Chapter Text
Thorin doesn’t know what his grandfather is planning until a group of dwarves he’s never seen before come into the throne room dragging a small form with them. His confused gaze sticks on the slight frame, the silvery blond hair, the slightly pointed ears that reveal that this person is an elf.
Only, elves are supposed to be much taller than dwarves. But this elf is shorter than his captors- and they are his captors, with the ropes that bind his hands and the strong hands on each arm that drag him along- which means that these dwarves, for whatever reason, have brought his grandfather an elf child.
Thror does not seem confused. Thror seems, in a display that makes Thorin uncomfortable for reasons he can’t explain, delighted.
“My king.” The leader of the dwarves bows, and the others follow suit. The movement of the dwarves holding his arms sends the elf child tumbling to his knees. Thorin cannot hear it from here, standing on the dais beside his grandfather, but he thinks the child muffles a whimper.
There are tear tracks on the child’s face. Thorin does not know why he notices this, why his mind focuses on it until all he can see is those telling lines on the elf child’s beardless cheeks.
Even if the child were a dwarf, he would probably be too young to have even a stubble. Thorin does not know why he thinks of this either.
The dwarves standing before the dais do not seem to care about these things. The two holding the elf child yank him up with them, and this time, Thorin is certain the child muffles a noise of pain.
Thorin’s grandfather is still smiling.
“We have what you wanted,” the leader of the elf child’s captors says, and for some reason, Thorin feels his heart stop.
His grandfather ordered this elf child taken.
Thorin tries not to shift on his feet. He tries to focus on elf, because he knows that the elves are their enemies, as his grandfather has told him many times before, but his mind sticks on child.
“Excellent work,” Thror says, still smiling, and he gestures for the dwarves to bring the elf child closer. They drag him along, up the dais to hold the child in front of Thorin’s grandfather.
The child is shaking, Thorin realizes. Trembling in his captors’ grips. His eyes are wide in fear. The piercing blue color catches Thorin’s attention, and this time, he knows why. And suddenly, he understands, because just last week he found those same piercing blue eyes pinning him in place in a rather tense meeting, between the elves of Mirkwood and his own people.
Those eyes had been sharp and cold, that face sneering with disdain. Those features had very much not belonged to a child.
Thorin hears his father suck in a breath as he, too, realizes what Thror has done. He doesn't know if he feels better or worse that his father didn't know what his grandfather was planning either.
Thorin doesn't know a lot, right now.
“So,” Thror sneers, a bit too much glee in his voice for the situation, “this is the elf prince.”
Thorin knows that his grandfather does not see a child when he looks at the captive in front of them. He sees an elf, and a prince. Most likely, he sees something of value. Thorin isn't sure he wants to know what his father sees.
The elf child stares up at Thror. He attempts, Thorin thinks, to hide his terror. He is not very successful.
How old is this child, Thorin wonders. Thorin himself is still thirty years from being of age, but he knows nothing of elf aging- the elf child could be older than him, or his age. Or maybe elves age at the same rate as men, and simply stop after a certain point where men continue to age. Whatever his true age, he's certainly younger to his own people than Thorin is to his.
His grandfather would tell him it doesn’t matter. The child is an elf, and therefore an enemy. The elf is a prince, and therefore worth far more than a normal elf. This is what matters, not the elf’s age.
And yet, Thorin stares at wide, terrified eyes, and can’t make himself believe that.
He hasn’t put much thought into what kind of king he wants to be. His father will take the throne before he does, and even that is many years out. But in this moment, he thinks he doesn’t want to be the kind of king that makes children feel such fear, whether or not they are the children of his enemies.
Then he shoves that thought aside, because for some reason, it feels like a dangerous thought to be having just steps from his grandfather’s throne.
The elf child’s eyes dart around, taking in the royal family standing beside Thror. Thorin tries to soften his gaze when the child’s eyes find him. He doesn’t know if it does anything to help. Somehow, he hopes it does.
He doesn’t know what the child knows of him. Thorin knows enough of the elven realm to know that there is an elf prince, and that he is an only child- and therefore, his father’s heir. But- for reasons he’s now beginning to understand- he knows little else. Thorin didn’t know that the prince was a child. He doesn’t even know the prince’s name. And for all he knows, he might never have known had his grandfather not ordered the child taken. The elf might still have been a child when Thorin’s beard grew white, and they might never have met.
But somehow, Thorin’s grandfather found out enough about the prince to decide that taking King Thranduil’s son was a good idea. And now there is an elven child trembling at the foot of his grandfather’s throne.
Thror chuckles. The sound makes Thorin shiver. Whatever is going on here, it is no laughing matter. “We’ll see how your father’s pride holds the next time he comes here,” Thror declares, before gesturing his guards forwards. They take the elf prince from his current captors and Thror orders them to put him in a secure cell.
Thorin stares at those wide, frightened eyes as tears well up in them, tumbling once more down those beardless cheeks as the elf child is dragged away. His grandfather smirks in satisfaction, and stands, walking away without so much as a glance back.
Thrain hurries after Thror, so Thorin follows his father. He can’t help the need to hear whatever conversation is about to happen. Nobody stops him, so he follows behind his father as he demands, “What did you do?”
“Thranduil has been challenging us for far too long,” Thror says dismissively. “I doubt he’ll be so eager to do so when the safety of his son is on the line.
That tear-streaked, terrified face flashes through Thorin’s mind again, and he tries not to think of what his grandfather might mean. Of what might be done to the child if Thranduil does not cooperate.
He fails.
“And if he decides to go to war?” Thrain counters. Thorin’s eyes widen. He’s never seen a war- Erebor has been at peace in his lifetime- and he’d never really thought that would change. Who was there to go to war against? Even if he’d been told the elves were their enemies, they’d still been at peace.
A peace Thror might have just shattered.
While Thorin was thinking of the elf child, small and scared, Thrain had been thinking of the potential consequences on a far wider scale, and Thorin realizes that his father doesn’t like what Thror’s done any more than he does, if for different reasons.
Thorin doesn’t know what his grandfather is thinking, but it scares him.
“He wouldn’t dare,” Thror dismisses. “Not while we still have the prince. And I have no intention of giving that up.” Then he walks away, disappearing around a corner and leaving Thorin and his father behind.
Thrain just shakes his head. He pats Thorin on the shoulder and walks away without a word.
Thorin just stands in the hall, unsure of what to do. He can’t take his mind off the small elf surrounded by taller dwarves. The shaking, the tears, the muffled sounds of pain as his captors tossed him around without a care. The terror, the hopelessness in his eyes. An elven child, surrounded by enemies. By those that would do him harm.
On the orders of Thorin’s own grandfather.
A hostage. A young elven prince, too small to hold more than a knife, and who probably wouldn’t know what to do with one. Leverage over a hostile king who, if Thror is correct, won’t risk harm befalling his son.
A child. A small child, alone and scared, far from home.
Tears spilling over as he was dragged away, imprisoned, without hope of rescue by his own people. Not here, not in the mountain, the heart of dwarven lands.
Thorin doesn’t know a lot right now, but he knows this isn’t right. This isn’t what he wants Erebor to be. What he wants his family’s legacy to be.
Thorin doesn’t know what to do.