Hello, hello, hello! I'm so sorry that this has taken such a long time to write. Unfortunately I was very ill last week and ended up in bed for four days. It was awful, and I've had to catch up on everything. To make matters worse, I've been having writer's block about some of the plot points that I've FINALLY managed to work through, so from now on writer's block shouldn't be an issue, which is brilliant!
Thank you to everyone who reviewed, I really appreciate it! Thank you especially to my guest reviewers who I can't reply to!
Also, thank you to I Just Won A Free Toaster Oven for your review since I can't reply in person – I'm so glad you enjoyed it, and I'm so happy that you like Esme, I love her to pieces. If I am completely honest, I do sometimes think of her as Kíli's (platonic) soulmate myself as you're completely right – they get each other. Thank you so much!
This chapter is named after the Paloma Faith song "Picking Up the Pieces" because of the lyrics of the chorus – "Now she's gone and I'm picking up the pieces." The context here is very different, but the line could be applied here and I listened to it a fair bit while writing it!
I'll explain about the contest at the end of the chapter. Please forgive any mistakes I've made, I've proofread it but it's 3am.
Read. Enjoy. Review.
Chapter Seventy Two # Picking Up the Pieces #
Hamfast Gamgee stared at the door to Bag End for several long minutes before he took a step closer to ringing the brass bell. For the first time in his life, he did not want to go in and speak to Mister Bilbo, but he had never had so desperate a reason to do so before. He closed his eyes.
The screams tore through the night and Hamfast sat up in bed, reaching automatically for his wife, but she was not beside him.
Oh. Of course she was not there…
Swallowing back the lump in his throat, Hamfast staggered up out of the bed, stumbling straight into wall. He winced and tried to figure out which of his children was screaming tonight. His heart was pounding with a fear that he was sure was irrational as he fumbled his way to the door. It was so dark – why was it always so dark now?
He fumbled with the lantern in the hall, striking the match to kindle the candle with hands that shook more than they should. Even with the light, his eyes took an infuriatingly long time to focus and when they did his vision was weaker than it used to be. Ever since waking up from the battle Hamfast had been struggling with his eyes. The healers said that a blow to the head could do that to you, and they said that the same blow explained the weakness and loss of coordination on his left side.
One blow to the head and Hamfast was half-blind and half-useless.
It was Sam, little Sam that was screaming. He could distinguish his youngest son's voice now. He limped down the hall as fast as he could, pushing open the door to Sam's little room.
The moment light flooded the room, the child's screams stuttered to a halt. A soft wail came from the boy huddled up in the corner of his bed. "Papa!"
"I'm here, Sam, I'm here." Hamfast promised, crossing the room in a step and a half and perching on the edge of his son's bed. Within seconds Sam had scrambled into his lap, hiccupping sobs breaking from his lips as he did so.
"Papa?" May's confused voice called from the door and Hamfast looked up to see all three of his daughters lingering outside.
"Everything's alright." Hamfast lied tiredly. "Sam's just had a nightmare, I think. Go and hop into bed, sweetheart." As the girls reluctantly shuffled off, Hamfast turned to his sobbing son. "What's the matter, Samwise?"
"Everything!" Sam hiccupped. "Everything's wrong, Papa!"
"Oh, I wouldn't say everything." Hamfast murmured, pressing a kiss into his son's head. "Come now, why are you crying?"
Sam just let out a forlorn little wail and fell against his father's shoulder.
It had taken Hamfast half an hour to coax answers out of Sam, and the answers broke his heart in two. Hamfast swallowed and rang the bell.
After a few moments Bilbo opened the door himself. "Oh, good afternoon, Master Hamfast!"
"Good afternoon, Mister Bilbo." Hamfast replied politely. "I was wondering if I might be able to speak to you for a little while?"
"Of course," Bilbo looked a little curious as he stood aside to let Hamfast in. "The others have all gone off down to the market to find some decent wagons of some kind so we shouldn't be disturbed. Do you want something to eat, or drink?"
"No thank you," Hamfast's stomach churned at the thought of consuming anything.
"Hamfast, are you alright?" Bilbo asked, concern coming across strongly in his voice.
"Not particularly, if you don't mind me being frank." He admitted, lowering his eyes.
"Well, come on through to the living room then."
Hamfast followed his friend through the familiar halls of Bag End, sinking into the armchair opposite Bilbo's with a soft sigh. He closed his eyes and pushed his forefinger and thumb onto his eyelids.
Could he ask Bilbo this? Could he really bring himself to…?
"What do you need, Hamfast?" Bilbo's voice was low and insistent.
"I have… I have a request, Mister Bilbo…" the words choked him as they came out and he broke off as his eyes made contact with Bilbo's.
"Yes?" Bilbo hinted when Hamfast did not respond.
"I…" Hamfast took a deep breath. "It's about Samwise."
"What about him? Is he alright?"
"Yes – and no. He's… well. He's breaking, Mister Bilbo." Hamfast's voice trembled as a newly familiar pain crushed his heart. "He doesn't talk much, if he talks at all, he doesn't eat and he barely sleeps. Of course all the young'uns are in bad shape since we lost…"
The very thought of his wife brought treacherous tears to Hamfast's eyes and he blinked fiercely to banish them.
"I'm so sorry, Hamfast… What can I do to help?" Bilbo murmured.
Hamfast swallowed. "Sam… he's doing worse than the others. They've lost their mother, but Sam's about to lose his best friend, as well. He and Frodo are very close, Mister Bilbo."
Guilt flooded Bilbo's eyes. "I know. I'm sorry…"
Hamfast nodded absently, trying to gather the will to say what he had to. For Sam. His little Sam… "He's not coping so well with the idea of your absence."
"What do you need?" The sincere yearning to help in Bilbo's tone was echoed in his eyes and it gave Hamfast a little strength.
"I was wondering… I thought…" Hamfast shook his head and covered his eyes with his hand. I can't do it, he thought despairingly. I can't ask him that, I can't go that far, I can't!
"Hamfast, what are you trying to say?" the concern in Bilbo's voice was growing.
Hamfast could feel the tear sliding from beneath his closed eyelid as he swallowed, but he could not open his eyes. "I… Would you… would you take Sam with you?"
The words seemed to have left his lips without consent and Hamfast's heart began to thud painfully. He did not want Sam to go, he did not want to lose his baby, but he could not simply watch all of the life drain out of his little son.
"What?!" Bilbo sounded utterly taken aback. "Why on earth would you ask… what?!"
"He had a nightmare, days ago, and begged me to let him go with you and I told him it was out of the question, of course I did! I told him there was no way that he could leave, no way at all and I thought he'd dropped it. Then yesterday we lost him, Mister Bilbo. He ran off, and that's not like him, that's not like him at all. We looked all up and down the house, all of us but he wasn't anywhere to be found. Before I could ask around if anyone had seen him Hamson found him in the stables down in the village. He was hiding in there with a little bag of food and some rope, meaning to follow you. I told him off but I've never been more shaken in my life, Mister Bilbo. I couldn't… I didn't know what to do. I thought that if I just waited until you'd left he'd settle down but I don't think he will. He's… I just don't know what to do with him, Bilbo!" Hamfast's weak composure cracked on the last few words. He swallowed, but he was unable to keep his voice steady as he continued. "I'm afraid that if he stays here he'll just…"
"Oh, Hamfast…" Bilbo whispered, and if had come from anyone else, Hamfast would have found the pity condescending. "But surely that wouldn't help him at all? If he were to come with us he would be separated from you and his siblings – I don't see how it could help him!"
Hamfast shook his head. "That's what I told him. He just howled… I'm afraid he'll try and follow you himself."
Bilbo shook his head. "I never thought… Hamfast, you are not honestly telling me that you want me to take your boy away with the full knowledge that we wouldn't be back for five years?"
Hamfast's heart twisted at the thought of it. "No, I don't. I truly don't, but I do not know what I should do, for Sam's own good."
"Our path will be dangerous," Bilbo explained slowly. "Very dangerous, and I think that if Sam left he would regret it. He still needs his family – he still needs his Papa."
Hamfast took a deep breath. It was a relief to hear someone other than himself say so. "He's my son. I don't want him to go. I think I might've acted foolishly coming here, Mister Bilbo. I'm sorry for wasting your time-"
"Don't be ridiculous." Bilbo said firmly. "I understand why you came, this isn't a waste of time. I can't imagine – no. You've got a horrible, awful load on your back which we brought to your door, and you are welcome at mine anytime, Hamfast. Whether I'm here at Bag End, or indeed in Erebor I will help in any way I can."
"Thank you… I just do not know what to do with him." Hamfast admitted a little more calmly. "He's just different, Mister Bilbo, and I don't mind it at all but it worries me. He's got so much curiosity in that little mind of his. I'm worried it'll bring him into all sorts of trouble he shouldn't be anywhere near, if you understand me."
"Of course…" Bilbo nodded and paused. "If you like I could talk with Sam and explain why he should stay here. I could even promise to take him when he's older and more suited to so long a journey?"
Hamfast looked up. "You wouldn't mind talking to him?"
"Of course not, he's a lovely little lad!" Bilbo looked almost affronted at the thought. "I'd be happy to, if that's what you want. It is your choice, after all. Not mine."
Hamfast nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I would… I would like that, Mister Bilbo. Thank you."
"You're most welcome." Bilbo insisted. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"
Hamfast shook his head politely. "I don't think so, Mister Bilbo."
"Brilliant. Send Sam over later on today if you like, we're not too busy. In fact, why don't you all come up for some dinner this evening? It would be lovely to have you."
Hamfast felt the weight on his heart ease a little. "Thank you, I'd like that very much."
"You're most welcome." Bilbo repeated, a sad, soft smile on his cheeks. "You're welcome."
It had been a ballroom once. That was how Balin remembered it. Of all his memories of Erebor, the ball that had coincided with his seventh birthday was the strongest. Like all the children of the nobles, he had been allowed to remain in the hall for the first few hours of the evening, and the whole thing had enchanted him.
The dancers had whirled so gracefully across the shining floor to the wonderful melodies conjured by the orchestra. Exotic scents of exquisite food and foreign perfume had fragranced the air and some were so strong he could taste them on his tongue.
His mother had laughed so much that evening. She was so beautiful when she laughed. He could still remember the very twinkle of her eye, the dimples that her lips conjured and the joyful sound of her breathless laughter as she let go of Uncle Balter's hands to pluck Balin from his father's hip and whirl him across the ballroom. Balin had squeaked as he found himself among the rich, swishing skirts of the noblewomen and he had clutched his mother's hands tightly. In response, she had swung him up onto her hip and nuzzled his nose, taking his hand in hers and instructing him to hold her waist with mock solemnity. They had flown through the dancers, Balin and his mother, for the Lady Elina had been a wonderful dancer.
As he stared at the dusty room, Balin could trace his mother's steps across the worn floor. His memory brought her back into the ballroom she had so loved and for a moment he could see her dancing there through the dim light.
It was not a ballroom anymore. It was a room that had been utterly forgotten.
Balin had not meant to come there at all, he had been taking a short cut to see his brother, but an investigation into a collapsed pillar led him to a large passage he had quite forgotten. Sliding beneath the pillar nimbly, Balin had stepped reverently down the hall, feeling the pull of the room behind the great stone doors before him.
They had creaked as he had pushed them open, but as he stepped into the room the memories came flooding back, and for the first time in decades Balin could remember the exact way his mother's eyes twinkled and the exact note of his father's booming laugh. He could remember his uncles and aunts, and his many cousins – and he could remember more than their names and death dates.
A soft patter of noise echoed strangely loudly through the empty hall and Balin looked down to see a drop of water banishing the dust by his feet. Surprised, he raised a hand to his face and wiped the tears he had not known he was shedding away from his cheeks. He looked to his left, staring at his appearance in the mirror.
Why did he look so old? He was not that old, not really. The years of exile and toil had aged him before his time. He wondered if it would have upset his mother – she had always been unapologetically boastful of the way Fundin seemed to retain his youth.
Feeling like a small child out after his bedtime, Balin began to walk slowly towards the centre of the room, hearing his footsteps echo against the floor. With each step he took, a face appeared in his mind, faces of those he had loved – those he had lost. He took a deep breath, but there were no exotic perfumes in the air – only the musty smell of neglect and desertion.
He stood in the middle of the hall.
Beneath his feet, a diamond the size of a man's fist was embedded into the floor. To mark the centre of the room, his father had told him. To mark the spot where lovers meet, his mother had winked. Balin had liked his mother's explanation best. Dwalin would have preferred his father's – but Dwalin had never come to this place.
For years, Balin had closed off his grief and refused to let himself mourn the lost childhoods of the exiles of Erebor. He had mourned the deaths of his family and of his friends, but he had refused to allow himself grieve the loss of childhood innocence. So perhaps Dwalin had never had security or peace as a child – he had survived. There was no point dwelling on what could no longer be fixed.
That was not the way of grief. Balin sighed softly. For one who did not consider himself old, he certainly mused and moped like an old person.
He shook his head slowly and turned away, back towards the door. He would speak to Thorin and see this place restored. He would make it a place for celebration and joy once again. Maybe they could throw a ball when Dís arrived – Balin was sure the woman as good as his sister would love that.
Maybe Dwalin would be well enough to dance then – maybe he would dance with Miss Elza. That thought brought a smile to Balin's lips. He liked Elza, and he was cautiously optimistic that she was exactly what his brother needed. Both Dwalin and Elza insisted that they were not courting, but each and every member of the company was now convinced that it would only be a matter of time.
Few were willing to set up bets at how long a time it would take, since most of them had just surrendered a significant amount of gold to Ori as a result of his correctly naming Elza as the woman that had caught Dwalin's eye.
The thought of his reluctant brother's love life added a little relief to the grief as Balin pushed open the door with one last roaming look around the hall.
He froze. Something had caught his eye, up by the tables that lined the far end of the hall. Something was moving.
Though his first instinct was to call out and assure anyone there that there was no need to fear, Balin's hand crept to his sword. Nothing else moved as he drew closer, and as Balin steadied his breath the loud echoes of his footsteps was the only sound.
As he reached the first table, Balin put his hand out and touched the crumbling tablecloth. It would have been white once. Now it was filthy, dusty and a little sticky. He scanned the surroundings and saw nothing. Slowly, Balin bent down, lifting up the tablecloth a little.
"Oh, Mahal!"
Balin pressed his hand to his head as he took a deep breath, recoiling at the sight of the tiny corpse beneath the table. A small sword that was somehow still shiny was clutched in the dead dwarf's hands, and Balin quickly realised that it must have been the reflection of light shifting as the door was open that had caught his attention.
He looked at the body, his heart aching as he realised that the long dead soul would have been no more than a child of ten years old. The poor little one must have gotten trapped in the ballroom when Smaug came. Balin hoped that the child had suffered a blow to the head or some such misfortune – starving to death alone and afraid was an awful way to die, especially for a child.
All of a sudden, Balin stopped breathing. His heart clenched as he recognised the chain around the child's neck. The pendant hanging from it had neither tarnished nor faded through time – it was made of Mithril and he had seen it many times before.
"So this is what became of you, Eyja…" he whispered sorrowfully, reaching out to ease the family heirloom off of the girl's body.
Eyja. His mother's sister's daughter. She had been born merely days after Balin, and they had been friends. Best friends. Balin had known ever since he was a boy of seven years old that she had been dead, that she had never escaped Erebor when the dragon came, but it was nothing short of horrific to see her body there beneath the table. He selfishly hoped she had not died alone.
Silently promising that he would return with helpers to give her a proper burial, Balin slipped the necklace into his pocket. This was not the first body they had found in the mountain – far from it. The city had harboured none but a dragon and the dead for centuries, and Balin could rarely dwell upon the fates of the bodies they found for long.
Most of them were unrecognisable. Some, like Eyja, carried something distinctive that granted them a name on their gravestone.
There were too many graves in this mountain.
A slight banging noise met Balin's ears and he frowned, looking over his shoulder. To his surprise, a light was emanating from the cracks in one of the windows in the walls. It would have led to a hall that the servants could use to remove, refill or replace glasses and tankards left on the windowsill during a party, and there was absolutely no reason why there should be a light behind it now at all.
Balin crossed over to the wall quickly, making his steps as quiet as possible. He peered through the largest crack and his eyes widened. Within his line of vision were several large trunks. The closest one was open – and full to the brim with the ingredients to make a flash flame.
"Put it over there!" a rough voice whispered, and Balin's grip on his sword tightened. "Is that the whole load for today?"
"No, the blacksmith brothers are bringing up the last box. We've not got any more coming in after that, though, he can't scrounge anymore until next week."
Balin knew what was going on before he had even connected the dots. This was where the traitors were now meeting. This was where they were storing things – explosives, weapons and the like. There were still traitors in the Lonely Mountain.
But this time, Balin knew exactly where they were.
He began to back away slowly until he reached the door. Sneaking out of the ballroom, Balin began to run down the hall. He had to get to Thorin right away – this was the biggest breakthrough they had had in months! What was more, Dwalin would undoubtedly love the news. His bedridden brother was growing more restless with every moment he spent immobile.
Balin began to hurry down the hall, but when he turned the corner he paused. Coming towards him were two large dwarves carrying a huge trunk. Upon seeing him they froze and looked at each other.
"I'm sorry, My Lord." The first said as he drew his sword.
"Aye." The second echoed, looking genuinely remorseful. How amusing. "You were not supposed to be here."
"Oh? And why would that be?" Balin asked in a perfected calm voice.
"We didn't want to have to do this." The first put his hand on his heart. "But this is ultimately for the greater good of all dwarves."
The pair lowered the trunk and began to stride towards Balin. It would come to a fight, then. These two young, rash looking lads, versus Balin. These were the people that had put his brother in a sick bed. These were the people who had hurt more innocents than Balin could count. These were the people who wanted to tear down a kingdom from the inside.
Balin had spent the last several months fighting battles with words and wit. Now, he was faced with swords. These two nitwits clearly had no idea what they were up against – Balin may look like a cuddly grandfather, but he had a good dash of warrior in him yet.
They charged and Balin stepped back into a stance as natural as sleep. He raised his sword, he strengthened his shoulders, and he smiled as the two strangers drew closer.
Time for a little revenge.
And there I leave you for today! Thank you so much for reading, I apologise again for the delay. I hope you enjoyed that chapter, please let me know what you think.
I have now FINALLY worked through most of the plot points that were holding me back, so updates SHOULD be faster now. However, with the way my life is going right now I can't make any promises, I'm sorry.
As a final note – The nickname contest!
Thank you so much for all the entries, I really, really appreciated them all. After a long hard think, I have decided to tell you my two favourites and ask you to please vote for the one you prefer.
So, please let me know if you prefer Inca or Vinca! They're both very similar, I know, which is why I can't choose! I love them both! To make it fair, I'm going to say that you have until Wednesday the 12th of November to vote, because that's a week from now and I'll count up the votes then. Thank you all for all your wonderful help so far.
(I will contact everyone who originally suggested whichever one is picked in the end regarding oneshot prizes when the voting is done.)
Thank you for reading, please do review if you fancy
