Firmament
I
Death is before him once more. Neither friend nor foe, but a coldness, unbreathable.
He had come to reclaim his heirloom, the necklace of Thingol. An easy siege. So tempting. Now he and his people are fighting for their lives. The filth of Dol Guldur comes pouring out of the mountains. Some of them on beasts. Flashing eyes. Snapping jaws. Tarnished steel. And his warriors on foot. They are quick, yes, but vulnerable, trapped between the mountain and their foes.
It is not a battle. It's a slaughter.
Blood. Cries. Bellowing. The Black Speech. Thranduil moves about the field in mute fury. The orcs are tearing into their ranks. He feels cold, calm. The sharpness of his blade, the singing steel—he slices, thrusts, pushes, slays orc after orc after orc. But around him, his men fall.
Blood is seeping into the soil. The earth is eager to drink it up. This rotten land. In Mirkwood they could have held the fortress. Here he fights on the open field. And somewhere Legolas fights, too—A blade. Close. Thranduil jumps to the side, moves around. A cursed breed of orc and troll stands before him, tall, muscles straining, death in his foul breath. Yet Thranduil is fast. The creature's armor thin. Two steps forward—the right angle—thrust—black blood splatters on his breast-plate. The creatures falls. More come. He needs to act quickly. With a few strides and slashing left and right he makes his way to his first commander.
"To the sides!" Thranduil shouts, "form a waning moon. Cut them off!" His commander nods, starts shouting as well. Before he can go, Thranduil clasps his fingers around his shoulder.
"Have you seen my son?"
"No, my Lord."
Wreathing broken bodies, blood and dirt caked into hair. Few are hauled up again. Fewer still fight.
Thranduil has seen it all before. The host of his father overrun. The searing smell of fire. Ash on his tongue. His father's body trampled into the ground.
He must not think of it. He moves quickly. If he can fight his way to the other side were the bigger part of his army has been driven, he might be able to get his men back into formation.
They need his leadership. He has seen the dread in their eyes.
There are too many. They cannot defeat them.
There is a silence that settles in his veins. Something unspeakable. It is then that he is thrown down. He rolls to the side. A blade pierces the earth next to his head. Then blood, black and stinking. When he looks up his gaze is met by two dark-blue eyes. The next second Thranduil is up again. Sword drawn. He takes a breath. Thorin. A shiver runs down his spine. Thorin stares at him while he pushes his sword into the belly of an orc. His jaw is set, his lips are pressed into a tight line. Sweat stands on his brow. The fever-sheen over his complexion has cleared. He is no longer the dwarf who shot an arrow at him just hours ago. Now he is truly a king. Grim and proud in the face of death.
Thranduil can feel the ache in his muscles, the exhaustion that slowly swims in the marrow of his bones. Next to him stands Thorin. His presence is enough to make Thranduil stand straight again. No crumb of weakness will be shown before the dwarf.
Now they are fighting side by side. Thorin wields his sword with rough precision. There is pride in the grimness of his stare. Though he is many a head beneath Thranduil, the dwarf has the air of greatness about him, of lost royalty reclaimed. But there is something else Thranduil can see. It is a disgusting thing, but he can only name it thus: despair. Thranduil smiles. It is reflected in Thorin's eyes, cold and clear like a morning sky drowned out by sudden night—Thorin shoots forward. Lightly his blade scratches Thranduil's neck when he drives it into the skull of an orc behind Thranduil. For a heartbeat they are close. The momentum of Thorin's leap nearly brings them down. Just in time Thranduil grips the dwarf's upper arm. They swing around, stay on their feet. The next second Thranduil brings his sword up. Slices another neck. The dwarf gives him a look and the corners of Thorin's mouth move upwards. It is not a kind smile.
But then again, there has never been kindness between them.
II
After so many centuries lost it was found. It had been rumoured, murmurs of the long lost carcanet, spit out by the sea, picked up by greedy hands, unknowing of the treasure they were holding. Now news came to Mirkwood. Long had Thranduil waited to pay homage to the King under the Mountain, long had he tarried. It had been perceived as an insult surely, an affront. His advisers had urged him to go. Iron and jewels were there to trade for fine wood, silk and linen. But nothing Thranduil was interested in – until now. When he had heard the rumour first, his fingers had trembled. A shiver had run down his back, icy cold. Not a day had he forgotten. Not a night had he not thought of the heirloom of his people lying in blackness on the ground of the sea.
So Thranduil sent messengers. They returned with word from Thrór. Two weeks later he rode with thirty of his most capable warriors. At sundown they arrived at the Lonely Mountain.
Erebor was vast and cold. The rock was worked into clean-cut walls reaching up into the darkness. Few lights in heavily ornamented lamps spread spindly fingers into the air. Tapestries and statues of old kings, bridges over abysses and columns thick like the trees of Neldoreth—and yet there was something tinting the air that whispered of sickness. A cold fever.
After being shown to the quarters prepared for them, a servant lead Thranduil and four of his men to have supper with Thrór and the royal family. His other men were sent to dine in lower company.
It was then that he laid eyes upon Thrór's grandson for the first time. Tall for a dwarf, strong jaw, hawk nose and dark-blue eyes narrowed in arrogance. A prince indeed, with yet short, dark beard but clad in furs and sapphires set in golden rings on his fingers. He spoke with a voice so rough and noble it let a shiver run down Thranduil's back. Oh, had he known then what would become of him … but he had not. And thus his eyes lingered but a moment on Thorin, son of Thráin.
Only the thought of the necklace lead him through the hours. No doubt Thrór had fallen sick to the same greed that drove the craftsmen of Nogrod to betrayal and murder. Thrór's voice was thunderous as he spoke of the might and the treasures he claimed to possess. Every was word boastful. He spoke of the Nauglamír, too and watched Thranduil as he did. Thranduil had to clutch the silk fabric of his gown under the table as not to spit out the venomous words he had on his tongue. The wine served was bitter but bitterer still to wait for what was his to take.
When finally he stood before the throne, to pay homage to the king underneath the Arkenstone, a dwarf came forth with a wooden chest. It was opened. Silence fell over Thranduil.
The Nauglamír laid upon other jewels and pearl, white like starlight, twined clasps, glowing pure and everlasting. No stain tarnished its beauty. And in the middle laid bare the silver where once a Silmaril had blazed. A shuddering breath. His eyes wide, he reached out—and the chest was shut before him. He looked up. Thrór sneered at him in barely hidden gloating. For a heartbeat Thranduil stood still as a statue of stone. Then he turned around with a quick motion.
They were to stay the night, but Thranduil was about to give the order to leave when he saw a silhouette against the dim light at the end of the hall. With a sharp word and a cutting gesture he dismissed his guards. And waited. His muscles were tense and poison crept in his veins.
"Thorin, son of Thráin," he said when the dwarf was close enough.
"My lord," said Thorin. And in his eyes glinted something bold, something unafraid. Thranduil's lips split into a smile.
"Come and drink with me," Thranduil said then and stepped into his room.
He could hear Thorin close the heavy stone door behind him. Thranduil had turned to the carafe with the amber liquid the dwarves drank. It burned in one's throat and yet it had an earthy taste that was enjoyable. Much like the dizziness it instilled. Behind him the dwarf. He could smell him. He reeked of expectation and defiance. Yet why had he come here? In these dark hours before dawn?
Thranduil turned around, two filled glasses in his hands. He leaned back. Through narrowed eyes he gazed at the man before him. Waited. What did Thorin, son of Thráin, want here? What did he seek? Such delicious questions.
Thorin looked at him at him as if he wanted to cut Thranduil's figure in the air.
"You have but defiance for my grandfather." Thorin was stating a fact. There was no accusation in his tone, yet maybe a conceit only the more youthful would possess. Thorin was one for command, for authority, much like Thranduil's own son, but in Thorin was twined a boldness Thranduil had not ever seen before, in all his years. To seek him out here. At such an hour. How quickly would rumours spread if someone stole but a glance at the prince? What would they say of him who came late to the elvenking's chambers in secrecy? What a fool. A smile curved Thranduil's lips. Thrór would indeed regret not having told his grandson to stay away. He had given Thranduil a knife, and Thranduil would cut deep.
"Now, now," Thranduil said and took a few steps towards him, "no such talk before you've had a glass or two, lest you blame it not on the drink tomorrow day, my prince."
"Is that how the elves do it?" Thorin asked with a sneer.
"It is how all wise men should do it."
Thorin huffed, but did not disagree. Thranduil handed him the glass and allowed their fingers to graze. With pursed lips and a tilt of his head he moved away. He had to seem like shadow to the dwarf and shadow he should be this night.
"So, tell me, prince, what thought lead you into my quarters?"
Thorin did not answer.
"Curiosity perhaps? What would you want to know of me?" A slow glance, lecherous, he took a sip of his drink, watched Thorin over the rim of the glass. There was movement in the dwarf's gaze, there were steps he wanted to take. So Thranduil said, "Come here," and Thorin did.
He could hear him breathe. A little too quickly to be at ease.
Oh, and he did not want Thorin to be at ease.
"You have not tasted your drink," Thranduil murmured when Thorin put the glass down. Thranduil did the same. Then with index and middle-finger he tilted up Thorin's chin. His touch was a threat. Thorin knew it. Suddenly strong fingers closed around his wrist. Thranduil sucked in air. Then he was pressed against the dresser.
"You are an arrogant people," Thorin hissed. Wars had been started over less. Thranduil looked down at Thorin with a faint smile. The dwarf went on. "You stay quiet at my grandfather's table, you have only come because of the necklace. Not to pay homage. And then you simper and have the audacity to be insulted when the king denies you."
"How little you know," Thranduil gritted, laid a hand on Thorin's chest and pushed him away easily. And yet he moved in at the same moment. Now it was Thorin who was backed up against the wall. Thranduil towered over him, then bent down.
"You have a weakness for dangerous things, my prince."
"Indeed I do," with these words Thorin snatched his hair and pulled him in.
Thorin's lips were hard, forceful, delicious. There was something about the way he put his hand on Thranduil's hip, the want that was raw in his gesture, and open. That was his first mistake. Thranduil had played this game often enough. But Thorin had not. It was obvious. His body betrayed him to the elvenking. So many words trembled on Thranduil's tongue, shook behind his teeth, mock, tease. He spoke none of them. Instead he opened his mouth and let Thorin's tongue slide inside. A hot shiver.
A pull to the side. Movement. Suddenly he was on his back. Pain. A heavy body on top of his. A hand in his hair. Yes, yes.
Thranduil yielded and Thorin conquered. That was Thorin's second mistake.
His robes were torn aside by careless hands. Greedy hands that finally, finally, touched his skin. Thranduil arched up into Thorin, but he was thrust down. They were kissing, rough and forceful, the tang of iron between their lips. Hands on his thighs, pushing them apart. Thorin fumbling with his own clothes. A laden weight between his legs, urgent in its search for pleasure. Thranduil laid his head back. And laughed. Thorin growled, tried to position himself. The next moment Thranduil had moved, he slid his leg up down from between them, pressed his foot against Thorin's chest and held him at distance.
"Oh my sweet, ravenous prince," the mock dripped from his words like poisoned honey. Thorin's eyes narrowed dangerously. Thranduil's smile spread wider. With a push he had Thorin sitting on his backside while he was already standing again.
"Come to my bed," he said, looking over his shoulder back at Thorin.
III
Time slows down. Every move is languid, the voices dull and drawn out.
Thorin will die today. Thranduil knows it with the wide sight of the Eldar. The king will never more ascend his throne. Dusk will leave him bereft of breath.
Thranduil feels nothing.
IV
Thranduil laid down on the silken sheets. He moved fluidly, quietly. His body was like a phantasm of benighted light, he could see it in Thorin's eyes. And oh, he revelled in this his bareness unfettered.
"How vain a creature you are," Thorin hissed. Thranduil's smile widened. "I should rupture you with my bare hands." With a chuckle Thranduil turned to his side and threw an inviting glance to the dwarf. The smouldering heat of his gaze on his body. Finally, with heavy steps the dwarf came to his bed. Oh, and how his fingers trembled when he put them on Thranduil's skin. So treacherous.
Then he was on top of him, still clad where Thranduil was not. It did not take long to pull away the robes and fur, unravel him. Quick breath. A fluttering heartbeat against Thranduil's palm. Such youth and vigour. The next moment Thorin pinned his wrists over his head and pressed his body against him. Hard muscles, warm skin against skin. Between his legs laid their delicious and flushed arousals, pressed together. Thranduil licked his lips.
"Libidinous witch," Thorin hissed. His voice rough, his tone arrogant, enraged. Slowly Thranduil slid up his legs, hooked them over Thorin's hips and moved—The dwarf's breath hitched.
"I will take you," he said breathlessly, "I will—" but Thranduil cut him off with a kiss. Their teeth clashed. There was violence in both of them. Laughter echoed in Thranduil's head, his whole being screamed yes, yes, give me more. So he freed his hands from the dwarf's grip and pushed him off, moved on top of him. Hands on his hips. Bruise me, he thought, tinge me in blue. Oh, Thráin, he thought with a sneer, what will you think of your grandson now?
Thorin's fingers ran down his back. Thranduil bent down to him, reached behind himself to slide his fingers over Thorin's.
"Let me show you how," he murmured. Quick breath, heartbeats like war-drums. A vial of oil on the bedside cabinet, quickly now, yes, slick fingers, one breaching him, then two, three. He writhed on Thorin's fingers, his gaze veiled by strands of champagne-coloured hair. Thorin underneath him, thin lips parted slightly, a glint of white teeth. Pupils blown wide. The next moment Thranduil was on his back and the dwarf on top of him. A tongue on his neck; hot, wet. Fingers digging into his thighs as Thorin hooked one of his legs over his shoulder. Then pain. A rough thrust. Thorin was inside him, thick and hard and so good. They moved as in a fever. Red streaks oozed into Thranduil's vision, blurring reality. Moans and gasps. A hand in his hair tugging sharply to make him bare his neck. Lips, tongue, teeth. Then Thorin's other hand on his throat, squeezing. No air, no air but bliss shivering through his veins as he arched his back, curved his spine into a crescent.
Thorin's breath grew more laboured, his thrusts harsher. His teeth buried into Thranduil's shoulder he came hard inside him, a groan mute against Thranduil's skin. Not a moment of rest he took before sliding out of him, leaving Thranduil both untouched and unsatisfied. So close to his own climax. Thranduil gritted his teeth, closed his eyes for a heartbeat and breathed in. His skin was still hot.
"Such crude behaviour, sweet prince," he murmured and pressed his cheek against Thorin's back. Then, before the dwarf could mutter a word, Thranduil had him on his stomach and knelt between his legs.
"What—"
"Hush now," Thranduil said, put his knee in Thorin's back while he tied the dwarf's hands to the headboard with a scrap of his own trappings. In a mock of tenderness Thranduil nestled against the dwarf's back, gripping Thorin's chin and turning his head to the side.
"What, have you thought midst your gluttony that I would vouchsafe your relief but not my own?"
"You will not dare!" Thorin spat but there was a shiver running down his spine. Thranduil smiled, gripped his chin a little tighter and traced his own tongue all along Thorin's neck and up towards his ear.
"No jaded pleasure it will be, my capricious princeling, but unfurled bliss." And with these words he slid down , allowed his touch to linger, allowed it to seer so that it would make the dwarf's blood seethe beneath his fingers. To taste him, to watch him writhe with the guilt of his most wretched desires – carefully he spread his cheeks and with his tongue licked into him.
A sucked-in breath. Thorin struggled against his bounds, yet no true conviction laid in his useless tossing. Only pride with its command waning like a hungering moon.
Thranduil made him pliant, roused his passion once more. The prince was young, alone and eager. Sweat glistened on his skin. When finally he sank into Thorin's body, the dwarf moaned. Thranduil took him slowly, torturing them both until the fever shook him and their breaths were short and sharp, his lips ghosting over Thorin's ear, murmuring filthy elvish nothings until Thorin cursed him in his mother-tongue. And yet Thorin came long and hard in his hand long before Thranduil found white-hot liberation somewhere along the darkness of Thorin's flesh.
Shame burned itself hot on the dwarf's face. He was no longer bound to the headboard. Satisfaction tingled in Thranduil's belly, swept wave after wave through his veins. And to see the rage in Thorin's eyes, the savage disgust, how marvellous. They both knew that no amount of denial could ever erase the lust that stained the sheets in white. He would not forgive Thranduil for it. A memory raw and undying.
Later in the night after many a drink more and not a word spoken, Thorin pushed Thranduil to his knees. Gladly Thranduil opened his lips for the newly roused heat of Thorin's body and let his mouth be used, his own hand between his legs and with Thorin ever coarse in his impatient pursuit of pleasure.
Dawn was nigh once Thorin finally came inside Thranduil's mouth. He seized his hair, pulling him away so that his filth painted Thranduil's face. It was hot and bitter on his tongue, yet he swallowed what little was in his mouth and licked his lips clean. His own relief followed a moment later by the sole grace of his own hand.
Pale skin in ghostly lamplight. Thorin stood himself before a stone-window, no night nor morning greeted him in the twilight of Erebor. Thranduil watched him from the bed and knew he would not stay much longer.
Such silence lay between them.
When the dwarf turned around his jaw was set and his eyes were hard. Thranduil could not forget the softness of his body or the fell bedded into the dark gaze of his eyes. What had it been, what had he seen in those burning lakes of blue? A future cold and bare and fever-clad like melting gold. A sickness. Thranduil pursed his lips in disgust. No bitterness made his heart weak. But soon.
"Do not believe to know me," Thorin told him then, coolly.
V
What did he feel when he heard of the fire drake? Of Smaug who called himself the Terrible?
And of the plea for help from the dwarves. Thorin's face flashed before his eyes, wavering shadows. He had not seen him since that autumn night (only in dreams, dark and dim).
The herald waited before his throne, head bowed, chest heaving.
"Milord," he said, "what answer shall we give?"
Thranduil smiled, gripped his oaken staff a little tighter and stood up. "Prepare the troupes. We shall ride two hours past midnight." The herald bowed his head and departed quickly. Thranduil descended the steps of his throne, gave orders and with swift steps, followed by his guards, made for the chambers in which the royal armor was kept.
A fire drake from the North. A crippled child of those he had fought so many centuries before. If he but helped to cut it down, Thrór could no longer refuse his claim to the Nauglamír. If he was still alive.
They marched quickly. Not a creature heard them. The Lonely Mountain appeared before them. The sky was of a clear azure. But there was fire in the air. Thick, oily smoke. The wretched stench of burning flesh. Then they heard the cries – a shadow clot before the sun. Massive its form. Flames spewed from its mouth. Fire scorching, blazing brightly. A second dawn. Riven bodies. Skewered by sharp claws, torn asunder. Gorged on.
It was then that Thranduil saw it before him: his own abysmal hubris.
The creature before them was death.
Thranduil held up his hand. His soldiers stopped. He looked down into the valley. The dwarves fled. They had no choice. The beast was impenetrable. No soft skin was at its belly to gut it open. Its scale-clad body was without weakness. It would kill them all.
Icy cold felt the breath Thranduil took that moment. He did not need to look at his men's faces. He knew of the dread they felt. A few rows behind him was Legolas. So eager to prove himself. And Thranduil could see him like he had seen his own father. Pale hair bloodied. Skin burnt black. Splintered bones. Jaded eyes.
Life ripped from him. No. Never more.
His gaze was fixed to the valley. Then suddenly – Thorin's face. In the chaos. The raging fire. And he looked up. Waved towards them. Hope glinting in his eyes. The fool. Did he not know that all was doomed?
Thranduil stared back. Frost in his veins. Then he turned away. His army followed.
VI
Years passed like moths flying into flame. The gleamed but for a moment.
A shadow rose at the North of Mirkwood, in the ruins of Dol Guldur. The air, when carried by the wind, was bitter with the taste of cold ashes. Creatures crept from the darkness. Sibilants, the whispers of trees, reminded him of yonder years. The mind of ancient fiends, Ungoliant's wayward daughters.
In the North-East slumbered the fire drake. It laid mounted upon his bloodied treasure as Glaurung once sat in Nargothrond. The world was full of peril, so Thranduil shut it out.
The vaults of his palace were vast and deep, yet his borders shrank year by year. The spiders bred too close to Dol Guldur. They were filthy beasts, devouring each other if no aliment was found. But oh, they were hunters, too and they preyed on any living thing, poisoning the trees with their stench and wickedness. Not even Thranduil's charms could keep them at bay for long, the spiders came ever closer. The shadow rose. And they were the specks of darkness flying from a light- and breathless fire.
It was then that they brought the dwarf to Thranduil's throne. Thorin Oakenshield, how he was called now. So close to Erebor. But the dwarf was mulish and as much a fool as when he had seen him last. Except now hatred glittered like a polished gem in his dark eyes. He was driven. Brutish. Honest. And yet he lied to his face all the same. He had gotten better at that. Then he cried and accused like an insulted man-thing, screaming insult. Thranduil had him thrown in the dungeons for well half a day.
When he asked for the dwarf to be brought to him a second time the heavens were of a deep, dark blue. In the South-West their favourite star had risen. Just barely above the horizon it gleamed in pure white, a light so ancient and yet clad in a crystal cage of elven making. Eärendil's crown.
Thranduil stood with his back towards where two of his guards shoved Thorin down onto his knees.
"Leave us," Thranduil said without turning. They vanished, soundless.
A sharp breath. Quiet grunting. Shuffling.
"Are you aware that what your dead grandfather had insisted for many years to keep from me was indeed crafted by your kin for the Lord Felagund?"
Thorin huffed. This time, Thranduil turned. The dwarf had dark circles in his eyes. Hunger had stretched the skin over his bones. He was a wolf with a pack of loyal outcasts at his side, a dangerous thing. So little to lose. Fever breath caught in the lungs of Thorin Oakenshield however, and Thranduil could see it. All of it.
Yet for all of Thorin's excitable folly, no hint of recognition gleamed in the dwarf's eyes.
Thranduil continued: "A cousin of the Lady Galadriel. It was lost when Glaurung the Golden took their underground city. Years later it was brought to Doriath." Still, there was not a spark of knowledge igniting. Nor interest. With a quick step, Thranduil was before Thorin.
"Have you no care for past tidings?" he hissed into the dwarf's ear.
"There is only fire and death in mine," Thorin bit, "I feel not for dead elf-lords whose names are forgotten, nor fallen kingdoms that perished long before. My concerns lie in the present and with my own family."
"There is not much left of it, I hear," Thranduil said with a sly sneer.
"What would a creature like you know of that?"
"Your father was tortured at Dol Guldur for years," Thranduil said. "Surely even you you must know it is not far from here." He took a step around Thorin and bent down to his ear. "He was driven mad by the pain," he purred.
A brutal push—Thranduil on his back—
"You honourless quim!" Thorin spat into his face.
Hands at his throat. Thranduil chuckled. Then he had Thorin on his back and a blade 'neath his chin a heartbeat later.
"I could cut your throat for that," he whispered and carefully wiped away the spit with his thumb.
"Yes," Thorin said, "but you will not." His voice was cold, determined. And he was right.
"How proud you are, grandson of Thrór. How careless. You would risk the lives of your remaining family to pursue some golden coins. Yet you feel slighted at my mention of your lunatic father?"
He kept the blade under Thorin's chin while he but whispered the words into the night air. The dwarf stared up to him, brows drawn close together, lips thin. His hands laid limply at his side. He moved not. Every muscle tense.
Slowly, Thranduil stood up. He slid the blade back into his sleeve, then with careful fingers smoothed down his silken robe. Thorin got to his feet. Oh, how he had changed. So grim the lines of his face. Youth had passed him by many a year ago and left him sharp and serrated like crags on a distant and dark shore. Shipwrecks in his every heartbeat.
Thranduil walked to the edge of the room's platform. It was hewn into the rocks in which laid the vaults that were his palace. Often he came here. Here, where the forest laid before him like a lake of dark-reds and browns. He would listen to its murmur. He would chant words that had been old already when the trees beneath were still young.
He would gaze at the stars. Ever were his eyes turned towards Eärendil.
"Your home is lost, dwarf. Do not seek to reclaim what is no longer yours."
"Nothing is lost forever," Thorin said through gritted teeth.
Thranduil turned, faced him, and smiled. Thorin returned the gesture and dared a step closer, a quiet threat etched into his approach. Thranduil's smile widened.
"You do not command my fate," Thorin said.
"I do not," Thranduil said. "But we are all our father's sons."
The blow came hard. Unexpected. So brutal that Thranduil went to his knees. The dart held such momentum, it brought them down and knocked them both over. And as he laid gaping and gasping for breath Thranduil heard Thorin's voice: "I would have your body skewered upon a wooden stake, between your legs and up towards your negligent mouth, perhaps then the filth will stop pouring from it." Thorin's hands rough on his body. Then steel. Thranduil's own dagger. The cold blade against his throat.
"How does it feel, elf? To be so close to death?"
Thranduil stared at him. His fingers trembled, not of fear, but of wrath igniting.
With both hands he seized Thorin's hair and brought him down. Their mouths pressed together. Hot and hard, the blade still against his neck, his own heartbeat furious. Soon, they rendered each other breathless. It was midst their kisses that Thorin roughly turned Thranduil onto his stomach. Ever was the blade present. And though Thranduil possessed the strength to both free himself and turn the tide, he did not. Thorin tore his robes away, layer by layer, his breath hot at Thranduil's ear.
"Prepare your yourself, elf, lest I take you raw," Thorin hissed. Thorin hissed. Immediately, his hand snaked down to enclose around Thranduil's cock, squeezing. Thranduil bit his lip, robbed of breath. But he obeyed. He licked his fingers and breached himself whilst Thorin's own worked over his arousal. Thorin's hand was callused: rough, thick, and strong. A moan fell from Thranduil's lips, then another. Impatience. So much of it. His fingers were useless, not ever enough.
"Have you no shame?" Thorin's lips ghosted over his ear. Mock was etched into each syllable. Thranduil did not answer. He slipped out of himself, instead.. Thorin let go of his arousal, fumbled with his own garments, then spit into his hand. Thranduil shivered. A moment later Thorin was breaching him. No haste shone in his movement. Thranduil groaned, nipped at his lips, drove his cheek against the soil.
Thorin clasped his hand around Thranduil's cock once more. He laughed, a low and wicked sound, for Thranduil grew harder still as Thorin continued to take him from behind.
"I should leave you as you are, besmirched and sullied, alone and broken midst the blackish tar of your vanity," Thorin pressed the words into the crook of Thranduil's neck. Then he drove his body into him. Thranduil's breath hitched. Direful and glorious was the desire holding reign over him. Thorin slipped out of him and thrust in hard. "I should cut your throat whilst I finish inside your accursed flesh."
Thranduil shook against him. Fingers digging into the ground. Spine curved. Teeth bared. Eyes shut tightly and brow creased high and low. Pleasure shuddered through his veins. For Thorin was everywhere. Inside him, around him. Brutal were Thorin's kisses. Bitter as ash. He was all things damned. The starving wolf, the silver latch, the crags that ceased the ancient seas in half, and Thranduil, he was the ship that broke upon him. Wood splintered in the cold, the wet of the ocean at his feet. Thorin was a force, a storm that breathed. Thranduil screamed into the dusk. Voice hoarse. He laughed breathlessly as Thorin seized his hair and drove him down. The blade cut into his skin. Blood seeped onto his bared shoulder. Thorin's lips and tongue, his body heavy. All air pushed out of his lungs, yet, Thorin pressed deeper still, breath frantic. Flesh slapping against flesh.
A bliss malignant and sinister flooded Thranduil's veins.
For a moment there was only this, the vision of an abyss divine.
Thorin took his hand away from Thranduil's spent, only to press it harsh into Thranduil's hip. He moved messily now. Thranduil laid panting neath him. He fixed his gaze on Thorin. Thorin stared back.
"Give me all of you," Thranduil whispered.
Thorin growled and drove into him, once, twice, then claimed his relief with one ruthless thrust of his hip. Then he collapsed, draping over Thranduil. Harsh breathing. No air. The blade no longer at Thranduil's neck.
Thorin rolled off him. Silence between them.
Their breath mingled with the rattling and hushing of the autumn leaves. The blade forgotten.
Thranduil turned around. He tilted his face up towards the starlight. Eärendil had long sunk behind the horizon. In the heavens, did Eärendil ever bend forward, hands pressed against Vingilot's railing, and, perhaps, think to gaze back at them? And if he did, what would he see?
Beech and oak murmured. Thranduil's spells were woven into the air like gilded thread. They were but a faint echo of what he remembered of Doriath. Thranduil closed his eyes. He must not tremble now.
The dwarf next to him stirred. When Thranduil opened his eyes, Thorin's gaze was fixed on him.
His lips were parted. Perhaps he looked gentle then. Perhaps he did not. His finger grazed Thranduil's cheek. He traced the line of his neck. Thranduil shuddered. Words laid on his tongue, though he spoke none of them. Too many centuries he had lived, too many to be foolish now. So close to the end.
So he only looked. And Thorin looked back.
They both knew Thranduil would call the guards in but a moment.
VII
They fight their way through. Side by side. Thranduil shouts for his generals. They gather who is close by. Form a sickle-shaped row of soldiers. Then they cut into the orcs. Drive them into a cauldron of elven blades. Midst them is Thorin, looking for his company. Thranduil next to him. And he can see the exhaustion that slowly impedes the dwarf's movements. He is strong, yes, but not strong enough.
Their gazes meet. And as if a curtain had fallen, the battle cries are suddenly dull. There's a tremor going through the dwarf. An orc rammed into him. Thranduil spurts forward and slices the orc's head from its shoulders. He is close to Thorin now. He can hear him breathe. And nearly, nearly feel the heat of his body.
He must not tarry. There is nothing for him here. So he turns, shouts orders and goes.
He strides through the rows of approaching orcs, slashing left and right. He's swift. Sorrow sharpens his blade. So many lie dead on the ground. Pale are those whom death has claimed.
Thranduil trembles. Blood crusts the earth, tangled brown hair, wide eyes, broken limbs. He can only pray that they have found their way to Mandos' vast and cold halls. But Thranduil cannot pray now. He is mute, empty, choking. It stinks of death. Of severed guts and blood.
Tighter he grips his sword. Onward.
The ruins by the iced lake are nearly empty. No fight stirs the frosted silence. His soldiers lie here dead, too. His heart beats quick, hard. He is at the edge. But no fair head has he seen split open. There is no gratitude for it in him, only dread. Until he hears him. His step so light, yet distinctive. He turns and Legolas stands before him. Unharmed.
A shivering breath. A step towards him. But his son's eyes are distant and cool. Thranduil stills.
"Legolas." Still his voice holds command. Legolas bows his head slightly. Thranduil steps towards him, clasps his upper-arm. His son moves a few inches closer, his face averted. That moment, Thranduil knows. It presses the air out of his lungs. He grips him tighter. Legolas looks up.
Have I made you so? he thinks. Legolas averts his gaze. Thranduil lets his hand fall down.
"I must leave," Legolas says.
"Yes." A heartbeat. A shallow breath. "Go to the Dunedain. Among them find the one called Strider."
A curt nod. Legolas turns around.
"Legolas," he calls once more and once more his son turns towards him.
But Thranduil cannot speak. So much Legolas looks like his mother, but his mien kindles the memory of Oropher. This nameless hour on the battlefield.
Thranduil feels the tears in his eyes and they are bitter.
Legolas goes.
VIII
He is calm now. The lake is wide. The whiteness of the snow is undisturbed where he treads.
He hears it in the wind, he tastes it in the air. Thorin is dead.
He comes to where he lies. The hobbit is next to him, weeping. Thranduil feels so cold.
He gazes upon the body. The chest is pierced, blood seeps into the snow. A bright red. There is dignity in the restfulness of Thorin's face, the lines smooth. He looks younger in death, like the prince Thranduil met so many decades ago. But it matters not.
Thranduil stands tall and still. He feels it, the weight of his years.
In the snow lies Orcrist, Ecthelion's sword, its blade still gleaming in pale blue.
IX
Thranduil does not sleep this night. Motionless he sits and gazes at the stars, traces the constellations of Menelvagor, the Swordsman of the Sky, named after Turambar; and Remmirath, the Netted Stars that Elbereth had scattered into the night sky before sun and moon were made. For guidance, his father had told him with an algid smile, to lead the elves awakened at Cuiviénen to the sea.
Songs rise in the camp, slow and quiet, just whispers carried by the wind, songs to Elbereth. The stench of death hovers over them. Not all the dead have been recovered yet. So many lie broken on the battlefield. And others will perish of grief when his host will return as envoy of death.
They descend deep into the mountain. Erebor drowns out both day and night and leaves them in a fey-ruled twilight. The stones fitted so perfectly hold stories, memories linger here and will do so until the mountain falls. Cold phantoms in the air.
Barred upon a heavy stone casket lies Thorin. They gather around it. Pale faces, exhaustion carved into their features and something unspeakable, too. There stands the hobbit, so small and frail, but he weeps no more, not with his eyes. The dwarves are left and right to the hobbit, none speaks a word, not even Dáin Ironfoot. Reality has not settled and too lively yet is Thorin's visage, though cold and stiff to the touch. Thranduil knows, he has helped to arrange him. Breathless he feels now. The air is stale, rotten, old.
Bard lays the Arkenstone on Thorin's breast and speaks words intended for solace, but there is none. Good wishes are lost among those who grieve.
Then Thranduil steps forward. In his hands Orcrist. The Noldorin steel is dim and glows no more. All enemies are dead or have fled. Carefully he bends over Thorin and places it in his hands. He feels like choking. He speaks no words, he could not if he wanted. There had been a time when he had the opportunity to. It is over now.
So the king under the mountain is buried. In silence. There is no glory in his funeral and there will be none for his two nephews. And this is the truth, that no matter what songs will be sung, death is a shapeless thing for mortals. It devours them into its black throat, it is terrible and drear and leaves naught but desolation in its wake. It is incomprehensible. To be no more.
It is the course of all things not immortal. And Thranduil knows this, too.
X
The Nauglamír is brought to him.
He glances at it. Then gestures to his servant to stow it away.
XI
While they lied silence, the moon had risen over Mirkwood. It gleamed in a crescent, so bright its light smothered the stars. It spilled over them in frosty hues. The air was cool on their shivering bodies, half-revealed to each other's desires, half hidden.
Thorin had stroked along the line of his neck and now he bent down, or perhaps Thranduil moved upward. Who knew how such things happened. They kissed and it was a breathless thing between them. And Thranduil held onto Thorin, and if there was desperation in his gesture he did not want to know.