Chapter Text
Legolas was magnificent.
Hands tightly holding onto the headboard of the large bed, he could not help but bend over every now and then to either kiss or gently bite the stout body he was riding.
The dwarf, for his part, was helplessly lost in awe. His eyes were fixated on the Elf above him, at the dishevelled hair falling on his face, at the muscles that twitched with every thrust, at the alabaster skin now shiny with sweat, at the lips that stirred in the most blissful of smiles as the hand roughened by years of axe-wielding and crafting and forging closed around his shaft, stroking gently, spreading the white bead on the tip all the way down.
“Ai, Gimli, meleth.”
Whispered the Elf, and the Dwarf set a faster pace to his hand, while gripping a bit harder with his other hand at Legolas’ hip.
“You are a wonder, lad, oh, ooh, I tell you.”
The words seemed to escape him without him having any control at them.
As usual.
“Am I?”
Asked the Elf, looking at him with a playful glint in his eyes. He left the headboard and steadied himself by holding onto the Dwarf’s shoulders. Despite the fact that -given their difference in height- the previous position was more comfortable, this one provided more intimacy, not to mention the delightful, soft sting that Legolas’ nails sinking in the skin would give his companion as soon as the Elf would spill his pleasure. The Dwarf shivered at the thought.
“Care to tell me why, Gimli-nin, meleth-nin, why am I a wonder?”
Legolas continued, his voice only slightly faltering as he struggled to focus on the words despite his whole body being on fire.
“Aye, beloved. You should see yourself; you should see how you look when you ride me like this, ah!”
He was breathing hard, thrusting in accordance to Legolas’ movements.
“But you can’t, and I shall describe it for you. See your eyes, your beautiful eyes, they’re liquid with pleasure right now. Your lips are full and red from kissing, and the more they look so, the more inviting they look to me to close my mouth on them again. An endless circle, it is.”
He paused as Legolas let out a chuckle, then bit his lip -the tease!- as he slowed the rhythm, careful to slide down to the full length of the Dwarf’s cock.
“What- what else?”
“Vain creature.”
Accused the Dwarf, though he knew that it was nothing like vanity.
“Your hair is a wonderful mess, they dance as you move, they fall down on your face, and stick to it, and Legolas, oh Legolas, if you could see you face. Flushed, beaded with sweat, twisting in pleasure every time I hit the right spot inside you, I could look at such sight and naught else for a lifetime and be content.”
“O meleth-nin, Gimli, maer! Avo daro, iesten!”
“Your skin, my love, your skin is pure moonshine. Pale a beautiful pale, it glows at the very touch of my fingertips, and I dare not stop touching you for fear that such a light should turn dim. You have the arms of an archer, muscles that can stay tense for hours without a single moment of faltering. Your legs, gripping at my body, are those of a rider, and see, you are giving proof of your mastery in riding right this moment. Your entire body dances when you ride me, a dance that is only for my eyes to see, and only for myself to join.”
“Gimli, ah, gi melin!”
Shouted Legolas, and a moment later his nails were deep in the broad shoulders as he spent over the Dwarf’s hand and stomach.
“Aulë be blessed, Gimli, never will I thank him enough for this child of his.”
The Elf muttered softly as his companion held him through his aftershock, then he laid on the bed, on his back, arms -and legs- open in a clear invitation, to which the Dwarf promptly complied. He sank inside his lover, who whispered bits of Sindarin again, and felt the orgasm building with every thrust, and he lost fluency in Westron in turn as he switched to Khuzdul, as Legolas held him tight, fingers entangled in his hair, his beard, and he was so close, so close, and then – a bang on the door, and then again, and a third time, too.
“Kori, Mahal as my witness, if you don’t get up this very moment, we will leave without you!”
The young dwarf was now staring at the ceiling of his bedroom. It took him a fair bunch of seconds to elaborate his grandfather’s words, but as soon as he did, he jumped off the bed.
“I’m coming!”
He shouted back, and given the situation between his legs, his claim was true on at least two levels of interpretation. He muttered a couple of courses in the secret language of his kin as he jerked off as swiftly as he could. Bittersweet it was, the difference between dream and reality, but he had no time to indulge in dreams, not that day. He cleaned himself up and wore his all new travelling garments, a smile widening on his face.
Travelling. At last.
He walked out the door, rushing downstairs like he used to when he was a little Dwarfling hungry for breakfast. Now he was hungry for more, much more. Knowledge, answers, he was prepared to fill his eyes with every sight that could be found on Arda, and yet for the moment Eryn Lasgalen and its inhabitants had to be enough.
“There you are, lad. Eat something, the journey is rather long, and you will need your strength.”
“Aye, grandpa.”
Kori smiled broadly at his grandfather before walking into the kitchen and assaulting a good crust of bread and a chunk of cheese. He was too young and too Dwarven to allow excitement to soften his appetite, and when Turi -that was the name of the older Dwarf- joined him in the room, he poured one mug of mead and handed it to his grandson.
“You are and adult, break your fast as one.”
An adult, yes, he was. He had come of age that very year, which meant for him a greater deal than it did for many of his kin.
“You know, lad, so excited you were of accompanying us to Eryn Lasgalen that I believed you would barely sleep.”
“I have never been away from Erebor my entire life, hence my excitement.”
Considered Kori after he swallowed down his cheese, then he set himself to drink the mead.
“And yet you overslept. Were you having one of your dreams again, perhaps?”
The poor younger Dwarf nearly chocked on his drink at that, a flash of Legolas’ squirming body passing through his mind.
“I believed you never wanted to hear, nor talk, about those dreams of mine anymore?”
Said Kori tentatively as soon as he recovered. Not that he had shared with his grandad words about indecent dreams like the one he had that morning, but they weren’t always like that. Slices of life, every single night for the last thirty years.
“Indeed, I don’t. I especially expect you to not mention a single word about that when we’re in Eryn Lasgalen. Have I made myself clear?”
“Aye, grandpa.”
Kori finished his mead in silence, half-listening to his grandfather’s complaints on foolish dreams and the silliness of youngsters. He had gotten tired of arguing on the matter long before. His grandfather would never understand, nor would any other in Erebor indeed, and to be fair, how could they? His dreams were as detailed and realistic as cherished memories, to the point that, after decades, it all felt like a second life to him. He had dreamt that he was a child in Ered Luin, and he still remembered the worry in his mother’s eyes as she struggled to gather something for dinner on the table. He could never forget the fight with Glóin, the prohibition to join him and the rest of Thorin’s company to reclaim Erebor from the foul claws of the fearsome Smaug, the warmth of their embrace when they met again under the Lonely Mountain. Mahal forgive him, he missed Glóin and Lím more than his own parents, whom he could not remember.
When all that had begun, he hadn’t paid it much attention. He was a young Dwarf, a child still, dreaming that he was the greatest Dwarven hero of their Age. Which child had never dreamt of adventure, which kid had never imagined himself as one of the Company of the Ring? Youth never got tired of hearing the tales of the hobbit Bilbo, and the quest for Erebor, and then young Frodo and his friends, the Council of Elrond, the Company, the Quest. Tales of battle and friendship and love and war, days that some mortals were still alive to remember and that the Elves would never forget. It was no strange thing that a kid had such dreams, indeed.
Things got a peculiar turn as time passed on. He would have those dreams each night, and they would always be as realistic as memory, always full of detail, always coherent, and when he heard Gimli’s true name, the one that Mahal gave to each newborn Dwarf, the one that only said Dwarf, his parents, and possibly their espouse would ever know, when he heard it in his dreams his mind made up no name, but gave Gimli a name exactly alike Kori’s. To hear one’s true name given to another Dwarf, it was something he could not imagine, and he knew not how his mind dared do such thing.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Aye, Grandpa. Of course.”
He did not need to listen. He had heard the same reprimands over and over again since the day he had decided to speak of his dreams with his grandfather.
“A young fool, you are. Too many tales, too many songs, and that’s what a young mind gets tricked into.”
“I fail to see how this could be an explanation. Those are too vivid to be dreams, I cannot possibly imagine so much and so well. What if it’s some sort of visions? Perhaps I can see things of the past. You know, the Lady Galadriel can see things that were-”
“That’s it. Elves! They have their magic, their witchcraft, and what good have they done with it?”
“Grandpa, our kin have been at peace with the Elves since the War of the Ring. Erebor and Mirkwood fought alongside, the Fellowship stood as symbol of friendship among the Free Folk.”
“I don’t need to hear the little history lessons they give you at school. I was there, my father fought that very war, and let me tell you, this whole thing of being friends with the Elves is just hypocrisy.”
“You believe so, and yet you lead the caravan in charge for trade with Eryn Lasgalen?”
“See, that’s different. Fighting in time of wars, we can do together. Trading goods for the welfare of both our people, that as well. But trust, friendship, that’s gibberish.”
“Gimli of Aglarond was named Elvellon, and he married an Elf.”
“The members of the Company are overestimated. They had good fortune on their side, that’s all.”
“Grandpa.”
“And the Lord of Aglarond probably married the Elf-Prince for politics, or perhaps the Prince wanted some plaything and bewitched the son of Glóin. Either case, it was nothing like love.”
“Grandpa! Their love was true, you know not of what you speak.”
“And you do? Do not mistake stupid dreams for reality, boy. You have no visions, just a too vivid imagination and a fascination for tales. You’ll have to take up the activity someday, and you will never be ready for that if you stick to such nonsense.”
“Very well, if you are ready, we should go. Perhaps when you see Eryn Lasgalen and realize that it is nothing like you’ve imagined, you will finally be convinced that your dreams are naught but childish drivel.”
Kori snapped out of his memories and got up. His grandfather had just mentioned the exact reason of his great excitement for this travel. He would soon witness the halls of King Thranduil, probably the King himself, and there could be only two outcomes: either it would differ from what he expected, meaning he had been imagining things his whole life, or it would correspond. And if it did, well, it would have to mean something. He would only need to figure out what.
“Perhaps it will be so. Let us go then.”
Said Kori, following his mother’s Adad outside and towards the loaded wagons.
---
It would take them two days to reach their destination. By ponyback, it was possible to reach Eryn Lasgalen by nightfall if one set off from Erebor at dawn, but the caravan was an entirely different thing. As their first day of travel neared the end, however, they had already entered the wood.
“At this rate, we will be there ere sunset, tomorrow. Hopefully we will handle paperwork before night.”
Said Turi, visibly satisfied, as they started to set the camp for the night.
“Does it make much difference?”
“A lot, Kori. If all that remains to do is unload and reload, we can finish within the next morning and leave ere lunchtime, while if we have paperwork to sort out we will not be done until mid-afternoon, and at that point we will have to stay the night.”
The young Dwarf frowned while he tested his tent’s ropes with some gentle tugs.
“Isn’t it better to spend two nights in the Halls of the King and only one in the woods as we head back, than the opposite?”
He asked, failing to see the point of leaving late in the morning instead of waiting for the following day.
“The less we stay, the better, believe me.”
Said Turi, and Kori shrugged. He would pay no mind to his grandfather’s rambling. He was far more interested in the forest that surrounded them. It did look familiar, which made his hearth race, but he tried to remain realistic: trees were trees. Sure, in his dreams, Eryn Lasgalen, Lothlorien, Ithilien and Fangorn were as different as can be from one another, but those were dreams. And besides, perhaps he was simply conditioned by his hope to find a match.
Well, he would find out soon. He decided to enjoy dinner and some rest, for the moment. Just one more day.
---
Every pillar.
Every wall.
Every corridor.
He knew them with stunning precision and, as he followed in shocked silence his grandfather and the two Elven guards that were escorting them to the throne room, he kept recognizing the place at every turn. The guards led them in after they were announced, and Kori took in the magnificently decorated stone that, again, he knew perfectly already.
Then he looked in front of him, and his mouth went dry. Not many feet from him stood a tall Elf. Clad in silver ropes and mithril ornaments he stood straight, hands behind his back, icy blue eyes fixated on- on him. He was looking at Kori, and as soon as the Dwarf realized, he returned the look, and their gazes were locked for several moments.
He had no doubt, that was the King, and Kori would have known even if the Elf had not been wearing that ridiculous crown of his, for he had seen him already. That face cold as stone, the eyes, Mahal forgive him, he remembered even his eyebrows.
His- no, Gimli’s father-in-marriage, technically speaking.
The Elvenking.
Thranduil.