Clarity of Purpose, Chapter 22
Title: Clarity of Purpose, Chap. 22
Chapter Summary: Thorin leads a rescue mission into the palace of Saynshar, while the rest of the party prepares to flee the city southward into the Desert of Nurn.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield, Denethor, Gimli, Dis, Arwen, Aragorn, Legolas, Theoden
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: 2500
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.
“There is no time to rescue Thorongil!” Thorin could hear a desperate urgency in Denethor’s voice, one that made his stomach knot with unwelcome empathy. “I must return to Minas Tirith and warn my father that an army is being mustered against our people!” He glared at the stony faces of the rest of the party. “And yes, I see your thoughts in your eyes, and I do not deny them. Perhaps I do think we are better off without him. I tell you, he was only with us because he desires the Ring for himself!”
“Do you truly still believe this thing of him?” said Arwen, and her voice was deadly calm. “You have traveled with him for months now, and you think this of him yet?”
Denethor looked at her, and his throat worked. He swallowed hard. When he spoke again, his voice was less strident. “Warning Gondor must be my first priority. If he is the man you claim he is,” he said with emphasis, “Then he would agree that Gondor comes first. Someone must reach my father and warn him as soon as possible, and that means--” He stopped suddenly and his eyes widened, as if with an idea. “Unless--” He whirled to face Pallando. “Your birds, wizard. Can one of them bear a message to Minas Tirith? Do they know the way?”
“My birds will fly wherever I tell them,” said Pallando with some pride. He had arrived last and alone at the bolthole. “Kestrel has her own safe places,” he had said when they asked where she was.
“Paper, I need paper,” said Denethor, scrabbling in his pack. “And a pen. Ah.” He pounced on a pen and inkstand on the desk tucked away in the corner of the tiny, dim room they had gathered in.
Thorin turned to the rest of the group. “Gandalf, Arwen and I will be entering the palace to find Thorongil this evening,” he said. “The rest of you will be finding us a means of travel southward and meeting us at the edge of town at dawn. Théoden, I trust you and Legolas to find us the best mounts.”
Théoden bowed with a grin. “You may leave it in our hands, your majesty.”
“Dís, Gimli, Bilbo--find the provisions and supplies we need. Sauron trusts the great desert to the south to prevent access to Mordor; we must be prepared for harsh climes.” Bilbo opened his mouth, frowning, and Thorin continued hurriedly, “Pallando, do you have a map of the palace?”
“I do,” said the wizard, crossing his arms in front of his broad chest.
“Then you must show us the best routes within it to where you think Thorongil will be held.”
“There,” said Denethor with some satisfaction, stepping back into the conversation as he rolled up his bit of parchment. “All I know of the war plans of the Easterlings, to be delivered to my father. Don’t worry, all is in code,” he said at Thorin’s worried look. His smile turned sardonic. “I didn’t have the space to tell him his cherished captain Thorongil was in danger, but I believe he will muster his troops nonetheless.”
“Go with Pallando to find one of his birds and send your message,” said Thorin. “Then meet us at the southern gate.” He turned to Dís. “If we do not return by dawn, take Bilbo and go.”
As Dís nodded, Thorin felt his sleeve grabbed, and he was yanked around to meet Bilbo’s eyes. “If you are done commanding everyone, your majesty,” said Bilbo, “May I have a word with you in private?”
Thorin nodded, trying to look more confident than he felt, and followed him across the hall to the smaller room of the bolthole.
“How dare you ship me off like a--like a package!” Bilbo snapped before the door finished closing. “You said we would share all dangers from now. You said--” He broke off and gulped hard. “You said we would not be parted again while you lived.”
“It is too dangerous,” said Thorin. “Listen to me, Bilbo!” he said when Bilbo shook his head as if in disbelief. “The Fellowship can go on without any of us. But the palace is swarming with agents of Mordor. If you are taken, all is lost. You must flee the city and go south.” He put his hands on Bilbo’s shoulders. “The Ring must be destroyed. If it is not, there is no future for us beyond war and bloodshed. There is no future for Erebor, for the Shire, if Sauron captures you. Please, Bilbo.”
He half-expected that Bilbo would protest that they could still be together, that surely Thorin did not have to lead this rescue mission. He saw the words nearly on Bilbo’s lips. But then Bilbo searched his eyes, and whatever he saw in Thorin’s expression caused his own to soften. “Very well,” Bilbo said, taking Thorin’s hands from his shoulders and holding them in his own. “But you must promise me something.”
“Anything in my power,” Thorin said.
“Promise me, Thorin, that--” Bilbo’s voice faltered for a moment, then he pressed his lips together and went on, “that you will not let anyone else take the Ring. Denethor desires it, I know,” he said as Thorin took a sharp, pained breath, “and he is not alone. There are so many people who want it for their own, but it--” His hands tightened on Thorin’s. “It is ours to destroy. It stole so many years from us, precious years we might have had together. Promise me that you and I, and no other, will be the ones to end it.”
His eyes were shadowed, haunted, and Thorin felt behind them the terrible weight of those years alone, tethered by the compulsion of the Ring. Such pain deserved a promise--but Thorin knew well how the Ring could twist suffering and despair to its own ends. “My dearest,” he said carefully, “none shall carry the Ring but you while I have power to prevent it, and together we shall destroy it.”
Bilbo searched his eyes for a moment. Then he nodded once, a pained jerk of his head. “You’ll return to me,” he said. “I know it. Now--go rescue Estel.” He sniffed once, hard, and rubbed at his eyes. “Go before I make a fool of myself.”
Bilbo wiped his eyes again as they made their way through the bazaar. “It’s dusty,” he complained as Dís rested a hand on his back briefly.
Legolas smiled down at him reassuringly. “I have a spare nínhammad, if you have need of one, my friend.”
“Nínhammad?”
Legolas frowned, dodging a mad-eyed goat that glared at him as they passed. “I do not know the word in Westron for it. Here--” He pulled from a pocket a small square of cloth, so gossamer-light it seemed to drift in the sunlight. “Cloth made by the master-weavers of the Greenwood from the golden flowers of mallos, sewn with thread cunningly spun of opals. Its name means ‘tear-cloth’ in Sindarin. It is said that the weavers of Nargothrond, after the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, wove nínhammad for a month without ceasing.”
“Oh,” said Bilbo as Legolas pressed the cloth into his hand. It felt finer and lighter than the purest silk. “We call it a pocket handkerchief in the Shire.” It seemed rude to blow his nose on it, so he dabbed lightly at his eyes.
Gimli made a rude noise. “We dwarves just use our sleeves,” he said loudly.
Dís stepped in between Gimli and Legolas before the squabble could escalate. “Legolas, you and Bilbo get us some food. Gimli and I will search for clothing and other items.”
Just outside the walls of Saynshar was a scattering of shacks and sheds overlooking a large lake. Bilbo pointed to one with a rough-scratched picture of a fish drawn on a board hanging in front of it. “Let’s try here.”
The inside of the store reeked strongly of smoke and fish; dried herrings hung from the ceiling. Behind the counter, the store owner was in the middle of an animated conversation with two city guards.
Bilbo shot Legolas a nervous look, but the elf shrugged and raised his eyebrows: too conspicuous to back out now, his look said.
“I’m telling you,” the store owner was saying, agitated, “That if you don’t stop the brat who is raiding my traps I’ll be put out of business! It’s got to be one of those beggar children, I know it--I saw the tiny footprints in the mud. They’re robbing me blind!”
One of the guards scratched his neck lazily. “We’ll report it to the king, Munk. Won’t we, Tomor?”
“Sure we will,” said Tomor. “Especially if we’re in a good mood after a nice meal of dried flounder.”
Munk muttered something under his breath, but tossed a bundle of dried fish at the guards. Legolas struck up a conversation with Munk as the guards left the store, but Bilbo unobtrusively wandered out after them. There was something prickling up his spine about the conversation, but he couldn’t say what it was.
“You really going to report this to the king?” asked Tomor, taking a bite of flounder jerky and looking up at the sky.
“Why not?” said his companion, apparently paying no notice to Bilbo, who was pretending to polish some mud off his detested boots. “You know the deal--important information goes to Il-Qaltun. Trifles go to the king. I’d say this counts as a trifle.”
“Il-Qaltun,” said Tomor, and his voice sounded like he had tasted something bad. “That--” He broke off suddenly and took a bite of fish. “Never mind.”
They stood in silence for a moment, and then the other guard said suddenly, “Hey, Tomor, see that bird up there? What is it, do you think?”
“A duck, ain’t it?” Tomor sounded bored.
“Are you sure? It looks kind of like a kestrel to me.”
A silence. Then Tomor said slowly, “You know, it could be a kestrel. It really could.”
There was a thumping noise as his companion slapped him on the back. “I’m glad we agree,” he said. “Let’s head back to the palace.”
As they strode off, Bilbo looked up at the sky, and the fat duck slowly making its way toward the horizon, until Legolas arrived with an armful of dried fish that he probably had paid far too much for.
“What--what is that?” stammered Bilbo as the creature in question gazed at him with dark eyes, fringed with lush eyelashes. On its shaggy brown back were two hairy mounds, like a mountain landscape. It chewed placidly on its cud, the motion reassuringly cow-like on its long, alien face, and continued to watch Bilbo.
“That is called a camel,” said Pallando. “One of the only animals that can carry us across the great wastes to the south.”
“It looks slow,” grumbled Denethor.
“Once again, you prove no judge of a mount,” Théoden said. “Though its knees are knobby and its feet strange, I can tell that when necessary this stout beast will carry its rider with both strength and speed. Will you not, O queen of the desert, O magnificent one?” he crooned, scratching the camel under the chin until it half-lidded its huge eyes and gazed at him adoringly.
Strangely, Denethor did not respond to Théoden’s teasing, but merely shook his head. “Well, I hope you are right this time,” he said. “For if our companions are successful in…” He looked around the bazaar uneasily; even at the edge of town it was bustling. “In retrieving what they seek, speed will be of the essence.”
From behind Bilbo there was a sudden trumpeting sound, shrill and terrifying; he whirled to see a huge gray creature with a long, writhing nose, decked out in a jeweled harness, being led through the bazaar. “Is--is that an olifaunt?” he managed. “Oh! I can hardly believe someone could ride one of those.”
“They are common enough in the Harad,” said Pallando. “But not ideal mounts for traveling through the desert.”
“Here,” Bilbo turned at Dís’s voice, then blinked as she wrapped a length of muslin cloth around his neck, then loosely around his head. “It is to keep the sun off your head, and the sand out of your mouth.”
“This place we’re going sounds perfectly dreadful,” Bilbo said.
Standing next to Pallando, Bachai laughed. “I have crossed the Desert of Nurn twice now, and that was enough for me! But Pallando makes the passage often, on his way to and from Harad, and he will be an invaluable guide to you.”
“Take off your coat,” said Dís. “You will not need it where we are going, and we must travel light. Put on this robe.” Bilbo started to remove his coat, and Dís made a small sound of surprise. “I forgot,” she said in a small voice. “That my brother gave you that.”
Bilbo looked down at the mithril shirt, soft and light as silk under his coat and shirt. He often forgot it himself. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” he said as he pulled the soft, loose robe around himself.
Dís and Gimli shared a significant look that Bilbo ignored as he reached into his coat pocket and drew out the Ring. It glinted in the twilight, so innocuous and pure, and he curled his fingers around it to shield it from any other gaze. “I’m not sure--”
Gimli draped a fine golden chain around his neck. “I know, the pockets are rather loose. We thought of that,” he said. “String it on this chain and keep it tucked away.”
“Yes,” said Bilbo with a faint shiver as he strung the Ring on the chain and put it between the mithril shirt and his undershirt. “Wait--my star brooch,” he said, unpinning it from the coat. “Was there anything else--ah!” As he shook the coat to check for any forgotten items, a smooth hard oval fell out of it. “Wandlimb’s seed,” he said. “I mustn’t lose that.” He wrapped it in the elven handkerchief and slipped it into one of the robe’s roomy pockets, remembering that moment of peace in the garden of the Ents. It seemed so long ago now, so far away. He remembered Thorin’s voice asking for his hand in marriage, and tears prickled at his eyes again.
Dusk had fallen, and night was upon Saynshar. The evening star shone steadfastly over the palace. Bilbo looked up it and thought of Estel, locked in the dungeon below. He thought of Arwen, stricken with fear for her beloved, and of Gandalf’s quiet gray presence at her side.
He thought of Thorin, going away from him into danger to save a friend.
Wiping at his eyes, pinning up the loose scarf with the star brooch, he murmured, “I hope Thorin is safe. I hope they’re all safe.”
Chapter Summary: Thorin leads a rescue mission into the palace of Saynshar, while the rest of the party prepares to flee the city southward into the Desert of Nurn.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield, Denethor, Gimli, Dis, Arwen, Aragorn, Legolas, Theoden
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: 2500
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.
“There is no time to rescue Thorongil!” Thorin could hear a desperate urgency in Denethor’s voice, one that made his stomach knot with unwelcome empathy. “I must return to Minas Tirith and warn my father that an army is being mustered against our people!” He glared at the stony faces of the rest of the party. “And yes, I see your thoughts in your eyes, and I do not deny them. Perhaps I do think we are better off without him. I tell you, he was only with us because he desires the Ring for himself!”
“Do you truly still believe this thing of him?” said Arwen, and her voice was deadly calm. “You have traveled with him for months now, and you think this of him yet?”
Denethor looked at her, and his throat worked. He swallowed hard. When he spoke again, his voice was less strident. “Warning Gondor must be my first priority. If he is the man you claim he is,” he said with emphasis, “Then he would agree that Gondor comes first. Someone must reach my father and warn him as soon as possible, and that means--” He stopped suddenly and his eyes widened, as if with an idea. “Unless--” He whirled to face Pallando. “Your birds, wizard. Can one of them bear a message to Minas Tirith? Do they know the way?”
“My birds will fly wherever I tell them,” said Pallando with some pride. He had arrived last and alone at the bolthole. “Kestrel has her own safe places,” he had said when they asked where she was.
“Paper, I need paper,” said Denethor, scrabbling in his pack. “And a pen. Ah.” He pounced on a pen and inkstand on the desk tucked away in the corner of the tiny, dim room they had gathered in.
Thorin turned to the rest of the group. “Gandalf, Arwen and I will be entering the palace to find Thorongil this evening,” he said. “The rest of you will be finding us a means of travel southward and meeting us at the edge of town at dawn. Théoden, I trust you and Legolas to find us the best mounts.”
Théoden bowed with a grin. “You may leave it in our hands, your majesty.”
“Dís, Gimli, Bilbo--find the provisions and supplies we need. Sauron trusts the great desert to the south to prevent access to Mordor; we must be prepared for harsh climes.” Bilbo opened his mouth, frowning, and Thorin continued hurriedly, “Pallando, do you have a map of the palace?”
“I do,” said the wizard, crossing his arms in front of his broad chest.
“Then you must show us the best routes within it to where you think Thorongil will be held.”
“There,” said Denethor with some satisfaction, stepping back into the conversation as he rolled up his bit of parchment. “All I know of the war plans of the Easterlings, to be delivered to my father. Don’t worry, all is in code,” he said at Thorin’s worried look. His smile turned sardonic. “I didn’t have the space to tell him his cherished captain Thorongil was in danger, but I believe he will muster his troops nonetheless.”
“Go with Pallando to find one of his birds and send your message,” said Thorin. “Then meet us at the southern gate.” He turned to Dís. “If we do not return by dawn, take Bilbo and go.”
As Dís nodded, Thorin felt his sleeve grabbed, and he was yanked around to meet Bilbo’s eyes. “If you are done commanding everyone, your majesty,” said Bilbo, “May I have a word with you in private?”
Thorin nodded, trying to look more confident than he felt, and followed him across the hall to the smaller room of the bolthole.
“How dare you ship me off like a--like a package!” Bilbo snapped before the door finished closing. “You said we would share all dangers from now. You said--” He broke off and gulped hard. “You said we would not be parted again while you lived.”
“It is too dangerous,” said Thorin. “Listen to me, Bilbo!” he said when Bilbo shook his head as if in disbelief. “The Fellowship can go on without any of us. But the palace is swarming with agents of Mordor. If you are taken, all is lost. You must flee the city and go south.” He put his hands on Bilbo’s shoulders. “The Ring must be destroyed. If it is not, there is no future for us beyond war and bloodshed. There is no future for Erebor, for the Shire, if Sauron captures you. Please, Bilbo.”
He half-expected that Bilbo would protest that they could still be together, that surely Thorin did not have to lead this rescue mission. He saw the words nearly on Bilbo’s lips. But then Bilbo searched his eyes, and whatever he saw in Thorin’s expression caused his own to soften. “Very well,” Bilbo said, taking Thorin’s hands from his shoulders and holding them in his own. “But you must promise me something.”
“Anything in my power,” Thorin said.
“Promise me, Thorin, that--” Bilbo’s voice faltered for a moment, then he pressed his lips together and went on, “that you will not let anyone else take the Ring. Denethor desires it, I know,” he said as Thorin took a sharp, pained breath, “and he is not alone. There are so many people who want it for their own, but it--” His hands tightened on Thorin’s. “It is ours to destroy. It stole so many years from us, precious years we might have had together. Promise me that you and I, and no other, will be the ones to end it.”
His eyes were shadowed, haunted, and Thorin felt behind them the terrible weight of those years alone, tethered by the compulsion of the Ring. Such pain deserved a promise--but Thorin knew well how the Ring could twist suffering and despair to its own ends. “My dearest,” he said carefully, “none shall carry the Ring but you while I have power to prevent it, and together we shall destroy it.”
Bilbo searched his eyes for a moment. Then he nodded once, a pained jerk of his head. “You’ll return to me,” he said. “I know it. Now--go rescue Estel.” He sniffed once, hard, and rubbed at his eyes. “Go before I make a fool of myself.”
Bilbo wiped his eyes again as they made their way through the bazaar. “It’s dusty,” he complained as Dís rested a hand on his back briefly.
Legolas smiled down at him reassuringly. “I have a spare nínhammad, if you have need of one, my friend.”
“Nínhammad?”
Legolas frowned, dodging a mad-eyed goat that glared at him as they passed. “I do not know the word in Westron for it. Here--” He pulled from a pocket a small square of cloth, so gossamer-light it seemed to drift in the sunlight. “Cloth made by the master-weavers of the Greenwood from the golden flowers of mallos, sewn with thread cunningly spun of opals. Its name means ‘tear-cloth’ in Sindarin. It is said that the weavers of Nargothrond, after the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, wove nínhammad for a month without ceasing.”
“Oh,” said Bilbo as Legolas pressed the cloth into his hand. It felt finer and lighter than the purest silk. “We call it a pocket handkerchief in the Shire.” It seemed rude to blow his nose on it, so he dabbed lightly at his eyes.
Gimli made a rude noise. “We dwarves just use our sleeves,” he said loudly.
Dís stepped in between Gimli and Legolas before the squabble could escalate. “Legolas, you and Bilbo get us some food. Gimli and I will search for clothing and other items.”
Just outside the walls of Saynshar was a scattering of shacks and sheds overlooking a large lake. Bilbo pointed to one with a rough-scratched picture of a fish drawn on a board hanging in front of it. “Let’s try here.”
The inside of the store reeked strongly of smoke and fish; dried herrings hung from the ceiling. Behind the counter, the store owner was in the middle of an animated conversation with two city guards.
Bilbo shot Legolas a nervous look, but the elf shrugged and raised his eyebrows: too conspicuous to back out now, his look said.
“I’m telling you,” the store owner was saying, agitated, “That if you don’t stop the brat who is raiding my traps I’ll be put out of business! It’s got to be one of those beggar children, I know it--I saw the tiny footprints in the mud. They’re robbing me blind!”
One of the guards scratched his neck lazily. “We’ll report it to the king, Munk. Won’t we, Tomor?”
“Sure we will,” said Tomor. “Especially if we’re in a good mood after a nice meal of dried flounder.”
Munk muttered something under his breath, but tossed a bundle of dried fish at the guards. Legolas struck up a conversation with Munk as the guards left the store, but Bilbo unobtrusively wandered out after them. There was something prickling up his spine about the conversation, but he couldn’t say what it was.
“You really going to report this to the king?” asked Tomor, taking a bite of flounder jerky and looking up at the sky.
“Why not?” said his companion, apparently paying no notice to Bilbo, who was pretending to polish some mud off his detested boots. “You know the deal--important information goes to Il-Qaltun. Trifles go to the king. I’d say this counts as a trifle.”
“Il-Qaltun,” said Tomor, and his voice sounded like he had tasted something bad. “That--” He broke off suddenly and took a bite of fish. “Never mind.”
They stood in silence for a moment, and then the other guard said suddenly, “Hey, Tomor, see that bird up there? What is it, do you think?”
“A duck, ain’t it?” Tomor sounded bored.
“Are you sure? It looks kind of like a kestrel to me.”
A silence. Then Tomor said slowly, “You know, it could be a kestrel. It really could.”
There was a thumping noise as his companion slapped him on the back. “I’m glad we agree,” he said. “Let’s head back to the palace.”
As they strode off, Bilbo looked up at the sky, and the fat duck slowly making its way toward the horizon, until Legolas arrived with an armful of dried fish that he probably had paid far too much for.
“What--what is that?” stammered Bilbo as the creature in question gazed at him with dark eyes, fringed with lush eyelashes. On its shaggy brown back were two hairy mounds, like a mountain landscape. It chewed placidly on its cud, the motion reassuringly cow-like on its long, alien face, and continued to watch Bilbo.
“That is called a camel,” said Pallando. “One of the only animals that can carry us across the great wastes to the south.”
“It looks slow,” grumbled Denethor.
“Once again, you prove no judge of a mount,” Théoden said. “Though its knees are knobby and its feet strange, I can tell that when necessary this stout beast will carry its rider with both strength and speed. Will you not, O queen of the desert, O magnificent one?” he crooned, scratching the camel under the chin until it half-lidded its huge eyes and gazed at him adoringly.
Strangely, Denethor did not respond to Théoden’s teasing, but merely shook his head. “Well, I hope you are right this time,” he said. “For if our companions are successful in…” He looked around the bazaar uneasily; even at the edge of town it was bustling. “In retrieving what they seek, speed will be of the essence.”
From behind Bilbo there was a sudden trumpeting sound, shrill and terrifying; he whirled to see a huge gray creature with a long, writhing nose, decked out in a jeweled harness, being led through the bazaar. “Is--is that an olifaunt?” he managed. “Oh! I can hardly believe someone could ride one of those.”
“They are common enough in the Harad,” said Pallando. “But not ideal mounts for traveling through the desert.”
“Here,” Bilbo turned at Dís’s voice, then blinked as she wrapped a length of muslin cloth around his neck, then loosely around his head. “It is to keep the sun off your head, and the sand out of your mouth.”
“This place we’re going sounds perfectly dreadful,” Bilbo said.
Standing next to Pallando, Bachai laughed. “I have crossed the Desert of Nurn twice now, and that was enough for me! But Pallando makes the passage often, on his way to and from Harad, and he will be an invaluable guide to you.”
“Take off your coat,” said Dís. “You will not need it where we are going, and we must travel light. Put on this robe.” Bilbo started to remove his coat, and Dís made a small sound of surprise. “I forgot,” she said in a small voice. “That my brother gave you that.”
Bilbo looked down at the mithril shirt, soft and light as silk under his coat and shirt. He often forgot it himself. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” he said as he pulled the soft, loose robe around himself.
Dís and Gimli shared a significant look that Bilbo ignored as he reached into his coat pocket and drew out the Ring. It glinted in the twilight, so innocuous and pure, and he curled his fingers around it to shield it from any other gaze. “I’m not sure--”
Gimli draped a fine golden chain around his neck. “I know, the pockets are rather loose. We thought of that,” he said. “String it on this chain and keep it tucked away.”
“Yes,” said Bilbo with a faint shiver as he strung the Ring on the chain and put it between the mithril shirt and his undershirt. “Wait--my star brooch,” he said, unpinning it from the coat. “Was there anything else--ah!” As he shook the coat to check for any forgotten items, a smooth hard oval fell out of it. “Wandlimb’s seed,” he said. “I mustn’t lose that.” He wrapped it in the elven handkerchief and slipped it into one of the robe’s roomy pockets, remembering that moment of peace in the garden of the Ents. It seemed so long ago now, so far away. He remembered Thorin’s voice asking for his hand in marriage, and tears prickled at his eyes again.
Dusk had fallen, and night was upon Saynshar. The evening star shone steadfastly over the palace. Bilbo looked up it and thought of Estel, locked in the dungeon below. He thought of Arwen, stricken with fear for her beloved, and of Gandalf’s quiet gray presence at her side.
He thought of Thorin, going away from him into danger to save a friend.
Wiping at his eyes, pinning up the loose scarf with the star brooch, he murmured, “I hope Thorin is safe. I hope they’re all safe.”