Bard had been grateful and tremendously surprised when Linwe had presented him with a small enough amount of various medicinal plants to hide about his person and give to the sick in his town.
"Why?" he asked.
Linwe shrugged. She dressed as a common guard Elf when she went to meet the bargeman, so he did not realise she was royal. "I asked Thranduil for permission and he granted it. I suggest you take these, with our good wishes, and not question it. I will meet you often with more, I promise."
"I do not know how to thank you, arwen en amin," he said. His Sindarin was awful, with a poor accent and he obviously had no grip on phonetics, but she understood him fine.
"Take care of your children and your people. Do not let the Master step on you. That is how you can thank me," she replied.
"I will try." He left then, a hopeful look on his face and Linwe felt her heart soar. She liked using her position and power to help people. It was one of her few enjoyments. When she turned to leave, she heard a distinct rustling in the bushes.
Pulling her dagger she went to confront her spy and found the king himself.
"My lord?" she said, confused. "Were you watching me?"
"No, I was merely making sure you were all right. You dismissed your guard this afternoon," he replied.
"I do not like being shadowed as if I were a child or untrustworthy," she said.
"I do not consider you a child or untrustworthy," Thranduil assured her. "I sent you out with a guard on the behalf of Elrond. Were you to be hurt while in my care it would further alienate our realms, and I would not like that. Especially since you are here to promote relations between us."
Linwe nodded in understanding. "I would prefer not being treated as if I were an invalid from now on. Were anything to happen to me, it would be no one's fault but my own for being so careless and unobservant."
Thranduil bowed his head, a sign of consent. "Would you allow me to escort you back to our halls?" He winced, noticing that he had said, "our". A second slip in that manner, now coming from him. She had not been here a week, and already he was far too used to her presence. It concerned him, and excited him at the same time.
"I would be honored if my king would escort me home," Linwe replied, not bothering to attempt to stop herself from saying that. The Woodland Realm felt like home, unlike the cold beauty of Imladris. Despite being under the eye of such a stern and beautiful king, she was very comfortable there.
They walked slowly and in silence. Thranduil was gazing about him and she remembered hearing that he had not left the gates of his halls in centuries, if not millennia. Since she had arrived he had gone far beyond the gates twice already. Why was that? She wanted to ask, she wanted to settle in that plush bed with him, with his arms around her, and tell all of her secrets, and in turn learn all of his. She wanted to know everything about him, his childhood and his dreams. She wanted to get him to open up in more ways than one.
What Thranduil was thinking was one of those things she'd want to know about. He remembered, five thousand and five hundred years ago, Oropher had brought him to this place, found the Wood-Elves and became their king. The wood had been beautiful, called Greenwood. Life burst through the trees and lovely animals abounded, and the Elves were friendly with them.
He remembered playing out of doors, hating to come inside for his princely duties. That was how he had befriended the elk he rode. He had found it, motherless and hurt, and he had nursed it back to health. It had become domesticated and even hard-hearted Oropher could not deny his child permission to keep it in the stables with the horses.
When Sauron's evil had been unleashed, and the Orcs had gone to Dol Guldur, the Greenwood had been poisoned and his people had been forced to condense themselves inside the Northern halls once the Orcs had killed Oropher. He found that he missed the Greenwood of old, but felt powerless to help it return to its former glory.
"This place was once beautiful, Linwe," he said, startling her. "Lush and verdant, with wild creatures living in its depths. I would see it return to its former glory one day."
"I am sure you will see. Evil dies, and good always prevails. Sauron's army and influence cannot last forever," she replied.
"I believe you are right," he said, and they finished their walk in silence, but it was not uncomfortable. They did not need to speak to be content. When they reached the gates, shocking the guards, Thranduil bid her a good night. She watched him walk away, giving orders to Elves as he passed them.
Was it possible that the cold Elvenking cared more than he showed?
Elves do not need to sleep like other races do. A maximum of eight hours per week usually does it, but there are two reasons why Elves sleep less. The obvious one is because of their strength, stamina and long lifespan. The second is not as simple.
As they live longer than any other creature, Elves see more death and battle and sorrow than all the other races combined. And they forget nothing. So it stands to reason that they dream more vividly and more violently than any other race.
Thranduil in particular suffered from severe nightmares, as he had watched his wife, his father and his friends die. He relived those terrible moments over and over again, never getting any true rest from his slumber. He'd wake with screams dying on his lips, tears drying on his cheeks and a heartbeat that was out of control. The only times he ever cried was in dreams. It got to the point where the king slept even less than other Elves, staying awake until he was quite literally ready to pass out, in hopes that his extreme exhaustion would banish all dreams. It never worked. And he had lucid dreams, where he knew he was dreaming but could not wake himself or change the course of the dream. He despised sleep now.
But when he fell into an exhausted slumber that night, he received a pleasant surprise.
He was walking in his halls, clad in only a uniform like his son's, a uniform he had never worn. Even when he had been the prince, he had worn the royal armor. "I wish I was a prince again, without these worries or woes," he muttered to himself, believing himself to be alone.
"I wish you were as well," a voice said, and he turned to see Linwe sitting on the duvet in the library, clad only in a long, flowing robe. "Then I would not be so hesitant to tell you how I really feel."
His mouth went dry, realizing that the robe was literally the only thing she had on, and her luscious curves were just a touch away. Unlike most Elves, she was not lean and straight, but soft and round, perfect to cuddle with, perfect to bed over and over again until she was writhing beneath him and begging for mercy.
Her gaze traveled from his lips to his pants and she smirked at what she saw.
"If you like what you see, why have you not done anything, my lord?" she asked, her soft voice coaxing. "I have not been here long, but you can't stay for what could turn out to be centuries touching yourself every night."
"If I touch you, your father will surely try to kill me," he said in a way of protest.
"I think you would be the victor in a battle," she commented. "Come. Show me what a strong and beautiful king you are." She held a hand out and he grasped it in his own, feeling her cool, soft fingers twining with his.
He quickly lost what clothing he was wearing, his erection standing proud from his hips. Her hands caressed it, ghosting over the hard muscle and bone. She leaned back, pulling him on top of her as the robe fell away, revealing her pale body.
"I never knew I could want someone as much as I want you," he said to her, squeezing her breasts beneath his hands, and letting his tongue lick along the sensitive tip of her ear. Hearing her pleased gasp made his cock twitch against her stomach.
"Then take me. Amin naa tualle."
He felt himself push into her welcoming, tight warmth, seating himself in one quick thrust. She groaned and moved her hips, trying to accommodate his size.
"Is this what you wanted?" Thranduil whispered to her as he began to move, gently at first and then faster as her juices made passage easier.
"Yes, my lord," she gasped out as he ground his hips against her. Her hands tugged at his hair and he moaned. He had forgotten how much he had enjoyed that particular sensation. He moved faster, spurred on by her cries-commands, really-for more.
As he was about to spill inside of her, he woke up in bed. His sheets were twisted and he was wet, having come in his sleep.
While the nightmares had always frightened and saddened him, never had they frustrated him like this one had.
He needed to clean this up, so that an Elven maid did not come in and think he had been with someone, which was not allowed since he had been married already.
He walked up to his mirror, seeing himself sticky with his own seed and his glamour down, so his scars were visible. His hair was as messy as it could get (which really wasn't that bad), his eyes sparkled and his face was flushed. Worst of all, he was not ashamed. Evaluating himself in this disheveled state he said to his reflection, "Amin feuya ten' lle."