Ahyamë

Title: Ahyamë : Change
Chapter: Eighteen
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
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.

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October, Tirion, Aman

The city of Tirion glistened in the silence of winter, the snow reflecting a million flecks of light into the hazy semi-darkness. The journey from Irmo's Gardens had been long and slow. Gwindor had hoped to reach Tirion in ten weeks, but the weather had shifted as he travelled northeast, and he had found himself waylaid by the coming of winter's first snowstorm. The path had been arduous for Tuilinn and him, with nearly a dozen nights spent in flimsy, makeshift shelters that did little to keep back the biting chill of the wind on the plains. As he drew near to Thranduil's dwelling, however, Gwindor could not deny the warmth that grew steadily in his heart. He both anticipated and dreaded his return to the Elvenking's estate, which had become home to him in the short months he had spent cooking and cleaning in Thranduil's employ.

He did not know what to expect. Did Thranduil still wait in Tirion as Lord Irmo had said, even after the months it had taken him to travel from Lórien? Or would he find the estate vacant and learn from Erestor or Glorfindel that Thranduil had returned to Laicanan? Why had Thranduil chosen to wait for him at all? The Elf desired him, that much was clear, but was he just a conquest, pursued for Thranduil's amusement or boredom? Such thoughts made his heart ache, and he quickly endeavoured to think about something else.

Granted so much time in the beauty and tranquillity of nature on his return journey, Gwindor had many moments where he could pause and appreciate the small blessings he possessed. He turned his mind to them now to distract himself, and to restore his confidence and peace of mind. Although his nightmares still occasionally raced through his mind when he sought reverie, they were not as severe as before, and he was beginning to handle them with more dignity and quiet introspection. He no longer feared Irmo's realm, knowing firsthand that the visions in his mind did serve a purpose, even if that purpose was not fully understood. He often wondered how Thranduil had responded to the dream they had shared, and each memory of that rainy night made his cheeks flush with a bit more than the cold air. In the relative silence of his journey with Tuilinn, he thought about the arguments he had endured with Thranduil, their morning sparring sessions, and their rare, pleasant conversations. Gwindor missed those quiet moments, missed the routine he had established for his mornings with the Elvenking. But, more than anything else, Gwindor missed the arrogant Elf's *company*. He wanted to be in Thranduil's presence again. It was a simple but potent need he now recognized and could not easily ignore.

The smell of firewood reached him from a distance; Gwindor made his way through the serene landscape, leading Tuilinn on foot as the clouds released another thick spell of snow and day faded into night. His legs were chilled, the snow having long ago soaked through his garments, with the exception of a thick cloak, which he had wrapped tightly about his torso and shoulders. The hood kept the snow out of his face, apart from the occasional gust of wind that burned at his eyes and made his cheeks tingle.

Such discomforts were forgotten, however, as he wound his way through the abandoned streets of Tirion, hope lighting in his spirit when he finally turned the last bend in the road and spotted Thranduil's estate. Smoke rose from one of the chimneys, and he breathed a sigh of relief at the knowledge that he would not be welcomed by a cold, empty house of stone. It was likely just Calwen, keeping the house in Thranduil's absence, but Gwindor was thankful he would not be alone. Leading Tuilinn carefully through the crunching snow, he approached the main entrance, his eyes taking in each detail of the grand house anew.

Standing in front of the massive bank of windows that made up his room, Thranduil watched the lone figure approach. He had made it his habit to stand at the windows for hours each night after Daeron fell asleep, waiting for Gwindor's return. Tonight, though, the house was silent. Rhovandir had retired to his small home on the estate, and Daeron had been called away to perform at a noble's wedding. He refused to admit his heart jumped to see Gwindor, a sense of relief flooding him. Instead, half-dressed and skin flushed from the fire raging in his room's hearth, Thranduil stood motionless, eyes on the Noldo as he crossed over the main gate and into the stable's paddock.

As Gwindor approached the manor, he noticed light emanating from the windows of Thranduil's chambers on the second story. Finding it curious, he squinted through the darkness and snowfall, and his breath caught in his throat when he finally caught a glimpse of Thranduil. It was as Lord Irmo had said after all; Thranduil had stayed! Gwindor felt his heart pound, and he took slow steps closer to the house, an excited smile on his face. As he went to wave, releasing Tuilinn's reins for a moment, he suddenly stepped on a patch of ice. The ill-timed step was met with a gust of wind, and Gwindor was instantly thrown off balance, flailing for a moment before hitting the powdery snow behind him. The hood of his cloak was thrown back, and, thankfully unharmed, Gwindor lay in the snow, a joyous laugh bubbling up from his chest. Another long journey, and he once again looked soggy and dismally unkempt in front of Thranduil; he found the observation unusually amusing, knowing what a contrast his smile was to the rest of his appearance.

Thranduil stepped forward when Gwindor fell, but when he saw the Elf laughing, relief flooded him. He stayed at the windows for a short time longer, and then he retreated to his bathing chambers. Methodically, he drew a heated bath, adding cinnamon oil and salts to the brew. Down in the kitchen, he discovered that the hearth still blazed, and he set the leftover stew back on the fire, along with a pot of spiced cider. Only then did he walk into the foyer, where he waited with odd impatience for his soggy, muddy, freezing cook to appear.

Gwindor was still smiling when he finally trudged his way to the main entrance of the house, Tuilinn now fed and safely stowed in the stables. Trying to brush off as much snow and mud from his person as possible, Gwindor reached for the handle of the heavy front door and let himself inside. Warmth instantly blasted across his face, causing all the exposed skin to tingle. His eyes met Thranduil's, and it was clear Gwindor restrained himself from enveloping the Elvenking in an unceremonious embrace, not wishing to smear dirt and cold snow onto the Elf's bare torso. "Thranduil," he greeted, basking in the golden Elf's presence like one kept from the light of Anor.

"You are filthy, Gwindor," Thranduil murmured with a raised eyebrow. "Can you not ever come into Tirion bathed and fresh smelling?" He held out his hand. "Come with me."

Rolling his eyes with a pleasant chuckle, Gwindor pulled off his boots and removed his riding gloves from his hands. "Forgive me for not bathing in the frozen rivers, my lord," he said with a note of sarcasm, placing his hand in Thranduil's.

A flutter in his pulse surprised Thranduil. Never before had simple contact with another been so... meaningful, like a glorious reconnection he hadn't realised he'd needed. "You are forgiven," Thranduil said, looking sideways at Gwindor as they mounted the stairs. He did not rush them, and after a moment of silence he asked, "Was your journey fruitful?"

Gwindor sighed pleasantly as the heat of Thranduil's grasp warmed his icy hand. "It was," he confirmed. "Lord Irmo answered the questions he could, and I have had much time to think about my past and slowly begin to accept it. Changes must be made... certain things will have to be relearned... but I am happy to be making progress, no matter how slow. The gardens of Lórien were so peaceful... so much beauty in one place. The passing of time seemed slow and comforting there."

"The passing of time here seemed slow and excruciating," Thranduil mumbled, leading Gwindor to the end of the hall. Opening the door to his chambers, Thranduil ushered Gwindor in, the room heated comfortably, warm and inviting. Daeron's belongings were scattered about neatly, not encroaching on Thranduil's space, but it was clear an additional person occupied these rooms at the moment. In the bathroom, Thranduil shut off the taps, the room full of warm steam and spice. "Undress," Thranduil said when he turned to face Gwindor. "You are half-frozen, and a hot bath will do wonders to rid you of that grime you seem so fond of donning when coming into my company."

"Some things do not change," Gwindor remarked, shaking his head. Though his smile stayed in place, he hesitated while undoing the lacings of his shirt and trousers. It was a bit odd to be in a position that so closely mirrored the day they had first met over a year ago. His cheeks already flushed pink from the warmth of the rooms, he hoped his blush was unnoticeable. Continuing to pull at the laces, he undressed slowly with his back partially turned towards Thranduil, modest as ever, though obviously unafraid.

Thranduil sat on the chaise by the window, eyes averted respectfully. "Yet many things do," he said softly.

"As they must," Gwindor replied, his tone closely matching Thranduil's as he stepped toward the steaming tub. The water stung his skin as he placed his first leg in, followed many moments later by his other leg. He scooped up some of the water, pouring it lightly over his skin with his hands to acclimate before sitting. He shivered, settling into the hot, fragrant water, gooseflesh rising on his arms and chest. A pleased sound rumbled through his chest, and he moved his cold limbs through the wonderful heat.

"So it seems," Thranduil replied. He stood once Gwindor was resting comfortably in the water and picked up a large pitcher. Kneeling beside the tub, Thranduil set to wetting, and then washing, Gwindor's hair. He told himself it was in order to ensure the filth was properly removed from the Elf, but he knew it was a superficial lie. He merely wanted to be close to Gwindor, having missed him during the spring and summer months. Thranduil used Daeron's comb to untangle the knots from Gwindor's hair, slicking the dark locks with oil to ease the comb's passage. "I--" Thranduil set the comb aside and leaned back on his heels, staring at his damp hands with his brow furrowed. Why were the words so hard to say? "Gwindor..."

It was a pleasant sensation, being tended to, and Gwindor sighed happily as he received the attention. Curiosity burned in him, however, as he did not understand why Thranduil was behaving so civilly. The Elf had pushed him away, had broken his trust, and now combed his hair with a level of care he had not experienced since he had suffered the bruises of their first sparring match. Pushing his bangs behind his ears, he looked over at Thranduil, wondering at the expression on the Elf's face. "What is it, Thranduil?"

Thranduil looked up, meeting Gwindor's gaze solidly. "I am sorry for my cruelty," he said, and though the words were odd in his mouth, they were no less heartfelt. "It was simply uncalled for. You..." He shook his head. "I do not want you to be one of my whores. You are my friend, and a friend should not be ill-treated and used as I was trying to do with you." There. It was said. The words he'd had rolling about in his mind since spring were out in the open, spoken to the one he'd injured in ways not visible to the eye.

Gwindor felt tears prick the backs of his eyes. The wounds were not fresh, but they had left scars on his spirit. He could hear the sincerity in Thranduil's voice as the apology was made, and he nodded, his jaw quivering ever so slightly. "I... still am not sure what I did to make you so angry."

"It was nothing you did," Thranduil said, standing. "It was my own arrogance. You are someone I cannot have, and I had never been presented with something I could not obtain. In my frustration, I lashed out." It was most of the truth, as much as he was comfortable sharing. "I will no longer hound your every step."

Drawing his knees to his chest, Gwindor smiled gratefully, blinking back his tears. It was more of an explanation than he had expected, and he did not press Thranduil for more. "Thank you, Thranduil. You are forgiven." He began to wash his legs, but after several moments, he stopped. His voice was nearly inaudible, and he blushed as he stared into the slightly murky water. "It is not that I am something you cannot obtain, Thranduil. It is that I am more than a possession to *be* obtained. My time, my affection, my body... they are not things to be made into conquests. If you want to be close to me... then you will need to show me some respect and understanding." He absently fiddled with a lock of his hair, which had grown significantly throughout the months and was in need of a good trim. Looking up at Thranduil, he offered a small smile. "This is a good start."

His dark blue eyes glittering, Thranduil stared down at Gwindor. "You were always more than a possession to acquire." He excused himself, promising to return shortly, and disappeared through the bathroom door.

Gwindor watched as Thranduil left, his eyes lingering on the place where Thranduil had stood. Returning to his task, Gwindor washed the rest of his body and removed himself from the dingy water, towelling himself dry and daring to borrow one of Thranduil's bathrobes. He revelled in the sensation of the soft fabric against his clean skin, simple, but long missed. Drying his hair, he combed through it again, wondering briefly at the delicate-looking instrument. He could not recall seeing it before, though he had rarely been in Thranduil's bathroom, and after a few moments, he came to the conclusion that Thranduil must have bought it recently. Gwindor had been gone for some time, after all, and Námo had not been clear about how long Thranduil had visited Ílëa Taurë. A shuffling noise caught his attention, and he poked his head out from the bathroom.

Thranduil set a large bowl of stew on the small table that sat two comfortably, and added a hunk of bread and a mug of cider. He poured himself a glass of wine, and then sat opposite the meal. "I thought you might be hungry," he said, bringing his glass to his lips. "Rhovandir made enough for himself, Daeron, and me, but Daeron was called away early this afternoon, so there is quite a lot left over."

Blinking a few times, Gwindor emerged fully from the washroom, his mouth watering at the hot meal that was set before him. Taking a seat, he wafted the steam from the stew, the scents flooding his nose as he inhaled deeply. "Daeron of Doriath?" he asked, picking up his soup spoon. "Of the three greatest minstrels?" He blew softly on a spoonful before taking it in his mouth, a soft moan of pleasure pulled from him at the flavour and texture of the soup, so different from the basic fare he had eaten for nearly three months.

"While some may see him as one of the three greats, he is but my old music tutor in my eyes... the Elf who helped to raise me after my mother died. I have not seen him for many years, and he arrived when I needed him most," Thranduil confided. The moan recalled that potent dream he'd had about the cook, and Thranduil quickly drank his wine. "He is staying here for another week or so."

Gwindor listened with interest while he ate the entire bowl of stew, trying in vain to savour it instead of devour it quickly. "You were taught music by Daeron of Doriath?" Gwindor knew what an honour that must have been, and to hear that Daeron was, in a way, a father figure in Thranduil's life made Gwindor smile. "He must know you very well... he seems to have moved into your chamber," Gwindor remarked, his eyes darting to various items around the room.

"I was taught many things by Daeron of Doriath, for I was one of the princes of the realm and would only be taught by one as esteemed as him." Thranduil chuckled. "So that there is no such surprise as with Erestor, you might as well know now that Daeron is one of a handful of Elves I consider actual lovers. They share my bed more than once, and usually a level of affection. At the moment, he shares my bed as well as my room."

His cheeks hot, Gwindor nodded, swallowing a mouthful of bread. "I... had suspected as much. Thank you for the clarification, though. I will be sure to account for him while I cook."

"Forgive me for making you uncomfortable, but I thought it polite to inform you," Thranduil murmured, reaching across the table to brush his fingers over a flushed cheek.

The blush intensified, and Gwindor could not deny the shiver of warmth that spread through his chest at the simple caress. "Thranduil... I..." he paused, his dark eyes meeting Thranduil's. "I missed you... despite it all. I am glad to be back."

Thranduil stared at Gwindor, his hand still cupping the Noldo's cheek, seeking knowledge in the charcoal eyes. He smiled sweetly, the expression making his face appear years younger. "Much to my surprise, and distinct unhappiness, I discovered that I missed you, too."

The look on Thranduil's face caught Gwindor off guard, and he instinctively returned the smile. His eyes glittered suddenly with mirth at the irony of Thranduil's words. "Yes, well... you reap what you sow, meldir."

"A lesson I have learned thoroughly," Thranduil admitted, letting his hand drop from Gwindor's cheek. It warmed something in the pit of his stomach to be referred to as 'friend' once again. He leaned back in his chair, hands resting on the tabletop. "Shall we again begin our morning spars?" Thranduil wanted time with Gwindor, and he missed the daily routine. "I think all of Aman is questioning my sanity at the moment, and I know Daeron and Rhovandir have been concerned, so returning to some semblance of normalcy would calm those who love me."

Gwindor was unsure what Thranduil meant by others questioning his sanity, but he nodded as he took a sip of the warm cider, another small sound of appreciation leaving his lips. "I would like that," he said. "Perhaps not the bruising and the ache of it all... but I would like that very much." He sighed as he drank the rest of the mug of cider. "Gods, I cannot wait to be in the kitchen again. A proper kitchen with a storage room full of possibilities."

"I no longer desire to bring you pain or humiliate you," Thranduil sighed. "And it will be wonderful to have your cooking once more. Rhovandir is capable, but..."

"It is my passion," Gwindor finished with a small smile, pleased to hear such a compliment to his culinary skill. "Thank you for the meal. I will be sure to tell Rhovandir how delicious it was." Standing a bit awkwardly, he clasped his hands in front of him. "I suppose I should start up a fire in the hearth of my chamber and get changed..."

Thranduil rose as well, nodding. "I shall see you in the sparring room in the morning?"

"Aye," Gwindor said, fiddling with the edge of the sleeve of the robe he borrowed. "I... am not exactly sure why you waited, Thranduil, but I am happy that you did. I did not expect such a welcome, and... perhaps we may start again, a new beginning." Trust would have to be rebuilt, but Gwindor wanted nothing more than to give Thranduil that chance.

"I waited because I wanted to see you again... and I would like to begin again." Thranduil walked Gwindor to the door, and paused before opening it. He turned to face Gwindor, looking down into the fair face, and he asked, "May I kiss you?" He'd ached to feel Gwindor's lips against his for months, and he would not allow the Noldo to retire without at least asking.

Gwindor bit his lip for a moment, but a delicate smile soon replaced the nervous expression. He nodded his assent, his heart beating a little faster in his chest.

Thranduil cupped Gwindor's face tenderly, and while he did bring their bodies closer, he did not press his to the slighter Elf's. Tilting the Noldo's head, Thranduil dipped down, his lips gently brushing against Gwindor's. He glanced at Gwindor's eyes, and then brought their mouths into fuller contact. His lips parted, moulding themselves to Gwindor's, but he did not seek to deepen the kiss. He didn't want to push for more after all the wrong he had done. Thranduil lingered, drew the somewhat chaste kiss out as long as he dared. Reluctantly, he lifted his mouth, lips just touching Gwindor's, and whispered, "Welcome home, Gwindor. I am glad you came back."

His breathing a bit shaky, and his cheeks stained a charming crimson, Gwindor looked up into Thranduil's eyes searchingly. When he found nothing but sincerity in the blue depths, he smiled, and, though tears came once again to his eyes, his expression shimmered with something more. Hope was rekindled deep inside his spirit, a small flame that warmed him from within. Pulling away from Thranduil, he fidgeted with an errant strand of hair that fell into his face. "G-goodnight," he said with another smile, and he quickly retreated to his room, his lips tingling pleasantly.

Sighing, Thranduil looked about the room, feeling alone in the wake of Gwindor's company, and his eyes lit upon the small, golden-haired doll he'd made. He snatched it up and ducked out of his room. "Gwindor?"

Just inside his own chamber, Gwindor blinked and turned, leaning his head out of the doorway curiously. He knew he had left his soiled clothes in Thranduil's bathroom, but he figured they would simply be burned, as they were soiled beyond repair from his travels. Was there something else he had forgotten?

A light flush crept over Thranduil's features as he held out the Elven doll, a golden-haired warrior dressed in Laicanan's colours. "When I returned from Ílëa Taurë, I had Rhovandir trim my hair and, with it, I fashioned you a doll to add to your collection. A... a tangible apology, I suppose... but I thought you might like a gold-crowned Elf among your Noldorin ones."

Gwindor found himself speechless, his eyes darting from Thranduil to the doll with golden hair and finely painted features. Thranduil had made this himself? As a special apology? The thought put into the gift made the tears in his eyes well up, and they streaked down his face as he reverently accepted the doll into his hands. "I... don't know what to say..." he admitted in a slightly uneven voice. "Thank you..." He looked up from the green-clad doll to Thranduil's face. "Thank you, Thranduil." He stood still for a few moments, then, following a sudden urge, he rose onto his toes, placing a quick kiss to Thranduil's cheek.

Thranduil smiled, his cheek warm from Gwindor's lips. "You're welcome, Gwindor. May Irmo bless you with quiet dreams." He gave a respectful bow of his head and returned to his own room, the door closing softly behind him.

Gwindor watched him retreat down the hallway before entering his room again. A fire was quickly started in his modest fireplace, and he wasted no time in creating a space for Thranduil's doll among the others in his collection, clearing the centre of the display and setting the golden doll down with tender care. Changing for bed, Gwindor braided his hair and settled beneath the quilts emblazoned with the old crests of Nargothrond. Even when his fire burned low in the grate, Gwindor lay awake in the pale blue light of his Fëanorian lamp, his eyes drawn to the doll, which stood out naturally from the others, the golden hair shimmering in the dim light. His spirit felt infinitely lighter than it had the last time he lay between the sheets of his bed, and Gwindor had a single thought run through his mind over and over before his eyes cleared with reverie.

He was home again.

***

Early morning sunlight streamed through the curtains draped over the windows of the estate, a far cry from the snowstorm which had raged throughout most of the previous night. The icicles lining the roof had already begun to drip in the slightly warmer temperature, but the crisp winter air remained cold enough to warrant a cheerful fire and perhaps a hot cup of morning tea.

Having woken early, Gwindor had made his way down to the kitchen, eager to cook a bit before his morning spar with Thranduil. It was a joy to reacquaint himself with his old workspace, and he had quickly raided the storeroom, selecting all the ingredients he wished. The sounds and smells of the kitchen eradicated any misgivings or dark thoughts that invaded his mind, sending him into a trance-like state of bliss as he mixed, baked, and grilled a sizable morning meal.

Daeron stumbled into the manor, expecting all to be quiet in the early morning. Setting his instruments aside, he quickly noticed that was not the case. Delightful smells wafted to his nose, and he followed the scent to the kitchen, his steps a bit slow from having performed the entire afternoon and evening for the families of the wedding couple. Normally, Noldorin weddings were steeped in ceremony, and, though lively, were far too traditional for his tastes. The night had picked up considerably, however, thanks to a few of Thranduil's descendents who happened to be friends of the bride. Recognizing Daeron, they had quickly requested a spattering of tunes quite out of the ordinary for a crowd of Noldor, and Daeron, thankful for the change of pace, had played until the sun rose. A meal was precisely what he needed before he headed up to Thranduil's bedchamber for a bit of rest.

Pushing through the swinging door, Daeron was momentarily surprised by the absence of Rhovandir, seeing a shorter Noldo moving quickly around the kitchen. His presence did not go unnoticed, and the Elf spun around, confusion wilting the vibrant smile that had graced his young face. Daeron grinned, instantly noting the handsome features, the slight hint of red in the sunlit hair that framed unusually deep, charcoal eyes. There was no mistaking Gwindor, for Rhovandir's description had been detailed and, as usual, strikingly accurate. "So you're the one Thranduil wants," he said in his own manner of greeting complete strangers.

Gwindor stared at the icy-eyed Elf in shock. "Excuse me?" he asked, convincing himself he was uncertain what the other had said.

Daeron chuckled richly, walking into the kitchen and looking Gwindor up and down appraisingly. He even walked around the central table to get a more complete view of the Noldo, who stayed surprisingly still. Leaning back against the worktable in the centre of the room, Daeron nodded approvingly. "You have a nice ass, Gwindor... A word to the wise," he offered, leaning in slightly towards the Noldo. "Make him use a *lot* of lube." It might have been the amount of alcohol he had consumed at the wedding that made him so bold, but it was not likely.

Gwindor's mouth dropped open, his cheeks quickly turning a deep shade of crimson as he was thoroughly scandalized. Astounded and horrified by the Elf's nerve, but still unable to string words into sentences, he simply stared at the dark-haired Elf, whose sharp features were quickly softened by a fit of laughter.

Thranduil then entered the kitchen, and he felt his stomach sink at the sight of Daeron laughing and Gwindor blushing. He could only imagine what lewd comment his old tutor had made. "Daeron," he snapped, worried eyes on Gwindor. "Why does Gwindor look as if you just exposed yourself to him?"

"Oh, come now, Ardaur," Daeron snorted. "It was just some friendly advice!"

"I am the only one permitted to make him blush so," Thranduil warned, stalking close to Daeron. He pulled his lover close, his lips near Daeron's ear, his eyes on Gwindor's stricken face, and his words carried in the nearly silent kitchen. "Go upstairs, strip yourself, and lie face down upon the bed, hands gripping the headboard and your legs spread wide. I will be there shortly," he murmured, menace lacing his tone.

Daeron felt a distinct shiver run the length of his spine, and his laughing smile was replaced immediately by something more subdued. "Very well," he breathed to Thranduil, before he turned to regard Gwindor. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Gwindor." Snatching a couple muffins that sat nearby, he inclined his head respectfully to the cook and left the kitchen with hasty obedience.

Gwindor's shock was absolute, and he stared at Thranduil with wide eyes before lowering them to the two empty muffin tins.

"What did he say to you?" Thranduil asked, his voice firm and quietly demanding.

"He..." Gwindor hesitated, stumbling over the wording, "complimented my backside, and warned me to use a lot of 'lube'." Even repeating the information made Gwindor blush, his cheeks pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

Thranduil's eyes narrowed. "Forgive him his crassness. He sometimes does not know when to shut up. However, he will learn." He inclined his head. "If you will excuse me."

Gwindor blinked several times, but nodded, watching as Thranduil followed Daeron out of the kitchen. Slowly, he regained his senses and continued cooking, but his mind was consumed by a question he would have been far too embarrassed to ask: what exactly did Daeron mean by 'lube'?

Rhovandir cleared his throat, a half-smile on his lips, and he firmly shut the back door, having heard Gwindor's exchange with Thranduil as he waited for the appropriate time to enter the kitchen. "My brother does not mean harm, and I am certain he did not intend to embarrass you," he said calmly.

Taking a few steadying breaths, Gwindor looked over at Rhovandir, the Elf's face familiar and comforting in its tranquillity. "Brother? You and Daeron..."

"After our own fashion. His parents and mine were close, and I was born only days after he was. We grew up on the same shore, and learned the mysteries of the body and of music with one another. He may not be my brother by blood, but he is through choice and love," Rhovandir explained. "Ardaur learned too much from Daeron and perhaps too little from me."

In his flustered state, Gwindor failed to grasp the finer complexities of Rhovandir's words, and he paused in his work. "I noticed that the worktable has been replaced..." While his response seemed a bit disjointed, it subtly agreed with Rhovandir's last statement. "Thank you, Rhovandir."

Rhovandir's ancient eyes honed in on Gwindor. "Do you understand why he did what he did?"

"He said he took his frustration out on me... that he had never been faced with my sort of rejection before," Gwindor said, meeting Rhovandir's gaze.

Taking a muffin from the counter, Rhovandir nodded. "In part. When Ardaur met Arasiel, he loved her. I was so pleased, for he had been so lonely and heartbroken since Legorwen's death. He laughed, he smiled, he danced... he was as in love as one could be. They wed quickly, yet delayed having children. As war bled into our lives for a second time, and his father's life was lost, he realised his own life was at risk. He and Arasiel began to have children, rapidly. I believe Legolas was only three when Arasiel became pregnant a fifth time." Rhovandir sighed, recalling the dark times. "After her death, Gwindor, Ardaur changed. He became what you see now. His heart only has enough courage to love those already in his life, his four children, his parents, Daeron, Erestor, myself... and even the love offered to us is reserved and tenuous at times. You," he said, pointing at Gwindor, "represent a love that cannot be reserved, cannot be tenuous, and cannot be based upon cries of passion and soiled sheets. You, my dear friend, terrify Thranduil." The change of name was deliberate, and Rhovandir popped a bit of muffin into his mouth. "And terror does not become our king."

Gwindor tried to take in all the information. Thranduil had four children, but Rhovandir had mentioned a fifth. The realisation that the fifth must have died along with Thranduil's wife, Arasiel, made his heart ache. As Rhovandir told of the change Thranduil had undergone, Gwindor suddenly wondered what he had been like before so much trauma had entered his life. He wondered what Ardaur was like, since it was clear by Rhovandir's narrative that the Elf who had gone by that name was starkly different. "I... don't mean to terrify him. I just want to be close." He wanted to be as close as Thranduil would permit him, because...

"Love is terrifying, Gwindor, as I am certain you already know," Rhovandir said softly, his eyes keen and knowing. "Do you love him enough to give him what he needs, and can you accept it if he can never speak those words in return? Your desire to be close is commendable. Not many want to be close to Thranduil, for it requires navigating a very thorny path through overgrown woods. I cannot speak for him, but I know him as well as I would my own son, and you have already managed to worm your way under his skin." He finished the muffin, rubbing his hands together to remove the crumbs. "He has remained in Tirion though Laicanan calls to him." Rhovandir lifted his eyes to Gwindor. "He chooses you instead of his wood, and that was a difficult choice for him to make. Thranduil desires the closeness as much as you do."

Gwindor swallowed, blushing as he looked at Rhovandir. "I love him," he admitted in a quiet voice. "I will try to give him what he needs, and... what he *does* give me in return will have to be enough. That he stayed here to wait for me sends warmth through my spirit," he sighed, a touched smile drifting onto his face. "I have found my way through dark, dangerous paths before, Rhovandir. For Thranduil... I am more than willing to do so again."

Rhovandir smiled, and he crossed his arms. "Good." He glanced to the stairs. "It would be wise if you went to Lord Elrond's estate for the remainder of the day. I am certain Lords Glorfindel and Erestor will be happy to see you and... I do not believe you wish to--" Just as he spoke, Daeron's musical cry floated down the stairs, tinged with the nuances of pain and pleasure.

Gwindor's eyes went wide, and he looked in the direction of Thranduil's rooms. "I... think I should go," he agreed. "Would you...?" Gwindor indicated the remaining parts of the breakfast he had been preparing.

"Of course," Rhovandir said. He made quick calculations in his head, recalling when Thranduil had been in such moods, often ignited by Daeron. "Come back sometime near dusk. They will be done."

Another cry reached his ears, and Gwindor bit his lip, nodding and quickly bundling up to face the morning chill. "Please extend my apologies for not sparring with him this morning," he murmured. Reaching for the handle of the back door, he smiled briefly at Rhovandir. "Thank you. It is nice to see you again, Rhovandir." With that, he exited the kitchen, eager to get away from the sound of Daeron's voice, which seemed even more expressive than the many voices he had heard over the months of his service in Thranduil's household. He made his way through the snow, thankful for the sunshine in place of the storm he had endured the previous night.

A sigh left Rhovandir's lips, and he began to clean up after breakfast. "Ardaur," he muttered darkly, another of Daeron's cries filtering down, along with the distinct strike of leather against flesh. "You are the most foolish Elf in all of Eä."

TBC...