When Thorin Met Tauriel – 3
Several days dragged by, and each wasted minute scraped painfully against Thorin's nerves as it passed.
As prisons went, it wasn't the worst he had ever been in. The cell was small but clean enough. The air was smoky from the torches which provided the only light. The food was adequate. But as far as he could tell he was the only captive, which worried him. Where were the others?
Most of his time was spent in the problematic company of the Captain of the Guards. Their conversations were the most enjoyable parts of his captivity—which meant they were also the most dangerous parts. Thorin knew he'd come perilously close to revealing the nature of his quest to her on that first night, when pain and exhaustion had weakened his defenses.
But she hadn't reacted to his unwise speech; maybe she didn't even remember it. Judging from the attitude of that arrogant young snirp, Sethiel, who had barged into his cell several times to hector him with questions and empty threats, the Captain hadn't mentioned the matter to him.
Which only went to show, Thorin thought grimly, that the Captain had at least sense enough not to trust the younger elf. That didn't mean that she wouldn't run straight to the King, if Thorin told her the truth.
So Thorin gave her his cover story: He and the other dwarves were aimless wanderers, starving travelers, looking for food and work wherever they could find it. He was a tinker, a casual laborer, and a vagabond who wasn't above wielding a sword for hire. Sure, he had a fine blade—he'd won it fairly from its previous owner, in a fight he described with great relish and a wealth of extraneous detail.
"You, a tinker? A laborer?" Tauriel snorted with derision. "No. You're used to being obeyed. And you ask about the other dwarves like a leader concerned about his team."
He shrugged, uncomfortable. How else should he have asked about them?
"What are you really doing in Mirkwood?" she asked. She was sitting with her feet up on a small table, looking relaxed, but she was playing with her daggers again. He'd noticed that she often fiddled with them, releasing the catches on the sheaths and then sliding the daggers home repeatedly. It was annoying, but he didn't want to bring her attention to the habit. She only did it when she was ill-at-ease.
"Looking for something to report to the King?" he jeered.
She raised her eyebrows. "Planning anything he ought to know about?"
He shook his head. "My business is my own, and it doesn't concern the Elf King."
"It's his kingdom," she pointed out. "Everything that happens here concerns him."
"It's my business. Kings have a bad habit of sticking their noses where they're not needed or wanted. And when they do, it's the king who end up taking the lion's share of the reward after others have done the work."
She stared at him hard. "And when certain folk don't tell the King what he wants to know, they find themselves in worse trouble. Just some friendly advice."
He shrugged and turned away.
On other occasions, he spun her tales from his childhood. She seemed to like hearing of his earliest life in Erebor, his family intact and his every want satisfied. She didn't want to know about his dwarven ancestors and lineage—that bored her into writhing impatience—but when he told her about hiding behind Thror's throne during a game of hide-and-seek and being stuck there for hours during a court audience, she laughed. And when he told her about the solemn moment when he'd seen the great treasure of the dwarves, the glorious Arkenstone, for the first time, she looked transfixed with delight.
She took a certain professional interest in the battle stories he told, but she seemed to prefer simple memories of his daily life among family and friends. There were few enough of them—he had to rack his brains to find any fleeting moments of peace and warmth scattered among a life filled with pain and disappointment.
Oddly, it was in telling those stories—sometimes about nothing more momentous than a song sung or a good meal shared with friends—that he discovered a sense of quiet joy. And in his stubborn determination not to reveal his quest to reclaim Erebor for the dwarves, he found his goal taking on a reality and urgency greater than he had ever felt before.
Erebor. The lost home of his clan—the peace and prosperity that was their birthright—he found its memory burning brightly in his heart. And he grew even more impatient for his freedom.
"Is that all?" King Thranduil lounged on his throne, deceptively languid, resting his head on one index finger pressed to his temple. His sharp, hooded eyes bored into his Captain of the Guard.
Tauriel held herself rigidly at attention as she gave her report to the Elf King. "Sire, you said he was to be treated properly."
"So I did." He gave the faintest of sighs. "I also said that you were to discover his purpose in coming to Mirkwood. And you have not."
Her throat closed. The King was displeased with her. Tauriel thought back to that first evening she'd spent guarding Thorin. He'd shouted something about the dragon's hoard...but what if that had been just a boast that he'd never meant to carry out? Some wild claim he'd made, hoping his captors would treat him with respect? It would be a far-fetched plan indeed. She was not so dishonorable as to let him suffer over a few words spoken in the heat of the moment. "I shall try again, my liege."
Thranduil leaned forward and pierced her with a glare."You do that."
A few days later, she brought Thorin the usual tray of food. As he dug into the coarse bread, she pulled up a small stool outside the bars, and sat.
"You never answered my question," she said. "You've had several days to think about it. Time's up."
Mouth full, he raised one eyebrow inquiringly.
"I asked what the women of your people look like."
He frowned, trying to remember when she'd asked him that.
"So, you owe me." She smiled. "Tell me now and discharge your debt."
Over the past week or more, he'd gotten to know all her smiles. Some of them weren't even remotely positive expressions—and this was one of that variety. He guessed that something bad had happened, something that had seriously upset her. The trick would be to divert her attention from her problem, then getting her to talk without realizing it.
He reached for a wooden cup filled with water. "There are all kinds, just like elf women. Mothers, sisters, princesses. Captains of the guard."
"I thought your women didn't like to fight," she said accusingly.
"They don't," he said. "Well, most don't. Maybe you elf women are more different from dwarven women than I thought. Do you enjoy fighting?"
She rubbed the back of her neck. "I'd rather hack at someone with my sword than play politics. Shoot them dead with an arrow instead of killing them with words."
"Oh ho!" He grinned. So that was it—Politics. No wonder. He heartily agreed with her sentiment. "Politics. You must have friends in high places, Captain."
"Not friends. My younger sister. Too young to know what kind of—" She snapped her mouth shut and looked away, rolling her shoulders as if to shake off a burden.
"Maybe you underestimate her," he said softly. "In any event, there's little to be done. You've got to let others make their own choices." He felt strange mouthing those words. His brother had died after making his own choices.
"Maybe you don't know what you're talking about." She jerked to her feet and walked away, slamming her daggers into their sheaths.
He concentrated on eating. Maybe he didn't, at that.
She spun to face him. "Do you have a sister?"
He nodded. Anticipating her next question, he added, "Dis. She's logical. Practical. Down to earth."
"Any wives?"
He shook his head.
"Anyone you wanted to marry?" There was a gleam of malicious glee in her eyes. She was trying to pick a fight with him, to take her mind off whatever the problem was with her sister.
"What would I have to offer a wife?" he asked bitterly. "A wandering life. I'm nearly as bad as you."
She barked a laugh. "I would never make a good wife. Never even crossed my mind. But it's crossed yours." She sat down again on the stool in front of the cell bars.
"What if it had?" He tried not to think about it. Someday, someday, he told himself. When all this is over, when the prize was won...
"So who was she?" Tauriel wasn't letting this go.
He sighed internally, and then invented the perfect woman dwarf. "Oh, she was beautiful. And strong. Her name was—Frey. She had long hair, pale as starlight. Big dark eyes, and the softest, most delicate beard—"
"Most delicate what?" Tauriel interrupted.
He looked up, jarred out of his imaginary conjuring. "What?"
"You said her beard," she explained. "Do women dwarves have beards?"
"Yes, of course. We all do." Thorin stroked his chin. The subject was rather personal. Dwarves didn't go around talking about their beards to all and sundry. Or at least they didn't discuss them with elves. Particularly not with female elves who stared so openly at a person's beard.
She looked fascinated. "Elves don't have beards."
"I noticed." He smiled wryly. "It makes your faces look bald."
"Are the women's beards different from yours?" Tauriel was touching her bare cheeks, evidently trying to imagine herself with a beard.
He drew in a breath. "Yes, they're different. Softer. Silkier. They are sort of—" he gestured with his hand, not sure how to describe what dwarf women did to make their beards so seductive. He shook his head.
She looked up, her hands still lifted to her face. "Doesn't it itch? Having all that hair on your face?"
"No." This conversation was getting out of hand. He stood up and paced the tiny length of the cell. This stranger, this—elf—didn't need to know how dwarves felt about beards. It was private. She didn't understand. Couldn't ever understand. And he had had enough of her, so persistently inquisitive and so innocently rude.
"That's enough. Beards are a personal matter. You don't stare at a dwarf's beard, you don't discuss it, and you definitely don't touch it. It's not right."
"I beg your pardon." She settled herself on the stool, quiet and thoughtful for a few moments. Then abruptly she began, "Have you ever—"
"No." He glared at her. "This coversation is over. Did you not understand?"
"Of course I understand," she snapped. She jumped up and stalked away, her arms crossed tightly over her breasts. Her long dark hair fell in curtains around her face. The hilts of her daggers gleamed in the torchlight, and the brass ring of jailer's keys dangled at her waist.
He considered her. She was skilled with her daggers. Probably good with a sword, and a bow as well. Almost certainly a capable hand-to-hand fighter, with a longer reach than his own, if less physical strength.
On his side, he had a wooden tray. A wooden cup. His own bare hands. The bench in the cell was bolted to the wall, so it was no use as a weapon. If he could get her close enough to the bars of the cell, he could grab the keys from her belt. The first step was to lure her closer.
It wasn't a very good plan. In fact, it was a ludicrous plan, but he'd been in the cell for days and he was out of ideas and options. He had to give it a try.
"Do you know what a beard feels like," he asked softly. Maybe he could even get her daggers, despite the tricky catches on the sheaths.
"Of course not," she growled, her hair still shading her face.
He could free himself, overpower her, and then fight his way out. He moved close to the bars of his cage-like cell. "Come and find out."
That brought her head up. She gave him a long, skeptical look.
"Just in the interest of—satisfying your curiosity." The rational part of his mind was shouting that this was a very bad idea. Possibly the worst idea he'd ever had. But he was out of good ideas, so it would have to do.
Her eyes sparkled with renewed interest and she moved toward him, just as he knew she would. Volatile, curious elf. She was so predictable.
Then she stopped, looking suddenly wary. It took all his self-control not to growl in frustration. He'd almost had her, keys, daggers and all. He held her gaze, willing her to forget any notion of taking the key ring off her belt.
"I'm probably the only dwarf you'll ever meet," he said, making his voice compelling. "And dwarves don't let anyone touch their beards. In fact, I think I'd rather not—"
He made a move to step backward, as if he were going to change his mind. It brought her closer, like a fish on a line. But she stopped, just out of reach, her hands tucked up into her armpits as if she were cold. She watched him.
He sighed and forced himself to move close to the bars of the cell. "Last chance."
"Reach out and grab the farthest bars on either side of you," she instructed.
"Don't you trust me?"
"Not a lot," she said sweetly.
This was definitely turning out to be a bad idea. However, he could still back out—he didn't have to go through with this if she planned to truss him up, or if she set aside the keys which still hung tantalizingly from her belt. Even with his arms stretched wide, he thought he might be able to make a grab for the keys, if she were sufficiently distracted. And if he were quick enough. And not tied to the cell bars.
Clearly he'd gone insane.
He stretched his arms wide and grabbed a bar on either side. She relaxed and took a step closer, her eyes fixed on his.
He felt completely exposed. To let her touch his beard—it was a giant step of intimacy, a free-fall into a trust which he had no guarantee she would honor. To let someone, anyone, feel the coarse bristle of his beard, handle the curve of his jaw, detect the pulse that beat so strongly under the delicate skin of his neck, was a surrender he doubted he could achieve. Maybe he could just die right now and be done with it. He closed his eyes.
Then he felt her hand, small and surprisingly hot, touch his cheek. Her fingers were gentle, their touch light and tender. It felt good.
He opened his eyes and found himself gazing directly into hers. They were the sweet color of hazelnuts, golden brown streaked with green, like the changing forest leaves of autumn.
Her fingers slid down the side of his face, then under his chin to curl in the thicker hair that covered his throat. His heart was beating hard, the rushing sound filling his ears. He made an effort to breathe steadily through his nose. He was in control. He was the master of himself. He swallowed hard and tightened his grip on the cell bars.
"So soft," she said in tones of wonder and delight. Her face was filled with awe. "You were right. I never knew."
Her hand was tangled in his beard, and then her fingers skimmed over his lips. Inside his chest he felt an ache as if his heart had finally been released from a tight metal shackle, bringing both relief and unbearable pain. He pulled himself together enough to smile at her. His eyes were not focusing properly, and she looked hazy, as if he were seeing her through a fog.
She reached up and tugged at his wrist, pulling his hand off the bar. He felt a sudden surge of alarm, but before he had time to react, she lifted his hand to her face.
"This is how different we are," she said.
He stroked her smooth hairless cheek, marveling at its velvet softness. With his fingers he explored the feel of her, the alien beauty of her smoothness, strange and compelling in its loveliness. Then he touched something wet, and he realized she was crying. Her face was still, serene even, but tears were falling silently down her cheeks.
He searched her face for some explanation, looking deep into her eyes, studying the slight wrinkle of her brow. To his surprise, he understood. "Lonely. You're lonely."
She drew away and laughed shakily. "I'm a fool."
It wasn't until she'd turned away that he realized he'd forgotten all about getting the keys from her. A second later, he realized his own cheeks were wet, too.