Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The summer of that year was exceptionally hot. The days stretched on in the golden glow of the sun, and the young elves happily enjoyed the weather, spending time outdoors—by the river, among the treetops, laughing and singing.

Meanwhile, Thranduil sat in a small, stuffy room. The curtain at the window moved lazily, dancing to the rhythm of the warm wind. Joyful sounds drifted from outside—laughter, music, calls. The elf gazed silently in their direction, as if trying to grasp something beyond his grasp.

Haldir, his teacher, guardian, and guardian, tore his gaze from the book he was reading. It was one of the ancient histories of Arda, but today it seemed particularly empty. Haldir looked at the boy with quiet regret. Thranduil was still so young. He should have friends, adventures, dreams. But his days were filled with duty, study, training—a life subordinated to the will of King Oropher.

His father never allowed anyone near his son. He kept him under tight control, with iron discipline, almost coldly. For years, Thranduil had believed his father hated him—perhaps because his mother had died shortly after giving birth. But the truth was more complex. And more distant.

"Would you like to be like them?" Haldir asked quietly, with a faint smile filled with sadness.

Thranduil flinched, caught in his thoughts.

"No… I don't envy you. I am a prince. It is my destiny," he replied, trying to keep his voice steady and mature.

But he knew it was a lie.
He longed for simplicity, for normalcy, for laughter. But he never dared to go against his father's will. Perhaps out of guilt. Perhaps out of fear.
Or perhaps… out of something he himself didn't yet understand.

For Thorin, fun and laughter were the foundation of life.
He couldn't sit still for long, and any occasion for celebration was sacred to him. Always surrounded by friends, with a mug in hand and a broad smile, he brought life wherever he appeared, even for a moment.

That evening, the feast hall in Erebor reverberated with music and laughter. The stone walls reflected the sounds, creating a cozy, almost magical space. Thorin had just finished dancing with a red-haired dwarf when Bofur approached him with a mug of ale in hand.

"That barmaid almost ate you up," he laughed, nudging him with his elbow.

Thorin laughed heartily, leaning against the wooden table.

"I'm too drunk to use it tonight... but next time..." he winked, reaching for the waterskin.

"The reputation of a playboy has already stuck with you," Balin muttered, sitting down with a heavy sigh. "Maybe it's time to find someone permanent, eh?"

Thorin raised an eyebrow and laughed again, this time a little more brashly.

"Balin, I'm too young for serious relationships and routine.

I'll enjoy life a little longer before I give my heart to someone."

Balin shook his head in resignation, but there was a softness in his eyes.

"May you grow into this someday, boy... before it's too late."

Thorin didn't answer. He reached for the drink again, as if to drown not only the laughter but also the shadow that flickered across Balin's gaze.

That night, Thranduil couldn't sleep for a long time.
He stood on the terrace of his room, gazing at the stars—the only place that gave him solace, the only window to the outside world he didn't know and longed for.

Suddenly, among the trees of Mirkwood, he saw light.
It wasn't the usual light of a lamp or torch. It was bright, even penetrating, as if it didn't belong to this world. Thranduil narrowed his eyes in surprise. An inner voice, quiet but clear, seemed to be calling him. Tempting him.

He never left the palace without permission.

He had always obeyed.

But this time... something had changed.

Silently, like a shadow, he slipped from the chambers. He slipped through the cloisters, crossed the gardens, and entered the trees. From afar, he saw the light shifting among the branches, leading him deeper and deeper, until it finally stopped amidst the thicket.

He carefully parted the bushes.

And then he saw him.

He stood there—a tall, beautiful Elf with honey-colored hair and pale skin. A strange aura emanated from him, unsettling and almost hypnotizing. He seemed unreal.

"You don't have to hide," the stranger said in a calm, melodic voice.

Thranduil emerged from hiding, cautiously, as if enchanted. The stranger regarded him with intense concentration.

"You are very beautiful," he added quietly.

Thranduil felt his heart skip a beat. Those eyes… those blue, yet deeply dark. Something about them seemed out of place for a creature of his own kind.

He took a step back. Then another.

The stranger followed him.

"I sensed you," he said, his voice suddenly lower, heavier, as if flowing directly into his soul. "You are no ordinary Elf, beautiful young man..."

The figure began to change. His body trembled, as if dissolving into thin air. The radiant Elf was reduced to a shadow—dark, cold, full of something… evil.

Thranduil turned and fled. He ran, terrified, feeling the shadow nipping at his heels. The forest swirled before his eyes. The palace was close now.

And then—he fell.

A cold hand almost touched him. Thranduil screamed—loud, with despair and fear.

And then light appeared.

The shadow hissed and vanished into the darkness.

Haldir ran up to the Elf, sword in hand, his face tense.

"Thranduil! What happened?!" he cried, kneeling beside him.

The young prince trembled with fear, staring at the place where a shadow had been moments before. His lips trembled, and his voice choked.

Oropher was furious.

But even more so—troubled.

Thranduil, his only son, had broken the rules. And yet, instead of punishment, something far worse befell him. The king immediately called a council, sending messengers to his most important allies. Elrond of Imladris, Galadriel of Lothlórien, Radagast the Brown, and Gandalf the Grey answered the call.

Meanwhile, Thranduil was forbidden to leave his chambers. Oropher was not ready for the boy to learn the truth—neither about the world nor about himself.

The council took place in a great hall, crowned by a vault of leaves and roots. The air was heavy, and the light was cloudy. All the arrivals were already waiting when Oropher entered with a solemn expression.

"For some time now, I've noticed the forest is sickening," Radagast said first, placing some withered leaves on the table. "The leaves are withering despite the dampness. The birds are silent. The animals are abandoning their nests."

Elrond took the leaf in his hand, examining it anxiously.

"I, too, feel the changes. There's a shadow in the forest… something that shouldn't be here."

"I noticed the same," Oropher replied. "But I'm more concerned about what happened to my son. This creature… sensed something. Something within him."

"We don't yet know what this creature was," Elrond said calmly, "but I have no doubt that the young prince should not remain here. He is too valuable to the fate of Middle-earth."

Oropher looked at him sharply, as if he wanted to deny it, but couldn't.

"He will go to you, Elrond. You and his future, promised husband will keep an eye on him," he finally said coldly, as if the decision were already final.

Galadriel lifted her head slightly and looked at Gandalf.

No word was spoken, but the wizard heard her voice in his mind:

"It won't be safe. He won't find protection among the Elves. Evil will find him there too."

Gandalf frowned.

"Then, Fair Lady... where?"

"Among the sons of Durin," Galadriel replied, a mysterious smile playing on her lips.

Gandalf cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had fallen.

"If he stays in one of the Elven kingdoms, it will be too obvious a place for those who seek him. The Shadow will find him sooner than you expect."

"Then where should I send him?!" Oropher growled, impatient.

Gandalf leaned on his staff, glancing at everyone present with that mischievous, mysterious smile of his.

"To Erebor."

Chapter Text

Thranduil watched emotionlessly as the servants packed his belongings into trunks.

Clothes were carefully folded, jewelry secured in silk pouches. Every item had its place. Like himself—organized, arranged, tailored to someone's will.

He wasn't surprised by his father's decision.

He knew Oropher would sooner or later get rid of him from the palace—it was more convenient that way. Especially since he had long since planned his future. In two years, Thranduil was to marry a dull, colorless lord from Elrond's kingdom. The alliance was to be more important than love.

Though he denied it, though he remained silent—deep inside, in a place he couldn't name, he felt pain.

But he didn't protest.

He had never had the courage to oppose his father's decisions.

The day had been bleak since morning. The sky had turned gray, and heavy raindrops fell on the leaves of the Forest like tears Thranduil had long been unable to shed. The journey was silent. The prince rode, gazing at the passing trees, at the familiar landscape he would soon leave behind.

Haldir rode right beside him—silent, watchful, always ready to react.

Behind him, a little way off, followed Gandalf, his cloak soaked by the rain, but the wizard himself seemed completely unconcerned. He accompanied the Elves willingly. Something more than concern gleamed in his eyes—as if he sensed that this was only the beginning of something greater.

Grandfather, you've got to be kidding... Elves?! Thorin shouted when he heard who would be arriving at the palace the next day.

King Thror raised an eyebrow from the map of Erebor he was marking.

"Yes. We'll be hosting them for a while. Prince Thranduil and his guardian, Haldir, will arrive tomorrow at dawn."

"But... you're not going to make me babysit an elven princess, are you?" Thorin snorted in disbelief.

"Easy, Thorin," the king sighed, not taking his eyes off the map. "I just want you to be polite. Maybe you can show him the forges, the mountains, a bit of dwarven culture."

Thorin groaned dramatically, flopping into the armchair next to him.

"Fine, fine... but I was afraid you'd make me spend time with him. Elves are so... boring."

Thror just smiled and made no further comment.

No greenery, no light, no life.

That's what struck Thranduil as he stood at the gates of Erebor—his new prison.

He stood erect, his face devoid of emotion. Impassive, as he had been taught since childhood. But inside, everything was boiling.

The sudden departure. The separation from the forest he had always known. And this world… dead, stifling, stony.

The great gates of Erebor opened slowly. From within emerged the hosts—King Thror and his grandson, Prince Thorin. Gandalf walked at their side, speaking to the young dwarf as if to an old traveling companion.

Thorin glanced at the guests… and then he saw him.

Prince Thranduil.

Tall, slender, almost unnaturally beautiful. He moved with a lightness that had no right to exist in such a harsh place as Erebor. And then that scent—clean, fresh, forest-like. It was like an aphrodisiac.

Thorin felt something tense up inside him, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

He smiled broadly and moved forward with his usual casualness. As he approached the Elf, he patted him unceremoniously on the shoulder, as if they were old acquaintances.

"Hello! Pleased to meet you!"

Thranduil flinched as if someone had just touched him with dirty hands.

"Hello, Prince Thorin. I am Prince Thranduil, son of King Oropher," he replied coolly, with a practiced grace that even this blunder didn't break.

He said nothing more.
He turned and walked away with Haldir as if nothing had happened.

Thorin remained where he was. Still with his head slightly bowed, he watched the departing Elf with a mixture of surprise, intrigue... and something else.

"What the hell was that...?" he muttered under his breath.

Thranduil sat down at the table next to King Thror.

His posture was impeccable, almost statuesque. His bright eyes swept the hall, which was filling with new guests with every passing moment.

He felt uneasy.

He usually ate with his father and his closest advisors—calmly, quietly, with reserve. Here, everything was different. Too loud, too crowded, too... dwarven.

Suddenly, he spotted him.

Thorin entered with a group of his companions, laughing, joking, making comments.

A strangely small man with curly hair—shorter even than the dwarves—walked beside him.

Thranduil raised an eyebrow.

"Simpletons," he muttered to himself with cold distaste.

Thorin noticed that the seat next to the Elf was empty. Without hesitation, he walked over and sat comfortably, elbowing himself in.

Thranduil stiffened. Every nerve in him demanded distance, but on the outside, he remained calm, almost indifferent.

Meanwhile, Thorin had loaded himself with a huge plate of meat and then... began eating with his hands. He smacked his lips loudly, licking his fingers, his elbows constantly bumping into Thranduil.

"Could you please not push yourself?" the Elf said quietly, not even turning his head.

Thorin looked surprised.

"Sorry... I usually sit here alone," he replied carelessly, and went back to eating.

Thranduil took a breath.
"Didn't anyone teach you table manners? This isn't a stable."

The Dwarf Prince swallowed the last bite but didn't respond immediately. He set his plate down with a thud and looked at the Elf.

"Are you a Prince or a spoiled princess?"

He grabbed his plate and, without a word, walked to the other table, where his friends were waiting.

Laughter, whispers, stares.

Thranduil felt them on him like blades. Every word that remained unspoken, and every glance that pierced the silence.

But he didn't move.
He didn't allow himself even the slightest hint of a reaction.

Though inside, he was seething like burning wine in a crystal goblet.

"A cocky git," Thorin growled as soon as the feast hall door closed behind them.

Bilbo glanced at him from under his curly hair.

"Maybe he's just stressed, give him time, Thorin."

"Mr. Baggins, I can sense people like him from afar... and I avoid them."

And the worst part is that this gentleman is supposed to live here, learn our culture, our customs..." he added bitterly.

In the morning, breakfast was served in a smaller hall, where the atmosphere was somewhat calmer, but tension still hung heavy.

Thranduil sat in silence, his posture impeccable. His plate contained only bread, a few olives, and a modest portion of cheese.

His every movement was measured, almost delicate.

Thorin, who had sat at the table with a slight grimace, moved a little further away, as if afraid of accidentally touching the Elf.

"You always do everything so... delicately with those little hands," he muttered sarcastically.

Thranduil didn't reply.

"A true prince should know how to wield a weapon. But you? You probably didn't even hold a sword properly," he added, reaching for a loaf of bread, which he mercilessly tore apart.

The Elf finally spoke coldly:

"I am trained in the art of combat. It requires not brute force, but precision and strategy."

Thorin snorted.
"Really?" He raised his eyebrows mockingly. "Then... accept the challenge."

Thranduil looked up from his plate but remained silent.

"What? You're not going to fight?" Thorin pressed.

"I don't fight without need."

"You're a coward."

Thranduil put down the olive. His gaze was as cold as an icy mirror.
"I'm not a coward."

"Yes, you are.

Unless you prove me wrong. Then I'll honor you."

"When and where?" came the reply without a trace of emotion.

Thorin stood.
"Tonight. The training ground."

Thranduil lifted his chin slightly.
"I accept."

Thranduil donned light, comfortable training gear. He forgone any adornment, but combed his hair carefully, pinning it back. He stood before the mirror and looked himself in the eye.

"You'll regret it, you filthy Dwarf..." he whispered, his voice laced with cold determination.

Thranduil stood in the square, head held high, radiating pride. He looked calmly at his opponent, as if defeat were out of the question.

We'll dance, Thorin. And you'll fall.

Meanwhile, Thorin approached everything with amusement. He joked with Bofur, tapping his axe against his hand, glancing down at Thranduil. The entire company was cheering him on—laughing, cheering loudly.

"Be careful he doesn't blow you away with his glare," Bofur joked.

"He's only an Elf." Lean, stiff, and proud. I'll teach him some mud and sweat," Thorin laughed.

From the first move, Thranduil captivated. His style was like a dance—agile, swift, almost silent. The steel of his practice blade whistled through the air, every cut deliberate.

For a long time, Thorin was forced to defend himself. The elf seemed to be enjoying himself—he maneuvered, his eyes sneered slightly, and he said nothing, but his superiority was palpable in every move.

"Come on, don't princes know how to finish?" Thorin growled, angry that he couldn't land a hit on the elf.

Finally, Thranduil made a mistake.

He was overconfident. He swung too wide, wanting to end the fight spectacularly. Then Thorin saw an opening and struck with a force the elf hadn't expected.

The blow was clean. Thranduil fell to his knees, his sword falling from his hand.

A thunderous laugh rang out from the dwarves.

"And so ends the tale of the proud Elf!" Thorin exclaimed, bowing dramatically.

Thranduil rose slowly, his face expressionless. He didn't say a word. He simply walked away.

Bilbo watched from the shadows. The little Hobbit didn't say much, but his eyes saw more than most.

He approached Thorin as the crowd dispersed.

"It wasn't fair," he said quietly. "You had support. Cheering. He was alone."

Thorin looked at him in surprise.

Pride will conquer itself. It was a lesson in humility," he replied, more to himself than to Bilbo.

Chapter Text

Thranduil, as one might expect, avoided everyone after that inglorious battle.

He was probably ashamed. Thorin's friends laughed with him...

"Well," Thorin himself once muttered, "Prince Thranduil doesn't seem like the type who likes to lose."

Indeed, Thranduil felt discomfort after losing. But it wasn't just pride—it was the shadow of his father, who was constantly judging him.

A familiar, icy tone echoed in his head:
"Only the weak lose."

He heard cheerful chatter outside. He went to the window and glanced discreetly into the courtyard. He saw Thorin walking with a group of friends—laughing, confident, loud.

"Idiots," he muttered under his breath.

He turned and looked at his room. It was empty. As always.

Just like his home. Apart from Haldir, there was never anyone there.

In the afternoon, Grandfather called Thorin into his study.

"I've noticed the prince hasn't been showing up for meals for the past few days," Thrór said gravely.

"Perhaps he's losing weight," Thorin laughed, spreading his hands.

"Don't joke, boy."

"And what am I supposed to do with that? Take some soup, a spoon, and go to his chamber to feed His Majesty?"

Thrór snorted with laughter.

"Maybe not that bad, but... get something tasty, go to his room, and invite him for a walk around the neighborhood."

"Grandfather..." Thorin protested.

"You will. You will bring him food, try to talk to him. We don't want him fainting from hunger here."

Thorin stood stunned for a moment, his mouth hanging open.

"Should I really do this?"

"Yes!" Thrór confirmed with a smile. "Between you and me... I'm proud of you. You beat him in a fair fight."

"Did you hear about that?" Thorin said, laughing slightly.

"Of course," Grandfather muttered. "Nothing can hide here."

Thorin felt like a servant, carrying a tray of food toward the eastern chambers of the palace. He knocked. Silence. He knocked again. Still nothing.

Finally, he sighed, turned the doorknob, and entered.

The room was dim. Thranduil lay still on the bed, covered in a thick blanket as if it were winter. He looked pale and haggard.

Thorin approached and set the tray of food down with a loud thud, deliberately waking him.

Thranduil started and slowly opened his eyes. He was about to say something, but Thorin beat him to it:

"Food... So you don't die of hunger and wounded pride."

Thranduil glared at him icily.

"Take your tray and get out."

"You don't tell me what to do in my own place," Thorin replied sarcastically.

"You do whatever you want anyway." It makes no difference," the Elf muttered coldly.

"You simply can't lose. It hurts you."

Thranduil remained silent. He looked away, as if he didn't want to listen any longer.

After a moment, Thorin said in a tone that brooked no argument:

"Tomorrow morning, you're coming with me to the city."

"Is that an order?" Thranduil muttered without emotion.

"Yes," Thorin replied and left, leaving the door ajar behind him and a quiet silence that lingered in the air for a moment.

The dwarves quietly began pulling silver coins from their pockets.

“What are you doing?” Thorin asked, narrowing his eyes.

“We’re taking bets,” Bofur laughed, his teeth flashing.

“What?! Thorin raised his eyebrows.

“We’re taking bets on when you’ll end up in bed with gentleman Thranduil.”

“Psh!” Thorin growled. “What are you even talking about?! I wouldn’t touch that conceited git with the point of an axe!”

“No?” Bofur snorted. “And yet you keep talking about him. And you keep glancing at him…”

“I say that because he annoys me! Like no one ever has!”

“Well,” Bofur shrugged. “It’s a very short distance from hatred to… other things.”

For those words, he received a warning pat on the head from Thorin.

“Take him to bed yourself.” "Me?" Bofur raised his hands. "I'm just a simple dwarf, and you're a prince. You're in your league, not mine."

Thorin gave him an icy glare.

Bofur lowered his voice, glancing at the door.

"Besides... it's clear he prefers men. He's so... delicate, distinguished. Definitely not for me."

Thorin said nothing, but his gaze lingered for a moment—directly in the direction of Thranduil's chambers.

Despite his inner resistance, Thranduil finally left his chambers.
He couldn't completely ignore the relationship between the Kingdoms, and even less did he want to disappoint his father.
He felt the entire court watching him, though he showed no emotion. Straight, cool, impeccable—as always.

The dwarves spotted him from afar.

"Here he comes!" Dwalin remarked with amusement. "Don't tell me you charmed him... since he got off his lordly arse and left the chamber!"

Thorin kicked him in the calf, though he himself was barely suppressing a smile.

As Thranduil approached, Thorin bowed dramatically, raising an eyebrow.

"Greetings, esteemed Prince Thranduil!"

The elf shot him an icy glare.

"Spare the false pleasantries," he muttered coldly. “You make them sound worse than mockery.”

“That’s exactly the point,” Thorin snorted.

Thranduil rolled his eyes, then turned around without a word and walked away.

The townspeople watched Thorin with admiration, some bowing low, others smiling, asking for a word or a handshake.

The Prince of Erebor spoke confidently, inquiring about prices, shaking hands with the craftsmen, and occasionally laughing at a dwarven joke.

Beside him, Thranduil walked silently, his head held high and his expression cool. He tried to appear indifferent – as if he didn't care, as if he were above it all.

In reality, however, he was alert, noticing details – glances, postures, emotions.

Suddenly, his gaze fell on a little girl sitting on a stone step, hidden between two stalls. She was crying quietly, hugging her bruised knee.

Her mother was engrossed in conversation, and none of the passersby paid any attention.

Thranduil glanced around quickly, making sure no one was watching. When he was sure he was unnoticed, he approached quietly and knelt beside the child.

"Hush, little one," he said gently. "It's nothing."

His hands glowed with a soft, silvery light. The girl's skin glowed, the wound disappeared, and the pain faded.

The girl looked at him with wide eyes, then wrapped her arms around his neck gratefully.

Thranduil smiled faintly—genuinely, if briefly—and straightened up.

It was then that Thorin noticed everything. He stopped dead in his tracks, watching the Elf with a surprise he couldn't explain.

"Be careful, or he'll catch your eye," Dwalin muttered maliciously, having approached him and also seen the scene.

Thranduil suddenly felt eyes on him. He turned quickly and left without a word, clearly embarrassed, almost... ashamed.

Thorin followed him and fell into step with him.

"I didn't know the prince of Mirkwood would stoop to helping..."

Thranduil gave him a bitter look and laughed softly, without joy.

"In your eyes, I'm just an empty simpleton in silk, am I?"

"That's how you act," Thorin replied firmly.

"Think what you want," Thranduil said coldly, not meeting his gaze.

Thorin was silent for a moment. Unwanted thoughts echoed in his mind.

Had he been mistaken?
Did this cold, haughty Elf really have something more to him...?

The possibility irritated him beyond measure, because it was easier to hate someone you could put in a box.

And Thranduil had broken out of that box all too easily.

Chapter Text

Thoughts of Thranduil consumed too much of Thorin's time, and that irritated him most.

He disliked him. He hated him.

And yet—every time he closed his eyes, the elven prince returned. Unbearable as a plague. A quiet, majestic shadow, slipping through his mind as light as silk, leaving a mark Thorin couldn't erase.

He told himself it was just curiosity.

He had always liked to know everything about everyone—and Thranduil was an enigma.
Too calm. Too proud. Too... perfectly built.

Too unreadable.

Thorin hated being out of control—and Thranduil was the opposite.
He looked cold, spoke little, and when he smiled—that expression was like a slap in the face, as if saying, "I know more than you will ever understand."

Something had changed lately.
His body was reacting differently.
The sexual urge surged, unbidden, pressing in like a wave. As if his body was trying to break free, to release the tension that was haunting him.
Thorin tried to find relief.
Sex usually helped.

But this time...

even when he had someone in his arms—he saw that Elf.

Those damned eyes.

That hair that probably smelled of forest and danger.

Those hands, long and noble, that Thorin had imagined too often... not where he should have been.

He clenched his jaw, as if trying to force the images away.

"It's not lust," he told himself. "It's anger. It's just damn hatred. And frustration."

But his body knew better.

“Bilbo, you have to do something for me,” Thorin said one day, surprising the Hobbit from the doorway.

Bilbo looked at him suspiciously.
“What now…?”

Thorin wasn’t one to ask. He was more of a commanding type. Especially when he looked confused.

And now… he looked. He drummed his fingers nervously on the table, his gaze wandering.

“It’s about Thranduil,” he said finally.

“Oh, no…” Bilbo groaned. “No, don’t tell me I have…”
“Listen,” Thorin cut him off. “If anyone in our party can see what’s not visible at first glance, it’s you. You’re quiet, unnoticeable…”
“Thank you for the ‘compliment’…”
“…and you know how to sneak in where you’re not wanted.”

Bilbo narrowed his eyes.
“Should I spy on Prince Thranduil?!” he exploded. “Shh!” Thorin looked around. “Not so loud!”

“Is this some kind of joke?” Bilbo crossed his arms. “You want me to find out something compromising so you can mock him at dinner later?”

Thorin snorted and looked away.
“No… I just want to know more about him. He’s been here for three weeks.”

Bilbo raised his eyebrows.
“Just like that? No hidden meaning?”

Thorin shrugged, but his blush betrayed more than his words.
“What did you think… that I wanted him… you know…”

“Shake?” Bilbo replied cheekily.
“Pfft! What are you thinking! Me and an Elf?! Thorin flinched.
“You suggested it yourself,” the Hobbit replied, but didn’t pursue the matter further. “Fine. I’ll try. But only because I, too, wonder what it is about him.”

Bilbo sighed more and more often.

Spying on Thranduil proved more difficult than he’d expected.
The prince was like a ghost – he appeared and disappeared, leaving no trace behind. Either locked in his room, which no one was allowed to enter, or hidden in the gardens with a book, pretending not to see anyone.
Or perhaps he truly didn’t.
Or perhaps he didn’t want to see.

Bilbo sometimes sat on a bench nearby, pretending to eat an apple.
Thranduil paid him no attention for a moment. Yet others always did – if only with a glance, a nod, a faint smile. This Elf was nothing.

This was starting to get on Bilbo's nerves.

It was as if he were air.

It was as if Thranduil simply… had no emotions.

After a few days, he returned to Thorin.

"Nothing. There's nothing in him, Thorin."
"Impossible," the dwarf grumbled. "Everyone's hiding something."
"He doesn't even look like he's sleeping. Like he even needs sleep."
"Or maybe you saw something? A gesture, a word, a look?"
"Once... maybe. But I could have imagined it."
"What?"
"There was something... sad in his eyes. For a moment. But it seemed he'd shut it off immediately."

Thorin didn't answer.
Bilbo glanced at him carefully.

"You know... it's strange, but I get the feeling you want me to see something wrong with him."
"I just want to know who he really is," Thorin replied firmly. "He's been here for three weeks, acting like a picture prince, and everyone's enamored with him. And I know no one is perfect."

"Or maybe... he just is," Bilbo muttered.

Thorin hissed softly and reached for the wine jug.

"I'm afraid I'm not." Bilbo didn't press the question. But he added silently:

Or maybe you just like him. And you don't know what to do about it.

Getting closer to the prince could be the solution.

You have to gain his trust, Bilbo thought, heading towards the gardens once again.

Like every noon, he found him in the same place.

Thranduil sat on a bench, leaning slightly, gazing silently at the flowers. To the Hobbit's surprise, he smiled gently, and his hands—slender, almost ethereal—hovered calmly until one of the colorful butterflies alighted on them fearlessly. The elf spoke to him softly, almost in a whisper, as if to an old friend.

But as soon as he saw Bilbo approaching, he fell silent. His face regained that cool, secure expression.

"I like passing by here too," the Hobbit said calmly, trying to sound as natural as possible.

"Yes... it's one of the few beautiful places in this quarry," Thranduil said sarcastically, not taking his eyes off the flowers.

"Erebor is a nice place," Bilbo remarked.
"If you like rocks and a lack of trees, maybe it's for you," the Elf replied with a hint of weariness.

Bilbo sighed.
"Thorin's not bad. He can be rude, true, but I've known him for a long time. Once you get to know him better, he's quite a decent guy."

"Maybe for you," Thranduil muttered. "But Elves and Dwarves are burdened with an inglorious history."

"History can always be changed," the Hobbit replied calmly. “Maybe I can show you some other nice places to hang out instead of just sitting here?”

Thranduil glanced at him sideways, and then… smiled. Barely noticeable, but genuine.

And so they set off together – through clearings, hills, paths that weren't spoken of aloud because they were too quiet to be noticeable.
Thranduil hadn't expected this harsh landscape to hold so much hidden beauty.
This wasn't just a quarry.
Erebor had its nooks and crannies. Its secrets. Sometimes… even a bit of greenery.

After their stroll, as the sun began to set, Thranduil stopped and nodded.

"Thank you, Bilbo. Truly."

The hobbit only smiled slightly, surprised by the change in tone.

From afar, from a higher cliff, Thorin watched everything carefully.

He didn't move once, but his eyes never left the Elf.

Jealousy suddenly flared.
It wasn't because he was afraid Thranduil and Bilbo would become so close.
No, Thorin didn't suspect them of anything untoward.
But when he saw Bilbo laughing in the Elf's company, talking to him—calmly, naturally, as if they'd known each other for years—something inside him grated.

Thranduil looked… different next to Bilbo.
He was no longer the haughty, cold .
He was calmer, more relaxed. Sometimes he even smiled.
And that was what irritated Thorin the most. That damned smile.

So when he passed Thranduil in the hallway one day, he couldn't help himself.

"I see you enjoy my friend's company," he muttered, not hiding the coldness in his voice.

The elf paused for a moment. He looked at him emotionlessly, but with that familiar irony in his eyes.

"Apparently, he prefers my silence to your chatter," he replied just as quietly, walking past him.

That was enough.

Thorin spun around, grabbed Thranduil by the tunic, and pressed him against the cold, stone wall.

"Be careful who you mess with," he growled through his teeth.

Thranduil didn't look afraid. His gaze remained cold, as if he were facing not the dwarf, but a storm that would soon pass.

After a moment, however, he pushed Thorin away with a force no one would have expected from him.

"Get your filthy hands off," he hissed, straightening his clothes with dignity.

For a second, they stared at each other in silence.

Thorin with a clenched jaw, Thranduil with a raised chin.

When the elf left without a word, the dwarf was left alone.

He didn't move.
He was breathing heavily, and thoughts were racing through his mind.

It wasn't just jealousy of Bilbo.

It was something else. Something deeper. Something he didn't want to name.

Perhaps it was that Thranduil had something inside him that Thorin couldn't ignore.

Or maybe it was that when he touched it, for a split second he felt… warmth. And that was the worst.

Chapter Text

Meanwhile, something sinister was happening in Mirkwood.
A shadow slowly took over the forest.

Animals fled in panic, and those that remained were found dead—as if something had sucked the life out of them.
Trees withered despite the summer sun, leaves turned black, and branches twisted as if in pain.
The earth, which had only recently been covered with moss, lush grass, and delicate ferns, became bare, dry, cracked, and black.
The air was heavy, stifling. Even the wind had stopped whispering through the trees.

Radagast, a wizard living on the edge of the Forest, felt it first.

He was sitting in his hut, mending the wing of a wounded magpie, when suddenly everything around him went dark.

This was no ordinary night—it was as if the light had simply fled.

Shadows began to creep along the walls. And with them—the spiders.

Black, enormous, crawling with a strange, almost intelligent precision.
Their eyes glowed red, and there was something... purposeful in their movements.

Radagast froze.

"Ungoliant's subject..." he whispered. "But what are they doing here?"

He didn't know the answer. But he felt something awakening. Something that should never return.

--

A silence fell over the ruins of Dol Guldur. Thick, viscous, permeating the walls.

A deep, cold voice echoed in the shadows of the throne room.

It had no body. Only darkness, mist, and will.

A tall, pale orc stepped from the shadows. His one eye glowed with icy light. He bent one knee.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Send your son. Bolg must gather an army.”

Azog nodded.
“It will be so. We have waited long.”

“There is something else,” Shadow added, lowering his voice. “He must find a certain Elf.”

“Elf?”

“A young prince. Son of Oropher. I need him here. Unharmed.”

Azog raised his head, surprised.

“Why an Elf?”

Shadow growled menacingly.
“Don’t ask. Just find him. And bring him back. Alive.”

A whisper echoed from within Dol Guldur, as if hundreds of voices were repeating a single name.

Thranduil.

“I don’t understand you!” Bilbo threw his hands in the air, furious. "First you tell me to spy on him, befriend him, and then you make a fool of yourself and tell him to get lost?!

Thorin stood with his arms folded, pretending to be innocent.

"Don't look at me like that!!!" the Hobbit hissed, pointing at his face. "I'm waiting for an explanation, and this time it makes sense. No more fairy tales about you being 'curious' or 'concerned about the mission.' I want to know why you care so much about Prince Thranduil."

Thorin remained silent.

"You like him! He turns you on!" Bilbo blurted out, pointing an accusing finger. "And as usual, you don't know what to do about it!"

"What...? No!" the dwarf exclaimed, his chin quivering.

"Thorin, ever since Thranduil arrived, everything has revolved around him! The conversations, the jokes, the arguments... no one is blind! Even Bombur sees it!" Bilbo was practically screaming. "Thranduil is a very handsome Elf. He might like him. And he does. You."

Thorin groaned, but didn't deny it. Finally, he murmured:

"Yes... I don't deny it. He's attractive... very attractive, in fact."

Bilbo raised his eyebrows.

"See? You say that out loud, and the world doesn't end."

Thorin looked at him grimly.

“Maybe instead of fighting him, do something nice,” the Hobbit suggested, sitting on a barrel.

“No…” Thorin growled. “With your help or on his own… that damn prick will humiliate himself.”

Bilbo sighed heavily, covering his face with his hands.

“Damned dwarven pride…” he muttered. “Like someone had stuck a stick in lava.”

“I’ll get him drunk…” Thorin growled, pacing nervously around his room. “That’ll be the quickest way to embarrass him…”
He stopped and adjusted his belt.
“But first I have to lull him into unconsciousness.”

--

A knock on the door broke Thranduil’s silence. He reluctantly stood, opened it… and almost immediately tried to slam it shut when he saw who was standing before him.

“Get the hell out of here,” he growled.

But Thorin had already slipped inside, slamming the door behind him. "Calm down, why all this stress..." he said with apparent calm. "I came... to apologize."

"Shove your apologies up your arse," Thranduil hissed, looking at him as if he were a rat that had fallen into the king's garden.

Thorin raised his hands, as if to show he meant no harm.

"Thranduil, listen. My remorse is sincere. I can be rude. Sometimes I act before I think carefully..." He paused, then lowered his voice. "I don't want this anymore. I was just... jealous."

The elf froze for a moment. Then he sighed loudly and sank into his chair.

"Just let me survive."

"Survive what?" Thorin asked, surprised, taking a step closer.

"You think this is easy for me?" Thranduil's voice was soft, almost tired. "To be in a strange place. Among people who don't want me. Every look, every whisper behind my back... I feel it."
He looked at him carefully.
"So don't make this difficult for me."

Thorin was silent. For a moment, he couldn't find an answer. He hadn't expected such sincerity.

Finally, he cleared his throat and said,

"As an apology... I'm inviting you to dinner tomorrow. My friends will be there, but... and some wine too," he added with a faint smile, meant as a joke, though it had a deeper meaning.

Thranduil didn't answer. He looked at him with an unreadable expression.

"Will you come?" Thorin asked, this time more quietly.

Thranduil raised an eyebrow, slightly surprised by the gentleness. After a moment, he shrugged.

"I don't know," he replied, then added, looking away, "Maybe."

Thorin left, but the smile on his face betrayed that the plan was starting to work.

Next day
Thorin was heading to Thranduil's chambers—if he was going to be polite, he had to come for the "special" guest. The Dwarf was already formulating a plan of action to humiliate the Elf when he heard a hushed conversation from the room.

"You should go," Haldir replied in a gentle voice.

"Go?" Thranduil replied with trepidation. "Let's be honest, Haldir... I don't fit in anywhere, and maybe it's best to keep it that way."

"You're talking nonsense!! Give yourself a chance, give it to others!?"

You're a wonderful, valuable, beautiful Elf, you just shut yourself off in this shell and don't let anyone get to you."

Thranduil looked sad...
"I can recite the history of Middle-earth, but no one has ever shown me what it's like to have friends." Father thought the golden cage he'd locked me in would be a good choice... it was for him... but he turned me into an icicle.

Thorin cleared his throat uncertainly and entered.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

Thranduil, as always, looked remarkable... damn, he's always perfect, he thought.

Soft, long hair draped over that slender, straight body.

Lips... certainly delicate.
High cheekbones, a chiseled jaw, and perfectly composed robes.

Thorin began to have doubts, he looked into the Elf's azure eyes, there was not only pride but also unexplained suffering hidden in them.

Chapter Text

The stone corridors echo with their footsteps. Thorin leads the way, silent. Thranduil slices the air as sharply as the glances he casts at his feet. They remain silent, though the tension between them quivers like a bowstring. Finally, the doors to the great hall open.

"Thorin?" Bilbo jumps to his feet, his eyes wide with anxiety.

Thranduil follows the dwarf, straight and haughty, but Bilbo notices his hands trembling slightly, as if unsure of his whereabouts. The rest of the company stares in disbelief. Nori exchanges a glance with Balin. Bofur tries to lighten the mood.

"Perhaps... a glass of wine for our guest?" he says with a smile, pouring the burgundy liquid into a crystal goblet.

Thranduil receives it coolly. He drinks. Nothing changes. He remains rigid, silent, like a statue. Bilbo frowns, but Bofur merely shrugs.

“Give him something real,” he says, handing him a tankard of thick dwarven ale.

Thranduil hesitates, then… takes a sip.

Minutes pass.

A second sip.

A third.

Silence gives way to music.

Bifur begin playing the lyre and flute. Thranduil's eyes light up from within. His gaze lightens, his cheeks gain color.

For the first time, he laughs. Not mockingly. Warmly. Genuinely.

The company falls silent.

Bilbo smiles broadly.

Thorin... feels something shifting inside him. Something he doesn't know. Thranduil lets himself be carried away by the music, his movements fluid as water. He dances with the dwarves. Their eyes meet.

And suddenly, time slows.

Thorin approaches.

A hand on his hand.

A step, a turn, a touch.

Their bodies are so close they feel each other. Thorin slowly runs his hand along the Elf's waist, his shoulder, his neck. His fingers touch silver hair, and something unfamiliar lights up in his eyes.

But suddenly...

Everything shatters.

Thorin's face creases. He recoils as if scalded.

He sits down heavily at the table.

Thranduil stops, disoriented, as if struck by an invisible force. His gaze wanders to Thorin. Thorin doesn't look at him, but into the fire, as if seeking solace there.

"What's wrong with you?!" "Thorin stands, his voice like a steel punch. "Why can't you be yourself for a moment?!

Thranduil raises his eyebrows. He remains silent.

“You know what?!,” Thorin continues. “You are nothing more than a shadow of your father’s will! You can’t even stand up to him, like a child hiding in its mother’s robe!”

“Thorin,” Bilbo tries to stop him.

“I’m not surprised no one has ever loved you. There’s nothing about you worth loving!”

The silence after these words is like a boom. No one moves.

You sit here like a doughnut—surrounded by light, supported by family and friends, with a freedom others can only dream of. You know nothing of life, Thorin. Of what it’s like… to be afraid to breathe lest you fall to pieces.”

Thranduil stares at him for a long moment. Then he turns slowly and leaves. His cloak glides silently over the stones.

The door slams shut. The elf leans against the wall.

The trembling returns.

Hands clench into fists. My heart beats too fast. My breathing quickens. There's a sound—like a buzzing in my ears. My hand slides down the wall, sinks to my knees.

Air... where is the air?

Eyes wide. Mouth parted. He can't breathe. His throat tightens like an iron band. The elf makes a soft, shrill sound—uncontrollable. He's always hidden it. He's always been perfect. Strong. Impeccable.

Not now.

Bilbo has argued with Thorin
He reaches the door. He opens it. He stops. His heart sinks.

"Oh no... no... Thranduil?!

Seeing the elf on the floor, Bilbo rushes toward him, barely grabbing his shoulders.

"Breathe, breathe, please..."

The door opens again.

"Step aside." Haldir stands in the doorway.

He quickly kneels beside Thranduil, firmly grasping his hand.

"Thranduil, can you hear me? This is just an attack. Breathe. Inhale... Exhale... Inhale... Look at me."

The elf struggles, his body shaking like a leaf in the wind. Bilbo stares, stunned. He's never seen someone so strong in such a fragile state.

Haldir speaks quietly but firmly. He strokes his hair, holds his hand.

"It's okay. You're safe. I'm with you." Inhale... Exhale...

Minutes pass.

Finally... Thranduil collapses onto the pillows. His eyes close. Exhausted. His breathing slowly calms.

He falls asleep.

Bilbo stands leaning against the doorframe. As Haldir approaches, he asks quietly:

"This... this isn't the first time, is it?"

Haldir looks at him.

"No. It's a disease he's carried for years. Born of silence, of pressure, of loneliness. You call it 'panic attacks.' For us, it's 'soul breakage.'"

"Why... no one knows about this?" Bilbo asks, whispering.

"Because he has to be strong. For everyone. He has no right to be weak. Or at least... that's what he's been told."

Bilbo stands in the shadows of the hallway, breathing deeply. After a moment, he enters the hall, where Thorin sits at the table, hunched over, clearly lost in thought and tense.

"We need to talk. Seriously," Bilbo says calmly.

The dwarf looks up, guilt weighing heavily in his eyes.

"I didn't mean..." Thorin begins, his voice breaking. "I know I overreacted. I never meant to hurt him."

Bilbo nodded.

"Thranduil is suffering, but... maybe he needs someone who will truly be there for him, not just with words and anger."

Thorin stands in the doorway, trembling slightly.

Thranduil sits on the bed, his face hidden in the shadows, unsure.

"You don't have to be here," he says quietly, ready to send him away.

Suddenly, Thorin steps forward.

And without a word—he kisses him.

Hardly. Passionately.

Thranduil freezes, his heart pounding in his chest.

After a moment, Thorin steps back, looks into his eyes, and abruptly leaves the room, leaving a silence full of unspoken words behind him.

They both know that something has begun to change. That things will never be the same.

Thranduil approaches the room hesitantly, as Thorin sits by the fireplace. Their eyes meet, the tension rising.

Thranduil doesn't wait any longer.

He kisses Thorin again—this time he's the one initiating, with a heat that burns him from the inside.

Hands find their place on his body, Thranduil finds himself between Thorin's thighs. Time is lost in the moment. Thorin drifts away, surrendering to the sensations.
He looks down, seeing the Elf trying to please him, swallowing him greedily.
He grips his hair with his hands and drives him deeper, and Thranduil chokes, a trickle of saliva escaping the corner of his red mouth.

Thorin probably has never cursed so much as his body gives way in the moment. He looks at Thranduil, his closed eyes, his ruffled hair, and his swollen, parted lips still bearing traces of semen.

Thranduil quietly stood up and readjusted himself.

“It must remain a secret,” the Elf said, his voice soft, almost a whisper, as if afraid the walls themselves had ears.

Thorin fixed him with a hard gaze. “Keep it a secret? We are enemies, after all. How long do you think this will work?”

Thranduil smiled weakly, a hint of sadness piercing his eyes. “We don’t have to be open to everyone.”
And before Thorin could reply, the Elf disappeared behind the heavy door, leaving a silence behind him that spoke louder than words.

Chapter Text

Thranduil often found himself letting his thoughts wander to Thorin.

Sometimes a single memory was enough—the touch of a hand, warm breath on his neck, a quiet, broken sigh—for him to feel a familiar tingle beneath his skin. In such moments, he quickly straightened his back and covered his face with the cool mask he'd learned as the prince of Mirkwood.

Their moments were brief, intense, filled with a tension that neither of them attempted to relieve with words.
Wild kisses, hands roaming each other's bodies, moans stifled in their throats—all of it formed a game whose conclusion they both postponed, as if afraid something would change irrevocably.

Thorin enjoyed what they had now.
He didn't dwell on the future, didn't wonder what would come next. Every moment with this beautiful, haughty Elf was a trophy and a delight to him. Seeing Thranduil's uncertainty, he mistook it for a charming inexperience that only added to the flavor.

But in the Elf's eyes, in those rare moments when he allowed them to speak more than words, there was a softness that no one else saw.
Only he knew how hard he tried to hide that somewhere between the caresses and whispers in the darkness, something Thranduil hadn't planned for was beginning to form—a feeling.

Finally, the day came when Thranduil stopped defending himself against what had long hung between them.
Perhaps it wasn't the four-poster room with silk curtains and the scent of fresh flowers he might have imagined in his youthful dreams—more a quiet, secluded corner where the rustle of wind and the distant lapping of water mingled with his ragged breathing.
And yet, it was better than anything his father could have ever planned for him.

The lord Oropher saw at his side was a tall, stiff, sparkless man, with a sense of humor so dry that even the desert would seem a fertile valley by comparison.
Thranduil remembered him dimly, like a hazy nightmare he fled from immediately upon waking.
The thought of giving himself to such a person repulsed him—and it was this very realization that made Thorin's every touch feel like liberation.

That day, the Elf gave himself over to him completely.

Not by compulsion, not by duty, but by choice.
The first finger thrust into his body hurt, but Thorin was experienced, slowly pushing in, adding more fingers until the hole relaxed enough to accept him.

Thorin knew he was big, so he did it slowly, without rushing, and the moan that escaped the Elf's lips announced his readiness.

Clamped to the cold wall in Thorin's embrace, who held his thighs and thrust mercilessly, deep and hard, Thranduil held those muscular arms, each stroke carrying the sound of their bodies together.

"You're close," Thorin whispered, feeling the Elf's body tremble.

"Yes," Thranduil replied, and soon he came between their sweaty bodies.

Thorin picked up the pace, feeling his penis fill, draw closer, swell.
He stifled a cry, spilling inside, a few slow strokes filling the inside completely.

For a moment, silence fell; they looked at each other, but their thoughts were a mystery.

For several days, the halls and corridors of Erebor had been unusually busy. The King's birthday was fast approaching, and the entire kingdom was preparing for a great feast.

Thranduil, though he had initially treated his stay here as an exile amidst rock and metal, began to disappear from the chambers more and more often, wandering the vast corridors or visiting places he had previously avoided.

"You are so cheerful today," Haldir remarked, passing him in one of the side corridors, where torchlight cast golden reflections on the walls.

The elf glanced up, as if he could see the blue sky even beneath the mountain's vault.

"Look... it's so beautiful today."

"You've been out a lot lately," the guardian added with a slight arch of his eyebrow.

Thranduil paused for a moment, hiding a smile at the corner of his mouth.
"I've grown fond of this crowd," he replied, his tone as if he were discussing something completely trivial.

Haldir regarded him for a moment, then nodded with satisfaction.
"Good. I'm glad you've found your place here."

The meetings with Thorin continued, but after each one, the Elf felt the same gnawing fear… What if it ends? Beyond intimacy, nothing connected them. At least, that's what Thorin thought. Thranduil… he wasn't so sure anymore.

The King's birthday had arrived.

Since morning, the sounds of preparations had echoed throughout Erebor, and the smell of roasting meats and spices wafted through the halls. Thranduil chose his outfit with exceptional care, allowing old memories—not all of them pleasant—to flash in his mind. He felt a twinge of shame, remembering how he had once been prepared for formal meetings and potential suitors.

In the evening, the throne room glowed with candlelight and torches. Crowds of guests filled the space, music echoing off the stone walls.
Thorin froze for a moment when he saw the Elf in blue and silver—every movement of the fabric seemed to ripple like water, and the light played in his blond hair, giving him an almost unreal glow.

Many that evening had gazed lustfully at the blond guest, but Thranduil waited for only one glance.
And finally, he received it—intense, brief, as if stolen amidst the toasts.
In that brief moment, he knew Thorin saw him too… truly saw him.

The feast was in full swing. The music grew louder, mugs of wine and mead passed among the guests, and laughter echoed beneath the stone vault. Thranduil stayed to the side, observing the revelers from a distance. He was still waiting for Thorin to find his way to him.

He waited.

Until finally he saw him—not on his way to him, but sitting at one of the tables, laughing loudly and putting his arm around a dark-haired dwarf whose lips were soon dangerously close to his own. And then Thorin, clearly intoxicated, leaned forward and kissed her without hesitation.

Something in Thranduil snapped. He didn't make a scene, didn't utter words he would later have to take back. He simply turned and left the hall, his head held high, though inside he felt a colder than all the dark winters of Mirkwood.

--

It was already late in the evening when the door to his chambers burst open. Thorin entered without an announcement, the smell of alcohol still on his breath.

"Why did you leave?" he said sharply. "It was just a game. Nothing more. I never promised you anything."

Thranduil looked at him calmly, though pain gleamed in his eyes. "I thought… that you would take this more seriously, too."

"I can meet with whomever I want," Thorin replied firmly, as if every word were a final judgment.

The elf didn't respond immediately. He nodded slightly, like someone who accepts a blow without trying to defend themselves.
"I understand."

Thorin turned toward the door, no longer looking at him.
"This is the end of our meetings."

When he left, silence fell upon the chamber, and Thranduil stood still for a moment, as if trying to capture the echo of the closing door.

The next morning, Thranduil was silent for a long time.

He didn't search for Thorin, didn't search the corridors for him. He sat in his chamber, staring into the depths of the blazing fireplace, as if trying to find the answer in the fire. Finally, he summoned Haldir.

"I wish to return home," he said quietly but firmly.

The guard eyed him carefully.

"That's impossible. King Oropher sent you here for your own safety. You know yourself that traveling now would be too risky."

"The risk..." The elf smiled bitterly. "It's greater to stay here."

A few hours later, when the guards realized his chamber was empty and his horse had disappeared from the stables, the palace erupted in turmoil. The search order echoed through the halls and corridors, but it was too late.

Thranduil was far away, every step taking him further from the stone walls of Erebor.

---

In the throne room, Bilbo watched Thorin, who pretended to concentrate on his conversation with his advisors.
"Something's happened, hasn't it?" the Hobbit finally asked, frowning at him. "This isn't just a disappearance."

Thorin looked away, too quickly to be accidental.

Bilbo felt there was something more behind the silence. Something the king didn't want—or couldn't—voice.

As Bilbo left the hall, Thorin closed his eyes for a moment.

A memory flashed in his mind—azure eyes, bright and serene, the kind that seemed reserved only for him.

There was something pure, innocent about them, yet full of life and warmth. They reminded him of moments lost somewhere between duty and a kingdom full of ambition.

He suddenly felt a weight, as if an invisible hand were squeezing his heart. Was life really meant to be just fun, momentary pleasures without strings attached?
Or perhaps… perhaps he had lost something far more precious, something that could never be regained?

Thorin opened his eyes, looked at the empty space where the Elf had stood moments ago, and sighed heavily.
The future suddenly seemed less certain, and the path more lonely.

Chapter Text

Thranduil tightened his grip on the reins, as if simply holding on would keep his wandering thoughts in check. He had no idea where he should go. Every direction seemed to lead nowhere—Erebor had become the place where he'd left a piece of his heart, but he'd found no answer for it. Mirkwood… there awaited only cold stares, orders, and the voice of a father who knew no mercy.

The pain in his lower abdomen grew slowly, an uncomfortable, unwelcome reminder that the body, too, had its limits. He'd felt strange since morning—nausea, dizziness, rapid breathing, yet he blamed it on lack of sleep and emotions he couldn't control.

He stopped his horse at a small stream. The cool water reflected his face—pale, too tired for someone so young. He saw a shadow in his eyes that hadn't been there before. He rested his hands on the saddle, closing his eyes.

And then, like a sudden ray in the darkness, a thought flashed through his mind. One name.

"Galadriel..." he whispered.

He knew her gaze—bright, clear, as if it saw beyond what others could fathom. If anyone could understand him without judging, if anyone could show him the way, it was she.

Thranduil took a deep breath. The decision was made.

He would not return to his father or to Erebor. He would go to Lothlórien.

And somewhere deep within him, alongside the pain and fear, flickered a faint hope that perhaps he would find an answer there—and a place where he would feel safe again.

Murmurs echoed through the forest like a storm. Leaves trembled, branches snapped under the weight of the approaching power. Thranduil straightened in his saddle, his senses sharpened. He approached silently, hiding in the shadows of the trees, and then he saw them.

A vast army of orcs, armed to the teeth, marched towards Erebor. Banners of tattered black cloth fluttered in the wind, and the air was heavy with the stench of blood and decay.

"Soon the dwarves will turn to ash," came a heavy, guttural voice.

Thranduil looked up and saw the commander. He was tall for an orc, his skin deathly pale, scars crisscrossing his cheeks. Heavy, spiked armor rested on his shoulders, and an inhuman light smoldered in his eyes.

The elf felt his heart pound. A moment ago, he had been ready to leave this place, to cut himself off from everything. Now he knew he couldn't.

Conflicting thoughts swirled in his mind—anger, fear, but also the disturbing, painful memory of Thorin's face.

The plan for Lothlórien would have to wait. If he left now, Erebor would be destroyed, and he himself… would never forgive himself for this.

Thranduil tugged on the reins.

"I must return…" he whispered.

From that moment on, only time mattered.

Thranduil felt every breath burn in his lungs. The horse snorted heavily, and the roar of blood in his ears drowned out everything else. Sweat trickled down his temples, but he didn't slow down—every second could mean life or death for the people of Erebor.

Meanwhile, chaos reigned within the keep. The guards shouted over each other, relaying news, but none of it touched on what troubled Haldir most—Thranduil's disappearance. The elf had long ago dismissed the thought of his protégé returning to the Forest. He knew the young prince's look all too well when he thought of his father.

And then he saw him. A slender figure on horseback, hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, a face as white as marble.

"Thranduil..." Haldir whispered with relief as he approached.

"Haldir..." the young prince's voice trembled. "Danger approaches. A vast army of Orcs... they are heading this way."

There was no time for questions. They set off together toward King Thrór's chamber, walking quickly, almost running.

Suddenly, Thranduil stopped, bowing slightly as if suddenly out of breath.

"Thranduil, you don't feel well," Haldir said, noticing the obvious grimace of pain.

"It's just fatigue..." he replied, but Haldir's gaze betrayed his disbelief. The prince's pale skin and the slight tremor in his hands spoke volumes.

"Go to bed. I'll speak with Thrór."

Thranduil nodded, albeit reluctantly. He moved slowly toward the chambers, his legs growing heavier with each step.

And then, in one of the corridors, he passed Thorin. He wanted to say something, to open his mouth, to explain… but the young dwarf prince didn't even look in his direction. He passed him stiffly, as if he were a stranger, leaving behind only the cool scent of gunpowder and steel.

A stab, sharper than the pain he'd felt before, pierced Thranduil's heart.

As Haldir relayed the news to the king, the sound of an alarm horn echoed through the keep. The corridors were deserted, everyone taking up arms, and the air quivered with the mounting tension.

"You stay here," Haldir declared firmly, looking Thranduil in the eye. "There's no way you're going out onto the battlefield. Not in this state."

"But I…" the Elf tried to protest.

"That's an order," Haldir cut in, his tone brooking no argument. "You are too valuable to risk."

Thranduil stiffened, but he obeyed. He remained in the castle, nervously pacing the corridors, listening to the distant thunder of battle.

The battle raged for hours. The clash of weapons, shouts, the groans of the wounded—everything blended into a chaotic, bloody spectacle. Finally, the sounds began to fade. As the keep's gates opened, the victors began to enter, though tired and wounded.

Thranduil searched for only one face.

And then he saw—Thorin, carried by two dwarves. His armor was shattered, and the entire left side of his body was covered in blood.

Without waiting for permission, Thranduil ran after them to the chamber where the wounded man was laid. The servants wanted to summon a physician, but the Elf dismissed them.

"I will attend to him."

He knelt by the bed. His slender hands, trembling but steady, pushed aside shreds of bloody cloth. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and then a soft light began to seep from his fingers. A soft, melodic Sindarin melody flowed from his lips, and the air in the chamber became heavier with magic.

Thorin's wounds, bleeding a moment ago, began to slowly close, and his torn skin smoothed under the Elf's touch. The light shifted from warm white to gold, enveloping the wounded man's body like a thin, protective mist.

Thranduil cooled his feverish forehead with a damp compress, and as Thorin's skin quivered with pain, the Elf's song soothed him like a soothing dream.

"Return to me..." he whispered, his voice full of power, a promise.

When he was finally sure the wounds were healed, he tried to stand. But then he felt wetness on his thighs. He looked down—a small, dark stain of blood had appeared on the light fabric of his trousers.

The world spun. He felt suffocated, his knees buckled.

Someone caught him at the last moment—Haldir.

"Thranduil!" his friend's voice was sharp, yet filled with anxiety.

Haldir moved him to a nearby couch and immediately began examining him, ignoring his protests. As he lifted the fabric of his shirt and looked down, his eyes widened in disbelief.

"It's… impossible…" he whispered, staring at the young prince as if he'd just witnessed a prophecy come true.

Chapter Text

Thranduil sat still, staring at the cold floor, where candlelight flickered. His father's words still echoed in his mind, cutting deeper than any blade. He felt the air around him grow heavier, as if the entire palace had suddenly turned its back on him.

Oropher, shy and stiff as marble, approached the door. His stride was slow, but every movement held a tinge of contempt. He didn't look back once—he simply walked out, abandoning Erebor as if to erase this place and his own son from his memory.

It was also no surprise that Thorin, with whom Haldir had spoken earlier,

had decided he was too young to shoulder responsibility. He looked away as he spoke to Haldir, his tone laced with embarrassment and fear. He preferred to leave before the situation dragged him into something he couldn't bear.

"What next…" Thranduil whispered, slowly realizing that there was no place for him or the child anywhere.

Haldir, standing beside him, knelt on one knee to look him in the eye. There was not a shred of hesitation in his gaze, only resolute loyalty.

"We will think of something," he said quietly, but with force, as if vowing. "Even if the whole world were against you, I will not abandon you."

Thranduil looked at him with a gratitude he couldn't express in words. For the first time in hours, he felt he wasn't completely alone. Yet fear still gripped his heart—fear for the child, for himself, for what would come.

"Haldir…" he began, but stopped, feeling a lump rise in his throat. "If this child is born… his life will never be peaceful."

"Then we will leave him alone. We will give him everything he needs." The guard placed a hand on his shoulder, as if to impart some of his own strength. — But now you have to think about yourself. About you.

Outside, the wind howled, bringing the promise of a storm. Thranduil turned his gaze toward the dark horizon. In that moment, he knew one thing: he would not plead with either his father or Thorin. If he was to protect his child, he had to find his own way.

The night was giving way to the pale hues of dawn as a small cavalcade gathered before the gates of Erebor. Thranduil, dressed in a simple, hooded traveling cloak, sat in the saddle beside Haldir. The wind blew against his face, but he felt no chill—a void in his chest greater than the surrounding mountains.

Their destination was Lothlórien, the realm of Lady Galadriel. As yet, she had not heard of what had befallen the prince of Mirkwood. Haldir, a native of that land, had decided to take Thranduil there—he knew that the silver forests and vigilant guards would keep him safe, and he could use old connections to arrange for his friend's protection.

Thorin stood in the crowd gathering to witness the prince's unusual departure. He didn't approach, didn't say a word. His gaze was heavy, filled with a mixture of shame, anxiety, and something that might have been regret… or a belated sense of loss.

Thranduil, though he tried to look ahead, felt the gaze upon him. But he didn't stop. He didn't even nod. Now every glance was too painful for him.

"We go," Haldir said, signaling the guards. The wagon wheels rolled across the cobblestones, and the horses' hooves clattered in a rhythm that took him ever further from Erebor.

Thorin stood still, watching the Elf's silhouette disappear into the distance. He didn't move even as the gates slowly closed before his eyes. In the silence, unbroken by any sound, he was left alone with his choice—and the emptiness that had yet to blossom within him.

The journey was difficult. The roads led through mountains and forests, and though Thranduil was still in the early stages of pregnancy, the stress was taking its toll on his strength. He felt the weariness settling in his bones, and his thoughts prevented him from fully resting. Haldir watched by his side, but even his presence couldn't completely dispel his worries.

When they finally reached the borders of Lothlórien, they were greeted by the glow of golden leaves and the melody of streams. The guards, recognizing Haldir, let them pass without question. Lady Galadriel didn't seem surprised by their arrival—she welcomed them warmly, as if she knew this journey was inevitable.

"The Prince of Mirkwood need not fear in my woods," she said in a calm, melodious voice, her gaze gentle, though beneath it gleamed a watchful wisdom.

That evening, Thranduil met her in one of the chambers filled with the scent of flowers and the light of candles. He didn't speak of Thorin. He wasn't yet ready to speak the name aloud, burning within him. Yet Galadriel looked at him as if she already knew the truth—as if she were looking into his heart.

"Even if you feel alone now, trust in fate," she said softly, her voice strangely confident. "He can be unpredictable."

Thranduil looked away. "And... what about the birth?" he asked fearfully. "I am not a woman..."

Galadriel smiled gently. "Do not fear. Since you have no birth canal, you will be asleep, and when you wake, the little one will be right beside you."

Hearing these words, Thranduil felt a slight sense of relief, as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders.

"For now, there are six months left," the Lady continued. "You must rest well and start eating enough to help the child gain weight. Push away your dark thoughts and enjoy the peace of the forest. You will be safe here. And once the child is in your arms... we will help you."

Thranduil nodded. For the first time in days, he believed that the moment might come when he truly felt safe.

Meanwhile, in Erebor, Prince Thorin's friends watched his ever-deeper decline with concern. The heir to the throne turned to drink more and more frequently, and in the evenings, he disappeared, seeking solace in the arms of random lovers.

"He's getting worse..." Balin said grimly, resting his hands on his staff.

"Remorse gnaws at him," Bilbo said quietly, staring into the fire.

Bofur snorted. "Remorse... After all, it was the Elf who deceived him, not to mention his own abilities."

"Because he didn't know..." Bilbo replied firmly, lifting his gaze. "You had no right to judge him that way."

Balin sighed heavily. "That doesn't change the fact that the prince is falling... and we still don't know how to help him."

Meanwhile, in Lothlórien, Thranduil's pregnancy was progressing normally. He tried not to succumb to stress, but thoughts of Erebor and what he had left behind kept returning in nightmares. He had bouts of shortness of breath and woke up in the middle of the night with a pounding heart, but he was surrounded by the Elves' care and tender concern.

Galadriel always appeared when the prince was feeling unwell, her presence calming his nerves and easing his breathing. Every word she spoke sounded like a spell, lifting some of the burden from him.

The last month remained. The month that would be the hardest—a time of waiting, tension, and hope that when the birth came, everything would unfold as the Lady had promised.

"It's tomorrow..." Thranduil whispered on his last night, placing a slender hand on his stomach. His belly wasn't too large, and he remained slim, almost as thin as before the pregnancy. Yet he felt life within him growing with each passing day. "Do you think... it will be healthy?"

Haldir looked at him with concern. "The forest of this kingdom is surrounded by magic. I think it will be healthy… and beautiful, like you." He smiled faintly. "Do not fear, I am with you… with you."

Thranduil looked up, gratitude flashing in his eyes. "Thank you, Haldir… for everything."

For a moment, there was silence, filled only by the rustling of leaves outside the window.

"Do you ever think of Thorin?" the guard asked cautiously.

The elf lowered his head. "I try to forget…"

Haldir sighed. "I know what happened to you was cruel. But this little one… it will always love you. Just as you will love it. And a parent's love for a child… is more powerful than you know."

Thranduil felt tears streaming down his cheeks. He felt lonely and lost, yet there was hope in those words.

"Go to sleep," Haldir added gently. "You need to rest. Tomorrow will be an important day."

Thranduil nodded, wiping away his tears, and let the silence of the night envelop him like a blanket.

The dawn in Lothlórien was quiet, as if the forest itself held its breath. Golden light filtered through the silver leaves, and the birdsong was softer than usual. Thranduil awoke earlier than usual, feeling a strange heaviness in his body and a subtle yet unsettling twitch.

Haldir entered the chamber almost immediately, as if he had a premonition that it was today. "Galadriel awaits," he said calmly, but his eyes were tense. "Everything is ready."

Lady Lothlórien stood in one of the halls, flooded with soft light. The scent of herbs filled the air, and the air seemed to shimmer with magic. Dressed in silver robes, she looked the epitome of calm and assurance.

"The Prince of Mirkwood is in good hands," she said softly as Thranduil was ushered in. "You remember what I told you." There will be no pain, only sleep. When you awaken… your child will be with you.

Thranduil nodded, though his heart was beating fast. He sat down on the prepared bed, and Galadriel placed her hand on his forehead. Her eyes reflected the glow of magical light.

"Breathe still," she whispered. "The forest watches over you."

The last thing he felt was the warmth of magic enveloping him like a soft cloth, and Haldir's hand resting on his fingers. Then he fell into a deep, secure sleep.

Warm morning light streamed through the tall windows as Thranduil slowly opened his eyes. For a moment, he wasn't sure where he was—until he felt a gentle weight on his chest. He looked down and saw a tiny creature, wrapped in a soft blanket, nestled against him as if it were the safest place in the world.

It was a tiny, beautiful boy with blond hair.

His heart skipped a beat. He touched the tiny hand, and tears welled in his eyes. Everything else vanished.

It took him a moment to realize he wasn't alone. Beside Haldir, in the shadows, stood a figure he knew all too well: Thorin. His gaze was filled with something Thranduil couldn't immediately decipher—a mixture of regret, longing, and… perhaps belated understanding.

All the memories came rushing back at once, like a blade sliding across a wound. Thranduil clenched his jaw, pulling the child closer.

"Get out," he said quietly, but his voice trembled with anger. "Immediately."

Thorin stepped forward as if to speak, but Haldir moved between them.

"You heard him, Prince of Erebor," the guard said coldly. "This is neither the time nor the place."

For a moment, silence reigned. Thorin glanced at Thranduil once more, then turned and left.

Chapter Text

Thorin remained close to Lothlórien, though Haldir immediately made it clear: he was to keep his distance. The Prince of Erebor watched Thranduil from afar, his heart trembling with memories—all the days he'd sunk to the bottom, escaping into alcohol and empty adventures, before he finally understood that what truly tormented him was his love for the Elf.

One afternoon, Thorin dared to have a brief conversation with Haldir.

"I want to be with him," he said firmly, though with a hint of shame.

"You have the right to feel how you feel," Haldir replied. "But for now, keep your distance. Any inappropriate action could hurt both him and your child."

Thranduil felt uneasy when Thorin was around. Though he knew he was safe, anger, fear, and a sense of betrayal still smoldered in his heart. Anxiety attacks returned unexpectedly, tormenting him even in the simplest of activities.

One afternoon, while Thranduil was nursing the baby, he suddenly felt faint, almost dropping the little one. Thorin, who was nearby, reacted immediately, gathering the Elf and the child into his arms.

"It's alright..." Thorin whispered, holding them both securely.

Thranduil felt tears welling in his eyes. All the worry, loneliness, and fear surfaced. For the first time in a long time, he allowed Thorin to embrace him. He felt the warmth, the presence, and the peace he so desperately needed.

"I never wanted you to suffer..." Thorin whispered, and Thranduil, nestled against his chest, allowed himself to cry softly.

In that moment, a new, delicate bond of understanding blossomed between them—fragile, yet real. There was still much to forgive, much to consider, but the first step had been taken: together, albeit tensely, they could begin to rebuild their bond.

Legolas, as the boy was named, grew healthy and strong. Thranduil took up residence with Galadriel, where he found peace, surrounded by the forest, magic, and the care of his friends. Thorin divided his life between Erebor and his family, trying to rebuild his bond with Thranduil and spend every possible moment with his son.

The love between them grew, slowly and slowly, but deeply—like a river that can weather any storm.

However, the evil times returned, taking their toll. Oropher fell defending the Kingdom, but even before he passed, he reconciled with his son and accepted his grandson. Haldir's death in the war was a terrible blow to Thranduil—it left him ill, and the knowledge that his beloved child had gone as one of Frodo's envoys filled him with both pride and pain.

Thranduil returned to the Forest Kingdom to take power, but evil struck him unexpectedly. Thranduil succumbed to the Witch-king's blade, his body and face scarred, and the Elf, in despair, withdrew from his husband and isolated himself.
Three years passed before he allowed his beloved to see him, but then Thranduil saw the love in Thorin's eyes. Even pain didn't change his feelings, and in fact, it drew the couple closer together.

Thorin grew old, his life drawing to a close, but not all was lost. When the Elves' time came to an end, they all met at the Grey Havens.

Thranduil was already leading the very old, ailing husband to the boat. Thorin, barely recognizing his surroundings in his flashes of memory, called him "beloved husband." Also on the boat were Bilbo and Frodo, Galadriel and her husband, Lord Elrond, and beside him, Legolas' son and her husband, Gimli—apparently, "like father, like son."

Together, they set off for the lands of eternal peace and life. As they crossed the sea, Thorin and Bilbo regained their youth, and Thranduil couldn't hold back his tears at seeing his husband again as he once was.

As the boat docked, Thranduil felt his heart beat faster. He hadn't expected anyone… and yet there, amid the shimmering sand, stood someone he knew all too well.

A tall, blond man, dressed in a bright cloak, raised his hand and waved with a broad smile.

"Haldir!" Thranduil shouted, his voice trembling with joy. He ran to meet his friend, feeling everything around him lose meaning except for the greeting.

But that wasn't the end of the surprises.
Just behind Haldir, a second figure emerged from the shadows—tall, majestic, with eyes Thranduil remembered from childhood. His father. Oropher.
For a moment, he couldn't believe his eyes. The world around him fell silent, the waves seemed to stop, and he felt that—after so many years—he had finally returned home in the fullest sense of the word.

They were complete.

His beloved husband, son, son-in-law, friends... all who were meant to be with him without fear of losing them one day.

Their lives in these new, peaceful lands were filled with love, tenderness, and security. And what happened next remains a mystery to the common folk who had taken over the world once called Middle-earth—we can only imagine their happy endings and trust that in safe lands, far from our gaze, they endure in peace and love.