Comes Around Again (Gigolas & Bagginshield)

Venom and Vice

Thorin stood in the middle of the clearing. He remained unbound, but not unwatched; at least a dozen elven guards stood around him, all pointing their arrows at him. Good, he thought. If they would not treat him with the respect he deserved, they would treat him with appropriate caution.

He had been captured when the lights first went out, unable to follow his people back into the woods. (If he were to be honest, he was not sure he could. The spider's venom had made him weak, and it had been many days without proper food). Now, a few torches had been relit, and Thorin waited in the flickering light for his fate to be decided.

The Elvenking was on his woodland throne, a tree that had been shaped as it grew and was now old and massive. He had paid no attention to Thorin, and Thorin was just as happy to ignore him in return. The Elvenking's attention was on the trees.

One by one, Thorin had watched his Company return to the glade, in the custody of the elven guard. Balin and Bifur had come peacefully, and Bofur had arrived supporting Bombur as he stumbled along. Dwalin arrived in bonds, red-faced with fury; his accompanying elf had a swelling nose. Fíli had been brought alone, and one of his guards was weighed down by Fíli's many weapons. Dori, Nori, and Ori had arrived in single file. Glóin was the last so far, and had struggled, and arrived calling for Gimli; Óin was with him when Glóin's cries slowed and he slumped to the ground.

No Gimli. No Kíli. Maybe they had gotten away.

The Elvenking leaned forward, and seemed to grow taller.

A redheaded she-elf entered the clearing, pulling Kíli with her. His nephew seemed none the worse for wear, a cheeky smirk firmly in place, and it gave Thorin not small pleasure to see the sour look it had given the elf. They were followed by another; even if Thorin didn't remember him from the happier days of his youth, there would be no mistaking the resemblance. This elf had the same pale hair, the same bright eyes— Legolas Thranduilion. The Mad Prince.

Nor, however, was there any mistaking the mass of curling red-hair attached to the khuzd in his arm.

"Gimli!" Glóin cried out, struggling once more against his captors, and even Thorin took a step forward.

Then, the Prince did something Thorin did not expect.

He stopped, and seeing Glóin, knelt on one knee. Gimli did not stir. "He is very ill," Thranduilion said. "The spiders were not kind to him. He needs a healer, but he is strong."

"I'm a healer," Óin said, gripping tightly at Glóin's shoulder. "And family—Let me see to him."

Thranduilion shook his head, but his expression was open. Kind. "You have not our experience with these—." He spit out a word in his own tongue, and not one that Thorin was familiar with, though the meaning was clear. "We will care for him."

"You can't possibly," Glóin said, and turned his head. Thranduil's get looked honestly saddened by Glóin's reaction, but before he could say anything else, Thranduil stood.

"Legolas," he said, his deep voice filling the clearing.

The prince looked at his father, and stood. He turned to the redhead who held Kíli's bonds, and she called out orders to the other guards. They gestured with their weapons, and the Company was ushered down a nearly invisible path, Glóin trying to wake Gimli. Óin was muttering darkly.

Legolas gave a final glance at his father, and followed the rest down the path, Gimli still in his arms. Once they were gone, the guard behind Thorin nudged him with his spear, and Thorin was forced to walk the path as well, out of sight of the others.

Somehow, Thranduil was waiting on his throne when Thorin was finally shoved into the audience chamber. "Why have you attacked my people?" he asked, his voice deep and echoing through the empty space.