Clarity of Purpose, Chapter 25
Title: Clarity of Purpose, Chap. 25
Chapter Summary: Three conversations on the road to Mordor, each about love, in its own way.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo, Arwen, Aragorn, Denethor, Theoden, Gimli, Dis, Legolas
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: None
Word Count: 1900
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 Baggins woke from a half-doze, his face scraping against coarse hair. “Wake up, Thorin,” he mumbled, patting at it, only slowly realizing it was the hump of his camel. He could hear the gentle chiming of bells on the harnesses of the other camels, and under that the steady clop-clop of their hooves upon the sand. Bilbo shivered, for the night was surprisingly cold, and looked up at the stars, starting to dim with the gray dawn.
The first dawn without Gandalf in it, he thought unbidden, and had to blink back tears once more.
“We should reach the first oasis by mid-morning,” called back Pallando, “And we shall stop there to water our mounts and rest through the heat of the day.”
“Heat?” Bilbo heard a querulous note in his voice as he chafed his own arms against the cold. “I’m freezing!”
Pallando looked back at him and smiled, a flash of white teeth in the pale light. “I see you are unused to the rhythm of the day here in the desert, friend hobbit,” he said. “Believe me, by midday you will be happy enough to rest in the shade.”
“Well,” huffed Bilbo, “It can’t be that bad, and will be a pleasant change from this confounded cold.”
A few hours later, Bilbo surreptitiously wiped his brow under the linen headscarf and tried to ignore the smirks from the other members of the Fellowship. A pleasant change! he grumbled to himself--but refused to say anything out loud and admit how wrong he had been. The heat felt like it was determined to suck every drop of moisture from his body out through the pores, and the sun was making him feel nearly dizzy. When he spotted a patch of green and blue against the endless rolling sand, he had to squint and stare before he could believe his eyes. His camel, however, had no such doubts; it picked up its clumsy-looking feet and moved into a shambling trot that caused Bilbo to squeak and cling to its hump in alarm, hurrying toward the emerald gem set into the golden landscape.
Soon enough they were all resting under one of the strange, slender trees that fringed the pool, while their camels drank great, thirsty draughts from its water. “We rest here until dusk,” said Pallando. “Everyone should try to sleep a little.” He looked at Denethor, who was still standing, his gaze fixed to the west. “Try to sleep, Steward’s son.”
Denethor didn’t look at him. “Do you see those mountains?” he asked, pointing to the smudged line of blue peaks against the horizon. “Those mark the northern boundary of Mordor. Within them, Sauron masses his orc army, a horde of merciless killers. Beyond them to the west lies Minas Tirith. Wizard,” he said, and his voice broke, “Have you ever seen the city of my people, with its white walls shining in the morning sun, with its banners catching the breeze? Have you seen its citizens and their valor?”
“I have,” said Pallando, his voice somber.
“Sauron would reach out his filthy hand to destroy the fairest and the best city in Middle Earth,” said Denethor. “He would blacken her walls, pillage her riches, mutilate and crush her people. She needs me, and I am not there!”
“Gondor will prevail,” said a low, clear voice, and Denethor turned to stare at Estel, still with his broken shackles on his wrists, his face beaten and bloody. “The walls of Minas Tirith will not fall, nor shall the hearts of her people falter, for your father leads them with wisdom and courage.” He looked to the west as if he could see the city he spoke of. “My heart aches also to be there, at the defense of the most beautiful city in all the world. But our destiny is otherwise, aiding in the final destruction of her foe. One day, Denethor son of Ecthelion, our paths shall lead us back to the white city, and our hearts will rejoice to see its walls once more.”
Denethor gazed at Estel, and it seemed to Bilbo that something in the passion in Estel’s voice had touched him, for his gray eyes held for a moment a kind of wonder. Then he turned away and said brusquely, “You should see to your shackles, for it would be ironic to return to the city still bound in chains, would it not?” He picked up a water skin and sat down next to Théoden on the grassy verge, splashing water on his face and rubbing at his eyes.
“Someday,” said Théoden in a loud voice, “I shall have both of you to visit in Edoras, and we shall then debate your assertion of Minas Tirith as the most beautiful city in Middle Earth.”
Denethor did not smile, but some tension in his face lightened, just a shade. “May it be so,” he said.
It was drawing near dusk, and most of the Fellowship was asleep when Thorin rose and found Arwen, bent over her embroidery in the dimming light. The silver thread against the black cloth was taking the shape of a tree, its white branches twined in complex patterns. “Lady Arwen,” said Thorin, bowing low, “May I speak with you in private?”
She smiled up at him, then folded her embroidery. “Let us take a walk together,” she said.
They walked past Estel and Gimli, who was bent over the man’s shackles, working on picking the locks with the tip of his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth and a look on intent concentration on his face. Estel smiled at Arwen as they passed, and Thorin watched her face light from within like the dawn.
He wondered what he looked like when he looked at Bilbo.
Together they made their way to the edge of the pond, where the water lapped gently against the shore and sturdy grasses clung to the thin band of damp earth. They walked in silence for a time, and then Arwen said gently, “What troubles you, King Thorin?”
Thorin picked up a stone and studied it for a time. Without looking up at Arwen’s pale face, he said, “The vampire. She said that you and Estel--that you would repeat the story of your ancestors, Beren and Lúthien.” He cleared his throat. “I happen to have learned some of the lore of your people, and I know their tale: how the elf Lúthien chose the fate of the Secondborn, and when Beren died, her soul perished also from this world, and passed to whatever unknown destiny awaits his people.” He looked up at her then; her face was grave and knowing. “Does this fate await you as well, my lady?”
After a moment, she nodded. “It is as she said. I have chosen a mortal life, and my spirit, like his, will leave the world utterly behind.”
Thorin gripped the rock in his hand, feeling the edges cut into his palm almost painfully. When he spoke again, he was surprised at how calm his own voice sounded: “Will you tell me how this came to be? With you tell me, Lady Arwen, how you can be sure that your soul and his will not be sundered by the difference in your fates?” His eyes stung. “Tell me how to make this choice. I beg you,” he said, and his voice broke and he could say no more.
But Arwen knelt before him, taking her hands in his with a swift, sympathetic motion. “Oh, my friend,” she breathed.
“I swore to never part from him again, and I would not do so for all the world,” Thorin said, his voice catching like a sob, “But I fear such a choice is impossible for my kind--that he will go on without me, and I will prove false to my promise, and that I shall have to live with my failure for all eternity, all eternity without him.”
“He seems untroubled by such worries,” Arwen said, and Thorin choked on a laugh.
“He and his people are...not much troubled by such worries at any time. From speaking to him, I truly believe they think little and care less what happens to the soul after the body’s end. He lives life as it comes to him and is undaunted by such airy notions. It is, I believe, a great strength of his folk. It is a strength I do not share,” he said bleakly. “And so I ask you, my lady, for some scrap of comfort, some glimmer of hope that I will not sit bereft in the halls of my ancestors forever.”
Arwen’s hands tightened on his. “I would gladly give you the full measure of comfort I could, Thorin.” Her star-bright eyes were full of tears. “But alas, I have none to give. I know not how I came to be able to renounce my fate. It may be because the blood of Beren and of Tuor runs in my veins, that I could choose as did my uncle. But Lúthien was the child of an elf and a Maia, and she too received this boon.”
“From the lips of Mandos and Manwë, the Valar themselves,” said Thorin bitterly. “I know the tale! But such days of legend are over, and Valinor is sundered from our world, and the Valar will have no audience with me.” He released Arwen’s hands, saying, “So be it! I will live the life I have with him to the fullest, whether it lead us to Erebor or the Shire or no further than the Cracks of Doom, and I will have no further cause for regret.” He bowed deeply. “My thanks, lady, for your councils.”
Unable to bear it a moment longer, he walked away from her pitying eyes and back to where the Fellowship was sleeping. Bilbo was curled up on his side--which was unusual, Thorin thought, he usually slept on his back, limbs stuck out haphazardly. He looked down at Bilbo’s sleeping face and realized with a sudden pang that Bilbo was curled up around the Ring that lay on his chest. Heart’s-ease…
He lay down at Bilbo’s back, his own heart aching--but as he did, Bilbo rolled over and with a sleepy, wordless mumble, threw one arm and leg across Thorin’s body and drew close.
For a long time, Thorin Oakenshield looked up at the stars, feeling the Ring resting between their two bodies like a secret, or a promise.
The days passed monotonously: they traveled through the nights and tried to sleep through the heat of the days. At some point they turned west, traveling directly into Mordor. The Mountains of Ash to the north and the Mountains of Shadow to the south felt like jaws opening up before them, as if Mordor itself was a dragon and they were attempting to travel right down its gullet, Bilbo thought uneasily. Everyone’s spirits were oppressed by the loss of Gandalf and by the scorching heat and bitter cold, but Bilbo thought privately that Thorin’s mood seemed lower than most.
“What’s bothering you?” he asked one evening as they sat at another tiny oasis, sharing a piece of jerky and a handful of dates.
“You mean besides the fact that we are traveling into the stronghold of Sauron in an attempt to destroy an artifact of unthinkable evil; besides the fact that my home is under assault by the armies of Mordor; besides the fact that an army is ready to assault Minas Tirith?”
“Besides all that, yes,” Bilbo said with a small smile, biting a date in half.
Thorin was silent for a moment, and Bilbo had the feeling when he spoke at last that he was not speaking of his truest concern. “I did not confront my father,” he said. “He seeks to destroy his family, and we were both in Saynshar, and I did not face him.”
“I’m rather glad you didn’t,” said Bilbo, leaning against his shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to risk losing you to him.”
“He cannot be allowed to continue,” said Thorin in a low voice.
Bilbo reached up and grabbed one beaded braid, tugging until Thorin looked at him. “Don’t talk like that,” he said. “Didn’t Balin say that if you--if you ended him, you couldn’t be King of Erebor?”
After a moment, Thorin nodded.
“Erebor shouldn’t lose you to him either,” said Bilbo. “He’s not worth it.”
Thorin looked at him, and there was something so stricken and lorn in his gaze that it made Bilbo’s heart turn over. He lifted the braid he’d been tugging to his lips, pressed a kiss to the sun-warmed metal bead that held it in place.
“Thorin,” he said. “Let the future be for now. I spent twenty-six years in the Shire, yearning to be with you. And here you are with me, and for this moment I don’t care where we are. We will deal with what comes when it comes. For now, sit with me and enjoy the sunset and these delicious dates.”
For a moment, Thorin’s gaze didn’t waver. Then he sighed and the corner of his mouth tilted up slightly.
“I cannot enjoy the dates if you keep hogging them all like that,” he said gravely.
“Well!” Bilbo huffed happily. “Here you go, you greedy and ungrateful dwarf.”
He stuffed one of his handful of dates into Thorin’s mouth. Thorin closed his eyes and chewed as if he were savoring each bite, a look of bliss on his features that seemed partly there to tease Bilbo--and partly not. He reached out and put his arm around Bilbo, pulling him close.
“You’re right,” he murmured. “I am lucky indeed."
Chapter Summary: Three conversations on the road to Mordor, each about love, in its own way.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo, Arwen, Aragorn, Denethor, Theoden, Gimli, Dis, Legolas
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: None
Word Count: 1900
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 Baggins woke from a half-doze, his face scraping against coarse hair. “Wake up, Thorin,” he mumbled, patting at it, only slowly realizing it was the hump of his camel. He could hear the gentle chiming of bells on the harnesses of the other camels, and under that the steady clop-clop of their hooves upon the sand. Bilbo shivered, for the night was surprisingly cold, and looked up at the stars, starting to dim with the gray dawn.
The first dawn without Gandalf in it, he thought unbidden, and had to blink back tears once more.
“We should reach the first oasis by mid-morning,” called back Pallando, “And we shall stop there to water our mounts and rest through the heat of the day.”
“Heat?” Bilbo heard a querulous note in his voice as he chafed his own arms against the cold. “I’m freezing!”
Pallando looked back at him and smiled, a flash of white teeth in the pale light. “I see you are unused to the rhythm of the day here in the desert, friend hobbit,” he said. “Believe me, by midday you will be happy enough to rest in the shade.”
“Well,” huffed Bilbo, “It can’t be that bad, and will be a pleasant change from this confounded cold.”
A few hours later, Bilbo surreptitiously wiped his brow under the linen headscarf and tried to ignore the smirks from the other members of the Fellowship. A pleasant change! he grumbled to himself--but refused to say anything out loud and admit how wrong he had been. The heat felt like it was determined to suck every drop of moisture from his body out through the pores, and the sun was making him feel nearly dizzy. When he spotted a patch of green and blue against the endless rolling sand, he had to squint and stare before he could believe his eyes. His camel, however, had no such doubts; it picked up its clumsy-looking feet and moved into a shambling trot that caused Bilbo to squeak and cling to its hump in alarm, hurrying toward the emerald gem set into the golden landscape.
Soon enough they were all resting under one of the strange, slender trees that fringed the pool, while their camels drank great, thirsty draughts from its water. “We rest here until dusk,” said Pallando. “Everyone should try to sleep a little.” He looked at Denethor, who was still standing, his gaze fixed to the west. “Try to sleep, Steward’s son.”
Denethor didn’t look at him. “Do you see those mountains?” he asked, pointing to the smudged line of blue peaks against the horizon. “Those mark the northern boundary of Mordor. Within them, Sauron masses his orc army, a horde of merciless killers. Beyond them to the west lies Minas Tirith. Wizard,” he said, and his voice broke, “Have you ever seen the city of my people, with its white walls shining in the morning sun, with its banners catching the breeze? Have you seen its citizens and their valor?”
“I have,” said Pallando, his voice somber.
“Sauron would reach out his filthy hand to destroy the fairest and the best city in Middle Earth,” said Denethor. “He would blacken her walls, pillage her riches, mutilate and crush her people. She needs me, and I am not there!”
“Gondor will prevail,” said a low, clear voice, and Denethor turned to stare at Estel, still with his broken shackles on his wrists, his face beaten and bloody. “The walls of Minas Tirith will not fall, nor shall the hearts of her people falter, for your father leads them with wisdom and courage.” He looked to the west as if he could see the city he spoke of. “My heart aches also to be there, at the defense of the most beautiful city in all the world. But our destiny is otherwise, aiding in the final destruction of her foe. One day, Denethor son of Ecthelion, our paths shall lead us back to the white city, and our hearts will rejoice to see its walls once more.”
Denethor gazed at Estel, and it seemed to Bilbo that something in the passion in Estel’s voice had touched him, for his gray eyes held for a moment a kind of wonder. Then he turned away and said brusquely, “You should see to your shackles, for it would be ironic to return to the city still bound in chains, would it not?” He picked up a water skin and sat down next to Théoden on the grassy verge, splashing water on his face and rubbing at his eyes.
“Someday,” said Théoden in a loud voice, “I shall have both of you to visit in Edoras, and we shall then debate your assertion of Minas Tirith as the most beautiful city in Middle Earth.”
Denethor did not smile, but some tension in his face lightened, just a shade. “May it be so,” he said.
It was drawing near dusk, and most of the Fellowship was asleep when Thorin rose and found Arwen, bent over her embroidery in the dimming light. The silver thread against the black cloth was taking the shape of a tree, its white branches twined in complex patterns. “Lady Arwen,” said Thorin, bowing low, “May I speak with you in private?”
She smiled up at him, then folded her embroidery. “Let us take a walk together,” she said.
They walked past Estel and Gimli, who was bent over the man’s shackles, working on picking the locks with the tip of his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth and a look on intent concentration on his face. Estel smiled at Arwen as they passed, and Thorin watched her face light from within like the dawn.
He wondered what he looked like when he looked at Bilbo.
Together they made their way to the edge of the pond, where the water lapped gently against the shore and sturdy grasses clung to the thin band of damp earth. They walked in silence for a time, and then Arwen said gently, “What troubles you, King Thorin?”
Thorin picked up a stone and studied it for a time. Without looking up at Arwen’s pale face, he said, “The vampire. She said that you and Estel--that you would repeat the story of your ancestors, Beren and Lúthien.” He cleared his throat. “I happen to have learned some of the lore of your people, and I know their tale: how the elf Lúthien chose the fate of the Secondborn, and when Beren died, her soul perished also from this world, and passed to whatever unknown destiny awaits his people.” He looked up at her then; her face was grave and knowing. “Does this fate await you as well, my lady?”
After a moment, she nodded. “It is as she said. I have chosen a mortal life, and my spirit, like his, will leave the world utterly behind.”
Thorin gripped the rock in his hand, feeling the edges cut into his palm almost painfully. When he spoke again, he was surprised at how calm his own voice sounded: “Will you tell me how this came to be? With you tell me, Lady Arwen, how you can be sure that your soul and his will not be sundered by the difference in your fates?” His eyes stung. “Tell me how to make this choice. I beg you,” he said, and his voice broke and he could say no more.
But Arwen knelt before him, taking her hands in his with a swift, sympathetic motion. “Oh, my friend,” she breathed.
“I swore to never part from him again, and I would not do so for all the world,” Thorin said, his voice catching like a sob, “But I fear such a choice is impossible for my kind--that he will go on without me, and I will prove false to my promise, and that I shall have to live with my failure for all eternity, all eternity without him.”
“He seems untroubled by such worries,” Arwen said, and Thorin choked on a laugh.
“He and his people are...not much troubled by such worries at any time. From speaking to him, I truly believe they think little and care less what happens to the soul after the body’s end. He lives life as it comes to him and is undaunted by such airy notions. It is, I believe, a great strength of his folk. It is a strength I do not share,” he said bleakly. “And so I ask you, my lady, for some scrap of comfort, some glimmer of hope that I will not sit bereft in the halls of my ancestors forever.”
Arwen’s hands tightened on his. “I would gladly give you the full measure of comfort I could, Thorin.” Her star-bright eyes were full of tears. “But alas, I have none to give. I know not how I came to be able to renounce my fate. It may be because the blood of Beren and of Tuor runs in my veins, that I could choose as did my uncle. But Lúthien was the child of an elf and a Maia, and she too received this boon.”
“From the lips of Mandos and Manwë, the Valar themselves,” said Thorin bitterly. “I know the tale! But such days of legend are over, and Valinor is sundered from our world, and the Valar will have no audience with me.” He released Arwen’s hands, saying, “So be it! I will live the life I have with him to the fullest, whether it lead us to Erebor or the Shire or no further than the Cracks of Doom, and I will have no further cause for regret.” He bowed deeply. “My thanks, lady, for your councils.”
Unable to bear it a moment longer, he walked away from her pitying eyes and back to where the Fellowship was sleeping. Bilbo was curled up on his side--which was unusual, Thorin thought, he usually slept on his back, limbs stuck out haphazardly. He looked down at Bilbo’s sleeping face and realized with a sudden pang that Bilbo was curled up around the Ring that lay on his chest. Heart’s-ease…
He lay down at Bilbo’s back, his own heart aching--but as he did, Bilbo rolled over and with a sleepy, wordless mumble, threw one arm and leg across Thorin’s body and drew close.
For a long time, Thorin Oakenshield looked up at the stars, feeling the Ring resting between their two bodies like a secret, or a promise.
The days passed monotonously: they traveled through the nights and tried to sleep through the heat of the days. At some point they turned west, traveling directly into Mordor. The Mountains of Ash to the north and the Mountains of Shadow to the south felt like jaws opening up before them, as if Mordor itself was a dragon and they were attempting to travel right down its gullet, Bilbo thought uneasily. Everyone’s spirits were oppressed by the loss of Gandalf and by the scorching heat and bitter cold, but Bilbo thought privately that Thorin’s mood seemed lower than most.
“What’s bothering you?” he asked one evening as they sat at another tiny oasis, sharing a piece of jerky and a handful of dates.
“You mean besides the fact that we are traveling into the stronghold of Sauron in an attempt to destroy an artifact of unthinkable evil; besides the fact that my home is under assault by the armies of Mordor; besides the fact that an army is ready to assault Minas Tirith?”
“Besides all that, yes,” Bilbo said with a small smile, biting a date in half.
Thorin was silent for a moment, and Bilbo had the feeling when he spoke at last that he was not speaking of his truest concern. “I did not confront my father,” he said. “He seeks to destroy his family, and we were both in Saynshar, and I did not face him.”
“I’m rather glad you didn’t,” said Bilbo, leaning against his shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to risk losing you to him.”
“He cannot be allowed to continue,” said Thorin in a low voice.
Bilbo reached up and grabbed one beaded braid, tugging until Thorin looked at him. “Don’t talk like that,” he said. “Didn’t Balin say that if you--if you ended him, you couldn’t be King of Erebor?”
After a moment, Thorin nodded.
“Erebor shouldn’t lose you to him either,” said Bilbo. “He’s not worth it.”
Thorin looked at him, and there was something so stricken and lorn in his gaze that it made Bilbo’s heart turn over. He lifted the braid he’d been tugging to his lips, pressed a kiss to the sun-warmed metal bead that held it in place.
“Thorin,” he said. “Let the future be for now. I spent twenty-six years in the Shire, yearning to be with you. And here you are with me, and for this moment I don’t care where we are. We will deal with what comes when it comes. For now, sit with me and enjoy the sunset and these delicious dates.”
For a moment, Thorin’s gaze didn’t waver. Then he sighed and the corner of his mouth tilted up slightly.
“I cannot enjoy the dates if you keep hogging them all like that,” he said gravely.
“Well!” Bilbo huffed happily. “Here you go, you greedy and ungrateful dwarf.”
He stuffed one of his handful of dates into Thorin’s mouth. Thorin closed his eyes and chewed as if he were savoring each bite, a look of bliss on his features that seemed partly there to tease Bilbo--and partly not. He reached out and put his arm around Bilbo, pulling him close.
“You’re right,” he murmured. “I am lucky indeed."