open post;

[walkingarsenal]

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[orcsurfing]

It is one of the warm nights that will grow fewer and fewer in numbers as winter settles in in the North. The sky is cloudless, all the bright, white stars on full display, the moon large and clear, the silver light it reflects casting gentle shadows everywhere it fell. The sort of a night the silvan elves adore, the sort of a night when celebrations are all the more joyful. Yet Legolas finds himself wandering the dungeons, deep beneath the halls of his father's realm, far from the twilight and far from his kin for he wanders alone. His thoughts stray to the recent events, issues large and small, piling up one after another.

And yet a kind of dread creeps up his spine, with its chilly and slimey fingers crawling up his flesh. It settles a burden of unease upon his shoulders, whether the danger will come from the dwarves they're holding in their cells, from the great spiders that spread further into the forest, too close to their borders and in too large numbers, even after they clear out the nests to their best abilities, or yet from a source his eyes cannot see yet, Legolas doesn't know. Knowledge which only serves to settle the concerns deeper into his bones.

A walk in the night would help clear his mind, settle his nerves a little, but the celebrations taking place took that chance away from him.

Patrolling the dungeons is unnecessary, for without a key breaking out of the cells would be impossible. The bars made of metal too strong for any mortal to break, the walls firmed over the ages his people lived here. Most of the dwarves are asleep too, and that at least is a comfort, that at least means some solitude and a chance to think if not rest. His step is light, nothing more but a soundless touch of soft leather on smooth wood of the stairs. Something glints in the corner of his eye, however, a smooth surface reflecting the sparse light the winding stairs are bathed in. A brief event, one he would have easily missed if he choose that moment to blink. Legolas ceases his further descent, stops on a landing by the cell where he saw it.

One of the dwarves, of course, which one exactly it is, is no concern of his. They all look nearly the same to him, some more revolting than the others.

"What are you hiding, dwarf?" He says, his words as much a question as they are a demand for answers, the look on the fine elven features seemingly devoid of an expression. Eyelids low over his eyes though doing nothing much at all to cover the bright shine, as he looks down, not a single crease of a frown mars the fair skin of his forehead, his lips a straight line. A haughty look, proud and distant, without doubt his father's son.

[walkingarsenal]

It's been a day to remember. A path that was too easy to lose, overgrown spiders – the cobwebs are proving a pain to get out of hair – and then the wood elves, who were unfortunately rather thorough in searching their captives. Fíli doubts that he'll ever see most of his blades again. But then, unless the Elvenking changes his mind, the Company isn't going anywhere, with or without all of their gear.

The dungeons are quieter than they were a while ago, when the others still had remarks to make, when they all tried to break down their cell doors. Kíli's whispering, not as hushed as he no doubt believed it to be, stopped when that one guard left, the elf maid. In the silence, the sounds drifting down from high above seem louder, although the celebrations are unlikely to become truly rowdy, at least going by what Fíli has seen of elves.

It will be a long night, and a long however long after that. They don't have that time.

But now that it is quiet, no guards passing by, there is something that Fíli can do with what may be a rare chance for it. He peers out of his cell first, a glance through the bars as far as they'll allow, and listens. Still nothing. Certain of that, he reaches inside his boot, retrieving a knife that remained undisturbed in its hiding place, one of the very last on him. It's getting relocated, just in case – the elves haven't asked him to take his trousers off, either, and so it will be only most of his blades that he'll never see again, not all.

Then, suddenly, comes an accusing voice to pierce the quiet before Fíli realizes that its owner has approached his cell with steps he didn't hear. He quickly slips the knife inside his pocket and turns his head.

It's the pale-haired guard, the other one in charge. The one who called Thorin a liar and a thief and had a few insults for Glóin's family. Fíli meets the elf's cool gaze. "Not much left for me to hide,” he answers, but he knows that elven eyes are said to be sharp. "You had us searched from head to toe."

[orcsurfing]

An eyebrow rises at the answer, nothing more but a slight twitch. Legolas knows what he had seen and he stretches out a hand between the bars of the cell, palm up, long fingers held together in a gesture that speaks for itself, it demands the prisoner gives up what he's hiding and willingly at that. Though Legolas has no cell keys with himself and if the dwarf does not cooperate, whether out of respect for the jailer or fear (unlikely as that is, from what Legolas had already seen of the company), he will not be able to do much else until he returns with means to open the cell. The guards should have confiscated all weapons, though not that any of them would be of much use in the dungeons, but it seems something had slipped past their attention.

"Not much is still far from nothing," he says, tone unchanging, gaze unwavering and he holds the look turned towards him, "And I had seen a glint of what looked a blade to me, or are all dwarves liars?"

The insult rings clear once more, though it carries no venom nor does it show any sort of sense of self-satisfaction that one could or would expect. Legolas simply states facts based on opinions, on the things he had been taught or learned himself during his life. Life that was long already, yet he had still seen so little of the world, never having stepped far beyond the borders of the Mirkwood forest and not for his lack of desire to or lack of trying.

Dwarves were not loved in the Woodland Realm, and as the King's son it showed in the prince's attitude in particular, though he took no joy nor pleasure out of any of this.

[walkingarsenal]

It's the principle, Fíli suspects. The elves have to strip their prisoners of anything and everything short of their clothes not because they believe that even one dagger could become a means to break out of these cells – and he can't imagine that they fear being attacked – but because that's what is done with captured trespassers. Precautions, to make a point, to collect quality weapons for themselves... The reason doesn't matter. The Elvenking has the upper hand, the power to decide whether the quest ends here in his dungeons; if the Company could escape, they would have by now. Bilbo is nowhere to be seen or heard, but Nori knows how to pick locks, so surely he must have been trying his skills on these ones, too.

His gaze as unwavering as the guard's, Fíli wonders what would happen if he were to lie. Thick bars separate him from the elf; if he stands at the back of his cell, even a long arm wouldn't reach him to dig through his pockets. He could stall and refuse to hand anything over. Would the elf go to the trouble of another search? Would he go as far as unlocking the door to the cell for it?

It wouldn't give Fíli an opening to overpower him, and Fíli doesn't entertain the thought, a pointless act that wouldn't get him or any of the others closer to freedom and could make matters worse for them. It would prove that there is at least one liar among the captives.

He thinks in a hurry. In truth, whether he gives up this knife like the others taken from him or holds onto it isn't going to make much of a difference. He can't do anything with it in here, and he knows that as well as the elves do; it would either become only another chip in his pride for him or an annoyance to test their patience for them. Cooperation in this won't be rewarded with the dungeon key.

But he would be sorry to see it go. Each of his blades has a story, each he is reluctant to part with like this.

"You saw a glint," he agrees slowly, "but I'll have to disappoint you, if it's a blade that you're expecting. Was it this?" And he faces the other way to show the guard the back of his head, the twin to his brother's clasp still in his hair. That, luckily, the elves didn't think necessary to confiscate. The silver hasn't lost its lustre, and there is enough light for it to have been the glint of metal that caught the elf's eye – Fíli banks upon that to make a convincing explanation, at any rate.

[orcsurfing]

It is difficult to fool an eye of an elf, Legolas is certain what he saw and it was not the offered explanation. And yet... he concedes, in a way, not that terribly keen on confiscating a weapon that, at the end of the day, is as useless in the dungeons of this realm as any lock picks. It is keys, yes, that hold the doors closed, but it is his father's magic that keeps all but the fitting key from opening these bars. He's not worried, in fact, never has been about that in particular. Perhaps the principle of the thing was to strip the prisoners of their weapons, perhaps he should have exposed a liar when he saw another one, but Thorin and the sword of Gondolin was a different matter all together. Something more personal to see a dwarf wield a sword of his kin.

In any case, his father wished the company contained, and so they would be, regardless of whatever plots and plans come to life in their heads.

"Perhaps," he says at last, betraying nothing much of his private thoughts. He speaks in a fashion composed, calm, in a way that makes it difficult - nearly impossible for those unfamiliar with the prince - to distinguish whether or not he believed the excuse, "Does it possess a sentimental value, a little trinket like that?"

A little dagger like that.

Legolas wonders, idly, if the dwarf will pick up on his true meaning, but doubts so. He had the audacity to lie to his face, come up with an excuse plausible enough and were Legolas any less watchful, he could have taken it without much opposition. He accepts it even knowing it is a lie, for reasons he can't quite justify with himself; perhaps curiosity how far the lie would be taken, or perhaps interest in holding on to something that was, in truth, of no use and the dwarf must know that.

A cocked eyebrow in expectation of an answer is all the hint he gives, his look sharp like the blade hidden from him.