"Cut him down, you worms!" He snapped to the goblins working the rack, sheathing his blade and denying the Great Goblin any vindication, urging his warg forward to look the broken king in the eye. The dwarf shook, with rage or agony he could not tell, and there was a black, loathsome deadness in those stormy eyes - righteous fury turned to bitter, guilt-ridden hate. They had festered together, it seemed, neither able to forget the mark the other had left on them, being taken by the heart all these years and twisted by their obsession with one another. But here, in these eyes, was the look of denial being shattered, protective barriers ripped away - Thorin had thought him gone and long-buried, convinced himself he had won so that he needn't look over his shoulder every day since Moria, and now that folly had come back to haunt him.
"Can you smell it?" He looked over his shoulder to his pack as the heir of Durin was dropped unceremoniously from the torture rack, and gripped by either arm by a skittish, chittering goblin. "The smell of fear?" He gently stroked the tip of his wicked, clawed prosthesis over his warg's hackles, watching all eyes draw to it with a slow, knife-edged smile. "I remember your father reeked of it, Thorin, son of Thrain..."
"Can you smell it?" He looked over his shoulder to his pack as the heir of Durin was dropped unceremoniously from the torture rack, and gripped by either arm by a skittish, chittering goblin. "The smell of fear?" He gently stroked the tip of his wicked, clawed prosthesis over his warg's hackles, watching all eyes draw to it with a slow, knife-edged smile. "I remember your father reeked of it, Thorin, son of Thrain..."
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Jesus, I have no words.
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