My Heart's Desire - Part 1. To Wait for you.

Chapter 9. The Treasure of the Realm

Gildor closed his eyes and stretched his senses. Yes, Mirkwood elves were waiting for him, and he was overjoyed to feel one certain presence. Aranaur! He was always glad to see Thranduil’s firstborn. Aranaur was his father’s younger image and Gildor had some particularly cherished memories of the time when Thranduil had been young.
He sent a mental greeting to Aranaur to alert him of his coming and pressed his horse’s sides with his knees. “Noro, Sien!”en!” The horse resumed its trot and in a short while he rode into a glade where his escort was waiting for him.
“Gildor!” Aranaur came forward to meet him. “Elen síla lumen’ omentielvo.”
“Oh, Highness!” Gildor swung his leg over the neck of his horse and slid down. “So you have finally managed to keep at least *some* Quenya in your head! Thank you for the greeting, though a simple ‘hello’ from you would have been enough.”
“Gildor, I have missed you so much!” Aranaur laughed and gave him a hearty hug. “I am glad to see you again.”
“So am I, my boy. So am I,” the Vanya said, drinking in the sight of the young elf.
His looks were breathtaking. To call him beautiful was to say Anor was bright. Like his father, he was green-eyed and golden-haired, tall and lean, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He was vibrant with life energy, always ready to laugh and make merry. But his bright green eyes were keen and observant. He was intelligent, perceptive, sharp-tongued, decisive and brave. Thranduil had every right to be proud of his heir. Which he most definitely was.
“So, how is fair Lórien these days?” Aranaur asked when they all had mounted and were riding through the forest.
“Still fair.” Gildor smiled. “It could have been perfect but…”
“… but for her Lady?” Aranaur finished with a smirk.
“Ah, you are your father’s son, Aranaur, always getting straight to the very root of a problem. Yes, I think I couo wio without seeing Galadriel for another millennium or two.”
“Oh… Did you enjoy your stay there at all?”
Gildor thought it over. “I suppose I did. At some moments and to some extent.”
He did not feel like discussing his time in Lórien, though, so he changed the subject. “How is your father and how is Legolas?”
“They are both well and are waiting for you impatiently. I left them pacing: Legolas – the lawn in front of the main entrance, and Adar – the balcony above it.”
Gildor chuckled. “I could believe the part about Legolas, but your father – no!”
“You will see for yourself when we are there.” Aranaur laughed. “Though, my brother will be bitterly disappointed to see you have come without… your escort.”
“My escort was not sure he would be able to keep his hands to himself when around your brother. So he preferred to stay behind, not to get your father’s back up.”
For some time they rode in silence and then Aranaur spoke again.
“I think you will have to speak with him,” he said.
“Speak with whom? Legolas or your father?”
“Oh, Legolas is hopeless. He is in love. And when he sets his heart upon something or in this case someone, he tends to become as resolute and unyielding as Adar. He is his father’s son too, you know.” Aranaur gave Gildor a weak smile. “He is very serious about his feelings for Glorfindel, and Adar still views him as his baby-son who simply cannot know anything about love. Or lovemaking. So should they confront each other on the matter, I’m afraid, there could be blood.”
“And you want me to step in between them and let *my* blood be spilt?”
Aranaur grinned. “You can reason with Adar.”
“Why do you think he will listen to me?”
The prince shrugged. “He always does. Besides, I thought perhaps you could talk to him at the *right* moment.”
“And this is - when?” Gildor looked at him suspiciously.
“Well… During the very private welcome Adar is going to give you?” Aranaur offered. “After you have made up for all the long years apart?”
Gildor feigned shock. “I think I am being insulted. Where are your manners, Crown Prince? You are speaking to an Imladris envoy!”
“Oh, I am sorry, my Lord.” Aranaur laughed. “I haven’t recognized an official in you.”
“Now I *am* insulted.” Gildor shook his head. “Who taught you this insolent talk, young prince?”
“No one. I have mastered it myself. Listening to *you* speaking.”
“You know, Aranaur,” Gildor said with feeling, “forget what I said about being glad to see you.”
Aranaur laughed again.


They stopped for the night in a cave half a mile from the road. Sentries were posted to guard their horses and the passages to the cave. They made a fire and ate their supper talking quietly among themselves. Gildor sat with his back against the wall. He got lost in thoughts, watching the flames. The fiery flower was swaying back and forth, opening and closing its hot red petals, making shadows dance around and weave into an intricate pattern of light and darkness. Gildor shuddered, as he thought he recognized the picture.

* * *

Nairalindë woke up screaming and shaking. In a few moments his father rushed into his room, dressed only in his loose sleeping trousers. His mother followed him, her unbraided golden hair flowing over her sleeping-gown.
“What is it, yonya?” his father asked collecting his sobbing son into his arms.
“He is dead! *Dead*!” Nairalindë looked at him wide-eyed, tears streaming down his face.
“Who is dead?” his mother asked softly.
“Ermenor!” Nairalindë shook convulsively.
“It was just a dream, my child, a bad dream,” his mother tried to soothe him.
“No!” Nairalindë was frantic. “I saw it! He fell! Feanor fell and Ermenor fell by his side.”
His parents exchanged a quick glance and his mother put her hands on his temples, rubbing them gently with her fingers.
“What did you see, pitya?” she asked.
Nairalindë shuddered again and his father pressed him closer to his chest.
“There was a battle, fire and smoke... I saw Ermenor fighting by Feanor’s side. They were fighting those… things… those creatures… And then… then…” His teeth clattered. “The biggest one… It struck Feanor. He fell, dead or badly wounded, I could not see for sure. Then Feanor’s sons came and carried him away, but Ermenor stayed… stayed to fight it. And it *killed* him! That monster killed him! I saw it! I could not help him… I could do nothing!”
The young elf was nearing hysteria again and his father rocked him gently in his arms. “Sh-sh, my child, it’s all right. I have you now. I am here.”
His mother’s hands were caressing his temples, warmth spreading from them through his body, soothing and lulling him into sleep. “What monster, Nairalindë? What did it look like?” she asked softly.
His eyelids heavy with drowsiness, Nairalindë gave a half-sob. “It was like… flame… and shado The The last thing he heard before he reluctantly succumbed to slumber was his mother’s earnest voice. “I must speak with Atar.”

* * *
“Gildor?” He was brought to awareness by a touch on his arm. “Are you all right?” Aranaur was looking at him with concern.
“Yes.” He sighed and tried to shake off the remnants of his fading visions. “Yes. Why do you ask?”
“You looked odd and did not answer when I talked to you.”
Gildor gave him a lopsided smile. “Do not worry, pen-neth. I was simply lost in my memories. With elves of my age it happens all the time, you know.”
“Ah, oddities of the old age, I see.” Aranaur was relieved to hear Gildor talk in his usual ironic manner. He definitely preferred his sharp-tongued banter to the unfamiliar haunted look he saw on his face a short while ago.


The elves did not want to tarry on their way and their horses were carrying them through the forest at a swpacepace. As he drew closer to the place of his destination, Gildor felt his anticipation grow. Thranduil was one of very few people he considered his true friends.
He first met the future king of Mirkwood in the motley world of Lindon when Thranduil was not yet even a prince, just a son of a Sindarin lord, young, passionate and reckless. On Gil-Galad’s request, Gildor went to speak with his father, Oropher. Thranduil was the first person he met in Oropher’s house. The attraction was instant and mutual. They spent an unforgettable month together before Oropher and his Sindarin followers left Lindon to found their own realm in the eastern forests. They lost sight of each other for many centuries after that and met again in Imladris, to where Thranduil came as the Crown Prince of Greenwood the Great and a representative of his father, the king.
By that time Glorfindel returned to Middle-Earth and joined Elrond’s household. He and Gildor were lovers then, and new lovers at that. Neither Thranduil nor Gildor mentioned their former acquaintance to him, but Glorfindel managed to pick out the clues and a noticeable strain formed between him and the prince. Gildor failed to break the ice between them. But Glorfindel was wise enough not to interfere with Gildor and Thranduil’s relationship and it was at that time that they became real friends. They spent a lot of time just talking, and Gildor learned that the prince was quick-witted and sharp-tongued. He enjoyed Thranduil’s wicked sense of humour and accurate and witty characteristics he gave to people. He came to respect his ability to see through all the appearances and pretences, a quality surprising in an elf still in his first millennium. They both felt that their physical attraction to each other was still there, but they both understood that to act upon it would be folly. They chose friendship, instead; though suggestive undertones lingered in their relations for a long time after.
Later, there were occasional meetings over the centuries and more or less regular correspondence, enjoyed by both of them. The next time they had a chance to spend a relatively long time together was when Gildor was sent to Greenwood as Gil-Galad’s envoy. His fair colouring often made people forget that he had Noldorin blood in him as well, and Oropher was more willing to negotiate with him than with any of the High King’s Noldorin advisers. Thranduil was married by that time. His wife was very pretty, gentle and caring. They were a truly beautiful and happy couple and Gildor watched his own behaviour carefully, not to make unwittingly even the slightest innuendo of his former intimacy with Thranduil. He did not want to upset his young wife. He was really glad for his friend, though he could not help feeling a little envious of his happiness.
Then, there was a devastating war against Sauron and the dreadful battle of Dagorlad, in which king Orohper was slain along with the two-thirds of the Mirkwood army. Gildor, who had hardly survived the battle himself and was balancing between life and death for many days afterwards, did not have a chance to see Thranduil before he left for his forest kingdom, which he had to rule now as the king. After the war the relations between Mirkwood and Elrond’s Noldorin realm, which had been rather cool at the best times, grew distinctly cold. And as Glorfindel correctly remarked, Gildor was the only elf from Imladris Thranduil was always glad to receive. So Gildor acted as an intermediary between the two elven realms.
Two millennia into the third age, Thranduil’s marriage was at last blessed with a child. He named him Aranaur, Noble Fire. Five centuries later his second son, Legolas, was born. When Legolas was about a hundred years old Thranduil’s wife told him she wanted to leave for Valinor. All of her male bloolatilatives had fallen in the Battle of Dagorlad and she never managed to recover after the loss completely, never managed to feel entirely happy again. Not even after the birth of her children. Thranduil could not deny her the right to leave, no matter how much her choice grieved him. He himself, as well as both their sons – even Legolas, though he was but a child – did not want to part with the world they knew as their home, not yet.
When Gildor came to see Thranduil after the queen’s departure, it was a subdued household that he found, and the brilliant glow that had always seemed to light up the king from within, was somewhat dimmed. The welcome he gave Gildor was as warm as ever, though tinged with sadness. But then, in the middle of the night, Thranduil just walked into Gildor’s room and - they made love, fiercely, almost desperately. Morning found them exhausted, but with lighter hearts. In each other’s arms they found the comfort which they had not fully realized they needed so badly.
When Gildor was able to overcome the initial shock andtaketake a sober look at things, he decided that he was not interfering with Thranduil’s marriage, after all. Obviously, his wife had been sensible enough not to demand abstinence from her husband during their time apart. Otherwise, Thranduil would not have initiated this intimacy. So, by their mutual silent agreement their relationship moved to a somewhat different stage. Still, no other strings than those of friendship were attached. They were friends, good, old… and close. During their meetings they talked, made love, negotiated, argued, made love, bantered, sparred and made love. They did not flaunt their connection but made no secret of it, either. Sometimes Gildor wished he could love Thranduil in truth, but he knew those were idle dreams as Thranduil’s soul-mate was waiting for him in Valinor and Gildor had his own waiting to do.


As Aranaur had predicted, Legolas was waiting for them in front of the main entrance to the palace. Gildor looked pointedly at the empty balcony above, and Aranaur laughed. “He must have seen us coming and now is taking the stairs down.”
Gildor slid down from his horse and opened his arms for Legolas who ran into his embrace. “Gildor, I’ve missed you so much!”
“Have you?” the Vanya smiled, hugging him affectionately. Then he pulled slightly away to take a close look at the younger prince.
As well as his elder brother, Legolas took after Thranduil but as he was still very young, his beauty had not yet acquired that distinctly masculine quality that was so characteristic of Thranduil’s. His features were delicate and exquisite and his blue eyes, framed by long dark lashes, were simply enormous, pure and bright. He had a sweet and innocent aura over him. Gildor smiled to himself. Legolas’s looks could easily fool anyone. And even for those, who knew that under the appearance of naivety and inexperience there was a strong will and a determined character, it was very difficult to resist his wide-eyed look and his charming smile.
Gildor shook his head. “How do you do it, Legolas? You’ve grown more beautiful again.”
The younger prince blushed, but then his smile faded. “He hasn’t come,” he complained.
“No, not this time, my little songbird. But he still loves you. And he’s sent you a letter as long as Anduin.”
Legolas’s face lit up at the sight of a sealed parchment in Gildor’s hand. With an effort, he kept himself from snatching it away. His eyes were riveted on the letter and Gildor took pity of him and dropped the parchment into the prince’s slightly trembling hand.
“Say ‘thank you’, Legolas and hide your prize,” said Aranaur. “Here is Adar.”
Gildor looked up at the stairway. ‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘here comes the treasure of the realm.’
Never when he saw Thranduil after years of separation, the sight of him failed to steal his breath away. Glorious. This was the word that always came to Gildor’s mind when he looked at the king. His beauty was glorious. Gildor let his eyes slide down Thranduil’s magnificent body taking in his sculptured shoulders, broad chest and slender waist. His robes hid his legs but Gildor knew how sinfully long they were and how good they felt, wrapped around his waist. His pulse quickened at the thought and he hastily raised his gaack ack to Thranduil’s face. It did not help much, though. A mere look at his sensual mouth made Gildor’s own mouth turn dry. And the king’s emerald eyes… his emerald eyes were regarding him with barely hidden mirth. Gildor came to his senses, aware that he had been staring. ‘You did it again, Thranduil,’ he smiled to himself, embarrassed. ‘Your beauty has caught me by surprise again.’
Gildor climbed the stairs to stand in front of Thranduil and, putting his hand over his heart, bowed to him and to the advisers behind his back. “Your Majesty. My Lords.”
“Welcome to Mirkwood, Gildor of Imladris,” said Thranduil, the low sensual tone of his voice caressing Gildor’s ears. “Was your travel safe?”
“Yes, sire, thank you. It was most luckily uneventful. I am glad to be here again and to find you well and thriving.”
‘And as damn gorgeous as ever,’ he added mentally.
Thranduil grinned. “You have been thoroughly missed in Mirkwood, Lord Gildor.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“You would probably wish to refresh yourself before we meet for dinner,” Thranduil offered.
“That would be highly desirable, indeed.”
“Lamdill will show you to your rooms, then.”
“Thank you, sire.”
They held each other’s eyes a moment longer, then Thranduil turned around and led the way inside. In the hall Gildor bowed to him agaid fod followed the king’s steward.
‘Proprieties,’ he thought with disdain. ‘As if they could fool anyone.’
“Lamdill, do I have the same rooms as always?” he asked aloud.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then you needn’t bother taking me there. I can find the way on my own.”
“But my lord,” the steward looked appalled, “that would be highly inappropriate! His Majesty will be very much displeased if I let you go all the way alone.”
Gildor rolled his eyes and resigned himself to dragging along behind the stubborn elf, who seemed to be in no hurry at all and walked the corridors at a ceremonial pachen hen they reached Gildor’s suite at last, Lamdill bowed respectfully and opened the door. Gildor walked into the room and… into Thranduil’s arms. The king kicked the door closed and pushed the Vanya against it, catching his lips in a searing kiss. Gildor felt his mouth being forced open and relaxed his jaw, allowing Thranduil to dominate the kiss. Thranduil lost himself in the intoxicating exploration of the hot sweetness that was Gildor’s mouth, rediscovering the territory, reclaiming it, filling it with his own taste, demanding response. When Gildor made a small sound of pleasure and his arms flew up to wrap around his waist, Thranduil deepened the kiss even more, his hands caressing the Vanya’s hips and sliding further behind to squeeze his buttocks. At that, Gildor tilted his head back and rolled it against the door, tearing his lips from Thranduil’s.
“I’m dirty,” he murmured.
Thranduil laughed breathlessly. “Yes, you often are, gh ygh you would never admit it.”
“No!” Gildors shoved hard at this chest, making him take a step back. “Dirty, meaning covered in dust up to my ears. I need a bath.”
“It is waiting for you.”
“Oh, thank the Valar!”
“The Valar have nothing to do with your bath. It would be more logical to offer your thanks to me.” Thranduil feigned offence.
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Gildor gave him a mock bow. “I’m most grateful for your thoughtfulness.”
“Then, maybe, you’ll allow me to join you?”
Gildor sighed. “Thranduil, you really do not want to find yourself in scummy water, I *am* dirty.”
The king chuckled. “I could assist you, then. Rub your back?”
Gildor looked scandalized. “Your Majesty! I would never dare accept such a service from *you*. I cannot allow you to sully your royal hands rubbing my back.”
“Your *royal* back,” the king remarked smoothly.
“Oh! You are right. I always forget. In this case, it’s all right, I suppose.” But then he assumed a thoughtful air. “Though, now I am not sure if your Sindarin hands are good enough for my Eldarin back.”
Thranduil snorted. “You find my Sindarin hands good enough for your Eldarin… nether parts. And vice versa.”
“I know, my tastes are perverted,” Gildor sighed with proper repentance. “I must admit I have a tender spot for freakish bedmates.”
“Freakish?” Thranduil followed him into the bathroom. “Try to bed a dwarf, then.”
Gildor wrinkled his nose. “I said ‘freakish’, not ‘ugly’.”
He unbraided his hair and started to undress. The king took a seat on a stool nearby. When he saw the fading bruise on the Vanya’s neck, he gave a low whistle. “Who gifted you with this adornment?”
Gildor saw no point in trying to hide the truth. “Haldir of Lórien.”
“Celeborn’s Marchwarden?” Thranduil gave another whistle.
“Do you know him?”
Thranduil laughed. “Everyone, even those who have been to Lórien only once, know him. He is one of the main attractions of the place.” He gave Gildor a teasing look. “You really must always have the best, melethronen, mustn’t you?”
“I did not have him,” Gildor said, entering the warm bath. “And to forestall your next question, no, he did not have me, either.”
“Of course not,” Thranduil murmured.
“Of course not. No one had anyone.”
“But he did get close enough to you to leave this mark.”
Gildor relaxed in the water and chose to ignore the comment. The Mirkwood king looked at him and wondered at the tight knot that was forming at the bottom of his stomach. He found that he strongly resented the idea of someone else touching this elf in this way. He was taken by surprise by his own possessiveness. There had never been any jealousy between them as they neither asked nor expected fidelity from each other. In fact, Thranduil never hesitated to take an occasional lover to his bed between Gildor’s visits. He had never asked if the Vanya did likewise. Though it was more likely than not, that he did; and the thought had never worried Thranduil before. Why it was different now, he really could not fathom.
“So, tell me, is the notorious Marchwarden still in love with the idea of conquest?” he drawled lazily, hiding his confusion.
Gildor opened his eyes and turned his head to look at him. “He surely seems to be.” Then a sudden thought crossed his mind. “Did he try to conquer *you*?”
“No!” Thranduil laughed. “I am a king, after all. To try to bed a king would be too much cheek even for him.”
“Hm.” Gildor closed his eyes again.
“If you want to learn more about him, talk to Aranaur. I think he got… closer acquainted with the Marchwarden during our visit to Lórien.”
“Hm?” Gildor did not bother to open his eyes.
Thranduil let his gaze rove over the golden elf in front of him, taking in the sight of his beautiful face, flushed with thet oft of the bath; his silken strands, sticking to his damp shoulders and chest; the sculptured muscles of his arms lying, relaxed, on the rim of the tub. The king’s hands were itching to touch him, to feel the satiny texture of his skin under his palms. But he knew that if he put his hands on Gildor he would end up in the bath with him, dirty water or not. There was no time for it right now. With a sigh, Thranduil rose to his feet.
“I’ll leave you to soak,” he said. “Don’t fall asleep. I hope to see you in the dining hall soon.”
Gildor looked at him from under his lashes. “No backrub, then?”
“Not this time.”
“What a disappointment. Am I allowed to come to the dining hall on my own or shall I have to lag behind your steward again?”
Thranduil laughed. “You can come yourself. I trust you remember the way.”
He could not resist the temptation. He bent and kissed him swiftly on the mouth. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Hm.” Gildor closed his eyes. Thranduil smiled and left the room.

Not to fall asleep turned out to be more difficult than Gildor could expect. The strain under which he had been living of late suddenly left him, as if some string had snapped inside him. Weariness hit him full-force like an iron fist in the stomach, leaving him weak and almost swaying on his feet. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and let slumber overtake him. He felt like he would be able to sleep for a week. He seriously doubted he was up to sitting through a formal dinner.
Fortunately for him, it was not going to be an official matter. Only Thranduil and his sons were present in the dining hall when he made his way into it. Thranduil and Aranaur were the ones who did almost all the talking over the meal. Gildor felt too exhausted to speak much and Legolas was floating in the clouds, paying very little attention to the world around him, until Aranaur kicked him under the table and brought him back to reality. Gildor had a very good idea what – or rather whom – the younger prince was thinking about. He smiled at him.
“The song you taught me last time I was here was a tremendous success in Imladris, pen-neth.”
“It was?” Legolas was genuinely pleased, understanding very well the implication of Gildor’s words.
“Oh yes. Lindir was green with envy. I was asked to sing it almost every day.”
Legolas smiled gratefully, his eyes becoming dreamy again. “I’ve written many new songs,” he said softly.
“I shall learn them all,” Gildor promised. “I am sure it will make your Imladris admirers happy.” Seeing Thranduil’s brows rise and Aranaur’s eyes widen in alarm, he hid a smirk and corrected himself, “Admirers of your talent, I mean.”
They did not stay at table long, as it was obvious that al the them – with the exception of Aranaur, perhaps – wanted the dinner to be over quickly. Legolas ran ahead, eager to get back to his room and Glorfindel’s letter. The others walked the passages of the palace at a more leisurely pace.
“Tell me, Aranaur,” Thranduil asked his son, “as far as I remember, when we were in Lórien on a visit, you got rather… well acquainted with Haldir.”
Gildor stiffened slightly at the sound of the name, but his face remained calm.
“Er… yes,” the prince answered carefully, not sure why his father would ask about it.
“What was it like?”
“What was it like?” Aranaur repeated dumbly.
“Your experience with him, what was it like?”
“Ada, what a question is that to ask?” The young elf looked slightly shocked.
The king laughed. “Gildor got acquainted with the Marchwarden as well, didn’t you, meldir?”
“Yes.”
“So, he would like to compare your impressions.”
Gildor gave Thranduil a dark glance but did not say anything.
“Oh, I see.” Aranaur looked at the Vanya with surprise and curiosity. “Well, it was… challenging. Exciting… and exhausting. It was like a constant war, a continuous fighting.”
“Fighting for what?” his father asked.
The young elf grinned sheepishly. “What are wars usually fought for? Power, dominance.”
Thranduil looked at him with amusement. “And who won?”
Aranaur laughed. “I would rather say, no one lost.”
Thranduil turned to Gildor. “Was your experience different?”
“Yes.”
“In what way?”
“There were no winners.”
They reached the divide in the hall. The princes’ rooms were to the left, the king’s and Gildor’s suites to the right. Aranaur wished them a good night and as his father turned to continue his way, he gave Gildor a conspiratorial wink and mouthed silently, “Right moment.” The Vanya rolled his eyes and nodded.
“Your rooms or mine?” Thranduil inquired, as Gildor caught up with him and they walked along the corridor.
“Mine.” Gildor was positive about it.
“What right moment did Aranaur mean?” Thranduil asked suddenly.
Gildor chuckled. “I’ll tell you when it comes.”
“Why do I have this feeling that my son and you are plotting behind my back?”
“Perhaps, because we are?” Gildor offered.
“Please, elaborate.”
“I shall, when the right moment comes.”
Thranduil shook his head in mock exasperation but did not force the issue.
As they entered Gildor’s suite, the Vanya walked through the front room straight to the bedchamber, unbuckling his belt and unfastening his tunic as he went. Then he plopped down on the bed and sighed contentedly. “This is the position I’ve been dreaming of through the whole dinner.”
“Flat on your back? This is definitely something new.” Thranduil came up to the bed and leaned over him, his hands bracketing Gildor’s hips. “Do I dare hope?”
“Hope you can always dare,” the Vanya smirked, though weakly. “But right now, Thranduil, honestly, I’m not fit for anything. I’m sorry. I canl asl asleep any moment now. Right beneath you.”
“That would be a deadly insult.” Thranduil looked more amused than offended.
“Well, you’ve been warned.”
“Fine. I’ll wait till you have rested, then. But you’ll have to make up for it.”
“Promise,” Gildor murmured.
With a sigh, Thranduil straightened up and removed his robe. Then he bent down and pulled off Gildor’s boots of his legs, unlaced his leggings and skillfully peeled them off of him. Then he stripped away his tunic. Gildor underwent his ministrations compliantly and gratefully. When Thranduil held the coverlet up for him, he crawled under it and sighed blissfully. “Tauren valthen, you are a treasure.”
Thranduil snorted, shed his own clothes quickly, blew out the candles and slid into the bed next to Gildor. He was taken completely by surprise when Gildor snuggled up to him. However, after the initial astonishment, he cradled him in his arms and held him close as Gildor fell into slumber. Listening to his soft breathing, Thranduil tried tolectlect his thoughts. Gildor was never one for cuddling. He would not seek this sort of comfort unless his self-confidence was lapping around his ankles. And that was *really* a rare case. What had happened to drain him so completely, to shatter his self-regard and to make him need support and reassurance was a puzzle for Thranduil. But he promised himself that it would not be for long.

Noro – ride (S)
Silivren – glittering-white (S)
Elen síla lumen’ omentielvo - A star shines upon the hour of our meeting (Q)
Yonya – my son (Q)
Pitya – little one (Q)
Atar – father (Q)lethlethronen – my lover (S)
Tauren valthen – my golden king (S)