A/N: Hello, dearest readers, rescue is almost there! Thank you all for the lovely reviews, you keep me alive!
Celebrisilweth, Mizz Alec Volturi, beware of hobbits, they might give you more than you want and less than you expect…
Kate T, if Thranduil is as obsessed for white gems as the movie shows, he could also be obsessed with his martial training or smoothing his hair, imho… I'm happy it made you laugh!
Eowyn Strmgheart, our favorite burglar didn't come back unchanged from his first adventure with the dwarves; probably this new one might change him even more.
=^.^= =^.^= =^.^=
Choices
It was not a nice sight, and it was not a nice feeling. They could have been dragged on the stone passageways, abrading their gossamer ritual clothes to shreds, but no. Tied to iron poles and carried like slaughtered cattle, there wasn't much Kíli, Tilda and (almost conscious) Legolas could do. In the absence of anything to do, Kíli registered every turn and step, noticing marks on any wall and jamb and corner. If Legolas didn't recall the ways from what he read ancient maps, they would do with what he could memorize in a jiffy, be it useful or not. If it weren't useful, it would do no harm; if it were and he didn't memorize it, he wouldn't forgive himself for the disaster.
The strangest halt in their indoors journey had been a waterfall, or something like that. The water was icy cold, reflecting the season. Winter had the name, and the blunt of it, but it was the fall what told what the cold meant to bones, what a dry draught did to lungs and throats.
To prisoners who were stolen of their footwear and clothes, icy water on their skins was a torture, meant to show them how fragile they were and, thus, helpless.
There would be no rescue, no final stand, no rebellion nor insurgency. They were the rags of whom they once were, unimportant, unloved and disposable. It was clear by the grim laughter they heard each time one of them was exposed to the unmerciful cold of the in-house water riffle. It was not even to cleanse for the ritual, it was to break their resistance.
Now, resistance was bodily, yet resilience was founded in the soul. Their bodies might be on the verge of breaking, but their spirits were another matter.
Elves were awakened under the sowing of the stars by Elbereth. The unchanging light of the stars still shine in the eyes of the elves, as it is a part of their souls.
Men woke up with the first rising of the Sun, with the virtue of being able to create their own destinies. The powers and chances of the world have no full power over them. How would creatures enslaved by Melkor break their will?
And Dwarves were created by Aulë (whom they named Mahal, the Maker), strong to endure, stone-hard, stubborn, able to stand toil and hurt more than any other of the free peoples. Moreover, resistant to the corruption brought by evil. A soul that was forged under the hammer of Aulë would hardly bow before the Dark Enemy or any of his minions, great or small.
And exponents of those three races was what those orcs were dealing with.
They had no idea.
=^.^=
Thranduil's elite guards weren't called elite for nothing. If the bulk of his troops were match to any Uruk from the Shadow lands, his closest warriors were the ones more likely to dispatch one of these single-handedly, or finish a spider den within minutes of detecting it.
That being said, it was no surprise how fast they reassembled and followed their king. Embarrassing, however, to anyone unfamiliar with the elf kingdom of Greenwood (disobligingly dubbed Mirkwood, to Thranduil's displeasure) and its inner gears, was how fast the king's buttler was the first one to catch up.
"Don't break Losspôd ankles, my king. It would be a waste."
"Galion."
Thranduil replied the buttler's teasing with his usual outward coldness. But one who knew the king better would be aware of some subtle nuances in his stance and facial expression.
"Thank you for being so delighted by my company, my king. We do have some clue as to where our prince is, haven't we?"
The king's eyes never left his set path, unlike the buttler's curious looks around, confiding in his horse's wits to follow the giant elk with the singular name of 'snow paws'. Said name given by the prince, of course. With his partner in crime, Galion, of course.
"So we do. A place we never intended to set foot upon again."
Galion realized what Thranduil meant, and would have faltered in his step if not being carried at full speed by a magnificent mare.
"My king, if I recall it rightly, it was sworn that…"
"I know."
"But…"
"It's my son, Galion. What would you do?"
=^.^=
The outpour of icy water on his skin was more than the drugs in his system could take in. The cold made the spider bites to hurt, yet it reminded him that someone had taken care of his wounds. Someone loyal to him, not an enemy.
Legolas searched around from the undignified position he held, and forced his mind to take in what he saw.
A human female clothed in rags, resisting the downpour of icy water as stoically as one could.
A dwarf, not far from her state of undress, face unreadable, focused in Erú only knew what.
A shot of pain pierced Legolas' head, and he cried, unwillingly.
"What's wrong with him?"
The elf heard the dwarf ask, worry in his voice. Why was a dwarf worried about him?
"I don't know. It might be the new spider stings."
The gloomy procession resumed its route, chains rattling and orc armour clanging ominously. The strange couple used the cover of the surrounding sounds to keep talking.
"A warrior like Legolas should resist it, Tilda. What's wrong?"
So there it was, again. A name, Tilda. The puzzle was trying to solve itself inside his head, and it hurt.
"I don't know! Elves are different from us. And I thought those bites I tended would be the last ones, you know. He shouldn't be in pain anymore. He wouldn't, if it were for me."
One of the carriers of the woman stumbled, making her collide with the ground. The other orcs guffawed, both at their fellow's misstep and at her obvious pain. Yet she cried not, forcing herself to deny her torturers that pleasure.
"I'd take your pain away, if I only could. I love you, Tilda."
The dwarf whispered, but the keen ears of the elf heard it clear.
The dwarrow's words, her words, her pain, his own pain, everything mixed in his mind, parts of a riddle, the reasons his head hurt every time…
Time stopped for a heartbeat.
Everything was clear now.
Realization washed away any trace of spider poison and any drop of dark potion running through the elf's system. He was sober now, healed inside now, despite the state of his body.
Now Legolas knew, he understood why his head hurt. Every time he was about to think of a pure feeling, and whatever foul concoction he was forced to drink tried to prevent him to. It was love. And when he thought of love, instantly he knew there were many meanings and different kinds of love, all of them true, all of them pure. From the love between friends and family members that keeps communities whole to the self-love one must have to acknowledge one's own worth, take care of your personal needs and well-being, so necessary because one cannot give what one doesn't have. Erú bestowed His love on His children, First, Second and Adopted, so they would have love to bestow unto every creature and thing of His making. Only with self-love was it possible to reach this higher state, the selfless love.
And the Enemy hated everything love.
The elf smiled to himself despite how much his limbs hurt, seeing beyond the veil of mortal life, happy for the beauty he saw in front of him. His friends were as shackled as him, yet the flow of love between them was almost tangible. Oh, the perks of living at once in this world and in the spiritual one! No, he was not one of the mighty ones who dwelt in the Blessed Realm, but his mother had been, and seemingly this gift passed on to him. He could only thank Erú.
Because it was the witnessing of the love between human and dwarf, so different from each other and true despite it, that broke whatever black magic had been upon him.
The Enemy had no power against love.
"Kíli!" He whispered, careful not to draw attention from any orc possibly close to them.
The dwarf turned to him, unsure if Legolas was lucid or still under spider poison withdrawal, or orc potion.
Next whispered phrase made it clear it was the first alternative.
"Count on me."
=^.^=
Bilbo resisted to turn back to verify if Dís was behind him, considering it would be a sign of lack of confidence and it would do no good to their relationship.
He also resisted the mind to call Nori to accompany him, as a not-self-professed burglar could surely find company in a never-confessed former thief, but it would do even worse to his relationship with Dís if she dreamed he trusted his back more to Nori than to her while venturing into that den.
But he didn't resist to touching the soft mithril shirt under his regular clothes, to feel its supple texture that hid so much strength, as he had been witness. A kingly gift, yet Bilbo valued the giver of the gift for far much more than his royal status.
"Yavanna help me." He muttered in his head when he was at the threshold of the bridge that led from just contorted trees to haunted ground. With jagged rocks in the middle, if he failed to cross the bridge with balance.
So, he could not fail.
Hairy foot after hairy foot, the hobbit crossed the bridge. He felt a sense of urgency to put on his fabulous golden ring, but deemed it unwise, because most of the searching party had their eyes on him. It would be disgusting to explain his disappearance to such a big audience, and he was in no mood for it.
The hobbit made it to the other side with no hindering, which could be good. It also could be bad, if any creature noticed him and allowed the invader to put his head in the warg's maul just for fun.
At the end of the bridge there were sentry steads, empty as the bridge had been. So Bilbo got further inside, until a good look back granted him his companions were out of sight. With a deep breath, he produced the small band of gold from out of his pocket and put it on his middle finger.
The sensation was overwhelming, as all the times he used it before. The world lost its colours, yet everything seemed sharper. Sounds, like the wind or running water, came as if through a long tunnel, echoing in a delusive way. His sense of smell told him there were living beings in the place, in a severe state of uncleanness. To follow his nose was almost easier than to look for footprints on the barren floor. Anyway, tramplings on the dust were not invisible to Bilbo, and he followed them.
Up winding stairs led him from the bridge to a maze of courtyards, corridors and even more stairs. The sound of water was closer, then further, then closer again. Gates had broken rails, resembling iron spears. Stone statues and balusters had broken parts, as had the very tiles of the floor. Nothing had been left without defiling.
This last impression made Bilbo stop in his tracks, a nervous hand on his mouth to muffle a moan of anguish. He had seen what Azog had tried to do to the sons of Durin. What would others of his breed do to Kíli this time? And to little Tilda?
He had to find them, fast.
His anguish turned to haste, his haste to anger, and anger to… carelessness.
Stumbling on a loose tile could be a simple accident, or could turn into a catastrophe if it meant falling in the middle of a yard full of foes.