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Winter When You Can’t See the Stars
Author: Ezra's Persian Kitty
Beta: none
Email: [email protected]
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Thranduil/Erestor
Warnings: none
Request: Same personality type, very in control and witty, snarky, which leads into an exotic bedroom scene where Thranduil takes Erestor passionately
Written For: Orchyd Constyne
The aged fingers of whispering trees arched into a wicked canopy above the small delegation. Their sinister shadows crept over the pale, fearful faces below.
One of the guards muttered, “The shadows whisper.”
Erestor rolled his eyes but held back his droll comment. The shadows were not normal, after all. They were the black ghosts of a haunted land, a forest overrun by an evil its King could no longer hold back.
The snow crunched rhythmically beneath the hooves of a dozen horses, and Erestor frowned at the gray night sky. What with the constant blanket of winter clouds, it was too dark for the horses, but everyone was loth to make a camp in the murky woods when their destination was meant to be no more than another twenty minutes away.
“Halt!” someone hissed.
Each Elf drew his mount up sharply.
“Shhh!”
“What’s that?”
“Why have we stopped?”
This last was from Erestor’s assistant, the most recent in a long line of incompetent, pampered fops who were either too feeble or too insolent for an officer’s commission. Erestor loathed them all, these fallouts of the upper crust, and he shifted his mare to the right to clap a firm hand on this one’s shoulder. “Be quiet.”
The horses moved restlessly, disconcerted by something on the chill breeze. One snorted into the winter air.
Erestor, like the rest, was straining his eyes, trying to pick apart the stolid line of trees to the right and left, hoping to be aware of the first movement, hoping even more that there would not be any.
Then, he heard it. If Erestor had been asked to describe the sound, he might have said there was a scuttling in the branches above them.
“SPIDERS!!!”
The guardsmen at the front of the party shouted the alarm. Erestor turned his horse on the spot, harping on his protégé, “Follow me! Shut up, and follow me!”
All was confusion; it was too dark.
They retreated with less than half the guard, listening to the sounds of battle behind them.
Someone screamed.
“Stop here, stop here!” one of the officers commanded, not wanting to be parted so far from his men. “Draw your weapons.”
Erestor withdrew the sword from its sheath in the saddle. He abhorred the use of a saddle, but it was necessary for such long-distance travel. He searched about and found his assistant cowering off to the side of the trail.
“Curanon… Curanon, duck! Get down!” he shouted.
“What?”
Erestor slid his booted feet from the stirrups and balanced atop the saddle in an assassin’s crouch for half a moment before springing forward to collide into the stupid Elf, knocking them both to the snow-packed ground as the spider landed atop Curanon’s horse and sunk fangs as long as Erestor’s hand into the poor beast. “Stay down,” he hissed, and once more rocketed forward; he swung his sword at the creature’s abdomen, but it was like striking a rock. “Help here! To me, men, to me!”
No one came, and Erestor spared a look beyond their small fray to see at least two more of the things descending on the rear of the guard. He growled and his second swing swept four legs out from under the crude beast.
The spider could not speak, but it made screaming noises that nearly matched the horse’s shrieking death knell in eerie terror.
“The eyes! Aim for the eyes!”
Erestor spared no thought for the voice other than to obey it. The spider was regaining its balance, spinning to face its attacker. Erestor did not wait. He lunged, forcing the blade into the center of the thing’s head, amidst shining black eyes. It emitted a choking scream and Erestor decided to see if it had a neck.
It did.
The head was swiftly parted from body, and a great jet of greenish black goop spurted out over the ground.
Erestor silenced the dying horse.
Erestor looked up. He thought for a moment the exhilaration had excited in him a delusion, for there were a mass of Elves -- clad in white and brown -- scattered along the trail. Then he realized: the Greenwood Elves had arrived. They blended into the gray backdrop of the winter night, moving like chameleons against the wash of snow and trees. They were efficient in their slaughter of the spiders, brooking no defeat.
“Mount your horse, advisor.”
Turning, Erestor found himself face to face with the King, dressed no more regally than his men, glaring at him.
Erestor scooped up a handful of snow to wipe his blade and gestured curtly to his assistant. “Curanon. Up.”
The miserable Elf shuffled forward and Erestor boosted the wretch onto his own mare. He mounted behind and clicked his tongue.
The skirmish was swiftly ending. Erestor spared his attention from the trees to count. Two horses were dead, but every Imladrian was alive. He could not account for those of the Greenwood; Erestor supposed they would blend in to the ground if they lay still and dead. He let his horse have her own lead, and she willingly followed the others out of the air fouled with the last dying cries of the spiders.
= = = = =
The Mirkwood stables -- like the only safe places in the kingdom -- were housed underground, in the caves of the mountains there. The horses liked it no more than the Elves, but it was preferable to the oppressive air of the wood, even near the cave openings, where the evils of Dol Guldur rarely ventured.
Erestor saw to his own horse. She had been faithful to him on the long journey over the mountains.
“Erestor?”
The advisor had settled her in a clean stall; their delegation had been anticipated, and preparations properly attended to. He was running a brush over her chestnut coat, a fine color. She’d had her fill of water and was already drowsing after the long day. It was past midnight.
“Erestor?”
“I am neither kind nor generous, so whatever you’re thinking, I demand you cease at once.”
“N-no,” his aide stuttered, “it’s only…”
“What is it, Curanon?”
“The King wishes to speak with you.”
He looked up. “What, now?”
“Well, yes.”
“Can we not have a minute’s peace?” Erestor muttered, putting up the brush. He did not yet draw a blanket over her; she was still hot from the last run. He trusted the stable hands to look after her. As he closed the stall door behind him, a young Elf walked up to look in on the mare.
Erestor dug a copper out of his pocket and flipped it at the lad. “Take good care of her.”
Curanon followed trippingly on his heels as Erestor departed the stables, taking the rear stair to the main hall above them.
The stone stairs wound up and around in a tight spiral, awkward even for Elves, impossible for spiders.
Both Imladrians breathed a sigh of relief when they came out at the top, where the stairs opened up into the entrance chamber. The exterior door was shut fast against the night, with several guards standing a quiet duty. All the excitement was left to the Elves on watch beyond the safety of the stone walls.
Two Elves awaited them, standing in quiet conference in the shadow of the carved stone pillars. They bowed. The first said, “Advisor Curanon, I will show you to your room.”
“Chief Counselor Erestor, if you will follow me,” said the other, “the King shall wait upon you in his throne room.”
“I doubt it,” Erestor muttered, following the manservant. “Oh, wait.” He swung around and caught his assistant’s elbow. “Curanon.” He slipped several coppers into the Elf’s hand, whispering in his ear. “Their ways are different; remember what I told you about gratuity.”
Curanon gave a shaky nod and departed with his guide.
Erestor returned to his own. “Pardon me. Lead on.”
The Elf led him sedately through the torch-lit corridors of the place. The few people who walked there in the night looked at their visitor curiously. Erestor neither smiled nor frowned. He did not look at them, if he could help it.
They came to a halt at the double doors at the end of the path they walked. Erestor waited in the darkness of the cave as the manservant announced him: “Chief Counselor Erestor of Imladris.”
A moment later, he came back and bowed Erestor in.
Erestor stifled a yawn and strode within. He was shortly shut in the great, high-arched room with Thranduil in the throne at the end of it. The King wore a green tunic and furred pelisse over the plain white and brown clothes of the guards. His famed Mirkwood yellow hair flared around his shoulders, a gossamer gold web. A sturdy gold circlet crossed his brow and wove into his hair. Blue-green eyes were piercing. Seated upon his raised throne, the King looked down at his guest without approval.
In his drab traveling clothes, wet from his fall and dirty from his fight, Erestor felt smaller than he would have liked to in comparison. He surreptitiously wiped his bloody wrist on his surcoat and then pushed at a length of bedraggled black hair that hung in his face.
He did not bow.
Thranduil did not expect him to.
“Your delegation arrived later than was anticipated.”
It was nearly as cold in the caves as out of them in the winter. Erestor tried not to shuffle his wet feet. “We ran into a pack of Wargs on the western ridge of the mountains. We suffered no casualties, but rested several days in the high snows for the injured.”
“In the snows?”
“The Wargs did not follow us there. Had our need been greater, we would have turned back. As it was, here we are. No harm done.”
“And just in time for our Winter Solstice festivities. How charming.”
Erestor frowned at the implication. “The invitation was sent from your hand.”
“As it every year is. I did not foresee an acceptance.”
“You must be careful, King, that your formalities are not merely that. Every word either uttered or written, may somewhere be heard and believed. We believed your invitation sincere, and accepted in the name of friendship. In the name of Alliance.”
Thranduil’s brow darkened and he stood, shiny leather boots scuffing the stone pedestal. His looks were not kind, and his eyes were tired. “There are no more Alliances. For how long,” he stuttered, “for how many centuries have my people suffered the plague of Dol Guldur? Under the thumb of evil we sit, alone and disregarded! What help have you been to us? The Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood are as closed to us as the gates to the West! Your ‘Lord’ half-Elf welcomes even the scum of the earth to his miserable little house! And we! The last of the royal line of Elves has been shut away in the northern caves without thanks or attribution! And now you stand before me in the name of friendship!? In the name of Alliance?”
“You exaggerate your state, my liege,” said Erestor, not devoid of anger himself. “The ways you believe closed are not so. You are just too blind to see them. As for your self-imposed exile -- inflicted on your own people as well -- I cannot BELIEVE you justify your state by blaming the Imladrian people, who have never denied help when kindly asked! But you, in your insolent pride, have snubbed even the help of those who are still your allies!”
Somewhat appeased, Thranduil wearily sank back into his chair. “Yes, you will do nicely,” he muttered. “I am glad to see the half-Elf has not sent another frilled fop in frippery to meet me. I look forward to our conversations, though my court will not. You are dismissed.”
Unlikely to be so easily got rid of, Erestor approached the throne. “Am I so unsuitable a figure to present to your people?”
“You are from Imladris.”
“An unusual stigma, if you ask the rest of the world.”
“But I do not ask the rest of the world.”
“What might I do to recommend myself to your court?”
“You could do with some humility, Counselor Erestor.” Thranduil flared his nostrils. “And a bath.”
“And you, Sire, might familiarize yourself with hospitality. My welcome was far from warm.”
“Your arrival was far from welcome. Good eve.”
= = = = =
Forgoing his guest chamber, Erestor asked the servant to lead him instead to the baths.
Mirkwood’s many chambers afforded several surprising luxuries, including the baths and steam rooms, where monstrous boilers had been fitted beneath stone basins where a natural flow of water was blocked up to form both public and private bathing areas, as well as a sort of primitive but effective sauna.
Erestor was not always difficult to please, and the Mirkwood baths pleased him immensely.
The pools were nearly empty so late at night, and Erestor turned his clothes over to a maidservant, taking up a clean robe for when he was finished.
Sinking into the wet heat was more welcoming by far than Thranduil’s cool reception. Tight muscles and chilled skin relaxed into the mineral heat of the water and Erestor ducked his head beneath, working the soap into the untangled braid of his dark hair.
The others in the bathing room ignored him, though it was strange enough to have an Elf with hair other than gold in their midst, let alone one whose hair rivaled the midnight sky.
“Mind the company?”
Erestor nearly swallowed a mouthful of soapy water. He choked and sat up straight in the bath. “Your Highness. How . . . unexpected.” He blinked the sting of soap out of his eyes and squinted against the darkness. It was always dark in the caves, no matter how many smokeless fires or lanterns were lit. “You always seem to find me at a disadvantage, Sire.”
Thranduil grinned. He was clad only in the plain leggings of the guards, bare feet splayed on the wet stone, the tight muscles of his arms and chest sculpted by the flickering lights. “Disadvantaged is a good way to find any opponent.”
Erestor’s eyes widened and then he gestured at the water. “Care to join me?”
Thranduil eyed the pool warily, and then nodded. “I think I will,” he stripped off his leggings and stepped into the hot water, sinking down beside Erestor, “though it isn’t often in my prerogative to join the commoners in the bathing house.”
“I have been many things, but you are the first to call me ‘common.’”
“I am surprised,” Thranduil said, his eyes closed as he settled in the soothing water. “You were not born to a Lord.”
“No.”
“Nor to any Elf of significant station.”
“This is important to you,” Erestor stated.
“My father was a king.”
Erestor let slip a grim smile. “And mine was a cobbler. Does that make us so unequal?”
Thranduil did not deign to answer.
“You are a King and I am a Lord’s Counselor. We are both warriors, both Elves of some rank--”
“Rank!” Thranduil’s bright eyes flashed open. “You swindled yours!”
“Damn straight!” Erestor howled, jumping up in a rage, water sluicing off his pale skin. “I fought tooth and nail against every tide that swelled over me! I couldn’t even BUY my way up the chain of command! Everyone else had to DIE first! Lords, Captains, even Kings! I’ve paid my dues a hundred times over! And for what? To listen to the idle complaints of a worn out King, tired more of his title than anything. You don’t care for my rank. Not really.” Tiring, Erestor swiped irritably at his eyes and sank back down. “It has been a long day. Neither of us is here to debate politics. Let us apply our wit instead to the celebration of the season, and to the bond we have.”
“Bond.”
“Like I said. Friendship. Alliance. These are the most valuable tools a diplomat can provide, under any circumstance. I hope you agree to it.”
“Alliance. Aye.”
Erestor finally smiled. “I think, then, that friendship shall be harder to attain.”
“It will take more than a bath and conversation,” Thranduil drolly consented.
Erestor laughed.
= = = = =
The next morning, Erestor and Curanon walked a high path in the mountain that -- through tiny arrow loops -- looked out on the dark forest. “Do you recall,” Erestor tested, “the purpose of a diplomatic visit?”
Curanon bit his lip, his usual nervous gesture, and slowed his pace. “Its purpose is to strengthen ties of friendship, culture, and family. It is, as you say, ‘politics without policy.’ A union without a treaty.”
“Very good. And your job?”
“To stay out of your way and not embarrass myself,” Curanon recited.
“Right. My ultimate purpose is to reconcile Thranduil into an unwritten agreement to allow open traffic between Imladris and Mirkwood, providing transport for goods, families, traders, and the like. He does not seem directly opposed to the idea, but from my past dealings with the Elf, he can be more stubborn than a cave troll when it comes to Greenwood pride. So, I must be present and pleasant, but not speak overmuch, confident but not conceited, ready to offer, but also to hold back. According to tradition, I will not share his table at the Solstice Feast, but I’m hoping to change that. I’ll be getting on his advisors’ good sides. Surreptitiously, of course. And you? Your job is?”
“To stay out of your way and not embarrass myself,” Curanon recited.
“Mm. I’m not a social butterfly at heart, and you aren’t a profound speaker, but people WILL talk to us. Follow my example at our own Imladrian gatherings and you get the idea. Converse well and proudly of Imladris, but do not be ethnocentric. Respect your Lord Elrond, but show no less esteem for King Thranduil or his line. Be courteous, but not familiar. Speak well, but not often. And? What else?”
“Stay out of your way and don’t embarrass myself,” Curanon recited.
“And don’t wear the orange sash with the blue gown. It clashes,” was Erestor’s final piece of advice.
= = = = =
Erestor decided to leave Curanon to his own devices for the rest of the day, and was glad to be rid of him.
Instead, Erestor set about making polite small talk with Thranduil’s advisors and other confidants. He was glad to learn that most of them were approving, even enthusiastic, at the idea of more open communication and travel between the kingdoms, and Erestor knew his battle was half over even before it had truly begun. Of course, there was still that Greenwood pride to overcome.
The time preparing for the Feast was also a time of mental groundwork for Erestor as he thought through his lists and tactics, a procedure conducted with left-brained and amoral precision.
He traded in his tunic and trousers for a proper gown of estate, cinching silk cords about his waist, all the while running through his mind those uncommon sentiments of loyalty that he could think of. Nothing trite or pithy for Thranduil if he could help it. The usual promises would do no good here. The King appreciated ingenuity and challenge.
And that was what Erestor was going to give him.
= = = = =
“Erestor?”
Erestor couldn’t help growling a little bit. “What did I say?”
“To stay out of your way and—”
“Curanon. The individual is a very fragile thing. Give me two days and I could ruin you as a person.”
“Yessir.”
“Now, for the absolutely LAST time: stand there, follow me, and sit where they tell you to. Smile, but don’t laugh. Listen more than you speak, and watch everyone around you.” Erestor turned away and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “They’ll call our party in less than a minute.” He glanced once more at his aide. “And don’t fidget.”
“Yessir.”
The ten guards of the Imladrian party bit back their smiles at this interplay, and held their tongues.
Then, the doormen pulled open the double doors to the dining hall and the crier announced, “Chief Counselor Erestor, leading the delegation from Imladris, on behalf of Lord Elrond Peredhel!”
Everyone already in the hall turned their heads to regard the company that Erestor led at a sedate pace into the low-arched hall to the accompaniment of light music. Despite its overall resemblance to a giant wine cellar, the décor of the hall was pretty and well composed. Erestor found little to disagree with and considered the place vastly improved since his last visit, all too long ago.
One of the serving lads led them to a table, two down from the King’s, where a smattering of empty chairs welcomed them to sit amongst the lords and advisors of Mirkwood.
“All right,” Erestor whispered to his companions, “let’s liaise.”
Erestor settled himself between a gruff aide who he already got on agreeably with and a high-ranking advisor whom he’d never met. He watched Curanon settle himself down the table between some younger Elves. Good.
They were the last to be announced, and Thranduil stood to propose a toast in the name of ‘Alliance’ and other political reasoning, though Erestor noticed the distinct omission of the word ‘friendship.’
Everyone echoed his final words of welcome and drank of the heavy Mirkwood wine, a deep red. Erestor tried to remember how many times he’d warned Curanon not to drink overmuch of the potent Mirkwood wine, and hoped that it was enough.
As the first course was being laid out, Erestor conversed shortly with Elves sitting opposite him and bid the somber aide hello. And although he wished to avoid it, when all else was done, he turned to the new face beside him: a handsome Elf with haughty eyes. Erestor disliked his look immediately. “Advisor Alquadin, isn’t it?”
“Indeed. Ah, it is, without a doubt, a privilege to finally meet the infamous Chief Counselor Erestor.”
Letting the ‘infamous’ slip, Erestor returned the sentiment and hoped to move on.
“Your devotion to your Lord is remarkable,” Alquadin pretended to casually point out.
“Do you think so?” Erestor feigned equal flippancy.
“Is it your rule of thumb to respond to awkward remarks with a question?”
“Only when the intent is to make me uncomfortable.” Erestor offered a smile. “Why is it that my loyalty has been called into question?”
The advisor frowned, his eyes wide with surprise. “That’s not what I mea—”
“Then you should SAY what you mean,” Erestor suggested, putting an end to the interview. Erestor was more than content to see smiles on every face near them, for many had ceased their own discourse to eavesdrop on Erestor’s.
“This wine is delicious,” Erestor remarked to the table at large. “What other varieties does your land have to offer in these past years?”
This subject perked several Elves up immediately and they engaged Erestor at once, as he’d hoped they would. Most high-ranking officials, no matter where they were from, were always pleased of the opportunity to talk about themselves and their opinions.
Erestor, however, was not so absorbed as to be ignorant to his surroundings, and overheard Alquadin’s next words, however quietly they may have been delivered to his own servile friends. “I always heard Erestor lauded as an Imladris beauty, but I’ve personally never found anything with such discrepancy in coloring and with such highfalutin manners attractive.”
Erestor turned to him to say, “Keep flexing your limited wit and parading your narrow observations, Alquadin, and you may soon find yourself devoid of supporters, obsequious though they pretend to be now.”
Though not particularly concerned that he’d been overheard, Alquadin was affected by Erestor’s words, and looked a bit stung. “Oh, snap.”
“Chief Counselor Erestor?” a serving boy interrupted.
“Yes, lad?”
“The King sends you his compliments and invites you to join him at the high table.”
“Gladly accepted,” Erestor at once gave in, more than ready to be free of his entanglement with Alquadin. He stood and bid the others good eve, following the greenclad youth, and regretting his quick words. Granted, people like Alquadin were never quick to abandon their own rules of thought and opinion, but pissing off a high-ranking court official was hardly acceptable behavior either.
Then, Erestor found himself seated not only at the head table, but at Thranduil’s left hand, and made warm and pleasant greetings to all who sat there.
“Erestor, I’ve been talking with my advisors—”
“Really? I always thought you were more apt to talk *at* them.”
Thranduil tried to suppress a smile as those nearest them exchanged amused looks.
Erestor grinned, catlike.
Thranduil accepted the slight diplomatically. “At least they listen,” he said. “But as I was saying, my advisors like what you have to say, Erestor. Your words and their attentions have humbled me within the course of a single day.”
“Unheard of,” Erestor replied. “I rarely get so far on a first date, let alone ‘first diplomacy.’”
“Is that an Imladrian term?”
“No, an Erestorian one.”
“Oh,” said Thranduil, “that was lame.”
“I’ll try to do better next time,” Erestor promised.
= = = = =
All of dinner followed in much the same manner, with asides to the Elves sitting next to them only on rare occasion. The rest of the table was fine with the inattention of their King and visitor, because watching Erestor and Thranduil was entertainment enough for anyone.
“Well,” Thranduil continued on some tangent or other, “If reconciling Elven grudges really is your aim, then my only advice is prayer.”
Erestor shook his head and swallowed the last of his dessert, “Oh no. No. The divine does not interfere in everyday life. I trust myself above every being, celestial or otherwise.”
“No wonder you are famed as the most cunning Elf in all of Arda.”
“You exaggerate, my Lord King.”
“Never, no. I never exaggerate,” Thranduil declared, straight-faced. “That IS what they say.”
“Well then, do you agree to our arrangement? Open trade?”
“Yes, I believe we have a discord.”
The Elf beside Erestor leaned in and whispered, “He means ‘accord.’”
Erestor laughed at the twinkle in Thranduil’s eye. “No. I’m sure he means discord.”
= = = = =
After dinner, Thranduil invited Erestor for a private walk on the battlements, which were a stretch of lookout posts nearly halfway up the mountain, and had a view over nearly all the wood.
The winter wind was not as strong as it could have been. As it was, the two of them walked fairly close together, in hopes the other might block some of the bluster.
“The feast was wonderful.”
“As a visiting ambassador, you’re obliged to make compliments.”
“Only true ones,” Erestor told him, picking his careful way along the unclear path. He looked up at the sky, just as cloudy and dark as the night before, when they’d arrived in the pitch of the wood. “It’s so dark here. Is it always like this?”
Thranduil turned a wondering eye to the black dome above them. “Though the prospect from the ramparts is a fine one in the summer, always in winter is it this gloom,” he solemnly agreed. “Always snow and darkness, day or night. That’s the way of it in the north.”
Erestor shivered at the mere thought. “Caves and blankets of clouds.” He tried to smile. “No wonder you’re all so irritable. No light. No stars.”
“No kidding,” Thranduil agreed. He stopped then, there at the crenellated walls, his hands laid upon the cold stone carved directly from the mountain. “I know, in my heart, that it was wrong.”
One of the many things that all good counselors know is when to speak and when to listen. Erestor didn’t say a word.
“It was wrong of me,” the King elaborated, “to instill this fearful pride in my people, to shut the doors to the outside, because it was too dangerous. I suppose I treated them like children.”
“That’s what a monarch feels for his people,” Erestor knowledgeably pointed out.
Thranduil nodded. “You were right, in the baths. I am worn out, and so is this place. But I hold on to it. I hold it like prey in my teeth, because it was my father’s place. And now it is mine. And a king is not a king without a kingdom.”
“Ah,” Erestor softly observed. “You’re wrong again. A king is always a king, no matter what. You can always tell them apart.”
“It almost seems it doesn’t matter now. It’s too late.” Thranduil sighed, with a too-heavy weight on the air. “And I’m all too accustomed to a winter when you can’t see the stars.”
Erestor rested a hand (he hoped it was comforting) on Thranduil’s shoulder. They both looked at the sky.
Thranduil shook his head and stepped away, faking a smile, “Oh, let’s cease these tender sentiments--”
“Did you hear that?” Erestor interrupted.
Both Elves stilled, like deer in the wilderness.
It seemed there was a scuttling in the rocks above them.
“Not this close,” Thranduil wondered, “they never come this close…”
But they turned and looked up the mountain, and crouching there among the dark shadows of the rocks was a spider.
Thranduil pulled the cord of his gown. His outer robe fell open, and from his side he pulled out a sword that gleamed, even without light to make it so. And just in time, too.
The spider scampered with the finicky movements of a bat from one rock to the next until it could rush the pair of Elves on the battlements.
Thranduil swiped its first legs away with the sword, and the predator turned at once to Erestor, clicking its pincers as it dashed over the stone. Erestor bared his teeth and fell to the floor, kicking up just in time to knock the spider back a step and throw it off balance.
The King hacked at the abdomen, but it hardly nicked the thick exoskeleton. Meanwhile, Erestor pulled a dagger from his boot and slashed upward, just missing the beast’s face. Erestor shoved himself out from under it and rolled away, jumping to his feet.
Thranduil -- Erestor couldn’t see how he did it -- ran up the nearly vertical wall of the mountain to jump on its back and thrust his sword downward. But he missed the head, and instead impaled one of the forelegs, chopping it off.
The spider hissed and bucked, throwing the Elf off in a rage. Thranduil was nearly tossed off the cliffs, but caught the edge of the crenellations and pulled himself back up in time to see Erestor again bowled over. The counselor jabbed his dagger up into the underbelly of the thing, which proved far more vulnerable than its back, and he twisted the blade as the spider screamed.
Thick, dark blood rushed over his hands and onto his elegant gown. Erestor growled and retreated as the spider scrambled about in agony.
It collapsed in a sudden pang of death, and the two Elves stood in the silence of the night, looking down at it.
Thranduil’s robe whipped about in the wind. His hair blew free too, and he looked fierce and wild in the night.
Erestor was breathing hard and spattered with blood. His dark braid waved sullenly in the cold air and his dagger dripped split-splat to the ground, the only noise there on the ramparts, aside from the wind.
Thranduil kicked the severed leg aside, took three large strides over the stone, and wrapped one arm around Erestor’s waist, pulling him in for a kiss as turbulent as the fight had been.
Erestor curled into it, dropping the dagger and wrapping his arms round the King’s broad shoulders.
The winds raised up a gale, blowing their clothes about them and whipping at their hair.
“Hallo there! Are you all right?”
Only the possibility of discovery could have parted them, and when they pulled back, the look in their eyes could not have been mistaken.
“Sire, is that you?”
“What took you so long?” Thranduil bellowed at the first opportunity, as the guards came rushing in.
= = = = =
Banished to his room, Erestor flung his soiled clothes into the hamper and scrubbed his hands at the basin, with warm water from the pitcher near the fire. He worked the soap all over with ambitious haste, waiting upon the summons Thranduil had promised him.
He’d just pulled on his cleaned traveling clothes when there was a knock at the door. He fancied himself embarrassedly rushed as he hurried to open it. “Yes?”
The maidservant bowed. “Chief Counselor Erestor” (sometimes he wished his title wasn’t half so long) “my King Thranduil sends his regrets. He meant to extend an invitation to you this eve, but circumstances have arisen--”
“To hell with his circumstances!” Erestor bellowed at her. “Take me there now!”
The young Elf maid stepped back, her blue eyes wide with surprise. “Oh no! But my King has already declared that he’s not to be both--”
“Ugh, keep to your orders!” Erestor huffed and puffed, pulling the door closed behind him. “I’ll go myself!”
And he took off down the hall, hollering over his shoulder that his clothes needed cleaning and the fire to be banked.
= = = = =
Erestor banged his fist on Thranduil’s chamber door, not caring now for any who might see or hear.
There was no answer.
“I know you’re in there, you decrepit cockroach! Stop feeling all angst-ridden and unloved because your body’s awake and I’m of low birth! There’s hardly an Elven soul who CARES anymore, including yourself! If I have to--”
“For Valar’s sake!” Thranduil roared as he opened the door. “Have you no sense of propriety at all?”
“Not when Your Highness leaves me high and dry in the guest room. Move aside.”
“Why?”
“So I can come in and get ravished, you great lug.”
“Well, when you put it so delicately…”
Thranduil had barely shifted his weight when Erestor pushed by, rubbing up against the King, who had yet to change his dirty clothes.
Erestor promptly waltzed through the anteroom, through the sitting room, through the parlor, and into the bedroom. “By Elbereth, it’s dark enough outside,” he complained as Thranduil closed the hall door and warily followed after the Counselor, “without encouraging the shadows INSIDE, as well. Where do you keep your extra candles?”
By the time Thranduil made it to the bedroom door, Erestor had flung his shirt to a chair and was throwing another log to the fire. “Those candles?” he demanded.
Thranduil retrieved a half-dozen blocks of round beeswax candles from a drawer. Erestor directly snatched them away to fix up a pair of sturdy candelabra either side of the hefty bed.
“What are you doing?”
“A fine smart one I picked,” Erestor grumbled. “I want to able to see your face.”
Thranduil, no matter how logic tried and reason tested, was salivating at the firelight jumping over the muscles that strained across Erestor’s back and wound around strong arms. “A scholar, a warrior, and a cobbler’s son. What else are you hiding?”
Erestor faced the King and dropped his pants. He smiled.
With that settled, Thranduil charged across the room to touch all that splendid flesh, to crush teasing lips, and to pull at inky black hair. “You’re a wanton.”
“I dally where I like,” Erestor agreed, his nimble fingers finding their way through Thranduil’s garments to peel them away by layer. “And what are you?” he gasped as a wet tongue found his ear, “a prude?”
“I’m a King,” Thranduil told him, “I’m not allowed to ‘dally.’”
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