Of Forests and Mountains


Chapter 2: Stolen


After some length of time, locked away in his cell, Thorin finally found himself a recipient of the Wood-elves' mercy. To his astonishment and utter joy, his captors slipped in and out of his alabaster cell as swift as dancing light, leaving behind a plateful of food and a tall clay vessel of water upon the floor of his cell. Unable to contain himself, he ravenously tore apart the meat and bread, and then washed it down with the water.

Having not eaten for two whole days, and having such a need satisfied allowed Thorin a moment to consider just how weary he was. Doubtless he had slept for more than an hour while under the spell of the elves, but that was hardly restful sleep. Rather something akin to death.

He sighed in exhaustion, leaning against the cool cave wall of his prison, and found his head and his eyes were growing particularly heavy. Soon, his head bowed over his chest and he knew no more for a time.

Strange visions visited his mind; and more than once, Thorin jerked awake at the appearance of giant spiders within his odd, terrible dreams.

Their wickedly curved mandibles were black and glossy, and twitched anxiously. Eight gimlet-eyes the color of night peered at him malevolently, round as river-pebbles and lidless. A horrifying intelligence lie behind them. Their ebony legs were long, with many joints and sparse shoots of stiff hair growing upon them.

Thorin heard shouting. He saw vague silhouettes fleeing in the darkness that shrouded the ground, with frightening images of the spiders pursuing their prey form the trees above, scurrying swiftly along their rope-llke webs that crisscrossed the canopy.

He realized with horror that it was his kinsmen and other companions upon the forest floor fleeing for their lives.

That burglar was not among them.

But somewhere in the darkness, there was a light. It was the single comforting sight.

A brilliant blue light swift here and there, dissuading the spiders' advance. It sought them out when they ventured too close, and many a spider either limped away maimed, or fell dead with their long jet black legs folded beneath them.

The light came from an object, Thorin realized. And from time to time, it stood still and he sought to discern the shape of it.

A short sword.

It was leaf-shaped and tapered to an exact point.

The hobbit's short sword! The one they recovered from the Troll's cave alongside Orcrist and Glamdring.

And yet, the burglar was no where to be seen... and the Hobbit's weapon move of its own accord!

Thorin's eyes popped open, and his heart pounded in his chest. A cold sweat had broken out on his body.

Immediately his hand sought out the elvish blade he had carried on his back... only to be reminded that Orcrist was missing, along with it's scabbard.

He drew in a tense breath, thinking of his kinsmen... praying that his dreams were simply silly images brought on by exhaustion.

But, deep within he knew that wasn't true. He thought sadly of his nephews. Impulsive, unseasoned, but honor-bound. He envied them their youth, but not their inexperience. His cousins would look after them in his absence, he knew. He had comfort in that at least.

Keys jangled in the lock of his cell door.

Thorin instantly backed into a corner and braced himself against the wall as he defensively rose to his feet. A curse half-formed on his lips.

The wooden door swung into the room, and the outline of a tall Wood-elf appeared in the doorway. Taking a step into the small chamber, the lessened light revealed the silhouette of a long, masculine face. Light brown hair was partly bound back, the rest lay upon his shoulders in straight layers. A long, curved knife sat on his hip and the elf kept an overt grip on the pummel. This warden of the dungeon looked less than pleased to be here.

"You are summoned, dwarf," he said, flatly. A frown was etched so deeply into the elf's face that Thorin wondered if the warden's mouth was frozen like that.

Once outside of his cell, Thorin was escorted down a buff-colored hall of smoothed and altered limestone. The guard was not gracious with Thorin, and after having eaten something, he was able to keep his feet and did not falter when pressed into a quick pace.

After several turns through the halls, Thorin was led to a simple wooden door, not unlike the door of his dungeon cell. His warden stepped before him, brought forth a silver key, and unlocked the door. Sooner than he expected, the guard unkindly grabbed a hold of Thorin's fur-lined surcoat, and all but tossed him inside.

Thorin stumbled into this new chamber, managing to gain his footing. Behind him, the door slammed shut and locked again. He glared indignantly at it, before examining his new surroundings.

The room was carved from a marbled limestone with sinuous brown lines, but the stark contrast between the brown and the white caused this new strange chamber to glow. The ceiling had the illusion of movement.

He stood there transfixed by this sight for a time before examining the rest of the room.

Beyond was little else save for another wooden door... and the Captain!

He jumped.

Silently berating himself for not noticing her until now. She must have slipped in while he was lost in his observation of the stone.

He wondered as he looked at her. She did not stand out among the stone walls of this palace like the other elves. Instead, she seemed a natural fixture as the formation of the rock itself.

As a dwarf might. As any child of Mahal would beneath the earth.

She was at home here.

This elf lady was no stranger to tunnels of the earth and so unlike the other Wood-elves that Thorin suspected her of having a very foreign heritage.

He noticed idly that she did not tower over him as the other elves, though she was still taller than he. Her lithe form was clad in the same apparel as she wore before. Richly green fabrics with brown vambraces, and a tan vest beneath her outer coat. Her clothing stood in brilliant contrast to her half-bound ruddy hair.

She simply stood there in the middle of the chamber, staring at him within an unreadable expression. There was no contempt in her eyes for him, as there were with the others, but there seemed such a curiousness about her that by the moment he grew more suspicious of her than he had been of the Elvenking.

At least the king's opinion of him was open and honest. But, the Captain was a mystery.

Thorin did not much care for that.

Yet, something that did set his blood afire was the sight of Orcrist set in its scabbard in her hands.

His gaze flew to her eyes, as he instantly wondered at her intentions.

The elf lady undoubtably saw him tense. "You need not fear, Master Dwarf. I have not brought you here to harm you."

He snorted. "You mistake fear for anger, elf. I am not fond of seeing my property in another's hands."

"Your property?" She asked incredulously. Her fair face did not hide her swift anger. And her strange eyes grew cold.

"It is my sword," he spat.

"I see. And how did you come by your sword?"

"Have you truly brought me here to argue over my weapon?" He demanded. "Or, is this yet another attempt to place more undue blame upon me and my misfortunes?"

She looked back at him, and finally with a sigh, she said, "I have not brought you here to interrogate you, though I understand your distrust of me."

Thorin huffed.

She continued, "Please... all I wish to know is how you came by this weapon."

He narrowed his eyes and looked her up and down. "Why?"

Her gazed dropped to the blade, and an expression of eloquent grief replaced her passivity. "This was the sword of my father's father," she explained quietly. "Long ago."

Thorin's brows knit together in consideration, and his anger that was hitherto so hot, fled away. He stared at this quaint elf-lady, confused. "Who are you?"

She looked up at him for a moment. Perhaps weighing her words. "I am known as Tauriel, among the Silvan folk of Mirkwood. I am the Captain of the guard."

"I have gathered that thus far," Thorin replied curtly, rolling his eyes. "But, who are you? From where does your kin hail? Certainly not here if that sword belonged to your grandfather."

Her green eyes steeled for a moment. "I will tell you who I rightly am... in exchange for your account of coming by this blade."

Thorin huffed. "Fine." He gritted his teeth. "I came by that sword in Eriador, west of Rivendell... in a troll cave. I claimed the weapon as my own as it had no owner and the original wielder I assumed long dead, for Lord Elrond himself told me of Orcrist's forging in Gondolin."

"A troll cave," she murmured, her attention drifted to the scabbard again.

Thorin ignored her. "That is the long and short of my tale. Now, who are you?"

She looked at him again, and said: "I told you that I am Tauriel, among the Silvan folk. They are my mother's kin. But, my father was Ereinion." Tauriel searched his gaze then for something. As if the name was supposed to impress him. Or mean something to him?

He had no idea what she was talking about.

Thorin frowned in reply.

"He was the king of Lindon," she supplied, quickly. "He ruled the land between the Sea and the Blue Mountains for many long years.

"His father was Fingon, the elder brother of King Turgon, of ruined Gondolin."

He considered her words and grew grave as he appreciated his original assumptions concerning her ethnicity.

So, the sword was rightfully hers.

"Then where is he now?" He asked, "Why do you not dwell with your father's people?"

Thorin almost regretted his words after speaking them, for they visibly aggrieved her. She swallowed and her expression nearly broke. He wondered if she would answer at all.

And he wondered why this should even trouble him?

Her green eyes were moist when she looked up at him again, though she did not truly meet his gaze. "My father was... slain many years ago." She lowered the tip of Orcrist's scabbard to the ground, and her eyes followed it. "I was not yet of age then... The Battle of Dagorlad.

"And after his death, nearly all of my father's kin departed over the sea."

With a steadying breath, she met his gaze once more. "I have very few kin left in this world."

Thorin sighed. He opened his mouth, but quickly shut it again. He debated on what he should say... Her grief tugged at some deep chamber within his heart. For he too had lost a father, and he knew all too well how deep that blow was.

He supposed the lady drew some comfort for knowing where her sire was slain. Whereas he knew not where Thrain was laid to rest...

Until Gandalf had told him the terrible tale.

For Thorin, his own grief was brought near again and he grieved his father anew. Now knowing the horrible fate that befell Thrain at the hands of the accursed Necromancer.

He swallowed tightly.

His reverie was not to last long.

"Thank you Master Dwarf, for telling me of your tale." She glanced briefly at Orcrist once more to further her point. "My father thought this weapon lost when Gondolin fell, and he greatly desired to see it recovered. I am glad to see it out of the hands of our enemies."

Our enemies? He wondered.

Whether they shared commonalities or not, she was still the enemy. He had no business trusting her!

The elves were always a fickle folk and in their next meeting - should there be one - would likely reveal her to be completely different.

"The Elvenking bears little love for dwarves, nor does he care to help those in need. So, I wonder if your heart is as dead and cold," he accused, walking around the room aimlessly. He felt caged suddenly. "I do not know how close I am to the border of Mirkwood. Will you tell me?" He came to a halt and fixed her in his gaze again.

She tilted her head ever so slightly at his words, studying him. "You do not know him well."

"I know him well enough," he growled.

Tauriel fixed him with her gaze, guardedly. "You are near to the border," she confirmed.

Then, she stooped down to the floor. He followed her movement and noticed a thin layer of finely ground buff powder at her feet.

While she was distracted, his eyes flicked about, examining the walls and ceiling again of the room as he tried to find the source of the powder. He knew it to be the exact same limestone. The elves must have recently carved out this cavity or added some feature. The stoneworkers had yet to tidy it up.

He found it. In the ceiling.

He spied a complex engraved and painted design in the center. It included a pale blush diamond with green sprigs jutting out from its center, and embellished yellow spear-tips pointed inwards on either side of the sprigs. These were framed by a golden square sitting upon and perpendicular to the diamond. The square and diamond themselves sat on top of a blue circular background framed by green and golden circular borders, respectively.

Likely this was the house insignia of the Elvenking.

He grunted at its poor craftmanship.

In boredom, Thorin returned his attention to Tauriel who had spread the pile of powder out into a wide flat plain. He frowned as his vision swept over her finger-drawn squiggles in the fine particles. Growing more curious, he stepped closer.

Many little frilled arrows dotted a large area shaped like a grossly large footprint, and a small square lie in the upper right-hand corner of it. He watched as she dragged her left index finger through the dust, leaving a thick line, headed away from the arrows.

"What are you doing?" He inquired, unable to hide an edge of irritation.

Tauriel stopped. She tilted her face up at him and pointedly lifted one brow. "You asked how close you were to the border."

He harrumphed. "So I did."

She finished tracing out the deep line leading out of the thicket of arrows, which Thorin now recognized as trees - and she halted. With a flick of her wrist, she carved out an oval patch where the line ended. He observed her delineations closer and leaned over her as she began another thick line from the topmost part of the hollowed-out bowl.

Her right index finger rested then, and she looked upon her progress momentarily... then sculpted a great triangle at the culmination of the second dusty drench. There her delicate fingers paused a third time before she placed a name above this shape. Erebor.

A fluttering arose in Thorin's gut. A trace of a smile touched his lips. He was far closer to his goal than he even realized!

Tauriel went back to the petite basin and marked it 'Long Lake'.

With a sigh, she leaned back on her heels. Apparently satisfied with her outline.

She looked up at Thorin again. "The Forest River runs from underneath the palace," she explained, and poked the square and then pointed at Long Lake. "It runs east out of Greenwood and into here." Her gaze flicked upwards, capturing Thorin's attention. "If that's where you were headed."

He returned her stare warily.

Didn't offer her an answer.

He sidestepped it with a question. "What do you mean by 'Greenwood'?"

Tauriel slowly rose to her feet, still looking at her drawing thoughtfully. "This forest was not always Mirkwood," she replied, quiet and solemn. "There was a time when this place was called Greenwood, for the land under tree was bright and fair, and there was no darkness. The forest was true to travelers, and the paths did not lead them astray."

She gazed down upon the map of dust. "Our people once dwelt far to the south under tree and sky - not under carven stone." She shook her head sadly. "The Silvan elves are strangers to these halls beneath the earth."

Thorin hummed in agreement. There was a twinkle in his eye. He remarked, "They're very poor stonesmiths."

Her eyes lit up at that. A trace of a smile lifted the corners of her lips slightly. "Indeed."

A corner of his mouth tilted in return. But, he sobered quickly. "What evil drove your people north?"

She winced. "The lands to the south are changed. A darkness has shrouded the forest... The shadow of Dol Guldur."

Thorin tested the elvish name in his mouth. "Dol Guldur?"

"The Hill of Sorcery," she whispered sharply. As if uttering a curse. "There dwells the Necromancer..." She shuddered. "It is where the spiders are coming from."

Thorin suppressed a tremor of his own at the mention of those hideous creatures. A cold fear gripped his stout chest as he absently remembered the details of his earlier dream.

"We have withstood him and his thralls these many years and have kept his advance at bay." She paused, shaking her head sadly. The sudden grief in her eyes was palpable. "I do not know his purpose - but that to pervert that which is good and fair. My heart tells me there shall come a day when our strength will fail us, and all of Greenwood will be consumed by a final darkness." She swept apart her powder map with her elven-fashioned boot. The particles fluttered up into a swirling, buff cloud. Her handiwork demolished.

He brooded darkly on these ill conceptions, wondering if she were right, and wishing that she were not. "I hope you never see such days, lady," he admitted.

Thorin hadn't meant to say that aloud.

Sheepishly, he watched the powder slowly settle out of the air and onto the ground.

Tauriel looked at him in surprise. A cautious curiosity lie in her eyes. "Master dwarf, what is your name?"

He faltered. Here he remained at the mercy of the Wood-elves, and he no guarantee that this lady, noble as she seemed, would still betray his heritage to the Elvenking.

"Thorin," he relented. "Of the Blue Mountains."

"You are far from home, Master Thorin," she remarked. Her brows furrowed in bewilderment.

He couldn't help but bristle. He braced himself for an inference she might make.

But, she didn't.

"I don't believe you came to this forest with ill intent," she said, gently. Her eyes were soft. And kind.

He stared at her in amazement. His mouth opened, trying to think of something... in case he needed to rebuff.

He could not think of anything. Her genial disposition thoroughly disarmed him.

She looked over her shoulder, for a moment. Listening to the stillness of the room.

Or perhaps the hallway outside of it?

Her gaze grew grave, and she stepped closer to him. "I will help you, if I can," Tauriel whispered.

Thorin could only gape at her in utter consternation.

Was this some kind of a trick?

"The King suspects you are guilty of some mischief, and since you gave him no answer for your errand in the woods... I do not know how long he will keep you here," she said.

Thorin frowned. Deeper than before. He opened his mouth to protest the injustice of the Elvenking's actions.

Again, Tauriel peered furtively over her shoulder. "I must go," she breathed. "I will think of something to help you."

The conviction in her eyes took him by surprise.

Baffled him, even.

She spun to face the door behind her. It swung open.

The elf lordling stepped into the doorway. He scowled. Tucked his arms across his chest, as he set his sight on Thorin. "Maewado i Naug, Tauriel."*

Tauriel headed for the open door but spared a quick gaze at Thorin over her shoulder. The leader shifted aside to allow her to pass him. She disappeared around the corner. Orcrist clutched tightly in her right hand.

Behind Thorin, the opposing door groaned on its hinges. He glanced sideways at the approaching group of guards at his back.

He closed his hands into fists and stared defiantly at the lordling.

Thorin was outnumbered, but he at least determined not to make things easy for any of them.