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The proposal for an alliance, accepted in public, was contested in private:

Thorin heard his mother say to his father, “He’s a child.”

“Dain slew Azog when he is only little over thirty.”

“I hope you’re not suggesting we need to send children to fight orcs.”

“Thus the reason for the alliance. We will have a mighty ally against orcs and drakes.” The words became hurried, placating. “The elves are not unreasonable. Thorin could marry if he wishes for a family, later. Is sixty years of peace and safety in our lifetimes not what you wanted?”

To Thorin, for whom women in general seemed as much like men, all delighting in craft or politics, later seemed impossible because Erebor was filled with dwarves and Dale filled with men, but there was only one king in Middle-earth who fought back the shadow of Dol Guldor, whose hair was gold, whose glance was brighter than mithril.

At Thror’s feasting hall, Thorin in his finest clothes went before Thranduil for the first time since the terms of the treaty had been finalized. Thorin had seen Thranduil on other occasions and always felt that bright gaze piercing him where he stood or sat. This time, aware of his new responsibilities, he met those eyes with the certainty as befit a Prince of Erebor, his face colouring only a little.

“I think I will marry him the next autumn,” Thranduil declared after a moment. He nodded at Thorin. “If he is willing.”

“He’s tender in years,” Thrain said, reluctantly, at a table that seated King Thror and his council whom had spent weeks arguing the form of the most secure alliance that could wed together two kingdoms’ safety against the dragons of the North; they were a constant threat even if men had forgotten and in the last campaign the elves had proved a necessary ally.

Thranduil laughed. “A score of years is a blink of an eye to me. You had only one son the last time I came to Erebor. I trust that a child’s name is not be suggested, that I signed what has been written in good faith.”

“It is,” said King Thror and he raised his goblet. “And we look forward to a long peace.”

Thranduil’s glance fell on Thorin again over the rim of his toast. And though young, Thorin was only a child to his mother, and if others dwarves married late, it would be only that he married early, and so he would be wed to one of the greatest elven kings in Middle-earth. He thought he had no illusions- he would be a mortal consort for a deathless king for the sake of Erebor and Durin’s folk. The wine was stronger and sweeter than he had ever tasted.

-=-=

“So you’re Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror,” the elf seemed curious. “Milord’s last consort was my mother.” He looked up and down at Thorin and said, haughty, “She was a queen.”

Thorin did not know what to think; there was an unpleasant lurch in his stomach. He had not known Thranduil already had a son, though it was within reason- a king need his heir, otherwise Thorin’s name would’ve never been presented. “I am sorry.”

“Sorry?” The dark brows furrowed. “She left before I came of age. Rather, we left, or so the tale goes. And you will leave, too, I think, sometime in autumn.”

“I am to come back every spring.” Thranduil was a king; Thorin, as the custom of his people, should go join his husband’s household, a title given in courtesy to Thranduil, who was a king while Thorin still a prince; however, since there was no expectation of an heir a a separate agreement had been drawn up- Thorin was to spend half the year in Erebor and half in Eryn Lasgalen with the elves.

The elf beside him seemed astonished at the reply. “But where will you sleep? I did not think dwarves sleep in trees. Are you very old to be so bearded? Have you been married many times? Help me settle a wager, Thorin. We’ve always been wondering-“

“Legolas!” Thranduil said. “At least pretend some civilization when you sit at my table. Leave your forest manners under the trees.”

Legolas grinned at Thorin before going back to talk at his companion on his other side. Thranduil leaned over and said to Thorin, “You will not need to sleep in trees. We have rooms underground.” He paused, a strange look in his eyes as if he was gazing something faraway, then added, “Some of us here still prefer caves to the open air.”

After dinner, Thorin was shown to a bath. The elves had duties, but no attendants. Thorin had not brought his own servants, because the reputation of Mirkwood was even dark among the dwarves. Also, he preferred to make report of his own doings rather than suffer gossip and rumour. He had waited an entire year; there had been enough talk. Marriage between dwarf-men and dwarf-women were rare, but if they were more jealous of their love, they love for the same reasons as other free peoples of Middle-earth: for beauty, for character, or for the pleasure of the moment.

In clean clothes and his skin still damp, Thorin looked into the mirror, and wondered if he could inspire any one out of the three for Thranduil during his stay. Thorin had heard the merest suggestions of the whispers of how he should conduct himself, but as Thranduil was an elf, it had all been conjecture and likely useless. His own readings were not enlightening. From Thoror and Thrain and the High Council, it was important, as a theme, to please Thranduil within reason and to prolong the effectiveness of the treaty. Thorin straightened his clothes; at the worst, his time in the Greenwood would be a long study of elvish habits.

Outside his door was a grim elf Thorin remembered sitting beside Thranduil in Erebor who led him to Thranduil’s room.

Grander and more ornate from what he saw of Thranduil’s halls, a large bed dominated at one end, but Thranduil himself was sitting near the window. There was another who opened the door and left when she saw Thorin and left them alone in the room.

“Take your clothes off,” Thranduil said from his chair. It sounded like a command, but Thorin’s Sindarin was still new. Slowly Thorin began to divest himself of his garments, folding each one then laying them aside, until he stood only in his shirt and smallcloths. It was strange to be so naked, but the room was comfortable and Thranduil very beautiful. Anticipation curled tight.

Thranduil tilted his head. He wore no crown or jewels, but in the low light, his skin seemed to glow. “You look so much smaller without them,” he said mildly.

Thorin cheeks flamed. He had reached his full-height, but not yet his full-strength. His muscles were still wiry, his body too slim for metalwork or fighting with a heavy axe though swordwork came easily. He had seen portraits and statues of the young Dain, already hardened and deep-chested before his combat.

“You’re pleasing enough, fairer than I imagined. The year is a fine choice.” Thranduil gestured toward the bed and no movement for his own clothes, but this was an elven kingdom, so Thorin said nothing and climbed to where the covers had been folded back. The mattress was soft, the pillows stuffed with down, but he sat against them and regarded Thranduil warily.

“I’m not a wine,” he said. Thranduil’s gaze was not soft, but laughter reached his eyes as he left his seat and went over to Thorin and kissed him, thrusting his tongue inside when Thorin’s mouth parted from surprise. A hand curved around his jaw, stroked his face tenderly in contrast to the clash of their mouths- if it had been a battle, an ambush, Thorin lost badly and perhaps willingly, his body playing traitor. Thranduil’s tongue and taste wounded its way through him. He smelled sharply of the forest and left Thorin light-headed and over-heated in his skin.

“I can still catch the taste of the wine at my table,” Thranduil said, stopping after a while, then licked slowly Thorin’s lips, as if he could not hear how quickly Thorin’s heart was beating. He leaned in and pressed very briefly his smooth cheek against the side of Thorin’s mouth. “Softer than I thought.”

“What did you think?” Thorin would’ve asked what Thorin imagined as well, but there was no answer to his question. Thranduil was lying half over him, and was already deftly undoing the small gold buttons on the rest of his clothes. His hands were longer than Thorin’s, no less broad, and the calluses suddenly against his side surprised him. He moved away.

“Be still,” said Thranduil, still fully-clothed. One of his leg was between Thorin’s thighs and as he moved the fabric rubbed against Thorin high between his legs so that he groaned. “Shh,” Thranduil said, moving his leg lightly in a small circle again. Thorin inhaled sharply then bit his lip, silent.

Thranduil’s fingers were light and almost felt like nothing, and his lips only very rarely grazed skin, but Thorin started to burn with every touch. The hands moved over his chest, pinched and tugged his nipples. Thorin writhed slightly, arched his body despite himself, wishing that that Thranduil would just touch his cock, or at least, free his hands and give him permission to touch , have some hold on the blurring reality, but Thranduil was paid no more attention to his cock than the rest of his body- tracing circles on his abdomen, threading his hand through the hair at the base before holding him so briefly and fleetingly, his thumb running over the head, that Thorin almost choked as he swallowed back a sound- his hips moved in one sharp, aborted movement. Thranduil ignored Thorin’s trembling afterwards though he must feel it as they were pressed together. Thorin was becoming unstitched with every moment, so intense was the need for release and so distraught he was by its hopelessness.

The strangest thoughts came to him: that he was turning to glass, to be made malleable and then changed in the furnace, that he would expire in Thranduil’s bed, that the painful flickers on the edge of his vision was the built of the gasps and whimpers that would burst forth and turn into small dragons sent to devour him.

Thranduil had not let him speak. His expression had not changed. For all his touches, for all his caresses and fondling that were sending Thorin to madness, the elf was implacable and inscrutable as stone; the graceful planes of his face seemed suddenly austere, the eyes cold. He had not even undressed himself while Thorin was ready to weep and beg for release.

His was scarcely sensible of being turned until he felt the sheets against his face, smooth and warm and almost grounding against the hot whispers of Sindarin he couldn’t understand by his ear, and Thranduil’s hands running all over his body, tracing the lines of his back, stroke his buttocks,then inside of his legs, touching the intimate places that made Thorin brace himself, opening his legs a little wider as Thranduil trailed hot breaths over his back. The long hands were kneading his buttocks, then spreading them, the thumb stroking slightly over the private space of his body. Thorin gasped when the tip entered. A swell of terror grabbed him as it circled around his entrance, lingering a little. Yet the unexpected sensitivity sent a queasy flutter of want amidst his fear. He felt tender and hard at the same time, aware of the length of body half above, half beside him, his own body aching. Half remembered advice came to him: he almost get his knees under him before he remembered the more immediate command. It took all his power to remain still, so still, his stomach clenching even as his cock throbbed and leaked onto the bedclothes.

It took him a moment to realise that Thranduil was no longer touching him and that the susurrus of clothes came from beside him not above or not behind him.

“Will you-” His throat was try and only the rough scratch of a sound emerged.

Thranduil turned to look at him. “Yes?”

“Should I sleep here?” Thorin asked. The ache between his legs eased a little when he shifted against the mattress, but the he forced himself to be still then after a moment turned around so he lay on his side.

Thranduil looked curiously at him. “If you like.” He seemed to have lost interest in Thorin and wandered toward the window and his chair where a book lay splayed from the spine. Below Thranduil belt, his tunic was lying flat.

Mortified, Thorin pulled the blankets over his body and fervently prayed for his arousal to go away. It was exhausting work when was trying to see if Thranduil would return. He fell into an uneasy sleep and was aware vaguely the dip of mattress beside him. He wanted to say something- but there was no touch, no word, no dream.

In the morning, it was as if nothing had occurred. Thorin drew on his clothing while Thranduil watched, then, strangely, wished to comb and brush and braid his hair. Thorin, a little mollified by the request, sat still and tried to ignore how he was aware of every brush of Thranduil’s hand on his ear, that the muscles in his thighs clenched in anticipation of more. “You don’t need to come back tonight,” Thranduil said. He eyed Thorin’s swollen lip and placed a dab of unguent on it. Thorin’s breath stuttered at the touch. It stung. “You have your own room.”

Outside of the door was the grim elf Thorin saw yesterday. He escorted Thorin to breakfast, to the library, to lunch, to the smithies. But at night, Thorin was led to a strange room to be his own. And during his stay, though he sat at Thranduil’s side at meals, he did not sleep beside him. Thorin was entertained then packed off to Erebor before the first harvest.

Thorin told no one of how he had repulsed Thranduil- there had already been enough whispers: his age, his inexperience, his eagerness. He waited two seasons for the inevitable humiliation where Thranduil send some politely worded letter suggesting that Thorin remain in Erebor or worse, the the alliance was void. But in the spring, the elves came with Thranduil riding at the head of the column, as cool as imperious as Thorin had first seen him. When he went back to Mirkwood that year, he would’ve lowered his pride but before he mustered the words, again he was summoned to Thranduil’s room for a night where he was asked to strip and lie on the bed in silence while Thranduil’s fingers played him and drew him toward an inexorable state of desire that Thorin could not bring himself to end because Thranduil did not ask. He fell asleep afterwards then was groomed and dismissed in the morning and for the rest of the season until he returned to Erebor.

In this way, a few years passed. The elves were a strange, but merry people. If not all of them welcomed Thorin, they were growing used to him, and then there were others whose company he considered amiable. In Erebor, however, as his fellows grew older it became clear who were wedded to their craft, who would prefer family, and that Thorin rebuffed those who desired him.

“But elves are sexless,” one of his more ardent follower said. “And hairless all over except for their head and brows. How could you be satisfied? Does he ask you to shave as well? You still have your beard, at least.”

Thorin could not admit that he knew neither of the answer to her question, merely that he was already married and tried to stop her fingers from wandering into his shirt. He was leaving tomorrow and the thought of Thranduil made him hurt in a way that he did not wish to remember and hate in a way he did not like to contemplate deeply.

“My father has a copy of the alliance his study, I stole in and read it. You’re Thrain’s son, my father would not care that you had been anothers even if we’re found. You need an heir to be king and no penalty if you marry. Elves outlive rivers. The alliance could be kept if he chooses another.”

Thorin brushed her hands away from his belt. Though it was pleasant to be wanted, her words cooled whatever vague thoughts he had been entertaining. He had a sister and little faith for a young dwarf-woman to promise marriage, less faith in how benign their fathers would view a dalliance that cost them the support of the Woodland Realm. There were no secrets in Erebor and Thranduil had ears everywhere. Thorin would’ve liked to see jealousy, but feared more that he would be given over camly, discarded and considered used. “He’s mine,” Thorin said stubbornly.

“You are his, you mean, something to lie still and count among his things when he cannot have the Arkenstone.” Rejection had made her cruel, though she little realised the sting of truth in her words. She left when Thorin failed to answer her.

But that night, for the first time, lying alone in his wide bed in Erebor, he understood with a sudden bitterness that he had been foolish to imagine Thranduil could ever desire him. Thorin’s body was being trained for war and craft, not for seduction or bedplay, and whatever charms that led Thranduil to choose him for a marriage-alliance disappeared the first night Thorin lay in his bed. Earlier, he perhaps could’ve appealed in some private way to his father, who would not see him ill-used, but too many years had passed to complain the marriage had not been consummated to his liking when few dwarves married at all. Worse still, when he closed his eyes and took himself in hand, his wretched ecstasy held only thoughts of Thranduil, a confusion of him affable and commanding; and his own body would respond, shamefully excited and eager for every imagined touch.

-=-=

This time, when he returned to Mirkwood, when Thranduil summoned him to his room again and again reduced him to desperate need with his hands and mouth, but rather than lie panting until his flesh stopped throbbing and then falling to sleep, once he felt Thranduil lie beside him, Thorin got up. He thought he had been quiet dressing but at the door, Thranduil stopped him. “Where are you going?”

“To see Legolas,” Thorin said, struggling a little then stopped. Thranduil held him fast and his hands were like iron bands. “He’s back from a hunt. He said there’s a celebration in the woods.”

Thranduil’s voice was soft, with a low quiver of anger. “Is he? And he told you to join them? And you’re going?”

“Did you not tell me that I can go where I like? Is an invitation by Legolas unsafe?”

“I did. It is not.” A shadow passed Thranduil’s face, but it was gone so swiftly that Thorin was not sure if he had been there.

“Does not your guard shadow my every step when I’m here? He’s stand outside the door even now.” Thranduil did not deny it. “Let me go.”

“I thought you would spend the night in my bed.” Thorin thought he saw Thranduil hesitate; that he could not tell only made him angry.

“Why should you care if I’m in your bed, my bed, or another’s?” He regretted the question as soon as he uttered it, embarrassed by his own childishness and yet relieved to free by what had gnawed on his mind.

“You are not to go to another’s bed while you are in my kingdom,” Thranduil said, sharply. “The marriage is conditional upon that you are reserved for mine, unless you’ve broken it already, then you may go back to Erebor tomorrow and tell Thror what has passed.”

“Who would dare?” Thorin said, Thranduil’s words setting alight all his disappointment and bitterness. “Everyone assumes a marriage between us because they don’t know that you can only bring to touch me less than half a night in a year. You could’ve made an alliance without making it a marriage. If you only wished for a dwarf in your bed, you need not to have me. If you regret me, I would not tell. I have not. Just let me go.”

“I chose you.” Thranduil had not yet let released Thorin. If anything, his grip was becoming tighter. His expression, usually serene, was suddenly fierce. “What is a score of years or fifty to me, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror? Erebor seems to me a kingdom built overnight. And yet, there you were and here we are.”

It made very little sense to Thorin. Most of Thranduil’s moods were unknown to him and many were considered even strange even among the Mirkwood elves. With the memory of Thranduil’s strength fresh on his mind, he did as he was told and went back to the untidy pile of the bed where he had been ruined without Thranduil ever taking him.

“Finish yourself, in front of me.” Thranduil directed a nod at Thorin’s lap. “Then you may go and need not to come back to this room.”

Thorin gritted his teeth. It seemed too strange to be clothed on this bed, so he stripped completely. It was as if time had flowed backward, except Thranduil made no move to move closer or to touch him. As Thorin shifted, he became aware that the bedsheets were soft and fine, he felt every weave in the fabric against his bare skin. He was still half-erect from Thranduil’s ministrations earlier in the night and he blushed as he stroked himself, defiant and ashamed as his cock swelled, the head becoming wet. He swallowed his moans as he rubbed his thumb over the slickness. Arousal rolled through him; the urgent pounding need for release familiar and strange in this elven bower. Though the thrill of the forbidden and the desire confused only increased his pleasure, yet he could not forget that this was the last time, that whatever hope he had cherished must now end. Through half-lidded eyes, he saw Thranduil, his hair like spun gold, eyes molten silver; Thorin thought of Thranduil’s white throat, the strength of his wrists, the weight of his body above him, his mouth upon his, his tongue licking flames down his body-

“What do you think of?” Every elvish word hooked and tightened around the chain of want inside him. Thorin dug his heels into the bed. What I wish you would do, Thorin thought, but said nothing, working himself furiously, moaning, letting himself fade into blind pleasure, half-fantasy, half-dream: Thranduil seeing him and wanting him and touching him. The keen regard was close enough to a touch, drawing him toward a crisis he did not wish to confront.

Then there was a hand at the base of his cock, squeezing tightly. Shocked by the sudden pressure and then the sight of his own engorged flesh in Thranduil’s hand, it took a moment to decipher the words: “Who do you think of?”

When Thorin failed to answer, the hold tightened, becoming almost painful, though Thorin’s arousal remained. “You,” Thorin sobbed aloud at last. He had wished Thranduil to grip him in his hand for more than a moment, but now there was his other hand that cupped him briefly before finding his entrance, Thorin’s whole body tensed. He lifted his eyes. Thranduil’s face was flushed, his pale eyes luminous.

“You’ve never been breached.” His hand on Thorin began moving.

“I’m not a fortress,” Thorin managed in the haze of arousal, loathing his body, Thranduil, words.

“No, but you’re Erebor here,” Thranduil said, smiling strangely. “And I would like to have it,” -he wet his lips- “conquer it if you like. That is an alliance, Thorin.”

“I have followed the alliance to the letter and more,” Thorin said, becoming alarmed even as he rocked into Thranduil’s hand. If he had traded a few flirtations, they were only words and perhaps a few songs. He had composed no ballads for an elf-king, but Thranduil had asked for none. It was impossible to think further; he slid in and out of Thranduil’s hand until his whole being seemed to be caught within. With a cry, he arched his hips and came, spilling hopelessly onto the bed.

“You have to the extent you are able,” Thranduil continued mildly, “but then there’s no reassurance that we would come if we do not feel what we own is threatened.” The meaning became clearer as Thranduil’s hand grazed the sensitive skin of hs inner thigh.

Still breathless and shuddering in the aftermath, Thorin said softly, “So you would need to take me first.” He was neither of metal nor stone. Like a fortress, but defenseless, for he had no weapons against Thranduil. A city bled after an attack. Perhaps it was only Thranduil’s mercy that had spared him from this necessity. Thorin was certain of his own strength and its limits.

Thranduil smile seemed too merry in this exchange. “You could always open the gates yourself.”

Thorin thought of the hushed whispers around him in Erebor the first time he went back and the vile rumours. “I don’t know how,” he confessed.

Thranduil’s face was a mixture of incredulity and exasperation. “What do they tell you these days? Have Durin’s folk grown so grim?”

Thorin remained silent.

Then Thranduil moved away from him. At first Thorin thought that having teased and mocked him, Thranduil was going to leave, then he peeled off the outer layer of his tunic, then lifted his shirt.

Confronted with the lithe body in front of him, Thorin’s gaze drifted down the long torso to where the pattern of laces was being loosened.

“You stare as you’ve never seen me in my skin,” Thranduil said, sounding amused. He stepped off the bed and then skimming off his breeches, stretched. He was barefoot, his ankles molded to the graceful form of his calves, his legs, his hips. His endless pale skin, glowing faintly, was sparsely and palely haired at his chest, but became darker nearer his crotch, where the hair was dark as brow.

Thorin shook his head. He could not believe Thranduil did not realise that he had not, but Thranduil laughed lightly and went to rummage in a drawer at the end of the room, while Thorin lay passive, entranced by the broad back, the wings of the shoulderblades, the powerful muscles in the long legs as Thranduil strode toward him.

He gasped as Thranduil’s naked hard chest slid against his own. “If you do not know how,” Thranduil whispered hotly against the shell of his ear, his teeth grazing the edge, “I will show you.” His hand was slippery with oil, smoothing his flanks, and coaxing Thorin’s legs apart. Thorin moaned, growing steadily frantic and desperate as Thranduil continued to touch him. There was a roar in his ears, a curtain of golden hair slipping on his skin as a single finger entered him- the tip, then the entire knuckle, twisting as it delved deeper. The sensation was strange and a little discomforting, but Thranduil’s skin was against his and they felt like a million slightly biting kisses that Thranduil had bestowed only last year that had cause Thorin to see white for a moment only to return to consciousness, still straining and unsatisfied- and Thranduil sitting aloof and away.

But Thranduil was close to him now, two of his fingers were moving deep inside him, his thumb running along the rim of his entrance. Thorin trembled as the fingers twisted inside him and opened him and explored him, then there was a shock that was so pleasurable that it dislodged reason.

“Will you?” He did not know what he was asking for; an invasion, a belated wedding night, but nothing could hurt. He spread his legs wider, pushed himself onto Thranduil’s hand.

“Yes?” There was a press of familiar lips at the soft juncture between neck and collarbone. “I’ll have you if you are willing.”

He cried his assent then whimpered as Thranduil rolled away from him. The loss was startling. Thorin hung suspended between empty air. Blearily, he looked beside him. Thranduil’s cheek was pink, a shade of rose that ran down the length of his throat, and across his chest. He was also hard, flushed with arousal, his hand, still gleaming with oil, stroked its length.

Thorin’s cock throbbed, but he hesitated. The hollowness his body began to feel like a wound and more frightening. Confused, he swallowed and turned slowly away. Thranduil was on him in a moment. Thorin had no chance, he knew it the moment that Thranduil closed his hands upon him that he was stronger. His knees slipped on the fine sheets when Thranduil shoved forward and pierced him to the hilt. Thorin gasped. It hurt, like a blade of fire thrust deep within him. And Thranduil’s familiar warm and terrible against his back, the “You are a prize, Thorin. You come willingly to my bed not knowing I thought to spare you for your youth but I will not be mocked.”

Thorin panted as Thranduil withdrew and thrust in again, this time unerring on the spot in him that dissolved his nerves, but just as he pushed back, Thranduil stopped, his hand hard on Thorin’s hips. Then he bent low, his light hair mingled in Thorin’s raven. “I wanted you, but the first night, such unexpected docility, such forbearance for your people. And yet every year, you grow fairer and my desire greater. How could I not touch you knowing that no one else must? And how could I bear to linger and have you for such a short time?”

Thorin grunted, closing his eyes, but the sensations only became sharper. His body was answering to Thranduil’s manipulations. His cock swelled again as Thranduil took him. He did not know how long it lasted. He moaned and cried when Thranduil tugged cruelly at his nipples before gripping his cock tight in his hand. Caught between the twin pleasures, he closed his eyes. Sweat dripped down his brow as he came again, violently, his whole body convulsing in his release.

Thorin’s knees collapsed, his head falling forward onto the pillows even as Thranduil continued to move, wringing pleasure out of him until he could finally take it no longer and begged roughly for him to stop.

When Thranduil pulled out, he kissed Thorin tenderly, licking open his mouth, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his thrusts. Thorin fumbled, clinging to Thranduil, feeling sore and shattered and wept a little to realise that Thranduil was still hard against his leg. He moved to turn around, but Thranduil tugged him close instead and after a moment, the hardness went away. Furtively, Thorin felt for him but it was as if Thranduil had always been unaffected. His skin was warm and slightly sticky, but soft.

“We are immortal. The body binds more closely to our fea as the years pass and becomes easier to command.” Thranduil stroked his face, his fingers carding through his hair to his beard.

Thorin thought of all the time that Thranduil had wanted him but refused to let his body stir. “And did you think dwarves were the same?”

“I know you are stubborn.” Thranduil had retrieved a damp cloth, cool against Thorin’s skin. “And you will marry and be gone from me.”

“You were cruel to never ask,” Thorin said to him, looking him in the eye. “You took me because you could and never asked what kept me returning other than fear.”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow. “Would you have loved me better if I asked for you every night?”

To this, Thorin had no reply. His frustrated longing for Mirkwood now seemed bittersweet, but Thranduil embraced him and laughed against his hair.