#thehobbit

"What is the purpose of meeting this friend of yours, Gandalf?" Thorin had asked sternly, lines of disproval upon his face were almost heard as he talked. The company was full enough, he did not have the time nor resources to keep another mouth fed, let alone his own with Bombur around.

He cast his gaze behind them to the hobbit, who was still holding the reins of his pony at arms length, jumping at every slight movement. The king held back a grumble as he turned to face the wizard and lowered his tone, just enough that so his words would not travel far, “I have more than enough of your companions here with just a single Hobbit.”

The wizard inclined his head towards the king, though not turning as he spoke, “I believe she will be a very valuable asset to your company,” he sniffed, yet his voice was a touch louder, “Whether you like it or not, you asked for my help,” He turned to the king now, squinting in a challenging manner, “did you not?”

The dwarves began eagerly chattering upon hearing the word 'she', with Fíli and Kíli letting out long whistles as Bofur rubbed his mittens together, wiggling his brows playfully at the two.

Thorin exhaled harshly, before his scowl lessened, repeating the wizards words within his head.

"She?" He questioned, his lilt becoming softer and more curious, yet an edge was still about it, "I did not know you had female companions, how came you by her?"

The corner of Gandalf’s mouth upturned into a smirk as he turned away to continue looking down the well trodden path, "She is an old friend mine," he let out a low chuckle, “Very skilled in the art of keeping unseen…” a smile graced his aged face, his gaze wistful and reminiscent as he stared ahead, "No, no there are many things you do not know about me, Master Thorin, it would be wise to not ask, lest it is long tales you are after.”

The dwarfs upper lip twitched, along with a small shake of his head. The last thing he needed was a distraction for the others, no matter how useful she may be, one of the unfortunate reasons no female dwarf had joined them prior.

As soon as the adventure had started, the others all assumed it would only be they that were to join in their adventure. Upon arriving in Hobbiton, they were to head east and continue so, yet Gandalf began to lead them south-east into Green Hill Country and towards the Stock Brook. Bilbo had not been that far before, and was eager to see what awaited them there.

It was only a short detour he told them, and it was only after multiple enquiries that Gandalf revealed his plans, and Thorin’s face soured. Balin had only curated one contract, and he was trying his best to quickly scribe out another, tutting when his pony did not trot as steady as he’d like.

For the rest of the company, the possibility of another, a female in their band, was enough to steer great chatter amongst them. The fluffed ponies trotted after Gandalf's horse along the fading forest path, the branches curled above them to almost create a tunnel, listening to the rabble of the males upon their backs, asking millions of questions. Who, what and where were all listed, yet he did not answer, just a knowing smile upon his face. Even Bilbo, still being new to the company, was very interested in the idea of another, even a lady, and tried his hand at his own questions.

Whilst the dwarves conversed with him, Bofur especially, he realised quickly that they thought him delicate, that they were not used to talking to gentle folk as he. He was still adjusting of course. He kept himself quiet firstly, he was listening, learning their dynamics, for he too was not used to conversing to such rough folk. Gandalf’s steady voice reassured him at every step, yet he could feel Thorin’s cold gaze upon him, doubting him almost. Though, he had the idea that a female would talk more to him, and a friend of Gandalf no less, the notion stirred excitement within him.

Was she human? Though she was good at being unseen Gandalf had said, she could be a Hobbit too? They were still within the borders of the Shire afterall, or potentially an elf? He knew they were light on their feet, and Bilbo knew Gandalf had an array of friends amongst the elves. Though mayhap she was a wizard just like him, he was not sure what that would entail. The array of questions filled his little head dizzyingly, but he supposed it did not matter what she was, he was more than happy to greet her with open arms. He wanted to make her feel more welcomed and equal than he, at least.

Meanwhile, Thorin sat silent atop his pony. His face was pensive as his fingers drummed against his thigh, thick brows pulled taut together to form a firm line. Even if she was a so called “valuable asset”, the quest was far too important to cart around stray females that that Gandalf had befriended. He had no doubts about the hindrances she would indeed cause, his eyes flickering back towards his nephews whom still chatted excitedly to each other, Nori and Bofur joining.

He had more than enough fighters in his company, he had no use for a rogue, he had just acquired his burglar! Even still, amongst the discontent that had set within, something else inside him swilled cautiously, and a smile threatened to tug at the corner of his lips that he ever tried to quell.

Their voices died down to silent whispers as the sound of fast running water filled their ears. Ahead, the forest slowly began opening up into a grand glade. Sunlight streaked through the boughs in both brilliant and shadowy beams, reflecting off of the clear running water below. It glittered like precious gemstones and sounded like a sweet melody. In the distance, a large, auburn horse drank from the open water the downhill brook ran into. It flicked its dark tail as it inclined its head towards them. Worn leather tack and a saddle adorned its body, fitted with several aged satchels and small golden finishings that caught the light ever so as the animal moved.

Thorin’s gaze lingered upon proud beast, full of wonder, before his eyes wandered to study the glade itself. The air smelt fresh and warm like a summers morning - yet evening it was beginning to be - and a peaceful feeling washed over him, his shoulders dropping with each breath as he settled back into his saddle.

It was a vast open space, vibrant and green with an array of bright flowers that bloomed here and there, and a lone ring of tall, white mushrooms grew under the shade of a weeping willow tree beside the water’s edge. In his knowledge, things could not stay beautiful and serene for long, yet the notion that they were still within the borders of The Shire caused the thought to dwindle into nothingness.

“This place…is nothing like I have felt before…” muttered Dwalin, who had urged his pony on to meet up with the king. His eyes too held a toughness that scoured his surroundings. Thorin held his hand out to him, waving his palm as if to put his friend at ease.

“We are close to the Old Forest, right Gandalf?” Bilbo called out, to which the wizard nodded back.

“We are indeed, the forests used to be conjoined in days gone by and whilst the Old Forest is dangerous, this one is…” He tilted his head as he chose his words carefully, “a lot more gentle, shall we say? Though still very, very old.”

An array of strange coloured lights oft drifted about, if eyes were keen enough to catch them. They were minuet, with long tails following them as they swirled and danced in the lowering sunlight. Some watched the dwarves from behind the broad leaves above, peering over with wide obsidian eyes full of wonderment. Ori gasped quietly at the sight, reaching over to tug upon Dori’s sleeve, pointing desperately at them, his eyes wide and gleeful.

"What are they?" Kíli whispered, holding his palm out as one came close to him, before dipping away as fast as it came.

"These are faeries," smiled Gandalf, who held out his own hand. Some came to land upon it briefly before whisking themselves away and back up into the branches above, "They are harmless, do not worry, rare in these parts and full of wisdom and magic.”

The dwarves flinched visibly at the word, furrowed brows eyed them with caution, yet curiosity played about their eyes. The faeries still flew close by, some dipping low enough that they would grace their beards, one was so bold to brush against Gloin’s nose. Bilbo looked on in awe, jaw dropped low, chuckling to himself softly. He had heard stories about them from others within Hobbiton, but he never thought he would get to see them with his own eyes. The soft, violet ones held his upmost attention, and one landed upon the fluffed head of Myrtle, close enough to eye him with an intense inquisitiveness before disappearing once again.

The beauty of the place had distracted them, so much so that they had not realised their ponies had slowed to stops, and had neglected to hear Gandalf’s greeting as he dismounted his horse. The baying of the auburn horse brought them back, and their eyes followed the now departing wizard. Their mouth’s dropped agape and their eyes doe-like at the sight.

A maiden was sat upon a fallen log beneath a broad tree, a knee drawn up to her chest, leafing through a small, navy bound book. A dark, heavy cape was draped across her shoulders, pinned at her collar bones with a small, golden leaf. Her youthful face lit up like the rising sun at the sight of the old wizard, snapping the book closed and sliding off of the log gracefully to greet him.

Thorin’s gaze never left her, he was enthralled by her captivating beauty, for never had he seen a mortal with a likeness such as hers. The others were also in awe, even dear Bilbo. Her eyes looked upon Gandalf with such adoration, they glinted in the sunlight akin to the gems that his grandfather, Thrór, had kept in his masses of riches. They always stood out to him from within when the firelight flickered upon them just right, ever shifting in the light. By her gentle mannerisms she seemed delicate, even through her visible strength, yet to him she was almost akin to porcelain, like she could break if he would lay but a finger upon her, and Mahal, he wished he could.

The maiden made to embrace Gandalf, welcoming him with open arms as her hair fluttered about her like the strong ore veins that ran down the depths of the mountain, hewn from the rock, striking and vibrant. Yet in the movement, his strong gaze noticed a piked ear within, littered with small gold hoops, ends, and facetted gemstones. It was but a fleeting glance, disappearing within the wave of her hair as swift as it came, however he was sure in what he saw.

A rock dropped within his abdomen, and the openness of his glaze retreated back within, his stern glare returning, clenching his jaw tightly as he turned to look away. Heat rushed to his face as he tightened his grip upon the tack of his pony. He had caught himself almost falling for en elf, the enemy no less. No human could be as fair, how could he have fallen for such a reverie? He adjusted himself upon the saddle, a grumble finding its way from his throat. Withdrawn eyes tried finding his companions, whom had all dismounted their ponies. They still looked enraptured and by all accounts had not noticed, as their mounts trotted past them and towards the whickering horse, already joined by Gandalf’s own.

“It seems travelling has faired you well,” She spoke, her voice silvery as she raised an eyebrow up at the wizard, a coy smile playing about her lips, “What is it that you have in mind this time?”

Gandalf looked at his staff bashfully, a chuckle left his throat, “Well,” before gesturing to the Dwarves behind him.

They were all stood several places back, looking on, with some stood upon the tips of their toes. Each clad in their own coloured raiment, and each as unique looking as the next from their hair to their beards, littered with beads and clasps, even with upturned ends. She had come across her fair share of Naugrim, and always appreciated their expressions of self. She met each and every gawk and stare with a broad smile, until she met an iced gaze of brilliant blue. Hers turned wide with wonder and recognition, and heat threatened the tips of her ears at his gaze. Thorin’s mouth was drawn to a tight line and his hand flexed upon the hilt of his sword, albeit it made her smile all the same.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” She called, his name flowed from her tongue like honey, laced and sweet, “Son of Thráin, Son of Thror”

The cadence in which his voice was spoken called him forth, and as if by instinct alone he made to walk towards her, looking up at her through dark lashes, eye contact never breaking. The company parted for him as Dwalin, Balin and Bilbo made to follow close behind.

He inclined his head towards her as he stopped a distance away and studied her face. Freckles littered her nose. In younger days gone by, his sister oft told Fili and Kili that it was because faeries danced upon their faces during the twilight. He thought that unlikely, yet, as he observed the lithe lights surrounding them, he was inclined to believe it, but wind came through and swept such notions away. Her hands were clasped behind her back, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She was clad in sable leathers littered with gold finished belts and an ivory linen shirt beneath with billowing sleeves that wavered even from behind her.

“I do not believe we have met,” He replied coolly, his eyes narrowing as they flickered back to meet her own, he straightened ever so and moved to fold his arms across his chest.

She smiled broader now, but she noted the hint of reluctance his tone held, the cautious eye in which he studied her with, and so she tilted her head, “No, I do not believe we have, though an honour it is to make your acquaintance,”

She bowed lowly to him, though Thorin merely smiled politely, it was swift and left as soon as it came. “How came you by Gandalf?”

It was her turn to narrow her eyes at his testing question as she rose, it caught her off guard, “Well, one does not find Gandalf, he finds you,”

He exhaled a short laugh through his nose at that. He supposed she was not wrong, though the response felt vague enough to irk him. When he made to open his mouth again, Gandalf cut him off, introducing her name.

“And she is to be the fifteenth member of your Company,” said he, causing an uproar of hushed but excited mutterings to rise from the dwarves. She turned back to her, and motioned to the two behind Thorin, “These here are Balin, and Dwalin”

Balin grinned, whilst Dwalin merely eyed her, a light upturn of his mouth was all that was offered, yet both angled their heads to bows, uttering their own greetings. One looked a lot more intimidating than the other, kind, gentle eyes in comparison to a firm look akin to Thorin, but it was no doubt that they were brothers.

“And there are Fíli and Kíli, Thorin’s nephews,” The two stepped forward, bowing and winking, sly grins plastered upon their young faces, “And behind, are Óin, Glóin, Bifir, Bofur, Bombur, Dori, Nori and Ori”

Each in turn bowed too, calling out their own greetings, it seemed they kept in pairs, or at least small groups. The elf let her eyes meet each one. Her memory was great, yet she felt she would struggle just a little to remember each dwarf, she’d have to recall raiment over faces, she thought.

“Quite a company,” She noted out loud with a giggle, “A pleasure to meet you all,” She said.

Bilbo cleared his throat, stepping out from beside Balin and rocking back upon his heels as he swung his hands behind his back and clasped them tightly together.

“I am a part of this company too!” he started, and cleared his throat once again, bending at the waist, “I am Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire, a pleasure it is to meet you,”

The elf smiled, it reached her eyes this time as she took in his appearance, “Well met, little one, I should have expected Gandalf to have asked a Halfling to share in his journey,” Bilbo flushed at the name, nerves had taken the better of him, “Though you do not look like a warrior, as well put together as you are.”

He laughed nervously, “Ah, no! I’m-“

“He’s our burglar!” called Óin, his ear trumpet tight in his grasp, as the others went to shush him.

The elleth looked to the wizard, her eyebrow raised, her smile had never left her face, “Your halfling is a burglar?”

Gandalf did not reply, he tried, yet words failed to find him, merely shrugging with a coy tug of his lips.

The sun lingered just above horizon, bathing the woodland in a sweet golden hue. The mayflies gathered in masses within the last remains of the warmth before twilight set in, rabbits slowly began to venture out of the long grasses and blackbirds sung high up in the trees. The horses and ponies had began to settle too, settled enough that the company thought otherwise in regards to securing them. With that, Thorin had decided that camp was to be set here for the night. He had sent Fíli and Kíli out to scout the surrounding land, ignoring the reassurance of the elf that she had done this prior, harsh eyes never looked at her as he barked his orders, yet she noticed this feigned indifference forged as fire. When they had returned confirming such, his eyes flicked to hers briefly, ignoring the smug look upon her face.

Nori had been sent out to catch supper, untangling thin wires and traps from within his satchels and disappearing within the brush. Glóin had already taken it upon himself to start the fire, from logs he had found at the edge of the glade, as the rest began to unpack. Bedrolls were strewn about the thin grass, with boots, arms and armour laid this way and that. Fíli and Kíli had decided to softly play their fiddles, filling the sun down air with a little more vigour. Their tunes playful and oft sultry as they looked upon the elf, whose laughs swam about the camp as she attempted to hum along. Ori lent upon the back of Dori, matching their tune with his flute, the latter whom still tried to fuss the way in which his younger brother had tossed his things about. Bífur was sat opposite Glóin, a small knife in his hand cutting through a wooden block like it was mere butter, aiming the shavings straight into the fire, much to Glóin’s dismay.

In the background, the sound of stone against metal softly mixed with the tranquil atmosphere. Thorin sat against the fallen log, his eyes hawk-like as he watched his company. A blade was within his grasp, slow and deliberate strokes of the whetstone dragged along edge. Dwalin had eyed his companion for a while, watching sharp movements become firmly placed when’re the elves voice became a touch louder.

“Something troubles you,” Was all he spoke as he made his way over to his friend, lowering himself down beside him, his own head coming to rest against the thick bark of the log.

Thorin made no move to reply, yet he merely flickered his eyes upwards towards the elleth and inclined his head in her direction. This was all the other dwarf needed as he nodded back and steeled himself. He himself found the elf - her identity he still knew not - somewhat promising, yet he trusted in Thorin’s judgements, even though his brows were knitted together in confusion.

“Tell me then, what is this venture of yours? Gandalf has told me little,” she asked from beside the fire, placing a small, red berry into her mouth from a branch she held within her deft fingers. Her tone was gentle, directed towards Balin, yet her gaze flickered to the old wizard. He stood with his back to them, overlooking the mounts it would seem, smoke from his pipe became a wisp as it twirled slowly upwards. It was true, Gandalf had told her little of their venture, but his venture she knew well enough about.

Sauron was to return, and she had felt it, even before the Istar had suggested the notion. Orc packs had become more brazen as of late, foul had the darkest corners of the land become, and the earth groaned, even Orodruin began to stir from its slumber, that familiar song crawling into her bones and burning them to the core. The elleth and Glorfindel had ever and anon scouted in secret the lands far and wide, collecting even the smallest hints of his return, slaying those most foul that they came across. Reports from the woodland realm had become more than troublesome too, and Lady Galadriel had wanted to know of each venture, for she too felt an ill shift in the land. The dragon Smaug had ne'er been sighted for well over 60 decades, and whilst it was true he had no allegiance to Sauron, nor to Morgoth, fates did not want to be tempted, ere it was too late. When Gandalf told her of a quest he was going on, she all but bit his hand at the chance, though he neglected to tell her of its nature.

Balin gently plucked at the strings of his viol, listening to its tune as he adjusted its pegs, “Our venture,” He started, plucking a few more times before setting his instrument upon his lap, “Is to take back our homeland. It was lost decades ago, though in our hearts it feels sooner…”

Her expression turned forelorn, she knew herself what loosing one’s home could be like, and she knew of only one Dwarven homeland worth reclaiming, only one with a dragon, “Erebor?”

He nodded solemnly, “Aye,” he turned to Thorin, who’s eyes were fixed upon the smooth movements of his whetstone, yet ears were poised to listen, “Smaug came, terrible and tyrannical, we were no use against such a violent force of nature, not even the elves - should they have chosen to help - could have stayed such a beast.”

Thorin’s eyes now flickered up to the elleth’s in a grave glare, yet he found hers were already upon him. Her brows were drawn together, and her teeth latched to the inside of her cheek. It was at that moment she realised the reason for his distance, and turned her contemplative look away, she would not test his ire, not here.

“Now,” his voice lightened slightly, “It is time to overthrow the beast, to take back what is ours.”

“I am sorry, though it is a noble quest, I am pleased to have the honour in joining you for it,” she said, bowing her head, yet a question popped into her mind, “but, why is it you require a burglar?”

The burglar in question had sat absorbing all that had been told with such concentration. His head was set in the palm of his hand, his legs crossed atop his fur bedroll. He had been so attentive that he had not realised he had been mentioned. Eyes flickered to the elf upon the sound of a question, he jumped at the sight of many eyes that were upon him.

He hmmed, looking about for an answer as his eyes widened in a question of his own. The elleth giggled at him. “I asked why the quest requires a burglar.”

“Oh!” he sat up a little straighter, “i’m to search for the Arkenstone,” He grimaced a little, “That’s wi-within Smaugs Hoard.” His voice almost squeaked. He was still working on his courage, the thought of possibly being burnt alive by a dragon was not something one easily came to terms with.

Her eyes widened and her features dropped.

“The Heart of the Mountain,” called Bofur, a long carved pipe within his grasp, “It’s the prized jewel of Durin’s Folk, currently underneath the belly of a giant fire-breather.” Bilbo grimaced again, did he have to say it outloud?

The elf grumbled within her throat at the obvious as she looked up to Gandalf, whose attention still lied upon the resting ponies,

“You chose a hobbit to go against a fire-drake?”

He turned now, the light of the fire lit up his aged face as he raised his brows, smoke rolling from pursed lips, “Smaug is not aware of Hobbits. Bilbo is quick, small. He will be safe, he is in good hands,”

She turned up her nose that that, displeased, “You would risk his life for a jewel?” She understood the notion, for more blood has been shed over jewels than she could recall, yet a small soul as he should not be put in such danger.

Thorin scoffed behind them, yet made no move to elaborate.

“Something on your mind?” The elf challenged, looking to him with a slightly knitted brow.

He kept his gaze down, dragging the whetstone slowly down his blade once more, “The dwarf lords answer will to it, the Arkenstone grants us the ability to call forth the seven dwarven armies, to aid in our quest,” his voice was deep and the words spoke with cutting purpose, yet he held her eye as he looked up towards her, “We have no need for help from outsiders,”

Gandalf frowned, his lip twitching, the rest stayed silent, looking between each other as the tension between the two festered. The elf stayed silent, before breaking from his piercing gaze.

“So it would seem,” she muttered, leaning closer into the fire as she picked a up a spare shaving Bífur had missed and flicked it back into the flames, watching its edges blacken and catch alight. She chewed the inside of her cheek, before putting another berry into her mouth. She did not realise his hatred ran so deep, so deep to refuse the notion of help, but she was surprised he had yet to say anything to the others, whom seemed to not treat her any differently.

The dwarves returned to silent chatter, and the sound of the whetstone once more filled the air.

Soon, Nori had returned from the brush, a bundle of game within his grasp and the dwarves had cheered, the young ones playing elaborate congratulatory tunes upon their instruments as he bowed lowly. It was sadly not enough to fill such a gathering of large mouths but it was something they learnt to make do with. The elleth smiled at their display, she clapped too, the familial warmth filling her as looked back within the brush, waiting.

The sun had set and the moon had risen, sending streaks of pure light through the canopy. White gold stars dotted above here and there, lighting up the blackened shroud above. As the night aged, a streak of teal and amethyst painted itself across the sky. A transparent ethereal ribbon dancing in a mesmerising display of colour, lighting up the firmament like wondrous caustics. The dwarves had rarely seen its like, more so within their wanderings, but each time it caught their hearts within their throats as they watched its skyward meandering.

The fire hissed and cracked, embers puffed upwards, twirling in the still air, as if trying to compete with the stars above. Its heat warmed those around, their voices hushed as they talked amongst themselves. The elleth sat beside the beside the brook, dipping her hands into the cool waters and lifting it up to her mouth.

Abruptly, a soft rustling emitted from the brush, followed by a low growl that resonated throughout the glade. The ponies snorted amongst each other, rising from their laid positions and pushing themselves into each other. The elleth’s horse and Gandalf’s, however, did not waver and still laid together beside the waters edge.

Gandalf himself never moved either, he merely puffed upon his Old Toby, casually looking to and fro from over the fire. The dwarves, however, had froze. Looking between each other as they slowly found their feet, steady hands reaching for their weapons. The elleth rose from her spot beside the brook, flicking water from slender fingers as she walked closer to the camp. The dwarves had created a semi circle around the fire, Thorin at the forefront, with Bilbo behind them all, though he felt himself too close to the fire.

From betwixt the low hanging willow branches, loomed a great wolf. Amber eyeshine watched from between the slender leaves, they mirrored the fire they had sat beside, bright and hot, as they flickered between each face. It slowly came out of the brush with steady steps, it was the size of Thorin’s pony, and in its maw it dragged a great hart. It’s fur was course and as dark as coal, yet iridescent in the moonlight. The dwarves did not move, their grips tightening in their hilts, and Kíli’s arrow was aimed perfectly. No body moved.

“Be at ease,” said the elf, as she approached the beast, “They are friends.”

It growled lowly again within its throat, hard eyes flickered up towards her, before dropping its prize with a sick thud. The dwarves flinched at the sudden movement and looked to her in bewilderment, their postures ever stiff, their fingers flexing against weapons.

She held out her palm and the animal nudged it with a low chuff and a whine, its tail giving a light wag. “This is Lorne,” She announced, “He will not harm you, do not worry.”

The company looked to her, softly muttering to each other, “This…beast,” started Thorin, his voice was low, cautious, trained eyes never left its charge as he spat out the word, “Belongs to you?” Lorne looked to him now, they were near at the same eye line, and the dwarf felt ill at ease with their intensity, along with his sheer size.

The elf smiled, twirling her finger in the fur behind the animals ear, “As much as I belong to him, yes, he is mine,”

Bilbo was as stiff as a board as he peered out from between the gaps of the dwarves, their guard never dropping, yet his eyes were filled with wonder. Never before had he seen such a magnificent beast, but his face paled as it padded towards the fire, towards him.

The dwarves made way for him, scattering like flies upon a disturbed corpse, the grips upon their weapons loosened ever so, yet their eyes never left him. Dwalin grumbled, and Gandalf coughed out a laugh, smoke pouring out of his nose. Lorne laid down, yawning, his thick fangs slick and glittering in the firelight.

“He is Wolf-Warg,” Gandalf started, he reached over to the beast and ran a hand though his fur upon his neck, “He is an ancient breed from what the Wargs of Gundabad decend from, they are incredibly intelligent,” He tapped the beast lightly upon the nose, where he grumbled and playfully snapped his jaws, “Do not underestimate him.”

The dwarves shifted uncomfortably, staying safe distances away, yet made to sheath their weapons slowly. As Lorne settled, his eyes fell upon Thorin once more, the only one who had not moved too far away, and dipped his head towards him.

The dwarf held his composure, though his breath was caught within his throat. He saw the others look to him from the corners of his eyes, and so he nodded back. The elf smirked and clasped her hands behind her back. The silence in the air that followed was thick enough to cut, before Bofur disrupted it.

“So, is that supper?”

-thorin

"Kiss me on the lips, choke me on the floor..."

The dwarven king of Erebor is a man of honor in public, but a man of depravity behind closed doors. He is the essence of the man who would treat his woman like a queen, but fuck her as if she meant nothing to him than a whore at a brothel; hard, fast, brutal.

It was not out of hatred, nor spite. No, this was how the king showed his undying devotion to his beloved queen. It was something unspoken between royals, an act so delicate, leading to something—they assumed to be—so heinous in the eyes of their elven guests.

A tender kiss in the midst of a heated meeting. The prickle of his bearded skin would rub against your softened cheeks, as his roughened lips meet the smooth, plumpness that was your own. A moment of calm, or rather a moment to prove who you belonged to, lingered amongst the growing, irritated voices of royals within the dwarven halls. The taste of meat and ale transferred from his tongue and onto the smoothness of your teeth as he swiped it against the pearly gates to your mouth, seeking out access to the moistened caverns within your lips, all whilst dreaming of the moist caverns hidden between the flesh of your thighs.

A kiss that was far more tender than the ones you had experienced when you were choked upon the very floors the varying royals now squabbled upon.

The calloused embrace of his palm wrapped around the length of your neck, a firm pressure placed upon it—not to entirely restrict the flow of your breath, but as a silent reminder of who you belonged to. His lips sought out your own, mashing together in a frantic manner like harsh tides against the rocks of shores—a manner frantic, yet as natural as the primalness within the many walks of life among the earth.

His tongue would swipe against the lower flesh of your lips, not in the act of a request for entry but rather a demand—or rather an acknowledgement of how lucky you were to welcome the king's tongue into your mouth. As your tongues entwined in the familiar dance of passion, the assault upon your inner walls did not cease: the bones of his hips snapping into the flesh of your ass, causing the heavier flesh beneath your skin to jiggle with every sudden movement he made as the thickness of his cock would continue to carve away at the inner caves of your walls.

The back of your head rubbing against the textured floors beneath you, being able to know which corner of the king's throne room you were being fucked upon merely by the subtle change in the manner of how your skull glid against it. The calloused grasp around your neck was the only thing preventing your neck from straining as it continued to crane back—a lifeline of stability for both yourself and the king as he continued to pound within your inner walls; an unspoken security that even within his roughest moments, he still had your best interests at heart...even if you left with a bruised arse in the end.

──────

-fili

"Lights out, you don't tap out..."

The golden-haired prince was a tad more determined than his uncle in the realms of the bedchambers. Though his uncle was a bit rougher around the edges, he needed breaks: unlike the golden-haired prince.

The prince was relentless in his efforts when his mind was set upon a goal, whether it was gaining your hand in courtship or how many times he could make you break before you sobbed for mercy. When he had his mind set, there was little that could deter him.

These acts normally panned out rather well for the prince: he had won you over, proven his abilities as heir to the throne, and shown himself to be an agile fighter in battle through his determination. So, when the prince had set his mind upon spending an entire day and night pleasuring you, there was little shock in the matter that he had managed it.

The topic did not arise until after the third time his tongue delved into the dampened walls of your womb, lapping up the endless stream of your lust as his growls of unfiltered satisfaction from your arousing flavors encased his moistened muscle. It was a simple question—or rather gasp, "Surely you have duties today, my love?", that quivered out of your lips as your thighs quivered around the sides of his golden mop.

And though his face was buried within the drenched, sensitive flesh of your cunt: you could feel the wolfish grin of his thin lips against your own sensitive lower ones as he spoke, "My only duties today are that of your pleasure, my queen". The vibrations of his voice against your drenched hole would be enough on its own to push you over the edge, but the title he had used—the promise of what you would one day be—threw you faster than you had planned.

The essence of your pleasure rushed out in a roaring gush, drenching the golden locks around his chin as he snarled in satisfaction: his calloused digits still curling themselves within the moistened grasp of your walls, milking out the last droplets of this act of pleasure as his head rose from betwixt the flesh of your thighs. His dampened beard was a visual sign of what he had done to you through the blurred haze of pleasure, while the darkened hue of his ocean eyes and the twisted grin upon his lips showed there was much more to come within the hours.

A sign proven to be true as day began to fade to night, the squelching click of coupling echoed throughout your chambers for the entire day as darkness began to creep into the sky. Your mind was in a haze, your body both burning with the fire of pleasure but chilled through the endless waves of release the dwarven heir had relentlessly gifted you. "Ah, ah, ah," The prince would tut, your legs draped over his shoulders—the heels of your feet bouncing against the toned flesh of his back as he continued to pound into you, "Just because the lights are going out does not mean you get to tap out. Eyes on me." A command that would cause your exhausted, lust-driven gaze to flicker onto his face.

A look of smugness and primal desire spread upon the beautiful carvings of his face as his pace slowed for a moment, granting you the ability to be anchored in reality for a mere moment before his attack on your aching hole restarted. There was no tapping out with him.

──────

-kili

"You're my everything..."

When it came to the youngest royal of Erebor, when he loved, he loved hard. He was the hopeless romantic of the three men. He had devoted himself to finding the 'one' the moment he had heard tales of it from his mother, deeming that he would become the man his 'one' had deserved.

All the acts he did were not for fame, nor was it for the glory or boasting he could so easily do; though that did not cease him from boasting when he had the chance. They were for his 'one', for you.

The moment the prince first saw you was the moment he knew you were his, and he was yours. It was a casual glance you had given him in your mind, a mere 'oh, okay, another dwarf' as you examined the company, but to him it was destiny unraveling before his eyes: it was the moment he became hopelessly devoted to you.

He became your shadow, your guard, your everything. His eyes were always upon you—even when you had desired privacy—and his presence was not far from you, whether it be the battlefield or where he sat during a meal; he was always there. At first, it was an annoyance; you found his infatuation a bit irritating as you wanted nothing more than to proceed with the journey and return to your life...but he soon became desperate to prove his devotion to you.

It began in small acts—giving you more servings when he was dishing out meals, giving you extra wrappings when you were injured instead of rationing them, to allowing you more time to bathe when he needed it more—but soon turned deeper. A passing comment of frustration of the inability to relieve yourself with so many ears around, quickly turned to the youngest prince, wrapping his calloused palm around your wrist and dragging you off into the woods away from the ears of the company, before kneeling before you, as if he was a lowly mortal before a goddess begging for a blessing, and dipping his head beneath the fabric of your gowns.

Before confusion could gain residency in your mind, the prince's wet tongue began to lap against the length of your tender cunt—granting you the relief you had been aching for this entire journey. His long licks gliding up towards the sensitive bundle of nerves that was your clit, soon his lips found themselves encasing it as he sucked against it; yet your entrance was not neglected. The slight pressure and stretch of his thick, calloused fingers splitting open the moistened walls of your womb made your toes curl within your boots.

The weight of your head met the back of a rough oak tree as your fingers found themselves beneath your gown, entangled in the prince's locks as he continued his ministrations of pleasure. Every suction and swirl of his tongue, to every curve and thrust of his fingers, was all a silent devotion to you; a wordless promise that he would do everything in his power to satisfy you. A promise met with a silent plea for more as your hips rose and fell against the patterns of his tongue and fingers, your grasp upon his head tightening—causing your nails to prick against his scalp—as you began to guide him in the ways of your pleasure.

Another act the prince deemed as a sign that you were his, and he was yours: just from your primal need for more.

The sounds of your cries were barely muffled by your free hand, the pitch rising as your pleasure grew, as concerns of the others faded into nothingness, as you felt the creeping prickle of release begin to make its way up from the tips of your toes. A familiar knot woven tightly within the pit of your core, stretching and straining with every thrust of the prince's fingers until the dam finally burst with a final snap.

Your chest heaved in pleasure, as your thighs trembled around the sides of his head, as the waves of your orgasm wracked throughout your body. The grasp you held upon his head tightened more, digging your nails further into his scalp, causing the prince to whine against your cunt—vibrations that made your walls flutter around his thick fingers before he slowly pulled them out.

When the prince finally arose from the cloth shield of your gown, his face and hand were covered in the nectar of your pleasure: his pupils blown with adoration as he remained kneeling before you, awaiting for you to speak. And when you did speak, it was a breathless word, "why?".

A question met with an equally breathless reply, "Because you're my everything.", with the most dazed, lovestruck eyes. He was a fool, yes, but from that moment on, he was your fool.

──────

-thranduil

"Drag me around, push me right against your door..."

The relationship you held with the elven king was complicated. When things were good, they were incredible: you had been spoiled with lavish gifts, had servants tending to your every whim, and had the king of Mirkwood at your beck and call. But things were bad; it was more your own doing.

It was not that you sought out fights; just that they were easy to pick, especially when the king ignored you for so long. Though you had some understanding of his duties as king, the sudden shift from being able to dote upon your every whim and bring you to heights of pleasure no other could give you, to having to plead to be seen by your lover and having to fight off the chilling embrace of the night with your own fingers was...irritating.

Something that grew more infuriating with time as the king expected you to return to the routine he was so used to: you eagerly on your knees, mouth wide open, awaiting him to fill it with the mass of his heavy cock after not seeing you for several moons. But, there was one thing he had severely underestimated: your ability to remain a 'good girl'.

The desire to be good did not disappear overnight—you still eagerly awaited the familiar tang of his cock within your mouth, knowing it would soon stretch out the desperate walls of your cunt—but the signs were also not subtle that you were beginning to rebel against him.

No longer did you await him in the gowns he had sent to you before his return; instead, he was lucky to find that you had even put on the jewelry he had requested. No longer did you greet him on your knees at his door, allowing them to be bruised by the hours of waiting; you were found either applying lotion to your elegant limbs or resting on the silken sheets of the bed before grabbing a cushion and tossing it in front of him, before kneeling.

Subtle acts that the king was not ignorant of. No, he took mental notes of your rebellion.

In the king's mind, it was not only a slight against his appearance within the woodland halls; it was a slight against his control over you. The signs were subtle that the king was scheming to break you back into shape; the tick of his jaw when you were not wearing a gown he had sent, the narrowing of his gaze when you tossed a cushion near his feet, the boredom in your eyes as you choked upon his cock as if it was a chore and not an honor. Signs you had managed to miss in the midst of your self-righteous defiance, something the king was glad for because nothing could compare to your stunned face the day he decided to fix your attitude issue.

It had begun as normal; he had arrived to find you rubbing lotion onto the smoothness of your legs in a bored manner, and not in the gown he had sent. The muscles in his slender jaw clenched, the brightness of his blue eyes dimming as your gaze lifted from the flesh of your legs and onto his annoyance-riddled face—an exasperated sigh slipping from your plump lips as your gemstone colored eyes looped in their sockets.

You did not have a chance to grab the silk cushion beside you to throw at his feet, for the king moved in a blur, and before you could process it, his slender fingers were woven into a tight grasp, planted firmly at the back of your head as he yanked you from the comfort of silk and dragged you across the floor.

The cream you had been rubbing onto your skin to soften it made it nearly impossible to stay upright on the flooring, causing you to slide against it—almost bashing your face into it—as the king continued to drag you towards a wall. The sting of his grasp was the one thing that grounded you in your shock, confirming that this was truly transpiring.

The flesh of your lips were stuck in a stunned 'o' shape, a sight that made the king snarl in annoyance towards you. "Don't offer me your mouth now, slut." He hissed as he pushed you up against his door, his muscular body trapping any form of escape as he yanked you into standing by your hair; the sting of pain warping into...pleasure.

"You want attention that badly? Fine, you'll get it." It was not fully a promise, nor an entire threat, but rather a mix of the pair; just as the night following was a mix of both pain and pleasure—your every hole stretched, bruised, filled, and fucked to its limits as a mixture of sobs of apologies and cries of pleasure danced throughout the ancient halls. A sign of the king's power, and a warning to all those who try to defy him, that though you left with a bruised cunt and stretched hole, they would leave in a far less pleasurable state than they had arrived if they went against his command.

──────

-legolas

"I'm your little doll, come and play with me..."

Throughout the many things the elven prince possessed, control came in far and few quantities. Though he was respected, and most of his every whim acted upon, he had no sense of it in his own right—the servants obeyed his father, the guards only followed orders in fear of what his father might do, and his life, its very essence, was just another act of duty.

He felt weak, powerless. A desperation to hold something of control, something entirely his own that no other could refute as an extension of his father's power, rose as his age did. And that desire ended up trickling onto you.

It began subtly; it was a simple denial of your requests for a break, something innocent, no one batted an eye at—not even yourself, though your exhaustion made you more dazed than anything. Then it was the changing of your uniform while the others were left unchanged—an act that momentarily raised brows, but was later brushed off as a minor flaw in your previous attire. But little did anyone know, the prince's thirst for control was rising faster than it could be quenched.

It did not take long for his subtlety to fade, his control over you growing more diminishing in the very nature—questioning your thoughts, insisting you be served differently than you had requested, to even changing the times at which you rose and slept. He was undermining every aspect of your very nature and thought, and yet, you felt oddly flattered that the prince of Mirkwood began to focus his attention on you.

It was strange, you would not deny your confusion with his sudden fixation, but you would not deny the perks that came with it: new gowns, better living quarters, better meals, and healing. You were both a royal without a title and yet still a worker within halls that were becoming your own: you were there to serve, but serve only him.

It was a conflicting matter in your heart, as your devotion to the king fell under question, but in the same breath, it risked upsetting the prince if you confirmed you sought his father's approval more than his. As if the very thought that the confirmation from your employer that you were doing a good job was a horrific act, worse than spitting on the grave of his mother.

For months, you walked the fine line between servant and toy for the elven prince, until one evening when you returned to your quarters to find the prince sitting upon the plushness of your bed. The silks spread upon it were of your favorite color, one you had not known how he had known, but he did, the plush mattress sinking inwards at his strong weight as he sat at a corner edge as if he had been awaiting your arrival for some time now, despite being the very one to dictate your schedule.

The shock that had washed over you lasted a few moments before you began the regular greeting as was expected of you, lowering your head in a polite bow as his title began to slip through your lips—but was halted by the creaking of the bed as he rose from it, and the delicate pressure of his slender finger against your lips. "I have a request of you", he began—the tone of his voice held the same serious, regal air as usual, "but this must not leave your chambers, or else." The subtle threat sent a shiver down the length of your spine, causing a familiar moistness to rise in the sensitive flesh between your thighs at the darkened tone.

"A request of me?" It was meant as a statement, but left your lips in the form of a question as your mind roamed wildly with all possibilities—had you offended the prince, or had he needed assistance sewing a damaged tunic? Whatever his request, you would surely not deny it, as that would be a grave insult not only to him but to his father as well. "Of course, my prince. I am more than happy to serve you." A sentence that would soon describe the essence of your existence, but I am getting ahead of myself.

The corners of his thin lips curved into a darkened grin for a moment, a flash of excitement sparkling beneath his darkened eyes before the clearing of his throat stabilized him. "It is a different kind of servicing...", he trailed off, yet his gaze never left your own. "...one that only you I trust to do properly. Do you trust me?" The question had barely left his lips as the blur of your head bobbing in agreement filled his view, a mindless nod that sealed your fate as the prince's little doll.

Your existence was no longer merely scrubbing floors, mending tunics, and ensuring that food was properly washed for meals; you were now his little toy to play with. You were on his beck and call, his pretty little doll who dressed how he desired, spoke how he desired, and—most importantly—did what he desired.

His commands were law, holding stronger weight than the commands of his father in your mind. After all, it was the prince's cock you choked upon every night, not his father's.

You were his good girl, his source of control. No matter how inferior the prince felt, he knew he could slip into the privacy of his chambers where his little doll sat waiting on his bed—so pretty, so eager to please—and fill her every hole with his seed as she sobbed pleased cries of thanks and how wonderful he was. He always had you to play with.

──────

-tauriel

"Piercing on your lip, it's perfect. Never seen a girl this perfect..."

Time away from the woodland halls had shaped Tauriel in ways few could expect: the once regal, poised guard turned into something more feral. It was not solely in the way she held herself—finding herself free from the rules that once commanded every aspect of her life—but also in her appearance.

It was something small, something unheard of in the realms of elves—a lip piercing. A piece of metal that curved around the plushness of her lips, causing all gaze to fall upon them as she spoke—whether it be victories being recounted or discussion of the weather, all eyes were upon it.

It was the very thing that had caught your attention across the way in the brothel. You were there as a tavern girl, never taking a client of your own—not that you were opposed to the act, you merely weren't interested in the clientele that frequented the old, wooden halls until she arrived.

She had requested a pint of ale; the aura around her was tired, yet her eyes were full of hunger for something other than food. Eyes that burnt into your back the moment you had turned to fill the glass, feeling the heat drift down to the flesh of your rear.

It was meant as a simple exchange, passing over the glass and asking if she wished to pay for the ale now or rather start a tab for her stay, but life doesn't always go as expected. The moment you had begun to reach the glass towards the countertop in front of her, her slender, lightly calloused hands wrapped around it—encasing yours with it as her emerald, hungry eyes burned into your figure.

Savoring your every curve before flickering up to meet your gemstone pair. "How much?" The question left her lips as smoothly as the ale you had poured, one that left you taken aback for a brief moment before you gave her the price of her drink. The corners of her lips curved in amusement as a faint rumble of laughter vibrated through her chest, her gaze never leaving yours as her grasp around your hands tightened. "Not the drink. How much for you?"

The question left you in a mixture of shock, confusion, and flattery; no other patron had asked for your prices, nor had they held your hands or looked at you with such a passionate manner as you had served them.

"I, uh, do not know." The admission seemed to humor the previous guard even further, a look of disbelief flashing within her eyes before a twinkle of smugness followed. "You do not know your own prices, or do you believe I do not have enough to pay for your services?" Her question was simple, a distraction really, as she easily took the glass from your hands and raised the amber liquid to her lips. Your gaze flickered down to her neck, watching how the liquid moved down as she swallowed, gulp after gulp.

With an inhale, you confessed what was taboo in the business of taboo. "I have never had a client before." The simple sentence made the elf pause, her eyes momentarily widening in shock as she looked you up and down—as if intrigued and offended on your behalf that you had never been prompted before—before a darkened smirk spread across the plumpness of her lips.

"How lucky for me", she spoke as the curve of her lips deepened into something more inhuman, "here I had stopped for a drink and a bed to be warmed, and now I get to be a first client? How lucky for me." There was little time for rebuttal or refusal as the elf dropped a hefty bag of gold upon the wooden counter, her head nodding back to a room she knew was free—as she had not heard a single sound of pleasure escape from it—before rising to her feet. "Come." She ordered, the glass still in her slender hands as she walked to the room she had rented—a command so alluring, so promising that you could not help but trail after the gorgeous woman.

And that was how you found yourself in this position: your limbs tied to each bedpost, glistening cunt on full display as the elven woman stared down at it hungrily. With a final gulp, she emptied her glass mug of ale and placed it down on the nightstand nearby; the floor creaked as she inched closer to the heavenly sight of your bare cunt dripping under the chilled caress of night air. "Mm, look at this..." She hummed, a single slender digit delving between the sticky lips betwixt your legs, bumping against the sensitive bundle of your nerves as she rubbed it up and down. "I've never seen a pussy this perfect...never seen a girl this perfect." She corrected herself, the smirk upon her lips deepening as she inched closer to the dampened flesh of your cunt; the bed creaking under her weight as she kneeled upon it before her head delved forward, not wasting another moment to dive her tongue into the hole that was weeping for her.

A groan of satisfaction vibrated against your core, causing your limbs to tremble within the tightened ropes as she continued to devour your cunt. The squelching snarls of her satisfaction were almost louder than the mewls of your own, as her tongue continued to dance and flick within your sensitive inner walls; the piercing on her lip bumping against your sensitive flesh with every turn of her head, causing you to jolt slightly at the sensations until it soon became another twist in the dance of pleasure. A dance that would be revisited whenever the elf found herself near your realm—one she sought out more often than her homeland.

──────

-azog

"You're so crazy, manipulate me. Fucking chase me, fucking break me..."

Finding yourself within the grasp of the orcish warlord was not something you had believed possible when you had agreed to join the company. It was a single misstep, a mistake against your fellow company, that left you stranded and taken prisoner by the grey orc, by the hands of his son.

You had believed your life was over, attempting to find peace with the fact that your head would soon be upon a pole as a warning to your friends of their fate, but death never came for you.

Instead came manipulation. It was not the kind you had expected for the orc warlord, but rather...pity spoken in broken common tongue.

"They leave pretty woman to fend for herself. Not even try fight for her." He snarled to his men, his inhuman eyes burning into the flesh of your figure. "What men are they? They are weak! Fools!" His voice boomed with rage, one that danced throughout the air and found home within your heart.

On some level, he was right. Even if he was manipulating you, he was right: they could have ensured you were with them, they could have fought for you, but they didn't. The seed of hatred had been planted into the center of your chest, turning into a sproutling of resentment at the very dwarves you swore to aid: the ones who disposed of you as easily as they disposed of their waste upon their trail.

With time, it bloomed into a raging garden of anger as your view shifted from seeing Azog as a brutal, power-hungry orc who had ravaged the dwarves' homelands and killed the past king, to the orc who had saved you from the harshness of the elements or worse.

He was crazy, he manipulated you, but he saved you.

Initially, it came as a surprise that you were treated fairly in his camp; you had expected harshness, torture, or even pure brutality from the other orcs, but they seemed to fear you—or fear what touching you would lead to. You were fed fairly, clothed properly, given a good resting area, and heard with your concerns—something Azog brushed off with his followers, calling them weak when they dared complain about a missing limb but barking orders to get you new stew if you disliked the slop served to you.

It felt more like home than it did with the dwarves, safer than when you were with them. You were no longer hunted; you were protected. No longer were there vague promises of power; you had power. And all you had to do was spend a few nights attempting to fit the orc's mass into the walls of your womb without waking the rest of the camp—though he eagerly tried to get you to be louder for the others to hear just how virile their leader is.

It was different than being with a man, not only by how large and intimidating the orc was by height, but by how massive and different his cock was by texture. His girth was so large that each time it felt like you were a virgin all over, being stretched to your limits as the sting of his cock had split you apart; it was as painful as it was pleasurable—a sense of fullness no man had given you before as he easily reached the most sensitive depths of your core when only half way in you.

At the base of his impressive length was a strange sight for you, something that would inflate, almost trapping him inside of you as he flooded your womb with his orcish seed—always snarling something in his tongue with a darkened look of glee in his eyes as he continued to pound into you at a relentless speed, pushing his cum deeper into your overly stretched walls.

And the texture of it was...strange. It was not a horrid sensation; in fact, it was far more pleasurable than any you had felt before—it was merely different. It was as if every curve of his cock held texture, every vein a direct engravement to shape the walls of your womb into his own—to mark you in a manner that no other cock could fit into so that only he could pleasure you—and reach the most hidden spots of pleasure before you could even breathe his name.

However, your brief stint of pleasure was soon overshadowed by another run-in with the same company that had abandoned you, according to your orc lover. A mixture of expressions greeted you as you sat behind Azog on his prized warg, a symbol that you yourself were a prize, but to your old friends, it was a sign you were a captive.

The blank look in your eyes when they called your name was taken as a sign that he had broken you, though the only way he had done so was the times he made you bounce on his cock. They believed it was their duty to 'save' you from the orc warlord, not questioning once if you desired to stay with the man they claimed to be a monster.

A fight arose among them, one that had left you knocked off Azog's warg as it had been struck by an arrow the young dwarven prince had fired into its leg, giving the dwarves ample opportunity to rush you away in your dazed state as the fight continued. Fire began to engulf the makeshift battlefield, flames of the trees rising so high that the orcs had no choice but to retreat to reassess their battle.

The very act that Azog had ingrained in your mind as an act of shame, something to hold against others, as it was a sign of weakness. A twinge of pain flickered in your head as you watched your orc lover retreat as his manipulation began to fade, and a sense of dirtiness began to spread throughout your core.

Had you been used? Did he mean any of it?

Despite the waning control he held over you, you still fought against your old friends, demanding they leave you alone as they desperately tried to speak to you—believing you had been brainwashed, how right they were, but how wrong they were at the same time. A familiar warmth of rage began to spread throughout the center of your chest as you continued to break free from the haze of Azog: he left you, he abandoned you like they did.

The seed of rage had been planted within your heart, beginning to form roots within the soil as you sat awake further away from your dwarven companions: watered by the disgust of your actions as you stared at the stars in the sky...stars that had begun to dim.

The heat of a familiar breath tickled the back of your neck, your head quickly whipping around at the sensation, greeting you with the sight of the orc warlord who stared down at you with that familiar dark smirk. But, instead of the typical glee you had once felt when he looked at you, a sense of dread arose in the pit of your stomach as you stumbled onto your feet before dashing into the forest—knowing deep down there was no use with the speed of his warg, but you had to try.

You knew he would fucking chase you and fucking break you if it was the last thing he did. After all, you were his perfect human pet—his perfect prize, and he couldn't let his hard work be for nothing.

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