---

[slightnettles]

my AO3s: Adlanth (Silmarillion) and slight_nettles (Rings of Power)

tag: my fic

Recent(ish) fics masterlist:

Silm

Among the reeds. Tuor & Elwing and assorted Edain. 6.2K, G.

One Who Holds. Elrond & Easterling OFC. 3.5K, G.

Guest. Morwen. 2.3K, G.

Compass. Aerin. 4.6K, Mature.

RoP

Wolf and Nightingale. Elrond/Sauron. 20.5K, Explicit.

[slightnettles]

Also here on AO3. (CW: sexual content, mention of violence.)

His lord - his love - his ghost - returns at last, and speaks to Thranduil again.

Clad in armour, sword at his side, Eluchíl says: I am returned.

His last memory of Dior Eluchíl, in Menegroth that is gone, beneath the vault of Menelrond. Dead all about him, a sea of blood; dents in his helmet and his shield.

His throat cut - almost to the bone - no mercy, this.

His hands hewed off - after death, he thought, little blood by his wrists - and laid on his chest. Later, in Sirion, the envoys sent by Maedhros showed every courtesy, even as they made their demands; but other messengers came from his youngest brothers, and they said: Tell Dior’s get that we took her father’s thieving hands, that dared touch the jewel of Fëanor. Thranduil had to be restrained, lest he slay them where they stood. They slunk away, with laughing, malicious eyes; they waved at him, waggled mocking fingers.

/

Return to me, return to me, return to me.

/

Now his lord, his love, his ghost says: I am returned. Serve me, as you served me before. Unarm me.

So he does. He unclasps the brooch that pins his cloak, and frees him from it. He kneels to unbuckle his belt, then take his sheathed sword and his dagger, both of which he places on a table.

Next comes the helm; his fingers tremble as they touch cold steel, poised to lift. Helm and padding and mail coif and linen cap - so many layers, removed one by one. (So many, yet all failed.) He averts his eyes, will not risk looking at his lord before all are done with.

When he does, Eluchíl stands before him again: pale, perhaps, but still so fair that the sight of him takes Thranduil's breath away.

Come, says his lord. Your work is not done. His grey eyes are bright with unquenched light; Thranduil's heart soars inside him.

He rises again; unlaces and unclasps mail hose and gauntlets, helps remove the glittering hauberk, then the padded gambeson. From the steel shell his lord emerges, slenderer and softer. Thranduil breathes in the warmth of his skin.

Finally Eluchíl stands before him unarmoured, clad only in a linen tunic and breeches. Dyed madder red, without mordant, leaching red against white. Red rubies, set in silver, clasp his throat; red rubies encircle his wrists.

Undress me, says his lord. Thranduil’s fingers tremble against the lacings of his tunic, tremble more when they graze the soft, warm skin beneath. The tunic is gone, then the breeches; his lord stands before him, naked: the silver-white of his bare skin, the shadowy dark of his hair where it falls in soft curls to the nape of his neck, his shoulders; red-streaked; rubies clotting at his throat and wrist.

/

The last time he touched Dior Eluchíl: helping him don his armour, Dwarf-made mail, enclosing every part of the body he had loved in steel; girding his hips with belt and sword and dagger.

His last memory of Dior Eluchíl, alive: the bright flame that he was, enclosed in steel; grim-faced, until even that face disappeared behind his helm; the hopeless blaze of his eyes. His cloaked back, turning to him, as he marched.

/

Return to me, love me, want me.

Thranduil leads him to the tub, which he fills with hot water and cold water, lets him step in.

He cleanses every part of him; he pours water on Eluchíl's dark head, until his hair is wet and sleek; he soaps it and slicks fragrant oils through the strands. Eluchíl is quiet, pliant, under his ministrations; head bent, eyes shut; Thranduil listens to the sound of his breath, in and out, in and out.

Eluchíl tilts his head back, so that Thranduil can wash his face, graze his fingertips against the sweep of his brows, his temples, the perfect line of his jaw; can touch his thumbs to sharp cheekbones, the corner of his lips. He closes his eyes, wants to his hands to learn every slope, every angle, every line of him. When he opens his eyes again, he finds Eluchíl looking back at him, pale skin studded with droplets, eyes bright, lips parted, so beautiful that desire stabs at Thranduil like pain.

He washes the red from his lord's shoulders, and his offered arms, tracing the bluish lines of his veins across tender skin, from upper arm to wrist; washes every long, clever finger. He soaps the sweet line of his collarbones, letting his hand linger a moment below to feel the rise and fall that comes with each breath, each precious breath; he presses his palm to his chest, to feel the beat of this still living heart. When Eluchíl leans forward he washes the slim span of his back, lets his knuckles graze against the ridges of his spine.

Eluchíl rises, dripping; Thranduil washes the sleek, hard muscle of his legs, every curve that leads from ankle to rounded calf to thigh; washes his sides and stomach, the blades of his hips, the shallow dells that lead from waist to loins, the inside of his thighs. He loses himself in the motion, the feel of cooling water and soft skin. He could do this endlessly, worship every part of his lord.

He washes his lord's feet, and then lends his arm so that he might step out of the tub. Eluchíl sways a little, from tiredness or perhaps because he too has lost himself in this moment. He tilts his head back, raises those bright, clear eyes to Thranduil, as he stands there damp and lovely beyond words.

Warm me, he says.

Thranduil takes off his tunic, that his naked skin might heat his lord the better; then he steps forward, embraces him. His heart beats madly in his chest, and he feels the answering beat of Eluchíl's heart; cool water and cool, sleek skin, and every part of that beautiful, living body which he has cleansed. He presses his mouth to Eluchíl's temple, and tightens his embrace, as if he could fashion his own body into another armour. Let me serve you, cleanse you, warm you, ward you.

Eluchíl presses against him too. His hand comes to rest at the small of Thranduil's back; he is slender and hard in Thranduil’s arms. He speaks again, against the hollow of Thranduil's throat - the same words, more insistent. Warm me, he says.

/

Dior, on the eve of battle, alone in his chambers with Thranduil, holding out trembling fingers. Shivering, despite the fire on the hearth, as if a cold gale from the north, from Thangorodrim’s cliffs, had come blowing through the halls of Menegroth.

I dare not show this to anyone, he’d said. But you knew me before I was a king, if for a moment only. His eyes met Thranduil’s eyes and they were not a king’s. A frightened boy’s, and Thranduil held out his own hand to clasp those trembling fingers, to press a kiss to them. And Dior let his fingers linger in that grasp - for a moment only.

Then Dior went to his lady wife, who had known him and wedded him by the banks of glittering Adurant, ere he ever came to Menegroth. Thranduil sat by the dying fire, in a cold room, fingers seared.

/

Thranduil sinks to the ground, clasps his lord's knees, looks up. Eluchíl shivers, sinks a hand into his hair, tilts his head further back.

He kneels, and loves that he kneels. His body tenses, drawn like the string of a bow, straining upwards for the light that is Eluchíl’s face, and yet he is rooted - in his rightful place, at long last. He could kneel forever.

Kneel, and serve. His hands fall to Eluchíl’s ankles, and then rise, tracing the line of his calves, grazing the back of his knees, settle on slim thighs. He presses his mouth to the soft, soft skin between body and thigh, hears a soft sigh above him, presses inwards.

He worships every inch, with lips and tongue. From time to time he risks a glance upwards. Eluchíl sways in his grasp, his head tilted to the side, so that the ends of his damp curls graze his bare shoulder.

When he takes his lord in his mouth, he hears a soft sigh above him. Let me serve you. This is where he is meant to be.

/

The court of Menegroth, and the people who yet dwelt in the woods, and wanderers from afar: all had come to stand beneath the Menelrond tonight, to see their new king - he who was not Elu, who could not be the lord that has guided them and ruled them for thousands of years, but was his heir nonetheless. Thranduil was among the foremost, besides his father, who stood with clenched jaw and pained eyes, training his eyes on the broad door opposite the throne.

Dior came to them. He was not as tall as Elu and Melian were, not even as tall as Lúthien, but the light in his eyes and the beauty of his face were those of his mother, and her mother - tempered by the strangeness and frailty of his father, perhaps, but no less beautiful for that - perhaps more. A circlet of willow leaves, silvery green, rested on his dark hair. By his side, Nimloth of the silver-white hair, walked, with a crown of dark boughs.

They reached the throne, walked up its steps. At the top, Dior turned. For a moment he seemed hesitant. Then he straightened, and seemed taller. Not as tall as Elu - but taller, and stronger. His hair was dark, not silver, but then he was their king and queen and Lúthien the Beloved all at once.

A hush fell over the assembled host, a silence deep and unbroken - sorrow for the lost, and longing, and yet, and yet -

Joy, too, and hope. Thranduil dropped to his knees; all about him knelt. Only a moment, before Dior Eluchíl, raising his hand, bade them stand again, be his people and not his servants. But Thranduil had knelt first - had felt the joy in this kneeling, this submitting. 

/

He serves, with every part of himself. When Eluchíl is brought to his peak, he drinks him down, and holds him up as his legs shake. Then he carries him to the bed, and lays him carefully down, and worships every inch of his skin again with touch and lips. With his fingers he brings him to a second peak.

Throughout all this, he feels his own arousal distantly. It is all encompassing, as if he were ringed with flames, and yet he draws his own mind from it, deliberately. It is not his own pleasure he seeks, and yet - and yet, in truth, there is pleasure too in this wilful suppression of his own need, in feeling his own pleasure ever close, and ever withdrawing. He keeps himself on the edge, and meanwhile takes in eagerly every sign of pleasure from the one he serves - every sigh, every soft groan, every twist of his limbs - every time Eluchíl throws back his head, so that his dark hair curls on the pillows, and the sweet white column of his throat is exposed - the blood that rises to his chest and neck and face, the sweat that flecks his skin.

He serves with his hands and his mouth and his prick, wielding his own unsatisfied desire to please his lord. Even when Eluchíl lies beneath him, it is he who commands. He obeys as he drives himself into his lord’s warm, willing body - every surge of his hips another submission. There is no thinking now, only the bonds that tether him, that cause him to move, to bend, to kiss his shoulders, the ridges of his spine, to bring his lord to another climax, and another.

Eluchíl turns over, lies splayed and spent on the sheets, bloody gems at his throat, and fresh blood on his bitten lip; his hair wild and dark against the pillow, a curl falling over his brow, his eyes ablaze with grey fire. Again, he demands.

Thranduil, with shaking arms, quaking thighs, obeys. Pain spreads through him and he embraces it, even as he sinks into the embrace of his lord. Hands sink into his hair and tug hard at the golden strands; in answer, he digs his own fingers into his lord’s hair, presses his mouth against his soft warm throat, feels for the blood that beats beneath his lips. He moves, helplessly, feeling his lord’s thighs clasped around his waist, his lord’s hips driving up to chase the last dregs of pleasure.

Enough. Ragged breath against his ear, saying: Enough, you have done enough. Sobbing, he thrusts again, and then once more.

Enough. You have served.

A release.

/

Once he’d been sent to fetch a king. Out of Menegroth, and out of Doriath, which was all he had ever known, but which felt bare and cold and exposed now that Melian was gone and Thingol’s throne empty; east towards the rivers of which his mother Amrûnis had ever told him: green Duilwen and rapid Legolin, and Brilthor who was loveliest of them all. Rash Ascar was northernmost, but it was to Adurant that his path bent… Oropher his sire journeyed beside him until the stream divided about Tol Galen, and went to the isle alone to meet the lady Lúthien; but he bade Thranduil continue upstream. The prince must be told also, he had said, and Thranduil had said: Is he not king now?

About the river, hills rose, clad in oak and beech and then fir, and the river sang ever as it flowed on its silver bed. He heard the waterfall before he saw it, a distant roar, like a great host all a-talking, all a-singing: Lanthir Lamath of the many echoing voices. But at the bottom of the great fall the river grew lazy all of a sudden, twisting and bending; and on its bank there was a house. It was high summer, and although the sun was setting behind him it was warm beneath the trees.

He found Dior by the river, clad in only trousers rolled up to the knee, wading into the stream. The water was turbulent around him, a whirling eddy. Droplets clung to his bare back, and his dark hair fell in loose, damp curls to the middle of his back; as Thranduil watched, a drop rolled down; he followed its course down Dior’s spine, to his waist, until it vanished. Dior turned and looked at him, with a faint bemused smile; his face was the most beautiful Thranduil had yet seen. Stars shone above him, high in the clear dark air. 

He loved; he knelt. He fell to his knees, pinned to the earth by Dior’s clear gaze, and his heart soared within him, towards Dior. He was a tautened string, then a plucked one, and the sound of that plucked string seemed to echo throughout his life, backwards into the past so that he knew he had been born to this, and forwards to all that was yet to come.

/

Afterwards, Eluchíl rises from the bed. He shivers, and then straightens. Then - then nothing changes, outwardly. But he is Eluchíl and then a moment later he is not, as if he had unpinned the cloak of his disguise and let it fall to the ground.

He is Elrond. Only Elrond - and that is so much, already. He is himself, so much older than Dior ever had the chance to be - youthful still in face and body, yet bearing scars Dior could not earn.

He goes to the tub, and picks up a cloth, dips in soapy water, returns to the bed where Thranduil lies drained, exhausted, muscles still straining and sore. He cleans sweat and seed from him, then from himself. Then, dropping the cloth again by the tub, he lies besides Thranduil, cradles him, strokes his aching limbs. Ever the healer: the ache lessens in the wake of his touch.

But Thranduil seeks this ache, this wanting, does not want it removed. Besides, he can tell how exhausted Elrond himself is; how his fingers tremble and his head droops. 'Enough,' he says. He removes the ruby necklace at Elrond’s neck, and the bracelets; friction and Thranduil’s hands, have left red marks around his throat and wrists. Thranduil reverses their positions, embraces Elrond, wraps his own hand around quivering fingers.  Elrond lets his head be pillowed on his arm, and closes his eyes. Thranduil draws him close, buries his face in the sweat-dampened hair at the nape of his neck. He knows how much this game - this necromancy - takes its toll on him. The summoning of the dead: not that Dior is ever there with them - wherever he has gone, he is beyond any of their calls. But still this phantom, wrought of memories - memories Elrond does not even have, memories stitched together from the recollections of others - takes its toll.

Thranduil examines his face, the shadowy line of his lashes against his cheeks, the line of his jaw and his nose and his well-molded lips; a hair-thin scar running from temple to cheekbone, another across the bridge of his noise. Dior, and yet not; Dior, buried under the layers of so many more years, so many more things seen and felt and fought. Not Dior at all: Elrond, equally beloved, Elrond whom he has known for centuries, millennia, by whose side he has battled, with whom he has quarrelled as he never did with Dior, to whom he has returned again and again, whom he has loved these many years.

Still you call me by his name, Elrond had said once. Eluchíl. And Thranduil had said: a title, not a name. Heir of Elu. You are that too, even if you will not take up any kingship. Even if your realm lies in ruins beneath the sea: the people remain, and know you, and love you. Elrond had sighed, and said: My brother was the elder, and took Aranrúth. If you seek a king, seek him in Númenor. It has been so long now, so many times that they have played this game; and Aranrúth lies beneath the sea - one more thing of Elu’s, of Dior’s, gone. Since then, too, Thranduil has taken up his own mantle, his own kingship - this overlarge heirloom that his father left him. Even as he lies abed, he feels it settling on him again.

Thranduil knows why he seeks this - why he has asked for it, again and again. A reprieve from kingship - a return. He wonders about Elrond, that he should thus take up the cloak and fashion of a ghost. Return to me, love me. He remembers the first time he saw Elrond grown: grown and yet still with something of the boy about him, accustomed to the battlefield but not to the court of Lindon, lonely, sometimes aloof. Motherless and fatherless and brotherless. A miracle, in Thranduil’s eyes, a piece of Dior that had somehow survived the loss of so many realms, the breaking of the world they had known; and perhaps Elrond himself felt the strangeness of his own existence, had not expected - as the child of mortals born to a ruined land, a land of defeats uncounted - to ever live, let alone be endowed with the life of the Eldar. Strange and skinny, hungry-looking, yet beautiful with the undimmed loveliness of his forebears. Drawing eyes wherever he went, Thranduil’s one pair among many. And wielding his beauty like a weapon - the spear, the snare. Do not come close. Love me, do not leave me.

/

How he returns, again and again, to this moment by swift Adurant, when he went to find a king, and slew him in the finding.

Bright Gelion, of the seven streams. What if he had turned from his path - walked the banks not of Adurant but Duilwen - Brilthor - free-flowing Legolin or Thalos or rushing Ascar? Had walked east, lost himself in the woods, crossed over the Ered Luin?

The Jewel, left to the Naugrim’s halls. Doriath - and Thranduil - kingless thereafter.

Dior, never Eluchíl, never leaving the spray and the echoing voices of Lanthir Lamath, growing old. Dior, dying the death of the Edain. His children, never to be lost amidst dark woods, never to grow lonesome by the sea.

No loss, no note of longing - to serve and touch and love - echoing through his life.

No Elrond, forever unborn - nothing of this strange, beautiful being, salvaged from a drowned world, Elrond who is not Dior, and only sometimes Eluchíl.

Not this room, not this bed, nothing of this queer play, this salve on his heart.

[suzani]

Incredible and gorgeous 17th century Ottoman tent from the Dresden State Art Collections.

[aldergroves]

peer-reviewed tags by @theradioghost !!! that is so cool

[kisses-in-the-void]

[darknnesmi]

[firefly-artwork]

My chara-designs for the Teleri Royalty : Part 4

Eluréd, Elurín & Túrin @sindarweek

I included Túrin as Thingol kind of adopted him. Also, when i'll post Amroth and Thranduil, you'll notice a huge ressemblance with Eluréd and Elurín, that's propaganda for my headcanon.

[rearte2]

by David Hockney

[peasant-player]

Father O father, and did you not hear

What the Elfin King breathed into my ear?

Lie quiet, my child, now never you mind:

Dry leaves it was that click in the wind

Der Erlkönig- Goethe

Another for the whimsy Eldritch AU

This time Elrond

With willow theme for his grief and also for the healing properties of Willowbark!

-ghostly feathers and built in night light are courtesy of Elwing and Eärendil ✨️

Kept the color sheme purple blue which is more close to Melian and Luthiens rather then Elwings and Diors (dw Elros will have a more blue green color sheme)

Also used my own pattern for his robe 😌✨️

[archamion]

Dior and Nimloth’s last embrace

[slightnettles]

Also here on AO3. (CW: sexual content, mention of violence.)

His lord - his love - his ghost - returns at last, and speaks to Thranduil again.

Clad in armour, sword at his side, Eluchíl says: I am returned.

His last memory of Dior Eluchíl, in Menegroth that is gone, beneath the vault of Menelrond. Dead all about him, a sea of blood; dents in his helmet and his shield.

His throat cut - almost to the bone - no mercy, this.

His hands hewed off - after death, he thought, little blood by his wrists - and laid on his chest. Later, in Sirion, the envoys sent by Maedhros showed every courtesy, even as they made their demands; but other messengers came from his youngest brothers, and they said: Tell Dior’s get that we took her father’s thieving hands, that dared touch the jewel of Fëanor. Thranduil had to be restrained, lest he slay them where they stood. They slunk away, with laughing, malicious eyes; they waved at him, waggled mocking fingers.

/

Return to me, return to me, return to me.

/

Now his lord, his love, his ghost says: I am returned. Serve me, as you served me before. Unarm me.

So he does. He unclasps the brooch that pins his cloak, and frees him from it. He kneels to unbuckle his belt, then take his sheathed sword and his dagger, both of which he places on a table.

Next comes the helm; his fingers tremble as they touch cold steel, poised to lift. Helm and padding and mail coif and linen cap - so many layers, removed one by one. (So many, yet all failed.) He averts his eyes, will not risk looking at his lord before all are done with.

When he does, Eluchíl stands before him again: pale, perhaps, but still so fair that the sight of him takes Thranduil's breath away.

Come, says his lord. Your work is not done. His grey eyes are bright with unquenched light; Thranduil's heart soars inside him.

He rises again; unlaces and unclasps mail hose and gauntlets, helps remove the glittering hauberk, then the padded gambeson. From the steel shell his lord emerges, slenderer and softer. Thranduil breathes in the warmth of his skin.

Finally Eluchíl stands before him unarmoured, clad only in a linen tunic and breeches. Dyed madder red, without mordant, leaching red against white. Red rubies, set in silver, clasp his throat; red rubies encircle his wrists.

Undress me, says his lord. Thranduil’s fingers tremble against the lacings of his tunic, tremble more when they graze the soft, warm skin beneath. The tunic is gone, then the breeches; his lord stands before him, naked: the silver-white of his bare skin, the shadowy dark of his hair where it falls in soft curls to the nape of his neck, his shoulders; red-streaked; rubies clotting at his throat and wrist.

/

The last time he touched Dior Eluchíl: helping him don his armour, Dwarf-made mail, enclosing every part of the body he had loved in steel; girding his hips with belt and sword and dagger.

His last memory of Dior Eluchíl, alive: the bright flame that he was, enclosed in steel; grim-faced, until even that face disappeared behind his helm; the hopeless blaze of his eyes. His cloaked back, turning to him, as he marched.

/

Return to me, love me, want me.

Thranduil leads him to the tub, which he fills with hot water and cold water, lets him step in.

He cleanses every part of him; he pours water on Eluchíl's dark head, until his hair is wet and sleek; he soaps it and slicks fragrant oils through the strands. Eluchíl is quiet, pliant, under his ministrations; head bent, eyes shut; Thranduil listens to the sound of his breath, in and out, in and out.

Eluchíl tilts his head back, so that Thranduil can wash his face, graze his fingertips against the sweep of his brows, his temples, the perfect line of his jaw; can touch his thumbs to sharp cheekbones, the corner of his lips. He closes his eyes, wants to his hands to learn every slope, every angle, every line of him. When he opens his eyes again, he finds Eluchíl looking back at him, pale skin studded with droplets, eyes bright, lips parted, so beautiful that desire stabs at Thranduil like pain.

He washes the red from his lord's shoulders, and his offered arms, tracing the bluish lines of his veins across tender skin, from upper arm to wrist; washes every long, clever finger. He soaps the sweet line of his collarbones, letting his hand linger a moment below to feel the rise and fall that comes with each breath, each precious breath; he presses his palm to his chest, to feel the beat of this still living heart. When Eluchíl leans forward he washes the slim span of his back, lets his knuckles graze against the ridges of his spine.

Eluchíl rises, dripping; Thranduil washes the sleek, hard muscle of his legs, every curve that leads from ankle to rounded calf to thigh; washes his sides and stomach, the blades of his hips, the shallow dells that lead from waist to loins, the inside of his thighs. He loses himself in the motion, the feel of cooling water and soft skin. He could do this endlessly, worship every part of his lord.

He washes his lord's feet, and then lends his arm so that he might step out of the tub. Eluchíl sways a little, from tiredness or perhaps because he too has lost himself in this moment. He tilts his head back, raises those bright, clear eyes to Thranduil, as he stands there damp and lovely beyond words.

Warm me, he says.

Thranduil takes off his tunic, that his naked skin might heat his lord the better; then he steps forward, embraces him. His heart beats madly in his chest, and he feels the answering beat of Eluchíl's heart; cool water and cool, sleek skin, and every part of that beautiful, living body which he has cleansed. He presses his mouth to Eluchíl's temple, and tightens his embrace, as if he could fashion his own body into another armour. Let me serve you, cleanse you, warm you, ward you.

Eluchíl presses against him too. His hand comes to rest at the small of Thranduil's back; he is slender and hard in Thranduil’s arms. He speaks again, against the hollow of Thranduil's throat - the same words, more insistent. Warm me, he says.

/

Dior, on the eve of battle, alone in his chambers with Thranduil, holding out trembling fingers. Shivering, despite the fire on the hearth, as if a cold gale from the north, from Thangorodrim’s cliffs, had come blowing through the halls of Menegroth.

I dare not show this to anyone, he’d said. But you knew me before I was a king, if for a moment only. His eyes met Thranduil’s eyes and they were not a king’s. A frightened boy’s, and Thranduil held out his own hand to clasp those trembling fingers, to press a kiss to them. And Dior let his fingers linger in that grasp - for a moment only.

Then Dior went to his lady wife, who had known him and wedded him by the banks of glittering Adurant, ere he ever came to Menegroth. Thranduil sat by the dying fire, in a cold room, fingers seared.

/

Thranduil sinks to the ground, clasps his lord's knees, looks up. Eluchíl shivers, sinks a hand into his hair, tilts his head further back.

He kneels, and loves that he kneels. His body tenses, drawn like the string of a bow, straining upwards for the light that is Eluchíl’s face, and yet he is rooted - in his rightful place, at long last. He could kneel forever.

Kneel, and serve. His hands fall to Eluchíl’s ankles, and then rise, tracing the line of his calves, grazing the back of his knees, settle on slim thighs. He presses his mouth to the soft, soft skin between body and thigh, hears a soft sigh above him, presses inwards.

He worships every inch, with lips and tongue. From time to time he risks a glance upwards. Eluchíl sways in his grasp, his head tilted to the side, so that the ends of his damp curls graze his bare shoulder.

When he takes his lord in his mouth, he hears a soft sigh above him. Let me serve you. This is where he is meant to be.

/

The court of Menegroth, and the people who yet dwelt in the woods, and wanderers from afar: all had come to stand beneath the Menelrond tonight, to see their new king - he who was not Elu, who could not be the lord that has guided them and ruled them for thousands of years, but was his heir nonetheless. Thranduil was among the foremost, besides his father, who stood with clenched jaw and pained eyes, training his eyes on the broad door opposite the throne.

Dior came to them. He was not as tall as Elu and Melian were, not even as tall as Lúthien, but the light in his eyes and the beauty of his face were those of his mother, and her mother - tempered by the strangeness and frailty of his father, perhaps, but no less beautiful for that - perhaps more. A circlet of willow leaves, silvery green, rested on his dark hair. By his side, Nimloth of the silver-white hair, walked, with a crown of dark boughs.

They reached the throne, walked up its steps. At the top, Dior turned. For a moment he seemed hesitant. Then he straightened, and seemed taller. Not as tall as Elu - but taller, and stronger. His hair was dark, not silver, but then he was their king and queen and Lúthien the Beloved all at once.

A hush fell over the assembled host, a silence deep and unbroken - sorrow for the lost, and longing, and yet, and yet -

Joy, too, and hope. Thranduil dropped to his knees; all about him knelt. Only a moment, before Dior Eluchíl, raising his hand, bade them stand again, be his people and not his servants. But Thranduil had knelt first - had felt the joy in this kneeling, this submitting. 

/

He serves, with every part of himself. When Eluchíl is brought to his peak, he drinks him down, and holds him up as his legs shake. Then he carries him to the bed, and lays him carefully down, and worships every inch of his skin again with touch and lips. With his fingers he brings him to a second peak.

Throughout all this, he feels his own arousal distantly. It is all encompassing, as if he were ringed with flames, and yet he draws his own mind from it, deliberately. It is not his own pleasure he seeks, and yet - and yet, in truth, there is pleasure too in this wilful suppression of his own need, in feeling his own pleasure ever close, and ever withdrawing. He keeps himself on the edge, and meanwhile takes in eagerly every sign of pleasure from the one he serves - every sigh, every soft groan, every twist of his limbs - every time Eluchíl throws back his head, so that his dark hair curls on the pillows, and the sweet white column of his throat is exposed - the blood that rises to his chest and neck and face, the sweat that flecks his skin.

He serves with his hands and his mouth and his prick, wielding his own unsatisfied desire to please his lord. Even when Eluchíl lies beneath him, it is he who commands. He obeys as he drives himself into his lord’s warm, willing body - every surge of his hips another submission. There is no thinking now, only the bonds that tether him, that cause him to move, to bend, to kiss his shoulders, the ridges of his spine, to bring his lord to another climax, and another.

Eluchíl turns over, lies splayed and spent on the sheets, bloody gems at his throat, and fresh blood on his bitten lip; his hair wild and dark against the pillow, a curl falling over his brow, his eyes ablaze with grey fire. Again, he demands.

Thranduil, with shaking arms, quaking thighs, obeys. Pain spreads through him and he embraces it, even as he sinks into the embrace of his lord. Hands sink into his hair and tug hard at the golden strands; in answer, he digs his own fingers into his lord’s hair, presses his mouth against his soft warm throat, feels for the blood that beats beneath his lips. He moves, helplessly, feeling his lord’s thighs clasped around his waist, his lord’s hips driving up to chase the last dregs of pleasure.

Enough. Ragged breath against his ear, saying: Enough, you have done enough. Sobbing, he thrusts again, and then once more.

Enough. You have served.

A release.

/

Once he’d been sent to fetch a king. Out of Menegroth, and out of Doriath, which was all he had ever known, but which felt bare and cold and exposed now that Melian was gone and Thingol’s throne empty; east towards the rivers of which his mother Amrûnis had ever told him: green Duilwen and rapid Legolin, and Brilthor who was loveliest of them all. Rash Ascar was northernmost, but it was to Adurant that his path bent… Oropher his sire journeyed beside him until the stream divided about Tol Galen, and went to the isle alone to meet the lady Lúthien; but he bade Thranduil continue upstream. The prince must be told also, he had said, and Thranduil had said: Is he not king now?

About the river, hills rose, clad in oak and beech and then fir, and the river sang ever as it flowed on its silver bed. He heard the waterfall before he saw it, a distant roar, like a great host all a-talking, all a-singing: Lanthir Lamath of the many echoing voices. But at the bottom of the great fall the river grew lazy all of a sudden, twisting and bending; and on its bank there was a house. It was high summer, and although the sun was setting behind him it was warm beneath the trees.

He found Dior by the river, clad in only trousers rolled up to the knee, wading into the stream. The water was turbulent around him, a whirling eddy. Droplets clung to his bare back, and his dark hair fell in loose, damp curls to the middle of his back; as Thranduil watched, a drop rolled down; he followed its course down Dior’s spine, to his waist, until it vanished. Dior turned and looked at him, with a faint bemused smile; his face was the most beautiful Thranduil had yet seen. Stars shone above him, high in the clear dark air. 

He loved; he knelt. He fell to his knees, pinned to the earth by Dior’s clear gaze, and his heart soared within him, towards Dior. He was a tautened string, then a plucked one, and the sound of that plucked string seemed to echo throughout his life, backwards into the past so that he knew he had been born to this, and forwards to all that was yet to come.

/

Afterwards, Eluchíl rises from the bed. He shivers, and then straightens. Then - then nothing changes, outwardly. But he is Eluchíl and then a moment later he is not, as if he had unpinned the cloak of his disguise and let it fall to the ground.

He is Elrond. Only Elrond - and that is so much, already. He is himself, so much older than Dior ever had the chance to be - youthful still in face and body, yet bearing scars Dior could not earn.

He goes to the tub, and picks up a cloth, dips in soapy water, returns to the bed where Thranduil lies drained, exhausted, muscles still straining and sore. He cleans sweat and seed from him, then from himself. Then, dropping the cloth again by the tub, he lies besides Thranduil, cradles him, strokes his aching limbs. Ever the healer: the ache lessens in the wake of his touch.

But Thranduil seeks this ache, this wanting, does not want it removed. Besides, he can tell how exhausted Elrond himself is; how his fingers tremble and his head droops. 'Enough,' he says. He removes the ruby necklace at Elrond’s neck, and the bracelets; friction and Thranduil’s hands, have left red marks around his throat and wrists. Thranduil reverses their positions, embraces Elrond, wraps his own hand around quivering fingers.  Elrond lets his head be pillowed on his arm, and closes his eyes. Thranduil draws him close, buries his face in the sweat-dampened hair at the nape of his neck. He knows how much this game - this necromancy - takes its toll on him. The summoning of the dead: not that Dior is ever there with them - wherever he has gone, he is beyond any of their calls. But still this phantom, wrought of memories - memories Elrond does not even have, memories stitched together from the recollections of others - takes its toll.

Thranduil examines his face, the shadowy line of his lashes against his cheeks, the line of his jaw and his nose and his well-molded lips; a hair-thin scar running from temple to cheekbone, another across the bridge of his noise. Dior, and yet not; Dior, buried under the layers of so many more years, so many more things seen and felt and fought. Not Dior at all: Elrond, equally beloved, Elrond whom he has known for centuries, millennia, by whose side he has battled, with whom he has quarrelled as he never did with Dior, to whom he has returned again and again, whom he has loved these many years.

Still you call me by his name, Elrond had said once. Eluchíl. And Thranduil had said: a title, not a name. Heir of Elu. You are that too, even if you will not take up any kingship. Even if your realm lies in ruins beneath the sea: the people remain, and know you, and love you. Elrond had sighed, and said: My brother was the elder, and took Aranrúth. If you seek a king, seek him in Númenor. It has been so long now, so many times that they have played this game; and Aranrúth lies beneath the sea - one more thing of Elu’s, of Dior’s, gone. Since then, too, Thranduil has taken up his own mantle, his own kingship - this overlarge heirloom that his father left him. Even as he lies abed, he feels it settling on him again.

Thranduil knows why he seeks this - why he has asked for it, again and again. A reprieve from kingship - a return. He wonders about Elrond, that he should thus take up the cloak and fashion of a ghost. Return to me, love me. He remembers the first time he saw Elrond grown: grown and yet still with something of the boy about him, accustomed to the battlefield but not to the court of Lindon, lonely, sometimes aloof. Motherless and fatherless and brotherless. A miracle, in Thranduil’s eyes, a piece of Dior that had somehow survived the loss of so many realms, the breaking of the world they had known; and perhaps Elrond himself felt the strangeness of his own existence, had not expected - as the child of mortals born to a ruined land, a land of defeats uncounted - to ever live, let alone be endowed with the life of the Eldar. Strange and skinny, hungry-looking, yet beautiful with the undimmed loveliness of his forebears. Drawing eyes wherever he went, Thranduil’s one pair among many. And wielding his beauty like a weapon - the spear, the snare. Do not come close. Love me, do not leave me.

/

How he returns, again and again, to this moment by swift Adurant, when he went to find a king, and slew him in the finding.

Bright Gelion, of the seven streams. What if he had turned from his path - walked the banks not of Adurant but Duilwen - Brilthor - free-flowing Legolin or Thalos or rushing Ascar? Had walked east, lost himself in the woods, crossed over the Ered Luin?

The Jewel, left to the Naugrim’s halls. Doriath - and Thranduil - kingless thereafter.

Dior, never Eluchíl, never leaving the spray and the echoing voices of Lanthir Lamath, growing old. Dior, dying the death of the Edain. His children, never to be lost amidst dark woods, never to grow lonesome by the sea.

No loss, no note of longing - to serve and touch and love - echoing through his life.

No Elrond, forever unborn - nothing of this strange, beautiful being, salvaged from a drowned world, Elrond who is not Dior, and only sometimes Eluchíl.

Not this room, not this bed, nothing of this queer play, this salve on his heart.

[mhevarujta]

In The Silmarillion nothing is said specifically concerning the speech of the Elves of Gondolin; but this passage suggests that for some of them the High Speech (Quenya) was in ordinary use. It is stated in a late linguistic essay that Quenya was in daily use in Turgon's house, and was the childhood speech of Earendil; but that 'for most of the people of Gondolin it had become a language of books, and as the other Noldor they used Sindarin in daily speech'.

It is interesting to me that Turgon and the Noldorin kingdom of Gondolin, with all their isolationism, ultimately abide by Thingol's ban.

[problematic-rpf-factory]

International Assassin - The Leftovers S02E08

[thewoodbetween]

Jardin des Plantes, Paris ~ linocut by Evelyne Bouchard.                                       

[slightnettles]

Walter Crane, Commonweal, May 1890

[houghtonlib]

Crane, Walter, 1845-1915. "The Triumph of Labour: Designed to Commemorate the International Labour Day May 1st 1891 and Dedicated to the Wage Workers of All Countries."

Typ 8304.96.5

Houghton Library, Harvard University

[incorrectringsofpower]

Elrond: how could anyone hate a bird. what is your fucking problem

[dailyclassicart]

Camille Pissarro - "Poplars, Eragny" (1895)