Chapter 141

The Great Mystery

One of the strangest things about the end of the war was the end of the urgency. Before that time it had been rushing from one place to the next, organising things and then another bout of rushing because everything was happening now and there were never enough hours in the day. And all of that just suddenly stopped.

It didn't stop immediately, because we hurried back to Minas Tirith like the devil himself was at our heels. Of course then all that sense of urgency skidded to a sudden halt when my mother told us no. That was a bit of a wake-up call for me. Of course we wanted to see how our friends were and rather now than later, but there was no burning need to do it now. The world was not going to end unless we acted right that instant.

The change of pace was abrupt and, somewhat to my surprise, I really couldn't handle it well. Back in the day, when I still wrote books and had deadlines I needed to make, I dragged myself through those stressful times by dangling the promise of a few days of doing absolutely nothing once it was all done. This always worked a charm. I relished those days of idleness. I sat back, read a book that I hadn't had to write first, lounged in the bath, treated myself to an outing or two and generally enjoyed not having to do stuff for a while. I never had any trouble switching gears.

Until now.

So naturally I was far too restless for sleep. I stalked the hallways in a manner somewhat reminiscent of Banquo's ghost, generally getting in the way of people who did have things to be getting on with and being neither use nor ornament. By the end of the night I was knackered and somehow still too restless for sleep. It was annoying and frustrating, even more so because Boromir had dropped off to sleep the moment his head hit the pillow. I'd entertained the hope of absorbing that gift by proximity, but it seems that's not how that works.

No one else seemed to be experiencing this problem. The Fellowship slept as if their lives depended on it and most of my own companions were worn out so much that sleep became the only option. No, if I was looking for a kindred spirit, I should look to Erebor, where insomnia roamed the halls as well…

Elvaethor

Sleep eluded him this night, so it was to the mountainside that his feet carried him. He had made this short journey many a time before, but there had always been something there to go to. Now nothing remained of the tomb that had once been his destination. For that matter nothing remained of the trees and bushes that had surrounded it either, but at least he could rest assured in knowing that the tomb had not been violated. It was still safe.

'Many are the changes you wrought upon this world, my friend,' he spoke out of habit. He did not know if he was heard, but he always liked to think that he was. Kate may have made her peace with her own demise before death came for her, but he knew she had worried about the days that were now behind them. It seemed inconceivable that she had not wished to keep an eye on things herself.

The only sounds that answered him were those of the early morning breeze. Birds had fled the area. Who could blame them?

'I doubt that even the wizard knew what great deeds your children were destined to perform,' he continued. 'Rest assured, Kate, I shall bring your son home to where he belongs.' Even if Thoren had not entrusted this task to him, he would have requested it. It had been too long since he had clapped eyes on Thráin.

If he was truly honest with himself though – and with none around to hear and judge him, why should he not be? – he longed for a time to not be in Erebor. It was his home, but for now the shadow of bad memories hung over it. He had not spoken of this to anyone, but he saw the absence of Jack everywhere he looked. In a way this loss had hit him as hard as the loss of Thorin and Kate had done eighteen years ago. In some other ways it had hit him harder, because this loss had come unexpected. This was not old age creeping up slowly or grief eroding a body over several months. This was cold and hard and brutal and sudden. It left him gasping for air and grasping for certainties that were no longer there.

He should be no stranger to death in battle, but Jack was supposed to be safe. All agreed on that. He was recovering, safely hidden behind the mighty walls of Erebor. He was one of the few for whom Elvaethor did not fear.

The loss struck harder because of this.

So it was with few regrets that he temporarily turned his back on his new homeland. I shall dwell here again and the shadows will not trouble me. He knew this. He knew that he would know better days again and perhaps that was enough hope to sustain him until he felt it again. I shall come home again.

'For Durin's sake!' a well-known voice called out.

A smile tugged at his lips, because for just a moment he could have believed that it was Kate who offered her own harsh comments on his current conduct. Surely she would have taken him to task in a similar manner if she found him disregarding the healers' advice. It was however not Kate, it was her eldest daughter.

'It's bad enough I have to track Thoren here so often, but now you start as well?' she complained. 'Honestly, Elvaethor, you ought to sit down and spare your legs!'

'I am well enough to stand, Duria,' he replied. Not without aid, but he found that his wheelchair served its purpose in this as well. Instead of sitting down, he had taken the position of the one who ordinarily pushed, his hands clasping the hand rests. His legs did not hurt as much as they had some days ago; elves healed fast.

Duria was not one to be dissuaded from her course. 'Why push it at all?' She shook her head. 'The tomb has been moved inside. Why are you here at all?'

'Because this is where they rested for a long time.'

Duria snorted. 'If I did not know you were not related to us by blood, I could be fooled into believing it.' She shook her head. 'They are not here. They were not here when their bodies were buried here. They have no guidance to offer us now.'

'Just a listening ear. I need no more than that.'

She opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it. 'I shan't quarrel with you now. That is not the way I would part with you.' She looked at the empty space. 'Bring him home, Elvaethor,' she charged him. 'I don't like that you're going, mind, but if you are going, you had better take him back home with you.' She took a deep breath. 'And Harry's mother, if you can find her.'

If she is yet alive.

The words hung in the air unspoken.

'I shall do my best.' It was the best promise he could make. 'I cannot speak for her, but my heart tells me that Thráin yet lives. I hope that is consolation for you.'

Duria smiled wryly. 'Well, I won't ask how you know these things, but I thank you for it.'

Thráin must live. And so live he did. Elvaethor's judgement had let him down more often than he liked of late, but in this he knew that he was not wrong. Untroubled by the cloud of evil and despair that had dulled his senses for so long, he could once more feel and reach out and know the truth. Whilst he lived under Sauron's sorcery this had been different and yet he had been unaware of what caused it. Now that he knew, it was no longer relevant.

'You may trust in that,' he vowed.

'I never doubted it. You are my brother. You would not tell me falsehoods.'

Her trust made him smile. Dwarves were slow to trust outsiders, but he was one of them now, trusted implicitly, without question. It was a warm feeling that would sustain him on the long road south.

They stood for some time in silence, heads bowed, remembering. Yet dawn was not far off and by then Elvaethor meant to be on the road. His things were packed and Flói assured him that they would be ready and waiting for him with the horse he'd saddle for him. Duria insisted that he sat back down in the chair and she pushed him back inside. It was altogether quicker to let her.

His companions were already waiting at the gates, but he was not the last to arrive. The elves Thranduil had promised him had not yet arrived, and it was clear that his friends did not approve of this in the slightest. Flói tapped one foot impatiently. Kíli and Nori had already mounted up.

'Good to see you, cousin Elvaethor,' Kíli hailed him. A few elves that walked past nearby made startled faces. If Kíli's intention was to get a rise out of them, he had succeeded. Yet this too gladdened Elvaethor's heart. His new kin pulled him into their world without hesitation or reserves, putting their hearts and souls into drawing him in. He could do no less for them.

'Cousin Kíli,' he returned the greeting. 'A fine day for travel.'

The skies were clear and though the air was cold, there was no rain and no clouds blackened out the skies. It was a novel sight after so long under the Shadow. It restored hope to many a soul dwelling in Erebor.

'Indeed it is,' Nori said. 'You need help mounting up, lad?'

Elvaethor nodded. 'I fear so.' For some days at least he required aid, but his body was healing. Within the week he would be able to do all of this for himself again, so it was to that knowledge he clung while his body was not yet his own again.

Nori dismounted and helped Elvaethor onto the horse. 'You'll give as much trouble as all my sister's children, I tell you,' he grumbled good-naturedly. 'And if Dori were here, he'd tell you so.'

'He's not here?'

'He doesn't know,' Flói corrected. 'My father will tell him once we're gone, which is for the best.'

Elvaethor agreed. He had become part of this family, which meant that he had taken on all of them, the good and the bad. He had the nagging as well as the loyalty, the bickering as well as the kindness. It was a price worth paying.

He said no more on the matter. Thranduil approached and family squabbles were not for the ears of elves. Behind him Lancaeron and Galu followed. Both had served under Elvaethor when he was still captain of the guard. Lancaeron he always found pleasant company. He could follow orders, but think for himself as well. Elvaethor trusted his judgement. Galu was a capable warrior, but harder to read. He never spoke much. He kept to himself often.

'These are your companions for the road,' Thranduil announced, addressing Elvaethor rather than his kin.

'They are most welcome,' Elvaethor replied. Common courtesy dictated that he made this statement from a position on the ground, but although he could dismount without aid, he could not get back on the horse on his own. He turned his attention to his companions and inclined his head. 'Well met, my friends.'

Galu simply returned the courtesy without words. Lancaeron, as always, had more to say. 'It is my honour to be part of this company,' he said. Unlike his king, he spoke his words to the dwarves as well.

Flói waved. 'Well met indeed, Masters Elf,' he greeted with entirely too much cheer for such an early hour. 'Are you ready for our little venture?'

'Little?' Lancaeron asked with one eyebrow raised. 'Surely it is a long road that we have ahead of us?'

'Long, aye,' Flói agreed. 'But easier than our heroes have tread.'

None could argue with that, so none did. Galu and Lancaeron had brought horses of their own and mounted up. 'We are ready when you are.'

Elvaethor glanced around, but Thoren was nowhere to be seen. He had promised that he would come, so it was for him that they waited. And in this case they did not need to wait for very long. Víli and Nes pushed another wheelchair in which Thoren sat. It looked as though it had been made in a few hours, but it didn't fall apart. Nothing made by dwarves would ever be allowed to break so soon after construction.

'Do not dismount,' Thoren said when he realised that Elvaethor was about to do just that. 'It is time you were gone.'

It was. Dawn had broken. They should have set off by now.

'We will return as quickly as we may.' He would not linger in the south. If all was well, Thráin would set off for home as soon as he could. Of this he had no doubt. If luck favoured them, they would meet him on the road. After all, it was a long journey south.

'I trust in that.' Thoren's simple faith in him, as always, humbled him. He would not shame it for the life of him.

So it was with a sense of purpose that he set off. His companions let him take the lead. He did, after all, outrank them. It didn't last beyond the first mile at any rate.

The place where the orcs had made their camp had been turned over. Orcs had left behind their filth for many miles around. Even at this early hour folk were out and about clearing the field. Some way to his right the bodies of the orcs were thrown onto a pyre. The smell was pungent, but it had to be done.

Yet the land itself was devastated. After the end of Smaug's reign it had taken time before it was once again green and fertile. It would not be green this year and he spared a thought to worry about the ever dwindling food supplies. Elvaethor had insisted that they did not take too much. Once they left this area behind, there would be game to hunt and plants to eat. He would sooner gather his own food than take from the mouths of those who needed it more.

'What a destruction,' Flói observed. 'I wish we could have made the one-eyed wonder pay for what he did.'

Kíli laughed at that. It was a small attempt at light-heartedness, but to hear it was good. He had not tried to jest since Jack died.

'We did,' Elvaethor pointed out.

'How?' Kíli asked. 'It was Thráin who ended it, not we.'

'We enabled him to walk into Mordor unhindered.' He'd been privy to most of Thoren's thoughts and motivations, so this he could say with certainty. From the moment Thoren had known what Thráin was doing, he had put his heart and soul into making sure the Enemy had eyes for nothing but the war. 'We cannot underestimate the importance of that.' They had paid a heavy price.

Was it worth it?

He stopped himself in his tracks. Yes, heavy though the losses were, if he had to make the decision now, he would choose the same as Thoren had chosen. The Enemy had been defeated. They had not dealt him the killing blow, but they had made sure that others could. Sauron was dead and gone. He had been a blight on the world for thousands of years, but now he was gone, as he should be.

'I don't,' Flói agreed. 'I just wish it could have been us who ended him for good.'

'Well, I don't,' Nori said.

'No, of course not; you'd have stolen the Ring and kept it to yourself,' Kíli grinned. 'You wouldn't be able to help yourself. It goes against your nature to throw stolen goods away.'

Nori opened his mouth to deliver a suitable retort, found he couldn't and closed it again.

'See, just as well we had no bigger roles to play, really,' Kíli insisted. 'It'd have gone very badly for all of us, I shouldn't wonder.'

'Oh, I wouldn't know about that.' Flói grinned too. It looked forced, but no one called him out on it. He made the effort and that was what counted. 'Uncle Dori would've made him give it up.'

'My brother with the Ring is a far more terrifying image than any dwarf should have to endure,' Nori declared resolutely. 'So I'll say well done to Thráin and be grateful that it wasn't us who had to carry that thrice-cursed thing all the way to Mordor. It's not a wholesome place for anybody to go, I would have you know.'

Flói scoffed. 'How would you know?' he demanded. 'You've never been.'

Silence.

Elvaethor turned his head to look at Nori, who very determinedly avoided all of their gazes. Surely he did not?

Kíli had reached the same conclusion. 'No, you did not.' It was more question than statement.

Nori looked pointedly at the road ahead.

'My friend, even you could not think to venture there,' Elvaethor said with more hope than conviction. It was folly to attempt that.

'It is a good day for travel,' Nori said instead. He breathed in deeply. 'And a song wouldn't go amiss either.'

He started whistling.

Thráin

Thráin woke to sunlight. For a moment he lay quite still, revelling in the novelty of not only sleeping until well after dawn, but the presence of sunlight at all. He'd seen some yesterday, but the talons of an eagle were not the best place to appreciate it from and neither was Mount Doom in the midst of an eruption.

It is all over.

Now at last he could lay back and delight in the feeling of knowing that it was all done. He breathed in a lungful of air that did not taste of ash and fire. Not all of the taste of Mordor was gone yet, but it was fading. His skin smelled of soap at least, and that had taken some hard scrubbing.

It is all over.

Now that he at last had leisure to just think, he realised that the despair was gone. He had walked beneath its shadow for far too long. It had influenced his every thought, inspired his every move. He had done what needed doing in spite of it, but it had been a very hard fight every step of the way. Now there was no need to fight anymore. In some strange sense he almost felt bereft.

The room around him was quiet and, when he sat up, he found that he was the only one of their Fellowship already awake. Legolas lay on his side with his back to him, but he did not stir when Thráin stepped out of bed, so it was safe to assume that he was resting still. In the beds beyond Frodo and Sam were still sleeping too. The former was curled in on himself while the latter lay sprawled all over the bed, sleeping peacefully.

He had expected no different. Theirs had been a long and strenuous journey with little sleep, especially near the end. He did not dare calculate how long their last march had lasted altogether and truth be told, he did not truly want to. It had taken the very last of their strength, but from one of them it had taken more than from the others, so it was to Gimli's bed that his feet carried him.

His kinsman was sleeping, just as the others were, but his rest was not peaceful. He tossed and turned and muttered in his sleep. His injured arm was swathed in bandages from the shoulder to the wrist, so Thráin was none the wiser about his condition. He held his hand against Gimli's forehead and found it was too hot. Not a surprise, but unwelcome all the same.

Maker, keep him safe. Let him live. Do not let him lose the arm.

Prayers and hopes were all he had to offer in this, for he was no healer. He could treat injuries until a more skilled healer came along. More often than not he was informed in acid tones that he was most definitely not a healer and would he kindly save them all some work by not pretending that he knew what he was doing? The only thing he could do was bathe Gimli's forehead to try and keep his fever down.

Who knew how long he sat and performed this service to his friend and kinsman? Nothing moved in the room. Where had the healers gone? Was it not their duty to see to their well-being? He definitely recalled that Beth's mother had made it her solemn duty to ensure that they were all looked after.

Come to think of it, he had only seen her and perhaps two other healers. There'd been servants yesterday who did her bidding, but they'd had very little to do with administering treatment. He had a sneaking suspicion where all the other healers of the city were, a notion only strengthened by the memory of a ruined lower city and the absence of a gate. Too many wounded and too few people left to look after them. Gondor had borne the brunt of Sauron's wrath, as it had done for many decades.

'This is not where I thought to find you, Thráin.'

Thráin looked up to acknowledge his visitor. 'Then you do not know me as well as you thought,' he retorted. 'Where else should I be but at the side of my kinsman?'

'Where else indeed?' Gandalf wondered, sitting down on the foot of the bed. This bed was made for someone of mannish size and as such was too large for Gimli at any rate, which left Gandalf plenty of space to sit.

He both looked and did not look like the Gandalf he'd known before. The facial features remained the same. His eyes were unchanged. It was the colouring that threw him slightly off-balance, because Gandalf had always been grey, from his hair to his dress. Now he was all white, the kind of dazzling white that blinded the eye. He'd always had authority, but he had more of it now and he seemed more at ease with it. Thráin was less likely to pick an argument with him now than he was before, he knew that.

'Do you know if he will live?' he asked. 'And if he will keep his arm?'

The answer was not encouraging. 'We do not yet know.' The reply was not without sympathy, but sympathy would not restore Gimli to health and so he had no use for it. 'But Gimli is strong and he has not lost the fight yet.'

No dwarf would give in without putting up a decent fight and Gimli was more stubborn than many others. If willpower alone dictated if he should live or not, then there was no question of the outcome. But it was not willpower alone. They both knew that.

'It is good to see you alive and well,' he said. He still did not like Gandalf, but seeing him here made some of the old guilt resurface. He still had his misgivings about the whole business with the Balrog. 'I mislike the course events took in Khazad-dûm.' Although he could not in good conscience apologise for them; they were not of his making. It had been Gandalf's own decision not to know and yet the memory left a bitter taste in his mouth.

'You were right not to speak of them before they happened,' Gandalf returned.

'Perhaps,' Thráin allowed.

It was an apology without being an actual apology, but it cleared the air between them in some ways. That was enough to be getting on with for the time being. They would not be friends, Thráin suspected. They had too much history for that. This was as close to an understanding as they were ever likely to get.

'Even wizards cannot always foresee the outcome of their actions,' Gandalf spoke after a lengthy silence. 'I was wrong to think that this quest had no need of you.'

He had kicked over the playing board when the rules no longer suited him. Everything had changed as a result. Did that mean that the decisions he made were the only ones that had enabled the Fellowship to reach its destination and perform the duty it was created to perform? He did not think so.

'What you believed or not never mattered much to me,' Thráin said. He had not let Gandalf sway him from his chosen course. Whether he approved or disapproved never made the slightest difference. 'My duty led me here.'

Duty had led him here, but friendship and loyalty had kept him there. He cast a gaze at the other beds, where his friends still slept. How could he not call them friends after everything that they had gone through together? And yet they were incomplete. It had been too long since there had been eleven of them.

'Be that as it may,' Gandalf said, 'you have my apologies.'

He meant to say that he had no need of them, but that was not what he said. 'Accepted.'

Gandalf was wise enough to leave this topic as soon as he could, so he started another. 'In Moria you gave me a riddle to think over.'

'I have since learned the answer.'

Gandalf nodded. 'Yes, Lady Galadriel told me so.'

It was not her secret to tell, but that was not something he could blame Gandalf for. He did not even think that he could blame her, not after what she had done. At any rate, it could not be a secret for very much longer. The war was over. He vowed he'd deal with this when that time arrived. Now it had.

'Very well.' It was not, but it would have to be. 'I shan't run from that fate.'

He could not. The alternative was unthinkable. Not that he felt particularly at ease discussing all of these things with Gandalf. He would seek counsel on what to do and how to proceed with his own kin. Aye, he knew that Khazad-dûm lay at the end of his road, but the path that would lead him there would take him home first, where he had not been for far too long. He had felt the longing on the road before, but duty prevented him from acting on it. He had done his duty now.

Did Thoren yet live? Did Jack? Did Elvaethor? Did his uncles and cousins? Was the Mountain still standing or had it fallen before Sauron's wrath? Gondor still stood, but he knew nothing of Erebor. He had altogether too many questions and too few answers to suit him. If Lady Galadriel were here, she might be able to tell him some, but she had gone north.

Gandalf inclined his head yet again.

'If you will keep watch here, I shall go in search of healers and breakfast both,' Thráin announced when the silence lingered for so long that he felt it was altogether better to go off and do something. He'd idled in bed for hours at a time. His every instinct urged him to get up and do something productive.

Breeches had been denied to him and his boots had been destroyed, so he went off in search of his friends dressed in nothing but a tunic that reached down to his knees. Duria and Uncle Dori would have commented on his state of undress, but it was not as if he had alternatives, so this would have to suffice.

He'd never been in the palace. He retained a detailed knowledge of Minas Tirith's dungeons, but that availed him nothing here. Resolving to ask the first guard he came upon to direct him where he needed to go, he set off, picking a direction at random.

There weren't any guards to be had. The hallways were utterly devoid of life. He did however hear voices in the distance. Folk were out and about, but he suspected the Fellowship was housed in a more remote part, to ensure they were left alone until they were recovered. The healing rooms in Erebor were likewise situated well away from the residential areas.

The first folk he stumbled upon were not guards.

'No, Merry, you're doing it wrong! Let me show you.'

'I'm not doing it wrong. You're cheating, Pip,' Merry insisted.

'I'm begin to believe that this game is perhaps not suited to you.'

'Oh, it's suited to him all right,' Merry grumbled.

Thráin looked around the corner and found two of his hobbit friends there, sitting on chairs piled high with pillows to enable them to see over the edge of the table, where a card game of sorts was in progress. Evidently Pippin had got the hang of it very quickly, to the chagrin and suspicion of his companion, who now had to part company with a sizeable amount of pipe weed.

'I don't cheat,' Pippin declared. 'You don't want to part with your pipe weed, is all.'

'If you'd any of your own left, you wouldn't try to cheat me out of mine,' Merry pointed out quite logically. 'You smoke too much, Pip.'

'So that is what you do with this, then?' Faramir asked. He picked up the pouch and peered into it. 'I must admit that I am unfamiliar with the practice.' He sniffed. 'Though the smell is not unpleasant.'

Pippin looked at him as though he had grown a second head. 'You have never smoked?'

'Never,' Faramir confirmed.

'Did you never learn?' Merry appeared equally baffled. He regarded him with expressions ranging from pity to bewilderment and back again.

'It is not a tradition among my people,' Faramir explained, blissfully unaware of the consternation this caused in his smaller companions. 'Though I will confess myself curious.'

Thráin should have stepped out of his hiding place and make himself known to them, but for the moment at least he stood and watched. Faramir looked pale and tired, but he lived. It had been only a little over a fortnight since he last saw him, but it felt like a lifetime. Mordor had twisted his sense of time until it seemed to him that there had never been a time before he crossed that border.

But Mordor was no more and here they all were, under clearer skies, as they had hoped for. And here too were Merry and Pippin, whom he had not seen for much longer. As Beth had told him, Merry was still recovering. He had one arm in a sling, but seemed otherwise on the mend, if too skinny for a hobbit. The same was true for Pippin, but he was otherwise unchanged, still full of energy and mischief and good cheer and generosity. He took out his pipe and picked up some pipe weed, to show the novice how it was done.

Then he chanced to look in Thráin's direction and he dropped it all.

'Do not stop on my account,' Thráin said.

He might as well not have spoken at all, because not a single one of them listened. Pippin leaped to his feet and launched himself at Thráin. It was all he could do to open his arms before Pippin ran right into them, catching him in a hug that his many injuries did not appreciate. He said nothing about it and made sure he did not even wince when Pippin's hand came into contact with the nasty burn on the back of his neck.

Merry followed a little slower and his embrace was one-armed through sheer necessity, though no less enthusiastic. Both hobbits squealed and laughed and whooped to indicate their delight. Thráin could not help but join. This was what he had fought and bled for: the return of joy and carelessness and the survival of friendship and companionship.

It is over.

It was this reuniting with his friends that brought it home to him. It was over. The shadow was gone. Now came the days of peace, where there was time to just be.

'I had not expected you out of bed yet, my friend,' Faramir observed, smiling.

'I came in search of a healer for Gimli and food for myself,' he replied. 'It is very good to see you.'

'And you. Many a moment we feared for your survival.'

'And we for yours.' It was perhaps better that he had not known most of what Faramir had done before Beth had told him about it. It would have done nothing for his peace of mind. 'It is good to see you well. And under clearer skies.'

Faramir smiled. 'I shall locate a healer and send him where he needs to go.'

Pippin tugged on his hand. 'Food,' he ordered.

Merry gave him a quizzical look. 'You haven't had breakfast yet?'

'Not yet,' Thráin confirmed. 'Have you?'

Foolish question, he realised. They were no longer on the road, so rations were a thing of the past. An awkward silence fell.

Merry broke it. 'We haven't had second breakfast yet,' he said, perking up. 'Follow us.'

He did. Happily.

Next time: Beth finds a place to live.

Apologies for the slight delay. Would anyone believe me if I told you it was at least partly because one of my cats decided that my keyboard was the perfect place to take a nap?

Thank you all for reading. Reviews would be extremely appreciated!

Until next week!