Clarity of Purpose, Chapter 31
Aug. 18th, 2015 07:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mithenTitle: Clarity of Purpose, Chap. 31
Chapter Summary: The final fate of the Ring and the world (and the members of the Fellowship) are decided.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo, Arwen, Gimli, Dis, Legolas, Denethor, Theoden, Thrain, Gollum
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: 2800
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.
Dís and Arwen lay on top of the Black Gate as it swung wide, opening the way into Mordor. With a flourish of trumpets and the snap of banners, the forces of the Free Peoples began to march into Mordor to face down the armies of Sauron.
From the northeast came a ululating cry, and a new force appeared on the horizon--a long row of chariots and horses, led by a woman in sky-blue robes riding an annoyed-looking lion: Bachai and the Wainriders, come to join battle.
They swarmed toward the Gate, and the alarm of the people of Gondor and Rohan quickly turned to jubilation when they realized that these were also allies and not enemies. Together they pushed forward into Mordor, though the orcish armies put up such stiff resistance that the ground was soon bathed in blood.
“I cannot see,” murmured Dís, clasping Arwen’s hand. Her fingers seemed less cold than they had been. “What news of our armies?”
“The Free Peoples of Middle Earth have entered Mordor,” said Arwen, shading her eyes to look. “Legolas and Gimli are fighting fiercely from atop an olifaunt--Gimli seems less than happy about this. The forces of Gondor, led by their Steward, are fighting their way toward Denethor and Théoden’s location. And--” Her breath caught in her throat as she spotted a familiar figure in travel-stained armor.
Dís chuckled, looking at her expression. “Your beloved?”
“Estel fights alongside Steward Ecthelion, and Andúril shines in his hand like a flame,” said Arwen.
“Go to his side,” said Dís. “He will have need of you.”
As she spoke, Gandalf emerged from the gate turret and rushed to her side, resting a hand on her forehead. She coughed again, and he said, “Rest easy, Dís.”
She smiled up at him. “We are neither of us easy to kill, are we, old man?”
Gandalf looked at Arwen. “I will care for her. Go.”
Arwen looked as if she would argue, then looked at Dís’s face again and nodded. She smoothed back Dís's snowy hair and kissed her brow. Then she stood and drew her daggers, for her arrows were spent and her sword had been consumed in defeating the Nazgûl.
“For Rivendell!” she cried from the top of the gate, lifting her daggers in the air. “For Lothlórien! For the Lady of the Golden Wood!”
And then she leapt lightly from battlement to battlement down the Black Gate to rejoin the fray.
“Bilbo and I have come here together for one purpose and one purpose only, Father--to destroy the One Ring.”
Thráin’s face went blank at Thorin’s words. There was a horrible thin squeal, and Gollum fell to the rock floor, clawing at his shackles before going limp with a rattling groan. Thráin stared at his son, and the shock in his face was slowly replaced by fury.
“Insolent boy,” he snarled. “You would throw away such power, such potential? You are a traitor to all our kind.”
Thorin felt utterly weary, but he put his hand on the throwing axe at his belt, squared his shoulders. “Leave us to finish our quest, father. Or I shall be forced to stop you.”
Thráin laughed, a mocking sound that seemed to throb with the heat of the volcano. “We have been here before, son. Will you become a father-slayer, will you give up your right to the throne of Erebor? Will you forfeit your place in Mahal’s halls and be cast into the void upon your death?” Thorin heard Bilbo make a small agonized sound, but he couldn’t spare another look at the hobbit, not with his father so close, ready to strike.
“If that is what is needful,” he said. “To save Erebor, and the Shire, and Nurn, and all the wide lands between them.” He took the axe from his belt. “Leave us.”
Thráin laughed again and took a step forward along the edge of the chasm, dragging Gollum after him.
Or he started to, but staggered as the chain slid easily with no weight behind it. He looked, and Thorin and Bilbo looked with him: at its end was only a pair of blood-stained, empty shackles.
Before any of them could respond, there was a shriek of triumph, and Gollum sprang up from the cliff above the lava where he had been clinging, making his silent, stealthy way to where he could seize Bilbo. “Give us the Precious! Give it to us!” he shrilled, battering at Bilbo with his bloody hands in a frenzy of desperate anguish.
Bilbo threw up his hands to shield himself, and the Ring seemed to spring from them, glittering in the air. It hit the smooth stone floor, ringing like a high, sweet, corrupt bell, and rolled in a beautiful, pure arc--right to Thráin’s boot, clinking against the heavy mail and falling to its side as if in surrender.
Thráin bent and picked up the One Ring, and the volcano seemed to mutter and seethe in anticipation.
Denethor and Théoden saw the banner of the Steward waving above the fray, coming near them. "Rally to Minas Tirith!" cried Théoden to the people of Nurn, who were in no position to protest at any help, even from the hated Gondorians.
Together they cut through the fray until Denethor cried out, "My lord Father!" and threw himself forward toward Ecthelion.
Ecthelion was back to back with Thorongil, their swords flashing together. Arwen had joined them, and she and Pallando were guarding each other's flanks, laying about them with dagger and staff. "Well met, Steward's son!" Thorongil called, and saluted Denethor as he drew near before running another Orc through. But before Denethor could rejoin his father, a hail of enemy crossbow fire rained down, driving him apart from both Théoden and the rest, pinning him behind an outcropping of rock. A bolt pierced his calf, another his hand, and he cried out in anger and defiance as his sword dropped to the ground.
An Orc captain strode forward, a cruel grin twisting his face, sword raised.
There was a fierce shout, and Steward Ecthelion broke away from the fighting, plunging through the fray with his sword gleaming. A crossbow bolt hit him, then another, and he staggered, but reached his son and engaged the Orc captain. There was a brief flurry of clashing blades as Ecthelion stood between Denethor and death, and then the Orc toppled.
There was a cheer from the armies of Gondor, but it cut off as Ecthelion in turn stumbled and fell.
"My lord Father." Denethor knelt above his father. There was bright blood on Ecthelion's lips, but he smiled at his son. "You left Thorongil and came to me," Denethor said, his voice flat with shock.
"Thorongil is--" Ecthelion coughed and Denethor tried helplessly to ease him. "Is the heir of Elendil and rightful King of Gondor." He reached up and touched Denethor's face with a bloody hand, wiping away tears. "But you are my son," he whispered.
"Father," said Denethor again, but Ecthelion's spirit had fled and he was alone.
Then Denethor stood, and looking across the battlefield he saw Thorongil hard-pressed, with Arwen and Théoden and Pallando at his side. He saw the spirit of the men of Gondor wavering at the sight of their Steward's fall. He saw the ruddy light of the Eye of Sauron looking balefully upon the battlefield.
He began to make his way back to his company, limping on his pierced leg, and he slew all foes who came near him. He was running by the time he reached them, his face still marked with his father's blood and his own tears, and none could look long into his eyes.
"A spear!” he called to Théoden over the din of battle. “Give to me a spear, son of Thengel!
Without missing a beat, Théoden swiveled and slew an Orc, grabbing the spear from its hand as it fell and tossing it to Denethor haft-first.
Denethor plucked it out of the air with his good hand and turned to Arwen. “Your banner,” he said, holding out his hand. “Give it to me!” he demanded when she hesitated, and at the look in his eyes she fumbled in her pack to draw out the black banner with its white tree and six stars, the final star only half-done.
There were tears running down Denethor’s face, but he seemed not to notice them; fastening the banner to the pole and hoisting it above his head he cried, “Men of Gondor! Rally now to the banner of the Heir of Isildur! Men of Gondor! Rally now to your rightful king!”
All across the battlefield, heads turned at his call to look at the son of the last Steward of Gondor, holding the standard high above Aragorn.
"The King has returned to his people in the hour of their need!" Denethor's voice lifted above the din of battle. "Let the Free Peoples of the West aid him this day!"
And the warriors of Gondor and of Rohan lifted up their voices and their weapons, and they were filled with new energy, and they drove forward against the enemies of the West, as Mount Doom rumbled in the distance and the Eye of Sauron glared hatred upon the battlefield.
Thráin picked up the One Ring, and the magma shifted and roiled beneath the ledge on which he stood. "At last," he murmured. "The power that should always have belonged to the dwarves is mine at last."
"Its power comes from Sauron," said Thorin. "If you wield it, you will serve his purposes."
Thráin laughed. "You think so little of my will," he sneered. "But I assure you I am not weak like men, or elves. Or you."
Thorin lifted his throwing axe, his father's image blurring through the heat haze and the sweat and tears in his eyes. "Do not make me slay you, father. I loved you truly, I swear."
"You swear?" Thráin's laugh was contemptuous. "Swear fealty to me instead." And he lifted the One Ring to place it on his finger.
Thorin threw his axe.
But the instant before he released it, he felt something suddenly shove him. But he could not look down, could see only his father standing at the edge of the volcano, staring at him in shock, Thorin's axe protruding from his shoulder. Thráin looked puzzled, and plucked at the haft of the axe with his free hand. Bright blood appeared on his lips, and his knees started to give; he staggered backwards one step.
With a shriek of pure agony, Gollum threw himself forward--to save or to destroy, Thorin never knew--his spindly arms grasping and grappling at Thráin's weight, trying to wrench the Ring from his slackening grip. His momentum toppled them backwards, over the edge.
For a timeless instant, all three--Thráin, Gollum, and the Ring--hung in the air above the seething lava. The Ring seemed to pulse as it turned in the air, a last beat of command and demand. Gollum's fingers brushed it, his eyes widened.
Thráin's dimming gaze met Thorin's.
Then all three fell backwards, plunging off the ledge and out of sight.
Thorin went to his knees, staring at the space his father had been, and felt small hands at his shoulder. “Thorin,” he heard Bilbo’s voice. “Look at me, Thorin.” Bilbo grabbed his face and turned him away from the sight of his father’s death. “Look at me!”
Bilbo’s eyes were wide, lit by volcano-light, filled with tears. Thorin let them fill his vision, and so he saw the very moment the Ring was truly destroyed, saw pain and grief contract Bilbo’s pupils to almost-vanishing. Even he, who had held the Ring such a short time, felt an unnatural sorrow and anguish wash over him. Bilbo sobbed once, a sound of utter agony.
And then his face cleared of pain, though the marks remained graven around his mouth and his eyes, and always would. Yet he was there, and not destroyed with the Ring, his own dear Bilbo, free at last of the curse that Thorin himself had handed to him. Thorin put his arms around him and felt Bilbo clasping him close, heard Bilbo’s exhausted voice at his ear: “It’s done. And I’m with you. I want nothing more.”
Thorin heard the resignation in Bilbo’s voice, the acceptance of their death. And that cut through his own grief and despair, banishing the afterimages of his father falling to his death.
“No, Bilbo,” he whispered into Bilbo’s hair. “You should know by now my people are fiercely protective of their treasure. I will fight for every single second we can have together, free at last.” He scooped Bilbo up into his arms. “I will not surrender even one of them,” he panted: to Bilbo, to himself, to Sauron and his father and the very lava rising behind them.
He began to run down the passageway, and the glassy walls heated as he ran until he could smell burning hair, and he knew the ends of his braids were starting to crisp.
When he emerged into the open air at last, he took one deep, whooping breath, but the air was only slightly less searing, and he struggled not to cough as he began to pick his way down the mountain. There was an explosion behind him, and red-hot stones whirred through the air past him; one hit him in the small of the back and he staggered, but did not fall. He could not fall, not when he carried the fairest and most precious thing in all of Middle Earth in his arms.
He staggered forward, not daring to look back. Far in the distance he could see the earth opening up as Barad-dûr collapsed into dust, the armies of the orcs falling on their faces as a shockwave spun outward from its destruction, but he had little energy to focus on anything but his own feet hitting the ground, each footstep one more second of their life together, snatched from eternity.
Thorin Oakenshield ran down the slopes of Mount Doom until he could no longer feel his legs, until his breath was a ragged wisp in his lungs. He went to his knees, hunching over Bilbo as if somehow he could protect him with his own body from the coming lava that would engulf them both.
He felt a hand touch his face and looked into Bilbo’s eyes. His hair, loose around his face, made a curtain between them and the chaos of the world outside: for a moment it was just the two of them.
“A few more moments,” Bilbo said. “Always you give me the best gifts.” He smiled through cracked and bloody lips. “And now you will go to the halls of your ancestors, to sit in glory until the end of the world. You will,” he said with sudden fervor as Thorin shook his head. “Your weapon did not slay your father. Your god cannot hold that against you.”
“I aimed to kill,” Thorin said, and felt the truth of it in his bones. Bilbo opened his mouth and Thorin touched his lips to his in a fleeting kiss, a hushing gesture. “I am unworthy of the throne of Erebor.” He smiled at Bilbo’s stricken look. “And I do not want to go anywhere that you will not be,” he added, “Whether it be the Shire or the Void itself. My body and soul will follow yours, Bilbo Baggins, from this day forward.”
“Ah,” said Bilbo. “You stubborn, cantankerous, impossible dwarf.” His smile was sweet and sad. “Very well, then,” he said, and captured Thorin’s face in his sooty hands, drawing him close. “From this day forward.”
“We truly hate to interrupt a tender moment,” came a familiar voice, “But that lava draws apace, and if you wish to escape it, speedy action will be required.”
“What the elf is trying to say,” Gimli’s annoyed voice cut in, “Is that we’re here to rescue you, so get moving!”
Thorin looked up to see--he blinked--Legolas and Gimli on top of an olifaunt, looking very pleased with themselves. The olifaunt reached down with a great gray trunk and plucked both of them off the ground--Bilbo made an undignified sound of delight, while Thorin made a very different but equally undignified noise--depositing them on her back.
Then the olifaunt turned and began to trot away from Mount Doom, away from the devastation and death, toward cool air and their friends and the future.
From this day forward, Thorin thought, his arms still around Bilbo.
Chapter Summary: The final fate of the Ring and the world (and the members of the Fellowship) are decided.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo, Arwen, Gimli, Dis, Legolas, Denethor, Theoden, Thrain, Gollum
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: 2800
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.
Dís and Arwen lay on top of the Black Gate as it swung wide, opening the way into Mordor. With a flourish of trumpets and the snap of banners, the forces of the Free Peoples began to march into Mordor to face down the armies of Sauron.
From the northeast came a ululating cry, and a new force appeared on the horizon--a long row of chariots and horses, led by a woman in sky-blue robes riding an annoyed-looking lion: Bachai and the Wainriders, come to join battle.
They swarmed toward the Gate, and the alarm of the people of Gondor and Rohan quickly turned to jubilation when they realized that these were also allies and not enemies. Together they pushed forward into Mordor, though the orcish armies put up such stiff resistance that the ground was soon bathed in blood.
“I cannot see,” murmured Dís, clasping Arwen’s hand. Her fingers seemed less cold than they had been. “What news of our armies?”
“The Free Peoples of Middle Earth have entered Mordor,” said Arwen, shading her eyes to look. “Legolas and Gimli are fighting fiercely from atop an olifaunt--Gimli seems less than happy about this. The forces of Gondor, led by their Steward, are fighting their way toward Denethor and Théoden’s location. And--” Her breath caught in her throat as she spotted a familiar figure in travel-stained armor.
Dís chuckled, looking at her expression. “Your beloved?”
“Estel fights alongside Steward Ecthelion, and Andúril shines in his hand like a flame,” said Arwen.
“Go to his side,” said Dís. “He will have need of you.”
As she spoke, Gandalf emerged from the gate turret and rushed to her side, resting a hand on her forehead. She coughed again, and he said, “Rest easy, Dís.”
She smiled up at him. “We are neither of us easy to kill, are we, old man?”
Gandalf looked at Arwen. “I will care for her. Go.”
Arwen looked as if she would argue, then looked at Dís’s face again and nodded. She smoothed back Dís's snowy hair and kissed her brow. Then she stood and drew her daggers, for her arrows were spent and her sword had been consumed in defeating the Nazgûl.
“For Rivendell!” she cried from the top of the gate, lifting her daggers in the air. “For Lothlórien! For the Lady of the Golden Wood!”
And then she leapt lightly from battlement to battlement down the Black Gate to rejoin the fray.
“Bilbo and I have come here together for one purpose and one purpose only, Father--to destroy the One Ring.”
Thráin’s face went blank at Thorin’s words. There was a horrible thin squeal, and Gollum fell to the rock floor, clawing at his shackles before going limp with a rattling groan. Thráin stared at his son, and the shock in his face was slowly replaced by fury.
“Insolent boy,” he snarled. “You would throw away such power, such potential? You are a traitor to all our kind.”
Thorin felt utterly weary, but he put his hand on the throwing axe at his belt, squared his shoulders. “Leave us to finish our quest, father. Or I shall be forced to stop you.”
Thráin laughed, a mocking sound that seemed to throb with the heat of the volcano. “We have been here before, son. Will you become a father-slayer, will you give up your right to the throne of Erebor? Will you forfeit your place in Mahal’s halls and be cast into the void upon your death?” Thorin heard Bilbo make a small agonized sound, but he couldn’t spare another look at the hobbit, not with his father so close, ready to strike.
“If that is what is needful,” he said. “To save Erebor, and the Shire, and Nurn, and all the wide lands between them.” He took the axe from his belt. “Leave us.”
Thráin laughed again and took a step forward along the edge of the chasm, dragging Gollum after him.
Or he started to, but staggered as the chain slid easily with no weight behind it. He looked, and Thorin and Bilbo looked with him: at its end was only a pair of blood-stained, empty shackles.
Before any of them could respond, there was a shriek of triumph, and Gollum sprang up from the cliff above the lava where he had been clinging, making his silent, stealthy way to where he could seize Bilbo. “Give us the Precious! Give it to us!” he shrilled, battering at Bilbo with his bloody hands in a frenzy of desperate anguish.
Bilbo threw up his hands to shield himself, and the Ring seemed to spring from them, glittering in the air. It hit the smooth stone floor, ringing like a high, sweet, corrupt bell, and rolled in a beautiful, pure arc--right to Thráin’s boot, clinking against the heavy mail and falling to its side as if in surrender.
Thráin bent and picked up the One Ring, and the volcano seemed to mutter and seethe in anticipation.
Denethor and Théoden saw the banner of the Steward waving above the fray, coming near them. "Rally to Minas Tirith!" cried Théoden to the people of Nurn, who were in no position to protest at any help, even from the hated Gondorians.
Together they cut through the fray until Denethor cried out, "My lord Father!" and threw himself forward toward Ecthelion.
Ecthelion was back to back with Thorongil, their swords flashing together. Arwen had joined them, and she and Pallando were guarding each other's flanks, laying about them with dagger and staff. "Well met, Steward's son!" Thorongil called, and saluted Denethor as he drew near before running another Orc through. But before Denethor could rejoin his father, a hail of enemy crossbow fire rained down, driving him apart from both Théoden and the rest, pinning him behind an outcropping of rock. A bolt pierced his calf, another his hand, and he cried out in anger and defiance as his sword dropped to the ground.
An Orc captain strode forward, a cruel grin twisting his face, sword raised.
There was a fierce shout, and Steward Ecthelion broke away from the fighting, plunging through the fray with his sword gleaming. A crossbow bolt hit him, then another, and he staggered, but reached his son and engaged the Orc captain. There was a brief flurry of clashing blades as Ecthelion stood between Denethor and death, and then the Orc toppled.
There was a cheer from the armies of Gondor, but it cut off as Ecthelion in turn stumbled and fell.
"My lord Father." Denethor knelt above his father. There was bright blood on Ecthelion's lips, but he smiled at his son. "You left Thorongil and came to me," Denethor said, his voice flat with shock.
"Thorongil is--" Ecthelion coughed and Denethor tried helplessly to ease him. "Is the heir of Elendil and rightful King of Gondor." He reached up and touched Denethor's face with a bloody hand, wiping away tears. "But you are my son," he whispered.
"Father," said Denethor again, but Ecthelion's spirit had fled and he was alone.
Then Denethor stood, and looking across the battlefield he saw Thorongil hard-pressed, with Arwen and Théoden and Pallando at his side. He saw the spirit of the men of Gondor wavering at the sight of their Steward's fall. He saw the ruddy light of the Eye of Sauron looking balefully upon the battlefield.
He began to make his way back to his company, limping on his pierced leg, and he slew all foes who came near him. He was running by the time he reached them, his face still marked with his father's blood and his own tears, and none could look long into his eyes.
"A spear!” he called to Théoden over the din of battle. “Give to me a spear, son of Thengel!
Without missing a beat, Théoden swiveled and slew an Orc, grabbing the spear from its hand as it fell and tossing it to Denethor haft-first.
Denethor plucked it out of the air with his good hand and turned to Arwen. “Your banner,” he said, holding out his hand. “Give it to me!” he demanded when she hesitated, and at the look in his eyes she fumbled in her pack to draw out the black banner with its white tree and six stars, the final star only half-done.
There were tears running down Denethor’s face, but he seemed not to notice them; fastening the banner to the pole and hoisting it above his head he cried, “Men of Gondor! Rally now to the banner of the Heir of Isildur! Men of Gondor! Rally now to your rightful king!”
All across the battlefield, heads turned at his call to look at the son of the last Steward of Gondor, holding the standard high above Aragorn.
"The King has returned to his people in the hour of their need!" Denethor's voice lifted above the din of battle. "Let the Free Peoples of the West aid him this day!"
And the warriors of Gondor and of Rohan lifted up their voices and their weapons, and they were filled with new energy, and they drove forward against the enemies of the West, as Mount Doom rumbled in the distance and the Eye of Sauron glared hatred upon the battlefield.
Thráin picked up the One Ring, and the magma shifted and roiled beneath the ledge on which he stood. "At last," he murmured. "The power that should always have belonged to the dwarves is mine at last."
"Its power comes from Sauron," said Thorin. "If you wield it, you will serve his purposes."
Thráin laughed. "You think so little of my will," he sneered. "But I assure you I am not weak like men, or elves. Or you."
Thorin lifted his throwing axe, his father's image blurring through the heat haze and the sweat and tears in his eyes. "Do not make me slay you, father. I loved you truly, I swear."
"You swear?" Thráin's laugh was contemptuous. "Swear fealty to me instead." And he lifted the One Ring to place it on his finger.
Thorin threw his axe.
But the instant before he released it, he felt something suddenly shove him. But he could not look down, could see only his father standing at the edge of the volcano, staring at him in shock, Thorin's axe protruding from his shoulder. Thráin looked puzzled, and plucked at the haft of the axe with his free hand. Bright blood appeared on his lips, and his knees started to give; he staggered backwards one step.
With a shriek of pure agony, Gollum threw himself forward--to save or to destroy, Thorin never knew--his spindly arms grasping and grappling at Thráin's weight, trying to wrench the Ring from his slackening grip. His momentum toppled them backwards, over the edge.
For a timeless instant, all three--Thráin, Gollum, and the Ring--hung in the air above the seething lava. The Ring seemed to pulse as it turned in the air, a last beat of command and demand. Gollum's fingers brushed it, his eyes widened.
Thráin's dimming gaze met Thorin's.
Then all three fell backwards, plunging off the ledge and out of sight.
Thorin went to his knees, staring at the space his father had been, and felt small hands at his shoulder. “Thorin,” he heard Bilbo’s voice. “Look at me, Thorin.” Bilbo grabbed his face and turned him away from the sight of his father’s death. “Look at me!”
Bilbo’s eyes were wide, lit by volcano-light, filled with tears. Thorin let them fill his vision, and so he saw the very moment the Ring was truly destroyed, saw pain and grief contract Bilbo’s pupils to almost-vanishing. Even he, who had held the Ring such a short time, felt an unnatural sorrow and anguish wash over him. Bilbo sobbed once, a sound of utter agony.
And then his face cleared of pain, though the marks remained graven around his mouth and his eyes, and always would. Yet he was there, and not destroyed with the Ring, his own dear Bilbo, free at last of the curse that Thorin himself had handed to him. Thorin put his arms around him and felt Bilbo clasping him close, heard Bilbo’s exhausted voice at his ear: “It’s done. And I’m with you. I want nothing more.”
Thorin heard the resignation in Bilbo’s voice, the acceptance of their death. And that cut through his own grief and despair, banishing the afterimages of his father falling to his death.
“No, Bilbo,” he whispered into Bilbo’s hair. “You should know by now my people are fiercely protective of their treasure. I will fight for every single second we can have together, free at last.” He scooped Bilbo up into his arms. “I will not surrender even one of them,” he panted: to Bilbo, to himself, to Sauron and his father and the very lava rising behind them.
He began to run down the passageway, and the glassy walls heated as he ran until he could smell burning hair, and he knew the ends of his braids were starting to crisp.
When he emerged into the open air at last, he took one deep, whooping breath, but the air was only slightly less searing, and he struggled not to cough as he began to pick his way down the mountain. There was an explosion behind him, and red-hot stones whirred through the air past him; one hit him in the small of the back and he staggered, but did not fall. He could not fall, not when he carried the fairest and most precious thing in all of Middle Earth in his arms.
He staggered forward, not daring to look back. Far in the distance he could see the earth opening up as Barad-dûr collapsed into dust, the armies of the orcs falling on their faces as a shockwave spun outward from its destruction, but he had little energy to focus on anything but his own feet hitting the ground, each footstep one more second of their life together, snatched from eternity.
Thorin Oakenshield ran down the slopes of Mount Doom until he could no longer feel his legs, until his breath was a ragged wisp in his lungs. He went to his knees, hunching over Bilbo as if somehow he could protect him with his own body from the coming lava that would engulf them both.
He felt a hand touch his face and looked into Bilbo’s eyes. His hair, loose around his face, made a curtain between them and the chaos of the world outside: for a moment it was just the two of them.
“A few more moments,” Bilbo said. “Always you give me the best gifts.” He smiled through cracked and bloody lips. “And now you will go to the halls of your ancestors, to sit in glory until the end of the world. You will,” he said with sudden fervor as Thorin shook his head. “Your weapon did not slay your father. Your god cannot hold that against you.”
“I aimed to kill,” Thorin said, and felt the truth of it in his bones. Bilbo opened his mouth and Thorin touched his lips to his in a fleeting kiss, a hushing gesture. “I am unworthy of the throne of Erebor.” He smiled at Bilbo’s stricken look. “And I do not want to go anywhere that you will not be,” he added, “Whether it be the Shire or the Void itself. My body and soul will follow yours, Bilbo Baggins, from this day forward.”
“Ah,” said Bilbo. “You stubborn, cantankerous, impossible dwarf.” His smile was sweet and sad. “Very well, then,” he said, and captured Thorin’s face in his sooty hands, drawing him close. “From this day forward.”
“We truly hate to interrupt a tender moment,” came a familiar voice, “But that lava draws apace, and if you wish to escape it, speedy action will be required.”
“What the elf is trying to say,” Gimli’s annoyed voice cut in, “Is that we’re here to rescue you, so get moving!”
Thorin looked up to see--he blinked--Legolas and Gimli on top of an olifaunt, looking very pleased with themselves. The olifaunt reached down with a great gray trunk and plucked both of them off the ground--Bilbo made an undignified sound of delight, while Thorin made a very different but equally undignified noise--depositing them on her back.
Then the olifaunt turned and began to trot away from Mount Doom, away from the devastation and death, toward cool air and their friends and the future.
From this day forward, Thorin thought, his arms still around Bilbo.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-24 08:09 pm (UTC)So glad Dis is alive, and DENETHOR WITH THE BANNER and realizing his father's love only too late was heartwrenching in all the best ways
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-25 06:50 pm (UTC)