Clarity of Purpose, Chap. 8
Title: Clarity of Purpose, Chap. 8
Chapter Summary: The Council of Khazad-dûm is convened: Denethor and Théoden trade barbs, and Saruman meets Thorin in private with a proposition. Bilbo mostly tries to go as unnoticed as possible, for what input could a mere hobbit have into these grand affairs?
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield, Gandalf, Balin, Dwalin, Saruman, Arwen, Glorfindel, Elladan, Elrohir, Theoden, Denethor, Galadriel
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: 2000
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.
“My thanks to all those assembled who have waited for me,” announced Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor. He was wearing green robes trimmed in gold, with an ornately-carved ivory horn slung at his side. His voice was strong, his eyes afire with energy; if his face was rather pale and his grip on the table seemed to be for balance as much as for dramatic effect, none but Bilbo seemed to notice. He nodded regally to the assembled lords and ladies. “And my thanks especially to King Balin of Khazad-dûm for giving us all the space in which to discuss these portents that have so recently stirred us.
“Portents, you say?” Denethor went on, although no one had interrupted him. From his quiet corner, Bilbo glanced surreptitiously around the crowded council-hall. Galadriel had a small smile on her face, as if an adult watching charming children at play. Théoden kept stopping himself from drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. Elrohir and Elladan, seated behind Glorfindel, seemed outwardly polite, but Bilbo remembered their words about Denethor and felt uneasy. And Saruman--
Well, perhaps it was Bilbo’s imagination, but Saruman seemed to keep looking to where Bilbo was sitting. Bilbo tried to unobtrusively push his chair further behind Thorin’s, but discovered it was too heavy to move easily. He certainly didn’t want to call attention to himself by straining to shove a stone chair into the shadows, so he sat still and tried not to fidget under the weight of that heavy-lidded gaze.
The other members of the Council were listening politely to Denethor; after a morning of introductions and recounted histories, Bilbo would have expected more of them to seem tired. But then, they were all nobility (or wizards) and much of ruling a nation seemed to consist of endless meetings and discussions, from what Thorin had told him. Meetings in the Shire had a good deal fewer speeches and a good deal more food. Perhaps everyone here had more stamina than Bilbo.
But his stomach was threatening to growl, and the Ring was unpleasantly heavy in his pocket.
“Dire portents indeed,” Denethor was continuing. “For I have traveled here, though much danger and peril, over plains and across rivers, because a dream came to me, a command I could not deny. A light dawned in the West, and a voice like the cry of a hawk told me to--”
”Seek for the shield that is oaken,” cried Théoden, leaping from his chair and saying the line in unison with Denethor. ”In Khazad-dûm it dwells.”
The two men glared at each other across the council-table.
“And the voice went on,” said Théoden triumphantly: ”There shall be counsels taken, stronger than Morgul-spells.”
Grudgingly, Denethor nodded and recited through gritted teeth: ”There shall be shown a token, that Doom is near at hand--”
”For Isildur’s Bane shall waken,” they finished in unison again, ”And the Halfling forth shall stand.”
Together, their gazes turned to Bilbo, who wished he were anywhere but there.
Théoden glared at Denethor again. “Why did you of all people have the same dream I had?”
Denethor’s dark eyes glittered and he bared his teeth. “Why did I--my father is the ruler of the greatest city in all of Middle Earth! The question should be why should the Powers of the West send their message to you, a princeling of sheep and horses and empty fields--”
“At least I am a prince,” retorted Théoden. “And not a stand-in for a true ruler!”
”Enough,” said Balin, standing. Besides Bilbo he was the smallest person in the room, but his voice held all the command of a king, and both Théoden and Denethor subsided, although Bilbo heard Elladan and Elrohir elbowing each other and snickering about “Prince Placeholder.” Glorfindel and Galadriel turned in unison to give them a quelling glance, and they fell silent as well.
“Clearly fell powers are afoot,” Balin went on, “If so many of the peoples of Middle Earth have found their way to this place. For indeed, Isildur’s Bane has awoken, and now we must decide what to do with this grave opportunity.”
“Bilbo Baggins.” Gandalf’s voice was gentle, but Bilbo flinched. “Show us the burden you carry.”
Everyone’s eyes turned to Bilbo, who wished desperately that the stone floor of the council room would open and swallow him up. He stood on shaky legs and started forward; as he passed Thorin’s chair to walk into the center of the room he felt Thorin’s hand touch his shoulder. A fleeting touch, but it seemed enough courage flowed into him from the contact that he was able to make it to the center of the room and the table that waited there.
Drawing his Ring out of his pocket, he placed it on the table. It made a tiny, resonant clink as he put it down on the stone, and he felt every gaze in the room shift to look at it. He should have been grateful that the attention had moved from him, but he didn’t; he felt sick and anguished, wanting nothing more than to snatch the ring up and flee the room with it. So many people, so many eyes!
He couldn’t bring himself to back away from his treasure, and so he stood in the middle of the room with his legs shaking and nausea churning his stomach as Gandalf explained the history of the Ring: how Sauron had placed much of his being within it, and how Isildur, King of Gondor, had cut the Ring from his hand in revenge and wrath at the death of his father.
“His father’s sword, Narsil, was shattered that day,” said Gandalf. “And the shards were carried back to his infant son in Rivendell, to be kept always as an heirloom of the royal family. They have stayed there ever since, even after the line failed and the rule passed to the Stewards.”
Bilbo saw Thorin frown sharply and glance to where Elrohir was sitting, but he said nothing.
“Alas!” cried Glorfindel, rising from his seat. “I know the next part of this tale well, for Elrond has told it to me: how he urged Isildur to destroy the Ring, but Isildur said him nay and kept it for his own. Yet it betrayed him, and slipped from his hand as he fled from the orc-hordes that pursued him, and he was slain, and the Ring lost.”
“So this, then, is Isildur’s Bane,” murmured Denethor, gazing at the golden band on the table. “Rumors and whispers we in Gondor had heard, but no proof. How then did it make its way from the High King’s hand to the keeping of this halfling? And what,” he asked, gazing around the room, “Are we to do with it now?”
The question fell heavy into the suddenly-silent room. On the far side of the room, Saruman stirred and glanced at Gandalf, but said nothing. Galadriel’s eyes were distant. Théoden grimaced, looking at each person’s face in turn.
“The first of your questions, Lord Denethor, I shall answer in the afternoon,” Thorin said, “For it is a long tale and I suspect some of us have need of sustenance.” To Bilbo he added in a low voice, “Take up the Ring once more, Bilbo.”
Bilbo stepped up to the table and took the Ring in his hand, relieved and reluctant at the same time to feel its sinuous weight once more. He turned, lifting it to slip into his pocket--and froze.
For a brief instant, it was as if he saw the inhabitants of the room stripped of form, as spirits only: Saruman glimmered with a thousand points of color; Gandalf was an immaculate silver light; Glorfindel and Galadriel were both a nearly-unbearable glory of gold. All of them throbbing with power, all of them dangerous, and Bilbo felt a flash of trepidation and hunger pulse through him that seemed to come from the Ring in his hand. With a startled flinch, he stepped backwards and almost ran into Thorin, glancing up at him as the Ring left his hand and dropped back into his pocket.
Thorin put a hand on his elbow and Bilbo let himself be steered to the banquet-room prepared for them, but the glimpse he had caught of Thorin before releasing the Ring still lingered in his vision: a rock-solid presence, warm as a banked fire or a sun-soaked stone, immovable and reliable.
Bilbo rubbed his fingers together quietly, feeling the fading numbness from the shock that had gone through him, and knew beyond rationality that the Ring might fear and yearn for the great powers at the Council, but it loathed Thorin Oakenshield with a dull, unceasing hatred.
“Your majesty.” Saruman bowed politely as Thorin entered his quarters. “You are kind to grant me an audience in private before we returned to the council-room.”
Thorin inclined his head in return. “You wished to speak with me?”
Saruman paced across his room, white robes swirling like fog. “Away from prying eyes and wagging tongues,” he said. “Where two people who understand how this world works can speak as equals. I did not wish to say this in front of the elves.” His voice was ingratiating, calm, reasonable: it seemed to draw a golden circle with he and Thorin on the inside and the rest of the world on the outside. “For you know how jealous they are of anything that they perceive as theirs, and I am certain they will try to claim that their role in helping to create this Ring means they have more say in what is done with it than...disinterested parties like myself, or like you, my friend.”
When Gandalf called him “my friend,” Thorin never felt like he had laid a too-heavy hand on his shoulder. But he veiled his unease and said merely, “The fate of the Ring will be decided by all.”
“By all?” Disbelief stained Saruman’s beautiful voice. “Look around your own council hall, your majesty! There are three dwarves seated there, and six elves! And Mithrandir, who will always side with the elves against you, and you know it, you have witnessed it with your own eyes. How can you hope for a fair conclusion?” He bent his tall form closer to Thorin’s ear. ”They will take the Ring from you.”
And welcome to the foul thing, Thorin thought. Aloud, he said, “And what would you suggest we do instead? Shall we give it to you?”
Saruman smiled, pleased at his perception. “If anyone at this Council has the power to destroy it, it is I,” he said. “Entrust the Ring to me, and I will unmake Sauron entirely. This I swear.”
His voice was low, compelling, filled with passion and determination. Thorin remembered the doubt in Gandalf’s voice, the uncertainty.
He met Saruman’s eyes and forced himself to smile politely.
“I shall consider your arguments, my lord,” he said. “Thank you for your insights.”
Saruman’s long fingers tightened on his ebony staff, but he smiled politely in turn as Thorin bowed and showed himself out.
In the corridor, Thorin took a long breath, unnerved. He felt suddenly an almost-overwhelming desire to be with Bilbo again, to hear his voice and see his smile, to know there was a space in the world free of ancient grudges, of doubt and suspicion.
Yes, he thought, quickening his steps toward his own quarters, Bilbo and a spot of tea before the Council began once more were just what he needed.
Chapter Summary: The Council of Khazad-dûm is convened: Denethor and Théoden trade barbs, and Saruman meets Thorin in private with a proposition. Bilbo mostly tries to go as unnoticed as possible, for what input could a mere hobbit have into these grand affairs?
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield, Gandalf, Balin, Dwalin, Saruman, Arwen, Glorfindel, Elladan, Elrohir, Theoden, Denethor, Galadriel
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: 2000
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.
“My thanks to all those assembled who have waited for me,” announced Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor. He was wearing green robes trimmed in gold, with an ornately-carved ivory horn slung at his side. His voice was strong, his eyes afire with energy; if his face was rather pale and his grip on the table seemed to be for balance as much as for dramatic effect, none but Bilbo seemed to notice. He nodded regally to the assembled lords and ladies. “And my thanks especially to King Balin of Khazad-dûm for giving us all the space in which to discuss these portents that have so recently stirred us.
“Portents, you say?” Denethor went on, although no one had interrupted him. From his quiet corner, Bilbo glanced surreptitiously around the crowded council-hall. Galadriel had a small smile on her face, as if an adult watching charming children at play. Théoden kept stopping himself from drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. Elrohir and Elladan, seated behind Glorfindel, seemed outwardly polite, but Bilbo remembered their words about Denethor and felt uneasy. And Saruman--
Well, perhaps it was Bilbo’s imagination, but Saruman seemed to keep looking to where Bilbo was sitting. Bilbo tried to unobtrusively push his chair further behind Thorin’s, but discovered it was too heavy to move easily. He certainly didn’t want to call attention to himself by straining to shove a stone chair into the shadows, so he sat still and tried not to fidget under the weight of that heavy-lidded gaze.
The other members of the Council were listening politely to Denethor; after a morning of introductions and recounted histories, Bilbo would have expected more of them to seem tired. But then, they were all nobility (or wizards) and much of ruling a nation seemed to consist of endless meetings and discussions, from what Thorin had told him. Meetings in the Shire had a good deal fewer speeches and a good deal more food. Perhaps everyone here had more stamina than Bilbo.
But his stomach was threatening to growl, and the Ring was unpleasantly heavy in his pocket.
“Dire portents indeed,” Denethor was continuing. “For I have traveled here, though much danger and peril, over plains and across rivers, because a dream came to me, a command I could not deny. A light dawned in the West, and a voice like the cry of a hawk told me to--”
”Seek for the shield that is oaken,” cried Théoden, leaping from his chair and saying the line in unison with Denethor. ”In Khazad-dûm it dwells.”
The two men glared at each other across the council-table.
“And the voice went on,” said Théoden triumphantly: ”There shall be counsels taken, stronger than Morgul-spells.”
Grudgingly, Denethor nodded and recited through gritted teeth: ”There shall be shown a token, that Doom is near at hand--”
”For Isildur’s Bane shall waken,” they finished in unison again, ”And the Halfling forth shall stand.”
Together, their gazes turned to Bilbo, who wished he were anywhere but there.
Théoden glared at Denethor again. “Why did you of all people have the same dream I had?”
Denethor’s dark eyes glittered and he bared his teeth. “Why did I--my father is the ruler of the greatest city in all of Middle Earth! The question should be why should the Powers of the West send their message to you, a princeling of sheep and horses and empty fields--”
“At least I am a prince,” retorted Théoden. “And not a stand-in for a true ruler!”
”Enough,” said Balin, standing. Besides Bilbo he was the smallest person in the room, but his voice held all the command of a king, and both Théoden and Denethor subsided, although Bilbo heard Elladan and Elrohir elbowing each other and snickering about “Prince Placeholder.” Glorfindel and Galadriel turned in unison to give them a quelling glance, and they fell silent as well.
“Clearly fell powers are afoot,” Balin went on, “If so many of the peoples of Middle Earth have found their way to this place. For indeed, Isildur’s Bane has awoken, and now we must decide what to do with this grave opportunity.”
“Bilbo Baggins.” Gandalf’s voice was gentle, but Bilbo flinched. “Show us the burden you carry.”
Everyone’s eyes turned to Bilbo, who wished desperately that the stone floor of the council room would open and swallow him up. He stood on shaky legs and started forward; as he passed Thorin’s chair to walk into the center of the room he felt Thorin’s hand touch his shoulder. A fleeting touch, but it seemed enough courage flowed into him from the contact that he was able to make it to the center of the room and the table that waited there.
Drawing his Ring out of his pocket, he placed it on the table. It made a tiny, resonant clink as he put it down on the stone, and he felt every gaze in the room shift to look at it. He should have been grateful that the attention had moved from him, but he didn’t; he felt sick and anguished, wanting nothing more than to snatch the ring up and flee the room with it. So many people, so many eyes!
He couldn’t bring himself to back away from his treasure, and so he stood in the middle of the room with his legs shaking and nausea churning his stomach as Gandalf explained the history of the Ring: how Sauron had placed much of his being within it, and how Isildur, King of Gondor, had cut the Ring from his hand in revenge and wrath at the death of his father.
“His father’s sword, Narsil, was shattered that day,” said Gandalf. “And the shards were carried back to his infant son in Rivendell, to be kept always as an heirloom of the royal family. They have stayed there ever since, even after the line failed and the rule passed to the Stewards.”
Bilbo saw Thorin frown sharply and glance to where Elrohir was sitting, but he said nothing.
“Alas!” cried Glorfindel, rising from his seat. “I know the next part of this tale well, for Elrond has told it to me: how he urged Isildur to destroy the Ring, but Isildur said him nay and kept it for his own. Yet it betrayed him, and slipped from his hand as he fled from the orc-hordes that pursued him, and he was slain, and the Ring lost.”
“So this, then, is Isildur’s Bane,” murmured Denethor, gazing at the golden band on the table. “Rumors and whispers we in Gondor had heard, but no proof. How then did it make its way from the High King’s hand to the keeping of this halfling? And what,” he asked, gazing around the room, “Are we to do with it now?”
The question fell heavy into the suddenly-silent room. On the far side of the room, Saruman stirred and glanced at Gandalf, but said nothing. Galadriel’s eyes were distant. Théoden grimaced, looking at each person’s face in turn.
“The first of your questions, Lord Denethor, I shall answer in the afternoon,” Thorin said, “For it is a long tale and I suspect some of us have need of sustenance.” To Bilbo he added in a low voice, “Take up the Ring once more, Bilbo.”
Bilbo stepped up to the table and took the Ring in his hand, relieved and reluctant at the same time to feel its sinuous weight once more. He turned, lifting it to slip into his pocket--and froze.
For a brief instant, it was as if he saw the inhabitants of the room stripped of form, as spirits only: Saruman glimmered with a thousand points of color; Gandalf was an immaculate silver light; Glorfindel and Galadriel were both a nearly-unbearable glory of gold. All of them throbbing with power, all of them dangerous, and Bilbo felt a flash of trepidation and hunger pulse through him that seemed to come from the Ring in his hand. With a startled flinch, he stepped backwards and almost ran into Thorin, glancing up at him as the Ring left his hand and dropped back into his pocket.
Thorin put a hand on his elbow and Bilbo let himself be steered to the banquet-room prepared for them, but the glimpse he had caught of Thorin before releasing the Ring still lingered in his vision: a rock-solid presence, warm as a banked fire or a sun-soaked stone, immovable and reliable.
Bilbo rubbed his fingers together quietly, feeling the fading numbness from the shock that had gone through him, and knew beyond rationality that the Ring might fear and yearn for the great powers at the Council, but it loathed Thorin Oakenshield with a dull, unceasing hatred.
“Your majesty.” Saruman bowed politely as Thorin entered his quarters. “You are kind to grant me an audience in private before we returned to the council-room.”
Thorin inclined his head in return. “You wished to speak with me?”
Saruman paced across his room, white robes swirling like fog. “Away from prying eyes and wagging tongues,” he said. “Where two people who understand how this world works can speak as equals. I did not wish to say this in front of the elves.” His voice was ingratiating, calm, reasonable: it seemed to draw a golden circle with he and Thorin on the inside and the rest of the world on the outside. “For you know how jealous they are of anything that they perceive as theirs, and I am certain they will try to claim that their role in helping to create this Ring means they have more say in what is done with it than...disinterested parties like myself, or like you, my friend.”
When Gandalf called him “my friend,” Thorin never felt like he had laid a too-heavy hand on his shoulder. But he veiled his unease and said merely, “The fate of the Ring will be decided by all.”
“By all?” Disbelief stained Saruman’s beautiful voice. “Look around your own council hall, your majesty! There are three dwarves seated there, and six elves! And Mithrandir, who will always side with the elves against you, and you know it, you have witnessed it with your own eyes. How can you hope for a fair conclusion?” He bent his tall form closer to Thorin’s ear. ”They will take the Ring from you.”
And welcome to the foul thing, Thorin thought. Aloud, he said, “And what would you suggest we do instead? Shall we give it to you?”
Saruman smiled, pleased at his perception. “If anyone at this Council has the power to destroy it, it is I,” he said. “Entrust the Ring to me, and I will unmake Sauron entirely. This I swear.”
His voice was low, compelling, filled with passion and determination. Thorin remembered the doubt in Gandalf’s voice, the uncertainty.
He met Saruman’s eyes and forced himself to smile politely.
“I shall consider your arguments, my lord,” he said. “Thank you for your insights.”
Saruman’s long fingers tightened on his ebony staff, but he smiled politely in turn as Thorin bowed and showed himself out.
In the corridor, Thorin took a long breath, unnerved. He felt suddenly an almost-overwhelming desire to be with Bilbo again, to hear his voice and see his smile, to know there was a space in the world free of ancient grudges, of doubt and suspicion.
Yes, he thought, quickening his steps toward his own quarters, Bilbo and a spot of tea before the Council began once more were just what he needed.