A.N.: Hello, dearest readers, things are far from predictable here. The only certainty in my nation is that the person currently exercising presidency should not be there and, while he's there, the WORST decisions about Covid-19 WERE, ARE and WILL being taken. Sorry (not sorry!) for the rant, I just lost some days ago, 03/24/2021, one of my best friends, someone I took as a little brother, and my kids took as a big brother, to the Plague. He just turned 30 years old. I know life isn't fair, but to live under a genocidal president is far worse than unfair. Countries all over the planet are celebrating increases in vaccination and drops in deaths while we reach record after record of daily deaths. This is a denunciation (not against funeral homes): funeral homes no longer have coffins enough.

Back to this fanfic, some Sun-Tzu lines are sprinkled here and there.

Mizz Alec Volturi, sorry, it will get worse…

Celebrisilweth, Kíli can pretend enthusiasm, but faith…ah, his faith is no pretending! The three leaders are very good ones when focusing on what matters. Our dear hostages are stronger together, and the Enemy knows it.

Mustard Lady, Thranduil isn't king for nothing, and nowhere (not even in the Silmarilion) is it said he's a 'youngling' among the Eldar. The Silvan elves chose him for their king for a reason. I'll try this song, thanks for sharing!

danderfluff, welcome on board and enjoy the ride!

Wreckage

Tilda didn't remember the last time she felt so clean, and it felt good. Something their hosts made her drink a while ago made her feel comfortable, cosy and warm. Even the demi-darkness of the bathing room was calming, how could it not be? It felt like she was enjoying something she simply deserved, yet she didn't know why. And it was ok. To think too much made her head ache, so she avoided it. There was no problem in just taking a bath, was there? She had felt so dirty lately… and she couldn't recall why…

Oh! She remembered an elf. He was tall and menacing. Sharp eyes, thin lips, eyes that changed colour, of all things. And his quiver. His utterly malevolent quiver, never lacking an arrow when he needed it most. Tilda was the daughter of a bowman, she knew first hand that arrows got lost, spent, and even when recovered, feathers could be damaged, points could be bent… How, by the Powers, did that elf's arrows never show any problem? He was an aberration, sure as winter follows fall.

That's why elves lived in the forest. The forest was evil, as the elves that lived within. That's why her people avoided the forest, to keep away from the elves and their arrows.

Her Da had arrows, but he was no evil. His arrows got spent, he came home without game, he had to buy new arrow points or new arrows and that's why he didn't have coin to buy her new and beautiful clothes like the white garment their hosts gave her. One of their hosts smudged it with its little dirty fingers and the other one simply beheaded the dirty one for it. That was right, none had to smudge her new white garments, should they? Not today. Not when she felt like a princess. She laughed at herself at the notion. A princess. The word tasted good.

Someone told her she was a princess, once, because her Da killed a dragon, but dragons just slept under mountains and did nothing to princesses. It made her head ache, this talk about dragons and arrows and…

Elves. Elves killed, they had arrows and killed, elves killed, elves killed, elves lived in the forest and killed, elves in the forest, she was in the forest, elves, elves, elves killed, she was in the forest, elves killed in the forest, elves…

"Tilda!"

"Aaaahhh!"

She crumpled in a corner, too overwhelmed to think, her beautiful white gown soiled by the dirt on the ground. She must be in the forest, amongst elves, elves are dirty, the forest is dirty, if it weren't for the elves she wouldn't be dirty, it was all their fault, the dirt, the hunger, the thirst, she was ugly because the elves destroyed her clothes and she hated them, they had arrows that hurt dragons and it wasn't fair, dragons didn't do anything to princesses and she was a princess because…

The ghost of a forgotten voice fluttered past her, and was gone.

"Tilda!"

Then she remembered: she only was a princess because her Da killed a dragon. With a black arrow. Because the beast was destroying their town. Dwarves aroused the dragon while reclaiming their homeland. Elves helped to fight the orcs. Trolls came, bats and wargs came. Dwarves fought beside elves and men. They won. Lives were lost. Lives were spared. A life was lost so a live could be spared. An elf lost. A dwarf spared. A dwarf…

"Kíli!"

It could be her shout echoing in the dark vaults of her prison, but it was a tiny whimper, too afraid to utter a sound. Iron shackles bound her wrists and ankles. She was covered in rags. Starving and thirsty, but for the foul potion they forced her to swallow an unknown while ago.

Silence greeted her.

Legolas dreamed of this day for centuries. Ever since his mother fell in battle. A boat, oh! a boat! How could a boat mean so much… Of course it could, it was bound to sail the dark rivers of the cage they called his homeland and then down, down the Anduin to the sea, where he would sail, sail away… Gone would be the damp forest, the mouldy eaves, the irritating smell of earth and leaves and sun above them… As if the sun meant anything to the ones who were born to the night, to the darkness… Only in the pure darkness his race could shine true, only in the deepest night was it time to dance the dance of death and to play the songs of victory his people so craved, and to wear the crown of his father.

Too much time waiting for things to be settled, for his rights to be granted. It would all happen this day, this night. He felt sure of it the moment the first sip of wine touched his lips, the golden goblet allowing him to taste the best of all Dorwinion's in the last millennium. Not that humans really had a chance to know what a millennium was. It was only perfunctory to say they could have any clue to it. Feeble people. Weak. Like the whore bound by shackles to the opposite wall. None would ever think to rescue her. Moreover, because she obviously was a criminal. No decent woman would be caught in a situation where she could happen to be shackled. Bad things could happen to a shackled woman. Yes, bad things…

The elf enjoyed himself listing in his mind the many things that could happen to a human whore who allowed herself to be shackled. First of all, she could get not paid. Which was fine, because in his really perfect society, sex was only made in the perfect wedlock achieved by…

Something hurt in his head, and Legolas just shook it away. Dorwinion wine used to have that effect, didn't it?

But then, a female could have bad things happen to her because she was lazy. Like in not making all her male's wishes be true. Or too independent, like in talking to a male neighbour in the absence of her male. Or in…

"Legolas!"
The rightful heir of the throne of Mirkwood thought his name had been uttered, and slow and defiantly turned to the harsh voice that dared it.

It was a dwarf.

An hideous idea hit his mind.

Could it even be a possibility?

That a female could consider the idea of having a dwarf in her bed? There was a dwarf shackled not far from the whore, it could well be the explanation for her presence.

That would certainly be a reason to be shackled, lashed and some other unspeakable treatments only due to dirty, profligate whores of the race of Men. Because the race of Men was utterly lost, they were the second ones (no need to use a capital letter to mention them), they never would be anything good. Better only, perhaps, to dwarves, that scum.

How did that scum be allowed to live, being not created by…

His head ached with a bolt of lightning.

What was he thinking about, right now?

Oh, yes, how he would wear the crown of his father and sail through the darkness…

Kíli cursed in Khuzdul. Only in his mind, of course, because the secret language of his people was too sacred to be spoken aloud inside such a corrupt place. Not that he or anyone of his people kept from cursing in Khuzdul inside places like taverns and the like, but that was what curse words were made for.

He cursed in other languages, too, but also only in his mind, not because of any secrecy about Westron or dialects spoken around the Blue Mountains, but because he needed secrecy about himself.

He had spluttered enough of the beverage the orcs forced into his mouth, which wasn't hard because it stank to sewage and tasted accordingly, but the dwarf feared that if he showed signs of not being knocked out like his companions, the orcs would have ideas about doubling the drink. Only once in his lifetime was one time too much of that brew, so he kept quiet.

Also, if the beverage had magic proprieties, he knew it would have none or close to no effect on him. Said the lore that Mahal had made them in the dark years before the Awakening of the elves, and made them to endure the hardships of that age and the malice of Morgoth – which included magic, apparently.

After what he imagined was time enough, considering he stopped to hear any rustle from their captors, Kíli opened a slit of his eyes and pried around. Swallowing hard, he wished never to set eyes upon such scene again. Yet he would have to, if he were to free his elven friend and his human love.

Tilda was a crumpled heap at a corner of the dungeon (if a dungeon it was, had ever been, or became just for the instance, it didn't matter). She shivered. Her clothes had been dirty and damaged before, and the dirt was understandable when considering the rough path they were traveling. But now it was different, in the worst meaning of different.

The young human woman he got to know in the last few weeks was a person full of joy, even if it was marred by what her father intended to do to her future. She was someone who took her destiny in her own hands, and didn't fear the eventual unpleasant outcomes of her decisions. She could face a mountain troll, or, at least, an orc, and react by throwing a plate against it, but she wouldn't cower before any enemy.

He knew it.

So, it was impossible for him to admit Tilda prone and defeated.

They had to have a chance.

He had to do something.

Know your enemy, know the terrain.

The opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself. But nothing is achieved if you don't know yourself.

The lessons ingrained into him from the cradle shouted, in perfect silence.

They were subdued by orcs, but it was clear they were not the main problem. For orcs to work hard and disciplined as those of the second capture, they had to have leaders, or at least one leader, not as dull as orcs use to be. Legolas mentioned they were being led to a sacrifice, a ritual. Some kind of sorcery? A Necromancer was involved, people said, ten years prior. Was the supposed leader the Necromancer? Or one minion of his, yet more powerful than the orcs?

So, the enemy wasn't clear. Could possess magic, and probably possessed, as it seemed only Kíli himself had not been afflicted by the potion. Right, it could be only the potion having magic, but it was a good guess as any.

Next step, know the terrain. They were inside Dol Guldur, and Legolas knew it, or at least boasted about it, but the elf was knocked out, and Mahal only knew what effect the orc draught had on him. The terrain immediately around could be surveyed by sight, so he dared to open his eyes again, even knowing the pain it would cause to his heart.

It was a stone chamber, barely lit by a single torch on the wall, near an entrance. He could see only one door – no, it was a jamb without a door, any door once attached to it had been broken by its hinges – and a dark hole close to the ceiling, on the wall behind Legolas. If it was a proper window or just a hole it mattered not, it was too high to be reached by them without the help of a ladder or a rope, anyway. Where the door led to he could not know, nor what should be the original purpose of the chamber.

"Damn and blast be the elvish architecture!"

One more thought without words, least their captors would know someone of them was awake.

Yet, the floor was dry. A novelty, considering a dungeon. Legolas didn't tell much about Dol Guldur, but it had been a fortress of old, it was certain. Dry were his mouth, throat and whole body, if one were to ask, but none seemed to care about it. So maybe the dryness of the place was on purpose. Not that it made any sense right now, but it was a bit more of information.

A muffled laugher nearby claimed his attention, only to throw his hopes down. Tilda was awake – or seemed aware, at least – and gestured with her shackled hands, as if she had complete control over them or on what she envisioned as being her current life. He knew it futile, but attempted all the same.

"Tilda!"

Kíli murmured very low, unsure of how loud wasn't loud enough for their captors to hear and torture them for it. Tilda's eyes were skewed, as if seeing something beyond what lucidity allowed. A shiver ran down his spine. It didn't seem good.

He tried for Legolas.

The elf at least knew the place, if his delusions were to be taken into account. Could he be useful for their escape, even addled?

"Legolas!"

The elf looked at him as if Kíli had grown a second head. If Tilda's state was bad, Legolas was in no better status. No way to count on the forest fairyling, using Dwalin's vocabulary.

No help would come from their chaperone, all said and told. If someone would be able to do something, it was him, and maybe Tilda. Picklocker Tilda, Mahal bless her. If she only were lucid…

"Tilda!"

The dwarf called a little louder, trying to head his voice in her direction while avoiding it to escape to the corridor (if a corridor it was at all). Durin bless his Amad and her insistence about taking choir lessons, Tilda answered!

"Aaaahhh!"

It was not what he wanted, but it was a reaction to his voice, finally. Then he spoke lightly to her, quiet words explaining who she was, who they were, and pouring every ounce of feeling into his words. If it would have any effect, he didn't know, but he wouldn't die without saying that much to Tilda, he refused to die before she heard all he had to say.

It took a while.

Finally she heaved, dark goo washing the front of a ragged gown only a pervert would make a lady wear.

"Kíli!"

It was but a whisper, but to him it was hope, disrupting the surface of her drug addled brain. He tried to reach for her, iron shackles and all, thanking the Powers in every breath that Tilda, his Tilda, was back.