Clarity of Purpose: Chapter 33/34
Title: Clarity of Purpose, Chap. 33
Chapter Summary: Bilbo witnesses a coronation and two weddings in Minas Tirith, then travels to Erebor with Thorin to find out the fate of the Lonely Mountain.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo, Arwen, Dis, Aragorn, Gandalf, Denethor, Theoden, Finduilas.
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: 4500
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.
Note: Somehow the characters slipped from the army camp at the gates of Mordor to Minas Tirith without my noticing it last chapter, which is incorrect! As this chapter opens, they are still recuperating just outside the Black Gate, preparing to travel west to Minas Tirith.
Bilbo sighed as he watched the last of the tents fluttered down in a rustle of white linen to be packed away. At his back the Black Gate gaped wide, revealing the broken earth of Mordor beyond.
“You look pensive,” said a voice at his elbow, and Bilbo turned to see Dís standing there, her white hair braided with silver string. “Are you not excited to be traveling to Minas Tirith, to see the city our friends will rule? To witness the coronation and the wedding?”
“Oh, certainly,” said Bilbo. “Denethor has said so much about it, I’m sure it’s even more splendid than Bree.” Dís hid a smile behind her hand as he went on, “But this time here, healing and resting--it’s been the first peaceful time we’ve had in so long. I do hate to see it end.”
Dís smiled gently and linked her arm with Bilbo’s. “Will you walk with me a moment?” she asked, and they moved off together toward the Black Gate.
At the Gate, Legolas and Gimli were talking with Daon, promising him that they would return to Nurn to help after the wedding. Dís nodded and they walked by, stepping onto the shattered ground of Mordor.
As her feet touched the ground, Dís shuddered. “They speak of my heroism,” she said in a low voice, and Bilbo was not sure she even meant him to hear her, “but I was unable to save one small, brave child. I could not even find--”
Bilbo patted her arm, feeling helpless. “I’m sorry,” he said, because it was all he could think to say, but she looked at him with gratitude in her eyes, then let go of his arm.
She walked in a few paces, then sank to her knees, gazing to the east. “Muranu!” she called out, placing her hands on her heart. “I must return to my land. May your soul find peace where it has gone.” She wiped her eyes. “I shall tell my sons of your bravery,” she finished softly, and Bilbo felt the unspoken if they yet live lie heavy at the end of it.
She rose and took Bilbo’s hand again and they began to walk back to where the carts and caravans were getting ready to leave.
As they walked back through the Black Gate, Bilbo saw that already ivy was starting to creep up the iron, softening it into green.
Bachai patted the lion on its great shaggy mane, and it lowered its head to butt at her before turning and loping off. “Minas Tirith has never been a healthy place for cats,” Bachai sniffed as she climbed onto a cart. “I’m only going because you are a close personal friend of mine, sonny,” she said, shaking her staff at Aragorn.
The ride across the plains was uneventful, which gave Thorin far too much time to dwell on unpleasant things and brood over unwelcome thoughts. But Bilbo was merry company, laughing and bright, and distracted him without seeming to realize he was doing it.
Thorin suspected he realized it full well.
The first night on the road Thorin found silver in Bilbo’s hair, appearing there almost overnight like sudden snow. “Oh, don’t go getting gloomy on me,” Bilbo said lightly when he realized Thorin was staring at a curl wrapped around his finger. “Gray hair is perfectly normal for a hobbit of my age.”
“But...it’s so sudden,” Thorin said.
“You’ve had lovely silver in your hair for decades,” Bilbo said, yawning and running his hands through Thorin’s hair. “And you’re hardly decrepit. Don’t you worry, we have years ahead of us.” He sighed and wrapped his arms around Thorin. “I’ll be honest,” he whispered, “I feel better than I have in years. I’m tired, and my joints ache a bit--but it’s a good tired, like at the end of the day when you’ve done a hard day’s work. I don’t feel…empty anymore. My tether is broken, the leash snapped. I’m free.”
And with that he was soon snoring lightly in dreams, leaving Thorin to watch him far into the night.
“It’s a bit grander than Bree,” Thorin heard Bilbo murmur under his breath, and felt a small hand slip into his as they walked through the Great Gate of Minas Tirith.
There were banners streaming from every rampart, trumpets and harps playing in every corner, flower petals in the air as the High King returned to his city, climbing up through the streets through gate after gate, making his way to the Citadel. Finally they entered a great courtyard, with a withered tree in the center--no, Bilbo realized, blinking, for one dry branch had burst into blossom just as they entered, a garland of silvery petals that seemed to catch and embrace the sunlight.
“Your majesty!” called a voice. “Be welcome in Minas Tirith, the jewel of Middle Earth.” Thorin snorted to himself at that mis-statement, but let it pass, because Denethor was coming toward them with his arms out wide. He was dressed in simple black mourning, unadorned--but he was smiling as Thorin had never seen him smile before, and looked years younger. At his side was a slender woman with long brown hair tied back in a braid, wearing russet robes, and as Aragorn and Arwen approached she sank into a deep, graceful curtsey as Denethor bowed. “My lords and ladies,” said Denethor, “This is the Princess Finduilas of Dol Amroth, who has done me the great honor of agreeing to become my bride.”
Finduilas looked up, and Thorin blinked--from the way Denethor had spoken of her, he had rather expected her to be a great beauty rather than a rather plain sparrow of a woman.
Then she smiled at the party, and Thorin felt his breath catch, and wondered no more at Denethor’s rapturous descriptions.
“Your majesties,” she said in a low, clear voice.
Arwen came forward and took her hands. “Please,” she said, “You must call me merely Arwen, for I am sure we shall be great friends, just as our betrothed ones are.” Denethor attempted to look annoyed at this, but couldn’t quite manage it as he beamed at his beloved.
“Denethor has been working ceaselessly to prepare Minas Tirith for your return,” said Finduilas. “I hope that you find the city to your liking.”
“Minas Tirith has always been the most magnificent city in Middle Earth,” said Aragorn, taking her hand and kissing it, “But with you within it, its beauty is increased a hundredfold.” He looked at Denethor, smiling. “My friend, I find myself in an awkward position! You will always be welcome to stay in Minas Tirith, but I can also give you the rule of any city in Gondor that you wish, should you want. I hope to rebuild Osgiliath one day, and I can think of no better man for the job than you, for example.”
“My lord,” started Denethor, then stopped at the look on Aragorn’s face and said, “My friend.” He took a moment and cleared his throat, then went on: “Minas Tirith was my father’s city, and is now yours. I do indeed wish to bring my bride to a place of our own, and I would be honored indeed to be entrusted with the rebuilding of Osgiliath. However,” he said, putting his arm around Finduilas and drawing her close, “I find that I wish to live nearer the sea, where we can hear the sound of the waves and the cries of the sea-birds as we raise our children. Therefore, the boon I ask of you is to grant me the rebuilding of Pelargir, recently retaken from the Corsairs at the mouth of the Anduin.”
“Unacceptable!” cried a new voice, and Théoden shouldered his way forward to glare at Denethor. “I object!”
“You dare--”
Théoden cut him off impatiently. “Pelargir is twice as far from Edoras as Osgiliath! You would require me to be even more inconvenienced in order to visit you--for visit you I shall, and there is nothing you can say about it!”
Denethor made an annoyed sound in his throat. “Dearest,” he said to Finduilas, “This is Théoden, Prince of Rohan and exasperating travel companion.”
“My lady,” Théoden said, and kissed her soundly on each cheek. “You are far too good for Denethor, I can tell.”
“I like him,” said Finduilas, to Denethor’s horror. She addressed Théoden smiling, and said: “Prince Théoden, we shall have a special boat made that will carry you down the Anduin to Pelargir in all comfort and ease. And I promise that we shall in turn often travel to Edoras, for I have heard it is a beauteous city of great majesty and hospitality.”
“Oh, I like her!” Théoden exclaimed to the whole company. “I shall make sure that you have the fastest and strongest horses of Rohan for the journey,” he said. And indeed, his wedding-gift to Denethor and Finduilas were four Mearas, the king-horses of Rohan that before had only borne the lords of that land. Such a princely gift had never been bestowed upon any before, and the royal couple of Pelargir and their sons rode them always when they traveled to Edoras.
“And is this Mr. Baggins and King Thorin?” Finduilas said next, turning to them. “What an honor to meet you!” Bilbo blushed bright pink beneath the radiance of her smile as she went on, “Be welcome in Minas Tirith and know that the gratitude of all its people goes with you.” And then she bent close and murmured low for only them to hear: “But as for me, I thank you most for bringing Denethor back to me and giving us a future together.”
The days that followed were full of bustle and busyness, and sometimes Bilbo felt positively overlooked--and this was perfectly fine with him, because it meant he was able to wander about the city with Thorin, admiring the gardens and the architecture in turn and just feeling freedom and tranquility wash through him like a breeze, leaving him clean and happy once more.
The coronation of King Elessar was a grand affair, and the history books are full of the details of the great ceremony, but Bilbo always remembered the rest of the evening much better: how the Fellowship had gathered in Aragorn’s quarters to toast the new King, and to reminisce and make plans for the future. How Dís and Arwen convinced a blushing Finduilas to explain why Denethor always called her “Faelivrin”; how Gimli and Legolas argued ceaselessly about whether the roads or the gardens were top priority in rebuilding Nurn; how Théoden drank a little too much and loudly sang a song composed, he claimed, “to encourage a mare and stud to a successful coupling,” to Aragorn’s horror and Arwen’s amusement. Gandalf and Bachai sat in a corner and smoked and looked pleased with themselves, while Pallando tried to write down the lyrics to Théoden’s song and asked him details of its composition. The evening only ended when Bilbo realized that Aragorn had fallen asleep, his royal crown falling askew over one eye, and quietly shooed everyone out of the room so the new King could get some rest.
The wedding was a quieter affair than the coronation: “I have waited a long time, and I find myself unwilling to wait as much longer as it would take to plan another huge ceremony,” Arwen said when asked. So they were married a few days later, at dawn, when the light of the morning star still shone down on them both as they took hands and pledged their lives to each other. And in the afternoon of the same day, Denethor and Finduilas were wed, and the people of the city streamed out to see the two couples as they rode down through the city to the gates, cheering and throwing flowers and weeping with joy and sadness intermingled. For there the new King and Queen bid farewell to their companions. Gimli and Legolas rode off to the east, to Mordor; Denethor and Finduilas rode south, toward Dol Amroth and Pelargir; Théoden rode west to Edoras; and Dís, Thorin and Bilbo looked north to the Lonely Mountain. Only Gandalf stayed with the royal couple in Minas Tirith, to help them in the early days of their rule.
“Farewell!” Aragorn said through tears. “Farewell and good travels to you all, and may the road bring you back soon to Minas Tirith.” He looked at Bilbo and smiled, and said, “One day soon I hope to rebuild Annúminas, the ancient capital of Arnor. For I met you when I was but a child in Rivendell, and you spoke of its willows and its ruined glory, and since then I have yearned to restore it. You must come to visit us there when we hold court in that city, and we will welcome you with all the honor and reverence in the world.”
“Welcome me instead as a friend,” said Bilbo, his voice unsteady, “And I will be happy indeed to visit you there.”
And so they parted, and turned their faces to the north, to discover what fate had befallen Erebor and the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain, besieged by the armies of Mordor.
The road north was an easy one, though filled with fear and anxiety that none of them needed to talk about directly. The armies of Mordor had left a trail of devastation in their wake: the churned-up ground, burned trees, and strewn waste made it all too easy to follow their progress north to Erebor. Dís grew more quiet as the days went on, and Bilbo knew she was imagining her sons with their bodies broken, or starved into submission; Thorin’s gaze was far away and Bilbo knew he was seeing Erebor gutted, the shining halls drenched in blood. As they drew closer, they spurred their horses harder until they finally topped a ridge and saw--
They stopped dead, staring in shock and amazement. The mountain rose shining in the sunset, reflected in the lake below it, but at its base, in front of its gate--
“There...wasn’t a forest there the last time I visited,” Bilbo said tentatively.
“Nor was there when I left,” Thorin said, staring at the woods that stretched out in front of the gate.
“Dale,” Dís said quietly, and Bilbo looked to see that the city seemed empty, and many of the buildings were burned shells. “They abandoned it to take shelter in the mountain.”
“Well then,” said Thorin, “Let us find out what happened.”
As they drew closer, Bilbo realized that the trees were tossing as if in a high wind, although the air was calm--no, he realized with a shock, they were moving. And then he finally realized what had happened, and he spurred his pony forward, yelling “Wandlimb! Is Wandlimb there?”
The Ents--for Ents they were, gathered all together at the foot of the mountain--parted and Wandlimb came forth, her branches creaking and waving, a smile on her face. “Hoom!” she called. “Well met, well met, people of stone and earth!”
Bilbo jumped off his pony and ran forward to throw his arms around her trunk, and she shuffled her roots in the earth and made happy rustling noises. “How did you come to be here?” he asked breathlessly as Dís and Thorin rode up.
“Well, that is a tale quickly told,” Wandlimb said. “We were traveling west as we told you, in search of our Ent-Husbands, and when we came to the trail left by those monsters, those foul beings, those burners of innocent trees and tramplers of blameless shrubs, those…” She broke off and rumbled something bitter and furious in her own tongue for a time. “Suffice to say, it was no hard decision to follow their path and fall upon them as they besieged this place. Destroying them was no great exertion for us--indeed, the most difficult part came after, when we had to convince the people of the Lonely Mountain that we meant them no harm!”
“You should have seen them fight!” called a new, familiar voice from the battlements. “They threw orcs in the air like catapults, ripped the army limb from limb. And then one of them stood there and asked, oh-so-politely, if this was the mountain with a garden in its heart they had heard of!” Fíli looked down at them and Bilbo could see his smile from even that great distance. “Hullo, uncle,” he called. “Mr. Baggins. Hullo, mother. It’s a pleasure to see you again!”
The gates were thrown open and Fíli and Kíli came running out, and there were tears and hugs all around. “Your hair!” Kíli said, distressed, as his mother kissed him on the brow. “It’s gone all white!”
“It looks beautiful,” said Fíli gallantly.
“I’ll tell you how I earned it later,” Dís said.
“I think you’ll have a lot of stories to tell us,” said Kíli. “Really, Uncle, you could have said something before you took off in the middle of the night to go snatch up Mr. Baggins and have a huge adventure!”
“Would you have tried to come along?” said Thorin.
Kíli and Fíli put on identical innocent expressions. “Never!” said Kíli.
“Wouldn’t dream of it!” said Fíli.
“That’s good,” growled Thorin, “Because I needed someone here to rule Erebor, and I trusted you the most.”
“You wouldn’t believe what a good job he’s done,” said Kíli as his brother blushed to the tips of his ears. “Even when we were cooped up in here with all the refugees from Dale, he kept everything going, dealt with all the conflicts and crises, he was amazing.”
“I’m just sorry I never got the chance to prove myself in battle,” muttered Fíli. “I mean, I’m really grateful to the Ents, but…”
“There are more important qualities in a ruler than ability to cleave heads,” said Thorin, clasping his shoulder. “And I’d say you’ve proved yourself admirably.”
Fíli smiled at him, his eyes bright. “Welcome home, your majesty.”
Thorin didn’t return the smile. “Do not use that title yet,” he said.
The Chronicles of Erebor speak of what happened next with amazement: how Thorin Oakenshield addressed the peoples of Erebor in the Great Hall, telling them of all that had happened since he left Erebor five moons ago. He described the Council of Khazad-dûm and the fall of Galadriel and Dwalin, and all assembled there wept. He described Saynshar and its azure tiles gleaming in the eastern sun, and told them of the great battle between Gandalf and the vampire Thuringwëthil. A sigh swept across the hall as he told how Thráin, once King Under the Mountain, had allied with Sauron and the Easterlings, planning to reclaim Erebor for his own with their help. And finally, he told them of the confrontation at the Cracks of Doom, and the destruction of the One Ring.
“It was then, my people, that I threw my axe and struck down my own father,” Thorin said. A low moan rustled through the hall, and although the Chronicles do not record it, Bilbo Baggins was standing at Thorin’s side and felt him trembling. “He plunged to his death with my blade in his flesh.”
“Here now,” said Bilbo loudly, stung by this inaccuracy, “Aren’t you going to mention that Gollum knocked him in? You most certainly weren’t responsible for his death.”
“I attacked my own sire with the intent to kill,” Thorin said. Bilbo could see some of the dwarves in the hall wiping their eyes in sorrow, their eyes cast down. “I am no longer a fit ruler of the Lonely Mountain.”
“Wait a minute,” said Fíli from beside him, “You’re not--I mean, I don’t think I’m--Mother is actually next in line, right?”
Dís frowned. “I don’t believe so.”
The assembled dwarves were beginning to murmur as their royal family discussed the issue, and finally Thorin raised his hands, stepping forward. “People of Erebor, I know this is a strange idea, but I have learned much of the world in my travels, and I have found that in the Shire, the land from which my companion Bilbo Baggins is from, they have a process called an ‘election.’ Each person writes down the name of who they wish to lead, and the names are counted, and the person with the most ‘votes’ is crowned King or Queen.”
“Close enough,” Bilbo muttered.
“So then, I will put it to you, my people--tomorrow, we shall hold an election, and you may choose who will rule you next.”
There was halfhearted applause at first, but then it grew into something more sincere as Thorin bowed to the assembled dwarves. There seemed a general feeling that if Bilbo approved of this odd system, it must have some merit, and Bilbo felt his ears turning hot--apparently he had won over many of the folk of Erebor during his long-ago visits.
“Well, this is exciting,” Bilbo said. “An election! In Erebor!” He smiled at Thorin. “What will you do to prepare?”
Thorin took his arm. “I will show you my gardens,” he said.
The gardens at the heart of the Lonely Mountain were everything Thorin had said they were, and more. Vast mirrors flooded the caverns with golden sunlight--or silvery moonlight, as it was when Thorin and Bilbo walked among them.They were crafted to concentrate moonlight and starlight, and the result was a dazzling pale light that limned each petal and leaf with radiance. There were asters and delphiniums, hyacinths and lilies, strange gaudy flowers Bilbo had no names for. The scent of lilac and jasmine hung over everything, rich and intoxicating, and Bilbo was dazzled by the beauty of it.
“Oh Thorin,” he breathed, cupping a peony in his hands and letting the petals caress his face as he breathed in its fragrance. “How terrible it would have been if I had never seen this!”
“Alas,” said Thorin with a sad smile, “The one flower I could never manage to grow here was heart’s-ease.” He took Bilbo’s arm and walked to where water splashed in a fountain carved from a single huge opal. “There will be heart’s-ease growing over your little green door by now,” he said softly. “The linnet and lark will be singing in the mornings, and the scent of fresh-cut grass and sunlight everywhere. You have written me of it so often,” he said, “and I have never seen the spring in the Shire.”
“You don’t want to rule Erebor,” Bilbo realized, hearing the wistfulness in his voice. “You want to come back to the Shire with me.”
There was a long silence in which Thorin ran his hand along the shining fountain’s rim. “I will stay and rule Erebor if my people ask me to,” he said. “But my heart is with you, and your heart is in the bright green West.”
“If they do choose you,” said Bilbo, “I will not leave you, Thorin.”
Thorin smiled at him. “I know. Which is another reason to hope they they do not ask.”
Bilbo stood at Thorin’s side as Glóin presented him with the parchment holding the final tally of votes. Thorin unrolled it, and the hall full of dwarves went so still that Bilbo could hear the crackling of the scroll as it unwound into the future. He glimpsed a few dozen names, was surprised to see his own there with a handful of marks next to it--and then Thorin sighed and rolled it shut once more.
Stepping forward, he looked out over the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain for a long moment. Then he raised his hands high and said something in Khuzdul that sounded formal, almost ritualistic. Switching back into Westron, he said: “Peoples of Erebor, you have made your choice.”
Then he turned and knelt at Fíli’s feet in one motion.
“Long live the chosen King!” he cried, and the people took up the call and tossed it upward until the very stones of Erebor sang out.
Fíli looked stricken, but he looked into his uncle’s eyes for a long moment. Bilbo wondered if he could read the hope and the fear in Thorin’s face, because he squared his shoulders and stepped forward to face the assembled throng.
“Folk of the Lonely Mountain!” he said, and his voice carried clear and strong through the hall, “I will honor your trust in me, and hope to be half the ruler my uncle was, for he--”
Here he could speak no more, for his words were drowned out by the people calling his name. He looked over to where his uncle had knelt, as if to ask for guidance.
But Thorin and Bilbo had already slipped away.
The coronation of the new King was a grand affair, and Thorin and Bilbo stayed long enough to take part in it, but the very morning after, while all but a few still slept, they were at the gates of Erebor to say their farewells.
“Hrrrm, hum.” Wandlimb rustled thoughtfully. “Thank you for the invitation to join you in your travels, Mr. Baggins, but I do not think we will leave this place for a little while. We are needed to help the gardens of Dale blossom once more, and to coax the burned slopes of the Lonely Mountain into green again.”
“Do you think you will stay here long?” asked Thorin.
“Not terribly long, not terribly long. I would doubt more than a few decades.” Wandlimb chuckled low at Bilbo’s expression. “Our Ent-Husbands have waited much longer than that, Mr. Baggins! We do not measure time as you do; such a span is like but a season to you.”
“Farewell, then, Wandlimb,” said Bilbo sadly, and embraced her.
Fíli, Kíli, and Dís escorted them to the borders of the Greenwood. “Are you sure Thranduil will welcome you?” said Dís rather dubiously.
“Not at all,” said Thorin, laughing. “Much less when I give him the news that his son has settled down in Mordor with a dwarf. He may take it even worse than Glóin did. But it is the quickest way home, and I am sure he will be happy to speed our passage and shorten our stay, at least.”
He embraced them all, and there were tears on all sides, and Thorin and Bilbo promised to come back and visit within three years--”At the latest,” Kíli said fiercely.
And then it was just the two of them, riding side by side into the dappled morning light of the Greenwood in companionable silence.
“I liked the way you said that,” Bilbo said after a time.
“What?” asked Thorin, smiling at him.
“Home,” said Bilbo.
Chapter Summary: Bilbo witnesses a coronation and two weddings in Minas Tirith, then travels to Erebor with Thorin to find out the fate of the Lonely Mountain.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo, Arwen, Dis, Aragorn, Gandalf, Denethor, Theoden, Finduilas.
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: 4500
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.
Note: Somehow the characters slipped from the army camp at the gates of Mordor to Minas Tirith without my noticing it last chapter, which is incorrect! As this chapter opens, they are still recuperating just outside the Black Gate, preparing to travel west to Minas Tirith.
Bilbo sighed as he watched the last of the tents fluttered down in a rustle of white linen to be packed away. At his back the Black Gate gaped wide, revealing the broken earth of Mordor beyond.
“You look pensive,” said a voice at his elbow, and Bilbo turned to see Dís standing there, her white hair braided with silver string. “Are you not excited to be traveling to Minas Tirith, to see the city our friends will rule? To witness the coronation and the wedding?”
“Oh, certainly,” said Bilbo. “Denethor has said so much about it, I’m sure it’s even more splendid than Bree.” Dís hid a smile behind her hand as he went on, “But this time here, healing and resting--it’s been the first peaceful time we’ve had in so long. I do hate to see it end.”
Dís smiled gently and linked her arm with Bilbo’s. “Will you walk with me a moment?” she asked, and they moved off together toward the Black Gate.
At the Gate, Legolas and Gimli were talking with Daon, promising him that they would return to Nurn to help after the wedding. Dís nodded and they walked by, stepping onto the shattered ground of Mordor.
As her feet touched the ground, Dís shuddered. “They speak of my heroism,” she said in a low voice, and Bilbo was not sure she even meant him to hear her, “but I was unable to save one small, brave child. I could not even find--”
Bilbo patted her arm, feeling helpless. “I’m sorry,” he said, because it was all he could think to say, but she looked at him with gratitude in her eyes, then let go of his arm.
She walked in a few paces, then sank to her knees, gazing to the east. “Muranu!” she called out, placing her hands on her heart. “I must return to my land. May your soul find peace where it has gone.” She wiped her eyes. “I shall tell my sons of your bravery,” she finished softly, and Bilbo felt the unspoken if they yet live lie heavy at the end of it.
She rose and took Bilbo’s hand again and they began to walk back to where the carts and caravans were getting ready to leave.
As they walked back through the Black Gate, Bilbo saw that already ivy was starting to creep up the iron, softening it into green.
Bachai patted the lion on its great shaggy mane, and it lowered its head to butt at her before turning and loping off. “Minas Tirith has never been a healthy place for cats,” Bachai sniffed as she climbed onto a cart. “I’m only going because you are a close personal friend of mine, sonny,” she said, shaking her staff at Aragorn.
The ride across the plains was uneventful, which gave Thorin far too much time to dwell on unpleasant things and brood over unwelcome thoughts. But Bilbo was merry company, laughing and bright, and distracted him without seeming to realize he was doing it.
Thorin suspected he realized it full well.
The first night on the road Thorin found silver in Bilbo’s hair, appearing there almost overnight like sudden snow. “Oh, don’t go getting gloomy on me,” Bilbo said lightly when he realized Thorin was staring at a curl wrapped around his finger. “Gray hair is perfectly normal for a hobbit of my age.”
“But...it’s so sudden,” Thorin said.
“You’ve had lovely silver in your hair for decades,” Bilbo said, yawning and running his hands through Thorin’s hair. “And you’re hardly decrepit. Don’t you worry, we have years ahead of us.” He sighed and wrapped his arms around Thorin. “I’ll be honest,” he whispered, “I feel better than I have in years. I’m tired, and my joints ache a bit--but it’s a good tired, like at the end of the day when you’ve done a hard day’s work. I don’t feel…empty anymore. My tether is broken, the leash snapped. I’m free.”
And with that he was soon snoring lightly in dreams, leaving Thorin to watch him far into the night.
“It’s a bit grander than Bree,” Thorin heard Bilbo murmur under his breath, and felt a small hand slip into his as they walked through the Great Gate of Minas Tirith.
There were banners streaming from every rampart, trumpets and harps playing in every corner, flower petals in the air as the High King returned to his city, climbing up through the streets through gate after gate, making his way to the Citadel. Finally they entered a great courtyard, with a withered tree in the center--no, Bilbo realized, blinking, for one dry branch had burst into blossom just as they entered, a garland of silvery petals that seemed to catch and embrace the sunlight.
“Your majesty!” called a voice. “Be welcome in Minas Tirith, the jewel of Middle Earth.” Thorin snorted to himself at that mis-statement, but let it pass, because Denethor was coming toward them with his arms out wide. He was dressed in simple black mourning, unadorned--but he was smiling as Thorin had never seen him smile before, and looked years younger. At his side was a slender woman with long brown hair tied back in a braid, wearing russet robes, and as Aragorn and Arwen approached she sank into a deep, graceful curtsey as Denethor bowed. “My lords and ladies,” said Denethor, “This is the Princess Finduilas of Dol Amroth, who has done me the great honor of agreeing to become my bride.”
Finduilas looked up, and Thorin blinked--from the way Denethor had spoken of her, he had rather expected her to be a great beauty rather than a rather plain sparrow of a woman.
Then she smiled at the party, and Thorin felt his breath catch, and wondered no more at Denethor’s rapturous descriptions.
“Your majesties,” she said in a low, clear voice.
Arwen came forward and took her hands. “Please,” she said, “You must call me merely Arwen, for I am sure we shall be great friends, just as our betrothed ones are.” Denethor attempted to look annoyed at this, but couldn’t quite manage it as he beamed at his beloved.
“Denethor has been working ceaselessly to prepare Minas Tirith for your return,” said Finduilas. “I hope that you find the city to your liking.”
“Minas Tirith has always been the most magnificent city in Middle Earth,” said Aragorn, taking her hand and kissing it, “But with you within it, its beauty is increased a hundredfold.” He looked at Denethor, smiling. “My friend, I find myself in an awkward position! You will always be welcome to stay in Minas Tirith, but I can also give you the rule of any city in Gondor that you wish, should you want. I hope to rebuild Osgiliath one day, and I can think of no better man for the job than you, for example.”
“My lord,” started Denethor, then stopped at the look on Aragorn’s face and said, “My friend.” He took a moment and cleared his throat, then went on: “Minas Tirith was my father’s city, and is now yours. I do indeed wish to bring my bride to a place of our own, and I would be honored indeed to be entrusted with the rebuilding of Osgiliath. However,” he said, putting his arm around Finduilas and drawing her close, “I find that I wish to live nearer the sea, where we can hear the sound of the waves and the cries of the sea-birds as we raise our children. Therefore, the boon I ask of you is to grant me the rebuilding of Pelargir, recently retaken from the Corsairs at the mouth of the Anduin.”
“Unacceptable!” cried a new voice, and Théoden shouldered his way forward to glare at Denethor. “I object!”
“You dare--”
Théoden cut him off impatiently. “Pelargir is twice as far from Edoras as Osgiliath! You would require me to be even more inconvenienced in order to visit you--for visit you I shall, and there is nothing you can say about it!”
Denethor made an annoyed sound in his throat. “Dearest,” he said to Finduilas, “This is Théoden, Prince of Rohan and exasperating travel companion.”
“My lady,” Théoden said, and kissed her soundly on each cheek. “You are far too good for Denethor, I can tell.”
“I like him,” said Finduilas, to Denethor’s horror. She addressed Théoden smiling, and said: “Prince Théoden, we shall have a special boat made that will carry you down the Anduin to Pelargir in all comfort and ease. And I promise that we shall in turn often travel to Edoras, for I have heard it is a beauteous city of great majesty and hospitality.”
“Oh, I like her!” Théoden exclaimed to the whole company. “I shall make sure that you have the fastest and strongest horses of Rohan for the journey,” he said. And indeed, his wedding-gift to Denethor and Finduilas were four Mearas, the king-horses of Rohan that before had only borne the lords of that land. Such a princely gift had never been bestowed upon any before, and the royal couple of Pelargir and their sons rode them always when they traveled to Edoras.
“And is this Mr. Baggins and King Thorin?” Finduilas said next, turning to them. “What an honor to meet you!” Bilbo blushed bright pink beneath the radiance of her smile as she went on, “Be welcome in Minas Tirith and know that the gratitude of all its people goes with you.” And then she bent close and murmured low for only them to hear: “But as for me, I thank you most for bringing Denethor back to me and giving us a future together.”
The days that followed were full of bustle and busyness, and sometimes Bilbo felt positively overlooked--and this was perfectly fine with him, because it meant he was able to wander about the city with Thorin, admiring the gardens and the architecture in turn and just feeling freedom and tranquility wash through him like a breeze, leaving him clean and happy once more.
The coronation of King Elessar was a grand affair, and the history books are full of the details of the great ceremony, but Bilbo always remembered the rest of the evening much better: how the Fellowship had gathered in Aragorn’s quarters to toast the new King, and to reminisce and make plans for the future. How Dís and Arwen convinced a blushing Finduilas to explain why Denethor always called her “Faelivrin”; how Gimli and Legolas argued ceaselessly about whether the roads or the gardens were top priority in rebuilding Nurn; how Théoden drank a little too much and loudly sang a song composed, he claimed, “to encourage a mare and stud to a successful coupling,” to Aragorn’s horror and Arwen’s amusement. Gandalf and Bachai sat in a corner and smoked and looked pleased with themselves, while Pallando tried to write down the lyrics to Théoden’s song and asked him details of its composition. The evening only ended when Bilbo realized that Aragorn had fallen asleep, his royal crown falling askew over one eye, and quietly shooed everyone out of the room so the new King could get some rest.
The wedding was a quieter affair than the coronation: “I have waited a long time, and I find myself unwilling to wait as much longer as it would take to plan another huge ceremony,” Arwen said when asked. So they were married a few days later, at dawn, when the light of the morning star still shone down on them both as they took hands and pledged their lives to each other. And in the afternoon of the same day, Denethor and Finduilas were wed, and the people of the city streamed out to see the two couples as they rode down through the city to the gates, cheering and throwing flowers and weeping with joy and sadness intermingled. For there the new King and Queen bid farewell to their companions. Gimli and Legolas rode off to the east, to Mordor; Denethor and Finduilas rode south, toward Dol Amroth and Pelargir; Théoden rode west to Edoras; and Dís, Thorin and Bilbo looked north to the Lonely Mountain. Only Gandalf stayed with the royal couple in Minas Tirith, to help them in the early days of their rule.
“Farewell!” Aragorn said through tears. “Farewell and good travels to you all, and may the road bring you back soon to Minas Tirith.” He looked at Bilbo and smiled, and said, “One day soon I hope to rebuild Annúminas, the ancient capital of Arnor. For I met you when I was but a child in Rivendell, and you spoke of its willows and its ruined glory, and since then I have yearned to restore it. You must come to visit us there when we hold court in that city, and we will welcome you with all the honor and reverence in the world.”
“Welcome me instead as a friend,” said Bilbo, his voice unsteady, “And I will be happy indeed to visit you there.”
And so they parted, and turned their faces to the north, to discover what fate had befallen Erebor and the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain, besieged by the armies of Mordor.
The road north was an easy one, though filled with fear and anxiety that none of them needed to talk about directly. The armies of Mordor had left a trail of devastation in their wake: the churned-up ground, burned trees, and strewn waste made it all too easy to follow their progress north to Erebor. Dís grew more quiet as the days went on, and Bilbo knew she was imagining her sons with their bodies broken, or starved into submission; Thorin’s gaze was far away and Bilbo knew he was seeing Erebor gutted, the shining halls drenched in blood. As they drew closer, they spurred their horses harder until they finally topped a ridge and saw--
They stopped dead, staring in shock and amazement. The mountain rose shining in the sunset, reflected in the lake below it, but at its base, in front of its gate--
“There...wasn’t a forest there the last time I visited,” Bilbo said tentatively.
“Nor was there when I left,” Thorin said, staring at the woods that stretched out in front of the gate.
“Dale,” Dís said quietly, and Bilbo looked to see that the city seemed empty, and many of the buildings were burned shells. “They abandoned it to take shelter in the mountain.”
“Well then,” said Thorin, “Let us find out what happened.”
As they drew closer, Bilbo realized that the trees were tossing as if in a high wind, although the air was calm--no, he realized with a shock, they were moving. And then he finally realized what had happened, and he spurred his pony forward, yelling “Wandlimb! Is Wandlimb there?”
The Ents--for Ents they were, gathered all together at the foot of the mountain--parted and Wandlimb came forth, her branches creaking and waving, a smile on her face. “Hoom!” she called. “Well met, well met, people of stone and earth!”
Bilbo jumped off his pony and ran forward to throw his arms around her trunk, and she shuffled her roots in the earth and made happy rustling noises. “How did you come to be here?” he asked breathlessly as Dís and Thorin rode up.
“Well, that is a tale quickly told,” Wandlimb said. “We were traveling west as we told you, in search of our Ent-Husbands, and when we came to the trail left by those monsters, those foul beings, those burners of innocent trees and tramplers of blameless shrubs, those…” She broke off and rumbled something bitter and furious in her own tongue for a time. “Suffice to say, it was no hard decision to follow their path and fall upon them as they besieged this place. Destroying them was no great exertion for us--indeed, the most difficult part came after, when we had to convince the people of the Lonely Mountain that we meant them no harm!”
“You should have seen them fight!” called a new, familiar voice from the battlements. “They threw orcs in the air like catapults, ripped the army limb from limb. And then one of them stood there and asked, oh-so-politely, if this was the mountain with a garden in its heart they had heard of!” Fíli looked down at them and Bilbo could see his smile from even that great distance. “Hullo, uncle,” he called. “Mr. Baggins. Hullo, mother. It’s a pleasure to see you again!”
The gates were thrown open and Fíli and Kíli came running out, and there were tears and hugs all around. “Your hair!” Kíli said, distressed, as his mother kissed him on the brow. “It’s gone all white!”
“It looks beautiful,” said Fíli gallantly.
“I’ll tell you how I earned it later,” Dís said.
“I think you’ll have a lot of stories to tell us,” said Kíli. “Really, Uncle, you could have said something before you took off in the middle of the night to go snatch up Mr. Baggins and have a huge adventure!”
“Would you have tried to come along?” said Thorin.
Kíli and Fíli put on identical innocent expressions. “Never!” said Kíli.
“Wouldn’t dream of it!” said Fíli.
“That’s good,” growled Thorin, “Because I needed someone here to rule Erebor, and I trusted you the most.”
“You wouldn’t believe what a good job he’s done,” said Kíli as his brother blushed to the tips of his ears. “Even when we were cooped up in here with all the refugees from Dale, he kept everything going, dealt with all the conflicts and crises, he was amazing.”
“I’m just sorry I never got the chance to prove myself in battle,” muttered Fíli. “I mean, I’m really grateful to the Ents, but…”
“There are more important qualities in a ruler than ability to cleave heads,” said Thorin, clasping his shoulder. “And I’d say you’ve proved yourself admirably.”
Fíli smiled at him, his eyes bright. “Welcome home, your majesty.”
Thorin didn’t return the smile. “Do not use that title yet,” he said.
The Chronicles of Erebor speak of what happened next with amazement: how Thorin Oakenshield addressed the peoples of Erebor in the Great Hall, telling them of all that had happened since he left Erebor five moons ago. He described the Council of Khazad-dûm and the fall of Galadriel and Dwalin, and all assembled there wept. He described Saynshar and its azure tiles gleaming in the eastern sun, and told them of the great battle between Gandalf and the vampire Thuringwëthil. A sigh swept across the hall as he told how Thráin, once King Under the Mountain, had allied with Sauron and the Easterlings, planning to reclaim Erebor for his own with their help. And finally, he told them of the confrontation at the Cracks of Doom, and the destruction of the One Ring.
“It was then, my people, that I threw my axe and struck down my own father,” Thorin said. A low moan rustled through the hall, and although the Chronicles do not record it, Bilbo Baggins was standing at Thorin’s side and felt him trembling. “He plunged to his death with my blade in his flesh.”
“Here now,” said Bilbo loudly, stung by this inaccuracy, “Aren’t you going to mention that Gollum knocked him in? You most certainly weren’t responsible for his death.”
“I attacked my own sire with the intent to kill,” Thorin said. Bilbo could see some of the dwarves in the hall wiping their eyes in sorrow, their eyes cast down. “I am no longer a fit ruler of the Lonely Mountain.”
“Wait a minute,” said Fíli from beside him, “You’re not--I mean, I don’t think I’m--Mother is actually next in line, right?”
Dís frowned. “I don’t believe so.”
The assembled dwarves were beginning to murmur as their royal family discussed the issue, and finally Thorin raised his hands, stepping forward. “People of Erebor, I know this is a strange idea, but I have learned much of the world in my travels, and I have found that in the Shire, the land from which my companion Bilbo Baggins is from, they have a process called an ‘election.’ Each person writes down the name of who they wish to lead, and the names are counted, and the person with the most ‘votes’ is crowned King or Queen.”
“Close enough,” Bilbo muttered.
“So then, I will put it to you, my people--tomorrow, we shall hold an election, and you may choose who will rule you next.”
There was halfhearted applause at first, but then it grew into something more sincere as Thorin bowed to the assembled dwarves. There seemed a general feeling that if Bilbo approved of this odd system, it must have some merit, and Bilbo felt his ears turning hot--apparently he had won over many of the folk of Erebor during his long-ago visits.
“Well, this is exciting,” Bilbo said. “An election! In Erebor!” He smiled at Thorin. “What will you do to prepare?”
Thorin took his arm. “I will show you my gardens,” he said.
The gardens at the heart of the Lonely Mountain were everything Thorin had said they were, and more. Vast mirrors flooded the caverns with golden sunlight--or silvery moonlight, as it was when Thorin and Bilbo walked among them.They were crafted to concentrate moonlight and starlight, and the result was a dazzling pale light that limned each petal and leaf with radiance. There were asters and delphiniums, hyacinths and lilies, strange gaudy flowers Bilbo had no names for. The scent of lilac and jasmine hung over everything, rich and intoxicating, and Bilbo was dazzled by the beauty of it.
“Oh Thorin,” he breathed, cupping a peony in his hands and letting the petals caress his face as he breathed in its fragrance. “How terrible it would have been if I had never seen this!”
“Alas,” said Thorin with a sad smile, “The one flower I could never manage to grow here was heart’s-ease.” He took Bilbo’s arm and walked to where water splashed in a fountain carved from a single huge opal. “There will be heart’s-ease growing over your little green door by now,” he said softly. “The linnet and lark will be singing in the mornings, and the scent of fresh-cut grass and sunlight everywhere. You have written me of it so often,” he said, “and I have never seen the spring in the Shire.”
“You don’t want to rule Erebor,” Bilbo realized, hearing the wistfulness in his voice. “You want to come back to the Shire with me.”
There was a long silence in which Thorin ran his hand along the shining fountain’s rim. “I will stay and rule Erebor if my people ask me to,” he said. “But my heart is with you, and your heart is in the bright green West.”
“If they do choose you,” said Bilbo, “I will not leave you, Thorin.”
Thorin smiled at him. “I know. Which is another reason to hope they they do not ask.”
Bilbo stood at Thorin’s side as Glóin presented him with the parchment holding the final tally of votes. Thorin unrolled it, and the hall full of dwarves went so still that Bilbo could hear the crackling of the scroll as it unwound into the future. He glimpsed a few dozen names, was surprised to see his own there with a handful of marks next to it--and then Thorin sighed and rolled it shut once more.
Stepping forward, he looked out over the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain for a long moment. Then he raised his hands high and said something in Khuzdul that sounded formal, almost ritualistic. Switching back into Westron, he said: “Peoples of Erebor, you have made your choice.”
Then he turned and knelt at Fíli’s feet in one motion.
“Long live the chosen King!” he cried, and the people took up the call and tossed it upward until the very stones of Erebor sang out.
Fíli looked stricken, but he looked into his uncle’s eyes for a long moment. Bilbo wondered if he could read the hope and the fear in Thorin’s face, because he squared his shoulders and stepped forward to face the assembled throng.
“Folk of the Lonely Mountain!” he said, and his voice carried clear and strong through the hall, “I will honor your trust in me, and hope to be half the ruler my uncle was, for he--”
Here he could speak no more, for his words were drowned out by the people calling his name. He looked over to where his uncle had knelt, as if to ask for guidance.
But Thorin and Bilbo had already slipped away.
The coronation of the new King was a grand affair, and Thorin and Bilbo stayed long enough to take part in it, but the very morning after, while all but a few still slept, they were at the gates of Erebor to say their farewells.
“Hrrrm, hum.” Wandlimb rustled thoughtfully. “Thank you for the invitation to join you in your travels, Mr. Baggins, but I do not think we will leave this place for a little while. We are needed to help the gardens of Dale blossom once more, and to coax the burned slopes of the Lonely Mountain into green again.”
“Do you think you will stay here long?” asked Thorin.
“Not terribly long, not terribly long. I would doubt more than a few decades.” Wandlimb chuckled low at Bilbo’s expression. “Our Ent-Husbands have waited much longer than that, Mr. Baggins! We do not measure time as you do; such a span is like but a season to you.”
“Farewell, then, Wandlimb,” said Bilbo sadly, and embraced her.
Fíli, Kíli, and Dís escorted them to the borders of the Greenwood. “Are you sure Thranduil will welcome you?” said Dís rather dubiously.
“Not at all,” said Thorin, laughing. “Much less when I give him the news that his son has settled down in Mordor with a dwarf. He may take it even worse than Glóin did. But it is the quickest way home, and I am sure he will be happy to speed our passage and shorten our stay, at least.”
He embraced them all, and there were tears on all sides, and Thorin and Bilbo promised to come back and visit within three years--”At the latest,” Kíli said fiercely.
And then it was just the two of them, riding side by side into the dappled morning light of the Greenwood in companionable silence.
“I liked the way you said that,” Bilbo said after a time.
“What?” asked Thorin, smiling at him.
“Home,” said Bilbo.