Chapter 130
Truth
I have no doubt that any reader might feel obliged to point out that I progress only slowly through the last days of the war. This is not untrue, but bear with me, because there is a very good reason for that. Many things happened in many different places. Since I have chosen to describe this war from the viewpoint of one family, this does mean that when all of us were in different places where many things were happening all simultaneously. For the moment the great battles had been fought, but nobody believed that this was a situation that would last for very long.
Having said that, Sauron was not looking at a particularly rosy future. This was the stage of the war when he had to begin to consider that he might not emerge as the victor. He had emptied his lands in an attempt to quell any and all rebellion before it could get horribly out of hand and that had failed. One army had been vanquished in the north, another now in Gondor. The only force he had left was tied up many, many miles to the north, trying to bring that region to its knees.
With very little success.
This was the time when he really could have used the army now camped before the gates of Erebor. He certainly could have used the help of the only two remaining Nazgûl, but they too were many miles out of reach.
So at this point he had to seriously reconsider his options. He had a few orcs left to defend Mordor itself and so long as the Black Gates remained closed, it wouldn't take a great many orcs to achieve those goals. The Easterlings were out of the game and the Haradrim forces he might still muster would take weeks, if not months, to mobilise and move to Mordor. And in all of this he still hadn't got his hands on the Ring. He tried to retrieve it from Faramir and that had failed. Now he didn't have anything left to have another go.
Of course, Sauron did not know just how precarious the position of the Free Folk of Middle Earth still was. If one of his patrols found the Fellowship and captured them, it could all be over very quickly. Once he got his hands on the Ring, he wouldn't need the orcs. They'd be a bit of an optional extra.
Sauron was not a fool. He had not got so far and survived so long by being an absolute bloody idiot. He knew what he was doing. So now that the world was no longer rearranging itself in accordance with his wishes, he seized upon the best option left to him: he would do what he could to get the Ring back into his hands and to that end he'd recall his wraiths to do the job. Just a shame that some Free Folk in the north were still determined to thwart him at whatever price necessary…
Elvaethor
A shocked silence reigned in the hall after Elvaethor finished speaking. Even now he internally debated the wisdom of speaking so frankly, but these were no traitors. These folk were loyal. They had stood and fought and been wounded in defence of their home and their people. If any deserved to know what they were fighting for, they were the ones.
They were great in number, but an entire hall had fallen silent.
He stood before them and met their gazes without blinking. This was no small matter. Aye, some folk had known already. Others were not so enlightened.
Fíli, sitting nearby, nodded solemnly at him. Elvaethor had failed to apprise him of his intentions, but he appreciated the belated approval. This would have been more difficult without Fíli's support. Dwalin nodded vigorously, with grim satisfaction, another one's approval that weighed heavily.
They were among the few who were already aware of Thráin's mission. Dáin, bandaged almost from top to toe, looked as though someone had dropped a Mountain on him. His son's mouth had dropped open in unflattering disbelief. Brand, equally bandaged and equally stunned, recovered surprisingly quickly and grinned in what Elvaethor took to be a grim sort of triumph.
'So, what are we going to do about it?' demanded Stonehelm, never speechless for very long. His voice carried across the hall and at the sound of it, his people stood to attention, hands on their weapon.
'It is our duty to keep this army away from Thráin and his mission.' The way he phrased this was a very deliberate decision. Thráin was a prince of his people, an often absent one, but a prince all the same. Some may have wondered why he was not here fighting this greatest of wars at his brother's side, but that question had at last been answered. Now they knew and there was not a dwarf under this Mountain who would leave one of their own to fend for himself, even if their input was miles away from where he was.
Something in the hall had shifted. It had begun when he at last revealed what Thráin, Gimli and Legolas were doing and now that Thorin Stonehelm had asked what it was that they could do about it, they were ready for action. He did not doubt that they had often wondered why Thoren risked so much and why at times it had seemed as though he deliberately provoked the Enemy into sending ever more forces against them. Now they understood.
'It'd take time to get the army back south,' Solmund pointed out, speaking for the men of the Lake. Unlike many of the people in this hall, he was yet capable of standing on his own two feet without the aid of a walking stick or some convenient piece of furniture to lean on. He compensated for this by having both his arms bandaged from shoulder to wrist. 'Weeks, if not months if the weather proves unkind. What use can they be to Sauron?'
Not much. Elvaethor knew full well how much time it took to get an army from this region to Mordor. Once, such a long time ago, he had marched that way himself. He had stood and fought and lost, even though victory was achieved. He banished the memory.
Someone else answered the question. 'They can't, but the Nazgûl can.' Halnor, standing a little to the back, rose to his feet and moved to the front. He now wore a patch over the place where once his eye had been. It gave him a grim air that he utilised to great effect. Folk moved out of his way with all due haste. 'They've got wings.'
That was indeed the point that Elvaethor had been about to make. The objective was simple, though he feared the execution would not be. If they meant for Thráin to make it to his destination and destroy the Ring, it was of the utmost importance to make sure that as few obstacles as possible remained in his way. The Nazgûl could not be allowed to return to their Master and so it fell to the Free Folk Alliance to keep them pinned down here.
This of course involved having to ensure that they remained such a threat that the wraiths could not ever consider moving away, because who knew what these stubborn, defiant folk would do to their forces when they weren't here to keep an eye on them?
'So we kill them.'
This came from a somewhat unexpected source. Elvaethor had to blink twice, but yes, it was Dalin who had spoken. Elvaethor did not know him well, but he, his brother and his mother had proved themselves a constant source of vexation to Kate and her children. Halin of course had since mended his ways, but as far as Elvaethor was aware, Dalin had not.
The stunned silence lasted so long that Dalin took it upon himself to elaborate: 'Jack did it before. We know that the elvish lady slew two. Even our King himself made an end of one of their foul breed. We know that they can be slain. What is making us shy away from such a task? Is our courage failing at last?'
He looked around at the faces surrounding him, almost daring them to challenge this statement. No one dared.
'It is not our courage that is failing, Master Dalin,' Elvaethor intervened before the situation could become ugly. 'It is a good solution that you propose, but it is not without its dangers.' Truth be told, he had considered this himself, but had dismissed it as being too risky. Folk would die and the gain would be uncertain. 'I cannot in good conscience ask such a thing of any who did not volunteer for the task.'
Perhaps he ought to have considered what reaction such a phrase would elicit, but he had spoken his heart and mind without thinking, so of course every dwarf in the room immediately declared their willingness to volunteer at the top of their lungs. Theirs was not a race that lacked courage. In every attack they'd stood and fought even as folk around them died in their hundreds and their thousands. They would not give way now.
To his relief many of the men and elves also volunteered their services for this purpose. The men were more hesitant in doing so – their losses had been the greatest and they had been more heavily affected by what the Nazgûl could do than any others – but one by one they straightened their backs and raised their hands and their voices.
Jack was right to place his faith in the strength of men, Elvaethor thought.
'So,' said Stonehelm when the last of the noise at long last died down, 'what are we going to do about it?'
That was not as easily decided, so most of the fighting forces left the room so that the commanders could put their heads together and figure out the strategy. The high command of the Free Folk Alliance was decidedly more battered than it had been a few months previous, but their determination had not yet wavered. If anything, Elvaethor's announcement had strengthened it.
'We still have the side door,' Halnor said. He was not technically part of the command, but he was the one who had spoken of the Nazgûl first and he had invited himself to the table. None had objected. 'Are there any orcs before it, that anyone knows of?'
Elvaethor knew of none, but that was only because he had not looked for them. The door was kept closed and even if the Enemy had a key, they'd need to wait for a fair few months yet before they could use it.
'None to my knowledge,' he therefore answered.
Of course it had been used before, when the first siege was broken. It had been a risk, a calculated risk, but a risk all the same. The Enemy was already weakened and turning on itself by the time Elvaethor and Jack had made their sortie. This was not the case now.
Yet our aim is not to break the siege. It is to kill their commanders.
'We ought to find out.'
Seeing as how there was little use in planning any further until they knew one way or the other, the meeting was adjourned. Elvaethor, Halnor, Thranduil and Dwalin took it upon themselves to discover the truth. They were the only ones in the command who could still move of their own volition without aid and had strength left to fight too should it come to that, so this was a decision easily made.
'I hear you are one of us now at last, Master Elvaethor,' Halnor said as they walked. 'And what a great pleasure it is to see you now where you belong.'
'I assure you that the pleasure is all mine.' It was. True, he'd had little cause for joy these past days, but this was one memory that had not yet failed in warming him from top to toe every time he thought of it. He belonged now. He could put down roots again in a place where he could thrive. In some small ways he already did.
'Well, you don't get to hog all the pleasure to yourself,' Halnor pointed out. 'There's more than enough of it to go around. I for one will look forward to seeing that tall figure of yours every time there's a high shelf that I need to reach for.'
From the corner of his eye Elvaethor saw his former king's eyebrows climb ever closer to his hairline.
'And I shall look forward to seeing your good cheer on the streets, my friend,' he said. It was Halnor who first told him that what he had chosen was kinship rather than allegiance and this he would not soon forget.
'There's only one question that still plagues quite a fair few of us,' Halnor carried on. 'And we will not be left without answers.'
'Then pray ask it.'
Halnor promptly did: 'What in Durin's name took you so long? We've been waiting…'
'And wagering,' Dwalin interjected wryly.
'And wagering, indeed, for a very long time, you see.' Halnor remained unperturbed, but he patted the rather full-looking purse at his belt with some satisfaction, so it did not seem so very unreasonable to assume that he was one of those who had done very well out of this wagering business. 'Many of us thought you'd come over to us for many decades and indeed they were very disappointed when you did not do so.'
'Better late than never,' Dwalin said. 'But it's not for us to blame you for maintaining loyalty to your own.' He directed this remark with some sternness at Halnor.
Yet this was an untrue assumption that was in need of correction. 'It was not loyalty to my own that delayed my decision.' For it had only ever been a delay. His heart had called him here long before he pledged himself. His loyalty had been to Erebor long before his allegiance was. He had been called here again and again, overcome by longing and friendship and – as he knew now – kinship for decades before he had given in. 'It was fear that caused my delay and for this I am profoundly sorry.' For their sakes, but mostly for his own. What could he have had that he did not have now? He could have spent more time with his dear friends before death claimed them. Time had been lost that could not be recovered.
'Fear?' The thought was apparently so strange to Halnor that he forgot to keep walking. 'I've never known you to be afraid.'
'I am well acquainted with it, I assure you.' It had been his constant companion throughout the war.
'Well, we've all been afraid in battle.' Halnor shook his head in a manner that suggested he was attempting to solve a particularly difficult sort of mystery. Judging by the thoroughly confounded expression he was not having much success in doing so. 'I've never known you to show it, never mind give in to it.'
'It is not of fear in battle that I speak.' That was not what had detained him.
'Then I must say that you are not making one lick of sense, my friend.' He fixed Elvaethor with a stern look. 'Now that you are officially a dwarf I do hope that you abandon these strange elvish notions in favour of more common sense.'
Common sense. Yes, perhaps that was what he had found as well as friendship and kinship. 'I already have.'
'Well, that's good to hear, for we want none of that elvish nonsense under our Mountain, thank you very much.' Belatedly he recalled that there was another elf present. 'Begging your pardon, Lord Thranduil, but you don't mean to stay here when it's all over, so we'll tolerate your ways until that time.'
Thranduil inclined his head haughtily. 'Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to remove myself from this Mountain so that I may walk beneath the trees of my realm again, Master Halnor.' To those who did not know him, he sounded perfectly polite. Elvaethor knew better. 'To that end I suggest we shall continue on our way to ensure that day arrives as soon as possible.'
This reprimand might have brought a measure of shame to an elf, but it never fazed a dwarf. Halnor simply nodded. 'Aye, let's. Sense from an elf. Never thought I'd live to see the day, but perhaps our ways are catching.' Before he could even further shorten his life expectancy by speaking more words they moved on.
All of them drew steel before they unlocked the door – from within they could do so on any given day of the year – and opened it. Their caution was for nothing; the ledge beyond was blessedly empty.
Of everything.
For just a few moments he could believe himself back in the past. The experience was unsettling. Not so long ago – not by his reckoning – he had stood here and looked out over the blackened land, bathing in the early morning sunshine. His heart had ached then for all the lost life and beauty, for all the wrongs that the dragon had done. He had not lingered long. Duty and longing had drawn him into the Mountain where legends had been born with the dragon's death. It had been the birth of hope and the rebirth of something he had so long believed lost. Perilous as it had been, that morning had crackled with possibilities. This one did not.
Yet that morning and this one were so similar that he could not help but draw the comparisons. The orcs had effortlessly achieved what Smaug had done then. The land was blackened and bleak. Everything that grew had been burnt. Everything that stood but an inch above the earth had been razed to the ground. In all this destruction only the Mountain itself still stood tall, the final bastion of safety in this cruel world.
'It's darkest before the dawn,' Dwalin said brusquely. 'Just before the light breaks through and all seems bleakest, that's when we're closest to victory.'
Elvaethor inclined his head. 'Let us ensure that it is.'
Thráin
'It must be near dawn.'
It might be so in other lands where the sun occasionally still shone, but here in Mordor there was neither dawn nor sunlight. Thráin had reached the stage where he had trouble recalling what sunlight looked like or how clean water tasted. He even struggled to remember the taste of food that was not lembas. Even the lembas tasted like ash these days and he was sure that this was not how the elves baked it.
Mordor turns all to ash and dust.
It no longer mattered that the lighter-haired members of the Fellowship had not mud-dyed their hair for days, because they'd all turned grey anyway. Anyone who looked at them from a distance would see five ash-grey shapes moving about the land. He wondered if orcs would perhaps mistake them for their own now that they no longer looked like themselves. They now shared a complexion with them.
'Perhaps,' he allowed, since he could no longer tell the time. He no longer knew what day it was either. All he knew was that Cirith Ungol was a black blur in the distance and that Mount Doom loomed larger. Had Frodo and Sam in the book not experienced delays on their journey through this cursed land? Had they not made a detour? By now he was so tired that his memory failed him at times.
'We must stop.' Legolas gave the good example himself. 'This is as good a place as any.'
It was a better place than many, for it offered them a little shelter against the eastern wind. Should the wind turn, the little hollow lost its use, but for now it would do. He let Sam down gently. 'How are you?' he asked.
'Thirsty,' Sam said.
That in itself was progress. At least he responded again. He gave him some water and Sam indeed drank.
'I must look at the wound,' he announced and, failing any protest from Sam, proceeded to do exactly that. Sam's neck did look marginally better than the last time Thráin looked at it, but the fever had not gone down. Sam had slept for almost the entire march. He was still very ill and there was very little Thráin could do about it now.
I wish Aragorn was here. His Ranger friend would know what to do in ways that Thráin did not, but Aragorn was not here and so he did what he could as best as he could. Maker, give that it will be enough.
Frodo did not look much better than Sam did, but at least he had no fever and due precaution had shielded his neck from the worst of the Ring's onslaught. He swayed on his feet when Legolas put him down, but he nodded when Thráin asked how he was.
'The Ring is very heavy.' Thráin suspected that it was more than just heavy, but he did not ask. 'We must pass it over.'
There was no question of it going anywhere near Sam for a while yet, so Thráin, Gimli and Legolas drew the sticks between them. Thráin took his without looking at it, so the Ring went to Gimli, who ate a few bites of lembas before he accepted the burden.
'We have some days still to go,' Legolas said. 'Distance is deceptive here, but we made good time on our last march.'
'The book is not reliable in this,' Thráin agreed. The longer he thought about it, the surer he was that Frodo and Sam had indeed made a detour in the book. They'd certainly lost time that the Fellowship – due to an almost complete absence of orcs – had not. Even so, they were not moving as fast as he'd hoped they would. 'How many more days do you think?'
'Three,' Legolas answered promptly. He'd thought about it. 'Four at the most.'
There was something he did not say. 'What?'
Legolas cast his eyes over the other three, but they did not listen. Both Frodo and Gimli were busy fussing over Sam, which allowed them a little privacy. Nevertheless he lowered his voice when he spoke again: 'I fear that we do not have much longer than that. You and I are the only ones still in decent shape. Frodo and Sam are both weakened through exposure to the Ring. Gimli will soon be so and he already has an injury that, I fear, does not heal. Our strength is failing.'
Thráin knew this. Some months past he would have carried Sam all night and still not be tired come morning. Now his arms and back ached with the effort. His body yearned for the rest he had not given it. If he wanted to keep going, he must rest and sleep a few hours. He did not like to admit to this, but Legolas looked like he was hanging on by a thread himself, so he said it all the same.
'I need rest too,' Legolas said. 'So do our hobbits and Gimli.'
'So how now to continue?' Thráin asked.
Legolas looked at him. 'It was a question I thought to pose to you.'
He was having none of this. This decision was too big for him to make. 'I thought to bring it before our Ring-bearer and have him decide. That was the pact we agreed upon on the shores of the Anduin.'
'Much has come to pass since that moment.' The tone of voice was carefully neutral and for that reason alone Thráin mistrusted it.
'Yet we have none of us reneged on that decision.' In this he knew himself. 'And I will not start now.'
'Then I must.'
Thráin had not realised they had been overheard. To prevent against that Legolas had kept an eye and an ear out. He must be more tired than Thráin expected if this had slipped past his notice, because here was Frodo, standing on his own two feet, but clutching a nearby rock for much-needed support. He was pale, but oddly determined.
'Frodo, no.' This he could refute, and quite easily too. 'The task was given to you, not to any other. We are here to aid you, to share the load where we must and to protect you. That is why we came.' At times he may have been a little overzealous in the decision making, but any time Frodo told him to stop, he would have. Frodo had not done so, but he could have. That was the agreement.
Frodo crossed his arms over his chest. 'If that is true, then you must listen to me now.'
Maker be good, outmanoeuvred by a hobbit. 'Very well.'
'You put the power in my hands, but your judgement has been better than mine.' He did not quite meet Thráin's eyes when he said this, but he did not elaborate. There was no need. 'Your guidance got us this far. You have my trust.'
And now that he had it, he had no idea what to do with it, not in a place where it would be so easy to shame it. Legolas spoke the truth when he said that their strength was failing. They were running on their very last reserves. How much longer could they last? When he looked around their little Fellowship he worried that Legolas's estimate of three or four days was unreasonably high.
'And mine,' Legolas said before Thráin could rediscover the many uses of his tongue. 'You have led us this far. I trust you to see us through to the end.'
'This…' Thráin began, but this was apparently as far as he was allowed to get.
Gimli spoke over him. 'You are my King,' he said. 'I'll follow where you lead.'
Maker be bloody good. 'Gimli…'
Once more he was not allowed to speak. If they did speak the truth – he had no reason to think that they did not – and they intended to make him their leader, they had a very poor understanding of what this actually meant.
'You've done right, Mr Thráin,' Sam said. He was making this statement from on the ground, but his gaze was clearer than it had been. His body was feverish, but his mind was not. 'You've not steered us wrong.' He looked at Mount Doom in the distance. 'We're nearly there.'
Nearly there and yet not nearly enough.
'I see,' he said, but he was not sure that he did. The weight of responsibility felt heavier now than it had been at the start of their last march. He did not want it. He had never wanted it, but now, it seemed, it was forced upon him whether he liked it or not. His friends stood before him, all wearing that peculiar look that he did not approve of in the slightest.
'Good,' said Gimli as if this was the end of the discussion. 'What are we to do then?'
Thráin waited a moment to see if anyone would challenge this, but they did not. They looked at him expectantly.
Maker be good. 'We ought to sit down,' he said. This was hardly difficult. Frodo and Gimli needed to rest as much as they could before they attempted another march. And attempt it we must.
They all obeyed without question.
The process took only seconds, but it gave him a few moments to organise his thoughts. 'Very well,' he said, not convinced that anything about this was at all well. 'Gimli, how is our water supply?'
'The barrel is half-empty,' Gimli replied.
In only four days. He'd hoped it would last longer. Three more days, four at the most. It should sustain them that long. After that, after the Ring's destruction, everything became uncertain. By now they all surely knew that, though none of them had spoken of it.
'It will do.' It had to. 'Sam, how much food do we have left?'
'Enough, Mr Thráin,' Sam replied. He leaned his back against a rock for support, but he made a visible effort to engage. 'For a week at least.'
He had not realised their supplies were running so low.
'Very well,' he said again for lack of anything better to say. He was no natural leader. Thoren was the one who had been trained in public speaking. Thráin usually avoided those lessons by going off for a three week wander, by the end of which surely that wretched lesson would have ended and he was free to do as he pleased. He now regretted this.
Legolas took pity on him. 'We cannot continue on as we are.'
No, they could not. These past two marches had seen them cover many miles, but at great cost. The hobbits had borne the brunt of it and with nary a complaint at that, but they were at the end of their tether. The pace had been brutal on Gimli too, who also had not complained. Yet Thráin had seen the way he carried himself, how he avoided doing anything with his injured arm. He was no fool.
'No, we cannot.'
'I can carry it for another march,' Sam said.
'It will be the death of you,' Thráin replied brusquely. 'I will not do that.'
Sam scrambled to his feet. It took great effort and a nearby rock to pull himself up, but he managed it. 'You can carry me,' he said.
'No.' Yes, he could carry Sam and he'd perform that duty gladly, whether Sam bore the Ring or not. He drew the line at Sam nearly – or actually – dying in order to see this done. This was not how he meant to complete this quest. 'I shall not enable you to kill yourself for the sake of the quest.' What a hollow victory that would be.
'It may kill us either way if we lose speed now.' Sam was being entirely reasonable in a way Thráin did not much care for. 'I insist.'
'We shall carry it between the two of us on marches,' Frodo nodded, also standing up. 'You shall not do this alone.'
They seemed to have already forgotten that they had forced the leadership on Thráin not so long ago. They staged a mutiny already. This did not bode well.
For Durin's…. Oh, Maker be good! 'It will be the death of you as well.'
Frodo did not blink when he looked back. 'So be it.'
'This is not the outcome of the book,' Thráin retorted. All the changes he had made, he had made so that the outcome would be better, so that more people might live. He had not made them so that two incredibly brave hobbits could find their deaths in this barren wasteland.
'You said yourself that we have long since left that path behind,' Frodo reminded him. 'If we cannot rely on it anymore, then we must make our own path. This is where it leads.'
He wished Frodo did not speak so much sense.
'If we do this,' he said, taking care to stress the if in that sentence, 'then we shall do it right and in such a way that gives us all the best chance to survive. We shall bind your necks with as many cloths and scarves and fabrics as we are able.'
The warmth would be unbearable, but it was better still than to expose them to have their necks rubbed open near to the bone by the weight of the Ring. Even now, from where he stood, he could feel it vibrate with anger and malice. It would fight them every step of the way, so if they were to stand any chance, they needed to do this right.
If we make but one misstep, it will be the end of us.
Sam nodded.
'One of the others shall carry you and when we are resting, you will pass it over to one of the others so that you may recover as much as you are able.' This was not in fact a suggestion.
Frodo considered this and then nodded. 'I agree.'
Thráin turned to Sam next. Sam still stood – with effort, but he stood – and he straightened up. 'You will make a fine king, Mr Thráin, if you don't mind me saying so.'
He did not mind, not anymore.
'I shall strive my hardest to be worthy of such praise, Sam.' They were after all not safe yet. He may not live long enough to do all that he was supposed to do. But he would try to be. 'Eat something, if you can, and then rest. We shall have another long march ahead of us when we have slept.' Dawn or no dawn, they needed the sleep now. Besides, under these clouds one could not tell the difference anyway. 'I shall keep the first watch. After some hours Legolas may relieve me.'
'What about me?' Gimli demanded.
'You shall sleep.' And hopefully rest would mend his arm a little. 'You chose me to be your leader against my wishes, so now you shall abide by it and do as I tell you.' He fixed his kinsman with a stern stare. 'You shall rest and I shall keep watch for some time.'
They could not afford not to.
Unlike the Fellowship, evil did not sleep in Mordor.
Next time: Faramir plunges new depths of recklessness, with Peter egging him on every inch of the way. Meanwhile, in Erebor, a more solemn event is taking place.
As always, thank you very much for reading. Reviews would be very welcome!
Until next week!
