Ahyamë

Title: Ahyamë : Change
Chapter: Ten
Author: Orchyd Constyne and Ashek Thordin
Contact: ashekandorchyd@gmail.com
Website: http://www.hithanaur.net/
Update List: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/nairn_orchyd/
Fandom: LOTR
Archive: OEAM
Feedback: Yes! Always!
Disclaimer: We do not own LotR or any characters, lands, or items from the Tolkien world. They belong to their respective copyright holders.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: slash, het, incest, twincest, rape, torture, BDSM, kink, mpreg (eventually), violence, angst
Beta: Helena Snow-Renn, Chloe Amethyst
Cast: Thranduil/Erestor, Thranduil/Gwindor, Gwindor/Erestor, Gwindor/Thranduil/Erestor, Maglor/Maedhros, Maglor/Daeron, Maedhros/Fingon, Daeron/Thranduil, Thranduil/OMC, Daeron/OMC, Erestor/OMC, Glorfindel/Gelmir, Amrod/Amras, Legolas/OMC, Námo/Ingwë, OMC/OMC, OFC/OFC, OMC/OFC... just to name a few!
Summary: In the Seventh Age of Man, all the Elves who had wandered through Arda have returned to the shores of Aman.
Author Note: This fic is dedicated to the memory of Di, who had been a great lady. She left us far too soon.

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December, Tirion, Aman

Winter had fully settled over Aman. White snow blanketed every surface exposed to the harsh, biting winds that drove the Elves indoors most days. This morning was no different from any other morning for the king of Laicanan. Thranduil swung his sword around with a powerful grunt, and the sound of clashing metal rang loudly in the enclosed room. Rhovandir parried the blow, but already his arms ached from repeatedly blocking Thranduil's attacks. Both Elves wore only leggings, their bodies coated with fine sheens of sweat, but it was only Rhovandir who showed signs of strain from the practice session. Since coming to Tirion, Thranduil had been restless, and with the snowfall, he was more so. He could no longer visit the orchard, as the trees slept, and he would not disturb them in order to alleviate his homesickness. It fell to Rhovandir each morning to cross blades with Thranduil, just so that Thranduil's restlessness might find a few hours relief.

After another volley of swings from Thranduil, Rhovandir let his sword tip fall to the highly polished wooden floor. He panted harshly, a hand held up to stop Thranduil from advancing. "Sire, I cannot continue," he admitted. He had fought in his fair share of wars over the years, but he could hardly stand against Thranduil's strength and skill.

Thranduil frowned, and though his chest rose and fell in a rapid rhythm, he was by no means ready to end his session. "You are growing soft in your old age," he snapped at Rhovandir.

"Hardly, Ardaur," Rhovandir replied, shoving off the floor with his blade. "You are agitated, and you seek to ease that agitation through exertion. I commend the attempt, but I cannot endlessly spar with you. Find a nice Elf to share your bed for the rest of today while I tend to my duties, and we will practice again tomorrow morning."

A frown settled across Thranduil's lovely, arrogant mouth as he looked away from his old friend. "I have no desire for bedplay at the moment."

Rhovandir raised his eyebrow, but did not comment. He racked his sword and mopped his face and chest with his discarded shirt. "Perhaps Gwindor would like to spar with you..."

"Gwindor?" Thranduil laughed, though there was little mirth in the sound. "He is but a cook, Rhovandir."

"He was once a great warrior," Rhovandir replied, opening the door. "He might even best you, Ardaur."

Thranduil sighed. "I wish you would not call me that."

"I know," Rhovandir said with a rare smile. "I think it is why Daeron and I call you it so often." Rhovandir bowed respectfully. "Sire." He then left, stopping briefly by the kitchen to instruct Gwindor to go to the practice room, as their employer wished to have a word with him.

It was mere minutes before Gwindor appeared in the doorway to the spacious rotunda, peeking around the frame before entering with a curious expression. He had never seen this particular room before. Thranduil's estate reflected the Elvenking's lifestyle; it was sprawling, extravagant, and filled with beautiful trappings. Gwindor doubted that he would ever see every single chamber in the winding corridors, but each new place that was revealed was a feast for his eyes. Sweeping over the curved walls and high, domed ceiling, Gwindor's eyes finally focused on Thranduil. The gaze was calmer and steadier than it had been in the weeks prior, and he pushed his bangs out of his face as he regarded his employer. "You wished to speak with me, my Lord?"

Thranduil lifted his sword and pointed at the rack that contained others in varying sizes, weights, and styles. "I require a sparring partner, Gwindor, and Rhovandir has suggested you replace him today." His blue eyes were intense as they gazed at Gwindor. "Choose a sword and spar with me." It was a command, and by his tone, it was clear Thranduil was used to having his commands followed without question or pause.

Gwindor looked from Thranduil to the array of weaponry and back, a smile slowly spreading across his face, bringing his dark grey eyes to life. Ever since he had seen Glorfindel sparring at Elrond's estate, he had felt an itch in his hands that he knew could only be appeased by the weight of a sword. It was a sensation he had never expected to feel again, having lost all will to fight after his death in the Battle of Tumhalad. Walking swiftly to the sword rack, he tested a few of the blades before he found one that was optimal for his fighting style and returned to the centre of the room. "A word of warning, my Lord," he said with a small chuckle as he stretched out his arms and legs. "I have not done this in a very long time."

"Then now is the perfect time to reacquaint yourself with the blade," Thranduil said, swinging out his left arm, the sword held in his firm grip. Without waiting a moment more, Thranduil lashed out, his blade sweeping in a wide arc towards Gwindor. It was a blatant, obvious move, allowing Gwindor plenty of opportunity to dodge or block him. He would begin slow, as he would with any new soldier in his keeping, in order to see what skill and reflex his opponent possessed. If Thranduil were honest with himself, he would have had to admit how eager he was to see how well Gwindor conducted himself with a blade.

Despite his rebirth, Gwindor was able to block the attack with ease. His muscles were still tight, and as Thranduil set a slow pace, he was grateful for the extra time to warm his body and re-establish himself with the footwork and rhythm that had slept dormant in him for months. Gradually, his stance settled, grounded firmly on the wooden floor beneath his feet, and his breathing found its cadence of old. With a swift exhale, he made his first offensive move, swinging his blade directly after blocking one of Thranduil's obvious attacks. His aim was precise, and he watched Thranduil's reactions with keen eyes, testing his opponent even as he knew the calculating, blue gaze was taking in his own movements. Gwindor began searching for a weakness.

Thranduil blocked the blow, thrusting back after the blades collided. He stepped back, considering his options. His movements were swift, concise, made to maximize every move he made, and he pressed forward, taking a strong offensive stand. Thranduil was careful not to exhaust himself, though, making certain each swing of his arm struck where he intended. He watched Gwindor closely, admiring the almost balletic manner with which the Elf moved. The style Gwindor fought in was old, something Thranduil had not used himself since the end of the First Age, but he adapted his own style to mesh with Gwindor's to allow for a fluid spar. Thranduil had spent close to his entire life fighting, and that experience showed clearly in his agility and swiftness. He did not present many weak points, and he constantly sought the weaknesses of his opponent, determined to put Gwindor on the floor.

Forced to lose ground, Gwindor defended himself expertly, blocking and side-stepping Thranduil's strikes effectively. The Elvenking was captivating in combat, his movements powerful and utterly fluid; Gwindor could tell he had a vast amount of experience from which he could draw. While Gwindor was certainly capable, he was slow compared to Thranduil, a fact he would certainly blame on his recent rebirth if given the opportunity. His eyes narrowed in concentration as he sought a way to at least get a touch on the arrogant Elf. With a quick step to the left, he dodged one more blow and struck out in a rush of breath. Thranduil was far too experienced to fall for his feint, however, and Gwindor realised his mistake too late to alter the course of his blade.

Thranduil whipped his blade around, engaged Gwindor's, and *twisted* their blades sharply. His intent had been to disarm the Noldo, and he was rewarded by the delightful sound of Gwindor's sword clattering to the ground. Thranduil smirked, eyes glittering, as he panted, "You are indeed rusty, Gwindor. Perhaps you should practice with me each morning instead of Rhovandir."

Gwindor gave up his sword without a fight, knowing it would take far too much effort to maintain his grip. Besides, he thought with a smirk, hand-to-hand combat was his true forte. "Save your conceited words for when you are sprawled on your back," Gwindor shot back with a breathless grin, and without a moment's hesitation he launched himself into a series of quick strikes with his hands. Already in close contact with Thranduil, he landed a well-aimed blow to the Elf's sword arm, utilizing his elbow and opposite hand to strike the sensitive area where nerves run the length of the forearm. A swift twist and his efforts were finally repaid with the clamour of Thranduil's heavy sword as it fell to the floor.

Sapphire eyes narrowed as Thranduil gripped his wrist. He hated giving up his sword, but it would take more effort to regain control of the blade than to merely leave it on the floor. His father had ensured all Elves in Greenwood had been thoroughly trained in hand-to-hand combat, and Thranduil launched himself at Gwindor. He was by far the larger Elf, the more powerful in sheer physical strength, but he had a feeling that Gwindor hid many tricks in his slighter body. When his hands struck out, they aimed to grapple Gwindor, bring the Noldo against his body and tumbling to the ground. Thranduil, even in a sparring match, was intense, focused, and he *would* bring Gwindor to the floor, no matter how long it took him.

The pleased smile that had graced Gwindor's face was soon lost as he engaged in near frantic combat with Thranduil, ducking below the tall Elf's blows and blocking the rest as he was finally able to go on the offensive. His speed and agility were showcased in such close contact, and he took full advantage of his lower centre of gravity, moving swiftly and striking out with calculated accuracy. His whole body was employed, and he was quickly breathing hard, his shirt stuck to his body with the sweat from his exertion.

One of Gwindor's strikes came at him hard and true, and Thranduil was faced with a choice: block the attack or allow the hit and exploit the weakness he knew would follow such a strike. Thranduil made his choice, and Gwindor's hand landed, causing a bright spark of pain up his side. As Gwindor began to return to his beginning pose, Thranduil then spun, gaining as much momentum as he could, and lashed out with his leg, his foot connecting squarely with Gwindor's side. His breathing ragged, Thranduil watched with satisfaction as the cook lost his balance and wound up sprawled across the training room floor. Thranduil walked over, straddled Gwindor's waist, and crouched over him. "I believe... this match... is mine," he said with a grin.

Pinned to the wood floor, his side radiating pain through his torso, Gwindor was forced to concede and he relaxed, resting his muscles, which burned with the intensity of their exertions. A breathless laugh shook his frame, causing his smile to twist into a grimace as his side throbbed in time with his racing heartbeat. Gwindor closed his eyes, concentrating on composing himself in the wake of such activity.

Thranduil stared down at his captive, his eyes travelling over the panting form. It was hard to deny the draw the Elf had on him. He wanted to kiss him. It was almost like an ache, the desire to lean down and press his lips to Gwindor's. He wanted to know the sounds Gwindor would make if touched just right, or how he would taste if he dipped his tongue between the sweetly parted lips...

With a grunt, Thranduil stood up and stepped away from Gwindor, not liking the direction his thoughts carried him. He snatched up the swords, returning them to the rack. Thranduil kept his back to Gwindor as he regained his senses, shaking his head at his reaction to such close proximity to the Noldo. Gwindor had refused him, and Thranduil had no intention of pressing the issue, despite how much his body screamed at him. He picked up his shirt, wiped his chest and under his arms, and turned to Gwindor. "Will you be all right?" he asked gruffly.

Gwindor felt when Thranduil lifted off him, and the loss of the Elf's body heat left him in the contrastingly cold air of the room. His eyes opened at the question, and when he attempted to rise, a shaky groan escaped him. It seemed his side was on fire, a burning ache spreading harshly from his side where Thranduil's foot had connected. "I will be," he confirmed, clutching his ribcage, "but it will likely bruise quite badly." He remained on the floor for a few more moments before gritting his teeth and forcing himself to his feet, a soft hiss breathed into the cool air as he walked to Thranduil's side.

"Come to my room," Thranduil said as he stalked towards the door of the practice room. "I have some salve that will ease the pain and, hopefully, keep the swelling down." He exited the room and climbed the back stairs, assuming Gwindor would follow him.

Gwindor moved carefully, following Thranduil up the stairs with an occasional wince. He bit his lip to keep silent; his body was not used to such abuse, though his mind had certainly endured far worse. He entered the large chamber after Thranduil, his eyes taking in the lush furnishings with interest. He had done little more than peek in when Thranduil had called him from time to time over the previous months, but now he had the time to appreciate the beauty of the Elvenking's belongings.

Thranduil stopped in the middle of his room and shed his trousers, the article of clothing completely soaked through from his exertions. Gwindor was only given a brief glimpse of Thranduil's nude backside as he entered the bathing chamber. "Take off your shirt and use one of the towels in the wardrobe to dry yourself." Inside the bathroom, Thranduil cleansed himself using water and a small cloth, and then yanked on a new pair of clean trousers. He would bathe fully later. After rummaging through his ointments chest, he exited the bathroom with the pot in hand.

Gwindor could not help but admire Thranduil's beauty. The tall Elf was radiant, with his golden hair and lightly bronzed skin almost glowing in the sunshine that filtered through the undraped windows. Gwindor felt himself dim in comparison, and when he caught himself staring, he immediately averted his gaze, his blush partially hidden by the rosy hue of his skin from the heat of their exercise. Nodding at the command, he tenderly removed his shirt, peeling the fabric from his skin with as much care as he could manage. His ribcage was still throbbing as he methodically folded his shirt and set it aside. Experimentally, he took a deep breath, but the expansion of his chest caused a sharp pain to travel down his spine and he let out the breath with clenched teeth. As Thranduil returned from the washroom, Gwindor glanced up with a tense smile, his hand moving away from where it clutched his side to reveal a bright red expanse of skin that traversed nearly his entire ribcage, extending to the long muscle that ran next to his spine. "Please tell me I at least landed a good punch," he teased in good humour.

"Aye, you did, though I will not bruise as you will," Thranduil said softly, opening the pot of salve. "Next time, we shall see about you leaving behind a mark or two, hmm?" The scent of cinnamon and marigold wafted from the container, and Thranduil scooped out a large amount on his fingers. He reached out and began to massage the salve into the irritated area of Gwindor's side, already feeling the intense heat of the budding bruise. Thranduil forced himself to focus on tending the wound, not the way Gwindor's skin felt under his fingertips, so soft and inviting. Thranduil wanted to touch every inch of the Noldo, learn each crevice of the body before him as he had never bothered to learn another's... and the thought disturbed him. With a slight frown marring his features, he applied more of the ointment, something intangible igniting just from the simple act of tending to Gwindor, and he wondered if the other Elf felt it, too.

Lifting his arm to provide Thranduil with better access, Gwindor hissed at the first touch of the salve on his hypersensitive skin. Gooseflesh broke out on his arms as Thranduil began to massage the area, and Gwindor bit his lip, blushing as a warm tingle spread along his ribcage. He had been tended like this before; he and Gelmir had always tended one another after sparring. But, for some reason Gwindor could not place, this was different. A vague sense of comfort and belonging, wholly unique and indescribably natural, settled somewhere deep inside, leaving Gwindor confounded and uncertain. Flushing a deeper shade of crimson, he found he could not meet Thranduil's eyes, keeping them focused on the detailed woodwork of the Elvenking's bedstead.

Thranduil lifted his gaze, noted the shade of Gwindor's face, and he asked, "Are you all right?" His voice was soft, almost lulling in quality, and his fingers continued to rub absently at Gwindor's side, unwilling to part from the enticing skin.

"Aye," Gwindor said quietly, meeting Thranduil's gaze for a moment before hastily looking away again. "The pain is fading..." He chose not to draw attention to the way his breathing had quickened, the way Thranduil's touch sent occasional frissons down his spine.

Thranduil straightened, his fingers remaining at Gwindor's side. "That is good to hear," he murmured, sapphire eyes focused intently on Gwindor's blushing profile.

There was a moment of awkward silence before Gwindor spoke, his eyes still averted and his voice so soft it was barely audible. "Thranduil...?"

"Gwindor." Thranduil waited, very still, almost seeming not to even breathe. He was a hunter in wait, the briefest of contacts between them in the stillness of room.

Finally making eye contact, those piercing blue eyes made Gwindor falter. "I..."

A faint smile crossed Thranduil's lips. "That is the proper pronoun."

If it was possible, Gwindor's face turned a more vibrant scarlet. "Why must you look at me in such a way?" he questioned breathlessly, trying and failing to break away from that enthralling gaze.

"Because you tempt me to," Thranduil whispered, their bodies close enough that Thranduil could smell the faint musk of Gwindor's now-dry sweat.

Gwindor's eyebrows knit together, and he licked his lips, suddenly finding them dry. His hand came up to the junction of Thranduil's neck and shoulder, not touching, but poised in the air that seemed to carry a palpable tension between them. "And... why do I want to give in to you?" His fingers twitched, hesitant, confused, conflicted.

Thranduil's hand slipped down Gwindor's side, coming to rest upon the Noldo's hip. The confliction within Gwindor's charcoal gaze made Thranduil question that sentiment. "Do you truly wish to give in?" he asked, his voice soft and gentle as his thumb stroked along Gwindor's hip.

Gwindor swallowed against the dryness of his mouth and throat, his nod of assent nearly imperceptible. "What does that mean, Thranduil?" he asked desperately.

"It means you have desire sleeping within you that wishes to wake." Thranduil brought their bodies as close as he dared, hand still on the bare skin of Gwindor's hip. "What you must decide," he murmured softly, "is if you want to explore this or if you want to pretend it does not exist."

The mysterious depths of Gwindor's eyes held innumerable questions as he stared up at Thranduil. He did not understand, did not know the reasons why. But he would not pretend. He could no more be dishonest with himself than he could lie to Thranduil, who already seemed to know the truth better than he did. With a shaky exhale, he finally allowed his hand to establish contact at the curve of Thranduil's neck, recoiling once before resolutely settling his palm just below the blond's powerful jawline. Gwindor's cheeks burned, and while there was hesitancy in his dark eyes, an invisible force seemed to steady his trembling hand as it drew Thranduil's lips down to his own.

Thranduil had not believed Gwindor would actually take the step. In just that feather-light touching of lips, he could sense so much. This was important. It was desperately important, and Thranduil knew that from the slight tremor in the hand at his throat, in the short breaths that ghosted over his lips, and in a much more internal, instinctual way he would not yet name. It was the most chaste kiss he had ever been given, and yet, though he could not say *why*, it seemed one of the most fulfilling. His right hand remained at Gwindor's hip, but his left came up to rest lightly at the small of Gwindor's back. He did not bring their bodies any closer; he had merely wanted to know what it felt like to cradle the slighter Elf's form in his arms, and he was not surprised by how... perfect... Gwindor fit in them.

Gwindor's breath caught in his throat, his fingers gripping slightly at the soft skin beneath Thranduil's ear, and he tentatively parted his lips as he kissed Thranduil again with his head tilted slightly to the side. Each movement proclaimed his inexperience, a fact that, if Gwindor had been listening to his rational side, would have made him pull away out of embarrassment. Instead, he became lost in the gentle sensation of their caressing lips, reminding himself not to think, but to *feel*. Never had he felt so comfortable receiving the physical touch of another. It was foreign and peculiar. It was divine.

Perhaps if this had been any other Elf, Thranduil would have laughed at the piss-poor attempt at kissing he was being subjected to. It was hardly a kiss, he would have to admit, but he found the fumbling and uncertainty endearing. At the parting of Gwindor's lips, Thranduil accepted what he thought to be an invitation, and he took control of the kiss. Slowly, he dipped his tongue into Gwindor's mouth, sliding it along Gwindor's tongue with a quiet moan. By Eru, the Elf was intoxicating! Thranduil deepened the kiss further, teeth nipping at Gwindor's lower lip before he thrust his tongue gently back into the Noldo's mouth.

Shock was evident in Gwindor's manner as he nearly pulled back completely, his eyes flashing open to stare in unabashed astonishment at Thranduil. For a moment, he forgot to breathe altogether as he took in the strange sensation, but the quiet sound emitted by Thranduil sparked something within him that caused his breath to quicken. Innocent and unsure, his eyes fluttered shut, and he tried to follow Thranduil's lead, slipping his tongue past the other's lips before hastily retreating. A modest sound of pleasure was pulled from his chest, where a pounding heat had settled, a flame quickly being fanned to a larger blaze.

Thranduil continued to kiss Gwindor, thoroughly and tenderly, eventually leaving his lips in order to nuzzle his throat. The scent of Gwindor's skin was enough to arouse Thranduil, and the soft, subdued sounds he made sent shivers of want down his spine. He placed tiny kisses from jaw to shoulder and back again before claiming Gwindor's mouth once more. He didn't think he could ever have enough of Gwindor's exquisite lips. Thranduil couldn't resist pressing his body to Gwindor's any longer, and as his tongue delved deeper, he brought their bodies together. His semi-hard erection brushed against Gwindor, and Thranduil noted with smug satisfaction that the Noldo was just as aroused as he was. He rotated his hips slowly against Gwindor's, brushing their groins together with a low groan.

Gwindor moaned softly as shivers of ice and heat ran the length of his body. The sudden contact against him caused his hips to instinctively press forward, and with a startled hiss, he noticed for the first time that he had begun to respond physically to Thranduil's attentions. His reaction was immediate and intense as his whole body froze, and then he pulled away with a frightened jerk so sudden and violent that it nearly sent them both staggering. Gwindor rushed backwards, his hands coming up to touch his neck and lips in alarmed disbelief as he tried to get as far away from Thranduil as possible. His mind was awash in memories of pain and shame, and when his back finally hit the wall of the chamber, he wrapped his arms around his waist and slid down until he was curled up on the floor. Trying to hide his arousal, his cheeks blazed, and his eyes welled up with tears of distress and humiliation.

It was such a shock, to have had Gwindor in his arms one moment, and then gone the next. Thranduil watched the display of absolute distress and fear, and he frowned as Gwindor slid down the wall. "Gwindor?" Thranduil took a step closer. "Did... did you not like it?" He had *thought* Gwindor had been enjoying himself. Had he misread some sound, some movement of Gwindor's? No. Thranduil was certain he had heard the unvoiced desires and fulfilled them appropriately. He came closer, his brow furrowed, and he crouched a few feet from his cook. "I know you liked it..." he said softly, the sentence trailing off knowingly.

"No... no..." Gwindor protested weakly in an uneven, alarmed voice thick with tears. His eyes were clenched tightly as he trembled and buried his face in the damp fabric that clung to his legs. "You'll hurt me. I should never have... and I'm dirty... tainted and shameful. My body betrays me! Wretched and vile... it mocks me..." The radiating heat of his skin, the hardness between his legs, was a degradation, a contemptible reminder of his worth. That worth had been stolen from him in Angband and could never be regained. Gwindor sobbed, all thoughts of dignity consumed by memories of clawed hands, searing pain, and shattering debasement.

Thranduil was taken aback by such statements. Hurt him? Hardly! "I would never harm another Elf through sex, Gwindor," Thranduil replied evenly. He stared at those tears, listened to the voice, and it tore at something inside himself that he'd kept under lock and key for so long. "Is that what you think I intended? Is that what you think this is?" What arousal Thranduil had possessed evaporated under Gwindor's distress, and he found himself only wanting to understand.

Gradually, the burn Gwindor felt dissipated, leaving him cold as he rocked himself back and forth in an attempt to calm his racing mind. "What else could you have intended?" he demanded, the tortured depths of his eyes revealed to Thranduil as his dark lashes parted. He raised his hands to his head, running his fingers repeatedly through his hair, distraught as he felt cornered by his memories, and by Thranduil, though the Elf stayed out of reach. Gwindor's voice rose steadily as phantom echoes of his torture seemed to ring in his ears. "You don't like me. You don't care for me at *all*. What else could you have intended but to take what you wanted, hurt me, and then abandon me like they did? What would make you any different?!"

"Because I don't *do* that sort of thing, Gwindor," Thranduil said, a deep frown etched on his lips. "I would have taken no more than you would have given. If all you had wanted was a kiss, that is all that would have happened." He rubbed his face, not liking how he felt at the moment. He was no monster! "Just because the kisses aroused us both does *not* mean I would have taken you to bed. I never accept an unwilling partner, Gwindor, and it is obvious you are *very* unwilling. As for hurting you..." He'd been rough with partners in the past, but that had been desired by both himself and his lover at the time. "I would never do that," Thranduil whispered, and the truth of the statement was evident for any to hear in his tone.

For long moments, Gwindor stared at him in silence, searching the cerulean eyes for reassurance and validation. Thranduil's tone could not be mistaken, but Gwindor had to be certain. "You will... not hurt me?"

His eyes did not waver as he held the frightened gaze. "Never," Thranduil swore.

A rush of breath left Gwindor, and after several more seconds he nodded. It was an odd combination of relief and embarrassment that washed through him, causing him to break eye contact with Thranduil and hide behind his dark bangs. "I... I am sorry..."

Thranduil reached out, but hesitated for a moment before withdrawing his hand. He did not want to scare Gwindor further, and so he refrained from touching him. "You've nothing to be sorry for." He looked sideways, out one of the many windows in the room. "I won't do that again. Forgive me for being so forward with you." The apology was odd coming from him, whether Gwindor knew it or not.

"No... I..." Gwindor breathed a few times before beginning again. "It is not your fault, Thranduil. I... liked it, just as you said, but I can't forget what they did... what they made me do. My mind remembers; my body recalls it vividly." Brushing a bit of hair away from his face, Gwindor hugged his knees. "Despite what you can see, I am still scarred. And the wounds run deep."

"All wounds heal if given time and care," Thranduil said, thinking of his own wounds that had long been bandaged. "Even wounds of the spirit and mind. In time, you will be ready for what we were doing, and more... with an Elf whom you like and who likes you." He stood up, arms crossed low on his stomach. "Because, as you said, I don't like you, nor do I care for you," he repeated, a dead quality in his voice. He didn't know why it bothered him so much, Gwindor's knowledge of what he'd thought was intense dislike of the Noldo, but over the last months... "If I were you, I would put the salve on that bruise twice a day. It will heal faster." Thranduil held out the pot of ointment, his face unreadable as he gazed down at Gwindor.

Pushing himself up from the floor, Gwindor ignored the dull ache in his side. He ignored his embarrassment and the vague sense of heartache that accompanied Thranduil's affirmation. Reaching out, he slowly took the jar from Thranduil's hand, his eyes meeting the blond's hesitantly. "Thank you for your care, Thranduil. You are... the first to have kissed me like that. Maybe..." his voice died out and he smiled softly, inwardly berating himself for his foolish, fleeting thoughts. "I should clean up and return to the kitchen." He turned, and after retrieving his folded shirt, he walked slowly to the doorway, pausing at the wooden pane. "I am available each morning, should you wish to spar again." Then he was gone, wiping the tears from his face as he disappeared down the hall toward his room.

Thranduil watched Gwindor leave, and then his eyes remained on the empty doorway. It disturbed him, how perfect the fumbling kiss had been, how right Gwindor had felt in his arms. Arms that now ached to hold him again. Shaking his head, Thranduil had to laugh at himself. "It's only because you can't have him," he said to the empty room. Thranduil went into his bathing chamber and filled the tub, and, as he sank into the steaming water, his mind turned to how he would pass his night.

He was certain a particularly beautiful, lithe Noldorin woman had been eying him for weeks now. Perhaps it was time he invited her into his room. Thranduil smiled as he ducked under the water. Yes, that was exactly what he needed. A quick toss with someone who would be gone come dawn. That would drive the distracting thoughts of Gwindor from his mind and make his lips forget the innocent, soft caress he'd been gifted with.

It was just the thing.

TBC...