Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion (I own the OMC, though his name is borrowed and subject to later change)
Pairings: Amrod x Thranduil
Characters: Thranduil, Amrod, Valthoron (OMC) (mentions Eru once I think, and Galion the butler (he really is called a butler in the Hobbit))
Warning: extremely AU, non-canon pairing (obviously), OMC, non-canon children, hints at rape and m!preg, slash, sexual undertones, fantasizing about revenge
Song: Time
Words: 1,675
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victory (noun): the overcoming of an enemy or antagonist; achievement of mastery or success in a struggle or endeavor against odds or difficulties
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/victory
"You have distracted lately, adar."
Of course, who wouldn't be, with a battle of two powerful emotions dancing furiously through their mind, twisting and twining and shedding blood on both sides? Was it, then, any wonder that Thranduil could not focus on the incessant ramblings of his advisors as they squabbled over the prestige of his favor?
And all the while he could feel those eyes on the back of his neck, searing an invisible brand into his soul, waiting patiently for his inner thunder-battle of hatred and longing to break and calm into decisiveness. His One knew him all too well, knew that his plea of that night two weeks ago was nothing but a flimsy front constructed to repel unexpected attack, but under concentrated force it would buckle and topple, leaving him undefended.
His One knew that Thranduil had committed to no rejection.
Absently, he nodded to his child and tried not to catch the gleam of familiar russet hair from the corner of his eyes, so frightening like to his. "Forgive me, ion-nín. As of late, there has been much to contemplate."
"Is there something troubling you?"
If only the child knew!
If only he could understand the swirling, raging sea of molten despair and wistfulness held at bay with a trembling gate of hatred and terror. The lust for revenge was not only heavy in the veins of the Golodhrim; Thranduil was no more immune to its ravages than those who had once torn down his world and splattered it with the spilled blood and rent dreams of his kin. So badly, he wanted to make that man pay for what he had done! It was like a disease, burning through his veins in toxic black and sickly green, spreading out from his tainted core.
And at the same, there was the deep-seated longing.
"It is not something I would burden your mind with," Thranduil whispered.
He would not wish to speak of the kinslayer--his One, to whom he felt a pull so powerful he staggered beneath its force. It was the purest form of temptation, a test sent from the heavens to break down even the most steadfast, determined of spirits. To go away, to leave all of this behind, to forget everything and have the safety of his One's embrace hidden away in some dappled clearing, the only two souls in the world, so closely entwined as to be less two separate parts and more one harmonious whole.
When it came time, Thranduil wondered whether he could fight this ultimate temptation, could resist, could condemn himself to being half for as long as he lived. As much as the image of the Son of Fëanor dismantled and desecrated before his feet was satisfying, part of him went cold at the vision, weeping silently in the corner of lost hopes and wishes.
Could he kill Amrod? Doubt pulsed at his center.
"I want to help," Valthoron replied, his fingers twining with his father's and squeezing.
But there is nothing you can do to save me from this decision, the choosing of fate. Some wars must be fought and decided alone.
And this was one such war.
"I appreciate your concern, ion-nín, but there is nothing to be done." Thranduil pulled away from any comfort he might be offered, and instead made to leave, to be alone in the dreadful silence of his chambers, knowing that eyes were peering in through the diaphanous shield of balcony curtains, patiently awaiting... "Tell Galion that I am not to be disturbed. If someone should need something, they may speak to you."
"Me? But..."
"Consider it practice." Reassurance, his guilty conscience corrected. "I will see you in the morn."
He pressed a kiss to his son's forehead, avoided touching the silken curls of that vibrant fire and gold, and fled as quickly as his formal robes would allow. No more questioning, not when he was ready to burst open and scream in frustration, to weep at the skies and ask why, why was this happening to him? What had he ever done to deserve this destiny?
Behind him, he locked the door to his bedchambers and blew out the candles. Darkness fell over him, and the only sound he heard was the wind rustling the wings of trees just beyond the balcony.
And then the shaking started, convulsing outwards until his knees gave and Thranduil sat on the floor in an undignified heap of silk and bone, the veil of deception masking his true visage crushed with no eyes to keep its foundations firm.
Could I kill him? Could I order his death? Over and over, he asked, and each time his answer was weaker, all resolution diminished. Could I truly do it, knowing that he would be gone forever, that all hope would be lost...?
What it really came down to--in the end--was the value of empty revenge and broken love and sweet, unwanted lust. The balance was tipping before his very eyes, the arguments once again dashing each other violently against the rocks of logic in his brain.
In the end, was the bleak, momentary satisfaction of vengeance and the destruction of the source of terror and shattered innocence of ages past worth losing the only promise of a future, worth knowingly walking into the unknown of forever alone with no choice to turn back time, no chance to undo past decisions, no hope of the catharsis that dangled at his very fingertips at this very moment?
It was there before him, the temptation of the silence of the mind, of not being Thranduil Oropherion, King of Great Greenwood, but a nameless, faceless other half of another nameless, faceless soul with whom he was perfectly matched. It was overwhelming. Intoxicating.
Even if it was the wrong choice, the alternative was unbearable.
And it was then that Thranduil felt his throat close, holding back a sob through sheer force of will. If he were to answer truthfully, he knew he could not kill Amrod Fëanorion any more than he could change the weather's rapid, chaotic movements across the surface of Arda, nor could he turn a blind eye and pretend nothing had changed, that his world still revolved on the same axis as it had just days before. He could not deny that his One was part of him, no matter how much he despised that heartless, immoral, depraved piece that still somehow laced together with his offered half so perfectly.
It was that thought which trampled the outer defenses of his rational, ice-cold, detached logic, the part of him that rejected emotional interference as a burden to be ignored and shoved aside. It was that thought which brought down the golden sheen of glory upon the heart's deepest hidden desires, breaking through the gate of hatred, throwing its heavy doors to the side to release the flood.
It was that thought which had him leaping from his balcony into the trees with no word to anyone of where he was going or why, no thought of consequences. Impulsive heat raged through his veins at the sudden need to see his One. To touch him and make certain he was real.
And to accept the escape he offered. To use him, out of shattered love and bleak hope and utter madness derived from hours upon hours of denying the essence of his deepest being.
To forget their past and their pain and their names and their blood.
When he came unto the clearing, he knew that Amrod was waiting for him, could feel the presence within the darkness radiating heat like a furnace from the sheer intensity of the legacy of that spirit. Dappled silver was cast down over his head, and it was the small droplets of Ithil breaking through the canopies above which gave him a soft glimpse of the tall silhouette that put both fear and desire rushing through his veins.
"Your decision is made, then?"
Suddenly, his mouth felt so dry, so parched and locked closed, his lips sewn shut. Thranduil could only manage a nod.
Green eyes narrowed down at him, waiting, watching... "Tell me."
Barely daring to breathe, the king reached up to the crown of crimson flowers atop his pale mane, grasping the beautiful object honed and perfected by hundreds of hours of skilled craftsmanship and hundreds of years of responsibility and hidden connotations of politics and schemes, and he threw it all down into the grass, as shed blood against the gentle, waving blades.
And Amrod knew. A smirk that rent Thranduil with shudders of anticipation curled the corners of thin lips, morphed that unforgettable face into something hungry and entrancing. "Come with me." A hand was offered into the empty air between them.
All he could do was stare for long moments, frozen with the last remembrance of pain. Unconsciously, his breath held fast, and inside his mind the need screamed and jeered and urged him to destroy the last vestiges of doubt lingering in the lowest safe-havens of the fortress of hatred and pride and fear.
One step forward, one doubt vanquished. The grass was tender on the soles of his feet, cool with dew, tickling gently.
Another, bringing him close enough to reach out and touch. The hot scent burst over him, of death and yet something inexplicably alive. He could hear Amrod breathing. He could feel the heat of flesh beneath the tips of his trembling fingers as his hand raised to fall into the inviting cusp of that scarred, callused palm.
Contact. Inside, the part of him that still hoped and dreamed rejoiced in victory.
A kiss to his knuckles, and then his wrist, and then his cheeks. He could count the shades of those eyes, and see every emotion swirling freely in their depths, uncovered, vulnerable.
They shared breath between them.
And Thranduil forgot.
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Not even sure where I'm going with this anymore, but I like it. And this time, the music is extremely important. The ending, at least, heavily influenced the last scene of this little snippet. Hans Zimmer is an amazing composer, and Time is one of my personal favorites of all the songs he has ever composed for movie scores. It's from Inception, for those of you who are unfamiliar. The ending of this song always, always, makes me just want to keel over from the sheer epicness of it, so soft, just simple little chords, and yet it plows you over with the sheer fullness of its unspoken meaning.
Forgive the geek. She's addicted.
And yes, more slash pairings. I may write tomorrow's prompt on this pairing (in an odd sort of way, I have an idea already), but it's not a concrete plan. We'll see where it decides to go, but right now it's leaning towards the origins of Legolas. I blame my current dA fixation with the Elvenking. This morning I found this--A cheneg A ionneg by ~fruitscake on dA (Oh my lord, look at the gorgeous use of complementary tones in the hair!)--and now I've got a new fixation.
Sindarin vocab:
adar = father
ion-nín = my son
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