Disclaimer: The Hobbit, all characters, places, and related terms are the sole property of J. R. R. Tolkien's estate, and Warner Brothers, New Line Cinema, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, and WingNut Films.
Author's Note: Fill for a prompt on the hobbit-kink meme.
Fragile Threads and Promises
They had easily fallen into throwing accusations and dodging questions. (It had been like this towards the end, when they went from friends to ex-friends.) The dwarf was kept in place by a hand pressing down forcibly on his shoulder while the elf paced around him. One moment they were glaring at each other, words biting. Then those cool eyes began wandering repeatedly up to his dark hair, his words growing distracted; the dwarf's on the other hand became more sharp, annoyed with being treated so.
Next thing Thorin knew he was being seated in a chair quickly called for by Thranduil. Presently the elven king was thoroughly occupied with removing the bits of spider web and twigs from the dwarf's long hair, tut-tutting disapproval and mumbling in elvish under his breath, to the other's increasing irritation.
But overall, the dwarf king did not know what to make of the situation. He mustn't linger on it; allow the present to carry him back to other times. So he settled for confused outrage.
"What are you doing?" he hissed for the eighth time in as many minutes.
"—spiders! Make me break my promise – and elves are creatures of their word…"
Catching the low words, Thorin stilled.
"When you come, Legolas and I will personally guide you through Mirkwood."
"Past the spiders?"
"I will not let the spiders touch you, little one."
"Like how you got rid of the spiders in the library and my room?"
"Yes."
Suddenly the dwarf realized the sensation of fingers moving in his hair was no more. Glancing up, he discovered the elf frozen beside him. For an instant their eyes met.
"Take him away," Thranduil ordered abruptly, an odd note in his voice, already across the room, his back resolutely turned to his prisoner.
The dwarf struggled halfheartedly over being manhandled out of the chair and towards the door, feeling more bewildered and strangely pained than he wanted to let on.
"Put him in the quarters in the east wing."
Both the guard and dwarf turned sharp looks of surprise on Thranduil. But the elven king continued staring out the window, body rigid.
"Sire?" the guard said uncertainly.
"Place him in the east wing. And any other dwarves that you may find," the words were snapped coldly, brimming with fury (or perhaps fury masking something else).
"As you wish, sire," the guard replied slowly with a bow.
As he was taken out of the room and down a different hall from before, Thorin huffed loudly in an attempt to ignore the queer pang in the pit of his stomach. What just happened?
THE END