They're just outside the palace in Lindon. Celeborn, Prince of Doriath, is not quite sure what to do with Thranduil, the son of a Lindon noble. He doesn't seem anything like the elves of Doriath. Celeborn isn't quite sure he's anything like the elves of Lindon either.
But their fathers dumped them together and told them to get along, so Celeborn is polite. "Hello, he says. "My name is Celeborn, son of Celebros, Prince of Doriath." He keeps his voice polite with a touch of friendliness, shutting emotion out; it's his Diplomat Voice. Impenetrable as mithril walls, exactly how he likes it.
"I'm Thranduil," the smaller boy chirps, "you already know my father's name," and Celeborn does, it's Oropher, but hasn't this elf learned manners? "and I'm not the Prince of anything," like Celeborn didn't know that. Thranduil's voice is oddly high-pitched, like a young child's, and he speaks very quickly.
Celeborn is silent: if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. Thranduil is looking at him as if he's very odd, but Celeborn is polite enough not to do the same.
"So what do you enjoy?" Thranduil asks. It takes Celeborn a moment to realize that he doesn't know.
But that sounds pathetic, so he scrounges up something different to say. "I sit on councils a lot. Politics is interesting."
Thranduil nods thoughtfully, but he's staring out at the courtyard. "I'm sure it is. But that wasn't my question. What do you enjoy? What do you do when nobody tells you to?"
That's the thing. Celeborn devotes his spare time to studying, and he has no idea what he'd do if he had no obligations. He doesn't say as much, but the distinctly unregal manner in which his shoulders curl forward communicates the thought.
What is wrong with him? Every wall Celeborn has put up, built to withstand the harshest of emotional storms, is crumbling down with no more than a push from this strange, small, pixie-like boy. They haven't yet spent ten minutes together and Celeborn has shown Thranduil more of himself than he's shown people he's known for centuries.
"I don't know," he finally says, because he feels more in control if he says it than if he lets Thranduil guess.
"That's sad." Quiet and solemn, things he hadn't thought Thranduil could be, but simply put and simply worded. It captures him perfectly.
He'd never thought of it that way: lessons are interesting, duties are necessary, tutoring his cousin in history was his own idea, and studying is a quiet escape.
But now that Thranduil's said it - yes. It is sad that he has no idea what it is that he loves.
They're quiet. Celeborn studies his shoes.
"You're beautiful, did you know?" Thranduil says this conversationally, as if it's nothing odd.
Celeborn looks up, surprised. "No, I'm not." If anything, Thranduil is beautiful, with his slender frame and delicate features and golden hair and eyes that don't hold any particular color, only light. Celeborn is broader, with dull white hair and eyes an uncomplicated blue.
And he is not beautiful - at least, Celeborn has never thought of himself as such.
"Yes," Thranduil says impatiently, "you are. Now stop it and look at me."
Celeborn isn't sure what is meant by 'it,' but he is more than happy to look up at Thranduil.
The pixie places a hand on the back of his neck, pulls him forward, and kisses him. Celeborn's hands shoot to Thranduil's hips, holding him closer as he returns the kiss eagerly.
When they seperate, Thranduil is panting. His smile is just as beautiful as the rest of him.
"Want to go have an adventure?" he asks.
Celeborn smiles back. "I'd love to," he says, and starts running.