowing.
“Not yet,” answered Legolas, and they fell silent once more.
Finally, Gandalf called a halt, his head tilted, listening. “I have heard nothing for some time,” he said. “Perhaps we have--”
He broke off as fresh howls erupted once more, closer this time.
And to the north-east.
“They have circled around us,” said Gimli. “They drive us to the south and west.”
“They drive us toward Orthanc,” said Thorin.
“Where Saruman awaits us with open arms, no doubt,” snapped Dís. “Does he think we are fools, to seek shelter with him? Does he believe us unaware of his treachery?”
“I think he cares not what we believe, as long as the Ring does not escape him,” muttered Gandalf.
“I cannot believe Saruman would ally himself with the orcs,” Thorin said. “How could he?”
Gandalf raised an eyebrow. “Ally himself? I do not believe Saruman sees it that way, nor does Azog. They work together, but both crave the Ring--Saruman for his own uses, Azog for his true master, Sauron.”
The howls were growing closer, and at the mention of the Dark Lord Bilbo felt something like a hot chill go through his body, and he bit back a moan.
“Enough of conjecture,” snarled Thorin at the small sound. “Where do we go now?”
“We must flee south,” urged Théoden. “The way east is blocked to us now. We must make for Rohan.”
“Lead us, then,” said Thorin, re-adjusting Bilbo on his back.
They fled south, but it was futile: soon enough even Théoden and Denethor’s weaker eyes could see the wargs gaining on them from the east. Finally, they came to a river running steady and strong, blocking their path to the south. “The Limlight,” Théoden said, “The border to Rohan proper. My home,” he said, gazing at the hills beyond.
“It is too late,” said Denethor, unsheathing his sword. “They will cut us off and cut us down before we make the river. We must make our stand here.”
Thorin set Bilbo down, clasping his shoulder tightly. “Protect the Ringbearer with your lives,” he said.
Dís and Gimli made simultaneous dismissive sounds. “As if we would let anyone touch a hair on Bilbo’s head while we lived,” Dís said.
Arwen and Legolas had their bows out, joining the elves between Bilbo and harm. The humans took up the two flanks to the north and the south, and Gandalf stood behind Bilbo, his staff at the ready. Bilbo unsheathed his own knife, but his hands felt clumsy and awkward on the hilt. They will die, they will all die, and it will be your fault, a vicious small voice was whispering to him. Better to run, better to hide, perhaps they will be spared, you can hide…
He took a deep gulp of air and banished the voice, banished the images of Thorin pierced by spears, weltering in blood. No more hiding.
The Limlight chuckled and gurgled nearby, and from between his defenders Bilbo could see the wargs racing along its edge toward them: maybe thirty huge beasts, each with an orc-warrior on it.
“Son of Gondor, do you know this place?” Théoden’s voice sounded incongruously cheerful, and somehow Bilbo found comfort in this.
“Of course I do, horse-lord,” snapped Denethor. “It is the Field of Celebrant, where our ancestors first fought as allies.”
“You mean where my ancestor arrived to save your ancestor from utter annihilation, I believe.”
“Details, details.” Was that the faintest smile in Denethor’s grim voice?
“They come,” Gimli said. The wargs were moving into a gallop, picking up speed.
“Let them come, then!” Denethor lifted the great horn he carried to his lips, and with a mighty blast the echoes of its sound resonated from the hills and the water. Its clarion call was bright and challenging, and the wargs paused for a moment, milling about. Bilbo caught a glimpse of Azog lashing at his followers, driving them forward. Denethor blew his horn again, a second challenge.
And from the south came an answering call, clear and pure, and a thunder of hooves.
As the fellowship watched in amazement, a host of riders on horseback crested the hill to the south and galloped down its slope, plunging into the fords of the Limlight, sending up great clouds of spray as they charged the wargs. Crashing into their flank, they quickly set them into disarray, and Arwen and Legolas rained arrows down on the wargs with deadly accuracy.
For a moment, Bilbo saw Azog glare with baffled fury at his quarry. Then he spurred his warg and fled east, disappearing into the hills, abandoning his panicked and fleeing troops.
The battle was vicious and short, and soon the riders were galloping toward the fellowship, circling them. The scent of sweat and blood and horsehair was very strong, and Bilbo noticed that the elves and dwarves did not sheathe their weapons.
The lead rider stopped in front of the group and swung down from his horse. “Hail, and be welcome in Rohan,” he said.
Bilbo heard Arwen make a sudden sound, somewhere between a gasp and a sob, as the warrior removed his helm and shook out long dark hair. “Are you hurt?” Bilbo asked her quickly, turning to her.
She shook her head, but he saw tears on her cheeks once more.
“My friend!” Théoden cried, stepping forward to embrace the newcomer.
Over Théoden’s shoulder, the warrior’s keen eyes scanned the party, and Bilbo had a sudden sense of familiarity before he turned his attention back to Théoden, thumping him on the back. “Prince Théoden! It is good to see you again,” he said.
“We are in luck today,” said Théoden, turning back to the party with a broad smile on his face. “We are saved by the truest heart in all of Middle Earth, the bravest warrior, the man who taught me much of swordplay and diplomacy--”
“Thorongil,” said Denethor, the smile gone from his voice once more, leaving it flat and dry. “We are acquainted.”
“But I thought you went to Minas Tirith, to offer your services to Steward Ecthelion,” said Théoden to Thorongil later, over the crackling fire. The warriors had made sure all of the party was fed and rested, and were providing a lookout, leaving Thorongil alone to sit and talk with them. “What are you doing back in Rohan?”
Thorongil shot a quick look at Denethor, who was polishing his sword without looking up, then answered Théoden: “I am here to hunt down a scourge that haunts these borders of recent days, and your father sent warriors to assist me. A white orc--”
“Azog,” said Thorin.
Thorongil nodded. “And with your assistance today we have broken his ranks, though he once again escaped us.”
“Do you not have duties to be fulfilling in Minas Tirith?” said Denethor, looking across him in the firelight. “Or has being my father’s most valued adviser paled for you already?”
Thorongil met his gaze calmly. “It was your father’s wish and command I join the hunt for this Azog. He was most concerned that the white orc might be hunting you, his son and heir.”
Denethor made a small, disbelieving sound. “How convenient, then, that your duties lead you right to our party and--” He broke off, his jaw clenching. “I like it not,” he muttered.
Théoden laughed. “Truly you are as good a judge of men as you are of horses, then! For Thorongil is the truest and the bravest soul--”
“--and the wisest, and the most valiant, I know it well!” said Denethor. “Do they not sing his praises in the streets of Minas Tirith? Does my father not remind me of it every day?”
There was a raw pain in his voice that left the rest of the camp in uncomfortable silence; he swallowed hard and said nothing more, and after a moment Thorongil looked at Gandalf and said in a low voice: “I have explained my presence here, but what of yours? I believe a group composed of such a varied mix of folk is one with a story behind it.”
Gandalf tilted his head, letting the shadow of the brim of his hat hide his face. “I am not the leader of this group,” he said. “Thorin Oakenshield of Erebor is, and the explanation must lie with him.”
Thorin shot Gandalf a wry look that Bilbo could read quite well: You are quick with the commands, but slow with explanations, wizard! “We travel east,” he said, “And our business is our own, but you need have no fear that we mean harm to Rohan or to Gondor. Our mission is one that would help both lands, and all of Middle Earth.”
Thorongil nodded. “I know well that neither Théoden nor Denethor would ever be a party to aught that would harm their people,” he said.
Théoden leaned forward and whispered loudly: “We bear with us the One Ring, Isildur’s Bane! We travel to Mordor to destroy it and its master, Sauron!”
“Fool! Prating imbecile!” Denethor leaped to his feet, his face twisted with a combination of fury and fear. “Such words are not--”
“--Thorongil would never betray us,” Théoden growled. “I would trust him with my life.”
“You have trusted him with more than that,” cried Denethor. “You have given us away to--” He broke off and bit his lip, “--to a stranger,” he finished, but Bilbo had the impression he had been going to say something else. “I am not so easily cozened as some,” he said in a low voice to Thorongil. “Do not forget it.”
And he turned and strode off into the night, joining a different campfire on the far side of the camp and sitting to stare into the fire.
“My apologies,” said Théoden to Thorongil. “He is a sour companion indeed.”
“Nay,” said Thorongil, looking after Denethor’s retreating figure. “He bears a heavy burden, and you do not know his whole story! If he trusts me not, that is between the two of us alone. Think how unbelievable he found the idea that his father would have sent me here to protect him, and know that while Ecthelion is a good and proud leader, he has been a distant and cold father at times, not inclined to show his heir his heart.” He glanced across the fire to where Legolas and Arwen sat, and something like a smile touched the corner of his mouth. “I would not be such a father for all the world,” he murmured. “If the lady that I love above all else were to pledge her heart to me, I swear neither she nor our children would ever doubt my love for them in all the days of our lives together.”
Then he seemed to recall himself, and reached out to clasp Théoden on the back. “I value your good opinion of me, my prince. But in the future, I would advise you to be rather less open with your revelations about this party.”
Théoden looked crestfallen for a moment. “Forgive me,” he murmured to Thorin.
“What is done is done,” said Thorin. “There is no use denying it: Théoden spoke the truth.”
“Isildur’s Bane,” said Thorongil. “I can scarce believe it. How came you to be here, pursued by Azog?”
Gandalf sighed. “We believe we were betrayed by Saruman the White,” he said. “Who released a spirit of flame and smoke from another age, a Balrog, upon us.”
“We escaped Khazad-dûm to find ourselves hunted by the orcs,” said Gimli.
“The Lady of Lothlórien, Galadriel, perished to save us,” said Arwen. It was the first time she had spoken since her song the night before, and Thorongil looked sharply at her, his brows drawn.
“This is grim news,” he said, “And you bear much pain with you. It grieves me to hear it.” He stood. “Rest here in safety tonight, and tomorrow we shall discuss what help we can give you. For I would not have you feel that you grieve alone,” he added in a lower voice.
Usually Thorin could sleep through anything while on the road, but tonight the crackling campfires and the smell of roasting meat chased sleep away, and he found himself leaving Bilbo curled up on his bedroll and walking the boundaries of the camp. On the far side was a small copse of trees, and on a whim he entered it.
The moonlight cast dappled shadows on the ground through the leaves, and he heard a bird singing nearby. Rummaging through his memory of the birds Bilbo had taught him, he was able to come up with its name: a nightingale, singing sweetly with a long liquid trill that rose and fell.
He was slower to realize that he could hear voices underneath its song: a man and a woman’s in conversation together. Thorin drew close enough to recognize Thorongil’s deep voice and Arwen’s sweet tones mingled together, and to hear both laughter and tears in the elf-maiden’s voice before he broke off and retreated hastily back to the camp.
“You couldn’t sleep either?” Bilbo murmured as Thorin lay back down. “Estel,” he added sleepily.
“What?” said Thorin, unsure why Bilbo would be saying ‘hope’ in Sindarin in the middle of the night.
“I knew I’d seen him somewhere, and it finally came to me as I was drowsing--I’ve met Thorongil before, in Rivendell. He was just a boy then, of course, but there’s something about him that isn’t easy to forget. His name was Estel, then.” He yawned and pulled Thorin’s arm across him, holding him close.
“Perhaps that explains it,” murmured Thorin, and then of course he had to tell a suddenly-awake Bilbo about the conversation he had heard in the woods. “Perhaps they knew each other before, and do not want others to know it.”
“Perhaps,” said Bilbo. “He seems a deep one! But I’m glad she has someone who might comfort her a little, the poor girl,” he said before he fell asleep.
The next day, Thorin awoke to the sound of Arwen humming as she combed out her long dark hair with a silver comb. She looked...different, somehow, with the morning sun from the east bathing her face: somehow less unearthly and more present than before, with both a sadness and a joy burning within her, lighting her features. For his part, Estel--the name Bilbo gave him seemed to suit him better than Thorongil--seemed ablaze with happiness, gathering up supplies and provisions for the Fellowship with a kind of dazed and disbelieving delight. Neither Arwen nor Estel ever looked at each other, but they seemed at all times almost painfully aware of each other.
Interesting, Thorin Oakenshield thought, and he thought many other things besides, about love and about death. But he shared these thoughts with no one, not even Bilbo, as he watched Arwen Evenstar comb out her hair in the morning light.