Heaven exists and I'm alive! I'm so sorry for the delay, but the muse refused to kiss me, and I won't force her. Anyway, I hope this chapter makes up for the shock of hearing from S.M.A.U.G. in the last one!
To Dina: Thanks so much for commenting! We'll find out more in the next chapters. Stay tuned :P
Enjoy!
"Worry". Colour pencils on paper – Thranduil's apartment, early afternoon
Thorin had rung the bell three times already, but still Thranduil wasn't opening the door. He was starting to get worried. What if something had happened to Thranduil? Or maybe he was still mad at Thorin for kissing him? Whatever it was, it could not be anything good.
"Can I help you?" suddenly came the voice of an elderly man, and Thorin turned on his heels.
"Uh, yes. I'm a friend of Thranduil's, actually, and, um, we were supposed to meet? But he's, ah, not opening the door."
The older man nodded gravely and reached into the pocket of his dressing gown, rummaging around for a few moments, babbling incoherently.
"Where did … I though … It must be … Ah! Here!" He triumphantly held up a key and shuffled past Thorin to open the door to Thranduil's apartment. "Sometimes he sleeps late … Never hears people knocking and ringing, that man. Ts, ts. There you go."
"Thank you, Mr. uh, …?"
"Brown. Radagast Brown." He tipped an imaginary hat and scuffled back into his apartment, whistling like a bird.
Thorin shook his head, but cautiously entered Thranduil's flat. He remembered the place as light and lofty, creamy colours and an airy atmosphere, and the lived-in feeling of a home. Now he was faced with drawn curtains and lowered blinds. All the lights were out and there were boxes strewn on the floor, spilling over with clothes, trinkets and paper. The air no longer smelled like wood and hints of perfume, but stale and felt too warm on Thorin's skin.
"Thranduil?" he called into the eerily dark and quiet apartment. "It's me, Thorin."
There was no answer, so Thorin uncertainly set his equipment on the floor and went investigating. Maybe he could somehow reconstruct what had happened or where Thranduil could be.
The sink in the kitchen was filled with dirty dishes, and there was a wine glass and an empty bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon standing on the counter.
Thorin uncertainly did another round calling Thranduil's name, but when no response came he concluded that the other man wasn't home. Confused he began to arrange his drawing utensils – colour pencils again, paper and some charcoal for sketching – but when he continued to wait alone and it certainly was long past the time they were supposed to meet, he began to worry. And anxiousness led to trembling fingers that craved a pencil to steady them. Reluctantly he chose a dove grey pencil, something soft and unobtrusive. Adding pale blue and darker grey hues he began to draw the blurred border between a stormy sky and a disturbed sea. At the front he placed the rough edge of a cliff, with pale and battered grass growing on sandy ground. Then he did something he very rarely did: he added himself to the drawing.
He was no more than a small dark blue and black blotch sitting on a rock by the precipice, facing off to the side of the paper and it vaguely looked like him, like he looked like his father. His figurine had more similarities with how he must have looked a few weeks back, when he'd worn an unkempt beard and long, matted hair. Drawing-Thorin also wore strange clothing, and all in all it made real-Thorin feel strangely as if he was peering through a window to another place, another him.
While he'd drawn the clouds, the sea and the grass in large, sweeping, imprecise motions, drawing-Thorin carried details real-Thorin added while led by his strange drawing sight, an instinctive and purely creative part of his mind. There was a small trinket in his strong, rough hands, glinting golden and bright. His features, as far as they were visible, resembled real-Thorin's, but there were grey and white streaks in his beard and long flowing hair. The dark blue coat he was wearing was lined with soft fur, which tousled in the wind coming from the sea.
Thorin – real-Thorin – hesitated with a yellowish-white pencil in his hand. Drawing-Thorin's gaze was directed at the vast stretch of churning sea, but what reason could he have? Thorin tentatively added a golden glow to the horizon, too small to be the sun, but too bright to simply be the sun's reflection on the waves. Feeling empty, as if everything essential had been put to paper, he wondered what it might be, and why he – drawing-Thorin – was apparently awaiting it.
Not really knowing why Thorin gave the strange drawing the title "Worry", and put his name and the date in the bottom right corner and regarded his creation again in the light of its title. Perhaps drawing-Thorin was waiting for his Arkenstone, like him.
Thinking of the devil – or rather his only hope of success, happiness and fulfilment – he heard the door being opened in a rush, and someone entering the apartment with stomping feet, rattling keys and low murmuring.
"Uh, Thranduil?" he called uncertainly. The noise ceased for a moment, before Thranduil came into the living room.
"Thorin?" He blinked owlishly and looked around in confusion. "Why … Who let you in?"
"I came here at the time we said we would meet … But you didn't open, obviously." Thorin scratched his re-growing beard. "Your neighbour, the old man, had a key though."
"Ah." Thranduil swallowed visibly and shuffled with his feet.
"Um, is it a bad time?" Thorin asked, when nothing else came. "We don't have to do this now if you don't want to."
"No, I …" Thranduil hesitated, wiped his hands on his thighs and approached Thorin with stiff steps. "Actually, I would like to talk to you."
"Okay." Thorin blinked and scooted over on the couch to make some space.
The other man let out a trembling breath once he was seated. This close up Thorin could see dark shadows under his eyes and how dry and chapped his lips were. Something seemed to be very, very wrong.
"I don't know how much I should tell you, or how I should even begin to explain," Thranduil started quietly. "I'm afraid I will have to go far afield."
"Go ahead," Thorin said, trying to sound encouraging and supporting instead of nervous and worried.
"Very well. Um … I've never been anything but a model, you know. Even in high school I'd do minor jobs and earn some pocket money. It was what I knew how to do best. It continued until after I graduated from college. But then … Legolas came, and I know," Thranduil added hastily, "this is probably important too, in some way, but I won't tell you about his mother today. That's … Anyway, I needed to earn more money, I needed better job offers, better connections. I did have some friends, and some were getting more and more attention, but it wasn't enough. So I'd do … less conventional things. This got the attention of some people, who recognised that I was desperate."
Thorin let out an involuntary growl, but quieted at Thranduil's sharp glance.
"The point being, they gave me jobs and referred me to really influential people in the fashion industry. One might say I owe them everything I have now – everything Legolas has now. I wouldn't have been able to afford his medical training, much less get him his own medical practice." Thranduil sighed heavily. "I haven't heard from them in … a decade or so. I'd almost forgotten."
"You heard from them," Thorin guessed grimly, but Thranduil only laughed bitterly.
"'Hear from them' is such a nice euphemism for 'blackmail'."
Gasping, Thorin balled his hands to fists and went rigid.
"Blackmail? What for?"
"Well, I don't know exactly what they want," Thranduil sighed. "But I'm not the only one they threatened. I have to do whatever they ask of me, or you, your sister and your nephews will suffer, as well as my son and his friends. They probably even knew about his boyfriend before I did."
Grinding his teeth, Thorin carefully took Thranduil's hands in his.
"Whoever these assholes are, I swear to you …"
"Don't Thorin," he murmured and pulled his hands back. "This is … I couldn't ask this of you and your family. We've only known each other for barely two weeks."
"Look at me," Thorin said softly. "Thranduil."
With a heavy sight, those clear blue eyes met his, and he held them sternly.
"You are my Arkenstone. I would do anything for you."
