Ahyamë

Title: Ahyamë : Change
Chapter: Sixteen
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 Fifth 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.
Note: //...// denotes dreaming.
Note the second: /.../ denotes mindspeaking.

---

August, Lórien, Aman

Gwindor had lingered in Lord Irmo's gardens, for time seemed to stand still within the god of dreams' realm. There had been much for him to think about, much for him to come to terms with. Some things had been easier than others. He loved Thranduil and there was a very good chance that Thranduil would never love him. When Námo had asked him if he could live with that, Gwindor had spoken the truth: yes, he could. Love was not something he could, or would, ignore.

Many times, Gwindor had laughed softly to himself. Thranduil was waiting for him. For *him*. He still found it difficult to believe, and he was no closer to understanding the Elvenking's motives over the preceding months. Irmo had been right when he said the only way for him to receive those answers was to return.

Still, he'd put off returning.

Waited.

He didn't know if it was in order to punish Thranduil for his cruelty, or if it was because he was terrified of what would happen when he returned. So many thoughts warred within his mind, and Gwindor came to the only conclusion he could when the height of summer settled over Lórien.

It was time to return.

***

October, Tirion, Aman

Thranduil trudged up to the door of his estate, his body weary. He looked nothing like himself. His hair was matted, having grown well past his buttocks over the months he had been away. His skin was filthy, his breath stank, and his clothes were in ruins. There was barely enough fabric left of his trousers to cover his groin, though he barely noticed the icy winds of early winter. Rhovandir was waiting for him when he stepped through into the main house.

"Sire."

"Rhovandir."

"I have a bath prepared."

"Thank you."

He followed Rhovandir up the stairs and into his suite. It had been kept cleaned and aired so that no staleness awaited Thranduil upon his return. Thranduil tossed what was left of his breeches into the wastebasket, trailing after Rhovandir in reflective silence. He slipped into the deep, hot water of the tub, eyes closing in remembered bliss. It had been months since his last proper bath. He remained silent while Rhovandir washed his hair, combed oil through the tangled locks, and then took a knife to the mess of dead ends.

"Save it," Thranduil murmured.

"Yes, Sire," Rhovandir said as he worked.

When his hair had been tended, Rhovandir then cleansed Thranduil's body, removing months of grime.

"It is too bad Gwindor is not here to comment on your state of untidiness, Sire," Rhovandir commented, amusement colouring his voice.

Thranduil smiled faintly. "Yes. It is too bad."

They finished in silence, and Rhovandir bid his king goodnight. Thranduil sighed, left alone in his room, and fingered the pale golden hair in his palm. He went to a drawer and pulled out an ornately carved box, opening it to reveal his sewing materials. Late into the night Thranduil worked, his hands tireless, eyes sharp in the gaslight, and by dawn, he smiled proudly. It had been years since he'd exercised these skills, but they were skills not easily forgotten. He set his prize on the small table beside his bed before crawling under the quilts.

Thranduil was exhausted, and it was not long before he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The first dreamless slumber in months.

***

Three decades.

That was how long it had been since he last set foot in Tirion. The Noldorin city was a hub for artistic performance; that was true enough. Nevertheless, he had avoided the conservative city, seeking out the wilderness of Aman in place of civilization. With the exception of the May Day celebration in Laicanan each year, which had to be the most primal of festivals in the most primal of realms, he had spent much of the last fifty years in solitude, playing where none could hear.

Now, however, leading his instrument-laden horse toward his old student's estate, Daeron could not keep a smile from his face. Bainwen had informed him of Thranduil's whereabouts months ago, and he had immediately decided to visit when he deemed the time right.

Reaching into one of his packs, he extracted a small, wooden case, and, with practiced ease, assembled his favourite flute. Moments later, the air around him seemed to still, silenced as the first notes of his music pierced lulling peace of the early afternoon.

In the midst of remaking his bed, Thranduil paused. Through the open windows, on the light winter breeze, he heard a very familiar tune. A smile curved his lips as the section Daeron had composed for him when he was but knee-high to the bard rose as the notes begged to be played. Thranduil, though, had no desire for music; at least, not the music one composed so carefully for fingers and lips. He was more in the mood for improvisation, something elemental and furious.

Thranduil raced down the stairs, desire stirred within his gut as a flood of memories assailed him. It wasn't long before his trousers strained, and his chest rose and fell with excited arousal. He threw open the door, sapphire eyes dark as they focused on Daeron. Wild passion, that was what Thranduil represented, need denied for months -- self-inflicted celibacy he ached to remedy. Grinning ferally, Thranduil took a step back, a silent invitation to Thingol's Minstrel.

Daeron approached, and even from a distance, Thranduil's state was clear. He was quite a sight, golden hair shining in the sunlight, half-clothed, and sporting a prominent erection. The Elvenking's intent was displayed so brightly, Daeron knew even the most blind of Elves would be hard pressed to ignore it. A distinctly amused tone leaked into his music, mirrored in his icy blue eyes, and the last note faded as he took the final step that brought him just out of Thranduil's reach. He took a prolonged moment to appreciatively look over Thranduil's body, and the sheer force of his pupil’s sensuality started his pulse racing in anticipation.

The flute was slowly lowered, Daeron's full lips brushing teasingly against the polished, metal mouthpiece. He smirked, and his own arousal was clear in the deep notes of his voice. "It's nice to see you too, Ardaur."

Quick as lightning, Thranduil's hand snatched out, grasping Daeron about the waist. He pulled Daeron flush against his body, lips almost against lips. Thranduil did not speak. His eyes and body spoke volumes. By the Valar, reason fled, leaving only instinct in its wake. He brought their lips together, his tongue thrust deep into Daeron's mouth, and fire flared hot in his groin.

It had been far too long since Daeron felt anything so wonderfully physical from another, and the familiarity of Thranduil's body pressed against his caused a fierce reaction in him. His arms wrapped around Thranduil's neck, his fingertips immediately seeking the blond's ears and tormenting them expertly. By the time Thranduil released his lips, Daeron was breathing harshly, heat pooling in his groin and quickly spreading through his limbs. "Aren't you going to invite me in?" he taunted.

Thranduil groaned low in his throat as his ears were mercilessly toyed with, panting harshly into Daeron's mouth. "Come inside, Master Bard," he murmured. He nodded to the stablehand who appeared, taking Daeron's horse. "Your instruments will be put into the music room until you leave..." Daeron, Thranduil was certain, would have little time for his instruments while he stayed with him.

Impatiently, he led Daeron upstairs, banging into his room. He slammed the door behind them, turning on his heel and stalking close to the other Sinda. Thranduil gave Daeron no opportunity to speak again, shoving him against the wall as he took his mouth savagely. His hands made short work of his lover's trousers, the fabric pooling at Daeron's feet. A quick bite to Daeron's chin, and Thranduil went to his knees before the bard. In one smooth motion, he swallowed Daeron whole, mouth moving with practiced ease.

Words fled from Daeron's mind and were quickly lodged in his throat when Thranduil wasted no time in taking what he wished. Thrust against the door, a lustful moan was all he could manage, his body shivering with excitement he had not felt so acutely in nearly a century. His hands followed the blond's head as it descended upon him, finely formed fingers clenching in strands of woven gold. Thranduil swallowed around him, and his sex throbbed painfully, another low moan escaping him before intensifying into a beautifully sustained cry. After such a long period of abstinence, it only took two masterfully placed movements over his sex to bring him to shattering climax, and his head flew back against the door with a painful sound of impact.

Thranduil licked Daeron clean, and before he stood, he removed Daeron's boots and trousers. His eyes glittered with desperate need while he unlaced Daeron's tunic, tossing it to the floor without pause. "Bring me release quickly," he instructed, biting firmly at Daeron's throat. "Once the edge has been removed, I intend on taking you until you are too sore to sit." His words were low, ragged, and he brought Daeron's hand to his straining shaft hidden below thin, useless fabric.

Taking the precious moments to regain a small semblance of control, Daeron smiled through his laboured breathing. He would have to question Thranduil's strange behaviour later, but now, with another wave of arousal already starting to rise in him, he simply followed his lover's wishes. "Do your worst, Wolf-King," he challenged, and without a moment of hesitation, he descended to his knees, drawing down the thin trousers as he went. His mouth watered at the sight of Thranduil, and he anchored himself at the Elvenking's hip with a firm grip. Stooping in a long-perfected manner, he slicked him efficiently with saliva and the fluids already seeping from the engorged head. Daeron spared a single glance upward before finally taking Thranduil between his lips and sliding forward, not stopping until his nose brushed the skin at the root of the Elvenking's shaft.

"Great gods!" Thranduil shouted. Daeron was the only Elf to evoke vocal reactions from him on rare occasions. This happened to be such an occasion. No other lover, save a consort in Laicanan Daeron had trained personally, could take the full length of him into their mouths. It was a skill Daeron prized, was incredibly proud of, and one Thranduil was ever pleased to receive. Perhaps a minute passed, more likely less, and Thranduil's voice again rang out in the room, carried on the breeze out the open windows. He spilled himself quickly down Daeron's gripping throat, his vision temporarily stolen by the intensity of his orgasm.

Bitter seed coated Daeron's throat, and he clenched rhythmically, riding out Thranduil's release with a shudder. He pulled back slowly, swallowing as soon as he was able, and made a positively lewd show of his pleasure when he finally released the thick flesh from his lips. His heart was beating wildly with the knowledge of what was to come, and yet he continued to tease Thranduil relentlessly with lips, teeth, and the nails of his wandering hand.

Thranduil pulled Daeron up from his groin, growling as he ruthlessly possessed the other Elf's mouth. He had hoped a quick end would have calmed his need, but Daeron had continued to rile him, keep him hard and on edge. Without preamble, Thranduil pressed Daeron back onto the bed, kneeling between his thighs while reaching for the bottle of oil on the bedside table. "You," he snarled between kisses, "are a menace to my self-control."

It was not the first time Thranduil had said such a thing to him, and Daeron answered him with a smirk, his expression conveying perfectly how happy he was to oblige.

Pouring a generous amount of oil onto his fingers, Thranduil probed hastily at Daeron's backside. A slow smile spread across his face as two of the digits slid into the bard easily. "You were touching yourself," he purred, adding a third immediately.

Daeron moaned, pressing into the touch that stretched him. "I was," he panted, licking his lips in an unconsciously erotic fashion when he felt them go dry. Thranduil was well endowed, and Daeron had begun his preparation early merely to ensure his own safety. He could sense, perhaps too acutely, the desperation in Thranduil's touch, the frantic pace that was fuelled by an upset his lover did not wish to share.

Thranduil spread his fingers wide inside of Daeron's body, his eyes never leaving the icy blue gaze. He had vivid memories of sessions where he had instructed Daeron to bring himself to completion for Thranduil's pleasure. His smile became wicked as he leaned forward and drew his tongue along a particularly sensitive patch of flesh between Daeron's groin and navel while he curved his fingers to stroke the gland inside his lover's passage.

"Fuck!" Daeron cursed loudly, his hands immediately finding purchase in Thranduil's hair, pinching and twisting the pierced ears with just enough pressure to elicit a response. The skin below his navel was one of the most responsive and tender areas of his body, though very few of his lovers ever took the time to find it, much less exploit it. Thranduil was not just a casual lover, however; he was a dear friend, a student, an Elf he had helped to raise under the glimmering eaves of Doriath. It had only been a matter of time before their relationship had extended to encompass bedplay, though the circumstances had been less than favourable.

Thranduil chuckled richly, sitting back and removing his fingers from Daeron's body. More oil was added to his hand and smeared along his shaft. He lifted Daeron's legs, spreading them wide and pushing them back. "How long can you stay?" he breathed, rubbing the head of his sex against Daeron's oily opening.

Daeron groaned as he was teased so intimately. Pushing through the haze of arousal that heightened his senses but dulled his mind, he squirmed against Thranduil. "A fortnight," he whimpered, and, sensing what he did from Thranduil, Daeron continued. "Perhaps more." If Thranduil needed him, for any reason, he would stay. It was a silent invitation, a wordless understanding that passed effortlessly between them.

"Good," Thranduil said, thrusting forward. The abundance of lubrication meant that his large organ slid inside of Daeron smoothly, but they had not been intimate in almost two centuries, and the tightness surrounding him was immense. He did not stop, though, until he was completely seated within his lover, eyes as dark as midnight, trembling with the strain of remaining still and allowing Daeron the time to adjust to the fullness of him.

Unable to restrain himself, Daeron cried out harshly. Pain blossomed brightly where their bodies joined, delicious and stimulating as it stung through his senses. Thranduil was careful, holding back more than was necessary, and Daeron appreciated the gesture more than he could currently voice. His body was a bit slower to adjust than he would have liked, but the moment he felt his muscles begin to relax around the intrusion, he circled his hips enticingly.

Thranduil cried out softly, a shudder racing through his body. Bracing Daeron's legs over his shoulders, Thranduil leaned over, resting his palms against the bed, and withdrew until he almost slipped from the gripping passage. Thranduil lapped at Daeron's lips, thrusting sharply back into the welcoming body beneath him, delving deep into the bard's mouth. It was heaven... the heat and familiarity and intimacy. Thranduil took Daeron fast, hard, the rhythm unforgiving.

Roughness was something Daeron had long ago grown accustomed to. Pain was not only something he sometimes integrated into his sex life, it was something he craved. It was in the throes of pain and passion that he felt most alive. The pounding of his heart, the sting along his skin, was a singular sensation. He revelled in the burning ache that pulsed through him as Thranduil took him, and the volume of his musical cries increased with every thrust.

Despite his measures prior to coupling, Thranduil felt his climax build with rapid ferocity. His whole body trembled with the pleasures he had denied himself for months. Hands fisting the sheets, his hips snapped forward with increasing force, making the solid bed they rode rock ever so slightly. When orgasm loomed, Thranduil dipped his head down and bit into the soft flesh of Daeron's shoulder, thrusting home once more; his seed coated Daeron's insides as blood flowed over Thranduil's tongue. It was not the reassured feeling of self-confidence he'd hoped to rekindle by taking another so thoroughly, and while Thranduil's body was not disappointed with the fiery ecstasy found in the sharing of his body, his spirit mocked him with the resounding emptiness of the act.

Daeron's body convulsed in agonizing pleasure as his own climax crashed through him. Pain screamed through his senses as the glow slowly dissipated, and he whimpered. His sensitivity to Thranduil's emotions increased in moments like these, and he instinctively reached out, holding the blond closer to him. Something was wrong, a small vein of darkness conveyed to him as if through the harsh breathing that set the skin of his shoulder aflame. Now was not the time to bring up such things, however, so Daeron did the only thing he could do. He offered unconditional physical comfort.

Anger welled within Thranduil's breast. It was uncontrolled. Furious at himself, furious at Gwindor, furious at everything his life had become, everything it lacked. He withdrew from Daeron, propping himself against the headboard. "Ride me," he commanded, his sex having not lost its rigidity.

Sensing precisely what Thranduil needed, Daeron repositioned himself, a grimace his only outward sign of discomfort. With a few deep breaths, he prepared himself mentally for an intrusion much more intimate than the penetration of Thranduil's sex. Daeron reached behind himself, squeezing Thranduil tightly as he sat back upon his lover's hard length with a pained gasp. He leaned forward, his fingers trembling slightly as he grasped Thranduil's hair and pulled the blond into a searing kiss.

Thranduil wrapped his arms around Daeron, swept up in the demanding kiss. Daeron had always had an innate empathic ability, one Thranduil had utilized for many years while ruling Mirkwood. When the Shadow had almost robbed him of his sanity, Daeron had stepped in. He had come to the king's bed, opened his body, opened his spirit, and extracted the darkness that poisoned Thranduil as much as it poisoned Mirkwood. Not only could Daeron sense the emotions of others, Thranduil had discovered the Elf could *channel* them: direct the negativity harboured in the heart and clear the mind. Too few knew that the only reason Mirkwood had survived the War of the Ring had been because one Sindarin bard had kept the king sane enough to combat the evil.

A wordless offer of trust passed between them as they kissed, Thranduil thrusting up into the slickness of Daeron. His tongue slid back and forth over his lover's, his hands gripping buttocks and spreading them wide. He offered his heart and mind up to his long-time companion, creating a tenuous connection between them.

Daeron cried out into Thranduil's mouth, allowing his spirit to reach out. With a forceful exhale, he brought his weight down, taking Thranduil deep into his body as he immersed his mind in his lover's turmoil. His eyes fluttered shut against the onslaught, anger and uncertainty that seemed to burn at the verdant green of Thranduil's mind overtaking him. Daeron forced himself deep into the forest-like maze, his own spirit like rushing water as it flowed between the leaves, quenching the flames and dissolving the snags in vines long tangled and overgrown. He moved upon Thranduil with furious abandon, his fingernails digging into lightly bronzed skin before dragging harsh lines down arms and chest.

Thranduil threw his head back, seeing nothing as his strangled cry rang in the room. Ribbons of delicious pain blossomed in his flesh, the bestial rutting stealing any and all thought from his mind other than the desired release of growing pressure. The undirected, unbridled rage that had taken root in February quickly bled out, fed into the connection between himself and Daeron, drained and grounded in a way he could not do. His nails dug into the fleshy globes of Daeron's backside, spreading him as wide as possible in order to drive himself deep into the bard.

The pleasure was undeniable, the pain overwhelming, and Daeron felt his body come alive under the harshest of sensations, nails and teeth cutting his skin, his backside stretched and filled until worn raw. His mind was overrun by convoluted brambles -- memories, images, and truncated lines of aimless reasoning that clouded the clear waters of his soul. Their passion rose to a fevered pitch as Daeron expelled what he could, and then absorbed all else that plagued Thranduil's spirit. It was with an anguished cry that he found his release, his mind finally disconnecting from Thranduil's as his back bowed sharply, forcing Thranduil deep into his clenching passage.

The release was instantaneous and shocking. As Daeron gripped him, Thranduil felt his own body swell and convulse. The pain and emotional upheaval he'd felt since Gwindor's arrival was calmed, pacified; where fire had ravaged, water soothed. For the first time in months, as his seed trickled down his sex from where he and Daeron were connected, Thranduil's mind was clear. He blinked several times, still gasping, and gazed steadily at Daeron. Holding Daeron gently in his arms, Thranduil waited for their hearts to calm before easing Daeron from astride him and onto the softness of the mattress.

Daeron hissed his discomfort as he was moved, his toes curling as tendrils of pain shot through his entire body from his throbbing backside and the abused flesh surrounding it. His mind swirled in a dizzying fashion for several moments before slowly clearing. Daeron knew from experience that there would be consequences for his actions, but he took comfort in the knowledge that they would not arise for at least a few hours. With shaking hands, he reached for Thranduil, his blue eyes opening slowly against the brightness of the mossy green coverlet that reflected the afternoon sunlight.

Thranduil brushed his fingers down Daeron's cheek, kissing bruised lips tenderly. "Let me clean us up," he murmured, leaving the seed-stained bed behind. It took him little time to wash his hands, groin, and face, and he returned to Daeron's side with a damp cloth and a pot of salve. Humming quietly, he cleansed Daeron's abused skin, and then smeared the healing ointment around his opening, easing inside the aching passage, and finally coating the seeping bite wound on Daeron's shoulder.

A series of small whimpers left Daeron as he was tended, but a small smile graced his face at the care he received. No other lover had ever taken care of him like Thranduil did. Daeron had long ago learned how to care for himself after the harsher sessions he endured with his partners, few of which stayed more than a week in his presence. That Thranduil took the time to clean him and tend his wounds spoke volumes, and Daeron never took the act for granted. His smile faltered for only a moment, pain spiking along his neck and chest, but Thranduil's salve worked quickly, superficially numbing the gashes as it did the abrasions within him. Every movement still caused deep aching pains to throb throughout his body, however, and he stayed very still as Thranduil settled beside him.

Drawing Daeron against his side, Thranduil rested the dark head against his shoulder. It was comfortable. Loving in a way. He stroked the impossibly long raven hair, smirking when Daeron began to fiddle idly with the ring piercing his left nipple. It was a handful of minutes later that Thranduil broke the silence. "Thank you."

A faint, melodious hum drifted up from Daeron's throat, and he kissed the skin pressed to his cheek. "You are most welcome, Ardaur," he said softly, his fingers still moving over Thranduil's chest with gentle, familiar touches. "Are you well?" It was a habitual question, one that he always asked after grounding Thranduil in such an intrusive way.

"Aye," Thranduil breathed, closing his eyes and enjoying Daeron's fingers. He remembered vividly both times Daeron had pierced his chest, giving him the beautiful rings now a part of his very body. "Will you be well?"

"In time," Daeron assured him in a soothing tone, a slow, controlled sigh falling from aching lips. "I have rarely seen you in such a state, Ardaur."

Thranduil kept his eyes closed and his voice even. "Rarely have I felt so up-ended," he replied. "It was unexpected. Unlooked for."

The pace of Thranduil's fingers as they languidly stroked through Daeron's hair was lulling, and Daeron gratefully accepted the comforting touch. "You rarely look for much in the Noldor," he could not help but point out. "That you wish for more than a willing body from him is out of the ordinary."

Colour bloomed on Thranduil's cheeks. "He would never agree to any arrangement I would demand of him."

Daeron looked up, surprised to see such an uncharacteristic blush on his old friend's features. "He is Gwindor of Nargothrond."

Thranduil thought to pull away from Daeron, to run away from facing something he'd been avoiding for almost a year now. Instead, he sighed, rubbing his face with his right hand. "Why does everyone say his name as if it is a shield for him to hide behind? So he is Gwindor of Nargothrond, and I am Ardaur of Doriath -- these are merely names, titles, nothing more and should be viewed as such!"

"I do not use his name as a shield," Daeron insisted, silently delighting in the way his friend called himself by his given name. "I use it as a marker to define his past. Just as the past of Ardaur has shaped the Elf in my arms, the experiences of Gwindor, though they happened in such a short period of time, are just as integral to his character." Daeron had been a great loremaster back in Greenwood, and he wondered whether Thranduil had taken the time to research the Elf who so obviously piqued his interest.

"He kissed me once and dropped to his knees in fright when our bodies responded, as if it were some sort of sin. I cannot touch him, and if I cannot touch him, he is of no use to me," Thranduil said coldly.

"In Nargothrond, such things *were* practically sins," Daeron mumbled with a sigh. "Sex may be part of our lives and the main component of our relationships, but it is not thus for everyone, Ardaur. The Noldor of the First Age, particularly those from Nargothrond, were a highly conservative people. From Gwindor's perspective..." he paused, considering what he knew about the Elf. "It would not surprise me if he simply wished to be your friend. Intimacy obviously frightened him, likely for compounded reasons, so your usual direct approach might have been seen as... backwards."

Thranduil was quiet for a long time. He considered Daeron's words, a frown etched on his lips. "The friends I have, Daeron, I have bedded. None of those I consider close to me have not shared my body. I... I don't know how to go about having a friendship not based on sex." He paused. "I am not certain I want to know."

A delicate smile curved Daeron's lips, and he ignored his discomfort as he pushed himself to his elbows, leaning over Thranduil so he could look straight into his friend's cerulean eyes. "I won't pretend to know all the answers, Ardaur. But it is very clear that you want to be near him. The question now becomes whether Gwindor, in your mind, is worth the effort needed to keep him close."

"He isn't close," Thranduil whispered, feeling like a child again, gazing up into those ancient, icy eyes. "He said he would return, Daeron, and he hasn't. It's been months..." There was a note of true worry to Thranduil's voice as he allowed himself to be vulnerable in front of the Elf who had practically raised him. "I wouldn't blame him if he never came back."

Daeron was silent for a short time, though he instantly lifted a hand to run his fingers through Thranduil's hair, hoping to console his distress. Eventually, he leaned down to press an almost chaste kiss to Thranduil's lips. "If Gwindor promised to return, then he will return. I have a feeling he is an Elf who would value promises and see that they are kept." After all, Gwindor's heartbreak over the dissolving of his relationship with Finduilas was well known to those familiar with Noldorin history.

Thranduil closed his eyes, suddenly very, very tired. "Would you mind if I held you and slept?"

The request was more than a bit odd coming from Thranduil, and it earned an astonished look from Daeron. "Not in the slightest," he asserted quietly, pressing another protective kiss to his friend's lips.

Sliding his arms around Daeron, he pulled the other Elf close his body. He nuzzled at Daeron's ear, sighing softly. "I am sorry I was so thoughtless in taking you," he said sleepily, another odd comment coming from him. Thranduil never apologized.

Daeron blinked repeatedly, though Thranduil could not see it, and his tone was both serious and filled with deep affection. "Do not apologize, Ardaur. Sleep."

Thranduil's eyes began to glaze in reverie, but he managed to mumble, "I love you, Atar."

Squeezing Thranduil tenderly, Daeron smiled, the endearment warming a place deep within his spirit. His words were foreign but distinct, spoken directly to Thranduil's mind in an intimate, loving manner. /I love you as well, hêndaur./

Settling contentedly, his body spent and his mind quiet, Thranduil fell into a deep, restful reverie. His arms, after several minutes, loosened their hold on Daeron, but Thranduil remained close. This was the Elf who had sung away his nightmares, who had rejoiced in the birth of his children, who had soothed his spirit when his wife had died. There was only one other he felt so safe with; Rhovandir waited below for Daeron.

Rhovandir waited for the painful fallout of Daeron's soothing Thranduil's turmoil. In his quiet, knowing manner, the old Elf swept the downstairs, silence having descended with frightening finality through the manor.

It was as if the very house waited.

TBC...