Chapter 2

Chance of Success

Here follows the account of the War of the Ring and the War in the North as written down by Elizabeth Andrews in the year 3019 of the Third Age of Middle Earth. Be warned: this is not a story written for the amusement of idle readers. All events described in this account have truly happened. They have been written down to ensure that they won't be forgotten as time passes and the witnesses of those horrible days die of old age.

I am aware that a great many people have written and will write about the War of the Ring, no doubt all of these writings are true, all of them accurate in every last detail. What can one more book have to offer then when so many others are out there? Not much, perhaps, but that is not why I have set pen to paper. This book tells of these events as witnessed by one family.

How to begin a tale such as this one? A wise man once told me to start at the beginning, but such a point is hard to find. As I write this I am well aware that more history precedes this book than I could ever hope to write. But most of that is written down elsewhere and it is not my goal to retell that story, especially since I won't be able to tell it better than it was before.

This part begins not in Erebor or even Middle Earth. No, one could say that it really all began with an investigation into a seventy-seven year old disappearance…

Beth

There were days when Beth came this close to following her grandfather's advice and give her latest project up as a lost cause. This close, but not quite close enough. However, that didn't mean she couldn't call it a day. She had spent all day in her study, mostly reading old documents, and she could feel the tension in her muscles as they protested having been forced into one position for far too long. Besides, the noises coming from downstairs started to suggest there was a full-blown war taking place in her living room.

It might even do her good, taking a break before her mind got too clogged up with events of nearly eighty years previous. No matter how much documentation there was, and there seemed to be enough to fill a library with, it all amounted to the same thing: the mystery she was researching had been unsolved back in the day, which honestly didn't bode well for Beth's own chances of success. No, best get her mind back to the present for the moment.

And it was not as if her son and nephew weren't doing everything in their powers to keep her grounded in the here and now, screeching as if the devil himself was at their heels. She'd been able to hear them for about half an hour now, but she'd been able to ignore them as long as she knew her sister was there to ensure she'd have furniture left at all.

'Little devils giving you grief?' she asked as she entered the living room.

Mary, her older sister and sort-of babysitter-on-demand, had taken refuge on the couch to keep out of the way of the excited five year olds chasing one another around the coffee table. 'Not so much,' she replied. 'They haven't broken anything. Yet.'

'Lucky me,' Beth remarked wryly. Grateful though she was that Mary's current unemployment meant she could get a babysitter whenever she needed one, she didn't quite approve of her sister's method of raising kids. Live and let live so long as nobody gets hurt was her motto of choice and saying no had never been her strong suit. 'Boys, that's quite enough of that. Go and play outside!'

Thomas looked at her in astonishment, but at least it stopped that headache-inducing shrieking of his. 'It's cold out!' he complained.

It was at that. 'But the sun is shining,' Beth countered. 'Go on.'

Harry, bless him, knew better than to go against her when she used that decisive tone. Thomas, having the bad fortune of being born Mary's son and therefore used to having his own way, had no such advantage. 'Mum, I don't want to go! I want to play inside!'

True to expectations, Mary was already leaping to her son's defence. 'Elizabeth, don't you think you could…?'

Really, Beth loved her sister to bits, but there were days she could cheerfully strangle her. 'My house, my rules,' she reminded her. 'Come on, kids, out you go.'

Harry was already on the way to fetch his shoes and coat, but Thomas cast one last pleading look at his mother. Mary fortunately had the good sense not to debate the my house, my rules dictate Beth issued and backed her up, telling the little brat to go and take their games outside, to Beth's infinite relief. She could already feel a headache coming on and shouting children really weren't all that helpful when trying to battle one.

'Coffee?' Mary asked sympathetically. 'Or painkiller?'

Beth let herself fall onto the sofa. 'How about both?'

Mary chuckled. 'That bad, huh?'

'It never quite ceases to amaze me how many words some people need to convey the very simple message of I don't know.' Of course that would make most of the reports she had tackled today infinitely shorter, but then, no one actually wanted to read the I don't know. It sounded too much like defeat, she supposed. 'And whoever wrote most of those blasted files really didn't like saying what he needed to say in one sentence when he could easily use ten to say the exact same bloody thing.'

'Oh, you poor thing.' It would have sounded more understanding if she didn't chuckle in amusement. 'But you're a writer; surely you're guilty of the same thing now and again?'

'Not on that scale,' Beth defended herself. 'And that's different. I write books. Police reports shouldn't need to be written the same way.'

'Who knows. It might have been a cop with author aspirations.'

'Good thing he never got published then. Thank you.' She accepted both the coffee and the painkiller with genuine gratefulness. 'You're an angel. Did anyone ever tell you?'

'You do, whenever it suits you,' Mary countered. 'When I do what you want.'

Beth mock-glared at her. 'I take my words back. You're a menace and a pain in the behind. But thank you for the coffee all the same.'

'I love you too,' Mary said lightly, taking the remaining spot on the couch. 'So how'd it go?'

'No one seems to know anything,' Beth summarised. 'That's just about my research in a nutshell.' And didn't that frustrate her. She had made it her job to write books about crimes – kidnappings, murders, you name it – and reconstruct what had happened at the time, making it a story that people could relate to, that was more than just the hard facts. She hadn't thought people would be interested at first, but at thirty-one she had two bestselling books to her name, so there was that assumption proven wrong. However, the third one would never get written if she didn't get anywhere with this project soon.

'Well, it was almost eighty years ago,' Mary commented. 'And no one seemed to know what happened even then. Have you considered giving up?'

This time there was nothing mocking about the glare. 'I'm no quitter. And it's seventy-seven years.'

'Close enough to eighty for me.' Mary shrugged. 'Look, I know you'd love to solve the unsolved family mystery, but face it, if they couldn't solve it then, you probably can't solve it now. Besides, even if Kate Andrews has been secretly alive all those years, there's no way she's alive now. She'd be what… over a hundred years old?'

'Almost hundred and one,' Beth corrected. 'Her birthday's in August. So, she could be alive. People have been known to get older.'

'You're a hopeless optimist, you are.'

'And you love me anyway.'

Truth was, Beth really wasn't about to give up. Kate Andrews was the one that had triggered her career in the first place. She was, as Mary had said, the family mystery. She'd disappeared a couple of months before her twenty-fourth birthday and hadn't been seen since and not for lack of trying on the part of the police, as she could testify. Grandpa Andrews had always kept a picture of her on the mantelpiece till the day he died. Kate had been his twin sister and Beth had always had the feeling he never really stopped missing her. It was for his memory as well as her own curiosity that she had decided to take up the case and, opportunistic though it may be, make a book out of it at the same time.

Not that her grandfather had encouraged her in this. Quite the contrary, he had always tried to dissuade her from digging too deep. Beth must have been very young still when she went to visit her paternal grandparents and had finally plucked up the courage to ask about the smiling red-haired woman in the frame on the mantelpiece. 'That's your great-aunt Kate,' her grandpa had replied. 'But she went missing.'

'Oh,' Beth remembered saying. 'Did she move? Is that why you couldn't find her?' Aunt Susan had moved not long before that, to Australia of all places. In her young girl's eyes that was too far away to comprehend.

He'd hoisted her onto his lap then, smiling with sad eyes. 'No, dear one. She disappeared. No one could find her and we searched long and hard.'

'Oh,' she'd said again. 'That's…' Well, she didn't know what it was, so in the end she settled on the emotion she saw in his eyes. 'Sad.'

Indeed, the sadness didn't leave his face, not even when he smiled at her again. 'It is. But it's a long time ago now. Don't worry yourself about it.'

'Why do you have the picture then?' Beth insisted. As far as she knew, her parents didn't keep Aunt Susan's picture on the mantelpiece. Not that they had a mantelpiece, but that was beside the point.

'To remember her,' he'd replied. 'Now, on you go and play. You're too young to share an old man's grief.'

He had obviously meant for her to forget all about Kate and her mysterious disappearance, but she had not and how could she, what with that picture always in sight? Over the years her curiosity had grown and grown and her grandfather's attempts to dissuade her from finding out more about it had fallen on deaf ears. If anything, it only piqued her curiosity even more. And so here she was, ten years after his death, investigating the woman who unknowingly had set her on her path to her rather successful career.

'Did you find anything at all?' Mary asked.

'Well, there was one apparent witness to her abduction, one Jeremy Grey,' Beth said. And that part of documentation had been the strangest by far. 'But I think he was a bit off his rocker.' What other explanation could there be?

'How so?' Mary asked, intrigued now.

'Well, he claimed a sudden whirlwind came and took her away from the bus stop where she was waiting. According to the report, he got pretty mad at the police when they didn't believe him.' And no one in his senses would believe in magic. Well, unless they'd overdosed on fantasy novels.

'Attention seeker?' Mary offered by way of explanation.

Beth nodded. 'Probably. The strange thing is that he never once got back on his story, though. He insisted it was true until the day he died, which you have to admit is pretty unusual if he was just an attention seeker. He lived to the age of ninety and never once did he as much as admit he might have been mistaken.'

She knew; she'd phoned his living relatives. Not that they had any other insights to offer. Just her luck that she had gotten hold of the one member of the Grey family who was a fan of her work. It had taken her a lot of counting to ten to stay her tongue and nearly ten minutes before she could cut the gushing short and get to the heart of the matter. And the reply she got was probably worth her time, even if she failed to make any sort of sense of it so far. There was just that gut feeling that had helped her a couple of times before that insisted this was somehow important. The thing was that's she wasn't anywhere close to figuring out why.

'Well, there's that avenue of inquiry shut off,' Mary observed. 'And I imagine it can't be easy finding out anything at all, seeing as how all those involved in her case are all dead.' She shook her head indulgently. 'You couldn't pick a more recent case, could you?'

Beth grinned cheekily. 'Where would be the fun in that? And it's not as if I'm all out of options yet. Apparently grandpa and his father hired a private detective, someone called Patrick Miles. I've been trying to get hold of his stuff. His daughter called me the other day, agreeing to meet. Who knows what I might uncover.'

Mary shook her head. 'And I suppose you want me to look after Harry while you're off on your quest for information?'

'You'd be my favourite sister if you did,' Beth said. It was a relief not to have to ask it herself. She could hardly take a young boy with her all over the country, especially on school days, but it started to feel like she was taking advantage of her when she asked for the umpteenth time if maybe she'd feel like taking Harry for the afternoon so she could either go and meet someone, bury herself in an archive or just plainly get some work done without having to keep an eye out for any trouble her son might make.

Mary swatted her head and only missed because Beth saw her coming and ducked in time. 'I'm your only sister.'

Beth didn't miss a beat. 'And all the more dear to me because of it.'

Thráin

Truth be told, he had no idea what he was doing here. Or, more accurately, he knew what he was doing here, he just didn't know why he was doing it. Thráin, second son of Thorin, was crouched up in a tree near Amon Lhaw, looking down into the clearing below, searching the surroundings for any kind of movement.

There was nothing worth mentioning so far. He had been sitting here since sunrise and he had not seen the smallest signs of life in all that time, not even that of a bird. Not that he had expected birds; they had abandoned this area. Too many orcs roamed these lands nowadays and where evil came, life vanished, either because the orcs ate all life forms or because they'd had the good sense to know when to leave in order to save their lives.

But not even orcs had been here today or any day for the past week, if his friend had read the trails right. It was past midday already, there was no sign of his quarry and by now Thráin's legs had started to cramp. He was a dwarf – or half a dwarf anyway – and his Maker had not made him for sitting in trees all day.

The notion that the prey may have been on to the plan forced itself on Thráin's mind and if that was the case, it may have long since fled, as fast and as far as its legs could carry it. He could very well be wasting his time here, waiting for a creature – his friend had been rather vague on the particulars – that was probably long gone. It could take them several days to catch it up again.

He risked a glance at his companion in the nearby tree. If he found his position cramped, then surely his friend must be even far less comfortable. Thráin was tall for a dwarf, but the Ranger was tall for one of the race of Men and the crouched posture must be even worse for him.

They were an odd duo to be travelling together for more reasons than just the one that they belonged to different races and that in itself was quite remarkable. There were not very many dealings between men and dwarves. Thráin, having been raised in Erebor, had naturally seen his fair share of men in Dale and Esgaroth, but they were vastly different from the Rangers of Eriador. Generally, the two races could hardly stand the sight of one another and they had literally ages of prejudice standing in the way. Not that it had stopped his parents, but they were unique, an exception to the rule.

The second reason why the friendship was so strange was Thráin himself. Dwarves weren't natural wanderers, especially not when they had a kingdom to call their own. Durin's Folk hadn't wandered since Erebor had been retaken and that was before Thráin had been born. But he had always been restless and as soon as he was old enough he had taken off, wandering Middle Earth and enjoying every single moment of it. And so what if he had made some strange friendships along the way? He was already an oddity among his own kind. What harm could one more possibly do him?

Of course he had to amend his claim of enjoyment, as he certainly was not doing so now. Nevertheless his friend had assured him that it was as necessary as it was tedious. That was all he had said on the matter and so Thráin could only wonder at the Ranger's motives. Secretive as dwarves they could be and often were. This time was no exception. But Thráin trusted him, even though he was just burning to ask what he had done in the Dead Marshes where he had found him three days past. He had merely offered his services and was confident in knowing that an explanation would eventually be offered to him.

The Ranger sent him a smile and discreetly pointed in the direction of where Thráin knew the falls of Rauros to be. His sharper hearing must have caught something his dwarven friend had missed.

He strained his eyes to see something, but the forest remained as abandoned as it had been all morning. Nothing moved and the only sounds to be heard were the ever-present roaring of the waters falling in the distance and the gentle wind in the early springtime leaves of the forest.

He was about to think that the other had been imagining things when he too started to hear sounds other than wind or water coming from the direction that had been indicated. The dwarf frowned, listening to determine the source of the sound. He was a skilled hunter – the natural result of spending months on the road by himself when there was no one to provide for him – and he was certain that the creature that was approaching was moving on four legs rather than two. And yet his friend had led him to believe they were hunting a creature of some intelligence. Thráin had yet to hear of a sentient being that moved around on all fours, though.

The mystery was solved the next moment. The creature moved into his line of sight and rendered Thráin utterly speechless in doing so. What was this? He had encountered most races that dwelt in Middle Earth – with varying measures of success – but he was unable to name this one.

Their quarry was small. He'd stand no higher than a hobbit were he to stand on his – yes, definitely a male being, he thought on inspection – feet. The creature was naked except for a dirty rag covering his private parts. The lack of clothing allowed Thráin to see how skinny he was; he could carry out a count of ribs even from this distance. He vaguely looked like a man, save for the distinctive lack of hair. The creature was bald save for a few stubborn wisps still clinging to the skull. But in all of this it were the eyes that really got Thráin's attention. They were wide, too wide for the face and he'd call the look in them innocent were it not for the unmistakable gleam of madness within.

What was this?

Save for that look in the eyes Thráin would think it positively harmless, but Strider had sworn that this pitiful creature was one of the most dangerous to roam the world today. Given that they were forced to share their world with orcs, some dark force in Mordor and all sorts of unsavoury beings nowadays that was saying something. The claim seemed almost absurd now that the dwarf had laid eyes on it himself, but he trusted his friend. Even though, he'd have some explaining to do.

He moved, no, practically danced through the forest, completely unaware of their presence. A fish was in his hands. He took a bite out of it every now and then, before he went on again, randomly bursting into song.

'Our only wish,

To catch a fish,

So juicy sweet!'

Thráin's jaw dropped when he heard the singing, or what was supposed to pass for it anyway. The voice sounded like it had not been used in a while, but it sounded happy, if not entirely sane. Who would dare sing here now when it was well-known that orcs regularly patrolled these shores?

'Gollum! Gollum!' the creature spat the next moment. He sounded like he was choking on his very own words.

A few dots connected in Thráin's head. He had heard that word, that name before. Yes, it was a name, the creature's name. After all, it was a name from the stories. He'd visited Bilbo Baggins in the past and the old hobbit had been more than willing to regale his old friend's son with the tales of his adventures. Thráin also suspected some were rather embellished for purposes of entertainment, but then again, so were most of the stories he knew. And Gollum was the name of the being Bilbo had encountered under the Misty Mountains after he got separated from the company. What was it doing here and, most importantly, how was it still alive after all these years? Gollum was no elf or dwarf that he could lay claim to a lifespan that was long enough.

There was no time to further contemplate these questions. The sign came from the other tree and Thráin jolted into action, dropping the net on Gollum's unsuspecting head. The trap had shut itself.

The racket that followed this action could have woken even the dead. The screeching and wailing as Gollum tried to escape his trap hardly made it possible to hear one's own thoughts. He flailed in his bonds, fish flying out of his hands, but he only managed to entangle himself further in the ropes.

And even if they had the good fortune of not having encountered as much as a single orc in the past few days, that stroke of luck must now surely have ended. Before long a patrol would come to see what the noise was all about. Orcs, contrary to popular belief, after all were not stupid. It was true enough that they were disorganised and needed a firm hand to unite them in a single goal, but Thráin had met enough of them – in a fight generally – to know that orcs possessed both a certain measure of intelligence and a far greater measure of low cunning that he had learned not to be on the receiving side of.

He climbed down the tree, knowing the Ranger would have come to the same conclusion and would make due haste. 'We cannot linger,' he warned.

His companion nodded. 'I know. Hold him down while I cut the ropes.'

Thráin nodded. They did not need a great many words to understand each other well. And it would be foolishness to waste time in trying to untangle Gollum while he flailed so. Cutting the ropes would both be faster and more logical.

'We will need to gag him lest we bring the orcs down on us wherever we go,' Thráin observed, expertly avoiding the long fingers with the sharp nails that had been going for his eyes, pinning them down whilst a well-placed knee held the lower half under control. It was not ideal, but he would have to make do, because, though skinny Gollum might be, he was by no means weak and madness had a way of strengthening a body beyond all expectation. And up close the madness in those wide eyes was more pronounced, almost frightening in a way.

'I need to make for the realm of Thranduil,' Strider replied, cursing softly as the creature bit his hand. Thráin's response was to apply more pressure. 'The elves will look after him while I inform Gandalf of his capture.' He did not bother keeping his purpose from their struggling captive, who after all could do nothing with that information even if he wanted to, or stopped wailing long enough to make out any of their words at all, come to think of it.

Thráin wrinkled his nose at the mention of the names of the two people he liked least in all the world in one single sentence. 'Oh aye, Thranduil takes good care of his prisoners.' Maybe this was his parents' bitterness he had inherited, absorbed after hearing the story too many times, but he had seen enough of Thranduil for himself to have formed his own opinion of the elf and it was far from favourable.

Strider smiled. 'Do not let your father's grudge cloud your judgement, my friend.'

'As long as you do not let your love of the elves cloud yours,' he countered lightly.

The topic of elves was something they were never going to agree on. Different experiences made for different sentiments and those were not easily overcome. Nor did Thráin want to. He'd seen enough of elvish sanctimonious behaviour to last him several lifetimes. And Strider could never know what it was like to be in Thráin's boots. How could he, being one of the race of Men, being raised in Lord Elrond's house? He'd never felt the enmity between dwarves and elves as keenly as Thráin had.

'They do not support the darkness,' Strider said. The amusement about Thráin insistence to not like the pointy-eared tree-lovers had made way for a seriousness that hinted at some knowledge that his dwarvish friend did not yet possess. 'That is the only distinction on which anyone should make their decisions in these dark times.'

Thráin favoured him with a scrutinising look. 'Is it really that bad further south?'

Now it was the Ranger's turn to give Thráin a searching glance. 'How do you know where I came from?'

'You were travelling northwards when I came upon you,' he answered. 'It was no difficult leap to make.' It had him worrying though, worrying about what his friend had seen, where he'd been. Whatever the answers, it sufficed to give his eyes that haunted look he could see there now. 'What route will you take?'

'Along the river northwards until I turn eastwards along the Old Forest Road. Then northwards again until I reach Thranduil's realm. The old road is safe, is it not?'

And so it was. About ten years after his birth, Thráin's father had swallowed his pride and launched a campaign with the elves of Mirkwood to make that old road safe once and for all, for even after the fall of Dol Guldur orcs still used that road, making it a perilous path for travel. Afterwards a group of skilled dwarves had restored the road, making it passable once more. It had been one of the main trade roads ever since. But with orcs increasing in number and evil brewing in Mordor, trade had mostly dried up.

'I would not take that road,' Thráin counselled. 'It will take you too close to Dol Guldur. You should not venture there unless there was no other option. Word has it that an evil force has once again taken up residence there.'

An eyebrow was raised. 'Was it only word you heard, friend, or did you venture there yourself?'

'I declare I know not what you mean,' Thráin announced, which was as good an answer as any. Indeed he had gone there, or as close as he dared anyway. He'd come near enough to see the fortress and to feel the stifling air of fear penetrating every last corner. It had wrapped itself around him like a blanket until he was shaking with dread. Dread for what exactly he did not know, but it was strong enough to make him turn tail and make a hasty retreat. Even then, he had been unable to stop looking over his shoulder for days. His conduct was not one he was proud of and so it was a tale best left untold. 'I am merely telling you it would be best to avoid Mirkwood altogether and go round in the east. It is the shorter route either way.'

'Slightly shorter,' Strider corrected. He had freed Gollum from the net and now secured other, more manageable bonds in its place. To Thráin's relief these bonds included a gag. 'And I have heard word of armies amassing in the east.'

He had a ready answer for that. 'I'd rather fight armies of flesh and blood than forces my sword and axe cannot contend with.'

Strider nodded. 'I shall take your word for it.' He finished gagging Gollum and, with Thráin's help, set him on his feet. 'Where does your road lead?'

'I've a mind to clap eyes on the old homestead again,' Thráin replied airily. Like his father, he was not one for speaking of his emotions when he could let his actions do the talking for him. His concern for his friend was such an emotion. Besides, it had been too long since he had been home. 'My siblings might forget my face if I do not show it from time to time. And someone has to keep Jack out of trouble.'

Strider saw through it in moments. 'I'd be glad of the company on the road.'

'You'll need someone to save you from your own cooking, is what you mean!' Thráin teased. Whatever his friend had learned from his time with the elves, preparing a decent meal had not been a part of it.

The indulgent smile he had anticipated did not come and when Thráin looked up, there was indeed no mirth to be found in his eyes. 'When you do come home,' he said, 'when you do, warn your brother he will need to prepare for war. The storm that is brewing might come to his doorstep sooner than he thought and it might prove to be stronger than any in living memory.'

It was obvious that it was not the weather Strider mentioned. Deep inside, beyond the mask of calm, some of the dread he had felt at Dol Guldur resurfaced.

For most part I'll stick to the time lines in the books, but here and there I'll go my own way, which means that Gollum's capture in this story takes place in 3018 TA instead of 3017 TA. That sets the events in this chapter around February 3018.

For those of you who haven't figured it out: Beth is the granddaughter of Kate's twin brother Jacko, who was the main character in The Journal.

Next time: Duria has a letter to deliver and Thoren receives a visitor in the night.

I'd love your feedback on this, so reviews are very welcome.