Dark Council- *added Epilogue*
folder
-Multi-Age › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
12
Views:
2,560
Reviews:
21
Recommended:
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Currently Reading:
0
Category:
-Multi-Age › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
12
Views:
2,560
Reviews:
21
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Dark Council
None of Mr. Tolkien’s characters belong to me. But Garand is mine, all mine.
DARK COUNCIL
“I see what you mean,” Thranduil said frowning, as he gazed in bafflement at the destruction of an irrigation pipe that fed spring water to the vegetable crop tended by a small hamlet of Elves living in his kingdom.
“Do you think it is accidental?” he turned to Garand, his beautiful lover of seventy five years.
Garand shook his head decisively. Having been forged by Elven silversmiths, the pipes were of the sturdiest construction. “Silver is a very durable metal. ‘Twould have taken nothing less than an enormous oak falling upon it to cause this type of damage. There is no evidence of that happening, and even if there were, the break is too clean to have been caused by any natural occurrence. This was deliberate.”
The King turned to look at Garand as he surveyed the damage, disgust evident on his lovely face. He never tired of gazing upon his lover, as he’d watched him transform gracefully from a young, coltish elfling into the stunning and magnificent warrior who stood beside him now. He had trained tirelessly in every form of combat, and with every known weapon of the Woodland Elves. Once, after a particularly grueling session of knife-fighting with his instructor, Garand had returned to the bedcha he he shared with Thranduil, nursing a deep gash in his forearm. Looking up from the book he was reading in front of the fireplace, and seeing the ashen color of Garand’s face and the spreading red stain on his tunic sleeve, Thranduil leapt from the chair to clasp his lover’s shoulders just as his knees buckled.
“What has happened, meltha?” the King asked urgently, as he guided the younger elf toward the bed.
“I lunged when I should have feinted,” Garand laughed weakly. Sitting heavily on the side of the bed, he watched as Thranduil knelt in front of him and gently pushed back the tunic sleeve to reveal a long, jagged cut that still bled freely. Inhaling sharply, the King looked up to Garand.
“Why did Isil-Gar not call for the healer to dress this for you?” he asked, confused.
“I convinced him ‘twas not so bad,” Garand replied. “He felt badly enough as it was; I wanted to keep the severity of the cut hidden from him.”
Thranduil raised turquoise-blue eyes to look at the face of his younger lover.
“Always sparing the feelings of others, no matter what,” he murmured in wonder, as he searched the brilliant green eyes. “What am I to do with you?”
“Love me,” Garand pleaded as he leaned his forehead against the King’s, “for as long as I walk upon Middle Earth. Just love me,” he added simply.
“I do,” the flaxen haired King answered, as he gently took Garand’s face in his hands, whispering against his soft lips. “I will”. And he kissed him sweetly for a brief moment before striding to the door of the bedchamber and calling for the healer. As they waited for his arrival, Thranduil sat beside his lover and, taking Garand’s uninjured hand in his, spoke seriously.
“Why do you push yourself so, my love? Do you feel you must prove yourself to me, or to anyone? I assure you, it is needless.”
Garand looked at Thranduil in mild surprise, as if the answer should be obvious. “I wish only to learn all that I may, so that I may be of value to you and to the kingdom of Mirkwood.” He placed a fingertip gently on the lips of the King when he began to protest. “I know I have your heart, as you have mine, but that does nothing to serve you. You are more than my light and my love; you are my King, and if by improving my skills at fighting or diplomacy, I can protect or aid you, ‘tis what I truly wish to do.”
Thranduil’s heart warmed at these words, and his hand delved into the thick auburn tresses of the younger elf, pulling him closer. “Why the Valar should bless me so, is a mystery to me,” he whispered as he lightly brushed his lips over Garand’s. “To have the love of one such as you, and the love of my glorious son, is more than I could ever have hoped for.”
Garand sighed appreciatively as he leaned in to Thranduil, kissing him with the astonishing blend of heat and tenderness that was his alone, just as the healer entered the room. Unandir stood patiently just inside the door, waiting to be noticed. The King became aware of his presence first, and broke off the kiss, but continued to hold Garand’s hand as he turned to smile at the healer.
“Unandir, thank you for coming so quickly,” he said as he moved aside to give the Elven healer room to work his magic, using the herbs and salves that would not only heal Garand’s wound, but prevent even the slightest hint of a scar.
That had been several decades in the past, and Garand had never again been injured in training, but had only grown more accomplished as a fighter, his skills eventually surpassing even those of Legolas.
Now, as the King and his lover stood in the open glade assessing the brazen destruction of the irrigation pipe, Thranduil realized that he did indeed feel safe at all times in Garand’s presence. He knew with certainty that he would gladly trust Garand and Legolas with his life. Bringing his attention back to the problem at hand, Thranduil spoke with the decisiveness and authoritative efficiency that made him a truly great ruler, “Will you show the silversmiths and engineers this damage, please Garand?”
“Of course, my Lord,” Garand replied.
“And,” the King added, “may I also rely on you to investigate this incident with discretion? I wish us to have the element of surprise on our side, when ‘tis discovered who is responsible.”
Determination shone in Garand’s magnificent emerald eyes, “You may rely on me always, melda.”
Thranduil stepped closer to him and, brushing back a lock of thick russet hair, he gently stroked the nape of his lover’s neck. Garand turned to him and said playfully, “My Lord Thranduil, are you not afraid of being seen out here in the forest? There may be prying eyes hidden behind these trees that surround us.”
The King smiled seductively. “And what would those prying eyes see?” he whispered, playing along.
Garand pressed himself against his lover heatedly, as he began to nibble the sensitive skin of Thranduil’s neck. “A beautiful, golden King being ravished by his lover,” he murmured.
The Elven ruler moaned as he whispered, “What do you think we should do about it?”
Reluctantly, Garand pulled away. “I think we should let those prying eyes find their own entertainment. I want you all to myself.”
Gazing into each other’s eyes, they smiled at one another, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Turning simultaneously, they strode to their horses, and leaping quickly onto their backs, they raced back to the palace, the haven of their bedchamber, and each other’s arms.
***********
DARK COUNCIL
“I see what you mean,” Thranduil said frowning, as he gazed in bafflement at the destruction of an irrigation pipe that fed spring water to the vegetable crop tended by a small hamlet of Elves living in his kingdom.
“Do you think it is accidental?” he turned to Garand, his beautiful lover of seventy five years.
Garand shook his head decisively. Having been forged by Elven silversmiths, the pipes were of the sturdiest construction. “Silver is a very durable metal. ‘Twould have taken nothing less than an enormous oak falling upon it to cause this type of damage. There is no evidence of that happening, and even if there were, the break is too clean to have been caused by any natural occurrence. This was deliberate.”
The King turned to look at Garand as he surveyed the damage, disgust evident on his lovely face. He never tired of gazing upon his lover, as he’d watched him transform gracefully from a young, coltish elfling into the stunning and magnificent warrior who stood beside him now. He had trained tirelessly in every form of combat, and with every known weapon of the Woodland Elves. Once, after a particularly grueling session of knife-fighting with his instructor, Garand had returned to the bedcha he he shared with Thranduil, nursing a deep gash in his forearm. Looking up from the book he was reading in front of the fireplace, and seeing the ashen color of Garand’s face and the spreading red stain on his tunic sleeve, Thranduil leapt from the chair to clasp his lover’s shoulders just as his knees buckled.
“What has happened, meltha?” the King asked urgently, as he guided the younger elf toward the bed.
“I lunged when I should have feinted,” Garand laughed weakly. Sitting heavily on the side of the bed, he watched as Thranduil knelt in front of him and gently pushed back the tunic sleeve to reveal a long, jagged cut that still bled freely. Inhaling sharply, the King looked up to Garand.
“Why did Isil-Gar not call for the healer to dress this for you?” he asked, confused.
“I convinced him ‘twas not so bad,” Garand replied. “He felt badly enough as it was; I wanted to keep the severity of the cut hidden from him.”
Thranduil raised turquoise-blue eyes to look at the face of his younger lover.
“Always sparing the feelings of others, no matter what,” he murmured in wonder, as he searched the brilliant green eyes. “What am I to do with you?”
“Love me,” Garand pleaded as he leaned his forehead against the King’s, “for as long as I walk upon Middle Earth. Just love me,” he added simply.
“I do,” the flaxen haired King answered, as he gently took Garand’s face in his hands, whispering against his soft lips. “I will”. And he kissed him sweetly for a brief moment before striding to the door of the bedchamber and calling for the healer. As they waited for his arrival, Thranduil sat beside his lover and, taking Garand’s uninjured hand in his, spoke seriously.
“Why do you push yourself so, my love? Do you feel you must prove yourself to me, or to anyone? I assure you, it is needless.”
Garand looked at Thranduil in mild surprise, as if the answer should be obvious. “I wish only to learn all that I may, so that I may be of value to you and to the kingdom of Mirkwood.” He placed a fingertip gently on the lips of the King when he began to protest. “I know I have your heart, as you have mine, but that does nothing to serve you. You are more than my light and my love; you are my King, and if by improving my skills at fighting or diplomacy, I can protect or aid you, ‘tis what I truly wish to do.”
Thranduil’s heart warmed at these words, and his hand delved into the thick auburn tresses of the younger elf, pulling him closer. “Why the Valar should bless me so, is a mystery to me,” he whispered as he lightly brushed his lips over Garand’s. “To have the love of one such as you, and the love of my glorious son, is more than I could ever have hoped for.”
Garand sighed appreciatively as he leaned in to Thranduil, kissing him with the astonishing blend of heat and tenderness that was his alone, just as the healer entered the room. Unandir stood patiently just inside the door, waiting to be noticed. The King became aware of his presence first, and broke off the kiss, but continued to hold Garand’s hand as he turned to smile at the healer.
“Unandir, thank you for coming so quickly,” he said as he moved aside to give the Elven healer room to work his magic, using the herbs and salves that would not only heal Garand’s wound, but prevent even the slightest hint of a scar.
That had been several decades in the past, and Garand had never again been injured in training, but had only grown more accomplished as a fighter, his skills eventually surpassing even those of Legolas.
Now, as the King and his lover stood in the open glade assessing the brazen destruction of the irrigation pipe, Thranduil realized that he did indeed feel safe at all times in Garand’s presence. He knew with certainty that he would gladly trust Garand and Legolas with his life. Bringing his attention back to the problem at hand, Thranduil spoke with the decisiveness and authoritative efficiency that made him a truly great ruler, “Will you show the silversmiths and engineers this damage, please Garand?”
“Of course, my Lord,” Garand replied.
“And,” the King added, “may I also rely on you to investigate this incident with discretion? I wish us to have the element of surprise on our side, when ‘tis discovered who is responsible.”
Determination shone in Garand’s magnificent emerald eyes, “You may rely on me always, melda.”
Thranduil stepped closer to him and, brushing back a lock of thick russet hair, he gently stroked the nape of his lover’s neck. Garand turned to him and said playfully, “My Lord Thranduil, are you not afraid of being seen out here in the forest? There may be prying eyes hidden behind these trees that surround us.”
The King smiled seductively. “And what would those prying eyes see?” he whispered, playing along.
Garand pressed himself against his lover heatedly, as he began to nibble the sensitive skin of Thranduil’s neck. “A beautiful, golden King being ravished by his lover,” he murmured.
The Elven ruler moaned as he whispered, “What do you think we should do about it?”
Reluctantly, Garand pulled away. “I think we should let those prying eyes find their own entertainment. I want you all to myself.”
Gazing into each other’s eyes, they smiled at one another, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Turning simultaneously, they strode to their horses, and leaping quickly onto their backs, they raced back to the palace, the haven of their bedchamber, and each other’s arms.
***********