Clarity of Vision, Chapter 18
Title: Clarity of Vision, Chapter 18
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Fíli, Kíli, Thorin, Dwalin, Balin, Gandalf, Galadriel, Celeborn
Fandom: Hobbit
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: G
Word Count: 4200
Story Summary: In a Middle-Earth where Erebor never fell, a shadow remains in the heart of the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo Baggins finds himself drawn reluctantly into a quest that will lead him across the continent--from Bree to Lake Evendim to the icy North and beyond--with a party of five dwarves searching for an artifact that will cure the ailing King Thrór.
Chapter Summary: The party arrives in the wood of Lothlórien and seeks council from its Lord and Lady.
The day after the strange storm saw the party still traveling down the banks of the Anduin, moving south. Everyone's mood was better: the air itself seemed sweeter, some subtle and malign pressure gone from it. Even Thorin seemed more himself; his eyes were clearer, and he moved with purpose rather than merely following whoever was nearest. But there were still times when he lapsed into reveries in which he seemed not to see the people around him, where he would pick up a mica-flecked stone and stare at it, or his fingers would trace the patterns on Deathless's scabbard aimlessly, lost to everything else.
"He's doing better, isn't he?" murmured Bilbo to Fíli, watching Thorin talk with Dwalin about a drinking-song of Erebor as they walked along.
Fíli's eyes followed his uncle. "Stay near him in the night anyway," he said.
: : :
They camped that night in the shadow of a great cypress, with the fallen trunk of another forming their resting place. The other dwarves went to cut bracken for their bedding, and Thorin sat down on the stump, frowning. The horrible emptiness of the days before was gone; the world had meaning and purpose once more. And yet things seemed to slip away from him sometimes. He couldn't remember where they were traveling to, for example. He had a vague sense of a decision having been made, but he couldn't recall what it had been.
Well, if it was important, it would come back to him. He was sure of that.
He frowned as Bilbo sat down next to him. "What are you doing?"
Bilbo paused with the comb in midair, almost to Thorin's hair. "Oh," he said. "I, uh...I've been doing this most nights recently. I'm sorry. You didn't seem to mind."
Thorin caught at a faint memory of gentle hands plaiting his hair, a small voice humming nearby. "I...think I remember that."
"But you're feeling better now, so I don't have to do it anymore," Bilbo said.
"I regret having inconvenienced you," Thorin said. The words felt awkward, wrong, as if some trick to conversation had bled away from him during their trip along the river. But Bilbo simply shrugged.
"I rather liked it," he said, "It kept my hands busy."
"If you wish," Thorin said, "You may keep doing it."
"Well, if you insist," Bilbo said, settling down next to him and starting to untangle a knot in Thorin's hair with diligent fingers.
Thorin nearly pointed out that he hadn't insisted, but bit the words back. He sat, feeling the comb running through his hair, and other memories filtered back to him faintly, like hints of light glimpsed in the heart of an black opal: Bilbo's voice coaxing him to eat; a small warm presence near him at night, guarding over him.
He watched the other dwarves make camp as if they were used to doing the work while Thorin sat and did nothing. Thorin frowned. That didn't seem right. And yet--wasn't it the correct way of things? Was he not their Prince, after all? And one day he would be their King.
Thorin let his thoughts wander with the soothing motion of Bilbo's hands in his hair, dreaming of the day he would be King Under the Mountain. He would convince Bilbo to stay as his page, to comb out his hair with a golden comb. He would dress the halfling in jeweled robes and seat him at his side on a chair set with amethysts, listening to music from a harp of gold with the great arching halls of Erebor above them. He would--
He shook his head, banishing the image. What was he thinking? Even if he were not an exile, he would only become king when his grandfather and father were both dead. That day was--Mahal grant it--still far in the future. No, such thoughts were beneath him, even if it were entirely natural to wish to reward those who had served him so loyally and well.
That felt wrong again, but he couldn't figure out why. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and frowned.
"I'm sorry, did I pull your hair?" Bilbo's voice was concerned. "I'm all done now."
"You have caused me no pain," Thorin said. He stood up. "You have my thanks." He forced himself to step forward and help in heaping the soft bracken into fragrant beds to cushion their bedrolls, crushing the temptation to sit and rest a little longer. After all, everyone was as tired as he was, he reminded himself.
: : :
The boundary into the woods of Lothlórien was gradual, and yet unmistakable. The gnarled and leafless trunks gave way to graceful silver-barked trees still bearing golden leaves even in the early winter cold. Thorin was lost in another of his reveries, his eyes far away, and so Fíli stepped into the front of the group without comment and led them deeper into the elvish forest.
{"We're being watched,"} Dwalin muttered in Khuzdul.
"Speak in Westron," Fíli said, and Dwalin shot him a startled look. Fíli raised his voice: "We have nothing to hide. We are here openly, after all, on suggestion of Gandalf the Grey."
"Aye," said Dwalin, his eyes darting around. "That we are, laddie."
Birds sang among the trees, a sweet liquid sound, and the leaves rustled beneath their feet. The cool air seemed to be filled with light to Bilbo, each breath driving away the darkness that had haunted them since leaving Rivendell. Strangely, he felt for the first time in many days safe within Lothlórien, despite the unearthly eerieness of it.
Or at least, he felt safe until a figure stepped out from behind a tree and lowered an arrow at Fíli's breast.
It was an elf maiden, dressed in soft beige leathers, her long dark hair falling in plaits down her back. Her face was cool and remote, but her full mouth seemed to hold the promise of smiles within it.
"Why do you trespass in the woods of Lórien?" she said sternly.
"Lower your weapon, elf," said Thorin, striding forward. Seeing his nephew in danger had seemed to galvanize him; he stepped between Fíli and the elf, meeting her eyes. "Gandalf the Grey, whom you know as Mithrandir, sent us here."
"Anyone may say such a thing," she said. "Even a dwarf. What is your business here?"
Thorin hesitated a moment too long. Then he gestured to Balin. "Balin, explain to her why we are here."
The dwarves exchanged quick, uneasy glances, then Balin stepped forward. "We...were on our way to Erebor with an artifact of healing of elvish make. Under the Misty Mountains we fought with goblins; the artifact was lost and we--we suffered grievous sorrow and hurts. Gandalf, whom we were traveling with, advised us to come to you, in the hopes that perhaps the Lady Galadriel could give us hope of another cure."
"Do you know where Gandalf is?" Bilbo broke in.
The elf glanced away from Balin to him. After a moment, she lowered her bow. "Mithrandir is in Caras Galadhon. He has requested that you be allowed to enter Lothlórien, and for the great love the Lord and Lady of this realm bear him, we will not turn you away." She turned, beckoning. "But be aware that more arrows than mine are pointed at your hearts," she said as she strode away.
Dwalin glared at the towering trees and muttered under his breath, but Thorin was walking after her without comment, and the others followed.
The silence as they walked was awkward at best and oppressive at worst; driven finally beyond his endurance, Bilbo hurried to catch up to the elf-maiden. "I don't--I don't think we've been properly introduced," he said a bit breathlessly. "My name is Bilbo Baggins, from the Shire, and I travel with Thorin, Fíli, Kíli, Balin and Dwalin of Erebor." The startled dwarves nodded slightly as he said their names. "I don't believe I caught your name, my lady, but it is a pleasure to meet you," he finished.
The elf glanced over at him, and Bilbo saw a hint of a smile touch her mouth. "Mithrandir warned me of you, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire."
"Warned you?" Bilbo heard his own voice squeak in alarm. "Me? Why?"
"He told me that you would not tolerate any 'ridiculous elvish remoteness,'" she said, dropping her voice into a fair approximation of Gandalf's crankiest tones, "My name is Arwen," she went on in her own voice, "And it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Now, as we walk, will you not tell me of your Shire? The little Mithrandir said makes it sound a merry place indeed."
To fill the silence, Bilbo started to talk of the Shire, of its festivals and bazaars and rolling hills, and Arwen listened gravely, asking questions and smiling when he mentioned something amusing. After a time she said, "Mithrandir mentioned that you had been in Imladris?"
"Rivendell? Yes, we stopped there," said Bilbo.
"I was born there," said Arwen, "But have not been back for a time. Is Lord Elrond well?"
"He said we smelled bad," Kíli grumbled, "And he lectured my uncle about Sindarin grammar."
Arwen put a hand to her mouth and made a sound distinctly close to a giggle. "It is good to hear my father is unchanged," she said.
"Your--" Kíli's voice broke. "You're Lord Elrond's daughter?" She looked at him, smiling, and he blushed bright red. "Forgive my rude words."
She shook her head. "My father is not always the most approachable of beings," she said.
"We don't actually smell bad, do we?" Fíli said anxiously.
"Not at all," said Arwen, with only a hint of merriment lurking in her wide grey eyes.
Bilbo couldn't resist nudging Kíli in the ribs as they moved on. "Embarrassing, isn't it? Accidentally insulting someone's family, I mean."
Kíli gave him a truly woebegone look. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"
"Never," agreed Bilbo, and Kíli sighed loudly.
And so they walked deeper into the heart of Lothlórien, where no dwarf had been for many a long age, and no hobbit ever.
Eventually Arwen held up a hand and the party came to a stop. Looking up into the branches of a towering tree, she called out something in Sindarin, and a ladder clattered down. Three elves followed after, clad in silvery gray, with their long hair braided down their backs.
"This is Haldir," said Arwen, "And Rúmil and Orophin, brothers and warriors of Lothlórien." The three elves looked upon the dwarves with little friendliness in their eyes and nodded. "They shall guard the rest of you while Thorin enters Caras Galadhon."
Thorin crossed his arms and glared up at Arwen. "I do not travel without my company."
The laughter was gone from Arwen's eyes once more. "We shall tolerate your companions within our borders for the sake of Mithrandir. And we shall allow one of you to enter our city itself, though we are loath indeed to do so. Ask no more of us!"
"Go on, Thorin," growled Dwalin. "We shall stay here and wait for you--and we have no need of guards to keep us here. The word of a dwarf is bond enough."
Haldir laughed, a light and silvery sound. "Master Dwarf, we are not here to guard Lothlórien from you. We are here to keep you safe from any bands of orcs venturing out from Moria into our lands."
"Keep us safe!" sputtered Dwalin, reaching for his axe. "Dwarves need no elves to keep them safe, you spindly scarecrow."
Haldir fingered an arrow in his quiver. "I wonder how speedily you can draw your weapon," he murmured.
"Enough," snapped Arwen, and at the command in her voice Haldir bowed his head, though his eyes did not leave Dwalin. "One dwarf only may enter Caras Galadhon. But perhaps..." She paused and glanced at Bilbo, "The command says nothing of halflings. If you would not travel alone, perhaps a compromise?"
Thorin hesitated only a moment. "That would be satisfactory."
Arwen looked at Bilbo. "Oh," said Bilbo, realizing she was waiting for a response, "Of course I'd be willing to stay with Thorin. And to see another elvish city!"
Dwalin made a growling noise. "But Thorin--"
Thorin raised a hand to cut off his protest. "Our efforts to obtain a cure have left us with empty hands on the elves' doorstep. If they have information, I must seek it." He met the eyes of his company gravely. "I shall return soon and we will journey on together."
Kíli heaved a sigh and dropped his pack to the ground. "At least it looks like there'll be good hunting here. I've seen deer and rabbit tracks."
"Hunting?" Haldir's calm demeanor fractured in horror. "No animals are to be harmed within the boundaries of Lothlórien."
"Oh, that's just great," grumbled Kíli. "A forest full of game and Mr. Prissypants here says I can't hunt. Am I allowed to swat gnats?"
Arwen, Thorin, and Bilbo walked away deeper into Lórien, the sound of Haldir lecturing the dwarves about cherishing the lives of their four-legged brethren fading behind them. Bilbo sneaked glances at Thorin's face as they walked, but he seemed lost in thought once more, and they walked unspeaking through birdsong and falling leaves.
"There is one last requirement for you, Thorin of Erebor," Arwen said after a time. "From here, you must walk blindfolded into Carad Galadhon."
Thorin set his legs against the ground and looked up at her for a long moment. "I would have never agreed to such a thing in front of my company," he said.
She nodded. "Just so."
He lifted his chin. "It is discourteous of the Lord and Lady of Lórien to treat a fellow ruler in this fashion," he said, and his voice was cold and hard.
"Forgive my ignorance," said Arwen softly, "But last I heard, Thrór son of Dain still ruled under the Mountain."
Thorin frowned, but his scowl did not seem meant for Arwen; it was turned inward, puzzled, almost baffled. After a moment, he said more quietly, "Very well."
Arwen looked at Bilbo. "You are not a dwarf, so--"
"--if you blindfold Thorin, you must blindfold me too," said Bilbo, although his heart ached at the idea of closing off the sight of the light dancing among the golden trees.
Arwen smiled. "You are a loyal friend indeed," she murmured.
The strip of cloth that went around his eyes was soft as silk, but blotted the world out entirely. Bilbo took a tentative step forward and stumbled against Thorin's side. "Sorry," he muttered.
A broad hand on his shoulder steadied him, then slid down to link arms with him. "Stay close," rumbled Thorin's voice.
Arm in arm, they walked slowly together, deeper into Lothlórien.
Strangely, with his eyes bound, Bilbo's other senses seemed sharpened. The rustle of leaves beneath his bare feet, the cool touch of fertile earth against his soles, the sweet rich scent of dried leaves and the snap of winter in the air--all seemed to crowd dizzyingly on his senses. He could hear the gentle footfalls of their guide, the sound of birds trilling and squirrels quarreling far away. He nearly stumbled again and his hand tightened on Thorin's arm, feeling the leather under his fingers, the sinew and muscle beneath it. He could hear Thorin's breathing, harsh and rapid, and--yes, he did smell of dirt and leather and sweat, good solid things to smell when surrounded by ethereal strangeness. Bilbo breathed them in, a deep steadying breath, and Thorin's arm tugged him very slightly closer as they walked.
The sound of singing emerged slowly, organically from the birdsong and the sound of the wind: a lilting music that seemed part of the sounds of nature all around them. There was laughter in it, but also the sound of falling leaves and a sorrow beyond the ability of Bilbo's heart to understand. He felt tears sting his eyes unbidden and was glad for the blindfold that hid his eyes.
There was a faint whispering sound as if of a gate opening, and they stepped forward onto a new pathway, rounded pebbles beneath Bilbo's feet, then stopped. "If you are true of heart, be welcome," said Arwen, and Bilbo felt the blindfold removed from his damp eyes. He wiped at them stealthily as Thorin's blindfold was removed, but Thorin looked upward rather than at him, his eyes climbing toward the sky.
Bilbo looked up, tilting his head back nearly until he fell over, and for the first time realized that Carad Galadhon was largely a city in the treetops, with bridges and buildings that seemed to grow from the trees themselves, natural as flowers or leaves. "Oh," he said in wonder. "How lovely."
Arwen smiled at him as a ladder clattered down from far above. "We are awaited," she said, and clambered onto the ladder, climbing up with easy grace.
"Oh," said Bilbo again, this time with much less wonder and much more trepidation, gazing upward. "Maybe I'll just stay here."
Thorin made a huffing noise. "Do not desert me now," he said, and placed his feet on the bottom rung.
Bilbo swallowed hard and followed him up, grasping rung after rung with increasingly shaky hands. "I really don't like heights," he observed breathlessly.
"Do you remember under the mountains, when I told you not to look down into the chasm?"
"Yes."
"And you looked down anyway?"
"Yes."
"And then you couldn't move?"
"Yes."
"Well," said Thorin, "This time...don't."
Bilbo didn't look down.
By the time they reached the top, Bilbo was pale and sweating, and did not protest when strong hands lifted him onto the platform. He looked up into Arwen's smiling face. "My thanks," he gasped. "Your city is beautiful, but...a bit tall for me. Though I suppose most things in the wide world are," he added with a wan smile. He looked around. "Oh," he breathed.
Elves moved along the vast, curving platforms, clad in clothing that seemed to ripple like water, every motion a dance, every voice a song. Peace and wisdom seemed to hum in the shining air, and Bilbo felt a knot in his chest loosen somehow, felt his breathing ease.
Thorin stood with his legs braced against the silvery wood as though it were as treacherous as a pitching ship, but the look he gave Bilbo was more present than Bilbo had seen for some time. "It's...quiet here," Thorin said, looking surprised. "I can't hear--" His expression shifted to puzzled. "I don't know what I can't hear."
"Well, Fíli and Kíli making stupid jokes, for one," Bilbo said, grabbing at that normality, willing it to stay.
Thorin's lips twitched in the closest thing to a smile Bilbo had seen since that terrible moment beneath the mountains. "Perhaps that's it," he agreed. He looked to where Arwen was waiting for Bilbo to catch his breath, then back at Bilbo. "Are you ready to go on?"
Bilbo squared his shoulders and tried to look like the companion to a prince. "I--I think so."
Elves shot them curious glances as they walked: not hostile, but not friendly. They walked a long time across the winding wooden platforms, until they came to a hall nestled in the very heart of one of the great trees, its branches twined around and into the wood. Arwen knocked lightly at the door, and it opened before her. She stepped in, and Thorin and Bilbo followed her.
"My Lord and my Lady," she called into the room, "I present to you Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór of Erebor, King Under the Mountain, and Mr. Bilbo Baggins of the Shire."
Then she bowed and stepped aside.
The hall had a high-arched ceiling that seemed to collect sunlight like a benison; the walls were carved with graceful designs. But Bilbo's eyes were drawn unerringly to the dais at the other side of the hall, and the two figures standing upon it.
They were tall, and clad all in white that seemed to sparkle like moonlight on new-fallen snow. The Lord had long silver hair and eyes like new grass in the spring; the Lady had hair of the richest gold and eyes of starlight. He had a sudden confused sense that these were beings of an entirely different sort than Laerdan or even Elrond, like the endless sea compared to a river. Bilbo kept close to Thorin's side as they approached the dais, but his feet felt clumsy and he was suddenly aware of the grubbiness of his clothes, the dirtiness of his hands. He stopped, confused, and bowed as deeply as he dared without falling over.
"Thorin of Erebor; Bilbo Baggins of the Shire," said Galadriel, and her low, resonant voice sent a thrill through Bilbo's frame. "Be welcome."
"If you come in peace, be welcome," echoed Celeborn.
Thorin had bowed his head; now he raised it to look sharply at the Lord of Lothlórien. "You did not agree to allow us to enter the Wood," he said.
A flicker of expression went across the still face and was gone. "I did not," murmured Celeborn.
Thorin was silent a moment. Then he lifted his chin to look up at Celeborn. "The history of our peoples is not a kind one," he said. "And I am aware that my ancestors are responsible for the death and ruin of much you have held dear. But I am my own being, and I wish no evil upon Lothlórien."
Celeborn's gaze did not soften, but he glanced at Galadriel and then inclined his head to Thorin. "May it be so," he murmured. "After their great struggle, I am not inclined to deny my Lady or Mithrandir anything they ask."
Now that he was closer, Bilbo was surprised to see that the Lady's perfect face was somehow tired; a weariness seemed to lurk behind her brilliant eyes, and she leaned heavily upon her Lord's arm. "It is true," she said softly as if in answer to his thoughts, and Bilbo startled. "I have expended much of my strength recently, in banishing a great evil from the fortress of Dol Guldur with the help of Mithrandir."
"Was that--" Bilbo broke off and started again, "That terrible storm?"
"It may well have seemed a storm to mortal eyes," said Galadriel. "It was a fell battle, and I am...not fully recovered yet."
Gandalf had been at the center of that raging maelstrom, that thunderclap of destruction? Bilbo remembered the old wizard smoking pipeweed, chuckling and blowing smoke rings, and frowned. "Is Gandalf all right?"
"I am quite well, Mr. Baggins," said a familiar voice, and Gandalf stepped from an alcove, leaning on his staff. "A bit tired, but with no mortal hurts." The exhaustion in his eyes belied his words, but he looked keenly at Thorin. "I am sure that Thorin wishes to thank his hosts for all their hospitality," he said.
"Hospitality? I was brought here blindfolded like a common criminal and--" Thorin broke off and composed himself with an effort. "I...thank you," he said. "You did not have to permit us to enter your lands, I know."
Celeborn made a small sound in his throat, but Galadriel stepped down from the dais and approached Thorin, every move graceful as a tree in blossom. "Mithrandir says that you came across an artifact of power in your travels," she said. "A glass, now lost. And that you wished to ask if I knew of it."
"That is so, Lady. We found it in Himring, in what appeared to be Maedhros's study."
"Maedhros," murmured Galadriel, and the name seemed to echo with old pain and glory: a shining light and a consuming fire.
Thorin unslung his pack and pulled out a small leather notebook. "It was set in gold, with alabaster and emeralds surrounding it." He opened the notebook to a lovingly detailed sketch of the glass--Bilbo caught his breath as he saw it again, remembering his last glimpse of it. "The glass is lost now, but I have this drawing--and this poem that was placed under it," he added, handing her the notebook and the little slip of gold. As Galadriel took the notebook from him, Thorin cleared his throat. "It was my hope of a cure for my family," he said, his voice low. "And now I have no hope, unless you can tell me where such an artifact can be found again."
Galadriel gazed long at the notebook, then at the slip of gold. When she looked up once more her eyes were compassionate.
"Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór," she said, "I know this glass well. I was there when it was forged.
And I swear to you that it had no magical properties of any sort."
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Fíli, Kíli, Thorin, Dwalin, Balin, Gandalf, Galadriel, Celeborn
Fandom: Hobbit
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: G
Word Count: 4200
Story Summary: In a Middle-Earth where Erebor never fell, a shadow remains in the heart of the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo Baggins finds himself drawn reluctantly into a quest that will lead him across the continent--from Bree to Lake Evendim to the icy North and beyond--with a party of five dwarves searching for an artifact that will cure the ailing King Thrór.
Chapter Summary: The party arrives in the wood of Lothlórien and seeks council from its Lord and Lady.
The day after the strange storm saw the party still traveling down the banks of the Anduin, moving south. Everyone's mood was better: the air itself seemed sweeter, some subtle and malign pressure gone from it. Even Thorin seemed more himself; his eyes were clearer, and he moved with purpose rather than merely following whoever was nearest. But there were still times when he lapsed into reveries in which he seemed not to see the people around him, where he would pick up a mica-flecked stone and stare at it, or his fingers would trace the patterns on Deathless's scabbard aimlessly, lost to everything else.
"He's doing better, isn't he?" murmured Bilbo to Fíli, watching Thorin talk with Dwalin about a drinking-song of Erebor as they walked along.
Fíli's eyes followed his uncle. "Stay near him in the night anyway," he said.
: : :
They camped that night in the shadow of a great cypress, with the fallen trunk of another forming their resting place. The other dwarves went to cut bracken for their bedding, and Thorin sat down on the stump, frowning. The horrible emptiness of the days before was gone; the world had meaning and purpose once more. And yet things seemed to slip away from him sometimes. He couldn't remember where they were traveling to, for example. He had a vague sense of a decision having been made, but he couldn't recall what it had been.
Well, if it was important, it would come back to him. He was sure of that.
He frowned as Bilbo sat down next to him. "What are you doing?"
Bilbo paused with the comb in midair, almost to Thorin's hair. "Oh," he said. "I, uh...I've been doing this most nights recently. I'm sorry. You didn't seem to mind."
Thorin caught at a faint memory of gentle hands plaiting his hair, a small voice humming nearby. "I...think I remember that."
"But you're feeling better now, so I don't have to do it anymore," Bilbo said.
"I regret having inconvenienced you," Thorin said. The words felt awkward, wrong, as if some trick to conversation had bled away from him during their trip along the river. But Bilbo simply shrugged.
"I rather liked it," he said, "It kept my hands busy."
"If you wish," Thorin said, "You may keep doing it."
"Well, if you insist," Bilbo said, settling down next to him and starting to untangle a knot in Thorin's hair with diligent fingers.
Thorin nearly pointed out that he hadn't insisted, but bit the words back. He sat, feeling the comb running through his hair, and other memories filtered back to him faintly, like hints of light glimpsed in the heart of an black opal: Bilbo's voice coaxing him to eat; a small warm presence near him at night, guarding over him.
He watched the other dwarves make camp as if they were used to doing the work while Thorin sat and did nothing. Thorin frowned. That didn't seem right. And yet--wasn't it the correct way of things? Was he not their Prince, after all? And one day he would be their King.
Thorin let his thoughts wander with the soothing motion of Bilbo's hands in his hair, dreaming of the day he would be King Under the Mountain. He would convince Bilbo to stay as his page, to comb out his hair with a golden comb. He would dress the halfling in jeweled robes and seat him at his side on a chair set with amethysts, listening to music from a harp of gold with the great arching halls of Erebor above them. He would--
He shook his head, banishing the image. What was he thinking? Even if he were not an exile, he would only become king when his grandfather and father were both dead. That day was--Mahal grant it--still far in the future. No, such thoughts were beneath him, even if it were entirely natural to wish to reward those who had served him so loyally and well.
That felt wrong again, but he couldn't figure out why. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and frowned.
"I'm sorry, did I pull your hair?" Bilbo's voice was concerned. "I'm all done now."
"You have caused me no pain," Thorin said. He stood up. "You have my thanks." He forced himself to step forward and help in heaping the soft bracken into fragrant beds to cushion their bedrolls, crushing the temptation to sit and rest a little longer. After all, everyone was as tired as he was, he reminded himself.
: : :
The boundary into the woods of Lothlórien was gradual, and yet unmistakable. The gnarled and leafless trunks gave way to graceful silver-barked trees still bearing golden leaves even in the early winter cold. Thorin was lost in another of his reveries, his eyes far away, and so Fíli stepped into the front of the group without comment and led them deeper into the elvish forest.
{"We're being watched,"} Dwalin muttered in Khuzdul.
"Speak in Westron," Fíli said, and Dwalin shot him a startled look. Fíli raised his voice: "We have nothing to hide. We are here openly, after all, on suggestion of Gandalf the Grey."
"Aye," said Dwalin, his eyes darting around. "That we are, laddie."
Birds sang among the trees, a sweet liquid sound, and the leaves rustled beneath their feet. The cool air seemed to be filled with light to Bilbo, each breath driving away the darkness that had haunted them since leaving Rivendell. Strangely, he felt for the first time in many days safe within Lothlórien, despite the unearthly eerieness of it.
Or at least, he felt safe until a figure stepped out from behind a tree and lowered an arrow at Fíli's breast.
It was an elf maiden, dressed in soft beige leathers, her long dark hair falling in plaits down her back. Her face was cool and remote, but her full mouth seemed to hold the promise of smiles within it.
"Why do you trespass in the woods of Lórien?" she said sternly.
"Lower your weapon, elf," said Thorin, striding forward. Seeing his nephew in danger had seemed to galvanize him; he stepped between Fíli and the elf, meeting her eyes. "Gandalf the Grey, whom you know as Mithrandir, sent us here."
"Anyone may say such a thing," she said. "Even a dwarf. What is your business here?"
Thorin hesitated a moment too long. Then he gestured to Balin. "Balin, explain to her why we are here."
The dwarves exchanged quick, uneasy glances, then Balin stepped forward. "We...were on our way to Erebor with an artifact of healing of elvish make. Under the Misty Mountains we fought with goblins; the artifact was lost and we--we suffered grievous sorrow and hurts. Gandalf, whom we were traveling with, advised us to come to you, in the hopes that perhaps the Lady Galadriel could give us hope of another cure."
"Do you know where Gandalf is?" Bilbo broke in.
The elf glanced away from Balin to him. After a moment, she lowered her bow. "Mithrandir is in Caras Galadhon. He has requested that you be allowed to enter Lothlórien, and for the great love the Lord and Lady of this realm bear him, we will not turn you away." She turned, beckoning. "But be aware that more arrows than mine are pointed at your hearts," she said as she strode away.
Dwalin glared at the towering trees and muttered under his breath, but Thorin was walking after her without comment, and the others followed.
The silence as they walked was awkward at best and oppressive at worst; driven finally beyond his endurance, Bilbo hurried to catch up to the elf-maiden. "I don't--I don't think we've been properly introduced," he said a bit breathlessly. "My name is Bilbo Baggins, from the Shire, and I travel with Thorin, Fíli, Kíli, Balin and Dwalin of Erebor." The startled dwarves nodded slightly as he said their names. "I don't believe I caught your name, my lady, but it is a pleasure to meet you," he finished.
The elf glanced over at him, and Bilbo saw a hint of a smile touch her mouth. "Mithrandir warned me of you, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire."
"Warned you?" Bilbo heard his own voice squeak in alarm. "Me? Why?"
"He told me that you would not tolerate any 'ridiculous elvish remoteness,'" she said, dropping her voice into a fair approximation of Gandalf's crankiest tones, "My name is Arwen," she went on in her own voice, "And it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Now, as we walk, will you not tell me of your Shire? The little Mithrandir said makes it sound a merry place indeed."
To fill the silence, Bilbo started to talk of the Shire, of its festivals and bazaars and rolling hills, and Arwen listened gravely, asking questions and smiling when he mentioned something amusing. After a time she said, "Mithrandir mentioned that you had been in Imladris?"
"Rivendell? Yes, we stopped there," said Bilbo.
"I was born there," said Arwen, "But have not been back for a time. Is Lord Elrond well?"
"He said we smelled bad," Kíli grumbled, "And he lectured my uncle about Sindarin grammar."
Arwen put a hand to her mouth and made a sound distinctly close to a giggle. "It is good to hear my father is unchanged," she said.
"Your--" Kíli's voice broke. "You're Lord Elrond's daughter?" She looked at him, smiling, and he blushed bright red. "Forgive my rude words."
She shook her head. "My father is not always the most approachable of beings," she said.
"We don't actually smell bad, do we?" Fíli said anxiously.
"Not at all," said Arwen, with only a hint of merriment lurking in her wide grey eyes.
Bilbo couldn't resist nudging Kíli in the ribs as they moved on. "Embarrassing, isn't it? Accidentally insulting someone's family, I mean."
Kíli gave him a truly woebegone look. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"
"Never," agreed Bilbo, and Kíli sighed loudly.
And so they walked deeper into the heart of Lothlórien, where no dwarf had been for many a long age, and no hobbit ever.
Eventually Arwen held up a hand and the party came to a stop. Looking up into the branches of a towering tree, she called out something in Sindarin, and a ladder clattered down. Three elves followed after, clad in silvery gray, with their long hair braided down their backs.
"This is Haldir," said Arwen, "And Rúmil and Orophin, brothers and warriors of Lothlórien." The three elves looked upon the dwarves with little friendliness in their eyes and nodded. "They shall guard the rest of you while Thorin enters Caras Galadhon."
Thorin crossed his arms and glared up at Arwen. "I do not travel without my company."
The laughter was gone from Arwen's eyes once more. "We shall tolerate your companions within our borders for the sake of Mithrandir. And we shall allow one of you to enter our city itself, though we are loath indeed to do so. Ask no more of us!"
"Go on, Thorin," growled Dwalin. "We shall stay here and wait for you--and we have no need of guards to keep us here. The word of a dwarf is bond enough."
Haldir laughed, a light and silvery sound. "Master Dwarf, we are not here to guard Lothlórien from you. We are here to keep you safe from any bands of orcs venturing out from Moria into our lands."
"Keep us safe!" sputtered Dwalin, reaching for his axe. "Dwarves need no elves to keep them safe, you spindly scarecrow."
Haldir fingered an arrow in his quiver. "I wonder how speedily you can draw your weapon," he murmured.
"Enough," snapped Arwen, and at the command in her voice Haldir bowed his head, though his eyes did not leave Dwalin. "One dwarf only may enter Caras Galadhon. But perhaps..." She paused and glanced at Bilbo, "The command says nothing of halflings. If you would not travel alone, perhaps a compromise?"
Thorin hesitated only a moment. "That would be satisfactory."
Arwen looked at Bilbo. "Oh," said Bilbo, realizing she was waiting for a response, "Of course I'd be willing to stay with Thorin. And to see another elvish city!"
Dwalin made a growling noise. "But Thorin--"
Thorin raised a hand to cut off his protest. "Our efforts to obtain a cure have left us with empty hands on the elves' doorstep. If they have information, I must seek it." He met the eyes of his company gravely. "I shall return soon and we will journey on together."
Kíli heaved a sigh and dropped his pack to the ground. "At least it looks like there'll be good hunting here. I've seen deer and rabbit tracks."
"Hunting?" Haldir's calm demeanor fractured in horror. "No animals are to be harmed within the boundaries of Lothlórien."
"Oh, that's just great," grumbled Kíli. "A forest full of game and Mr. Prissypants here says I can't hunt. Am I allowed to swat gnats?"
Arwen, Thorin, and Bilbo walked away deeper into Lórien, the sound of Haldir lecturing the dwarves about cherishing the lives of their four-legged brethren fading behind them. Bilbo sneaked glances at Thorin's face as they walked, but he seemed lost in thought once more, and they walked unspeaking through birdsong and falling leaves.
"There is one last requirement for you, Thorin of Erebor," Arwen said after a time. "From here, you must walk blindfolded into Carad Galadhon."
Thorin set his legs against the ground and looked up at her for a long moment. "I would have never agreed to such a thing in front of my company," he said.
She nodded. "Just so."
He lifted his chin. "It is discourteous of the Lord and Lady of Lórien to treat a fellow ruler in this fashion," he said, and his voice was cold and hard.
"Forgive my ignorance," said Arwen softly, "But last I heard, Thrór son of Dain still ruled under the Mountain."
Thorin frowned, but his scowl did not seem meant for Arwen; it was turned inward, puzzled, almost baffled. After a moment, he said more quietly, "Very well."
Arwen looked at Bilbo. "You are not a dwarf, so--"
"--if you blindfold Thorin, you must blindfold me too," said Bilbo, although his heart ached at the idea of closing off the sight of the light dancing among the golden trees.
Arwen smiled. "You are a loyal friend indeed," she murmured.
The strip of cloth that went around his eyes was soft as silk, but blotted the world out entirely. Bilbo took a tentative step forward and stumbled against Thorin's side. "Sorry," he muttered.
A broad hand on his shoulder steadied him, then slid down to link arms with him. "Stay close," rumbled Thorin's voice.
Arm in arm, they walked slowly together, deeper into Lothlórien.
Strangely, with his eyes bound, Bilbo's other senses seemed sharpened. The rustle of leaves beneath his bare feet, the cool touch of fertile earth against his soles, the sweet rich scent of dried leaves and the snap of winter in the air--all seemed to crowd dizzyingly on his senses. He could hear the gentle footfalls of their guide, the sound of birds trilling and squirrels quarreling far away. He nearly stumbled again and his hand tightened on Thorin's arm, feeling the leather under his fingers, the sinew and muscle beneath it. He could hear Thorin's breathing, harsh and rapid, and--yes, he did smell of dirt and leather and sweat, good solid things to smell when surrounded by ethereal strangeness. Bilbo breathed them in, a deep steadying breath, and Thorin's arm tugged him very slightly closer as they walked.
The sound of singing emerged slowly, organically from the birdsong and the sound of the wind: a lilting music that seemed part of the sounds of nature all around them. There was laughter in it, but also the sound of falling leaves and a sorrow beyond the ability of Bilbo's heart to understand. He felt tears sting his eyes unbidden and was glad for the blindfold that hid his eyes.
There was a faint whispering sound as if of a gate opening, and they stepped forward onto a new pathway, rounded pebbles beneath Bilbo's feet, then stopped. "If you are true of heart, be welcome," said Arwen, and Bilbo felt the blindfold removed from his damp eyes. He wiped at them stealthily as Thorin's blindfold was removed, but Thorin looked upward rather than at him, his eyes climbing toward the sky.
Bilbo looked up, tilting his head back nearly until he fell over, and for the first time realized that Carad Galadhon was largely a city in the treetops, with bridges and buildings that seemed to grow from the trees themselves, natural as flowers or leaves. "Oh," he said in wonder. "How lovely."
Arwen smiled at him as a ladder clattered down from far above. "We are awaited," she said, and clambered onto the ladder, climbing up with easy grace.
"Oh," said Bilbo again, this time with much less wonder and much more trepidation, gazing upward. "Maybe I'll just stay here."
Thorin made a huffing noise. "Do not desert me now," he said, and placed his feet on the bottom rung.
Bilbo swallowed hard and followed him up, grasping rung after rung with increasingly shaky hands. "I really don't like heights," he observed breathlessly.
"Do you remember under the mountains, when I told you not to look down into the chasm?"
"Yes."
"And you looked down anyway?"
"Yes."
"And then you couldn't move?"
"Yes."
"Well," said Thorin, "This time...don't."
Bilbo didn't look down.
By the time they reached the top, Bilbo was pale and sweating, and did not protest when strong hands lifted him onto the platform. He looked up into Arwen's smiling face. "My thanks," he gasped. "Your city is beautiful, but...a bit tall for me. Though I suppose most things in the wide world are," he added with a wan smile. He looked around. "Oh," he breathed.
Elves moved along the vast, curving platforms, clad in clothing that seemed to ripple like water, every motion a dance, every voice a song. Peace and wisdom seemed to hum in the shining air, and Bilbo felt a knot in his chest loosen somehow, felt his breathing ease.
Thorin stood with his legs braced against the silvery wood as though it were as treacherous as a pitching ship, but the look he gave Bilbo was more present than Bilbo had seen for some time. "It's...quiet here," Thorin said, looking surprised. "I can't hear--" His expression shifted to puzzled. "I don't know what I can't hear."
"Well, Fíli and Kíli making stupid jokes, for one," Bilbo said, grabbing at that normality, willing it to stay.
Thorin's lips twitched in the closest thing to a smile Bilbo had seen since that terrible moment beneath the mountains. "Perhaps that's it," he agreed. He looked to where Arwen was waiting for Bilbo to catch his breath, then back at Bilbo. "Are you ready to go on?"
Bilbo squared his shoulders and tried to look like the companion to a prince. "I--I think so."
Elves shot them curious glances as they walked: not hostile, but not friendly. They walked a long time across the winding wooden platforms, until they came to a hall nestled in the very heart of one of the great trees, its branches twined around and into the wood. Arwen knocked lightly at the door, and it opened before her. She stepped in, and Thorin and Bilbo followed her.
"My Lord and my Lady," she called into the room, "I present to you Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór of Erebor, King Under the Mountain, and Mr. Bilbo Baggins of the Shire."
Then she bowed and stepped aside.
The hall had a high-arched ceiling that seemed to collect sunlight like a benison; the walls were carved with graceful designs. But Bilbo's eyes were drawn unerringly to the dais at the other side of the hall, and the two figures standing upon it.
They were tall, and clad all in white that seemed to sparkle like moonlight on new-fallen snow. The Lord had long silver hair and eyes like new grass in the spring; the Lady had hair of the richest gold and eyes of starlight. He had a sudden confused sense that these were beings of an entirely different sort than Laerdan or even Elrond, like the endless sea compared to a river. Bilbo kept close to Thorin's side as they approached the dais, but his feet felt clumsy and he was suddenly aware of the grubbiness of his clothes, the dirtiness of his hands. He stopped, confused, and bowed as deeply as he dared without falling over.
"Thorin of Erebor; Bilbo Baggins of the Shire," said Galadriel, and her low, resonant voice sent a thrill through Bilbo's frame. "Be welcome."
"If you come in peace, be welcome," echoed Celeborn.
Thorin had bowed his head; now he raised it to look sharply at the Lord of Lothlórien. "You did not agree to allow us to enter the Wood," he said.
A flicker of expression went across the still face and was gone. "I did not," murmured Celeborn.
Thorin was silent a moment. Then he lifted his chin to look up at Celeborn. "The history of our peoples is not a kind one," he said. "And I am aware that my ancestors are responsible for the death and ruin of much you have held dear. But I am my own being, and I wish no evil upon Lothlórien."
Celeborn's gaze did not soften, but he glanced at Galadriel and then inclined his head to Thorin. "May it be so," he murmured. "After their great struggle, I am not inclined to deny my Lady or Mithrandir anything they ask."
Now that he was closer, Bilbo was surprised to see that the Lady's perfect face was somehow tired; a weariness seemed to lurk behind her brilliant eyes, and she leaned heavily upon her Lord's arm. "It is true," she said softly as if in answer to his thoughts, and Bilbo startled. "I have expended much of my strength recently, in banishing a great evil from the fortress of Dol Guldur with the help of Mithrandir."
"Was that--" Bilbo broke off and started again, "That terrible storm?"
"It may well have seemed a storm to mortal eyes," said Galadriel. "It was a fell battle, and I am...not fully recovered yet."
Gandalf had been at the center of that raging maelstrom, that thunderclap of destruction? Bilbo remembered the old wizard smoking pipeweed, chuckling and blowing smoke rings, and frowned. "Is Gandalf all right?"
"I am quite well, Mr. Baggins," said a familiar voice, and Gandalf stepped from an alcove, leaning on his staff. "A bit tired, but with no mortal hurts." The exhaustion in his eyes belied his words, but he looked keenly at Thorin. "I am sure that Thorin wishes to thank his hosts for all their hospitality," he said.
"Hospitality? I was brought here blindfolded like a common criminal and--" Thorin broke off and composed himself with an effort. "I...thank you," he said. "You did not have to permit us to enter your lands, I know."
Celeborn made a small sound in his throat, but Galadriel stepped down from the dais and approached Thorin, every move graceful as a tree in blossom. "Mithrandir says that you came across an artifact of power in your travels," she said. "A glass, now lost. And that you wished to ask if I knew of it."
"That is so, Lady. We found it in Himring, in what appeared to be Maedhros's study."
"Maedhros," murmured Galadriel, and the name seemed to echo with old pain and glory: a shining light and a consuming fire.
Thorin unslung his pack and pulled out a small leather notebook. "It was set in gold, with alabaster and emeralds surrounding it." He opened the notebook to a lovingly detailed sketch of the glass--Bilbo caught his breath as he saw it again, remembering his last glimpse of it. "The glass is lost now, but I have this drawing--and this poem that was placed under it," he added, handing her the notebook and the little slip of gold. As Galadriel took the notebook from him, Thorin cleared his throat. "It was my hope of a cure for my family," he said, his voice low. "And now I have no hope, unless you can tell me where such an artifact can be found again."
Galadriel gazed long at the notebook, then at the slip of gold. When she looked up once more her eyes were compassionate.
"Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór," she said, "I know this glass well. I was there when it was forged.
And I swear to you that it had no magical properties of any sort."