This was written after a friend challenged me to write an M/M story since my only other series published on here, All About Thorin, is M/F. However, although very angsty, I found myself still writing a romance. There are three chapters to this particular story with other stories to follow. Hope you enjoy this and feel that I have had a decent stab at the genre.
.o00o.
King of the Antlered Throne
When Thranduil first saw Thorin, Prince of Erebor, it was not on the best of days. He had just received news that his wife was dead, for a start, and, although they had been separated for many years, it was still a shock and memories of their earlier and happier life together were crowding his thoughts.
And, secondly, he saw him in the magnificent hall of Erebor, a place to which he had come very, very reluctantly and where Thror, King under the Mountain, and his son, Thrain, lorded it over him in the arrogance of their power.
He was expected to go there and pay homage to them every twenty years or so and he had to steel himself each time the moment came. And, he had to do it – there was no way out. The dwarves of Erebor were so rich and powerful that, however much he loathed them, he was obliged to bend his knee. Or, at least give them a small obeisance of the head. Thror would grin in that irritating, superior way of his whenever he saw his stiff-necked acknowledgement, returning that slight inclination with a gracious nod that signified an overlord in the presence of a vassal. It made the elven king's blood boil.
But, today was different. Today, Thror's grandson, Thorin, stood by the great throne which had the Arkenstone, dwarven symbol of the king's right to rule, buried in a recess above Thror's head. At first, Thranduil didn't notice him because all his concentration was bent on his reluctant show of respect, as he calculated, to the minutest degree, the smallest gesture that he could get away with before he caused offence.
He thought he had managed it to a nicety; then, as he raised his eyes to Thror, the king gestured to a figure standing in the shadows: "My grandson, Thorin," he said.
Another dwarf in the line of Durin, he had thought. Was there no end to them? But he would outlive them all yet. And he turned his bored gaze towards the king's grandson, as the prince stepped out of the shadow.
Thranduil always had strict control over his icy features and he was glad of that ability when he glanced up at the prince. He wanted to gawp because, just where he expected to find it least, here was a thing of beauty. He had known both Thror and Thrain in their youth and their features had been no more than pleasant – for dwarves. But, here they had forged a masterpiece, handing down to the prince all the best aspects of their race.
Thorin's face was strong and noble, the dwarven power softened by the beautiful lips and the mass of black hair that hung in long, dark curls part-way down his back. Thranduil had the most stupid urge to reach out and touch it. And those lips were framed by an elegant beard whose length was bound within an ornament made of mithril; it looked so silky that the elf longed to reach for that too. Dwarven braids hung neatly before his ears which were pierced with finely-wrought rings and cuffs, while silver torcs and braceleted tattoos circled his arms.
And, what arms! Thranduil suppressed a shudder of desire. Those muscles: far more powerful than anything on the lithe arms of an elf. And he briefly wondered what it must feel like to be crushed by those arms against that broad and muscular chest. The prince stood with his legs apart, strong and sturdy as an oak. The elven king momentarily studied those powerful limbs, thrust into a pair of well-made leather boots and then he looked back up to the prince's face again and their eyes met.
Thranduil would never forget that moment when he looked into Thorin's eyes for the first time. His own were pale blue like a spring sky after rain, but Thorin's were the deepest blue he had ever seen on any dwarf, elf or man. And his gaze was so piercing, so speaking. He was laughing at him: he could see that. But he didn't care. As long as the prince still bent his gaze upon him, he was content.
Thorin gave him a curt nod. Then he turned away and Thranduil felt bereft.
"My servants will show you and your retainers to your rooms," said Thror graciously. And his voice seemed to come from very far away. Thranduil bowed his thanks and then he followed a servant to a fine room, cut from the living rock and lined with marble of exquisite patterns and hues. And there he was left for some hours to his own thoughts.
.o00o.
His first thoughts were not about Thorin – he was not ready to go there yet – but about his wife. How he had loved her when they had first met! But, he was one of the Sindar and she was of the Noldor. "You will never be happy together," his father, Oropher, had said. And he had kept them apart. It wasn't until, centuries later, when Oropher had died at the battle of the Last Alliance, that Thranduil had finally married what he supposed was his one, true love.
But, his father had been right: it hadn't worked. She had hated his Sylvan kingdom – so dreary and unsophisticated, she had thought. And, after Legolas had been born, she was forever taking him off on extended visits to her own people. It had been then that Thranduil had drifted apart from his own son. Legolas had been greatly influenced by his mother and his Noldor kin and the thoughts and attitudes of the prince seemed different from those of his father.
When together, he and his wife had argued frequently. At last, sinking into a lassitude, she had abandoned both Thranduil and his son, and had returned permanently to her kin. She intended eventually to take ship from the Grey Havens to Valinor where her mind could be healed; but, she had died before that could happen. When the news arrived, Legolas had turned away from him in his grief; somehow, his father was to blame.
Throughout his upbringing, Thranduil had been told that elves love only once. And, he had believed it. He had loved his wife – the only woman he had ever bedded – and her rejection of him had left a lasting and painful scar. After she left, he had felt the loneliness of a single life. His son kept a certain distance and he missed physical contact – the hugs and the kisses and the intimacies – that came with a marriage and a family.
And yet, no other elf woman at his court attracted him – nor did any elf lord, for that matter. But now…..and his mind crept tentatively towards forbidden thoughts… but now he had seen Thorin.
Immediately, he assured himself that this was not love but lust and, therefore, somehow permitted. And it was a base lust for a dwarf. And, for some strange reason, that made it acceptable too. If at all possible, he would vent this lust, here in this appalling, barbaric dwarven kingdom, and then he would return to the elegancies of his elven court and forget all about it.
Any unease about this unexpected attraction was pushed to one side, and he set about planning for the evening.
.o00o.
A great banquet had been laid out to impress the elven guests. Thror sat at one end of a vast table with the elven king whilst Thrain and Thorin sat at the other. Thranduil glanced as surreptitiously as he could down to the prince at the far end and then found it difficult to tear his eyes away. Thorin was dressed in rich blue velvets and silks and sparkling rings were on his fingers, visible even at such a distance. Thranduil listened with one ear to his host and somehow got through the evening. The highlight for him was when Thorin was asked to play the harp and sing because then it was only natural that he should turn his eyes upon him and let them rest there at his leisure.
Like his face and form, Thorin's voice was surprisingly beautiful and the rich, deep voice washed over him in a sensuous wave.
"And what do you think of my grandson?" asked Thror proudly.
To this, Thranduil was able to answer sincerely: "He is a jewel among dwarves."
Thror was pleased with the jewel metaphor and gave a self-satisfied nod. Then came the only enjoyable part of the elf's conversation with the dwarven king as Thror rattled on at length about the abilities, the skills, the qualities and the talents of his grandson. And Thranduil listened and drank in the praises of the one he lusted after.
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When Thorin had finished singing and had returned to his seat, Balin, his friend and counsellor, followed after and sat down next to him. "The elven king looks at you," he said quietly in the prince's ear.
"Let him look," said Thorin with an amused twist to his lip. "Looking is free."
"Thranduil is a king who is used to getting what he wants," Balin continued. "If he is thwarted, he could cause trouble."
Thorin shrugged. "What trouble can he cause within these walls?" he asked dismissively.
His friend tutted at him impatiently, which caused Thorin to smile. "You are young," he murmured, "and not fully conversant with the ways of kings. I am just asking you to take care and to let me set a guard upon your door." And he nodded across the table to the mighty Dwalin who was observing their conversation closely.
Thorin laughed. His two friends and brothers-in-arms never let him take a step without following a pace behind. "No," he said firmly. "I can look after myself. Let me deal with this in my own way."
Balin shook his head and Dwalin glared across at him, but, soon after that, Thorin went off on his own to his room. Once there, he removed the silver and the mithril from his fingers, his beard and his hair and shook loose his heavy mane. Then he changed from his fine court robes into a silken sleeping gown and lay upon his bed to think. The dwarves, like the elves, believed in chastity and, since there were few dwarven women, this wasn't too difficult to achieve. Thorin, as a prince of Erebor, was lucky that a bride would be chosen for him from amongst the few and he awaited that day with a dwarven stoicism.
He had asked Dwalin once, as he had reached maturity, what he should do if beset by lustful thoughts. "Hammer them away on the anvil, lad!" he had advised. And the advice was good. He channelled his craving for a woman's body into creating beautiful things in the great forges of Erebor. This guaranteed that he would return exhausted to his bed.
But now – and he almost laughed out loud at the thought – he had become an object of lust. For an elf! He had dismissed Thranduil's looks at first until he could dismiss them no more. And then Balin had confirmed them. What would he do if he was subjected to the elven king's advances? Thorin was aware that he was clever and able and quick-witted but he was an innocent in the ways of love. Balin and Dwalin knew this which is why they had moved so hastily and with such concern to close ranks around him. But he was tired of being wet-nursed and it would be a challenge to handle this on his own.
He conjured up the elf's icily beautiful face, its features immobile and void of emotion. Could he take such a one in his arms? Would it be pleasurable to kiss him? Thorin imagined the scenario and wondered what his reaction would be. If he were curious enough to indulge in the pleasures of the flesh before marriage, then this somehow seemed a way around the strict dwarven code. He turned it over in his mind but, in the end, rejected it. And so, he thought he was ready when a knock came on his door.
.o00o.
Thranduil had questioned the servant who escorted him back to his room, asking admiringly about the design and the lay-out of the great palace. By the time he was at his own door, he had a good idea as to the whereabouts of Thorin's room. Like Thorin, he changed into something more casual and then he sauntered out of his room and down the corridor.
His interest in Thorin had been mounting as the evening progressed and now the years and years of loneliness, without touching or being touched, were coming to a head and all he could think of was the dwarf's hair and his lips and his skin and his eyes. He just wanted to lay his hands upon his body and feel the dwarf's hands upon his own.
When he reached Thorin's door, he waited for a few moments outside with his eyes closed and then he took a deep breath and knocked.
.o00o.
The dwarf opened the door without any indication of interest or welcome. "May I come in?" Thranduil eventually asked.
Thorin stepped back grudgingly but let him in with a nod.
The prince of Erebor was wearing a sleeveless silken robe in his favourite blue. The neck was a deep V and Thranduil felt a little frisson as he caught a glimpse of chest hair. To the smooth elves, bodily hair was an anathema but, for the first time, the elf lord could feel its attraction. As the prince led the way into his apartment, he noticed the way the soft material clung to his muscled form, outlining his powerful shoulders and the swell of his buttocks. He was also aware of those barbaric tattoos on his arms, but, instead of feeling disgust, he wondered where else he had them on his body. The king's breathing became erratic as a thousand erotic messages seemed to be firing at him all at the same time. And things which only yesterday repulsed him suddenly became unbearably compelling.
Thorin, in his turn, studied Thranduil as he showed him to a seat. The elf king's robe was silver and fell in elegant folds to the floor. He moved with a fascinating grace and his pale blond hair, straight and sleek and glossy, hung about his shoulders so unlike any dwarf's that he seemed alien in his strangeness.
And Thranduil felt that strangeness – that difference – in Thorin too. And he wanted to touch it and smell it and savour it because the erotic charge emanating from Thorin, something that was intangible and yet at the same time seemed to press upon the elf like a hand at his throat, left him breathless and was becoming almost unbearable.
Thorin offered him a glass of wine which Thranduil accepted with a graceful inclination of his head. "Your singing tonight was admirable," he said politely.
"Too kind," said Thorin in equally polite tones.
They were sitting at a small table together, their knees almost touching. The dwarven prince raised an enquiring eyebrow as if it were time for Thranduil to justify his presence.
"My courtiers would have been most moved by your performance," the elf lord continued, "as I was." And he ran a slender finger around the rim of the glass that he held in his hand.
Thorin waited.
"I don't believe you have visited my palace in Mirkwood."
The dwarf acknowledged this.
"It was built by dwarven craftsmen," said Thranduil, "and is a great wonder. Perhaps you would like to see it…and then you could display your singing skills to my retainers. It would please me very much to have you as my guest."
"That is very gracious of you," replied Thorin and then added evasively: "I will discuss this with my grandfather."
The elven king leaned closer and placed a hand lightly on Thorin's thigh. "You could travel with my company when we set out tomorrow," he suggested smoothly. "The delights of my court are many." And he gave the dwarf's leg the slightest of squeezes.
Thorin smiled and then got up to refill Thranduil's glass. The hand fell from his thigh. Seated once more, he said: "A prince has many duties."
"But, surely," counteracted Thranduil, "a prince also has a duty to himself? My palace would offer you many pleasures." And he looked at Thorin over the rim of his glass, moving one knee to brush it against the dwarf's own.
A more experienced Thorin would have stood and graciously shown Thranduil the door, offering to let the elven king know his decision on the following day. But, this Thorin was amused and decided to play the game. He looked back at Thranduil across the rim of his own glass, saying: "And tell me of the pleasures to be found there which cannot be found in Erebor?"
Thranduil smiled to himself and decided that he was making some progress with his seduction. The prince had not moved his leg away and had, in fact, leaned in closer and was holding the elf's gaze with his own. "There are pleasures of the senses which are particular to us," he said. "Would you like to know more?" And he knew that he was pressing the dwarf but his heart beat fast with a desire that he could not contain.
Thorin raised a curious eyebrow. "Tell me," he said.
"Better to show you," said the elven king. And before Thorin had time to react or consider the folly of his words, Thranduil had carefully placed his glass back on the table, and, sliding a hand expertly around the back of the dwarf's neck, he pulled Thorin to him and kissed him on those beautiful lips. They were soft and yielding and Thranduil sighed with longing as his need, suppressed for so many years, overwhelmed him. His other hand came up to seize the dwarf by the chin; then, as that hand ran down the silken beard, and his tongue explored the prince's mouth which still tasted of wine, it slipped inside the gown and his palm lightly caressed the sprinkling of hair that it found there.
Thranduil was swooning with the sensuous pleasure of this contact and so it came as an unexpected shock when the dwarf leaped to his feet and pushed him violently away so that he almost fell. "I want none of the vile pleasures of the elves, if that is what they are," snarled Thorin. "Your touch repulses me," he said. And then he did what he should have done five minutes before, which was to stride across the room, open the door and bid the elf take his leave.
Hurt, angry and humiliated, the elven king made a dazed exit from the room. He had been given offence and, one day, Thorin would suffer for this. And he strode back to his own apartments in a fury; and yet, all the while, his body and his heart yearned for the one who had rejected him.
.o00o.
Thranduil had brought a large army of armed men with him as an expression of his status and his power – larger, indeed, than the dwarven army that guarded Erebor. But, he and they were gone early the next morning and Thror wondered at their abrupt departure. They were gone so quickly, that they had travelled some distance before the dragon came to the Mountain.
Balin was questioning Thorin upon the palace battlements moments before Smaug's advent. He was shaking his head despondently. "I tried to warn you," he said. "One day, Thranduil will have his revenge." Thorin still remembered the elven king's lips upon his own, the sensation of his hand caressing his breast and his anger with himself at his own unexpected feelings of arousal. And then the dragon swept over Dale and Erebor and all was flame and fury.
As the stunned refugees poured out of the front gate, Thorin, supporting his father, Thrain, looked up to see Thranduil with his army looking down at them from the high cliffs. For a moment, his heart lifted. The elves – led by the one who had expressed desire for him - had come to their rescue. And he raised one arm in a desperate plea. But, Thranduil, lord of Mirkwood, king of the antlered throne, looked down coldly and his heart was not moved. Then he and his army turned away.
"He has taken his revenge," murmured Balin.
But Thorin never forgave and never forgot.
.o00o.
Sixty years later, Thranduil sat upon his antlered throne. Not a day had gone by in all that time that he did not think of Thorin, prince of Erebor. He remembered the brief but darkly intense satisfaction he had felt when he had turned his back on him. Let them all die, he had thought. Let Thorin die. He deserved it. And the pain of the dwarf's rejection stayed with him for a long time afterwards.
And perhaps the prince had died but, at last, the satisfaction slowly faded and the thought of all that beauty turned to dust because of the elven king's damaged pride became a bitter burden to him. And Thranduil shut himself away in Mirkwood and refused to let his son or his soldiers or his retainers cross its boundaries and enter the outside world. "The outside world is no concern of ours," he told Legolas. "Let us not get involved with their problems. We are safe within the confines of this wood."
And, every day, he sat upon his antlered throne and thought of Thorin, prince of Erebor.
.o00o.
There was the sound of shouting and scuffling and, suddenly, Thranduil's guard hustled a group of dwarves into the throne room. "Sire," said his captain, "we have caught these dwarves trespassing in the forest. They refuse to explain their presence, even though we have interrogated the leader." And he flung one of the captives at the foot of his throne.
Thranduil's heart stilled as he saw the black-haired figure, sprawled at his feet. The dwarf slowly stood and then lifted his head arrogantly to stare him in the face. It was Thorin. And the features that haunted him constantly were now within touching distance.
The elf wore his own years lightly; but Thorin looked older: his face was sterner and there was silver in his hair. And yet, to the elf lord, he was more beautiful still.
Thranduil conquered the urge to touch that face and lounged back on his throne, his demeanour haughty and aloof. He would not let the dwarf see his pain and longing. But Thorin did nothing to conceal the hatred in his eyes.
"So," said Thranduil. And the word hung between them.
"May I ask what you are doing in my forest?" And his voice was soft and threatening.
But the dwarf compressed his lips and said nothing.
"You have come," said Thranduil, answering his own question, "to kill a dragon and reclaim a kingdom."
Thorin's eyes flickered slightly but still he said nothing.
Thranduil yearned to hear that beautiful, melodic voice and so he insisted: "Is that not so?"
But the dwarf remained silent.
Then the elven king said in languid tones: "Then I shall help you." And the dwarf looked up quickly and Thranduil found himself lost in those stunning blue eyes once more. "I shall help you," he continued as his voice took on a cutting edge, "by saving you from yourselves." And then he smiled and turned to his captain. "Throw them into the dungeons," he said.
Thorin stepped forward angrily, raising his bound hands as if he would speak. But, then he turned his back on the elf lord and allowed himself to be led away.
Thranduil gestured to the captain: "Put the leader on his own at the deepest level," he said quietly; and the captain saluted and followed the captives out of the door.
The elven king was content – more so than he had been for sixty years. He would have his heart's desire, imprisoned and in chains. And this time, he would not be denied.
.o00o.
Next chapter: Will Thranduil get what he wants – or what he thinks he wants – or will things turn out not quite as he expected?
