Young Thorin in Love

“So,” Tauriel said, settling down on her stool in front of the bars of his cell. “What shall we talk about tonight?”

Thorin watched her warily. She had an odd way of interrogating him, if interrogation this was. No threats, no beatings, just bland, pleasant questions from his jailer. It was sinister, really—and much more difficult for one of his temperament to endure than direct brutality.

The jail cell he had occupied for the past few days was small, no more than several paces in any direction. It had iron bars on three sides and a rough-hewn stone wall at the rear. The heavy bench he sat on was bolted to the wall. At mealtimes, like now, he was given his food on a wooden tray.

He was trapped, a prisoner of the elves with no hope of rescue or escape. And on the other side of the bars sat his elven jailer, trapped in this place by her duty to guard him.

He knew he ought to relax, be cool and patient. Let the circumstances develop naturally, without trying to force matters one way or the other. But patient was one thing Thorin was not. The waiting and uncertainty drew his nerves tauter than harp-strings. He couldn’t even succumb to hopelessness and despair, because he was too stubborn – or too foolish – to give up hope. And so he fretted and he hoped, and did his best to answer her questions without giving too much away.

Tonight, she had brought him something new.

“What’s this?” he asked, pointing to his cup.

“A treat,” she replied. “I smuggled some beer out of the kitchens for you.”

He rolled his eyes. “If you are planning to get me drunk, you’d better have more than that one cupful on hand.”

“Don’t drink it, then.” She rested her elbows on her knees and propped her chin in her hands.

Defiantly, he took a swig. The beer was malty and sweet, with a final note of bitterness that burst upon his lips like a kiss. He savored that single mouthful, then set the cup down carefully. No more than one taste. He wasn’t that simple.

He turned his attention to the usual bread and fruit they fed him. No meat, of course. Elves.

“I know what I wanted to ask,” Tauriel said brightly. “Do dwarves have magic?”

Thorin shrugged and kept his mouth shut, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. Energetic though she was, Tauriel could wait endlessly. Elves were patient. Immortality did that to you, he thought; gave you the idea that there was no reason to hurry at all, and that everything would go your way if you just waited long enough.

It drove Thorin mad. He held on to his temper long enough to finish his meal, then sat back and crossed his arms. He glared at Tauriel. “Only such magic as comes with care and skill and effort. We dwarves work for our wonders.”

She nodded. “So there are no Istari, no wizards, among dwarves the way there are among humans?”

“No. Well, not really. There are wise old ones among the dwarves who are said to have the power to perform miracles, heal the sick, and foretell the future, but I have my doubts.”

“Why?”

“No reason. Probably just my basically skeptical nature.” He looked at the cup of beer. It would be foolish to let it go to waste. He took another sip.

Tauriel sighed. “Tell me anyway. I don’t have anything better to do right now.”

He liked it when she got annoyed with him. Nice to know something penetrated her calm Elven superiority. “But what if I’m just making it all up? I could be telling you a complete pack of lies.”