Chapter 37

Resistance

Dale has been destroyed in its entirety two times in its existence. The first time was when the dragon Smaug came to Dale and laid waste to the city before it set its sights on the bigger prize that was Erebor. Dragon fire can melt almost anything, I have been told, even the One Ring. If only for that reason it was a bit of a shame there were no more dragons alive. I was however wise enough to keep that thought to myself.

But I digress. Smaug's fire razed Dale to the ground. His strength tore down the buildings and his fire melted and charred the very stones they were made of. When the company of Thorin Oakenshield reclaimed Erebor, there was nothing left of Dale but ruins.

The orcs were not so generous.

I was not there, but there were many witnesses on the battlements of Erebor that night and I have interviewed many of them. They told me that the first thing they saw was the returning troops of their own side, bloodied and bruised, defeated and exhausted, bearing wounded beyond count whilst being severely wounded themselves. None of them stopped at Dale, but made straight for the Gates of Erebor. They were awaited by healers. But even though there were healers there from Dale, Esgaroth, Mirkwood and Erebor itself, there were not nearly enough of them. Even now I cannot quite imagine the gigantic scale of that battle.

The armies of the enemies came some hours later. It appeared they had been content to drive the forces of the Free Folk before them. They might have attacked and obliterated most of their warriors on the way back, but they elected not to. Knowing the Enemy as I do now, I strongly suspect the orcs and their ghostly masters delighted in feeling their despair and defeat. They liked to drag things out, because for them the victory was made all the sweeter for the Free Folk's lack of morale. Apparently it's no good just winning if your enemy isn't alive to know that they have been beaten.

When they came the Gates of Erebor were shut tight against them, so out of pure spite they turned to Dale. I have been told that it was a beautiful city before the orcs defiled it. I cannot say for sure because I have never seen it; there is nothing left of it today.

The orcs did not even leave ruins behind.

And all the defenders on the wall could do was watch…

Jack

Dale burned.

Jack stood with dry eyes as the city of Men was destroyed.

The orcs had arrived just after nightfall, a time of day they clearly preferred. The unnatural clouds had come before them, driving away the snows of the day. Perhaps orcs did not like snow any more than they liked sunlight. Duria's impromptu research had turned up no answers on the subject and even if it had, he was not particularly interested. They had lost a battle and their brother. There was an Enemy marching on their land who knew no mercy. Had she nothing better to be doing?

The news of Thoren's death had spread fast. Now when he walked through the halls, people moved aside, bowed and addressed him as if he was their King already. King Jack. To even say it in his head felt wrong. He was not their lord. That would be Thráin's right when he came home. So he corrected them when he could, but a little voice in the back of his head reminded him of Fíli's words and how true they might be.

'They will leave nothing standing.' Halin observed this rather matter-of-factly, but the grim look on his face told another tale.

'Then we will rebuild,' Flói said. He looked rather the worse for wear. He missed an ear, but had told Jack that it was no great loss, because he was of the opinion it made him look dashing and surely it would greatly improve his chances with the female population of Erebor. Jack had been in no mood to disabuse him of the notion.

Will we? Thoren had known that they could not win this war by themselves and had been determined to make sure Thráin and his little group got to where they needed to go. Are we sacrificing ourselves?

He stopped that thought before it could grow into something that had not even a passing resemblance to reality. No, this had been coming even before their motivation changed. They had told Sauron no. It was for that crime – and only Sauron could ever call it such – that they were here today.

Jack turned to Thranduil. 'How many?' he asked. He may not like the elf, but Thranduil had finally deemed himself mature enough to cease hostilities between them until war's end. He had brought their people to safety and Jack had a grudging respect for him because of it.

'Beyond count,' the elven king replied. 'They have lost many orcs and men in battle.' It barely seemed to make a difference. 'But many more have arrived from Mordor and more keep coming. But they have lost their trolls and two of their wraiths were slain in battle.'

That reminded him. 'Has Tauriel returned?' Jack didn't much care for the Mirkwood captain of the guard, but Thoren had liked her. And whatever else she was, she was Elvaethor's sister. And for his friend he could care. After all, Elvaethor was not here to ask the question himself; he was too preoccupied caring for the wounded.

'She has not been seen since the battle,' Thranduil said.

It was yet another name on the list. Folk said things like not been seen since the battle, but what they meant was that they were dead. If they had not come through the gates, they would not now be alive. Thoren would not come home again. Many others were still unaccounted for. It could be that they had entered Erebor, but so many people were here now that finding loved ones had become an ordeal.

Uncle Dori had returned, but found that he could not find Nori. Lufur had been forced to restrain him so that he couldn't march out of the gates again to find him. And Duria had gone very still and pale when she couldn't find Narvi anywhere. As far as Jack knew she was still making her way around the healing rooms, looking for him.

She will not find him, Jack's heart told him and he felt sorry for that. He liked Narvi. He was a hard fellow not to like, with an easy manner and a ready smile. And he will not be the last to die.

And therefore he did not cry. He forced back the tears and focussed on the task in hand.

'Look, there are people approaching.' Flói nudged him. If Jack had been of his stature, he would have been nudged in the side. As it was, Flói's elbow made contact with his thigh. Over the years Jack had almost stopped noticing.

Jack looked and saw that he was right. Against the backdrop of Dale burning and orcs tearing up everything they could get their wretched hands on there were three riders approaching. Two of these were very clearly men. They wore Easterling dress and, when they came closer, he could make out their faces.

But it was the rider in the middle that made him frown. His horse was black and so was his dress. A hood was drawn over his face. And the other two kept their distance. They rode a few paces behind the one in black. Even their horses seemed nervous.

Jack squinted, but saw nothing under that hood and so he was forced to turn to the only available elf. 'Can you see a face?' he asked.

Thranduil seemed to have frozen on the spot. 'He is not a mortal. Or if he once was, he is no longer.'

'Did they bring a wraith?' Jack could barely believe it. Or rather, he could believe it, but did not want to. Did this never end? 'To treat with us?'

He would not believe any such offer. By now he had heard more than enough tales of the things they did, the fear and despair they brought wherever they went. He'd heard that even dwarves were affected by it, but that it was by far the worst for the men. That was how the first battle had been lost.

When the three had come within hearing distance they halted their horses and one of the Easterlings raised his voice. 'Is there any in this Mountain worthy enough to treat with us?'

Worthy? Every single person under this Mountain was worthier than these three, Cilmion and the Easterling currently imprisoned being the sole exceptions.

'I am Jack, son of Thorin,' he called back. 'With me are King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm and King Brand of Dale. You may treat with us.'

There was some scheme here at hand, but he would not find out what it was unless he went out and spoke with them. And he had no intention of facing them alone. Besides, they now knew that these wraiths could be killed. An arrow to the face had taken care of two of its comrades. Jack reckoned that if he could get close enough, he could definitely throw a knife and see how that worked out.

'They can have nothing to say to us that we will need to hear,' Thranduil said when they walked down to the gate.

'Indeed,' Jack said. 'But we know now they may be killed.'

The elf looked at him in surprise. 'I thought dwarves valued honest conduct above all else.' Jack hoped he only imagined the double meaning in those words.

'They forfeit the right when they sent in many men through the secret entrance instead of risking honest battle.' The Enemy did not play fair. And while Jack may not like those tactics, he also knew that Erebor could not be allowed to fall. His personal preferences no longer counted for anything. Thoren had entrusted Erebor to him and no matter how wrong Jack believed that decision to be, he had to abide by it. And he was a dwarf in this matter; he could either do it right or not bother at all.

The latter had never been an option.

Thranduil inclined his head in acknowledgement as Brand joined them. 'The nerve of them,' he fumed. 'Worthy enough to treat with them indeed. We could have sent out a street sweeper and he would have been more worthy than that filth.'

He was preaching to the converted as far as Jack was concerned. Thranduil said nothing.

They met the envoys just outside the gates with many guards at their back. Thranduil had ensured that a good few of them were archers with firm instructions to take down the foes if they dared to come too close. In these times, taking risks was only for the foolish.

The riders had not dismounted, but they were close enough to see clearly now. Jack tried to see under the hood of the wraith, but saw only darkness. As far as he could tell, there was no face.

'Speak if you must,' Brand invited rudely.

'My Lord Sauron most desires to have peace between our people,' one of the Easterlings said.

Jack snorted, but Brand only looked at him with a deep frown in his forehead. 'He may have that peace when he removes his troops from these lands and pays for the damage he inflicted upon it.'

'Look on this as a lesson,' the second Easterling invited. The tone was almost friendly. Almost. 'We have shown you the folly of the wrong choices. You may learn from this experience and heed our words better in the future.'

He could no longer remain silent. 'Aye, and what a lesson would that be? To obey your every command and dark whim?'

At long last the Nazgûl raised its head. 'You speak unwisely,' it said. The voice was somewhere between a hiss and a scream and Jack could feel it within his very bones. It chilled his blood. There was despair in it, creeping into his bloodstream.

But he remained standing. 'No, I speak truthfully,' he insisted. 'And that can never be unwise.'

'Then you are a fool,' it said. 'Your brother lies slain on the field of battle. You are neither your father nor your brother that you can ever hope to aspire to their greatness. You are nothing.'

Jack knew this. He had been burdened with that knowledge all his life and honestly, it was refreshing to hear it from another. Most folk he encountered were forever trying to tell him that it wasn't so, that he was just as good and just as worthy, but he had always known them to be wrong in that. He was the mistake, the thing that should not ever have seen the light of day. He could never fit in. Knowing this had not prevented him from fighting against it, but it was foolish to deny the truth of it.

'Aye, but you are even less,' he said. 'You sold yourself for power. And look at you now, slave to Sauron's every whim. You are nothing. You have no body, so you hide your nothingness under rags. I may not be my father or my brother, but at least I am my own master. And as such I tell you that you may not have these lands and its people. You will not gain entry to Erebor. You are to depart these lands before the sun rises. If you are still here then, we will regard that as an act of war and you will be made to pay for it.'

For a short moment all was quiet. Thranduil and Brand stood on either side of him, equally defiant. The Easterlings blinked. It appeared they were somewhat confused. Jack wouldn't know why; they hadn't expected him to hand over the keys to the kingdom now, had they? It was hard to tell what the Nazgûl thought; one couldn't read emotions from a dark void after all. Not even the horses moved. The only sounds were the screeching of orcs in the distance and the end of a proud city of Men.

From one moment to the next however the air was full of sound. Jack had never heard such screaming before. It slashed the air and tore through him like a hurricane. It was not just sound; it was pure and unadulterated despair. In all his years of sometimes even hating his very existence and despairing that he would never find a place that would either have him or that he would care to be, he had never felt the like.

You are futile, it whispered. You are nothing. You cannot win. You will be wiped away and nobody will mourn or remember you. You will come to nothing.

The force of it was so strong it made his legs buckle under him. He could not stand. It was difficult to even breathe.

Hands grabbed him and held him up. One pair was old and wrinkled, the other both ageless and flawless.

'He speaks for all of us,' Brand's voice said.

'He does,' Thranduil confirmed.

The weight of despair lifted a little and Jack found that could breathe once more. It was with difficulty, but the pressure on his chest was not as bad as it had been before. To his surprise he found that his vision was blurry and he had to blink away tears.

'You are to be gone from these lands by sunrise,' Brand said. He was showing signs of strain himself, but he was still holding Jack's arm. Jack tried to see if his legs would yet carry him and it appeared that they did, albeit a little more wobbly than he'd like. 'If not, we shall make you regret the day you ever came here.'

The Nazgûl let out another screech. 'You will die,' it promised.

Brand nodded calmly. 'Perhaps we will. But so will you.'

He was still holding Jack's arm, as much to support him as he needed the support. The Nazgûl's head was turned in his direction now and doubtlessly it was trying to work the same foul magic against him as he had done against Jack. He wouldn't stand for it. He had known Brand since he was a young boy. They were about the same age, even if they didn't look it now and had spent many a day playing together when their kingly fathers were engaged in important talks.

Once upon a time they had been good friends. Seeing Brand now, Jack wondered when he stopped thinking about the man that way.

He could stand again. And if he could stand, he could act. He gently shook off the arm and moved to stand half in front of Brand. 'You are not worthy,' he said. He could feel the tides of despair as the Nazgûl's focus shifted to him again. 'You are not worthy to even polish his boots. Be gone.'

The wraith did not get another chance to send out its foul magic on account of its horse dying under it. While Jack had been so focussed on protecting Brand, he had missed the fact that Thranduil had given a sign to his archers. No less than seven arrows were stuck in the horse and it fell down with a scream of pain and then moved no more, throwing the Nazgûl in the process.

'You may walk,' Thranduil said haughtily. 'And you may do so all the way back to your foul master.'

They walked back to the gates of Erebor.

Behind them the screeching began again.

Thráin

These elves lived in trees. Just when Thráin thought he had seen it all, when he thought that what the book contained was so ludicrous that it could not possibly be true, it was. It put the elves who lived here at a rather tactical disadvantage. What if they needed to leave in a hurry? What should happen if an enemy would chop the tree down and they were still in it?

Then again, these were elves. Practical concerns only ever seemed to be a footnote with them.

They had walked for two days through Lothlórien and by that time Thráin had seen quite enough of trees. They were beautiful to be sure, but he would appreciate them better in limited quantities. All trees started to look the same after a while.

The elves had not appreciated that common sense. 'You may yet walk with a blindfold if you wish not to see the beauty of the Golden Wood,' Haldir had told him, disdain in his every word. On the upside, he had at last introduced himself.

Thráin had ignored that.

The book had more or less gone back to behaving itself. At the very least it had not led him to believe anything that hadn't happened on their journey here. Then again, the journey had been uneventful. The elves had been amazed at the hobbits' capacity for wolfing down any food that was set in front of them and they had mostly kept away from Gimli and Thráin. This was not entirely unexpected and as he had no wish to converse with them any more than they wished to speak to him, this was mutually beneficial.

But his luck was about to end. Haldir had led them to the tree in which his Lord and Lady dwelled and had informed them that they wished to speak with them. It was made clear that this was not in fact a suggestion.

As this was meant to take place and it was customary to at least meet one's host at any rate, Thráin did not fight this. His father and mother had met the Lady and lived. It stood to reason he would come to no great harm either.

The climb was long, but Thráin was used to stairs; Erebor had very many of them and he had been walking there since childhood. Merry however was in some trouble. His dive in the river had left him with a nasty cold, so Thráin invited him to take a ride on his back.

'There is no need,' Haldir said. 'We may rest a while before we continue.'

'These past few days you have never failed to tell us that we needed to make haste,' Thráin observed. 'And now that I am complying with your requests, you tell me there is no need. I shall carry young Master Brandybuck. It is no hardship.' It wasn't. Now that he had some decent nights' sleep, carrying a hobbit up the stairs was easy.

'Dank you,' Merry sniffled. The words ended in a sneeze.

'Not a problem, Merry,' he assured the hobbit. 'You may call upon my services at any time.'

And so they climbed. Haldir led the way. His feet didn't seem to so much as touch the stairs; the wretched show-off appeared to be half floating over them, almost to rub Thráin's nose in the fact that he was not as light of foot and never would be. Just to be slightly contrary, Thráin stamped his feet down on the fragile looking steps with a little more force than strictly speaking was necessary.

The Lord and Lady were waiting for them at the top of the stairs, as the book predicted. True, they were standing and not sitting, but that was the kind of minor change that Thráin had quickly learned to overlook. It was of no consequence.

They were greeted courteously enough, each in turn. Aragorn was greeted with warmth – he was clearly most welcome – and so was Legolas. The hobbits were a bit overawed when they too were accorded the utmost courtesy. Thráin reckoned they did not expect it from the elves, whom they regarded as very far above them.

Then at last they were before him. Thráin inclined his head in greeting, but would not bow.

'Welcome Thráin, son of Thorin,' the Lord Celeborn said. 'It is long indeed since we saw one of Durin's Folk in Caras Galadhon. But today we have broken our long law. May it be a sign that though the world is now dark, better days are at hand and that friendship shall be renewed between our peoples.'

Friendship was not just a matter of preference these days, Thráin knew. It was a dire necessity. 'That is my wish as well,' he replied, keeping his voice calm. 'And I thank you for your welcome. And I thank you as well, my lady,' he added to Galadriel, who hadn't yet spoken a word. But let it not be said of him that he had no manners. Even Duria would not be able to find fault with him in this.

Galadriel looked at him, her eyes penetrating seemingly his very soul. Welcome, Durin.

The words were in his head and the sensation was so strange that it took him a few seconds to get used to it. Only then did he realise that she had greeted him by name, but it was not his name.

That is not my name, he thought back. He hoped that was how this thought communication worked.

It may not be his name, but he couldn't find a deliberate falsehood in her words either. In fact, there appeared to be rather too much truth. It all added up in a way that he did not want it to.

It is not what you are called now, Galadriel replied, not unkindly. Do not be afraid, Durin. She looked at him intently. You have seen the crown.

Well, at least there was no denying that. He had seen the crown and felt the belonging in Khazad-dûm. He had pieced much of this together by himself. Deep down he knew what it meant, had perhaps even known it – or at the very least suspected it – when he put the matter before Gandalf. But he had not given word to it, had not so much as thought about the name. Yet here was the elvish lady with her strange power and she had named him without a moment's hesitation.

He felt as though a heavy weight was pressed down on his shoulders. It consisted of destiny, responsibility and expectations. He wanted nothing to do with it. All of a sudden he knew exactly how Aragorn must feel. He was pushed to something that he did not believe would ever be for him, that he was unprepared for and that he wasn't sure he wanted either.

But there had been that longing that he couldn't deny…

That is what you may become, if this world should live to see better days, she spoke in his mind.

Thráin almost snorted. And if I should be alive to see them.

It would be a joke no one would find funny if the one who had been prophesised for millennia were to die before he could get round to doing what he had been foretold to do. On the upside, it would save him the many duties that would come with accepting such a destiny.

She said no more, but moved on to Gimli, who was standing next to him. Aragorn tried to catch his gaze, but Thráin would not meet it. They would need to talk soon, but it would not be done here.

At last they had all been greeted and Celeborn addressed them again: 'The Enemy knows you have entered here,' he said. For an elf he was remarkably direct, something Thráin appreciated. 'What hope you had in secrecy is now gone.'

Perhaps. Thráin was well aware that their escape from Khazad-dûm had been chaotic and noticeable. Every orc currently dwelling there must have witnessed it. And those that did not would surely know about it by now. And of course word would reach Sauron himself soon enough.

But he does not know why we are here, what our purpose is, Thráin thought. He could not imagine anyone would dream of destroying the Ring. Sauron would quite naturally assume that any who laid hands on it would attempt to use it for their own gain. But he had obviously never met a hobbit before. That ignorance would be his downfall.

Celeborn looked at them. 'Here there are ten. Eleven were to set out: so said the messages. Tell me, where is Gandalf, for I much desired to speak with him. I can no longer see him from afar.'

Thráin had the uncomfortable feeling that the Lady Galadriel could read the truth from his mind and so she would also know that he had known about it beforehand and that he had deliberately chosen not to prevent it, no matter what his motivations.

Galadriel spoke at last. 'Gandalf the Grey did not pass the borders of this land. He has fallen into Shadow.'

'He was taken by both Shadow and Flame,' Legolas said. Thráin did not look to check, but he imagined that an ugly look was sent in his general direction. 'It was a Balrog of Morgoth, of all the elf-banes the most deadly, save the One who sits in the Dark Tower.'

Celeborn looked almost horrified, as in so far an elf was capable of such an emotion. 'Alas!' he said. 'We have long feared that under Caradhras a terror slept. But had I known that the dwarves had stirred up this evil in Moria again, I would have forbidden you to pass the borders, you and all that went with you.'

Thráin had just about enough of it. 'A moment ago you spoke of friendship,' he said in heated tones. 'And now you would lay blame for the Balrog's presence on my shoulders. My people did not wake Durin's Bane on purpose before they were forced to flee from it, as they were not blessed with such foresight as your people are rumoured to have.' From the corner of his eyes he saw Aragorn frantically signalling to back off, but Thráin was beyond that. He had been forced to swallow much hostility these past few days, but now he'd had his fill. 'And if it was woken again when we passed through, it was not a deliberate act on our parts.' Typical elves, blaming others for events beyond their control.

Galadriel stepped in. 'Do not repent of your welcome to the dwarves,' she counselled. 'If our folk had been exiled long and far from Lothlórien, who of the Galadhrim, even Celeborn the Wise, would pass nigh and not wish to look upon their ancient home, though it had become an abode of dragons?'

It was far more understanding from an elf than Thráin had come to expect from them. This may be in the book – the text was verbatim correct here – but he knew that was no guarantee.

She looked at him and then at Gimli. 'Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram and cold are the springs of Kibil-nâla and fair were the many-pillared halls of Khazad-dûm in the Elder Days before the fall of mighty kings beneath the stone.'

Thráin nodded his respect. Her pronunciation was a little off, but he could not fault her intent. It was well done.

Those days of glory may yet be seen again in this world, Thráin, son of Thorin, should you choose to accept this destiny. The voice was back in his head.

He felt a sudden stroke of rebelliousness. And if I do not?

I have foreseen many things, she replied. Thráin waited to see if there was more, but clearly not.

Perhaps she had been distracted, because Gimli was smiling at her in quite open adoration. Well, that was one who had indeed fallen under her spell. 'Yet more fair is the living land of Lórien, and the Lady Galadriel is above all the jewels that lie beneath the earth.' Well, Thráin had always known there was something fundamentally off about his kinsman. He idly wondered what Glóin would make of this display.

Apparently nobody present knew what to make of it either, because the silence dragged on, until Celeborn broke it at last. 'I did not know that your plight was so evil. Let the dwarves forget my harsh words. I spoke in the trouble of my heart.' Elves did quite a lot of that and usually it wasn't followed by something that even vaguely resembled an apology. Perhaps he ought to send Thranduil here for a lesson in bloody manners. 'But what now becomes of this Fellowship?'

Nobody answered, but Galadriel spoke. 'The quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and it will fail, to the ruin of all.'

Did she mean that he should not deviate from the book? He hoped not. Then again, Thráin wasn't sure she knew about the book. She might well know, because she seemed to know everything else. Even so, that was counsel he would not heed. If lives could be saved with what he did, with what Beth was brought here to do, they had a duty to do that. This world would see enough death even so.

'Yet hope remains while the company is true,' she finished.

Thráin had been prepared for this next bit, where she would do her mental searching. He resolved not to look away and he did not. He held her gaze. Thoughts came into his head how good it would be to be home, to aid his brother and be where he longed to be, where he could be if he only left this Fellowship and went home.

Do not play your games with me! He glared at her. I will not break my promises. Neither will any of the others.

Thráin knew she could hear him, but she did not respond. Instead she turned her gaze to the next. He assumed she meant well, but he also thought there was no need to search them so intensely. He would vouch for every member of this Fellowship, even the ones who did not yet know they had the strength to see this through.

Aragorn withstood the test calmly and so did Legolas, but the others were struggling. Boromir's forehead looked sweaty and he could not hold the gaze for long. Thráin knew him to be stronger than he thought and in his quest of saving his friend, the elf was not helping. His mother once told him that she never quite knew where she was with Lady Galadriel, that she couldn't fathom her, but that on the whole she was on the right side. Be that as it may, he wished she would desist.

Beth initially met Galadriel's eyes calmly, but quickly looked away. But, surprising him, she only faltered for a moment or two before her head snapped back up and she looked back almost defiantly. Thráin felt a surge of pride in her for that. They may not always get on, but she remained his kinswoman and she had the same spirit his mother had been famous for. She just hid it better. And he was sure she would need it before this quest was done.

It took only a few minutes and during that period, nobody spoke. The wind was in the leaves and outside this place he could hear voices, but inside there was not a sound until it was all done and then they were effectively dismissed.

The others left, but Thráin lingered. A thought had just occurred to him.

He addressed Celeborn. 'You said you could see afar.'

The elf nodded slowly.

'Do you have any news of my homeland?' he asked. There was no point in beating around the bush. Celeborn would either tell him or he would not. If the first, he would know, if not, he would be left in uncertainty. Either way, the answer would alter nothing. His choice had already been made.

Lord Celeborn searched his face and apparently approved of what he saw, for he answered: 'The might of Dol Guldur was unleashed and a great battle was fought,' he reported. 'And many lives were lost.'

Maker, no. He had known things would be different than the book described them. He knew Thoren had for all intents and purposes challenged Sauron when he outright defied him. He had also known that there would be a price to pay for such bravery and that it would be a steep one. But who had paid it?

'Who won?' he forced himself to ask. Now that he had started, he might as well finish. Nothing so bad as only a little knowledge.

'The Enemy claimed victory at the last,' Celeborn reported, confirming every one of Thráin's worst fears. 'The Free Folk of the North have retreated to the Lonely Mountain and are under siege.' He looked Thráin straight in the eyes. 'Yet there is hope still. The Alliance holds and its leaders still live.'

Mahal help him, would it kill him to give the answers Thráin was searching for without dressing it up in poetic language that told him almost nothing? 'My brothers?' he asked, because apparently he'd had to spell it out.

Lord Celeborn nodded. 'They are alive.'

Next time: Beth has a bit of a revelation and we'll be taking a look at what happens further north.

As always, thank you very much for reading. I'd love to hear from you if you have a moment to spare.