Clarity of Purpose, Chapter 26
Title: Clarity of Purpose, Chap. 26
Chapter Summary: The Fellowship enters Nurn, the eastern part of Mordor.
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: PG
Word Count: 2100
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.
The desert gave way so gradually to plains--the dunes flattening out, the grasses going from coarse and scrubby to thicker and lusher--that Bilbo hardly noticed it until the morning that he realized that they were in a sea of waving grass, starred with white flowers.
“We have crossed over into Mordor,” said Pallando, “and left the sheltering desert behind. This is where our passage becomes truly dangerous.”
Bilbo looked around at the waves of sweet green grass, inhaling the scent of spring. “This can’t be Mordor,” he said. “It’s...pretty.”
“This is Nurn,” said Denethor. “A fertile land, where the food that fuels Sauron’s armies is grown. The people of this land have been enslaved by Sauron and his followers for more than five thousand years.”
Bilbo blinked. “That’s...a long time,” he said.
“Nurn means ‘grief’ in Sindarin,” said Denethor. “Yes. It is a long time.”
The plains gave way to fields. Tiny green sprouts were laid out in even rows; between the young leaves water gleamed, reflecting the sky. “Rice fields,” said Pallando when Bilbo asked him what the plants were. “It’s a common crop in the south.” Sometimes they saw figures in the distant fields, up to their ankles in water, stooping over. They avoided them as much as possible: “Where there are people, there will be overseers,” said Thorin. “Orcs and Black Numenoreans. It would not do to draw attention to ourselves.”
Gimli tapped his axe with a knowing look. “I might not mind,” he said.
“Arrows can silence more orcs than an axe,” said Legolas with a blandly innocent look. “For every one you slew, my arrows would find three or more.”
“There will be enemies enough in the future to satisfy the both of you,” said Thorin. “Caution will get us further than recklessness.”
Gimli sighed. “At this rate we shall never find out,” he said.
As it turned out, however, Thorin's caution won them only a few days of travel. On a cloudy, drizzly morning, they were walking along the bank that defined one of the endless rice fields when a sound reached all their ears: a young human voice, sobbing.
There was no question of ignoring the despair and hopelessness of that sound; Théoden’s sword was already unsheathed as he leaped down from the bank and ran directly toward it through the muddy rice field, water splashing around his ankles. Bilbo saw Denethor start to call out after him, then shrug and start to run along the bank. His route was less direct, but Bilbo quickly realized that the mud of the fields would suck at the feet and slow one down, so he followed the steward’s son along the bank as fast as possible.
In any case, all of the Fellowship--whether mud-splashed or not--arrived at the origin of the voice at the same time, to find a young human man on his knees in front of a huge armored orc, brandishing a whip and a knife. The man was pleading in a guttural language that struck Bilbo’s ears in all the wrong ways, harsh and painful; the orc answered back with a cruel laugh and lifted its whip.
At the apex of the whip’s arc, the orc yelled in horror and a slender elven arrow pierced the palm of its hand; the whip tumbled to the muddy ground as the orc clutched his wounded hand to his chest in shock. His shock was short-lived, as he fell to Gimli’s axe a moment later.
“That’s one for me, friend Legolas!” called Gimli as he pulled his axe free of the fallen orc’s breastbone.
“You only got the kill because I was focused on making sure he could not hurt the human,” said Legolas, his expression nettled.
Gimli shook his finger at him, grinning. “No excuses, elf!” He turned to the young man, who had collapsed backwards onto his haunches and was staring at the scene before him in a kind of frozen horror. “Are you all right, lad?” he asked, extending his hand.
The man flinched away, his hands scrabbling in the muddy ground. He blurted something in the jagged language of the orc, then swallowed hard and changed to Westron, albeit thickly-accented and with an unfamiliar cadence. “You are...Gondorians?”
“Me?” Gimli gestured at himself with his axe and laughed. “Nay, I’m from Erebor. But this lad is,” he said, indicating Denethor (whose eyebrows rose dramatically at being called “lad.”) “And his big blond friend here is from Rohan, and Estel is from--” He frowned. “Are you from Gondor, Thorongil?”
Estel opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, the human they had saved threw himself flat on his face in the mud, wailing. “I will not lead you to my family!” he cried out. “No, not though you flay me, or crush my hands, or boil me in tallow, or eat me alive from the feet up--”
“Child,” said Dís, kneeling swiftly beside him, uncaring of the muddy water, “Child, no one is going to eat you. No one is going to do any of those things to you.”
“But he said they were of Gondor, and Rohan,” stammered the young man. “And the Yrch-lords say the men of Gondor drink the blood of the people of Nurn from the skulls of the yrch.” His eyes flicked warily to Denethor, who was clearly trying to look as non-bloodthirsty as possible, even managing a small smile, which did not seem to reassure the Nurnian. “And the horse-demons of Rohan are the sworn servants of the men of Gondor, bound by unclean oaths to fulfill all their evil lusts and--”
“--Now see here!” said Théoden, and his indignation was so palpable that Bilbo had to hide a giggle behind his hand. He waved angrily at Denethor: “If you think for one second that I am bound to obey this pompous windbag, this--this vainglorious seat-warmer, this--” Denethor’s smile was quickly going from “reassuring” to “snarling” as Estel put a hand on Théoden’s shoulder, cutting him off. Théoden blinked at him, then bowed in flustered apology to the man still kneeling in the mud. “Apologies. What I meant to say was,” he coughed and considered his words, “I believe you have been gravely misinformed.”
The Nurnian looked at Bilbo’s smile, then at Théoden’s rueful face. He got slowly to his feet, taking in the people before him.
“You’re nothing but skin and bones,” tsked Dís, digging in her bag. “Here.”
He took her handful of dried dates, staring at her, and put one in his mouth. There was an awkward pause as he chewed, and then Bilbo said, “Oh! Where are my manners! I’m Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire. It’s a ways to the west. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The man swallowed his date. “My name is Muranu,” he said. “Thank you for saving my life.” He looked down at the fruit. “These are delicious. If you have some to spare, may I take a few home to my parents?”
They walked along the rice fields as the sun set, Muranu chatting easily with Dís and Pallando, though still keeping a wary eye on Estel, Théoden, and Denethor. There had been no real debate as to whether to accompany him: Thorin pointed out they could use allies in this enemy-occupied land, but truly no one was willing to turn their back on a village of starving people. Which it was clear the people of Nurn were: “There is little food to spare after the army of the yrch takes what they need,” Muranu said matter-of-factly. “We all must sacrifice to keep the Gondorians from overrunning us.” Denethor made an exasperated noise, and Muranu added with some asperity, “So they tell us. And we do not exactly receive constant updates on the state of the world beyond the safety of Mordor, after all.”
Bilbo couldn’t help but laugh, and when Muranu looked at him from the corner of his eye, he said, “It’s just...’the safety of Mordor’ is such an odd...never mind.”
Muranu’s village was on the shores of the Sea of Nurn, the great inland sea Bilbo had seen glinting to the west: a gathering of huts, ramshackle yet tidy. “You have slain Bukra, the overseer, so it should be safe--once I explain that you helped me,” said Muranu as a throng of ragged children tumbled out of the village to run toward him. And indeed, there were cries of shock and horror when he told his story and mentioned that he had been saved by men of Gondor and of Rohan, but as Dís shared her dates and Legolas handed out lembas with a free hand, fear subsided into a worried acceptance.
“We shall have nothing left to eat for ourselves,” Bilbo said in an undertone to Thorin as he saw their bags emptied.
“Allies are essential,” Thorin murmured back. “We shall eat what they eat.”
“Well, they don’t look like they eat very much,” muttered Bilbo, tightening his belt, but he couldn’t help but smile at the joy on the children’s faces as they tasted the lembas.
“What is the meaning of this?” called a strong voice, and a man came striding out of one of the huts. He had a thick black beard and sharp, dark eyes, and carried himself with authority for all he was dressed in rags.
“Daon!” Muranu called to him. “Bukra caught me as I was trying to find some stray grains in the fields. He would have killed me, but these people saved me and slew him.” Daon’s eyebrows rose as Muranu went on: “They are from the west, but they claim they mean us no harm.”
“Is this true?” asked Daon, crossing his arms. “Speak quickly, and know that though we may look powerless, we yet can do you great harm ere you slay us.”
“We mean the people of Nurn no harm,” said Thorin. “But we mean grave harm indeed to the Dark Lord Sauron, and if you serve him freely there will be no peace between us.”
There was a heavy silence, in which Bilbo saw Dís rest her hand on her axe and Legolas move his hand back toward his quiver. Daon looked long at the faces of each of the fellowship, with his gaze going last and longest to Estel and Denethor, standing side by side. Then he nodded, and a grim smile touched his lips.
“Though you may be from the cursed lands to the west, yet I do believe you wish the Dread Lord ill. So I say, be welcome in Manishtashnu,” he said, spreading his arms wide, “And let us consult to see what aid we can give each other.”
Bilbo politely turned down another cup of bitter black liquor, his head still spinning slightly from the first three. His friends were deep in conversation with Daon and other elders of the town: discussions of allied towns, armaments, and terrain had been going on for hours and showed no signs of stopping. The Ring on his chest seemed to be throbbing in time with an impending headache through the smoke and heat of the small hut. Rubbing his forehead, he excused himself and stepped out into the cool spring air.
The sun had gone down while they were in discussion, and the fields around the village were filled with small frogs shrilling into the moonlight. Bilbo closed his eyes for a moment and let the familiar sound carry him back to the Shire, where the crocuses would be blooming and the brooks swollen with runoff from the spring thaw. Would Hamfast be keeping the gardens of Bag End free of weeds? Or was it assumed that Bilbo Baggins had disappeared for good this time?
He felt rather than heard Thorin come up behind him; he had known at some level that Thorin would find a way to follow him out into the night. “I’m fine,” he said quickly, leaning back into Thorin’s broad chest with a sigh. “I’m just...tired.”
He half-expected Thorin would point out that he tired more easily lately, but Thorin merely put his arms around him and stood there, holding him.
As they gazed off to the west, deeper into Mordor, a sudden spot of light bloomed in the darkness like a poisonous scarlet flower, far off on the horizon. A spire of flame climbed into the sky, then subsided fitfully again. “Is that--”
“Orodruin.” Thorin’s voice was a low rumble, almost felt more than heard. “Mt. Doom.”
His arms tightened around Bilbo, as if giving--or seeking--support.
“Our destination.”
Chapter Summary: The Fellowship enters Nurn, the eastern part of Mordor.
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: PG
Word Count: 2100
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.
The desert gave way so gradually to plains--the dunes flattening out, the grasses going from coarse and scrubby to thicker and lusher--that Bilbo hardly noticed it until the morning that he realized that they were in a sea of waving grass, starred with white flowers.
“We have crossed over into Mordor,” said Pallando, “and left the sheltering desert behind. This is where our passage becomes truly dangerous.”
Bilbo looked around at the waves of sweet green grass, inhaling the scent of spring. “This can’t be Mordor,” he said. “It’s...pretty.”
“This is Nurn,” said Denethor. “A fertile land, where the food that fuels Sauron’s armies is grown. The people of this land have been enslaved by Sauron and his followers for more than five thousand years.”
Bilbo blinked. “That’s...a long time,” he said.
“Nurn means ‘grief’ in Sindarin,” said Denethor. “Yes. It is a long time.”
The plains gave way to fields. Tiny green sprouts were laid out in even rows; between the young leaves water gleamed, reflecting the sky. “Rice fields,” said Pallando when Bilbo asked him what the plants were. “It’s a common crop in the south.” Sometimes they saw figures in the distant fields, up to their ankles in water, stooping over. They avoided them as much as possible: “Where there are people, there will be overseers,” said Thorin. “Orcs and Black Numenoreans. It would not do to draw attention to ourselves.”
Gimli tapped his axe with a knowing look. “I might not mind,” he said.
“Arrows can silence more orcs than an axe,” said Legolas with a blandly innocent look. “For every one you slew, my arrows would find three or more.”
“There will be enemies enough in the future to satisfy the both of you,” said Thorin. “Caution will get us further than recklessness.”
Gimli sighed. “At this rate we shall never find out,” he said.
As it turned out, however, Thorin's caution won them only a few days of travel. On a cloudy, drizzly morning, they were walking along the bank that defined one of the endless rice fields when a sound reached all their ears: a young human voice, sobbing.
There was no question of ignoring the despair and hopelessness of that sound; Théoden’s sword was already unsheathed as he leaped down from the bank and ran directly toward it through the muddy rice field, water splashing around his ankles. Bilbo saw Denethor start to call out after him, then shrug and start to run along the bank. His route was less direct, but Bilbo quickly realized that the mud of the fields would suck at the feet and slow one down, so he followed the steward’s son along the bank as fast as possible.
In any case, all of the Fellowship--whether mud-splashed or not--arrived at the origin of the voice at the same time, to find a young human man on his knees in front of a huge armored orc, brandishing a whip and a knife. The man was pleading in a guttural language that struck Bilbo’s ears in all the wrong ways, harsh and painful; the orc answered back with a cruel laugh and lifted its whip.
At the apex of the whip’s arc, the orc yelled in horror and a slender elven arrow pierced the palm of its hand; the whip tumbled to the muddy ground as the orc clutched his wounded hand to his chest in shock. His shock was short-lived, as he fell to Gimli’s axe a moment later.
“That’s one for me, friend Legolas!” called Gimli as he pulled his axe free of the fallen orc’s breastbone.
“You only got the kill because I was focused on making sure he could not hurt the human,” said Legolas, his expression nettled.
Gimli shook his finger at him, grinning. “No excuses, elf!” He turned to the young man, who had collapsed backwards onto his haunches and was staring at the scene before him in a kind of frozen horror. “Are you all right, lad?” he asked, extending his hand.
The man flinched away, his hands scrabbling in the muddy ground. He blurted something in the jagged language of the orc, then swallowed hard and changed to Westron, albeit thickly-accented and with an unfamiliar cadence. “You are...Gondorians?”
“Me?” Gimli gestured at himself with his axe and laughed. “Nay, I’m from Erebor. But this lad is,” he said, indicating Denethor (whose eyebrows rose dramatically at being called “lad.”) “And his big blond friend here is from Rohan, and Estel is from--” He frowned. “Are you from Gondor, Thorongil?”
Estel opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, the human they had saved threw himself flat on his face in the mud, wailing. “I will not lead you to my family!” he cried out. “No, not though you flay me, or crush my hands, or boil me in tallow, or eat me alive from the feet up--”
“Child,” said Dís, kneeling swiftly beside him, uncaring of the muddy water, “Child, no one is going to eat you. No one is going to do any of those things to you.”
“But he said they were of Gondor, and Rohan,” stammered the young man. “And the Yrch-lords say the men of Gondor drink the blood of the people of Nurn from the skulls of the yrch.” His eyes flicked warily to Denethor, who was clearly trying to look as non-bloodthirsty as possible, even managing a small smile, which did not seem to reassure the Nurnian. “And the horse-demons of Rohan are the sworn servants of the men of Gondor, bound by unclean oaths to fulfill all their evil lusts and--”
“--Now see here!” said Théoden, and his indignation was so palpable that Bilbo had to hide a giggle behind his hand. He waved angrily at Denethor: “If you think for one second that I am bound to obey this pompous windbag, this--this vainglorious seat-warmer, this--” Denethor’s smile was quickly going from “reassuring” to “snarling” as Estel put a hand on Théoden’s shoulder, cutting him off. Théoden blinked at him, then bowed in flustered apology to the man still kneeling in the mud. “Apologies. What I meant to say was,” he coughed and considered his words, “I believe you have been gravely misinformed.”
The Nurnian looked at Bilbo’s smile, then at Théoden’s rueful face. He got slowly to his feet, taking in the people before him.
“You’re nothing but skin and bones,” tsked Dís, digging in her bag. “Here.”
He took her handful of dried dates, staring at her, and put one in his mouth. There was an awkward pause as he chewed, and then Bilbo said, “Oh! Where are my manners! I’m Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire. It’s a ways to the west. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The man swallowed his date. “My name is Muranu,” he said. “Thank you for saving my life.” He looked down at the fruit. “These are delicious. If you have some to spare, may I take a few home to my parents?”
They walked along the rice fields as the sun set, Muranu chatting easily with Dís and Pallando, though still keeping a wary eye on Estel, Théoden, and Denethor. There had been no real debate as to whether to accompany him: Thorin pointed out they could use allies in this enemy-occupied land, but truly no one was willing to turn their back on a village of starving people. Which it was clear the people of Nurn were: “There is little food to spare after the army of the yrch takes what they need,” Muranu said matter-of-factly. “We all must sacrifice to keep the Gondorians from overrunning us.” Denethor made an exasperated noise, and Muranu added with some asperity, “So they tell us. And we do not exactly receive constant updates on the state of the world beyond the safety of Mordor, after all.”
Bilbo couldn’t help but laugh, and when Muranu looked at him from the corner of his eye, he said, “It’s just...’the safety of Mordor’ is such an odd...never mind.”
Muranu’s village was on the shores of the Sea of Nurn, the great inland sea Bilbo had seen glinting to the west: a gathering of huts, ramshackle yet tidy. “You have slain Bukra, the overseer, so it should be safe--once I explain that you helped me,” said Muranu as a throng of ragged children tumbled out of the village to run toward him. And indeed, there were cries of shock and horror when he told his story and mentioned that he had been saved by men of Gondor and of Rohan, but as Dís shared her dates and Legolas handed out lembas with a free hand, fear subsided into a worried acceptance.
“We shall have nothing left to eat for ourselves,” Bilbo said in an undertone to Thorin as he saw their bags emptied.
“Allies are essential,” Thorin murmured back. “We shall eat what they eat.”
“Well, they don’t look like they eat very much,” muttered Bilbo, tightening his belt, but he couldn’t help but smile at the joy on the children’s faces as they tasted the lembas.
“What is the meaning of this?” called a strong voice, and a man came striding out of one of the huts. He had a thick black beard and sharp, dark eyes, and carried himself with authority for all he was dressed in rags.
“Daon!” Muranu called to him. “Bukra caught me as I was trying to find some stray grains in the fields. He would have killed me, but these people saved me and slew him.” Daon’s eyebrows rose as Muranu went on: “They are from the west, but they claim they mean us no harm.”
“Is this true?” asked Daon, crossing his arms. “Speak quickly, and know that though we may look powerless, we yet can do you great harm ere you slay us.”
“We mean the people of Nurn no harm,” said Thorin. “But we mean grave harm indeed to the Dark Lord Sauron, and if you serve him freely there will be no peace between us.”
There was a heavy silence, in which Bilbo saw Dís rest her hand on her axe and Legolas move his hand back toward his quiver. Daon looked long at the faces of each of the fellowship, with his gaze going last and longest to Estel and Denethor, standing side by side. Then he nodded, and a grim smile touched his lips.
“Though you may be from the cursed lands to the west, yet I do believe you wish the Dread Lord ill. So I say, be welcome in Manishtashnu,” he said, spreading his arms wide, “And let us consult to see what aid we can give each other.”
Bilbo politely turned down another cup of bitter black liquor, his head still spinning slightly from the first three. His friends were deep in conversation with Daon and other elders of the town: discussions of allied towns, armaments, and terrain had been going on for hours and showed no signs of stopping. The Ring on his chest seemed to be throbbing in time with an impending headache through the smoke and heat of the small hut. Rubbing his forehead, he excused himself and stepped out into the cool spring air.
The sun had gone down while they were in discussion, and the fields around the village were filled with small frogs shrilling into the moonlight. Bilbo closed his eyes for a moment and let the familiar sound carry him back to the Shire, where the crocuses would be blooming and the brooks swollen with runoff from the spring thaw. Would Hamfast be keeping the gardens of Bag End free of weeds? Or was it assumed that Bilbo Baggins had disappeared for good this time?
He felt rather than heard Thorin come up behind him; he had known at some level that Thorin would find a way to follow him out into the night. “I’m fine,” he said quickly, leaning back into Thorin’s broad chest with a sigh. “I’m just...tired.”
He half-expected Thorin would point out that he tired more easily lately, but Thorin merely put his arms around him and stood there, holding him.
As they gazed off to the west, deeper into Mordor, a sudden spot of light bloomed in the darkness like a poisonous scarlet flower, far off on the horizon. A spire of flame climbed into the sky, then subsided fitfully again. “Is that--”
“Orodruin.” Thorin’s voice was a low rumble, almost felt more than heard. “Mt. Doom.”
His arms tightened around Bilbo, as if giving--or seeking--support.
“Our destination.”