Hide Not Thy Poison
Author Note: So finally, after months of delay, I am posting the first chapters of my story for the Hobbit Big Bang. A few shout outs are in order! Special thanks to KivrinEngle, for giving me the idea to use Shakespeare as a source of inspiration for the title. I doubt she will ever read this piece, but I owe her thanks nonetheless. Thanks are also due to Pherede for her fic "A Curious Mind" which was in part the inspiration for this story, with all that entails. A shout-out should also go to my beta Kailthia, as well as the good people of Tumblr who stopped by this fic and contributed their beta work. Final and greatest thanks go to Sevenums, who created beautiful art for this story as part of The Hobbit Big Bang. The art will be linked and included where it is applicable within the story, in about the last chapter for those of you keeping track.
This fic contains the following topics and potential triggers: dubious or non-consent, non-consensual drug, suicidal thoughts, psychological torment, and explicit sexual content. Please heed the warnings if you are sensitive to such things.
This story was written in large part before the release of The Hobbit: Desolation of Smaug and therefore follows the events of the books, in that Thorin is captured first and alone. In any case, it can be considered a darker take on what could happened in the depths of Thranduil's palace.
Hide not thy poison with such sugar'd words;
Lay not thy hands on me; forbear, I say;
Their touch affrights me as a serpent's sting.
Thou baleful messenger, out of my sight!
Upon thy eye-balls murderous tyranny
Sits in grim majesty, to fright the world.
Look not upon me, for thine eyes are wounding:
Yet do not go away: come, basilisk,
And kill the innocent gazer with thy sight;
For in the shade of death I shall find joy;
Henry VI, by William Shakespeare
The cell is lit by torches outside of the barred door, and is clean swept and dry. There is a pallet by the wall where his chains are anchored, and food brought in at regular hours. Slowly, Thorin begins to recover his strength, all the while studying the door, the links of the chains, and the bolts that fastened them to the wall.
In all his studies, he realizes only one thing: he lacks the tools for his own escape. He recognizes good steel when he sees it, knows the extent of his own strength, knows that it would take a cave troll to rip his chains from the wall, and the door from its hinges. He is alone, in some dungeon in the depths of Thranduil's palace, at the end of a long and winding corridor. Even if the Company should somehow infiltrate the palace to rescue him, they would surely be seen before they made it this far.
When the elves first brought him here it was with a sackcloth thrown over his head, down for what felt like miles. The ground had twisted and turned beneath his feet, such that by the time they reached his cell he could not even begin to retrace his steps from memory. The elves that brought him there were impossibly strong, but not rough, and somehow that made it worse. He was dragged as if by iron bonds, and when he tried to drag his captors to the ground, and make some attempt at grappling his way free, they had simply lifted him, as if he weighed no more than a child.
A day passes before Thranduil comes to see him, soft shoes padding silent along the carven hallway. He is flanked by two elves with dark hair and there is something in his hand, a tanned leather pouch drawn tight with a drawstring. Thorin has a moment to study it, unable to divine its purpose as they take out the keys to enter his cell. Fed and rested, he is able to study Thranduil calmly. Hunger and exhaustion had driven him to the edge, and now a more level head would be needed. There is no company here, and he feels unbalanced at their loss, unaware of how steadying their influence is until it is gone. He can manage this, though. He can play whatever games Thranduil requires if means freedom from this place.
Thranduil stops in front of him, regards him, bending low in an exaggerated movement that seems designed to remind Thorin of his height. Thorin watches, his expression stony. He opens his mouth, prepares to give Thranduil a polite but scathing welcome.
Thranduil's hand appears before him, held flat. On it there is a pile of yellow dust that he holds in an open palm before his lips. Thorin's brow furrows, and he has only a moment to see it before Thranduil puffs, once, and the dust scatters.
Thorin inhales with a short, startled gasp. Yellow powder hangs in the air in front of him and he starts, sneezes and jerks away. Whatever the substance is, it hangs like powder in the air, and has the herbal scent of pollen. It tastes, oddly, of tealeaves, and coats the inside of his throat and he coughs as it sticks there like flour. He swallows before he can think better of it, and his saliva turns the powder to a thin coat of mud painting the inside of his throat. Tears spring to his eyes as he hacks, works his throat and spits as much of the stuff from his mouth as he can. Thranduil does not stop him, does not even blink as Thorin snorts and spits again, a yellow gob of pollen and saliva hitting the floor. He knows he has not got it all, not by half. Still it coats the inside of his nose, tongue, and lips.
Thorin's hands are bound at the wrist, but he manages to turn his head and wipe his face against the shoulder of his tunic, all the while glaring at Thranduil with every ounce of his fury. He works up more saliva and spits out what is left of the stuff, but whatever the pollen was, it has begun to work its devilry. It is moving down his throat, burning its way there like a drought of whiskey. It pools in his stomach like alcohol too, suffusing his limbs with a heat that is burning away some of the pain and tension from the rough treatment and the many days of travel and starvation in the woods. He may still have some effort and concentration, he may be able to vomit the stuff up before it finished its work.
"Don't," says Thranduil. Thorin relaxes instantly, and falls against the bonds. Calm courses through his neck and shoulders like the spread of a warm balm, but it is wrong, terribly wrong.
"What have you done to me?" Thorin whispers. He tries to constrict his muscles, to gag the last of the pollen away but his body refuses to obey him. No, more than his body. His mind as well, for the thought slips through it like a fish, eluding his grasp. He cannot seize upon it but perhaps he no longer needs to force himself to be sick, because the golden glow in his stomach is turning to the leaden weight of dread. "What have you done?"
"Calm yourself, son of Thráin," Thranduil says idly, and straightens. Thorin feels his panic slipping away even as he is aware that it should have doubled. Thranduil dusts the last of the yellow powder off his fingertips, where he had been concealing it, and clasps his hands behind him. "It is merely the distilled pollen of a certain plant, it will not harm you. But I have grown tired of your evasions, and this should speed your answers."
Thranduil's face seems to wavers as he speaks, and a faint trail, an afterimage, follows the movement of his hands and body. Thorin blinks, the world shifting behind his eyelids, as the split-second moment seems to stretch. He exhales and his breath echoes. "What is it doing to me?" he says, his voice sounds thick in his ears. The tension is leaving his jaw as his face begins to feel numb.
"Nothing excessive. It is a weak potion. I have observed its effect in my people as no stronger than that of a bottle of wine, so long as you don't resist its effects. I have no wish to harm you, but I require your cooperation, and this should place you in the proper frame of mind." Thranduil stopped, his figure wavering like a mirage, white against the black stone of the cell. "I have news of your companions."
Thorin shoots forward, or tries to, but falls hard against the bonds and the world spins as if he's been struck in the face with a club. The burn of the pollen is increasing, filling his entire body as if with fire. The first prickle of sweat chills his forehead. The space between each breath stretched in an ever-wider gulf in his ears, but his mind knows that the pace of his breathing has not actually changed.
"Tell me," Thranduil says, and his voice booms like thunder rolling over the plains. "Why did you and your folk three times try to attack my people at their merrymaking?"
Thorin's vision swims, and the light of the torches glinting off Thranduil's hair and robes and he glows like a candle flame. The light beckons Thorin, and the figure consumes his world. It is the source of the warmth inside him, the light before him, and all clarity comes from it. He opens his mouth.
"Speak," the flame hisses, the tongues of heat snapping higher, racing across the ground so they dance just inches before Thorin.
"We…" Thorin begins. He sees in the heart of the fire the road that led the company from Beorn's, his companions stretching out before him like a train of ants, becoming gradually less distinct as they traveled deeper into the darkness beneath the canopy. His brows draw together in confusion. He feels hunger like a phantom pain, thrumming through him with each pulse of the drug. Faces waver in his memory. His kin…his kin are among them, as are… others. But they would not, had not come to attack. He knew it, he had said so for suddenly the memory is rushing forward as if falling from a great height and he is in the court of his enemy, bound with thongs and amongst the rushing chaos and the burning in his veins there's an island, like a rock jutting forth from a raging river. He has heard this question before, he has answered…correctly. No, he had not told the whole truth because…because there was some reason not to. But the remembered answer gives him somewhere to stand and he repeats it as the recollection returns to him. "We did not attack them, we came to beg, because…"
"Oh, not again," the flame crackles. "If he says starving one more time… The truth this time! What were you doing in the forest?"
Thorin, or rather the burning creature trapped inside flesh and bindings, surrounded by crashing sounds and lights, stops. It is as if he has encountered a wall. He has given the truth, and his confusion grinds the headlong rush to a halt.
A shiver runs through Thorin as he comes back to himself with a feeling like the twang of a broken harp string. It stings like one too, and he looks down to see his fingernails are digging into his palms. His hands have gone white and bloodless, nausea roils in his stomach. Thranduil stands before him, no longer a creature of living flame, but only a hated figure in silver. His eyes bore black into Thorin's, impatience in the sour twist of his lips.
I have already given my answer, Thorin begins to say, and those will be his last under his own power. For behind them he can feel words building like water behind a dam, pressing against one another. It would be like scratching an itch to answer, to give his entire life's story and the deepest hopes and fears of his heart that not even his kin knew to this traitor before him. Simple, without a second thought the words would tumble out and not stop until he was wrung out and hoarse. The realization sends a bolt of terror through him, but it doesn't stop the need. He can't even open his mouth to suck down a breath because that itch is growing to a pain, and relief would be so easy.
So he clenches his jaw until he thinks his teeth will crack, and though the words may whisper in his mouth he traps them, even as another wave of the drug washes through him and he wonders if he'll weep from the need to speak.
Thranduil frowns. "Ai, the stubbornness of dwarves. And would you speak if I reminded you that the fate of your companions still lies within my control? Leaderless they wander, far off the path. Perhaps they seek my palace, for even without you they still may intend to do my people harm."
It is certainly not Thanduil's intent, but Thorin melts in relief at his words. Wandering off the path had its perils, but they are still alive. They had not been slain by the spiders, or by the treacherous elves. Alive means that there is hope, if he can but escape his bonds and Thranduil's dungeon. He never thought he'd miss so much the faces of his kin, long so greatly for…
Thorin doubles over, the breath rushing out of him as if he had been sucker-punched. A frisson runs through every muscle and artery, and he was straining at the bonds. He needs to get out of here, but the need was like a living thing inside him, a beast without reason or self-preservation, pressing at his bonds regardless of how they cut into his flesh.
Thranduil draws back in alarm, and says something to the guards beside him, something Thorin hears distantly but cannot understand. He can see the company before him as if they are there in the flesh, and he somehow transported into the darkness of the wood by will alone. But pain is lancing through him from his bonds, his body rebelling with all its force to make the wish come true, even in the face of pain and reality.
Want. Want is the key to it, he is certain even as the Elvenking draws close again, studying him.
"If you wish them to live, you will answer the question," Thranduil says and Thorin's theory is confirmed as shudder races through him, his mind touching briefly on Thranduil's words. Instead he bites his lip, the pain drawing him from the edge, but only for a moment.
That moment is enough. Thorin knows what he wants now, and there is blood on his teeth as he smiles at Thranduil and contemplates breaking free of his bonds, of wrapping hands rough from sword and hammer around that slender throat and crushing the life from him. But the chains hold him and will not let him free. He does not need to speak to desire Thranduil's death, and Thranduil must see that death in his eyes for he straightens. Fire pulses through Thorin's veins, and with it rage and triumph to have discovered the mechanism of Thranduil's drug, twisting the desires of the victim so they align to their interrogator, or whatever suggestion is put to their helpless minds.
But he is no longer helpless. He is armed now, he can hold his secrets to his very grave if necessary. Thorin's lips taste of salt and iron, and wishes only that it were not his own. It bolsters him like the steel that reinforces a broken blade, and he is himself again, able to outlast any number of hours and questions that this traitorous king may throw at him. There is displeasure in the downturned angle of Thranduil's lips and without warning he turns back to the door, not sparing Thorin another glance.
"We will resume tomorrow, son of Thráin. Consider this another day lost, a day your companions may not have," Thranduil says, gesturing to the guards. They close the door behind them, locking it. They leave Thorin in his chains, the drug still pulsing in his veins, triumph and blood turning to ashes in his mouth.
