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He listened with futile discontent, although her words were more like the noise of swelling water and had long ceased to reach his conscious mind. He watched her carefully from his throne, all too familiar by now of her every mannerism.
At the moment her eyes flickered with the same fire that kissed her common head. A rare bird in appearance and wild spirit alike. Heedless merry-making and seclusion seemed not to be her choice and she had always fought them both like they were a cage. Thranduil had long given up hope that his Captain's will was merely under the influence of youth and naivete.
His own eyes flickered though she did not see it. Anger flushed his face, as it often did, and never for the reasons she was apt to assume. Too easily he could disguise his hatred as frustration with her tactics and convictions.
Even now he hated her. He hated the rise and fall of her chest as her passion for protecting his domain through strength of arms filled the chamber. He hated the very lips that breathed that passion as they curled and pursed and formed her words like an expert craftsman. He hated her voice both rough and fair as it weaved a song of wisdom against his stubborn ways. He hated her beauty even as it pierced his heart.
Long had he reminded her of her Silvan blood. Long had he forbidden her from having any aims for his son. Long had he made it clear she was off limits to Legolas even as he himself favored her and forebore her disobedience when indifferent wisdom would have sought out a new, more competent Captain. Yet, long had his warnings been useless and spoken more out of selfish desire and self-rebuke than any true concern for his son's affairs. He could not have her, but neither would his own flesh and blood.
But where Legolas eventually gave up his infatuation, and any current notion of romance in general, Thranduil's desire only grew. It festered like a wound and mixed with contempt. He wanted her and hated her for it. He hated how deeply the river of his desire coursed: beyond a physical need for release and far down into his bones, where not even the wisdom of elves to avoid the risks of taking a second spouse could argue against him without contest. Yet wisdom would always triumph in the end; he ever realized he must struggle against her and he hated her for having ensnared him in this torment.
"My king," she seemed to be winding down her long speech and he fixed all the intensity of conflicting emotion into his gaze upon her. "Darkness is growing all around and danger grows once more in our dear Greenwood. Yet, you sit there, saying nothing, as though you think little of my reports and care not about the counsel you have elected me for. Ai, do you even hear my words or do I struggle on like a madness?"
Thranduil's lips curled into a thin smirk and his head tilted slightly as it often did. "Yes, madness." His answer was calm and heavy with double intent that she did not read. He watched in painful satisfaction as she caught her breath and set her jaw in anger. The maddening thin line would remain firm so long as she mirrored his contempt.
Hatred against hatred must always be their way.