Hello, dearest Miss Pop ❤

15. 

What did you learn from writing this fic?

Oooooh heck. So, so SOOOOO much. I have learned so much from Sansukh, it has taught me in so many ways. I have learned how to create a far more subtle character progression than I ever have before. I have learned how to use situations to create tension far more effectively. I am no longer frightened of juggling a million different plotlines and characters; they’re all stories. I think my dialogue is less waffling and stilted, and far more natural. I am not over-worried about my descriptive passages any more, they read more fluidly to me than they used to. I can now write a VERY long-plan, long-game fic with a bit more confidence! I’m less focused on endless backstory or endless dragging explanations. I’m way WAY more invested in inter- and intrapersonal relationships in the here-and-now, and in using those to reveal history instead. I’m better at creating mystery. I’m better at creating surprise (I had a lot of people yelling that “OMG I DID NOT EXPECT THAT’ when Thorin revealed his dark-name!). And I think I have managed to write a couple of suspenseful battle-scenes now, too!

I am also a LOT more confident in building an interesting, rounded and fully-realised character, and in embedding them into an existing world. I am so incredibly grateful that when I set out to populate Middle-Earth with my small army of ladies and nb characters and POC and so on, people took them all into their hearts. I get so many beautiful asks about Bomfris or Gimizh or Laerophen or Merilin or Baris or Jeri or whomever. It is really validating and encouraging, so thank you all so much!!

3. 

What’s your favorite line of narration?

Oooooh, TRICKY. Um, there are a few moments? But I don’t really use massive blocks of description very often. The worst offenders are the setups in Chapters 1-4, but after that there isn’t much in the way of big descriptive sections. Once the story is rolling along I much prefer to progress through dialogue, primarily, and incorporate descriptive sentences within the action, instead of say, painting the setting in super-fine detail. 

IDK, I am not sure I am making much sense here. This is totally not to say I don’t get flowery or lyrical at times, not at all; I absolutely do go on a flight of fancy or two! Bit hard NOT to when using Tolkien as a base text. Anyway. 

With a fic this long, there’s a lot of stuff to choose from. There end up being lots of bits you like, and lots of bits that you go ‘URGH, if I could just do one more edit…’ Here are a few personal standouts, after all that rambling babble! 🙂

---

• From Chapter 10:

_{He turned the half-finished work over in his hands. Here the pan, where a Hobbit might cook bacon or tomatoes or eggs or mushrooms or those little flat cakes that Frodo liked so much. Here the handle, where a Hobbit’s hands would grip sure and steady and confident. Possibly a wooden handle, to reduce the conductivity of heat. Hobbit hands were nimble but soft. Here a divot in the rim, for pouring, and here a maker’s mark: Thorin, son of Thráin. Here around the sides, a wrought pattern of Dwarvish knotwork, each knot surmounted with Hobbitish flowers.}

• From Chapter 11:
  

_{Then Gimli took off his glove and held up his hand wordlessly, spreading it before his eyes to show the Elf. He had the great, thick fingers of Glóin and Thráin: broad and powerful. Digging into his belt-pouch he brought out a small golden bead. Then, between thumb and forefinger and with barely any apparent effort, he squeezed it flat.}

_{Tossing it to the Elf, he began to hum an old walking-tune as he stumped along behind the Man of Gondor.}

_{Legolas lifted the disc to his eye, and then he bit down upon it experimentally. His eyes widened, and he looked after Gimli with an astonished expression before following after the Fellowship.}

_{The bead he slipped into his pack.}

…

_{With a great cry of Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!, Gimli leapt over the ring of stones to loose Fíli’s throwing axe directly into the face of a charging wolf. He then span and sent his short-handled spinning axe across the throat of another, before punching the snapping beast in the eyes with his mailed fist. The huge skull cracked underneath Gimli’s knuckles, and then he was whirling once more, the axe spinning in tight figure-eights that the arms of no Elf nor Man could hope to replicate. Gimli stood like a rock, his feet planted firmly on the earth as around him his axe dealt shining silver death. The Elf stared for a moment, and Thorin felt unaccountably smug all of a sudden.}

_{“Gimli son of Glóin is the best axeman in two centuries,” he told the haughty creature with quite a sense of satisfaction. “And you, Thranduil’s son, had the audacity to ask what use he would be!”}

_{Legolas gathered himself quickly, and the bow of Mirkwood began to sing its deep and musical song once more. To Thorin’s displeasure the Elf had not boasted unduly of his own skill. His arrows indeed never missed, but flew straight and true and unerring for eyes, throats and temples. Even the darkness and the slowly-growing flickering of the fire did not affect his uncanny accuracy. His hand flickered back and forth from his quiver with unearthly speed, seeming to blur the air around him. At one point he sent two arrows flying simultaneously to fell two separate Wargs, a feat Thorin had to blink at.}

_{Aragorn was possibly the best swordsman Thorin had ever seen. His style was undoubtedly Elvish, but Thorin recognised a solid Rohirrim move amongst the fluid Elvish motions. Then he began to see others as well: here a double-parry familiar to the Men of the North, there a southern Gondorian gambit. Neither was the Man shy of fighting dirty. To Thorin’s great surprise, Aragorn feinted left before drawing a dagger from his boot and sending it slamming into a Warg’s head as it turned to follow, before drawing it out and sending it spinning end over end to bury itself in the eye of another. “Novel,” he murmured to himself, studying the form and effectiveness of such an eclectic range of styles. “Undeniably successful.”}

_{Boromir was a far more formal fighter than Thorin had known. His sword flickered out in the parries and thrusts of the trained swordsman, but he had less of the virtuosic flair of Gimli, Legolas and Aragorn. Rather, he moved in a workmanlike soldierly fashion, each move economical and measured, each stance speaking of hours of drills.}

• From Chapter 12:

_{The hammer hit the glowing copper with an almighty clang! Thorin wiped off his forehead, and glared at the heavy pot, before hefting the hammer once more. The beaten copper was not bonding smoothly to the bottom surface. When used over a fire, it would not heat uniformly. The food would be unevenly cooked. No Hobbit would accept this.}

_{A Hobbit chose you.}

_{Clang! The hammer came down again, and Thorin shook the hair and sweat from his eyes. Better. The pot would be an attractive thing when finished – warm copper and cool steel, the trailing forms of ivy around the handles. A trifle too heavy for a Hobbit to lift alone. A Dwarf would need to help. Thorin would certainly be strong enough.}

_{They make their way to Moria.}

_{Clang! Perhaps the pot could be used for the spiced stews and soups popular all over the Shire. Perhaps it would hold a boiled ham or a silverside cooked with cloves and peppercorns, or maybe that thick sweet porridge that Hobbits liked to drown in cream and honey. Perhaps it could hold, one day, a Dwarvish bread soup, or the traditional Broadbeam dumpling stew his grandmother had always made. Bilbo would be interested in Dwarven cooking.}

_{The Ring is calling Boromir. It whispers in his ear.}

_{Clang! The hair would not stay out of his eyes, and his sweat was making them sore and stinging. He set the pot at the edge of his forge-fire before tugging off his shirt and wiping his face with it roughly. Then he tied his hair back haphazardly and picked up his hammer once more. The copper would bond, or it would break.}

_{The Fellowship will bond, or it will break.}

_{Clang! He had given his word to his mother that he would try not to dwell in his guilt. But the habits of eighty years were proving hard to break. He had denied his place as a leader of his people and denied his share of any of the good that had come from his quest, but here he was leading once more. Clang! He would stay true this time. Clang! He would not fail his fierce inùdoy Gimli, or the noble desperate Boromir, or the brave young Frodo. Clang! He would not fail Bilbo. Not this time. Clang! He would do his part for Middle-Earth. Clang! Clang! His Maker had known. Clang! The Ring. The damned, damned Ring. Clang!}

• From Chapter 14:

_{No more would the sharp blue eyes flicker to him in irritation or acknowledgement, or that strange and unexpected compassion. No more would the scratchy old voice offer that infuriatingly opaque wisdom, the calm and gentle comfort, or ring out in that clarion call of righteous rage. Thorin squeezed his own eyes shut for a moment, before he stubbornly pushed his grief away. Gandalf himself had said that death was only another path.}

…

_{At first the dark pool revealed nothing. And then, just as in the waters of Gimlîn-zâram, the darkness parted. The shapes of the surrounding mountains were mirrored against the sheen of the waters, framing a sky that was an aching and yearning blue. There were sunk seven glittering stars against that blue eternity, like drowned heavenly jewels. They span and dazzled against the deep, though the sun was high and no stars shone in the sky above them.}

_{With a flash of understanding, Thorin realised that this pool, deep Kheled-zâram, was but a pale reflection of the greater profundity of starry Gimlîn-zâram in the Halls of Mahal.}

• From Chapter 18:

_{Thorin allowed the gentle motion of the boat wash his mind clear. The low sound of Gimli’s laughter, the mutters of the Elf, even the swish of the paddle became dull and muted as he leaned back in the bow and let his thoughts wander. The sharp pang of grief that Rivendell had caused was still there. His heart still ached for his Bilbo, and it would not lessen any time soon. Yet the peace of this moment… Thorin had never appreciated peace in his life. He had never sought it out.}

_{He was beginning to see the attraction.}

• From Chapter 20:

_{The Elf’s face had been confused and so grief-stricken. Did Elves feel grief as mortals did? Or was it even deeper and sharper, ever-fresh and raw, as their memories never faded? The Elf had said they fled Middle-Earth when it overwhelmed them at last. Thorin could well believe it now. Lothlórien was a land filled with glory and sorrow. Did they ever move on from that bittersweet, lingering sadness?} 

• From Chapter 26

_{Before them lay a huge and graceful chamber, carved out by nothing more than the rushing of water as though scooped out by some godlike hand. The great vaulted ceiling was held aloft by great stalagmites that had joined the floor over the many centuries, forming thick pillars like the legs of an Oliphant. Each was coloured so delicately that Thorin nearly cried to see them: a dawn-rose here, a red as fierce as rubies there, peach and blue and rust and ochre and earth mingling and comingling, and whites as translucent as the shell of a Hobbit’s ear. A pool bubbled amongst the many pillars, the underground spring obviously finding purchase in this peaceful, beautiful place. Its surface shone like black glass, the water echoing like the chiming of many bells amongst the fluted marble bunting that floated, cloudlike and delicate, from the roof. From the ceiling and walls dripped the shapes of eagles’ wings, spears, banners, sensuously twisted ropes of marble and limestone, massive pinnacles of unearthly palaces for no mortal king. It was more stupendous than the Erebor of the days of Thrór, all aglow as though lit from within and as lucent as the webbed skin between Thorin’s thumb and forefinger. And all around, the walls and columns and even the floor of the massive chamber glittered like a handful of diamonds against black velvet.} 

• (I am quite pleased with the opening inner monologue of Ch27 – Thorin’s angry, desperate delusion, all his excuses and terrible reasons and the frenzy of denial, as he tries to convince himself that Legolas and Gimli are not in love even though he deep-down knows it to be true.)

• From Chapter 29:

_{It was like a dance. Bifur remembered it well, from his years of mining. Each Dwarrow knew where they were to be, and any change was instantly noted. The utter familiarity of the work and workplace meant that the smallest difference was as jarring as a wrong note in a well-loved song. Though the concentration never wavered, the steps moved in response to that lingering wrong note and the dance would begin anew. The movement, the work, the utter trust in your fellows, the ring of metal upon rock – Bifur had not expected to miss it.}

_{Laerophen’s alien eyes swept the massive cavern, taking it in. The moment he understood, his whole demeanour shifted slightly – only slightly, but Bifur somehow perceived that it was profound nevertheless.}

• From Chapter 30:

Thorin stared. There were tears standing in Gimli’s eyes, though they did not fall. His cheeks were flushed above his uncombed beard, and his teeth were white and bared amongst the strands of bright red hair. The snarl upon his face was as familiar as breath itself. He looked – he looked like Thorin himself, for the first time in his life.

• (I am also p proud of Gimizh’s misadventures in the tunnels, from Ch31.)

• From Chapter 38:

_{Legolas watched with undisguised interest as Gimli stretched as far as his frame would allow. Gimli was just so vibrant, so incredibly vital. So utterly unlike himself. They were so very different. It seemed that everywhere Legolas was slender Gimli was broad. Heavy, not light. Massive-armed and thick-necked, with strong stout legs and incredibly wide across the shoulders, yes – and a stocky waist, not whiplike as those of Elves – all dense muscle beneath his furry skin and layer of padding, no doubt.}

• (Aaaaand every last drop of Bilbo’s internal monologue, also from Ch38)

• Lastly, from Chapter 39:

_{The wind was the same, blowing icy across his face. That was all that remained the same, however, and Thorin opened his eyes again onto a scene from a nightmare. Black smoke belched into the air, and nothing grew as far as the eye could see. They stood upon a high rise, and the stones were melted into torturous shapes beneath his feet, as though Mahal’s earth were struggling against the horror that had been forced onto its back. The plain stretched out before them, covered in bristling shapes of tents and the dull glint of weaponry. Every so often the glow of fires in deep pits could be seen, like dragon’s mouths breathing into the night-dark sky.}

_{And in the distance – not forty miles away – stood the slopes of the great fire-mountain itself, shouldering out of its own filthy spume, bulking massive and sullen and final. Behind it, half-hidden in the vast shadow and shrouded in its own cloak of menace, stood the vicious jagged tooth that was Barad-dûr.}

Thank you so much for the Q’s, Pop! *hugs*