When Thorin Met Tauriel-2
He was alone. His quest could end—along with his life—here in this dark prison, leagues away from Erebor. No one would know what had happened to him.
All that anyone would ever know would be that he had failed.
But he hadn't failed yet. He forced himself to focus, patiently turning the problem over in his mind like a metalsmith working a rough chunk of iron. His elf jailer was proving an interesting challenge. Like quicksilver, she was unpredictable and therefore potentially dangerous. She was also curious as a kitten, and as easily distracted. He could use that. He wondered how.
She was digging in the wall with the point of her dagger again.
"Don't do that," he growled, unable to help himself.
She paused and frowned at him. "Do what?"
"You're going to ruin the edge of the blade for no good reason," he said. His whetstone was still attached to his belt, overlooked by his elven captors. He untied it and offered it to her. "Here. Use this."
She blinked, but didn't move. Her eyes were fixed on him.
He snorted in disbelief. "Do you even know how to use a whetstone?"
"Of course I know," she snapped. "It should have been taken from you when you arrived."
She rose in one fluid motion, the dagger in one hand. With her other hand, she picked a crabapple from a wooden bowl on the table. She threw the apple in the air, then sent the dagger flying toward it. The flashing blade sliced the fruit in half before landing with a solid thunk in the wall.
He crossed his arms and glowered at her.
She wrenched the dagger out of the wall, then strode back to the table. With two fingertips she lifted up a slender green leaf—one she'd been playing with earlier—and delicately sheared the leaf in half with the razorlike blade.
"Elf-forged," she told him triumphantly. "My daggers are always sharp. And always ready." She shoved the dagger back into one of a pair of sheaths that rode low on her hips. As it slid into place, he heard a metallic "snick."
The sound pleased him more than anything he'd heard in days. He grinned. "And you carry them in dwarf-made sheaths."
Her eyes narrowed.
With a wave of his hand, he gestured toward her weapon belt. "They are made with a catch at the top, so that only the wearer can release the dagger. Wouldn't do to have an enemy use your own weapon against you."
She stepped toward him and reached her hand through the bars of the cell. "Give me the whetstone."
He raised his eyebrows. "Why?"
She smiled and wiggled her fingers.
He held his rising temper in check. He reminded himself he was supposed to be creating an atmosphere of camaraderie between them. Getting her to trust him. He handed her the whetstone. "Best to keep your daggers sharp. It's what our women do."
Her eyes brightened with curiosity at the mention of dwarf women, as he'd expected. "Do dwarf women fight with knives, then?"
It had been a long time since he'd been around any dwarf women. He barely knew how to explain. He picked his words carefully. "They can fight, but they don't. Not often. They—" he paused. "Dwarf women are practical. They are very good at taking care of others. They don't think fighting is very sensible. So they don't."
"They don't fight." The elf sat down, looking thoughtful, and the expression looked oddly out of place on her mobile features. She held the whetstone loosely in her lap.
"But they can," he said. "Now it's my turn to ask a question."
It was almost comical how quickly the elf reacted. She snapped, "Who said we were taking turns?"
He congratulated himself on having read her correctly. Knowing the enemy—it was the first step towards victory. He tried to look innocent. "It's only fair."
"This isn't a game, dwarf."
"My name is Thorin," he countered. "You're Tauriel. And that's my whetstone. I expect it back when this is all sorted out."
She glared at him. "I'm the Captain of the Guard. You may address me as Captain." She looked down at the smooth rounded stone in her hand, then closed her fingers over it tightly. "It shouldn't have been overlooked when you were searched. I won't be returning it to you."
"Not at the moment, at least," he agreed. "You can use it for now."
She rolled her eyes.
"You probably have other blades that need sharpening, though," he suggested. "Everyone needs to keep their weapons sharp, right?"
"Yes." She gave him a tight, smug smile. "So now you've asked a question and I've answered it. It's my turn."
"I only asked because I was concerned," he lied. Casually, he went on, "If there were many elves here in the forest, say, hundreds or thousands, you'd need plenty of metal tools just to survive. Not just special elf-forged daggers. So someone must know how to make and mend all the equipment you need. Unless there were dwarves nearby, and you traded with them."
"Of course there are many elves. Mirkwood is large. There are thousands of us, all loyal to the King. And we take care of our own tools. But we don't trade with dwarves, only with the men of—" she stopped. "It's my turn to ask. Now I get two questions."
Thorin nodded. Mentally he hoarded the bits of information she'd let slip. Thousands of elves—probably there were not that many, but still more than he could deal with by himself. They traded with men, and they were ruled by a King. It would be difficult to keep his mission a secret from the ruler of the elves. Kings, in his experience, were always looking for ways to acquire more wealth. If Thorin wasn't careful, the Elf King would find a way to demand the dragon's hoard for himself, after the dwarves had obtained it at their own considerable peril.
He braced himself for the Captain's questions. He watched warily as she tucked a lock of her long dark hair behind her ear and thought about what to ask. She had the slender limbs, long fingers, and delicately pointed features of elvenkind, but he knew from experience that elves were not weak. If Tauriel was the Captain of the Guard, she was probably a strong and capable fighter. It wouldn't be easy to defeat her in combat.
"Do they play?" she asked.
"Who?"
"Dwarf women. Do they play games? What do they do for fun?"
"For fun?" he echoed. He tried to conjure up an image of dwarf women—or any dwarf—playing. Nothing came to mind. Singing came close, but he wasn't going to talk about that to her. Finally he offered, "We work. We make things."
She frowned, clearly puzzled, and then shrugged. Apparently dwarf ways were not worth trying to understand. She narrowed her eyes at him. "And my second question is, what do they look like?"
Tired of the game, Thorin stood and paced the width of his cell. It only took a couple of strides to cover the small space, which had bars on three sides and a wall at the back. This was useless and humiliating. There was no point in trying to satisfy her idle curiosity at the cost of his own self-respect, especially not when the information he gleaned in return was so sparse.
A younger elf, dressed in a greenish tunic and carrying a bow and quiver, strode in. Relieved to be off the hook, Thorin settled back to watch the Captain deal with her subordinate.
Tauriel turned to face Sethiel. Finally, the archer was back with an answer! She scowled at him. "Took you long enough."
Sethiel shook back his long golden hair. A dissatisfied pout exaggerated the full curve of his lips, and his dark eyes held more confidence than knowledge. He was one of the more troublesome of the young archers under her command. Family lineage carried more weight among the Mirkwood elves than it ought to, in Tauriel's opinion, and Sethiel was a case in point. The handsome young elf's expression verged on insolence as he considered the prisoner striding around the cell, hands clearly unbound.
"The prisoner's bonds may be loosed, provided he is secure in his cell and well-guarded," Sethiel announced, as if handing down his own judgment. He eyed Tauriel with a smirk. "But I see you have anticipated the King's orders. Captain."
That little hesitation before he acknowledged her rank had crossed the line. Family or no family, this one would show her the respect she deserved—the respect she'd worked for over the years since she and Tuviel had arrived in this part of the Wood, empty-handed, hungry, coughing and scorched by flame.
Clamping her mouth shut, Tauriel stood in front of the younger elf and fixed an unwinking glare on him. The moment stretched out. Sethiel began to fidget. Tauriel didn't budge.
A few more seconds passed. The younger elf's face grew red, and he looked away. "Um, may I return to my post, Captain?"
She continued to stare at him.
He straightened up and saluted her. "Permission to return to my post, Captain."
Tauriel nodded curtly, then turned on her heel. She could hear his steps rapping smartly down the corridor, fading away.
Quickly she glanced over at the prisoner. She was sure he had been listening to every nuance of that exchange, greedy for any sign of discord among his captors, anything he could use against them to win his freedom. He wasn't fooling her for a moment—the dwarf was clever, she could tell. Clever and dangerous.
He interested her. He didn't look like the dwarves she'd imagined—she'd thought they would look like potatoes on legs, lumpy and dusty. Thorin had the sharp features and alertness of a raptor. There was power in his short, blocky frame; he moved in a sure and controlled way. With every question he asked, she could sense his probing intelligence, trying to fit facts and impressions together, building a mental picture of his captors and his captivity. And he seemed to have a wry, dry sense of humor despite his predicament.
But she was clever and dangerous too. She tapped her forefinger lightly against her lips, thinking, and then strode down the corridor after Sethiel.
The young archer was talking in a low voice to an older elf, this one wearing the robes of the Court. She recognized the King's butler, Galion. The butler paused at her approach and bowed politely to her. "Ah, Captain. I was just on my way in to inform you that you will be continuing your good work as guard to our prisoner."
Shock filled her veins with ice water. "Surely there are others who can—"
The dignified old elf cut her off with an airy gesture. "I know how much you warriors love to get out and about, but His Majesty feels it imperative, in this case, that someone in a position of responsibility be charged with the task."
"One of the ordinary guards would be more than capable or guarding the prisoner," Tauriel protested. "My shift as a guard ends shortly, and my sister Tuviel—"
"Will be quite comfortable at the Palace, Captain," said the butler with a condescending smile. Tauriel's heart sank as the meaning of his words sank in. Her fragile, naïve young sister was now trapped in the Royal snake pit of intrigue and deception. "Ruthien will look after her, I'm sure."
Ruthien! That serpentine young minister had been angling for months to get friendly with Tuviel. Numbly, Tauriel struggled to hold on to her good manners as she continued to protest. "Then grant me a short leave to go and talk to her. I must—I need to—discuss some family matters with her."
The butler waved her request away. "Surely the matter, whatever it is, can wait for a while. In the meantime, Captain," he leaned closer and lowered his voice. "You are to find out everything about the dwarf's plans here in Mirkwood."
Tauriel gaped openmouthed at the smooth, polished-looking old elf in his rich robes. He smiled pleasantly. "I'm sure you will know just how to get him to open up."