Title: Long Live The King
Author: Laurelin
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Tolkien owns, I respectfully borrow, and I don't get a penny for my efforts.
Notes: According to Tolkien's own accounts, Oropher died during the Last Alliance' very first assault on Mordor, but I changed the facts slightly to suit my needs. When the story begins, the war has been going on for a number of years.
Cast: Oropher, Thranduil, OCs.
Warnings: contains character death, some profanity and a non-explicit slash scene.
Summary: Oropher, Elvenking of the Greenwood, is mortally wounded during the War of the Last Alliance. All hope now rests on the shoulders of his son. Can Thranduil rise to the occasion and be the leader his men desperately need?
"Blast!"
Thranduil cast the tunic he had been trying to mend aside impatiently. He was still no better at this than he had been on the day this accursed war began, and his clumsy fingers had accidentally torn the fabric, which had become thin and worn by time. He might as well wipe his arse with it, now, because as a garment it was completely useless. Damn this misfortune, and damn this pointless war!
His mutters of aggravation must have reached beyond the thin walls of his tent, because the front flap was pulled aside and Torovir, one of his personal tenders, entered. "My prince, is everything all right?"
"Just peachy," Thranduil replied, making no attempt to hide his acerbic mood. "Another tunic ruined, so it appears I'll have to do battle completely naked soon, but no matter. Naked or not, death will find us all in the end."
Torovir, who had learned not to fuel Thranduil's ire in moments like these, picked up the rent tunic and examined it. "The damage might not be irreparable. I will give it to the fitters- they may be able to save it."
Thranduil got up from his bunk and went to the table in the middle of the tent. On top of it was a bowl of tepid water – more valuable than mithril in the midst of Mordor's summer – and in that water floated a piece of cloth. He took it, wrung it out carefully so as not to spill a single drop and used it to dab his face and neck. "Has my father returned?"
"I don't think so, my prince. I have not seen him in camp for several hours."
Thranduil swatted half-heartedly at a bothersome fly that had found its way into the tent. His father had left that morning to parley with the other generals, leaving Thranduil in charge of the encampment. For years, it had been like this. On some days, there was battle. On others, there was nothing to be done except the various chores around the encampment and to while the time away waiting, sleeping, masturbating and pining for things that had been beyond reach for years.
Thranduil did in fact prefer the days of battle over the others.
"Does my prince have need of me yet?"
Thranduil turned around to look into Torovir's eyes. They were warm, inviting. "Are you offering?"
Torovir nodded and came closer. "You need but ask."
At Thranduil's signal, the elf dropped his breeches and bent forward over the surface of the table, and while Thranduil prepared himself, he experienced a moment of fleeting disgust at the baseness of these encounters and the role he himself played in bringing them about. He did not truly desire this young soldier, not in any meaningful way, desire being an emotion that had long since been dulled and snuffed out by the dreary routine of war on these barren plains. But it offered a moment's respite, at least, an escape from the hopelessness and the certainty that the forces of good were fighting a lost battle, and that it was only a matter of time before the last son of the Greenwood perished in the shadow of Mount Doom.
Thranduil wondered who Torovir thought of during these moments of perfunctory ecstasy, but dared not ask. His own thoughts were almost exclusively of his lady, whose name had not left his lips these many years. The illusion was fragile, though, because his fellow soldiers – eager to please though they might be – could not offer him the scent of her skin, nor the softness of her body, nor the welcoming, pliant heat of her sex. Thranduil kept his thoughts focused on that as he increased the pace of his thrusting, imagining himself to be a thousand miles away, until he pulled back to stroke himself to completion while Torovir did likewise.
It was efficient, it was uncomplicated- it was even vaguely pleasant. But in the end, it was just another way to pass the time, no more meaningful than scratching an itch or picking one's teeth. As much as Thranduil resented this war, he hated even more what it had forced him to become, and truth be told, all he wanted was for things to be over, one way or the other.
After Torovir had left – with the rent tunic – Thranduil lay down on his bunk bed and closed his eyes, hoping for a few moments of sleep. Not because he was tired, but because it would give his mind a brief respite. There was far too much time to think here, and his thoughts were bad company these days; sleep was, besides sex, the only thing that could keep them at bay for a little while.
He would probably die in this place. He'd had some time to acquaint himself with the idea, and as sad a thought as it was, there was some reassurance to be found in it as well. Anything, even death, was preferable to the Valar knew how many years in this no man's land, where the memory of trees, flowers and birds was replaced by the taste of ash and the smell of sulphur. Many of his fellow soldiers had already perished; those that hadn't, had become numb and indifferent to death. It was a dangerous development- an army that doesn't fear death, but doesn't believe in victory either, such an army is headed for certain catastrophe.
Such bold words Oropher had spoken in the early days of this war. Brimming with confidence, he had rallied the troops to him declaring that defeating the Enemy would take mere weeks, a few months at most. And the sheer magnitude of the combined host of Elves and Men had indeed justified such a statement. But the Enemy was cunning, and his forces appeared to be multiplying like rats in a warehouse. And so, the months had turned into years, and every morning Thranduil woke up surprised that he lived to see another day. Frankly, he had not expected to last a single week out here. Not because he was a deficient fighter – on the contrary, he knew that he was a combatant worthy of the Greenwood crest – but because it seemed likely that Mordor would crush his spirit before long. He still drew breath, he even had some will to fight left in him yet, so he must be stronger than he had given himself credit for, but he did not indulge in idle hope; the poison of war had contaminated his blood, and one day it would fell him, if an orc blade or arrow did not find him first.
When a single clarion call announced the return of the king to the encampment, Thranduil heaved himself from his bunk and wandered outside, unable to suppress a smile as he saw his father entering camp at a brisk stride, looking like a disgruntled war general who had misplaced his horse. Unfortunately, all of their horses had long since perished, run away or been stolen.
"Thranduil." Oropher acknowledged his son with a curt nod. "Why are you bare-chested? It is not appropriate for you to appear thus outside your tent. What were you thinking?"
Thranduil barely suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "No one cares about such trivial things, Father."
Oropher snorted and turned his head, showing the square jaw that spoke of an inflexible character. "You are not a common foot soldier, Thranduil. You are in charge of the encampment during my absence and you are expected to act accordingly."
Thranduil slowly counted to ten before responding. "How was the meeting?"
"Dismal. The old man and the Noldo are planning another siege on the Morannon, as if this time the Black Gates will crumble at their knocking. It is pure folly, but no matter. Amdír and I have other plans."
"Plans?" Frowning suspiciously, Thranduil followed Oropher into his tent. "I do not like the sound of that, Father. If you are planning to go rogue, I urge you to reconsider."
Oropher made a disparaging sound. "You would sooner follow that Noldo to certain destruction than trust your King and sire?"
"Destruction is by no means certain," Thranduil said with trained patience. Conversations with his father were always such draining affairs! "Gil-galad is no friend to me, but I cannot fault his leadership or his strategic insight. I respect him."
"You're a fool then," Oropher said harshly. "The Noldor look only after their own interests; we should do the same. And in any case, you do not fight under Gil-galad's banner and you do not owe him your allegiance." He drew closer until father and son were almost chest to chest. "You will carry out whatever orders I give you, be it in battle or otherwise. Is that clear?"
Thranduil stood his ground, gnashing his teeth. "Have I not given you my unswerving loyalty these many years? But I am not your puppet, and my loyalty does not extend to blind obedience. If you and Amdír are planning some reckless move, I should know about it."
"There is nothing to tell… yet." Oropher turned away. "Tomorrow you will take a cohort of our finest swordsmen and explore the northern boundaries. There must be some sort of hidden passage into Mordor we've overlooked."
"Father, we've tried for years to find such a passage."
"Then try again, and harder!" With a curt gesture, Oropher summoned him out. "Go select the men you wish to take tomorrow; no less than fifty, no more than a hundred. And for goodness' sake, put a damn shirt on."