In the Glittering Halls of King Felagund by Rocky41_7

In the Glittering Halls of King Felagund

Read In the Glittering Halls of King Felagund

               A week on the road was not enough for Thranduil to recover from the whiplash of his being approved as a diplomat of any stripe for Doriath. Mainly owing to his general personality and bearing, and that he had very little experience (none) with anything of the sort, he had reasonably assumed this was not a position in which he would ever find himself, and yet in late autumn he found himself riding beneath the watchful eye of Noldor guardsmen, with their stares crawling up under his skin, making his hands and feet restless as he approached the Kingdom of Nargothrond.

               King Thingol needed an emissary—someone to flick at Nargothrond to mollify them over his policy of non-intervention—and Oropher, apparently, wanted for some favor with the king, or thought that Thranduil did, which was how Thranduil was so callously delivered to the Noldor on elk-back, to a kingdom in which he had never before set so much as a toe. Perhaps, he considered, his youth and inexperience was meant to convey to King Finrod how little importance Thingol placed on this visit.

               Wonderful. Being a pawn between kings never ended poorly for the pawn.

               The great Doors of Felagund greeted him as he slowed his mount’s pace, taking a quiet breath and steeling himself for the days to come. There were others present for this diplomatic gathering of King Finrod’s, but among the Umanyar, Thranduil alone had come, and so he could look forward to being an oddity, though, he hoped, a mundane one.

***

               King Finrod Felagund would let no guest of his go ungreeted or unwelcomed, and so Thranduil was shown promptly to the throne room, a cavernous room of vaulted ceilings and carven stone, where lounged upon his grandiose throne was the great Hewer of Caves. Crowned in gold was his thick blond mane; laden with jewels were his fingers, his ears, his neck; rosy and warm was his heart-shaped face, this great lord of the Noldor who commanded no small force. Yet when he took sight of Thranduil, his smile came genuinely, and there was a softness in his fair brown eyes that surprised Thranduil. Perhaps Finrod Felagund was simply a talented actor—though Thranduil saw little how it would benefit him not to project the fullness of his power on this single young emissary from a hermit kingdom.

               “Thranduil Oropherion,” he said. “Welcome to my kingdom; welcome to Nargothrond. I hope you find it much to your liking. You among my guests may feel more welcome here, as I believe there are many similarities between our home here in Nargothrond and yours in Menegroth.” Thranduil scrutinized the amiable look on King Finrod’s face, searching for some duplicity, some dual meaning, some game. He found none presently, and was troubled. He was less prepared for this than he had thought. “I am grateful you have come. I see it is true what they say of the Sindar! You truly are the most comely among us.”

               Unsure what to do with such a remark, Thranduil felt his shoulders stiffen and again his gaze bored into the king, delving for some sign of ulterior motive.

               “There are those who say such things,” he allowed at last. “You honor me with your welcome, Your Grace.” He offered the king a bow. “I trust our visit will be a fruitful one.” There was no fruit to bear—it was simply on Thranduil to impress as calmly as possible that Doriath wanted no part of Nargothrond’s wars, nor the wars of any other Noldor who had come unasked-for to Middle-earth and stirred up forces against the whole of the continent. But it would not do to tell Felagund that upfront.

               “So do I,” the king agreed. “But you must want for a moment of rest. Let us show to your chambers, and I will see you tonight at our little party.” The king smiled again, giving Thranduil a look as if they shared some amusing secret, and one of his men stepped forward to guide Thranduil to his resting place for the duration of his visit. As Thranduil departed, he glanced back towards the throne, and the look with which Felagund regarded him was nothing short of appraising. Thranduil’s gut tightened, and he was reminded that between his youth and his Sindarin origin, he was likely to be considered easy prey among the politically-minded Noldor. But this was a task given him by Elves whom he respected and wished to honor, and so he would not fail.

               Still—he would not say no to a little whisper of help from Elbereth.

***

               Thranduil’s dreams of passing under the notice of the residents of Nargothrond, of being a uniqueness of surpassing dullness, had been shattered beyond recognition.

               It wasn’t that Thranduil had no love of parties—rather, he enjoyed them a great deal, and had spent many hours whiled away with friends and wine and music—it was just he cared little for the company of strangers, particularly those who had something to gain from his potential missteps. But to the citizens of Nargothrond, this Sindar among them, this representative of the elusive and aloof King Thingol and Melian the Maia, was of great interest. Since the moment the king’s musicians had shifted to a dance tune, Thranduil had not had a seat, nor been without a partner.

The king himself went on with the same act he had played when Thranduil first arrived, smiling around at all of them and toasting everyone who came near and cheering at the musicians to play something faster, but Thranduil found it comparatively easier to avoid him, particularly when he was so occupied with everyone else.

He found it almost a pity he had so little time to admire the surroundings, for he was in admiration of the spectacle of the event. Such was the resplendence of Nargothrond that one’s eyes barely knew where to focus; the effusion of jeweled décor and fine fabrics and sumptuous dishes would have been overwhelming at any time, even if it were not Thranduil’s first visit to Nargothrond, and he were not perpetually being spun about the dance floor by some dark-eyed Noldor or other until he was so dizzy he was amazed he was still on his feet. Maybe that was the wine, though. He had lost track hours ago of how much of that he’d consumed.

Not enough, he thought as he overheard a pair of Noldor exclaiming about the dismal state of fashion in Middle-earth.

               “Do you mind?” Thranduil realized it was not he who was being addressed, but his present dance partner whose name he could not, on pain of death, recall even in the slightest, and they surrendered him up to the speaker, who was none less than King Finrod Felagund. “Forgive my intrusion,” he said with that stupidly friendly little smile and a superior sparkle in his eyes that almost made Thranduil roll his eyes before he remembered he was supposed to be a diplomat. The light of the room blazed off the king’s jewelry until he seemed a creature made of gold, and shone even there, underground. The warmth of the room and the exertion of the dance had colored his cheeks and lit up his eyes; King Finrod was well at ease conducting parties. “But I fear if I did not interrupt I should have no chance at all to speak with you tonight! It seems I am not alone in appreciating this visit from our shy Sindar cousins.”

               Thranduil was meant to make conversation off that, but he had drunk too much, and was too annoyed with the king’s silly games to put in much effort.

               “I am an oddity, little more. It shall pass by the morrow.”

               “Oh, I doubt that,” the king replied with a hum, clasping Thranduil’s hand against his warm palm. He did not elaborate, and instead flashed a coy smile and said: “You are looking a bit dazzled, Thranduil Oropherion. Are my halls too much for you?” Even with his heeled boots, King Finrod was a good half a head shorter than Thranduil, and he had to look down at the king’s glowing face. He had tucked into his braids a number of soft pink blooms and a pair of dark leaves, presumably from the same plant.

               Thranduil’s eyes narrowed on the king, and again he pushed against the Noldor, probing him for the source or goal of his insipid affability. What love should King Finrod have for the Sindar, when Thingol had so denounced the Noldor, and outlawed their very language? While Felagund himself and his siblings were the only Noldor permitted to enter Doriath, they had hardly received stamped invitations.

               “No,” he replied. “My apologies if you had wished it otherwise.” It was too blunt by half, and Oropher would reprimand him, but to his surprise, the king merely snickered, and did not let go of him as the musicians moved into a new song.

               “No, perhaps not. You have, after all, kept pace with us quite well, and I see they have not let you rest in the least,” said the king, entirely unruffled by Thranduil’s tone. “Do you carry on many such missions for Thingol?”

               Thranduil hesitated. If he told the truth, Felagund would know he was entirely inexperienced and regrettably easy to take advantage of. If he lied, and Felagund was able to determine or expose that he had lied, he would look twice as foolish.

               “Not of this sort, no,” he said at last, as if there were some other kind of missions his king regularly sent him on, and turned them both sharply so they avoided running down a nearby couple.

               “Then perhaps you are merely accustomed to losing entire nights feasting and dancing?” the king proposed, and Thranduil wondered if somehow his father had arranged this entire meeting to chide him. “If that’s so, I’m sure you will be quite comfortable here. If the kingship were more about dancing and less about settling fights, I should enjoy it a great deal more!”

               “You care not for ruling?” Thranduil asked in surprise.  For the first time since Thranduil had walked through his doors, the king’s face sobered.

               “I do what is needed for our people,” he said. “But it is not a position in which I ever expected to find myself, and I would not have done if if…I did not feel it were necessary.” Was there something more there, to that pause and the careful selection of words? Or was drink making Thranduil too cocky about his ability for reading people? “I should much prefer to be the eternal prince, with a smaller crown and no true responsibilities!” he said then, the lightness returning to his face. “What a grand study I could make of the people of Middle-earth then!”

               The song shifted again, and the king laced his fingers with Thranduil’s and drew nearer, and Thranduil began to regret having so many cups of wine. It was making it difficult to focus on what his feet were doing.

“I have heard you are considered a talented swordsman among your people, for your age,” said the king. His stare seemed to pin Thranduil down with its intensity, and Thranduil’s blood beat loudly in his ears as he realized he still had not puzzled out Felagund’s intent. “Is that so?”

               “I am not the best to judge it, Your Grace,” Thranduil answered, digging into the king’s tone in hopes of uncovering what interest he could have in any existent martial abilities of Thranduil’s. The king nudged him away from stepping on someone else.

               “But I could, if you would give me a demonstration.” Very nearly Thranduil stopped moving, and tripped over his own feet. The longer he went unable to parse King Felagund’s aim, the more irksome his coquettish behavior became. “I have a room I constructed for training with a variety of weaponry. I am happy to show it you.” But moreover—

               “I fear I have drunk entirely too much to wield weapons in a king’s hall,” Thranduil demurred. And that was not far from the truth. The king’s eyes seemed to shine to Thranduil’s intoxicated gaze and there was a halo about his golden curls. In fact, getting out of the feasting hall seemed suddenly a very wise idea, before he wound up in some compromising position or other. At the very least he would not have it said he weakened Doriath’s position or embarrassed them during this visit.

               “Nonsense,” said the king. “Come, you must be weary of being turned about by so many partners.” One of his hands rested against Thranduil’s chest. “A moment of fresh air should clear your head well.”

               Yes, Thranduil had drunk too much, or he would have replied, or done something beyond regard King Finrod with a faint line between his brows, blinking dumbly, such that the king smiled and took this as a lack of protestation.

               “Come,” he said, taking Thranduil’s arm to lead him away from the spinning, laughing, singing crowd, down into the tangled halls of the palace.

***

               The inspiration of Menegroth in Nargothrond was written all across it, and Thranduil felt some surge of pride in his veins that the celebrated halls of King Finrod Felagund drew their imagination from Thingol and Melian’s palace. Whatever King Finrod thought of the Sindar, beyond his admiration for their beauty, he had clearly found something worthwhile in their architecture.

               But he had little enough time to ponder that. The king had released his arm once they were in the empty hallway, but he continued to glitter and sparkle even outside the feasting halls. Thranduil could have followed him from the sound of his jewelry rattling alone. He paused by a cove in the wall and removed his boots, turning to Thranduil with an impish smile as he skipped barefoot down the hall, turning to look at his companion every so often, as if Thranduil were a skittish deer he were trying to lure into a pen.

               “What do you think?” he asked. “Is it much like your home? Does it please you?”

               “Your architects must have made a thorough study of Menegroth,” he replied, not shifting his ponderous pace to chase after the Noldor lord.

               “Certainly they did,” the king agreed solemnly. “I wished it of them. There is much admirable in the halls of Thingol…many treasures and works of art to be seen.” Again, the king appraised him. Again, Thranduil’s brow furrowed, seeking a dark side to a specious compliment, but he was unable to uncover one before King Finrod threw open a door and ushered Thranduil inside. “See! Plenty of room here. Now…” He wandered in, bare feet shuffling against the pale stone floor, meandering around the weapons racks. “I wish to know of the son of Oropher is so great a warrior as I have heard.”

               He looked back at Thranduil, who lifted his chin at this challenge. Did Felagund think the Sindarin aversion to meddling was born of fear over their own incompetence on the battlefield? Thranduil would prove him wrong! (But also—where had he heard such things? Thranduil could not think of any good reason he should stand out from among the rest of Doriath’s fighters.)

               Yet the look in the king’s eyes was not so derisive or dismissive as Thranduil would have expected, and he hesitated, thinking it was entirely possible he had misjudged the reasons for Felagund’s behavior. Thranduil had feared he would seem easy prey to the Noldor, but the look with which King Finrod fixed him then was not of the sort that Thranduil had expected—that was a hunger with which he was far less familiar, and Thranduil’s heart started to pick up pace, wondering what he had gotten himself into.

               Yes, he had drunk too much, or he would have left. Demurred again, insisted it was a poor time for such things, or plied Felagund with questions about Nargothrond until he forgot what he had asked of Thranduil. Instead, he was removing his outer dress robe for better range of motion while the king selected a training blade and presented it to him.

               Thranduil took it, his fingers brushing over the king’s as he grasped the hilt, and then felt the weight and the motion of it experimentally. There was a residual warmth on the hilt from the king’s hand.

               “You have given me only one,” he said. Dual-wielding was something he had only recently come into, but the king was asking for a show. There was a flush dusting King Finrod’s high cheekbones, and he raked his gaze up to Thranduil’s face.

               “My mistake. Let me.”

               Yes, he had drunk too much, or he never would have allowed the king to press a second blade into his hand, lingering there before him, nor proceeded with this when he was so out-of-sorts. He moved to the center of the room, which suddenly felt unsteady beneath his feet. Elbereth—how much had he drunk? (What was he doing?)

               Not so much that he couldn’t run through a few forms for the pleasure of the King of Nargothrond. Was it not his duty to soothe any ruffled feathers here, to ensure Thingol and Melian’s policies went on without remark? And did it not then behoove him for the king to be entertained by him, to enjoy his company?

               And Felagund was riveted. Thranduil, without ever looking directly at him, could feel the king’s gaze on him as he moved about the room, slashing this way and that with the blades given to him. He had meant only to do a few exercises, just to show the king that whatever praise he might have heard was not entirely idle (though how much Thranduil lived up to it, he could not say), but the king’s unwavering attention was too gratifying not to make a bigger show of it than he had originally intended.

               He heard the jingle of King Finrod’s movement, but as he carried through the form he was presently displaying, his drunkenness showed itself in his slowness to realize the king had come nearer, and his inability to bring himself to an immediate halt when he turned and faced the king. The tip of one of the blades cut through the thin fabric at Felagund’s chest and nicked his flesh, drawing a line of red through his tunic and a gasp from the king.

               “Oh,” Thranduil said stupidly, softly, watching the cut well up. King Finrod must have drunk a great deal as well, or he would have done other than stare wide-eyed at Thranduil like a startled stag. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” Thranduil said, bowing his head. He put the blades down and moved nearer, reaching out to examine the wound. “Only shallow,” he murmured, drawing his thumb away red with Felagund’s blood. Did it matter, when one had wounded a king, if the injury was shallow or not? Did it matter Thranduil had not yet passed 24 hours in this kingdom before causing diplomatic incident? The king went on staring, and Thranduil thought his eyes were much like the color of fallen maple leaves in autumn, and almost seemed to shift in the flickering light.

               He lifted his hand to lick the blood away from his thumb, and still the king stared, but Thranduil held his gaze as he passed his thumb over his tongue, and Felagund then grasped Thranduil’s wrist, and jerked his hand away from his mouth, surging up to crush his lips against Thranduil’s.

               Yes, Thranduil must have—oh, that excuse was going to grow terribly old. Perhaps it had less to do with the wine and more to do with the sweetness of Finrod Felagund’s mouth, and the eager press of his slender figure against Thranduil’s chest, and the flush on his lovely face, like the blooming of spring wildflowers.

               “Your Grace,” Thranduil said when they broke apart, and he became aware he half-held Felagund in an embrace, and the king had hooked an arm around his neck.

               “Finrod,” the king said. “Please. Call me Finrod.” His lips were florid and wet and those soft eyes were fixed on Thranduil’s face, on his mouth, and the king touched a hand to his chest, where Thranduil was warm from his exertions, where his heart was beating out a rapid tattoo.

               “As you wish, Your Grace,” Thranduil replied. He took in the color of Felagund’s face and the arch of his body towards Thranduil. “Finrod.” The king pulled Thranduil to him again, with such vigor that they stumbled back against the wall, and Thranduil pressed him against it. King Finrod’s tongue was in his mouth and he pushed Thranduil about to where he wanted him, which Thranduil only understood when he felt the firm rut of the king’s hips against his leg as the king’s hands cupped his face, holding them together.

               When they separated again, they were both short of breath, but when Thranduil leaned in, Felagund put a hand against his chest.

               “Not here,” he panted. Thranduil could hear no sign of the party in this isolated corner of the palace to which King Finrod had brought him, though he supposed the stone walls and floor did not afford much comfort. “No more here.”

               “Why?” But it was Thranduil’s habit to be contrarian. A breathy laugh escaped the king and he nudged Thranduil back, away from him, and Thranduil was surprised at how this displeased him.

               “There are better places,” he said. “Come, let me show you.” As Thranduil moved slowly to collect his clothes, throwing his robe half-secured, Felagund reached a hand out to him, and Thranduil tentatively placed his hand in the king’s. The sparkle was in the king’s eye again as he smiled (seeming now less superior, and more mischievous and inviting, or Thranduil was misreading him—or maybe had earlier, and now was—) and led Thranduil out of the training room, and deeper into Nargothrond’s twisting halls.

***

The apartment they entered had to be King Finrod’s own—or else Thranduil had vastly underestimated the grandness of the guest rooms, and in fact had been quite slighted in the rooms he received. The king laced their fingers together briefly before pulling away into the bedroom, flitting to the center of the room and waiting for Thranduil’s sedate pace to catch up with him.

“Be not so shy!” the king teased as Thranduil took in the ornate molding of Felagund’s bedroom, the vastness of the four-poster bed. “Or do I frighten you so much, Thranduil Oropherion?”

“Why should I be frightened?” Thranduil asked, dropping his robe on the floor, trying not to gawk the pearl inlay of the king’s armoire.

“I’m sure I know not, unless it be some rumor from elsewhere in Middle-earth,” the king answered. “But if you are not, I would have you nearer to me.” Thranduil took his time pacing over to Felagund, but while the king held his patience for a time, once Thranduil was near enough, he caught his fingers in the waistband of Thranduil’s trousers and pulled him close. “You can tell me if you prefer to go.”

Thranduil touched the embroidered collar of the king’s robe, and then gave into curiosity and brushed his fingers over the king’s bright gold hair, then dared to trace them up along the curve of the king’s ear.

“You prefer to stay, then?” Felagund guessed, drawing his fingers up between Thranduil’s ribs, over his sternum, fingering the buttons of his tunic. When Thranduil neither answered nor removed himself, the king smiled. “Are you always so quiet?”

“No.” It was just that he could not figure what to say to the king, to Thranduil’s unspeakable annoyance.

“Just for me, then?” The king’s fingers were at the buttons of Thranduil’s tunic, and the rush of his heart returned as the king began undoing them.

“What would you have me say?” Thranduil asked softly, turning a lock of Felagund’s hair between his fingers.

“Tell me what you want,” the king suggested. Thranduil’s eyes shifted to meet the king’s and tried to form some coherent truth that he might actually get past his lips.

“I want this,” he said at last, and his voice came out only in a strained whisper, and he tried to cover it by leaning in to kiss the king, but Felagund vanished from his touch.

“Well, then.” The king made quick work of his own robe as he turned away, and dropped it to the rug, and clambered onto the bed, where he stretched out, scintillating in all his jewels, the crown still balanced neatly on his head, a breathing artwork of Illuvatar. He beckoned with a hand, and Thranduil moved cautiously to the bed and sat on the edge. “No, here!” Felagund laughed, reaching out for him. “Come here, you bashful woodland deer. I promise not to bite. Although, I shan’t be upset if you do.”

               With such encouragement from the king, Thranduil crawled over him, and King Finrod pulled Thranduil to him, and directed him as best to please both of them, and Thranduil was wholly unmoored from the parameters of his tasks, and felt all too much that he was losing himself in the warmth of King Finrod’s body and the pliability of his mouth. Navigating a world of battle was one thing, a world of politics another, but this—with this, he felt he was wandering in a fog through the woods, inclined to stumble into deadly threat at any moment, and perpetually unprepared for what might leap out of the mist. There was something deadly, wasn’t there, in the spell that had been cast over him, woven with the king’s delicate hands, and his sweet lips against Thranduil’s throat and against his ear, and the unexpected flex of muscle in the thighs wrapped around Thranduil’s hips? Was this not a trap of perfect making, exquisitely designed and targeted to the most vulnerable prey?

               Had Thranduil not lost himself in this maze?

               But under King Finrod’s guiding hand, he thought perhaps being lost was not the worst thing that could happen to a person.

***

               Both Elves lay dazed for a time after, but Felagund recovered first, and was up and about his rooms, of which Thranduil, in waking sleep, was distantly aware. Lying alone, he felt still King Finrod’s hands, it seemed, everywhere on his person; he burned head to toe in the memory of the king’s touch, and the Elf himself was humming as he danced around the room, apparently accustomed to such things or else not so affected.

               When Thranduil managed to push himself upright to see what Felagund was doing, the king greeted him in an open robe with a front tie, so light it seemed to float around him.

               “Come here, Thranduil,” he said, and again Thranduil came to his beck. There was a thin line on the right side of his chest where Thranduil had cut him before, and he reached out to it.

“I did warn you I had been drinking,” he murmured, which he had meant to be an apology, but which sounded less like it when he heard the words.

“If I perish from the injury, someone will certainly wage war over it. Until then, I would not worry overmuch about it.” The smile he gave made Thranduil feel foolish for remarking on such a trivial thing at all. If he were not a king, it wouldn’t matter in the least; Thranduil had received far worse injuries training. The king seated him at his vanity and began to comb Thranduil’s hair back from his face.

“You have such lovely hair,” he said, running his fingers through it, his nails scraping lightly over the scalp. “Like starlight. Perhaps you are blessed by Elbereth.” The king’s hands moved down to Thranduil’s shoulders, and began to creep down to his chest.

               “Perhaps I am,” he said softly as he watched the Felagund in the mirror, and the king smiled against his ear.

               “Would you let me braid it for you?”

               “I would.” His voice came out weaker and hoarser than he meant, and Felagund had the delighted look of a child given a new toy. He went back to combing Thranduil’s hair, and began to plait it in the style of Nargothrond, a fashion of his own making. Torn between watching Felagund at work, and closing his eyes to enjoy the careful hands working through his hair, Thranduil observed him through half-lidded eyes, soothed nearly to sedation. The king took a few ribbons from his vanity and wove them in amongst Thranduil’s fair tresses, and when he was done, he took a tiara too, and nestled this on Thranduil’s head.

               “There,” he said. “You look the part of a king yourself. What do you think?”

               “I think it suits you better,” Thranduil answered at once, looking back at Felagund. “Your Grace.”

               “Tsk!” The king clicked his tongue and replaced the tiara with the same crown he had worn when he greeted Thranduil in the throne room. “Now, you weren’t meant to call me that way, Thranduil. I think you owe me.”

               “Oh?” Thranduil twisted around on the bench to look at the king with a quirked eyebrow.

               “Indeed. I had asked you to call me Finrod, do you recall?”

               “I do.”

               “But you haven’t, and you didn’t either when we were in bed. So now, I think I shall charge you recompence.”

               “And what form shall that recompence take?” Thranduil asked, trying not to flush at the mention of their terribly recent other activities.

               “You must let me dress you.” Thranduil blinked at him a moment, as Felagund began to unclasp the necklace he wore still. “I believe it would be fair.” The smile tugging at Thranduil’s lips would not relent.

               “I suppose that is fair, and most gracious of you,” he allowed, and the king draped his necklace about Thranduil’s collar, and fastened it beneath his braids. Perhaps there was still a game afoot, and it was only that Thranduil was ignorant of it, or understood not the rules of it, but he struggled to find anything beyond Felagund’s obvious pleasure in festooning Thranduil with such a variety of his jewelry that Thranduil was sure the entire palace would hear him coming. He sat still and patient while the king’s hands carefully slotted in earrings, slid rings onto his fingers, fastened bracelets around his wrists. Felagund had him face away from the vanity, and took one of his feet in hand, lifting it so as to secure an anklet, and then ran his hands up Thranduil’s leg and looked at him in a way that made the tips of Thranduil’s ears grow hot, and he looked away.

               Thranduil was too broad of chest and shoulder to fit in any of Felagund’s tailored robes, but the king tied a bright sash around his waist and draped a shawl over him and smiled with childish joy.

               “How beautiful you are!” he cried. Thranduil regarded himself in the mirror, tilting his head this way and that to admire the hang of the earrings and the fall of the beaded combs. “Does it please you?” Thranduil did not reply, but touched the various decorations and studied his reflection intently. “You should wear more jewelry. It complements you well. Not that I mean to say you need it, but a little extra never hurts, does it?” 

The king baffled Thranduil further still when the game ended there, and the king released him so as to busy himself with matters of statecraft. Everything he had adorned his reluctant ambassador with he took back, but for a pair of diamond and gold earrings.

“Why don’t you keep these a while longer?” he said. “They suit you well.” Then he sent Thranduil on his way, and Thranduil felt that he had been left vastly underprepared for the state of diplomacy in Nargothrond.

***

               The chambers which King Finrod had granted him for his stay were cozy and well-furnished, tucked into the safety of Nargothrond’s halls and complemented with elegant furnishings that bespoke of the talent of Nargothrond’s carpenters. The carpets were thick underfoot and the covers stuffed with down. In his rooms, Thranduil pondered what the king wanted from him, and what might be afoot that Doriath had not told him before sending him off.

               Or was it as simple as it seemed? Thranduil’s mind pushed back against this possibility; here he was, no one special or of note from a kingdom for which the Noldor held little regard, of a people who were not, it was mentioned regularly, Calaquendi, and who was possessed, he was aware, of no great charm or eloquence. What value could he possibly have to one such as Finrod Felagund but in the service of some greater play?

               Swinging regularly between being certain he had overlooked something, and chiding himself for overthinking it all, Thranduil tucked himself into the chair at the desk and attempted to compose a brief on what had happened so far, but he did not get much beyond the feast before he ran out of words. It was his duty to report, but…surely there were some things which would not be of much use or interest to Thingol and his courtiers! Therefore, Thranduil, flushed about the ears, skipped a great deal of time between the feast, and his own slightly-fictitious exit from the festivities.

               While he was finishing this account, there came a rap on the door, and he immediately looked down to what he wore: naught but simple leggings and a plain tunic, as he had not expected to be disturbed. Hopefully this was not inappropriate for the guest at the door.

               He opened it and was greeted by an Elf he did not know (And that feeling, in his stomach? Was that disappointment?), who introduced themselves as one of the royal tailors.

               “I have come at the behest of King Felagund,” they announced. “I am to fit you for a new robe.” Thranduil blinked.

               “Why?”

               “I believe it is His Grace’s intent to make a gift of it.” This kickstarted all the machinations of Thranduil’s mind anew, and, hedging, he submitted to the tailor’s measuring. “Mhm…mhm…” They scratched out numbers on a scrap of parchment. “Mhm…Do you prefer a looser fit, or tighter?”

               “A looser one, if I have a say.”

               “Good, good…mhm…And do you prefer front clasps, or a side-tie?” they asked, nudging his arms up out of the way.

               “Either is fine.”

               “Mhm…very well…” The tailor went on scribbling, and Thranduil wondered why they had not asked a more obvious question.

               “What of the color?” he asked.

               “The color is to be green,” they declared. “This the king has requested.” Requested? Thranduil’s mouth turned down in a thoughtful frown. “Mhm. This should be enough, yes. I will find you if more is needed.” In silence, Thranduil let the tailor take their leave, and at once resumed his puzzling over the king’s intentions. Each time he was convinced he had almost come to the truth of it, he resolved that he was putting far too much thought into it, and it was all laughable. If he were wrong, though, and there was some ploy in motion—

               But what in all of Arda would King Finrod Felagund think to gain from Thranduil?

***

               It was the king’s habit, Thranduil was told, to occasionally host such private soirees, with a handful of friends and guests, to play their instruments together.

               “I play no instrument,” Thranduil said, which was something of a lie, but he had brought nothing with him, and cared not to be presented with some thing of Nargothrond’s with which he was unfamiliar.

               “The king is just as pleased with an audience,” he was told. So he went to Felagund’s parlor. It was a room he had doubtless chosen for the acoustics, dominated by a large, low, lacquered wood platform, which was stacked with innumerable cushions, and on which Finrod sat with his other musically-inclined guests, while the less so-inclined lounged on the available sofas.

               Passing unnoticed among the Noldor was proving a great difficulty for Thranduil, with which his height offered no assistance, and it was just so now, for King Finrod took notice the moment he walked through the door and waved.

               “Thranduil!” he called. “Come and sit with us!” The stares of the residents of Nargothrond crawled up Thranduil’s back, and he wished that if Felagund wanted his attention, he had thought to invite him alone. Nevertheless, he complied, and did not quibble when Felagund patted a spot on the platform beside him, where he placed a cushion for Thranduil to sit. Into his hair he had woven several tiny bells that tinkled fetchingly whenever he turned his head, and in place of a crown of gold or silver, he wore one woven of small branches and baby’s breath.

               “I fear I did not think to bring something with me,” Thranduil said, beginning to feel exhausted of trying to keep up with the king and the rest of the kingdom. The king waved a dismissive hand.

               “Oh, worry not. We cannot all play, or we would have naught but a cacophony!” He strummed his little harp, and there was a brief agreement among the players on what song to begin with, and then they started up.

               Any misgivings Thranduil had about his appearance at this gathering faded into mute irrelevance as the sound of Nargothrond’s musicians enveloped him, seeming to make the halls brighter, the ceilings higher, the walls grander. The very colors of the room seemed to burn with greater intensity, and as nothing was asked of him, Thranduil was able to lose himself in the sound with little thought to anything else. His attention slackened as he allowed himself to enter the world of the music and leave behind the one in front of him.

               It was thus a surprise when the players began to talk of the hour and he realized the sofas were nearly empty, and they had lost one flutist.

               “I suppose the hour does grow late,” the king allowed with half a shrug. “If you are weary, friends, do take your leave. Ah, but there was something I wanted to play before I retire myself.” He looked directly at Thranduil then, and Thranduil wondered for a panicked moment if he was meant to guess what Felagund was thinking. But that was not the case, and the king began to play with no accompaniment, and it took no special political analysis to see he played for Thranduil alone, never mind anyone else still in the room.

               It was the sort of music that put an incurable ache in the breast, that tapped into some depthless well of sadness of the fae, and listening to Finrod play it was like plunging into those dark fathoms, like breathing in the weight of his grief.  And yet, there was too a sweetness in it, bittered by the longing, but present the same, and twined with the inherent melancholy of its melody, it was intoxicating, and seductive in its dolor. The king sang not, only played, his fingers dancing with ease across the strings as though the harp was merely an extension of himself, or some tool of magic in which he merely had to imbue his will. Thranduil did not realize until he played the closing notes that he had not taken his eyes off the king since he began.

               “What was it?” he asked then.

               “A lament for Valinor,” Felagund answered softly, looking up at Thranduil with that gentle gaze, and Thranduil could see reflected in his eyes that which he had poured into the song. “There were lyrics, once, but…ah, well, they are Quenya.”

               “There is no translation?”

               “No. It would not suit,” the king answered. “Not this one.”

               “Did you write this?”

               “I did,” the king answered with a faint smile that did not banish the shadow from his face. “Does it please you?” Was it wrong, to answer yes to a song of the king’s impotent longing for the land of his birth?

               “I have heard few others with your talent,” Thranduil said at last, which was true, but perhaps he should not have admitted it so easily.

               “You flatter me,” the king said, shaking his head. “But I shan’t argue with you about it. Maedhros told me that once. Not to argue with someone praising you.” At the mention of the Fëanorians, Thranduil’s back stiffened, but Felagund said no more of them.

               “I should pay you back in kind, for your song,” Thranduil said. “Although I have no such talent with a harp.” Nor did he have the king’s divine voice, but Thranduil loved well the songs of Doriath, and he would not consider them inferior to those of Nargothrond even if Felagund could play with all the grace of the Valar.

               “Oh, yes! Let us hear something of yours,” the king agreed at once, setting his harp aside and turning to face Thranduil fully. Briefly, Thranduil considered he might have waited for the king to disperse the rest of his guests, but that opportunity was gone.

               Instead, he breathed deeply and focused for a moment before he began to sing. It was a ballad in praise of Yavanna and her forests, to which the Sindar owed their lives and their safety. Though the words were glad and rang in glory for the unsurpassed creations of Yavanna, the tune was slow and steady. Taken up by many voices at once, Thranduil had heard it ring through the treetops and turn all the world to starlight and lush new growth. And while he sang he cared not for what Nargothrond would think of it, nor even Felagund, because it was such a song as brought him joy to sing, and for a few moments, took him home to those familiar forest paths into which he fit as neatly as the animals that ran and leaped and flew through the trees.

               “I see you need no instrument,” the king said when he was done. “Though, perhaps, whilst you are here, you might let me accompany you as I can?” He placed a hand on the harp.

               “I should think there are others more suited to that role than I,” Thranduil said, lowering his eyes. The musical skill of Finrod Felagund was not unknown, and Thranduil was certain the king made his offer not because Thranduil’s voice was well enough for the task, but because the king had taken some peculiar liking to him.

               “Perhaps, but I am not asking them now,” the king said. “However! I believe we have had enough for tonight, and so we may revisit this idea later. For now, I will bid you all a fond farewell, and I will see you tomorrow.”

               Thranduil found himself lingering at the tail end of the group of Elves dispersing from the king’s room, and as Felagund put his harp away, he cast a crooked smile back at Thranduil.

               “Are you in need of something, Thranduil?” he asked.

               The question made him feel hot about the throat, and he averted his eyes.

               “I only wished to thank you for your invitation,” he said.

               “And this must be done in private?” Felagund was playing with him! He could see it in that impish look!

               “It need not be, but I prefer it that way,” Thranduil answered, unwilling to give into the king’s efforts to fluster him. Well, he would try, in any case, but even Thranduil knew that if the king pressed, he would cave. His defenses against the machinations of Finrod Felagund were woefully inadequate and seemed not likely to improve in the immediate future.

               “In that case, you are most welcome, my friend,” said the king with a gracious nod of his head. “I am very pleased you were able to join us, and more so that you favored us with such a lovely song. Now, Thranduil Oropherion, I think you should get some sleep.”

               Somehow, Thranduil had not expected to be dismissed, and he blinked dumbly at the king.

               “It has been a busy few days here in Nargothrond,” the king sighed in satisfaction, glancing about the room. “And I think we are due for rest. After all, it is a good many days still before you will depart, and you must keep up with us!”

               “As Your Grace wishes,” Thranduil said at last, giving a slight bow.

               “Tsk. I will break you of that habit yet, little deer.” The teasing nickname, first applied as the king pulled Thranduil into his bed with both hands, made the tips of his ears smolder.

               “You may try,” he said quietly. “But any creature of the woods is not easily broken.”

               “As well they should not be,” said Felagund. “Their beauty is in part in their wildness, and in truth, I should take no pleasure in destroying such a thing.” Then he waved his hand, giving a final dismissal to his Doriathian emissary, and Thranduil took his leave, and spent the rest of his waking hours wondering what move the king had just played.

***

Thranduil had been conscious of the Noldor gaze from the moment he set foot in Nargothrond’s territory, but he felt it crash over him anew when he walked in the door to the second of King Finrod’s feasts. He should not have permitted this, he should not have allowed himself to be drawn into Felagund’s puerile games! But it was too late now; to turn back was to admit that he had been outplayed, or to let them think he would be cowed so easily. That was not to be borne.

(Or worse—was there some churlishly rebellious part of him which had suspected the thrust of this game, and gone ahead with in spite of the possibility?)

               So Thranduil raised his chin high and strode to the table, candlelight glinting off the headpiece of Felagund’s that he had settled on Thranduil’s white-gold head in his chambers before the feast. Then, it had seemed only a silly dress-up game, just as they had done before, but Thranduil had had a thought as he approached the dining hall, which was proven true in light of the reactions of the rest of the guests, which was this: Everyone knew this headpiece belonged to King Finrod. It was no simple thing; if there was one thing Felagund was particular about, it was his jewelry, and each piece of it was custom-made.

               Bracing himself against the stares of the Noldor, Thranduil took his seat and looked neither down, nor at any of them, but straight through to the walls, as if he dined in a hall of empty chairs. Angrod, the king’s visiting brother, was seated by the right hand of the king. He swiveled to look at the king as he entered, and leaned over to whisper urgently to him as soon as he was near enough.

               “Thranduil,” said the king, not acknowledging his brother’s fervent whispering, and instead waving Thranduil to come have a seat nearer to him. “Come and sit here, won’t you? I would speak with our representative from Doriath. We see you so infrequently!” The Elf to Thranduil’s right looked sharply at him, and he met her gaze unwaveringly as he rose to his feet, and then took the proffered seat at the king’s end of the table.

               “What are you doing?” The benefit to this move was that Thranduil was now near enough to catch, if he strained, the hissing of Angrod. “Do you look to make a mockery of us all?”

               “You are fretting about nothing,” Felagund replied. They both spoke with that Noldoran edge to their speech which made the words sound sharper than a Sindar or Silvan.

               “Nothing! It is one thing for you to play games with our representatives. But to be so brazen! What do you mean to say to the court with this?”

               “I wish to say nothing,” Finrod answered. “It looks well on him, does it not? Why shouldn’t he wear it?”

               “Because it’s yours,” Angrod said through gritted teeth as Thranduil feigned an interest in the roasted carrots before him.

               “Precisely. Mine. And I have given it to him for the night. I see not what your complaint is.” Angrod clenched his fist around his fork.

               “It is a message,” Angrod insisted quietly.

               “Not one of any consequence to anyone here,” King Finrod said breezily, reaching for his wine goblet.

               “I should not like to cause any trouble for you, Your Grace,” Thranduil remarked, when it seemed silly to continue pretending he wasn’t eavesdropping, as though it had not been the king who suggested this.

               “And you have not done so,” Felagund replied. “Mind not my little brother’s fretting. He worries overmuch.” He flashed a smile in Angrod’s direction, and poured his brother a fresh helping of wine. “Relax, brother dear. It’s just a little fun.”

               “It’s a display,” Angrod disagreed. “And I do not think it would please Thingol.”

               “Then Thingol should not have sent me an emissary of such breathtaking beauty,” King Finrod said, giving a smile of a different sort to Thranduil.

               “Should I excuse myself?” Thranduil asked, his patience ended for being spoken of as if he were not present, as if he had no say. “Or am I permitted an opinion on how I present myself to your court?” Angrod dipped his head.

               “Of course. It is only my wish that Finrod not offend our allies—” That was a stretch, “—with his games.”

               “I am not offended,” Thranduil said. “And as I am the only emissary you have from Doriath, I am could not say who else’s opinion matters.” Felagund was biting down on a grin.

               “See? He is not offended. And it is Thranduil who will report to Thingol. So you needn’t worry yourself about anything.” He reached over and tugged on one of Agnrod’s braids. “Now, let us forget this political business and enjoy ourselves!” And Finrod the Beloved raised his cup to the rest of the table.

***

               They were still waiting on a representative from Himlad, who had apparently been delayed, and while Thranduil did not doubt King Finrod would carry on throwing nightly feasts until they were actually able to have the summit, the rest of Nargothrond had somewhat less appetite for relentless parties. Therefore, the present guests were left to entertain themselves during much of the day and on several nights, and when Thranduil deigned to emerge from his room and explore a bit of Nargothrond on his own, he realized he needed something more to do with the restive energy itching in his limbs.

               It took longer than he would admit, but he found his way back to the room where the king had requested he display what he knew of swordplay, thinking such a thing would drain the restlessness from him, but some force was taunting him, for the room was not empty when Thranduil stepped into it.

               The king, bare above the waist and below the ankle, was there on a wide reed mat, stretching. He had braided his hair into one long rope, and pinned it up around his head like a crown. He turned to the sound of the door closing, and his eyes widened momentarily.

               “Hello! Come for some exercise?” he greeted Thranduil, straightening up. “I had that thought as well.”

               “Forgive me,” Thranduil said. “I had thought it would be empty. I meant not to disturb you.”

               “You disturb me not,” the king replied. “In fact, this is the better! Now we might spar together! Do you wrestle much in Doriath?”

               “We…do,” Thranduil said hesitantly, busying himself all too briefly with removing his shoes.

               “Perfect! Would you oblige me then, Thranduil?”

               “I…am not sure it would be a fair match, Your Grace,” Thranduil said, looking the king up and down. There were exceptions, of course, but there was a point at which a wrestling match simply came down to weight. And in that realm, Thranduil knew he came out on top—Felagund was nearly a head shorter, and narrower of person than he, and would have a mighty fight ahead of himself to overcome that.

               Felagund gave a gusty sigh.

               “Such lack of faith you have in me! I promise you will not break me, nor will losing this match inspire me to declare war on Doriath,” the king said, giving Thranduil a teasing little smile, inviting him to come onto the mat. “It’s only for fun.”

               Far be it from Thranduil to refuse the King of Nargothrond. He removed his robe and all accompanying jewelry, bound his hair back in a simple braid, and joined Felagund on the mat.

               “You must not hold back on my account,” the king instructed him. “Or I shall be terribly disappointed with you.”

               “As Your Grace commands,” Thranduil said with half a bow, suppressing a smirk. He could see Finrod’s eyes once again tracing the tattoos exposed by Thranduil’s undress, details that seemed to have delighted him abed, most particularly the swallow on the left side of Thranduil’s ribs.

               “Tsk! Now I shall have the better of you for that.”

               He did not. Although, he did put up a remarkable fight, and proved far slipperier than Thranduil might have imagined. Felagund danced around him, whirling and ducking out of reach with wind-touched speed, and managed to escape from several grips which Thranduil had thought would be the end of it. But ultimately, as Thranduil had predicted, it came down to weight, and Thranduil outweighed the king by enough that throwing him onto his back and pining his shoulders to the ground was not beyond his abilities. By the time he managed this, they were both flushed about the face and chest, and paused a moment to catch their breath. And then a moment more. And another moment more.

               Thranduil should have let him up by now. He should have, but he was dizzy looking down into Finrod’s eyes, and the way they gazed up at him, and the heat of the king’s thighs against his, and the faint sheen of sweat across his throat. Thranduil should have let the king up, but instead he sank lower, easing down onto his elbows on the mat, until his mouth was just a hair’s breadth from the king’s.

               The weight of him rested between the king’s legs, and he thought Felagund might not thank him for moving away.

               The king’s mouth was an elegant Cupid’s bow shape, and so very pink, and his lips were parted just so as he caught his breath. Thranduil was only barely aware of making a decision before his mouth was against the king’s and then he pressed into that hot kiss, grazing his teeth over the king’s lips. Felagund leaned up into the kiss, and Thranduil felt the undulation of his body as he arched up against Thranduil, and against his abdomen he felt the press of the king’s hips. Thranduil’s lips parted against the kiss and the king’s hands were on the back of his head as he opened his mouth for a deeper kiss.

               They separated wetly and Thranduil did not bother wiping the saliva off his mouth before he was kissing King Finrod’s throat, tasting the salt of his sweat, and the king groaned and arched up against Thranduil again. There was a fire that raged in Thranduil’s chest, making his head light and making him hyperaware of every point of contact between them; every time Finrod moved it electrified him and so pressed together he could feel every movement of the king’s.

               “Your Grace,” he whispered raggedly, lifting his head from the king’s chest to meet his gaze, and saw how dilated the king’s eyes had gone, and a shiver went down his back. “Do you wish for me to stop?” Last time, he had not wanted to be so engaged in a place where they were not guaranteed privacy, and Thranduil could not assume that their last tryst had necessarily been an invitation for more.

               “No,” the king answered at once. “No, don’t you dare.” So, barely suppressing a pleased smile, Thranduil lowered his head again, and branded him with kisses, and lapped at the skin of a king. The breathy moaning and half-swallowed whimpers of pleasure escaping Felagund was music of an entirely different kind, but just as sweet as the king’s harp, and Thranduil might very well grow intoxicated on it.

               The rolling of the king’s hips had grown increasingly erratic and urgent, and Thranduil could feel the king’s need sharply against his stomach, and so he responded by pressing his weight down in a way that made the king give a broken cry, digging his fingers into Thranduil’s hair and rutting against him.

               “Oh, please,” he gasped. “Oh, Thranduil! Be good, won’t you? Be good and do that again?” Of course, it wouldn’t do to refuse a king.

               There was nothing in that room, nothing in all the world but King Finrod’s desire and pleasure, and Thranduil wanted nothing else: not food, nor water, nor air. He would sate himself entirely on the scrape of the king’s nails on his back and chest, on the sight of Finrod’s flushed face and the wild look in his eyes, on the smell of him pressed against Thranduil’s nose.

               He put his hand between them, palming against the king’s arousal and the king pulled at Thranduil’s braid, jerking loose a fistful of hair.

               “Oh, harder than that,” he said. “I promised you would not break me, Thranduil.” Thranduil would not have it said that he failed to win over King Finrod on his mission! He experimented then, with varying degrees of pressure, but none of it seemed too rough for the king, and it wasn’t until Felagund moved one of Thranduil’s hands to his throat the he understood the roughness was the draw. He squeezed only lightly and the king’s hips bucked immediately against him and it was just a breath or two later that the king, straining desperately against his breeches, made the same sound he had several nights past in his bed, and went boneless against the mat.

               Thranduil, finding himself breathless for all that it was not he being ravished, surveyed the mess he had made with more satisfaction than he ought to have: A few strands of the king’s golden hair had come loose and were stuck to his face and neck, and there were red spots on his chest where Thranduil had been too enthusiastic with his teeth, and his eyes were half-closed as he caught his breath.

               “Are you pleased?” Thranduil asked softly. Slowly, he moved over the king again and touched his lips to his neck, just below the ear, and murmured again, “Are you pleased, Finrod?”

***

               King Finrod’s gift of the tailored robe arrived the morning they were due to meet. The representative from Himlad, Felagund’s cousin Celegorm, had arrived the night before, and so it was time to get to the real work. Not in such a rush he didn’t have time to appreciate new fashion, Thranduil took the time to flick out the robe and have a look at it. It was a rich forest green, embroidered with gold in swirling patterns of leaves and vines, as though the tailor had done all they could to turn Doriath into a dress. A small smile drew across Thranduil’s face; if it was presumptuous of the king to gift him such a thing, he had at least put such effort into it as Thranduil could see it would look good on him. It had come with a pair of slippers, too.

               But it was time for business, and Thranduil was obliged to turn himself to graver matters. He put the robe aside and dressed carefully, trying to ensure he looked as poised and put-together as he could. It was impossible not to be aware that he was by far the youngest of those at this event, and moreover, the only one not a High Elf, and he would not have them making more assumptions about him at first glance than were unavoidable. Even if it was only thanks to Oropher’s unfeeling offering of his person that he was there, Thranduil would do well by King Thingol.

***

               “This entire endeavor serves no purpose,” asserted one of the Noldor the moment King Finrod had landed in his seat. “What are we meant to achieve when the high king is not present?”

               “Regional discussions may be held amongst ourselves,” Felagund replied evenly, laying out a bit of parchment before himself. There were no flowers in his hair that day. “And I will, of course, relay our discussion to my uncle.”

               “If Fingolfin can’t be bothered to be here, I see not why we shouldn’t make our own decisions,” Celegorm opined, slouched in his seat with his hawk’s eyes pinned on the king. His sharp, narrow features gave him a look of perpetual suspicion, and there was a hardness in his brow that could not have made him look more different from Finrod.

               “We are merely gathered to reaffirm our general friendship and ensure that it continues into the future,” said the king. “There is no need to arrive with blades already drawn.”

               “We are not here to undermine anyone,” Angrod emphasized from his place at the king’s right. “This gathering is purely in the interest of strengthening our ties and acknowledging our mutual goals.”

               “Do we have mutual goals?” Celegorm asked. “Or is it not that some of them merely tend to overlap? Why, it shocks me that Thingol has bothered to acknowledge us at all!” He turned his icy glare on Thranduil, who lifted his chin in response.

               “You gave little enough thought to us when you arrived on our shores and began carving out kingdoms for yourselves,” Thranduil replied, which was not, precisely, the sort of diplomacy Oropher might have counseled.

               It was the first time he had ever occasioned to speak to a son of Fëanor, one of that wolf-pack whose yellow eyes, ever-mistrustful, ever-searching, watched over the plains and valleys of Middle-earth, inspiring endless wariness in their reluctant neighbors.

               “As if it were in use! Thingol steps not outside his treehouse and has no claim to lands abroad,” Celegorm sneered.

               “No claim and no responsibility,” Thranduil returned.

               “Yes, yes, we are all aware Thingol cares not for what transpires beyond his borders. Yet it may be things outside will not stay outside for long, if he insists on withholding his assistance!”

               “What, then?” Thranduil demanded. “You would have us be your allies? We know how you treat your allies! Or are we too, expected to lovingly submit to a knife in the back as you treated Olwë?” Celegorm and the king were both on their feet then.

               “Do not speak of matters about which you know less than nothing.” Celegorm’s wide hands splayed on the table and Thranduil tensed, half-prepared for violence. From the Noldor, one could never be certain. Once a kinslayer, always a kinslayer.

               “The circumstances of that event are more complex than—” Angrod began.

               “I see enough simplicity in murder—”

               “That’s enough!” Felagund’s voice rang through the room and all eyes turned to him. “Cousin, seat yourself. We are not here to rehash old mistakes and past tragedies.” He swiveled his reproachful gaze to Thranduil. In his eyes, there was something darker, and Thranduil was reminded with great unease that King Finrod—allegedly—had been present at the Kinslaying. Yet he had not the defensive look of his cousin, but something with greater fragility. “Nor are we here to bandy pejorative accusations.” He took his seat.

               “None of us has illusions about the Kinslaying,” Felagund went on quietly. “But we cannot take back what was done, nor will we seek to excuse ourselves for it.”

               “Nor can you lay blame on us for treating you with caution,” Thranduil countered. “The slaying of Elf by Elf was not heard of in Middle-earth before your coming.” And the newly-arrived Noldor had then sought to conceal it from the rest.

               “It was not my intention to invite you here for the purpose of berating the decisions of Elu Thingol,” said the king. “Only so that we might discuss the ongoing cooperation among ourselves.” He looked to Celegorm. “If there are issues we need take to Fingolfin, I am happy to make note of them, so that we can make them known to him. I trust that Curufin has relayed to you whatever he may wish me to know, or to make known to Fingolfin.”

               If Celegorm thought to make more nuisance, he restrained himself, and Thranduil too, for he understood then Felagund would not tolerate his little summit being used to cause further strive amongst the Eldar. Celegorm settled for a long stare, under which the king did not flinch, before he took his seat again.

               “Good,” Angrod murmured, reaching for a quill that he might make notes on anything productive said among them.

               “Now, I was speaking the other day of the safe passage of riders and caravans in the north…” The king slid a map to the center of the table, and indicated the paths to which he referred. He had some ideas on the ways to best protect the transportation of messages and goods between their kingdoms, and Thranduil in silence let him bat some of these back and forth with Celegorm, until the son of Fëanor spoke to him again.

               “Of course, passage would be far more certain if we were permitted to pass behind the Girdle of Melian.”

               “If you wish for greater safety, take the long way around south,” Thranduil replied without sympathy.

               “Cousin, let us hold ourselves to suggestions that might have a chance of becoming policy—” the king said.

               “How long!” Celegorm brought a hand down on the table. “How long will Elu Thingol punish us for a thing which took place in a land he has never seen, to people who are not his?”

               “That is not for me to—” the king began, before Celegorm turned to their emissary of Doriath.

               “Well?” he said.

               “Well what?” Thranduil asked, perhaps with more belligerence than was necessary.

               “What is your king’s mind, of how long we must pay penance? Is there some figure for a date when his need for retribution will be satisfied?”

               “It is not retributive,” Thranduil said. “At such a time as you have proven yourselves trustworthy, and unlike your father, then perhaps we may speak again of your entrance into Doriath.”

               “I do not need to prove myself to a woodland sprite who never saw the Light,” Celegorm snarled.

               “Yes,” Thranduil said, straightening to his full height. “You do.”

               “That is enough,” the king said again. “Will you now behave yourselves, as grown Elves should? Or shall I send you both home to report you could not manage a single hour of speaking to each other?” The bickering Elves stilled, and if there was any allowance for Thranduil in the king, Thranduil did not see it in his eyes, and as chastised as he was, he found he preferred a Felagund who did not soften for him so. “Very well. Now again, we turn to practical alternatives to these present routes, or additional security measures…”

               There was not, nor was there ever like to be, love lost between Thranduil Oropherion and Celegorm Fëanorion, but under threat of further scolding from King Finrod, they managed to contain themselves to the occasional petty remark or snide expression through the end of the meeting. King Finrod produced a declaration of their ongoing comity, and all present signed to reaffirm their status—if not as allies, then as kingdoms not in opposition to each other.

               “Now, was that so hard?” Felagund asked as he rolled the parchment up. “You are free to go, but if I hear of any quarreling in my halls, you will answer to me for it, and I shall be very disappointed.” Celegorm strode out like there was some question of his being allowed to leave, Angrod was rubbing one temple as he headed for the door, and Thranduil followed behind in no rush, picking over the individual scenes of conversation to evaluate the successes and shortcomings, and to consider the king’s control over the group of them.

Lost in this thought, he was surprised by the hand fisting up his sleeve, and the way the king shoved him through a nearby doorway as the others continued down the hall. The room was a small study with a mahogany desk by the door, but Thranduil had no time to take much of it in before Felagund had him backed against the wall, his mouth sealed over Thranduil’s. His surprise quickly melted into pliability and he felt he was little more than clay between Felagund’s clever fingers. The king’s lips seared a path along his jaw and down his neck, and Thranduil could not help the way he gasped as the king’s teeth sank into the juncture of his neck and his shoulder, or the half-stifled moan that slipped out.

               Before he had time to catch his breath and ask what was going on, the king’s slender hand was between his legs and Thranduil bit his lip with the effort of restraining himself from pressing against that touch.

               “Do you want to stop?” Felagund murmured against his throat, and when he looked up at Thranduil his eyes were molten, limpid, open in his desire in a way that was heady to one so reserved as Thranduil. Did he want to stop? Did Finrod not see that he was a sculptor and Thranduil was become the marble in his hands? Could he not feel the tremors in Thranduil’s core at the touch of his fingers, not understand that no one was permitted to manhandle him the way he allowed the king to do?

               “No,” he whispered. “Don’t stop.”

               Then the king’s mouth was on him again, his hands against Thranduil’s face, his fingers brushing Thranduil’s ears, and Thranduil leaned into his kiss, pulling the king flush against him. The memory of Felagund splayed beneath him in the training room, pink and writhing and moaning under Thranduil’s explorative efforts, hard in his hand and rutting against him, shot through his mind and the explosion of his own desires he had put aside to focus then on the king arrived with jarring force.

               The king took him to some place not wholly apart from waking sleep; it was not the waking world, it couldn’t be, for it was at once too vivid and too narrow; he made the rest of the world melt away to void, and Thranduil felt aware of each passing moment as if it were a lunar year. But it was an awareness of sensation and not of activity; this was how he was surprised by the sight of Felagund settling on his knees in front of him, parting his robe, and looking up at him like some creature of the woods, upon whom Thranduil had stumbled carelessly, who would now devour him whole and spit out his bones.

               Death had never sounded so thrilling a thing.

               To his feast the King of Nargothrond applied his mouth in a way that made Thranduil’s ears burn and he covered his mouth to hide his shaking breaths, unable to look anywhere but at the sight of Finrod’s red mouth around him and the bobbing of his crown as he moved his head and wrenched his Sindar apart at the seams with an eminently loving touch.

               It was over too soon, and when he was done, Thranduil trembled and the king neatened his clothes to make it as if nothing had happened.

               “I am certain it was not always so stressful to speak with my family,” said the king, dabbing at his mouth and reaching up to make sure his crown was on straight. Thranduil just watched him with a a wide stare of blue-gray, unsure if he was meant now to go, or if the king had other plans. “But Celegorm and Curufin have never forgiven Maedhros for surrendering the crown, nor Fingolfin for accepting it. We should be grateful it was only Celegorm who came.” At last he looked to his mute companion and smiled. “What, have you gone shy again, little deer?” He reached up and tweaked the tip of Thranduil’s ear. “You treated me so well the other day,” he said lowly. “Did I not owe you a favor?”

               “I…did not do it for a favor in return,” Thranduil said.

               “Then you are generous and lovely, and I am lost again,” said the king. Thranduil knew he was not a particularly loquacious sort, but the frequency with which Felagund robbed him of speech entirely was going to make the king think he was a dolt.

               When he left the room, Thranduil trailed in his wake, and wondered that perhaps he had been wrong from the start, and there was no game, and that Finrod Felagund was, of all things, exactly what he presented himself to be.

***

               One could only spend so much time underground before turning to madness. Thranduil took some of his free time to venture past the Doors of Felagund, back into the surrounding forest, and the fresh air helped to clear and focus his mind. He always felt more at peace with air beneath his feet, and although Felagund’s forest was not his own, it was something new to explore and Thranduil could appreciate its beauty for all Yavanna’s efforts in cultivating it.

               There had been rain that morning, though the sun was out then, and the dew-dropped leaves sparkled in the light, and the sun shone through the steam rising off the forest floor as the rain evaporated. The forest was misty and rang with bird calls and rodent scurrying as the animals emerged from cover into the light, and Thranduil closed his eyes to listen to the sounds.

               Perhaps he lingered longer than he ought, picking through the last few days, and trying to phrase his report for Thingol, and determine what King Finrod wanted from him. The other thing, he realized in his musing, was to consider what he wanted from the king. Did that not play into things? He could not say precisely what it was, but it was something to think on, and for now he could determine only that he was not opposed to the attentions of the King of Nargothrond, and rather, he preferred them to continue.

               “Thranduil!” It was the calling of his name that brought him back down from his thoughts, and the sound of footsteps below which made no effort to disguise themselves. “Thranduil, are you there?”

               “Here,” he called down, pleased to recognize the voice of the king.

               “Ah, they told me you had gone out,” came the reply. “You must forgive me, I had not thought to arrange a trip around our lands, but I should have.” There was a rustling as Felagund muscled his way up into the lower branches of the tree and into Thranduil’s view between the leaves. “Thranduil?” He glanced around. Into his braids were woven bursts of white and blue: flowers he must have gotten from the forest around Nargothrond.

               “Here, Your Grace.” He plucked a seed pod from the branch and with calculated aim, nailed Felagund in the back of the head with it. The king yipped as it made contact, and tilted his head back until he could catch sight of Thranduil’s foot, hanging off the edge of the branch.

               “Oh. And here I thought I had grown accustomed to the forest,” he said.

               “I was born in it,” Thranduil returned. He slid off the branch and dropped down onto a branch closer to the king with a few quick swings, careful to mind his footing on bark still damp from the morning rain. “In Doriath, we sometimes say our babies learn to climb before they learn to walk.” He offered a hand to the king, but Felagund waved him off, and made his own way up to sit on a branch just a bit higher than Thranduil’s.

               “One does feel removed from things up here,” he sighed. He took off his crown a moment, and ran his hand through his thick gold tresses, shaking his head as though to loose some of his worries.

               “Careful of your neck,” Thranduil said. The king furrowed his brow, and Thranuil nodded to the crown in his lap. “Crowns tend to weigh a great deal, I understand.” Finrod laughed.

               “They do, my friend, they do, and I am relieved to think it is a burden you shall never have to bear. But there are things that alleviate it, in the short-term.”

               “Oh?”

               “Yes. For example…” The king reached for one of the seed pods, and before Thranduil could move, pelted him in the chest with it. “A good shot.” A smile pulled at the corners of Thranduil’s mouth.

               “If you mean to provoke me, I would never be so indecorous as to fight with my host,” he said, mainly because he did not presently care to put in the effort to collect more seed pods.

               “Oh, certainly not,” said the king. “And I would never be so childish as to provoke a guest of mine.” Meeting the king’s twinkling eyes made it a nigh-impossible task to keep from smiling, so instead Thranduil rose to his feet.

               “I would, however, challenge him to a race.”

               “If you mean one of a vertical sort, I will cede victory to you right here,” said the king.

               “Not a race, then,” Thranduil allowed. He offered Felagund his hand again, and the king rose up. “The best place to look over your kingdom is here.” The king then followed Thranduil up the tree, and Thranduil credited him well for not wavering even as the branches grew thin and the ground distant. At last they reached a point of breaking the treetop, and Thranduil remained below, while Felagund had a look around the rarified air.

               “There is something to be said for fresh air!” the king declared, tipping his face up to the sunlight. “Sometimes I forget how well it does a person. You see? I spend too much time about the business of statecraft. I forget the simple things. I must travel more. I miss traveling.”

               “For a kingdom so stable as Nargothrond, I shouldn’t think that would be a problem,” Thranduil said.

               “Ah, there is always something new to consider,” the king said, ducking back under the leaves. “A million distractions and few of them of any real interest. You heard them at the meeting. You all have some new complaint or problem I must solve or for which I must account. Ask Thingol and Melian; I am sure they feel the same.”

               “They have ruled a kingdom longer than you,” Thranduil pointed out.

               “You think they have forgotten dreams of wandering crownless and barefoot, with none to answer to and no one tugging at their robes? I will tell you now, they have not.” He sighed. “I serve at the need of our people, and I am pleased to do it. Still, I would not have fought an older sibling of mine for the role.”

               “You have no older siblings, do you?”

               “No, and that is precisely the problem.” The king gave a little huff and settled on a sturdier branch, sitting with his back against the tree’s trunk. “Although I do think that if I should die, Celegorm and Curufin will hardly wait for my fae to be released before they make a claim on Nargothrond. But that will not be my mess to sort out! That will fall to the rest, and I shall laugh at their trouble!”

               It was impossible to look on Finrod Felagund and think of death; everything about him sang of vivacity and vigor; he was a concentrated burst of zeal and enthusiasm for all the world around him and even just to watch him was to feel the world was beautiful and worth exploring.

               Thranduil said nothing presently, and the king hummed a little tune, and began to sing. Something in Thranduil’s fae sighed at the sound, and he swore the birds ceased their calling to listen to the sound of Finrod Felagund’s voice ring through the treetops. He insisted his cousin Maglor was the better harpist, which Thranduil doubted, but more certain was he that none could surpass the sweet tenor of the king’s song, which seemed to call to the spirits of the earth and the trees and the beasts, until all the forest was swaying to the king’s tune and brightening at the call of his voice.

               Thranduil knew he stared, but what else could be expected of him, being just as enchanted as the rest of the woods?

               The king finished neatly and promptly began to make his way down the tree.

               “Are you coming?” the king called to Thranduil as he climbed downwards.

               “No, I think I will stay a while more,” Thranduil replied, feeling some ripple of the king’s song still echoing in the energy of the trees.

               “As you wish.” Distantly, there was the sound of the king’s feet hitting the forest floor, and then he was gone among the trees, leaving Thranduil to ruminate on the responsibilities of power.

***

               In the two-week stretch that Thranduil spent in Nargothrond, King Finrod found time and resource to throw another feasting party—which he insisted, was necessary, as Celegorm had not yet been present for one. Judging by the weary look on Celegorm’s face from where he sat still at the table, nursing the same glass of wine he’d been sipping at for over an hour, Thranduil would have assumed he did not much appreciate this effort.

               Thranduil would have assumed, if he had been paying the slightest attention to Celegorm, rather than making it his goal to sample every available type of wine at least three times. The vibe of earlier celebrations must have been off, he thought, for on the night of the this feast, he found his Noldor dance partners vastly more enjoyable, and wearied not at all of spinning about with them beneath the twinkling lights until they were breathless and giggly. Nor was a partner required for such things—Thranduil was just as happy to throw himself into the music alone, although this often led to acquiring a partner.

               One of those, of course, was Finrod.

               He pranced over to Thranduil for not the first time that night to press another cup of wine into his hand.

               “Have you tried this one?” he asked, speaking louder than strictly necessary to be heard over the vivacious fiddle going on in the corner. He had worn a crown of flowers to the festivities, but appeared to have lost it somewhere in the night, but for a leaf and twig that stuck out from his head at an odd angle, trapped in a few aureate strands of hair.

               “Which one is it?” Thranduil asked. The king paused, considered, then giggled.

               “You know, I can no longer recall.” Thranduil found this quite funny, and helped himself to the offering. He couldn’t remember his tally of cups anyway.

               “I had thought you cared not for parties,” the king said. “Or at least, not parties with us.” Thranduil shook his head.

               “No, your parties are excellent!” That was always the determination, when Thranduil reached that point in the night at which he was certain he had never been to a better one. “Dance with me!” He knocked back the rest of the wine, set the cup aside, and held his hands out to the king.

               “Give us something fast!” Felagund cried to the band, and grabbed Thranduil’s hands to pull him back towards the center mass of dancers. The musicians obligingly switched to an even faster tempo so that the king and his drunken emissary had something suitably energetic to which to whirl each other about on the dance floor. And so they went on, until Thranduil was dizzy and the king swayed on his feet, and wore his cheeks bright red. Thranduil recognized the shine in the king’s eyes from that first night, and was momentarily stunned almost to stillness that he could have misread his expressions so badly as to think Felagund was anything but the most marvelous delight.

               “So you do like parties,” the king said, and Thranduil nodded enthusiastically. “Fantastic! So do I!” For some reason, this struck Thranduil as worthy of laughing at, and the king grinned at him and grabbed his arm. “And you do laugh!”

               “I would laugh more if you were funnier,” Thranduil told him, and they cackled.

               “How cruel you are! Perhaps it’s your sense of humor that desires improving!” Thranduil was shaking his head. The king perked up at a new tune, and they passed into dancing again, sweaty hands clasping at each other, refusing to be parted for any new partners. When there was the inevitable crush of feet on feet between them, they only laughed and fell against each other trying to regain their footing.

               For a heartbeat, the king was pressed to his chest, and Thranduil stole his opportunity to whisper in his ear, “Finrod Finarfinion, you are too beautiful.” But he did not think the king heard, for the music was too loud, and there were too many people pressed around them, and that was just as he would have it. One did not always say a thing wanting it to be heard, but more to get it out of one’s head.

               Instead, in the lull between one song and the next, Thranduil grabbed the king’s sleeve, half to get his attention, half to maintain his own balance. It was becoming quite difficult to stop moving abruptly.

               “Hey,” he said. “Can you drink upside-down? I can.”

               “Of course I can!” the king boasted. “That’s easy.”

               “I bet I could drink more than you.”

               “Oh, do you? I challenge you then, Thranduil Oropherion!”

***

               The next morning, breakfast was officially, by royal decree, delayed until noon.

***

               Thranduil reviewed his dress. The robe that the king had given him fit as neatly as any of his own, despite the tailor’s having visited him only once. It paired excellently with the slippers, and complemented not only Thranduil’s complexion, but his figure. He braided his hair, and let it down, and braided it up again, before settling on a partial braid, just enough to draw it away from his face. As he examined this look, his eyes fell on the earrings on the desk, the ones Felagund had sent him away with after the first night. With only a moment’s hesitation, he took them up and put them in.

               The king had not asked for him, but Thranduil found himself suddenly quite conscious that his time in Nargothrond was drawing rapidly to a close. What he would do if he arrived dressed so and the king had other company, or sent him away, he wasn’t certain (besides that he would feel very foolish), but he decided it was worth the risk, if only to prove he was not some diffident fawn who needed constant coaxing.

               His quiet knock at the door was answered immediately.

               “Come in.”

               Still he hesitated a breath before he eased the door open and closed it quickly behind him.

               “Your Grace.”

               The king was at his desk, and he looked up at the greeting, and a tired smile bloomed on his face.

               “Hello, Thranduil. Oh! Is that what I commissioned? Come here, let me have a look at you!” Thranduil swept over to stand comfortably in the king’s view, and Felagund wore a look quite smug for one who had not actually made the thing that Thranduil was wearing. “Ah, I was right about the color! You are as exquisite as the first spring rain over the roses. Does it please you?” At that moment, he caught sight of the earrings, and rose to his feet. “Oh, you have learned already how to tease me.” He touched one of the diamond teardrops and then leaned up to press a kiss to Thranduil’s lips, which Thranduil gladly accepted and returned. “You wear my things very well.”

               “I am glad it pleases you.” Thranduil wished he had something cleverer to say, something that might steal the reply from the king’s lips, or flush his pretty heart-shaped face, but he did not. He had only the truth, bare and open as it was.

               “I am afraid I have a great deal to get through tonight, so I must not let you distract me,” the king said. “But if you are content to, you might stay here and be about your own business.” Thranduil touched the king’s loose locks. “You may take one of those chairs there,” he added, gesturing. “If you wish to sit beside me.”

               Rather, Thranduil sat behind him, and occupied himself not with his report to Thingol, but to combing and braiding the king’s luscious curls. They smelled of something sweet and floral Thranduil could not place, and he kept his touch very light so as not to distract the king from his work, and mostly resisted the urge to bury his nose in Felagund’s hair. He did it up one way, and took it down, and did it up another, and gathered it away so he could press a feather-soft kiss to the back of the king’s neck.

               “I do not understand this game you play, Finrod,” Thranduil admitted quietly. It was true, and it had been true since he first arrived, and he saw nothing to be gained from continuing to pretend otherwise.

               “Game?”  The king twisted in his seat to look at the younger Elf. “What game?”

               “With me.”

               Felagund resettled in his chair with a leg tucked beneath him so he could look more fully at Thranduil.

               “I play no game,” he said. “I saw you enter my hall and I thought you a jewel; a living testament to the artistry of Illuvatar which I should like to know better. And since then, I have greatly enjoyed our time together. No more. I wish nothing from you, Thranduil, but your company whilst you are here, unless you wish not to give it.” Once again, the King of Nargothrond rendered him speechless, fumbling in the dark for some appropriate or even adequate reply.  

               “Oh,” he said intelligently after some thought. A little smile pulled at Finrod’s mouth.

               “I think you imagine I am far more complicated than I am,” he said. “Perhaps because you are very complicated. I wish I could say I had some great machination at work, some cunning plan for the benefit of Nargothrond or the collapse of our enemies, but in truth it was all selfishness, and nothing more than my own desire.”

               Thranduil did not know what to do with this openness.

               “Have I disappointed you?” Finrod asked with a little laugh and a smile that seemed almost sorrowful.

               Thranduil touched Finrod’s cheek, ran his thumb along his jaw.

               “No,” he said, before leaning in to kiss him. When he pulled away, the melancholy had evaporated from Finrod’s eyes, and he pecked Thranduil’s lips again before turning his attention back to his desk, leaving Thranduil to finish off the braid in peaceful silence. When he had finished, he went to the vanity and stripped the flowers in the vase from their branch, and these he wove into Finrod’s hair himself.

***

               On the night before Thranduil was to depart Nargothrond, he lay abed with the king. Finrod held Thranduil’s head against his bare chest and stroked his hair, and caressed the shell of his ear, and Thranduil was limp against him like a cat passed out in a beam of sunlight. One of the flowers that had come loose from Finrod’s hair lay near Thranduil’s hand on the covers.

               “I truly had not thought Thingol would send anyone,” Finrod remarked. “You surprised me with your arrival.” The cut on his chest was faded to nothing more than a faint line, and Thranduil idly traced it with one finger. In a few more days, it would be gone entirely.

               “My father volunteered me to go,” Thranduil mumbled. “I suppose Thingol saw no reason to refuse a volunteer.” Finrod laughed, a sound like tinkling bells that made Thranduil exhale in contentment and close his eyes.

               “Volunteered! Oh, poor thing. He sent you near about into a viper’s nest, didn’t he?”

               “Only if you count Noldor as vipers.”

               “Don’t you?”

               “I do, as a matter of fact.” Finrod chuckled, took no insult, and went on petting Thranduil.

               “Well, I can’t be too outraged on your behalf, as I have benefitted greatly from Oropher’s questionable choices.” Thranduil huffed quietly, but could not bring himself to sit up so he could give Finrod a proper glare for that remark.

               “Indeed you have.”

               “And I alone?” Finrod prompted him.     

               “You did get the better end of the deal.” Thranduil managed to say it with a straight face even though Finrod could not see his expression. “All things considered.”

               “All things considered!” Finrod exclaimed. Thranduil took on the risks of taunting a person in whose arms he lay naked, and reaped the consequences of that when Finrod grabbed at his side in a place that made him yelp and jerk away, his placid repose spoiled. “Don’t you make me take my gifts back, Thranduil Oropherion.”

               “A gift can’t be taken back,” Thranduil asserted, and made a grab for Finrod in the same way he had been so callously assaulted, but Finrod easily saw it coming and swatted him away. Thranduil made another go for it, and this time Finrod pounced and succeeded in wrestling him into submission, pinning his wrists to the mattress, straddled across his waist. Thranduil gave a wriggle, but found to his surprise that Finrod had him trapped quite effectively.

               For the pain of his defeat, Thranduil smiled up at Finrod, and the king shook his head.

               “Mind you become not too sure of yourself, little deer,” he scolded Thranduil gently. “The world is a great wide place, and you have seen but little of it.”

               “But even in my little corner, I have seen great beauty which I think should not be surpassed elsewhere, even if I were to look,” Thranduil replied.

               “Now that is more the silver tongue of a future diplomat,” Finrod said, leaning down. Thranduil awaited his kiss, but Finrod held back, and smirked at him.

               “You think I would stoop to flattery?” Thranduil asked in mock offense, frowning over the absence of the kiss.

               “Properly motivated, perhaps.”

               “And you provide such motivation?” Finrod did not let go of Thranduil, but pecked a kiss against his jaw.

               “I would not dream to hope of it,” he said.

               “Tch. False modesty does not become you, Finrod.” Thranduil jerked up, and crashed their lips together, and Finrod laughed and released him.

***

               King Finrod the Beloved bid farewell to the emissary from Doriath in the courtyard before the great entrance to his kingdom.

               “You are most welcome any time, my friend,” he said, and he pressed into Thranduil’s hand a small package. “You may tell that to King Thingol, and give him my best wishes, along with Queen Melian. I am most pleased with his emissary, and I hope that our kingdoms should prosper in comity for many centuries to come.”

               A stiff breeze rustled the leaves, yellowing and going orange as fall began its sweep across Middle-earth. There was a chill in it, chasing the lingering warmth of summer, but Thranduil looked forward to the ride home. Never had he been away so long on his own.

               “This is the hope of Doriath as well,” Thranduil assured him. “I offer you my sincerest thanks for your hospitality and for your efforts in arranging this summit. Communication will prevent any future misunderstandings among us.” He slipped the package into a pocket, and running his fingers over it, he felt almost certain it was the pair of diamond earrings Finrod had allowed him to keep during his visit.

               King Finrod nodded, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and he inclined his head, a gesture Thranduil answered with a bow.

               “Run swiftly, little deer,” he said, too soft to be overheard by any but Thranduil. “Mind you don’t get caught in the cold.”

               Thranduil had some response about the snow being too slow to catch him, but there was no chance for that before they had to straighten up and part ways.

               “Travel safely, Thranduil Oropherion!” said King Finrod, waving as Thranduil mounted his elk.

               “Rule well, Your Grace, in peace and harmony,” Thranduil replied, before he turned and marched off into the trees, and so concluded Thranduil’s one and only visit to the Kingdom of Nargothrond.

               There was only one thing left to settle, for which Thranduil would appreciate the time of the journey home, and that was what, precisely, he was going to say to Thingol and his father about his visit.  

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Chapter End Notes

Legolas arriving at Valinor for the first time vc: King Finrod Felagund, did you fuck my ada?
Finrod: Haha no dear boy, he fucked me, thoroughly.

For the record, Thranduil and Oropher have a very good relationship, Thranduil is just being a whiny drama queen about getting sent on this trip. And he also definitely spent literally the entire trip home trying to find a nonchalant answer to the inevitable "So how was Nargothrond?"

I have a headcanon about Wood-elves and tattoos. The Sindarin style is something fluid and abstract, but still identifiable. Nandor and Laiquendi go for pure patterns, totally abstract, and will do facial tattoos where the Sindari usually don't. I do have a list of Thranduil's tattoos by the Third Age, but he doesn't have all of them yet here.

Made myself ship this so...played myself I guess.