Ahyamë

Title: Ahyamë : Change
Chapter: Four
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.

---

November, Tirion, Aman

How long had the Elf been here now?

Thranduil was in his study, quill pressed to his lips as he stared out the window over the white city where winter winds had begun to blow. Gwindor was a distraction, though why, Thranduil couldn't say. He found himself wondering what the Noldo was doing, how he was adjusting, if he was *happy*.

It was not as if they spoke much.

Rhovandir had procured Gwindor clothing. Thranduil was certain Rhovandir had chosen the styles and colours specifically with his king's eye in mind. The shades flattered Gwindor's complexion perfectly, the cut of the cloth always accentuating his body. A body that was, with proper meals, filling out to become more and more Thranduil's type.

The Elf's quiet way of keeping to himself also annoyed him.

However, Gwindor did nothing blatant to anger Thranduil except exist, and he certainly couldn't say anything about that. Instead, he tried to keep the time spent with the Noldo down to as little as possible. This meant, much to Thranduil's displeasure, that he stayed in his study until the afternoon, when he would go for his daily commune with the orchard.

He sighed as he tossed his quill down, ink spattering the half-written letter to his eldest.

It was time for luncheon. His stomach noted he was late for the meal, actually, and he stood, heading for the kitchen. The day after Gwindor's arrival, Thranduil had taken to dressing as he always did while in his own home: in loose-fitting trousers. Nothing else.

He stepped into the kitchen and looked around, noting Rhovandir was not in attendance, having most likely already eaten. Thranduil's eyes narrowed as he looked at Gwindor, his simmering annoyance there in his gaze.

"You could have called me for the meal," he snapped, crossing his arms low on his chest.

"When I passed by your study, you seemed to be deep in correspondence. I deemed it unwise to disturb you," Gwindor replied evenly, his voice soft as he put down the dish he was washing. Wiping his hands dry, he quickly plated the Elvenking's portion of the meal, his movements efficient, though mostly done with his right hand. Setting the plate in front of Thranduil, he gathered some freshly baked biscuits and apple-cinnamon butter, which he had made on a whim with some of the sweet apples from the orchard.

The kitchen had been his refuge in Nargothrond following his captivity, a place where he could disappear from the nobility that had neither respected him nor cared for his less visible wounds. After he opposed Túrin's open warfare tactics in the council room, there had been very few who bothered to say half a dozen words to him. It was then he had taken up the culinary arts, and even with one hand, he quickly became skilled. Food had been denied him for so long that he relished each and every flavour as he never had before the Nirnaeth.

Gwindor glanced up at Thranduil, handing him a set of silverware and trying to ignore the glimmer of light reflecting from the piercings on Thranduil's chest. The Noldo's curiosity had been piqued when he first saw them, but he would never ask his host about them. "Enjoy the meal," he said with the barest hint of a smile. Turning back to his sink full of dirty dishes, he ran a hand absently through his dark bangs, which seemed intent on escaping from behind his ears.

Thranduil sat, a slight smirk on his lips. He picked up a slice of fruit and chewed thoughtfully. "I am not blind," he said after swallowing. "Every time you see me, you avoid looking in my eyes. When you do muster up the courage to look at me at all, your eyes fall to my chest. What about it could interest you so?" Though his tone was teasing, there was a touch of nastiness to it.

Gwindor stayed silent, a small blush creeping across his cheeks as he resumed his cleaning. He disliked what he heard in that voice, but he was no longer one for tactless confrontation so he tried to ignore the Elf at his back.

Thranduil buttered one of the biscuits. "Answer me, Gwindor. I do not idly ask questions. I always expect answers." The edge to Thranduil's voice told of his seriousness.

He wanted an answer.

The command made Gwindor pause once again in his movements and, looking over his shoulder, his dark eyes darted from Thranduil's eyes to his chest, and back again. "Your rings," he replied after a moment, answering the question in as few words as possible.

"What about them?" Thranduil pushed, popping a bit of biscuit into his mouth. The Elf, he decided, was a wonder with food. "I know you have a wider vocabulary. Use it."

The Elvenking was grating on his nerves, prodding him with questions that made his cheeks flush a shade darker. With a small sigh, he grudgingly abandoned his task, turning to lean against the counter. "I have never seen piercings of that sort before. Such things were not practiced in Nargothrond." Drying his hands again, he hoped that answer would suffice.

"I am certain you will see much while in my employ that you never saw in Nargothrond," Thranduil laughed. He liked that deep blush on Gwindor's cheeks. "They enhance the pleasure of having one's nipples teased during coupling," he explained, sucking the butter from his fingertips. "They're also quite lovely to look at."

Such forwardness left Gwindor a bit shocked and, for a few moments, he stared at Thranduil with wide eyes. He then averted his gaze, now happy that his bangs partially covered his blushing face. The last one to be so blunt about sexual conduct with him had been his brother, and the mere thought sent a flash of pain through his features.

"What is it this time?" Thranduil asked with a sigh. "I told you I am honest, or did you forget that little conversation in the bathroom?"

He glared up at Thranduil, the pain evident in the depths of his charcoal eyes. "Of course I did not forget," he all but snapped at the Elf. "For a single moment you reminded me of my brother, and the memories bring much with them. Is that a satisfactory answer?"

Thranduil raised an eyebrow mildly. "No. It is not. How did I remind you of your brother?"

"I would rather not speak of it," he gritted out, his eyes closing as he tried to keep his breathing calm. He had disgraced his brother, placed a black mark on the family name. It seemed disrespectful to speak so casually of those he had loved and failed.

"Would you now?" Thranduil's eyes glittered with annoyance. "I have been reading about you... and your brother."

The Noldo wasn't sure how history recounted the tale of his family, but he assumed it did not look favourably on his role in the downfall of Nargothrond and all the events that followed. "Then I would appreciate your sensitivity on the subject," he softly replied, his hands clenching his apron tightly.

Thranduil *laughed*. "Forgive me, Gwindor, but I do not possess sensitivity."

Lacking a suitable response, Gwindor stayed silent, his jaw clenched and his knuckles turning white. Why could Thranduil not leave him to his kitchen?

Thranduil finished his biscuit, eyes never leaving Gwindor's face. "One could postulate that you, in your eagerness to avenge your brother, caused the mess that was the Nirnaeth."

The thin layer of propriety that had kept Gwindor silent finally broke. "You think I don't know that?!" he questioned in a voice with deep emotion simmering behind it, slowly boiling over. "Do you honestly think that when I found out from the *enemy* how many were killed in that siege, I felt no remorse? That I have not thought of it and the fall of my realm ceaselessly in both life and death, knowing I was responsible for the loss of thousands?

"You may read in your histories as much as you like, but you will never know the depth of my guilt, the intensity of my shame, or the burden of my regret." His eyes filled with tears, and it was not long before they spilled down his cheeks, the flush now one of shame, anger, and pain. "You know *nothing* of me, Thranduil. And you know *nothing* of my brother."

For reasons he could not say, seeing those tears bothered Thranduil. He stood up and crossed the room to Gwindor, reaching for him before rational thought could stop him. "You are right," he said, wiping gently at the tears with his thumbs. "I..." Thranduil swallowed, forcing the words out of his mouth. "I am... sorry... to have upset you."

Rhovandir would have been proud of Thranduil, apologizing without prompting.

"Please, don't cry. I do not like seeing the tears on your face." Thranduil knew the truth of the words as he spoke them, and it bothered him to make that realisation.

Gwindor hated himself for crying in front of Thranduil, and it was with a wince that he accepted his touch. Perhaps it was the touch, or maybe the apology, but he quelled his desire to simply leave. This was his new life, and there was no reason to waste it in the company of an Elf like Thranduil.

But something kept him from leaving, helped along by the sincerity he could hear in the Elvenking's apology. Gwindor clenched his eyes shut, willing the tears to disappear. Even his ability to cry after being dead for so long held a fascination to him and he chose to cling to that mindset, taking in the smell of the kitchen, the feel of the fabric against his clenched fingers... allowing the wonder of sheer existence to override his memories. Slowly, his breath shaky and his cheeks still reddened, he calmed, biting his lip until the tears ceased.

"That was unkind of me," Thranduil admitted, reaching for the kitchen towel. Gently, with the touch of a father, he wiped the remaining tears from Gwindor's face. "Eirien would be terribly disappointed in me."

Gwindor hesitantly opened his eyes, raising his gaze to Thranduil's. "Who--" he sniffled and cleared his throat. "Who is Eirien?" Part of him berated himself for asking such a question after what the Elvenking's questions had led to, but he found his curiosity nearly overwhelming. He knew nothing of this Sinda king, just as Thranduil knew nothing of him.

Thranduil poured Gwindor a glass of water before he hopped onto one of the many work surfaces in the kitchen. He might not cook, but his kitchen was large, with tall, wood-topped tables lining two of the four walls, and a central worktable that was wider than the others. The third wall held windows, the door to the back courtyard, and a large sink, while the fourth was dominated by the massive hearth with a small oven built into it. It was a grand kitchen, far more than he needed, but he was a grand Elf and would accept no less of his living space.

"My youngest daughter." He shook his head. "She has all the love and joy I am lacking, it seems, and whenever I behave with such callousness, I tend to be ranted at." Thranduil laughed, his eyes growing warm. "Though her ranting often leaves me chuckling, promising her I shall do better next time. I think she still believes I will change after all these years."

Gwindor sipped from the glass, taking comfort in the simple sensation of the liquid as it slowly cooled him from the inside. The sound of Thranduil's laughter drew his attention, and he looked over. Absently, he took note that he much preferred the warmth he saw in Thranduil's gaze to the critical disdain and annoyance that had often been aimed at him since his arrival.

"You... sailed here, didn't you?" He could not see the shadow of death in Thranduil's eyes, only the depth granted by the accumulation of many years.

Thranduil stared down at his swinging bare feet. "Aye," he said softly. "After... Ages... in Arda, my youngest son convinced me it was time to leave. Too much darkness had existed in my life, he said. Too much pain. He thought I would find peace here."

He frowned, sweeping unseen dirt from a foot with the other. "What he never understood is that darkness is not necessarily in the land you live upon, but in the heart that beats within you. Greenwood, even after Sauron's shadow poisoned her, poisoned *me*, was still beautiful to my eyes. She was all I knew, all I wanted to protect, even when I had, at last, protected her from destruction and Sauron was defeated. To leave her..." He sighed, lifting eyes that swirled with his emotion. "It broke my heart, though Laicanan healed it when I came here. She can never replace Greenwood, but she is just as dear to me now."

Gwindor wondered at what he saw in those eyes... what he heard in the Elf's voice. There was so much he did not understand. Sauron -- he shivered at the reference to the twisted Maia. Despite his seclusion, whispers had reached him in the Halls that Morgoth was overthrown and Sauron had taken the role of Dark Lord in the Ages following his death. But of the Dark Lord's treacherous deeds against Elves and Men, Gwindor had no knowledge.

He had heard neither of Greenwood nor of Laicanan, which he had at first thought to be the same place, simply labelled in his native tongue. Gwindor's face twisted into an expression of confusion as he tried to understand the way Thranduil spoke of the two forests, instinctively knowing he referred to a more intimate knowledge of the woods than a normal Elf could experience.

He suddenly felt very small and young next to the blond. Gwindor had suffered much in his years, but death had come to him at a very young age. Living as long as Thranduil was a concept difficult for his mind to grasp.

"I confuse you," Thranduil said, smiling faintly. "You are free to ask questions, Gwindor. I have no fear of answers. What would you like to know?" He took all focus off the Noldo's own life and experiences, offering of himself. It wasn't as if Gwindor couldn't walk into the market and ask about him. Everyone in Tirion knew King Thranduil, his life and deeds.

Gwindor felt childish for asking, but, "Greenwood and Laicanan are different places?"

Thranduil nodded. "It is... confusing, I suppose. After Doriath fell, and Beleriand sank, my father and the Sindar of our realm who survived moved to Lindon with the remnants of the Noldor. Ereinion was king, and Father and he butted heads often. After about seven hundred years, Father chose to take a handful of Sindar and leave." Thranduil let out a long breath. "We travelled east. Over the Anduin. We found a large forest, and in that forest, a large number of Elves."

Thranduil remembered clearly that day, seeing Elves of fair hair and eyes speaking in a dialect he barely understood.

"The Nandor allowed us to settle, and Father took control. We made it prosperous. It was called Greenwood. When..." A shadow crossed his face, and deep sorrow filled his eyes. "After the forest was poisoned, and Sauron took up residence in the far South of Greenwood, I chose to alter its name. Father had been dead for years, I was king, and my wife..." He looked away. "My wife was killed," he said quickly, but he did not elaborate on her death, "and Greenwood was no longer green to my eyes. I named her Mirkwood, and thus it remained until Sauron was defeated. Then, with Celeborn, I renamed her at last Eryn Lasgalen, but I resided there only a handful of years before coming here."

It had never truly been the same once Arasiel had died.

"When I came here, Oromë offered me a large amount of his wood for myself and my Nandor. Since all the cities here are named in your confounded Quenya, I allowed the Vala to choose an appropriate name for the new realm." Thranduil smirked. "He chose Laicanan. I established the realm and have ruled there for millennia now. My eldest daughter decided I should take a small holiday from ruling and come to Tirion, in hopes of... softening my dislike for the Noldor."

Gwindor listened with rapt concentration, his mind swirling with the information and many more questions than he thought Thranduil would ever tolerate him asking. He was moved to pity when he heard that the Sinda's wife was killed; he could only assume during an attack of some sort. He too knew what it was like to lose someone close, though Gwindor was sure the marriage bond only made things harder.

After a long silence, and slightly wide eyed with the wealth of information that was just given to him, he whispered, "Beleriand... sank? How?"

Thranduil blinked at him.

Out of all he had just told the Elf, that was what he asked after?

"Yes. It sank. When Morgoth was taken and Angband torn down, everything to the west of the Ered Luin was lost to the Sea."

The news was a shock in and of itself. One that stole Gwindor's breath away. All he had known and loved was now under the Sea? All he had fought so hard to protect was gone, utterly destroyed. "I... Oh..." Tears once again came to his eyes, though he kept them from falling.

He was quiet once more, taking sips of his water to keep calm.

"My... condolences to you regarding your wife," Gwindor finally whispered, looking down.

"She died a very long time ago," Thranduil muttered. "Condolences are not necessary." He had mourned her. Dreadfully. It had taken Erestor's firmness and Daeron's utter submission to bring him to some manner of sanity following her loss. "If you feel you must weep, Gwindor, I will not judge you for it. I know it must seem like yesterday for you that Beleriand still stood."

Gwindor nodded mutely, his breathing becoming shaky once more. "Please excuse me," he breathed, and he pushed away from the counter. Walking to the table in the kitchen, he took a seat in one of the chairs, the need to sit overwhelming. Leaning over the table, he buried his face in his arms and wept, his quiet sobs making his whole frame shake.

"All I fought for... suffered for... loved... for nothing." The broken words were muffled slightly by his arms.

Thranduil slid down from the worktable, padding softly over to Gwindor. "It... was not for nothing, Gwindor," Thranduil said, hesitantly putting his hand on Gwindor's back. "Nothing done in defiance of Morgoth was in vain. Think of how many survived because of the sacrifices of those during those wars."

"So much death," he sobbed. "How am I to rectify what I have done? How can I start over knowing... so many..."

Thranduil crouched down, forcing Gwindor to look at him. "You have paid your price. Death, and time in Mandos' Halls. What more could one ask of you?" Thranduil did not like how involved he was becoming in this, in Gwindor's pain, but he could not stop himself. "You *have* started over. In a new land, away from war and strife. Take pleasure in that; find your solace and peace."

Gwindor shook his head. "One death could not possibly balance with so many others," he insisted. "I just... want so badly to prove that I can do something other than lead Elves to their deaths." He suddenly stood from his chair, wiping the tears from his face with his right hand before remembering the left had been restored and using it as well. "I am sorry. I have burdened you enough for one day."

Thranduil stood as well, stepping back. "It was no burden." His brow furrowed as he looked out the window. "However, it is late now, the light dwindles. I should go to the orchard."

He never missed a day in the orchard, though something tugged at him, told him to stay with this broken Elf.

Thranduil's face showed his indecision, which was not something common for him. He *always* knew what he wanted to do.

Gwindor nodded, sniffling slightly as he tried and failed to make his smile reach his eyes. "Go," he said softly. "Go to your trees. Supper will be ready when you return." Hesitantly, he asked a final question. "May I please use your library? It seems there is much I need to learn about what happened on Arda. I can visit Tirion's library, but I would like to look a few things over as soon as possible, if I may."

"My home is at your disposal," Thranduil murmured. "It is your home as well now."

"Home..." The word was barely audible, and a soft, sad smile was all Gwindor could manage. "Thank you, Thranduil. Now, go. I shall tend to things," he assured the blond, walking once again to the sink and his dirty dishes.

He lingered a moment longer, staring at Gwindor's back.

Confused, Thranduil shook his head and went upstairs to pull on a shirt and boots before leaving the estate, odd thoughts flitting through his mind.

Damn the distracting Noldo.

TBC...