Chapter 89
Blood and Tears
To my shame I must admit that I had completely forgotten about Harry's birthday. I am sure some people would be quick to point out that this fact was not exactly making me prime mother material. I might have agreed with them. Prior to Mary's lecture, so many months and a lifetime ago, I had not been one. Even mending my ways took time and time was something I did not have.
The world did not have time. Then again, neither did Sauron. If it had been up to him, he would have taken another few weeks to gather his last allies and finalise his plans. But events had overtaken him and now he had to move. The situation up north was something he could not ignore. He'd already found out the hard way that dwarves could make an absolute nuisance of themselves when they decided to be uncooperative. Already he had thrown more resources at that area than he planned. The first army had been overkill and more than he'd have liked. The second one was even more so.
And yet he still had to do something about Gondor and he'd have to do it very soon. He did not have nearly as many soldiers for this venture as he should have had. If he now had to contend with Rohan as well as Gondor, the results were unlikely to be as predictable as he wanted them to be. But he had come too far now to back out and regroup. All the world was at war and it was his doing, so he couldn't exactly pull out and say 'Sorry about all that. How about we continue this when I've got more of a chance to win this thing.' He was caught in a net of his own making and now had nowhere left to go but forwards, wherever that may lead.
Funny to think that most of this problem – not all, but most – was because one dwarf told Sauron no. Thoren had no idea of the magnitude of what he had done then and I doubt that he even fully understood just how much of a tidal wave of consequences his refusal to comply had brought about even as the events happened around him. How anyone could ever mistake him for something other than Kate Andrews's son, I will never know. He made changes almost with one hand tied around his back.
And while he may not have known exactly what it was that he had done, he would certainly be pleased to discover that his aim had been achieved: Mordor had emptied. There was scarce an orc left in it save for the bare minimum to guard Barad-dûr and the Black Gates themselves. Thoren had set out to make sure that nothing stood in Thráin's way and he succeeded on an unprecedented scale.
Little did he know it of course, when he got up that morning and prepared for battle…
Thoren
The sky was red when the sun rose that morning.
The dwarves said that it looked pretty, if they commented on it at all.
The men said that it meant that it would rain later.
The elves said that it meant that blood was about to be spilled.
Thoren did not believe in signs in the sky – he'd sooner trust the evidence of his own eyes – but even he could not deny that the elves might be onto something. Then again, even a blind fellow could have surmised that blood was bound to be spilled in battle. Everyone knew that.
The plan was simple, for Thoren at least. The dwarves had to hold the line. They had to stand and not give way. Their bodies and dispositions were best suited to such a task. The elves on horseback would provoke the Easterlings into attack. The plan was to anger them to such an extent that they could not ignore this.
Angry men make mistakes.
The Easterlings, coincidentally, had a lot to be angry about. They had suffered a massive defeat a month ago and that while they had Mordor backing them. It was utter humiliation for them that a force that was so much smaller than theirs should triumph over them. And just in case the message had not landed yet, the elves set about proving to them even now that the Free Folk Alliance could still do damage to them as and when they pleased.
It would not be long.
Tauriel was with her kind now and he strangely missed her presence. It occurred to him that they had faced all battles so far side by side. But her talents as an archer were needed elsewhere and that took priority over his personal preference. He would make do with his own kind about him.
'Here they come now,' Dwalin said. Most of their plans found their origin with him. Naturally it pleased him that they worked as he had intended all along.
They came. The elves rode before them, calling insults over their shoulders. Elvaethor, who was probably fluent in every language under the sun, had taught most of what he knew to his companions. This was most unlike an elf, to call insults at an opponent, but they did it anyway.
The times have changed. We've all had to adept. How he longed for peace. He doubted now if he should ever live that long.
There was no more time for thought. Thoren stood his ground as wave after wave of enemies crashed upon the lines. Dwarves were not so easy to kill and they could not generally be moved either unless they wanted to.
But we are not invincible.
Screams tore the air apart. The clanging of weapons was deafening. Thoren closed his ears to it all. He fought. In this he was not the King under the Mountain. He was only a dwarf with an elvish sword.
Time passed, presumably. But one moment was much like the next. There was no time in battle to reflect on the passage of time, which was why he was always more or less surprised when it had passed the moment the battle was over.
But he did notice changes. There were brief respites, when the Easterlings retreated to regroup before throwing themselves at the defenders again. They came in waves, each of which broke on a wall of shields and swords and spears, leaving more and more dead and dying to create a wall by themselves. It was a good thing too, because when he had the chance to spare a glance for the rest of the line, he saw that they did not all fare so well.
The men were always bound to be the weak element in the defence. Many of the men of Esgaroth had done little but fishing and trading before this war and they had been disheartened by the betrayal of their own. It had been a risk to take them along at all. The men of Dale held up better; they were more used to fighting. Many times in the past had they made common cause with the dwarves whenever the orcs came too close to their lands. The men of Esgaroth had relied heavily on that defence.
It showed.
It showed in the worst possible way. The pressure lessened on Thoren's part of the line when the Easterlings found out there was an easier way to end this than by getting past the dwarves. The men were exhausted and disheartened and the men of Dale began to tire as well. They must have been at this for some time and they were by no means as durable as the dwarves. Their energy drained faster and their courage abandoned them sooner. They held still, but they had to make up for what their fellow men lacked.
Of course the Easterlings faced the same trouble, but there were altogether more of them than there were of the men of Esgaroth and Dale.
Maker save us all.
'Dáin, the men!' he shouted. His kinsman was decidedly closer. 'Go!'
The elves, he noticed, had taken note of the danger too and hurried to the aid of their allies, but it left their own ranks painfully exposed.
And so it falls apart.
He could not allow it. But as of yet he had no notion of how to prevent it. The greater movements of armies and war had always been something he understood, but tactics on the field were not his strongest point. He was a dwarf in that respect; give him an enemy and he'd fight that one and whichever enemy came after it. He had been trained in the art all the same, but had never gained a mastery in it.
Dwalin had. 'They're going too fast,' he judged. He was taller than most dwarves, which gave him a good view of what the Easterlings were doing. 'If we strike there,' he pointed, 'we can split them apart.'
He was right. The Easterlings fell on the weak segment like a pack of starving wargs and in their enthusiasm forgot to wait for their comrades who were struggling to get past a tricky bit of muddy ground at speed, with all the result one could expect from such a venture. Their front lines were already getting to grips with the mannish segment while the other part still lagged behind.
'Do it,' he said.
It was a mad rush into the breach, but speed was of the essence. Thoren let himself be carried on the tide of the attack. It was fast and brutal, but it worked. They were about three hundred in number, but it was enough to break the lines of the Easterlings where they were at their weakest, just as they in turn attempted to do to Thoren's own forces.
The fighting commenced on both sides now. There were Easterlings everywhere he looked and they fought well. They were a warlike people who trained from boyhood. True, they lacked the physical strength of the dwarves and the quick and graceful movements of the elves, but they made up for it in determination and in numbers.
Lufur was beside him on one side, Dwalin on the other. Both he had known since before he could even remember. It gave him hope to have them here with him.
The fighting was fierce. The Easterlings gave as good as they got. Thoren's small force was hard-pressed from all sides, but not for long. The pressure eased up unannounced, because elves were not usually in the habit of announcing their coming with war cries, not like the dwarves and men were wont to do. They made themselves known by their actions. Many Easterlings fell with arrows in them and those that survived that initial assault lived only long enough to die upon their swords instead.
'I believed you to be in some trouble,' Elvaethor said when he found his way to Thoren. 'So we came to relieve you.'
'Well met, my friend,' Thoren said. Elvaethor's arrival had always been a cause for joy. It was no less so today. 'As always, you come to us when we need you most.'
'Did I not swear to that?'
'You did.' But it was not an oath Thoren could ever take for granted. 'But I am pleased to clap eyes on you regardless.'
Elvaethor brought many of his kin with him to the fight. Tauriel was somewhere there; Thoren heard her voice shout commands to her people. He saw glimpses of Lancaeron and Erynion both. Aennen, who to the best of his knowledge still worshipped the ground Tauriel walked on, ended up somewhere nearer him. There was nothing boyish about him now; he had turned all grim and determined. The look suited him ill.
Sooner or later war will see us all turn into that until we have lost all memory of life and all we strive for is mere survival.
Said survival was under threat. They were outnumbered at least ten to one and those were only the most favourable scenario. Death was all around them, though it had not come so near them yet.
When death came, it came suddenly and violently. Thoren and those near him were in the thick of the fighting. Enemies came from all sides. Thoren knew better than to think he could keep an eye on all of them.
His only warning was a violent shove to the side and then Aennen went down. Thoren did not see the spear before it embedded itself in Aennen's gut, nor did he see the one who wielded it. But he heard the noise the elf made, the one that was equal parts surprise and agony. He saw the look in the lad's eyes, which was pure and unadulterated terror. His sword had fallen and his hand reached out for something to grab hold of, but in the battle there was nothing.
'Cover my back,' Thoren told Dwalin, who would have done that any way even if he forgot to ask. He crouched down with Aennen while his nearest and dearest created a protective circle around them. 'You saved my life,' he said. The pieces of the puzzle fell into place as he said it. He had been pushed aside and the spear had pierced Aennen, who had taken his place. If he had not done that, it would now be Thoren lying there, a spear through his throat. Maker be good.
The lad trembled like a leaf in the storm, as much in fear as it was his body trying to stave off the inevitable. Gut wounds were dangerous at the best of times, lethal even when healers were nearby to do what they could. There were no healers here. What help may come would be come too late. Thoren had seen these wounds before and they were a particularly unpleasant way to die.
So he grabbed Aennen's hands and held them tight. 'Thank you,' he said. The words came from the heart. 'I owe you my life.'
Scared though he was, Aennen managed to shake his head. 'No. Repayment,' he insisted. His voice was strained; it was a visible effort for him not to scream. Every moment must be agony. Every moment his life bled away on the frozen ground beneath him.
Thoren remembered. He could say that he himself had not paid the price with his own life's blood, though it had of course always been a possibility. Had he not told the lad that no debt was owed or did he only think that he had? It was hard to be sure of his own memory at times like these.
'Sleep now,' Thoren told him. One glance at the wound taught him that Aennen did not have very long. It was the only mercy left to him. Men might resort to platitudes and flat-out lies in these moments, telling their dying friends that they were soon going to be well again. Dwarves were not made for such falsehoods, so Thoren did not offer them. 'It will be over soon.' He settled for truth instead and prayed Aennen found comfort in that.
'Tauriel,' he said, though she was nowhere near. He appeared to wish to say more, but choked on the words.
Thoren could guess. 'I will keep an eye on her,' he promised. 'You have my word on that. Rest now.'
Aennen let go, as if this was all that he had still needed to hear, as if this was all that made him hold on for as long as he had. The expression on his face was almost peaceful.
The surroundings were not. He got ready to rise to his feet again when the other body dropped. And this was one he knew well.
'No!'
Death was to be expected in battle, to be anticipated. Thoren knew this; he had made peace with the possibility of his own demise. He had not accepted the deaths of his nearest and dearest, especially not one whom he had known since infancy.
Lufur's throat was a mess. There was blood everywhere and though he tried, he was incapable of speech. Death would come for him even quicker than it had come for Aennen. Yet in spite of that Thoren reached out, covered the wound with his hand as though to stem the bleeding. No thought came into it, it was pure instinct to preserve the life of one he loved so dearly.
'No, no, no!'
Lufur's mouth curled up in what Thoren recognised as one of his reassuring smiles, so often bestowed on him in childhood when he did not know what to do or how to make up for some foolish prank that had turned out a bit wrong. 'No matter, lad, it's not the end of the world,' he'd say. 'Now let's see what we can do to make things right, eh?'
He'd never speak again and Thoren could not make this right.
It ended like that, with Lufur still trying to comfort him in his last moments instead of the other way around, the way it had always been. It left him feeling hollow.
The feeling did not last very long. The problem with feeling so empty was that there was plenty of space to fill and the first feeling that happened along could easily take up all this unoccupied space. Thoren looked at the face of his lifelong friend and felt only blood-curdling rage.
He threw himself back into the fight with a will. He did not feel the heaviness of his arms like he had before; the fury cancelled it out. Enemies appeared only to be struck down. He did not count them; there were too many.
Time did not matter and all sounds around him – and he knew that there must be many – faded into nothingness. There was only him and the foe before him.
Yet even he could not fail to notice the wind and the bright light that swept over the field.
Beth
'It would have been his birthday.'
How could she have forgotten? These past few weeks she had been obsessed with the dates and the time they appeared to lose. Even when a deadline loomed large Beth had never been so acutely aware of what date it was as she had been on this quest so far. But she had looked at the date in relation to the quest, not to her son.
But as of yesterday Harry was at the forefront of her mind once again and now that he was here, she could not escape him. In truth, she did not particularly want to.
She just wished she could forget Saruman's words.
She could not.
They had left Isengard the moment Gandalf had ascertained that Saruman was truly dead instead of heavily injured. Now that his master was dead, Gríma almost tripped over himself to let them in and plead on his knees for forgiveness. Théodred, who was not nearly so forgiving as his father, ordered Éomer to clap him in irons and drag him back to Edoras for proper judgement. So Gríma now walked – no horse of Rohan would ever be at his disposal again – behind everyone, alternating whimpering and pleading.
Beth felt no pity for him.
Her thoughts were filled with Harry. She'd taken her phone out of her pack and looked at the photos stored on it. As it happened that was something she could actually do on horseback, because Folca had figured out very quickly that he should just take his cue from the horses around him rather than wait for her commands. A wise move, because Beth's mind was not on learning how to ride.
Harry is gone.
No, he's not. Saruman is a lying bastard.
Why say it then?
To hurt you where it hurts most, Andrews. Come on and get a bloody grip.
Her rational mind tried to reason that of course Saruman had lied. It had been what he did to pass the time. He was a nasty, vindictive little shit with nothing left to lose, so he lashed out at whatever was closest. Beth had talked back at him, so he had unearthed the thing that would strike her right where it hurt.
'Your son?' Boromir asked, who rode next to her.
Beth nodded. 'Yes. He would be seven today.' If he still lived. After everything that had passed it seemed foolish to take it for granted.
And yet she needed to know. She had lain awake last night, listening to the sound of snores and horses all around her, driven near mad with a need to know. She couldn't cry, she couldn't mourn, but she could not shrug it off either. It was like being caught in limbo, knowing nothing for sure.
Come morning she had approached Gandalf. Knowing almost for sure that the answer was no she had asked if there was any chance that the palantír had answers to offer. She was right; the answer was no. Gandalf was in no way without sympathy – it was written all over his face – but he had reminded her that this stone was not safe for use. Sauron had the thing too tightly in his power. Even if she looked he would only show her that which brought her despair. Truth was not something she could reasonably expect.
Beth knew that. Deep down she knew that. If she was equally as certain of Harry's fate, she might not now feel so useless and so restless.
Boromir took a different view. 'He lives,' he said. The confidence surrounded him like a cloak. 'You said yourself that Saruman is a proven liar. Nothing he tells you can be taken at face value and if his so-called information about your son was gleaned from that thrice-cursed seeing stone, it is almost certainly false even if the wizard believed it to be true.'
It all made a good deal of sense. 'That's not a substitute for proof,' she pointed out. And until she knew one way or the other, this would not leave her alone.
He tried a different tactic. 'What does your heart tell you?'
'My heart has no idea what the bloody hell is going on,' Beth replied. 'And my brain can't decide either way so that's not a lot of help either.'
She was shorter with him than she wanted to be. It wasn't his fault. It was just that there were so many emotions all bottled up inside her and waging war on her and each other at the same bloody time that it had nowhere to go but out of her mouth. In the absence of any real answers all she wanted to do was translate this into some form of physical activity. That was what she would have done at home, when it felt like she was in over her head and it all slipped through her fingers.
'I need…' The words started to escape, but she bit them back.
'What do you need?' Aragorn appeared on her other side.
Bugger it all to hell. He had asked. 'I need to run,' she admitted. 'To clear my head somehow. I'm not going to get any real answers here and I need to do something.' Sitting on a horse all day felt too much like idleness and that was the one thing she could not currently stand.
'Then go,' Boromir said. 'We're headed in that direction,' he said, pointing. He took Folca by the reins so that she could dismount. 'We will catch you up.'
There was no nonsense about the dangers, about lone orcs lying in wait. He didn't coddle her, which she appreciated. She might even thank him for it once her head was screwed on right again.
Aragorn went to relay the plans to Théodred. Wisely he had offered no such concern either, because the mood she was in might have led her to bite his head off, strictly verbally speaking of course.
Beth ran. The Rohirrim rode slower than she ran; she left them behind in no time. And then it was just her and the wide grassy world around her, the wind in her face. The ground was not too rough, so she fell into a familiar rhythm. Her feet pounded on the ground and if she closed her eyes – not for too long in case of rabbit holes – she could almost imagine herself back in England on a crisp winter's day in the country.
At least she got the country bit right. And the winter's day.
It helped to translate the mental frustration into physical activity. It always had. It was how she dealt with the world. It helped her to get her thoughts back into a semblance of order when it felt as though they had been shaken about like one of those touristy snowstorms. It allowed the dust to settle, the worst case scenarios drained away by the need to keep moving.
What's more, it allowed her to think clearly and she had not been able to do that for the past twenty-four hours. Examine what you know, Andrews, she told herself. You deal in fact, not fiction. And wasn't there irony in that sentence somehow.
Focus!
The first thing she knew for certain was that Saruman had been one of the most untrustworthy individuals she had ever clapped eyes on and that was in a life that had also included Alex Tanner at some point. He was a liar who had every reason to try and make her feel miserable. That was what bullies did when all else had failed. Saruman had no incentive to tell her the truth. All he had left were taunts.
The second thing she was sure of was that Erebor was one of the safest places in this world. Thráin, who had a reputation for being brutally honest, swore so. Dwarves did not swear something lightly. If they promised, you could be absolutely certain they would see it done. And the book backed that up. Erebor would be besieged, but it would not fall. So far it had hit almost every major point.
The vision of the two women and the three children presented itself to her again to belie that logical reasoning. She had seen it twice now: once in Galadriel's Mirror and once in a dream. Did that not mean that it was right?
You didn't see him injured or killed, Beth reminded herself before her thought could run away with her faster than her feet could possibly keep up with. You deal in verifiable facts, not speculation. Besides, half of those visions made no sense whatsoever and Galadriel herself had pointed out that not all of it was set in stone.
No, that way madness lay. Facts. She dealt with facts. Nothing else would do.
So the third thing that she knew for certain was that there was no reliable way to determine whether Harry was dead or alive, but she had no proof that he was dead and all indications so far argued against it. Ergo, he is alive. He must be.
He is alive, Andrews. Nothing else makes any sense whatsoever.
It felt right. Beth usually shied away from making her decisions based on undefined feelings alone, but in this she had little choice. What does your heart tell you? Boromir had asked. Her brain told her that Harry could not reasonably be dead. Thráin's companions and friends had sworn to keep him safe. Their word was their bond. If Harry had died it was only after all his protectors had lost their lives first and that seemed exceedingly unlikely; Beth had seen them fight.
He's alive.
The information took some time to trickle down from her head to her heart. Meanwhile she ran as if the constant pounding on the ground dislodged the knowledge from her brain and made it fall to her heart. And despite the exercise she breathed easier for it.
He's alive.
The world fell away and now she ran just for the fun of it, which was liberating in and of itself. This was not a mad dash after a bunch of psychotic orcs who had captured her friends, this was what she did to get away from it all. Of course it had started as a way to keep her weight under control – though going on a quest and living on rations turned out to be the more effective way of achieving that goal – but once she started doing it she found she enjoyed it.
She only stopped when her stomach began to growl about lunch and her muscles burned with the effort. It was a good pain, miles and miles ahead of any other pain she had suffered so far on this bloody quest. She was a little out of breath – not unexpected – but otherwise felt much better than she had for weeks.
It took a while for the Rohirrim and her friends to catch her up, so during the time she waited she had a bit of a think. Her mind was clear now in a way it hadn't been for a long time. She might as well utilise it while it lasted.
It was time to set everything right, she decided. For all her talk about finding her place in this world, she had done remarkably little about it. She knew where she was headed. That choice had been made. It was following through with it that made her somewhat apprehensive. Because then I'd seal my fate. And that was a ridiculous thought, because truth be told it had been sealed the moment Gandalf had taken her from Bristol.
I have to do this right. And doing it right meant doing it better than Kate had done. No bumbling from one thing to the next, never thinking things through properly. That had never been Beth's style.
And the sooner this is sorted, the better.
By the time the others caught up with her she was quite sure she had all her ducks in a row and so it was Boromir she approached first.
'You were right,' she said. 'He's alive.' It was important to get that out of the way before she did anything else. 'I shouldn't have snapped at you. I am sorry.' Not an Andrews specialty, but this was her future husband, so the effort had to be made. It didn't feel nearly as much as defeat as she had always envisioned.
Perhaps that was because Boromir did not fling it right back in her face. He took her hand and squeezed it gently. 'No matter,' he said. 'Your son's fate worried you, as it should.' There was a hint of something in that tone which made Beth wonder if Boromir's father had different instincts where his sons were concerned. Well, definitely where Faramir was concerned, she reckoned, if Thráin and the book were to be believed.
'So, how do you feel about the prospect of a step-son?' she asked briskly.
He processed this and then his face brightened, which honestly was all the answer she needed. He was a good man, a far more worthy man than Alex had ever been and could ever hope to be. It had taken her far too long to see that and longer still to get off her arse and do something productive about it.
I want this, she thought and to her surprise found that she really did.
'You have decided then?' Boromir asked.
'I have.' That didn't mean she was not still somewhat clueless about how to go about this sort of thing. Goodness, she'd probably blunder from one mistake to the next, because she was an Andrews who did emotional vulnerability like Hitler did fundraisers for Jewish welfare. But she knew her mind and she knew her heart and wasn't that enough to be getting on with for now? 'So let's do it.'
It must be noted that she was not usually this impulsive. It went against her very nature to even consider it. But they were here now on what effectively amounted to a lunchbreak. Yes, they may think that they had some time in Edoras, but Beth knew better than to count on it. Nothing like this was ever certain. Before you knew it, events overtook you and you were either running for your life or fighting for your life.
Enough time had been wasted.
'Now?' he asked, somewhat taken aback, but not as far as she could tell objecting against the idea.
'Now,' she confirmed. 'Knowing us it'll be all hands on deck and not so much as a coffee break once we get going again and I want to do this right and preferably while we are stationary for more than a minute altogether. Gandalf is here, so he can officiate and I'm sure Aragorn and Théodred wouldn't mind being the witnesses. Hold on, is that a thing here?' She knew she should have researched this matter a little more thoroughly.
'It is.' He nodded. She didn't think he tried very hard to hide that smile on his face. Truth be told, it made her knees feel a little weaker than usual, though that could of course just be all the running she had just done. 'I'll inform Aragorn.'
'Could you ask Gandalf too?' she asked. 'I've got a favour to ask of Théodred.'
After all, she had to do this right.
She found him with his horse, alone for the moment. That suited her well enough.
'Have you found some peace?' he asked when she had alerted him to her presence.
Beth nodded. 'I have. He's not dead. He can't be. Nothing about the whole story Saruman spun us made even the slightest bit of sense.'
Théodred grinned at her. 'Like the tale you attempted to spin us about you and Boromir.'
She was not going to get a better opening than that. 'Funny you should mention that,' she said. 'Because I have a little bit of a favour to ask you.' All of a sudden she felt rather apprehensive about this whole thing, but she had come this far. 'Listen, do you still remember how to operate a camera?'
Next time: there's a wedding. I probably don't need to tell you whose.
I forgot to mention last week, but I updated the character list (end of chapter 1) again, so that should be good for use until at least chapter 136. And I'm about 99% sure that this time really everyone is on it, so there's that.
Thank you so much for reading. As always, reviews/feedback would be much appreciated. It's been a bit quiet around here lately.
Until next week!
