Princes Three: Any Shelter

Interlude

Thranduil stretched carefully, reveling in the gentle aches and twinges that assured him the previous night’s events had not been a fevered dream. Pushing back a wayward strand of ebony hair, he studied his lover’s face intently in the dim predawn light. The deep indigo eyes were closed in peaceful slumber, the often solemn lips curled in a contented smile.

“Erestor surprised you, did he?” an amused voice whispered, and the woodland king raised his eyes to meet Glorfindel’s sparkling gaze.

“He did,” Thranduil admitted. “I find the experience hard to reconcile with the quietly impressive elf I greeted yesterday, or the reserved advisor Legolas spoke so fondly of after his visit.”

“But not with the warrior you knew in the Second Age, mayhap?” the Balrog-slayer chided gently. “‘Tis understandable that Legolas should mistake the role for the elf, mellonen.”

“‘Tis folly that I should make the same error, though?” the Mirkwood royal asked with a wry grin. “I suppose so. In my defense, I was regaled with tales of pranks and blushes during the gwanûn’s visit to Taur-na-Fuin.”

Glorfindel chuckled softly. “‘Rohir could oft cause a crow to blush, meldir,” he replied. “He learned from a master.”

“Meaning yourself?” Thranduil snorted, then bit his lip apologetically as Erestor’s eyes fluttered open.

Stretching lazily, the dark elf lifted one elegant eyebrow at the Balrog-slayer. “Yet another dawn riser, I see?”

“Aye, it would seem so,” Glorfindel answered with a grin before pressing a quick kiss to his mate’s cheek. “You shall have to adapt.”

“Hardly,” Erestor retorted with a smirk. “If I have not adapted after near three millennia in your bed, melethen, I doubt I shall change now.”

Turning his head to meet Thranduil’s questioning gaze, the advisor explained, “I am completely uninterested in sunrises, abhor the early morning twittering of birds, and require several cups of strong tea before facing the breakfast hall.”

The dark elf snuggled comfortably between his companions, his eyes closing again even as he added, ”I am, in fact, a slug.”

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Legolas stared disconsolately at the starry sky, reluctant to face yet another night sleeping in the ever-widening chasm between himself and the twins. The bodies that had once curled tightly against him now lay stiff and straight, a perfunctory hand occasionally lighting on his shoulder. Each night the woodland prince considered moving his bedroll, and each night he stubbornly refused- to sleep otherwise seemed akin to admitting defeat.

Rubbing his face wearily, Legolas sighed. Not only his nights were restless and broken. The days of travel had been filled with Elladan’s excruciating politeness, and Elrohir’s obvious irritation. The elf-knight seemed increasingly exasperated, as though the prince was failing some unknown test.

The battle party was but a day’s ride out of Thranduil’s realm, a realization which chilled Legolas to the heart. For once they arrived at the Halls, there was naught to stop the twins from turning for Imladris, leaving him alone and their centuries-old relationship in tatters.

An empty ache lodged in the prince’s chest at the very possibility, and he angrily blinked back the tears that stung at his eyes. ‘It cannot end like this,’ he thought. ‘It cannot. But I see no clear path . . . ’

“You must talk to Elladan, híren.”

The voice broke into his anguished musings, and Legolas raised his head, disconcerted, to meet Tiriadon’s determined gaze. Shaking his head slowly, the prince replied, “I have tried, Tiri. He will not . . . ”

“How many times have you tried?” the captain demanded. “Twice? Thrice? Try again.”

“Once, the morning after...after it happened,” Legolas admitted, wincing at the astonishment on his friend’s face. “He said he did not wish to speak of it,” the golden elf added defensively.

“Elbereth, Legolas!” Tiriadon exclaimed. “What did you expect him to say? I wager his pride was damaged enough, without showing you the wounds.”

His tone softening, the captain continued, “‘Tis destroying you all, mellonen. You are moping. Elladan is brooding. And Elrohir, Valar preserve us, is muttering and cursing like an enraged dwarf.” Squeezing the prince’s shoulder, he repeated, “Talk to him.”

As Legolas opened his mouth to protest, Tiriadon raised one hand, forestalling any objections. “Talk to him now. Before I lash the three of you to a tree.”