A/N: I am so sorry that I've not updated in such a long time! My muse has kept me busy with other projects, although I've always intended to come back and finish Spark. I hope that this chapter is a sufficient apology for my absence! And I want to say thank you so much to those of you who have stuck around, waiting for my neglectful butt to come back to this story. I love it very much. It's near and dear to my heart and as I've said before, I fully intend to finish it. With any luck, this will be the first in many updates to come, and that WILL come on a regular basis until we reach the end of Bofur and Culurien's journey. Please, please leave a review! They truly help keep me motivated and inspired, and I very much want to know your thoughts!
Chapter 36: Before the Elf King
The halls that stretched before her were grand in ways that far surpassed the simple, elegant beauty of Rivendell.
Culurien openly stared at the sweeping arches and carefully guided waterways. It was a beauty that appeared natural, but it was a deceptive design. Upon inspection, one could track the subtle hand that had crafted the lines of stone and wood, blending the elements together in a nearly seamless manner. She admired the handiwork with a smith's eye, gazing in appreciation at the soft detail that had been lovingly placed in artful corners, in the alcoves and the cavernous spaces that stretched along paths and whose ends fell out of sight. Tapestries of vibrant shades and fine thread had been hung, fluttering down to hang just above the smooth floor as depictions of elves sang and made merry in silence.
At her side, Orna walked with a measured stride, her long, snowy hair streaming in a wind that Culurien could not feel. It had taken a little less than a week to track the woman's path. She hadn't been difficult to find once the trail had revealed itself, but she had gone far. What had taken far more patience was the conversation she had endured in order to convince her to return to the elves' domain. There had been far more needling than she would have ever held her tongue about, if she hadn't needed the dratted woman. The sway of Orna's hands were gentle gestures, a motion that spoke of her bearing as surely as the lift of her chin and the cool self-assurance that glittered in her doe eyes. Even in her simple tunic and ever bare feet, the voice of the trees could not be mistaken for anything or anyone that was not regal, formidable despite possessing neither weapon nor breadth of person.
The smith could only hope that she carried herself with the same degree of confidence, if not poise. It was a doubtful thing, she knew, even if she had given herself the added height she had been tempted to. She wouldn't have been fond of the change, but if she'd thought that it would offer her even a slim advantage in the coming moments, she'd have done it with no hesitation. As it was, she was comfortably at waist-level with their guarded retinue, their curving helms soaring well above her head, much like the vaulted ceilings of the underground palace. She squinted upwards reproachfully.
The bulk of her braids was a heavy weight at her back, brushing along the line of her spine, the metal bands clinking softly over the babble of water that burbled up from beneath their feet. The two elves that had escorted them from the gate led them to a set of great doors, carved with the long faded history of their people. Flowing lines of mithril were etched into the thick oaken wood, fashioned to mimic the natural bend of branches, swirling upwards in great sweeps, only to flow down towards the center.
With a grand sweep of their arms, their guards pushed the doors apart, flooding the softly lit corridor with reflections of sunlight. A narrow bridge curved above the stream below, leading to a set of wide steps of polished flagstone. Lanterns, filled with gently glowing fireflies, added to the light that fell from the forest above, beams caught on burnished mirrors placed to drive the clinging shadows from its hidden spaces. Without a word, they were led to the center dais, where a root as thick as a man curled down from the earth above. It thickened and, as if mimicking the blossoming of a flower, bloomed as it reached its end. Spreading carved tendrils wide, the wood unfurled into a seat of marvelous design. Branches swept upwards in tapering lines, shaped to resemble the twining antlers of a great elk that framed a thickly cushioned throne of dark mahogany and lush foliage.
And upon it sat a figure swathed in glimmering silver. His hair was flaxen, pale and fair as a winter's sun. Upon the strands had been set a crown of berries and red leaves, for the autumn had come again. Beneath it was a face that was of lofty bearing, and coldly handsome, as if chiseled from marble and set in a way that was dispassionate, yet kingly. For there was no mistaking Thranduil, Lord of the Woodland Realm.
As they were brought to stand at his feet, Orna bent at the waist in a fluid bow, the ends of her starlight locks whispering against the floor. Culurien inclined her head only as far as courtesy demanded, staring back into the face that viewed her with a shuttered gaze. It had been at least two centuries since she had tread within his halls, but her memory was long. She had not forgotten the reluctant acknowledgement of her presence in his kingdom, much less the Wood in which they both resided. Better to ignore one another when possible; she had come to that realization long ago.
But that wasn't possible now.
It was with exaggerated care that the elf lord rose, his garments billowing around his lean, angular frame. As he descended, Orna leaned closer to her, her lips barely moving.
"If you seek to free your friends, then it would be best if you better remember your manners."
Culurien resisted the urge to snap at the other woman, knowing that she was right. So she kept silent, smoothing her features into an expressionless mask.
"Creoso, Orna tathar," he said softly as he reached the last step. "What business bids you return to my halls?" His eyes slid to Culurien. "In such...auspicious company."
It was all she could do not to growl, her skin heating. The brush of Orna's fingers against her arm in warning was the only thing that kept it from smoking.
"We've heard word of recent trespassers, my lord," answered the other woman. "Dwarves."
Thranduil passed his gaze over them both and Culurien felt a twinge at the back of her mind, as if a curious finger had skimmed a still pool. Rapidly losing what little patience she possessed, she bit the inside of her cheek, hard enough to draw the hot, coppery taste of blood, desperately trying to keep the flow of words that desired to flow over her tongue from reaching her lips.
"They entered our borders without welcome and refuse to divulge their intentions, though I know very well of the reason for their passage through my realm." the king intoned, his dark brows rising. "I fail, however, to see how that concerns you."
There was a gentle nudge against her foot and Culurien unclenched her jaw enough so that she could speak, grateful to hear an even calmness despite its belying of the anger that coiled inside her belly like a serpent.
"The dwarves are in my charge," she said, her arms crossing as she widened her stance before the elf that towered over her. "And I would see them released."
"Would you?" the king asked, his lips lifting in the softest trace of a smile that did nothing to warm the coolness in his light eyes. "Would you indeed?"
It was, without a doubt, the cleanest prison cell he'd ever had the pleasure of occupying, and also, quite likely, the most secure. It was a safe enough conclusion when one's cellmate, one of the most accomplished thieves in the Blue Mountains, made it clear that there was little point in bothering picking a door that had no discernible lock.
Almost absently, Bofur rapped his knuckles against the curling bars, his other hand rubbing at his chin. The door seemed to have sprouted from the earth, its hinges hidden, and fitted so seamlessly that it was difficult to see where it actually ended and the walls began.
Their elven jailers made no secret that they held the keys to end their captivity. For nearly a week now, every change of the guards was accompanied with the quiet jingle of metal. Twice a day, the doors were swung open to allow fair-haired servants to enter and leave well-provisioned trays of food on their bunks. And yet, no matter how hard he watched them fit the key into where he assumed the lock was placed, he could never find it again once the door had been closed.
Soft footfalls, barely audible over the gush of the small waterfalls streaming beneath the curving walkways that criss crossed the cavern, drew his eyes up. There was a flash of burnished auburn as he caught a glimpse of a green-clad, slender figure slip behind a pillar and his belly swooped. It almost immediately became a weight of disappointment when the figure reappeared on the other side, her pointed ears dashing the hope that it was his Culurien - only the captain of the guard.
Not for the first time, he wondered what had befallen the fiery-haired smith. His hand wandered up to tug gently on the smoothly plaited braid that hung near his cheek. Neither she nor their burglar had been with them when they'd pulled themselves from the spiders' spun cocoons, but his memory felt spotty, as if someone had come along and poked large, gaping holes into it. It made him wary and mistrustful of the things he recalled. Had she been captured as well, held in a different part of the Elf King's dungeons? He almost hoped that was the case. There was an ache in his heart in her absence, and the thought that she might be nearby was a fragile balm.
Quietly, he shuffled back to the low stone bench that acted as both bunk and seat within the small confines of their cell, held up by more of the curling iron. He cupped his chin in his hands, his toes barely scraping the floor. A bright orange glow flared from the corner of the tiny room, dimming to a softer, warmer light as Nori cupped the bowl of his pipe in his hand. Somehow, he had managed to keep it and his pouch of tobacco concealed somewhere the elves had not thought to look, and it was with a thoughtful kindness that he had often shared it with his friend during their short imprisonment. Nori had propped himself where the cavern walls met, settling his back into their gentle curve with his free hand tucked beneath his arm.
"Well, I don't suppose we'll be seein' hide nor beard of the others for a while," he mused, glancing down at the long johns he'd been left with. Their armor had been the next thing to go after their weapons, although they had allowed Bofur to keep his hat. "Leastwise not until that knife-eared tosser sees fit to let us out."
Bofur did not respond, his gaze fixed unseeingly on the fine cracks that spidered across the floor and his mind far away, beneath a tree in a black forest where he had kissed a flame and felt its burn. What wouldn't he give to see her now? A longing stirred in his breast, sweetening the ache that centered there. Without thought, his fingers rubbed against the smooth, warm braid at his cheek, tracing its familiar contours, mapping the woven dips and bumps as his heart bid his thoughts to linger on the smith who had given it to him. His brows drew into a deep frown, painfully aware of the lightness at his hip where the instrument Culurien had crafted for him no longer resided.
Of all the scorn they had endured, thinly veiled though it may have been, the theft of her flute was by far the single thing that the dwarf could not abide, and once he had thought of a way to free himself and his companions from these drafty halls, it would be the first thing he retrieved. And for the loss of it, he would strike the first retribution, he told himself silently, tightening his grip around the slender plait.
There was a sound near the door that drew his attention. When Bofur looked up, there was a shimmering just beyond the doors, a gentle movement that brought into his vision strands of gossamer white. They framed a face that was as delicate as any elf's, with eyes that were large and resembled the deep, rich color of tree bark. It was a set of features that he recognized, but they brought him no comfort.
He hopped up from his seat and crossed the small space, his hands grasping the bars as he pressed his face between them.
"Orna?" he asked hoarsely, his eyes darting up and down the winding wooden paths that traversed the dungeon. "Why are you here? Where's Culurien?"
The woman's smile was knowing and sly, neither of which he cared to see. "You assume that she is with me, master dwarf? I am well known in this part of the world. I need not the presence of the Dragon-Daughter to receive welcome here. Rather, I believe it's the other way 'round."
"You would have no need to seek out her companions in the Elf King's Dungeons," Nori argued impatiently, casting a wary glance towards the tinkling waterfall as he moved to stand beside Bofur. The dwarf's eyes were sharp as he gestured at her with the bit of his pipe. "You have no business with us, but she does. What else would you be down here for if not for her?"
Orna's voice was impassive as she folded slender arms across her pale green tunic. Her lips were still tilted in that odd smirk, her head canting to the side. "I suppose that is true enough. Like many, I am not overly fond of dwarves...perhaps with good reason."
Both dwarves scowled, which seemed to only amuse her. Abruptly, she turned her head, gazing down the sloping path towards something neither of them could see.
"Time grows short." Her gaze returned to them, the pleasantness bleeding away from her face and replaced with something darker. "I will tell you that your smith is here, of her own free will, though Valar guide me, I do not understand what has possessed her to be. She speaks with the Woodland King, but neither she nor I believe that her words will fall on open ears. You have your prince's rashness to thank for that." Her mouth turned downwards. "And perhaps her as well. She can accomplish much, but she leaves many things to be desired in regards to diplomacy. In any case, I will make no promises for her or for you."
Bofur felt his blood quicken at the confirmation of her presence, relieved to know that Culurien was unharmed. Despite Orna's warning, he felt a lightness of spirit; the smith might not convince the king to let them go, but she was speaking on their behalf. He wondered at the tenacity of her character that she would do such a thing for a people that had shown her little but mistrust and suspicion. Perhaps this act, one of bravery and selflessness, would be enough to release her of her oath. Surely, even a dwarf as stubborn as Thorin could see her merit.
Mahal's Hammer, he hoped that it would prove to be true. Deep within the confines of his heart, he wished fervently for it to come to pass. His prince's claim on her weighed heavily on him, knowledge that did not stray far in his mind. In truth, the thought of anyone having a claim on the mithril-eyed woman brought nothing but disquiet.
As did Orna's words, such as they were. His eyes were drawn to Nori, the two of them exchanging a weighted glance before he said, "Why are you tellin' us this?"
"Because you are the only ones the sgiathatchwen wished for me to tell," she replied simply. She looked down the path once more. "Tell the others if you wish. I must go."
"Wait!" Bofur reached out to catch her sleeve, but she was already gone, vanishing up the winding slope with hurried, silent steps.
Bofur cursed under his breath, the questions he had truly wanted to ask rolling back uselessly into his throat. Nori clapped him on the shoulder and held out his pipe in offering.
"Here. And take heart. Culurien has the best chance of getting us out of here."
Bofur nodded glumly, taking the pipe and turning to resettle himself on the bunk. Sweet smoke wafted up as he breathed it out. As he did so, he set his feet on the edge of the stone, bracing against the coarse material that served as their blanket. His thoughts spun themselves, revolving around their predicament, their smith and whether or not she would be successful in convincing the elven king to release his prisoners. He hoped so. Durin's Day was closing in on them, and if they lingered in the Woodland Realm too long, their chances of reclaiming their homeland dwindled to naught.