“I promised myself I wouldn’t let you complete me.”
Concentration seemingly unbroken by the avowal, Feren continued to fold the King of the Greenwood’s underclothing. Earlier in the evening, he’d sent away the maids normally assigned the task. Stealing away these tasks made it easy to pretend things were as simple as the tasks themselves.
Well, this task was not so simple. The folds had to be just right or else it would crinkle. No one, least of all a king, wanted crinkled undergarments.
It could be said that the Avari as a whole suffered from a shared allergy to expressing their emotions of any sort. Moreover, their ways of affection were far more physical and far less gentle than those of the Sindar. To his aggravation, the Avar never quite knew how to respond to Thranduil’s overt declarations of affection.
Feren could speak languages of Men and Elves, both common and dead. He could recite the verses of legendary epics and playful ditties alike with ease. Word play over politics and policies never fazed him, and yet, he could not for the eternal life of him find the proper words to return his King’s affection.
Instead, he folded his king’s clothing with the same care Celebrimbor crafted the Rings of Power. Alas, there would inevitably be nothing left the fold. As was the case now, forcing Feren to look up from his self-assigned chore.
“Promises should not be made lightly, Thranduil,” Feren commented slowly, struggling not to fumble over his tongue that slowly turned to lead as he churned over what to say next that might resemble something tender. “But I can think of more solemn vows to break.” If not romantic, at least it was factual.