The Jewel Out of Reach is Ever the Fairest by Rocky41_7

The Jewel Out of Reach is Ever the Fairest

Kink meme prompt fill:

"Thranduil would pay homage to Erebor because it was a powerful ally. He did not do it out of any love for its king, who openly lusted after him and his golden hair.

All the bonus points if Thorin is disgusted by this lust, partly because it's toward an elf and partly because it's so obviously unwanted."

Read The Jewel Out of Reach is Ever the Fairest

               Identifying cracks in the base of the large statutes characteristic of the Dwarven kingdoms was no easy task. A hairline fracture in the center of such a hulking mass of stone—often supportive as well as decorative—was frequently undetectable. Too often, the only way such damage was found was when the stone began to crumble—or in the worst cases, collapsed entirely. Over time, the Dwarves learned those things that might proceed such damage—earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, other forces of nature. But even then, they could only survey carefully and monitor for signs—actually finding the crack before further damage resulted remained a prohibitively difficult job.

               Thror had ruled Erebor since before Thorin was born. A proud son of Durin, unyielding and indefatigable, he inspired creativity in his smiths and loyalty from his soldiers, and Erebor prospered, her halls pouring forth more gems under the Dwarves’ skilled hands than they knew what to do with. He was a pillar of Dwarven society, the rock upon which Erebor rested, and thus supported, it was impossible for them to fall.

               But Thorin began to fear they had overlooked a crack.

               Thrain had seen it first, but Thorin had been convinced of his father’s paranoia, or that he was letting his quarrels with Thror get the better of him (possibly, even, lusting after the throne after so many years in his father’s shadow).

               It had begun with such small things that Thorin chided his father for even suggesting anything was amiss. Thror had grown short of temper in his age, snapping over insignificant or perceived mistakes, and becoming increasingly particular about how everything was done. But Thror had always been somewhat exacting; it was part of why Erebor functioned as well as she did! He also fixated more and more on Erebor’s ledger, and lately had taken to doing inventory of the kingdom’s coffers himself (after the last accountant had been left in tears by Thror’s tongue-lashing over a 2 on the inventory list, which, it had been pointed out, might also be a 5, this was probably for the best).

               “He’s growing senile,” Thrain had growled one day, after Thror had berated him at the council meeting, leaving the prince purple in the face, but unwilling to publicly accuse the king of unreasonable behavior. “He thinks not at all about how he behaves, nor how unreasonable his demands are.”

               “I don’t believe that a few idiosyncrasies of old age should cost our loyalty,” Thorin had answered. Thrain, already sore from his father’s verbal beating, took unkindly to Thorin’s thinly-veiled scolding. He cast a narrow-eyed look at his son.

               “Your loyalty blinds you,” he said. “I have known my father far longer than you sat on his knee, listening to stories about Durin the Deathless. He is not himself.” Thorin bristled. “He is not well.”

               That was the first time Thrain had implied it was not mere age that ailed Thror. Thorin’s disgust had been so that he refused to even acknowledge the remark, but left his father without another word.

               For Thrain to even suggest such a thing was so repulsive to Thorin that it refused to leave his mind, but festered in the recesses, nagging at his consciousness and making his hands unfocused and slow. Unable to work with this troubled cloud over his head, he paid a visit to his grandfather’s treasury, where Thror was counting coins.

               “Thorin, my boy,” the king greeted him warmly, sending soothing waves of reassurance washing over Thorin. Was it so unpredictable that Thrain should grow resentful over a few quirks of Thror’s age, and be quicker to see a problem where there was none? He had been supporting his father for over a century; naturally he had become impatient for his chance on the throne.

               (Thrain was Thror’s heir, the prince of the realm, but Thorin was seen as often in counsel with the king. Thorin chose not to linger on this.)

               “Grandfather.” Thorin bowed to the king before approaching the desk. “Is everything in order?” he asked, as it pleased Thror to have a chance to boast about the smooth running of their kingdom, and there was nothing in particular Thorin wished to discuss.

               “Bah, these imbeciles working in the treasury have grown so sloppy I wonder why I haven’t executed them yet,” Thror answered with a scowl. “Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes!” He paused. “Enough to make one wonder if there is more to it.”

Thorin blinked, the gears of his mind jamming as he tried to process Thror suggesting the royal treasurers were stealing from them quickly enough to come up with a response. The level of vetting each was put through in order to assume their position surpassed any other job in Erebor, except perhaps the goldsmiths. Fortunately, Thror seemed not to notice Thorin’s slip, and changed the subject promptly.

“I’ll soon have need of you, my boy,” Thror went on, stacking coins in neat pillars of gold. “The Elves will be visiting us soon. I will want you there with them.”

Oh, no.

Thorin managed to keep his reaction to a mere flicking about of his eyes and the appearance of the faintest line between his brows, but he wished to grab onto any of their diplomats and demand to know who had allowed the king to arrange this meeting. The Elves of Mirkwood had been by Erebor once already that very same year in the interest of maintaining diplomatic ties!

And of all Thror’s developing oddities, none was less tolerable than his behavior towards King Thranduil of Mirkwood.

Thus far, Thorin was willing to humor and excuse his grandfather’s behavior on account of his great service in leading Erebor with such wisdom and nobility. Certainly, he would have preferred not to see Thror react so harshly to Dwarves who had served him, for the most part, very well, but he would not be the first aging mortal to grow tetchy after so many years on Arda. Moreover, any trouble resulting therefrom was the business only of Erebor and her citizens. The issue with the Elvenking was not something that could be contained within their own kingdom, and while Erebor had little love for the Elves, neither did they wish to give them more reasons to be hostile.

In the past, Thror and Thranduil had worked together as necessitated for the good health of their respective kingdoms, but there was no love lost between them, being as each thought the other incurably pig-headed, vain, and selfish. It must have been around the time Thror’s temper started growing shorter, though, that he paradoxically became more tolerant of King Thranduil. Thorin might have considered this a boon, except that Thranduil was plainly not interested in the price of the tolerance Thror was offering.

It began with the looks. Thrain had off-handedly remarked to Thror in Khuzdul at one of their dinners that if he kept staring at the Elvenking so he was like to burn a hole through his pretty head. Thror had not been amused. Nor did he cease tracking every movement of the Elvenking throughout Erebor, trusting his courtiers less and less with caring for the visiting monarch. Thorin had seen their diplomats standing around twiddling thumbs while Thror took Thranduil on personal tours of the mining facilities or carried on about things for which the Elves had no cause for concern.

It could have been merely another one of his new quirks—unfortunate, but hardly crippling—except that it didn’t end there. Thorin wished it had ended there.

Two years past, Thror had begun seating Thranduil beside him, rather than at the far end of the table, which was generally broken in half between Elves and the Dwarves. The rest of the Elves were relegated to their usual places, but Thranduil had taken a seat to the left of the King Under the Mountain with aplomb. Thorin could only silently thank the Ainur that Thranduil seemed ignorant of Thror’s unseemly behavior (perhaps, as an Elf, it stood out no more to him than other social habits of Dwarves which he found equally strange). But Thranduil’s nonresponse only seemed to drive Thror to push the issue so that Thranduil could not overlook him.

“Perhaps I should expand my treasury,” Thror had said, feasting his eyes on the curve of Thranduil’s ear and the swoop of his cheekbone. “You have a head of gold, Thranduil.”

“And yours of silver,” Thranduil had replied, with a tone that made his distaste for this banter plain to all, it seemed, but the King Under the Mountain. Thror complimented Thranduil’s ageless beauty; Thranduil referred only to the fact that Thror was aged enough that every inch of his hair and long beard had gone gray. “Perhaps you should sit in the treasury yourself.”

“A king is the rightful treasure of his people!” Thror had passed Thranduil another glass of wine, which the Elf took, Thorin felt, with some relief (Thranduil’s own had been emptied several minutes prior). “Unless he finds a better place to roost.” Thranduil had simply looked at Thror, and said nothing, while Thorin shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and glanced down the table at Dis, who had the fortune to be conversing with an aunt, and was thus not party to the kings’ exchange. “I see not how you have remained alone on your throne so many years.”

“By my choice,” Thranduil replied at once, neatly, regarding his wine goblet rather than the Dwarven king. Thranduil’s wife and queen had been gone since before Thror was born, but Thorin knew his grandfather was aware of this. Everyone was, for Mirkwood had a prince, but no queen.

“Even a king needs companions.” Thorin had tried to brush off the fidgeting unease he felt at his grandfather’s transparent invitations, the attempted softness in his growling voice. Thorin’s eyes flicked to the face of the Elvenking, as emotive as stone. It was his long, spidery fingers, tapping along the stem of his goblet, that told of his displeasure.

“I have companions.” With this, Thranduil had given a tiny nod of his head down the table to where the rest of the Elves sat, continually glancing up at their king as though to verify he had no need of them.

“Do you, now?” Thror had asked in the sort of tone that made Thorin feel unpleasantly as if he were intruding on a private conversation, and making a gesture that Thorin could not quite believe was reaching for the Elvenking’s hair. Abruptly, a goblet had hit the floor, and Thranduil was bending over, away from Thror, to retrieve it.

“It seems I need more wine,” he had said to Thror, displaying the empty cup.

“It seems you do!” Thror had called for more drink, but never did his covetous eyes leave the thick braid of the Elvenking’s golden hair.

Even an isolated instance of an unwelcome advance, Thorin could have excused, distasteful as it was (not to speak of the indignity of seeing his grandfather and king throw himself at an Elf only to be rejected, repeatedly, at the same dinner).

But when the staring and the semi-transparent propositions did not sway Thranduil, Thror redoubled his efforts, until this point where Thorin cringed just to hear the Elves were coming.

So again, Thror seated Thranduil beside him (at the only available seat, to Thror’s right, a seat which Thranduil hesitated to take for just a moment), the rest of the Elves at the far end of the dining hall, and stared, and stared, and grinned beneath his beard, weighted with gold accessory, at his unwilling companion. Thranduil was radiant even among the Elves, and his pale gold hair ran in a river down his back, parting neatly around the points of his ears, and seeming to glow in the flickering lamplight of Erebor.

Thorin had seen his grandfather through many expeditions into Erebor’s depths, on many ventures for more gold, more jewels, more raw materials for their smithing. He knew the look of avarice in Thror’s eyes. And he saw it there when the king regarded Thranduil Oropherion—another treasure he wanted to possess.

It was a look Thorin could scarcely force himself to gaze upon, so overcome was he with embarrassment on his grandfather’s behalf.

Thranduil did not so much as look at Thror, choosing to rest his cold, deep green eyes on the plate in front of him, or at some distant point behind the head of Thorin, who sat across from him, at Thror’s left. Beside Thorin was Thrain, gripping his knife too tightly, and watching Thror with veiled disgust.

“The weather this time of year must make travel difficult,” Thror remarked.

“Indeed,” Thranduil intoned, after such a pause Thorin thought perhaps he meant not to respond at all. He pushed a bit of pork to the edge of his plate.

“Your return will be no easier,” Thror observed.

“No,” Thranduil agreed, carefully sequestering the vegetables on his plate and skewering a mushroom. Thror reached over and stabbed the pork off the Elvenking’s plate, a gesture which had made Thorin cringe before. Thror knew Elves cared not for meat; he had only ever served it for the purpose of discomfiting them in some petty way (then, it had made amused Thorin). Now, Thorin could not fathom the reasons. Only then did Thranduil turn his head to look at Thror with one of those wide-eyed disapproving looks of his, as though to remind Thror it was his request that had brought the Elves to the road so late in the year.

“I am pleased to extend the hospitality of Erebor, if the need is there.” Thror’s game was so plain that Thorin burned beneath his beard. Thranduil took another lengthy pause, not looking at Thror even as Thror’s eyes devoured the Elvenking’s profile. There were bawdier ways Thorin could have described the rapacious way Thror looked at Thranduil, but he did not care to contemplate them, nor whatever inner workings of Thror’s mind led him to such shameless behavior (and to an Elf, of all things!). “It would be no trouble at all for you to stay.”

“It would not do to leave my kingdom without their king,” Thranduil replied at last, making Thorin stand in frank awe at his patience, even as he sensed it was wearing thin.

“I doubt the walls of Mirkwood will fall to ash in your absence,” Thror grumbled, rebuffed at not the first attempt to coax Thranduil to stay longer in Erebor. Thranduil said nothing, but delicately picked at his mushrooms and potatoes, occasionally glancing down the table at the Elves, who seemed to be having a finer time the further they were from the Dwarves.

Thorin glanced at Thrain, who looked only at his plate as he sawed his pork loin into perfectly bite-sized chunks, but dared only the briefest sideways look at Thror. It was this momentary look that caught the king’s movement just before it happened; Thorin could only stare in bug-eyed horror as his grandfather grabbed a fistful of the Elvenking’s silken hair, digging his fingers into the thick tresses and dragging them down through.

Thranduil looked as if someone had unexpectedly vomited in his lap.

“Like gold,” Thror rumbled, raking his ringed fingers through Thranduil’s hair. “Pure gold. One such as you should be properly appreciated, Thranduil.” The Elvenking sat frozen, and Thorin cast about for some way to defuse the situation, and came up empty-handed. Thranduil’s eyes flicked down the table, where three of the Elves had leaped to their feet at the sight of this defilement of their king. Thorin tensed to rise as well, ready to intervene if there was violence, but some look or gesture from Thranduil held the Elves at bay.

He seized Thror, his finely-tapered fingers wrapping neatly around Thror’s thick wrist, and pulled the hand away from him. Thror’s fingers strained, brushing against the edge of Thranduil’s jaw as his touch was removed. Thranduil dug his fingers more tightly into Thror’s wrist until Thorin saw just the slightest twitch of Thror’s brow, all that showed of the wince he kept down.

“Some gold is best left where it lies,” he said tightly, and Thorin could see the fire below the even tone, and understood in a rush that Thranduil had never been ignorant of Thror’s advances—he had only preferred to pretend they were not happening. “I think we have all drunk enough.” He rose to his feet, and the rest of his company followed. “Good night.”

The Elves exited en masse, several cleaving immediately to Thranduil’s side, murmuring in rapid-fire Sindarin, but the king seemed to wave them off.

Thorin would have breathed a sigh of relief if that had been the last visit the King of Mirkwood ever paid to Erebor.

Thorin was not so lucky. In fact, Thorin was years away from understanding he was simply not a lucky person in general.

***

Out for a stroll—and perhaps wandering through the foreign quarter of the palace neighborhood to reassure himself nothing was egregiously wrong with their guests—Thorin chanced upon the murmuring of Elves on the balcony overlooking the garden through which he was passing. He paused among the tall mushrooms, then moved closer to the building to catch the words more clearly.

“…don’t know why you should be expected to tolerate…”

“Erebor is an ally,” came Thranduil’s low, soft reply.

“An ally does not treat us this way. Treat you this way.”

“I have heard worse things.” Thorin moved towards the wall, well out of sight of the Elves on the balcony as the shuffle of feet suggested they were moving nearer to the railing. There was a weariness in Thranduil’s voice. “As I said, this is…new. I had hoped it would disappear from whence it came but…”

“The way he looks at you,” the other Elf said in hushed indignation. “It’s entirely inappropriate! To touch someone like that! Can you imagine if some Man had put hands on Thror that way?” Thranduil sighed.

“Dwarves have always been prone to grab what they want,” he said, a lighter note in his voice.

“Was this the first time he…?”

“The first time he was so brazen about it.” Thorin’s gut twisted into a knot, wondering what Thror might have done—and whether Thranduil was exaggerating. It was well-known the sensitivities of Elves, and that they valued their space to a near-pathological degree.

“We should not come here anymore.”

“That is not an option.”

“Let me come alone, then. Without you.”

“I will not sour ties with Erebor over one Dwarf’s childish behavior.”

“There’s nothing childish about it,” said the other Elf darkly. Another sigh and the rustle of heavy fabric.

“Oh, how tired I am of this! Rather than ruminate on the deteriorating mind of one aged Dwarf, let us enjoy ourselves. I believe we have a cask of wine yet left.”

“Indeed we do, my lord.”

“Well, then.” There was brief laughter and the sound of the Elves’ footsteps retreating inside.

***

The Elves returned the spring after next, and in the interim, Thror’s behavior had grown only more erratic.

Thorin came across his father pacing about his forge one afternoon, hands clasped behind his back, puffing into his beard.

“Is something the matter?” Thorin asked, more an invitation to share than a question.

“His Majesty, of course,” Thrain replied, and Thorin tensed. Not in nearly five years had Thorin and Thrain had a conversation about Thror without it devolving into a fight, no matter how innocent it began, and this one was starting off fairly incriminating.

“Has something happened?” As ready as Thorin was to leap to Thror’s defense, there was a pit in his gut that a genuine problem might have occurred (He had yet to settle on his view of the conversation he had overheard between Thranduil and whichever Elven lord had been on the balcony).

“He’s fired the master of horse, for one,” Thrain said. “Along with the entire senior treasury staff.” In Thorin’s hesitation, Thrain added: “And the Elves will be here the week next.” That was worth fretting over, but it was impossible to guess how they ought to prepare to prevent another diplomatic incident.

“He has been unhappy with the treasury staff for some time,” Thorin murmured in faint excuse.

“And for what? Some imagined ills? Some dissatisfaction with the size of Erebor’s coffers? You know what it is?” Thrain ceased his pacing and looked at Thorin as grave as carven stone. Thorin had the strangest sense he was watching the conversation from someone else’s view. “He’s gone sick in the head. It’s the—”

“How could you say such a thing?” The words burst from Thorin almost without thought. “Make such an accusation?”

“It’s true!” Thrain bellowed. “So you’ve seen it, so I’ve seen it, so we’ve all seen it! Pretending otherwise will not make it so!”

“He is our king!” Thorin reminded his father. “And he has served Erebor—”

“And now he will run it to ruin! Not that I would expect to hear elsewise from you,” Thrain said, with a sudden sneer in his voice. “You have always been pleased to sit at his feet and play the loyal pet.”

Thorin colored.

“Grandfather has only ever treated me with honor,” he replied. “Which is more than I can say for my own father.”

“You are too old to nurse childhood grudges,” said Thrain. “And you are too old to be holding your grandfather on a pedestal that blinds you to his flaws.”

“You speak only out of envy,” Thorin accused. “You begrudge him the throne, which you would have for yourself.” You begrudge my love for him, because you feel entitled to it. Thrain’s face flushed in rage, and Thorin could hear the breath huffing through his nose. “You treat him with no gratitude for what he has done for us.” Already his father looked a heartbeat away from challenging Thorin to a fight; he might as well say what he had to say.

“Perhaps you see not the sickness because you carry it with you,” Thrain replied coldly. “I had hoped your mother’s blood would take it out of you. Perhaps Frerin and Dis will be more fortunate.” While Thorin fumbled for a suitable response, Thrain chose to depart. “Prepare yourself for the Elves’ visit,” he said as he went. “You will need many excuses for His Majesty’s behavior, I’m sure.”

***

Thorin did not like to ascribe such indecorous thoughts to a person he so respected, but Thror did not cease all throughout dinner looking at Thranduil as if he were anticipating throwing the Elvenking down on the table and tearing his clothes away. Thorin was not even sure the desire was of such a carnal nature, or that it merely appeared so, because such a thing was more logical and understandable than his desire to possess the Elvenking, or at least his lordly crown of hair.

For Thranduil’s part, he seemed more bored by the event than anything else, and Thorin briefly wondered how many other overreaching lords and allies he had dealt with in his time. Then again, he had always seen Thranduil to be markedly reserved, so perhaps it was less a quirk of age or race than character (Thorin did not know enough Elves, or enough about Elves to say).

After dinner, they retired to a separate hall where Thror had arranged for a small band, recalling, perhaps, that Elves liked to dance. The result was less than satisfactory.

The musicians played a soulful tune as the Elves and Dwarves stubbornly refused to mingle, but stuck each with their own kind, save for Thranduil, who was unable to escape the attentions of Thror. Few were even attempting a dance. Thorin was almost certain Thror had tried to touch Thranduil’s hair again during dinner, but Thranduil had dodged it, and gone on plucking browned pearl onions off his plate as if it hadn’t happened. There was a level of unescapable admiration in Thranduil’s determination to pretend nothing was happening.

“How has it been?” Thorin startled at Dis’ murmur in his ear.

“Not so dreadful as the last time,” he replied, still looking at Thror. With Dis, there was more room with honesty than with Thrain (now sticking close by Thror, prepared for some efforts at mitigation).

“Is he behaving himself?” Thorin turned sharply to look at his sister, brow furrowed, wondering at once if she stood by Thrain’s side in the matter. Silver beads glimmered like fish in a midnight pond through her black braids, and her peacock blue robes complemented her eyes, just a few shades lighter than Thorin’s own.

“Why shouldn’t he?”

“Because the Elves are here,” she said simply. “Come, Thorin. You know how Grandfather has been around them lately. Well, not all of them. Just…”

“Just the king,” Thorin murmured, his eyes shifting from the King Under the Mountain to the slender, regal figure of the Elvenking. His robes draped off him as though the Ainur had laid them there, and the crystals of Erebor lit him with an almost unearthly glow, lending an alien look to the sharp lines of his face. Elves never looked more other than underground.

“I wonder at King Thranduil’s patience,” Dis said. “I am not sure I would have it.” The thought of some other king pawing at Dis the way Thror rooted around for Thranduil’s attention made Thorin’s blood burn, but he swallowed it down.

“Perhaps he thinks if he says nothing, Grandfather will stop,” Thorin admitted. Didn’t they all hope that?

“And how many years will he keep trying that?”

“As if I should know? He is an Elf. Who can say how his sense of time works?” Thorin turned to look at Dis, in time to hear her soft gasp and see the way a hand flew up to cover her mouth. Rotating back to look at Thror was automatic, or Thorin would have time to dread what he might see, and he would have been right to do so.

Thror’s broad hand sat firmly on the Elvenking’s backside, then reached up for the hair that brushed over his knuckles, pulling desirously at the soft blond strands.  

“Shit,” Thorin whispered. Time seemed to slow as between Thorin, Thrain, and Dis, they tried to figure how to separate Thror from the object of his obsession without immediately drawing the room’s attention to the moment. Presently, no one else seemed aware, absorbed in wine and music and conversation, which gave them a few seconds in which to act to prevent total scandal.

Thrain reached him first.

“Your Majesty!” he exclaimed with strained joviality, seizing Thror’s shoulders to turn him towards Thorin and Dis. “Here is Dis!” He gestured at his two children. “Will you not offer her a dance?” Dis stiffened at being thus offered, but held the peace in the interest of diplomatic relations. “Thorin, no dancing for you either? Does no one in this family know how to enjoy a party?” It was like a stranger had embodied his father.

Thorin saw the petulant grimace begin on Thror’s face, and knew he was not accepting Thrain’s effort to separate him from Thranduil.

“What a fool you make of yourself, Thrain,” he said, jerking away from his son’s touch. “Go busy yourself, and leave the monarchs to statecraft.” Thrain said something too low for Thorin to hear, and Thror’s brow darkened.

Thranduil, wisely, took the time to flee back to the elven side of the room, striding through the small crowd, tall even amongst his own, as though he had no part in the squabbles of the Dwarves. There, he was shortly drawn into a waltz by one of the other Elves. Thorin noted how his eyes flicked repeatedly back over towards Thror and Thrain, and the low murmuring in Sindarin between the Elves.

“Do you mean to destroy any progress we have made with the Elves?” Thrain hissed to Thror, reaching for his shoulder again only to be swatted away.

“I will destroy!” Thror did not bother to whisper; his sense of subtlety was not improved with age. “The only thing that will destroy this kingdom is you and your feckless idiocy!” Now the room looked towards the King Under the Mountain. “Or were you not responsible for hiring those thieving treasurers I released lately?”

“Thieving!” Thrain exclaimed. So Thror had not shared his earlier suspicions with the prince?

“A Dwarf too stupid to see when he is being robbed has no place telling me my business with the Elvenking! The only treasure in your account is what I have provided you, including the wife who has given you the cold shoulder these last thirty years!” No one but the musicians moved; even the Elves were frozen, and Thorin did not like the way Thror glowered at Thranduil’s dance partner, with their hand on the Elvenking’s waist and Thranduil’s lush locks nearly brushing their chest.

Thrain’s heavy breath and twitching jaw betrayed his seething temper, but he ground his teeth, trying to salvage the situation from further degradation.

“If I have offended Your Majesty…” he grit out, but Thror interrupted, bereft of the grace with which he might have once allowed Thrain to back down.

“You offend me with your meddling and your ignorance,” Thror snapped. “Get yourself gone from my halls if you think you can manipulate the throne of Durin from behind my back.” Thorin thought with some awe his father might actually combust from the force of holding back any public criticism of the king. He felt Dis clutch his arm and reached back blindly to touch her in reassurance.

For several heartbeats, Thorin thought Thrain would tear into Thror with the vitriol he had thus far saved for Thorin’s ears. Father and son stared each other down, and then Thranduil spoke.

“Forgive my departure at such an early hour,” he said, a woodland lilt to his words. “I fear our journey was long, and has left me somewhat faint.” It was a ploy, Thorin realized at once. Playing on the Dwarven belief in Elven fragility. “Armae, if you would…?” Thranduil’s dark-eyed dance partner took his king’s arm and Thranduil nodded to the royal family as he passed.

The dead silence following was broken by the crack of Thror’s hand across Thrain’s face.

“Then make a fool of yourself for some Elven waif!” Thrain snarled. “Destroy our alliance with Mirkwood if you would! Let it be said only that I tried to save you from yourself!” With that, he quitted the hall in a storm, leaving the band warbling uncertainly at the rest of the party.

It was not much longer before their guests dispersed and the Dwarves went about their business, whatever limited appetite there had been for merry-making well dispersed.

***

Thorin could not forget Thror’s liberties. He thought of the many instances of late wherein Thror had toured Thranduil privately around Erebor, or drunk with him in his rooms. Was Thranduil’s checked temper born of a weary familiarity with this behavior of Thror’s? This thought had burrowed into Thorin’s mind and he could not let it rest. Even an Elf for which he cared not had not earned undesired caressing from a supposed ally.

Thorin paced about his rooms that night, and decided he could not leave the incident unaddressed, even if the Elvenking meant to do so. Dressing quickly, he made his way down to the foreign wing of the palace, where visiting dignitaries were housed (specifically, the rooms aside for Elves and Men, which boasted beds better suited to their heights).

A quick rap on Thranduil’s door committed Thorin to this course, and when it opened, he was not sure he had made the right choice. Thranduil could scarcely have look less pleased if Thror had been the one at his door (and to Thorin’s intense discomfort, he could not be certain his grandfather had not so debased himself by showing up uninvited to Thranduil’s chambers at some hour of the night).

“What can I do for you, son of Thrain, son of Thror?” Thorin had meant to ask to enter the rooms for a few moments, but given the recent violations of Thranduil’s person, it seemed now a terrible imposition to ask. Nevertheless, he wasn’t sure how well-suited to the hallway this conversation was. “Has Thror sent you? Tell him I am not interested in whatever he is offering, and I would prefer to remain undisturbed the rest of the night.” And he moved to shut the door.

“Wait!” Thorin blurted out. “I am not here for His Majesty.”

“I have no patience for another child of Durin who thinks that grasping hands and crude insinuations are some way to earn my favor. Goodnight, son of Thrain.”

“I came to apologize!” That made Thranduil pause. “Please.” Nothing but a most powerful sense of duty could have driven Thorin to make pleas of an Elf. “Allow me just a moment.” Thranduil’s eyes scanned the hall behind Thorin, as though it might be some ploy of Thror’s, before he silently stepped aside to permit Thorin entrance.

He wore a simple, but finely-spun light tunic with red embroidery around the cuffs and the neck, which dipped down below the king’s collarbone, and a soft pair of olive green trousers whose material Thorin could not discern. The crown was set side and his feet were bare; clearly, Thranduil did not intend to part his chambers until the morning. Alone in a much smaller space with him, Thorin felt abruptly more conscious of the Elvenking’s presence, though divested of his raiment he seemed less awesome, and more a creature of the woods. He drifted across the parlor and sank into an armchair by the fire, tucking one leg beneath him, and giving Thorin an expectant look with his pale eyes.

“So you have come to apologize, but not at the behest of the king,” he said. “This should be interesting.”

“I would not expect an Elf to understand,” Thorin said, and had to remind himself he had come to regain the Elvenking’s good graces, “but His Majesty has lived and ruled Erebor for many years, and—”

“Oh, how tender you are,” Thranduil sighed. “You believe his malady is one of age.” Thorin stiffened, and Thranduil reached for the goblet of wine with which he must have been occupying himself before Thorin’s arrival.

“I mean to say that—” Thranduil was looking so intently at him that Thorin forgot his train of thought, and groped around for another. What did he mean to say? “You have not seen the best of Erebor this visit,” he murmured at last, feeling he had lost his way somehow in this.

“The best of Erebor are the parts which are silent,” Thranduil replied, taking a sip. “And still.” He then added: “Thror has chosen his heir well.” Thorin frowned.

“My father is His Majesty’s heir.” The king exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Yet always I see you by his side,” he observed. “For this favor, your loyalty is understandable. But your grandfather is a Dwarf, and he is afflicted with that illness peculiar to your kind.” Thranduil reached for another goblet, filled it, and offered it to Thorin, who stayed where he was. “I have seen it before.”

“His Majesty does not have the gold sickness,” he said flatly. Thranduil sighed, as if summoning the patience for mortals to come to inevitable conclusions.

“If it is not the gold sickness, then he is merely a lech who managed in some way to control himself around me for the first hundred and fifty years of our acquaintance,” Thranduil replied. “At least with the former he might be relieved of some flaw of character.” Thorin’s jaw dropped at Thranduil’s free and blunt criticism. “I have known your grandfather since he was a prince of Erebor, lurking behind the throne of Dain with barely a wisp of a beard. This game of his is something new.”

“Why do you tolerate it?” It wasn’t that Thorin didn’t take offense at this impugning of his grandfather’s character, but there was also his curiosity, which might never be sated apart from this moment.

“Because he is a fly, buzzing in my ear, and by evening he will be gone,” Thranduil said. “So why waste any energy of mine raising a fuss?” Again, he offered Thorin the wine.

“But it is unpleasant,” Thorin guessed.

“Very,” Thranduil agreed.

“I would not tolerate such a thing.”

“Your life is much shorter than mine.”

“It would not matter if it wasn’t,” Thorin said. To be groped at by a monarch meant to be an ally, to be treated as an object, a conquest, a thing? No—Thorin could never have stood such a thing.

There was a clamor outside, the rattling of glass, and eager knocking at the door.

“Not tonight, my friends,” Thranduil called. To Thorin he said, with the indulgence of a lax parent, “Mind them not; they prefer to carry on the party here.” Thorin had always wondered if the Elves habitually brought their own booze when they visited Erebor; this seemed good evidence the answer was yes. He could not picture Thranduil participating in any such festivities.

“Curious that it should be you that comes, and not Thrain,” Thranduil remarked, helping himself to the wine Thorin would not take. The firelight flickered against his well-defined features, and turned his hair to spun gold, aureate as the treasure piled up in Thror’s halls. “Though I imagine he is in quite a snit after his scolding.”

“Why shouldn’t it be me?” Thorin asked.

“Is Thrain not His Majesty’s heir? Is it not then incumbent upon him to make apologies for the king’s shortcomings?” Thorin puzzled over this for a moment, and the corner of the Elvenking’s mouth twitched. “Wonderous. I do believe you have a sense of honor, Thorin, son of Thrain.” For some reason—perhaps the way Thranduil said it—this brought a dusting of color to Thorin’s face and made his back stiffen.

“All of my house has honor,” he retorted.

“Not many as much as you,” Thranduil disagreed. “None else have come here trying to rescue the family name from your grandfather.”

“The things my grandfather has done for Erebor puts other kings to shame!” Thorin exclaimed hotly.

“He has also put you in this position,” countered the Elf. While Thorin struggled for a response that was adequately apologetic while also not suggesting Thror had done something wrong, Thranduil stretched, arching his back and reaching one impossibly long arm up over his head, before resettling in the chair, drawing both feet up onto the seat. The shadows drawing a chiaroscuro over Thranduil’s face made it severe, until it seemed he was not of Middle-earth at all.

How old was the Elvenking?

“It is not as you imagine it,” Thorin insisted stubbornly.

“Isn’t it?” Thranduil seemed almost to roll his eyes. “Your devotion is touching, if misplaced. So you came to apologize. Have you done so to your satisfaction?” There was some noise and shouting passing by Thranduil’s door, and a faint quirk of the king’s lips surprised Thorin by looking almost like a smile. But then those piercing eyes refocused on Thorin, and he was again battling to put his words together in a sensible way. Was it some Elf trick? Thorin had never known himself to be so tongue-tied by outsiders.

“Or perhaps,” Thranduil suggested, lounging back in his seat, “you thought you would play the hero and rescue me from your grandfather’s clumsy advances?” Now Thorin flushed and clenched his fists, and was sorry he had come.

“I came only to give my apologies if you were made to feel unwelcome here,” he said stiffly.

“Oh, Thror’s welcome has not been lacking in enthusiasm for some time,” Thranduil replied. “That is precisely the problem.”

“I see I have wasted my time,” Thorin said.

“Not at all; you have shown me what kind of Dwarf you are,” Thranduil said. “And as one day Thror’s throne will be yours, this is useful information to have.”

“And what kind of Dwarf am I?” Thorin couldn’t resist asking, lifting his chin in challenge to the Elvenking. Now the curve of Thranduil’s mouth was unmistakably a smirk, and he raised his goblet to drain it.

“The noble kind,” he answered.

***

Thorin dreamed of the Elvenking.

Erebor was empty, and Thorin’s footsteps echoed off the vaulting ceilings and cracked stone walls, and when he opened his mouth to call out for Frerin and Dis, no sound escaped his lips. Thorin was in the throne room, the doors thrown open, but Thror’s crown lay discarded on the floor at the base of the steps, with no sign of his grandfather about, and lounging like a cat in repose on the throne was Thranduil.

“He is a fly buzzing around my head,” said the Elvenking, his voice seeming to come from every direction at once, stereophonic around Thorin’s ears, “and soon he will be gone.” He gave a self-satisfied smirk, and reached to his side, digging his long fingers into a pile of gold that rose up taller than the arms of Durin’s throne. Coins and gems slid down the sides of the it as Thranduil disturbed it, and Thorin saw a like pile on the other side of the throne. “I can be patient,” said the Elvenking. “I can wait.” He lifted a coin to his lips and a twitch of his head sent his loose hair rippling like waves of molten mithril.

Thorin was at the base of the throne, and Thranduil rose, towering above him, forehead crowned with the long-lost thread of white gems: his last gift to a wife long departed. Thorin could see, but no fires were lit, and Erebor’s crystal lamps were dim; he could not find from where the light came.

“His sickness is in your blood,” Thranduil told him. “I can wait.” Thorin no longer seemed capable of motion; when he shook his head, the gesture was so slow it was as though he were being crystalized in amber.

“I am not my grandfather,” he whispered.

Thranduil was in front of him, towering, glowing, beautiful and terrible and alien, and he gripped Thorin’s chin, slender fingers dug into his beard, tilting Thorin’s face up towards him, and Thorin clawed at some understanding of the expression on his face.

“No,” he said softly, his thumb caressing Thorin’s cheek. “You are not.” He spun in a whirl of silver robes and blackness and Thorin jerked himself awake in an empty room.

***

Thror summoned Thorin to his study early the next morning. What sleep he had gotten since the dream of the Elvenking had been shallow and broken, and Thorin feared his weariness showed in his eyes as he crossed the threshold into Thror’s study. Nevertheless, he held himself upright, as a prince of Erebor ought, and tried to put the sleepiness behind him.

It was not enough to prevent Thror from catching him by surprise, one meaty hand hooking Thorin’s neck to throw him into the wall when he had taken but two steps into the room.

“Where were you last night?” his grandfather snarled, and at last Thror’s addled rage had been turned on Thorin.

“What?” Thorin gasped, bucking against his grandfather’s grip. “Your Majesty, I don’t—” He broke off to attempt sucking in more air.

“You play at being an ally of mine,” Thror hissed, leaning in, his eyes too-bright and burning into Thorin’s, blasting away the tiredness lingering in his muscles with simple adrenaline. “And then you stab me in the back. Thrain, at least, has the sense to attack me from the front! But you! After everything I have given you, every honor and every privilege I have bestowed on you! I have given you better than your own father! You ungrateful whelp!”

“I don’t know what you speak of, Grandfather,” Thorin pleaded in a wheeze, grabbing at Thror’s hand.

“You, sneaking into the Elvenking’s chambers last night, like some spot-faced boy slinking into the whorehouse, like some bitch in heat,” said the King Under the Mountain, his grip on Thorin’s neck tightening. “My own kin would steal from me. Does it so please you to defile what should be mine?” He relaxed the pressure of his hand only to throw Thorin again against the wall.

Thorin struggled to shake his head, to swallow down enough air to deny the accusation. Never would he have believed his grandfather would harm him, but looking into the searing fury of Thror’s gaze then, he could do it far too easily.

“I didn’t,” he choked out. “P…please, Y…” Thror released him, and Thorin was so busy falling to his knees to gasp air down his aching throat that he did not have time to fret that Thror seemed no less calm.

“And now you lie to my face!” he screamed. “Is there nothing worthwhile left in you at all?”

“I never touched the Elvenking,” Thorin said weakly, head spinning, hunched so far over his forehead brushed the thick carpet. “I swear. I never touched him.” Only this seemed to stay Thror’s wrath. “I only…” He was interrupted by his own hoarse panting.

“Only what?” Thror demanded, and Thorin trembled. Have I not proven myself to you already? he wanted to cry. Still you make me plead my innocence! Straight to Thorin’s heart pierced the wound of Thror’s lost trust.

“Only went to speak with him,” he whispered. “I was there but less than an hour, Grandfather.”

“And what could he possibly have to discuss with you?” Swallowing felt like pressing down on a bruise, and Thorin’s hazy mind scrambled for an explanation that did not involve admitting to apologizing for Thror’s own atrocious behavior.

“I wanted to ask about Gondolin,” he lied at last, rubbing at his stinging eyes, a gesture he hoped Thror would take as embarrassment. He stayed on the floor, his head bowed, now in supplication to his lord. There had been a time, in his youth, when Thorin had been somewhat fascinated with the Elven kingdoms of old. Thrain had discouraged this interest, but Thror had allowed it to be indulged. “I…wanted to know if he had seen it.”

“And why secret yourself off to his chambers for such a thing?” The suspicion had not left Thror’s voice, but his tone had evened, making Thorin think he was perhaps near to convincing him he was not a threat. “You think to make pillow talk of such a childish thing?” Thorin’s faced burned with humiliation at the suggestion and the blunt way Thror presented it, and his shoulders hunched.

“I…did not want to ask in front of my father,” he said.

“Hmph. That I can believe,” Thror decided. “Thrain is always quick to silence any amusement we should have here. I should not have invited him to the event at all, but one must allow the crown prince some privileges.” Thorin breathed a silent apology to his father and waited. The storm of Thror’s temper passed, and he touched the top of Thorin’s head as he passed. “I’m glad this was but a…misunderstanding,” he said placidly, as though he had not greeted his favorite grandson with a hand around his throat and such tawdry accusations. “You can go, Thorin.”

It took Thorin a moment to gather himself off the floor, staggered with shock, and he found himself in the hall with no memory of departing. Every conversation he had had with Thrain the past years, every time he had zealously defended Thror against Thrain’s increasingly bald suggestions that he was suffering from gold sickness seemed to echo in his head at once, and Thorin began to fear he had glossed over a crack at the heart of Erebor.

***

When breakfast was served, Thranduil sat with the Elves. When Thror shouted down the table and waved him over, Thranduil declined.

Thorin thought that might start a war in and of itself. 

But Thranduil added something onto it to mollify the King Under the Mountain.

“Give me the morning with my men, Thror. I would prefer to speak with you privately when we are done here.” What Thranduil was thinking, volunteering to be alone with Thror, Thorin could not fathom, but it sparked his nerves, for he could not believe Thranduil said it idly.

The rest of the meal passed without incident and Thranduil went away as promised, with Thror trailing in his wake, near to licking his lips as he raked his ravenous gaze up and down the Elvenking’s back. The unpleasantly knotted feeling had returned to Thorin’s stomach and he found his appetite vanished.

Thorin’s curiosity and concern were too much to bear. He told himself it was for the benefit of Erebor; with Thror’s increasingly unpredictable behavior, was it not necessary that someone else know what was said to the King of Mirkwood? Was it not best that someone be around to intervene in case of…anything which might be untoward?

By the time he reached the door behind which the kings were sequestered, Thranduil’s patience had expired.

“I have been willing to overlook your behavior up to this point,” Thranduil was saying. “But that has reached an end.”

“Patience? You speak to me of patience?”

“I speak to you of patience.” Thranduil’s even voice cracked like a whip, and Thorin almost pitied his grandfather. “I was willing to overlook your vulgar flirtations, your clumsy efforts to impress, your lascivious looks. I know the minds of mortals weaken with age, and I know there are those in your kingdom who would excuse your behavior with senility. But I am not so generous with you. The sickness in your mind is that which has ever plagued the line of Durin, and to you, I am become simply one more object to be gathered and fenced in among your coins and your gems.”

In the silence, Thorin could read Thror’s shocked affront.

“I recall how you used to greet me, Thror, son of Dain. You had no love for me, no love for the Elves. We have been civil, little more. But now your tune has changed, and I do not believe it is the grace of age.”

“You test my hospitality.” Thorin winced at his grandfather’s feeble threat. “I have invited you as a guest—”

“Hospitality! Is that what you call your desperate pawing at my robes, your constant pulling at my hair? I have seen youths with more finesse.” No, Thorin pleaded silently, don’t mock him. Arousing Thror’s temper could only end badly, and there were few surer ways to do it than making him look the fool.

“I see age has not tempered your arrogance,” Thror retorted. “You must be so very accustomed to beauties throwing themselves at your feet wheresoever you turn! How your hall must overflow with declarations of love, at least from those who would take the empty seat by your side along with its titles, if only they could tolerate a spouse of ice and stone!”

Thorin barely breathed.

“Do not speak to me of love and declarations.” Thranduil’s voice had gone so low Thorin strained to hear it through the door. “You know only conquest and possession. Do not dress your lust and greed up as something honorable, something tender. It matters not whether I have one declaration or ten thousand; never will I cede to your efforts. You frustrate us both by continuing.”

“You bear the crown of a king, but you speak like a spoiled princess,” Thror sneered, falling back on taunting with little else on which to win their conversation. “I did not think you were in need of wooing, Thranduil. Then again, I should not be surprised, ever, with the neediness and particularity of Elves.”

“If you were capable, I have little doubt you would simply clap me in irons and shut me up in your treasury. Fortunately for me, you are not, nor will you ever be.”

“Would it be so terrible, to be the treasure of a king?”

“You are making it very difficult for our partnership to continue.”

“Perhaps you would prefer my grandson, then!” Thorin could hear the bafflement in Thranduil’s lengthy pause.

“What?”

“Thorin, the wretched brat. Or was he not in your quarters after dinner last night, pulling at your bedclothes?”

“Thrain’s child?”

“Do not feign ignorance with me! He cannot hide his lust.” There was an odd sound then, which Thorin realized was the Elvenking attempting to disguise laughter.

“If he has it, it is not for me. He came by concerned only with my treatment of you.” Another pause, and then, “You should count yourself lucky to have such loyal kin, Thror.”

“Was it not to pry you with questions about Gondolin?” For the first time, Thror’s tone lapsed from accusation and force, as if some measure of his old self was bleeding back into this stranger who threw tantrums and listened not to counsel.

“Perhaps that as well,” Thranduil amended, letting Thorin exhale as the Elf gave his lie room to breathe. The room went quiet, and Thorin relaxed, several moments too soon. There was then a scuffle, muffled, wordless exclamations, and a snarling sound like a wild animal. The door banged open so quickly Thorin had to leap out of the way and dive into a nearby doorway as Thranduil sailed by, hands clenched, his silver robes and his hair billowing behind him like the trail of a falling star.

Knowing he had not time to run before Thror exited, Thorin forced himself to move calmly, and entered the study.

“Grandfather!” he exclaimed in faux surprise. “I heard a bang. Is all well?” When Thror turned to look at him, there were red streaks down his face—gouges, Thorin realized, from fingernails. His gut sank into his boots and pooled around his feet on the floor.

What did you do? he wondered desperately.

“Nothing to worry about, Thorin, my boy,” Thror said with a witless look. “Make sure the kitchens prepare a lemon dish for the Elves’ afternoon tea, would you? They’re ever so picky about their fruit and we had to have those lemons imported.” If Thror had raged at Thranduil’s insolence, berated his arrogance, declared the time had come for war with Mirkwood, Thorin would have believed him more himself.

What should he have said, he wondered often in the times after? Was there something he could have asked, something he could have told, that would have changed Thror’s course? Was there some way he could have softened his grandfather, pulled him back from the brink? Some buoy he could have thrown a Dwarf sinking below the waves of madness? Thorin couldn’t say. In the end, all he said was:

“Yes, Grandfather.”

 

---

Chapter End Notes

There is actually nothing in canon that supports the Thror/Thrain/Thorin dynamic I have going on here but I threw it in for the drama.

Also, in case you wondered! Yes, Thranduil sat to Thror's left to keep the king in view of his good eye, and the reason Thror was able to grab him at that one dinner was because Thranduil was forced to sit to his right, and so he couldn't see what Thror was doing (I headcanon Thranduil is blind in his left eye from the War of Wrath).

It's not that Elves won't eat meat, it's that they dislike the cuts the Dwarves choose and think they habitually overcook their meat, so they refuse to eat it, and this has given rise to a belief among the Dwarves that the Elves are vegetarian. They aren't.

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