Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Nothing Gold Can Stay	By : TAFKAB Category: +Third Age > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 5311 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, The Silmarillion, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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The three friends rode westward slowly through poor weather, sleet and snow, wind and rain. The lands were not friendly, and river fords proved dangerous. More than once they had to fight orcs, but these were mountain goblins, and they did not come in large enough numbers to pose a serious threat.

Legolas soon grew deadly with his new bow, and Gimli learned patiently how best to manage the balance of his throwing-axes. Aragorn honed his skills with both sword and bow, and the three took pleasure in learning to fight well together. They were accomplished enough at hunting they were able to supplement their stores with meat and did not go hungry, and when they had time to spare after traveling, camping, and foraging, they practiced with their weapons, honing their skills and learning to complement one another as they fought together.

Though Gimli thought often upon the lady’s final words, he spoke of them to no one. He rode behind Legolas with his hands resting the elf’s waist or even tucked his thumbs into Legolas’s belt, if the going was uncertain. Legolas sang often, but he also seemed strangely thoughtful, though his ear healed quickly. Gimli often watched the jewels of his own crafting sparkle in the light as they rode, and they gave him satisfaction even when the elf was silent.

Nothing seemed to daunt Aragorn, who had been part of several elvish hunting parties in these lands-- not the threat of goblins, nor the howling of wolves by night, nor rain and sleet upon the road. It was hard to credit they were part of an urgent quest against evil when the days passed without pursuit or trouble, but Gimli felt an itch growing between his shoulder blades, and he knew the peace would not last.

“A shadow is growing on my mind,” Legolas said one day as they rode through a dismal expanse of swamp, deviled by biting flies that kept Gimli busy miserably slapping at his exposed skin. “Some evil will is aware of us, and it broods on our errand.”

“It has grown since we passed the Weather Hills,” Aragorn agreed. “I fear our journey back to Rivendell will not prove as easy as we had hoped.”

“Do you think it is the wizard Saruman?”

“I think not, so far from Isengard.” Aragorn shrugged at Legolas. “Gandalf and I talked long in Rivendell. There is much we cannot be sure of when it comes to our foes. Khamûl should have pursued us from Dol Guldur-- he should have sought you and Gimli twice over-- yet he did not. The wizard believes he is under orders to remain where he is, but those orders may be changed.” Aragorn shook his head. “We must hope they are not, and that we do not have to fight the wraith-- or more than one. They can command any fell creature they encounter, mustering a host of foes against us.”

“The halfling is a clever and brave creature by all accounts,” Gimli said. “He faced the dragon in its lair and stood firm against the anger of Thorin Oakenshield. He will not be easily overawed.”

“His experience may be a good thing. We will arrive soon in Bree. From there it is a short journey to the Shire.” Aragorn glanced about the wide, flat land, where nothing stirred but a few birds among the mist. “If we can persuade him to accompany us in haste, we may yet pass back to Imladris while our foes still delay over their counsels.”

They pressed on, stopping briefly in Bree to re-provision and enjoy the luxury of a night beneath a roof and hot food they did not have to shoot or cook themselves. Then they pressed on down the road, entering the Shire through the Hay Gate and crossing the Brandywine Bridge.

They drew curious stares as they rode through Frogmorton toward Bywater, especially the elf. “These folk have not seen the likes of you in along years,” Aragorn murmured to Legolas. “Elves pass through the Shire as they travel west, but they lie quiet in the woods by day and travel late at night. Dwarves are more commonly seen, for there are mines in the Blue Mountains, and dwarves often pass through the Shire on the East Road.”

“If you’re looking for Bilbo Baggins, you’ll find him up the Hill in Hobbiton,” a sharp-voiced female directed them onward when they inquired the way, pausing in hanging out her washing. “I’ve never seen such queer folk as he brings about!” She pointed her finger westward, evidently eager to have them away.

“We thank you,” Aragorn told her with grave courtesy. They rode on, asking at any crossroads and slowly winding their way deeper into the Shire until they mounted the hill to Bag End, the front door nestled behind its cozy garden, directly beneath a spreading oak.

A halfling sat in the garden, unlit pipe in hand, drowsing in the early spring sun. He wore a well-tailored blue jacket and a fine burgundy waistcoat, both of rich fabrics, and his pipe was richly carved. He showed every indication of having benefitted from the reclamation of Erebor but one: his small face was creased as if with long worry, his mouth set in lines of discontent.

“Master Bilbo Baggins,” Aragorn spoke, and the halfling’s eyes flew open.

“Estel of Imladris, the Dúnadan!” Bilbo straightened up at once, blinking sleep from his eyes. “And an elf. I know you-- Legolas, Prince of the Woodland Realm? Yes, I remember your face. And--” his face lost animation, his pleasant smile freezing on his lips. “A dwarf. Of Erebor? Yes, of course.”

He did not offer Gimli his service. “Well. How unusual.” He clapped his hands, rousing himself from stillness. “Come in by all means, Estel, and bring your companions with you. I think I can make shift to feed you all.” He turned to go in, then spun on his heel, stabbing a short, accusing finger at Gimli. “But even if you are Durin himself reborn, you are not to throw any of the china or to scrape your muddy feet on the furniture. Do I make myself understood?”

“Perfectly, Master Baggins.” Gimli bowed and followed his companions in.

“Gi nathlam hí, Thranduilion,” Bilbo said to Legolas as they went in.

“Pedig edhellen?” Legolas sounded so pleased Gimli could hardly keep his scowl at being excluded from their conversation.

“Just enough to get myself in trouble. Please have a seat. I’ll put the kettle on.” Bilbo avoided Gimli’s eye, but other than that he acted the perfect host, scuttling about making tea and toasting bread, then bringing cakes and biscuits from the pantry.

“We bring word from Gandalf and the lord Elrond,” Aragorn told him when they had settled in behind full plates and washed the dust of the road from their throats with small beer. “A council is to be held in Imladris, and your presence is requested. It concerns a matter of great import, and you are desired as a representative of your people and their interests.”

“Then you should go to the Thain in Tuckborough.” Bilbo shook his head. “I’ve had quite enough adventures.”

“The Thain no longer serves as a royal representative of the Shire, and has not done so since the line of kings failed in Gondor.” Aragorn bent forward. “And the king, if there were one, would not want his aid in this. You are personally concerned in this matter.”

Bilbo leaned back, giving Aragorn a calculating look that said he knew as much of the young ranger’s lineage as anyone. “What, am I wanted to advise the rulers of all the lands to make war for the deposition of the mad king of Erebor?” His voice fell, bitter, and his hand rose to rub his throat, as if remembering pain. “No, thank you.”

“Nothing of the kind. This matter touches the dwarves, but no more so than any other land or race in Middle Earth.”

Gimli finally caught Bilbo’s eye, and Bilbo sighed. “Begging your pardon, Master Dwarf. You have not even told me who you are.”

“I am Gimli. I claim no family and offer no service, for I am sworn in service to King Thranduil of the Greenwood.”

“However in the world did that happen?” Bilbo blinked with surprise, but gave Gimli no pause to answer. “I knew your father well. I would have said him a fond farewell, had I been given the chance.” He laid his hands flat upon the table. “It was rather difficult to remember pleasant courtesies while being dangled over the ramparts, I confess, and after that I never saw any of them to speak with again. Do carry him my regards when you all leave.” He stood and tidied away his plate with an air of decision, plainly hoping that would be soon, if not immediately.

Aragorn sighed. “Our meeting is called by the White Council. They would share their concerns and make policy regarding the Necromancer, the sorcerer once known as Sauron. All peoples should be represented in this meeting to help resolve upon a way to vanquish him, for if he rises again, all who live in Middle Earth will suffer the tyranny of his rule.”

Bilbo paused over the sink, his knuckles going white on the countertop. “Sauron.” His voice lost its bluster and became very small. “How am I ‘personally concerned’ there? That is more serious than representing the Shire in a debate over plans in a battle in which we would take little or no part.”

Aragorn hesitated. “Your bravery and cleverness in the retaking of Erebor, your opposition to Azog, Bolg, and the Great Goblin, your very friendship with Gandalf, Thranduil, and Elrond-- you have aligned yourself against the enemy, and you have raised his awareness of the valor of a forgotten people. If his eye falls on the Shire, it will be in large part due to your heroic efforts against the dragon.”

Bilbo stared at him, white-faced, and set his jaw. “All right,” he said. “I’ll go.”

NOTES:

Dúnadan: Man of the west
Gi nathlam hí, Thranduilion: You are welcome here, Thranduil's son
Pedig edhellen?: Do you speak Elvish?

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Nothing Gold Can Stay