EDIT: TO THE GUEST WHO WROTE THE FOLLOWING COMMENT: Can you just stop torturing poor, innocent people and continue with this story?
It was really tricky to insert a chapter before this one, but I (we) really want to know what will happen next.
Don't have us waiting so long.
IN THE NOTE BELOW I ALREADY MENTION THAT IT WAS A MISTAKE I MADE AND I ALSO APOLOGISE, SO PLEASE STOP THINKING I DID THIS ON PURPOSE TO TORTURE YOU. YOUR RUDE TONE MADE ME CRY AND CONSIDER DELETING THIS STUPID STORY. YOU DON'T DEMAND NEW CHAPTERS OF ME, I AM GRACIOUSLY OFFERING THEM TO YOU FOR FREE AND I AM THE ONE SACRIFICING HOURS OF MY LIFE AND LOTS OF MY ENERGY TO MAKE THEM PERFECT FOR YOU. I WILL POST THEM WHEN THEY ARE READY. IF YOU WANT THEM HALF-BAKED AND FULL OF ERRORS, FINE. THEN THIS STORY WILL END UP LIKE ALL MY OTHER ONES WHO LIE ABANDONED IN THE ARCHIVES OF AND AO3. I WILL BLAME YOU AND ALL THE OTHER PUSHY PEOPLE, AND IT WILL HURT ME A LOT.
MOST PEOPLE ARE SUBTLE ABOUT THEIR RUDENESS AND JUST ASK 'WHEN'S THE NEXT CHAPTER?' I CAN STOMACH THAT, BARELY, BUT I CAN. BUT YOU INSULTED ME ON TOP OF THAT. DO YOU EVEN KNOW HOW YOU SOUNDED? YOU REALLY HURT ME, AND I WANTED YOU TO KNOW AND NOT JUST LET IT SLIDE.
(THE ABOVE STATEMENT WAS WRITTEN IN CAPITAL LETTERS AND BOLD FOR VISIBILITY REASONS, SO YOU'LL NOTICE THIS WAS ADDED AND NOT BECAUSE I'M SCREAMING.)
Author's Note: I'M SO SORRY I SEEM TO HAVE POSTED CHAPTER 11 AS CHAPTER 10 PLEASE RE-READ CHAPTER 10, I'M SO SORRY
Okay, Uni started again and I'm kinda stuck on chapter 16. It doesn't want the way I do. Meh.
This chapter comes with some warnings: Recreational drug use, and what might turn out to be non-explicit dub-con. If you want to know why because it might trigger you please check the end notes though this will give you spoilers for this chapter.
Sindarin translations:
Arasuilos - aras (stag) + uilos (everwhite)
Morngorthad - morn- (black-) + ngorthad (ghost)
Enjoy!
-:-
It was winter in the north, and everything was quiet and cold. It was a time when most of the singing birds had long left for the warmth of the south, squirrels, bears and marmots slept safe and sound, and the nights were haunted by hungry wolf packs. Families sat in front of fireplaces, sharing tales of spring and summer to warm their hearts, lovers shared passionate nights in the safety of darkness, and children sneaked into their parents' beds to warm their freezing toes.
It was in this time that men and elves practiced old, sacred rites of life and death, of light and dark – rites to call forth the rejuvenating power of spring with song, dance, drink and old magic. And for the very first time they were willing to share those rituals with each other and the dwarves.
So here he was now, wearing a wooden half-mask painted in blue and white, together with Dís and Kíli. The three of them had been brought to Dale by Tauriel, who told them that one such winter rite was being held there by her people, the Woodland elves. She had given all of them mask such as the one Thorin currently wore and instructed them to wear nondescript black clothing and to remove all jewellery and all braids which could identify them, except to bring one spare braiding bead.
Tauriel, who had restyled her hair into the braids she wore before she became a so far unofficial part of their family, brought them to a large tent in the middle of Dale. It was larger than any tent Thorin had ever seen before, easily as big as the whole council chamber of Erebor. From within came the golden light of fires, enhancing the peach-orange colour of its cloth, the sounds of merriment and the scents of faint exotic spices.
"What have we gotten ourselves into?" Thorin rumbled, readjusting his grip on the cart his harp was strapped to.
"At least it sounds like they have a lot of fun," Kíli shrugged and threw a warm gaze at Tauriel, who regarded him with much the same soft expression.
"It hasn't even started yet. The sun set just recently – we are waiting for the stars to come out."
"And what then?"
"You will see," Tauriel laughed cryptically and approached the tent's entrance, greeting her kinsmen guarding it. Or not so much guarding, as making merry in front of it. They greeted her enthusiastically and embraced her, though they already swayed on their feet. Kíli made an unhappy face at the kisses they rained onto Tauriel's cheeks and forehead, but they let them all in with joyful chattering none except Tauriel understood.
As soon as the tent's flap fell down behind them, the overwhelming fragrance of myrrh left Thorin reeling. All around them he could see torches surrounded by softly smoking incense holders. Dís behind him gasped in wonder, or perhaps in shock at the blatant extravagance of it. He could smell nutmeg too, and as a laughing elf passed them by with a spring in his step there was a hint of sandalwood oil. But the scents were not everything there was.
The sounds of thousands of little jingling bells accompanied the singing and laughing of elves and men, who stood, sat and even lay on pillows or on the carpet-covered ground, mingling carelessly. At the far end of the tent there were musicians; harpists, flutists, singers and string players. Thorin could hear Dalish being spoken as well as common Westron and Sindarin – or perhaps it was Silvan. He had just recently learned from Tauriel that there were dialects among her people that were very different from Sindarin, and that some were too proud of them to even learn their king's native tongue, though the noble Sindar had all bothered to learn Silvan.
Everyone he had seen so far wore masks similar to theirs – crude, wooden things, painted with two or more colours and any shapes imaginable. Some were half-masks like theirs, leaving their mouth and chin free. Others wore full masks or even constructs that almost resembled full helmets.
As they slowly made their way through the crowd, Tauriel greeted everyone she knew – and those were a lot of people, especially elves. After a while Dís and Thorin excused themselves, leaving a slightly upset Kíli with her and her elvish friends.
"Do you think he will be alright with them?" Thorin asked.
"Don't worry, Tauriel loves him – I doubt she will forget him. I understand her, she's probably not seen them for over a year. Kíli should know there are other people in her life besides him. Maybe he will remember that there are other people in his life besides her too."
Unsure as to what to do or what they were waiting for exactly, Dís convinced Thorin to get her something to drink. An elvish woman gladly poured him a glass of mead for him and a bubbly golden wine for Dís.
"She'll like this one very much," the lady told him with a wink of the eye, though he was not sure whether it really had been a wink or not. Maybe she just got something in here eye.
Dís did like the strange beverage though, and drained it faster than he his mead.
"I did not realise I was so thirsty," she exclaimed. "Just wait here, I'll get myself another one. I need to know what this is – it's marvellous!"
As she returned with a newly filled glass, she said: "It's almost disappointing, they just call it 'sparkling wine'."
"Be glad they don't have a weird elvish name for it," Thorin chuckled and clicked his mug against her glass. Beneath her mask Dís looked slightly flushed though – but whether it was due to the wine or because of the heat in the tent he was not sure.
Just as they were about to search for Tauriel, demanding to know when something was going to happen, Kíli appeared by their side.
"She said she needed to help prepare something – I think it's starting soon."
Intrigued, Thorin kept an eye out for any activity, and indeed it did not take long for the musicians to cease their playing in order to take up a slow drumbeat. A hush spread, until everyone was silent, holding their breaths. The elves began to sit on the floor, one by one, and the men followed their lead. Thorin threw a glance at Dís, who simply shrugged and made herself comfortable on the ground. He reluctantly joined her and Kíli.
In the complete silence that fell then the clear sound of a small bell emerged. It came again, this time joined by the lower tone of a larger bell, and then the jingling of dozens of smaller ones. Captivated, Thorin strained to hear more, and then there was the drag of fabric; a slow huff; the muffled beat of deliberate steps. Then, as if out of thin air, a billow of silken cloth, and as it settled it revealed a striking form, clad in white.
It stood tall, regal, the massive antlered head proudly tilted upwards, to where the tent seemed to dissolve, giving free the view of a star-splattered sky. Against the blackness of the night-time sky its pale figure rose like the sharp crystals of a pure mountain quartz.
After a few moments of astonished illusion it became clear that a human, or more likely an elf wore this deer-skull mask. Long swathes of all kinds of fabric from silk and linen to brocade and even leather flowed down its arms, torso and legs, though feathers covered its shoulders. Most of its back was covered by silver hair that had been fashioned into hundreds of thin braids, bells and beads hanging at their ends. Apparently those had sounded before.
A second being joined the first, stepping out from between the crowd. This one wore a wooden mask similar to the one each of the spectators wore, though it had been fashioned into the stylised features of a grim man, enhanced by the painting in bright red and a contrasting brown. He wore furs only, and carried a longbow like the men of Laketown and Dale used.
He crouched, still immersed in the crowd, apparently using them as cover to watch the white, antlered creature, and like a flash Thorin remembered when he and the Company had been in Mirkwood. He had encountered a white deer – and attempted to shoot it despite Bilbo's warning.
Just when he was about to squirm uncomfortably, the white figure moved, turning its head this and that way. The bells rang softly as it bowed its back and reached for one of the elves in the crowd. The female took off her mask and revealed delicate paintings around her eyes that were fashioned after flowers. She took the creature's hand and let herself be led in a slow, gentle dance that was only accompanied by the jingling sound of the beads and chimes in the bright being's hair. After a while more and more elves rose from the crowd, shedding their masks to reveal floral paintings on their faces and to dance in rhythm with the bells, conducted by the swaying of antlers. This silent display made Thorin think of spring and the reawakening of nature – a thing he was sure elves would like to remember now that winter held the north in a strong grip.
They stopped moving after a while, when the tent's ceiling had been removed completely, and the dancers gazed up at the starry sky. From among the crowd emerged another dancer, wearing the garb of a Woodland warrior, though it had been dyed black. His face was bare, unadorned but for the vivid green of his eyes, and his dark brown hair was bound back tightly in a striking manner. He felt important, but Thorin did not know him.
The warrior brushed past each of the flower dancers, distributing dark green bands of silk, which they tied around their heads or looped around their necks. Then he stepped up to the stag dancer and took his hand, just as a harpist began to play. The flowers gently guided those sitting closest to the pair to sit further away and then lowered themselves in a ring around the couple, setting a parameter.
"Arasuilos," the warrior sang in a bright tenor, and the antlered creature answered, voice a deep, reverberating baritone: "Morngorthad."
A shiver ran down Thorin's back at the sound, feeling like it seemed familiar. Or maybe it was just the eerie harmonies of the two voices and the harp together that created a mournful atmosphere. They began to dance then, black and white, limbs entangled intimately as they swayed to and fro. Only now that the dark dancer stepped deliberately did Thorin notice the bells strapped to his ankles and wrists. They rang deep and true, while the antlered one's jingled gently, but without rhythm, creating a glittering bedding for their powerful voices. Thorin almost regretted never having learned Sindarin – some of the elves mouthed the words alongside them, captivated smiles on their faces – though the peculiar lilt to their tongues somehow made him doubt it was Sindarin at all. Since this was a Silvan ritual, it would be logical that they sang in the Woodland elves' native tongue as well.
The music slowly accelerated, and the dancers' movement got sharper, more violent, as they ceased to lead each other and now battled for dominance. The black one, Morngorthad's hand was buried in billowing braids, tugging and tearing, while the white one, Arasuilos' feet tried to topple his counterpart. And still they sang, forceful and sharp harmonies that went from loud to ear-stinging within moments.
A drum picked up a wild beat, and they began to stumble, pushing and pulling, chanting turning into howls and screams, until the black one managed to trip Arasuilos and he mercilessly bore down on him, pinning him to the ground with his weight. But the moment the antlered skull rested against the carpeted floor, the up until now forgotten archer figure lunged forward, toppling the dark one. New dancers, clothed in bright red and orange, emerged from the ranks of the elves around Thorin, some carrying the white one to safety, and others bearing down on Morngorthad, led in their attack by the archer.
"It's Tauriel," he heard Kíli whisper, though it almost got lost under the wild drumbeat that flared up as they hauled Morngorthad upright, flinging chanted curses towards him. It took Thorin a while to spot Tauriel among them, since most of the elves in the circle now had bright red or ruddy hair, but there she was, leading the archer to the antlered one, so the dancer could cradle its skull head.
The dancers then sang as a choir, apparently something like a healing song, because Arasuilos rose again, elegant and light-footed as before. He began to tear pieces of fabric from his gown to drape them over Tauriel and her fellow dancers, swaddling them in white. At last he unclasped his long coat and wound it around the constrained body of Morngorthad. They sang again, a tune hauntingly similar to the first one, though slower and in a darker harmony.
In the end the choir settled around the pair of them, and Arasuilos too rested his head on Morngorthad's shoulder, as the archer stood watch and sang a hopeful melody, accompanied by a single flute.
In trance, Thorin only registered that it was over, when people around him began to cheer and applaud, and even then he could see that Dís and Kíli were still overwhelmed too.
"I want to know everything about this story," Kíli said enthusiastically, after the formation had dispersed.
"Yes, we must ask Tauriel," Dís agreed. "Also I want to know what to do now, because it seems that everyone is braiding someone else's hair."
"How uncouth," Thorin growled, patting his pocket for the bead he had brought. He had never intended to give it away. Among dwarves, braiding a bead into someone else's hair always had emotional implications. Seeing so many elves and men around them doing it, in public, and without qualms – it almost made him nauseous with second-hand embarrassment.
"Let's just get another drink, 'amad," Kíli suggested. A few minutes later the three of them each held a large tankard of heady mead. It felt a bit better already, seeing this frivolous behaviour all around them, and it got less bad with every large gulp of the strong distillate.
Thorin had lost count of the amount of mead, wine, ale and sparkling wine he'd had by the time he realised that Dís and Kíli were nowhere near him. His feet were still steady as any dwarf's, but he had to admit that his head was spinning slightly, and the fast-paced dancing of the elves and men in front of him did not particularly help. And neither did the strong odour of myrrh wafting from a bowl with incense sticks right by his nose.
He was not the only drunk one though. Some of the dancing men were barely vertical or had even resorted to sprawling on the cushions. Elves too moved more sluggishly but nonetheless elegant, their laughs maybe a tad too sharp. But most weren't dancing anymore anyway. There were small alcoves along the outer edges of the tent, where couples or small groups of either or mixed race and gender vanished to, and Thorin had quite an impression of what they were doing judging by the delighted sounds coming from behind flimsy silken cloth.
Out of the corner of one eye he then spotted the bright white figure of the main dancer who still wore the costume of Arasuilos, deer-skull and all. Mesmerised, he watched the creature pick glinting black berries from his companion's palm, vanishing them below the mask. He realised that his own mouth was rather dry and took another swig of the ale he currently had in his tankard, but as he swallowed he wondered what those berries might taste like and why this elegant being was eating them.
Before he could think about it he was approaching them. The dancer sprawled lazily on some cushions, and the other elf knelt beside him, feeding the berries, and from time to time little pieces of what seemed to be a root. Well, Thorin was not surprised anymore at what elves ate. Though as he stumbled over a cushion, the skull-mask turned to look at him, bells tinkled gently, and he felt all stability leave his knees. He could not describe it any differently than that stars were gazing at him from the hollow of the skull's empty sockets. He breathed a lung full of fresh pine and resin, a comforting waft of peace among a sea of myrrh and nutmeg.
The unmasked elf said something in Sindarin, voice sharp and unfriendly, but the dancer waved him away until the two of them were alone amidst the mass of increasingly drunk celebrators. Thorin swayed on his feet and settled for resting on a cushion opposite of this stunning creature. Every time it moved its head the beads and bells in its hair rang, and it felt like lightning that shot through Thorin's veins.
Before he knew it he had scooted closer, the bead in his pocket transferred to his hand like magic, and he beckoned for this regal neck to bow. At first he thought it was another dizzy spell, but it had moved – the dancer was offering. His pale hand tremulously searched among the masses of braids, and like a hidden treasure he unearthed a soft, unbound strand of mithril hair, tucked behind a delicate, pointed ear.
Thorin gasped as he ran the silky stretch of it through his hands, weighing it like a precious necklace. A slight tilt of the antlered head told him not to dawdle too long though, so he quickly separated the strand into six smaller ones and wove frantically, until before his eyes admiration surfaced, spelled in secret knots and loops, and sealed with affection by a single golden bead.
Before he could smooth it back behind the ear where it belonged, the dancer's hand plucked a tiny silver bell from his hair, offering it to him on an outstretched palm. The stars hidden behind bone asked for permission, and he gave it with a silent nod, not trusting his alcohol-addled voice.
Gentle fingers sorted his hair, plucking at locks and parting them, until they settled for a narrow curl down the back of his head. Thorin trembled, breathing in the smell of resin as the hands deftly braided the bell into his hair. It chimed a few times, and the fingers buried themselves in his hair, tilting his head to look back at those star-eyes. A gentle thumb traced the edge of his mouth, and when he let his tongue taste the snowy skin he was rewarded with a pleased purr.
The stars above him spun until he was lying on his back, the warm solidness of the elf's body resting against his torso as if it had been moulded to his form. The antlered head tilted until its skull came to rest against Thorin's wooden mask, and when he dug his fingers into a powerful back, he might have dreamed the warm breath of a gasp ghosting over his face before strong hands pulled him to his feet. They both staggered, drunk on scents of sandalwood and pine, drunk on berries and honey mead, but none of it mattered as they held onto each other until they found the softness and safety of a cushion-stuffed nook, separated from the rest of the tent by layers of silken flaps.
Thorin observed that any kind of touch made this wonderful creature gasp and squirm as if its skin were too tight, too sensitive. He wondered at the flawless expanse of a muscled abdomen for a few heartbeats too long, so the elf could turn the tides in his own favour, and he had Thorin at his mercy. It was almost painfully obvious that he knew tricks no graceful being like him should know, and did not shy from using them to strip Thorin of all dignity. The elf had proven that he could dance and sing – but he was just as good at making others dance and sing for him.
In the hazy swirl of drunken light-headedness and tortured by sensations too great even for his sturdy body to bear, Thorin lost himself in bursts of divine pleasure. He felt like a harp, plucked and caressed by searing hot hands. He felt like a fiddle, stroked and pierced by blunt nails. He blindly fumbled for silken flesh and grasped it, eliciting musical moans and gasps that fell on his ears like fresh snow. But even dwarvish endurance and elvish perseverance had to end, so when he felt his partner fall with a strangled cry, he allowed himself to be enveloped in the burning waves of release as well.
He fell asleep to gentle huffs of breath ghosting over his neck and a hand, warm as embers, resting above his heart. His dreams were of crystal quartz and bone, stars and golden bells, wrapped up in warm silk.
Author's Note: I would like to hear your thoughts :)
PS: Spoiler-y trigger warnings. It has to do with why the chapter is called "The Belladonna": Thranduil was eating deadly nightshade (those black berries someone is feeding him), and also mandrake root. It's basically a drug which makes him a) more attractve and also b) very aroused. Thorin was drunk. This alone could be counted as dub-con. Plus the mistaken/unrecognised identity. They both consented to sexual intimacy without any strings attached - because they thought this was a stranger they were taking to bed. They did not, however, consciously consent to sex with each other. Hence the possible dub-con interpretation. Next chapter more about this. Let's just say Thranduil is pissed.
