Young Thranduil's Confusion (Or, A Númenórean Poem Most Strange...) by Kaylee Arafinwiel
Fanwork Notes
In mine and AfricanDaisy's 'verse, Thranduil is born during the Second Age while the Sindar still dwell in Lindon, so here, during the Last Alliance, he's still fairly young as Elves go - maybe about the equivalent of an 18 year old human. Elendur is younger than him in chronological years, but far wiser than him in experience, and he, Aratan, and Ciryon (who aren't present in this fic) treat Thranduil as a "little" brother.
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Summary:
In the midst of the War of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, ticking down to the end of the Second Age, there are frequently lulls between the action-packed moments. War is a lot of waiting, as one young Sindarin lieutenant - who happens to be Greenwood's crown prince - learns to his dismay.
Still, in such quiet moments are friendships fostered. Prince Elendur Isildurchil, the very first of Isildur's Heirs, has often invited Greenwood's prince to spend time in his tent and learn the wisdom of Men.
Sometimes Thranduil learns lessons the barely more than elfling is ill prepared for...and Elendur's not much more prepared for moments like these.
Let's hope Lord Elrond and their edair never find out...
Major Characters: Elendur, Thranduil
Major Relationships: Elendur & Thranduil
Artwork Type: No artwork type listed
Challenges: Akallabêth in August, Kings & Kink
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Mature Themes, Sexual Content (Moderate)
Chapters: 1 Word Count: 357 Posted on 8 September 2021 Updated on 8 September 2021 This fanwork is complete.
A Numenorean Poem Most Strange
Thanks so much to Grundy for the prompts, AfricanDaisy for the beta, and Nienna for the help with the title!!
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Camp of the Edain, Elendur's tent, Mordor, War of the Last Alliance
"What are you doing, elfling?"
The heir of Isildur looked at his elven sword-brother, who happened to be standing by the shelves of books and scrolls the Prince kept in his pavilion.
He had selected a book, and was looking at it with eyes narrowed in concentration. "I thought you wouldn't mind if I looked at your books, Elendur," Thranduil replied.
"No more do I," Elendur agreed. Most of them, anyway, he added silently to himself. "What is the matter, then?"
"I can't read this one." Thranduil felt frustrated. "I can read," he added. "I can read Sindarin and Quenya, I can recognise Khuzdul and this isn't it. I've learnt Khandian, Rhuni, Near Haradric and Adûnaic, but this isn't the Adûnaic I know--and the pictures..."
Elendur snatched the book from Thranduil hastily, and one look at the illustration in question had his cheeks reddening. He looked back at the writing. "Ah. This is King's Adûnaic - old Númenórean as the Umbarim still speak it," he explained.
"Oh," Thranduil glanced sideways at Elendur. "The picture is...Aran Fingolfin, isn't it? There was his shield and banner covering him--" And not much else.
"Yes," Elendur said briefly. "The writing is a poem by a Númenórean, name not given, imagining themself as the Lady Anaire upon her reunion with the King, and Fingolfin's response to her."
Thranduil thought of the woman in the picture standing behind the kneeling Fingolfin, carrying what looked like a birch rod, and wrinkled his forehead. "Do they think Lady Anaire would want to hit him?"
Elendur stifled a snort. "To begin with. Now, be off with you, gwador-laes - and don't say anything to our edair or Uncle Elrond about this book."
As Thranduil departed, Elendur sat back with the book on his lap. His eyes were drawn down to the flowing script, and he started to read to himself. Feel here the dart of love all impatient to enter the mossy grotto between your thighs...
"Thank Eru the elfling can't read this," he muttered.
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