Welcome, my friends, to kkolmakov's quarantine induced madness. A. This is a complete crack, and I'm having oodles of fun with it. B. I made the cover myself, you can find more of my drawings on Instagram: the name's kkolmakov. C. 'Furuth' in Khuzdul means precious. Make your own conclusions :D
"Halt, Dwarf!" an Elf yelled and pointed its disgusting arrow into Thorin's face, as much as poking the tip of his nose.
Thorin growled but obeyed.
"What do we have here?" Another Elf stepped out of the crowd, all blonde and poncy. "Intruders into the kingdom of my Father, His Majesty King Thranduil the Benevolent?"
More like Thranduil the Empty-headed, Thorin thought and snorted at his own joke. And then he froze. Did he just… joke?! Yes, you did, furuth, the voice in his head said merrily. Did the voice just call him 'precious?' We make jokes now. We're Thorin the Funny now. Thorin blinked.
"Oi, Dwarf, are you deaf?" the Elf raised his voice and stepped closer to Thorin. "Are. You. Deaf?!" he shouted into Thorin's face bending almost in half.
"No, laddie, he isn't," Oin answered unnecessarily loudly. "I am."
See? This was funny! the voice spoke again. Although our joke was better.
"Who are you and what are you doing in the woods of my people?" The blonde started stalking between them, leaning lower to their face, squinting.
I think he needs glasses, the voice said and giggled. Prince Four Eyes.
Thorin squeezed his eyes trying to come back to his senses.
"Mind who ye speak to like that, ye bowfing bahooky," Dwalin growled. "It's Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain yer havering at!"
"Oh, King Under the Mountain, you say?" the Elf scoffed. "It matters not. Tie them up!"
A few of the wood wimps jumped to them and started shackling them and stringing them on one long rope like sausages in the best butcher's shop in Ered Lindon.
Mmmm, I remember those sausages! Mahal help me, we're hungry! Can you hear our stomach grumble? Poor tummy, the voice whined. Do you think they'll feed us before or after interrogation?
Thorin took a deep breath trying to ignore the prattling in his noggin. It must have been a concussion during the warg fight - or with Azog, or in the goblin tunnels, or with the trolls.
Mahal, we've been thumped to the head quite a lot recently. No wonder we are such a grump. Well, you are. I'm the life and soul of the party. Oi, furuth, watch under your feet!
Thorin stumbled on a root sticking out of the ground, and an Elf grabbed him under the arm and caught him. Thorin looked up. The Elf was a maiden.
Or not. How can one even tell? One thing's for sure. The Elf is mouth-watering.
"What?!" Thorin roared.
"What?" the Elf asked.
What do you mean 'what?' Look at those lips. Don't you just want to—
"Nothing!" Thorin barked to silence the voice.
The Elf gave him a confused look and let go of his arm.
Oh, they let us go. Pity. Such a strong hand! Maybe we should trip again!
Thorin ground his teeth.
Alright, furuth, I get it. It's an Elf, we're mortal enemies, they betrayed our Pops and our Grandpa… blah blah blah… but on the other hand, look at that backside! Ah, you did look! Ha!
Thorin most definitely did not!
You did, you so did! the voice sing-songed. You also looked at the hips - and higher. And now we know it is a maiden.
Their procession finally reached the Gates to the Thranduil Halls, and between shoves in the back and sensitive pokes with the backs of the spears, Thorin finally stopped hearing the voice.
...except when they pushed him into his cell, it yelled, She's leaving! Quickly, ask for her name! C'mon, she's almost gone! Oh… What's wrong with you?! She was right there.
Thorin pressed his hands over his ears.
This won't help, furuth. We're inside your head. You ain't blocking anything. Also, you're a moron, Thorin Oakenshield. That Elf was so into you! Didn't you see that look they threw to you over their shoulder? Batting eyelashes, softly parted lips? Moron, I'm telling you. Dimwitted moron. Oh, food!
Thorin heavily sat on the cot in his cell and closed his eyes. The voice was hollering something about the 'nutritional value' of the stew in the clay bowl in front of him.