The Journey

The Elvenking's Palace

    
After his audience with Thranduil, Thorin was locked back in his cell, the few meals of bread and water the only breaks in the dark and monotonous hours. He had no idea how long he had been down there—days? Weeks? He paced, then sat down, then paced again, standing against the wall. Finally, he kicked the stone in frustration. How was he expected to rot here while the rest of the company struggled on in the forest? For all he knew, he could be the only one alive. The others could have perished from hunger, or who knew what else. Thorin grasped the bars of the cell angrily and tugged on them, fruitlessly, he knew, then threw himself onto the stone floor with a frustrated sigh. He ran a hand through his hair. He hated sitting here, idle, well-fed, safe, helpless. He shut his eyes, dark visions of the company flashing before them. And Bilbo. What had become of him? Thorin's heart ached. Oh, he hoped desperately that he was all right. If anything happened to him—but he pushed that thought away, focusing on his brown eyes and clever mouth, soft curls and bright gaze. Ah, that kiss in the stable. It was wonderful. Thorin had never felt that way before, and he wished for the hobbit's company, his comforting warmth pressed against his side, his fingers wound through his own, his head resting against his shoulder. Then Thorin would run a finger along his cheek, turn his face upwards, and lean slowly in. Their lips would meet, firmly and lovingly, just as wonderful as the other night—
He sighed deeply and ran a tired hand through his hair. Fantasizing would not help anything, other than pass the time. He steepled his fingers under his chin and stared across the stone floor, frustrated, his gaze wandering to the iron bars that created the door, locking him in, prisoner. Yes, he was warm, and safe, and well fed, but to be here, helpless, was the worst prison anyone could have made. How much he would have given for just one word from any of the company.

Bilbo paused for breath, ducking behind a corner as he narrowly missed being stepped on by a tall elven guard that had stepped unexpectedly into his path. This was really taking a toll on him—Bilbo had to be alert every second, never letting his guard slip for a moment, lest his flickering shadow be spotted or some unsuspecting elf brush against him, despite the protection of invisibility that his ring offered him.
Checking the hall again, he quickly raced down after the retreating elf, hoping that the guard was heading for the kitchens. Bilbo could grab a bite to eat and go back to searching for another way out. So far, nothing was looking promising, and he was getting more and more frustrated, although he suspected that his empty stomach had something to do with his negative thoughts.
Skirting the walls, he pattered softly down the stairs on the heels of the guard, who was indeed headed for the kitchens. Bilbo's stomach growled and he hoped that no one had noticed it. They probably heard that back in the Shire, he thought wryly to himself.
The guard pushed open the door, the hinges creaking comfortingly as Bilbo narrowly slipped in behind him before it closed, the hobbit ducking into a dark corner after snatching a piece of bread from the table. He sank into the shadows, letting out a quiet breath as he slid down the wall to sit down, his ankles hurting slightly with all the time spent on his feet. He had hardly found a place to rest, and even now, as he quietly chewed his pilfered meal, he could feel his eyes closing, the soft clinking of dishes and the hum of low conversation coming from the kitchen relaxing and comforting.
Shaking himself awake, he finished the bread and leaned his head against the wall, enjoying the moments of rest. He allowed his mind to wander, and it fell upon a subject very frequently visited—Thorin.
Where was he? No one here had said anything about another dwarf found, or held captive, or released. The elves might not have even found him. He might still be in the forest, alone, if the spiders had not found him, too. Bilbo would never forgive himself if he left Thorin there. Slowly, his head fell onto his shoulder, the night in the stable coming back to him, the quiet firelight, the press of Thorin's lips upon his own, his reassuring warmth, his low voice, the smile that lit up his face when he looked upon him, a look that only came to him when he looked at Bilbo. Oh, where was he—
Suddenly, a snatch of dialogue made Bilbo sit bolt upright.
"...no, I cannot today. I have to go down to the deep cells to keep an eye on the dwarf."
"Which one? I thought they were all in the upper cells!"
"They are, except for one. He came in a few days ago—I suspect he is more important than the rest."
"Or more dangerous," grumbled another, "Heron Thranduil has good reason to keep all of them locked up."
Bilbo leapt to his feet. It had to have been Thorin—no other dwarves would come this way, and the others were all together in the upper halls! Thorin Oakenshield, found again! Slipping out from his corner, he quickly trailed the elven guard as he bade the others goodbye and stepped out the door.
Down, down they went, deeper and deeper into the palace, the walls growing darker, the air more still. Surely it couldn't be long, now....

Thorin paced restlessly back and forth across the small floor of his cell, his hands clenched behind his back, brows furrowed in thought, boots scuffing the floor, head bent. How long had it been...hours...days...and still no word or actions! Angrily, he kicked at the bars, then fell against the wall, sliding down the stone to the floor. He could hear the low voices and footsteps outside as the guard changed places, the slight footsteps as they walked away, leaving the two new guards behind.
It was quiet again. So quiet. Too quiet. It seemed to press around him, this idle stillness, so desperately was he to hear anything other than elven voices, elven words—
"Thorin?" came a quiet voice through the still air. Now he was hearing voices. Next he would start seeing things.
"Thorin Oakenshield, is that you?"
     "Bilbo!" he breathed, then leapt up and crossed the small cell in two strides towards the small voice. Sure enough, Bilbo's brown eyes stared out of the darkness towards him, and a happiness and relief engulfed him like he had not felt for weeks. His hands met Bilbo's, wrapped around the bars, and then, unexpectedly, Thorin slid his hand around to cradle the back of the hobbit's head, pulling him close. Bilbo started in surprise as Thorin's lips suddenly pressed against his own, but he was so glad to have any familiar touch that he relaxed into the kiss, happiness coursing through them, problems forgotten while they reveled in each other's touch, but Bilbo pulled apart first, casting a sly glance into the cell.
     "Is now really the best time?" he asked, his mouth quirking in the first smile he'd had in days.
     "I guess not," Thorin conceded, grinning as well. "Do you have news?"
     "Yes, the others are here, in the cells further up. They're fed and well, and waiting to hear from you."
     But the sharp noise of voices caused them to jump with fright and they retreated into the darkest corner to talk, faces still close so their whispers would not carry.
"I've been looking for ways to get out of this place for quite some time now," Bilbo continued in a whisper, "but I haven't found anything yet. Getting the keys to your cells will not be a problem—it the getting out of the palace that will be the real puzzle."
"Did you look for a water source?" Thorin asked, "If it makes it inside, it must make it out."
"Yes, but there is no way to get to it," Bilbo sighed frustratedly, "we can't all troop through the hallways and out doors until we come to the outside."
"Well, I trust you, and thank you," Thorin said gratefully, squeezing his hand. Bilbo hadn't even noticed they were holding hands in the first place.
"Mm, you're welcome," Bilbo said, smiling up at him, relief once again filling him at the sight of Thorin's face. Not dead, not lost, here. Here with him.
"You have no idea how much happiness seeing you brings me," Thorin breathed, his eyes searching Bilbo's, "how much holding your hand brings me." He reached through the bars and gently brushed a curl behind Bilbo's ear, his fingers trailing lightly across his cheek.
Bilbo closed his eyes, the touch sending shivers up and down his spine, and he leaned forwards into Thorin, resting against him as best he could with the cold, unforgiving bars separating them. Thorin's fingers wound around his own and they sat against each other, silent, starved for any comforting touch, their breathing slowing, eyes fluttering shut.
They must have fallen asleep, for a small commotion outside make them both jump awake.
"It must be a meal," Thorin said, craning his neck to see outside. "It's not time to change guards yet."
"Yes," Bilbo agreed, starting to stand, but Thorin caught his hand.
"Please stay, Bilbo," he pleaded softly, "I cannot bear the darkness alone." His eyes took on a mischievous look. "They will open the door to bring the food in—you could come in, and we could..." he trailed off, an embarrassed grin playing at the corners of his mouth.
Bilbo smiled, fantasies flashing through his mind, his heart swelling with desire, but he shook his head. "I can't, Thorin, I'm sorry. I need to find a way to get you out." He ducked close to Thorin, kissing him long and hard before pulling away. "I'll be back—I promise."
"Bilbo!" Thorin breathed after him, the hobbit's hand slipping out of his own. He hung helplessly onto the bars of the cell as he watched Bilbo slip around the outside wall, just in time to avoid the elven guard walking in the doorway with a plate of food. "Be safe, love," he whispered to himself, staring out to where Bilbo had disappeared from sight.