[wthtorke]

Wild Fire.

A lil background first, s/o is a pyromaniac and well, he’s murdered ppl as well lmao

Jesse wanted a bit of fun, so he started researching some crazy-ass motherfuckers like him because one, he was bored and two, someone had the gall to tell him he needed some friends.

Out of 10 files in his hands, he picks out two.

One of a strange masked man and another one that’s blurry as fuck because there’s a raging fire in the background, but he can make out the faint outline of a face.

All the info they had on them didn’t make one full page.

Jesse loved a good challenge.

So Jesse sets his people on the hunt for these men. The pyromaniac seemed to move a lot while the masked man had one very broad area of terror.

It was fun, being on the chase he set up, seeing rushed pictures, asking around, torturing people to get answers. It was fun.

It was really fun.

The masked man, ‘The Collector’ as he came to know, noticed something was off and disappeared while the pyromaniac called him from a disposable phone to ask why the fuck was he 'snooping up on his shit’.

Jesse couldn’t recall the last time he’d laughed that hard. How the fuck did he even get the number? Well, it didn’t matter now, it would later, but it didn’t matter now.

Not as he set up a 'date’ with the pyromaniac, surprised when he showed up, sitting across Jesse in some restaurant they agreed on. Jesse had at least 3 snipers ready to blow his brains up had he tried anything.

He let him know and in return, he also said the place was littered with explosives and that they’d both most definitely die.

Jesse has never had a more fun date.

As time went by, they grew closer and closer, Jesse liked the absolute chaos the man could bring up in such a short time and the awfully charming and interesting conversation he could muster up. But what he loved more was the contrast of that to the moans he made when Jesse was buried to the hilt in his ass.

They still had to find The Collector, however. Jesse’s partner had one look at the file and made a small 'ooh, I know how to get him’.

Hell, he fucking did actually.

He was the one survivor in one of The Collector’s little games, pretending to be scared and even crying as he was shoved in a trunk, the micro-camera in his shirt giving Jesse one hell of a show.

Jesse worked quickly so his partner wouldn’t, well, be tortured by Asa just yet. Jesse talked to Asa, and Asa didn’t really have anywhere to run. Even if he killed the man he captured, Jesse would still know.

So he played their game, getting…really into it somewhere between letting his newest piece (who also seems to be his partner now) out of his trunk and months later when the same man kissed him breathlessly in the shower in one of Jesse’s houses.

The three had done some work together, each having fun with victims and then having fun with each other back home.

One time, however, things didn’t go according to plan.

Jesse doesn’t really know where or when things went wrong. All he knew was the cold spike up his spine when he saw the knife sinking into their 'Butterfly’s abs as two escapees ganged up on him after running from Jesse himself.

The last thing Jesse’s brain registered was the distressed, painful cry that left his lover’s throat.

When he came back to himself, there was blood. Blood, bits of face, flesh, and scalp in his hands. His knives were filthy, his boots were beyond salvation.

And then Asa.

Asa shook his shoulder while still holding a very pale man in his arms, his hands struggling to press his own mangled shirt to his abs to contain all the blood.

The ringing stopped. Jesse got them out of there, calling the doctors he always had set and prepared in case things went wrong.

And things went very wrong.

The surgery lasted many hours, more than Jesse had the patience to wait for, Asa himself couldn’t stay still.

'He’s gonna be okay’ was the phrase that had them both finally breathing again. Jesse rarely thought about other people, he didn’t have to.

Normally, he’d say 'nice’ and go out again, call to have news if he felt worried, and only set foot in there when the man could at least walk again.

But he couldn’t do that this time.

He didn’t want to, he couldn’t bring himself to even think about leaving them now.

Asa took a few days off work and they wouldn’t really leave the house, both knowing the man was resting upstairs, still unconscious from the surgery, still breathing shallowly. 

The blade hadn’t gone too deep, he wouldn’t have trouble eating or well, shitting.

“He pulled back a bit in time,’ the doctor said, 'it was just a fright’.

When he woke up, they were both at his side.

He was… surprised like he didn’t expect them to be there.

But happy, nonetheless. 

As the days go by and he slowly recovers, he finds himself always in the company of one of them. Jesse pressed into his good side, arm wrapped around him, resting against the couch. Jesse’s face buried into his neck, peppering kisses up and down his neck, stopping briefly to nip at his earlobe before a hand came up to his face, Jesse bringing his face closer to kiss his face while he himself just wanted to watch some damn TV.

Not that he was complaining, though. He definitely didn’t mind the open displays of affection he was getting. It was good to be pampered, and he was enjoying every second of it, sighing every time he thought about it ending when he got better.

Asa himself was more attentive, letting his hand drag back and forth as he caressed whatever part of him he could reach, be it his arm, his shoulder, letting his fingers drag into his hair, holding his hand when he was reading by his side and just holding him close as he dozed off to some documentary about spiders playing in the background.

As he got better and better, the wound fading into a pink scar, they were finally given the green sign to…resume their bedroom activities.

If he had thought he was being pampered, he definitely wasn’t prepared for the amount of touching, praise, and kisses he got their first night back together.

Asa would whisper into his ear as Jesse kissed down his chest, stopping briefly over the fresh, sensitive scar, softly blowing over it, and smirking at the slight shiver he felt underneath him.

Usually, they’d go for over one round. There were three of them, rarely all of them felt sated with just one, but all three were pent up and tired, stressed from all the days of recovery so he soon found himself sandwiched between the two most dangerous murderers he’d ever met, panting, hot, sweaty and coming down from the high of their orgasms.

Jesse turned on the ac and just slumped back into bed, barely pulling up the skull-printed boxers around his hips as he wrapped his arms around the tired pyromaniac between them. Asa mostly let Jesse hold him, just draping an arm over him but making sure they tangled their legs, so he’d know he was also there.

That they weren’t going anywhere, ever.

[wthtorke]

In Flight

Asa liked soft things.

It was strange, but he did.

Not as soft as in texture only. He found that he admired soft people, colors, and aesthetics. He always found himself drawn to the delicate, even though he had fun in breaking it whenever he had the chance.

It was no surprise when, even after two failed attempts, he chased after some dancing academy two towns over.

His interest in dancers was always memorable. There was something about the movement and knowing his hands could stop all of that in a heartbeat. That alone had him savoring every second.

Asa got into the backstage crew effortlessly: ‘We need more people,’ 'There’s a big play coming up.’ How sweet. Asa got to both setup and observe his prey with minimal trouble. He learned their set up, memorizing where each dancer would stand when the trap he had in mind did its work. It was perfect.

When paying attention to the lead dancer, however, Asa fell…. quite hard for him.

And while people thought dancing was 'different’, for 'interesting people’. Asa sure saw more empty heads here than he had in his classes. But this person was different, Asa knew it.

He moved with grace, determination, more fluidity. As if he didn’t have bones at all. And for the first time, Asa didn’t want to see them, at least not right away.

He was tall, all lean muscle and grace. Long, tight brown curls cascading down his shoulders, resting against his chest, always covered by that sheen layer of sweat from dancing nonstop for hours.

Asa caught bits of the play here and there. Only focusing when it’s about him, in particular. 'I haven’t cut my hair in over a year and a half now because of this,’ he’d laugh, saying he didn’t plan on cutting it after it was over either. It looked good on him, and Asa liked it. He’d help tend to it if he found it hard to keep back at home.

The director, however. A harsh middle-aged woman. Went hard on him all the time. She went hard on everyone, but even harder on him.

Unlike his peers, he’d perform with his hair down. The whips and movement of the hair were a part of his character and the story at hand. It had to be beautiful; it had to be perfect.

“From the beginning, now!” She’d shout as he’d finished his final bow. Barely having time to breathe before getting up, dashing back to his original spot. Hands trembling slightly, arching up as he started again.

Between the time Asa got the job and the premiere night, Asa had seen him faint twice. Overworked and overheated, dropping to the ground. His chest struggled to pull air in, eyes disoriented.

Dehydration both times.

Asa never wanted to blow a plan up like he had that time. They were ruining him. She was ruining him.

Still, both times he begged to stay in the role. Promising to do better, as if he was nothing but an amateur. As if he wasn’t already perfect.

He was sweet and lovely. So very gentle. So educated and polite.

Asa wanted to steal him away.

And he was going to.

Premiere night came and one of the lead dancers was sick, they couldn’t make it. And instead of just casting someone else, the old woman turned to him, barking at him to do his routine and theirs.

He paled at the words.

“Buy time! You’ll cover your time and theirs! It’s just pointe!”. “The backing dancers will change, you won’t. Stay on the stage and just go along.”

He agreed.

More likely, he didn’t have a choice.

“It’s the chance of my life,” he heard him say once.

The show started. Asa climbed up the railings behind the light set up to watch him, gaping as the curtains opened.

He stood there in full makeup and costume. Dressed in the colors of a monarch butterfly, a see-through butterfly mask rested over his features, hair down, framing his face, completing the overall aesthetic.

Asa almost lost track of time watching him jump, turn and glide through the stage so gracefully.

He was one of a kind, his butterfly.

Asa felt tense as the music shifted, the dancers at the back changing as he took another spot, breathing deeply and then standing on the tip of his toes, gliding around the stage. His arms did careful, gentle movements of a soft flap of wings, up and down, at the very pace of his “tiptoeing”.

He did this for almost 25 minutes, with minor breaks except for jumps and twirls, before resuming his tiptoeing as the back dancers carried on with the plot.

As he did his last bow, Asa noticed just how shiny his eyes looked.

Unshed tears.

Asa rushed backstage as the curtains closed, hunting for his butterfly amid the mess of dancers getting ready for the second act of the night.

He found him in a corner, getting talked down by the same old woman.

He was crying.

Getting closer, with the excuse of moving a prop. Asa heard what made him angry for the second time that night.

“My toes are bleeding,” spoken in a wet, sad, tired voice. Followed shortly by the bark of “Dunk them on some ice and be ready for the finale,” the woman said as she turned around and headed back to her directing place. The curtains opened again at the front of the stage.

Soon enough, it would all be over. But first, he needed to catch his hurt butterfly.

Asa moved the ice buckets farther to the back, where he was sure no one would be. His butterfly followed him, limping a bit, too polite to just yell at him to stop, as predicted.

The loud music prevented anything from going wrong, it was perfect.

“Sir? Excuse me-, can I have one bucket, please?”

Asa turned around and had to control himself not to just grab him, he was so beautiful.

“I… I hurt my toes badly,” he said, as if he had to explain himself.

Asa nodded, hauling one bucket up and handing it to him, watching as he set it down close to a chair, sitting down with a soft huff before looking at his feet.

Hands coming down, Asa’s eyebrows knitted together softly as he saw him hesitate, clearly afraid of undoing the lacing and seeing the actual state of his feet.

If Asa had a heart, it sure broke when he tried pulling the shoes off. A startling, pained cry and a fresh batch of tears coming down his pretty face. Muttering a soft, barely audible “Oh God…” as he sat back.

Asa acted before he thought, getting a step closer to him, “Do you need help?”

His butterfly’s face shot up, hands trying to dry the tears without messing up the makeup he thought he’d still need, “No-, I-, I’m sorry, I just-, I messed up, bad, I can’t, I can’t take them off-”

He didn’t, but Asa would not tell him that.

Asa crouched down, looking up at him when he gently grasped one of the strained ankles, the other hand grabbing the underside of the shoe, “Just breathe,” Asa found that he didn’t mind talking to this one, he’d never let him go.

Asa started pulling the shoes off, one by one. Gently forcing it downwards and then back to his chest, so they could set the toes free. The pained cries and whimpers of his butterfly fueling his wrath for every single person on that stage and crowd.

He busted his toes open, blood staining the white shoes into a reddish-pink on the outside, vivid blood on the inside. His butterfly cried freely as Asa gently placed the battered feet into the ice bucket. He shivered a bit when he heard the pained cries turning into pained moans and then soft sobbing as the clear water turned swirling red. Asa mumbled gentle, “shhhhh”s out of habit and the need to comfort him somehow.

A soft “Thank you” made Asa look back up at him, watching him take the mask off, shoulders shaking now and then with the soft sobs that bubbled up his chest.

Asa smiled a bit, hand reaching into his back pocket for the cloth he wetted with chloroform before leading him here.

In one swift move, Asa got up and pressed the cloth to his face. Locking his neck with his other arm as his butterfly thrashed, feet kicking the bucket and wetting the surrounding floor with bloody water and melting ice.

He slowly relaxed his grip as he also went lax, whimpers dying down as his eyes closed. He had brought the nicest trunk he had for him; it had a butterfly painted on the side. He opened it and walked back to his butterfly, taking him in his arms fully for the first time.

Asa couldn’t help but look at him for a second. His head leaned against his chest, face relaxed, and body limp in his arms.

Asa gently kissed his forehead, breathing in a lungful of the scent of his hair before nuzzling into it briefly. He walked to the trunk, gently placing his butterfly inside, promising to take care of his feet once they got home.

Closing the trunk, Asa turned around, placing both the mask and shoes on top of it before grabbing the remote control from his belt. Climbing the ladder again, he smirked as he pressed the button, hearing terrified screaming not a second later as he watched everything unfurl from up.

Taking great satisfaction in watching the old witch die the most painful way.

Asa remembered all of this as he made his way to his butterfly’s room, a food tray in hand. As he opened the door, his butterfly sat up on the bed, bare feet touching the floor.

Asa set the tray down on the vanity before locking the door, walking to him, and kissing his forehead again. He smirked as he heard the soft sigh from his butterfly.

Asa crouched down to have a look at his feet. Despite them being healed for months now, Asa could never get over checking them. He always remembers the hardship it was to keep his butterfly calm while he bandaged them back in the first few days.

Asa chuckled as his butterfly lifted one of them, his foot touching his cheek, making him look up at him again. His butterfly’s smile melted him into oblivion as his hand came to rest at the foot playfully scratching his growing beard. He pushed all shaving thoughts aside as he kissed the healed toes, then the beautiful arch of his foot, until he was kissing his thigh. Skipping the rest to meet his smiling lips, arms wrapped around his butterflies as they fell back into bed, the food forgotten.

[wtftorke]

The forest was sick, long had been since the free forest spirits were last seen, the dragon fire scaring them off much like every living being around, save for the miserable men and women who had no choice but to stay and build lake-town.

Long had been since Thranduil had stopped caring. He’d been proud of the forest once, so green and thriving, welcoming, and warm, full of life and giggling creatures that took care of it with love and care. It was a curse, much like the one Thranduil had to face himself, to live an endless life without his soulmate. The wealthy, bitter King sitting on his throne, surrounded by riches and his people, but alone in his heart. How original.

No visits from Lord Elrond and all the small talk in the world could lift Thranduil’s mood, much like no amount of feasts and banquets he threw in hopes the overflowing wine could ease the memories, maybe loosen the guilt he carried.

All to no avail.

Thranduil had trouble sleeping sometimes, choosing to sit by the veranda that gave sight into the forest instead of dwelling by his bed, both were useless alternatives, but he chose to think that he was somehow better watching the stars, maintaining his natural King poise as he opened the doors, the forest’s wind currents hustling the curtains of his chamber briefly before easing to a pleasant breeze. The moonlight caressed his skin as he closed his eyes for a short moment, the thoughts of always replaying back to his mind like they usually did, the same thoughts that made sleep abandon him every other night when wine didn’t cut it.

Lost in thoughts and memories, his eyes snapped open as something hustled the leaves in between the trees.

Thranduil watched intently for several seconds, not quite worried for no enemy could have entered the inner part of the forest but curious enough not to drop it just like that. He narrowed his eyes as they caught movement, “Whoever it may be, show yourself!” He said, voice even but with a warning tone to it.

Slowly, from behind the trees, a hand encircled the tree bark, giving it’s ashy texture new life that spread through it rapidly, the wood creaking under such stimulus. The hand slowly slipped from view, giving place to curious green eyes that peered from behind the tree. Slowly but surely, soon Thranduil could see what it was about.

A forest spirit.

Thranduil’s brow frowned slightly in confusion, forest spirits hadn’t been sighted for many years, taking with them any love and warmth the forest ever had, leaving it vulnerable and starved. Only when it did step away from the tree and into full sight did Thranduil truly feel like it didn’t make sense anymore.

A male forest spirit.

Made by Yavanna herself, every spirit was unique in its form. Unlike ents, Spirits, children of the green goddess herself. The princes and princesses of the forest could give new life to dead roots, often helping whole forests change seasons overnight. This one was the height of men, ears slightly pointed, sculpted to show it heavenly descends, much like the elves. His face held a peaceful expression, his calmness somewhat rubbing off into Thranduil enough not to call the guards on sight, not that it’d be of any use if he did. His hair flowed down his naked torso in waves, twigs and leaves clinging to the strands, stopping just above his navel where the fabric of his pants started, baggy in size, vines securing it tightly around his hips. The moonlight shone onto the strange colored skin of the Spirit, green marks swirled around his limbs, much like the vines that wrapped around the trees. 

“Why are you here, Spirit? Your kind has given up on this forest long ago.” He said bitterly. It looked surprised, to say the least, it’s eyebrows moving up and then down again, almost upset before he looked back up at Thranduil, “I came to tend to it, it is-”

“Sick.” Thranduil snorted, “Anyone can see it.”

“Disregarded,” He said, hand touching the green patch on the tree bark again, “I was sleeping, its cries woke me up.” He said quietly, “I cannot imagine what it’s been through, to cry so painfully like it was. So I came.” 

“How long have you been here?” Thranduil asked, none of his guards had reported sight of it.

“I arrived two days ago”, He said, "I'm still getting to know it, I've never been here before." 

Thranduil stared at the creature as he thought. “Only a fool would come back to this. Cursed branches and spider webs.” He said, not missing the sadness that flashed through the Spirit’s eyes as he did. “But you are welcome to try, I suppose.” He said, letting go from the smooth handrail of the veranda, turning around to enter his chambers again, stopping short as he heard it’s voice again.

“I will not leave it, you have my word.” He said.

Thranduil smirked, turning around to reply, but the Spirit was no longer there, a green path giving cue as to where he went, deeper into the forest.

Thranduil shook his head as he entered his chambers, this time closing the doors behind him, sliding the curtains to block the soon to come morning sunlight. Hope somehow finding his soul again.

Curse the oddity of this night’s events.

Curse the forest Spirits.

Interacting with one was viewed as a blessing among men, a promise of good fortune and good harvests, some going as far as to believe that upon seeing one, love would bloom in their hearts along with the Spirits doings wherever they were residing in.

‘Nonsense.’ Thranduil thought as he laid down to sleep, his silk robes dragging against the soft fabric of his beddings, blinking slowly coming to a stop as he sighed, he fell to dreamless sleep, clinging to whatever ‘magic’ the encounter had stirred in him.

[wtftorke]

Thranduil stirred, feeling the first signs of consciousness coming back to him, first breathing in deeply, letting the somewhat still chilly morning air into his lungs. Then he heard one particular sound that snapped him awake at once, chirping. Birds were chirping just outside of his room.

Stepping out of bed, Thranduil slowly walked over to the double doors that gave way to his veranda. Skeptical, his hand rested on the knob for a few seconds, head cocking to the side ever so slightly, trying to hear that sound again, to make sure his elven ears were not deceiving him. Thranduil narrowed his eyes as he waited, perhaps he had imagined it.

Thranduil was about to drop it and just go on about with his day, he was a King, and Kings were busy. Until he finally heard it again, though he failed to know if it was for the better or the worse. Opening the doors, Thranduil looked directly to where the sounds were coming from and found the bird couple, building a nest on a tree, but not any tree at that.

The nest, which was in its still initial stage, sat atop the one branch that was moss green, while the rest of the tree itself was dull and dry. Following the branch’s green path with his eyes, Thranduil’s gaze stopped in the middle of the tree, where the path also ceased abruptly, it’s last trails forming the perfect shape of a hand.

Memories from the night before hit him full force. Not only it was no trick as it was no dream as well, but he had also been visited by a forest spirit. The thought of it made Thranduil go back inside his room and change as quickly as his intricate clothing allowed him to, forgetting, and not really minding, to call his servants to aid him into getting ready.

Striding down his hall, Thranduil’s robes flowed gracefully behind him as he walked, every elf greeting him with a bow as he went. Dismissing any pleasantries, Thranduil made to his throne room, losing no time in sitting down, knowing the news that would soon come to him.

“Your grace,” Said his lieutenant, bowing before him, waiting for his nod before continuing with the reports, “Although it might seem a lie, last night’s reports were rather unusual,” He started, “It has reached to me that the south gate guards have sighted a long lost entity...A forest Spirit, to be precise.”

There it was. So after his visit to Thranduil’s balcony, it went south. “We have no news on its position, but the green path it leaves behind should be enough indicator if we were to track it,” He carried on, nervous. “What orders should we attend to?”

Thranduil smirked as he thought. “Don’t harm him.” “Let him roam free and do as he wishes, for he also means no harm.” He instructed, noticing his guard’s confused look when he called the Spirit a ‘He’, obviously wondering how did the King know that ‘he’ meant no harm as well, ”Do what you must only to whatever disgusting spiders dare to appear.” He said, waving a dismissive hand as his soldier bowed again and then left. “Scribe?” He called, a lean looking elf coming into view with a pen, and paper in hand not seconds later, “Yes, Your Grace?” He said, bowing slightly, hand ready to write whatever his King demanded of him. 

“To Lord Elrond of Imladris,” He started, eyes full of mischief as his scribe gulped and started writing his letter.

-

The Spirit had his fun in the forest, panting as he ran from tree to tree, watching pleased as grass-, healthy grass grew behind him, spreading around as he went. Smiling from ear to ear, he climbed the tallest of trees, it’s dull and creaky body coming to new, joyful life as he did. Reaching the top of the trees, he watched as the sunrays blessed his skin, restoring his energy. Looking around, he saw the Lonely Mountain, where a dragon apparently resided in. Expression turning into a scowl for a brief moment, he sighed as his eyes drifted lower, towards a city… In the middle of a lake?

Shaking his head at the absurdity of it, he felt blue butterflies climbing up his arms, some landing on his hair, a warm welcome from yet another species from the forest. He lifted his hands to his face, the first butterflies he saw in so long crawling up his wrists and fingers, “I’ve been looking to make some friends,” he whispered, smiling as their antennae perked up.

-

By nightfall, Thranduil decided to take a stroll through his gardens. Which he hadn’t done in what felt like forever. His servants did what they could to keep his personal gardens healthy when the disease started corrupting the forest. Struggling to keep the plants upright and blooming, year after year they’d wither a bit more.

But with a forest Spirit around, they were looking to recover, it seemed. The roses, which were dry and ill-looking before, now stood slightly, petals stretching out with a soft color. So he hadn’t entered his fortress yet. The plants knew he was around, for they fought to survive. Felt his magic through the walls and clung to what little of it reached them, probably hearing of the promise of new life through the wind breezes that came from the forest. 

He wondered if he’d get visited again tonight. 

He also wondered if he wanted such visit. Thinking about it as he picked up a leaf that had fallen on his shoulder. Running his thumb on its greenish surface before dropping it to the ground, Thranduil asked himself when did his life get so boring that a simple forest Spirit would get him so...Interested.

Turning on his heel, he climbed the short flight of stairs back into his halls, calling a servant, clearly having made a decision about his stream of thoughts in the gardens as he went.

[sanjidysphoria]

me, whenever i'm not watching the hobbit: i wish i was watching the hobbit

[deactivatedd83819947]

it is impossible for tolkien to make bilbo straight after telling us he lives alone and is considered excentric who do you take us for fool

[wtftorke]

The forest was sick, long had been since the free forest spirits were last seen, the dragon fire scaring them off much like every living being around, save for the miserable men and women who had no choice but to stay and build lake-town.

Long had been since Thranduil had stopped caring. He’d been proud of the forest once, so green and thriving, welcoming, and warm, full of life and giggling creatures that took care of it with love and care. It was a curse, much like the one Thranduil had to face himself, to live an endless life without his soulmate. The wealthy, bitter King sitting on his throne, surrounded by riches and his people, but alone in his heart. How original.

No visits from Lord Elrond and all the small talk in the world could lift Thranduil’s mood, much like no amount of feasts and banquets he threw in hopes the overflowing wine could ease the memories, maybe loosen the guilt he carried.

All to no avail.

Thranduil had trouble sleeping sometimes, choosing to sit by the veranda that gave sight into the forest instead of dwelling by his bed, both were useless alternatives, but he chose to think that he was somehow better watching the stars, maintaining his natural King poise as he opened the doors, the forest’s wind currents hustling the curtains of his chamber briefly before easing to a pleasant breeze. The moonlight caressed his skin as he closed his eyes for a short moment, the thoughts of always replaying back to his mind like they usually did, the same thoughts that made sleep abandon him every other night when wine didn’t cut it.

Lost in thoughts and memories, his eyes snapped open as something hustled the leaves in between the trees.

Thranduil watched intently for several seconds, not quite worried for no enemy could have entered the inner part of the forest but curious enough not to drop it just like that. He narrowed his eyes as they caught movement, “Whoever it may be, show yourself!” He said, voice even but with a warning tone to it.

Slowly, from behind the trees, a hand encircled the tree bark, giving it’s ashy texture new life that spread through it rapidly, the wood creaking under such stimulus. The hand slowly slipped from view, giving place to curious green eyes that peered from behind the tree. Slowly but surely, soon Thranduil could see what it was about.

A forest spirit.

Thranduil’s brow frowned slightly in confusion, forest spirits hadn’t been sighted for many years, taking with them any love and warmth the forest ever had, leaving it vulnerable and starved. Only when it did step away from the tree and into full sight did Thranduil truly feel like it didn’t make sense anymore.

A male forest spirit.

Made by Yavanna herself, every spirit was unique in its form. Unlike ents, Spirits, children of the green goddess herself. The princes and princesses of the forest could give new life to dead roots, often helping whole forests change seasons overnight. This one was the height of men, ears slightly pointed, sculpted to show it heavenly descends, much like the elves. His face held a peaceful expression, his calmness somewhat rubbing off into Thranduil enough not to call the guards on sight, not that it’d be of any use if he did. His hair flowed down his naked torso in waves, twigs and leaves clinging to the strands, stopping just above his navel where the fabric of his pants started, baggy in size, vines securing it tightly around his hips. The moonlight shone onto the strange colored skin of the Spirit, green marks swirled around his limbs, much like the vines that wrapped around the trees. 

“Why are you here, Spirit? Your kind has given up on this forest long ago.” He said bitterly. It looked surprised, to say the least, it’s eyebrows moving up and then down again, almost upset before he looked back up at Thranduil, “I came to tend to it, it is-”

“Sick.” Thranduil snorted, “Anyone can see it.”

“Disregarded,” He said, hand touching the green patch on the tree bark again, “I was sleeping, its cries woke me up.” He said quietly, “I cannot imagine what it’s been through, to cry so painfully like it was. So I came.” 

“How long have you been here?” Thranduil asked, none of his guards had reported sight of it.

“I arrived two days ago”, He said, "I'm still getting to know it, I've never been here before." 

Thranduil stared at the creature as he thought. “Only a fool would come back to this. Cursed branches and spider webs.” He said, not missing the sadness that flashed through the Spirit’s eyes as he did. “But you are welcome to try, I suppose.” He said, letting go from the smooth handrail of the veranda, turning around to enter his chambers again, stopping short as he heard it’s voice again.

“I will not leave it, you have my word.” He said.

Thranduil smirked, turning around to reply, but the Spirit was no longer there, a green path giving cue as to where he went, deeper into the forest.

Thranduil shook his head as he entered his chambers, this time closing the doors behind him, sliding the curtains to block the soon to come morning sunlight. Hope somehow finding his soul again.

Curse the oddity of this night’s events.

Curse the forest Spirits.

Interacting with one was viewed as a blessing among men, a promise of good fortune and good harvests, some going as far as to believe that upon seeing one, love would bloom in their hearts along with the Spirits doings wherever they were residing in.

‘Nonsense.’ Thranduil thought as he laid down to sleep, his silk robes dragging against the soft fabric of his beddings, blinking slowly coming to a stop as he sighed, he fell to dreamless sleep, clinging to whatever ‘magic’ the encounter had stirred in him.