Believe it or not, there's actually (finally) a little humor in this chapter. Poor Thranduil.


Thranduil fetched the chain himself, very early the next morning – having a servant bring it would only start rumors. He had to admit, he felt no small amount of trepidation, but he deserved it and he knew it. He would do much worse to take away Tauriel's nightmares; he truly had been fully prepared to let her carve up his chest.

For he had more than enough nightmares of his own. The most common of them was actually the worst – in it, he had not reached the room in time after her first attempt to take her own life, and found her dead in a crimson pool of her own blood. Somehow within the dream he would wake to find her standing beside the bed, corpse-pale, her dead eyes boring into his, torn arms reaching for him and dripping blood on the counterpane. She reached for his throat, and the worst, the absolute worst part was that he wanted to let her – wanted to give her in death the vengeance she had not been granted in life.

Perhaps this would expiate his own nightmares, too. She would exact her payment in a way that would not leave her feeling guilty, as inflicting physical pain would, no matter how much he deserved it.

When he brought the thing to their rooms, Tauriel had already gone for the day, and Thranduil was very nearly physically ill when he affixed one end to the bedpost, sick with guilt. At the time, he had seen absolutely nothing wrong with it – it truly had been for her protection in his mind, and nothing more. How could he have been so mad?

He didn't know, but there was nothing to be done about it now, save give Tauriel the tools for her revenge.

It preyed on his mind all day, while he went over paperwork and heard petitions (including from the increasingly amusing Lord Falchon). What would Tauriel make of even seeing the thing again? He had not thought of that, and he doubted she had, either. Hopefully she would not reach home before he did, and be forced to confront it on her own.

He hurried back that evening, as much as a necessarily stately dignitary could safely hurry. Out of long habit, all in his way scattered to the edges of paths and parapets, drawing robes and skirts aside while he swept past, his worry mounting with every step.

Fortunately, that worry was unfounded. The room was dark and hearth cold when he arrived. He lit the lamps and built up the fire, tucking the chain under the bed, so that she would not see it right away.

Shedding his outer robe, he called for Galion to send for dinner, and sat on the divan, wondering if he was doing the right thing.

Tauriel deserved her revenge, but what if it ultimately did her more harm than good? What if even seeing the chain brought her own horrible memories back in sharp relief? Would it be worth it?

Well, they wouldn't know until they tried. He'd promised her she could do it; he could hardly go back on his word now. So he poured himself a very large glass of wine and stoked the fire, the scent of alcohol and wood smoke oddly calming.

Dinner arrived at the same time as Tauriel – roast beef and fresh salad, plucked from the gardens that morning. Tauriel looked at it with undisguised greed, even as she kicked off her boots.

When she looked at him, however, her expression went very strange: somehow, it managed to encompass trepidation, sorrow, and a worrying triumph. She knew she should not want to do this, but want it some part of her did. Pale though she was, her face was flushed across her cheeks and nose, her eyes alight with something that almost made him nervous.

That, however, didn't last; it was replaced largely by her typical affection. The smile she gave him was like all of those she granted, warm and fond as she set her boots by the door and shed her cloak onto the nearest chair.

"I am starving," she said, sitting across from him, "and where is that chain?"

Well, that was straight and to the point. It must have been preying on her mind as much as it had been on his, if obviously in a different way.

Thranduil rose to fetch it with no small amount of unease. She seemed a bit too eager, but he could hardly fault her for it. He had forgotten until this morning how heavy it actually was, the links clinking as it dragged across the floor.

"You must understand, Thranduil, that I do not do this to torture you," she said, her eyes like feverish green stars. "But if we are ever to have any hope of moving pas this, you do need to understand what I felt. Right ankle." He'd always chained her right, though he could not now remember why.

He managed to hold still when she fastened the manacle around his ankle, carefully adjusting it as he had done each morning, making certain it was not too tight. The thing was padded, and would cause no harm; it was merely heavy. Very heavy, and not just physically.

Once that was accomplished, Tauriel returned to being, well, Tauriel, loading up her plate and pouring some wine. She seemed for all the world to be unaware of the chain's existence – exactly as he had been.

"I think Huoriel has finally come around," she said, dishing meat onto his plate. "Or in any event, I think she's resigned herself. She no longer looks at me as though I am utterly mad when I speak of you, and where she goes, others will follow."

Thranduil sat, trying to ignore the clink of the chain when he moved, but even when he was still, the weight of it was always there. And that, no matter what he did, he could not ignore. "If only the nobles would follow suit," he said, downing half a glass of wine at one go. "Still I receive judgment, pity, or some odd combination of both."

"The judgment is almost more welcome than the pity," she said, pouring him more wine. "At least with judgment they don't also look at you like you are utterly stupid. I still have people who talk to me as though I am a child, and a slow one at that. I've been rather tempted to repeat what I did to Legolas, more than once."

"Why have you not?" Thranduil asked, trying to focus on her words, and not the weight around his ankle. How much worse had it been for her, who had also been constantly afraid of what he would do if she misspoke? They'd spent months like this, and all the while he had been utterly ignorant to her silent suffering. It was a wonder she hadn't tried to kill herself again long before her second attempt.

"I doubt it would help," she said, before taking a bite of salad. "It would only make me look like more of a lunatic. And neither of us needs that right now."

"No," he said, fighting the urge to itch his ankle, "we do not. Not when Galadriel is still weeks away. I only hope Legolas does not fill her head with too much nonsense."

"Eru knows he will try," Tauriel said dryly. "When you've finished with that, come over here so I can comb your hair."


Tauriel thought she could spot the exact moment of Thranduil's true comprehension – he was not longer as inscrutable as he might wish, at least to her. Terrible understanding entered his eyes, along with a truly strange succession of horror, grief, and guilt.

It made her want to take the damn chain off immediately, but the lesson might not stick if she did. He did not fear her as she had him, but even if she'd been able to frighten him like that, she wouldn't do it. He was a smart ellon; he would work that out for himself.

The hair-combing was another thing he had done, but she did not do it now to unsettle him – she just liked playing with his hair. How he got it so soft, she still didn't know; it slid through her fingers like strands of silk, its normal silvery hue stained red-gold in the firelight. The comb slipped through it like water, and her fingers followed in its wake, smoothing what did not actually need to be smoothed.

Thranduil relaxed under her ministrations, rather like a cat – quite often when she stroked his hair, she half expected him to start purring. Unfortunately, she knew, it would make taking later notice of the chain all the worse. There had been times she had almost managed to forget it, if she sat in a certain way, and the inevitable reminder had always made her shudder, drowning in horror all over again.

This is for his own good. And it really was, as well as hers; if she knew he had a better grasp of part of what she had endured, her dark wish for vengeance might vanish. Perhaps that was one less thing for Lady Galadriel to deal with.

Tauriel set the comb aside and wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on the back of his shoulder. Maybe he would take a bit of comfort from this.

"Tauriel," he said, his voice careful and oddly strained, "I do not think the lesson you wish to impart with this chain is going to work if you keep touching me."

"What?" she asked, bewildered, even as she sat up. "Why?"

"If you would please give me a moment," he said, sounding even more strained.

She stood, outright worried now – oh.

Oh.

Well, this was embarrassing. The tent in Thranduil's trousers was impossible to miss, and she turned away, face flaming. "I'll, um…I'll go fetch more wine. From the cellar." She didn't quite know why she was so mortified, but she was. She really, really was.

"Thank you," he said, and she all but fled.


Thranduil had lived for a very long time, but this might just be the most embarrassing thing he had ever endured. Never once had he allowed any of Tauriel's touches to elicit any desire in him, but evidently, so long as she was touching while he wore it, he liked the damn chain. And that was a realization he really could have done without.

Until then, though, her lesson had been horrifyingly effective. Even when he sat perfectly still, and the chain made no noise at all, he was always aware of it, clamped securely around his ankle. It wasn't painful in the least, but it was still awful. Though Tauriel spoke and interacted with him as she had always done, he felt like an animal, a thing – something kept as a possession, without regard to any thought or will of his own.

And he had kept her like this for months.

He was tempted to hang himself with the damn thing – indeed, he wondered why she hadn't, during those times he left her alone for the day. She must be stronger even than he had thought.

That realization was enough to take care of his problem for him. He'd known for months that he'd wronged her, but until now he had not really understood the depth of what he'd put her through. He still didn't; a single evening with the chain was nowhere near enough.

He should have released her ages ago, but he couldn't now – she was mired in this obsession as deeply as he was. For better or worse, they were in this for life. And Eldar lived forever.

Hurry, Galadriel, he thought. Before we destroy one another.

After another fifteen minutes or so, Tauriel appeared, bearing a very large jug of wine. "Are you…decent?" she called.

"Yes," Thranduil said, shutting his eyes in utter mortification.

She crept the rest of the way into the room, setting the jug on the table and pouring two very large glasses. "Thranduil," she said, taking hers with her to one armchair, "have you ever…that…when I've touched you before?"

"No," he said, staring into the burgundy depths of his glass. "Terrible as this sounds, I think it was the addition of the chain."

"The addition – what?" she asked, voice laden with bewilderment.

He forced himself to look up at her, distressed by the heat in his face. "Some people are like that," he said. "Not until now did I realize that I was one of them, but apparently I am."

Thranduil expected Tauriel to be revolted, horrified – he did not expect her to start giggling. "You learn something new every day," she said, before dissolving into helpless laughter.

Now he was annoyed as well as embarrassed, but if it made her laugh, he would endure it. At least he was quite certain she would keep it to herself.

She sobered soon enough, however. "Have you learned anything else while wearing it?"

"Yes," he sighed. "I should hang myself for what I have done to you. I thought I knew, but I had no idea. You ought to have killed me in my sleep. Eru knows it would have been execution, not murder."

Now it was Tauriel who looked away, staring into the dancing fire. "I thought about it," she admitted. "More than once."

He should not be surprised, yet he was. "What stopped you?"

She shut her eyes. "I knew there was no way you would die before you woke," she said, "and then you would have killed me."

Thranduil ran a despairing hand over his face. "I would never have killed you, Tauriel," he said, "though you would not like what I would have done. I would have bound your hands each night, and not released them until I left in the morning."

He didn't need to look at her to sense her shudder. "Look at us," she sighed. "What a pair we make. We really are as mad as everyone says."

Her mouth twitched into a half-smile before he could respond. "At least we know now that if I wish to punish you, binding is not the way to go about it."

Thranduil laughed, though he also shut his eyes in humiliated resignation. "I will never live that down, will it?"

"No," she giggled, "no, you will not. I had heard that there are people who like that sort of thing, but to my knowledge, I have never met anyone before."

Was it possible for someone to actually die of mortification? Thranduil was very much afraid he was going to find out. The worst part, the absolute, completely worst part, was that something far back in his brain would not at all mind if Tauriel wanted to bind him and torment him like that, so long as she didn't actually stop. And that he could never let her know. It was a thought to be kept in the privacy of his evening bath. Quietly.


Poor Thranduil. He's so often written as masterful and dominant (and he is quite a bit in this fic, too, really) that I loved the idea of shaking that up and having him get turned on by not being in control for once. And Tauriel will tease him for it until the end of time. At least he's started learning an actual serious lesson, too