Clarity of Purpose, Chapter 23
Mar. 19th, 2015 07:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mithenTitle: Clarity of Purpose, Chap. 23
Chapter Summary: Thorin's rescue party overhears one conversation, interrupts another, and finds themselves in great danger.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Thorin Oakenshield, Arwen, Aragorn, Gandalf, Thrain
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: R for violence
Word Count: 2200
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.
Gandalf’s staff glowed faintly, just enough for them to make their way along the narrow passageway. When they reached a forking corridor, Thorin pulled out the map Pallando had given them--”It is of the secret passageways in the palace. Kestrel made it for me. Ask me no more!” he had glowered--and frowned at it, turning it left and right.
“Give me that,” said Arwen, snatching the paper from his hand before he could pull out his reading glasses. She had said little since Estel had been captured, and her graceful mouth was pressed in a sharp line of pain. “The dungeons are this way,” she said, pointing, and moved off without asking either Thorin or Gandalf their opinion.
Thorin looked at Gandalf. The wizard shrugged and turned to follow her.
There were small holes in the walls here and there, cunningly placed so as not to be visible from the other side. Spies and secrets, Thorin thought wearily. They made their way through the darkness, cautious and wary, and were almost at their destination when Thorin stopped dead at the sound of conversation on the other side of the wall. That voice!
“The siege of Erebor goes well?” said a low voice that Thorin hadn’t heard for decades, that he had last heard mocking him, taunting his inability to strike a killing blow.
“Yes, Thráin, all goes as planned,” said another voice as dark and rich as molten bronze. A woman’s voice, amused.
Thorin saw Arwen stop and turn suddenly, her eyes glinting in the dark of the passage. Slightly above eye level, he saw faint light filtering in, and stood on his toes to look furtively through the hidden peephole into the council room.
He managed to keep his breathing low and even, managed not to suck in a breath of shock when he saw his father, pacing the floor. His hands were clasped behind his back and his face drawn in harsh lines of weariness.
“Once Erebor is taken, my troops will fall back before your Ironfists.” Il-Qaltun, still wearing her cloak of black silk, stood by the fireplace. She sounded bored. “You shall be hailed as the liberator of the Lonely Mountain.”
“There need not be much bloodshed. Only the rest of the Line of Durin needs to be...dealt with,” said Thráin.
Il-Qaltun shrugged, and the silk rippled like water with the movement. “As you will. Erebor is a minor concern. My colleague to the south is concerned with larger things. Are you so certain that your...friend...can lead you to our quarry?”
Thráin snorted. “He feels it, and it is a continual torment to him. He was drawn to the Ring of Durin that I yet wield, symbol of my kingship and all that was stripped from me by my--” He broke off as Il-Qaltun rolled her silver-gray eyes and went on with less fire, “He serves me for he knows my ring is kin to his ‘precious,’ as he calls it. With him as my bloodhound, I can track the Ring where I will.”
“I could take the Ring of Durin from you,” said Il-Qaltun. “And win over your hunting hound myself.”
It seemed to Thorin that he father had gone more pale at her words, but he smiled grimly. “If you could do that, you would have done so long ago,” he said. “Therefore, I must assume that your ‘colleague’--you seem to mislike the word ‘master’--has forbidden you to take possession of a Ring of Power.”
For the first time, Il-Qaltun’s boredom fell away, and she gazed at Thráin with furious loathing for a moment before she smiled once more, her teeth a flash of white in her pale face. “Of course you have no intention of giving Sauron his due. But that is of no matter. Our alliance is pragmatic for now, and Mordor’s power grows. Our armies multiply, and we have now in our grasp the heir of Elendil.”
Thorin felt Arwen go rigid next to him.
“You are so certain he is this lost prince?” Thráin said.
“He bears the sword of his line.” Il-Qaltun grimaced. “And even after nearly a hundred generations, his blood yet stinks of the taint of of ancient ancestors, elves and Maiar both. There is no mistake.”
“So am I invited to his questioning?”
“My dear Thráin,” purred Il-Qaltun, “Do not presume that because our interests coincide for a time that we are allies. Any information we get from this erstwhile heir--and we will get information from him--” She touched a tongue to her lips once, delicately, and Thorin felt a visceral shudder go through him, “--will be Sauron’s alone.”
“And surely King Jetei’s as well?”
Thráin’s voice was sardonic, and Il-Qaltun chuckled.
“Oh, certainly. Mordor has nothing to hide from our respected and wholly equal allies in Saynshar.”
She turned with a silken rustling and went to the door, clapping her hands. “Bring the prisoner to the Courtyard of Dusk,” she said to the two guards who appeared. Turning back to Thráin, she added, “Our agreement stands: you will hunt the Ring in return for the rule of Erebor when it has been conquered. I will not warn you not to double-cross us, for I know such a warning will be in vain, but be aware that when you attempt to do to, the consequences will be severe for you. And Sauron will still gain that which he seeks.”
She swept from the room, and Thráin sank down in the chair next to the fire, gazing into the flickering flames. Thorin wanted to watch him longer, but he felt Arwen’s urgent tug on his arm and let himself be led away, his thoughts whirling. Erebor to be conquered and placed under the rule of his vindictive father once more! Bilbo stalked, hunted by Thráin and his ‘bloodhound’--which could be no other than the loathsome Gollum! He felt a desperate need to escape from the stifling palace where the very rocks seemed to reek with blood and pain, to keep Bilbo safe, to keep his kingdom and his people safe--
“We must get to the courtyard!” whispered Arwen, urgent and fierce. “We must save him!”
Estel’s well-being was suddenly a distant third on Thorin’s list of concerns, but he gritted his teeth and followed her through the dim passages, winding through the secret ways.
“No time to free him from his cell,” said Gandalf, his voice tight. “My lady, we may be helpless to do aught but watch as--”
He broke off as Arwen made a small sound, denial and agony threaded through it, and continued forward in silence.
Groping in the dark, they came at last to a wall where dim silver light filtered through viewing-holes from the outside. The scent of jasmine and the sound of water splashing reached Thorin. Gandalf and Arwen were already stooping to look through two sets of peepholes--Arwen’s hands were clenched fists, the whitened knuckles standing out even in the dim light. With a twinge of annoyance Thorin found a box to stand on to raise him high enough to gaze through into the courtyard.
There were five figures in the tableau that met his eyes. Three figures he recognized as King Jetei, Prince Jelme, and the veiled Princess Samur, standing in front of a fountain. In front of them, Il-Qaltun was standing over a figure bound in chains on his knees, secured to a block of marble embedded in the grassy turf. Estel’s hair was hanging in front of his face, hiding his expression, but his body was tense and unbowed.
“If he is who you say,” King Jetei was saying with a worried touch to his voice, “Surely we risk great wrath from Gondor if we--”
“--You are already at war with Gondor, you fool,” snapped Il-Qaltun without looking away from Estel. Jetei winced but said nothing. “Elessar,” she murmured, and her voice was honey and wine. “Aragorn. Ranger. King without a kingdom. Do you know why I have brought you here to this courtyard?”
Estel lifted his head and met her eyes, and Thorin saw the corner of his bruised and bloody mouth twist in a smile. “I assume it’s not for tea,” he said.
She smiled back at him, and the sight made Thorin’s blood congeal. “This is the Courtyard of Dusk,” she said, “And the evening star shines down upon us now. I brought you here that your cursed ancestor Earendil could look down and witness how I will break you this day.” Lifting one foot, she placed it delicately on his neck, forcing his head down beneath it with what seemed like no effort at all. “You shall call me Mistress ere this night is over.” She looked at the royal family, and her smile went from hungry to cold. “Watch, and do not think to question me again.”
Removing her foot, she bent down and took Estel’s face in her long, pale fingers, lifting his chin. She leaned forward until her dark hair fell around them like a curtain, cutting off sight, and Thorin heard Arwen make a choking sound.
Then Il-Qaltun rose suddenly, turning to look at the blade pointed at her ribs. “You dare,” she said, looking at the princess, who stood straight and tall, her eyes fixed on Il-Qaltun--familiar eyes, Thorin realized with a shock.
“I do,” said Kestrel--Princess Samur--ripping aside her veil with her free hand. “You slew my mother and robbed my father of his will, but it stops today. I will not let you have this man.”
Il-Qaltun laughed, and the very water of the fountain seemed touched with ice at the sound. “Foolish child. I had thought to keep you for breeding purposes, but now I see you are more trouble than you are worth.”
Kestrel’s jaw squared, and she shoved the blade home--but Il-Qaltun merely stepped aside somehow, avoiding the blow effortlessly with only a quiver of her silken robes. “Truly?” she said, and her rich low voice held honest amusement. “You think a mortal blade can hurt one who helped to weave the very song that--”
She stopped in surprise as a second blade appeared before her and Prince Jelme stepped forward. Thorin had gotten no strong impression of the young man, and now all he glimpsed were slightly squinty eyes and a weak jaw. But Jelme’s voice was surprisingly steady as he said “Do not threaten my sister.”
Il-Qaltun took a step backward. Then she shook her head with a sigh. “Child, I expected more wisdom from you,” she said.
Stepping forward once more, she brushed the sword from his hand--it flew across the courtyard as if thrown by a catapult at the careless impact of her blow--and took the Prince’s neck in her other hand. There was a crack that turned Thorin’s stomach, and Il-Qaltun tossed the prince’s broken body at his father. “You shall have to make more,” she noted as King Jetei crumpled to the ground in horrified shock, cradling his son’s body. “But I have the means to renew even your vigor, old man.”
Thorin looked away from the horrific scene, where Kestrel was staring in blank horror and Estel was straining against the chains that held him to the ground, his face a rictus of fury--and realized that Arwen and Gandalf were gone.
Whirling, he scrambled toward the exit of the passages to follow them.
He burst into the courtyard to find Gandalf and Arwen standing on either side of Estel, facing down Il-Qaltun. Jetei was sobbing, his head bent over his son, oblivious to all but his grief. Kestrel knelt beside him, holding his shoulders. There was a silence, broken only by the chirping of some night insect in the jasmine.
“You shall not have him,” said Arwen, and her voice was steel and trumpets. “You shall have none of these people. Begone, back to the darkness, servant of Sauron!”
Il-Qaltun arched one dark eyebrow. “Servant?” she crooned, taking a swaying step forward as if dancing. Her eyes flicked to Gandalf. “Your companion could tell you how very wrong you are. But no matter.” Her silvery eyes narrowed, and there was a feral hunger and bitter hatred in them. “If this Ranger’s blood smells of his filthy ancestors, yours reeks of them, elf! The stench gives you away, descendant of cursed Lúthien!”
With a fluid motion, she threw open her silken black cloak--but to Thorin’s sick horror, it did not fall to the ground. Instead it rose up against the night sky like sails in a wind, and Thorin realized it was not cloth but wings: great black wings like a bat’s, sweeping up on either side of her exultant face, blotting out the pale stars. “A night of sweet revenge this is,” she murmured, looking at Arwen. “A night of vengeance and blood, spawn of my foe.”
Gandalf spoke for the first time, his voice shaking as he gazed at the dark-winged figure before them. “Thuringwëthil,” he said. “The vampire servant of Morgoth himself.”
Chapter Summary: Thorin's rescue party overhears one conversation, interrupts another, and finds themselves in great danger.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Thorin Oakenshield, Arwen, Aragorn, Gandalf, Thrain
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: R for violence
Word Count: 2200
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.
Gandalf’s staff glowed faintly, just enough for them to make their way along the narrow passageway. When they reached a forking corridor, Thorin pulled out the map Pallando had given them--”It is of the secret passageways in the palace. Kestrel made it for me. Ask me no more!” he had glowered--and frowned at it, turning it left and right.
“Give me that,” said Arwen, snatching the paper from his hand before he could pull out his reading glasses. She had said little since Estel had been captured, and her graceful mouth was pressed in a sharp line of pain. “The dungeons are this way,” she said, pointing, and moved off without asking either Thorin or Gandalf their opinion.
Thorin looked at Gandalf. The wizard shrugged and turned to follow her.
There were small holes in the walls here and there, cunningly placed so as not to be visible from the other side. Spies and secrets, Thorin thought wearily. They made their way through the darkness, cautious and wary, and were almost at their destination when Thorin stopped dead at the sound of conversation on the other side of the wall. That voice!
“The siege of Erebor goes well?” said a low voice that Thorin hadn’t heard for decades, that he had last heard mocking him, taunting his inability to strike a killing blow.
“Yes, Thráin, all goes as planned,” said another voice as dark and rich as molten bronze. A woman’s voice, amused.
Thorin saw Arwen stop and turn suddenly, her eyes glinting in the dark of the passage. Slightly above eye level, he saw faint light filtering in, and stood on his toes to look furtively through the hidden peephole into the council room.
He managed to keep his breathing low and even, managed not to suck in a breath of shock when he saw his father, pacing the floor. His hands were clasped behind his back and his face drawn in harsh lines of weariness.
“Once Erebor is taken, my troops will fall back before your Ironfists.” Il-Qaltun, still wearing her cloak of black silk, stood by the fireplace. She sounded bored. “You shall be hailed as the liberator of the Lonely Mountain.”
“There need not be much bloodshed. Only the rest of the Line of Durin needs to be...dealt with,” said Thráin.
Il-Qaltun shrugged, and the silk rippled like water with the movement. “As you will. Erebor is a minor concern. My colleague to the south is concerned with larger things. Are you so certain that your...friend...can lead you to our quarry?”
Thráin snorted. “He feels it, and it is a continual torment to him. He was drawn to the Ring of Durin that I yet wield, symbol of my kingship and all that was stripped from me by my--” He broke off as Il-Qaltun rolled her silver-gray eyes and went on with less fire, “He serves me for he knows my ring is kin to his ‘precious,’ as he calls it. With him as my bloodhound, I can track the Ring where I will.”
“I could take the Ring of Durin from you,” said Il-Qaltun. “And win over your hunting hound myself.”
It seemed to Thorin that he father had gone more pale at her words, but he smiled grimly. “If you could do that, you would have done so long ago,” he said. “Therefore, I must assume that your ‘colleague’--you seem to mislike the word ‘master’--has forbidden you to take possession of a Ring of Power.”
For the first time, Il-Qaltun’s boredom fell away, and she gazed at Thráin with furious loathing for a moment before she smiled once more, her teeth a flash of white in her pale face. “Of course you have no intention of giving Sauron his due. But that is of no matter. Our alliance is pragmatic for now, and Mordor’s power grows. Our armies multiply, and we have now in our grasp the heir of Elendil.”
Thorin felt Arwen go rigid next to him.
“You are so certain he is this lost prince?” Thráin said.
“He bears the sword of his line.” Il-Qaltun grimaced. “And even after nearly a hundred generations, his blood yet stinks of the taint of of ancient ancestors, elves and Maiar both. There is no mistake.”
“So am I invited to his questioning?”
“My dear Thráin,” purred Il-Qaltun, “Do not presume that because our interests coincide for a time that we are allies. Any information we get from this erstwhile heir--and we will get information from him--” She touched a tongue to her lips once, delicately, and Thorin felt a visceral shudder go through him, “--will be Sauron’s alone.”
“And surely King Jetei’s as well?”
Thráin’s voice was sardonic, and Il-Qaltun chuckled.
“Oh, certainly. Mordor has nothing to hide from our respected and wholly equal allies in Saynshar.”
She turned with a silken rustling and went to the door, clapping her hands. “Bring the prisoner to the Courtyard of Dusk,” she said to the two guards who appeared. Turning back to Thráin, she added, “Our agreement stands: you will hunt the Ring in return for the rule of Erebor when it has been conquered. I will not warn you not to double-cross us, for I know such a warning will be in vain, but be aware that when you attempt to do to, the consequences will be severe for you. And Sauron will still gain that which he seeks.”
She swept from the room, and Thráin sank down in the chair next to the fire, gazing into the flickering flames. Thorin wanted to watch him longer, but he felt Arwen’s urgent tug on his arm and let himself be led away, his thoughts whirling. Erebor to be conquered and placed under the rule of his vindictive father once more! Bilbo stalked, hunted by Thráin and his ‘bloodhound’--which could be no other than the loathsome Gollum! He felt a desperate need to escape from the stifling palace where the very rocks seemed to reek with blood and pain, to keep Bilbo safe, to keep his kingdom and his people safe--
“We must get to the courtyard!” whispered Arwen, urgent and fierce. “We must save him!”
Estel’s well-being was suddenly a distant third on Thorin’s list of concerns, but he gritted his teeth and followed her through the dim passages, winding through the secret ways.
“No time to free him from his cell,” said Gandalf, his voice tight. “My lady, we may be helpless to do aught but watch as--”
He broke off as Arwen made a small sound, denial and agony threaded through it, and continued forward in silence.
Groping in the dark, they came at last to a wall where dim silver light filtered through viewing-holes from the outside. The scent of jasmine and the sound of water splashing reached Thorin. Gandalf and Arwen were already stooping to look through two sets of peepholes--Arwen’s hands were clenched fists, the whitened knuckles standing out even in the dim light. With a twinge of annoyance Thorin found a box to stand on to raise him high enough to gaze through into the courtyard.
There were five figures in the tableau that met his eyes. Three figures he recognized as King Jetei, Prince Jelme, and the veiled Princess Samur, standing in front of a fountain. In front of them, Il-Qaltun was standing over a figure bound in chains on his knees, secured to a block of marble embedded in the grassy turf. Estel’s hair was hanging in front of his face, hiding his expression, but his body was tense and unbowed.
“If he is who you say,” King Jetei was saying with a worried touch to his voice, “Surely we risk great wrath from Gondor if we--”
“--You are already at war with Gondor, you fool,” snapped Il-Qaltun without looking away from Estel. Jetei winced but said nothing. “Elessar,” she murmured, and her voice was honey and wine. “Aragorn. Ranger. King without a kingdom. Do you know why I have brought you here to this courtyard?”
Estel lifted his head and met her eyes, and Thorin saw the corner of his bruised and bloody mouth twist in a smile. “I assume it’s not for tea,” he said.
She smiled back at him, and the sight made Thorin’s blood congeal. “This is the Courtyard of Dusk,” she said, “And the evening star shines down upon us now. I brought you here that your cursed ancestor Earendil could look down and witness how I will break you this day.” Lifting one foot, she placed it delicately on his neck, forcing his head down beneath it with what seemed like no effort at all. “You shall call me Mistress ere this night is over.” She looked at the royal family, and her smile went from hungry to cold. “Watch, and do not think to question me again.”
Removing her foot, she bent down and took Estel’s face in her long, pale fingers, lifting his chin. She leaned forward until her dark hair fell around them like a curtain, cutting off sight, and Thorin heard Arwen make a choking sound.
Then Il-Qaltun rose suddenly, turning to look at the blade pointed at her ribs. “You dare,” she said, looking at the princess, who stood straight and tall, her eyes fixed on Il-Qaltun--familiar eyes, Thorin realized with a shock.
“I do,” said Kestrel--Princess Samur--ripping aside her veil with her free hand. “You slew my mother and robbed my father of his will, but it stops today. I will not let you have this man.”
Il-Qaltun laughed, and the very water of the fountain seemed touched with ice at the sound. “Foolish child. I had thought to keep you for breeding purposes, but now I see you are more trouble than you are worth.”
Kestrel’s jaw squared, and she shoved the blade home--but Il-Qaltun merely stepped aside somehow, avoiding the blow effortlessly with only a quiver of her silken robes. “Truly?” she said, and her rich low voice held honest amusement. “You think a mortal blade can hurt one who helped to weave the very song that--”
She stopped in surprise as a second blade appeared before her and Prince Jelme stepped forward. Thorin had gotten no strong impression of the young man, and now all he glimpsed were slightly squinty eyes and a weak jaw. But Jelme’s voice was surprisingly steady as he said “Do not threaten my sister.”
Il-Qaltun took a step backward. Then she shook her head with a sigh. “Child, I expected more wisdom from you,” she said.
Stepping forward once more, she brushed the sword from his hand--it flew across the courtyard as if thrown by a catapult at the careless impact of her blow--and took the Prince’s neck in her other hand. There was a crack that turned Thorin’s stomach, and Il-Qaltun tossed the prince’s broken body at his father. “You shall have to make more,” she noted as King Jetei crumpled to the ground in horrified shock, cradling his son’s body. “But I have the means to renew even your vigor, old man.”
Thorin looked away from the horrific scene, where Kestrel was staring in blank horror and Estel was straining against the chains that held him to the ground, his face a rictus of fury--and realized that Arwen and Gandalf were gone.
Whirling, he scrambled toward the exit of the passages to follow them.
He burst into the courtyard to find Gandalf and Arwen standing on either side of Estel, facing down Il-Qaltun. Jetei was sobbing, his head bent over his son, oblivious to all but his grief. Kestrel knelt beside him, holding his shoulders. There was a silence, broken only by the chirping of some night insect in the jasmine.
“You shall not have him,” said Arwen, and her voice was steel and trumpets. “You shall have none of these people. Begone, back to the darkness, servant of Sauron!”
Il-Qaltun arched one dark eyebrow. “Servant?” she crooned, taking a swaying step forward as if dancing. Her eyes flicked to Gandalf. “Your companion could tell you how very wrong you are. But no matter.” Her silvery eyes narrowed, and there was a feral hunger and bitter hatred in them. “If this Ranger’s blood smells of his filthy ancestors, yours reeks of them, elf! The stench gives you away, descendant of cursed Lúthien!”
With a fluid motion, she threw open her silken black cloak--but to Thorin’s sick horror, it did not fall to the ground. Instead it rose up against the night sky like sails in a wind, and Thorin realized it was not cloth but wings: great black wings like a bat’s, sweeping up on either side of her exultant face, blotting out the pale stars. “A night of sweet revenge this is,” she murmured, looking at Arwen. “A night of vengeance and blood, spawn of my foe.”
Gandalf spoke for the first time, his voice shaking as he gazed at the dark-winged figure before them. “Thuringwëthil,” he said. “The vampire servant of Morgoth himself.”
(no subject)
Date: 2015-03-31 06:04 am (UTC)And OMG Thuringwethil, I was NOT anticipating that, then again for the last several chapters my Did My Thesis On The Lay of Luthien brain has not been switched on, and that's my own fault. I love that Sauron isn't the only ranking minion of Morgoth's in your version of events, it always bothered me (from a narrative perspective that is) that the rest just sort of quietly hung back and let Sauron do his thing in canon.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-03-31 11:40 am (UTC)Hee! I was wondering if you'd twigged to that! If you'd been at the top of your game I'm sure you would have wondered why Aragorn suddenly felt the need to talk about that particular section of the Lay a few chapters ago... :)
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-30 09:29 pm (UTC)You can just feel how worried she is for her mortal beloved even if she knows he can take care of himself. I don't think that awareness would ever completely leave her.
“Once Erebor is taken, my troops will fall back before your Ironfists.”
Dammnit
“He feels it, and it is a continual torment to him.
Wait. Gollum???!!!precious Oh Eru, yes Gollum!
He was drawn to the Ring of Durin that I yet wield,
Ooooh interesting theory!
It seemed to Thorin that he father
should be „his father“
“Therefore, I must assume that your ‘colleague’--you seem to mislike the word ‘master’--has forbidden you to take possession of a Ring of Power.”
Ah interesting info about how Sauron treats his pawns ETA: Ah but she is not merely a pawn, she's a Maia, too! So colleague is appropriate!
his blood yet stinks of the taint of of ancient ancestors, elves and Maiar both.
Oh Eru, I hope she didn't mean that literally!!!!
Thorin wanted to watch him longer,
Aw no, poor Thorin. He still wants to look at his father even after what he has become...
“My lady, we may be helpless to do aught but watch as--”
Please no!
With a twinge of annoyance Thorin found a box to stand on to raise him high enough to gaze through into the courtyard.
Ah. Greetings from Helm's Deep *g*
“And the evening star shines down upon us now. I brought you here that your cursed ancestor Earendil could look down and witness how I will break you this day.”
ARGH ösdjfaödkfjhasdknbmf,ambd
“I do,” said Kestrel--Princess Samur
Ah I spoilered myself on that one by reading a stray comment...
“You think a mortal blade can hurt one who helped to weave the very song that--”
Ooooooooh Maia!!!!!!!!! That will be a difficult one to get to her.
There was a crack that turned Thorin’s stomach
OH ERU
“Thuringwëthil,” he said. “The vampire servant of Morgoth himself.”
Oooooookay. Really need to get to the Silmarillion.
*wibbles * off to the next chapter! I mean Gandalf is a Maia, too but...
(no subject)
Date: 2015-09-01 05:47 pm (UTC)It's been fascinating to write Arwen in this world--fretting over Aragorn,not quite able to let it go, always wanting to jump in and save him.:)
Ooof, thanks for the typo checks, what was my beta thinking?
Ah. Greetings from Helm's Deep *g*
*grin* I can't resist it now and then--and Arwen and Gandalf are UNUSUALLY tall!
Thuringwethil is SO COOL, and it was fun to write her--she gets only a few lines in the Silmarillion, but they're awesome ones!