She dreams of Golden Hope

Between Gallows and Gates

"But thy eternal summer shall not fade, nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade, when in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st. So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, so long lives this, and this gives life to thee."- Sonnet 18, William Shakespeare

She lay catatonic on the stone floor while her fingers carefully traced the pattern of the cobblestone beneath her. With wide eyes she stared into the nothingness and beneath her breath she muttered the words: "Mist and Shadow, Cloud and Shade. All shall fade, all shall fade." If she only allowed herself to believe, to forget the caustic coldness within her and the feel of the unforgiving stone ground beneath her, she could imagine that she was once more in her warm bed in her old home on the outskirts of Bree and her still-healthy, joyous mother had come in and would sing her the lullaby in her melodic voice while combing through her hair. She could imagine a happier time, when she was still not marked by her bitterness toward her mother and her abandonment of her, she could remember a time when she had no care in the world but if she could finally catch a butterfly the next day, a time when Orcs, Goblins, Trolls were only the villainous figures in her favourite stories. She could remember a time when she didn't have to worry about death and despair and fear and life and... love. She fisted her hand as the thought crossed her head and immediately her eyes closed as if in pain, yet she felt too numb to feel anything.

Love.

Why did she have to fall in love with Thorin Oakenshield? A self-deprecating feeling took possession of her and she slowly shook her head. It was not as if the realization had startled her, surprised her. It was not as if one moment she had just realized that she loved the stubborn dwarf more than she could have ever imagined. She supposed that she had known, that she had subconsciously realized it but only truly become aware of it a few days ago. She supposed that she had known all along. When she had direly admonished him and called him out for what she perceived was his lack of manners. Each time she had refused to bow down to him and she had fiercely stood up to him. Every time she had looked over at him and she could not help but feel fierce respect and admiration to rise within her recognizing what just leader he was despite his embittered nature. Every time she had felt sadness because of his bereaved demeanour and she had recognized the painful weight of responsibility he carried with him, he insisted to hold onto stubbornly. Each time she had dreamt of him and had woken up with a gnawing sense of longing within her. Each time she had been so pained to realize his disapproval of her when she was sure that it was clearly, blindingly clear that she loved him. That she loved him despite what he had done to her, that he had abandoned her. It seemed that she was destined to love individuals that forsake her, her mother, him.

Azog had realized it. She recalled her session with the Pale Orc. She had been brought to him, she did not know how long ago, because she was constantly kept in darkness and had lost any sense of time. Like she was imprisoned in an eon of night and as much as she longed to escape from it, it would never release her. She had stood with her head bowed before the Pale Orc, unable to look into the eyes of her captor and see his fiendish delight at her defeat, unable to see the malevolence she knew he carried constantly within him, which was ingrained in him, unable to see his nefarious intentions. He had addressed her in a dark, deep voice that had caused shivers of fear to race up and down her spine and she had to resist the urge to flinch. And she had felt such shame at her fear, at her lack of spirit that she had pursed her lips and resisted the urge to cry out in her frustration. He had addressed her and had talked to her about her capture. He had tried to sound sympathetic and she had looked up incredulously at him to see him sat on his throne, she supposed the spiky iron seat was supposed to be, to see him with a mock look of sympathy on his face. It had tortured his face and had made it even more hideous and grieved she had realized that these creatures- that Orcs were not meant to known such tender, compassionate feelings. He had sounded like a dying horse to her as he had expressed his regret at the necessity of her imprisonment. She had looked away from him with her eyes narrowed and her nose scrunched in cold rage for his lying at her. She had looked back at him and with a hollow voice she barely recognized as her own, she bid him to stop lying to her and stop his game, to simply tell her what he wanted with her. For an insufficiently long second, Azog had looked at her and remained still perhaps in surprise at her statement, but then he had continued and he had started to talk of her feelings for the dwarven king. The feelings she had carried within her during her imprisonment, the feelings which she could scarcely grasp herself yet, the feelings which pained her because she realized that he would never reciprocate them.