Chapter Text
"Thank you for coming," said Thorin, handing Thranduil a goblet of wine. "I would have spared you the journey and gone to Mirkwood myself, only…" The thought of the anchor keeping Thorin deep in Erebor stole the breath from his lungs, and he looked away from Thranduil.
Thranduil, kindly, made no comment, and said only, “It was high time I ventured from my realm. Think no more of it.” He watched Thorin a moment, still standing by the table, his hand wrapped loosely around the wine decanter and his gaze lost in thought.
He looked gaunt, Thranduil realized. It had been a long time since he had last seen Thorin, but there was no mistaking the sharpness of his frame or the weariness in his expression. The angles of his face brought to mind the careful wording of Thorin’s correspondence – each letter growing shorter with the passing of the seasons, the matter discussed more impersonal, and the quill-strokes themselves becoming thinner, more angular, as if set down with great care.
The last such letter – brief in the extreme – had asked only for his presence, and Thranduil had not thought twice before acquiescing, had almost been waiting for it. It was obvious that matters were not easy for Thorin, and had not been for some time, but seeing its effect on the dwarf in the flesh was unsettling.
Thranduil rose and moved to stand before Thorin. "Come," he said, laying a hand over Thorin’s. “Sit with me.”
Thorin nodded but did not look up. His fingers slipped from beneath Thranduil’s and he let the elf fill his goblet, then guide him to the low fur-covered bench overlooking a gold-studded chasm, the walls seeming to move in the lamplight. They sat a while in silence, sipping their wine and contemplating the view before them.
“I have come to hate the sight of gold,” confessed Thorin, his voice low and almost shameful.
Thranduil kept his eyes on some far flicker of light and waited. Beside him, Thorin drank deep of his wine and clinked his rings against the goblet.
“It is everywhere I look, now,” continued Thorin. “Do you know? My grandfather has had our cutlery changed for gold. I cannot even sup without seeing that accursed metal.”
Thranduil turned from the chasm and contemplated Thorin, whose gaze was fixed on the goblet in his hands. “A peculiar sentiment, in a dwarf,” he prodded.
Thorin huffed, sounding half-amused. “Haven’t you noticed? I have many a peculiar sentiment, for a dwarf.” At this, he looked up at Thranduil, and the expression on his face struck a chord within Thranduil’s chest, leaving him thrumming like a plucked bowstring.
“I have noticed,” he answered. He searched Thorin’s face, marveling as he always did at the living fragment of sky in his eyes, so out of place in this underground kingdom. “I thought my perception of the fact was obvious.” For good measure, he placed a hand lightly on Thorin’s arm. Thorin gave him a small smile and turned his hand so it lay upwards on his thigh, and Thranduil’s fingers closed around his wrist.
“Why did you call for me, Thorin?” Thranduil had his suspicions, of course, fed by the rumours had made their way to his ears, but one could not judge a river by the rain.
The smile fell from Thorin’s lips and he turned his face from Thranduil. “I fear for my grandfather.”
Thranduil saw again in his mind the empty throne by which Thorin had bid him welcome to his grandfather’s halls, and nodded. Thorin’s fear found an echo in Thranduil. “Tell me all,” he said, gently, and moved his hand from Thorin’s wrist to slip into his hand. Thorin returned his grip and told him all that his quill could not.