Clarity of Purpose, Chapter 28
Jun. 20th, 2015 01:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mithenTitle: Clarity of Purpose, Chap. 28
Chapter Summary: Thorin and Bilbo start their run to Mount Doom, and the other members of the Fellowship begin to move toward the Black Gate, and Sauron's army waiting there.
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: 2100
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.
From this point the story splits asunder for a time. The author of the Red Book of Westmarch--quite understandably--wrote most intimately of the path taken by Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins in their desperate run to Mount Doom. For the experiences of the other members of the Fellowship, this narrative has had to rely on histories and songs to piece together a picture of those great and world-changing events. The banners in the breeze, the sound of trumpets, the lone figure standing on the Black Gate with the wind in her hair--
But the story is getting ahead of itself a little, isn’t it?
Back up. For now, follow the remnants of the Fellowship in their offensive against the rear of Sauron’s forces, as they drive toward the Isenmouthe and the Iron Gate, beyond which the forces of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth assemble for their final stand.
“This is a mad venture,” said Gimli in an undertone to Legolas as he looked over the ragtag group they were traveling with, their ribs showing through the rags they were clothed in. “They are armed with scythes and sticks against the armies of Mordor!"
"They have acquitted themselves well so far, have they not?"
Gimli glared at him. "The past days have been mere skirmishes against lightly-armed supply lines. It is nothing like a battle against a standing army, and well you know it. When we reach Sauron's flank, we must cut through a horde of orcs in full armor to reach the Black Gate. Our role here is merely to throw Mordor's army into disarray in order to give the forces of Gondor and Rohan a better chance."
"The armies of the West have no hope of prevailing either, if Bilbo and Thorin fail in their quest. We are all merely distractions and diversions."
"At least their distraction wields swords rather than ploughshares! We lead lambs to the slaughter and I do not like it.”
“Soft, Gimli,” said Legolas. "I thought dwarves understood pride, and stubbornness, and doomed stands against impossible odds? Your people do not have a monopoly on such things, after all.”
Gimli snorted. “I’ve heard a thing or two about the desperate last stands of the elves as well,” he said. Then he sighed. “I simply prefer my gloriously doomed gestures to be more well-armored.”
Legolas looked at him for a long, level moment, then nodded. "We shall keep as many safe as we can."
Gimli made a grumbling sound of annoyance--aimed perhaps at Legolas, but perhaps also at his relief that the elf understood him. "Don't go thinking that will slow me down in our count!" he said. "I'm ahead and I intend to stay that way."
Legolas patted his bow. "We shall see about that."
“Show me again, Lady Dís.”
Dís reached out and adjusted Muranu’s hands on the haft of his hammer. “Shift your weight like this,” she said, “And put your shoulders into it more.”
Bracing his feet against the ground, he swung the hammer against the makeshift post, this time connecting with a thunk. “Ay-ya, Lady!” he cried, “So shall the enemies of Nurn fall before me!”
Dís smiled. “You may call me simply ‘Dís,’” she said. “Keep practicing, I shall watch from over there.”
As Muranu continued swinging wildly at his post, Dís made her way to where Arwen was sitting and sewing by the meagre campfire. “He should not have come,” she sighed as she sat down next to her companion. “He is barely more than a boy!”
“His parents died years ago at the hands of the orcs, and he wishes to strike a blow against their killers,” said Arwen. “Would you deny him the chance?”
“Perhaps,” said Dís heavily. She gazed at Muranu and beyond him to the north, and her eyes were sad. "He reminds me rather of my sons when they were boys. And now they are besieged by an army, far away, with no aid to come to them.”
“I have never visited the Lonely Mountain,” said Arwen after a silence. “One day you will have to show me its wonders.”
“And one day when you are Queen of Gondor you will have to show me the beauties of Minas Tirith,” said Dís. “Oh, do not bother to dissemble,” she said with some amount of affectionate exasperation when Arwen opened her mouth. “I have seen the design you are embroidering into that banner in my history books, and I have seen the way you look at that Thorongil, and I can put things together.” She chuckled low under her breath and stroked her beard. “You have my thanks for trying to cheer me up, however.”
Arwen looked down at the shining star she was working on, touched it lightly with a finger. Then she smiled and said, “I still do not agree that an orcish lieutenant is worth a full seven points.”
The corners of Dís’s mouth twitched. “Once we encounter one and slay him, we will discuss how many points we feel he was worth.”
“That seems fair,” said Arwen.
In the vanguard, the very front lines of the ragtag army making its scattered way west, Théoden and Denethor were looking up at the slopes of Orodruin, Mount Doom.
“That little hobbit will have to climb that mountain?” Denethor said, staring at the summit lit with sullen red light. “We are all doomed.”
“Come now, you know ‘that little hobbit’ has traveled more of Middle Earth than you and I have,” said Théoden. “Have faith in him, brother.”
Denethor raised an eyebrow at “brother,” but didn’t contradict him. Instead, he sighed, looking up at the scarlet, molten light. “Faith has never been something I have needed to rely on,” he said. “My tactical skills, my intelligence, my knowledge, yes. Now you ask me to have faith in a hobbit, faith in your father, faith in Thorongil of all people.” He shook his head, turning away from Mount Doom. “He passed the test that I would have failed,” he murmured, more to himself than to Théoden. “Perhaps...perhaps it is time."
“Test? Time?” Théoden looked puzzled. “I understand it troubles you that your father admires him so, but he is merely a skilled soldier. Why do you place such weight on him?”
Denethor stared at him for a long moment. Then he started to laugh, and laughed so hard that he had to lean on a mystified Théoden to stay upright, and would not tell him what was so amusing.
“Something stirs in the east,” said Pallando, gazing back the way the Fellowship had come.
“A force for good or for evil?” asked Estel, looking up from the armor he was tending.
Pallando frowned. “I know not. It feels…” He frowned as he held out a strip of dried meat for his falcon to snatch and gulp down, then shook his head. “Like a wind, rising. More than that I cannot say.”
Estel looked back down at the leather beneath his hands. “With the vampire defeated, I have faith that Queen Samur will not send her troops to support Mordor. Perhaps in the future Saynshar and Gondor can even be allies. I sense much potential for good there.”
“Indeed,” said Pallando. “Whoever rules Minas Tirith in the future would do well to foster stronger relations between the two nations.”
“Steward Ecthelion is a wise man,” said Estel, “and his son is a great strategist. I doubt they will waste the opportunity…” His voice trailed off at the look the wizard was giving him, and he sighed.
“Why have you not proclaimed yourself, Heir of Isildur?” said Pallando.
A spray of gold-red light jetted upward from distant Mount Doom, as if in response to the name, and Estel gave the looming mountain an uneasy look. “Denethor is young and bold, and could well be a capable ruler of Gondor.”
“But he is not its proper king.”
“Better a competent steward and a land at peace than a ‘proper’ king and a land ravaged by civil war!”
Pallando shook his head. “You underestimate Denethor, I think.”
“Perhaps you do as well, in a different way,” said Estel. He stood abruptly, putting aside his tools, and the falcon startled at the movement, beating its wings. “And perhaps this is all a moot point; perhaps neither of us shall survive the coming days. My mind is on the battles ahead, not on the finer points of lineage and succession.”
“You know that Mithrandir would tell you that the true king must be restored.”
A shadow of pain crossed Estel’s face. “Mithrandir is not here, for he died defending me.” He nodded to Pallando. “I must rest; at dawn we strike out once more for the Black Gate.”
The falcon, looking after him, let out a small, plaintive cry; Pallando smoothed the feathers on its head and sighed.
“Tell me again,” said Thorin. “Tell me what foods can be had at the Harvest Feast.”
He and Bilbo were huddled in the crevice created by two boulders leaning on each other. Ever since the climb up to the Plateau of Gorgoroth, the gentle green fields of Nurn had given way to a plain of ash and rock, bare of vegetation. The air around them reeked with sulphur, brimstone-sharp. They had moved steadily, stopping to rest only when Bilbo could walk no further. Now and then they had met patrols of orcs, but had either managed to bluff their way through or--in one notable instance--Thorin had managed to leave an entire scouting party strewn and broken behind them.
“They roast a pig,” Bilbo said, resting his forehead on one of the few smooth spots on Thorin’s ugly orc-armor. “They roast it until the skin is crisp and the meat is tender, and they serve it with broiled chestnuts and rolls fresh from the oven, slathered with butter.” He chuckled weakly. “I feel a bit roasted myself at the moment.”
One strong arm encircled him and held him close. “What do they serve in the Shire to cool down on a hot day, then?”
“Oh, apple juice,” Bilbo sighed. “Served over ice stored in cellars since the winter. Mint and cucumber salad, with lots of dill. Melons placed in nets in streams to keep them cool, until they’re cut open and feasted on, all chilled and green.” He shuddered. “Nothing green here,” he murmured. “Nothing but fire, and ash, and the Eye, looking for us.”
Thorin shifted, putting one hand to the back of Bilbo’s head and cradling it against his chest. “It will not find us,” he murmured, and for a long time they simply rested against each other.
When Bilbo spoke again his voice was a hoarse whisper. “Thorin,” he said, then stopped, swallowing hard. “Thorin,” he said again, “I’m afraid. Not--not of dying,” he added, “but I’m afraid...it’s so hard to think of letting it go,” he managed to blurt out. “I’ve had it so long, and I know, I know it needs to be destroyed, and I want to, but sometimes…” He sobbed once, feeling it tear at his chest, and the weight resting there throbbed as if in mockery. “What if I can’t do it?”
Thorin took his shoulders and moved him away just enough that he could meet Bilbo’s eyes. His own were storm-dark and solemn; Bilbo remembered suddenly that he once had compared them to the sea, and now they seemed as depthless and as strong as those waves.
“Bilbo Baggins of the Shire,” he said, “I swear to you, upon the stones of my ancestors, that if it seems you will waver in your quest, I shall myself hurl you into the Cracks of Doom.”
Bilbo blinked at him, waiting to see if this was some kind of dwarvish joke, but Thorin’s face was solemn and serious. A laugh warred in Bilbo’s chest with an intense rush of relief, and he smiled up at Thorin through sudden tears. “I wouldn’t envy you having to explain to Estel what happened to me,” he said.
Thorin brushed the tears from Bilbo’s lashes with gentle fingers. “Ah, heart’s-ease, you misunderstand me,” he murmured, “I swore I would not leave your side again, did I not?”
He smiled, and gazing in his eyes Bilbo felt his heart fill with some strange wild grace, and a peace beyond reason, beyond understanding.
“Do not think for a moment, Bilbo, that you would fall alone.”
Chapter Summary: Thorin and Bilbo start their run to Mount Doom, and the other members of the Fellowship begin to move toward the Black Gate, and Sauron's army waiting there.
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: 2100
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.
From this point the story splits asunder for a time. The author of the Red Book of Westmarch--quite understandably--wrote most intimately of the path taken by Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins in their desperate run to Mount Doom. For the experiences of the other members of the Fellowship, this narrative has had to rely on histories and songs to piece together a picture of those great and world-changing events. The banners in the breeze, the sound of trumpets, the lone figure standing on the Black Gate with the wind in her hair--
But the story is getting ahead of itself a little, isn’t it?
Back up. For now, follow the remnants of the Fellowship in their offensive against the rear of Sauron’s forces, as they drive toward the Isenmouthe and the Iron Gate, beyond which the forces of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth assemble for their final stand.
“This is a mad venture,” said Gimli in an undertone to Legolas as he looked over the ragtag group they were traveling with, their ribs showing through the rags they were clothed in. “They are armed with scythes and sticks against the armies of Mordor!"
"They have acquitted themselves well so far, have they not?"
Gimli glared at him. "The past days have been mere skirmishes against lightly-armed supply lines. It is nothing like a battle against a standing army, and well you know it. When we reach Sauron's flank, we must cut through a horde of orcs in full armor to reach the Black Gate. Our role here is merely to throw Mordor's army into disarray in order to give the forces of Gondor and Rohan a better chance."
"The armies of the West have no hope of prevailing either, if Bilbo and Thorin fail in their quest. We are all merely distractions and diversions."
"At least their distraction wields swords rather than ploughshares! We lead lambs to the slaughter and I do not like it.”
“Soft, Gimli,” said Legolas. "I thought dwarves understood pride, and stubbornness, and doomed stands against impossible odds? Your people do not have a monopoly on such things, after all.”
Gimli snorted. “I’ve heard a thing or two about the desperate last stands of the elves as well,” he said. Then he sighed. “I simply prefer my gloriously doomed gestures to be more well-armored.”
Legolas looked at him for a long, level moment, then nodded. "We shall keep as many safe as we can."
Gimli made a grumbling sound of annoyance--aimed perhaps at Legolas, but perhaps also at his relief that the elf understood him. "Don't go thinking that will slow me down in our count!" he said. "I'm ahead and I intend to stay that way."
Legolas patted his bow. "We shall see about that."
“Show me again, Lady Dís.”
Dís reached out and adjusted Muranu’s hands on the haft of his hammer. “Shift your weight like this,” she said, “And put your shoulders into it more.”
Bracing his feet against the ground, he swung the hammer against the makeshift post, this time connecting with a thunk. “Ay-ya, Lady!” he cried, “So shall the enemies of Nurn fall before me!”
Dís smiled. “You may call me simply ‘Dís,’” she said. “Keep practicing, I shall watch from over there.”
As Muranu continued swinging wildly at his post, Dís made her way to where Arwen was sitting and sewing by the meagre campfire. “He should not have come,” she sighed as she sat down next to her companion. “He is barely more than a boy!”
“His parents died years ago at the hands of the orcs, and he wishes to strike a blow against their killers,” said Arwen. “Would you deny him the chance?”
“Perhaps,” said Dís heavily. She gazed at Muranu and beyond him to the north, and her eyes were sad. "He reminds me rather of my sons when they were boys. And now they are besieged by an army, far away, with no aid to come to them.”
“I have never visited the Lonely Mountain,” said Arwen after a silence. “One day you will have to show me its wonders.”
“And one day when you are Queen of Gondor you will have to show me the beauties of Minas Tirith,” said Dís. “Oh, do not bother to dissemble,” she said with some amount of affectionate exasperation when Arwen opened her mouth. “I have seen the design you are embroidering into that banner in my history books, and I have seen the way you look at that Thorongil, and I can put things together.” She chuckled low under her breath and stroked her beard. “You have my thanks for trying to cheer me up, however.”
Arwen looked down at the shining star she was working on, touched it lightly with a finger. Then she smiled and said, “I still do not agree that an orcish lieutenant is worth a full seven points.”
The corners of Dís’s mouth twitched. “Once we encounter one and slay him, we will discuss how many points we feel he was worth.”
“That seems fair,” said Arwen.
In the vanguard, the very front lines of the ragtag army making its scattered way west, Théoden and Denethor were looking up at the slopes of Orodruin, Mount Doom.
“That little hobbit will have to climb that mountain?” Denethor said, staring at the summit lit with sullen red light. “We are all doomed.”
“Come now, you know ‘that little hobbit’ has traveled more of Middle Earth than you and I have,” said Théoden. “Have faith in him, brother.”
Denethor raised an eyebrow at “brother,” but didn’t contradict him. Instead, he sighed, looking up at the scarlet, molten light. “Faith has never been something I have needed to rely on,” he said. “My tactical skills, my intelligence, my knowledge, yes. Now you ask me to have faith in a hobbit, faith in your father, faith in Thorongil of all people.” He shook his head, turning away from Mount Doom. “He passed the test that I would have failed,” he murmured, more to himself than to Théoden. “Perhaps...perhaps it is time."
“Test? Time?” Théoden looked puzzled. “I understand it troubles you that your father admires him so, but he is merely a skilled soldier. Why do you place such weight on him?”
Denethor stared at him for a long moment. Then he started to laugh, and laughed so hard that he had to lean on a mystified Théoden to stay upright, and would not tell him what was so amusing.
“Something stirs in the east,” said Pallando, gazing back the way the Fellowship had come.
“A force for good or for evil?” asked Estel, looking up from the armor he was tending.
Pallando frowned. “I know not. It feels…” He frowned as he held out a strip of dried meat for his falcon to snatch and gulp down, then shook his head. “Like a wind, rising. More than that I cannot say.”
Estel looked back down at the leather beneath his hands. “With the vampire defeated, I have faith that Queen Samur will not send her troops to support Mordor. Perhaps in the future Saynshar and Gondor can even be allies. I sense much potential for good there.”
“Indeed,” said Pallando. “Whoever rules Minas Tirith in the future would do well to foster stronger relations between the two nations.”
“Steward Ecthelion is a wise man,” said Estel, “and his son is a great strategist. I doubt they will waste the opportunity…” His voice trailed off at the look the wizard was giving him, and he sighed.
“Why have you not proclaimed yourself, Heir of Isildur?” said Pallando.
A spray of gold-red light jetted upward from distant Mount Doom, as if in response to the name, and Estel gave the looming mountain an uneasy look. “Denethor is young and bold, and could well be a capable ruler of Gondor.”
“But he is not its proper king.”
“Better a competent steward and a land at peace than a ‘proper’ king and a land ravaged by civil war!”
Pallando shook his head. “You underestimate Denethor, I think.”
“Perhaps you do as well, in a different way,” said Estel. He stood abruptly, putting aside his tools, and the falcon startled at the movement, beating its wings. “And perhaps this is all a moot point; perhaps neither of us shall survive the coming days. My mind is on the battles ahead, not on the finer points of lineage and succession.”
“You know that Mithrandir would tell you that the true king must be restored.”
A shadow of pain crossed Estel’s face. “Mithrandir is not here, for he died defending me.” He nodded to Pallando. “I must rest; at dawn we strike out once more for the Black Gate.”
The falcon, looking after him, let out a small, plaintive cry; Pallando smoothed the feathers on its head and sighed.
“Tell me again,” said Thorin. “Tell me what foods can be had at the Harvest Feast.”
He and Bilbo were huddled in the crevice created by two boulders leaning on each other. Ever since the climb up to the Plateau of Gorgoroth, the gentle green fields of Nurn had given way to a plain of ash and rock, bare of vegetation. The air around them reeked with sulphur, brimstone-sharp. They had moved steadily, stopping to rest only when Bilbo could walk no further. Now and then they had met patrols of orcs, but had either managed to bluff their way through or--in one notable instance--Thorin had managed to leave an entire scouting party strewn and broken behind them.
“They roast a pig,” Bilbo said, resting his forehead on one of the few smooth spots on Thorin’s ugly orc-armor. “They roast it until the skin is crisp and the meat is tender, and they serve it with broiled chestnuts and rolls fresh from the oven, slathered with butter.” He chuckled weakly. “I feel a bit roasted myself at the moment.”
One strong arm encircled him and held him close. “What do they serve in the Shire to cool down on a hot day, then?”
“Oh, apple juice,” Bilbo sighed. “Served over ice stored in cellars since the winter. Mint and cucumber salad, with lots of dill. Melons placed in nets in streams to keep them cool, until they’re cut open and feasted on, all chilled and green.” He shuddered. “Nothing green here,” he murmured. “Nothing but fire, and ash, and the Eye, looking for us.”
Thorin shifted, putting one hand to the back of Bilbo’s head and cradling it against his chest. “It will not find us,” he murmured, and for a long time they simply rested against each other.
When Bilbo spoke again his voice was a hoarse whisper. “Thorin,” he said, then stopped, swallowing hard. “Thorin,” he said again, “I’m afraid. Not--not of dying,” he added, “but I’m afraid...it’s so hard to think of letting it go,” he managed to blurt out. “I’ve had it so long, and I know, I know it needs to be destroyed, and I want to, but sometimes…” He sobbed once, feeling it tear at his chest, and the weight resting there throbbed as if in mockery. “What if I can’t do it?”
Thorin took his shoulders and moved him away just enough that he could meet Bilbo’s eyes. His own were storm-dark and solemn; Bilbo remembered suddenly that he once had compared them to the sea, and now they seemed as depthless and as strong as those waves.
“Bilbo Baggins of the Shire,” he said, “I swear to you, upon the stones of my ancestors, that if it seems you will waver in your quest, I shall myself hurl you into the Cracks of Doom.”
Bilbo blinked at him, waiting to see if this was some kind of dwarvish joke, but Thorin’s face was solemn and serious. A laugh warred in Bilbo’s chest with an intense rush of relief, and he smiled up at Thorin through sudden tears. “I wouldn’t envy you having to explain to Estel what happened to me,” he said.
Thorin brushed the tears from Bilbo’s lashes with gentle fingers. “Ah, heart’s-ease, you misunderstand me,” he murmured, “I swore I would not leave your side again, did I not?”
He smiled, and gazing in his eyes Bilbo felt his heart fill with some strange wild grace, and a peace beyond reason, beyond understanding.
“Do not think for a moment, Bilbo, that you would fall alone.”
(no subject)
Date: 2015-07-14 06:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2015-07-16 09:57 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2015-12-28 06:06 pm (UTC)Aw bless Gimli for being worried about their group.
“I have never visited the Lonely Mountain,” said Arwen after a silence. “One day you will have to show me its wonders.”
“And one day when you are Queen of Gondor you will have to show me the beauties of Minas Tirith,”
OOOOH appendixes!!!!!
“Have faith in him, brother.”
Denethor raised an eyebrow at “brother,” but didn’t contradict him.
*smooshes them *
Poor Théoden is still clueless about Aragorn – the only one in the fellowship now, no?
“Steward Ecthelion is a wise man,” said Estel, “and his son is a great strategist. I doubt they will waste the opportunity…” His voice trailed off at the look the wizard was giving him, and he sighed.
BUSTED
“Tell me again,” said Thorin. “Tell me what foods can be had at the Harvest Feast.”
Excellent start.
“but I’m afraid...it’s so hard to think of letting it go,” he managed to blurt out.
If only Frodo could have had that level of trust in Sam...
I shall myself hurl you into the Cracks of Doom.”
*blinks* Oh Eru. Oh Eru! And then jump in after, I reckon. ARGH
GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
That whole last scene........ GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
*is ded*
(no subject)
Date: 2016-01-10 02:00 am (UTC)Poor Théoden is still clueless about Aragorn – the only one in the fellowship now, no?
I think he is pretty much the last! I imagine he took in stride and just laughed when he found out...
Mmmm, movie!Aragorn is so fun to write! His doubts and hesitations come...really easily, I have to say. :)
*hugs* Your comments make me so happy!
(no subject)
Date: 2016-02-17 08:25 pm (UTC)There's isn't enough capslock in the world to express my feelings about your portrayal of their relationship.
Thorin brushed the tears from Bilbo’s lashes with gentle fingers. “Ah, heart’s-ease, you misunderstand me,” he murmured, “I swore I would not leave your side again, did I not?”
He smiled, and gazing in his eyes Bilbo felt his heart fill with some strange wild grace, and a peace beyond reason, beyond understanding.
Perfect phrasing, perfect word choices, perfect characterization. You inspire me to strange fancies, I want to give you a crown made of heart's ease and jewels Queen-of-this-ship.