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The Queen's Heir: elfling-child [now]

Title: The Queen's Heir
Rating: M/R
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe/Norse Mythology/Tolkien's Hobbit
Pairings: Fárbauti/Laufey
Genre: Adventure/Mythology/Family
Summary: then: Something more than just our ability to travel between the Realms was stolen from us this fateful day. This day, when we lost the war, I lost also my son. And I mean to have him back. No matter what it takes.
I am looking.
now: Thrown into a world not my own, I can no longer tell wrong from right, night from day. Two months I spent in the care of the goblins under the mountain. Two months I cultivated my hatred of Odin and spurned all that I had once loved.
I am lost.
WARNINGS: Medieval-typical violence, blood 'n' guts, obscure cultural practices that might squick you out a bit, disturbing imagery, references to violence, abuse, torture, starvation

“Who would dare bring weapons into my kingdom? Trespassers? Spies? Assassins?” The voice of the creature was strange, compared to his form. The Goblin-King was a disgusting creature, and Thorin was proud of his stalwart dwarfs.

“Dwarves, my lord. Found them right on the front porch.” Thorin momentarily doubted the overall intelligence of goblins - couldn’t the creature see what they were for himself?

“Dwarves, this far North? Search them! Every nook, every crevice!”

“What brings you here? Not talking then? Bring out the bone breaker, bring up the neck wringer! If you won't talk, we'll make you squawk! Start with the youngest! And bring up that trespassing little elf while you’re at it. We can have another go at him while we’re at it.” The group clumped up around Fíli, Kíli and Ori, the youngest members of their company, even as Thorin’s blood ran cold. To be at the mercy of goblins was a fate he wouldn’t wish even on Thranduil himself.

“No.” He said, word final as a commandment, stepping forward. A cruel, gleeful light shone in the creature’s watery eyes.

“Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain.” The foul creature offered a mocking bow. “Oh, but wait, you don't have a mountain, so that makes you a... nobody.” The Goblin-King was enjoying shaming Thorin, but these dwarfs, these twelve dwarfs were the bravest and the finest, because they stood beside him. “But I know someone who has a price on your head. An old enemy of yours. Just the head. Nothing attached.” There was a terrible pause. “A pale orc riding a white warg.” Thorin felt his heart drop to his boots as soon as the King spoke the last guttural consonant.

“Azog the Defiler was slain in battle long ago.” He insisted, blue-eyed glare cold as ice.

“So you think his defiling days are done then do you? Send word to the Pale Orc that we have his prize!” The King bore a look of savage delight across his hideous face. A tiny goblin cackled and zipped off on a line. Thorin savagely wished his line to snap.

Another small host of goblins sidled up, dragging among them a struggling, bent-over figure clad in tattered green. They threw their captive at the feet of their King, and the slender creature immediately struggled up to their knees - even on his knees the elf was tall as Thorin. Tangled, dirty, matted dark hair fell about too-thin shoulders. The green shirt was rags, stained with blood and dirt. The black trousers had fared little better, and pale, fine-boned feet were unshod.

“We’ve had this little plaything for a whole two months, haven’t we, boys!” The King said, tipping up the elf’s chin in a mockery of a tender caress. “Strangely resilient, for an elf, usually they break so prettily.” The elf spat in his face, and the King threw the being backwards. Thorin saw a thin, hollow-cheeked, pale face that might be beautiful as elves go, were it not for prominent evidence of starvation, the dark bruises discoloring pale skin. But the eyes; for all they were sunken from malnutrition, the boy’s eyes (for this was a boy, an elfling-child, how did he manage to stray this far, this friendless? Elves were as covetous of their young as were his kinsmen) were green as the gently rolling hills of their burglar’s homelands, burning with a defiant fire. Strange upraised lines like scar-tissue curved over high forehead and chin, and followed the lines of high cheekbones in deliberate patterns.

A goblin fumbled with his sword, he saw out of the corner of his eye. The beast half-drew the blade, then flung it away from itself with a screech. The king saw the blade and gave an equally hideous screech, climbing up onto his throne to distance himself from the piece of metal. ‘It only works if you’re using it,’ Thorin thought sardonically.

“Orcist, the Goblin Cleaver! Kill them! Kill them!” The King shrieked, and suddenly they were all on the ground about to be mauled.

A blinding flash, a booming non-sound, and everyone was flattened. In the silence a voice called.

“Pick up your weapons. Fight. Fight!”

Gandalf. Never was he so happy to hear the old wizard’s voice. Someone cut his bonds, he grabbed for axe and sword, ready to dive into the fray, fight to the last -

And hesitated for just a moment.

The moment passed and he slashed through the elf-boy’s bonds and pressed his axe to those long, pale fingers.

Fight.” He growled to the boychild, and whirled about, diving into the fray.

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