Chapter Text
Galadriel was very proud of her level of patience. It had taken her a long time to master the art of truly not being bothered.
And then there was Elrond.
“Elrond, stop it.” Galadriel hisses under her breath. The literal king of the Rivendell elves was acting like no more than a child. Whenever their guest would look away, Elrond’s hand would slip out from behind or beneath his robe, pinch or poke her, then slip back out of sight before Thranduil would turn back around.
There was a glint in his eye; a mischievousness that told Galadriel of Elrond’s tell-tale boredom aside the flatness of his lips. What Galadriel could never figure out was why his boredom always entailed trying to annoy her. There were plenty of others to choose from!
Another pinch to her elbow nearly unravels the seam of her irritation.
“Elrond!” Galadriel growls. The woman swats back, clipping Elrond in the side with the back of her hand. He gasps, but even then he can’t deny the pinched smile that’s broken the mask of regality on his face as he fights to hide it.
Thranduil spins on his heel to glare at the two, his eyes scanning for whatever he might have missed. To him, not even a hair had been displaced on either Rivendellians’ heads. The two remain as impassive as ever.
Was this it? Has Thranduil finally lost it completely?
Thranduil needed to know. He decides on a test. So far, he’s been talking as if nothing were amiss, continuing his side of the conversation as smoothly as any proper king would. If he truly was hearing things, then no one would be any the wiser. He could deal with it later when he was home.
“As I was saying, I believe it would be prudent-,” Thranduil turns slowly, keeping his eye on the pair for as long as possible. Just as they slip out of his peripheral, he waits, “-if we set some sort of-.”
A slap. It was very light, but the sound was obvious to Thranduil’s ears.
Thranduil’s head whips back around with enough speed to make his mind sway. Or perhaps it was just the aftermath of what he’d seen.
Galadriel- the one he’s known as the most patient and composed elf alive- has Elrond- supposedly nothing but regal- in a headlock. The woman stares owlishly at Thranduil, clearly not having expected the Mirkwood king to have turned back around so quickly.
Elrond himself pushes at Galadriel’s arm, twisting his head around in an attempt to wriggle free. Instead, his own eyes widen at Thranduil as well.
In a blink, Galadriel and Elrond return to their practiced poses of prim and poise. Once again, nothing was out of place, nor even a wrinkle in either robes. The contrast between the present and a few moments prior was so strange, Thranduil wasn’t sure whether or not he’d imagined it.
Thranduil sets his glass of wine down. Perhaps- for once- he’d had enough for one day…
“If you’ll excuse me,” Thranduil swallows, “I believe I will retire to my room for the evening. We will discuss more further in the morning.” He clips, sharply whisking away off down the hall. His mind reels, making him dizzy and lightheaded. In short, Thranduil needed some real sleep.
Elrond snorts out a short laugh. Galadriel scoffs.
“Oh, be quiet,” Galadriel huffs, “I blame you for that.” She tacks on as an afterthought, holding her head high as she leaves to retire to her own room, leaving a pouting Elrond to deal with the rest of his miserably posh guests.