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The dungeon air was thick with the scent of damp stone and despair as Myríel made her way down the dimly lit corridor, her footsteps echoing softly against the cold, unforgiving walls. Her heart pounded in her chest as she approached Thorin's cell, anticipation mingling with trepidation in the depths of her soul.
She knew she shouldn't have come back, and yet, she couldn't help it. She felt drawn to that place.
As she drew nearer, she could hear the faint sound of his breath echoing in the silence, a rhythmic reminder of his captivity. With a steadying breath, Myríel approached the bars, her eyes meeting Thorin's with a mixture of determination and apprehension.
"Your Majesty," she began, her voice soft yet resolute. "I've come to speak with you again."
Thorin regarded her with a mixture of skepticism and defiance, his eyes narrowing slightly as he met her gaze. If she had said anything else, he would have commanded her to leave him, and yet he had never known an elf show reverence to dwarves and their lineage. Her use of his title surprised him.
"And what is it you wish to speak about, elf?" he asked, his tone laced with a hint of suspicion.
Myríel hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words to convey her purpose without invoking Thorin's wrath. I want to know more about Erebor," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "About your quest to reclaim your homeland."
Thorin's expression hardened at her words, his jaw setting in a stubborn line. "There is nothing more to say," he replied tersely, his voice tinged with bitterness. "Erebor belongs to my people, and we will reclaim it by any means necessary."
Myríel felt a pang of frustration at his stubborn refusal to open up, yet she refused to be deterred. With a determined glint in her eye, she reached through the bars, her fingers brushing against the rough fabric of Thorin's tunic as she sought to nurse one of his wounds.
But before she could make contact, Thorin's hand shot out, his grip firm as he caught her wrist in a vice-like hold. "Don't," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.
Myríel recoiled at the suddenness of his reaction, her heart racing with a mixture of fear and confusion. Yet even as she pulled away, she could feel the heat of his touch lingering on her skin, igniting a spark of something unfamiliar within her—a flicker of desire that danced on the edges of her consciousness.
With a shaky breath, Myríel withdrew her hand, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. Yet even as she struggled to regain her composure, she knew that she could not let this encounter end in silence.
Gathering her courage, she reached into the folds of her cloak, producing a loaf of bread wrapped in linen. "Here," she said, her voice soft yet determined. "I brought you this."
