The Sleeping King by Rocky41_7

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The Sleeping King

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            Thorin woke with the kind of creeping headache that could only be the result of severe mistakes made the night before. He could feel its tendrils rubbing at the backs of his eyes and he groaned, pressing his face into a stiff pillow, trying to stave off the inevitable confrontation with the misfortunes of the previous night. He hadn’t even done himself the courtesy of drinking enough that he might have questions about what that mistake was: even in this groggy, semi-conscious state, he knew he would be rousing to the kind of aching muscles that came only from the Elvenking putting him through his paces. For one so delicate-looking, Thranduil had an irritating reserve of energy, which Thorin guessed was a boon of immortality.

            Lying in bed wasn’t going to make breakfast with the Elves any less unpleasant, so Thorin threw back the covers and rolled out of bed. This was when the first surprise of the day presented itself: he wasn’t alone.

            Thorin had never known an elf to catch more than a few winks of a cat-nap in the way of sleep, and Thranduil had no pressing emotional attachment that would keep him around. In fact, Thorin realized, he didn’t think he had ever woken to Thranduil still in the bed after one of their ill-considered trysts. The Elvenking preferred to quickly wash his hands of such shameful affairs, and Thorin was not about to ask him to do otherwise.

            Yet there he was. For all intents and purposes, appearing to sleep. It was the least graceful Thorin had seen him, sprawled on his back with his long, fine hair thrown out all around him like the tendrils of a kraken, mouth open, limbs splayed about the too-small bed, his feet hanging off the edges. Another reason he never spent the night there, retiring instead to the handful of rooms purposefully set aside for visiting Elves and Men, whose statures made dwarven beds untenable.

            At the sight, Thorin snorted, wishing the Elvenking were awake if only so he could mock him for this appearance. But that would then mean having to listen to Thranduil talk, so Thorin opted to leave him be, and instead dressed and prepared for a meeting with Dwalin before breakfast was served to them and their elven guests.

            The work to be done in Erebor would have been daunting to other than Thorin Oakenshield and his stalwart company. But they had traveled across Middle-Earth, fought Orc and Goblin and dragon, allied with Man, wizard, and Hobbit, and they could not be galled by even the most odious of chores when it came to restoring the grandeur of their once-fallen homeland. Nevertheless, the list of tasks seemed to fill several volumes with the subparts of each job, and none was simple. Pride thrummed hotly in Thorin’s chest when he saw how his people tackled the endless work with enthusiasm and resourcefulness.

            Therefore, it was with determination rather than despair that he discussed the most recent developments with Dwalin and reviewed the plans for their next steps. When that was settled, they made their way together to the dining hall, where several of the elves had established themselves at the table, and had from somewhere (perhaps of their own travel stores) acquired wine. They warbled together in Sindarin, aglow even in the low light of Erebor, but Thorin observed at once their king was not among them (this was a purely practical thing—even for an elf, Thranduil was tall, and even more so adorned with his crown, and so it was easy to see when he was not present). The briefest of frowns flashed across his face.

            When he seated himself at the head of the table and Nori and Dori came forward with the dishes, the elves turned all at once to regard him with some affront, their pointed faces severe in disapproval. Ignoring what they would not bring themselves to voice plainly, Thorin reached for a hunk of bread.

            “It seems your king cannot keep a schedule,” he remarked. Truthfully, he had expected Thranduil to be awake and about by then, but it was not on Thorin’s shoulders to make sure Thranduil came to breakfast on time. Let him go hungry, if he wanted to lay around.

            The sense of disapproval from their guests redoubled, and one dark-eyed, dark-skinned elf rose promptly from the table and disappeared out of the hall without so much as a word to his comrades.

            Untroubled, Thorin and the assembled dwarves (some had chosen to dine earlier, and were now hard at work) dug into the meal, while the elves held themselves to mere drink in absence of their king.

            “I trust Balin mentioned that we’ve had word from Lady Dis?” Gloin said to Thorin as he reached for a goblet.

            “Indeed he did,” Thorin confirmed. He looked to Fili and Kili at his other side. “When she draws nearer, one of you may ride out to meet her. It has been long since she visited Erebor, and the way has grow more treacherous.” Both his nephews perked up. Neither would emphasize their youth by mourning their mother’s absence, but with so few of Erebor’s children remaining, family was dear. And Thorin shared the sentiment—his feet grew restive with the desire to see his sister again in their home; to embrace her and tell her in person the story of Erebor’s reclamation (he could not dwell on the ache in his breast for Frerin, or for Thrain). But such restlessness was to no purpose: she would arrive when she arrived, and presently he had other goings-on on which to focus his mind.

            For instance, the return of the dark-eyed elf, whose long, tight braids swished behind him, down past his waist, as he strode up to his fellows and bent to murmur rapidly in their ears. Several pairs of eyes flicked to Thorin and back to the messenger, before the elves tentatively reached for their utensils.

            “Joining us at last?” Thorin asked, suppressing a nose-wrinkling smirk. What was it, that gave a body such pleasure in knowing something an elf didn’t (it had to do with their being smug immortal bastards is what)?

            “It seems our king has other business,” said one levelly, and Thorin had to restrain himself from laughing. Other business indeed! It would have almost been worth it to tell the truth, just to see the looks on their faces. But that was not knowledge he ever wanted the Elves in possession of, anymore than he wanted questions from his company about it (Although he was loosening his claw-like grip on self-reassurances that it would never happen again. A true king had to recognize a losing battle sometime.)

            “So it seems,” he echoed in some amusement, returning his attention to his meal and the conversation of his companions. There was little talk between the Elves and Dwarves, except from Kili, who seemed to have developed an affinity for their immortal neighbors. They tolerated Kili’s impish questioning with civility, which mollified Thorin.

            “Where has that woodland sprite got to?” Gloin muttered, leaning over to speak near to Thorin’s ear. “Don’t like the idea of his wandering around unaccompanied.”

            “It’s no duty of mine to track his movements,” Thorin replied with disinterest. “Perhaps he’s gotten himself lost.” There was a silence among the dwarves, whom Thorin now had much practice in reading. None of them held great fondness for Thranduil, but they felt it in bad form to let their guest lose his way in the maze of Erebor’s halls, particularly in such disrepair as they were in after decades of Smaug’s oversight. The tendrils of the morning’s headache wrapped themselves around his head and squeezed. “He will make himself known again, I’m sure.”

            His company’s unease reminded Thorin how unusual it was for Thranduil to sleep at all, and he found himself idly running the menu of the past 48 hours in his mind, wondering if they might have unintentionally served something that could have ill effect on an elf. Shaking these thoughts from his mind, he told himself he could not concern himself with all of the Elvenking’s follies and sensitivities.

            Periodically, there was more discontented grumbling among the elves, and more piercing looks thrown Thorin’s way, as if he might have repaid Thranduil in kind and locked him up somewhere in the bowels of the kingdom. As amusing as it was to let Thranduil make such a fool of himself, Thorin knew that he was not improving diplomatic relations by letting this continue. Thus, with an overworked sigh, he got to his feet, set aside his utensils, and excused himself from the table.

            The dark-eyed elf was on his feet again at once, but the others turned to look at him, and he held Thorin’s gaze for a long moment. Debating whether or not to openly accuse Thorin of hiding their king somewhere?

            “My lord,” he said at last, inclining his head to Thorin before taking his seat again. Furious whispering among the elves. Kili giving them a frankly besotted look, which Thorin would have to talk to him about later. Gloin squinting at their guests, possibly suspecting them of meaning to steal some of Erebor’s treasure for themselves. Thorin took his leave, and tried not to look hurried on his way back to his chambers. This game had begun droll enough, but it had grown wearisome, and he was now annoyed with Thranduil for putting him in a position to be an object of the Elves’ suspicion.

            When he flung open his bedroom door, he got his second surprise of the day: Thranduil was still in bed. Thorin had expected to enter and find Thranduil had taken his leave, and was entertaining (or losing) himself elsewhere, at which point it would no longer be Thorin’s responsibility to share anything about the previous night with their elven guests. It was not so—Thranduil was not only still abed, he looked to be just as deeply asleep as he had been when Thorin left, nearly three hours prior, with his head thrown to the side and one hand curled beside his face on the pillow, the low firelight flickering against the sharp edge of his jaw.

            “Hey! This has gone on long enough,” Thorin snapped. He crossed the room and shook Thranduil hard enough to wobble the mattress in its thick wooden frame. “Up, elf! Before you start a war!” Thranduil did not so much as snort to suggest Thorin had disturbed him. He was snoring though, something Thorin would save to fling at him another time. “Out of my bed, you blasted creature!” More vigorous shaking, and still no response. Thorin yanked the covers off (Thranduil had not risen to dress before falling asleep, apparently). Thorin gathered a fistful of white-gold hair in his hand and jerked in a way that made Thranduil snarl like a furious cat when awake. Thorin went for his wash basin, scooped up two cupped handfuls of water, and splashed it down over Thranduil’s face.

            At last there was a twitching of the Elvenking’s eyelids which suggested a potential return to the realm of the conscious, but then it passed, and a dark cloud began to gather over Thorin’s head, rumbling unpleasantly against his temples.

            It was preposterous, hysterical, the kind of thing their nervous burglar might have suggested but—what if something was wrong with him? If the King of Mirkwood—their ruler of several thousand years— became ill at Erebor—or, Illuvatar forbid, died—the Dwarves would never again find trust with the Elves of Mirkwood. Long lives made Elves talented at nursing grudges, and while Thorin had never known an elf to die of illness, the what-ifs had begun to whisper in his mind. What if some curse had come down upon him? What if Thorin was simply unlucky enough that Thranduil had chosen the halls of Mandos now? Oh, that would be a fine last trick of his—to expire in Thorin’s own bed. The only reason Thorin dismissed this was that Thranduil would never purposefully give himself so undignified a death.

            No matter what it was, if King Thranduil sickened or died at Erebor, the Elves would blame the Dwarves, and whatever tenuous trust had been born between them during the Battle of the Five Armies would be shattered to ruin. A kingdom so fragile and with so few friends as Erebor could not afford a loss even of potential allies.

            Thorin had begun to pace, something he realized only when he had to push aside the Elvenking’s endless legs, sticking off the end of the bed, to carry on his path. If something was wrong with him, they needed to get him aid as quickly as possible, so it might be said the Dwarves had done everything possible to assist (and hopefully prevent such a death). If there was not…Thorin risked revealing their rendezvous for no reason. He ticked off in his mind a list, from best to worst, of who he might enlist. Balin, of course, was at the top, but even Thorin’s most trusted advisor had limited dealings with Elves, and was not likely to recognize an elven sickness.

            The better hope was that Thranduil was just a very…very…very heavy sleeper, and would wake on his own, eventually (Thorin pushed aside the thought that this ran counter to everything he knew of Thranduil’s sleeping habits, and also the realization that he knew things about Thranduil’s sleeping habits). Thorin’s head throbbed, and he realized he was clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth.

            “Thranduil!” He gave the elf another shake, and succeeded only in making his head roll to the other side.

            Clapping a hand over Thranduil’s mouth, Thorin could catch the faint gust of his breath against his hand, which reassured him that at the very least, Thranduil was still, for the time being, tethered to their realm. He swept his gaze over the unconscious elf, and noted the faint rise and fall of Thranduil’s thin chest. A hand to his neck and cheek felt the warmth that still flushed his skin. The situation was not yet as dire as it could be.

            With this reassurance, and with some trepidation, Thorin decided the best thing to do was let it run its course. Maybe Thranduil had drunk more the prior night than Thorin had realized (though his dexterity had not shown it), and he was simply hungover (Even to Thorin’s ear this was a ridiculous explanation, but he clung to it for its remote plausibility all the same.) He left the bedroom, and rejoined Gloin to examine the newly-rebuilt forges. Being able to produce their own goods—for use and for trade—was key to Erebor’s revival.

            It was Balin’s duty to be entertaining the elves, who were often too curious for their own good, but who might also sit all day in front of some beautiful thing in admiration of it (Elves were to beautiful things as moths to flame—with all the self-destruction that metaphor implied). There were plenty of things to show them there, and Thorin had dictated and reiterated the list of acceptable places for Balin to tour them.

            Why, then, as he examined the badly-damaged academic quarter, did he nearly run headfirst into two elves exiting an old library? Both seemed surprised to be caught, and Thorin’s brow tilted downward.

            “Can I help you find something?” he asked, with the clear insinuation they were out-of-bounds. The shorter of the pair, both pale-faced with narrow eyes and sleek black hair, answered.

            “Many thanks. No, King Thorin.” They didn’t even have the grace to give some story about losing their way: they just swayed around him and went off about their business.

            “There are many places in Erebor that are not yet made safe again,” Thorin called after them. “Mind you keep to the places Balin has showed you.”

            “Of course,” they replied together, glancing back to give Thorin a nod. The temptation to dress them down was powerful, but Thorin was doing his best to ensure there was no fall-out from this visit. All he had to do was keep the elves in check until Thranduil woke, and then he could give such a tongue-lashing as to strip the hide off that wretch.

            Balin was notably alone when he came to Thorin’s study.

            “I thought I told you to mind the elves.” Thorin knew his tone was unduly snappish, but the stress of the day was starting to wear on him more than he wanted to admit, and the pulsating in his head was starting to drown out the world around him. “I found a pair of them down in the academic quarter earlier this afternoon.”

            “My apologies, my lord,” Balin said, hands clasped in front of him, signaling he had business Thorin was likely to find displeasing. With a quiet sigh, Thorin set down his quill and settled back in his chair.

            “What is it?”

            “The elves are…concerned,” Balin said carefully. He had the most knowledge of Sindarin among them, apart from Thorin himself, which was another reason Thorin had trusted the care of their guests to him. “King Thranduil has yet to appear, and they say he is not in his chambers, nor has he been since before breakfast.”

            So, they were poking around looking for Thranduil, eh? How long would it take them to think to look in Thorin’s own chambers? It was almost funny, until Thorin considered it might not take as long as he hoped, though possibly not for the right reasons.

            “And what am I to do about that? Produce him from thin air?” Thorin asked.

            “We might send a search party about,” Balin suggested in a low voice. “If anything were to befall an Elvenking here…it would not look well for us.” Ever the diplomat, Balin. “Thranduil has been amiable enough for an elf since the Battle of the Five Armies…we gain nothing by losing his trust now.”

            “If he’s fallen and broken his neck somewhere I told him not to go,” Thorin began, but chided himself into silence before he finished the statement. “Are they agitating so much?” he asked Balin in a soberer voice.

            “They seem very unsettled,” Balin said candidly. “I fear if we do not locate the king soon, they will ransack Erebor in search of him. For now, they are still attempting to do so under a veneer of politesse. That will end if they think we are obfuscating their search or that we have responsibility in Thranduil’s disappearance.”

            “And why should we have responsibility? What good would it do us to harm their pompous lord?” Even in Thorin’s defensiveness, Balin didn’t really have to answer that question. Revenge was enough of a motive, and the Dwarves had plenty of it. Thorin rubbed his brow. “I will see what I can do to track him down,” he said to Balin.

            “Wonderful, I will—” Balin was interrupted by the opening of the study door, through which strode two elves.

            “In Erebor, though perhaps not in Mirkwood, it is proper to knock before entering an occupied room,” Thorin said to them.

            “We trust the King Under the Mountain will forgive our haste,” said one particularly waifish elf. “But it is concern for our own king that drives us.”

            “Our lord’s chambers have been empty,” said the other, the dark-eyed elf from the morning. Thorin did not have time to wonder how they had deduced Thranduil had not spent the night in his provided chambers. “Wherever he has gone, whatever has become of him, we must know now.” Accusations had been bubbling below the surface since breakfast, but never had they come so near to being nakedly revealed. Thorin saw what had Balin so fretful; the situation had grown more delicate. This, he supposed, was the last chance the elves were giving him to produce Thranduil, or be assumed guilty in his vanishing.

            “What makes you think I know this?” Thorin asked.

            “A king has many ears to the ground in his own kingdom,” replied the first elf. “Particularly where visitors are concerned, and particularly where another monarch is concerned.”

            “Then you believe I have hidden him from you?” He heard Balin’s intake of breath, and the room had grown so still and thick they were as figures in a fresco rather than living beings. Now he charged the elves to make their accusations, or else let them lie.

            “We believe nothing yet,” said the dark-eyed elf. “There is little enough evidence of anything. But you understand our concern for our king. No doubt, your own people would feel the same in our place.”

            “My people have been your prisoners,” Thorin said with a faint sneer. The elves dipped their heads. “I have been your prisoner.”

            “We pray this is not a similar misunderstanding,” said the first elf.

            “There is often more apprehension in the lack of knowing,” added the dark-eyed elf. “If we are to be prisoners, we should like to know it.” He lifted his even brown gaze to Thorin’s, holding steady.

            “You are not prisoners, nor is your king,” Thorin replied. “Leave us,” he said to Balin and the waifish elf. A quick glance passed between the immortals before she departed with Balin. For a moment, Thorin gathered his words, trying to decide how best to frame the issue. “I know where the Elvenking is,” he said at length, and the dark-eyed elf stiffened, lifting his chin. “By no doing of ours, I feel something may be…amiss.”

            “How do you mean?” Thorin barely had his words out before the question came. Another short sigh from the dwarf, and he rubbed his beard. The pounding in his head was like hammers in the forge.

            “Perhaps some elven sickness, or aught else of which I am unaware. I will take you to him.” He had no other choice, frankly. “I had hoped it was nothing,” he grunted as he led the dark-eyed elf up to his chambers. The elf walked so eagerly he nearly skipped, and frequently came near to outpacing Thorin, only to restrain himself to follow his guide. He said nothing, not even to question, although Thorin practically felt his step grow less certain as they passed into the king’s chambers. There was a place just below Thorin’s collarbone that burned.

            In Thorin’s bedroom, Thranduil was still out cold. Worry now twisted Thorin’s gut, and the dark-eyed elf shot him a look before striding over to his king’s side to touch his throat and chest. For a heartbeat, Thorin recalled Nargothrond and Gondolin and the other wonders of the Elves that had since passed from being, and wondered what might be lost with the passing of the King of Mirkwood. What if it had been something they did? Who would have cause to lay such a curse?

            “Oh,” the elf said, and Thorin had the third and last surprise of the day, as he spoke without the least concern or fret. “He sleeps.”

            “Yes,” Thorin said, half incredulous. “He’s been like this all day.” All tension and apprehension had bled from the elf’s posture when he turned to Thorin, and he seemed puzzled to perceive Thorin’s continued anxiety and confusion.

            “It is true-sleep,” he said by way of explanation, and the corner of his brown mouth twitched. Thorin did not like to think of being snickered at by an elf. “Nothing is amiss, my lord. Our king merely rests.” He straightened the covers Thorin had made a mess of earlier, and seemed content with the scene.

            Thorin had no idea what in Illuvatar’s beloved Arda this elf was talking about.

            “How long will he be like this?” he asked.

            “No more than a few days,” the elf assured him.

            “Days?” Thorin echoed. “Can we not wake him?”

            “We can,” the elf replied reluctantly. “But it would be difficult, and it is better to let him rest.” He’s taking up my whole bed! Thorin wanted to exclaim. But, he thought with chagrin, he had no one to blame for that but himself. Now there was silence, and sensing the coming question, Thorin hastened to get the elf out of his room.

            “I am sure you will be keen to take this news to your people,” he said, shepherding the elf towards the door.

            “You should not have kept it from us so long,” the elf said quietly, though he took Thorin’s direction to exit.

            “Yes, well now it’s done,” Thorin replied. When they emerged from the king’s chambers, several more elves were waiting outside at the base of the steps, to Thorin’s dismay. Immediately there was a clamor of Sindarin and rattling of their jewelry as the dark-eyed elf reassured the rest that Thranduil was neither imprisoned nor maimed, incapacitated, dying, or dead. Thorin did not like how frequently they cast wide-eyed glances up at him, but he would not flee their presence. He caught the words unusual and dwarf and risk, but little else in their hushed and rapid voices, and one strangled noise that sounded far too much like badly suppressed laughter.

            “We will be grateful to accept the hospitality of the King Under the Mountain until our lord awakens,” the dark-eyed elf said to Thorin. “In the meantime, we would like leave to remain with our king as necessary.”

            “He’s asleep,” Thorin said. “I doubt he has much need of you.” But it certainly wouldn’t do to keep the elves away from their king. Thorin would have to bed down somewhere else until this debacle was over. “However, your access to him is free.” As he stepped aside to signal this, the elves streamed past him, and Thorin realized with another sharp pulse of his temples that he had just given a group of Elves (nosy, gossipy, greedy) unrestricted access to his private quarters.

            It was time to find a way to banish this headache, and Thorin was going to start with a mug of ale.

***

            The elves did not maintain a constant guard over Thranduil, but once they had satisfied themselves with his well-being, came by several times a day to verify his continued health. Thorin, loath to be put out of his own rooms by elven shenanigans, re-read the letter from Dis in his room, and it was in the midst of this that Thranduil awoke. With the sucking gasp of a being denied death, the Elvenking returned to the land of the living, and sat upright in bed, rumpled, dazed, and disoriented. Even his glamor had slipped—Thorin saw, ever so briefly, a frosty tint over Thranduil’s left eye before the spell righted itself and there was again no difference between left and right.

            “What day is it?” he croaked, his voice parched and thin after so long without a drink. His typically silky hair had gone frizzy, and he struggled to pry his eyes open and keep them so.

            “It’s been three days,” Thorin answered. “What did you do? What kind of position do you wish to have me in? Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused? This was nearly the end of any cooperation between us!” Thranduil, rather than answering—or even listening—flopped back on the too-short bed and covered his face with his hands, rubbing at his eyes, possibly intending to return to sleep. “Get up!” Thorin was a heartbeat from grabbing Thranduil by the ankles to drag him out of bed.

            Heavily the Elvenking rolled out of the bed to trip on the rug and crash into the wall, only just catching himself with one hand. Thorin half-rose from his seat, concerned again that something was amiss. He had never seen an elf stumble about so. But Thranduil righted himself and staggered to the end of the bed, only to cast about helplessly.

            “Where are my clothes?” he asked. Wordlessly, Thorin pointed at the neat pile the elves had made of them by the door. Thranduil knocked his head against the wall reaching down for them, and fell as much as sat back on Thorin’s bed to dress (seeming to surprise himself with how far he had to fall before he hit the bed), at which point Thorin was fully on his feet, poised to go and support the uncoordinated elf.

            “What’s wrong with you?” Thorin asked, unable to be anything but blunt so late in this affair. The other elves had said nothing was wrong, yet…

            “Nothing,” Thranduil murmured, staring at his clothes like he’d forgotten how to put them on. “Just…” He trailed off and yawned, one hand fluttering up to cover his mouth.

            “Never have I seen an elf sleep like that, and no mortal I know sleeps so much at a time but in the embrace of death. How much did you drink at your welcome feast?”

            “It…wasn’t the drink,” Thranduil said, pausing to yawn again. He offered no further explanation, but seemed to continue to reaccustom himself to consciousness before putting in the effort to don his clothes again.

            “One of your companions called it ‘true-sleep’,” Thorin said. Thranduil made some unintelligible murmuring. “Is this common among you?”

            “Everything must rest, Thorin Oakenshield,” Thranduil sighed, eyes half-closed as he laced up his boots. “Even Elves.”

            “Never have I seen you do this before.”

            “I do not make a habit of doing it in such places.” He glanced back at Thorin’s bed and rubbed his lower back, as if to accuse Thorin and his dwarven bed of giving him whatever aches he was then experiencing (Even if it had been Thorin’s doing, he would not be sorry, for all the many aches of exertion with which Thranduil frequently left him.) “Nor on such visits.”

            “To Erebor, or to me?” Thorin almost regretted the insouciance of the remark, but there was a press of Thranduil’s lips that Thorin had reluctantly come to know as a sign of amusement.

            “Either.” Feeling it was in his best interest to speed along Thranduil’s wakefulness, Thorin went into the parlor for the wine to pour them each a goblet. Something to drink seemed to revive the Elvenking, and he turned his attentions to neatening his hair. His fingers flew so fast in the combing and braiding of it that even Thorin was impressed. He might have offered to assist (as Dwarves too, had much knowledge of braiding), but Thranduil moved so quickly with it, and Thorin did not want to suggest excessive intimacy, or imply that he enjoyed running his broad hands through Thranduil’s soft, yellow mane (though he might’ve had more chances if Thranduil had not been so averse to sleeping around him).

            “Now I must ask,” Thranduil said, and Thorin could hear something sly in his voice, “what you told my entourage about this.” Thorin colored behind his beard and ground his teeth.

            “You know I had no choice in this,” he said. “We feared you had taken ill, or been cast under some curse. Your entourage were ready to start a war. I brought them to you, and they told me about this true-sleep. It was thoughtless of you never to warn me of such a thing. And it was irresponsible of you to do this here.”

            Thranduil was silent, and Thorin struggled to discern his mood. He had grown better (much better) at reading Thranduil’s reserved expressions and aloof words, but the elf did not make an easy job of it. Thranduil rose and faced him, the picture of serene grace, as if none of it had ever happened, but for the sleepiness that still lidded his eyes.

            “In the interest of your privacy, Thorin, son of Thrain, perhaps next time, you will not ask me to make such a long trip so late at night up to your chambers.”

            “My privacy died a miserable death three days past,” Thorin replied, gritting his teeth. Naturally Thranduil would see it that way—if Thorin had come to Thranduil, as the Elvenking had first insinuated at that dinner, no one would have been any the wiser to their affair. “Thanks to you and your desperate need for a nap.”

            Thranduil shrugged his elegant shoulders.

            “I am certain you will find a suitable excuse for your people,” he said. Thorin could feel his headache of several days making noise again.

            “Why do such a thing here, and cause all this trouble?” Thorin demanded.

            “I was tired,” Thranduil said with another shrug. If there was any more to it than that, Thorin sensed he would get no further answers from the Elvenking, who still brooked no true intimacy with anyone, least of all Thorin (Thorin had not yet determined if this was good or ill), never mind the ways he allowed Thorin to touch him.

            “You had best tell your elves the truth,” Thorin advised. “I am certain they believe nothing I say and I will not have them part thinking I did you some harm.”

            “I should think you of all people would counsel me to lie,” Thranduil said, and Thorin glared, wondering how Thranduil had managed to come away with the upper hand in this mess. Somehow, it had been even more obnoxious to realize that Thranduil did have a sense of humor—and he enjoyed using it to Thorin’s detriment.

            “It is not necessary they have details,” he retorted. Something passed over Thranduil’s expression, and he reached out a hand, but just as soon withdrew it, which was just as well, for it was quite rude to touch the top of a dwarf’s head, as though they were a pet (even a dwarf in possession of such thick and luxurious locks as Thorin Oakenshield).

            “My thanks as always for your hospitality, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror,” Thranduil said as he glided towards the door, appearing not the least bit affected by all the trouble he had caused, nor that at least a handful of his people strongly suspected the more clandestine side of his relationship with the King Under the Mountain.

            “In the future, get your beauty sleep prior to your diplomatic engagements.” Thranduil paused at the threshold to look back at Thorin with an inscrutable expression that did not seem as displeased as Thorin would have it.

            “I have no need for beauty sleep,” he said at last, and the Sindarin glow about him agreed. With that, he departed, but Thorin’s short-lived peace was promptly cast aside by Gloin’s arrival.

            He looked his king over, parted his lips, and Thorin threw up a hand before a single word, let alone a whole question, could escape his companion. His aching head demanded it, that he put an end to this humiliating affair.

            “I will not hear a word about anything to do with Elves.”

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Chapter End Notes

Thorin you dweeb, true-sleeping in your bed WAS the intimacy. Was it on purpose or by mistake? I leave that up to you all.

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