Title & Chapter Number: An Unbidden Desire: Part 1/7
Author(s): - Author's Index
Website: Dimensions_of_Dhvana
Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: With the exception of Menelhen, the characters and places in this story are the creation of Tolkien.
Warnings: Slash
Betas: Nope
Cast: Elrohir/Thranduil, Legolas/Elladan, Elrohir/Menelhen implied
Timeline: Pre LotR AU
Spoilers: None
Summary: Though he is forced to foster in Mirkwood, Elrohir finds he may not be as eager to leave as he thought.
Notes: Having abandoned RPS for a while (needed a break), I thought I'd share with y'all the FPS story I'm working on. Hope you enjoy and feedback would be most welcome!
Part 1
Elrohir sighed as he examined the next book he pulled from the crate. He had never felt so empty or so alone, but then, he'd never been separated from his twin before. He never should have agreed to this. He understood that Legolas and Elladan wanted to spend some time together, that they weren't quite ready to share their love with the rest of the world, but to have abandoned him to face Mirkwood alone? The idea was quickly becoming unbearable.
Knowing his youngest son would find the loneliness of Mirkwood agonizing, Elrond had sent with him a crate of Elrohir's favorite books, hoping the touch of home would help him adjust. Though he appreciated his father's gesture, the familiarity of the tomes had only served to make him feel even more homesick. If it wasn't for the fostering agreement (or rather, the fostering order), he could have been home hunting Orcs or having long discussions with his father. Instead, thanks to his grandparents, one child of Elrond's had to spend alternating summers in Mirkwood, just as Legolas had to spend alternating summers in Imladris. Because of his love for Elladan and Legolas, he had been foolish enough to volunteer to spend this summer alone.
"Damn them both!" he snapped, throwing a book against the wall. "Next time they're coming, and I don't care if it means they're forced to hide in the corners--I'm not doing this again!"
"My Lord?" came an amused voice from the door, and the Prince of Rivendell turned to see an Elf watching him with wide silver eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you."
Elrohir shrugged his shoulders, turning back to his books. "You're not disturbing me. I was disturbed long before I arrived here."
The Elf chuckled and cautiously entered the room. "That's good to hear... I think. My name is Menelhen. I'm a friend of Prince Legolas, and he asked me to make sure you felt welcome here, or at the very least, you had someone to talk to."
Immediately feeling guilty for his behavior in front of the Elf, he attempted a smile. "I'm sorry. Forgive my rudeness, please. It's just that..." he paused, not wanting to risk offending him.
"You didn't want to come here?" Menelhen offered, and Elrohir relaxed.
"Exactly."
"If I were you, I would want to be here either. On a personal note, I'm glad that you are--Legolas has told me a lot about you, and I've been eager to meet you for quite some time. If you need anything, from an escape to a chat, my room is right down the hall. If I'm not there, ask anyone for the Healer, and they'll tell you where to find me."
"You're a Healer?" he asked, his eye widening with surprise. The Elf looked far too young for such a heavy role.
"That I am. I still have much to learn, but I am all Mirkwood has."
"I'm sure you're more than adequate," Elrohir smiled, and the Healer just rolled his eyes, which made him laugh. Perhaps it would be a good thing to have Menelhen as an ally. "Is there anything I need to know? Without Legolas to guide me, I'm afraid I might make a vital error and spark a war between our people."
Menelhen opened his mouth, then hesitated, studying the raven-haired Prince. "Have you ever spent much time with the King?"
"Thranduil? No," he said, shaking his head. He frowned as he tried to form a mental image of the Elf Lord, but was unable to do so. "I've probably never spent more than a few minutes in his presence."
"It would be wise of you to continue that tradition. Our Lord has been in a foul mood for quite some time now, and considering his feelings for your family, it might be best if you stayed out of his sight."
Elrohir grinned at the anxious Healer. "Do not worry--I had already planned on avoiding him at all costs."
"Good," Menelhen smiled, the tension easing from his body. "I will leave you to unpack. If you need anything, just ask."
"Thank you, Menelhen," he smiled, and the Elf disappeared down the hall. Suddenly, things did not seem so gloomy. It was reassuring to know he would have someone he could go to. Legolas had made the right choice in asking the Healer to befriend him.
~*~*~*~
Over the next month, Elrohir used the hours of the day alternating between his books, spending time with Menelhen, and walking through the woods. The thick glades of trees and the constant whispering of the leaves usually served to ease his loneliness, and this day was no exception. The sun was shining brightly and it seemed as if the entire castle had purged itself of its inhabitants as the Elves spilled outside to frolic in the fresh summer's air. Though he had made a few friends amongst the woodland Elves and would have been welcome to join them, he chose instead to seek solitude deep in the forest.
He wandered between the trees, the speckled shadows of the leaves casting shapeless patterns across his skin. Distant shouts of playful Elves would occasionally reach his ears, but for the most part, the woods were quiet. He couldn't help but wonder what Elladan and Legolas were doing, or Arwen and his father back in Rivendell. Were they enjoying the freedom of a beautiful summer day? He knew his father, at least, would have to be dragged from his study into the sunshine, probably by Glorfindel or Erestor. He wished them luck.
Suddenly, there came the scurrying of several large bodies behind him, followed by excited shouts.
"Duck!" was the one voice that reached his ears clearly, but he was too surprised to comprehend the meaning until an arrow zoomed past his head, grazing his skull along the way. He gasped as a burst of light flashed before his eyes, one hand flying to his scalp to be quickly covered with blood.
Elrohir fell back against the tree as half a dozen Elves appeared before him, their leader stepping forward to yell at the Prince.
"Fool! Do you not understand that when someone yells 'Duck!', that is precisely what you are supposed to do?!"
The golden god continued to thunder before him, but Elrohir didn't hear a single word. Whether it was from the throbbing in his head or the pounding of his heart, he was in a daze as he watched the magnificent Elf. Long blond hair, paler than Legolas's but just as fine, swept down his back loose and in braids. His body was lean and powerfully built, seeming to tower over the other Elves. It was his eyes, however, that truly held Elrohir captive--eyes set in a handsome face completely lacking in warmth, eyes a blue so cold he felt as if they imprisoned him in chains of ice.
Thranduil.
Elrohir swallowed hard as the King grabbed his hand away from the wound to examine the damage.
"You," he said, turning his glacial gaze on an Elf who practically trembled beneath the feared attention. "It was your poor aim that did this. Fetch the Healer and have him waiting so he can sew this fool up."
The Elf bowed low, then turned and ran back to the castle.
"You," he said, staring at Elrohir, "you do not look familiar. Do I know you? What is your name?"
"Elrohir of Imladris, my Lord," he said, attempting to bow, but was swept with a wave of dizziness and ended up falling against the King.
"Elrond's son," Thranduil sneered, holding up the young Elf. "That explains everything."
He expected the Elf Lord's touch to be as snowy as his gaze, but instead, Thranduil's hands seemed to burn past the tunic to his skin, heating him through to his bones. The winter eyes studied his face, and Elrohir felt himself turning red beneath the probing gaze, but he refused to look away and boldly stared back at the King. A smile quirked the royal lips, though with what emotion, Elrohir couldn't interpret.
"You," he said, removing his gaze from Elrohir's face as he pointed at an unfortunate Elf. "See to it that he makes it back to the castle. The rest of us shall continue our game."
With the blink of an eye, he and his companions were gone, leaving the Prince alone with an Elf who looked more relieved than disappointed to be left behind.
Elrohir was only vaguely aware of his return trip back to the castle. He felt strange inside, though he didn't think it was from the wound. When Thranduil had been near, he'd felt overwhelmed by the majesty and terrible beauty of the King. Now that he was gone, he felt smaller somehow, and more alone than ever.
Menelhen met them at the castle door and led them to Elrohir's quarters. Dismissing the Elf who had guided him, Menelhen quickly cleaned and examined the wound. He mixed some herbs into a cup of water and handed it to the Prince.
"It probably feels far worse than it is. I recommend rest and no strenuous activity. You should be healed within a day. Drink this, and you won't wake up till tomorrow morning, thus avoiding all of the pain."
"Thank you, Menelhen," he smiled, drinking the contents of the mug in one swallow. He leaned back against the pillow, allowing his eyes to glaze over, but focused them again upon hearing the Healer's chuckle as the Elf shook his head with amusement.
"Your first encounter with Thranduil," Menelhen grinned, brushing behind an ear his long, dark brown hair marked by a single streak of silver. "Not very successful, was it? I'm surprised he didn't leave you there as punishment."
"He was probably afraid of what my grandparents would do if they found out."
"Possibly," Menelhen smiled as he stood up, though he knew firsthand that Thranduil feared nothing. "Consider yourself lucky. Many have not fared quite so well. Now, get some sleep, and I'll come check on you later tonight."
Elrohir nodded and when the Elf was gone, allowed himself to drift off into an uneasy slumber. While the potion kept him asleep, his dreams were filled with a warlike god whose frozen eyes refused to let him go. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't escape, and gradually, he stopped wanting to.
~*~*~*~
When Menelhen paused by the room hours later, the raven-haired Elf had calmed and seemed to be resting peacefully. He didn't even move when Menelhen lifted his head to examine the wound.
"Poor little Princeling," the Healer chuckled, drawing the blanket up over his shoulders. As he walked out of the room, he was startled to find Thranduil waiting for him.
"How is he?"
"He'll survive," Menelhen said, smiling broadly at the King, enjoying the privilege of being the only Elf in Mirkwood who wasn't afraid of the fierce Lord.
"Pity," Thranduil muttered, peering into the room. Sensing the icy gaze on him, Elrohir began moaning in his sleep, and Thranduil smiled grimly at the sight. The only thing he would grant Elrond was that he had been blessed with beautiful children, and the young Elf was no exception. Still, it seemed this one was somewhat lacking in the spirit he would have expected from one of Imladris' sons. "Pity," he repeated.
"My Lord, do not think for one second that I believe you mean that."
"Then what do I mean?"
Menelhen glanced at the King out of the corners of his eyes, studying him thoughtfully. "I'm still working on my interpretation."
"When you think you've managed to interpret me correctly, please let me know," Thranduil said, not even glancing at the Healer as he walked down the hall. Menelhen looked from the King's retreating back to the Elf who was once more resting comfortably, and started to frown. His eyes narrowed as his suspicions were roused, but then he shook his head. Impossible, he thought, smiling once more as he made his way to his room.
~*~*~*~
Menelhen had been right. When he woke the next morning, Elrohir felt as if he'd never been injured at all. He was completely rejuvenated and eager to thank the Healer for his care. As he finished dressing, the door to his room opened and he shivered as if a cold wind had entered.
"My Lord," Elrohir said, bowing before the King. "How may I serve you?"
Thranduil's eyes were momentarily caught by the silky black hair gleaming blue in the morning light, and he wondered from which parent he had inherited that unusual color. Elrond, probably. Nothing natural came from that Elf. Realizing the Prince's quizzical eyes were upon him, he refocused his attention.
"Are you well?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"Good. I have come to believe that I have not been doing my duties as a foster parent during your visits here. Therefore, you will join the other Elves in their training each morning for the rest of your stay. The afternoons will be yours to do with as you please, but the mornings are mine."
Elrohir stared at the King, feeling as if he'd been hypnotized by a snake, a deadly serpent whose fangs were just starting to sink into his flesh. He couldn't move, his mind no longer his own--he just watched the fearsome Elf, dazzled by his beauty.
"We will begin this morning," Thranduil continued, failing to notice the Prince's preoccupation. "You have ten minutes for breakfast, and I expect to see you in the training arena. Do I make myself clear?"
Elrohir nodded, barely able to force the words past his throat. "Yes, my Lord."
Thranduil gave one sharp nod and then left, trying to understand why the boy kept staring at him with eyes as wide as a cornered deer. He wasn't that intimidating. Must be something wrong with his mind--little wonder, being a brat of Rivendell.
When the King was gone, Elrohir gave a deep, shuddering breath as he leaned against the bed for support. His heart was pounding, though he didn't know why. It didn't make sense that Thranduil would have such an effect on him. He had learned to dislike the Elf from the stories he'd heard alone. To know his body was drawn to him like a magnet--it was unbearable, and now he was doomed to spend every morning with him--unless he could escape. He would show the Lord of Mirkwood he had no need for his training and then avoid Thranduil for the rest of his stay. But first, he'd better run to the kitchen and grab something to eat before he ran out of time, or his stomach would never forgive him.
~*~*~*~
As the weeks wore on, Thranduil found his eyes drawn again and again to the youngest son of Rivendell. The Prince had thrown himself into the practices as if he had something to prove, defeating his woodland partners almost every time. In fact, the boy was starting to get a little cocky, smiling smugly as he took out yet another of Mirkwood's finest warriors. Time for a lesson, the King thought, unlacing his tunic.
"Who's next?" Elrohir said, looking around.
"I am."
Elrohir turned and his composure faltered for a second, then he smiled, his eyes glittering with pleasure. "My Lord?"
"It seems my warriors have been a little too easy on you," Thranduil said, raising his voice as he cast his glacial gaze over the Elves, who were slowly backing up against the arena walls. "Perhaps they're unnerved by the fact that you're a Prince. They should know by now that the only Elves who enter this arena are fighters, and nothing more. Why? Because on the battlefield, thinking they are anything else could get them killed."
Menelhen snorted from where he was sitting cross-legged on a bench against the wall. He was usually present at the training sessions, which had a tendency to get a little violent, especially with Thranduil urging them on. For his part, he thought they were silly games played by silly Elves, and did not fail to be amused by the Elf Lord's speech.
The King shot the Healer a dirty look, who stared innocently back at him, then continued. "I can see it is up to me to demonstrate the might of Elves of Mirkwood."
Elrohir narrowed his eyes at Thranduil, removing his sweat-soaked shirt and tossing it to Menelhen, who caught it with a nod of approval at the Elf's gesture. "It's clear to me you have little idea what happens on a battlefield, or you wouldn't be wasting so much time boring us with your tedious blustering."
Thranduil's icy stare locked onto the Prince of Rivendell and Menelhen could see that young Elrohir had made a big mistake. He didn't stand a chance against Mirkwood's Lord, but before that unwise remark, Thranduil might have gone easy on him. Now, if he was lucky, he might last five minutes. If not, well, that's what the Healer was there for.
"It is fortunate you will never be a leader of your people--they would die quickly under your hand."
Elrohir sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes. "Are you still talking?"
"Prepare yourself, Princeling. Keep your eyes open, and learn."
"Learn to rule by fear? Not very productive, if you ask me."
The two Elves began circling each other, their swords ready and waiting for the first blow.
"Fear?" Thranduil repeated, arching a single graceful eyebrow as he swung at the Prince, who was able to block him, but felt it all the way through his arm.
It was in that moment, Elrohir knew he would lose. The King was ten times the warrior he ever would be, but he didn't care. What was important was that he didn't give in to him. He blocked again, and again, and again, each swing of the blade coming faster than he could ever imagine. Swallowing hard, he refused to give up any ground, simply willing himself to move faster, but from the way his arm was tingling, willpower wouldn't hold him up for long.
"Do you fear me?" the King of Mirkwood shouted to his warriors.
"Yes, my Lord!" they answered in unison.
"Do you respect me?"
"Yes, my Lord!"
"Do you trust me?"
"Yes, my Lord!"
"Would you follow me into battle?"
"Yes, my Lord!"
"Without question?"
"Yes, my Lord?"
"Do you believe them?" he asked, lowering his voice as he paused in his barrage of blows on the Prince.
"I believe they'll tell you anything you want to hear," Elrohir answered, panting, taking the opportunity of the brief rest to try and regain his breath. Just as suddenly, the rest was over.
"Are you lying to me?" Thranduil shouted, picking up speed once more.
"No, my Lord!"
"Why?"
The Elves stared at him for a moment, then one of his captains stepped forward.
"We know you'll win, my Lord!"
"Is that all?"
Another Elf stepped forward. "We know you'll keep us alive!"
Thranduil gave Elrohir a triumphant look. "Now do you believe them?"
"They are very well trained," the Elf said, his voice acidic as he rubbed his numb shoulder.
"You're a stubborn little Prince, aren't you?"
"'Little'?" Elrohir said, matching Thranduil's arched eyebrow. "Surely rumors of my reputation have reached even the Greenwood."
"They have indeed," he answered with a disapproving scowl.
Grabbing Thranduil's sword arm by the wrist, he pulled the King into him, his face mere inches away from the regal being as he purred, "Then you know there is nothing 'little' about me."
Something flashed across Thranduil's eyes, but Elrohir was unable to read it in time before he was distracted by his sword flying across the arena. All flirtation vanished as his jaw dropped in shock. The King tossed his own sword aside and gave him a feral grin.
"Are you ready for the next round?" he asked, removing the undershirt that had grown transparent with sweat.
Elrohir forced his eyes away from the muscular chest gleaming with perspiration. He knew he'd follow this King into battle, if for no other reason to watch him move, and for the opportunity to dry him off afterwards.
As they began to circle each other once more, the son of Elrond blinked rapidly, horrified by his thoughts. This Elf was his enemy and had aggrieved his family for ages. The last thing he wanted to do was know what it would be like to feel those strong arms around him, or their bodies sliding against each other, or to see that icy face melt with the release of orgasm.
Diving, the Prince barely missed being caught in Thranduil's grasp, but was unbalanced by the leg that tripped him, knocking him to the ground. His own leg lashed out and the King fell, the two rolling around in the dust trying to dominate each other. Finally, the strength of Mirkwood's Lord won out and he pinned the younger Elf beneath him. Holding their arms above their heads, Thranduil smiled down at the Prince, his pale hair flowing around them, blocking the others from view.
"Do you yield?"
"Never," Elrohir growled.
Thranduil, noticing that the Elf's body seemed to be reacting in a manner opposite of his words, ground his hips against Elrohir's. The Prince gasped, then moaned as his blood began to rise. The King felt good against his body--too good, and it was becoming increasingly obvious. Knowing this couldn't go on, Elrohir tried to struggle out from under the King's grasp, but only succeeded in bringing their groins closer together.
"Do you yield?" the great Lord demanded again.
"Never!" he shouted.
"You will," Thranduil whispered, flicking his tongue against Elrohir's lips, then rose to his feet in a single fluid movement. "The Prince refuses to yield!" he shouted to the watching Elves. "This is what I demand from all of you. No matter how dire the situation looks, you will not yield!"
Leaving the Prince lying in the dirt, Thranduil walked out of the arena. Laughing softly to himself, Menelhen approached Elrohir and offered him a hand up.
"I don't know about you, but that situation didn't look terribly dire."
"You should have seen it from my view," Elrohir muttered, walking out of the arena in the opposite direction of the King.
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