Disclaimer: I do not own anything within the Tolkien universe but my own original characters and plot elements.

[This chapter is rated M for descriptions of torture and gore]

Chapter 3: Sparks

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Damn these orcs!

Merésgaleth was seething. She had spent the better part of the last hour trying to pick through the tattered and disheveled remains of the thirty orcs, desperately trying to find some shred of indication of where they were heading. Instead, the most exciting of her finds had been, disturbingly, three severed fingers tucked into the pocket of one particularly fat orc, not even wanting to think about why they were there to begin with.

"Arrrgh!"

She kicked the head of one of the orcs away, sending it tumbling head over. . . head toward the feet of the sniveling creature she had decided to spare and tie to a rock, wanting to determine some more information.

It rolled between its legs, eyes lolling toward the sky in death, making her captive squeal.

"I'll ask you for the last time you miserable thing, where was your company heading?"

Or rather, their captive. She looked over toward the dwarf, standing menacingly close to the orc, one of his long knives poised to rid the thing of its neck should it prove to be useless.

She looked at his face, not overclouded by the same beard as most dwarfs did, keeping his only facial hair taughtly tied beneath his chin. He wore a dark blue shirt patterned with a silver embellishment, and light mail beneath, contrasting his russet hair that was cascading from his temples in gentle waves, flecked with gristle and blood from the battle, tied together in a simple braid meeting at the back of his head.

Though his face was grave, quite seriously threatening the life of the dwarf, she couldn't help but notice a certain charm to his features. In fact, the dwarf had been . . . dare she say it . . . warm toward her.

I'd like to see what his face was like when it isn't so angry. . .

By the gods what was she thinking? She didn't need to see any more of this dwarf, much less of his good side. And why did she even think that he had a good side to begin with? While she didn't harbor particularly hostile feelings toward his kind, she had no previous favor with them. Unlike most elves, she quite often took it upon herself to find, at least, respect for things and people she could not understand, knowing full and well what it meant to be cast aside based on appearances. But that did not mean that she should be any more interested in this one.

["Try to remind me why I didn't leave you to rot, half-elf."]

King Thranduil's words echoed in her mind, and turned her mouth sour.

It seemed more than ever the elves of Mirkwood were taunting her with her heritage: half Silvan, half of the men of Dunedain. Elves were a proud people, sometimes overwhelmingly so, and while it was common knowledge that the elves of Rivendell had mixed blood, it was unheard of for any elf of Mirkwood to have lain with woman of man.

Nonetheless bearing a child with one.

Yet despite this, Merésgaleth did not regret her heritage, and rather used her 'disgraceful' lineage as a shield to block the disgust that some chose to show her. She was not of a long line of lofty, self-contained fair folk, but a blend of two, strong peoples; a promise of hope between two so very different individuals, drawn together by either chance or fate, she did not know.

She remembered the tales that her mother used to tell her of her parent's meeting long ago, holding her close by the fire when she was small, humming her tales in such a beautiful song that she near always fell asleep before hearing the end.

She did not know much about her father, or her mother, save for that he was a Silvan elf of Mirkwood, and she a lady of the once beautiful Dale, long before it was consumed by dragon's fire. While on watch, Merésgaleth often looked toward the city where she once slept as a young, young girl, often glad her mother had died nearly 250 years prior to the terror that Smaug had brought.

Much to her sadness, her father had not been so lucky, turned to ash by smoke and fire at the footsteps of Erebor when the dragon stole the mountain.

I wonder. . . Is it by chance or fate, dwarf, that we have come to know each other here?

After her reflection, she did not shy away from this thought, and chose to stow it away in the back of her mind to ponder at a later hour. Now was not the time for lofty dreaming. She needed to gain the information for which she had come, or else face losing another home.

Her thoughts now centered on her assignment, she turned heel, deciding that this charade had continued for long enough. Making her way toward the captive orc, she paused only to wrench her dagger from a fallen orcs skull, matted with blood, and sparse hairs. She loomed over the quivering orc, the dwarf's knife still hardly pressed against his neck.

"Dw- . . . Tholi . . . let me talk to it."

He paused for a moment, casting her a sideways glance, and slowly nodded, storing his long knife into its holder. He spoke then, his gruff voice expressing his own exasperation.

"This one is useless. . . I doubt anyone would be able to find anything useless in his shrieking, but feel free to try, Lady- elf."

He stepped to the side, Merésgaleth taking his place, crouching low in front of the creature. She grabbed the orc's other forearm, still yet intact, and placed her own blade against it, digging hard into its skin, drawing a thick line of blackish blood, and a scream that made even the dwarf flinch.

Before continuing, she paused, looking back at the dwarf with a hardened expression, and, confusingly, the traces of a smirk played at the edge of her lips.

"I am no Lady, master dwarf. My name, if you would, is Merésgaleth."

And she pulled the knife deeper still.

Authors Note: Thank you to users Maariiie and Starfishyy for following the story as of 12/21/2014