2: Neighbor, Mine

Hard wood against her cheek, the smell of damp, unclean straw rising into her nostrils. Tauriel cracked her eyes open when her senses registered those unfamiliar sensations, confused as to her whereabouts. She immediately squeezed them shut again, for the pain erupting inside her head was excruciating.

Her thoughts felt fuzzy at best, bits and pieces swirling around inside her mind without ever taking any sort of recognizable shape. Where was she and how had she gotten there?

She used the time her mind needed to return to some semblance of clarity to take stock of the various aches in her body and to catalog potential injuries. Flexing her fingers, she realized with some relief that her arms and hands appeared to be unharmed. An archer with a broken wrist was an archer no more and the bow was her strongest weapon should it come to a fight. Not that her bow appeared to be on her person anymore, but that was a matter for later examination.

Her left foot felt fine, too, when she shuffled it experimentally against the wooden floor. The right one twinged a bit when she repeated the exercise, but she suspected a sprain or something equally harmless.

Her head, though, was another matter. Whatever she had hit it on, she must have hit it rather hard. Hard enough that now the ground itself appeared to be swaying beneath her, and she wasn't even sitting up.

A weak light flickered across her closed eyelids and she risked opening one eye, searching for its source. She discovered that a small lantern hung from a low ceiling a few feet away from her, on the other side of a set of iron bars. The lantern was swinging steadily to and fro, creating the flickering light that had caught her attention.

Interesting. Clearly, it wasn't a head injury then that was making the ground sway. But then that could only mean—

Tauriel leapt to her feet, ignoring both the twinge in her ankle (not so difficult) and the pain which cracked like lightning through her skull (a lot more difficult). She cast a panicked look around, discovering more bars and wooden walls, floors, and ceilings. Clutching at the side of her head, she moaned quietly as the events leading up to her capture came rushing back to her.

Her journey across the unfamiliar terrain south of Lake Esgaroth, crossing the river, a strange ship-like vessel being pulled across the lands by even stranger beasts. . .

She was inside that vessel.

Her six hundred years had taught her a number of curses and she released a whispered string of the most explicit ones of those, adding a few of her own invention for good measure. This was. . . bad. Really, really bad. And not how she had imagined her little reconnaissance mission to go at all.

Hurriedly, she patted down her front and sides, then reached around her back. Her fingers met only the fabric of her dress. Same as her bow, her blades had been taken and her cloak, bodice, boots, and leather arm cuffs right alongside them. Anything, in short, that might have been of use to her, was gone.

Trying to quell the sense of panic rising inside her, she focused on her surroundings rather than the frantic beating of her heart against her breastbone. She was in a cell, from what she could tell, with three sides of her prison consisting of thick, iron bars and one wall—the outside wall, she presumed—made up entirely of wood. No window, and what gaps there might have been between individual planks, had been sealed with a black, sticky substance.

A narrow corridor ran past her cell, where the lantern she had noticed before was swinging from the ceiling. In the dim light, she could see more bars, more cages, on the other side of the corridor.

To her left and right were also cells, and possibly more beyond that, though she could not be sure in the almost-darkness. The cell to her left was empty aside from a pile of straw in the middle of the floor, stained dark with what looked like dried blood. She turned away at the sight, her stomach churning.

Of the cell on her right, she could only make out about half; the remainder was cast in shadow, the small lantern's light expiring before it reached the back wall. A pair of legs protruded from the darkness, clad only in ragged, calf-length trousers that did little to conceal the scrapes and bruises on the skin they covered. There was no movement discernible of the body to which those legs belonged, not even a twitch of muscle or a pulse of blood. No sign of life.

Bile rose in Tauriel's throat even as she desperately tried to force down the voice which had begun to repeat the same things over and over in her head: A place of death. A place of slaughter.

I have been brought here to die.

Panicked, she approached the far wall, her fingernails scraping against the splintery wood as she searched for a crack, a crevice, anything she might squeeze her fingers in and start working on tearing this prison of hers apart. It was to no avail—whoever had been tasked with sealing the cell's walls had taken their job rather seriously.

The bars were next. She located a set of hinges in the bars adjacent to the corridor rather quickly, but there was no lock to be found which she could have manipulated. She would have to wait for her captors to open her cell if she wanted to gain any understanding of the mechanism by which it was locked and unlocked, but that might already be too late. What if whoever came for her merely came to deliver her death sentence?

She eyed the lantern dangling tantalizingly from the low ceiling right in front of her cell. If she could reach it, unhook it from its fastenings, she might fashion it into some sort of weapon or at the very least use it to cast light on the areas of her prison which still remained hidden in shadow. . .

Experimentally, she stretched one slender arm through the bars as far as she could, standing on tiptoe to increase her height. Her fingertips got close enough to the lantern to feel a faint warmth against her skin, but nowhere near enough to touch it, much less grasp it.

Lowering her heels and taking as much weight off her aching right foot as she could, she wrapped both hands around the bars in front of her and began looking for something which she could use as an extension—a stick, perhaps, or a bit of rope. . .

"It won't work, you know."

The voice had sounded from somewhere behind her and Tauriel flinched visibly, her nerves strung so high that right now even the pitiful squeak of a mouse would have caused her to jump in fear. She whirled around, pressing her back against the bars behind her, and reached instinctively for weapons that weren't there anymore. Feeling curiously exposed, almost naked, without them, she crossed her arms in front of her chest and stared into the gloom beyond the small island of light cast by her little lantern.

Her previous assessment of her neighbor had been wrong, clearly. Whoever he was, he was not dead. From what she could make out in the poor light, her fellow captive had sat up, and was now leaning back against the bars of his own cell, his forearms resting on his drawn up knees. Of what little she could see of his body, he seemed to be in no great shape, the bruises and lacerations she had earlier noticed on his legs continuing on his bared forearms and even down his chest, where it was revealed by the gaping neckline of his loose tunic. His face she could not see at all.

She resisted the silly, curious urge to step closer so that she might see him better. Best to stay where she was, out of reach of the stranger who might yet turn out to be a threat.

"What won't work?" she asked instead, her voice hoarse from hours of disuse. Good grief, she was thirsty.

Her neighbor shifted on the wooden floor, one of his knees falling to the side as he angled his head towards her. The weak, orange light from the lantern illuminated the lower half of his face, revealing a long, straight nose and a clear-cut jaw, darkened by a dusting of facial hair. One corner of his mouth was adorned by a nasty, purple bruise, but it were his full, shapely lips which drew Tauriel's gaze when he answered rather than the injury disfiguring them.

"Trying to trick your way out of here. There's no escaping this place."

Maybe, if he had sounded desperate, desolate as he spoke those words, Tauriel would have felt inclined to pity her fellow prisoner. The tone of bored mockery she thought she detected in his voice, however, immediately caused her to raise her defenses.

"I would rather put that theory to the test myself, thank you," she replied as haughtily as she could manage. The common speech, for which she had no regular use in her day-to-day life, felt cumbersome and heavy in her mouth, and she struggled to focus on such trivialities as tone of voice in addition to choosing the correct words.

In this instance, she appeared to have failed in that respect, for instead of being rebuffed by her coldness, her companion gave a dry bark of laughter and reclined back into the shadows, stretching out his legs in front of him. His frequent changes in position caused Tauriel to suspect that he was in quite a bit of pain, but she dismissed this piece of information cataloged by the healer in her in favor of the more obvious fact: he was mocking her, and she did not take well to being ridiculed on a good day. Which this wasn't, obviously.

If he noticed her indignant rage, the stranger with his distracting lips did not seem impressed by it. He waved his hand about in a vague manner. "You're welcome to try," he said. "Mahal knows the entertainment's lousy in this place. But don't say I did not warn you when they drag you back in here with your limbs in a much less agreeable condition than they are in right now."

Tauriel was glad now that she could not see his eyes, for if she could have affirmed her suspicion that his gaze was sweeping across said limbs as he spoke, the embarrassing impulse to draw in her arms and legs and hide from his scrutiny might have become too powerful to resist. She would not cower in front of some beat-up stranger in filthy rags. If he was just going to tease her instead of providing her with information she might actually benefit from, she had more pressing matters to attend to.

Straightening her spine, she turned away, back to the little lantern and her scheming how she might get her hands on it. Perhaps if she climbed the bars, then she might use her leg to reach the lantern and dislodge it from its fastenings. . .

Experimentally, she flexed her hands around the thick, iron bars. Yes, she could definitely manage a nice, firm grip. Sliding her hands upward, she tensed her muscles and lifted her feet off the ground, bringing her knees up to brace them against the bars in front of her.

A shuffling sound from behind her divided her attention between her task and her companion, which increased her annoyance with him disproportionately.

"Look, I meant what I said before," he said, a touch of alarm in his voice. "You can't break out of here. Trust me, I've tried."

Trust wasn't exactly on Tauriel's mind at the moment, but at least her companion now appeared to be willing to tell her something she didn't already know.

Careful not to disturb her injured ankle, she lowered herself back to the ground and turned to face her involuntary neighbor once again. He had risen and was now holding onto the bars separating their cells in a manner very similar to her just moments before, when she had contemplated her chances with the lantern. For a moment or two, Tauriel merely gaped at him, unable to hide her surprise at finding him a good head shorter than her, with broad shoulders and muscular arms and legs. A Dwarf. She was locked up together with a Dwarf.

That realization sparked an avalanche of thoughts in her mind, snippets of conversation and bits of information about that race—so detested by her king and not regarded with much warmth by the remainder of her kind—warring for dominance. In the end, what trumped every other notion was curiosity. This stranger, this Dwarf, was vastly different from what she had come to expect of his kind and she was intrigued to find out if what lay beyond this first impression was equally surprising.

"You have made an attempt at escape, then? And failed?"

She had approached the barrier between their cells, but remained safely out of arm's reach. Still, in this newfound proximity, she could finally see her companion's eyes properly and discovered that their soft brown lent his face a gentleness which she found she liked better still than the sharp handsomeness of the rest of his features. Not that judging her neighbor—tall as he might be for Dwarf—in terms of his handsomeness should rank very high on her current list of priorities.

"Multiple attempts," he now confirmed with obvious pride. "The last one of which got me my upgrade to these comfortable lodgings."

He stepped back from the bars and stretched out both arms to indicate the desolation that was his cell. Tauriel gave a dry chuckle at which her companion raised a finger.

"Ah, ah, don't laugh, I was being serious. This first class accommodation is by far not the worst this place has to offer, hard as that may be to believe."

His eyes twinkled—clearly, he enjoyed their banter. However, his amusement didn't last very long, as his smile was replaced by a grimace when he reached up to gingerly touch the bruise on his cheek.

"Given the state of your face, that is rather hard to believe indeed," Tauriel commented, this time not without pity.

Still, her companion glared at her from behind gently probing fingers. "Wait until you see the other guy."

Tauriel quirked a questioning eyebrow at him, but before he could elaborate, a croaky voice sounded from somewhere within the surrounding darkness.

"Oi, Dwarf! First you beat me to a bloody pulp and then you go and brag about it to the next bonny lass which comes along?" A cough, and the wet splat of blood being spat on the floor. "I really expected more of you, though I'm not sure what possessed me to do so."

The Dwarf in question grimaced, winced again, and leaned further into the corner adjoined to both Tauriel's cell and the corridor to peer into the cell opposite hers. "My apologies, Ingolf. Will it comfort you to know that my face will look like a painter's canvas for a week at least?"

Focusing her gaze past the glow of the little lantern, Tauriel saw a man emerge from the shadows beyond and hang onto the bars of his own cell with meaty arms and large hands. She thought she glimpsed the fine, dark lines of multiple tattoos on his knuckles, but could not be certain in the poor lighting. He was a big man, strong and tall, but not entirely young anymore. His ash blond hair, streaked with gray, was matted against the side of his head, trickles of dried blood adorning the right half of his face. His wide grin revealed a set of chunky, uneven teeth, at least one of them apparently having gone missing more recently.

"Serves you right," the man—Ingolf—said. "Too pretty for your own good anyway."

A glance at her Dwarven neighbor revealed a touch of red coloring the tips of his ears. He appeared to compose himself rather quickly, though, and flashed Ingolf a cocky grin. "Jealous?"

Ingolf gave a loud snort. "Of you? Ha!" He turned his attention to Tauriel. "Since our present company clearly lacks the good manners to make the necessary introductions, allow me the honor. Ingolf, of the city of Aldburg. I would bow, but a recent encounter with your neighbor has temporarily robbed me of the ability, I'm afraid."

A smile tugged at Tauriel's lips at Ingolf's pompous manners, which were starkly out of place given their current surroundings and general state of rumpledness. For a brief moment she considered giving a false name, but then decided against it. Yes, she still knew very little of her prison and her fellow prisoners, but from what she could tell, they all shared the same fate.

"Tauriel of the Woodland Realm," she thus introduced herself with an incline of her head.

Beside her, the young Dwarf drew a startled breath. "You're one of Thranduil's Elves?"

Tauriel raised an eyebrow. "Thranduil is my king, yes. You know of him?"

Her king was known for his reclusive ways, and Tauriel had always assumed that the knowledge which the outside world had of him and his people amounted to just about the same as what her people had of said outside world—which was, in effect, very minimal.

The young Dwarf waved a dismissive hand. "Only what is being said here and there. Nothing very specific."

He smiled, but did not quite meet her puzzled gaze and Tauriel had the distinct impression that there was something more to his reaction to her origin than he was letting on, but she decided not to force a discussion right then and there. If the Dwarf's interest in her king went beyond what he admitted, she would find out in her own time and on her own terms.

"You still haven't told me your name," she said instead, hoping that the change of topic would suffice to break the sudden tension in the air and delay any further talk of where she had come from and why she was here. Her attempt yielded instant success.

"Hear, hear!" Ingolf boomed from the other side of the corridor. "No wonder you cannot find yourself a lass if your manners be quite that despicable!"

This time, the embarrassment was more obvious on her neighbor's face. "I never said—" He glanced at Tauriel. "Ah, never mind." He turned towards her more fully, gave a little bow. "Kíli, at your service. Or not so much, given our current restrictive environment."

And just like that the young Dwarf had returned to the playful, somewhat mocking tone he had used to address her before the topic of her king had arisen between them, his brooding expression from a few seconds ago now the mere hint of a shadow upon his brow. Tauriel wondered how many masks her neighbor was capable of wearing—or if they were masks at all, or merely facets of a deeper, more complex character she did not yet know very much about.

Deciding that the personality of her neighbor was a matter she could still contemplate at a later point, she let her eyes wander around their prison once again. "So, what is this place? And why are we—oh. Hello, there."

Her eyes had fallen on yet another person, who had materialized out of the shadows in the cell on Ingolf's left. Slight in stature and clad in layers of brown and black which only exposed a set of dark, slanted eyes and fine-boned, pale hands—a girl, Tauriel guessed, or a young woman. The veiled stranger lifted a hand in response to her greeting. Next to her, Ingolf jerked his head to the right.

"That's Suri. Doesn't really talk, but don't let that fool you. She can be quite the devil when provoked."

He looked fondly at his cell neighbor, and Tauriel smiled as Suri briefly tapped her heart to thank Ingolf for what was clearly welcomed as a compliment.

"When you're quite finished with that sentimental nonsense, we could maybe move on to things of greater importance."

A new voice joined their conversation, and Tauriel turned to look at the cell to Ingolf's left, opposite Kíli's. Another Dwarf had appeared behind its bars and was casually leaning against them with one shoulder. His appearance fit much better with the image Tauriel had held of Dwarves before meeting Kíli: stout, with features that could have been hewn from stone and an impressive, bushy red beard that came down to his barrel-shaped chest. He was glaring at each of them with beady, deep-set eyes.

"More important things?" Ingolf queried. "Like yourself, you mean?" He returned his attention to Tauriel. "Don't mind Ruari too much. He's still in a foul mood because he had his arse whipped by a lass the other day."

Next to her, Kíli gave a snort of laughter while across the corridor, Suri managed to look quite smug despite most of her face being covered. Ingolf, meanwhile, seemed contrite.

"I meant to say 'behind', of course. Shouldn't use such coarse words as 'arse' now that we've got noble company." He paused. "Blimey, now I've said it again."

"Noble company?" Tauriel echoed, entirely bemused. "You cannot mean—you mean, me?" She barely suppressed a snort of laughter, equal parts of confusion and amusement causing her to flush. "Why on earth would you think that?"

Ingolf cocked his shaggy head to one side. "You mean to tell me that you're not some Elven noblewoman? Just because, you know. . . You're all soft-spoken, with gentle manners. . ."

This time, Tauriel did laugh. "Clearly, you've not met many Elves in your lifetime. For I can assure you, as a Silvan Elf, I am among the less delicate of my kind and certainly not of noble birth. A simple soldier, in fact."

"A soldier, hm?" This was Ruari, his voice having lost some of its affected boredom. In fact, he sounded almost intrigued. "That must mean you know how to fight."

"She wouldn't be here if she didn't, would she?" Kíli interjected sharply and earned himself another glare from his fellow Dwarf. The tone between them seemed a few degrees colder than when Kíli spoke to Ingolf and Suri and Tauriel wondered why that was. Rival clans or something of that sort?

"And why is that?" she asked, pushing her studies of the dynamics between her neighbors to the back of her mind. She glanced around at their little, mismatched group. "I still don't understand any of this. Why are we here? What is our purpose?"

The silence which followed was distinctly strained. No one seemed to want to be the one to answer this question and Tauriel grew increasingly restless. It was Kíli, who finally took pity on her.

"We are here to fight." His voice was low and he kept his gaze on the ground, his brow furrowed.

Tauriel felt none the wiser. "Fight? Against whom?"

Kíli lifted his head to look at their companions, each of them returning his stare with grim expressions, the lightheartedness of their previous exchanges wiped from their faces.

"Against each other," Kíli said.