|
|
Summary: �Can you hear me tonight? Take me out of this darkness and into the morning light.� - Out of the Darkness, Chris Rea
Author's Note: Many sources state that Thranduil did not begin to move his folk underground until near the end of the first millennium of the Third Age, when the shadow of the Necromancer began to darken the Greenwood, but other sources suggested this may have begun earlier. Forgive this minor deviance from canon. I�m not sure I hit the hair fetish dead-on, but I did my best. *grin* Happy Holidays!
** denotes mindspeak **
* * *
True to his word, Thranduil did send a message first thing in the morning.
Erestor had risen early, as was his habit, and crept out of the bedroom, leaving Glorfindel sprawled face-down in bed and still fast asleep, and was seated at a desk in the front chamber, reviewing Elrond’s notes and jotting comments of his own in his journal. A page knocked at the door, bowed, handed him a short message, and was gone again.
The message was brief, and so typical of Thranduil’s often-quirky sense of humor that it brought a hint of a relieved smile to Erestor’s face. Perhaps the situation was not as dire as Legolas had implied, after all.
Dearest Erestor,
You cannot believe that I would not see through Elrond’s flimsy excuse? My rooms, seven thirty, and bring the blond. Your blond, not my son – I shall beat him separately. Come hungry.
Yours,
Thranduil
Post Script – I am glad you are here, old friend.
“The esteemed king requests your presence on this fine morn? I assume it is morning, anyway; it is a mystery to me how these people can live underground like a pack of moles. My heart yearns for the open air and to see some trees again.”
Erestor glanced up from the note to see Glorfindel standing in the doorway leading to their bedroom, a towel slung over his shoulder, braiding his hair.
“Good morning, love, I did not hear you get up.” Erestor crossed the room and gave his lover a kiss. “Aye, in his chambers for breakfast, at half-past the hour. Will you be ready?”
“Is this attire appropriate?” Glorfindel gestured with his free hand at his nude body, a twinkle in his eyes, and ran his fingers up and down over his breast in what Erestor considered a most distracting manner.
“Only if he is serving eggs. Biscuits and jam, on the other hand, require breeches, at the very least,” Erestor replied, his mood lightened immeasurably by both the tone of Thranduil’s message, and by the stirring vision of Glorfindel’s lusciously sculpted naked body. He lightly smacked his mate’s bottom with the flat of his palm and pushed him back toward the bedroom. “Now hurry up and get dressed, sluggard. I expect it will take the full measure of time for us to find our way there.”
* * *
Unfortunately, the reunion did not go quite as Erestor had envisioned.
Thranduil greeted Glorfindel cordially, as both friend and contemporary, and embraced Erestor warmly. Outwardly, Thranduil seemed little changed from the young prince that Erestor had once known. His shoulders had broadened with age, certainly, and his face had gained a few angular planes, thanks to maturity, but otherwise, he had not changed overmuch. His eyes were still as blue as cornflowers, his hair still lush and thick as molten gold, his bearing still regal, his legs still every bit as long and sinuous as ever, his voice still the same honeyed baritone that had once made Erestor’s knees go weak and was, even now, capable of giving him a little tingle right at the base of his spine. The beauty of his former lover was still enough to astound him.
But there was a pall over Thranduil’s soul, a shadow in his eyes that was not there before.
Thranduil smiled in all the right places, made pleasant and witty conversation, was as ever a gracious host, but there was something missing – something that disturbed Erestor greatly. It was as though the Thranduil that Erestor had once known and loved had been replaced with a slightly flawed replica – an Elf that looked the same, but lacked the genuine warmth and innate enthusiasm for life that was the heart of Thranduil Oropherion.
“So my son put you up to this, it is clear. I assure you that whatever Legolas told you is more likely than not a figment of an overactive adolescent imagination. I am perfectly well, as you can see for yourself,” Thranduil said.
Erestor wisely did not reply, only poured more tea and passed the cups ‘round.
* * *
Erestor did not see Thranduil for the remainder of the day. After breakfast, the king had hugged him, slapped Glorfindel on the back, and ushered them out the door, pleading a grueling discussion with the Esgaroth contingent before they returned to their lakeside town. Legolas would be sitting with him and learning the finer points of trade negotiations, so the two would be on their own until evening.
The Imladris Elves spent the day exploring the great caverns, hunting down the stables, and checking in with their soldiers to ensure they were settling in among the Sinda Elves. A few of Thranduil’s folk still regarded their Noldorin kindred with some suspicion, but, to their relief, the guards reported they had been accepted into the fold with nary a word, and had, in fact, already been asked to provide Thranduil’s troops with a demonstration of swordsmanship. The Elves of Eryn Galen were far more accustomed to weapons hewn of wood and strung with hair than those of forged steel, and were eager to learn new crafts from their fellow warriors.
Back in their chambers at the end of the day, Glorfindel sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, wearing a dressing gown and unbraiding his hair, while Erestor hung their clothing in the wardrobe.
“So, now that you have spoken with him, what do you think?”
Erestor paused in the middle of shaking out a tunic and, hanging it on a peg, turned to face his lover. “Well, Legolas has a right to be concerned. Perhaps the situation is not as sensational as he made it sound, but without a doubt, there is something about Thranduil that is not right.”
“How so? You obviously know him better than I, and would be a better judge.”
“He seems determined to make light of it, but did you notice how distracted he was? I asked him about the excavation he was planning on the underground river, and for a moment, I could swear there was a blank look on his face. Then he recovered and offered to arrange a tour for us. It was almost as though he forgot about it.”
“So what do you think ails him?”
Erestor hesitated and turned. “I think that he is terribly, terribly lonely.”
The expression on Glorfindel’s face indicated his doubt that something that affected Thranduil so deeply could be attributed to simple loneliness. The king had children and subjects aplenty who adored him. He was a king, for Manwë’s sake. How could someone so blessed possibly be lonely?
“Do you believe it really is as simple as that?”
Glorfindel patted the covers beside him, and Erestor crawled up onto the bed and settled himself beside his mate, turning his back so that Glorfindel could brush his hair as well. He closed his eyes and let the smooth, slow strokes of the hairbrush soothe him as he considered how to best put his thoughts into words.
“It does sound simple to someone bound as we are, but to Thranduil, it is not simple at all. Some of our kind never mate, and are content. Take Gildor, for example. He has never felt the stirring to bind himself to another. Perhaps he has not yet met the one for him, or perhaps it is simply his inclination to remain unwed, but his ‘unfettered folly,’ as he calls it, suits him.”
Glorfindel nodded understandingly. The incessantly unwedded state of the wandering Elf was a source of concern to both Elrond and Celebrían, who interrogated him about any likely candidates each time he and his band of Exiles passed through the Last Homely House. Invariably, Gildor would laugh and reply that he would not return to the Hidden Valley until he was married and had four children in tow (and considering Gildor’s tastes ran in an entirely different direction, it was improbable that would occur). Yet return he did, every few seasons, still unattached, and apparently blissfully so, at that. Glorfindel had mused privately to Erestor that he had the impression that it was not so much that Gildor was personally against marriage, but that he was waiting for something. Or someone.
“Thranduil is not one of those solitary folk,” Erestor went on, turning around to face his mate. “At his core, he has always craved the companionship of another, whether that of a parent, a confidante, or a lover. Thranduil needs someone he can share his burden with, someone to ease his cares in the deep of night, an ear he can whisper to of his uncertainties, and a heart that will share in his joy and make it their own.”
Glorfindel again nodded. “I understand, believe me, now that you put it like that. I remember the lonely days and a cold, empty bed – “
Erestor snorted, and Glorfindel flashed him a scapegrace look. “All right, I concede the point. My bed was not always empty, but it was lonely. I never realized how unfulfilling my life had been until I met you. It was as though when we came together, a veil lifted from my eyes, and I could see things I had never noticed before. Everything was brighter somehow, more vibrant, more complete.”
“Glorfindel, that is the largest load of horse dung I have ever heard.”
“Scoff if you will, but it is the truth,” Glorfindel answered with a gentle smile, giving his lover a soft kiss. “I loved Duilin deeply, much as I imagine you loved Thranduil, but when he died – when we died, I should say – it was not until I met you that I really understood what it was to feel that pull between souls that binds them together. My life felt whole, in a way it had not before.”
Erestor leaned into him and savored the closeness of his mate, just for a few moments. He was incredibly lucky to have found his heart’s desire, and he knew it.
Finally, Erestor broke the silence. “He never wanted to be king, you know. He used to say that one of the advantages of our race was that we were long-lived, so the succession of the kingship was not as vital as for other races. Unfortunately, that is often not so.”
“I can understand now why Elrond refused the kingship, even though he was next in succession. At least he had a choice, and Thranduil did not. What a terrible burden it must be, to bear the crown!”
* * *
Over the subsequent weeks, Glorfindel grew increasingly frustrated with Thranduil’s behavior, and his heart ached for the strain this was putting on both Erestor and young Legolas.
Many times, Erestor had attempted to create an opportunity to speak with the king alone and perhaps finally reach the heart of the matter, but thus far he was having little luck. Erestor had the distinct feeling that his old lover was doing his best to avoid that happening.
Thranduil did, as one would expect of a king, face an extreme demand on his time, and the Imladris Elves did have the opportunity to discuss the state of affairs in Middle-earth with the king and his council, the ‘official’ purpose of their visit, and heard Thranduil’s honest assessment of the growing shadow that he felt in the south. But the moment Thranduil’s business was concluded, he found an excuse to run off to yet another of what seemed a continual string of engagements.
There was a newborn babe to bless, a dispute to settle among his folk, expansions of the caverns, trade for goods and services with the Men of Esgaroth and, to his annoyance, even the arrival of the Naugrim of Dale, whose ruddy and bearded faces were seen roaming the passageways, mumbling to themselves and tapping here and there with tiny hammers.
One wintry day, when the Imladris Elves had been in Eryn Galen for a month or so, and Thranduil had skillfully avoided yet another occasion to answer those questions that he must have known Erestor was aching to ask, Glorfindel reached the end of his tether.
A hard freeze had set in, followed by a slight warming trend, bringing the first real snowstorm of the season. It had snowed for two days straight, according to the sentries who were returning from forest patrol, ruddy-faced and invigorated. It was glorious outside, they said, shaking errant snowflakes from their hair, now that the sun was finally breaking through.
“Damn him,” Glorfindel swore, slamming his hand on the tabletop as Erestor returned to their chambers downcast and depressed from yet another attempt to catch Thranduil alone. “This is going to stop, right now.” He jumped out of his chair and thundered toward the door, leaving a trail of loose papers fluttering to the ground behind him.
“Where are you going?” Erestor asked with alarm. Glorfindel was easy-going and rarely lost his temper, so this outburst was highly out of character for him and gave Erestor an indication of how long Glorfindel must have been holding his tongue, and how truly irate he was.
“To knock some sense into that blasted king. This pig-headed behavior has gone on long enough.”
“Glorfindel, please do not do anything rash!”
Erestor’s pleading finally reached his ears and he halted, slightly mollified, as he reached the door, raising a placating hand to his mate. “Erestor, stop. When have you known me to resort to unnecessary violence? Never fear, I will not harm him, love. Meet me in the front hallway in fifteen minutes, and be sure to dress warmly.”
He brushed out the door, pausing only to toss a rather brusque command over his shoulder before the door clicked shut behind him. “Bring my cloak and boots when you come.”
The door opened a crack, and a blond head peeked back through.
“Please.” He winked, and was gone again.
Erestor made it to the entry hall in ten.
* * *
Glorfindel anticipated resistance, and Thranduil did not disappoint. He bluffed and blustered, and positively insisted that he was really far too busy to leave his work for such a frivolous activity as a walk in the snow.
But as luck – or fate – would have it, Legolas was with Thranduil, going over some account books and learning, under his father’s keen eye, where grain prices from the farmers of Esgaroth were perhaps higher than they should have been, and where the Sinda traders had negotiated an exceptional bargain in the price of mutton.
Legolas showed surprising grit and determination in rebuffing every one of his father’s protests and stood steadfastly at Glorfindel’s side as Thranduil found himself being virtually frog-marched away from his desk, down the corridors, and out into the main foyer of the caverns. Legolas trailed behind, bearing an armful of his father’s outerwear.
Erestor was waiting expectantly in the front foyer, leaning against a soaring stone column, clad in sturdy boots and a thick woolen cloak, his mate’s winter garments draped over his arm. Elves might not feel the effects of the cold as keenly as the mortal races of Middle-earth, but that did not mean they enjoyed being cold and wet.
In the main hall, heedless of the Elves passing here and there going about their duties, Glorfindel demanded that Thranduil put on his cloak, “or else.” Exactly what ‘or else’ entailed, Glorfindel did not say, and Thranduil was savvy enough not to press his luck any further than he already had – an irate Glorfindel was a force not to be denied. He resignedly allowed Legolas to wrap him in a thick fur cloak, and protested only a little when Erestor knelt and worked warm boots onto his feet. Legolas stood on tiptoe and kissed his father’s cheek, and the trio was off.
Being aboveground was bliss for the Imladris Elves after being cooped up in a cave, however luxuriously accommodating it was, accustomed as they were to trees and airy views of breathtaking mountain vistas.
For hours, Thranduil led his companions over hill and dale, often following paths he had once walked with his wife and children. In the glaring afternoon sunlight, the trees were a blinding white, their branches heavy with snow, and the river was a ribbon of blazing crystal. The snow was light and fluffy, and in many places, the trio was forced to flounder through drifts as deep as their waists.
It was one such drift, at the top of a small rise, where Thranduil slipped on a small patch of ice buried under the snow and lost his balance. He yelped and as he began to fall, grabbed at Erestor’s arm for support. Erestor, himself struggling through the deep drift, was thrown off balance by the unexpected drag of the king’s not-inconsiderable weight, and stumbled. In turn, he clutched blindly at the most handy thing he could find – a fistful of Glorfindel’s golden mane, and down they went, arse over teakettle, to the bottom.
Erestor landed at the foot of slope, falling on his back with a hard ‘whoof’ that knocked the breath out of him. He lay silent and still in the snow, his long dark hair spread out around him like a shroud.
“Erestor!” Glorfindel cried, wallowing out of a deep drift and eyeing his mate’s motionless form worriedly. “Erestor! Oh Valar, Thranduil, is he all right? I think I killed him!”
After their tumble, Thranduil had landed under the shelter of a copse of pine trees, where the snow was relatively thin, and was able to free himself quickly and rush to Erestor’s side. He crouched over the still form and patted his cheek lightly. “Erestor… Erestor, come sweetheart, wake up.”
A great whoop shattered the air and the formerly ‘dead’ Elf grabbed Thranduil by the scruff of the neck and dragged him down into the snow.
“Ai, that was not funny!” Thranduil cried, spitting out a mouthful of snow in between laughs, while Erestor, grinning widely, sat up and brushed the snow from his cloak. “We really thought you were hurt!”
“You shall pay for that, my love. Prepare yourself, for that was a declaration of war!”
Glorfindel had extricated himself from the snowbank and was advancing on his lover, a devious glint in his eye. He launched himself at Erestor and caught him around the chest, driving him back down into the fluffy white snow. Falling backward, Erestor caught Thranduil around the knees with his legs and wrenched him down as well, and before long, a full-fledged snow fight was in progress.
A passerby would never have believed that the raucous, snow-covered, laughing creatures hurtling themselves and invectives at one another were in fact, highly respected Elven lords with some of the most calculating and perceptive minds in all of Middle-earth.
Erestor shrieked as a handful of the cold white stuff was shoved unceremoniously down the neck of his cloak. In retaliation, he scooped up a handful and rubbed it into Thranduil’s face (though it had been his own devoted mate who had been the deliverer of that particular assault, in the heat of ‘battle’, Erestor neither knew, nor particularly cared.)
With a howl of mock outrage, Thranduil caught him around the waist and attempted to drive him head first into a drift. Erestor deftly outmaneuvered him and rolled away, slinging good-natured insults over his shoulder.
“You shall not get away so easily, rascal,” Glorfindel called, and reached out to catch Erestor’s ankle as he tried to crawl off. With a mighty yank, Glorfindel hauled him back and deftly flipped him onto his back. He straddled Erestor’s waist, pinning his arms to his sides, and sat back on Erestor’s thighs, both gloved hands full of snow and poised for another whitewashing.
“Hold, fiend, I yield,” Erestor laughed, pink-cheeked and exhilarated, looking up at his lover with dark eyes sparkling with mirth. “I declare you the victor in this battle.”
“You must pay a forfeit to earn your freedom, knave. Are you prepared to pay it?”
“What is your price, my lord?”
“I demand only the simplest of things, my sweet. The price is… a kiss.”
“And I shall pay your price willingly.”
He moaned as Glorfindel’s warm tongue traced a path of fire across his own icy lips. The brightly shining sun overhead, the cold rivulets running dripping down his back, the chill of the flattened snow under his back, and even Thranduil’s presence disappeared as Glorfindel kissed him, there in the snow.
Unnoticed, Thranduil stood up and silently walked away, following the path they had trampled earlier.
The distant snapping of a branch underfoot finally brought the lovers back to their surroundings. Thranduil was almost out of sight, walking slowly and with head bowed. A look of chagrin passed between them, and they quickly brushed each other free of snow the best they could, and then hurried up the path after Thranduil.
The king looked neither right nor left, only continued to trudge through the snow, his head down, as his companions closed in on him and linked their arms with his, one on either side.
Erestor was alarmed to feel Thranduil trembling, and to see a trail of moisture trickling over one finely etched cheekbone that was far too regular to be melting snowflakes. Could Thranduil be… crying?.
**Glorfindel, we must get him back to the palace as quickly as we can,** Erestor sent worriedly to Glorfindel. **There is something wrong with him, and I know not what it is. Can you feel him shivering?**
**Yes… his clothing is wet straight through, as is ours, but he should not be feeling the cold this keenly. Come, beloved, let us hurry.**
The foyer was mercifully empty as Erestor and Glorfindel escorted Thranduil through the arched doorway and hurried as much as the king’s near catatonic state would allow. By some miracle, they encountered not a soul on the long walk to Thranduil’s chambers.
By the time they arrived at the king’s suite, uncontrollable trembling had beset Thranduil and he was in danger of collapse, had he not been supported on both sides. Glorfindel held the king steady while Erestor fumbled with the doorknob, and when the door opened suddenly, the three nearly fell into the room.
Galion, Thranduil’s ever-faithful steward, gaped for a second at the sight of his liege being supported by the two Elvenlords and immediately took charge. He instructed Erestor to wrap the king in warm blankets and for Glorfindel to stoke the fire, while he hurried to the bathroom to begin filling the bathtub with scalding water from the always-ready copper boiler, tempering it with buckets of cold from a spout fed through the wall.
Erestor and Glorfindel stripped off Thranduil’s wet cloak and wrapped his shivering body in a blanket while they waited for Galion to return. They chafed his chilled hands and fed the fire until it was near sweltering in the king’s chamber.
Galion reappeared at the doorway to say that the king’s bath was ready, and was quickly dispatched to the kitchens for hot mulled cider and food – something mild but hearty, and whatever he thought Thranduil would most stomach.
When he returned quicker than anyone would have believed (he had nigh sprinted to the kitchens, and hurried back as fast as he could without spilling his burden), carrying a large tray laden with a glazed earthenware pitcher filled with steaming cider, mugs, and a few small covered baskets and dishes, Erestor and Glorfindel had managed to strip Thranduil of his wet clothing and get him into the tub.
Glorfindel was poised to pour a hot drink for the king, when Galion asked him to wait for a moment. He pressed a cleverly concealed latch in a wooden wall unit and a panel swung open to reveal an impressive cache of liquors in varying size bottles and stages of consumption. He moved a few aside and finally withdrew one (“Dwarven make – this is what puts that nasty hair on their faces,”) and poured a generous amount into the mug that Glorfindel held.
“Why does his lock up his liquor?” Erestor queried.
Galion replied dryly, “He raised four sons, my lord.”
* * *