Work Text:
The dwarves of Erebor were a hardspoken race, set in their ways of beliefs, and not easily shaken of them. There were certain unspoken rules to remember while there, and reminders seemed to call at every corner. Even after the destruction of the grand city, those same guidelines turned code for the survivors of Smaug's fiery attack.
Always carry a weapon.
Keep your feet clean.
And most importantly, never trust an elf.
Therefore, it comes as no surprise that the current company, consisting of exactly thirteen dwarves, lived day to day by this, enforced dutifully by the leader and heir to the Durin throne, Thorin Oakensheild.
And yet.......the last, most crucial part of their "commandments" was being questioned by said person. Hours ago, he and his troupe of traveling companions had been caught by the enemy, cornered while attempting an impossible feat- crossing the Mirkwood forest by the elven path.
Only mere minutes had passed since his conversation with the king, perhaps his least favorite of the elf race. It was to no one's surprise it hadn't gone well.
But it was the king that plagued Thorins mind at the very moment, sending his stoic face into a contort of confusion and conflict. In their heated discussion, truths were cast out, cool and expľoiting to all the prince knew to be true. Thranduil had abandoned them in their time of need. He saw the coward turn and run away from the bloodshed below, and felt the need to remind him.
But what that pompous, lazy elf did next, Thorin could not forsee.
"I have faced the great serpents of the North, Oakensheild!"
He had calmly relayed those words, and if Thorin was not keeping direct eye contact, it would seem another of his cold lies. But dwarves were steadfast, so he watched in shock and horror as the fair, perfect face of Thranduil disfigured right before his eyes.Muscle struggled to stay attached to bone, and his once piercing gray eye was clouded over.
His thoughts from then on had been a murky mess. The dwarf neglected to really register anything the King had to say from then on.
Thranduil had seen war, perhaps lost loved ones. His scars, and concerns were genuine, not some ridiculous facade put on to gain leverage. He likely only kept his people away from fights to protect them, and wouldn't Thorin do the same for his current company? His dear nephews?
He had clenched his fists, angered at the sudden realization. The Mirkwood ruler was still a liar, still retreated while the dwarves were slain. And so, in a fit of rage, he gave Thranduil the worst insult exsisting in Middle Earth, inadvertently sealing their fate in the dungeons below.
Which is where he is now, kicking the dusty pebbles that litter his cell floor. All the others were heavy in slumber, but he stayed awake, partly in a protective matter, but mostly caused by the sudden puzzling nature of their host.
A war raged in the princes mind, bringing expeditious justifications for things he once believed to be out of hate.
It seemed the vain elven king was more practical than he seemed.
"No!" Thorin shouts, in a searing hiss, pounding his fists against the prison bars. Thranduil must have somehow fooled him, using the testy, cheaters sorcery all powerful elves were known for.
His outburst brings the nearby night guards to his chamber.
"I wish to speak to the King." He grumbles.
Upon their shocked faces creep a rather smug smile, and they easily comply to his desires.
If only they knew.
-
Thorin is led to no doubt the Kings own chambers, located beneath the throne. A large oval door greets him, halfway open, moonlight searing through the dark. He swallows the lump in his throat, and enters, set on finding the truth behind Thranduil.
The beginnings of the room are long hallways, twined about one another, each containing a unique set of decorations. With curiosity, Thorin steps unto the path most obscured.
Glass from broken mirrors crunch under his tough leather boots. Paintings that once bore resemblance to the King are slashed and burned, distorting the figure to match. Only one piece stands untouched, and shines with an eerie light that sends chills up the dwarves spine. In it portay a beautiful elven woman, laughing joyously as an infant tugs on her honey golden locks. Thorin shuts his eyes soon after reading the title.
The Queen and her babe, Legolas.
With every passing minute his sworn enemy was gaining more and more redemption.
"There is such a custom as knocking before entering, you know."
Thorin turns sharply at Thranduil's icy words, waning with no doubt exhaustion. He hoped the elf hadn't detected his relentless prying.
The dwarf enters the bedroom fully, at first noticing the complete disarray of it all. Apparently, he wasn't the only being still burdened by their conversation. Curtains were torn, blankets deposited in lumps beneath the bed itself. More jagged mirror pieces crack under his weight. The great ruler of Mirkwood stands, almost melancholic, by the balcony windows.
Thorin chooses his words wisely.
"It seems I was wrong to assume you were expecting me."
"I was expecting you, Thorin. Yet it seems I let emotions get the upperhand." The King gestures widely about the place, confirming his guests suspicions. This utter destruction was caused by Thranduil.
He turns, making long strides to the corner of the room. As he passes, Thorin swears the elf's palm is bloody.
"I wasn't aware elves were capable of such things."
"Oh, don't be so folly, dwarf! You saw my rage in the throne room! Do not make me into a soulless creature, when you so recently was proved otherwise!"
Thorin grips his jaw in equal annoyance. "I still see no soul in you, Thranduil! You still hide beneath a cowards mask!"
The King gains a distant, off putting smirk, condescending to his painful eyes. A wave of his jewel adorned hand reveals the source of the princes worries since their arrival unto the kingdom.
His scars.
They seem harsher in this light, and new blood shines on the severed tissue. Thranduil approaches him swiftly, making sure to imprint the memory of his torturous face into the dwarves mind.
"Make no mistake, Oakensheild, I wear a mask not out of cowardice, but regret. I am a monster!"
Thorin stumbles back at the harsh declerations, nearly missing a nasty pile of jagged mirror. He regardlessly writhes in pain. The injuries from their battle with mutant spiders still savaged his body with near unconsciousness.
Thranduil becomes a blur, moving to stand over the small being with something akin to maliciousness. It oddly fades away though, and he bends down to pick the dwarf up.
Thorin yelps in aspiration, but ultimately settles down in a lavish chair he is set in.
As his rampid breathing slows, he watches the king pace once more, this time making his journey to the destroyed hallway.
His face remains scarred as Thranduils faint fingers touch the undisturbed portrait.
"I know what its like, to feel a horrid creature, undeserving of any sympathy." Without full control of his actions, Thorin pulls back the heavy wool adorning his figure, revealing a near equal scar under his collarbone.
The elf turns in interest, gazing at the burn with curiosity in his stoic features. Even with one side marred, Thranduil still manages to make Thorin feel five times smaller.
"I hardley believe so. Dwarves are surrounded by fire in the forges. You most likely acquired that from a welding accident, have you not?"
"No. This is the mark of Smaug himself." That information leaves the king gaping for a response, so Thorin continues. "I know not where your false information comes from, but I am not slaying the dragon solely for the gold and Arkenstone. He murdered my sister. I remember when he attacked, she had taken my nephews to a cellar, and left them. She journeyed to the surface, only to be smote right before my eyes. I thought I had lost Fili and Kili as well."
He didn't know exactly what was possessing him to repeat this sacred information, but pressed on further, meeting the clouded and slicing gray eyes at the end of his tale.
"I ran to her, but it was too late. That is when I heard the cries of my nephews. Smaug attacked me as I tried to get to them."
Thranduil's face softens a bit at the story, but returns to stone as he refocuses on the painting.
"I too, was protecting those I loved when I was injured. My wife was at home, and I had taken my new son to a meeting of the council. Fire had engulfed the town. I panicked, and gave Legolas to one of the guards to take back to Greenwood before speeding off. It was too late. I found her, scared and guarded, under the remains of our bed. Her milky flesh was burnt black and......"
The king stalls, swallowing the bile that had risen at the graphic image.
"I tracked the dragon down, and killed him, but not before he torched my face."
His delicate hand absent mindedly rises to the injury.
Now Thorin was faced with serious conflict. Should he forgive the broken king after learning of his motives?
"Though I cannot forgive all you've done to harm me and my people, I......understand your motives. You made the wrong decisions, but I see now what swayed your mind."
The King of Mirkwood is deathly silent, looking lost into the corner.
"You have yet to mourn the loss of your wife, Thranduil. To silence these beasts tormenting you, these empty questions that keep you up at night, you must grieve and move on."
Thorin has fallen to his feet once more, and slowly walks towards the exit,expecting no answer.
However, as he passes Thranduil, the man speaks.
"You mistake me, dwarf,"
Thorin turns to look, seeing the mask charm put back in place.
"I do not mourn the dead. I envy them."
The prince nods, turning to exit, gaining a newfound trust in the enemy.
Perhaps he would consider giving back their stolen jewels.
-
It's a short stroll back to his cell, and by the time he arrives, its apparent Thorin had missed something.
His dwarves were gone, their doors swung open in coldness.
For a moment, his heart drops.
Then, he hears a hushed whisper.
"Thorin? Is that you?"
"Bilbo?"
"Yes! Ah good! I was wondering where you went off to! Come now, there isn't a moment to spare! If we leave now, we might still have time to make it to the Lonely Mountain!"
Thorin smiles, and follows the energetic hobbit, all the while scratching his scar.