In which shit gets real.
Perhaps Thranduil had been isolated in the Woodland Realm for too long, because Edoras, though noble of build and people, repelled him.
The interior of the halls themselves were comely enough, with pillars of wood carved in the fashion of the Rohirrim – less refined than that preferred by Elves, but not so heavy as Dwarven like. High windows let in the golden morning sunlight, hazed a little with motes of dust.
No, the main problem was the smell.
The smoke from the open fires was not unpleasant, but the entire place reeked of horse manure and sewage. Both were understandable, but it made them no more pleasant.
He glanced down at Lorna, and found that her expression mirrored his sentiments exactly. She was visibly struggling to school her expression into something neutral, but she was terrible at dissemination; what she felt was what you saw, no matter how much she tried to hide it.
"I know this sounds rude as hell, but we're not staying in here, are we?" she asked in English.
"No. We will pay our respects to Thengel, answer whatever questions we can answer, and move on."
"Move on to where?"
That was a very good question. Their entire purpose in marching to Gondor had been rendered moot; Von Ratched had inadvertently caused even more damage than they'd feared he would. Minas Tirith was not safe, but they could not leave until they had found the wretched man's weapon. "When I have an answer," he said, "I will let you know."
"That's not remotely encouraging."
"Perhaps not, but it is the only answer I can give you."
King Thengel rose when they approached his throne. He was still a young man, tall for an Edain, blond and blue-eyed like most Rohirrim. There was curiosity in his eyes, for which Thranduil couldn't blame him; it was not often one wound up with an impromptu visit from Elven royalty, quite apart from the horde of walking dead outside. It was a wonder the man wasn't an utter wreck. The people of Rohan were famed for their stubbornness and strength of will, and in this it seemed to be serving him well.
"King Thranduil," he said, inclining his head. "Have you come with our other…guests…or is your visit coincidence?"
"Yes and no, King Thengel," Thranduil said. "They came not with us, but they are why we have come. I trust you have learned by now that they are not here to harm you."
"After the initial shock, yes," Thengel said dryly. "Who is your…companion?"
Thranduil glanced down at Lorna. He did not wonder at Thengel's hesitation; doubtless she looked downright bizarre beside him, this tiny Edain woman with several facial burns and a truly spectacular bruise on her chin, probably caused by the chaos in Minas Tirith. "You have not precisely caught her at her best, but this is my wife, Lorna Donovan."
"That's an understatement," she muttered in English. "Hi," she said in Westron. "Sorry about the…uh, everything. It's been a hell'v a day. Two days, actually."
Thengel had to visibly master his surprise. "Welcome, my Lady."
Lorna looked up at Thranduil. "Am I a lady?"
"Technically, yes. You will have to forgive her lack of etiquette, King Thengel. She was raised by savages."
Her eyes narrowed. "I'll bite you," she warned. "Or even worse, I'll pop one'v these blisters on you."
"You are an utterly disgusting creature," he said dryly.
"And yet you married me."
"True. As I said, savages," he said. "We will not linger long, nor will your other guests. You will be left in peace soon enough."
"I will not lie to you, King Thranduil," Thengel said. "That will be something of a relief. I do not care how benevolent they may be – seeing a corpse ambling across the yard will never cease to be unsettling."
Oh, Thranduil liked this one. Monarchs with a sense of humor were always easier to deal with, and a good deal more pleasant.
"We'll get them off your lawn. I really don't want to be rude or anything, but I'm about to fall asleep on my feet," Lorna said. "I'm going to go find the tents and pass out. You two do whatever it is kings do when they're together."
"Have Menelwen see to those burns first. We cannot afford to let them get infected." It went unspoken that that would all too easily happen in a place this unhygienic.
"I will. It was nice to meet you, King Thengel. I know my husband can be super creepy, but he won't eat you."
Thranduil glared at her. "No, but I might eat you," he said. "Not that you would make more than two bites."
She arched an eyebrow. "Promises, promises. I'm out."
"Like I said," Thranduil said, as she half-sauntered, half-staggered her way out, "savages. And you and I have much to discuss."
Beorn's house had not changed at all since Bilbo had seen it a year ago, which was oddly comforting, given how much everything else had.
Sméagol had wanted none of it, and had taken off Eru knew where. Bilbo couldn't precisely say he was sorry, either; Sharley might be able to keep Sméagol in line, but that still didn't make him a comfortable traveling companion.
It was certainly nice having real food again, after so many days of travel rations – Beorn brought out bread and honey and fruit, and plenty of all. Traveling meant a hobbit's appetite was never truly sated, and he managed two whole loves, six apples, and a full pint of mead.
Sharley watched him from the other end of the table, amusement in her mismatched eyes. She herself ate little, but then, she didn't exactly need to; the dead required no food or drink. "Where you put all?" she asked, in her halting Westron.
"A question I have wondered myself," Gandalf said. "Hobbit appetites are greater than that of any other race in Middle-Earth."
"Which is a good thing," Bilbo grumbled, "or I never would have managed to feed you and thirteen Dwarves on no notice whatsoever."
"You rose to the occasion admirably," Gandalf intoned.
Sharley must have understood enough of that exchange, for she laughed. It was a hoarse, rusty sound that suggested she didn't do it very often. "Lucky he go with you," she said to Gandalf.
"Luck had nothing to do with it. I was quite certain he would come with us."
"I strongly doubt that," Bilbo said primly. "I very nearly didn't."
"Would end bad, no you," Sharley said.
"Very true," Gandalf said, packing his pipe.
She gave him a rather severe look. "No inside," she said. "Rude."
Bilbo burst out laughing, and Beorn let out a deep chuckle. Gandalf allowed himself to look sheepish, but Bilbo suspected it was all for show. He didn't think the wizard had ever felt sheepish in his life.
"Very well," he said. "Bilbo, would you care to join me on the porch?"
It wasn't merely a request, so Bilbo hopped down from the stool, carefully stepping around several white mice as he went.
The sun had set, leaving the sky like a mass of diamonds spilled across black velvet. It was still warm, the dry, sun-baked grass fragrant. Bilbo sat on the wood pile and packed his pipe.
"What did you and Sharley feel the other day?" he asked. "I know something happened, and that you both felt it. What's gone wrong now?"
"That is for her and I to worry about," the wizard said. "If we ensure you can complete your quest, it will be none of your concern. You have more than enough to be getting on with as it is."
That non-answer irritated Bilbo. "Perhaps I need not worry about it, but I would like to know," he groused. "I'll worry no matter what you tell me – and more, if all I have are guesses."
The old wizard's eyes were as bright as the glow of his pipe. "Something has arrived," he said. "Someone, but we do not know where.
"Long ago, in another world – the world where Sharley was born – there was a man possessed of magic, who sought eternal life. He found it, after a fashion, and in the process killed nearly everyone else like him. He was locked away for a thousand years, but recently escaped, and is now at large in Middle-Earth. He would make a great and terribly ally for the Dark Lord, so Sharley and I intend to see to it that they never meet."
Bilbo had a feeling that was the dramatically simplified version of events, but it was enough. "Can you?" he asked. "Can you keep them apart?"
"We will not be the only ones attempting it, so yes, I believe we can. You have your task, Bilbo, and it is enough."
He wanted to ask what would happen if they met, but didn't actually want an answer. It couldn't be worse than his imagination, surely, but he still did not want to know.
Bard was hot, tired, and ill-tempered, and he knew he was not the only one.
The dead woman had warned that they needed to prepare for a siege, so prepare they did, with all the energy they had. It was too early for most harvests, but vegetables could be gathered and prepared, and lat enough that they could hunt without orphaning young creatures. He had been doing much of both, and was now half dead on his feet, too tired to even eat much supper.
Sigrid, Tilda, and Ratiri sat beside the cold fireplace, illuminated by several lamps. Even with the windows open, it was stifling; Bard was glad of his snug home on solid ground in the winter, but in summer he longed for his old, drafty house on the lake.
"You look unwell, Ratiri," he said. "Too much sun?"
"I showed him how to gut a deer," Sigrid said, mild amusement in her tone. "I think he is traumatized."
Bard winced. That he could understand; he'd nearly been sick himself, the first time he'd seen such a thing. He'd often helped the fishermen in Lake-Town when the runs were large, but cleaning a fish was very different from gutting something as large as a deer. "I do not blame him" he said, pouring himself a large mug of ale. "I promise, Ratiri, the smoking of it is not nearly so terrible a thing."
"I hope not," Ratiri said. "Surgery is…different. Less disgusting." The word 'surgery' was in his own language, for Westron had no equivalent.
"Have a drink," Bard said.
"He's had four," Sigrid said, her amusement even more evident. "The butcher forced some brandy on him, and he had more whiskey at the pub. I think they all remembered their own experience, when they first witnessed butchery." Most of those in Dale had lived their lives on the lake; Bard had not be the only one totally unfamiliar with the practice.
"Is good to know I am not alone," Ratiri said. "I felt…fool?"
"Foolish," Sigrid said. "And if you were, so were we all. Father is right about the smoking – it is much easier, when the meat no longer looks like an animal."
"I hope so," Ratiri said. "I want rest before do that again."
The food stores in Minas Tirith were running low, and Von Ratched was contemplating kicking the extraneous people out. They had served their purpose as human shields, but now they were merely a burden. That contemplation was interrupted, however, by movement in Mordor. A worrying amount of movement.
Now that Sauron knew he was here, he didn't bother using the Palantír through an intermediary. He never used it for long, for fear of Sauron capturing his mind, but his brief visions filled him with anticipation and dread in equal measure.
Armies of orcs were massing behind the walls, obviously gearing for war, and that was a thought he relished. That would be a true challenge, and he had few of those anymore.
The dread, however, came from Sauron himself. Unless Von Ratched was mistaken – and he rarely was – the Dark Lord was preparing to venture forth. And if that was the case, Von Ratched and everyone else in Minas Tirith were well and truly fucked. Nazgûl he could – and did – handle, but Sauron? He wouldn't stand even a breath of a chance.
Never in all his calculations had he thought Sauron would actually leave Mordor. Whatever would draw him out now had to be compelling indeed, because lacking the Ring, he also lacked his full strength. He would be somewhat vulnerable to the higher powers of Middle-Earth, of whom Von Ratched, to his own irritation, was not.
Well. Everyone had to die someday, and at least being taken out by the Dark Lord would be a worthy death. Von Ratched could at least give him something to choke on.
Lorna was not a happy bunny.
The Elves had pitched their tents somewhat far from Meduseld, but the smell still carried, and because they had to haul water from a stream somewhat far away (nobody was about to trust the nearby wells), she couldn't have a proper bath. After Menelwen treated her burns, she had to content herself with a stand-up wash, which at least took care of the worst of the soot and sweat. When she had more energy, she'd go take a swim in the river, but for now she felt weak as a kitten, and still vaguely sick.
She really hoped they wouldn't be staying long. Even when she'd been homeless on Earth, she hadn't lived in this kind of filth. Dale was a paragon of cleanliness when compared to what she'd seen of Rohan so far. How anyone could live like that was beyond her comprehension, though she supposed it would be a lot easier if it was all you had ever known. Still, gross.
Once she'd dug the clean clothes from her pack, she put them on and all but collapsed onto the bunk. Hopefully a nap would help her feel less like three-day-old death.
Her dreams, unsurprisingly, were troubled. She was pursued by the shadowy figures of Nazgûl, but this time, all her efforts were in vain: they slaughtered both elk and Thranduil, and came at her with their razor-swords. Thankfully, before they could gut her, the dream shifted.
She was only thankful for a moment, however, for what it shifted to was a vision of unnerving clarity, not dreamlike in the least.
She stood on a snowy plane, ice crunching beneath her boots as she turned. The cold nearly froze her breath in her chest, tightening the skin of her face, creeping through her clothes as though they were made of tissue paper. It was night here, the sky massed with more stars than she had ever seen, the moon lighting up the snow nearly as bright as day.
To her left, though, was a giant…well, hole, a roughly circular, vertical chasm of darkness that blotted out snow and stars alike. And from it emerged a figure that looked like a man – a man who actually looked much like a young Von Ratched.
He was every bit as stupidly tall, blond hair worn long over his collar, swathed in some kind of black coat or cloak. Somehow, his pale eyes managed to be even colder than Von Ratched's, twin chips of pale ice that mirrored the moonlight.
Thorvald, she thought, because honestly, who else could it be? At least he couldn't possibly be near anything at all; nothing and no one could live for long in such a frozen wasteland.
That would, however, only buy them so much time. Moving anywhere fast in Middle-Earth wasn't exactly possible, but move he could, and would. She had to go back to Minas Tirith and bludgeon Von Ratched until he coughed up the weapon that could kill the fucker, and then she and Thranduil had to go wreck his day. Fatally. Provided that was even possible.
She knew that she and Von Ratched had managed it in the other timeline, but their circumstances had been very different. Whatever they did, fatal or not, they had to stop him meeting up with Sauron. Should that happen, they might as well all slit their throats, and save either of those twats the trouble.
Lorna woke with a start, still sick and totally disoriented. It must be night, for Thranduil sat beside a large lamp, reading something. He looked up when she stirred, pale eyes concerned.
"We," she said, her voice sounding like she'd swallowed a pound of gravel, "are fucked."
Yes, yes you are. All of you. Well, all of you who aren't Sauron.
Title means "It begins" in Irish. Drop me a review and let me know what you think.