Chapter 87

Fortunes of War

Everything is risk in love and war. Taking risks in war is almost unavoidable. No matter how much you dress it up, if you are the one in command it's an experience akin to playing chess with live pieces. You cannot possibly save them all, so some will have to be sacrificed. It's an ugly truth and the player who loves his people will try to make sure that he loses as few of them as he possibly can. It also means that he is always at a disadvantage because compared to his less principled opponent, he will always be more vulnerable. He has the most to lose.

Thoren was one of the principled players in this conflict. He had people to protect, his own people not least among them. And because he is a dwarf he dislikes playing dirty; it is just not in his nature. Sauron knew that and named it weakness, as he does all emotion that is not hate and all thought that is not centred around world domination. It was what made him such a very dangerous foe.

There is just as much risk involved in love, I have learned, and for many of the same reasons too. True, it is not usually a matter of life and death, but it is a risk because it does leave one wide open for attack. The heart that loves cannot be guarded every moment of every day, simply because doing so stands in the way of loving without restraint. It is impossible to love freely if at the same time one attempts to guard the heart from any hurt that might come of it. It simply will not do.

And so loving goes hand in hand with the risk of getting hurt in the worst possible way. I am an Andrews and, as it was once pointed out to me, the whole sorry lot of us are utterly rubbish with emotional vulnerability, which meant that I was in uncharted waters. The dam had broken and, though I tried at times, refused to come back up again. And so love and fear became my constant companions.

In doing so I joined the ranks of many who did exactly the same…

Thoren

It was well past midnight by the time Dáin and his people met with Thoren. They had moved swiftly and quietly across the land, presumably to slip by without attracting the notice of the Easterlings camped just beyond the horizon. Lady Galadriel had said nothing, but a fog had drifted between those two forces quite unexplained.

Thoren inclined his head to her in silent thanks.

'Well met, Dáin son of Náin!' he spoke when his kinsman had come within hearing distance. 'You are most welcome here.'

'Thoren son of Thorin,' Dáin acknowledged in turn. He walked straight at them and clasped his hand in greeting. 'We came as swiftly as we were able.' He fixed Thoren with a stare as piercing as one of his own father's when he had been up to no good. 'We had some Easterlings knocking on our gates until they all vanished into the night. Care to tell me where they've all gone?'

Thoren nearly laughed. 'I think you will find them somewhere to the southeast of where we are currently standing, if it's them you've come in search of.'

Dáin nodded. He had changed since the last time Thoren had clapped eyes on him. He was no less grumpy, no less rigid, but his hair had all gone grey and his face had accumulated wrinkles like Uncle Nori accumulated objects that did not legally belong to him. Yet he still stood straight and proud.

'It does me good to see you still standing,' he said. Back in the days before he became King, there would have been a half-affectionate lad tagged on at the end of that sentence, but those days were long gone now. Dáin had never quite warmed to Thoren's mother and he'd never made a secret of the fact that he thought Thoren's father had made some questionable choices along the way, but he was loyal, even if his manner did not invite friendship.

'And you,' Thoren returned. 'We had no word of you for a long time, but your son assured us all that you would not fall and it seems to me he had the right of it.'

'Thorin is here?'

'Somewhere.' Thoren had sent a messenger to wake him, but the camp was vast and it'd take a while. 'He'll be on his way by now.'

'Good,' said Dáin. 'We have much to discuss.' He looked Thoren in the eye. 'We have come to stand with you against this threat. Our swords and axes are yours to command.'

Thoren inclined his head. 'You are most welcome,' he said. He could use every sword he could get. And somewhat to his own surprise he had more of an army than he ever hoped to have when he set out. The Galadhrim had come unbidden and, after the Alliance had left Erebor, groups of Thranduil's people who had previously hidden in the woods, had joined them as well. Now here was Dáin with a veritable army in its own right at his back.

Not all is lost yet.

The meeting concluded soon after. The hour was late and Dáin's folk had marched long miles to reach this place. As Dáin himself had said, he had business to discuss with his son. He watched them meet and embrace from a distance. And it filled his heart with a longing he had not experienced for many years. His own father was dead these seventeen years now, but in moments like these it felt as though mere days had passed. Stonehelm still had someone to fall back on, to catch him when he stumbled and when the burden became too heavy to bear. He had no such luxury, not anymore.

He pulled himself away and turned to Dwalin instead. 'Double the guard at the perimeter of the camp,' he ordered. 'The Easterlings are somewhat closer than we thought; Lady Galadriel could see their campfires.' The last thing they needed was their foe sneaking up on them in the dark.

Dwalin nodded. 'I'll better employ some more elves for the venture. Say what you like of them, but they've keener eyes than we.'

He could not deny it.

Dwalin's hand landed on his shoulder. 'Get some rest, lad. You've done all you can for today. No sense in walking around all night.'

The restlessness had yet to abate. 'I will do my best,' he promised nevertheless, because Dwalin was indeed right. If it was battle when the sun rose again – and it very well might – then he'd be far less use without sleep.

Dwalin shook his head in a fond manner. 'There's too much of your father in you,' he remarked. 'He never slept much before battle either. Nor sat down neither.'

'I miss his counsel.' The words slipped out unbidden.

'He taught you all he knew,' Dwalin said matter-of-factly. 'And from what I've seen you put it to good use. You'd make him proud and your mother as well.'

The words should not encourage him as they did, but there was no stopping that. They'd never faced this kind of crisis, but they'd seen horrors of another kind and they'd dealt with them ably. He could only hope to do the same.

He left for his tent – got turned around once or twice on the way, because his sense of direction aboveground was nowhere near as good as belowground – and found it eventually. He also found Tauriel sitting on the ground before it.

'I'd have thought you'd be asleep,' he commented after greeting her. 'Why are you still up?'

'Why are you?' she countered.

'Restlessness,' Thoren replied promptly. 'Sleep eludes me on nights like these.' The Enemy was too close for comfort. He'd rest properly when the battle was all over and done with, not before.

Tauriel nodded. 'It is the same for me.' It was there in her very posture, in the set of her shoulders. 'I would sooner have fought this battle…'

'And get it over with,' Thoren agreed. 'Aye, that I can agree with.' On the morrow perhaps. It would not do to wait too long. Surprise was something they did not have; both sides had their scouts to tell them what the other side was up to. But if they struck now they could at least do some damage before the reinforcements showed up.

Tauriel looked to the south. 'Perhaps your brother will decide this war before we need to fight it.' She did not say it in a manner that indicated foolish hopes, but rather in a manner that said that it was on her mind, that hope had not completely been abandoned. There is light at the end of this dark tunnel yet.

He wondered if he'd be there to see it. As matters stood, it seemed unlikely.

'It was only a month ago that he was in Lothlórien,' Thoren said. 'He will not be there, not yet.'

'But he comes closer every day,' said Tauriel, an unlikely advocate of optimism.

'Just so.' If he did not believe in that, he might as well lie down and die.

Silence fell between them for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. It was not uncomfortable. They knew each other quite well now, he reflected. Such were the bonds forged between friends in times of war.

'I've heard it tell that you had your parents' tomb moved inside the Mountain,' she said at last. 'You fear it may yet come that far?'

It was a telling move that he had made, but not one he was ashamed of.

'I fear so, I hope not.' It was the most honest answer that he could give. 'Either way it is best to be prepared. I would not see their final resting place defiled.' His main concern was for the living, not the dead, and yet the mere thought of orcs so much as touching that tomb set his blood aflame. 'They never belonged there anyway.'

Tauriel frowned. 'There are laws against it?'

Didn't he know it. 'My mother was no dwarf by blood. Ancient custom dictates that she cannot be buried under the Mountain itself.' He stared off into the distance. Those laws had been made with a reason, though the dwarves who made them had never once anticipated a situation such as hers. They had never dreamed such a thing was possible and why should they? The thing was beyond imagination.

'But you gave the order all the same,' Tauriel observed.

'My uncle found a way around it.' Ori had been quietly triumphant about that when he brought Thoren the news; like his nephew he had always taken his sister's exclusion as a personal insult. It was only a matter of time before he'd find a way to set it all to rights. Now he had.

His uncle found out to do very many things. Like erasing Cilmion from history. He didn't know how it was done, only cared that it was done. At least something was still vaguely right in this world.

'She was never meant to be there.'

Tauriel nodded thoughtfully. 'She rose to heights none aspired to before her.'

Thoren laughed at that. 'She never aspired to them.' They had happened to her. 'Did Elvaethor ever tell you?' he asked, wondering. 'Who she was, where she came from?' His mother had been good friends with their elf and she had held Tauriel in high esteem. It would not terribly surprise him to learn that Elvaethor had taken his sister into his confidence.

'She hailed from the western side of the Misty Mountains, did she not?'

Apparently not.

'No, that was just where she came into this world.'

They were all alone and there were no ears to overhear their conversation, so he told her. Tauriel was his close friend and though he had not yet lied to her, he had not told her all, this greatest secret that had lived in plain sight for so many years. Not even Thranduil had thought to question the tale she spun him. Not even he could believe something so beyond the scope of what was expected.

'And now her kinswoman walks this world as advisor, as she once was,' he finished. The moon was lower in the sky than it had been when he started. 'And her son now resides in Erebor as our guest.'

Tauriel was silent for a while as she pondered all that he had said. 'I do not know what to say.'

'Then say nothing.' He did not need her to. 'But I believe that it was your right to know. Your brother does.'

'I have no right to such a thing,' she replied.

There she was wrong. 'You have earned it many times over. You are one of my most trusted friends. If I cannot rely on you, then who can I rely on?' That she thought otherwise was something of a mystery. 'Besides, right or no, it felt right to tell you.' He grinned at her. 'You should count yourself flattered; not even your king knows.'

Tauriel inclined her head. 'Do you remember when we spoke before, about after the war?'

'If we are both still alive then.' It seemed like such a fool's errand at times that he wondered why he had ever contemplated this. It was madness to even discuss the end of this war when there was no end in sight. 'Yes, I recall.'

'I should like a room with a window that faces south,' she said.

'You have made up your mind?' This was a bit of a surprise.

The question was followed by a brief silence before she answered: 'I believe so.' The words were hesitant, as though she still had to think about this whereas she had been so certain when she made her request. 'Either way, I believe I shall have a great deal of use for such a room.'

'If it is your wish to stay, many of my folk will make it their mission to see that you can never leave,' Thoren warned her, smile tugging at his lips. 'Your brother was similarly drawn in.' When he was younger he had played a not inconsiderable part in the devising of clever schemes that prevented Elvaethor from leaving whenever it seemed he ran out of reasons to deny his king his immediate return. For the sake of his friend, he could with great pleasure do the same again. 'Though it appears to me your king will not thank me kindly for robbing him of yet another captain of the guard.'

'It is my choice to make,' Tauriel pointed out.

'Aye, but it remains to be seen if he can be persuaded to see it that way.' Relations with the elf were good at the moment, united as they were in a common goal, but that might as well change after the war. It had been the same after the Battle of the Five Armies, when hastily forged alliances had fallen apart like a house of cards in a snowstorm. 'Either way, it is no good thinking about it now. We shall see what happens if we are lucky enough to survive this storm.'

She favoured him with a frown. 'You do not believe you will?'

'I believe the odds are against us.' They were. 'And we are neither of us given to leading from the back.'

Silence fell after that and lasted until Erynion came to find them. 'There is movement on the horizon,' he said without preamble. 'It would be best if you came and saw this for yourselves.'

It was nearly dawn and that in truth was as much time as Thoren had believed they had been granted. There was to be battle.

The camp woke around them in a frenzy of preparation as the news spread. The air filled with shouting voices, clanging weapons and neighing horses. Yet there was order to the proceedings as well; they had all known what was to come and they were prepared to meet it head-on.

'Any word on the troops of Mordor?' he asked as they walked.

'Scouts have seen their winged beasts and their riders some miles to the south, but it does not appear that the army is yet as far advanced,' Erynion reported. 'They flew back south. It does not seem they intend to join battle today.'

Or they wish it to appear that way, Thoren thought.

'How many?' he asked. 'How many of them were there?'

'Three,' said Erynion. His voice was calm, but he had not seen them in battle before. He did not know, not truly. All he had was hearsay. He had not yet experienced the bone-deep dread that could even bring an elf to his knees.

He exchanged a glance with Tauriel, who shared his concern. 'See that the men are spread evenly among the lines,' she ordered. They could ill afford one weak section and by now it was well-known that dwarves and elves could hold out for longer against that foul magic of theirs. 'If they do attack today, we will not give them an easy victory.'

They wouldn't, but the sheer size of the army appearing on the horizon gave him pause nonetheless.

Thráin

Thráin felt them before he ever saw them; the dull thuds sent tremors up through the earth itself. Their Mûmakil, he knew, because the footsteps of men could never feel as heavy as this, nor could he have felt them yet. But the Haradrim brought their beasts wherever they went and so it was today.

'You know what you need to do?' he asked Legolas and Gimli.

'We have done this before,' Legolas replied in the most haughty manner he could manage. 'See that you do not steer us wrong.'

Thráin did not think he would. Hadnor, despite all his grumblings, had answered his every question without hesitation and his instructions on how to ride a Mûmak had been detailed and simple. While the steering was done with pulling reins, movement and halting were voice commanded. The words were in the Harad tongue, which had taken him some effort to wrap his tongue around. No matter what word he spoke in that, it sounded harsh and unpleasant. Like the people that spoke it from the moment they learned to speak.

'You may trust me on that.'

Sam looked slightly worried and in awe of the beast at the same time. 'You be careful, Mr Thráin,' he said.

'You may rely on it.' He meant that. It was not his aim to die here. He had something to live for still. Dying was not part of that plan. Yet even if he did he knew that Legolas and Gimli []would see the task completed.

Best not mention that.

'When all's done, would you care for a ride?' he asked instead.

Sam, who had been staring in wide-eyed wonder at Teddy since first clapping eyes on him, nodded immediately. 'That'd be a dream come true.'

He knew that. While it amused him, it also reassured him. Sam could still look at the world with amazement and be pleased with what he saw. He felt that it became increasingly harder for him to do so as his burdens grew ever heavier. Frodo is not the only one of us to need Sam and his level-headedness to remind him of what we fight to achieve. The ultimate victory in this war was the survival of people like Sam.

He clambered onto Teddy's back and into the precariously balanced seat strapped to the beast's neck. He bore it all patiently. He looked as fearsome as when Thráin had first happened upon the idea to snatch himself a Mûmak, though the behaviour gave the lie to the appearance; he was as meek as a lamb.

The hut had been secured on the back again and now contained Faramir's men, Legolas and Gimli. The latter began to take on greenish hues at the mere thought of stepping into such a contraption again, but he had volunteered for the job; no dwarf worth his beard would be seen shying away.

'You are very exposed here,' Faramir remarked. He had yet to join the others in the hut. 'You wear armour, I know, but you have little else in the way of protection.'

'We shall be too swift for arrows and spears to find me,' Thráin said, though the notion had indeed occurred to him as well. 'I shall be in greater danger of falling off.' After an entire afternoon of practice he still had trouble keeping his balance. It was the one flaw in his plan.

'It is for me to make sure that none of their arrows find you, my friend,' Faramir said. 'And for you to ensure that you do not fall. My brother would be grieved to find that I had lost you.'

If he still lives. Neither acknowledged the gnawing uncertainty about his fate.

'Go inside,' he said instead. 'It cannot be long now.'

It wasn't. He could not feel the tremors from his vantage point on Teddy's back, but he heard the Haradrim now, loud and clear. They made no attempt to mask their presence. Then again, they believed that this land now belonged to them and it did not. Not yet.

He only waited long enough to make sure that all those on his side were safely in the hut. He gave the command for Teddy to run as soon as the first Mûmak came within his line of sight. The words sounded unfamiliar and halting from his lips, but Teddy got the gist of it and set off with a will.

The Haradrim did not understand at first. Here was one of their own beasts, all dressed up for war as they would do it themselves. Never in their darkest dreams had they believed that their foe might not only capture one but then learn how to use it in battle as well. So when they saw Teddy – Thráin himself was reasonably certain that none of the occupants of the hut could not be seen and that he himself was mostly obscured from view as well – they raised a cheer.

So much the better. Their folly was his triumph. Their cheer died a quick and violent death when Teddy tore through their front ranks without halting, leaving a trail of blood and corpses in his wake. Even then they were slow to react. Their first instinct was to remove themselves from the danger and so they did, leaping and throwing themselves out of the way without a thought of going for their blades. Perhaps they knew that it would not help them now. These beasts were hard to kill and the Haradrim had few enough archers.

Those on the ground were not his main concern. This group of Haradrim had brought another three Mûmakil with them. It was his aim to take at least two of these and all of them if he could manage it. Of course, it was not truly his part to take them; he need only get Teddy close enough so that the others could undertake that venture. He had volunteered, but Legolas had seen through his assurances that he was completely recovered. Truth be told, he was not a little relieved to be excused; his body still ached, more so with all the jolting. At least he could still contribute in a meaningful way.

So he concentrated and steered Teddy as close as he could to the nearest Mûmak. It still lumbered along slowly and steadily, not in the least put off by the other specimen of its kind bearing down on it at speed.

'Prepare yourselves!' he shouted over his shoulder.

It was a difficult manoeuvre, he could not deny that, but he reckoned he did well enough. He slowed Teddy just as they came alongside the other Mûmak. A spear flew past his head. It missed by inches. An arrow embedded itself just below his left foot. Faramir was right; he was vulnerable, yet on Teddy's back he also felt strangely untouchable at the same time.

He did not look to see if Legolas managed to make the leap from one beast to the other; he was an elf and as such prone to mastering such things on the first try. With any luck some of the Gondorians had followed him. If they were lucky, Legolas might leave some work for them to do, though it seemed unlikely.

He steered Teddy towards the next Mûmak, performed the same routine – slowing down just long enough to give some of his passengers the chance to exchange one Mûmak for the other and then speeding up again as to avoid the inevitable spears and arrows – and managed just about as well. One arrow scratched his left arm before sailing off into the unknown. Thráin did not look at it; his arm obeyed his commands and he would see to it after the fighting was done. There was not much that he could do from here at any rate.

It was the third Mûmak that presented the greatest challenge. Its rider had observed what Thráin had done so far and decided that he had no wish to suffer the same fate as that which presumably befell his fellows on the other beasts. He was armed, unlike the other riders Thráin had seen. He caught the glint of sunlight on steel just before the dagger was hurled in his direction. It was all he could do to lean backwards and pray to his Maker that the movement would not dislodge him. Even so it was a near thing.

This one was different. He shouted the command for the Mûmak to make more speed – Thráin recognised the sound now – and then stood in his seat.

He will jump.

By that time it was too late to make a change in the plans. Thráin went for his dagger – a sword or axe would have been too cumbersome to take up with him here – and only just in time; as he expected the man jumped and landed just a little behind him.

Durin's… For Durin's… Maker be good! This meant that he had to turn around in his seat to fight if he did not want to allow the man access to his back, which Thráin unsurprisingly did not. However it also meant losing what little stability he had.

He had no choice. By now hopefully most of his own passengers had managed to jump onto the other Mûmakil's backs, which meant that Thráin was on his own.

He slashed at his attacker. It was a good sharp blade that gashed a deep wound in the man's left thigh. He roared his pain and anger before he came at Thráin with a dagger of his own. It turned into a vicious knife fight on the back on Teddy, who moved along like he did not have any other care in the world.

The man grinned and shouted the command to halt.

Teddy instantly stood still.

He was clever. This rider knew all the commands Hadnor had taught Thráin and he knew them much better than Thráin ever could. And now that Teddy stopped moving, the foundation on which they fought was a lot more even. Thráin might have applauded the notion if he did not firmly believe there was some mischief at work here that he could not yet see.

An arrow flew past his head.

Better to be a moving target then, he thought and gave the command for motion. Teddy, not in the least bit fazed by these conflicting messages, did as he was told. And in this Thráin gained a slight advantage, because he knew what he had been about to do, but his opponent did not. Thráin had braced himself in time, but the man swayed on his feet and moved his arms about to regain his balance.

Thráin got to him before he could; one solid push was all that was required to make him lose what little balance he had left. He disappeared out of sight. It was not an honourable way to fight, Thráin felt. He misliked this kind of behaviour on principle. Yet what choice had he had?

He turned back in his seat, took up the reins and set about finding out what had gone on with the battle. During his struggle Teddy had made his way past the area where he could do damage, so Thráin turned him around and chased after the Haradrim.

He did not have far to chase; the area had dissolved into complete chaos. Only one of the Mûmakil was still walking. It carelessly strolled through its own owners' ranks, leaving a trail of broken bodies in its wake, so its rider had either better things to be getting on with or had already been replaced entirely. Was that not the Mûmak that Legolas had been meant to jump onto?

The other two Mûmakil had come to a standstill while there was apparently some vigorous activity taking place in the huts attached to their backs. The Haradrim on the ground were running for their lives. Some tried to clamber up onto the Mûmakil's backs to relieve their fellows, but they were the minority.

Thráin urged Teddy on faster to cut off the escape where he could. The other Mûmak looked like it was set about the same purpose and a third followed not far behind. Thráin squinted and discovered Gimli, mad grin plastered all over his face, in the saddle.

'Legolas, fifteen!' he called over.

Legolas, whom Thráin could now discern on the other Mûmak's back, inclined his head. 'Very good, my friend, but not nearly as good as seventeen!'

The expression on Gimli's face became both grim and determined. 'We shall see about that. Ha!' He set his own Mûmak off at a pace that sent all scattering before him.

He left them to their contest. It had been a long time since they'd had something to laugh about and if this brought them some measure of pleasure, who was he to stand in their way? They had earned a stroke of good fortune and all the laughter and fun that it might bring for as long as it could last.

The battle itself, if indeed such a name was appropriate for a fight that was almost over before it had properly begun, did not last much longer. As before the Haradrim that had not died had run off as fast as their feet could carry them, all in different directions and none in the shape they needed to be in to effectively fight. Whatever use Sauron thought to get out of them, it would not be what he had expected.

Hindering him is all we can do for now.

But hindering him would be much easier with four Mûmakil, so in this at least the day had been a resounding success, he reflected as he climbed down again. It was a relief to have solid ground beneath his feet again. Dwarves had been made for that, not for swaying on the back of something enormous many feet above the ground. He would have made us taller if that was his intent.

Good-natured bickering alerted him to the arrival of the rivalling elf and dwarf.

'That still only counts as one, Legolas!' Gimli insisted. 'It was one stomp, so that counts as one, even if it did kill three Haradrim.'

'I believed we were counting our kills, my friend,' Legolas said with a would-be innocent look.

Gimli grumbled under his breath.

'How many did you kill?' Thráin asked, just to get it over with.

'Twenty-six,' said Gimli.

'While I myself am feeling quite satisfied with twenty-eight,' Legolas grinned. He carried on before Gimli could raise the same point again: 'It seems to me that we, as the ones who captured these beasts should be allowed to name them.' Thráin did not trust the expression on his face at all. 'Should you perhaps wish to name it after a hero of your people, my friend?'

Thráin did not care for the expression on Gimli's face at all. 'You are not naming this monstrosity after my father,' he warned him.

'That would be wholly inappropriate,' Legolas said, still looking and sounding as innocent as a lamb. 'It is clear that this one is female.'

Thráin nipped that in the bud. 'You are not naming it after my mother either.'

He left them to their discussion and went to find the hobbits to inform them that the battle had been won. He found Faramir with them with a face entirely too solemn for after such a great victory.

'We have been summoned back to Osgiliath,' he said. 'The Enemy is on the move.'


Next time: it's time to meet Saruman. What could possibly go wrong with that?

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