Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Thorin turned around.

Thranduil stood twenty feet away upon the road. The Elvenking was not dressed in regal robes, or in glittering armour, but in simple green and brown like an elven guard.

"His name is Silvermane," Thranduil said. "It was a good name, so I reused it. I am sorry, I did not think…" Thranduil smiled, his teeth showing.

Thorin threw back his hood and smiled in return.

It could not be a coincidence that Thranduil had met him here. Had the snowy white owl, which had taken flight from the riverbank, been a messenger?

"Am I expected?" Thorin said.

Thranduil closed the gap between them, took Thorin's hand in greeting, and swiftly released it.

"In a way," Thranduil said. "I knew you once wished to rebuild the road, and might come this way again. My people have begun the work, as you have seen."

The stag nosed Thranduil's hand for a treat.

"It seems I must repeat myself," Thorin said. "Unless the stag speaks?"

"Not in a language I understand," Thranduil said, and smiled again.

"Then, by your leave, I wish to travel west through the Greenwood," Thorin said. "My destination is the Ered Luin, where my sister lives."

"And then?" Thranduil said.

"I will escort her back to Erebor," Thorin said.

They walked side by side up the road, west toward the tree and its yellow light. The stag followed.

As they drew closer, Thorin saw that a low stone wall surrounded the great tree. Closer still, he saw the wall was twelve feet in height, not so low after all.

A wide gate in the wall faced the road. Stairs gracefully wrapped around the tree trunk. The tree was an enormous oak, with a regular shape and lofty spreading branches, ideal for the tree palace Thorin had once dreamed of.

"What is this place?" Thorin asked.

"A rest house," Thranduil said. "For my folk labouring on the road. You are welcome to find shelter here tonight."

They went through the gate, then a passageway; the wall was unexpectedly deep. Inside, built into the encircling wall, were storerooms, a kitchen, and stables. In the stables were an elk, a horse, and two mountain goats.

"How did they get here?" Thorin said in surprise, meaning the goats.

"Those that lost riders fled after the battle," Thranduil said. "Some followed my folk into the forest."

The goats were no longer armoured; their saddles and bridles hung on the wall. Thorin went to the goats and scratched their ears.

After the stag was made comfortable next to the elk, Thorin and Thranduil climbed the staircase. Thorin opened the door at the top.

They stood in a spacious entrance hall. Additional stairs wrapped around the trunk to upper floors. Off the entrance was a dining hall with seating for twenty.

The dwelling was more of a tree manor than a tree house. Thorin nodded approvingly, but inwardly he was disheartened. The place appeared to be as Thranduil had described it, a means to provide room and board to many elves – not what Thorin had begun to hope it was, a private palace for a king and an ex-king.

The tree manor and the mended road most likely had nothing to do with Thorin. After all, why shouldn't Thranduil undertake to repair an important road that ran through his realm? Thorin reminded himself he could presume nothing.

Thorin set down his pack in the entrance hall. They hung up their cloaks, and washed their hands at a basin.

On a wide balcony, they sat on wooden stools. Thranduil served them ale, bread, and cheese. As they ate and drank, they looked west. The sun was far below the horizon, but from their high vantage point they could see the last of the day's light, a pale purple streak outlining the deep blue Misty Mountains.

Below them ran the end of the repaired road, where it returned to ruin.

"It looks as if it had been attacked by stone giants," Thorin said.

"Not giants," Thranduil said, and smiled. "Gerbils."

"I beg your pardon?" Thorin said, not sure he had heard Thranduil correctly.

"In time, even the mightiest road is overthrown," Thranduil said. "And not by the powerful, or the great, but by the smallest of animals tunnelling a den."

Thorin smiled, but one thing still troubled him.

"Is repairing the road wise, these days?" Thorin said. "There is still evil in Moria. The road could give our enemies a passage to strike in the east."

Thranduil nodded gravely. "Yes, but the work will take many years, even if every dwarf in Middle-earth labours upon it. Any danger is far off, and much may change in that time."

Thorin must have looked worried, for Thranduil added, "I will conceal the road from unfriendly eyes, if necessary."

"I am sure it won't be," Thorin said. "As you say, the road will take many years to repair, particularly as I do not command every dwarf in Middle-earth." Thorin hesitated, and said, "In fact, I do not command any."

"Indeed," Thranduil said mildly. "Still, you may choose to continue the work yourself. Unless you trust in the skill of the elves."

Understanding he was being teased, Thorin smiled.

Thranduil poured more ale, and handed the refilled cup to Thorin.

With the gesture, the imagined scent of sheep's milk, like a sunny shadow of summers past, filled Thorin's senses, and memories of his Mirkwood year flowed back, unmarred by old grief. Thranduil scolding gerbils for eating flowers. Thranduil wrapped in a blanket, gratefully accepting food, moments after transforming from a stag. Thranduil laughing, head thrown back, at the owlings' antics. Thranduil's arms around Thorin in sleep.

Whatever Thranduil's intentions concerning the road and the tree manor, Thorin was certain he had once experienced a side of Thranduil unknown to all others.

No one else had known Thranduil so at peace, so content, with a simple life in the forest, as Thorin had, when he had been Thranduil's companion. Perhaps it was selfish, even proud, but Thorin would hold the remembrance close in the days to come, no matter what the future brought.

Thranduil looked up at the stars, and smiled.

"I will ride with you to the western border of my land, as far as the Misty Mountains, if you wish," Thranduil said. "We can start in the morning."

"If you wish to ride with me, you are welcome, Thranduil. Indeed, you do not need my permission."

Thranduil bowed his head an inch.

"But I fear it will be tedious for you," Thorin said. "You will be riding an elk, and I will be on foot."

"You are welcome to the goats," Thranduil said. "They are yours, after all. Take both. Ride one. The second can carry supplies, and perhaps later bear your sister east."

Thorin thanked Thranduil profusely. He had not brought a horse or pony because of the difficult terrain ahead; mountain goats would be up to the challenge – and would be far less picky about forage along the way.

"Where will you go after?" Thranduil said. "I am sorry; I have already asked that."

"Once my sister is safely in Erebor?" Thorin said. "It is a long journey; I have not yet decided on what will come after."

Thorin had not considered his own fate, only that of Dis. He had made no plans beyond escorting her to Erebor to reunite with her sons.

"I may return to the Ered Luin," Thorin said. "And make my home there."

Thranduil was quiet, then said, "Your exile is ended; do not put yourself in exile again."

"It would be exile by choice," Thorin said softly, and – he hoped – without bitterness.

Thranduil smiled briefly, for the first time showing a trace of uncertainty.

"Allow me to show you to your sleeping quarters, Thorin."

Thorin followed Thranduil up the stairs to a second level. They passed many hammocks slung (carelessly, to dwarven eyes) in the tree branches, but Thranduil led Thorin to a large, well-furnished room, with proper walls, floor, and ceiling.

"I am not turning you out of your bedroom, I hope," Thorin said.

"Not at all," Thranduil said, his face a serene mask.

Thorin was about to answer Very well, then, if you insist, when he saw, in the far corner of the bedroom, a tall mirror with an ornate silver frame. Beside it was a large wooden harp. On a table an egg-shaped crystal glowed.

"This is your bedroom," Thorin said.

Thranduil muttered something, but Thorin, distracted by a familiar chess set on a table, did not hear the words clearly.

Thorin noted a stag king, an owl bishop, and a gerbil pawn. He picked up the stag king and inspected it closely. His woodcarving ability had greatly improved since those days, but there was no doubt it was the work of his hands.

Thranduil had gone back to the barn house for the chess set, and kept it.

Thranduil had cared for Thorin then, and still cared for him, regardless of all that had happened since.

Thorin set down the chess piece. His doubts about Thranduil's intentions, concerning the road and the tree manor, began to scatter as fast as squirrels before owls.

Rounding the bed, Thorin touched Thranduil's arm.

Thranduil made a soft sound of surprise, but did not shy away.

"I cannot put you out of your room," Thorin said.

He had a notion as to why Thranduil was offering up the bedroom, but he had to be absolutely sure. He must make a show of rejecting the offer to see how vigorously Thranduil insisted upon it.

Thorin's notion was this: that the tree manor had been built years earlier for Thranduil and himself. But then Thranduil had lost hope, as Thorin had, so Thranduil had converted the dwelling into a rest house.

"Don't be ridiculous," Thranduil said, his serene expression failing for a moment. "Dwarves do not like hammocks."

"True," Thorin said. "But the stable will do for me."

"I, on the other hand, prefer a hammock," Thranduil said, serene again.

Thorin could not think of a rejoinder. Then his gaze again landed on the harp, and he had an idea. Words were proving difficult; music might serve.

"I should at least sing for my supper," Thorin said.

Before Thranduil could object, Thorin picked up the harp, seated himself on the bed, and began to play.

Moving stiffly, almost clumsily, Thranduil sat down on a chair, his expression cautious.

While Thorin played, he studied Thranduil.

He had been so caught up in his own struggles he had overlooked that Thranduil's struggles were just as great.

Thranduil was cautious for good reason; Thranduil was protecting himself from the chance of future loss. No, not the chance, the certainty, for Thorin was mortal, and Thranduil was not.

Thorin had experienced many losses of his own. But, with Smaug dead, he had reached an understanding with the grief in his life. In the future, his grief would neither rise, nor ebb, but would continue exactly as it was. It was an odd peace, and not one Thorin could have ever imagined accepting.

But it was the same peace Thranduil had once achieved, when Thorin had apparently broken the Elvenking's enchantment permanently. Thranduil's grief had not vanished then, but, for the first time, Thranduil had let hope flourish alongside it. It was that hope, not Thorin's kiss, which had freed Thranduil from being a stag. Of this Thorin was certain.

Thorin had the same hope. But alas, the music was not having the softening effect on Thranduil that Thorin desired.

Thranduil was growing remote, his face guarded, like an ancient tree in his forest, shrouded and still with age, living yet not wholly present. Thorin had not expected the music to persuade Thranduil to lay his head in Thorin's lap, but Thorin had expected a better result.

Thorin set the harp aside. "I must make a confession," Thorin said.

"Oh?" Thranduil said, his voice distant.

"I once judged you harshly," Thorin said. "For relinquishing your kingship while you were a stag. I know better, now that I have abandoned a crown. I must apologise for that, and for… everything else."

Thranduil held his head higher, but he relaxed slightly, his hands resting loosely in his lap.

"You may not wear a crown," Thranduil said. "But you still command many hearts."

Thorin smiled. There was only one heart he wished to be sure of. And at last he believed he had the power to remove the obstacles that lay before him, for they were obstacles of his own making.

Thorin had once been certain he could only win Thranduil if he reigned in Erebor. It was up to him to let go of that last bitter shard of pride, and to accept that, to Thranduil, it had never mattered. But Thorin did not castigate himself for his late understanding; he had to become a king, and give it up, to find it.

Gandalf had said giving up the throne would bring Thorin peace. Gandalf had been right. And yet, Thorin realised ruefully, he could not be entirely humble. He was not a king, true, but he was still an immensely wealthy dwarf.

"You would not be rebuilding the Men-i-Naugrim alone, Thorin," Thranduil said. "Call your people, and they will come."

Thorin rose to his feet.

Thranduil rose with him. "Thank you for playing," Thranduil said.

"You seemed troubled by it," Thorin said.

"Not troubled," Thranduil said. "Though perhaps… It reminded me of the time I first heard you play."

Thorin cast his mind back, but could not remember. "Which was when, precisely?"

"There was moonlight," Thranduil said. "You were playing by the river. Moonlight shone on the water."

Thorin was about to say, Of course, I remember, but then he looked up sharply at Thranduil.

Thorin had played by the river his first night in the Little Greenwood, days before Thorin had met Silvermane, and months before Silvermane had become Thranduil.

But a white glimmer had moved on the other side of the river that night, a white glimmer Thorin had resolutely looked away from.

It had been Silvermane Thorin had seen.

Long ago, an elf had asked Thorin, "How have you bewitched the white stag?" And at last Thorin knew the answer. With moonlight and music. With the sound of his voice across the water. If Thranduil had cast an enchantment, so had Thorin.

By Silvermane and Thranduil, Thorin had been twice-rescued. He had also been twice-chosen, first swiftly by Silvermane, then slowly by Thranduil.

"Thorin," Thranduil said. "Perhaps I should not have begun the work on the road without consulting you first."

Thranduil hesitated; it was strange to see him so tentative.

"I began it to save you time," Thranduil said. "While it cannot make up for the time you lost, I… it is what I could do."

Thorin took in a sharp, surprised breath.

Gandalf had said a year is nothing to an elf. But now Thranduil was expressing regret for Thorin's lost year, and revealing he had begun long ago to address the wrong, as best as he could.

Thranduil's swift departure after the battle took on a different light. Thranduil was as worried about Thorin's forgiveness as Thorin had been about Thranduil's.

Thorin felt a burden lift from him.

Once Thorin would have blurted out his feelings at length, if not with clarity. But now Thorin knew the gentle, indirect approach often served better.

Thorin picked up the stag king chess piece again, and held it out before him.

"I have a mind to take this with me," Thorin said, flourishing the stag. "As a keepsake of the journey."

"But that would ruin the set," Thranduil said.

Thranduil reached for the chess piece.

Thorin enclosed the stag king in his fist.

Thranduil took Thorin's hand, unwrapped Thorin's fingers from around the chess piece, and set the chess piece on a table.

Then Thranduil kissed Thorin's hand. A great shiver ran through Thranduil, head to foot.

Thranduil stooped to be kissed. Thorin was no longer an inexperienced dwarven boy, so when he kissed Thranduil full on the mouth, Thranduil swayed.

Who made the first move was uncertain; Thorin only knew moments later they were on the bed. Thranduil temporarily silenced Thorin by kissing him.

Thranduil had not only apologised for the year he had taken from Thorin. By confessing he had heard Thorin sing by the river, Thranduil had admitted that now, if not necessarily in the past, he could remember much of his time as Silvermane.

Thranduil hoped Thorin would forgive and forget. Thorin had already forgiven the elf. But forget? Never.

The time for Thorin to worry about presuming too much was over. He could presume everything.

"Good boy," Thorin said softly. "My lovely."

Thranduil flushed dark red.

To tame Thranduil, Thorin had nothing but soft speech, the heat of his kisses, and his hard-tempered hands. And as with the white stag years before, Thorin coaxed Thranduil, gentled Thranduil, until Thranduil turned over to offer his back, Thorin gripping not a mane but Thranduil's hair, and they were in an altogether new and yet familiar place, the borne and the bearer.

"My lovely," Thorin whispered again.

Like Silvermane had long ago, Thranduil was taking Thorin to where enchantment could exist. And as before Thorin was willing to leave his world of order and straight-angled stone behind. Willing to be lost, with Thranduil's smooth skin and hard muscle beneath him. To be lost, then found.

In the ceiling above the bed was a window. Looking up, Thorin saw starlight running through leaves like silver running through rock.

Thorin was deliciously tired, but he left the bed and returned with water and wine. He held a goblet to Thranduil's lips, then his own, and they slept, Thranduil's arm over Thorin, as it once had been, and should always be.

No taming was truly needed. They had both been overmastered years ago.

The chatter of birds woke Thorin. He had slept as well as he had anticipated.

Thranduil stirred beside him.

"Good morning," Thorin said.

Thranduil smiled sleepily. "This place is a home for you, Thorin, if you wish it."

Thorin stroked Thranduil's hair.

"When we last spoke of this, I was a prince, and expected to be a king," Thorin said. "But one thing has not changed since then. I will live here only if you live here with me. In the spring and summer, when the weather is mild. In your caverns, when it is not."

Thranduil closed his eyes, a wild creature softening at a touch.

"Then that is how it shall be," Thranduil said, opening his eyes. "When you have returned, and your sister is safe in Erebor, you will find me here."

"You may hold me to that," Thorin said. "With or without a pledge–"

"Elves do not stand on ceremony," Thranduil said.

Thorin said, "I know," and enfolded Thranduil in his arms.

Twice-chosen, Thorin would be homesick no more.

As a youth, Thorin had loved Thranduil as a prize that would not be his unless seized tight with both hands. Thorin loved Thranduil still, but with a different love, a gentler love. He loved Thranduil as a fellow being, one of great goodness, but with sometimes faltering feet. Like his own.

"Now get up," Thorin said. "Time to pack."

Thranduil looked shocked. "You really mean to start now?"

"Of course," Thorin said, happiness welling in him. "It must be half past six in the morning, and we have an absolutely miserable road to travel together."