Chapter 139

Out of Danger

We were all very near the epicentre – and the Fellowship was entirely too close for comfort – so we got the full benefits of Sauron's realm falling apart. Legolas told the Fellowship that the land itself fought hard to rid itself of anything Sauron had done to it and it really set to it with a will. There was a lot of Sauron's crap to be got rid of.

The Fellowship got out before the Mordor spring clean really got its boots on, which was just as well, because once it got started, it didn't stop for a week. During that week no one got near the land, because honestly, why would anyone want to? The volcano belched a lot of bad fumes and other related product into the air and the ground shook for ages. There was rain too at some point, some days afterwards, heavy rain in fact. Most of Mordor flooded, presumably to drain away all the filth the orcs had left behind.

When all was said and done and people finally plucked up enough courage to have a proper look around, Mordor was unrecognisable. There were no discernible buildings to start with. The tower that the Fellowship had sheltered in near Cirith Ungol? Gone. The Black Gates? Reduced to rubble. When people got round to it to eventually to look for Barad-dûr, they weren't able to find it. They knew where it should have been, but there was simply nothing there anymore. It had all been washed away.

It speaks for itself that those so near all this violence were a little bit terrified by it. It's not every day you see that sort of thing. In the moment itself it was hard to feel any relief over Sauron's demise, not when you're too busy trying to find a safe place to stand. That all came later.

But Sauron had cast his nets far and wide. His influence had spread many, many miles beyond the borders of his own land. He had orcs to control and people to terrorise after all. He achieved all this by some sort of foul sorcery that I, just as capable of sorcery as an orc is of table manners, don't really understand. I can only witness and observe the results.

The absence of Sauron – caused by an unfortunate case of death – had effects on his orcs as well as the people who'd lived under a cloud of hopelessness and despair for far too long. Nowhere was this better demonstrated than at Erebor, where a siege was still in progress, but not for very much longer…

Elvaethor

A cold wind blew from the east, but Elvaethor was glad to be out on the battlements regardless. There weren't many other places that he was allowed to go just yet. There weren't many other places that his wheelchair would go, because despite their planning and inventing, Nes, Kíli and Víli had not yet found a way to make it safe on stairs. So it was their makeshift lift he utilised.

'Not a cheery sight,' Fíli said. He had limped his way up the stairs instead.

'Not a cheery sight,' Elvaethor agreed, though it was an understatement. The sight of the land before his eyes broke his heart. All that was life had been wiped from it, leaving only scorched earth and abominations of life in its place. Hopelessness hung over it like a cloud, never to lift. Not even during Smaug's reign had it seemed this bleak.

But then there had been hope, he recalled. There had been a small company of dwarves, a hobbit and a woman who set out to prove to the world that this evil could be overcome. It was rousing to behold them. He'd had the privilege of seeing them perform remarkable deeds and even in the face of the desolation, his heart had leaped for joy.

It didn't leap now. It was too heavy with grief and despair.

'There's hope still.'

Yes, there was hope, yet it was many miles to the south and he could not see it and touch it this time, which made it harder to hold on to his faith. And yes, he did have some faith in his own plans. He would never have mentioned them if he did not think for even a moment that they could work. Yet there was so much risk involved and he had been given to understand by no small amount of newfound kin that there was no way he would take part in the action. They would happily tie him down to prevent it should he wish to put this to the test.

He did not.

A tremor ran through the Mountain. Then another.

'Do you feel that, my friend?' he asked.

Fíli frowned. 'Feel what?'

'Tremors in the earth.' They had stopped again for now, but there had been no mistaking the fact that they had been there. 'Barely there, but I felt them.'

'Can you feel them now?'

He shook his head. 'No.' But something had changed. A tingle went down his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Change was in the air. 'Something has changed.' Would that he could tell what it was.

'What has happened?' Fíli did not doubt him. Many a dwarf scoffed at this trusting in feelings without any solid evidence to back up a claim, but not Fíli. He might have scoffed at Thranduil or Aerandir. He might even have questioned Tauriel's judgement, but he did not for one moment doubt Elvaethor's. The show of faith warmed his heart.

He turned his gaze inwards and allowed his senses to speak to him in the way his eyes and ears could not always do. There was a change in the air, a feeling of anticipation, as though the whole world was holding its breath just moments before something truly momentous was upon it. A stir went through the earth, excited, joyful…

'The Ring has been destroyed.' As he said it, he knew that it was the truth. It was done.

No doubt Fíli would have said a thing or two about that, but he never had the chance. He felt the next shaking of the earth. He had to let go of his stick to grip the battlements in order to remain upright. The whole of Erebor must have felt this. Elvaethor's wheelchair slid back, then forth. One of the guards on duty managed to grab and steady it before he could be smashed against the walls.

It ended as quickly as it had begun.

'Are you…?' Fíli began to ask.

Elvaethor was reasonably certain that he meant to ask if he was sure, but the next events made such a question irrelevant. A wind blew in from the south whereas it had come from the east just moments ago. It came as quickly as it went, but when it did, the hopelessness and despair were gone as though they had never been in the first place. The pressure lifted from his chest and he could breathe again in a way he had not been able to do for a long time. The shadows lifted.

It is over, he thought. It is over. Many miles away, unseen by most, a small group of people had achieved the unthinkable. The Ring was no more, its power broken. Sauron, after so long, was finally gone. Whilst he lived he had permeated everything. When he stretched out his might to these lands, he had brought strife and distrust, hopelessness and despair. Now they were gone. He broke through the haze of fear that had haunted him for so long and breathed the free air again.

Fíli clutched the wall for support, wearing an expression that suggested someone had hit him over the head with something hard and he was still reeling from the impact that it had made. He did not ask if Elvaethor was sure now.

The ground rumbled beneath their feet once more and then was still.

'It is over,' Fíli said. He sounded somewhat incredulous, but that would not last long. Dwarves were never caught on the backfoot for any extended period of time.

'It is over,' Elvaethor agreed. His heart felt lighter. He had not forgotten the pain and the losses, but he could bear them better. It was odd how he never truly realised Sauron's influence on his mind and heart until they were gone at last. 'The Ring is no more.' Perhaps he would start feeling it more if he repeated it enough times.

It was not that he lacked conviction. He knew that it was true. Yet this had been reality for so long he had been unable to see an end and now that end had come so unexpectedly. Sauron was no more.

If he did need convincing – which he did not – then he need look no further than the camp before the gates. They had felt the wind too, it seemed, but whereas it had brought relief and joy to those who sheltered within the Mountain, it brought nothing but the insanity of despair to those below. The camp had become an anthill of activity, but not of the kind that indicated that an attack was imminent. Most orcs seemed to be running around without sense, without direction.

'Like a chicken with its head cut off,' Fíli commented.

It was exactly like that. Then there were others who turned their blades upon themselves. Some orcs made off south as fast as their legs could carry them. Others resorted to fighting their own. It seemed to be an instinct for them if they did not know what else to do.

There would never be a better time.

'We must drive them off,' Elvaethor said. It was panic down below, but how long this madness lasted, none could say. Nothing quite like this had happened in living memory. 'And we must do it now.'

'You cannot stand,' Fíli pointed out, who had quite accurately predicted what Elvaethor intended to do. He had retrieved his stick from the floor and now brandished it in Elvaethor's direction. 'Every healer under this Mountain would have my head on a spike if I let you get past me.'

True, his legs did hurt, one more than the other. His right would bear his weight, but his left would not yet. The orc had done extensive damage to it. It would heal faster than a man or a dwarf would heal, but it still took time.

Fortunately, he had a solution near at hand. 'I can sit on a horse.' He did not intend to run. He only meant to run these orcs off to where they could do no more harm. It was after all the duty of every sentient being to fight the threat of orcs wherever they may find it. Elvaethor found it right before the gates of his own home and this, unsurprisingly, did not sit well with him. 'And so can you. You have ridden out to battle once already. Your leg is almost healed.' He looked him in the eye. 'And this is our duty.'

There were no more arguments.

One could only hope to get this whole thing underway well before Duria learned of his intentions.

The news of the orcs' madness spread through the Mountain faster than he had believed possible. A messenger could only carry a message so fast, but this news travelled considerably faster than the fastest messenger on the fastest horse. This led to a high number of volunteers already congregating before the gates. They'd found armour – in some cases their own and if not just what they could find at such short notice – and weapons, even if it was only an axe for chopping wood. Some were still healing from injuries they sustained in previous battles, but that did not hold them back. There was a fire in them, an urge to go out and be there when it all ended.

Who was he to say them nay?

The noise was equal to that achieved at a dwarvish party, not least of all because the amount of folk assembled here, but also because these folk had found their courage. Optimism was in the air, so tangible that he might almost be fooled into thinking he could just reach out and take it into his hands.

'I've found you a horse,' Flói announced, appearing with a horse already saddled and bridled. Dark circles under his eyes betrayed that it had been some time since he'd had sleep, but he was armoured and armed, ready for battle. Elvaethor would not say him nay either. 'Need help mounting up?'

'Yes.' He did.

Flói took care with him, to not hurt him worse than he already was. He hurt Elvaethor anyway, but he grit his teeth and did not say a thing about it. He would not miss this. It was too important. This was the end of the greatest war of this age, where final victory would be achieved. He wouldn't be anywhere else.

It seemed he shared that opinion with most of the folk under the Mountain. Most of the leaders of the Alliance were in evidence, those that hadn't been locked up by the healers. Stonehelm bellowed orders to his warriors to get them to fall into line. Thranduil had brought his people. Solmund organised his men into a semblance of order. Bard did the same. Then of course came everyone else, shouting at the top of their lungs, milling about and undoing all that good work. If this had been an ordinary battle, he'd have been appalled. It was not.

He rode up to the gates and raised his voice. The acoustics were very good. His voice carried here and as he spoke they all fell silent.

He kept it short and to the point. 'Today the Ring has been destroyed. We know three heroes among that Fellowship. I say we make sure that they have a safe place to come home to. Who is with me?'

A great cheer went up. The walls trembled with the sound of it. The people were raring to go even before he spoke. Now he had made their cause a nobler one still. There'd be no stopping them now.

He turned to the guards on the gates. 'Open the gates,' he ordered quietly. 'It is time.'

They inclined their heads and did as they told. Slowly, but surely the great gates of Erebor opened and Elvaethor made sure that he was the first one to ride through them, blade in hand, the name of his newfound homeland on his lips. Many behind them took up the cry, and not all of them dwarves either.

He thundered out the gates – his horse didn't need much encouragement in the right direction – and towards his targets. The orcs had only gone far enough away from the Mountain to be out of range of the archers. It wasn't a long road. They did not have any time to mount a proper defence.

He'd worried about a defence for nothing, as it happened. The orcs were out of their minds. They never saw them. They could have borne down on them with horns blowing and drums beating out a rhythm and the orcs still would not have noticed their coming. The heart had gone out of them.

They paid for that in blood. The Free Folk Alliance met no resistance. Some orcs had a weapon to hand, but if they used it at all, it was to turn on themselves and their own. It would appear that they had lost all will to fight. Elvaethor had never seen the like in all his years.

The momentum of the attack brought him and his people deep into the Enemy's camp. Now at last some orcs discovered that they were in a predicament. Ordinarily that meant that they reached for their weapons to fight the invaders, but that was not now happening. Most of the orcs took one look at the invading army and ran.

They ran.

It had been chaos before. It was more so now. There was no resistance, only fear and madness. This in turn emboldened the Free Folk, who shouted themselves hoarse with battle cries and set off after the fleeing orcs with a will. Most of the orcs were not allowed to get very far.

Elvaethor joined in the pursuit for a while, but eventually let himself be overtaken by others. He was coated in black blood – mostly from the waist down – and so was his horse. His duty was in leading his people out to do what they had to. Now he had. Erebor was safe. This threat was vanquished, never to return. His people were safe. This war had taken too many and he was weary of all the killing.

'It is done,' said a voice beside him.

'So it is.'

Thranduil sat on a horse that was at least as covered in blood as Elvaethor's own mount. 'Perhaps we have been more sensible in our war than our fathers were in theirs.'

Elvaethor recalled where they had lost their lives and against whom and agreed. 'Yes, perhaps we have been.' He looked out over the carnage. 'And yet perhaps we have also been very lucky.' Luckier than many brave souls who had charged out in a good cause and had given their life for it. In the days to come he would look for many faces who would never be there again. Too many had died. The price they paid for their lives was steep.

And yet we had no choice but to pay it.

'As lucky, I should think, as our loved ones who marched south.'

Elvaethor inclined his head. 'As you say.'

He hoped they had been lucky. His thoughts travelled south, but his heart was silent.

Thráin

Many a time had Thráin heard the account of his parents' rescue from Azog's band of warriors by the eagles. His father had often told the story at bedtime. He described the size of the eagles, their great wingspan, their dignified ways and their hatred of all the hurt that the orcs did in the world.

Many a time, after he left for the night, had Thráin and Thoren lain awake, wondering what a treat it would be to be borne through the air by such magnificent creatures. How splendid it must be to see all the world from high up above. How marvellous would it be to fly and not be confined to the earth for just a little while.

The reality was nothing like that.

Too late he remembered his mother's account of those events, who took an altogether different view than his father. She'd said that the experience was both uncomfortable and terrifying and that the thought of falling to her death had never been very far from her mind.

It wasn't very far from Thráin's mind now either. Dwarves, he reflected, were not made to take to the skies. If his Maker had meant for him to do so, he would have given him wings. Since he had done no such thing, it stood to reason that he ought to remain with his two feet planted firmly on the ground.

The eagle who carried him had him in one of its talons, facing down. Because he wore no armour to protect him, the talon in question dug uncomfortably into his skin. Facing down also meant that he could see only too well that, if the eagle were to drop him, there was a very long way to fall. Dwarven bones and skulls were made to withstand much, but not quite that much.

The one good thing was that he had a very good view of what was below him. Mordor was not in a good state. Structures were falling down everywhere he looked. Even bits of mountains broke off and gave way. He didn't much like the idea of being in the tunnels of Cirith Ungol now; he very much doubted they'd survive the onslaught.

The eagles were fast flyers. They left Mordor behind very quickly. They passed the mountains and soared over Ithilien, where a great army that included seven Mûmakil was camped just east of Osgiliath. He reckoned he saw Gondor's banner there, but they flew past too quickly to be certain.

He could however see what war had done to Pelennor Fields. He recalled grassy plains, but these had turned to mud after the war raged over them. And yes, damage had been done to the walls of Minas Tirith as well. He no longer saw a gate there either. Yet it was to Minas Tirith that they were going, so he had to presume that the city was once more safe.

The other two eagles were slightly ahead, so he could keep track of where they were headed. It appeared that the top level of the city was to be their destination, possibly because that would be the easiest place for creatures of this size to land. This gave him a good view of the city. It seemed that the damage was mostly contained to the lower city and that everything else seemed to have come through the war with nary a scratch.

There were many people about. He flew too high to discern any individual shapes, certainly too high to recognise anyone he might know. Now that the worst was behind him, he worried for his friends. He'd trusted in hope for a long time, not least because it kept him moving when looking back would have slowed him down. Yet now he wondered if they had all made it through alive. Did the Fellowship yet live? Had Faramir not lost his life? Were any of them here today?

The eagles landed at the very highest level of the city. They hovered just inches above the ground, where they released their charges, and landed a few feet away. Thráin hit the ground fairly gently and rose to his feet.

Or tried to.

With not a little shame he realised that he was not quite capable of standing on his own two feet. After months his body finally let him down.

He had no chance to try again; gentle hands were at his elbows to raise him up when his own strength let him down. The faces that belonged to these folk were unknown to him, a grey-haired man and woman who yet seemed somehow familiar.

'Can you stand?' the man asked kindly.

'With your help.' He did not think he could do so alone. One glance at his friends taught him that they needed similar help, even Legolas. A tall man carried Frodo as though he was a new-born babe. 'Thank you.'

'I suspect it's we who should be thanking you,' the man replied. 'Come on, then. We'll get you inside and then we'll see where we are.' Something about the speech patterns struck a chord with him and increased that sense of familiarity, yet he could swear to it that he had never met him before.

He looked at the woman and found a stern, but not unkind face. 'Bath, food and bed, I think,' she decreed. 'And in that order too, if you can manage it.'

When was the last time he had bathed? Lothlórien perhaps? After that it had been a quick wash as often as could be managed, but the only full immersion in water had been of the involuntary kind and not helpful in being cleaner. 'That would be very kind,' he said, recalling that he had manners.

'I'll have a look at your injuries then as well,' said the woman.

'You are a healer?' Thráin asked.

A strange expression crossed her face. 'Yes,' she replied after a short hesitation. 'Yes, I suspect that is the right word for it. Come on, then, off we go. You'll say it if the walking is too strenuous and I'll arrange transport for you.'

He meant to ask if they had met. If he'd been less exhausted he'd be able to place why they seemed so familiar to him, but it had been so long since he'd slept that his mind had turned sluggish and uncooperative. Yet now, as it had been when he carried the Ring and could barely recall his own name – never mind anyone else's – he knew that these were friends and that they had a care for his well-being. Everything else could wait.

The others were taken away to different places, but he had no doubt that he would see them again once they all felt better. Thráin did not see where they went, but he himself was led into what appeared to be the palace itself. Folk were hurrying to and fro with supplies and buckets and they seemed content to take their instructions from the woman who supported him. She appeared to hold some authority here.

He was led into a spacious room with a desk and chair, a hearth in which a fire was burning and a large bath tub evidently intended to accommodate a full-grown man. It was already filled with water, warm too judging by the steam that rose from it.

'Would you prefer to undress alone?' the woman asked.

He appreciated the gesture, but his strength was all but gone and he did not think he could manage on his own. 'I am afraid I have to rely on aid to undress myself,' he admitted. He tried to lift his hands and found that although they did do that, they did it slower than he would have wished. They also didn't seem capable of finding the places he wished them to go.

The man took over with a reassuring smile and a genuine sounding 'Not a problem. Allow me.' Thráin was content to let him do so. He was no use as he was. Food and sleep would set him right again, but as he'd had neither yet, that was no use now. He did not feel hungry, but it had been a while since he'd taken some lembas, so he ought to eat.

The man undressed him without much of a fuss. 'I don't think there's anything left to salvage here,' he said. 'Would you mind if we burned the clothes or is there something you'd like to keep?'

His first instinct was to say to leave the boots, but then he saw the state of them. Not even a dwarven craftsman would know what to do with them now, other than to destroy this pair and urge him to purchase new footwear. The clothes were torn and bloody and muddy. 'Destroy them,' he said. 'I have some clothes left in my pack that should be serviceable after a wash.' It had after all been some time since he last changed. The fact that he could not recall when this was, ought to cause him some concern.

The woman nodded, gathered up the discarded garments and left the room. The man offered his arm and helped him into the tub. The water was nice and warm, very different from the dry heat of Mordor. The baths in Erebor could not have been much better.

'Would you mind terribly if I helped you to wash your hair?' the man asked.

He should not mind. It was not as if he was in any state to do so adequately himself. Yet here he hesitated. 'I mean you no offence, but this is usually done among kin among my people.'

The puzzled look on the man's face made way for first understanding and then, to Thráin's surprise, triumph. 'Well, that won't be a problem then,' he said. Now he smiled as well, which threw Thráin even more off his balance. It was probably a good thing he already sat down. 'Sorry, I should have introduced myself. Patrick Andrews, pleasure to meet you. You just met my wife Fiona. As I understand it my father and your mother were brother and sister.'

In his current state it took him a little too long to piece it all together. Then he did. 'Must I speak with the wizard on your behalf?' It was bad enough that Gandalf had taken Beth, but now her father and mother were here as well? He was too tired for true anger at this time, but sleep would sort him out and then he would deal with this. Gandalf's actions needed to have consequences. It was long overdue.

Patrick shook his head. 'No need for that. We're here of our own free will, though I will admit that it was a bit of a surprise to say the least. Would you like me to tell you now or do you prefer to wait?'

He gave that some thought and decided on the latter. 'If you are sure that there is no pressing need.'

'None whatsoever.' He indicated Thráin's head. 'Do I have your permission?'

'You are my cousin,' Thráin pointed out. 'Yes, you may.'

There was a dire need for it as well, because when he drew a strand of hair before his eyes, he found that it was grey. In fact, he had turned almost entirely grey. The ashes had seen to that. By the time he was deemed clean again, the water in the tub was murky and black. He was glad to leave it.

Someone had found him a tunic that was made with a taller person in mind. It reached down to his knees. 'Breeches?' he inquired.

'No need for those,' Fiona's brisk voice said. 'You won't be leaving that bed for a while, I shouldn't wonder.' She had entered the room just as he pulled the tunic over his head. 'Do you mind if I looked at your injuries?'

'Not at all.' He knew he had a few.

'We'll accompany you to a place with a bed, then,' Fiona said. 'You'll be pleased to hear that the others have all bathed as well and are currently being checked over for their injuries. I hope you do not mind that we are housing you all together for the time being?'

A year ago he would have wrinkled his nose at the thought of having to share a room with an elf, but those days were long gone. So he nodded and allowed himself to be helped to another room, just across the hallway, where the other four were sitting on beds. Healers crowded around Gimli. His kinsman did not sit up or speak. Maker, please do not let him lose the arm.

Legolas bore the ministrations of a healer with calm dignity, easier to do now that he was no longer covered in ash from top to toe. Frodo and Sam were also being tended to.

Fiona and Patrick helped him onto a bed and then Fiona set to work. He supposed he knew now why she looked so familiar. Beth had her eyes and a certain likeness in her bearing and manners. Their voices sounded very alike too. But it was from Patrick that most of her features had come, including the curls, the shape of the face and the smile.

This was a cousin of his. It slowly sank in as Fiona prodded at his injuries, applied salves and bandages and made him swallow a fair few foul-tasting concoctions she insisted were intended to help him heal. All they did was leave a foul taste in his mouth, but eventually she was done.

'Lie down. Someone will be along with a meal in a minute,' she instructed him. 'You'll need to get your strength back up. You're skinny. If I were to turn you sideways behind a lamppost, you'd be invisible.'

'What, pray, is a lamppost?' Legolas enquired from the next bed.

'Something that you'd fit behind as well in your current state, Mister.' Fiona was not overawed by elves from the looks of it. 'No, no, kindly stay exactly where you are. You are on mandatory bedrest for the foreseeable future.' She consulted a list given to her by another healer and levelled a stern stare at him. Although she was younger than he was by thousands of years, he shrank back. 'You are dehydrated, malnourished and exhausted. You have numerous bruises, ditto with the burns and lacerations, two cracked ribs, a sprained wrist, a miasma of infected scrapes and scratches and a concussion. What on Earth were you doing? Did you try to headbutt the Ring into the volcano?'

As much as she sounded like her daughter, Thráin found it hard to imagine Beth ever taking such a tone with anyone.

'My wife was a doctor before she retired,' Patrick explained to Thráin. 'You are in good hands with her, but it seems that your friend has been attempting to leave his bed against his orders. A difficult patient, I shouldn't wonder. Mind you don't do the same.'

It was probably already too late for that, for she now turned her attentions upon him. 'As for you, I wonder what you have been up to, quite honestly. You're desperately underweight.'

'I would presume that was inevitable, given that I have nourished myself on elf bread for some time.'

'Malnourished is more like it.' His cousin's wife folded her hands over her chest in a manner much like her daughter at her least pleased. 'You're also dehydrated and exhausted. In addition to that you have the grand total of four cracked ribs, a badly sprained wrist, a bump on your head the size of a golf ball, but mysteriously no concussion. You have five major wounds, all of them infected, and so many minor ones that I stopped counting after twenty. And do not get me started on all the bruises and minor burns. You also have a nasty burn on your neck and two others on your right leg. Did you decide to bathe in lava perhaps?'

'Not to the best of my knowledge.' He knew he'd been badly hurt and he had very consciously decided not to think too long and hard on it. He could not treat it then. Others treated his hurts now. They must have done something right, for the pain was dulled. 'How is Gimli?' he asked. 'His arm?'

Her expression softened. 'I won't lie to you. He's not fighting fit right now. The wound's infected and the infection has spread. We'll do what we can.'

It was the best promise he felt he was going to receive, so he inclined his head in acknowledgement and gratitude. 'I thank you, Mistress Fiona.'

This made her smile. 'Just Fiona, please,' she requested. 'Ah, here's the food. Mind you eat all of it. You need to put on some weight. Then sleep and with any luck, you'll be allowed some visitors when you wake.'

He meant to ask after the fates of his friends and companions, but he couldn't keep his eyes open for long enough after his meal. For the first time in months, he fell asleep in a real bed.

Next time: Thoren has an important mission for Elvaethor.

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Until next week!