An Uneasy Truce

The elf king surveyed his prisoner with keen interest, although he was careful to keep a mask of officious indifference on his fine-featured face. It would not do to spark the curiosity of his son, who was looking on; learning how to rule the Woodland Realm for the time he was expected to take over. For all Legolas knew, the prisoner was to be kept in chains, in one of the cells in the dungeon, for the rest of his days. That, however, would not be the end of it.

He was a tough nut to crack, this one. Even with spider webs strewn through his thick dark mane, and the remnants of psychosis lingering from his time in Mirkwood, he refused to give Thranduil any details of his company and why they were on their mission in the first place. Of course, Thranduil already had a pretty good idea, but he wanted his suspicions confirmed, straight from the horse's mouth, so to speak.

The elf king leaned in close to his prisoner, who was on his knees on the throne room floor, ragged and dirty, yet still somehow strangely regal in his bearing. 'You are Thorin Oakenshield, are you not?' Thranduil asked. 'Son of Thrain; son of Thror?'

'I am,' Thorin managed to reply, despite having his head held back to the point where his Adam's apple protruded from his neck.

'Let go,' Thranduil instructed his guard.

'But…'

'I said, let him go, and get out of here.'

'But Your Highness…'

'Do I need to raise my voice?'

'No Sir.' The guard let Thorin's hair fall from his fist and hurried out the large swinging doors. The dwarf bent his head forward and back again in relief. 'Thank you,' he uttered, in a husky tone Thranduil rather liked (not that he'd ever admit it).

Thranduil had heard the old adage that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. He'd always regarded it with a certain amount of healthy skepticism but since the dwarf prince was both sturdy and stoic, he had an inkling Thorin wasn't about to succumb to torture. He'd die first. Thranduil respected the hell out of him for that.

'Rise,' he ordered the dwarf. 'I want to meet you eye to eye.'

Oakenshield took his time getting to his feet, but when he did, Thranduil was surprised to find that the dwarf was on the tall side for his race. He only had to gaze slightly downward in order to meet his prisoner on a relatively level plane. That was no small relief – he'd had his dealings with Thorin's kind in the past and he didn't relish the neck-ache afterward!

'I imagine you haven't had a great deal to eat for the last few days,' Thranduil guessed. 'Can I interest you in a light supper?'

Thorin's clear blue eyes appeared confused. A vertical line appeared between his impressive brows. Thranduil had to stifle the sudden and unbidden urge to reach out and stroke the tension from his prisoner's forehead. Legolas was still watching.

'I don't understand,' Thorin admitted. 'I was under the impression I was your prisoner.'

'Oh, you are,' Thranduil reminded him. 'But that doesn't mean I have to treat you with disrespect. You see, I've found that when one approaches their supposed enemy with kindness and benevolence, trust is not far off.'

'Father…' Legolas began to say, but Thranduil cut him off, holding a hand out to silence his son.

'Don't you have borders to protect?' he asked, glancing over his shoulder, pointedly.

'Uh… yes, Father.' Legolas scuttled off, and Thranduil again had to resist a primal urge – this time, to heave a sigh of relief. That boy could be a major pain in his Elvish butt!

Finally, they were alone. Thranduil inexplicably felt his heart pound that little bit harder, his respirations quicken; his skin tingle as goose-bumps rose to the surface. He waved a hand at the long dinner table, just visible through an archway into the next room. 'After you,' he said, and delighted quietly in watching the dwarf prince wrestling with his best intentions. Apparently hunger won out over a stubborn need to play the martyr. Thranduil followed him into the dining room and even pulled out a chair for his prisoner.

'Uh… Thank you,' Thorin murmured; a pink stain on his cheeks. He took the seat offered and kept his eyes downcast. Servants had already filled the table with bowls and plates brimming with fresh vegetables, cheeses, and three kinds of roast beast. The aroma was mouth-watering indeed.

'Wine?'

Thranduil started pouring his finest vintage into Thorin's cup before the dwarf prince could answer. He took his own seat at the head of the table; close enough that his knee brushed Thorin's, accidentally on purpose. He waved a hand at the banquet. 'Well, don't stand on ceremony,' he said. 'Dig in.'

He felt Thorin's leg move away from his, and gulped with barely disguised disappointment. It would clearly take a lot of old fashioned hospitality on his part before the dwarf would start to trust him. Still, Thranduil was more than up to the challenge. Indeed, he enjoyed the chase every bit as much as the reward in the end.

Thorin clearly wasn't about to let his walls down that easily. He picked at the feast on the table, and allowed himself only a couple of potatoes, a small pheasant and a handful of honeyed carrots and peas. The king of the elves was finicky too, but for a different reason. He was far too engrossed in watching his guest's every move, to bother eating much, himself. He eased his foot forward again, and managed to tangle his long calf around Thorin's lower leg. Popping a carrot spear into his mouth, Thranduil watched his guest's unease grow as he kept up a stream of gossip he'd learned from the elves at his borders. The orcs appeared to be assembling an army; Gandalf the Grey was making his way north in a great hurry, blah, blah, blah. All of it was designed to provoke a response from Thorin but not once did he give any indication he cared about what was going on outside the Woodland Realm; not even when the wizard's name was mentioned. This was passing strange, as the elf king had heard very definite whispers that Thrain's heir was closely aligned with Gandalf.

Although, Thranduil reasoned with himself, the dwarf prince could also be preoccupied with what was going on under the table. During their chat Thranduil had casually brushed his knee against the side of Thorin's thigh as his toes, in their fine leather boots, made their way up the dwarf's strong calf; then back down. Up and down, up and down. The elf king greatly enjoyed watching his guest become more flustered as each moment passed. Finally it seemed Thorin had had enough; he pushed aside his plate and slid back from the table, the legs of his chair scraping the hardwood floor.

'Thank you for your hospitality,' he began, his face flushed and his bright blue eyes refusing to meet Thranduil's. 'But I cannot eat another bite.'

The elf king rewarded him with a serene smile. 'You're very welcome, Thorin, son of Thrain. If I might be so bold, perhaps we could adjourn to my sitting room?'

'W-why?' Thorin stammered. 'I was under the impression I was a prisoner here.'

'Oh, well if you insist, I could have you thrown in the dungeons. But you'd find that the cots there are most uncomfortable. Not really fit for a king – which you are, or will be, once you defeat the dragon.'

Thorin's eyes grew wide. 'What do you know of that?'

Thranduil laughed. 'I'm over 2000 years old, my friend. I wasn't born yesterday. You and your company mean to take back Erebor.'

Thorin's expression darkened. 'Where are my company?'

'They're safe and sound,' Thranduil assured him, with a dismissive wave of his slender hand. 'They're definitely not going anywhere, for the night, at least. Come, Thorin Oakenshield, indulge me. I don't get such engaging company every day, you know.' Again with the serene smile he hoped would set the dwarf's mind at ease. 'Do you play droughts?'

Thorin shook his head.

'Five card stud? Of course you do,' Thranduil interrupted, without letting Thorin get a word in edgeways. He grinned like a shark. 'You're a man's man. But let's make it interesting, shall we?'

'I'm… not much in the mood for card games,' Thorin replied. 'I'm afraid it's been a long time since I played any games at all. I've forgotten the rules.'

Thranduil pulled a small round table between two large round-backed arm chairs and plucked a pack of cards seemingly from thin air. 'Take a seat,' he urged Thorin. 'I'll remind you of the rules.'

Perhaps realizing that he was doomed to play cards whether he liked it or not, Thorin took the seat opposite his captor and accepted the cards dealt him (at least figuratively. The elf king was making a big show of his impressive shuffling skills). 'So,' Thorin began, and coughed nervously, 'how do you mean to make this interesting?'

Thranduil smiled like the cat that got the cream. His eyes, with their impeccably groomed brows, made their leisurely way from Thorin's face down to his heavy boots. 'We'll play eight hands,' he decided. 'Loser has to remove an article of clothing.' He smirked. 'You should be safe. How many layers are you wearing? I've only got the two.'

'They sound like reasonable terms,' Thorin decided. 'As long as I get to shuffle the deck.'

'Oh, but shuffling's the best part,' Thranduil protested, at last sliding some cards across the table to his opponent. 'I assure you, I don't cheat. I don't need to. I'm very good at this game.'

Thorin sighed. 'That's what I'm afraid of.'

Half an hour later, the dwarf was down to his blue undershirt, breeches and boots. There were two hands left to play, going by the elf king's rules. If Thorin kept losing, he would be as naked as a new born babe. Thranduil, still in his long silver cloak and elegant pantsuit, had to tame his growing excitement lest the dwarf prince start to panic. Down boy, he told himself, as Thorin flicked his hair over a shoulder, and his shirt opened just enough to reveal inches of toned pectoral muscle with just the slightest smattering of chest hair. Not for the first time, Thranduil was glad of the elves' propensity for wearing long, flowing vestments. They hid all manner of sins!

'Ah-ha!' Thranduil exclaimed, as Thorin threw down the hand he'd been dealt, in despair. 'Royal flush beats a straight.' He laid his own cards on the table and Thorin groaned. 'How do you keep doing this?'

Thranduil smiled. 'Shirt.'

Thorin narrowed his eyes. 'One would think you were enjoying this.'

'Oh, I am.'

'I understand the need to humiliate your enemy, but you could try to be less gleeful about it,' Oakenshield grumbled, shedding his undershirt and sitting opposite the elf king in naught but his pants and boots. Thranduil let his gaze wander happily over the dwarf's strong, manly upper body, imagining all sorts of things he dared not utter in polite company! It was all he could do not to lunge over the table at him. Oh, sure, it had been years since Legolas's mother had perished, and she was the only female elf – female anything – that had ever stirred him in that way, but Thranduil had seen his share of action since. He'd just never tasted dwarf before. He was dying to sink his teeth into this one, so to speak!

'Oh, but you're not my enemy, dearest Thorin Oakenshield,' Thranduil assured him. 'I would like it if you could call me your ally, if not your friend.'

Thorin's expression softened. 'You will let us pass, then?' The look of hope on his handsome face was almost too much for Thranduil to bear. The elf king nodded, and gulped. 'But please,' he managed to say, as soon as he thought he had his lust under control, 'At least accept my hospitality for one night… or three. Once you set out on your quest again, you'll wish that you spent more nights on a soft mattress, because you won't find another one between here and the Lonely Mountain.'

Thorin nodded, gratefully. 'As long as my company receives the same treatment, I accept.'

Thranduil had to bite down on his lower lip to keep from grinning. Well, he thought, not entirely the same treatment!

'You must be very sore and achy after hours in the saddle, and walking through Mirkwood,' he guessed. 'I will show you to your room, and have a bath drawn for you. Same for your company, I promise.'

Thorin opened his mouth as if to protest, but Thranduil held up a finger to shush him. 'I won't hear any argument.' He allowed the dwarf to pull his shirt back on and gather up his extra clothing and armor before leading him to a first floor room with a gorgeous view over Mirkwood, and a large claw-foot iron bath beside the window. As promised, a servant was already filling the bath with hot water and plenty of bubbles. 'I'll give you some privacy,' Thranduil told him. 'Enjoy, and don't worry about a thing.'

The elf king slipped outside the door, closed it behind him, and hurried down the corridor to his own room. There he collapsed against the heavy oak door and closed his eyes, letting an errant hand tug at the drawstring on his elegant silk pants. He pleasured himself until he heard the door of Thorin's suite open and close, indicating that the servant had most likely left the dwarf to his bath. Thranduil had to physically restrain himself from going in there. He locked his own bedroom door and tried to think of something else. Anything but the idea of Thorin lying there, naked and wet, waiting for him…

Thranduil unlocked the door and tiptoed to Thorin's room, glancing both ways down the hall to make sure that no one was privy to his actions. But the corridor was dark and empty, lit here and there by small wall sconces that bounced shadows eerily across the ceiling.

Thranduil was glad for the reflexes and silent agility of his people, as he made no sound entering the room, nor creeping up behind Thorin. The dwarf's head was tilted back and his brawny forearms hugged the rim of the tub. His eyes were closed. Thranduil supposed he should have felt some shame about what he was doing, but he didn't. He circled the bath until he stood alongside it, and gazed down, wishing the bubbles would disperse. Easing to his knees, the elf rolled up his sleeve and took a bar of soap in his hand. Sucking in a breath, he lowered the soap into the water and gently began to soap up the dwarf's well-toned torso, beginning with his chest and shoulders, and slowly moving downward. If Thorin was asleep, he didn't snore. If he was awake, he wasn't giving any indication he wanted Thranduil to stop what he was doing. Or maybe he's biding his time until he senses the perfect moment to strike, the elf king thought. He could easily overpower me, pull me under the water and hold me there until I drown… not that that would be the worst way to leave this world, mind you!

He lathered up Thorin's belly and let the soap slip from his fingers, using his hand to cleanse the tight, lean muscles until they gleamed. Thranduil felt a hot, dull ache in his groin. His eyes darted up to Thorin's and found them still closed. Did he dare go lower?

He spotted a washcloth hanging over the edge of the tub nearest Thorin's feet. He grabbed it and opened it over his hand. Back down under the water, he felt around until he found the soap… and felt an iron grip close around his wrist. Thranduil's eyes snapped back up to meet Thorin's. The dwarf was wide awake; his blue eyes unreadable. He said nothing; but to Thranduil's deep surprise (and private joy), the grip on his wrist relaxed, and instead of pulling him under, Thorin guided him to the right place, closing his eyes again as Thranduil gently rubbed his groin with the washcloth. The dwarf's breathing became shallow and shaky presently, and his chest rose and fell in time with Thranduil's tempo.

The king of the elves wrapped his hand around Thorin's cock, enjoying the gasp the daring move elicited, and rubbed the washcloth up and down along the shaft, watching Thorin's every minute expression. The dwarf's knees broke the surface, and Thranduil took that as a sign that things were getting rather serious underwater! Thorin's grip on his wrist had relaxed, and now his hand moved up Thranduil's arm as if to stroke it, sending delicious shivers straight to the elf's core. Thranduil's lips were dry and his mouth equally parched. He couldn't remember a time when he'd been more turned on than right now.

Thorin's eyelids flickered as the hand on his crotch cupped his balls and fondled him through the washcloth. Thranduil dropped the scrap of fabric and found the soap again, turning it in his fist until he had a nice lather. When his soaped-up palm wrapped around Thorin's cock, slithering up and down, around his balls and back up again, Thorin responded with a low moan that was so sexy Thranduil almost lost control of his own situation, right then and there!

He bit down hard on his lip and tasted blood. His hand unconsciously gripped Thorin tighter, and he felt the dwarf's cock pulse with release. Thorin was breathing heavily, his eyes open, his arms gripping the edges of the tub for dear life. Thranduil stared at the dwarf, unblinking. He literally could not take his eyes off Thorin. He felt as though he'd been put under some kind of spell.

When he'd recovered his senses sufficiently, the dwarf stared back at the elf, warily. 'I haven't done anything like that before,' he admitted. 'With a man, that is. That was… strange.'

'I'm not a man,' Thranduil said, finding his tongue. 'I'm an elf.'

'You know what I mean,' Thorin growled. 'You're… male.'

'You could have stopped me. You didn't,' Thranduil pointed out.

'That's true enough,' Thorin conceded. 'I'd like to get out, if you don't mind.'

'Huh?'

'The bath. I…' Thorin floundered helplessly. 'Could I have some privacy?'

Thranduil nodded, and got to his feet. 'I'll leave you to it.'

He was almost to the door when Thorin stopped him in his tracks.

'You are coming back, aren't you?'

Thranduil let out a slow, shaky breath. His stomach was in knots. 'Of course,' he managed to reply, around his tongue, which had turned into a slab of dry concrete. He dared not turn around, lest he see something that would cause him to explode inside his drawers. He felt hot, and tight, and achy. He had to get away, be alone when he finally lost the battle with his pent-up lust. He didn't know why the dwarf kindled such feelings inside of him. Dwarves were not known for their sexual attractiveness, yet this one had held him in his thrall from the moment Thranduil had clapped eyes on him. He didn't even particularly like hairy men that much, but for a dwarf, Thorin was surprisingly smooth. Thranduil thought he could even deal with the beard. It was the thrill of something new; something different from what he'd had before. Elven men could be so… vain, and almost effeminate, at times. Not at all like this rugged, utterly masculine dwarf prince. Safe in his own chambers, Thranduil took himself in hand and cast his mind back to the tub.

He was almost coy when he approached Thorin's room, sidling up to the door, uncertain whether to knock. He started a couple of times, and changed his mind. What is wrong with me, he wondered, as his agitation level rose. I'm the actual royal here, not him. I should be able to walk into his room and command that he fuck me senseless, and be quick about it. Yet here I am, quivering like a little girl! As he was readying himself to knock for the third time, the door opened, and there stood Durin's one and only heir, naked but for a threadbare towel around his waist.

Thranduil's throat dried up in an instant, yet somehow whatever moisture remained managed to find its way to the far edge of his lips. I'm drooling, he realized, taking in Thorin's powerful shoulders, sleek chest and washboard stomach. His sharp Elvish eyes followed that thin line of almost invisible hair that ran from Thorin's navel to where the towel disrupted his view.

Thranduil lifted his gaze to meet Thorin's. 'Fuck me, hard,' he pleaded, in a low, tremulous voice that he almost didn't recognize.

Thorin didn't reply. He merely reached out a hand, grabbed Thranduil around the nape of the neck and pulled him into the room, and onto his lips. Thranduil felt his back hit the door, closing it behind him, as the dwarf king made good on an unspoken promise. Thorin's lips were as strong as the rest of him, turning Thranduil's knees to rubber. The elf kissed back, and it was like a battle of wills fought with tongues, only Thorin was clearly winning. Thranduil wasn't used to being the submissive partner – he was generally used to getting his own way in everything – but within seconds he'd surrendered that control, letting the dwarf own his mouth; tear at his clothes; force a hand down his pants. The elf even bent his legs a little to allow for the difference in height.

Before he could suggest that they move to the bed, Thorin dropped to his knees and pulled at the drawstring on Thranduil's pants. The fabric pooled at the elf's feet, but he barely had time to consider the implications of that before his cock was in the dwarf's mouth, and the world became that much smaller and more immediate. Thranduil gave in to the tingling heat that was building in his thighs and extending up into the pit of his stomach. Thorin's tongue expertly caressed the head of his penis until Thranduil's eyes almost rolled into the back of his head. When the dwarf's mouth closed around him again, warm and wet, Thranduil gasped and clutched at Thorin's hair, trying desperately not to come too quickly and ruin everything. 'S-stop,' he stammered. 'It's too much.'

'You really have to relinquish control every once in a while,' Thorin told him, with a sexy smirk that completely did Thranduil's head in. He wrapped his mouth back around Thranduil's penis and sucked, sending the elf through the roof – figuratively, at least – and when that was done, got to his feet, and took the king of Mirkwood by the hand, leading him on shaky legs over to his bed. Thranduil melted against the sheets, face down, sandwiched between his mattress and Thorin's hard, hot body. He felt the dwarf brush his hair aside and kiss the nape of his neck; closed his eyes as Thorin writhed against him, making him hard and randy again; only seconds after he thought he was spent. The dwarf's erection seemed unnaturally large as it pressed against his spine. Thranduil ached to feel it inside him, and yet dreaded it at the same time. Thorin's hand found his on the pillow, and squeezed. 'Are you sure you're okay with this?' he asked, his breath tickling Thranduil's earlobe.

'Yes,' Thranduil whispered. 'Oh yes. I'm sure.'

Thorin pressed the head of his cock against Thranduil's arse, and slowly worked it in, rocking gently, like he'd done this before, though the elf king was fairly sure he hadn't. Thranduil let out a slow breath, relaxing every muscle in his body, allowing Thorin to enter him properly, setting off a million nerve endings in the process. The elf king cried out, his cock ramrod straight, the pleasure almost too much to bear.

'Did I hurt you?'

Thranduil shook his head violently. 'No! God, no. Keep going.'

Thorin chuckled, reached over Thranduil, grabbing the horizontal rail above the elf's silver blonde head, and braced himself with his knees. The next thrust was a bit more forceful. Thranduil felt Thorin's hand grip his hip as he thrust again, and again. The elf king was grateful for his long hair, as it fell like a curtain over his face, hiding the strength of his emotions as each movement Thorin made turned him inside out. His cock was powerful hard, and Thranduil guessed that the slightest touch would bring him undone. But he was more than ready for that. His orgasm was approaching like a swarm of angry orcs on warg-back. He reached around and took Thorin's hand, guiding it to where it needed to go, and closing it around his erection. The next thrust blew the lid off Thranduil's carefully guarded control. He exploded onto the silk sheets, his climax raging through him; made all the more intense by Thorin's continual thrusting. Thranduil trembled violently, his legs weak. He wasn't sure he was able to remain on all fours. He buried his face in the pillow, stifling a moan, wanting this incredible experience to go on forever, but at the same time wanting it to stop, right now, because it was just too much. And then it was done, and Thorin's cock pulsed inside him, and he laid his cheek against Thranduil's shoulder-blade. The elf could have stayed there forever if it wasn't for the wet patch beneath him. He rolled to the side, forcing Thorin to withdraw, and sat up, his head spinning. The dwarf collapsed on his back beside Thranduil, and tried to catch his breath. 'Is it… always like that?' he asked the more experienced of the pair.

Thranduil shook his head. 'No. That was… well, I'm not normally the bottom, so…' He shrugged. 'I couldn't say.'

'But… was it… I mean, was I good?'

Thranduil turned and reached out, stroking Thorin's forehead where that vertical line appeared whenever he was anxious. 'Yes, my love,' he replied, gazing into the blue sea of Thorin's eyes. 'You were good. You were beyond good.' He leaned in and kissed the dwarf's lips, softly. 'I hope I can be that good to you.'

There was that smirk again, the one that did Thranduil's head in, and other parts besides. 'They do tell me elves have remarkable powers of recovery,' he said. 'Dwarves, however, need a bit longer.'

'Point taken,' Thranduil replied, with a laugh, his hand already tracing a path down Thorin's arm to his hand. He lifted it and kissed the back of it. 'It's a good thing you'll be staying a while.'

'A while,' Thorin started to say, before realizing the elf was snapping an iron cuff around his wrist – a cuff that was attached to his bed post by a sturdy, short chain. 'Hey, what the…'

Thranduil responded with a trail of kisses up the inside of Thorin's right arm, straddled him, and cuffed that arm. 'Well, you have to admit,' he conceded, 'it's a lot more comfortable than a cell in the dungeon.'

Thorin sighed. 'So much for a truce between dwarves and elves, then.'

THE END.