Hey guys! I'm so sorry that this update has taken so long to get up for you - I've been working on a personal project that's taken up a lot of time, and I've also had a couple of personal issues to deal with during quarantine that have made writing a little tricky. However everything is (touch-wood) on track again now so hopefully I should have an update for you next Monday, too. In any case, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and can forgive any typos I have made.
Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen: To the West of the Misty Mountains
The echo of clashing swords and death screams still sung in Esme's ears, and she could smell the iron tang of her own blood, still damp around her collar.
Soon, the fighting would start again, and she would fall into it once more – into that chaos of shrieking and pain and wailing and burning. Every instinct in her body was begging her to run, but her hand stayed tight and steady on the hilt of her sword, and she took a slow, deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment.
Just a moment.
"Are you alright, my lady?" murmured a smooth voice, and she nodded, drawing in a quick, deep breath.
"Yes, yes," she replied, opening her eyes to offer the elf a small smile. "Thank you, Lord Glorfindel. I am fine."
"There is no shame in turning back now," he said quietly. "You have fought well – and you are injured."
"This is my home," she murmured, meeting his eye. "My son is goodness knows where, maybe even the ends of the earth, and I cannot help him. My dwarves are beyond my reach, and I cannot help them. I must help somebody."
Glorfindel's face softened into sorrow. "I understand that, my lady, but you are no warrior. There ought never be shame in leaving war to the warriors."
Esme smiled sadly, glancing through the gloom at the others beside them in the ditch – elves in bright armour, hobbits wearing layer upon layer of waistcoats. Many of the elven blades were taller than the hobbits beside them, and some of the Shire folk still wielded fire pokers and kitchen knives in place of real weapons.
If Glorfindel had his way, none of the hobbits would be there – she knew that. They all knew that. But the bakers and grocers and smiths around her were folk that had grown up with Kíli Baggins, or with the legend of him. Many had fought in the Battle of Hobbiton, and all had taken up arms against the raiders – though in that they had had little choice.
Some of the hobbits there wanted justice, even vengeance. They had been fighting and marching for nearly two days now, and fury still smouldered in the eyes of those from the West Farthing, whose homes had been burnt to the ground by the orcs that butchered their families.
They had been hit the hardest, those in the West Farthing. It made sense now, now that they knew the enemy's base to be just to the west of the White Downs, but Esme's heart burnt with the unfairness of it all. Many of the hobbits gathered to fight were women. The ruffians had been quicker to kill the men.
It was upon the orders of Saruman – they knew that now. The wizard had sent mercenaries of both orcs and men alike – mercenaries that proved none too loyal to the White Hand when they were captured by angry elves. There had been dwarves among the raiders, too, but they seemed to be opportunists. Their numbers were few, but they had been the most vicious in the search for Bombur's children
"Whatever would Saruman want with the Shire?" her father' had asked, but Esme knew, even before anyone told her.
Ever since Kíli was proven to be a prince, the Shire had ceased to be irrelevant in the eyes of the wider world. It had become a place where the kinsmen of princes dwelt, a place where the children of lords would shelter. Once, Esme had believed that war was a thing only of swords and bows and spears, of fighting upon a field of battle, but she had lived in a great dwarven kingdom for decades, now. She knew better.
Wars were about strategy and torment – about crushing the spirits of your enemies, and taking each and every upper hand that you could. In war the kinsmen of princes made great targets for murder, and the children of lords prime targets for kidnap and torture. A land where the soil was rich and farms grew plenty was an asset greater than five hundred swords – a land worth seizing.
Saruman did not need the Shire – not yet. The raiders had plundered many farms, carting away as many crops as they could carry and heading eastwards, towards Isengard, but the wizard did not need them – not yet. If he did, he would have ordered his mercenaries to invade properly.
For now, they were simply toying with the hobbits – toying, and searching for Bombur's children. The hobbit lords of Erebor were also a good prize, but they were less vulnerable than the dwarflings, and harder to identify. The raiders had come close, far too close for comfort, but they had not found Bodin, or the twins. Not yet.
If Saruman did find them, though, he would have leverage over Erebor. If he took control of the Shire, that power would be even greater.
No… the Shire was not irrelevant to politics. Not anymore.
Esme bowed her head. "I want to fight. We want to fight."
"Gandalf is right," said Glorfindel, smiling gently. "Hobbits are truly among the most remarkable creatures on this earth. How is Saradoc?"
Esme flinched.
Scrambling desperately to her feet she dove towards her sword, but the orc that struck her down lurched forward and blocked her way, its face breaking into a sickening grin. Quick as lighting, it brought its club crashing down towards her –
And something barrelled into her, knocking her to the ground –
And there was a sickening crack -
Winded, Esme twisted around to see an elf striking down the orc, and then to see who had knocked her away, who was pinning her down.
Her heart froze.
"Saradoc?" she whispered, but his eyes were closed, and blood was trailing down his forehead. She scrambled upright, and whimpered. "Saradoc! No, no, no –"
"He's – alive," she said, her fingernails tightening around her wrist until it hurt. Just the memory of it was enough to torment her – the memory of the crack in her husband's head, the memory of the blood…
Glorfindel bowed his head. "Erestor told me that he is convinced Saradoc will wake."
She looked away. Waking did not mean healing. It could mean blindness or deafness, a loss of mobility – or memory. Saradoc might wake, but if he could be changed forever when he did, and that scared Esme more than anything that might happen on the battlefield in the hours that would come.
Glorfindel drew a breath, as though he was about to reply, but then another elf ran over to them, clad in the lighter armour of the scouts.
"My lord," he whispered, in his own tongue. "They are nearly here."
Glorfindel nodded. "Give the order to be ready – quietly."
With a sigh, Esme drew her sword, watching the scout deliver the message along the line of waiting hobbits and elves. The past two days, the elves and hobbits had split into smaller parties and marched across the Shire, scouring any raiders they could find, but the skirmishes had been nothing compared with what was to come.
They all knew it.
Because Saruman's mercenaries numbered more than seven hundred. Most were now milling around in their sprawling camp, just the other side of the ditch, but Glorfindel had suggested they did not charge – not yet.
There had been one group of raiders they had missed, one band of fifty or so that had slipped away before the elves could reach them, and the scouts said they were heading back toward the main camp.
Now, it seemed, they were here.
Esme sighed. "Well… at least it will be over soon."
Glorfindel looked down at her sharply. "This invasion will be. But if you insist on fighting, I must insist that you be very careful, my lady. I have no intention of telling Kíli Baggins that anything has happened to his sister."
A small, ghost of smile tugged at Esme's cheek. "I wouldn't envy you the task."
Glorfindel smiled back, but then stiffened, his eyes glazing over slightly, as if listening to words Esme could not hear. After a moment, he raised his hand, and the elves snapped to attention, staring up at the side of the ditch.
"Do not fear," the elven lord murmured, putting his other hand on Esme' shoulder. "We may be outnumbered, but we are not outmatched. You are right – it will be over soon. I promise."
Esme nodded, sucking in a deep breath and raising her chin.
And then a roar ran down the line, and the elves leapt up to charge, and Esmeralda Brandybuck threw herself back into battle.
Bofin stared out of the window, sighing softly. Outside, birds were singing and dancing in the sunlight, and the scent of flowers drifted into the room on the breeze. The whole world seemed lighter, and freer, and the elves had been singing for days, but as much as Bofin tried to let it, it could not raise his spirits.
Lord Elrond had told him that the war was over. He had heard from Gandalf, he said – the Ring was gone. He did not really explain how he knew. He also claimed that Glorfindel said Bodin and the twins were alright, that the Shire was secure. Bofin could not believe him. He could not believe in fancy elvish magic to tell him that it was all over.
Of course, he did believe in some of the things that fancy elvish magic could do. Here he was with no legs – and no pain. There had been no pain for weeks, now. All the stories of missing limbs he had ever heard spoke of phantom pains in missing limbs, but he had felt nothing like it. He was not even taking potions for the pain anymore. It was just gone. When he looked down the bare stumps of his legs, he saw only bare skin and already paling scars - scars that should be raw and red still.
It still made his stomach turn slightly, though, looking down and seeing his legs stop mid-thigh. That was one thing the magic could not chase away. And it could not chase away his fear for his siblings. He could not believe that they were safe, not without proof.
And Bróin – Lord Elrond had not given even a whisper about Bróin.
Bofin did not think that boded well at all. If he knew Bróin, his brother would have followed Frodo to the very ends of the earth, even if he had to gnaw off his own legs.
And Bofin did know Bróin.
Even if he had never been able to be a good brother to him.
When Bróin was been born, Bofin had been too busy playing with his own toys, and reading his own books with his own parents to share their attention with another. He had been curious about the baby, but grew tired of him quickly. He was not much fun to play with. Bofin had friends. He did not need a little brother who dribbled when he sucked his thumb and cried when Bofin would not let him crawl through the toy soldier's army lines.
Then Bróin began to toddle, and to snatch and steal Bofin's toys when the older boy would not let him play. He never liked to let Bróin play, because Bróin broke things. So then Bróin broke things on purpose, and Bofin hit him, and Bróin hit back harder.
And Amad fell pregnant with twins, and Bofin could not think of anything worse. More babies to take his toys, to break his dolls, and spill sticky foods over his books. The twins were born, loud and squalling as Bróin was, and though he thought they were a little bit cute, Bofin lost all interest in the girls within a week.
But then Orla got sick.
She got very sick.
Bofin still remembered the odd grey of her face, the stark white of her little lips. He remembered how still she lay, how she did not cry. He remembered his father crying in her place, rubbing her little hand and begging her to get better. He remembered his mother moaning, her eyes as dark as night-shadows. He remembered Bróin clambering around the kitchen to feed himself, too small to understand what was happening. He remembered the horror he felt when he looked at Orla and realized that this tiny creature, this little part of his family who had not even had the chance to break his toys, could be leaving them forever.
Bofin kept vigil by the twins' cribs, looking away from Orla only to check that Ola was not about to follow her to death's door, but Orla got sicker and sicker, until her little arm was hardly as wide as Bofin's two fingers. For the first time in his life, Bofin had been struck by true terror and by real sadness, and he cried himself to sleep and begged the Valar to save his baby sister. He promised that he would look after her, look after both the girls, and teach them and play with them and let them rip all the pages out of all of his books if they had to, if that would allow them live.
Something worked. Either prayer or medicine or Orla's own little will, or maybe a combination of the three. But she regained colour, grew stronger. And Bofin kept his word, and found out that while babies were boring toddlers could be fun to play with if you loosened up the reins a little.
He asked Bróin to join them, with a wide smile and an outstretched hand.
And Bróin had stuck out his tongue and turned away, scampering out of the back window to chase imaginary goblins on his own.
Bofin had done what he could to become a great brother since Orla's recovery. He was the twins' quiet guardian, their confidant and comforter, their playmate and their teacher. He did the same with Bodin when he was born, and then again with Bolin, and with Bowin and Olin, though he felt he barely knew his youngest sister yet.
She was just a baby, after all.
She would never remember her oldest brother having legs.
And she may never remember Bróin at all.
If Bróin had died…
Bofin squeezed his eyes shut, turning away from the window. Bróin was stronger and braver than he was, but he was still Bofin's little brother, and if anything happened to him…
A strange sound broke the beautiful quiet, and he frowned, looking towards the door. They were footsteps, heavier ones than any of the elves, but much faster than Uncle Bifur's. It was Uncle Bifur who opened the door, but then someone else poked their head through, and Bofin's heart fell down through his stomach.
"Orla?" he whispered, and his sister beamed, and squealed, hurtling across the room and throwing herself at him. At once he closed his arms around her, cuddling her tight, and as he did he saw Ola and Bodin appear at the door, huge smiles spread over their faces. A breathless laugh broke from Bofin's lips, and his siblings ran across the room, vaulting up into his lap beside Orla.
"Get out the way, Orla!" Bodin said angrily, trying to worm his way past Orla into Bofin's arms, and Bofin laughed again, ruffling his brother's hair.
"Hello, Bofin," he said, silently thankful for the fact that he was in an elvish wheelchair, and not a dwarvish one. The thing swamped him, but it did allow enough space for all three of his siblings to sit in with him, and it had a good set of brakes. Without those, Bofin was sure he would have smashed into the back wall of the room, given the force of his siblings' greeting. "What are you doing here?"
But his question was not answered, not at once. Because Orla and Ola and Bodin had all looked down at the blankets over his lap, and what was not there, and they had all fallen silent. The smiles had fallen from their faces. Sucking on his bottom lip, Bodin reached down to where Bofin's knees should be, and pressed down through the blanket. When his hand reached the chair, he shuddered, turning wide eyes to Bofin.
"They – they're really, really gone?"
Bofin crooked his mouth into a smile. "'fraid so. It's alright, though – I'm not in any pain, I'm alright."
But the girls' eyes were full of tears, and Ola shook her head. "We hoped – we hoped that Ori was making it sound worse than it was." Bodin gave a little sob, falling against Bofin's chest.
"Hey," Bofin murmured, rubbing his brother's back. With his other hand, he wiped away Ola's tears, and then Orla's. "Really, it's alright. I'm just fine, I promise. I promise. Now come on, tell me – what's going on? When did you get here?"
"Just now," said another voice, and Bofin looked up to see Esmeralda Brandybuck smiling at him from the door.
But half her smile disappeared behind a bandage that covered the right side of her face, and her left hand was swaddled tight, and she was leaning heavily on a crutch tucked up beneath her shoulder.
"What happened?" Bofin asked again, but this time his voice was tight with fear. "Are you alright? Auntie Esme?"
"I'm fine, Bofin," Esme said calmly, walking across the room almost gracefully to kiss him on the cheek. "More importantly, darling, how are you?"
"Just fine," Bofin swore. "What happened to you?"
Esme sighed heavily, reaching out and running her unbandaged hand over Orla's braids. "Oh, just a battle or two. But I am on the mend, I promise."
"Auntie Esme and the elves drove all the bad men out of the Shire," said Bodin quietly, nestling up against Bofin's chest. "A lot of people got hurt, and Auntie Esme lost all her fingers."
"Oh, hush," said Esme, rolling her eyes and holding up her hands. "I lost two fingers on my left hand, that's hardly all of them. And you don't really need a little finger anyway, not unless you want to look perfectly posh while drinking tea out of a far-too-fancy cup."
Bofin swallowed, hard. "Where's Uncle Saradoc, and Uncle Paladin and Aunt Esme and Pearl-"
"On their way," said Esme firmly. "They're alright. Saradoc attempted to give me a heart attack with a very a nasty blow to the head, but the elves have patched him up, and besides a few scrapes Paladin is fine." She sighed, and leant back against the bed. "It wasn't all that pleasant, to be honest, lad, doing battle, but it's over now. The elves helped us drive all the mercenaries away, those that weren't killed, and we decided that by publicly leaving the Shire we would be giving any other enemies less incentive to attack again. We weighed the risks, decided that a hundred elves ought to make a decent enough escort. And here we are. The others are just getting settled, they'll be in to see you shortly."
"And then we can go home," Orla said earnestly, her eyes shining with tears even as she beamed up at Bofin. "We can all go home."
"And Dad-dad and Mam-mad are coming too!" Bodin added excitedly. "They're gonna come home with us, Bofin!"
Shocked, Bofin looked at Esme, who smiled wryly.
"Well, they haven't made that decision quite yet," she said. "They accompanied us this far because they had a comfortable carriage and enough elves to make sure it was safe to do so, but for all your guilt-tripping, Bodin, son of Bombur, they still haven't agreed to go further than Rivendell."
"Yet," said Ola innocently, and Bodin gave an angelic smile.
"Yes," he said. "Yet."
"Well, I must say, it's rather nice, here," said the elderly hobbit, waving his walking-stick at the architecture around him. "Not too bad at all – I can see why Cousin Bilbo likes it here so much. It's a shame to be leaving."
Standing a few feet away, Elrond could not help but smile. Sorrow was weighing heavily on his own heart as they prepared to leave – he knew full well that this would be the last time he left Rivendell with his daughter at his side.
And he knew that when he parted from her at the end of their road, he would never see her again.
But it was a little easier to keep it together with a pair of eighty-nine year old hobbits commenting on everything as casually as one might the weather.
"Yes, it's quite lovely, but there's far too many rail-less walkways for my liking," said Daisy Took in a hushed voice, apparently unaware that the elves could hear her every word. "And too many rivers."
"You worry too much," Adalgrim replied, sticking his pipe in his mouth. "At least these folk have better manners than the one I met in the Shire. A right stick-in-the-mud, that elf was. So high up his own-"
"Adalgrim!" Daisy hissed, and Elrond turned away to hide his smile.
If he was honest, he had never much liked Galdor of the Havens either.
At that moment, Lindir strode over, bowing when he reached Elrond's side. "We are ready to go, my Lord – as soon as Mr and Mrs Took and the dwarflings are in the waggons, we can depart."
"Thank you, Lindir," he replied, his gut curling uncomfortably. "Where is Lady Arwen?"
Lindir nodded pointedly towards a small path. Elrond followed his gaze, and a lump grew in his throat. He turned to the hobbits.
"If you will excuse me for a moment, Master Lindir will show you to your cart," he said, and Daisy Took smiled.
"Thanking you kindly, sir," she said.
"See?" Adalgrim muttered, as Elrond turned around. "Much more polite."
"Well, the same can't be said about you, Adalgrim Took – you're gossiping like a tween!"
Slowly, the pleasant sound of the bickering hobbits faded away, and instead Elrond could hear only his own, soft footsteps against the stone path. Rivendell was not going to be left utterly empty – some were staying to tend the household, and continue Imladris' role as a refuge en route to the sea. But many members of the household were going, with a guard of forty warriors, and Elrond had never seen the place look so empty, so lonely.
He found Arwen on her knees, with her fingers trailing in clear, sparkling water.
Ael o Alassë.
A silver-blue flower brushed against her fingertips, its closed petals dancing past her, and a lump grew in Elrond's throat. Without speaking, he knelt at her side, and she wrapped her fingers around his, resting her head on his shoulder.
After a long moment, she sighed. "I do not doubt my choice, Ada…"
Elrond nodded slowly. "I know."
She sat up and took a deep breath, staring down at the pool. "I know that this is not what you want – that you are disappointed-"
"No," Elrond said softly, a twang of pain crossing his heart. He pressed a kiss to the top of his daughter's head. "No, Arwen, I am not disappointed. I am proud – so very proud."
Arwen looked up incredulously, sending another shard of pain into his heart.
"If that is hard to believe, then I have not done my job as a father," he said. "How could I be disappointed? This choice – it is not an easy one, Arwen, and not a decision that you could make without being as strong and as brave as the earth itself. And Aragorn is a good man – of all the Men I have known in my life, there are none I would sooner see you with. He has been as a son to me since he was a child. How could I be disappointed?"
A tear rolled down Arwen's cheek, and Elrond smiled sadly, wiping it away.
"I withheld my blessing, Arwen, because I did not want you to doom yourself to death and despair. I knew if Aragorn was able to reclaim the throne of Gondor, and to reunite his kingdom, you would have a chance at life together, a chance for peace and love and joy. If Sauron had endured, and Aragorn fell, you would have condemned yourself to a fate I cannot see, without ever having the chance to live with the one you loved – and I could not bear that to be your fate. As it is, I grieve, Arwen – we will be parted, perhaps forever, but at least this way I know that you will be happy. That is all that matters."
Her lower lip trembling, Arwen fell against him, and Elrond wrapped his arms around her.
"I love you, Ada," she murmured, sinking her hands into his hair. "So much…"
Elrond closed his eyes. "I love you too. More than my life."
"I – I am happy in my choice, but leaving home…"
"It is never easy." Elrond kissed the top of her head. "Not for anyone, of any race. But Rivendell will always be here for you to return to, whenever you wish it."
"You will not be."
For a moment, Elrond could not speak. His arms tightened around his daughter, and her own grip grew stronger, and he drew in a deep breath. "No. I will not be. But you will not be alone, Arwen. You will never be alone. And my love will always be with you. Always."
Arwen took a deep breath and drew back slightly, though she also entwined her fingers in his. "Will… will you tell Nana that I am sorry? That I love her endlessly, but…"
"I will tell her, but she already knows that you love her, Arwen," said Elrond, his heart aching at the thought of his wife. Despite himself, a small smile tugged at his lips. "In truth, your mother always thought you would make this decision. From the moment that it was said that you resembled Lúthien, she said that you would make the same choice. Her only wish was that he whom you loved would be as good a man as Beren, and I will be proud to tell her that her wish came true."
"Ada…" she broke off, and then fell back into his arms. "Thank you."
"You know," Elrond whispered, holding her close. "Elros never believed that the sundering of elves and Men would be eternal. He always believed that at the end of all things, the world would be broken and remade, and the spirits of the Eldar would be reunited with the spirits of Men. He never feared death, and he never believed that it would be the end."
Arwen's grip grew tighter. "I hope that he was right, Ada. But even, even if he is wrong, I – I might at last have the chance to meet him."
Closing his eyes, Elrond nodded, stroking Arwen's hair. His voice broke over his words. "He would have adored you." After a long moment, Elrond swallowed, and drew a deep breath. "Come – we act as though we are saying goodbye already. This is a good day, Arwen, and everyone else is ready to depart."
Arwen drew back, her brows raising slightly. "They are? I didn't realise how late it was…"
"I don't think anyone minds," he said gently. "But lingering may not make it easier to leave…"
Arwen nodded mildly, and then leant down, kissing the petals of the silver-blue flower. Then she rose, and smiled bravely, and Elrond rose beside her.
"I – I think I am ready to go," she said, and Elrond smiled, adjusting her hair.
"Good. Go to the gates, and prepare to depart – I will join you shortly."
"I love you, Ada," she said, squeezing his hand, and then she made her way down the path towards the gates. She glanced over her shoulder more than once.
When he had composed himself, and taken what he needed for his daughter's wedding gift, Elrond left Ael o Alassë behind him, and re-joined the others.
Most of Elrond's household wished to ride with them to the east – the wedding of Arwen and Aragorn was not something many wished to miss. Most were armed, and warriors walked among them, for none were naïve enough to believe that all lands would now be safe so suddenly, but Elrond did not foresee much danger on this journey.
It was why he felt so easy about elderly hobbits and dwarven children travelling with them. Whether they went all the way to Gondor or chose instead to part ways in Rohan to head towards Erebor was their choice – Elrond had promised them an escort either way.
As he passed a carriage and heard Adalgrim and Daisy Took natter away about the untidiness of Esmeralda's travelling clothes, Elrond smiled.
Gandalf was right, after all. A journey, no matter how sad, could always be improved with hobbits.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please do let me know what you thought! I'm now in a much better position to return to a routine for writing so as I said, I'll hopefully be able to get another update up soon.
In the meantime, I hope you all stay safe, and stay well.