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Your sigh echoes through the bare stone halls of the elven palace. ‘Tired’ barely describes the way your legs drag like stones, your shoulders slump under an invisible weight, and your very insides churn sluggishly in protest to continued movement. Rest is what you need, what you crave, and yet your feet turn away from the paths that lead to your quarters and instead push you further and further down the passage.
He’s waiting. Seated on his throne, cold, majestic, inspiring awe without effort. The embodiment of elegance he is, and just stepping into his presence sends a wash of relief over you. Rest you may need, but he is better than food or slumber or the sweetest songs of the fairest folk.
Despite the protests of your aching joints, you bow to him. With a quick glance and the flick of his hand, you know formality has been cast aside and let your face smooth into a sweet smile. His lips curl in response.
Thranduil stands, taking his time to circle around you, appraising.
“You work too hard, my pet.” His voice is smooth, calm and cool.
“No work is too much in the service of my king,” you answer quietly.
He snaps his fingers, and the servants at hand exit. Left alone, he steps closer, slender hand running across your shoulders. Warmth spreads through you, soothing the pains inside in a way that has nothing to do with elven healing. He stops behind you, both hands rubbing up and down your spine, you back, deep and kneading. It’s bliss after the burdens you’ve borne.
“Better?”
Your answer is little more than a sigh of pleasure. “Yes.”
His hands slip away, and you miss the contact. You hadn’t noticed your eyes had fallen shut until they fluttered open to watch him as he glides back to his seat.
“Come.” He motions you forward, a tiny grin on his almost arrogant face. You won’t refuse him. “Sit.”
Confused, you step forward. There is no where to sit except-
He reaches out a hand, and you take it instinctively. He grasps only your fingertips, sending little chills up your arm. Gently, he pulls you to him, and you find yourself settling into his arms.
Lightly, he brushes his fingers along your forehead, pushing the hair from your face. It’s an altogether different pain that overcomes you now, staring into his handsome face. He is all poise and grace, but there’s a chuckle on his lips, a gleam of humor in his eyes. King of the merriest of people, that is who holds you now. Flushing, you bury your head in his chest, tangling your arms in the rolls of fabric that drape him.
Burning, heavy, your eyelids droop as you inhale his spicy scent. It’s nature itself, woody and floral. Comforting. You breathe it in as the world begins to fade from your awareness. In the darkness that overcomes you, his voice is a soothing lullaby.
“Rest while you can, my pet. Tomorrow we are again out of one another’s reach, but for now … for now I will not let you go.”