Chapter 81

Just Desserts

If I thought my end of the war was an endless sequence of disasters – especially compared to the book's version of events – I didn't know half of it. I'll freely admit that it was bad on my end, but it was far worse on Thráin's. The Emyn Muil was bad enough, the Dead Marshes were worse and somehow the Ithilien leg of the journey was shaping up to be an even bigger confusion.

I know that Thráin has the kind of memory your average Ancient Roman orator might have given an arm and a leg for. He could quote whole passages of the Lord of the Rings at me verbatim. Fat lot of use that was to him then. When nothing goes as you think it's supposed to go, your knowledge becomes more of a burden than an advantage. Somehow my mind reverted to the book when in doubt and because of that, I was almost constantly wrong-footed. Especially during the whole Helm's Deep business I was more surprised if something did go according to plan.

Having said that, not all the changes are necessarily bad ones. I know that the war in the north was hard, but it would have hit them all harder if not for Thoren's alliance. The elves at Helm's Deep were the kind of advantage that we really desperately needed, because there were far fewer soldiers and far more refugees there than the book had led me to believe. And Thráin's friendship with Faramir was about to come in very handy…

Thráin

Dusk was already falling when they emerged from the trees. The majority of the men remained at the treeline, but Faramir walked towards them.

Legolas and Thráin met them at the place where the gate had once been. Gimli and the hobbits hid in one of the ruins just in case this was not what it seemed. But the closer the men came, the clearer it became that they had nothing to worry about on this front at the very least.

'Well met!' he called out.

'Well met indeed,' Faramir agreed. He clasped Thráin's hand in greeting the moment he was close enough to do so. 'I had hoped you had survived the rains.'

'We survived,' Thráin said. The crossing had not been easy, but they had not drowned, though it was not for lack of effort on the Ring's part. 'What brings you this way?'

'An army of Haradrim thinks to travel to Mordor by way of Ithilien. My men and I set out to prove to them the error of their ways.' His voice was cold and grim. 'We cannot allow them to reach the Black Gates.'

It was not good news. According to the book that would happen, but not yet. Thráin had hoped to be in Mordor already, near the end of their quest, by the time that information became relevant. But not only did they have to outrun the orcs Gollum would surely send after them, but also an army of men and their Mûmakil.

And yet what other paths can we tread?

Before he could respond, Faramir continued: 'But you face worse troubles than that. Aravir, Eradan, bring the creature.'

Two men detached themselves from the greater group still waiting at the forest's edge. With them they dragged Gollum. He was bound securely, but he struggled and wrestled and, had it not been for the fact that he was gagged, he would have screamed loud enough to bring every army within a hundred mile radius down on them. The two men struggled. Thráin suspected that they might still have struggled if there were two more. Gollum didn't look it, but he was strong. Thráin could testify to that.

'Where did you find him?' he asked. That was at least one less thing to worry about.

Faramir quickly disabused him of that notion. 'In the midst of an orc patrol we came upon this morning. Most were killed, but three of them got away. Thráin, they did not have him in chains. He walked freely among them. You have been betrayed.'

It was one thing to wonder, another to know it for certain, but he would always prefer the latter. 'We suspected,' he said. 'I misspoke in front of him and he ran straight into the arms of the orcs, where I believe he was welcomed warmly.'

He looked at Gollum. The creature looked back at him. He had the good sense to appear a little worried for his own fate for the first time. Would that it made a difference now, but it did not. The madness was still there, more pronounced now than it had been before. And why shouldn't he show himself for what he really was? All his secrets had been brought out in the open.

'Remove the gag,' Thráin requested. 'I would speak with him.'

'And if he should scream?' one of the men asked once Faramir had nodded his consent.

'Feel free to gag him once more.'

They complied with his request and pushed Gollum – not gently – until he crouched before Thráin on the ground.

'You swore an oath,' Thráin reminded him. 'You swore to aid the bearers in our Fellowship to achieve their aims. You broke that oath.'

A manic grin curled Gollum's lips. 'We swores to serve the Massster of the Preciousssss. Gollum, Gollum!' He looked up at Thráin. 'We sworess on the Precioussss…' His eyes turned hard and cold. 'But you're taking it to Him!' And here he snarled. The men still guarding him did an involuntary step back.

Thráin stood his ground. 'You knew your life would be forfeit if you broke your word. You leave me little choice.'

And he did not like it. Gollum was meant to be important to the quest, one who against all odds was the one who destroyed the Ring when Frodo could not. But that was the book. So far the truth had proven to be far more strange already. He had spared Gollum's life and had been repaid in betrayal. We cannot wait for him to sell us out to Shelob. He had to die.

Gollum hadn't listened. Instead he stretched his hand out towards Legolas, but he had the Ring no longer. It had passed to Gimli before they set out to meet the men. 'Preciousss!' he cried. 'Precioussssss! Gollum! Gollum!'

There was no concealing their business now from the two men who guarded Gollum. Thráin shot them uneasy glances, but their faces betrayed nothing so far. Maker only knew what they made of this whole exchange, that involved an elf, a dwarf and a creature so unknown that they had no name for it.

'These are two of my most trusted men,' Faramir said, who had seen. 'And they have been sworn to secrecy. You may be free with your words. As free as any man may be in these lands today.' His voice held only the barest hint of bitterness, but Thráin heard it. 'What is this creature?' he asked before Thráin could comment on it.

'A creature who had the Enemy's weapon for five hundred years.' Thráin looked at Gollum again, who writhed pitifully on the ground, muttering to himself. 'This is what it did to him. He could not bear the thought of what we were about to do to the one thing in this world that he craves above all else.'

Understanding blossomed in Faramir's eyes. 'That was a dangerous gamble.'

It was and the venture had been doomed from the start. 'I could not kill one who had not yet done us harm.' He stood by that. He did not punish folk for crimes they had yet to commit, inevitable though the crime might be.

'He has done you harm now,' Faramir said. 'I do not know where these orcs have fled, though I fear it is to Minas Morgul they have run. Terror dwells in that city that does not sleep. It has gathered many dark things to it and once that dread thing learns what you carry, he will hunt you down. You have no secrecy and very little time. If you continue on your course, you will walk into their trap.' If anyone could claim this with unquestioned authority, it was one who had fought this darkness all his life.

A cold hand squeezed his heart. He had hoped that perhaps they might slip past, but that had been a fool's hope.

'What advice would you give us, Master Faramir?' Legolas asked. He had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the whole exchange.

It did not seem unlikely that Faramir had used most of his day thinking up a solution to this dilemma; he answered promptly. 'Return with me to Osgiliath once my mission here is done. Soon, I fear, the Enemy will launch an attack on the city. All the signs point in that direction. When they attack, you must escape through the tunnels that lead under the river. It is an old sewer system. The orcs do not know of it. You may stand a better chance of sneaking through when their attention is elsewhere.' His voice had turned cold. 'You errand will not be announced, but I can tell my men that you have fled from the danger of Mordor and that the Enemy hunts you still. You shall find that the men of Gondor have no taste for aiding Sauron and his evil servants.'

Thráin nodded. 'I know this.' Even if Legolas needed reminding. 'I told your brother that I put my faith in the strength of men and I shall not regret doing so.' He shot Legolas the kind of look that informed him that he would be wise not to contradict that, either in word or gesture. 'Has there been any news?'

Predictably, Faramir shook his head. 'Nothing. There was a disturbance in Rohan two nights past.'

'We saw,' Thráin agreed and answered the question that Faramir had not asked: 'The clouds were broken, as I believe was Saruman's might. The people of Rohan must have been victorious.'

'That is the consensus in Gondor as well.' Faramir looked at Gollum again. 'What shall you do with him?'

One stroke of his blade ought to be sufficient, but it was not entirely his decision to make. 'I cannot cast judgement on my own,' he said. 'His treachery was against all of our number and therefore we should all be present.' He did not know if Frodo still had sympathy for the wretched creature, if any pity still lingered. If so, he might resent Thráin for lopping off Gollum's head. Resentment was the last thing they needed in this Fellowship.

'I will bring the others,' Legolas offered.

And he did. Their hiding place was close by, so it wasn't long before they emerged. Sam walked on his own, but he was too pale for Thráin's liking and he still had the cough.

Faramir followed his gaze. 'We have a healer among us who would gladly treat him.'

They were not in a position to turn help down. 'Thank you.' Unlike Gollum, Sam was still essential. Gollum may have been essential to the book, but Thráin doubted now whether he had ever had real value in the real world. He had only brought them hinder and betrayal.

Frodo's eyes widened when he saw Gollum. 'Where did you find him?' he asked. Legolas had evidently not explained a thing and a part of Frodo still clung to the idea that Gollum could be redeemed, that not all hope was lost for him.

Faramir put paid to that notion. 'Among orcs, where he was very much at home.'

Frodo's face fell.

'He betrayed us, Frodo.' Thráin kept his voice soft and gentle as to soften the blow. 'Faramir and his men killed most of the orcs, but not all of them.' If it was true that they had run to Minas Morgul, a trap would wait for them before they made it there and with Sam ill, their pace would be slow.

More time lost. Whichever option they chose, it inevitably led to more time being lost along the way. Everything they had gained by leaving Lothlórien early was slipping through his fingers like water. Faramir's option was by far the best, yet it still meant losing precious days, more time for Sauron to grow in power, more time for the Ring to do likewise.

Frodo looked at Gollum, who looked back. 'Master is kind,' he proclaimed. 'Master doesn't want to hurt poor Sméagol. Poor, poor Sméagol. We never meants to do it. He made us.' He sounded altogether more like Sméagol now than Gollum and if not for that manic gleam in his eyes, Thráin might have believed it.

'We cannot trust you,' Frodo replied. 'You cannot continue with us.'

It was telling that this made more of an impact on Gollum than the threat of death hanging over him. The separation from the Ring hurts him worse than death itself. But it was not punishment he sought, it was safety and therefore death would have to suffice.

Even so, he pitied this creature. He was underhand and sly and wore his deceit like a cloak. But it was the Ring that had made him to be so. How much of Sméagol as he once had been was left in this creature? He could not tell. All he knew was that it was not enough.

'Masssster!' Gollum wailed. He crawled towards Frodo. 'You mustn't take it to Him! You musstn't.'

'The orcs would have taken it to him,' Gimli pointed out, distaste writ large on his face. 'Kill him, I say, and have done with it. He broke his oath.'

Frodo turned on him. 'Can't you see?' he asked. 'Can't you see what it has done to him?' The tone pleaded for mercy even if his words did not yet do so.

'I can see that he broke his word,' Gimli insisted.

'He cannot be trusted, Frodo,' Legolas said, coming to Gimli's aid. 'He cannot accompany us further and if we left him behind, we can only be certain that he will follow in due time. He is wily and sly. He has escaped captivity once already.'

Thráin could not stop himself: 'And such a challenge that must have presented to him.' He ignored Legolas's foul look and turned to Frodo: 'Whatever he once was, he is no longer. The Ring has chipped away at his soul for many centuries. Sméagol is no longer. Gollum is all that's left. Everything else is an elaborate charade.'

In his despair Frodo turned to Sam. 'And you, Sam? What do you say?'

Sam's eyes were feverish for a different reason, but his wits had not abandoned him. 'I pity him, Mr Frodo, I do. But he tried to kill us all. I don't hold with killing things, but he can't come with us. He'll try again and then another time after that. You know this.'

The silence lingered. Frodo was still the principal Ring-bearer, still the one whose commands they all had to heed. He might have been comfortable leaving the planning of their route and the day-to-day concerns to him, but not in this, Thráin was sure.

'Can he be saved?' Frodo asked at last, the question directed at Thráin. 'The book?' he clarified. 'Does the book say so?'

Surely Faramir wondered and he would explain later. For now it was more important to not avert his eyes. 'The book said you will try, but in the end your kindness is not enough. No matter how hard we tried, it would never have been enough.'

Frodo looked down at Gollum. 'Can we not hold him captive until it is all over?'

'I will not have him,' Faramir said, as was only wise. 'He would side with our enemies the moment they attack and I cannot spare the men to guard him.'

'He is not himself,' Frodo argued.

'He has not been himself for hundreds of years,' Legolas pointed out. 'The Ring has consumed him, body and soul. Death is the only release for him.'

The men listened as they talked and because they did so, they did not watch their prisoner as closely as they should have done. Gollum needed no more. He yanked and tugged and he was free, darting for Gimli on hands and feet, his eyes fixed on the Ring on the chain around Gimli's neck.

He did not make it far. Thráin was out of reach, but others were not. Legolas threw one of his daggers, Faramir drew his sword and ran him through, while Gimli took off the head with a single stroke. It was no execution, but self-defence, pure and simple.

Frodo closed his eyes and bowed his head. He said nothing.

Somehow that was worse than words.

The air soured.

Beth

'Let me help you?'

Beth lingered in the doorway, not sure if her help here was at all welcome, but it beat sitting at Boromir's bedside waiting for him to wake up again. The healers said that it was to be expected and when she had gone to Aragorn for a second opinion he concurred. They could only wait.

It was the one thing Beth found herself incapable of. Finding Boromir had not cured her of that restless energy that meant she couldn't sit still for longer than a few minutes at a time without going mad at the idleness of it all. All around her the Hornburg was a hive of activity, but everywhere she had gone to offer her services she had been rebuffed. To be sure, she had been rebuffed politely, but it had been made more than clear to her that she would be more of a hindrance than a help. So she had come here.

Éowyn looked up. 'Why?'

Because I was unwanted elsewhere. Because you are alone and nobody should be. She settled for: 'Because this isn't something anyone should do on their own.'

Truth be told, the scene before her nearly broke her heart. It was not that she mourned for Théoden's death – she had barely known him and while his demise was a tragedy, she did not feel it personally – but she felt for Éowyn. There was something perpetually sad and tired about her. The battle hadn't made things any better for her either, because here she was, tending to the body of her fallen King and uncle all by herself.

'If I may?' she asked when Éowyn did not respond immediately.

Éowyn nodded. 'I would be glad of your help.' Her voice was a little wobbly and she kept her face turned away, presumably so that Beth didn't see the tears.

If she had been home in England she would have thrown all caution to the wind and given her the hug she so clearly desperately needed. Éowyn was certainly strong. Many of her people believed so and she had consistently presented them with the face of a leader, a decisive woman who knew what to do when they did not. But she was brittle. Beth suspected that the moment she took off that mental armour of hers she would crash and burn. She had never seen someone so sad before.

But this was not England and what she'd had in mind was almost certainly wildly inappropriate, so Beth walked in and let her hands do her talking for her.

Théoden had been left untended since the battle, though someone had been clever enough to put him somewhere cold, which helped matters considerably. Éowyn had only just made a start on undressing him, so Beth pulled off his boots and started there.

Every single inch of the deceased king was caked in grime and blood. But there was water and there were cloths and so she set to it. Éowyn did the same. They worked in silence.

Bit by bit the dirt and blood came off, but far from restoring him to his former self, Théoden seemed diminished by their ministrations. While he had been covered top to toe in the evidence that he had spent his last hours fighting like hell for his country and his people he had still seemed heroic, but when he was clean again he only looked like an old man who had been run through with a blade. Éowyn had stitched the wound while Beth had washed his face and brushed his hair, but it drew the eye all the same.

She hadn't known Théoden well and her interactions with him were limited, most of which had been her own doing and not his. But she did know that he hadn't believed that they were going to survive. He had been fully convinced that this was their last stand, but he was the captain of this sinking ship and he would go down with it. He had been brave too. At least he died knowing that the battle was won. She reckoned that might have been a small consolation for him.

At the same time it made his death all the more cruel and senseless, which of course described orcs in a nutshell.

Éowyn did not say much beyond the bare necessities, but while they worked the tears rolled down her face. She did not sob or howl or make any sort of sound that could indicate that she was crying. Her voice was steady too, but the tears never stopped.

'I am sorry for your loss,' Beth told her when at last Théoden lay on the table fully washed. 'He was a brave man and the world is a poorer place without him.'

This drew a small smile from her companion before she pressed her hand to her mouth to stop herself from crying audibly. It was heart-breaking to see.

Oh, to hell with it. Beth had never been good with emotions – that had always been Mary's prerogative – but she was not insensible either. 'Would you like to have a hug?'

Éowyn blinked at her. 'A hug?'

Beth nodded. 'Yes, because you clearly need to have a cry and let it all out somehow and there's nobody here but us. I am not one of your people that you need to be strong for, so you won't lose face. You've just lost your uncle, Éowyn. It's normal to cry.'

When Éowyn just fell to her knees and succumbed to the tears Beth wondered if this meant she'd done her job right or wrong. It was an inconsequential thing to ask anyway. So she knelt down herself and held the other woman for what felt like ages as she let it all out. God knows how long she'd had to bottle it all up. She had done a very British stiff upper lip routine for months if not years. How long had Gríma and Saruman worked their evil tricks on Théoden? Either way, it was undoubtedly too long.

Eventually the sobs subsided and Beth helped Éowyn back to her feet. 'Let's dress him,' she suggested. As it was, Théoden was still naked on the table and that was not a sight his people needed to see. They needed to see the king, not the old man long past his prime.

Éowyn had anticipated this, because there were clothes on a nearby side table. It was the actual dressing the king that was the hard bit. Beth found Middle Earth styles were far more complicated than what was currently in fashion in England and dressing someone who could not help you with that process made it harder still.

They did it anyway.

When they were done Théoden looked more like himself, dressed in finery and mail, with his sword clasped between his hands. Most of the wounds he had sustained were hidden from sight by his garments. Only a scratch across his cheek remained visible, but there was nothing either of them could do about that.

'Thank you,' Éowyn said when they stood back to assess their work.

'You're welcome.' And she meant that. It had not been easy work, but it was work that someone had needed to do and for some reason Beth was the only one available. 'What will be done with him now?'

'We will bury him at Edoras, where all the other kings are laid to rest.' Éowyn regained some of her composure as she spoke. 'That is where he belongs.'

He had belonged in the world of the living, in Beth's opinion, at least for a little while longer. The book hadn't reckoned with Théodred as King and neither had Beth. It could mean nothing or it could mean a world of difference and who could tell really? Not Beth, she had learned that lesson at least.

'Then our work here is done?'

'Our work is done,' Éowyn nodded. 'Go sit with your husband,' she added in gentle tones, completely misunderstanding. 'You must be very worried.'

She was, as a matter of fact. Boromir had slept a lot since she'd found him and had only ever woken long enough to drink a little – and on one memorable occasion vomit all over the healer tending to him – and then passed out again. It was natural, everyone said. Given that he had survived this long he must be determined to live. If he was going to die, he would have done so by now.

Aragorn agreed with this assessment. He had made more of a fuss over the wound on Boromir's arm than the one on his head. He had applied his secret elven taught skills to the wound and it must have worked, because so far Boromir continued to defy expectations by refusing to develop anything that looked like blood poisoning.

He's tough. He'll pull through. The thing was that Beth could only ever say that for sure when he opened his eyes and re-joined the rest of the world.

'I am,' she said. 'And thank you.'

'No, thank you.' The words were spoken with genuine feeling.

She went off to find Boromir, who happened to be awake. He was propped up against the pillow of his bed, still looking rather cross-eyed from his encounter with Saruman's bomb, but more alert than she had seen him thus far.

Turnabout was only fair play, so she posed the question to him: 'Are you truly awake this time?'

His memory was in fine shape, because a smile tugged at his lips. 'I believe so. Has my conduct given rise to believe otherwise?'

'Not so far,' she replied, keeping her tone light. 'You haven't vomited over the healers yet, have you?'

'Did I?' he asked, looking mildly horrified.

'Afraid so,' Beth reported. 'The healer himself was actually pleased about it. Said that it meant that everything was as it was supposed to be.' Beth remembered her response to that in some detail, just as the withering glare she in turn had received for her troubles. 'How are you feeling?'

'Like I have been in battle,' he replied.

'Which you were,' she pointed out. 'How much do you remember?'

He shook his head, probably in an attempt to restore some clarity. All he did was make his headache worse. 'I remember that I was on the wall. Then the light and the roar. The ground moved beneath my feet.'

'Saruman's little party trick,' Beth explained. 'That was in the book, although apparently they didn't need a culvert to pull it off.' She grimaced. 'He built his own little bomb, a first for Middle Earth.' Doubtless many people would have preferred it if he hadn't turned into a mad scientist as well as evil wizard.

Boromir looked at her intently. 'You know this device?'

How to explain this? 'I know that we have something similar in my world. It's a lot more advanced than what Saruman did, but it boils down to the same basic principle.' And he had used to it catastrophic result.

'You wrote a word next to it, as I recall. Gunpowder?'

'That's what the substance is called,' she clarified. 'If that is what he used. If it isn't, it is something very close to it. I wouldn't know. I'm a writer, not a scientist.' And chemistry had never been one of her strong points. She'd been much more at home with languages and history. 'But yes, something like that.'

'Could he have more of it?' Boromir's mind had wandered rather different paths.

Shit. Beth hadn't looked at it like that. She didn't remember any part of the book where Saruman had attempted to blast the Ents into oblivion with homemade bombs, but it hadn't mentioned anything either about elves at Helm's Deep, so who knew how much that information was still worth?

Her expression of horror must have been all the answer he could possibly want, but she added words to it for good measure: 'He could. I don't know.'

'We should go there and find out.' He made to swing his legs out of bed.

Beth acted on instinct and put her hands against his chest to stop him. The fact that she was able to push him back at all meant that he was not as strong as he usually was. 'Not right now. You can barely walk.'

This irritated him. 'We cannot afford to waste time.'

He was right; they couldn't, but neither could they get up and leave this minute. It occurred to her that there was rather a lot he didn't know yet.

'We can't,' she agreed. 'We just cannot leave just yet. The battlefield is still being cleared. A search team found a wounded man there just this morning. We can't leave our own to die or we're no better than the orcs.' If she had subscribed to that philosophy it would have meant accepting that Boromir had died and leaving him on the battlefield until he did exactly that. Not an option. 'And there's something else.'

'What is it?'

There was no way to break it to him gently, so she gave it to him straight: 'Théoden is dead. Cut down as the cries of victory began to ring out. He'd dead, Boromir. I'm sorry.'

She knew he had liked and respected him. They had spent hours in council with each other, working out strategies and alliances and whatnot. Predictably, he looked dismayed. 'That is ill news.'

'It is.'

'What of Théodred?' he asked next.

'Still recovering,' Beth reported. 'Aragorn is cross with him for tearing his stitches.'

Though why Aragorn made such a thing about that she didn't know; it was not as though they'd had a choice. If not for Éowyn and her followers, they might not have made it out alive at all and what good would whinging about stitches be then? Théodred thought along the same lines and had informed his healers of those thoughts. They had been less than impressed.

She realised that this was yet another thing that had passed Boromir by while he lay unconscious on the battlefield so she ran him through what had happened whilst he was out. She spared him nothing. Boromir was a soldier, and as such rather more used to the gruesome aspects of battle than she was. He listened in silence as she talked. He didn't interrupt her once, but his eyes were bright and alert, so she knew that he hadn't tuned out.

'Our victory was hard-won,' he said eventually.

There was no denying that. 'The price was too high.'

They contemplated that in silence. It hung between them while the bustle of the Hornburg went on around them, but it did not feel awkward. They had perhaps moved past that.

Or not. 'You found me,' Boromir said. 'I remember that.'

'I did.' She wondered where he was going with that. 'Everyone was convinced that you were dead.' As was she. 'I wanted to find your body and bring it back. I think everyone was very happy to be wrong about the you being dead part.' Beth first and foremost among them, somewhat to her own surprise. Something had shifted between them when they said their farewells, something undefined and unspoken. Should she bring it out into the open now?

He did it for her. 'You kissed my forehead.' There was a very subtle question there at the end.

It was not spoken, but Beth heard it loud and clear, the question to announce her intentions. At first that seemed unfair since he had not announced his, but then she thought better of that. He had announced them, before he left for battle. She had said nothing then and he hadn't given her the time to respond anyway.

He asked now.

The nervousness landed in her stomach like a ton of bricks. This moment had weight. She didn't know if he realised he asked her to decide her future here and now. Instinctively she shied away from that. She had done relationships before and it hadn't ended well.

Fortunately common sense reasserted itself before she could ruin it all. Boromir is not Alex. Beth remembered how it had felt when she thought he'd died, about how much she might have actually wanted to have a moment like this. She remembered that even when it happened she had welcomed his touch, that it was something she would like to have the opportunity to explore, to see where it might lead.

It's not like the excuse of going home is going to help you here, girl.

'I did,' she said before the doubts could get a word in edgewise. And just in case he didn't get the message, she pressed another kiss to his forehead.

It felt just right.

Next week: the traitors are getting their due.

As always, thank you so much for reading. Your feedback/comments would be very welcome and very much appreciated!