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Clarity of Purpose 27
Title: Clarity of Purpose, Chap. 27
Chapter Summary: The Fellowship prepares to start its final push to Mount Doom, and Thorin comes to a hard decision.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo, Arwen, Aragorn, Denethor, Theoden, Gimli, Dis, Legolas
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: 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 have few weapons, and no armor,” said Daon. He was standing with most of the Fellowship, gazing off to the West. In daylight, Thorin could see the Plateau of Gorgoroth in the distance, a bleak ash-gray wall rising up from the green fields. “The strength of Nurn lies in numbers. And in desperation,” he added grimly. “We have little to lose, at this point.” He looked around the rice fields filled with tender shoots, rippling in the spring breeze. “I have sent out messengers to many villages, asking them to send their able-bodied adults here for the last stand of Nurn.”
“When will they get here?” asked Denethor.
“It will take a few days for them to gather, I think. Most villages have a secret store of poison that they can use to sicken the overseers before attempting to kill them. Even with that, many people of Nurn will die before battle can even be joined, merely for the chance to gather here.”
He tugged on his beard, a shadow crossing his face, and Estel rested a hand on his shoulder briefly. “Your people have already joined the battle against evil every time they have ever resisted, or hampered Sauron’s expansion in any way. We are not all granted grand moments and heroic gestures.”
“That’s five for me!” Gimli’s voice rang out as he and Legolas came running along the bank. “Another scout dead by my axe, elf, and I’m ahead again.”
“If Arwen had not stolen my kill this morning, we would be tied,” snapped Legolas.
“It’s not a competition, you preening coxcombs,” said Dís as she and Arwen came up behind them. “Besides which, if it were, I would be ahead of all of you.”
“How exactly do you reckon that?” said Arwen, laughing. “Gimli has five, Legolas and I four each, and you only two.”
“Ah,” said Dís, “but you are measuring by quantity, not quality. This seems simplistic to me. Surely we can agree that an overseer is worth three scouts? I have killed two overseers, so my true total is six.”
“The brute I killed yesterday was an overseer,” Gimli said. “Which puts me, by your own reckoning, at seven--my Lady,” he added hastily as her expression went stormy.
Dís chewed her lower lip for a moment, then laughed. “Very well,” she said, “I shall grant you your seven, but I shall soon overtake you once more.”
The four of them wandered off, bickering about whether or not a foot soldier was worth one or two points, and if the head of a squad was the equal of all the soldiers within that squad.
“We are lucky,” said Thorin, turning his attention back to the distant plateau, “that the scrutiny of Sauron is focused West, on the coming battle with Minas Tirith.”
Denethor made a pained noise. “I do not like to think of my father fighting for his life as a mere distraction,” he said. “Mind you, I doubt not that he will prevail! But the loss of life will be so high. So many good soldiers dead, and I am here and unable to help them…” He swallowed hard and Thorin had the impression he was keeping himself from looking at Bilbo with an effort. For his part, Bilbo was gazing toward the west; he seemed to not be paying attention, but Thorin saw him glance sideways quickly at Denethor and take a step closer to Thorin.
“The warriors of Rohan will be there to help as well!” Théoden announced, clapping Denethor on the back. “My father will not fail to send his best to aid Ecthelion, never fear.”
Denethor opened his mouth as if to say something caustic, then closed it again. “That...is a comfort,” he murmured, and sounded sincere enough that Théoden blinked at him.
“What do we do now?” murmured Bilbo.
“We wait,” said Estel. “We have no choice,” he said as Théoden, Denethor, and Bilbo all protested, frowned, or winced. “Above the Plateau of Gorgoroth lies nothing but fields of barren ash and plains of black glass. We could never pass unnoticed. We must have the aid of the people of Nurn.”
“But we’re so close,” sighed Bilbo. “So close to being rid of this cursed thing.” He touched a hand to his heart. “It feels like it grows heavier with every step I take,” he murmured. For a moment, his face was creased with pain, and Thorin remembered abruptly that he was not a young hobbit, that the Ring had kept him hale and hearty long past his prime. Then there was a trumpeting noise, and Bilbo jumped and whirled--and his face lit up with delight.
“Belit!” Daon called to the woman leading the great gray beast that dwarfed the huts of the people of Nurn. “You were able to get away with your charge, I see!”
The woman--Belit, it seemed--smiled and drew closer, and the earth trembled beneath the footfalls of the olifaunt following behind her. “Shala and I are happy to finally have a chance to use all her training against our oppressors,” she said. “You need not be afraid of Shala, friends,” she announced to the fellowship, waving at the massive animal behind her. “She may be large, but she is--”
“Oh, you beauty.” Bilbo was saying, already patting the long gray trunk of the olifaunt. It batted great liquid eyes fringed with impossibly long lashes at him and used its trunk to ruffle his hair. He seemed perfectly at ease, but Thorin felt uneasy at his closeness to feet that could probably squash him to a jelly without thinking. “May I ride him?” Bilbo asked Belit.
“Forgive me, sir hobbit,” she said, pronouncing the word as if it were alien to her--which it certainly was, “But Shala and I must get the tents she carries to the field, to use as shelter for the newcomers.”
“Ah, of course,” said Bilbo, giving Shala’s trunk a last pat before watching her make her swaying way past him. “Good girl.”
“So we wait,” said Denethor. “But of all the things I have had to do on this quest, this seems the most difficult.”
Indeed, waiting seemed the hardest task of all. The Fellowship kept busy helping with the fields, hunting orcs, and aiding refugees--and as the days passed, the number of people entering the town swelled from a trickle into a steady stream. And not just able-bodied adults, but children and the elderly, offspring and elders of those who refused to leave them behind to suffer. Soon all of the party’s stores of lembas, cram, and dried fish were gone, and Bilbo had to cinch his belt more than two holes more tightly. The fields were filled with tents, the tents filled with starving people, their hands gnarled and backs bent with decades of toil--and yet there was an electric energy in the air, something nearly like hope. People smiled and laughed over their meagre food, and when the wind shifted and gray ash drifted out of the west in a fine haze that coated everything, they merely knocked it off their tents and moved on.
Bilbo wished he could feel the same resiliency of spirit, but the days of waiting wore badly on him. He felt jumpy, like someone was watching him all the time, and he found his hand creeping to cup the Ring around his neck more often than he would like. It seemed everyone was looking at him oddly, even with suspicion, and he began to wonder if perhaps they were talking behind his back, perhaps even planning to take the Ring away and give it to someone more worthy to destroy it, someone stronger and braver--
When his thoughts started circling like this, he would seek out Thorin. And Thorin, no matter what he was doing--discussing strategy with Dís and Gimli, helping to set up a tent, showing the people of Nurn how to properly wield a pole as a weapon--would make his excuses and rise and walk with him through the fields without speaking, hand in hand. Or he would sit with his arms around Bilbo and ask him to talk about the Shire, to describe the fields in spring and the petty quarrels between his neighbors, until the feeling passed. He never asked for an explanation from Bilbo, he never tried to cheer him up or reassure him--he was merely there.
It was, at times, enough.
“It has been a while since all of us were in the same place,” said Thorin, looking around the faces of each of the Fellowship. “I have called you here to discuss in private our plans, as tomorrow the final push begins.”
He pointed to the map drawn on the table. “The forces of Nurn are not strong enough for a sustained frontal assault on the Mordor, even with Sauron’s attention focused toward Gondor. So we fight in small groups, striking against the supply lines and scouting parties of the orcs, moving fast and deep into the heart of Mordor. We move without a centralized command, striking and running when we can, always moving west.”
They knew all this, but Thorin found himself explaining it anyway, if only to put off the inevitable moment when… Well, this next set of information was new, at least.
“Dís and Arwen, you will be in the southern flank. Gimli and Legolas on the north. Denethor and Théoden will be in the vanguard.” The two men looked torn between pleasure at being front and center and displeasure at having to work together. “Pallando and Estel, you’ll be in the center.”
The two nodded gravely.
“And we meet up here at the foot of Mount Doom, I presume,” Denethor said, drawing a line on the map with his finger.
“No,” said Thorin. “The rest of you will press onward, west and north, harrying the forces of Sauron as you go. You will make for the Black Gate and give your aid to the armies of Rohan and Gondor on the other side.” He took a deep breath. “Bilbo and I will go alone to the Cracks of Doom. We leave this very night, after this conference, with no fanfare and none the wiser.”
There were inhalations of shock around the table, expressions of disbelief and protest. Dís leaned forward and planted her fists on the table, glowering, and beside her Gimli crossed his arms and frowned. Only Estel was nodding slowly, looking at Thorin with approval in his eyes.
And beside him, Thorin felt more than heard Bilbo sigh in relief, his shoulders sagging ever so slightly.
Denethor was shaking his head, his keen gray eyes urgent. “This is madness,” he said. “You cannot hope to win your way alone to Orodruin!”
“On the contrary,” Thorin said, “It is as a group that we have not the faintest hope of approaching the mountain. Bilbo and I will go clad in orc-mail, and as two figures we may be able to avoid detection. As a party...no, it is not possible.”
“You cannot do this,” said Denethor. His voice was ragged, and there was a hectic light in his eyes that Thorin misliked. He whirled and pointed at Estel. “He has given you this council. He hopes to send you away from the rest of the party so that he can follow you and take the Ring for himself!” Moving suddenly to the door, he drew his sword, barring the way. “I cannot let you do this,” he said, his voice cold and steely.
“You know that’s not true,” said Bilbo suddenly, his voice clear and sharp. “Denethor, listen to yourself. You don’t want to want the Ring, but you do. I know you do. I know--what it feels like. And you can’t bear feeling that in your soul, so you accuse Thorongil of it rather than admit your temptation to yourself.” His words were cool and precise, but his eyes on Denethor were full of understanding and a compassion so great it made Thorin’s heart clench. “But it’s not him, Denethor. It’s you. I know it’s hard, but you just have to--to accept it. And get past it.”
“Look at this land, Lord Steward,” said Pallando, spreading his hands to encompass the hovel they met in and beyond. “Starvation and slavery, ash and misery. Nothing of Sauron’s making can bring anything less to your lands. It must pass from us.”
Denethor looked then at Estel, and whether there were tears in his eyes the Red Book of Westmarch does not record. But Estel looked back at him--not as a lord to a lesser, but as a friend--and said: “Think of your lady fair in Dol Amroth. Think of the children you hope to have with her. What kind of world do you want them to inherit? I wish our children to share a world free of tyranny. I swear it to you.”
For a long, terrible moment Denethor stared at him. Then, with a jagged sound like a sob, he sheathed his sword. Bowing his head, he said in a low voice to Thorin: “Go then. If you fail, all my people will drown in blood and ash. Go with all my hopes.”
Thorin looked around the room. Pallando and Arwen looked relieved; Dís and Gimli were staring at him in mingled distress and resignation. Legolas was resting one hand on Gimli’s shoulder. Estel’s eyes were bright as he looked at Bilbo. Only Théoden paid Thorin and Bilbo no heed; he had moved to put his arm around Denethor, and for a moment Denethor leaned against him like a brother.
Bilbo slipped one small hand into Thorin’s. “Can we go now?” he whispered. “Please?”
Thorin looked down at him. There were lines of care around Bilbo’s eyes, and his gaze seemed somehow far away. “Yes, we will start out this very hour,” Thorin said.
Bilbo paused at the door and looked into Denethor’s face. “We won’t fail you,” he said.
And then they went out into the night together.
“I did not speak with you of my plan,” said Thorin, fastening the buckles on the orcish hauberk. The ugly black armor, looted from slain scouts, seemed crass and cruel on Bilbo’s body--and it would provide notably less protection than the light mithril coat hidden beneath it. “I did not want to burden you further. But I should have consulted with you. Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” said Bilbo. “It is the path I hoped we could take, but I was too afraid to say so. You know my heart, as always.”
Thorin knelt on one knee to adjust the buckles on the spiked greaves that covered Bilbo’s legs. Looking up at Bilbo, he said, “From now on it is just the two of us.”
Bilbo’s smile was sad as he leaned to kiss the top of Thorin’s head. “I wish that were so,” he murmured. “But I think we both know better, don’t we?”
Thorin froze.
“I’ve seen him, sometimes, far off in the rice fields at night, his eyes gleaming in the dark like pale lamps,” said Bilbo. “Gollum is stalking us, isn’t he?”
Thorin found that his hands on the buckles were shaking. “And my father with him,” he whispered. “I was hoping, if we traveled light and fast--”
“We’ll try,” said Bilbo. “But I fear our fates are tied up with theirs.” He sighed, and rested his hands on Thorin’s shoulders, looking down at him. “So be it,” he said. “If I am with you, I fear nothing but failure.”
Thorin gazed up into his eyes, seeing in them exhaustion, resignation--and determination. “If I am with you,” he said, “I fear not even that.”
Chapter Summary: The Fellowship prepares to start its final push to Mount Doom, and Thorin comes to a hard decision.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo, Arwen, Aragorn, Denethor, Theoden, Gimli, Dis, Legolas
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: 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 have few weapons, and no armor,” said Daon. He was standing with most of the Fellowship, gazing off to the West. In daylight, Thorin could see the Plateau of Gorgoroth in the distance, a bleak ash-gray wall rising up from the green fields. “The strength of Nurn lies in numbers. And in desperation,” he added grimly. “We have little to lose, at this point.” He looked around the rice fields filled with tender shoots, rippling in the spring breeze. “I have sent out messengers to many villages, asking them to send their able-bodied adults here for the last stand of Nurn.”
“When will they get here?” asked Denethor.
“It will take a few days for them to gather, I think. Most villages have a secret store of poison that they can use to sicken the overseers before attempting to kill them. Even with that, many people of Nurn will die before battle can even be joined, merely for the chance to gather here.”
He tugged on his beard, a shadow crossing his face, and Estel rested a hand on his shoulder briefly. “Your people have already joined the battle against evil every time they have ever resisted, or hampered Sauron’s expansion in any way. We are not all granted grand moments and heroic gestures.”
“That’s five for me!” Gimli’s voice rang out as he and Legolas came running along the bank. “Another scout dead by my axe, elf, and I’m ahead again.”
“If Arwen had not stolen my kill this morning, we would be tied,” snapped Legolas.
“It’s not a competition, you preening coxcombs,” said Dís as she and Arwen came up behind them. “Besides which, if it were, I would be ahead of all of you.”
“How exactly do you reckon that?” said Arwen, laughing. “Gimli has five, Legolas and I four each, and you only two.”
“Ah,” said Dís, “but you are measuring by quantity, not quality. This seems simplistic to me. Surely we can agree that an overseer is worth three scouts? I have killed two overseers, so my true total is six.”
“The brute I killed yesterday was an overseer,” Gimli said. “Which puts me, by your own reckoning, at seven--my Lady,” he added hastily as her expression went stormy.
Dís chewed her lower lip for a moment, then laughed. “Very well,” she said, “I shall grant you your seven, but I shall soon overtake you once more.”
The four of them wandered off, bickering about whether or not a foot soldier was worth one or two points, and if the head of a squad was the equal of all the soldiers within that squad.
“We are lucky,” said Thorin, turning his attention back to the distant plateau, “that the scrutiny of Sauron is focused West, on the coming battle with Minas Tirith.”
Denethor made a pained noise. “I do not like to think of my father fighting for his life as a mere distraction,” he said. “Mind you, I doubt not that he will prevail! But the loss of life will be so high. So many good soldiers dead, and I am here and unable to help them…” He swallowed hard and Thorin had the impression he was keeping himself from looking at Bilbo with an effort. For his part, Bilbo was gazing toward the west; he seemed to not be paying attention, but Thorin saw him glance sideways quickly at Denethor and take a step closer to Thorin.
“The warriors of Rohan will be there to help as well!” Théoden announced, clapping Denethor on the back. “My father will not fail to send his best to aid Ecthelion, never fear.”
Denethor opened his mouth as if to say something caustic, then closed it again. “That...is a comfort,” he murmured, and sounded sincere enough that Théoden blinked at him.
“What do we do now?” murmured Bilbo.
“We wait,” said Estel. “We have no choice,” he said as Théoden, Denethor, and Bilbo all protested, frowned, or winced. “Above the Plateau of Gorgoroth lies nothing but fields of barren ash and plains of black glass. We could never pass unnoticed. We must have the aid of the people of Nurn.”
“But we’re so close,” sighed Bilbo. “So close to being rid of this cursed thing.” He touched a hand to his heart. “It feels like it grows heavier with every step I take,” he murmured. For a moment, his face was creased with pain, and Thorin remembered abruptly that he was not a young hobbit, that the Ring had kept him hale and hearty long past his prime. Then there was a trumpeting noise, and Bilbo jumped and whirled--and his face lit up with delight.
“Belit!” Daon called to the woman leading the great gray beast that dwarfed the huts of the people of Nurn. “You were able to get away with your charge, I see!”
The woman--Belit, it seemed--smiled and drew closer, and the earth trembled beneath the footfalls of the olifaunt following behind her. “Shala and I are happy to finally have a chance to use all her training against our oppressors,” she said. “You need not be afraid of Shala, friends,” she announced to the fellowship, waving at the massive animal behind her. “She may be large, but she is--”
“Oh, you beauty.” Bilbo was saying, already patting the long gray trunk of the olifaunt. It batted great liquid eyes fringed with impossibly long lashes at him and used its trunk to ruffle his hair. He seemed perfectly at ease, but Thorin felt uneasy at his closeness to feet that could probably squash him to a jelly without thinking. “May I ride him?” Bilbo asked Belit.
“Forgive me, sir hobbit,” she said, pronouncing the word as if it were alien to her--which it certainly was, “But Shala and I must get the tents she carries to the field, to use as shelter for the newcomers.”
“Ah, of course,” said Bilbo, giving Shala’s trunk a last pat before watching her make her swaying way past him. “Good girl.”
“So we wait,” said Denethor. “But of all the things I have had to do on this quest, this seems the most difficult.”
Indeed, waiting seemed the hardest task of all. The Fellowship kept busy helping with the fields, hunting orcs, and aiding refugees--and as the days passed, the number of people entering the town swelled from a trickle into a steady stream. And not just able-bodied adults, but children and the elderly, offspring and elders of those who refused to leave them behind to suffer. Soon all of the party’s stores of lembas, cram, and dried fish were gone, and Bilbo had to cinch his belt more than two holes more tightly. The fields were filled with tents, the tents filled with starving people, their hands gnarled and backs bent with decades of toil--and yet there was an electric energy in the air, something nearly like hope. People smiled and laughed over their meagre food, and when the wind shifted and gray ash drifted out of the west in a fine haze that coated everything, they merely knocked it off their tents and moved on.
Bilbo wished he could feel the same resiliency of spirit, but the days of waiting wore badly on him. He felt jumpy, like someone was watching him all the time, and he found his hand creeping to cup the Ring around his neck more often than he would like. It seemed everyone was looking at him oddly, even with suspicion, and he began to wonder if perhaps they were talking behind his back, perhaps even planning to take the Ring away and give it to someone more worthy to destroy it, someone stronger and braver--
When his thoughts started circling like this, he would seek out Thorin. And Thorin, no matter what he was doing--discussing strategy with Dís and Gimli, helping to set up a tent, showing the people of Nurn how to properly wield a pole as a weapon--would make his excuses and rise and walk with him through the fields without speaking, hand in hand. Or he would sit with his arms around Bilbo and ask him to talk about the Shire, to describe the fields in spring and the petty quarrels between his neighbors, until the feeling passed. He never asked for an explanation from Bilbo, he never tried to cheer him up or reassure him--he was merely there.
It was, at times, enough.
“It has been a while since all of us were in the same place,” said Thorin, looking around the faces of each of the Fellowship. “I have called you here to discuss in private our plans, as tomorrow the final push begins.”
He pointed to the map drawn on the table. “The forces of Nurn are not strong enough for a sustained frontal assault on the Mordor, even with Sauron’s attention focused toward Gondor. So we fight in small groups, striking against the supply lines and scouting parties of the orcs, moving fast and deep into the heart of Mordor. We move without a centralized command, striking and running when we can, always moving west.”
They knew all this, but Thorin found himself explaining it anyway, if only to put off the inevitable moment when… Well, this next set of information was new, at least.
“Dís and Arwen, you will be in the southern flank. Gimli and Legolas on the north. Denethor and Théoden will be in the vanguard.” The two men looked torn between pleasure at being front and center and displeasure at having to work together. “Pallando and Estel, you’ll be in the center.”
The two nodded gravely.
“And we meet up here at the foot of Mount Doom, I presume,” Denethor said, drawing a line on the map with his finger.
“No,” said Thorin. “The rest of you will press onward, west and north, harrying the forces of Sauron as you go. You will make for the Black Gate and give your aid to the armies of Rohan and Gondor on the other side.” He took a deep breath. “Bilbo and I will go alone to the Cracks of Doom. We leave this very night, after this conference, with no fanfare and none the wiser.”
There were inhalations of shock around the table, expressions of disbelief and protest. Dís leaned forward and planted her fists on the table, glowering, and beside her Gimli crossed his arms and frowned. Only Estel was nodding slowly, looking at Thorin with approval in his eyes.
And beside him, Thorin felt more than heard Bilbo sigh in relief, his shoulders sagging ever so slightly.
Denethor was shaking his head, his keen gray eyes urgent. “This is madness,” he said. “You cannot hope to win your way alone to Orodruin!”
“On the contrary,” Thorin said, “It is as a group that we have not the faintest hope of approaching the mountain. Bilbo and I will go clad in orc-mail, and as two figures we may be able to avoid detection. As a party...no, it is not possible.”
“You cannot do this,” said Denethor. His voice was ragged, and there was a hectic light in his eyes that Thorin misliked. He whirled and pointed at Estel. “He has given you this council. He hopes to send you away from the rest of the party so that he can follow you and take the Ring for himself!” Moving suddenly to the door, he drew his sword, barring the way. “I cannot let you do this,” he said, his voice cold and steely.
“You know that’s not true,” said Bilbo suddenly, his voice clear and sharp. “Denethor, listen to yourself. You don’t want to want the Ring, but you do. I know you do. I know--what it feels like. And you can’t bear feeling that in your soul, so you accuse Thorongil of it rather than admit your temptation to yourself.” His words were cool and precise, but his eyes on Denethor were full of understanding and a compassion so great it made Thorin’s heart clench. “But it’s not him, Denethor. It’s you. I know it’s hard, but you just have to--to accept it. And get past it.”
“Look at this land, Lord Steward,” said Pallando, spreading his hands to encompass the hovel they met in and beyond. “Starvation and slavery, ash and misery. Nothing of Sauron’s making can bring anything less to your lands. It must pass from us.”
Denethor looked then at Estel, and whether there were tears in his eyes the Red Book of Westmarch does not record. But Estel looked back at him--not as a lord to a lesser, but as a friend--and said: “Think of your lady fair in Dol Amroth. Think of the children you hope to have with her. What kind of world do you want them to inherit? I wish our children to share a world free of tyranny. I swear it to you.”
For a long, terrible moment Denethor stared at him. Then, with a jagged sound like a sob, he sheathed his sword. Bowing his head, he said in a low voice to Thorin: “Go then. If you fail, all my people will drown in blood and ash. Go with all my hopes.”
Thorin looked around the room. Pallando and Arwen looked relieved; Dís and Gimli were staring at him in mingled distress and resignation. Legolas was resting one hand on Gimli’s shoulder. Estel’s eyes were bright as he looked at Bilbo. Only Théoden paid Thorin and Bilbo no heed; he had moved to put his arm around Denethor, and for a moment Denethor leaned against him like a brother.
Bilbo slipped one small hand into Thorin’s. “Can we go now?” he whispered. “Please?”
Thorin looked down at him. There were lines of care around Bilbo’s eyes, and his gaze seemed somehow far away. “Yes, we will start out this very hour,” Thorin said.
Bilbo paused at the door and looked into Denethor’s face. “We won’t fail you,” he said.
And then they went out into the night together.
“I did not speak with you of my plan,” said Thorin, fastening the buckles on the orcish hauberk. The ugly black armor, looted from slain scouts, seemed crass and cruel on Bilbo’s body--and it would provide notably less protection than the light mithril coat hidden beneath it. “I did not want to burden you further. But I should have consulted with you. Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” said Bilbo. “It is the path I hoped we could take, but I was too afraid to say so. You know my heart, as always.”
Thorin knelt on one knee to adjust the buckles on the spiked greaves that covered Bilbo’s legs. Looking up at Bilbo, he said, “From now on it is just the two of us.”
Bilbo’s smile was sad as he leaned to kiss the top of Thorin’s head. “I wish that were so,” he murmured. “But I think we both know better, don’t we?”
Thorin froze.
“I’ve seen him, sometimes, far off in the rice fields at night, his eyes gleaming in the dark like pale lamps,” said Bilbo. “Gollum is stalking us, isn’t he?”
Thorin found that his hands on the buckles were shaking. “And my father with him,” he whispered. “I was hoping, if we traveled light and fast--”
“We’ll try,” said Bilbo. “But I fear our fates are tied up with theirs.” He sighed, and rested his hands on Thorin’s shoulders, looking down at him. “So be it,” he said. “If I am with you, I fear nothing but failure.”
Thorin gazed up into his eyes, seeing in them exhaustion, resignation--and determination. “If I am with you,” he said, “I fear not even that.”