Clarity of Purpose, Chapter 15
Title: Clarity of Purpose, Chap. 15
Chapter Summary: Faced with an advancing army about to cut off their path, the fellowship must alter its plans.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield, the Fellowship
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: 3800
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.
Bilbo stared down at the vast army trudging north from Mordor, leaving a billowing dust-cloud behind it. Beyond them to the south, he could see a long range of jagged mountains, gray peaks scratching the sky. And then beyond even that, a lowering red light that--
Bilbo pulled his gaze away, his heart pounding. The ring in his pocket seemed hot to the touch; he barely realized he was fidgeting with it until he felt Thorin’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently until he let it go.
“There are orcs and men of Mordor,” said Legolas, shading his eyes with his hand. “And many Easterlings in bronze armor, their faces veiled. And leading them--” He hissed between his teeth, “Azog rides north from Mordor at the head of his army.”
“They travel to Erebor,” said Thorin. His voice sounded tight. “Sauron strikes at the Lonely Mountain in punishment for my defiance.”
“If we set out now,” said Gimli, “perhaps we can outpace them, reach Erebor before--”
“--No,” said Dís. She was gazing north toward Erebor, the wind in her silver-black hair. “My son is the Heir to the Lonely Mountain,” she said. “He is a worthy ruler. And he will prevail against this force. Do you doubt him?” she added fiercely when Gimli looked like he might argue. “Have faith in my sons, as I do.” Her face was pale and grim, but her voice was steady. “Azog will rue the day he set himself again the Line of Durin.”
“At least let us get a warning to them,” said Gimli. “Give them time to evacuate Dale. Erebor can withstand a siege longer than any orc can wait.” He bared his teeth. “Longer than any orc can live.”
“Is there a dwarven settlement along the road north?” asked Théoden. “Somewhere they can send a messenger from?”
“There’s Anin, at the ford of the Celduin,” said Thorin. “From there--what are you doing?”
Théoden was already stripping the luggage from the pack-horses, tossing it on the ground. “Three horses. Three of us must travel light to get to this Anin and warn them. The rest of you will hurry and cross the road ahead of the army to avoid detection, for it will take days for it to pass by--precious days we cannot waste in tarrying.” He looked around the group. “I shall go to tend the horses and encourage them to greater speed. And with me--Forgive me, but dwarves are no good with horses. Wizard, will the dwarves believe your warning?”
Gandalf inclined his head. “The folk of Erebor know I would not lie about something as grave as an approaching army.” He glanced at Thorin, and Thorin grumbled something under his breath but nodded.
“I travel with you as well,” said Legolas. “For you shall need someone to help you find the rest of the Fellowship after. And I would send a warning to the Greenwood and my father as well.”
Théoden threw the last of the baggage on the ground. “Goldwine, will you and your friends bear us swiftly to the north? Many lives may depend on it.” Goldwine nickered and nodded, and he kissed her nose before turning back to the party and saying, “We must not delay.”
“By my beard,” grumbled Gimli as the three of them mounted up, “That I should have to stand by and watch as a wizard, a man, and an elf ride off to save Erebor! It is intolerable!”
Legolas laughed, looking down from his horse. “You shall have to learn to tolerate it, master dwarf. We shall not let Dale and Erebor burn just to confirm your bad opinion of us.” He whistled, and without spur or reins his horse tossed up her head and took off north at a gallop, leaving Gimli sputtering.
“No time for farewells,” said Gandalf to Thorin. “Get across the road before the army, and then travel north of the Sea of Rhûn, for if the soldiers of the Easterlings travel with Mordor then the road east along the Ered Lithui will be swarming with their troops.”
“I’m aware of that,” snapped Thorin.
“We shall find you!” called Théoden to Estel. “Travel safe, and do not give credence to fools who doubt you!” He saluted Denethor mockingly as he said this, then galloped north after Legolas and Gandalf.
“And good riddance,” muttered Denethor at his retreating back. “I notice you did not volunteer to travel far from the Ring, Thorongil,” he added with a caustic look at Estel.
“My place is at Bilbo’s side,” said Estel, though Bilbo saw a muscle in his jaw twitch slightly.
“There is no time for this,” growled Thorin. “Even now Azog and his army move to cut us off from the east. We must make haste and cross their path before we are trapped here.”
Looking south at the army moving slowly across Dorwinion like a swarm of locusts, leaving the ground stripped bare and churned underfoot, Bilbo felt a sudden chill of fear, and a sense of keen eyes sweeping the hills, searching. “There’s something down there,” he murmured. “Something neither orc nor man.”
Arwen and Estel traded looks. “Sauron has servants at his command that we would do well to avoid,” Estel said.
“We are already avoiding an entire army of orcs and Easterners!” snorted Gimli. “Could there be anything worse?”
“Yes,” said Estel shortly. He picked up the baggage that Théoden had dropped to the ground. “Let us make haste.”
A full day’s travel brought them only about halfway to the road, for the wide-open distances of the plains were difficult to judge. They camped that night without a fire, a brief stop to rest. Far in the distance, Bilbo could faintly hear brazen horns blowing. “We shall reach the road tomorrow and cross it well before the army reaches us,” said Thorin.
“What did you mean, earlier,” Bilbo said to Estel. “About Sauron’s servants?”
“Ringwraiths,” said Thorin before Estel could speak. “Nine beings who were once Men, now enslaved by the One Ring to the will of Sauron.” He met Estel’s eyes. “You fear that one rides north to Erebor.”
“Or more than one,” Estel said. “If Saruman chose not to inform Sauron of our plans for the Ring--and we can only hope that, for his own selfish reasons, he did not--then it is likely that Sauron will assume that we are returning to Erebor bearing it, perhaps hoping in vain to destroy it there. He sends his most trusted and most powerful servants to capture it.”
As if his words had been a signal, a long, quavering cry split the night: a cold and inhuman sound that made Bilbo’s skin crawl. He hunched lower, pulling his shoulders up around his ears, and tried to think of his nice warm hobbit-hole, perhaps with a crackling fire going, and the smell of fresh-mown grass outside and fresh-baked bread inside. But the Shire seemed more than a world away now, and the eldritch creature roaming the night, searching for the Ring--searching for him!--seemed much more real.
“We cross the road at dawn tomorrow,” said Thorin. He spoke to the party, but he rested his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “For tonight, try to sleep. We shall need all of our energy tomorrow to put distance between us and this army.”
They rose in the dimmest of dawns, gathering their equipment in silence. The dust cloud to the south was closer now, and Bilbo saw Estel and Thorin casting uneasy glances at it. They hurried across bare and rocky land, topping a small hill to see the Great Road of Dorwinion stretched out before them, a brown ribbon across the plains. There were patches where it was paved with cobblestones, but strips of bare rutted dirt mottled it like scabs.
From her vantage point at the top of the rise, Arwen whistled softly like a phoebe, a pattern of high and low notes. “All clear,” muttered Estel. “Let’s go.”
The road was not terribly wide, but every step he took across it felt like an eternity to Bilbo. It seemed as if he could feel some tension like a gathering storm to the south, malignant and foul, and it made his shoulders hunch as if he expected a cry to ring out and heavy hooves to thunder toward him. Halfway across he stopped, swaying, fighting an urge to clap his hands to his ears and sink to his knees, and Thorin had to grip his elbow to keep him moving.
Once they were all across he felt somehow better, though his head was still swimming and there was a pressure on his chest as if someone had laid a heavy hand there. They stumbled into the foothills on the eastern side of the road, still undetected, and headed northeast, toward the northern shore of the Sea of Rhûn.
“Safe for now,” muttered Denethor, but Bilbo did not feel safe at all.
They angled north and east to make their way around the Sea of Rhûn--”For we do not wish to enter Taur-nu-Eleni,” Arwen said. “That is the forest on the north-west short of the Sea of Rhûn,” she added with a smile as Bilbo opened his mouth.
“The Forest Under the Stars, in Sindarin,” said Thorin thoughtfully, gazing at the line of trees far in the distance, a dark smudge on the edge of the great bright water of Rhûn.
Arwen’s smile fell away. “Indeed,” she said, and it seemed to Bilbo that she shivered.
“I thought elves loved forests,” said Denethor, glancing backwards uneasily at the dust cloud rising directly to the west, where the army continued to ride.
“Taur-nu-Eleni is the westernmost of the forests of Middle Earth held by the Avari--the Unwilling, those elves who rejected the call to travel to Valinor when the world was young, and who chose instead to stay under the stars.”
“Sounds reasonable to me,” snorted Gimli. “If some big glowy being showed up and told me to abandon everything and head west, I think I’d dig my heels in too!”
“You do not understand,” said Arwen. “If Elves do not travel to the west, if we willfully cling forever to Middle Earth--” She shivered again, and Estel moved a step closer to her side without seeming to realize he did so, “--Then we fade. Inevitably, we become disembodied, mere spirits without form, haunting the world we knew. The Avari chose this fate, and they are not always friendly to outsiders, be they human, dwarf, or even other elf.”
“There are stories of this wood among the folk of Erebor,” Thorin said. “In the time of Thorin I, my ancestor, the Lonely Mountain sent out scouting parties to determine if the forest were suitable for logging. After five parties never returned, the idea was abandoned.”
Gimli hunched his shoulders. “Then by all means, let us not enter it!”
They trudged on, trying to put as much space between themselves and the army as possible.
As it turned out, it was not enough.
“Are we far enough away to camp?” Dís’s voice was quiet, but Bilbo caught the quick look she gave him before turning to her brother.
“I’m fine,” Bilbo said.
“Are you? You are exhausted, Bilbo.” Dís frowned at him.
“No! I want to keep going.” And yet all day he had kept finding his steps lagging, his feet dragging, slowing everyone down. He yearned to be away from the hideous pressure, the ravening hunger that seemed to hang on the air behind them, and yet he could not quicken his steps. No wonder the rest of the fellowship thought he was weary.
“We will pause here for a moment,” said Thorin, and Bilbo shivered as a relief that seemed not entirely his own swept over him. “Rest,” he said to Bilbo. “I shall fetch you some water from that rivulet we passed a little while ago.”
He strode away, and the party fell quickly into their usual resting activities: Estel checked his gear, Dís re-plaited her hair, Arwen added a few stitches to the banner she was working on. Denethor and Gimli sat glumly, each looking rather lost without their usual conversational sparring partners.
Bilbo tried to close his eyes and rest, but he could not. Some feeling of rising tension made it impossible. Finally, he murmured an excuse about the call of nature and slipped away from the camp, heading west to find Thorin.
He spotted him from a distance, heading back toward camp. He was about to call out to him, when suddenly he saw something that made him stop dead in horror and duck behind a bush.
It was an orc-rider on a warg--probably a scout scouring the land to make sure that no deserters slipped away from the main bulk of the army. There was a small hillock between the orc and Thorin, so they hadn’t spotted each other, but from his hiding-spot Bilbo could see that their paths were going to intersect.
Thorin was walking into terrible danger and had no idea of his peril.
Panic seized Bilbo by the throat. If he called out, the warg-rider would almost certainly hear. He had to get to Thorin, had to warn him somehow! If only there was a way--
The panic faded abruptly into icy calm. Of course there was a way. He could put on the Ring. He could hurry to Thorin’s side, safe and invisible, and warn him, save him.
The Ring was in his hand, warm and smooth. Don’t do it! said a small voice in Bilbo’s mind that sounded rather like Gandalf’s, but he knew he had to. It wasn’t that he wanted to, but he had to save Thorin. Of course he had to! There was a buzzing muttering sound in his head, making it hard to think, but through his confusion he finally managed to move, and slide the Ring onto his finger.
Immediately, everything changed. The muttering buzzing was gone. The world seemed somehow edged with light, translucent. The figures of Thorin and the orc were strangely indistinct, wavering. Bilbo had just a moment to be shocked: this was quite different from when he had last worn the ring, almost thirty years ago.
But he barely had time to finish the thought before a wild, eerie scream clove the world asunder: a scream of hate and triumph and utter, cold malice from the west. Bilbo’s eyes were dragged westward, and in a dizzying rush of vision the leagues fell away, compressed, all the hills and trees between turned transparent and ethereal.
Bilbo stared into the eyes of a figure on a horse: a pale rider, gaunt as a corpse with eyes of burning flame, an iron diadem on its withered brow. Another keening shriek seemed to tear at his mind, and a second rider wheeled to stare at Bilbo as if he were only feet away. One skeletal hand was raised to point directly at him.
And then the two Ringwraiths wheeled their mounts away from the main army and spurred directly at him.
Bilbo shuddered, gripped by terror that seemed to crush him into the ground. They were coming for him, they were coming! Like a rabbit who spots the eagle stooping upon it, he felt frozen in place. Yet despite the fear dragging at him, he staggered forward, eyes fixed on the oblivious Thorin, and managed to make a hoarse, croaking sound, barely recognizable as a voice: “Look out!”
It was enough: the orc-rider broke into a gallop toward where Bilbo was, then stopped in surprise to realize there was no one there. By then Thorin had spotted the orc, and had his weapon ready: Bilbo heard him lift his voice in a cry of defiance as the orc spotted him and spurred forward.
But he could not see the outcome of the clash: all was lost in a weltering chaos of light and shadow. Triumph blazed from the south, and he felt it like heat all along the side of his body, a furnace of malevolence. Unable to stop himself, he turned to look toward Mordor.
The Eye! It blazed with malign purpose, as if it would obliterate everything Bilbo loved. In that scarlet light, he seemed to see the Shire go up in flames, saw Thorin’s body consumed like a candle. He staggered, felt cold dirt against his face, and then for a time he knew nothing more.
Thorin cleaned his sword off on the pelt of the dead warg, feeling rather pleased with himself: a quick kill, and he was unmarked despite his foe being mounted. He remembered suddenly the sound of a hoarse voice, almost like a raven’s caw--Look out!--and frowned.
“Bilbo?” he called softly, but there was no answer, and he saw nothing. “Bilbo!”
A sound of running footsteps, and Estel appeared at the top of a small rise, looking worried. He was followed by the remaining members of the Fellowship. “Is Bilbo here?” called Estel. “We can’t find him!”
“I thought I heard--wait.” Thorin turned, looking back to the west. From his vantage point on the hill, Estel made a choked sound. “Arwen,” he said.
“I see them,” she said. “Two Black Riders, riding hard this way.”
“Where is Bilbo?” Thorin stared wildly around. “We must--”
“You cannot fight these,” Estel said to Denethor, who had drawn his sword. Denethor looked like he was about to argue, and Estel cut him off: “None of us can!” He drew his own sword. “All we can hope to do is buy Bilbo enough time to get away,” he said tersely.
The blood drained from Denethor’s face, but he simply nodded. “Then we shall,” he said.
The Nazgûl were close enough now that Thorin could hear the hoofbeats ringing against the earth like thunder. “Bilbo!” he cried again. “Where are you?” He turned to the rest of the party and snapped, “If you can, head north to where the Celduin meets the Sea of Rhûn, and enter Taur-nu-Eleni. I misdoubt me if even the Ringwraiths will be sanguine about entering the wood of the Avari.”
Turning back, he saw the Nazgûl riding from the northwest and one from the southwest, coming together unerringly like pincers, heading straight for them.
No.
Not straight for them.
With a sudden jolt of realization, Thorin estimated their paths and realized they were converging on a point nearby, but not where the fellowship stood. “Bilbo!” he cried, and started running toward the barren patch of ground where the two riders would come together.
He could see nothing there, and knew he must look mad indeed, running directly into the paths of the Ringwraiths. But his suspicions were confirmed when he suddenly tripped over a strangely solid patch of air and went sprawling. With a gasp he scrabbled backward until his fingers closed on cloth, on a soft body--he felt the star pin he had made Bilbo catch between his fingers, the points jabbing into the palm of his hand, and with a rush of triumphant panic he heaved the invisible bulk of Bilbo’s body onto his shoulders. “Gimli! Dís! To us!” he yelled, and broke into a lumbering run, heading toward the dark line of woods on the horizon and the Celduin between them. Gimli and Dís fell in on either side of him, and they were running together with the steady, unbreakable stride of dwarves once they get up to their full speed.
Only once did he turn to look behind him. In that glimpse he saw Estel, Arwen, and Denethor blocking the path of the Nazgûl, standing shoulder to shoulder. He saw Estel lift a blade high above his head, and realized it was the sword Arwen had been carrying. The Ringwraiths shrieked and reined their horses back for an instant, milling around, their empty gazes fixed on the sword.
But Thorin saw no more, because he turned ahead again and ran with his invisible burden. “Bilbo!” he screamed as he ran, the wind catching his voice and snatching it away, “Take it off! Take off the Ring! Bilbo!” At some point Bilbo must have come to some kind of consciousness, because suddenly he was visible in Thorin’s arms again, but then he went limp with a moan as if he had fought a terrible battle.
Gimli glanced over his shoulder. “They have ridden by the humans and elf!” he yelled. “They come for us!”
Thorin could feel the ground shaking with the hoofbeats of their corrupted steeds. He nearly felt he could smell the putrescence of their rotting clothes. The Celduin was so close now, close enough that he could even see lighter sparkling water where the river ran more shallow. He changed the angle to make for the fords, sure that at any moment he would feel a dark blade stabbing at his back, that his last sight would be the Ringwraiths lifting Bilbo from his dying arms. No!
With a last desperate burst of speed, he plunged into the river, letting his momentum carry him athwart the current for as long as possible. Floundering through the shallow water, he struggled to stay upright, to keep Bilbo’s unconscious head above the water. He heard shrieks of rage behind him but did not look behind, not even when he made the far bank. Clattering splashes were all he needed to hear to know that the Nazgûl were forcing their mounts across the shallow water to continue their pursuit. Running hard on legs numb with exhaustion, he staggered forward into the dark wood on the other side of the Celduin.
Immediately it was as if all sunlight had been cut off, the towering evergreens blocking the rays of the sunset completely. Thorin lurched forward on sheer willpower, charging on for as long as he could before he stumbled, tried to catch himself, and went sprawling down a sudden incline, careening out of control through clawing brush and clinging vines. At some point he lost his grip on Bilbo and felt the hobbit slip from his fingers as he bounced and skittered down the slope, and he knew a moment of anguish and alarm before his fall was suddenly stopped by a boulder and all thought was cut off for a time. There were voices raised, searching for him: first Gimli and Dís, and then Estel and Arwen and Denethor as well, but he heard them not and they faded further into the darkness of the wood, swallowed up by shadows.
And so Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins entered Taur-nu-Eleni, the forest under the stars, where dwelt a malice as cold and detached as it was eternal.
Chapter Summary: Faced with an advancing army about to cut off their path, the fellowship must alter its plans.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield, the Fellowship
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: 3800
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.
Bilbo stared down at the vast army trudging north from Mordor, leaving a billowing dust-cloud behind it. Beyond them to the south, he could see a long range of jagged mountains, gray peaks scratching the sky. And then beyond even that, a lowering red light that--
Bilbo pulled his gaze away, his heart pounding. The ring in his pocket seemed hot to the touch; he barely realized he was fidgeting with it until he felt Thorin’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently until he let it go.
“There are orcs and men of Mordor,” said Legolas, shading his eyes with his hand. “And many Easterlings in bronze armor, their faces veiled. And leading them--” He hissed between his teeth, “Azog rides north from Mordor at the head of his army.”
“They travel to Erebor,” said Thorin. His voice sounded tight. “Sauron strikes at the Lonely Mountain in punishment for my defiance.”
“If we set out now,” said Gimli, “perhaps we can outpace them, reach Erebor before--”
“--No,” said Dís. She was gazing north toward Erebor, the wind in her silver-black hair. “My son is the Heir to the Lonely Mountain,” she said. “He is a worthy ruler. And he will prevail against this force. Do you doubt him?” she added fiercely when Gimli looked like he might argue. “Have faith in my sons, as I do.” Her face was pale and grim, but her voice was steady. “Azog will rue the day he set himself again the Line of Durin.”
“At least let us get a warning to them,” said Gimli. “Give them time to evacuate Dale. Erebor can withstand a siege longer than any orc can wait.” He bared his teeth. “Longer than any orc can live.”
“Is there a dwarven settlement along the road north?” asked Théoden. “Somewhere they can send a messenger from?”
“There’s Anin, at the ford of the Celduin,” said Thorin. “From there--what are you doing?”
Théoden was already stripping the luggage from the pack-horses, tossing it on the ground. “Three horses. Three of us must travel light to get to this Anin and warn them. The rest of you will hurry and cross the road ahead of the army to avoid detection, for it will take days for it to pass by--precious days we cannot waste in tarrying.” He looked around the group. “I shall go to tend the horses and encourage them to greater speed. And with me--Forgive me, but dwarves are no good with horses. Wizard, will the dwarves believe your warning?”
Gandalf inclined his head. “The folk of Erebor know I would not lie about something as grave as an approaching army.” He glanced at Thorin, and Thorin grumbled something under his breath but nodded.
“I travel with you as well,” said Legolas. “For you shall need someone to help you find the rest of the Fellowship after. And I would send a warning to the Greenwood and my father as well.”
Théoden threw the last of the baggage on the ground. “Goldwine, will you and your friends bear us swiftly to the north? Many lives may depend on it.” Goldwine nickered and nodded, and he kissed her nose before turning back to the party and saying, “We must not delay.”
“By my beard,” grumbled Gimli as the three of them mounted up, “That I should have to stand by and watch as a wizard, a man, and an elf ride off to save Erebor! It is intolerable!”
Legolas laughed, looking down from his horse. “You shall have to learn to tolerate it, master dwarf. We shall not let Dale and Erebor burn just to confirm your bad opinion of us.” He whistled, and without spur or reins his horse tossed up her head and took off north at a gallop, leaving Gimli sputtering.
“No time for farewells,” said Gandalf to Thorin. “Get across the road before the army, and then travel north of the Sea of Rhûn, for if the soldiers of the Easterlings travel with Mordor then the road east along the Ered Lithui will be swarming with their troops.”
“I’m aware of that,” snapped Thorin.
“We shall find you!” called Théoden to Estel. “Travel safe, and do not give credence to fools who doubt you!” He saluted Denethor mockingly as he said this, then galloped north after Legolas and Gandalf.
“And good riddance,” muttered Denethor at his retreating back. “I notice you did not volunteer to travel far from the Ring, Thorongil,” he added with a caustic look at Estel.
“My place is at Bilbo’s side,” said Estel, though Bilbo saw a muscle in his jaw twitch slightly.
“There is no time for this,” growled Thorin. “Even now Azog and his army move to cut us off from the east. We must make haste and cross their path before we are trapped here.”
Looking south at the army moving slowly across Dorwinion like a swarm of locusts, leaving the ground stripped bare and churned underfoot, Bilbo felt a sudden chill of fear, and a sense of keen eyes sweeping the hills, searching. “There’s something down there,” he murmured. “Something neither orc nor man.”
Arwen and Estel traded looks. “Sauron has servants at his command that we would do well to avoid,” Estel said.
“We are already avoiding an entire army of orcs and Easterners!” snorted Gimli. “Could there be anything worse?”
“Yes,” said Estel shortly. He picked up the baggage that Théoden had dropped to the ground. “Let us make haste.”
A full day’s travel brought them only about halfway to the road, for the wide-open distances of the plains were difficult to judge. They camped that night without a fire, a brief stop to rest. Far in the distance, Bilbo could faintly hear brazen horns blowing. “We shall reach the road tomorrow and cross it well before the army reaches us,” said Thorin.
“What did you mean, earlier,” Bilbo said to Estel. “About Sauron’s servants?”
“Ringwraiths,” said Thorin before Estel could speak. “Nine beings who were once Men, now enslaved by the One Ring to the will of Sauron.” He met Estel’s eyes. “You fear that one rides north to Erebor.”
“Or more than one,” Estel said. “If Saruman chose not to inform Sauron of our plans for the Ring--and we can only hope that, for his own selfish reasons, he did not--then it is likely that Sauron will assume that we are returning to Erebor bearing it, perhaps hoping in vain to destroy it there. He sends his most trusted and most powerful servants to capture it.”
As if his words had been a signal, a long, quavering cry split the night: a cold and inhuman sound that made Bilbo’s skin crawl. He hunched lower, pulling his shoulders up around his ears, and tried to think of his nice warm hobbit-hole, perhaps with a crackling fire going, and the smell of fresh-mown grass outside and fresh-baked bread inside. But the Shire seemed more than a world away now, and the eldritch creature roaming the night, searching for the Ring--searching for him!--seemed much more real.
“We cross the road at dawn tomorrow,” said Thorin. He spoke to the party, but he rested his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “For tonight, try to sleep. We shall need all of our energy tomorrow to put distance between us and this army.”
They rose in the dimmest of dawns, gathering their equipment in silence. The dust cloud to the south was closer now, and Bilbo saw Estel and Thorin casting uneasy glances at it. They hurried across bare and rocky land, topping a small hill to see the Great Road of Dorwinion stretched out before them, a brown ribbon across the plains. There were patches where it was paved with cobblestones, but strips of bare rutted dirt mottled it like scabs.
From her vantage point at the top of the rise, Arwen whistled softly like a phoebe, a pattern of high and low notes. “All clear,” muttered Estel. “Let’s go.”
The road was not terribly wide, but every step he took across it felt like an eternity to Bilbo. It seemed as if he could feel some tension like a gathering storm to the south, malignant and foul, and it made his shoulders hunch as if he expected a cry to ring out and heavy hooves to thunder toward him. Halfway across he stopped, swaying, fighting an urge to clap his hands to his ears and sink to his knees, and Thorin had to grip his elbow to keep him moving.
Once they were all across he felt somehow better, though his head was still swimming and there was a pressure on his chest as if someone had laid a heavy hand there. They stumbled into the foothills on the eastern side of the road, still undetected, and headed northeast, toward the northern shore of the Sea of Rhûn.
“Safe for now,” muttered Denethor, but Bilbo did not feel safe at all.
They angled north and east to make their way around the Sea of Rhûn--”For we do not wish to enter Taur-nu-Eleni,” Arwen said. “That is the forest on the north-west short of the Sea of Rhûn,” she added with a smile as Bilbo opened his mouth.
“The Forest Under the Stars, in Sindarin,” said Thorin thoughtfully, gazing at the line of trees far in the distance, a dark smudge on the edge of the great bright water of Rhûn.
Arwen’s smile fell away. “Indeed,” she said, and it seemed to Bilbo that she shivered.
“I thought elves loved forests,” said Denethor, glancing backwards uneasily at the dust cloud rising directly to the west, where the army continued to ride.
“Taur-nu-Eleni is the westernmost of the forests of Middle Earth held by the Avari--the Unwilling, those elves who rejected the call to travel to Valinor when the world was young, and who chose instead to stay under the stars.”
“Sounds reasonable to me,” snorted Gimli. “If some big glowy being showed up and told me to abandon everything and head west, I think I’d dig my heels in too!”
“You do not understand,” said Arwen. “If Elves do not travel to the west, if we willfully cling forever to Middle Earth--” She shivered again, and Estel moved a step closer to her side without seeming to realize he did so, “--Then we fade. Inevitably, we become disembodied, mere spirits without form, haunting the world we knew. The Avari chose this fate, and they are not always friendly to outsiders, be they human, dwarf, or even other elf.”
“There are stories of this wood among the folk of Erebor,” Thorin said. “In the time of Thorin I, my ancestor, the Lonely Mountain sent out scouting parties to determine if the forest were suitable for logging. After five parties never returned, the idea was abandoned.”
Gimli hunched his shoulders. “Then by all means, let us not enter it!”
They trudged on, trying to put as much space between themselves and the army as possible.
As it turned out, it was not enough.
“Are we far enough away to camp?” Dís’s voice was quiet, but Bilbo caught the quick look she gave him before turning to her brother.
“I’m fine,” Bilbo said.
“Are you? You are exhausted, Bilbo.” Dís frowned at him.
“No! I want to keep going.” And yet all day he had kept finding his steps lagging, his feet dragging, slowing everyone down. He yearned to be away from the hideous pressure, the ravening hunger that seemed to hang on the air behind them, and yet he could not quicken his steps. No wonder the rest of the fellowship thought he was weary.
“We will pause here for a moment,” said Thorin, and Bilbo shivered as a relief that seemed not entirely his own swept over him. “Rest,” he said to Bilbo. “I shall fetch you some water from that rivulet we passed a little while ago.”
He strode away, and the party fell quickly into their usual resting activities: Estel checked his gear, Dís re-plaited her hair, Arwen added a few stitches to the banner she was working on. Denethor and Gimli sat glumly, each looking rather lost without their usual conversational sparring partners.
Bilbo tried to close his eyes and rest, but he could not. Some feeling of rising tension made it impossible. Finally, he murmured an excuse about the call of nature and slipped away from the camp, heading west to find Thorin.
He spotted him from a distance, heading back toward camp. He was about to call out to him, when suddenly he saw something that made him stop dead in horror and duck behind a bush.
It was an orc-rider on a warg--probably a scout scouring the land to make sure that no deserters slipped away from the main bulk of the army. There was a small hillock between the orc and Thorin, so they hadn’t spotted each other, but from his hiding-spot Bilbo could see that their paths were going to intersect.
Thorin was walking into terrible danger and had no idea of his peril.
Panic seized Bilbo by the throat. If he called out, the warg-rider would almost certainly hear. He had to get to Thorin, had to warn him somehow! If only there was a way--
The panic faded abruptly into icy calm. Of course there was a way. He could put on the Ring. He could hurry to Thorin’s side, safe and invisible, and warn him, save him.
The Ring was in his hand, warm and smooth. Don’t do it! said a small voice in Bilbo’s mind that sounded rather like Gandalf’s, but he knew he had to. It wasn’t that he wanted to, but he had to save Thorin. Of course he had to! There was a buzzing muttering sound in his head, making it hard to think, but through his confusion he finally managed to move, and slide the Ring onto his finger.
Immediately, everything changed. The muttering buzzing was gone. The world seemed somehow edged with light, translucent. The figures of Thorin and the orc were strangely indistinct, wavering. Bilbo had just a moment to be shocked: this was quite different from when he had last worn the ring, almost thirty years ago.
But he barely had time to finish the thought before a wild, eerie scream clove the world asunder: a scream of hate and triumph and utter, cold malice from the west. Bilbo’s eyes were dragged westward, and in a dizzying rush of vision the leagues fell away, compressed, all the hills and trees between turned transparent and ethereal.
Bilbo stared into the eyes of a figure on a horse: a pale rider, gaunt as a corpse with eyes of burning flame, an iron diadem on its withered brow. Another keening shriek seemed to tear at his mind, and a second rider wheeled to stare at Bilbo as if he were only feet away. One skeletal hand was raised to point directly at him.
And then the two Ringwraiths wheeled their mounts away from the main army and spurred directly at him.
Bilbo shuddered, gripped by terror that seemed to crush him into the ground. They were coming for him, they were coming! Like a rabbit who spots the eagle stooping upon it, he felt frozen in place. Yet despite the fear dragging at him, he staggered forward, eyes fixed on the oblivious Thorin, and managed to make a hoarse, croaking sound, barely recognizable as a voice: “Look out!”
It was enough: the orc-rider broke into a gallop toward where Bilbo was, then stopped in surprise to realize there was no one there. By then Thorin had spotted the orc, and had his weapon ready: Bilbo heard him lift his voice in a cry of defiance as the orc spotted him and spurred forward.
But he could not see the outcome of the clash: all was lost in a weltering chaos of light and shadow. Triumph blazed from the south, and he felt it like heat all along the side of his body, a furnace of malevolence. Unable to stop himself, he turned to look toward Mordor.
The Eye! It blazed with malign purpose, as if it would obliterate everything Bilbo loved. In that scarlet light, he seemed to see the Shire go up in flames, saw Thorin’s body consumed like a candle. He staggered, felt cold dirt against his face, and then for a time he knew nothing more.
Thorin cleaned his sword off on the pelt of the dead warg, feeling rather pleased with himself: a quick kill, and he was unmarked despite his foe being mounted. He remembered suddenly the sound of a hoarse voice, almost like a raven’s caw--Look out!--and frowned.
“Bilbo?” he called softly, but there was no answer, and he saw nothing. “Bilbo!”
A sound of running footsteps, and Estel appeared at the top of a small rise, looking worried. He was followed by the remaining members of the Fellowship. “Is Bilbo here?” called Estel. “We can’t find him!”
“I thought I heard--wait.” Thorin turned, looking back to the west. From his vantage point on the hill, Estel made a choked sound. “Arwen,” he said.
“I see them,” she said. “Two Black Riders, riding hard this way.”
“Where is Bilbo?” Thorin stared wildly around. “We must--”
“You cannot fight these,” Estel said to Denethor, who had drawn his sword. Denethor looked like he was about to argue, and Estel cut him off: “None of us can!” He drew his own sword. “All we can hope to do is buy Bilbo enough time to get away,” he said tersely.
The blood drained from Denethor’s face, but he simply nodded. “Then we shall,” he said.
The Nazgûl were close enough now that Thorin could hear the hoofbeats ringing against the earth like thunder. “Bilbo!” he cried again. “Where are you?” He turned to the rest of the party and snapped, “If you can, head north to where the Celduin meets the Sea of Rhûn, and enter Taur-nu-Eleni. I misdoubt me if even the Ringwraiths will be sanguine about entering the wood of the Avari.”
Turning back, he saw the Nazgûl riding from the northwest and one from the southwest, coming together unerringly like pincers, heading straight for them.
No.
Not straight for them.
With a sudden jolt of realization, Thorin estimated their paths and realized they were converging on a point nearby, but not where the fellowship stood. “Bilbo!” he cried, and started running toward the barren patch of ground where the two riders would come together.
He could see nothing there, and knew he must look mad indeed, running directly into the paths of the Ringwraiths. But his suspicions were confirmed when he suddenly tripped over a strangely solid patch of air and went sprawling. With a gasp he scrabbled backward until his fingers closed on cloth, on a soft body--he felt the star pin he had made Bilbo catch between his fingers, the points jabbing into the palm of his hand, and with a rush of triumphant panic he heaved the invisible bulk of Bilbo’s body onto his shoulders. “Gimli! Dís! To us!” he yelled, and broke into a lumbering run, heading toward the dark line of woods on the horizon and the Celduin between them. Gimli and Dís fell in on either side of him, and they were running together with the steady, unbreakable stride of dwarves once they get up to their full speed.
Only once did he turn to look behind him. In that glimpse he saw Estel, Arwen, and Denethor blocking the path of the Nazgûl, standing shoulder to shoulder. He saw Estel lift a blade high above his head, and realized it was the sword Arwen had been carrying. The Ringwraiths shrieked and reined their horses back for an instant, milling around, their empty gazes fixed on the sword.
But Thorin saw no more, because he turned ahead again and ran with his invisible burden. “Bilbo!” he screamed as he ran, the wind catching his voice and snatching it away, “Take it off! Take off the Ring! Bilbo!” At some point Bilbo must have come to some kind of consciousness, because suddenly he was visible in Thorin’s arms again, but then he went limp with a moan as if he had fought a terrible battle.
Gimli glanced over his shoulder. “They have ridden by the humans and elf!” he yelled. “They come for us!”
Thorin could feel the ground shaking with the hoofbeats of their corrupted steeds. He nearly felt he could smell the putrescence of their rotting clothes. The Celduin was so close now, close enough that he could even see lighter sparkling water where the river ran more shallow. He changed the angle to make for the fords, sure that at any moment he would feel a dark blade stabbing at his back, that his last sight would be the Ringwraiths lifting Bilbo from his dying arms. No!
With a last desperate burst of speed, he plunged into the river, letting his momentum carry him athwart the current for as long as possible. Floundering through the shallow water, he struggled to stay upright, to keep Bilbo’s unconscious head above the water. He heard shrieks of rage behind him but did not look behind, not even when he made the far bank. Clattering splashes were all he needed to hear to know that the Nazgûl were forcing their mounts across the shallow water to continue their pursuit. Running hard on legs numb with exhaustion, he staggered forward into the dark wood on the other side of the Celduin.
Immediately it was as if all sunlight had been cut off, the towering evergreens blocking the rays of the sunset completely. Thorin lurched forward on sheer willpower, charging on for as long as he could before he stumbled, tried to catch himself, and went sprawling down a sudden incline, careening out of control through clawing brush and clinging vines. At some point he lost his grip on Bilbo and felt the hobbit slip from his fingers as he bounced and skittered down the slope, and he knew a moment of anguish and alarm before his fall was suddenly stopped by a boulder and all thought was cut off for a time. There were voices raised, searching for him: first Gimli and Dís, and then Estel and Arwen and Denethor as well, but he heard them not and they faded further into the darkness of the wood, swallowed up by shadows.
And so Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins entered Taur-nu-Eleni, the forest under the stars, where dwelt a malice as cold and detached as it was eternal.