Chapter Text
When Hannah woke, hours had passed. The fire that had blazed when she was preparing to sleep had now dwindled to embers, and she blinked in the dim light that was peeking through the curtains. She breathed in the scent of soap, firewood and salt, and mumbled, "Círdan?" as she sat up, pushing the blankets off of her.
A hum - warm, low and comforting - reached her ears to alert Hannah to his presence in the room. She swung her feet out of bed and into the soft slippers on the floor while she reached for a robe, the tight tension that came from her dreams slipping away as the sights and sounds of her chambers steadied her in the present.
A whisper of cloth brought more sunlight into the room, a handful of papers were set on the table with a crinkling sound, then footsteps padded across the floor and a silver cup appeared before her.
"Good morning, my lady," Círdan said with a smile as she took the cup and drank its contents. He was careful not to loom; Hannah disliked those who loomed over her, even more so after she had just awoken. She tended to react first, then think later. It had been agreed among the staff that they would make some sort of noise to alert their mistress to their presence. No-one wanted another candle stick flung at them.
As she drank, Hannah wondered what the silver-haired elf thought of her - changeable, confusing and often frustrating quirks. Why did she have no problem falling asleep with someone in the room, but being woken by the same person caused her to lash out so violently? She despaired of herself sometimes...
He took the cup from her when she had finished, leaning down slightly as he helped her to stand and kept one hand on her elbow as she took the steps towards the wash basin before leaving her to her morning ablutions. The elf stepped lightly to her door and opened it to receive a tray laden with food. Nudging it closed, he bore his burden to a table on the balcony and set it down, fixing the sleeves of his silvery robes and ensuring his appearance was impeccable.
"Círdan," his little mistress said again, more aware of her surroundings at this point as she joined him on the balcony. He smiled and pulled out a chair for her.
"Mistress," he said again, teasing her, and he bowed his head deeply.
"Círdan." She was irritated this time, as she lightly tugged on his ponytail. It was far too early for his antics. "You know I dislike that. What time is it?"
"Just after the ninth bell," was her response.
"And the letters?"
"Business matters." He didn't bother elaborating. She didn't care - she trusted him enough to handle her affairs without her blunders. "Shall I call for a dresser when you've finished?"
"No," she decided. "My plans for the day haven't changed- have they?" She looked at him inquiringly, and he nodded once. "So there's no need for anything too elaborate. I can dress myself, this once."
He laughed lightly at her jest, a hand rubbing the thin beard that sprouted from his chin as he acquiesced to her wish.
"What did you dream to distress you so?" Círdan's hands poured tea and put choice morsels on her plate, comforting and familiar motions that calmed her somewhat frayed nerves. The elf always had a soothing presence, and being near him was like stepping into a cool pool on a warm day.
"Memories," she sighed, because they'd agreed on such honesty from the beginning of their arrangement. It was easier in the long run to tell him; if she chose to keep silent, he would find out the truth eventually and more often than not, in a manner she would heartily dislike. Best just to get it over with. "Of long ago," she continued, wrapping her hands around her tea cup. "Bits and pieces, you know. Teacher. Family...them," she whispered the last, a trickle of ice slipping down her spine. She sensed rather than saw her friend tensing, and one of her hands released the delicate porcelain to rest lightly on his sleeve. "It is past, Círdan."
And it was past. Hannah had gone from the depths of shadow and stepped into the light. It had been frightening, disorienting and confusing, but at the same time, she knew—deep in her bones—she had needed to do it. To be free.
"I will keep you safe, Hannah." The elf said it more to himself then to her, as though by saying it, it would become a reality. His eyes had turned icy, and his free hand rested atop hers; thumb sweeping steadily and gently across her knuckles. She sighed and rested her cheek against his sleeve for a moment.
"I would think that at your age, you have learned that nothing can keep anyone safe from life, my friend," she said quietly. Perhaps that wasn't the most reassuring thing to say, but it was the truth, and they both preferred the sting of truth to the slow poison of deceit. "But I know you will be at my side no matter what the future holds, as I will be by yours." She smiled then resumed sitting upright. "You will not so easily escape me, Shipwright."
He huffed a startled laugh, and released her hand. "Will you never let that slip into obscurity?"
"No," Hannah said, with determination. "No, my dear, loyal friend, I am afraid you shall return to your true calling again, one day."
Círdan set the plate in front of her, his shoulder shaking with suppressed laughter and delight. "Is that a promise, my lady?"
She smiled up at him brightly. "I do believe it is."
"Fuckin' filth," Lhúz snarled cracking a cat o'nine-tails at the cowering forms in the room before him. "'Oo wants some?"
Bleary, bloodshot eyes scanned the room, resting on a group of females. That could not happen. Thorin stepped forward, commanding Lhúz's attention even in chains. Yellowed teeth bared into a snarl. The Dwarf prince tensed before Lhúz leapt for him, dragging him across the room by his hair and then dropping him like a sack of potatoes. Thorin said nothing, staring at a crack in the ceiling before Lhúz snapped the whip across his stomach stomping on his neck in the same moment.
Thorin roared with pain.
He took every blow, each cut, burn and crack of the whip, but he refused to beg. He knew Lhúz would never give him relief if he begged; knew that in his eyes, the captured Dwarves before him were nothing. Insects. Easily squashed and easily replaced. Thorin had no-one to rely on, but the others relied on him. He had to protect them; ensure they each survived another day. Ensure their survival when he could not ensure others.
Over and over in his mind, Thorin heard the screams, the cries of pain - at times, he swore he could still feel the flames - as he was beaten like the lowest of beasts. But he would survive this.
His pride and determination kept him alive; he refused to die like a dog before he freed himself from his shackles. Every lash, every beating, every cruel word - he remembered, buried it deep within himself, determined to enact vengeance one day. He would have blood for blood.
Lhúz eventually finished with him, slamming the door after him to seek out a bottle of alcohol, and left him bleeding on the stone floor. Many hands pet him down, try to clean him up. He ignored them and slipped into oblivion.
He dreams of Dís' laughter as Víli twirls her across the cottage floor, of his sister-sons as they play merrily with their toy weapons - though he notices Kíli seems to favour the bow, while Fíli seems happier with a sword.
He dreams of his parents; Thráin whittling as his mother cooks and Frerin prattles on about the inkings he will get once he's old enough.
He dreams of his grandparents; Thrór sitting in the council chambers surrounded by paperwork as his grandmother commands the Guild Masters with an iron fist.
He dreams of silver eyes bright with love, curls that shine like molten gold, and he suddenly feels - knows deep to the stone of his bones that this creature came here for him. Is meant for him.
"Do not worry. I am here now," the vision whispers, soft hands reaching down to touch Thorin's face, and for a moment Thorin can only smell something sweet and heady. Then he gasps as the touch burns into his mind, at the sudden knowledge that this is his match and perhaps, perhaps he is not completely alone, perhaps he was kept alive for a reason -
He woke to the sound of chains rattling, Lhúz striding into the room and throwing a bucket of food scraps upon the floor.
The children get first pickings, no questions asked. Then the females. Then the males. Thorin took a piece of hardened bread; not the most desirable meal, but better than an empty stomach. When they had finished, Lhúz returned and ordered them to wash, which sent a spike of fear through the room. Washing meant it was Market Day. After they hesitantly washed (after Lhúz had cracked the whip a few times) they were broken into groups, their chains rechecked and a board hung around their necks with a piece of rope, stating their price. He burned with anger and humiliation, even as some of the women cajoled the children into wearing their own - such an insult was not to be born. Who would sell children as though they were so much chattel?
"You lot! 'Mere!" Lhúz shouted at his group, pointing to the door that lead to the market.
"Forgive me," Thorin murmured over and over again, and each dwarf merely bowed their head as he passed, silent sentries to his shame.
"What is it? Are you in pain?" one of the little ones whispered, stepping closer to tug at Thorin's trousers. He patted the tiny hand, but said nothing as they marched through the market, surrounded by guards and watched by so many eyes, too many to count.
The pen where they were to stand for the day loomed.
With a grunt, Lhúz handed the bundle of Master's Whips over to the seller, then took his place behind the counter as the guards shoved them into the pen like livestock. They settled on the straw, chains clinking occasionally as someone shifted their weight. The market opened for the day, and people swarmed in, like flies to a carcass. Thorin stayed silent and knelt. When people begin to approach Lhúz and the seller - he ground his teeth and curled his fingers into fists - but he stayed silent still. The children were the first to go - they always were; something about being young enough to be broken in. Sometimes, there were sympathetic buyers who took their mothers or fathers with them, but that was not too often.
He felt tears burn in his eyes, knowing for a moment that it was because of his weakness that he could not prevent it.
The pen slowly emptied.
By the time the noonday meal came, more than half the dwarves had been sold to one person or another. They would bow their heads minutely as they passed him, and then disappear into the crowd after their new masters. He was tossed another piece of bread and some water was poured into the trough - a welcome reprieve from the dryness in his throat.
It was not meant to be like this! a small part of him screamed as he drank from his cupped hands.
The time passed slowly, and the crowd thinned. Thorin's eyes pricked with tiredness. Surely it wouldn't hurt to rest them for a moment...?
He dreams of warmth, strength, protection; a being greater than him as silver eyes haunt his thoughts.
"Thorin."
A great being made of light towers above him, resting a hand that sang of strength and skill on his shoulder.
"You are strong, Thorin. You are the son of my son, there is no task too difficult for you. Rest easy, for you will need your strength in the days to come," his Maker says to him.
"The silver eyes?" he whispers reverently. Mahal only smiles.
"Your One. They will appear before you soon, take the hand that is offered, my son, and you will be reforged anew," Mahal says, and then a sweet voice sounds from him, light like the breeze and warm like the sun. He smells flowers , and there is his One. The light from his Maker is too strong to make out features, but those eyes, bright and shining and soft, gaze at him with a gentle love that fills him with strength -
"What can I do you for, Mistress?" the seller said in his oily voice, jarring Thorin from his sleep. "We only deal in the finest goods, I assure you."
As two voices conversed quietly - the presumed buyers - Thorin shook himself as discreetly as possibly. What vision had taken hold of his senses like that?
"Does anything pique the lady's interest?" the seller tried again, as Lhúz hacked up some phlegm.
"That one," a cool, polished male voice said, and Lhúz kicked Thorin to nudge him forward.
He felt alight with rage. The hem of a dark dress came to a stop at the edge of his vision. His eyes travelled up slowly. A woman was standing in front of his pen, a tall elf with silver hair a step behind her. Both were clad in the black clothing all the stuck-up nobles seemed to favour. He ignored the elf to focus on the woman. Black gown, black gloves, black shoes, black cloak - the only flesh visible on the dratted female was her neck and her face, save her eyes which were covered with the customary lace mask.
Thorin longed to snarl, snap, shriek at her - make her beg for her life for daring to think she could purchase a Son of Durin for some sick, twisted purpose. Lhúz was behind him though, and he still ached from the beating the previous night; he had no desire to inflict more pain when it could be avoided. So he stood quietly, inwardly seething as the seller rattled off his information as though he were an animal to breed. The woman said nothing. While Thorin loathed the idea of belonging to someone like a mere trinket - if he was sold to someone, it would be easy enough to slip away and rejoin his kin, perhaps discover what became of his family. This woman would not buy him though, he knew her type easily enough -
"Ten thousand gold pieces," a cool, musical voice said. As his owner's jaw dropped, the woman took a step forward and lifted the long chain in her gloved hand. Wide blue eyes fixed on the pale, pale face opposite him.
Apparently, he did not know her type, after all.