As You Wish by Rocky41_7

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As You Wish

A light rain misted over the forest and the surrounding fields, drifting down from a marbled gray sky as the plants reached eagerly up towards it, none the wiser as to the events of the day for this part of Elfinesse. The camp of the king of Mirkwood was established some leagues beyond the edge of the forest; not far, yet still enough to put Thranduil on edge, as he always ways out from beneath the forest canopy of late. Nevertheless, the levels of goblin activity nearby had demanded an answer, particularly after goblin scouts had been slain within the forest’s bounds, and the king had felt it necessary to lead this particular excursion himself.

            It had been a wise move to act—the goblins had with them a pair of trolls, which might have caused considerable damage if they had made it into the forest. The king’s forces had split into several groups; one he headed himself, the others he handed out to his advisors, and between them they smashed the goblins’ forces and ended both trolls before they were within eyesight of the woods.

            Serving under Fachon was the king’s attack dog.

            No one referred to Maglor this way within Thranduil’s hearing or the reach of his mind, but the phrase had been heard within the kingdom’s boundaries. When first Maglor Feanorian had stumbled into their wood, many had been certain that their one-time Doriathrim king would have him put to the blade, and for some months it seemed Thranduil intended to do so. Only the most inner circle of his advisors were party to the lengthy moral debate that had surrounded Maglor’s eventual release under probation—truthfully, largely waiting for Maglor to do something that proved he was still a threat and therefore necessitated execution.

            Instead, Maglor Feanorian seemed to go out of his way to prove that not only was he no longer a threat, but he could be useful.

            When Thranduil assigned him the basest scouting position—reasoning that he needed to contribute to their society if he was to remain—Maglor did not balk, and performed the job enthusiastically, for all he was unfamiliar with the ways of the Wood-elves (and, his young companions cackled, terrified of heights).

            It became apparent rather quickly to the denizens of Mirkwood—and incalculably to Thranduil’s chagrin—that a part of this—perhaps a significant part—was to do with Maglor’s overwhelming and surpassing infatuation with the king. In fact, it was not clear that Maglor had not permitted his own capture.

            While the second son of Fëanor had once been known for his art, he had a tool far more useful to the besieged residents of Mirkwood: his blade. In time, Thranduil began to trust him with such things, and now he was permitted to sortie under command, and he was an awesome horror to behold, a terrifying example of the unhinged violence to which Elves could descend; he set upon Mirkwood’s enemies at Thranduil’s direction with the rage of a chained wolf, and continued until there was nothing left to kill, or he was made to stop.

            Yet for all that he alarmed and set ill at ease the Elves of Mirkwood, none could deny his effectiveness—nor their need for any who could defend their ever-receding kingdom. From Lothlorien no aid would come, and Rivendell was not in the business of raising soldiers. Mirkwood was, as it had been, on its own.

            On this day, Maglor stumped back into the damp encampment, a bile of blood and mud belched over him head to toe. Wisps of goblin hair and scalp clung to his armor; chunks of viscera shone in his hair; blood not his own was crusted around his nostrils and clumped his eyelashes together. It was impossible to tell if he had sustained any of his own injuries.

            A few of Thranduil’s men who were gathered, debriefing, paused at the sight of him. Maglor, Noldor-tall with eyes of flame and a reputation a mile long, did not inspire ease at the best of times, even among the better part of Thranduil’s people who had never even been as far west as Doriath, but Maglor after a battle was enough to make even a seasoned warrior tense towards their weapon.

            “Is he in the tent?” was all Maglor said, his mouth twitching against the urge to hack out a foul-tasting ball of phlegm. One of the other Elves shook her head, and was about to explain the king was performing final checks across the battlefields when Thranduil rode back in with a handful of men.

            “We are finished here,” he announced. They would stay a few hours to care for the injured, and then return home. When Thranduil dismounted his elk, it would have been easy to overlook the wound, as Thranduil was accustomed to concealing such things, but Maglor had both the familiarity with injuries and the intentness of focus to see it at once.

            “You’re hurt!” he cried, spreading his bloody hands towards the king. Thranduil’s brow twitched, the only sign of his displeasure at having this fact noted.

            “Only slightly,” he said.

            “You must call Armae!”

            “He is busy with others far more wounded than I,” said Thranduil dismissively, giving his elk a pat on its thick neck to dismiss it to rest. “Though I will not say no to a drink.” He exchanged a look and nod with the remaining Elves and quitted into his tent. By the time Maglor followed him in, he was gripping the edge of a table, one hand pressed against his abdomen, where Maglor had seen held himself carefully.

            “It’s bleeding!” Maglor said, coming close to him, reaching out for the injury himself. “Thranduil! You must see a healer!”

            “’tis nothing,” Thranduil insisted through gritted teeth. “Pain does not a deadly wound make.”

            “Armae would come for you!”

            “I will not take him away from his work for my men,” Thranduil snapped, pain making him short-tempered.

            “Let me then,” Maglor said, his eyes burning bright. “Let me sing it f—” Thranduil placed his free hand over Maglor’s mouth. He had been the subject of Maglor’s healing efforts once before, and while the event had not been fatal for him, he was not keen to put it to the test a second time, outside the gravest necessity.

            “No, thank you,” he said swiftly. “I will happily wait. With a drink.” He inclined his head to the other end of the table, where Maglor unhappily poured them both a goblet of wine. Thranduil removed his gauntlets and set his helmet aside, flexing his fingers, sore from the grip of his blades.

            “Will you let me clean it, at least?” he asked, handing Thranduil a cup smeared with whatever unmentionable fluids were all over his hands. Thranduil arched a pale brow and drank from the cup nonetheless.

            “Rather I should clean you,” he said. “Did you decide to bathe in the battlefield when you were done?”

            A flicker of a smile, too eager, as his reactions often were after too long in utter isolation, showed across Maglor’s grimy face; once he understood Thranduil’s stone-faced intonations often disguised a jest, he had relaxed to hear them, rather than wringing his hands over perceived criticism.

            “Not quite,” he said cheerfully. “Ah, but it will all come off with a bit of water!...Please, may I not help?” He shifted back to his imploring tone.

            Too weary to argue, Thranduil nodded and sank down into a chair, allowing Maglor to dart off and find a bowl to fill with water. Thranduil downed the rest of his wine and clawed over the table for the pitcher to fill it again, wishing he had something stronger—a burn in his throat might distract him from the burn of the cut. It was not so deep he was concerned; he had received enough wounds in his life to judge well enough which were serious and which could be let alone briefly, but it did still sting like a bitch.

            Maglor dragged over the other chair when he returned, his hands jarringly clean compared to the rest of him, a freshness that ended sharply at his wrists. His dark eyes flicked up to Thranduil’s face, seeking permission, before he reached out and began to undo the clasps of Thranduil’s armor. This task he had memorized the first he had been allowed to do it, and his hands moved with knowledge if not with ease.

(It was difficult to ever allow himself to fully believe this was permitted.)

The chest plate he removed and set aside, and then his deft harper’s fingers opened the cloth layers beneath until he had exposed the slash across the pale flesh of Thranduil’s gut, arcing around over his flank. He made a quiet hiss of displeasure and dipped the cloth he had brought into the bowl.

            “I am afraid it’s rather cold,” he warned. He reached out to press it against Thranduil’s side, but hesitated. In cleaning his own wounds, he was ruthless, but he was aware in the moment that it would likely cause Thranduil greater pain, and he was not sure he could abide that, even if it were better for him.

            Thranduil had another drink of wine.

            “Are you hoping it will warm up if you let it sit out longer?” he asked with a kind of exhausted dryness.

            “It…it will hurt,” Maglor warned, as if Thranduil had never had a wound cleaned, as if he had never lain abed with half his face seared off by dragonfire, screaming at the healers to do him a mercy and let him die.

            “I had rather imagined.” The tone was arid now. Maglor flushed, although it was imperceptible given his level of cleanliness. Not that Thranduil needed to see to guess. Thranduil took Maglor’s slimy wrist and moved his hand until the cloth brushed Thranduil’s ribs.

            Gingerly, Maglor pressed the cold cloth against Thranduil’s side, and Thranduil suppressed any flinches or noises of discomfort that would make Maglor jerk away. Instead, he let out a measured breath and had another draught of wine.

            “Tell me, are you injured?” he asked. “I cannot tell with the state of you.”

            “No, not I,” Maglor murmured, dabbing at the blood which seeped from Thranduil’s wound, trying to massage away the grit of the enemy’s blade as best he could. “Only dirty, my king.” He flashed a little smile up.

            “That is good then,” Thranduil sighed, closing his eyes. He leaned back against the back of the chair, the light wood creaking. “It seems we had no casualties, even with the trolls.”

            “Good news then,” Maglor agreed quietly, more focused on his task, though pleased on Thranduil’s behalf. It was such a long cut, he fussed to himself. He had seen enough to know it would not be fatal, but he still could not bear the notion of Thranduil in pain.

            “It troubles me how close they came,” Thranduil said, more quietly still, and Maglor tensed briefly, aware that Thranduil was now confiding in him. “Closer, closer, every year…is this to live as a mortal, with death stalking in slow pursuit at all hours?”

            “Every year you have driven them away,” Maglor reminded him. He did not know what to say when Thranduil spoke to him of such things. Hope was not an easy thing for a Noldo to carry, not least of all a Feanorian. Maglor had harbored his own private ember for so long, and since his arrival in Mirkwood had fanned it frantically into a tender flame, but the words still did not come easily, and he worried he would only say something to worsen Thranduil’s anxieties.

            “A slow poison claims the forest.” Thranduil’s hand swirled the wine goblet; his eyes did not open. “I bide my time. I make them fight for every inch. But every league is made up of many inches.”

            Maglor used a cloth-covered finger to pass along the edges of the wound, as near to it as he could, now that the worst of the blood was gone. It was still bleeding, but Maglor wound a few bandages around it to tide it over until a healer could see to it. This he did also with a few abrasions on the knuckles of Thranduil’s left hand. Thranduil’s breath was warm against his ear when he leaned in to let Maglor bandage him, and Maglor apologized for smearing him here and there with muck.

            “As I said…this ought to have been my task.” He took the wet rag Maglor had set aside and swiped it down the bridge of Maglor’s nose. “Look what a mess you are,” he chided, and Maglor flushed with pleasure to be teased by the king of Mirkwood.

            “I did not mean to,” he protested, but it was a feeble protest. Maglor was only distantly aware of himself when he sank into battle fury; he knew only the next steps that must be taken to keep himself alive. One step, then another, then another: then the end.

            “Tsk. And how you come into my tent this way,” Thranduil went on, dipping the cloth into the bowl. He lifted Maglor’s chin with a few fingers under his jaw and began to wipe the filth away from Maglor’s cheek the best he could without a great deal more fresh water. His fingers moved carefully around Maglor’s eyes, which he shut, so that Thranduil could wipe the blood and dirt from his eyelashes. His heart bucked like a leaping deer with his eyes closed, the world entirely the sensation of Thranduil’s hands on his face. “I hope you were careful,” the king murmured, squeezing the cloth over the bowl as he progressed over Maglor’s chin, his nose, his other cheek.

            When Maglor blinked his eyes open again, he was staring into Thranduil’s gaze; so deep a green they were it was as if some part of the forest lived within him, as if she had laid some claim on him that could not be severed (and was she not always calling him home?). Maglor had rarely felt so helpless, and so content to be so.

            “I did as was necessary,” he replied softly. “I hope it is not to your displeasure.”

            “If you put yourself at unnecessary risk, it would be to my displeasure,” Thranduil answered, dragging the cloth along Maglor’s temple. “I should not like to see you returned to me in pieces,” he added more quietly, with less concern in his voice than in his heart, though Maglor could hear both.

            His heart nearly stopped, as it did any time Thranduil suggested he would be distressed by Maglor’s death or injury. It still seemed such an inconceivable thing to him, for he recalled the loathing and yes—the fear—in Thranduil’s eyes when he had seen this monster of his youth thrown before him, and suddenly vengeance for Doriath was dumped into his lap, so far beyond the chance to make a difference it hardly seemed to matter anymore.

            But for all the world demanded of him—blades and spells and command—Thranduil was gentle at heart, which Maglor had seen from a distance, and if he did not deserve Thranduil’s gentle heart, he treasured it regardless.

            “Then I will endeavor to be careful,” Maglor said, nearly in a whisper, “for I should not wish to displease my king.” Thranduil lowered his hand, looking for a moment at their knees between them. He reached to the side, to rinse the cloth in the then brown and silty water—Maglor wished to protest he was dirtying the bandages Maglor had just put on his hand—and Maglor held his breath. Thranduil pinched one of Maglor’s ears between his fingers with the cloth, rubbing away the dirt, and then, with his hand there still, leaned in to press his lips so softly against Maglor’s.

            It was not the first Maglor had tasted Thranduil’s kiss, but each time was as sweet as the last, and Maglor took none for granted. He tipped his chin just slightly up to welcome the gesture, and his heart fluttered pleasantly warm against his ribs, reminding him how long he had believed no Elf alive would ever wish to do this with him again. It was only his own filthy state that stopped him from throwing himself at the king, eager as ever to offer more, whatever Thranduil wanted, whatever he would take—

            (For surely if an Elf as good as Thranduil tolerated him, cared for him, wanted him, then he must not be beyond saving.)

            “Good,” Thranduil replied when he drew back, his eyes flicking over Maglor’s face. “Formidable you may be, but not indestructible. Let us remember that.” He tossed the rag against the edge of the water. “And now, we shall need another of both of those, for I fear I am now just spreading this mess around rather than removing it.”

            Maglor sat and nearly quivered; he did not wish to leave Thranduil’s side, but they needed still to decamp and prepare to depart, and he knew he would get little else from Thranduil in the midst of a military camp. He wanted to take Thranduil’s hands, to lay more declarations of loyalty and affection on him, to kiss his fingers, to crawl into his embrace and there rest until he had slept off the weariness he knew would come when the fervor of battle had fully worn off. (If he could have burrowed under Thranduil’s ribs and made his nest there, he would have done it.)

            But instead, he rose to his feet and collected the bowl of vile water and the stained cloth.

            “As you wish, my king,” he said.

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