It had been twelve days in the dungeons beneath the Woodland Realm.

Twelve days of echoing footsteps, stale bread, and the occasional overly smug elf. The cells were carved into the stone like polished roots, winding and twisting with no clear end. Dwalin had stopped counting torch sconces. He’d stopped growling threats at the guards. What was the point, when they only smiled like they’d already won?

But that morning—or evening, or whatever time it was down here—something different happened.

Not footsteps of boots, but something quieter. Lighter.

Dwalin heard it before he saw it: the faint rustle of wrapped parchment. And a scent—honey, lemon, maybe cinnamon.

Then the figure appeared, gliding between cells with a practiced grace. He wasn’t like the others.

Where the palace guards wore pristine armor and glacial expressions, this elf had sleeves pushed to the elbows, revealing warm brown skin marked with soft silvery ink—more like vines than runes. His hair was gathered into a low braid, threaded with tiny dried flowers. His presence was… quiet. Not the watchful silence of a predator, but the contented hush of a kitchen at dawn.

He paused at Bofur’s cell first, offering a small parcel through the bars. Bofur took it, startled, unwrapping to reveal a square of spiced honeycake.

The elf moved on, one cell at a time, handing out slivers of sweetness without word or ceremony. When he reached Dwalin’s cell, he hesitated.

Their eyes met.

Dwalin, scarred and squat, sat with arms crossed and mouth set into something dangerously close to a sneer.

The elf smiled anyway. Not mockingly. Not pitying.

Just… genuine.

“This one has ginger,” he said softly, voice accented but clear. “For the aches in your joints.”

Dwalin scowled. “You giving us pity rations now?”

The elf tilted his head. “Call it indulgence, then. Or bribery, if you’d rather.”

Dwalin didn’t move.

The elf crouched beside the bars, not too close, resting his forearms on his knees. “You’ve got the look of someone who could break these walls with your skull. But you haven’t.”

“No use,” Dwalin muttered. “Thorin’s got the plan.”

“Then let him have it. Take the ginger.”

Dwalin hesitated. Then grunted. “Fine. But if it’s poison, I’m coming back from the dead to break your nose.”

The elf chuckled—an actual laugh, quiet and pleased. “Noted.”

He passed the wrapped sweet through the bars. Their fingers brushed.

It was nothing. A moment. But it crackled down Dwalin’s spine like the first touch of cold steel in a fight.

The elf didn’t linger long. He continued on, humming a soft melody as he vanished down the corridor, his braid swaying with each step.

Ori leaned over from the next cell. “Was that an elf?”

Dwalin grunted.

“A nice elf?”

Dwalin didn’t respond. He unwrapped the honeycake slowly, jaw tight.

“Is your face red?” Ori pressed.

Dwalin growled. “Eat your own bloody cake.”

But long after the others had finished their sweets, Dwalin still sat holding his, untouched. Staring at the empty corridor.