/Note: from now on this fic will be based on the book rather than the movie. azog may still turn up later though. my apologies/
"His name is Beorn, and he is a skin-changer. He is not very… sociable, so it might be wise to arrive in small groups."
Gandalf is telling the Company about an acquaintance of his who lives nearby and with whom they could find respite. At the word 'skin-changer', everyone frowns. "What do you mean, a skin-changer?" inquires Bilbo.
"He is a man," replies Gandalf, "Who can turn into a bear at will. I do not think he will be a danger, but it is best to be careful."
Bilbo considers this in silence as they trudge through the fields that surround the carrock.
As they approach Beorn's house, Gandalf begins to form a plan.
"I will go first, with Bilbo, and then Thorin and Dori, then Nori and Ori, then Balin and Dwalin, then Fili and Kili, then Bifur and Bofur, and then Bombur and Lys. I will give a signal for each group to come."
In the end they are all in Beorn's wide wooden halls, glad for the fire and food that is there, and surprised and grateful that they have made it there undisturbed by orcs. Later in the evening, the dwarves sit in a circle next to the fire and sing, while Bilbo drops off to sleep and Lys sits in the corner, shrouded in darkness so that she is barely visible but for her pale face, reflecting the flickering firelight.
Lys lies on her back, staring up into the darkness and listening to the snores of the Company, who are sleeping dispersed over the floor. Turning her head, she sees a line of moonlight pointing like a long, pale finger towards the slightly open door.
She gets up and follows it, slips through the door, barely opening it, and steps out into the cool night. The damp grass soothes her bare feet, blistered from the burning tree.
She becomes aware of a faint sound - like many heavy footsteps. She follows it through a grove of trees, and it grows louder.
After a few minutes of walking through the trees, she emerges into a moonlit clearing to see a very strange sight. Dozens of bears, big and small, are dancing in circles on the grass. She remains behind a tree, watching.
One of the bears catches sight of her and leaves the circle. As it walks towards her, it seems to shrink and dwindle in size, and then it is Beorn standing before her.
"Come," he says, and she follows him back through the trees.
"You should not have been there," he says at length. "Did Gandalf not tell you to stay inside?"
"He did," says Lys.
"But you were not afraid."
"No."
"You should have been," he says. "Many of my friends do not trust humans."
"I don't expect to be trusted," says Lys quietly.
Beorn turns to face her. They are back at his house, standing in a patch of moonlight. He nods slowly. "Your companions… they do not trust you."
"Why should they?" she asks matter-of-factly.
"They do not trust me either," adds Beorn.
"Of course not," replies Lys.
They look at each other for a few seconds, two solitary beings, then Beorn says, "Go inside and get some sleep."
Lys slips back through the door, tiptoes around the sleeping dwarves, lies down at her place, and falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The sojourn at Beorn's passes all too quickly, and soon it is time to face their journey again. On a sunny morning they pack up their things, along with provisions from Beorn, and load them onto the ponies he has lent them. After thanking him profusely, they set off.
As they near Mirkwood, the Company's mood grows darker, and it is with great trepidation that they walk under its ominous eaves and into the forest itself - without the wizard, who mentioned urgent business elsewhere.
The trees block out most sunlight, and hang over the narrow path, seeming to want to smother the travelers.
There is grumbling that Gandalf has abandoned them again, and whispered rumours of strange inhabitants of Mirkwood, or that the forest itself is endless. But the darkness and closeness is the worst. Lys often begins to breathe more quickly and glances around with wild eyes. At one of these instances, Kíli places a hand on her shoulder.
"It's all right," he says with a smile. "Just a forest. We'll be out before you know it." She nods warily.
But they are not out nearly that soon, and after a while the provisions begin to run out. This is not so bad, but then the water begins to run out as well. They begin to grow very thirsty, for Beorn has told them not to drink from any of the forest streams. One day they encounter such a stream - and that is where their hardships begin.
There is a boat moored on the other side, and Fíli throws over a rope with a hook on the end to pull it across. They all cross the stream in small groups. Bombur is last, and as he is getting out of the boat, he falls into the water. When they pull him out, he is fast asleep.
From then on they have to take turns carrying him. They grow hungrier and thirstier and more tired with each passing day, and at night eyes stare at them from the darkness, so they can barely sleep for fear of what might lurk there. Lys grows even paler and thinner than she was before, and the dwarves begin to worry.
"Is there no end to this accursed forest?!" exclaims Dwalin one day in a burst of frustration. They decide to send Bilbo up a tree to look. It takes him a long time, and they all wait impatiently at the bottom. When he finally climbs down, there is no hope in his eyes. He cannot see the end of the forest. Even more worried than before, they continue on their way.
Eventually Bombur wakes up, only to tell them about the wonderful dreams he had about great feasts, which worsens everyone's mood.
And then, one night, they see the lights.
The feast is merry, as are all of Thranduil's revelries, but Legolas is not in a reveling mood today. He sits in a tree, legs dangling lazily, goblet in hand, brooding as the other elves laugh and sing and dance below him. Something is on his mind… though he is not sure what.
Suddenly figures emerge from the trees. "Dwarves," thinks Legolas before the fire is swiftly extinguished and the elves disappear. He decides to stay in his tree.
He watches with some amusement as the intruders blunder around in the darkness. Amid the dwarves are a woman and a hobbit. Very strange, he thinks, suppressing a laugh as they call out to each other.
Having found each other, the intruders hold a short council and then decide to sleep where they are and try to find the path in the morning. But then the elves light up their fires again a little ways off, and they continue their pursuit.
Once they send the hobbit, and when that does not work - Thranduil's magic puts him to sleep - they send the dwarf who appears to be their leader. He is captured, however, and -
A number of dark shadows appear from the trees all around, and Legolas wishes very desperately that he had his bow with him. Noiselessly he climbs from tree to tree and makes his way back to his father's hidden realm.
"Father, I ask your leave to go in pursuit of the spiders of Ungoliant's brood that have invaded the forest."
Thranduil looks down at him. "Let them first kill the companions of this Thorin Oakenshield. If they remain after that, I will send out a hunting party, which you may be part of, if you wish."
"Why do you wish death to these dwarves?" asks Legolas, frowning.
Thranduil's expression darkens. "Did you not see how they intruded into our realm? They pose a danger to us."
"Are not the spiders more of a threat than the dwarves?"
"Undoubtedly, but that does not mean I will impart mercy upon them. Do your sympathies lie with that loathsome folk?"
"No, father."
"Good. Then I shall hear no more of them from you."
Legolas turns and walks away, unrest still in his mind.
They drag Thorin through the dark pasageway, winding deeper and deeper into the earth. He struggles violently, but he is unarmed and weak with hunger, no match for the several armed elvish guards that restrain him. They throw him into a cell, give him some bread and water, and silently bolt the thick oaken door. He devours the food gratefully - how many weeks has it been since they have eaten? - but the gratitude soon subsides and gives way to red-hot anger. Blind with rage, he pounds on the door until his fists are raw and bleeding, and then continues, letting the pain, the warmth of the blood trickling down his wrists, the force and rhythm of his blows, take over and drown out all else. But the door remains impassive, and after a long time, the anger, too, fades. Despondent, he leans his head against the door. What will become of their quest? He can only hope that the others are still alive, but he is not sure whether he should hope that they are free or captured, since freedom mostlikely means death. He draws in a deep breath, the metallic smell of blood filling his head, and as he exhales he slowly sinks to the ground.
Days and hours are uncountable in the small, dark cell. Thorin wavers between waking and sleeping, in a state of utter despair, vaguely aware of occasional voices and sounds overhead.
Suddenly louder noises reach his ears. Shouts, thuds, the grate of metal. Coming closer. He listens with baited breath. The sound of blows. Curses. In elvish - and dwarvish. The voices of his companions. So they are alive. The rattle of chains, slamming of doors. Alive but captured. He closes his eyes.
But there are footsteps coming even closer. A sharp cry of rage cuts through the dank air. Thorin's eyes fly open. The footsteps stop. They are right above him. The sound of a fist colliding with flesh. An angry elvish exclamation. A short scuffle, and -
"No!"
Lys.
Her voice is breathless and ragged, and filled with pure terror.
The grating of metal - the door being barred.
"No! Please!" Short, sharp cries that leap through the air in a thrill of panic.
A chill runs through Thorin, not because of the damp cold of the cell. He has never seen Lys afraid. And he has never heard her beg.
All he can hear now is Lys's rapid breathing. Then she gives a desperate cry and repeated thuds echoe from above. She, too, is hopelessly attacking the door. The blows last for an eternity, and then she seems to lose strength. They become slower, then weaker, then finally silence returns.
He can still hear her breathing, though - laboured, irregular gulps of air in which he can sense the panic.
"Lys," he calls softly.
She draws her breath in sharply.
"Thorin?"
"Is everyone alive?" he asks.
"Yes," she replies hoarsely.
"Did they capture everyone?"
She pauses. "They didn't get Bilbo."
A small glimmer of hope begins to grow in Thorin. At least one of them is free. But what hope do they have in one small hobbit? Then again, being small might be exactly what is needed…
"How long are they going to keep us here?" asks Lys, a slight tremor in her voice.
"Until a certain hobbit finds a way to free us," he replies grimly, and immediately regrets it.
Lys draws a shuddering breath, and a small, smothered cry escapes her.
"Lys, are you all right?" demands Thorin. She replies with a small hysterical laugh. The laughter swells up and she begins to giggle uncontrollably.
"Lys!" calls Thorin sharply, but it is no use. The laughter continues, and then she begins to pound on the door again.
Thorin restrains himself from shouting to her that it's no use, that Thranduil's prison cells are strengthened by magic, unable to be so much as splintered even by the strength of a dwarf. He knows that this futile action is mostlikely the only thing keeping her sane at the moment.
Eventually she stops.
He listens as her breathing ever so gradually becomes slower, until it is almost normal.
Gazing up at the dark ceiling, he contemplates the fact that in the confines of this prison he has just witnessed Lys's weakness. He wonders what it is about being imprisoned that fills her with such terror.
His thoughts shift to Bilbo, wandering alone through Mirkwood. Thorin can only hope that he is still alive, for in the hands of the hobbit now lies the fate of the quest.
Sallow thumb pushes the plunger. Needle sinks into pockmarked skin. Pupils dilate. Breath leaves the body in a forceful exhalation. Blood pounds, rushing, surging, ecstasy.
Lys's eyes fly open. She draws in a shuddering breath.
"No. No!" She jumps up and paces around the cell, trying to drive the thoughts from her mind, the claustrophobia hitting her again with full force, the walls are closing in, and now she, she… her hand searches out her wrist, and "No!" It is little more than a forced whisper, she doesn't want to attract any attention, and these thoughts won't leave her head… she lunges at the wall with her first. Pain shoots up her arm. It feels good. She punches the wall again. "No," something is saying in the back of her mind, "You can't - " soon she is going full strength, with both fists, and blood is streaming down her wrists, her arms, but it is not enough any more, and she throws back her head and slams it against the wall, and oh, the pain, the pain… she smashes her head against the stone wall again and again, and -
Legolas cannot get her terrified face out of his head, nor her panicked pleas as they locked her into the cell. Hunting the spiders distracted him for a time, but now her cries echoe in his mind once more. He decides to go down and talk to her, perhaps find out more about her and her companions. Company might give her some solace, too - although, as one of her captors, he knows he probably won't be very welcome. He heads down towards the dungeons anyways.
Turning a corner, he nearly collides with a guard.
"Prince Legolas!" he exclaims. "I was about to inform the king… something has happened to one of the prisoners. The human."
A sense of dread envelops Legolas. "What has happened?"
"You'd better come see for yourself," says the guard. Legolas follows him, his foreboding growing.
When they reach her cell, he cautiously pushes open the door and peers inside, holding the torch the guard has given him. He draws his breath in sharply. The human is sprawled upon the floor. Dried blood covers the upper part of her face, is matted in her hair, trickles down her temples and between her eyes and nose. Her hands form loose fists, which are also blood-caked and worn raw. Small white splinters of bone peer through the tattered skin. The torchlight reveals bloodstains on the wall.
He walks over to her and kneels down. Laying a hand just under her nose, he is immensely relieved to feel a faint stream of air against his fingers. She lives.
At the light from the torch and Legolas's soft touch, her eyes open. When she sees him, she scrambles to her feet, wide-eyed. Legolas also rises - just in time for her to punch him in the eye. He stumbles backwards, warding off further blows, and leaves the cell, locking the door behind him.
"You went to see Lys." It is not a question, it is a statement.
"Lys?"
"The human."
"Yes, father. I… heard she was wounded."
"She has wounded herself, and now you as well."
"Father, I ask your leave to attempt to heal her."
"And get another black eye?"
"No, I…" Legolas does not know what to say. He knows she will attack him again, but he feels he cannot simply leave her like that.
"How do you know her name?" he asks instead.
Thranduil laughs. "Thorin Oakenshield has informed me of that. Every day, he asks the guards to free her. 'Let Lys go,' he demands. He insists she is not part of his Company, that they chanced upon her in Mirkwood. Of course he is lying." He raises his eyebrows. "Go to her, if you wish. I cannot hinder you."
The guards eye him strangely as he walks past them, a small pouch of salve and bandages at his hip, and Legolas feels a trace of anger grow inside him. Why does everyone treat Lys like some dangerous animal? She needs to be healed, like any other wounded being.
He knocks cautiously on the door. "Lys?"
Silence.
He slowly unbolts the door and pushes it open. She is sitting, slouched, in a corner.
"Go away," she says, her voice quiet and hoarse.
"I've brought something for your wounds," he says, unstrapping the pouch from his belt.
"Go away," she repeats.
Legolas hesitates.
Lys jumps to her feet and lunges at him. He catches her arm and a short struggle ensues, after which he finds himself pinning her arms to the wall. She stares at him for a few moments, a look of deep hatred in her eyes, then she slams her knee into his stomach. He doubles over, and as he staggers to the door, she dashes towards it. By the time he is out in the passageway, her running footsteps are rapidly disappearing - but in a few seconds she is dragged back by two guards. He watches as they roughly push her into the cell and bolt the door.
Lys collapses onto the floor. Starvation and then imprisonment have weakened her considerably. After a few moments, she crawls towards the leather pouch lying in the middle of the cell.