Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion and such, etc... He didn't do slash, though.
Pairings: Amrod x Thranduil (one-sided? maybe not?)
Characters: Thranduil, Amrod (mentions other random Silvan elves, Oropher, Eru, Morgoth and Lórien)
Warning: extremely AU, canon character death, mentions mass murder and attempted assassination, alludes to rape and insanity, blatant sexual undertones, fantasizing about decapitation
Song: Diamonds for Tears
Words: 1,820
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divided (adjective): separated into parts or pieces; disagreeing with each other: disunited; directed or moved toward conflicting interests, states, or objects
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/divided
On the outside, Thranduil was always composed. Never a rebellious hair out of place, never a wrinkle in his impeccable robes. And always, he knew where he was going, moved through time with direction born of brutal experience, with a future in his mind's eye and the interests of his people in his heart. On the outside, he was the perfect monarch, a united front of steel, forbidding and glorious, learned in the art of being something untouchable, unquestionable.
It was a deception, nothing more and nothing less.
For who but Ilúvatar Almighty had never questioned his or her own motivations, had never second-guessed their own decisions. Who--of all the Children of Eru--had never doubted their flimsy courage, had never faltered in their confidence, had never loathed some deep, dark secret part of themselves that was both innate and at the same time foreign.
Being king did not make Thranduil an exception to this rule. That fact did not quell the hesitation and shame and fear that burned with acidic sharpness in his breast. It did not quiet his mind or give him assurance, and no matter how calm and collected his surface might appear, it was naught but a layer of ice--thin and delicate--frosted across the roiling turmoil of a river beneath, surging wildly, ever-changing and uncontrollable, the dichotomy of inner mind and outer body.
Because Thranduil, a young king with a grieving people, did not know what to do.
Newly-returned from war with a scant third of his original forces--and sans his father, the king--Thranduil had struggled up the impossibly high mountain of responsibility, learning all too quickly that every corner turned led to more slithering voices wanting to use his favor for personal gain, led to more whispered rumors and sharp glances, led to more plots slinking in and out of the shadows, waiting until his back was turned to strike. In the first year alone there had been three assassination attempts by political dissidents revolting against their king's Sindarin blood. And he could not blame them for resentment of his bloodline; his father had led many of their people to horrible, pointless death over useless pride.
He learned to be nonchalant, unmovable, unyielding--a powerful king presiding over his people, not be questioned or crossed.
Yet never had Thranduil felt more alone, more withdrawn, more terrified and confused and worried and longing miserably for something he could never have but wanted vehemently. To just have a place where he could be something other than the son of the king whose foolishness had ravaged their people, to have a nook in which he could hide from the world, safe and warm, wrapped up in strong arms, hidden away from all of this disappointing disillusionment, and to not have to pretend, not be forced to present himself as an unbreakable wall of royalty and certainty.
And then he had appeared upon Thranduil's balcony in the night.
Like a demonic phantom from beyond the veil of memories and nightmares, tall and predatory with glistening emeralds for eyes and writhing flames for hair and a face that would strike Morgoth himself into silence with a sharp glance. No matter how many times Thranduil had attempted to forget, the essence of that visage had never left him alone, burned as it was on the back of his eyelids in the silence of night, waiting for him to fall through Lórien's embrace into a dark web of terrors long past.
For who could ever forget their One?
Certainly not Thranduil, who wanted to spit filthy curses at the man's heels, wanted to tie him to a stake and burn him and make him suffer as he had made the young, frightened boy in Menegroth suffer. Overpowering hatred and fury of the likes the elf had never felt--not even for the treacherous dwarrows--consumed the king's spirit.
He wanted Amrod Fëanorion dead at his feet. Never mind that the kinslayer was long perished. Or so he had believed.
Yet, inexplicably, Thranduil was torn in two. Because this man was his One. No matter their terrible, bloody past. No matter the cruelties that the madness of the House of Fëanor had inflicted upon the naive child that had once been Thranduil of Doriath, ignorant of the harshness of the world. No matter that even after all these long years the terror and shame of the day of shattered innocence still whipped over his soul like barbed lashes of rusted steel.
Part of him would always desire this creature. Desire his beautiful body and his blazing-hot spirit and the strength of his arms and the lust in his eyes and the softness of his russet curls. Oh! the tantalizing image of throwing all thought to the wind, of forgetting everything past and tumbling into the offered embrace and hiding away in a small, surreal bubble of ecstasy where nothing in the world was tragic or marred or darkened with sin. But that was all just a dream, ephemeral and visceral, but not tangible--not possible.
"How are you here?" Thranduil first asked in shock and no small amount of fear.
"Does it matter?" the Son of Fëanor replied, lips quirking, eyes narrowing--corporeal, touchable flesh and bone coiled into an inviting form. It was like being near to a calculating hunter circling his helpless prey, and Thranduil knew who played the hawk and who played the bunny in this charade. "Where else would I go?"
Though he might have looked unruffled on the outside, Thranduil was nothing short of panicked on the inside, pulled roughly between screaming for his guards and leaping towards the trespasser with his sword drawn to gut the murderer right then and alternately throwing himself around that strong body and begging to be carried away into the dark. The ultimate temptation was before him, and yet he could not banish the remnants of pain that stirred in the back of his mind, of being held fast and ravished and left to die. This creature masquerading as a civilized being could not be trusted, no matter how much Thranduil's body and spirit screamed for unity and joining and protection just beyond reach.
As much as he longed--lusted, imagined, pined--after this man, the hatred still rose to the fore of his mind, like a molten wave of unforgiving silver forming the gate behind which the tide of his shameful wants was locked and chained.
"Get out," he hissed between his teeth, hands curled taut at his sides. "Get out!"
"But you do not want me gone," Amrod purred knowingly, undaunted at the anger as one was undaunted by a snarling kitten. "Admit it aloud. You hardly wish for me to leave you here. Alone."
The tear in his psyche stretched and twisted, but Thranduil would not falter in adversity. "Leave, or I will call my guard, and the world will be short one more cold-blooded kinslayer--better off for the loss!"
But Amrod did not retreat. Indeed, he stalked forward, the invading army nudging and prodding at the defenses of the fortress, beginning to lay siege to its towering walls and barricaded gates. Thranduil should have screamed, should have bolted from the room, should have done something but stand still and silent--yet he only stepped back from the advance, and did not raise the alarm, for his vocal chords were frozen.
His mind was divided, and the war inside his head was raging as fiercely as the one beyond the layers of the icy nonchalance of a tested ruler.
He wanted Amrod Fëanorion dead, wanted that (hideously attractive) visage on display on a silver platter sans a body, green eyes replaced with emeralds, mayhap mounted on a wall for all to see. For him to see and know that that demon in his dreams was vanquished.
Yet an intrinsic, insistent part of him wanted Amrod Fëanorion alive, wanted the hot breath on his cheeks and neck and bare flesh, wanted hands to touch him and drive away all fear and hopelessness and political intrigue, wanted forgetfulness.
And once a decision was made, there would be no going back.
In the purest form of seduction, his One leaned towards him, mouth brushing his cheek, breath washing over the tender shell of his ear, eyes so close that the king could have named every vibrant hue of vivid green in their depths. "Tell me you wish for me to leave, and I will go." A hand rested upon his hip, slid down over his natural curve, teased at a faintly trembling thigh. "Tell me truthfully that you do not desire me, and I shall never approach you again, my sinda."
In the end, there was no victory or defeat, only a resigned sort of surrender on both sides, a desperate ploy to win the outer battle. "Please," he whispered, "Please leave me alone..."
Because he could not bear to kill this fiery spirit. Nor could he live with himself if he gave in to his blackest desires and forgave and forgot. If his revenge was satisfied, his fury would die as well and drag him into gray limbo, but if his needs were quenched, he would be ashamed to hold his head high before his people, the willing lover of the man who had destroyed his innocence and his homeland, a traitor to his very heritage and soul.
"Leave..."
The heat withdrew, and Thranduil could breathe deeply again without being filled with the scent of blood, coating the back of his throat in a thick layer nauseating copper taint. No longer was he touched. No longer was he on the brink, but three cautious steps back, merely peering over the edge uncertainly.
Immediately, he missed the closeness. The rightness. The Oneness. And the loathing scraped his insides like knives.
"Very well..." Amrod bowed, curtains of hair streaked in gold and amber falling over his shoulders. "I will leave you to your cold life and empty bed, your majesty. Should you ever have need of my company, you know which direction to seek. One as tainted as I cannot live outside the shadows."
And he was gone in the night.
Leaving behind only chaos. The inner conflict had not been decided.
Thranduil still felt rage churning in his gut, mixing with scorned pride and faded terror. But on the opposite side of the coin, he still burned with lust, still looked at the spot where Amrod had stood and fantasized about white bliss evaporating away all problems, creating a safe-haven of tingling, golden warmth to cocoon him from the miserable truth.
A battle was won, but the inner war still raged.
And he could not honestly say which side of his spirit would be victorious.
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First thought of this several days ago while writing smut of this pairing out of pure boredom and horniness (I'm young, so sue me). I mean, if you read "Cheat" you can probably guess that their initial encounter got off to a very rough start. As in "I wouldn't be in the least bit surprised if Thranduil never wanted to see Amrod again and cursed his name for all eternity" kind of start. But this story was more created to tie in with a little plot point stuck right in the middle of that little snippet, an explanation of sorts.
It's not finished; part two is going to be written tomorrow. This story gave me an idea for tomorrow's prompt, and the correlation should become obvious then unless I seriously change my mind--unlikely at this point.
Listening to Diamonds for Tears by Poets of the Fall. I'm not even sure why I like this song; it's not my normal style, not like Carnival of Rust. But for some reason I do like it and its vaguely metaphorical aspects and blatant use of modern day references.
Because he's gorgeous: Thranduil by ~Athena-chan on dA. Why is he so delicious? Now, the attitude on the other hand... Actually, he kind of reminds me of Loki LOL.
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