Title:  An Unbidden Desire
Author:  Dhvana (Dhvana@aol.com)
Improv: 9--crate,  sew,  round, duck
Rating: NC-17
Type: slash, Elrohir/Thranduil, Legolas/Elladan implied
Archive: Yes to Moria, all others please ask.

Disclaimer:  I don't own Middle Earth, I just live there.
Summary:  Though he is forced to foster in Mirkwood, Elrohir finds he may not be
as eager to leave as he thought. 



An Unbidden Desire

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 all 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 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 aro
und 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.


Part 2

Thranduil, having washed away the morning's practice in the baths, entered his
room to find the Healer draped over one of the large chairs near the fireplace,
a heavy book in his lap.

"Did you want something?" Thranduil said, dropping his robe to the floor.

Menelhen gave an appreciative glance over the lean body, then pouted as
Thranduil pulled on a pair of breeches. Sighing, he returned to flipping 
through the pages.

"You seemed to be enjoying yourself this morning."

"It's always a pleasure to see a son of Imladris sprawled out on the ground."

"Especially when you're on top of him at the time," he muttered under his
breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, my Lord."

"Indeed," he said, giving the Elf a skeptical look as he shrugged into his
tunic.

Menelhen smiled to himself. This was going to be easier than he thought.
"Elrohir is beautiful," he said, his voice full of detached observation, "even
by Elven standards, don't you think? That long, thick black hair, nicely toned
body, and those deep blue eyes that seem to grab onto your heart and refuse to
let go."

Thranduil looked at the Healer, wondering where this was going. "If you're
seeking my permission to court the Prince, you have it."

"My dear King," Menelhen said, slamming his book shut, "you know where my
affections lie."

"Then why all this talk about our...guest?" Thranduil asked, sitting in the
chair across from him.

"You didn't think you actions were hidden from us all, did you, my Lord?"
Menelhen asked, gracefully pushing himself out of the chair and walking over to
the King. "I saw you," he whispered in a pointed ear as he stood behind 
Thranduil, then moved over to the other ear. "The way you pressed your body to
his, the way you tasted him." He moved back to the first ear. "Is he still
there, lingering in your mouth?"

Thranduil reached up and grabbed Menelhen by the robes, pulling him around till
they were face to face.

"What are you trying to say, Healer?" the King growled, the rumble carrying a
threat of what would happen if the Elf didn't soon reach his point. Menelhen
melted onto the King's lap, their faces so close he could rub noses with the
Lord.

"He wants you, just as you want him" he said, running his fingers over an
elegant cheek. "Would it be so wrong for you to call him to you?"

"Yes," Thranduil answered, growing impatient with the Healer's game.

Smiling, Menelhen closed the space between them and kissed the wintry Lord.
"Then I will send him to you."

He stood up and fled from the room before the King could catch him, Thranduil's
angry yell following him down the hall.




It took the Healer longer to find the Prince than he had expected, as Elrohir
had sought the solitude of the woods after the morning's humiliation. He had
bathed in a mountain stream, then fell asleep on a sun-warmed boulder. By the
time he woke up, it was nearly dark. He returned to the castle with the sole
intention of curling up by the fire with one of his 
books, but his intentions held little power in Mirkwood.

Menelhen knocked sharply on the door and entered. "Elrohir, I've been looking
all over for you."

"Why?" the Prince asked, immediately alarmed by the urgency in the Healer's
voice. "Is something wrong? Have you heard from Rivendell?"

"No, do not worry, it's nothing like that. The King wishes to see you."

Elrohir frowned, the blood rushing from his face at the thought of having to
face him again. "The King? Do you know what he wants?"

"You'll have to ask him," Menelhen said, straightening the Elf's clothes and
arranging the long dark hair over his shoulders. Standing back, he gave the
Prince a nod of approval. "Not ideal, but a pleasure nonetheless."

Elrohir blinked in confusion. "What?"

"Nothing. You should go--now! He'll already be furious that it took me this long
to find you."

"Oh, bother," Elrohir muttered under his breath as he headed towards the door.
He paused, glancing back at the Healer, who nodded encouragingly.

"Go!"

Though he didn't want to risk rousing the King's impatience any further,
Elrohir's feet were remarkably sluggish as he made his way to Thranduil's
chambers. What could the King possibly want with him? he wondered, and then he
remembered the feeling of Thranduil on top of him. He breathed in deep as 
a shiver ran through his body.

Impossible, he thought, scolding himself for even imagining it. They could
barely tolerate the other's presence, much lest desire anything... physical.

He stood before the massive wooden door and stared at it, wondering about the
Elf inside. Lifting his hand, he reached out to knock, then lowered his hand
back down to his side. If his twin could see him now, Elladan would be rolling
on the floor, laughing till tears streamed from his eyes. But then, 
if Elladan knew what his brother had been thinking about Mirkwood's Lord, he
would be hunting Elrohir instead of Orcs.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered, and rapped quickly on the door.

"Enter!"

The door creaked open and he stepped inside.




The Elf King's eyes flared as he caught sight of the young Prince. Damn that
Healer! He would see to it that Menelhen suffered dearly for this. Still, look
at the way he hesitated, the way those magnificent blue eyes kept darting
towards the door. There could be amusement to be found in this after all.

"Menelhen said you wished to see me."

"Close the door and come in."

Though he only gave it the slightest nudge, the door swung smoothly on its
hinges and shut with an ominous click that made Elrohir jump. He quickly looked
to see if Thranduil had noticed, but the Elven Lord's icy stare was focused on
the fire. He was sitting in a large armchair near the blaze, for 
even in summer, the air of Mirkwood turned cold at night. He 
was...beautiful. The golden glow of the flames gave him a warmth that was
lacking in life, deepening his hair to a dark gold, lighting up his eyes.

"Sit down," the King commanded, and Elrohir walked over to the chair across from
him, casting only a brief uneasy glance at the large bed as he passed by.

"You have potential."

"My Lord?" Elrohir frowned as he sat down.

"Your skills as an archer are reprehensible, but your swordplay is impressive
and your hand-to-hand combat, though it could do with some correction, is not
terrible."

"Thank you, my Lord," Elrohir said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice.
Thranduil gave him a dark look, but chose to let it slide.

"You have learned much during your stay here. I have seen definite signs of
improvement."

Elrohir's eyes narrowed. "The Orcs never seemed to complain about my technique
before. But then, there were never any of them left to complain."

"That doesn't mean you couldn't get better. You never know when the extra
training might be what turns the tide of a battle. I'm simply thankful my son
has become the warrior he is--and you should be too, considering your brother is
with him."

"I'm sure they won't encounter any trouble, my Lord," he answered, looking
closer at the Elf's regal features--did he know? Did he suspect what was going
on between the two? "And if they do, my brother is a skilled warrior himself."

"Yes, his skills are widely known. It still surprises me that he chose your twin
over you. I would have thought he was a bit too wild for Legolas, but they seem
to suit each other."

Elrohir stared at the King, who was watching him with glittering eyes. "You
know."

"My son has grown less careful about hiding the details of his life from 
me since he ceased to spend every moment seeking for my approval. It wasn't 
difficult to discern the true depth of his emotions when he spoke of Elladan."

He immediately began to fear for the lovers--from what he'd heard, 
Thranduil wasn't known for his tolerance. "You... you will not try to hurt 
them, will you?"

"My son's heart is his own to give. I may not like his choice, but I 
will not try to change it."

No matter how hard he tried, Thranduil could not have said anything more 
shocking to the Prince. He was silent for a moment, then started to chuckle. 
"I'm glad you know. Relieved, actually. Now they no longer have an excuse 
to stay away."

"And you can return home."

"Exactly. Or I would, if I knew where they were so we could trade 
places."

Thranduil looked at the young Elf, then nodded. "If you are truly so 
miserable here, I have no desire to hold you against your will."

"My Lord?" Elrohir asked, his eyes widening. The King seemed to be full 
of surprises that night, he thought, the gloom on his heart lifting at the 
thought of being able to go back to his family.

"Return home, Princeling. Return to your family. And, if you should 
happen to run across my son, please let him know I'd like to see him."

"What about Celeborn and Galadriel?"

"I will deal with them, though I doubt they will have little reason to 
object, seeing as how our houses have joined in a rather unexpected manner," 
he said with a wry smile. As the young Elf rose to his feet, Thranduil felt 
a twinge of regret. Though he had meant his words, he found he had grown 
accustomed to seeing the thick black hair and endless violet blue eyes, the 
play of muscles beneath the pale skin. Perhaps it was better that he left, 
or he might become a distraction Thranduil wasn't prepared to handle.

"Thank you, my Lord," Elrohir bowed, then walked towards the door, his 
mind whirling with a thousand thoughts. He was beginning to doubt all of the 
stories he'd heard about the King, or at least, he was beginning to wonder 
whether or not there was more to them than what had reached his ears. What 
if there was entirely different Thranduil hidden beneath the wintry demeanor? 
What would he be like if Elrohir could reach that part? Did he want to find 
out? Closing his eyes, he remembered once more the feeling of the King lying 
on top of him, and his body's reaction was all the response he needed. He 
turned back to Thranduil.

"What if I choose not to leave?"

Arching an eyebrow, the King faced the Prince. Had he heard him 
correctly? Why would Elrohir want to remain? Unless... Thranduil did his 
best to keep from revealing his thoughts, remaining distant as he answered. 
"It is your choice. You may do as you please."

Elrohir was quiet for a moment, taking a deep breath before he answered. 
"Then I will stay till the end of summer."

"I should warn you," Thranduil said, his eyes sliding over to the Elf, 
choosing to give him one last chance to escape, "if you do stay, you will no 
longer be treated as a foster child. You will be as one of my own warriors, 
and I will expect you to behave as such."

"I shall do my best. As you have said, I have much to learn."

"You do realize this means you will have to obey my orders."

"I understand."

"Without question."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Starting now."

"I am yours to command."

"Good. Remove your clothes."

Elrohir started, his heart practically leaping from his chest. "My Lord?"

"Are you disobeying me already?"

Swallowing hard, his mouth completely dry, the Prince shook his head. 
"No, my Lord."

Thranduil's eyes narrowed as he slowly repeated his words. "Remove your 
clothes."

His hands shaking, Elrohir began to unlace his tunic. He was once more a 
prisoner of the cold blue of Thranduil's eyes, which watched his every move. 
They followed him as he let the tunic fall to the floor, quickly joined by 
his undershirt. Pulling his boots off, he let his hair fall over his face to 
hide the confusion of emotions from the observing King. His stomach quivered 
with excitement and he could feel the embers lighting in his groin, but his 
mind wasn't quite sure if this was what he wanted. He didn't love Thranduil, 
or at least, he didn't think he did. He wasn't even sure if it was possible 
to love the icy King. Was it simply a matter of lust? But he'd felt lust 
before, and it had never been as powerful as this. 

Closing his eyes, he pushed the doubts from his mind. There was too much 
for him to sort through, and the King was waiting.
Standing tall, he let his leggings fall to the floor and gracefully stepped 
out of them.

"Come here."

Elrohir walked back over to the King, stopping next to the arm of his 
chair. He stared straight ahead as Thranduil reached up and placed a hand 
over his heart, his thumb lightly brushing the stiffening nipple.

"Your heart is pounding, Princeling. I can feel its quick beat 
throughout my entire body. Are you afraid?"

Elrohir tried to speak but found his voice had escaped him. Wetting his 
lips, he nodded. "A little," he whispered, his voice harsh in his ears.

"But that is not all, is it?" Thranduil said, slowly gliding his open 
palm down the muscled stomach to the soft hairs growing between the Elf's 
legs. He allowed the natural arc of Elrohir's erect member to guide his hand 
until he had the Elf's considerable length in his grasp.

"You were correct," he mused, the icy blue eyes sparkling with mischief. 
"There is truly nothing little about you."

Elrohir's already reddened complexion deepened as the King began to 
stroke him into further hardness. This felt far too good, he thought.

"It is strange to think I hold the son of Elrond in the palm of my hand. 
What would your father think?"

As the last thing he wanted to be thinking about at that moment was the 
Lord of Imladris, Elrohir smiled grimly down at the King. "I don't know. 
Tell me, what would yours?"

The King gave him a cold smile, and Elrohir gasped as the hand on his 
cock tightened. "There is boldness in you yet, Princeling. I was beginning 
to worry all the courage had fallen upon your brother."

"I have my moments of impulse," he replied, clenching his eyes shut. 
Thranduil had removed all of his hand except his forefinger, which was 
rubbing against the slit at the tip of the Prince's elfhood. Slick with the 
drops of precum, the King continued his steady pace with that single finger. 
Elrohir's fingernails bit into his hands as he strained not to push himself 
into the torturous touch.

Thranduil smiled at the Elf's suffering, the beautiful face contorted 
with the odd combination of sensuality and restraint. For the first time in 
a long time, he enjoyed being the cause of pleasure in another, and welcomed 
the answering blaze in his loins. Even as he gazed at Elrohir, he discovered 
he looked forward to forcing the moans and cries of ecstasy from between 
those reluctant lips for many nights to come.

Elrohir's body began to tighten with the onslaught of orgasm, and just as 
he neared the edge, the touch disappeared. His eyes flew open in protest as 
the King rose to his feet. Their gazes locked as the Elf Lord undid the 
clasps on his shirt and let it fall to the floor. Taking Elrohir's face 
between his hands, Thranduil kissed him.

Much to his delight, the wintry King's lips were full of fire and Elrohir 
welcomed the demanding tongue into his mouth. He hesitated only a moment 
before wrapping his arms around the golden waist, drawing himself into the 
King's embrace. Thranduil slid his hands down the length of the Prince's 
body and clasped the tight buttocks, pushing the young Elf's groin against 
his own. A whimper escaped Elrohir's lips as the King's hardness met his.

Their mouths still entwined, Thranduil began guiding the Elf backwards 
until Elrohir's legs hit a solid mass and he fell back onto the bed. His 
eyes hazy with desire, he leaned up on his forearms and watched as the King 
unlaced his breeches, pushing them to the floor. He moaned softly with 
anticipation at the sight of Thranduil's pulsing cock, the King chuckling at 
his reaction.

Disapproving of the smugness in the sound, Elrohir smiled wickedly at 
him. "I had always wondered where Legolas got his generous inheritance."

Thranduil's eyes flashed as he leaned over the Elf. "You've bedded my 
son?"

"I don't believe that's any of your concern," he said loftily, enjoying 
the Elf Lord's jealousy. The King shook his head, his hair a pale fountain 
of gold as it tickled across Elrohir's chest while he took hold of the Elf's 
chin. Arching the Prince's head back, he began nibbling on the lovely neck.

"Have you bedded my son?"

"I'll never tell."

"Hmph." Thranduil ran his tongue along the entire length of the pale 
throat up to the tip of his chin and Elrohir drew in his breath sharply. 
"Have you bedded my son?"

"You'll have to ask him," he replied, his voice growing increasingly 
unsteady.

"Indeed." Thranduil said, then kissed his way down Elrohir's chest to 
the right nipple. He lapped at the nub, sucking at it until he could feel 
the Elf's pounding heart through his tongue. Smiling, he took the darkened 
peak between his teeth, gently pulling at it as Elrohir writhed in misery. 
He flicked at the bit of skin in his mouth with his tongue until Elrohir was 
forced to relent.

"No, never!" he cried out. "I've never bedded your son!"

"Did he bed you?"

"No, by the gods, no! Please, stop!"

"Poor little Princeling," Thranduil said, lifting a long leg over his 
shoulder, "how it thrills my heart to see you suffer."

"It is my hope to see you suffer so one day," Elrohir said, grabbing hold 
of the King by the neck and pulling him down on top of him.

As his own need was growing more difficult to ignore, the King decided to 
overlook the Elf's impertinence and busied himself with their tongue play. 
Rubbing the fluid from their weeping cocks over his fingers, he reached down 
between the Elf's legs, pausing at the puckered opening. Elrohir raised his 
hips as he felt the King's fingertip brush against him and Thranduil slipped 
a finger inside. The Prince was tighter than he had expected and he shivered 
at the thought of soon embedding himself in that heat. He withdrew a little, 
then pushed his finger in again, Elrohir pleading below him with wordless 
cries. He knew that Elrohir wasn't ready yet, that he wasn't stretched wide 
enough, but he couldn't wait.

Pressing his throbbing hardness against the taut opening, he told himself 
to move slowly, but Elrohir had other ideas. Bucking his hips against the 
King, the young Elf practically impaled himself upon his cock, crying out as 
he did so. Thranduil would have paused, but Elrohir continued writhing with 
such pleasure, he wasn't about to object. Matching the Prince's enthusiasm, 
he thrust inside Elrohir again and again, completely enveloped by the 
powerful heat. He moved deeper into the Elf, angling against him until he 
brushed the sensitive gland that made Elrohir shout with pleasure. 

"By the gods, I could love you," Thranduil said breathlessly, reaching 
that joyous spot repeatedly till Elrohir was mad with rapture. As he felt 
himself nearing orgasm, Thranduil leaned over and captured the Elf's mouth. 
He wanted to be kissing this exquisite creature when they came, to have 
Elrohir cry out his pleasure into him. He moved faster till the Prince's 
body contracted around him, the heat of his orgasm spilling between them. 
As he had desired, the sound of Elrohir's bliss filled him from he inside, 
and he also came, shouting out his own joy into the young Elf.

As their release ebbed and flowed through their bodies, they held each 
other, their breath coming in pants. Thranduil didn't want to move, he 
wanted to stay inside the Prince, to forever feel the Elf's warmth wrapped 
around him. 

Elrohir clutched at the King, not wanting him to let go. In all his 
years, despite all his partners, he had never felt a culmination quite like 
this one. It still continued to send sparks to his brain and through his 
body. He didn't know what the intensity of the sensations meant, but he 
couldn't wait to experience them all again.

Finally, the King withdrew, rolling over onto the bed and pulling Elrohir 
with him. He held him close, nuzzling the soft neck as the Prince's eyes 
glazed over with drowsiness.

"You are mine now, Princeling," he whispered, Elrohir's answer only a 
murmur in the back of his throat. Thranduil kissed the young Elf softly and 
allowed himself to drift off to sleep.