The gruesome sensation of a rusty little penknife scraping away flesh and bone would never leave Thrain. It was disgusting. Those mutant creatures did not even give him the dignity of a decent death, or amputation by a sharp, large and worthy instrument.
No, it was a tiny, blunt knife. It was rusty, and old - the details of it were etched irreversibly into Thrain's mind. This was closer than ever wanted to get with any disgraceful weapon of this sort.
Tied up, beaten, bruised and bloody, Thrain did not nurse his finger that he had wrapped in a spare piece of fabric. He was angry. He spat. He fumed. What a shame! His dwarvish instincts were riled by thinking of the knife that had barely managed to achieve its duty - cut, or rather, tear Thrain's ring-bearing finger off.
Dwarvish knives, swords and daggers were properly crafted. They were made with passion and love, with great care, attention to detail and pride. That crudely made blade was a insult! It was an affront.
Thrain muttered nonsense to himself, his tongue wagging and lips jabbering about nothing. He did not think about the ropes that bound him, the powerful chains that were shackled about his hands and feet. He did not think of the putrid, slimy orcish skin that had pressed into his own, the cold, scarred and clammy hand that had pried his fist open. He did not think of cruel eyes, the disease-ravaged visage of the creature that had leaned over him and laughed as he did the work on the dwarf prince's bruised and straining hand.
Thrain could if he wanted to. He could still smell the breath on his face, the wrist clenched around his own. He could hear the jeers. He could still imagine, feel the slow torment of a blade piercing skin and bone. He could grimace and tear into ground with his free hand and feet in the exactly position he had when they held him down. He could do all of those things, but he didn't. Not this time.
What had been the point of all this?
Thrain giggled unbecomingly.
This was silly.
All that effort for a ring. What was the importance of this ring? In Erebor, he could have had a thousand rings - of silver, of gold, of mithril. He could have them studded with every jewel known on Arda, twice, no, three times around.
What so was significant about this particular ring.
Oh yes - one of the seven rings of the dwarf-lords.
Thrain laughed eerily. The ring is gone forever.
He waved his stump of an index figure in an obscure direction.
They had it. What was he, now? Without the ring of power, was he still one of the seven kings? What would befall their line?
He laughed again. He chattered excitedly in a smattering of unintelligible Khuzdul. Soon it was not even Khuzdul anymore, just babbling, the joining of consonants.
Names, faces, treasures - he lost memory of any of them. His mind became unable to focus on anything at all. Thrain was lost; he had been lost for a long time, now.
AN: Inspired by the extended edition DOS scenes. Poor Thrain, maybe we should write him a couple of Thrain/OC fics, haha.