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— BOOK ONE : HEAVEN —
Dies Irae
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They come upon the Shire like a hurricane.
The South Farthing is worst hit, with a barely-prepared militia of men more suited to tactical fighting than full-on warfare; though the dwarves make all haste, the orcs arrive first. The Rangers stand on the shores of the Brandywine, and fight with a desperation that may ultimately save lives—but there are hundreds of orcs, and dozens of huger, nastier creatures that can only be Uruks, and the Rangers prepared and ready for the onslaught number less than five score. They are overrun far too quickly, forced to fall back, forced to beg the gods and anyone else who may be listening to help them before they reach the hobbits in Sarn Ford, in Longbottom, in all of the larger towns further north, whose creatures have no idea of what is coming.
But the gods do not listen, and though the dwarves arrive at last and the Rangers rally quickly in defense of the hobbits, the casualties are heavy—and none of them have the chance to ask why this is happening, because they are dying and the enemies are far too many. Though the dwarves are fearless and the Rangers will do anything to stop them, too many orcs and Uruks slip through their defenses—and break off into small bands, disappearing into the Shire.
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Hobson Gamgee has heard the rumors, of course—he's not deaf, not yet—but he's tossed them away quickly as nothing, as something to scare the children, as a story started by the tweens across town who love to see the children and the elders grow shaky in fear.
He has dismissed the rumors as nothing until he is out in the garden one day, tending his tomatoes before he plans to go water Mister Bilbo's flowers, and he hears distant screaming coming from the south. He looks up with a frown, looking down the hill, into the countryside, and sees people running in every direction, running desperately for smials and buildings and anywhere with a door they can latch. He gets up off his creaking knees slowly, his heart starting to pick up, as he realizes that not all of these creatures are small enough to be hobbits.
He has never seen an orc before, of course, but the rumors coming from Bree and from the south had said they were going to attack and he supposes that these must be them—they look like nasty creatures, from this far off, but that's as much as he can say. He blinks, considers himself for a moment, and then realizes very quickly that he will be very lucky not to be able to say anything else.
He drops his spade in the dirt and turns quickly for the door, yelling for his wife and children as he slams and bolts the door behind him. They all appear, thankfully, and he waffles for a moment before deciding that the crawl space behind the master closet will have to do as a hiding spot; if they are discovered, of course, they will be trapped with no way out, but hopefully if the orcs do decide to pay them a visit, they will not be able to find them.
"Hob—" his wife starts, and their daughters clutch at her skirts in fear, but he shakes his head, grabbing her hand and cutting her off.
"We need to hide," he says, all in a rush. "The rumors were true."
He has considered himself a respectable hobbit, by all accounts—nowhere near a gentlehobbit like Mister Bilbo, of course, but what to do in any sort of attack has not ever crossed his mind. But he looks at his wife and his four beautiful children and realizes that he will gladly do whatever it takes to keep them safe, even if it's hiding in a back closet…even, if it comes down to it, taking a kitchen knife to these orcs who have dared to attack their home.
He pushes them all toward the back bedroom, saying he'll catch up with them quickly, and darts toward the kitchen, stopping before the knife block and pulling out the two biggest ones they own; he holds them before him, one in each hand, and takes a few experimental swipes at the air, stabbing forward, trying to pretend an orc is standing before him, ready to murder his children.
His hands are shaking violently, though, at the mere thought of taking a creature's life, and he realizes too late that there is movement outside the kitchen window, something grimy and huge, whose lower torso is the only thing Hobson can see. He stifles a shriek of terror and ducks down, hoping he was not found, but then there is a roar from outside, and the front door rattles on its hinges once—twice.
It will not hold against such a monster, he knows, and he has no time to get to the back bedroom—and so he only swallows his terror as best he can, begs his hands to stop shaking, and climbs to his feet. He has not given much thought to how he will die; as a hobbit, he has long assumed he will die of old age or of sickness. But now, at forty-four years old, he realizes he is going to die in his own kitchen, trying to fight an awful creature he has never imagined with a kitchen knife the size of the creature's hand.
He stifles another high-pitched sob as the door splinters, and he hides behind a corner, hoping that he will at least have luck on his side—that he will at least be able to injure the creature before it finds his family.
He is waiting for the final push that will shatter the door, but it never comes; there are deep, throaty roars from outside that do not sound like the orc, and he stills as he hears heavy footsteps trampling his garden. He would be outraged at any other time, of course, but all he knows right now is that the monster has stopped knocking down his door—
He listens from his corner, not daring to move or even breathe as terrible, visceral sounds come from the front garden. There are at least two new creatures, he thinks, and they do not sound like any hobbit he has ever heard but they are the ones who distracted the orc, and so he thinks they must at the very least be on his side.
There is a final, rattling shriek then, and a heavy thump, and then the deafening noises die away. Hobson wavers for a moment, and then against his better judgment, slowly leans to open what's left of the door.
A massive creature is lying prone in his garden, black liquid pooling beneath and around it as two others stand over it, ensuring it's dead. They look up when the door creaks open, half-raising their weapons (one carries a great axe, the other a heavy sword) before they seem to recognize him.
"Master Hobbit," the nearer one says quickly, and Hobson is frozen, does not move—only stares at the blackness on the ground and on these creatures' bodies. "Are you hurt? Is your family safe?"
He blinks at them rather owlishly, takes in their long, wild beards and their thick, short frames, and realizes that these are dwarves not unlike the ones who stole Bilbo away a mere three weeks ago. "We're all right," he says eventually, and his voice sounds distant to his ears—but the dwarves seem to relax, at that. One, with fairer hair, kicks the orc's body viciously as he says—
"Damn Uruk, I've never seen an orc run so fast—I'm glad we got here when we did, else—"
"Enough," his friend says, frowning at him before turning to Hobson. "Do you have food in your house? Enough to last several days?"
"Yes," Hobson says, in that same strange tone he doesn't quite recognize, and he watches as the other dwarf wipes his axe on the lawn before sheathing it, moving to haul the orc—Uruk—away.
"Good," the dwarf says, and then eyes the front door. "Any spare wood, carpentry tools? I can barricade the door for you, but you and your kin'll need to stay inside until we've driven them all off. It's not safe out here."
Hobson nods, points vaguely to the woodpile they keep on the side of the house, and hesitates in the doorway as the dwarf hurries toward it, as his friend pulls the Uruk away, out of sight from the road. "What's an Uruk?" he asks the yard in general, and both dwarves come up short. "There were—the rumors, that there were orcs to the south…is Uruk another word for them?"
They hesitate, glancing to each other, before the light-haired dwarf says, "It's…a bigger type of orc, see. Nastier, too."
Hobson looks at the pool of what must be blood in his garden, considers exactly how much of it is now soaking into his plants, and realizes distantly that he's probably going to have to toss out the whole crop. "All right," he says, and the darker dwarf frowns, coming back with a huge armful of wood and peering down into his face.
"We're here to protect your country, Master Hobbit," he says. "No harm will come to you or your kin so long as we're here. You don't need to worry."
"Right," he says again, his voice even quieter, and the dwarf's frown deepens, shifting his load to lean up against the house and grasping Hobson's shoulder by his less-bloody hand.
"Go back to your family," he says gently, giving him a little push. "We'll take care of things out here, and let you know when it's safe again. We'll have patrols—if you need anything, just yell."
Hobson does as he's told, steps carefully over the threshold to his home, and realizes he doesn't feel safe here, anymore. He moves toward the back of the house, disappearing from the dwarf's view, and soon he hears the dwarf banging away, barricading the front door. It's necessary, he knows. It's needed to ensure he and his family are safe from—from the monsters now invading their country.
He means to go to the master closet and tell his family that it's safe to come out, but he doesn't make it all the way there—he collapses against the wall in the hallway, sliding down until he is curled in on himself, until the tears stream down his face and the sobs choke his lungs. They are—they are safe, for now. There are dwarves here, in Hobbiton, ready to protect them when they have never even met. He should feel secured in the fact that they are defended, but all he can feel is horror—and it is long minutes before he is able to collect himself, before the sobs lessen and the trembling subsides enough for him to get to his feet.
His family is alive, and in this he must take comfort—and so he walks unsteadily to the master closet, embracing his wife tightly when she emerges. Hobbiton is under attack, but his family is safe…and for now, he must take what comfort he can from that.
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Primula Brandybuck wakes early one morning to utter madness outside her front door.
Brandy Hall has always been organized chaos, of course, and with her sleep-addled mind she at first thinks nothing of it. But as she rolls over, considers sleeping for a while longer before going out to play with her younger cousins, she listens a little closer to the sounds from the hall and the grounds—and what she hears sends cold terror scorching through her gut.
The horn is sounding, long and loud. Her father is shouting desperately about getting the women and children to safety, getting those vulnerable to the cellars and the crawl spaces and wherever else they may not be found. As she climbs out of bed quickly, looking out a window, she sees Big Folk on their lawn, too: Dúnedain Rangers, she recognizes for their cloaks and their dark hair, but too there are creatures not so big as them, much stouter and with great beards upon their faces. She realizes after a moment of staring that these must be dwarves.
She doesn't understand what is happening—though the Rangers, rarely, come to Brandy Hall to discuss things with her father, she knows that normally they treat with the Tooks—considered to be the most worldly and rational of hobbits. Though she's not sure she agrees (at least on the second count), it means she only rarely sees men—and never before has she seen a dwarf. She only knows these to be such because, after all, with their hairiness and their great, heavy weapons, what else could they possibly be?
She hesitates only a moment before rushing into a pair of trousers and a sturdy shirt (that her father bought for her gladly when she asked), tying her hair behind her head and slipping out into the hallway. There's sounds of alarm and rushing coming from the kitchens, but she does not need to go that way to get outside—and steps out a side door easily, unseen, to try and find out what all the ruckus is about.
Her father isn't the only hobbit outside, as it turns out—several of her uncles are there, as well as many hobbits she does not recognize by name though she has seen them about Buckland. And, she notices, Drogo is among them, apparently not sure what he is doing there but determined to help nonetheless. He pulls her by the hand when he sees her, away from the heart of the group as she tries to push her way forward. "You need to get inside, it's not safe—"
"What's going on?" she demands instead, digging in her heels and glaring at him. She's quite fond of Drogo, of course, with his kind heart and dashing good looks, but if even a Baggins is here and privy to whatever is going on, then she certainly should be as well.
He hesitates, glancing to the group again before swallowing. "The attacks that were happening to the south…the men say that they're going to be here soon."
She blinks at him, her mind failing her for a moment. She has not once heard of such attacks; her father has often ended a conversation abruptly when she entered a room, but this is not wholly uncommon—and she has shoved it under the rug easily. But attacks—what kind of attacks—?
She asks this aloud, rather desperately, and Drogo swallows heavily, glancing again over her shoulder as someone shouts impatiently in a thick Northern accent. "They're saying it's orcs," he says after a moment longer, and Primula feels the bottom drop out of her stomach. Orcs, she has heard of in passing, though they have always been the monsters in fairy stories that are vanquished by the hero. They're supposed to be far away, the other side of the continent, nearly, and they have not been near the Shire in—
"There's not much time," Drogo says, and jumps terribly as a different horn sounds, behind him—one that does not sound at all fair or kind or anything a hobbit might think to produce. "You need to—"
A huge creature rushes by them, then, and Primula screeches as Drogo pulls her to the side—but it is only a man mounted on a horse, his dark hair all awry as he stops before the other Rangers, not dismounting his steed.
"I've been told to travel to Rivendell, seek Lord Elrond's aid—"
"We will be overrun before the elves can help us," a dwarf says impatiently. "Your bow will be more useful here!"
"One Ranger will make no difference," another man says over him, turning to the man on the horse with a deep frown. "Halbarad, what do you carry?"
"It's why I've stopped," he says, trepidation and concern all over his voice as he shifts his large cloak. Primula hears several curses as she also sees what he has hidden: two small hobbit children, no older than ten, huddled against his chest, clearly in deep sleep—though it must be a restless one. "I found them on the road, their parents were dead—I couldn't just leave them!"
"Leave them here," Primula's father says instantly. "They can stay with the others until—"
The horn sounds again, much closer this time, and Primula feels unsteady in her fear as she grasps at Drogo's arm for support. "There's not much time," her father insists, reaching up for the children—until something whizzes past the horse, missing it by mere inches, and the Ranger swears as the creature rears in panic, clutching at his charges to ensure they do not fall.
Primula realizes only after several seconds that this was a weapon, something meant to hurt or even kill—and she does not realize for several seconds more that Drogo is dragging her forward in a rush, desperate to get to the Rangers. "Take Prim with you," he shouts over the sudden ruckus to the mounted man, who does not appear to hear him immediately—not until Drogo releases Primula's hand, reaching to tug at his pant leg—the only part of him he can reach. The man looks down, then, at Drogo's near-panicked face, and Drogo drags Primula further forward. "She's not safe here—she needs to—"
The Ranger hesitates a moment, but he glances behind them to something Primula is not brave enough to witness before nodding, reaching down to grab her by the collar. In those last moments, Drogo presses something into her hands that she grasps on reflex—his gaze follows her up up up into the horse's saddle, where she is barely stabilized, surrounded by two tiny children and a fully grown man as she is. "Be safe," Drogo says to her, though the sound is lost to her in the mayhem of rapidly approaching battle—and she only stares at him with wide, trembling eyes—
Just long enough to see an arrow embed into his back as the Ranger rides away.
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The hours and days pass in a haze as Primula travels further from her home than she ever has in her life. The Ranger is remarkably patient with her, though she thinks she is being irrational, and that a Brandybuck should be stronger than this. He treats her like a fragile child—like he treats the children (Paladin and Esmeralda Took, she learns eventually)—and she thinks that in any other situation she would be offended by this. She's not a child, after all; she's a tween, nearly an adult already—and she is her father's daughter. She should be strong in the face of peril.
She should be but she is not, because she thinks Drogo must be dead, and she saw the orcs clear as daylight before the Ranger urged his horse into the trees behind their great Hall. They were great monstrosities, awful, terrible creatures with crude armor and cruder weapons, and before they were out of earshot she could hear that the fields before her home were filled with screams. Her kin's screams, her friends' screams, and Drogo must be dead and her father as well because the orcs were huge and terrifying and she has never seen anything like them—
She does not sleep well for the nightmares no matter what herbs the Ranger (Halbarad, he has introduced himself several times, ever patient with her when her spinning mind refuses to remember the name) offers to help her slumber. She sees the arrow sticking out of Drogo's back, and her mind conjures similar wounds in her father and her mother and all her siblings, who may not have reached the cellars in time; she sees her home overrun and ruined by orcs, and all of her friends dead and trampled in the mud. She sees war the way a hobbit lass was never meant to, and she cannot sleep for the nightmares.
"My comrades are more than capable of defending your country," Halbarad tells her, many times. "And the dwarves, they are of Erebor—you will not find finer warriors in all the land."
This is all well and good but Drogo must be dead, her friend must be dead and her father was out on the front lawn. He was surrounded by warriors, it is true, but he was unarmed himself (carries no weapon, for what need would a hobbit have of such things?) and surely, with the orcs descending so quickly—
Halbarad can reassure her all he wants but she knows her family must be dead—and the days pass in a haze as he pushes his horse further and further east, desperate to reach the elves who will be too late in saving the Shire from the awful fate that has befallen it.
The large knife she found in her hands hours after they left Brandy Hall behind stays tightly in her grasp or at her hip for the journey—it was a gift from Drogo, a weapon in a country with precious few to spare, and he told her to stay safe and so she will do everything in her power to do so. Halbarad explains that they will easily outpace the orcs, that they brought no steeds of their own to this land—that this horse, the fastest that the Dúnedain have to offer, will leave orcs in the dust no matter how fast they try to run. She hears this and understands, and still holds tight to the knife because Drogo thought it necessary that she carry it and now Drogo is dead and so—and so—
She would have marveled at the lands they travel through in any other situation, she thinks, because they slowly turn from the green hills she knows so well to bluffs and valleys and forests with trees she does not recognize, that Halbarad names with ease whenever she asks. She thinks the lands would be beautiful if her own were not already drenched with blood, and though she is awake through most of the day, sitting in the saddle before Halbarad and grasping Esmeralda and Paladin tightly, she finds that she does not see much of the lands at all.
(She has wanted to travel, just a bit, once she comes of age in a little over a decade. She has never gone past Bree, on rare business trips with her father, but she has been fascinated with tales of dwarves to the north, of the elves making their final pilgrimage to the West. Though she has always thought Rivendell was far beyond the scope of her adventures, now she will reach it through no decision of her own—and she wonders whether such a trip is worth her happiness and safety and family.)
(She decides instantly that it is not.)
Paladin and Esmeralda are faring better, she thinks, and she wonders whether this is because they are young or because they did not see the bloodshed. They explain cheerfully, when Primula asks one day, that they were exploring in the trees behind their smial when their parents suddenly asked whether they wanted to play a game of hide-and-go-seek. Esmeralda is five, and Paladin is only three years her senior, and so they had agreed in an instant, shrieking their delight—until their father had hastily shushed them, reminding them that it was important to stay quiet so they wouldn't be found, right?
They had run deep into the trees, then, hidden themselves in branches and under leaves. They had waited nearly half an hour before each deciding that the game was boring, that clearly their Ma and Da weren't very good at it; they resolved to find them and suggest a game of tag instead.
They had first found each other, and then their parents—who were lying on the ground, taking a nap in uncomfortable, damp mud. Paladin had taken great offense at this, he recalls with all the righteous indignation of a child, and tried to wake them by first shaking his mother vigorously by the shoulder.
He recalls with a sudden frown that she had a cut on her face, that she must have run through some nasty branches or tripped over a root in the earth, but this is no excuse for not waking when her only son calls. They had vacillated and worried and waited for their parents to wake up—and when they did not, Paladin had decided to go to the main road and try to find another adult who could help them. That adult, as it turned out, was Halbarad, who they trusted instantly due to his familiar cloak and kind eyes. He followed them in concern to where their parents slept—and moments later, he had grabbed each of them by the hand and, pulling them away, asked whether they would like to have an adventure with him to Brandy Hall.
Primula realizes, just as Halbarad did, that their parents were killed by orcs, though both children seem blissfully unaware. And she sees the parallels, too, with Drogo, for Paladin's parents clearly hoped to distract the orcs from wherever their children were hiding. After all, if Drogo had not been distracted, making sure Primula was safely with the Ranger, on her way to faraway Rivendell…
If Drogo had not been so preoccupied with her safety then he may still be alive—and she reels with this knowledge, that she may be the reason her friend is dead. She reels and tries to understand and decides she cannot, decides it is impossible and so simply decides not to think on it. She is twenty-one; she is a tween-not-quite-adult and though she has desperately wanted to be treated as an adult just like all her older siblings, she realizes now exactly what being an adult entails.
If being an adult means she has to deal with her home and family destroyed, she wants to stay a child forever.
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Thorin would be furious if he saw her now, but Thorin is not here, and Dís cannot force herself to stand idly by when the Shire is nearly being overrun.
The council had nearly had a collective heart attack when she announced that she was traveling south, less than a week after the main force left, but she had bullied her way through with all of the stubbornness of her line. They had scoffed and blustered but eventually relented (not that she was giving them much of a choice), only insisting that a dozen guards go with her, to ensure nothing happened to her on the road.
Dís huffs after them, only glad that it will provide another dozen axes to the hobbits' defense, and leaves within the hour. She has no intention of dying, of course, and she has long known how to wield her great double-bladed axe; she is just as great a warrior as her brother. She may not be queen, but she is the king's brother—and leaving his allies to their deaths while she sits in safety is something she cannot stomach.
They reach Bree, which is quieter than normal—she learns, after asking a woman barkeep in an uncharacteristically quiet pub, that many of the men of the town have travelled west and south, answering the Rangers' call. "They'll like be glad to have you," she says, nodding to the axe strapped to Dís' back. "Word is they're mostly contained, but orcs in the Shire—and I've heard tell of nastier creatures, too."
Dís thanks her, slaps a silver coin on the bar, and makes a mental note to stop by for dinner and an ale on her way back to the Blue Mountains. She had hoped as much, that her people and the Rangers would be able to subdue the invading force; after all, a baker's dozen dwarves would not do any good, if the orcs had already overrun the country.
But they received that terrifying news nearly three weeks ago, and it's a two-week journey to Bree; though they made all haste, her people may not have arrived in time enough to save those areas first hit. Her jaw clenches at the thought of the southeast of the Shire laid to waste, and only goes out to her guard (dwarves she knows as friends and dwarves she has watched grow from tiny babes), saying that they must make haste to the west, to offer their help where it might yet be needed.
Brandy Hall is a place she has visited, rarely, as an envoy for her brother; though she often has been sent on to the Tooks, further into the Shire, occasionally the more convenient location meant she treated with the Brandybucks instead. Gorbadoc Brandybuck, then, is a familiar face to her, the head of the house and usually a stalwart, brave sort of fellow, especially for a hobbit. But she realizes as soon as they ride up at dusk that the orcs have reached even this far. The bodies have been piled already (and she is grateful to see that the orcs—and Uruks, she realizes with a sinking gut—greatly outnumber the fairer folk) in preparation for burning or burial, and a pair of dwarves are stationed at each entrance to the Hall as a guard, ready to sound the alarm if a second attack were imminent.
The pair at the front gates recognize her, though, and bow slightly, stepping aside as Dís slides off her pony, only briefly stopping to ascertain where the rest are before hurrying into the great smial. Several creatures look up when she finally enters a huge dining room-turned-war room, and though the Rangers and Hobbits do not seem to recognize her immediately, the few dwarves still inside bow slightly in deference. She waves them off, though, glancing around the room before simply deciding to ask, "What is the situation?"
"We killed a score of them five days ago when they attacked the Hall," one of the Rangers—an elder, if the grey in his hair is anything to go by—says briskly. "No survivors, as far as we can tell, and from what messages we've received from Hobbiton, Frogmorton, and further south, it sounds like they've been able to keep them from pushing further north."
"Good," Dís says, something unclenching in her chest, at that. "I have a dozen fresh soldiers with me, ready to fight—tell us where we will be most useful, and we can leave before dawn."
"The south needs guarding, especially if there's a second wave," he replies, frowning down at the map on the large table. "But it is as I said—with so few remaining, we should be able to handle the current invaders with those we have in the field."
Dís nods; she and all the rest are of course ready and willing to shed more orcish blood in defense of these lands, but the fact that they are already trimming their numbers down to next to none is a much better alternative. "We will ride south in the morning," she says, to general agreement of the table. And she hesitates, here, because she must ask—but at the same time, she does not want to hear the answer. "And…what of the casualties?"
Several of the Rangers grimace, but it is one of her own—a dwarf of Ered Luin, for she does not know his name off-hand—who replies. "Among our ranks, perhaps two dozen," he says, and she lets out a small breath. "But that's only those we've heard of. The Rangers and Bree-men have lost at least that many, and as for the hobbits…" he inhales deeply. "Right now, we're estimating at least four hundred dead, with many hundreds more wounded."
She swears under her breath, sending a quick prayer to Mahal that that total does not rise. "Is it the Uruks?" she asks. "I saw the bodies outside—but I was hoping the rumors would be false."
Many of them nod, their faces growing grim. "We're still not sure why they've ventured so far from Mordor," one of the other men says. "There's been talk of sending scouts to the east to find out if other strange things are amiss, but right now, we just don't have the manpower."
Dís nods, thinks suddenly, worriedly, of her brother—heading exactly in that direction right now. He's likely close to the Misty Mountains by this point, especially if they're hurrying; if there is any unrest near the Greenwood or the lands to the south of it, he will likely find out soon enough. "I think that can wait until the situation here is secured," she says, and he nods.
"Until then—"
He's cut off suddenly by a sharp whistle from outside—Dís knows it well, and as the rest of the dwarves stiffen, the men and hobbits quickly realize something is wrong. "Stay inside," one of the men says to the hobbits, grabbing his sword before rushing out of the room after Dís.
She's the first out the front door, where the two grey-faced guards stand with axes at the ready, their gaze focused on a single figure heading directly for them from the east. Dís realizes quickly that this cannot be an orc, unless orcs have finally learned to tame horses; but in this time and place, in the middle of the night, a lone figure riding for them is certainly cause for alarm.
The men clearly can't see as far in the darkness, but have their weapons drawn nonetheless; and as the horse draws closer, they finally see it—and Dís is able to make out features of the man riding astride. He's quite tall and thin, and carries either a staff or a sword upright at his side; she only holds her axe more firmly in hand, plants her feet, and prepares to strike this man from his steed if need be.
But he stops several feet from them, dismounts his horse and plants a staff in the dirt beneath him; Dís realizes what kind of man this must be just as soon as several of the Rangers do, behind her. It's not Gandalf, this much is clear, but it must be one of his fellows—the robes, beard, and staff are unmistakable. "What does a wizard need with us?" she asks, more defensively than perhaps the situation requires, but she has never trusted even the Grey Wizard. This one she does not recognize, and with the current state of things—
"I heard of the situation with the orcs," he says simply, raising an eyebrow at her before glancing to the group of dwarves and men behind. "I only thought to help, if I could."
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Saruman, as his name turns out to be, seems reluctant to squeeze himself into Brandy Hall, but he doesn't have much of a choice when Dís walks back inside, many of the dwarves hurrying to follow. And, after all, the men have stayed here without much complaint, and Saruman is not so much taller than them. If he is so eager to help, she thinks, surely he can handle a few low ceilings.
Sure enough, he follows after the Rangers, his sword yet at his hip and his hand grasping the staff he has to hold horizontal in the house, lest it scrape the ceilings. "What has been done?" Saruman asks once they arrive in the war room, stooped slightly and obviously trying to hide his displeasure about it. Dís tries not to frown at him in impatience; she has ever had little patience for wizards, for Gandalf is ridiculous and flighty and useful only when he wishes to be, but she finds that she dislikes Saruman even more with every passing moment.
"We have the situation well enough in hand," the elder Ranger—Forden—says, and Saruman's thick eyebrows shoot up in surprise, "but there are still several bands of orcs and Uruks unaccounted for. If you are offering to track and slay them, we would be much obliged."
Dís considers the group at large before turning to Saruman, trying to gauge his reaction—though he seems to be much better at hiding his emotions than any dwarf. "It would be a simple task," Saruman says briskly, "and much faster for me to travel alone than for a band of men or dwarves."
"Indeed," Forden says, also considering the wizard before asking, "I think none of us have ever heard your name, Saruman the White, let alone seen you this far west—what has brought you here, truly?"
"I met my fellow, Gandalf, on the road to the north," he says, and then turns to Dís with rather sharp eyes. "He was traveling with a group of dwarves and a halfling—and they told me of their worries for this land. I thought it only right that I come to investigate."
Dís says nothing, though Saruman clearly remembers Thorin, sees the familial resemblance, and hopes for a reaction. "Then we are lucky you met," she says simply, and his eyes narrow a fraction though he says nothing in reply.
"This would change our plans," she continues, turning to the room at large. "The majority of the trackers you have sent out can be summoned back to watch the borders—what would you have me do? I have all of the resources of Ered Luin at my disposal—I can send for whatever the Shire needs."
"You have the permission of your king?" Forden asks, surprised, and she snorts, drawing herself up a bit taller.
"My brother," she says, and his eyes grow wider, "is traveling to the Iron Hills, and has left Ered Luin under my protection until his return. Whatever the Shire needs, it can have."
"My apologies, your majesty," he says hastily, sketching an alarmed sort of bow, but she huffs a bit, waving a hand at him.
"I didn't come here to be treated like a king—I came to help protect and rebuild the Shire. What do we need?"
The discussions continue late into the night, but by dawn, Dís has drawn up a detailed list of personnel and resources required to be brought down from the mountains. She sends it with a fresh rider, a dwarf of middle-age who has served her family for decades, that the council will recognize and trust. "Tell them that if they argue, I will come and shave their beards myself," she says, and he knows her well enough to know that she's entirely serious; he nods gravely, pockets the list with Dís' seal imprinted upon it, and says that it will be done.
It's dawn, and several of the hobbits are starting to wake; she sees women and children about when she was starting to wonder whether there were any left. She is glad to see them, despite her exhaustion—despite the trauma clear on their faces and the fear in their eyes as they wonder whether their home will be safe again.
Gorbadoc, she sees too, when she did not the night before; she would have expected him to be in the war room, deep in discussion about how to keep these lands safe, but she understands now why he was not. He's clearly wounded from the attack, though not critically—his arm is thickly bound and held in a sling, and he walks with a distinct limp, favoring that same side.
"Lord Dís!" he cries, when he sees her, stumping his way over as quickly as he can despite his children's squawks. "I was wondering whether you were behind our new dwarven defenders."
"We would not abandon you to creatures of evil," she says instantly, frowning a bit as his injuries become more apparent, but he waves off her concern with his good hand.
"Well, we appreciate it nonetheless," he says, a wan smile on his face though it's just as dampened as all the rest. "I only wish they had not managed to push so far east."
"Aye," she says, grimacing, and he grasps at her arm, then, his face growing grave.
"Tell me, what do you know of Rivendell?" he asks, and she stills, blinking at him, wondering where this has come from. "A Ranger came here, moments before we were attacked—he said he was riding for that place, and took my youngest daughter with him, to protect her. But I know nothing of Lord Elrond or his subjects."
She looks at him, the worry unconcealed on his face, the way his good hand trembles on her arm, just a bit. "I have never dealt with Elrond myself, nor has my brother," she says, and Gorbadoc's face falls at that. "But I think he would never turn away children, especially those in need. I have no love for elves, but I know that those of Rivendell defend all that is good—I'm sure your daughter will be in safe hands until she is able to come home."
Gorbadoc still looks distressed, but something relaxes in his frame. "I appreciate your honesty," he says, releasing her to rub at his face. "All of the Rangers have blindly reassured me she will be perfectly fine, but the road is not always such a safe place. They say their comrade is more than capable of defending her, but…" he trails off, shaking his head and rubbing at his face again.
"My sons are on the road with their uncle at this very moment," Dís says, and he looks up at her. "I understand your fears—but I think you are not being too optimistic, hoping that your daughter will return safely home."
He looks closely at her face, realizes what she can't bring herself to say, and slowly, eventually, nods. "Thank you, Lord Dís," he says, and she shakes her head.
"Just Dís, please," she says, and considers telling him that if anything, she's a Lady—they've worked together enough, after all. But right now, after everything, she decides it may not be the best time. "I will be here several days longer before I travel west, to Hobbiton—please find me if you need anything more."
"Thank you," he says again, honestly, before turning and stumping away.
.
.
Dís is sitting on the stoop outside, smoking and enjoying a short moment of quiet away from the madness inside—planning to find a quiet corner to lay down her bedroll and sleep for a few hours before returning to her duties to the Shire. Her thoughts are meandering in no particular direction (though they certainly find their way to Fíli, Kíli, and Thorin often enough), and so she is greatly surprised when a large shadow crosses her, blocking the sun; she looks up sharply to see a mass of white, and she realizes in vague distaste who has sought her out in her rare moment of solitude.
"Lord Dís," he says, and she nearly raises an eyebrow—wondering whether he is keeping up appearances for the men and hobbits, or whether wizards truly cannot tell the difference between male and female dwarves. "I would like a word, if you wouldn't mind."
"By all means," she says, gesturing to the stoop beside her. The height difference is striking either way, but she has been on her feet much of the night and all of the morning; she'd like to remain seated for as long as possible. "What do you wish to discuss?"
"I met your brother on the road," he says, considering her for several seconds before remaining standing. "Thorin, I believe his name was. You say he is traveling to the Iron Hills?"
"Aye," she says, not hiding her frown as she sets down her pipe, looking up at Saruman.
"I just thought it strange that visiting kin would require the company of a wizard and a halfling," Saruman says, ostensibly surprised, and Dís' eyes narrow. "Gandalf's reasoning is often nonsensical, but this seems beyond his scope, even to me."
Thorin would be on his feet by now, attempting to lessen the height difference, attempting to prove his superiority against this presumptuous creature. But Dís is not her brother, and so she stays seated, flexes her toes in her woolen socks, and swallows down her rage that this wizard is pressing so insistently into dwarven affairs. "I wasn't aware you were so interested in dwarven politics," she says lightly, her eyebrows rising as if in surprise. "Gandalf offered to travel with Thorin—I know nothing more of their decision."
"The king's brother is not privy to the details of his quest?" Saruman asks, sounding just as surprised, and Dís swallows down her sudden rage. Thorin, she knows, would never have told a strange wizard of their true purpose—and if he is suggesting that their journey is not simply to visit Dáin, then either Gandalf told him, or he has gone digging into business that does not concern him.
"I know nothing of a quest," she says, sharp. "Thorin wished to visit Dáin, who he has not seen in many decades. Our friends and cousins who have kin in the Iron Hills asked to accompany him. I decided to stay behind and ensure the mountain was governed properly. And I'm still not sure why a wizard is so interested in my brother's travels."
"When I came upon them, they were losing a fight against three mountain trolls," Saruman says, and something has shifted in his tone even as Dís' heart freezes in her chest. "Had I not intervened, they certainly would have perished."
Is this a threat? "I'm sure they thanked you for saving them," she bites out, standing abruptly and turning toward the door. "And I would thank you for keeping your nose out of business that does not concern you."
"The reclamation of Erebor concerns all of Middle Earth," he says sharply, and she freezes, glad her face is away from him as she makes an effort to school it into something blank and reasonable. "Unleashing Smaug upon the rest of us could have terrifying consequences—or have you forgotten how quickly he took down an entire mountain?"
She is silent for several moments more, working over the implications of this. Saruman, at least as powerful as Gandalf—Thorin's trump card—knows and is clearly displeased at the thought of the mountain reclaimed; his thinly veiled threats resonate in his head, and she wonders what he plans to do to stop them. Claim the mountain for himself? Kill Thorin and all the others to stop them?
The possibilities spin endlessly, and she knows she may never know enough to realize them herself—and so only bites back a snarl, stepping through the door and slamming it behind her.
He does not follow—likely, received the reaction he was looking for (that Dís was dearly hoping she would not give to him), and she finds her hands shaking long minutes later; she finds her way to sleeping quarters she could borrow for a few hours to calm her mind, maybe sleep if she is lucky. But Saruman's threats are clear and obvious in her mind, and Thorin is too far away for her to do anything about it.
She trusts her brother, certainly, to protect himself and all his companions, but if Saruman follows through on his threats, decides he will stop at nothing to keep them from Erebor, what could a dwarf—even a dwarven king—do against such a powerful wizard?
She sleeps, for she has not slept in days and she is exhausted, but her slumber is not restful—and when she wakes, Saruman is gone.
