Naught but ice and silver

HaruIchigo

Summary:

Not every jewel can be found under the ground

Notes:

A translation of Только лёд и серебро by HaruIchigo.

TRANSLATION BY Palpalou

Sometimes as he lay dreamless in his chamber, when the black marble columns and obsidian walls brought the darkness to the very bed and the blue glow of the sapphire stones fell to the floor in shimmering mosaics, Thorin felt all the weight of the mountain above him, the miles and miles of stone hanging over his head. He loved that feeling. No matter how treacherous the mountain was, she fed and protected the descendants of Durin as a mother, leaning over them all her heavy, abundant flesh.

In those sleepless nights, Thorin felt a boy again, a child, calm and safe, and could not understand how anyone would feel otherwise.

"These vaults press down on me," said Thranduil. "I could not live in Erebor, not for all the treasures in the world."

He said this without ill intention or even great thought, as their breaths calmed down and the sweat cooled on both their bodies, and then easily fell into the calm and quiet elven sleep, his white shoulder peeking out from underneath the richly-embroidered sheets. He slept, his breath light and free in his slumber, but Thorin could not, his anger like a great bear huffing down his neck, and he twisted those words again and again in his head.

To him, Elves always seemed thoughtless and rather silly creatures. To live in trees, in flimsy, windswept palaces, in miserable low hills–was this power? Was this greatness? Was this the manner of a mighty people?

Mighty...

Thorin knew that there were many skilled warriors among the Elves, but, at heart, he doubted it. Thranduil's long legs, bent uncomfortably so that he could fit in the bed, which was of impressive craft, fit for a king, but nevertheless a little too short for him, were more shapely and supple than strong. Like a snake that could jump high and slyly deliver its painful bite, but not fight in the open. He seemed too white, too smooth, too delicate and vulnerable, when compared with any of the sons of Durin, and thus Thorin always felt reverent tenderness and burning irritation both when he threw back the hides and the covers to admire him in the feeble bluish light.

The elf's wrists were too thin and delicate, his shoulders narrow almost like a woman's, his legs too long, even his hair was soft as silk…

You useless creature, Thorin chided him in his thoughts, knitting his black eyebrows gravely. He did not like when his feelings crashed against each other in this way nor the chaos that came from the collusion. You are too soft, and the slightest thorn can hurt you. That is why you are afraid of the mountain.

A thorn, the arrow of an orc, the sting of a spider... the more Thorin thought about it, the hotter ran his resentment. Why did mighty Eru make something so perfect so fragile?

In the end, he threw back the sheets and pulled on light linen trousers, and, having lit an oil lamp, went to sit at a massive desk in the corner of the room. He tried to press the tip of his quill as lightly as possible to the paper, so that the soft scratching would not disturb Thranduil's sensitive hearing, and from time to time, he threw anxious looks beyond the circle of light. One after another, the shapes of cuirasses, plated gloves and helmets sprang from the inky lines, adorned with leafy ornamentations, incrusted with gems, but each time his ruthless hand angrily crumpled the pieces of paper and threw them away.

This didn't work. There was always some thing or other that didn't work. The armors were too dwarfish; no elf would have worn them. They lacked something that Thorin could not define.

Could not understand.

In the same way that he did not understand how the weight of the mountain could be suffocating, how someone could sleep under the stars without unease, who, in all possession of their senses, built their house in a tree...

…what Thranduil could think when he looked at him, why he allowed so much, caring not at all about his pride as a king and as a man.

"Useless" Thorin hissed through his teeth in anger, throwing away another sheet. "I am a Dwarf and I forge armor like a Dwarf. So did my fathers and my fathers' fathers forge! They never bent for the Elves and never imitated them! They were not blinded by foolish passion..."

He flinched as he heard a rustle of paper, and turned. Thranduil was on his knees, wrapped in a heavy quilt embroidered with gold, green and red patterned squares. He was examining one of the discarded sketches, and a faint smile touched his lips. It made him look younger, more like an adolescent than a man, and Thorin, unable to stand it, stood up, roughly pulled the piece of paper from his fingers, and turned away.

"Such prying is unbecoming" he said dryly, trying not to look back, not to look into Thranduil's luminous eyes.

"Such armors would do honor to any armory."

"Not an elven one."

"I would be honored to have them in my treasury."

Thorin grunted angrily, turning away once again.

"Armors are not made to be kept and admired. They protect. Protect ..."

A quiet laugh answered him.

"I have armors, Prince Thorin, and all my soldiers are equipped not any worse than dwarven warriors. But I'll tell you what I do not have."

A warm hand touched the broad expense of Thorin's bare back, and he turned around.

Heart, he thought. You have no heart, otherwise you would not plague me so with your every word and look.

"What I do not have is a crown I would be proud to wear in the winter. But I do not know whether you have the craft ..."

"Tell me what you desire."

"Have you ever seen the changing winter, when the snow suddenly starts to thaw, as if sensing spring, and all the trees in the forest are weeping?" It was not the light of the lamp that reflected itself in Thranduil's eyes now, but starlight, although the stars themselves could not see there, at the very heart of the mountain. "But in the night, the crackling frost quickly creeps back and seizes the water. Everything congeals. Freezes into ice. And when the sun of a new day rises above the crowns of the trees, the entire forest shimmers like a diamond–because the rays of dawn play in the net of frozen branches, which are as crystals now. Then snow falls again, and the world all around, as far as the sight carries, is a desert of silver and iridescent ice."

He paused for breath, and Thorin noticed suddenly, with surprise, that the eyes of the proud Elven king were turned on him, on him alone, and this look was beseeching, full of hope . Thorin sincerely tried to see the shining winter forest, but he had never been there and therefore could only imagine the white stalactites and stalagmites of the underground caves, seeping with moisture in the darkness, could only imagine the crystals that grew from the stone.

But it was not this about which Thranduil talked, and he saw how the hope faded away in his eyes, covered with the ashes of disappointment. And yet, the Elvenking took his strong hands, his unkingly-calloused hands, worn by the hammer, gentler than he'd ever been.

"Have you never seen this beauty? I want to show it to you. I want you to be my guest, Thorin son of Thráin, and see with me the woods I love so much. From the moment you see them, your heart will not belong only to the stones anymore, and your craft ..."

"It has been a long time since the days my heart belonged only to the stones." Thorin squeezed the long elven fingers, but too strongly, so that the shadow of pain slid across Thranduil's serene face like ripples on the smooth surface of water. "They say that when the firstborn Dwarves woke up, they saw the stone above them, and since then, they and their descendants cannot imagine life without the mountain. I too did not need anything aside from the stone ... but then I saw the stars."

Thranduil leaned closer, his lips almost touching Thorin's.

"The stars are too far away even for me ..." he whispered, and the quilt slipped from his shoulders, sinking heavily to the floor. "The sparkling snow and the diamond-like ice are closer. If you ever find yourself in my woods, Thorin, I will not let you go before you see them. And then, I know your skilled, clever hands will create for me a crown the likes of which can boast no other Elf King. Do you promise me?"

"I promise" Thorin said softly, and in the darkness, under the shade of black marble, amongst the pelts and embroidered sheets, the contract was sealed repeatedly.

The end.