Yo! Thank you so much for the lovely reviews for the last chapter! This one was a little easier to write, though it's still not the happiest. I hope that you enjoy it anyway, and forgive any typos that I've made today.
Chapter Seventy-Two: Breaking News to Brothers
FBofur had always had a key to his brother's home.
Growing up in such a poor family, as children they did not even have the luxury of their own beds. For the majority of their childhood, Bofur and Bombur had shared a room – and a bed, for that matter – with their older brother, Bodur, and their youngest cousin, Bifur's little brother, Biorr. Even then, Bombur had needed a little space to call his own. He used to curl up in a fort beneath their bed, shrouded by blankets that he would only open if you had the password.
Bofur was the only one who always knew the password.
They were still only children when that home was torn from them. The orcs had ravaged the little mountain village, pillaging house after house after house, and little Biorr had been killed as he ran for the door. Bifur's mother bundled her nephews into their tiny bedroom along with Boa, their sister, and pressed her body against the door to hold it shut as she ordered them to hide. Bodur hid in the blanket box at the end of the bed, and Boa tucked herself into the cupboard, and Bombur and Bofur had curled up beneath the bed. In Bombur's blanket fort.
No one else in the room survived.
But Bofur had the key to his brother's home, and it had let them both survive.
Bifur, too, had lived of course, and as soon as he left the Healing Halls, he gathered what money they left had to rent a single room for the three young dwarves to live in. There were two keys, and Bifur had one. As he was the oldest, the other key went to Bofur.
When they had earned enough money to move to the Blue Mountains, Bofur had been able to find them a modest little house not far from the main city. After a while, they were even able to scrape together the rent for a small toy-stand in the market place. They lived together, and shared everything, and they each had a key of their own.
Then, Bombur had met Marta, and when they had wed, she moved in with them. When she fell pregnant with Bofin, they found a place of their own, a few doors down from Bifur and Bofur. And on the day that he had moved into his own house, Bombur had given a spare key to Bofur.
And then, through a series of impossible events, they had found a home in Erebor, and they had become lords, and for the first time Bofur and Bifur and Bombur could comfortably afford houses of their own, with as much space as they could ever need.
And still, Bofur had a key to his brother's door.
With his weight of his baggage still biting into his shoulders, Bofur sighed heavily, and slid the key into Bombur's front door. He did not want to knock. That would wake his brother's youngest children, and they did not need to be woken. Not like this. For them, this news could wait until morning.
With a stealth garnered from years of watching hobbits, Bofur crept towards Bombur's bedroom, but just before he reached it he paused, transfixed by the mural on the wall of the hallway. Ori had completed it only days before they had left for the Shire, and Bofur had proclaimed then that it was the young scribe's greatest work. Painting directly onto the smooth stone of the wall, Ori had painstakingly captured the image of Bombur's family with the accuracy of a mirror.
Bombur and Marta stood in the centre, smiling soft smiles that sparkled in their eyes. Next to Bombur was Bofin, grinning proudly, standing as he would never stand again, an innocence in his eyes that had yet to be broken. Beside Marta was Bróin, his arm wrapped around his mother and mischief screaming from his smile. His casual, cocky pose was one of youth and ignorance – the look of a boy who still believed that he was untouchable. A boy who had slipped through Bofur's fingers, and run headlong into danger before his uncle could catch him.
In the painting, Bróin's hand was on Bolin's shoulder, and the young boy was grinning so intently that his face seemed split in two. Bofur had thought it mighty bad luck when the little lad had broken his leg before they were due to leave, but now he knew that it was a blessing, and one that he would never stop thanking the Valar for. It was one less nephew to leave on the other side of the world, one less child put in danger for the simple matter of a birthday party.
Beside Bolin was Bodin, with one arm around his little brother and the other clutching the little 'baker' doll that Bifur had made for him last Christmas. Bofur could not look at the boy's smile without seeing a different expression in his mind's eye – the heartbroken fear and confusion that Bodin had worn when Bofur had left him behind in the Shire. The twins stood next to him, but they too were a world away. Orla was holding baby Olin in her arms, and the baby was tugging on her sister's braid. He wondered if Olin would even remember Orla and Ola. She was just an infant, and the girls had been gone so long.
Would be gone for so much longer.
The final member of the family, toddler Bowin, was standing next to Ola in the picture, his eyes wide and his smile small. There was a soulful look to his tiny, chubby face, almost as though he had some idea of what was about to come.
Bombur had trusted his brother to look after his children, and Bofur had failed. They were broken apart, scattered over miles of earth and sundered by kingdoms and armies. Guilt and bile rose in his throat, and he looked away from the wall.
How… how… was he supposed to tell Bombur what had happened? They had already lost so much, buried so many of their kin. Bombur had barely survived losing their brother and sister and father – Bofur did not know if he would survive losing his children.
But for now, they were not lost. That was something that Bofur knew he could cling to, something that he knew Bombur would soon seize as well. The little ones had the hobbits to care from them, and Bofin had Bifur and the elves. As for Bróin… Well, at least he had Gandalf with him, and no shortage of capable fighters around him.
Taking a deep breath, Bofur stepped up to his little brother's bedroom door.
And knocked.
He heard he soft groan from inside, and knocked again.
"Go to bed, Bolin," mumbled Marta's voice, muffled by sleep and the door between them.
Bofur cleared his throat and steeled himself, and murmured back. "Bolin is in bed, lass."
Marta gasped so sharply that Bofur heard it through the door, and he heard her rouse Bombur even as her feet hit the floor, and her footsteps hurried to the door. It flew open, and there was his sister-in-law in nothing but a nightdress, her hair loose around her shoulders.
"Oh, Bofur, thank the Valar!" she gasped, throwing her arms around him. Feeling very much that he did not deserve such an embrace, Bofur hugged her back, watching over her shoulder as Bombur hurried over. Marta pulled away and looked behind him, but Bofur shook his head slightly.
"It's just me, Marta. The others are – elsewhere."
"Elsewhere?" she whispered, and Bombur froze where he stood, one arm outstretched towards Bofur. "What does that mean?"
"It means it's a long story, and they aren't all in the same place. We've been scattered."
"Scattered?"
"I think you should sit down, both of you," murmured Bofur, but Bombur shook his head, striding forward and grabbing Bofur's arm tightly.
"Where are my children, Bofur? Are they dead?"
Marta squeaked, her hands flying up to cover her mouth, and Bofur shook his head.
"No, no! They're not, none of them." As far as I know.
"Then why do I need to sit down?" demanded Bombur, ashen pale. "Is – Mahal is Bifur-"
"No!" Bofur winced, and fought back a shudder, and took a deep breath. "Bofin is… hurt. Bifur is with him."
"Hurt?" whispered Marta. "What do you mean 'hurt,' Bofur?"
For a moment, Bofur did not think that he would be able to say it. His throat closed, and his heart clenched, and tears fought to be freed from his eyes. But he saw the look on Bombur's face, and he knew that he could not prolong the wait, even if he did not know how to best say it.
"His legs," he said huskily, and he felt his eyes water. He swallowed, and wiped his eyes. "He's lost his legs."
"His… legs?" Bombur's eyes bored into Bofur's, and the horror in them was so deep that it could have dwarfed Khazad-dûm. Out of the corner of his eye, Bofur could see Marta swaying, see tears slipping down her cheeks to rest on her hands, still clamped over her mouth. He could not look at her, though. He could not tear his gaze away from his baby brother, and the anguish on his face.
"There was, a battle," explained Bofur, in a voice that croaked and broke on every other word. "And in the middle of it all, a beast like I have never seen before brought down the side of a mountain onto Bofin and – there was nothing we could do. He was trapped, and we couldn't get him out without… But he's alive, and the elves are looking after him. Elrond's elves, the good ones, and Bifur and Ori are with him, too."
Marta groaned and swayed, and Bombur's grip on Bofur's arm tightened painfully. When he spoke, Bombur sounded like a child himself. "He is… he is legless?"
Bofur nodded. "I'm sorry, Bombur. I'm so sorry."
"The others?" Bombur whispered, and Marta grabbed onto his shoulder to stop from falling.
"Well, Bodin and the girls are still in the Shire," said Bofur quickly, coughing to clear his throat again. "They're with the Tooks and Brandybucks, and pretending to be good little hobbit bairns, I don't doubt. You know Esme and Ellie - they won't let anyone near them, they're safe."
"And Bróin?"
Bróin.
Bofur had not thought that anything would be harder than explaining to Bombur what had happened to Bofin, but once again, Bróin had pulled the rug out from beneath Bofur's feet. In the end, he decided to simply put things as bluntly as possible.
"Bróin ran away to Mordor to destroy the Ring of Power."
Bombur blinked three times. "He what?"
Bofur sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It turns out that Bilbo's magic ring was actually the one ring of power, and we'd planned to go to Mordor to destroy it. We had everything planned. But we didn't plan for Frodo. He didn't want Bilbo to go, so he took the ring and the quest himself. Bróin and Nelly went with him, and so did my Sam, and Merry and Pippin. Gimli is too, but we think he joined after, with Aragorn the Ranger, Boromir of Gondor, and Thranduil's son. We chased them, of course we did, but when we caught them, the orcs caught us. It was at the gates of Moria, and the young'uns went inside and the fighting began and… Bofin tried to get to his brother, but the monster in the water pulled him back. And then… that's when it brought the wall down."
Marta moaned, losing what little colour she had left. With tears sparkling in his eyes, Bombur whispered, "Was he crushed? Bofur, was Bróin-"
"No, I don't think so. No. He was much further inside."
"Inside Moria?"
"Gandalf is with them, now. He'll look after them. But Bifur took Bofin back to Rivendell, and Bofin begged me to find his brother. Just like you asked me to protect your children. I've failed both of you."
Bombur flinched, and stumbled back to lean against the doorframe, his hand leaving Bofur's arm for the first time.
But Marta stepped forward, the tears that danced down her cheeks impeding her speech a little. "No, Bofur, no. You have not failed us. I do not believe that you did any less than you could. I think… I think we need to hear everything, and I think we should sit. Why are you still holding so many bags, Bofur?"
Bofur did not answer. He looked at Bombur, and knew that his brother would understand.
"Put down your bags, brother," whispered Bombur. "I don't want you leaving my sight again tonight."
They sat in the living room for the tale, and lit only a single lamp. No one wanted to wake up the little ones. Marta fetched three flagons of honey mead, and Bofur began to tell the worst story of his life. He had told unhappy tales before, and taken over truths that were too hard for others to tell. In the Shire, for example, when Bilbo and Kíli had first returned to Erebor, he had been the one to tell the hobbits and Dís of the battles and torments that they had endured.
Telling such stories had been painful, but the pain was nothing beside this. To watch his brother's face contort in sorrow and pain as he was told of his children being left behind, and running away, and fighting in real battles – it brought a guilt more intense than any Bofur had thought himself capable of feeling. Watching Bombur suffer, watching Marta suffer – it was worse than reliving the horror himself. When he reached the end of the tale, he felt rather like he had just run fifty miles. He hung his head, and waited for Bombur to speak.
But the words that Bombur spoke surprised him.
"I've got to go."
Bofur looked up, and Marta grabbed Bombur's arm.
"What are you talking about?" she said, and Bombur nodded.
"I have to go, I have to go and find Bróin, and grab him by the ear and bring him home," said Bombur tightly, pushing up onto his feet.
"I tried," said Bofur miserably. "I tried, and it ended in Moria, and I tried again in Mirkwood."
Bombur paused, staring at him. "What are you talking me about?"
Bofur sighed heavily. "I wasn't going to say anything. Nothing came of it, and I – I didn't want you to think I was trying to make myself look better… In Mirkwood, when we knew that the eagles could carry us home, I tried to go after Bróin again. Nori and me. But Bilbo caught us, and asked us what we thought we could really do. Said he'd come with us if he thought we might actually help. But there was nothing we could do. Trying to track them down, we'd only draw attention to them. Put them in greater danger. So we fell back. Even if there was anything you could do now, how would you even leave the mountain? If the eagles hadn't flown out of arrow range, we never woulda made it, even going so far out to the north east. Without spreading wings of our own, we're not leaving."
"He is my son," said Bombur, his voice trembling, and Bofur let himself sob.
"You think I don't know that? I love him too, Bombur, and don't forget that Sam's out there too! If he isn't the nearest thing I'll ever get to a son…"
Bombur's lower lip trembled, and he crumpled back down to the couch. "He's just a child."
"I know," groaned Bofur, kneading his fists into his eyes. "I know."
"So, what do we do now?" whispered Marta, her eyes staring at Bofur with infallible trust. He was always the one who knew what to do. Always the one with a practical answer and a warm smile. Tonight, he had neither.
"All we can do," he said glumly. "We pray."
The sun rose red in the mountains, sending an array of beautiful pinks and yellows to light the water flooding the ruins of Isengard. There was an odd sort of peace to the place, now that the fighting had stopped. With the orcs dead and their huts drowned, the tower of Orthanc could almost be called beautiful – though several parts of its outer walls were missing chunks. Birds flew overhead, singing songs of the morning with so much joy that it seemed obvious that they, too, were celebrating the victory of the ents.
Pippin thought that there was no way they could be celebrating in any manner better than himself and Merry. To their delight, they had found one of Saruman's storerooms, complete with an array of delicious foods as exotic as olives from Ithilien, and as decadent as salted pork, and even some pipe weed. They had taken their spoils out to what was left of the main gate of Isengard, to await the arrival of Gandalf, as Treebeard had instructed. The old ent said he was sure that the wizard would be along soon. How he was sure of this, Pippin did not know, but he thought it best not to question Treebeard. The answer would probably go on until Pippin was as old as the wizard, himself!
And so, without questioning the 'why's or 'when's or 'how's, Merry and Pippin had spent the morning eating and smoking, and throwing sticks for Denahi to chase into Fangorn. The wolf was a lot more comfortable around the ents, now, having seen them hurl great boulders at orcs, and all. Earlier, he had even licked Treebeard's hand in appreciation.
Now, though, Denahi was snoozing, his head in Merry's lap. Merry was blowing smoke rings up to join the wistful clouds in the sky, and Pippin was heaving a wonderful time thinking about nothing at all. Nothing but the weather, and the beauty of the colours of the lake, and how nice it was just to sit, with a full belly, and breathe.
But then he heard hoofbeats, and Denahi raised his head, and Merry looked up.
"Is that them?" said Pippin, a wave of cold washing over him when he thought about who it might be instead.
"I think so," said Merry slowly, though from the way he sucked on his pipe, he seemed less concerned. His ease – along with the fact that Denahi was not growling – let Pippin relax a little, and then he saw the first horse, and a blonde-haired man astride it, and excitement curled in his stomach.
He and Merry got to their feet and bowed in the manner of the dwarves, as well as Balin had taught them, as the entire party of horseman came into view.
"Welcome, my lords," said Merry with a grin, "to Isen-"
"Gimli!" cried Pippin, his heart leaping as his eyes landed on the dwarf.
"-gard," finished Merry, swatting Pippin on the arm. Then, he turned, and addressed the blonde man beside Gandalf. "I am sorry, Théoden King. My cousin does know manners-"
"To the privy with manners!" growled Gimli, launching himself off of the full-sized horse that he was riding and charging forwards. Pippin leapt down from the rubble and tumbled into the dwarf's arms, feeling the warmth of safety return fully to his veins. He hugged his dwarven cousin tightly, and Gimli squeezed him back, holding a hand out to Merry.
Pippin caught sight of an apologetic smile that Merry sent to Théoden, but then the older hobbit leapt down too, and threw himself into Gimli's waiting arms.
"You've led us on a mighty chase," said the dwarf, his voice shaking. "Scared me something awful, don't you dare do that again."
Pippin laughed. "You sound like my mother." But he held Gimli a little tighter, anyway. Then, Pippin looked over Gimli's shoulder at Gandalf, who was shaking his head and laughing, and Legolas, who looked oddly pale, and –
"Boromir! You're alive!"
Boromir laughed even as he dismounted his own horse, and Pippin felt relief and joy sweep up through him.
"I could say the same to you!" said Boromir, embracing Merry and Pippin fiercely. "I am sorry that-"
Pippin raised his eyebrows as high as they could go, and put his hands on his hips so that he could fully imitate Nelly as he cut over the man, "Oh, you're sorry that you were terribly injured to the point where we thought you were dead, so you couldn't rescue us?"
Boromir shook his head sheepishly, even as Merry embraced him too. Pippin looked up, and beamed at Aragorn, who bowed his head, and then at Legolas. There, Pippin's smile faded.
"Legolas! You're hurt!" he worried. The elf's arm was tucked into a sling, and when Legolas smiled, it was a little smaller than usual.
"A broken arm," he said softly. "Nothing more. I would not be left behind. After fearing you dead once, I had no desire to fear it again."
Pippin smiled sheepishly, and tapped his heels together.
"Hobbits," said Gandalf, turning to the man that Pippin assumed was Théoden, "are a remarkable people. They know and value propriety more than most, but are quick to damn it in the face of family reunions."
"I can see that," said the blonde man. His eyes fixed on Merry, and he inclined his head slightly. "I believe we have met before. Master Brandybuck, if I am not mistaken?"
Merry nodded. "At your service, my lord. I was only a child the last time we met. I'm surprised you remembered."
"Well, one does not forget a three-legged wolf very quickly," said Théoden with a smile, nodding at Denahi. "Nor does one forget a tiny boy that makes demands of a king. Well met, Master Meriadoc. And this is Peregrin Took, I take it?"
Pippin nodded, and then remembered his manners. "At your service, King Théoden. How did it all go at your end?"
The man between Théoden and Aragorn laughed. "That we are standing here at all ought to be a good indicator of that," he said. Then, he added, "Éomer, son of Éomund. After hearing so much about you from your companions, it is good to meet you at last. I am sorry that I did not see you the night we slew the uruk-hai."
Pippin's eyes widened. "That was you? Well, thank you very much."
"Aye," said Merry, putting a hand over his heart and bowing. "We wouldn't have escaped without you."
"Wait," said Pippin, glancing over the other strange men, and peering around for any sign of ponies, or smaller horses. "Where're Nelly and Bróin?"
Legolas' eyes widened, and Éomer looked at Théoden. Aragorn pursed his lips and looked down, and Boromir stiffened. Pippin turned to Gimli, for who could he trust if not Gimli?
"Are they with Frodo?" he asked quietly.
But Gimli's face was crumpling, and his moustache quivered, and Pippin's heart stumbled into a race. Horror clawed its way up his throat, and he looked at Gandalf. The wizard just looked old. Very old, and very, very, sad.
After a moment, when no one else spoke, the wizard shook his head. "No, Peregrin Took. We do not think that they are with Frodo."
Desperation rose in Pippin's throat, and hot, angry tears rose unbidden to his eyes. "Where are they? Where is my sister?" He whirled around and grabbed Gimli's shoulder. "Gimli, where is my sister?"
Gimli took a deep breath, and put one hand on Pippin's shoulder. He pressed his other hand to Pippin's cheek.
And then Gimli's gaze moved slowly, unmistakably, to Orthanc.
Duh duh duhhhh! I hope that you enjoyed that chapter, I kept my laptop on way past my screen's off time to get it up for you. If you did – or didn't – please do leave me a review and let me know why, or just let me know if you liked it or not.
Just as a note before we go: yes, it seems very soon for Legolas to be riding to Isengard with such an arm. I haven't forgotten, nor am I disregarding the severity of an open fracture. It will be addressed soon.
Thank you so much for reading, and once again, I really hope that you liked the chapter. Until next time, take care!