Fic: A Minstrel of Gondor, 2
A follow-up to yesterday's post, rated NC-17. A minstrel of Gondor wintered in the Woodland Realm...
There had not been a day like this in some seasons - years, perhaps, not since a winter with more rain than snow drove the hungry spiders closer to the Road. This is the third time they’ve gone in force to clear the nests, and the first time he has taken his son, for all that he knows Legolas to be both talented and well-trained, and of course there were more spiders than expected and a clutch of spiderlings hatched out of season. The work is done, and no one killed, but there are cuts and bruises and a few poisoned stings to nurse in the warmest rooms beside the fires. Thranduil himself is unharmed, as is his son, and now that all are accounted for, he sinks still lower in the warm water of his bath, letting his hair spread about him and the ripples lap at his chin. He has worked the last of the spider silk from his hair with oil and a fine-carved comb; he is clean of ichor and sweat and leaf-mould. And still the water stings in his scratches and his temper is restless.
He sits up abruptly. His captains are all gone but two, and their business can wait until tomorrow; Legolas is off with his friends to celebrate his first serious fight, and the keeper of the keys can leave his feud with the steward of the upper halls for another day. The minstrel that he acquired at the end of autumn sits quietly in a corner, teasing a thread of song from his half-muted harp, and Thranduil lifts a dripping hand.
“Enough.”
The minstrel stills his strings, and the captains exchange a muted glance.
“We’ll finish this on the morrow,” Thranduil says. “For now - it was a good day’s work, and you deserve your rest.”
The captains bow themselves out as Thranduil pushes himself up and out of the water, the keeper of the keys following more slowly. Arthen sets his harp aside, but Thranduil catches his sleeve.
“Stay.”
He makes it just this side of an order, but Arthen pauses, then fetches a robe as though he were a page. That suites Thranduil’s mood, and he lets the man drape the heavy silk across his shoulders. He waits, and after only a heartbeat’s hesitation, Arthen frees his hair from the robe, spreading it out to dry across the warm brocade.
“Attend me,” Thranduil says, and turns toward his bedchamber without a backward glance. They have played this game before, or something like it, and he has not found Arthen reluctant. He sprawls on the piled furs that cover his bed, letting the robe fall open so that his nakedness is displayed on flame-colored silk. Arthen’s eyes widen and he draws a hungry breath, but masters himself enough to drop his gaze politely.
“Wine,” Thranduil says. “And close the curtain.” He thinks he sees gratitude for that last: Gondor has stone walls and doors that lock, which allows for more modesty than is common among Silvan elves. It is easier to pretend that no one hears when the curtains are drawn, though the truth is more that no one cares.
Arthen brings the wine and Thranduil takes it from him, the rich red wine of autumn. He takes a long swallow, grateful for its heat, and waves his hand. “You are overdressed, minstrel.”
The color rises in Arthen’s tanned face, not much bleached by a few weeks underground, but he reached for the strings of his gown, loosening them to reveal his shirt and the coarse hair beneath his throat. He pulls off his boots, sheds gown and shirt and finally trousers, while Thranduil sips his wine, stroking himself to hardness. There is no mistaking Arthen for anything but a Man, his limbs sun-browned in contrast to paler body, the hair curling dark across chest and groin, paler on arms and legs where the sun has bleached it. His skin is marred, flecks of old scars and a new bruise on his shin, but he is beautiful nonetheless. He is hardening under Thranduil’s gaze, and reaches for himself to speed his pleasure, but Thranduil shakes his head. Arthen stops, with an effort that makes him shudder, and Thranduil drinks again.
“Please, my lord,” Arthen says, his voice rough, and Thranduil smiles over the rim of his cup.
“You can do better than that.”
Arthen’s breath catches, half laughter and half passion. “Please, my lord…”
“Please what?”
Arthen licks his lips. “Please, my lord, it would be my honor to serve you, if only you would permit me to do so.”
“You are well-spoken, minstrel.” Thranduil sets his cup aside. “Come, then.”
Arthen kneels between his legs, running his hands up the inside of Thranduil’s thighs. They are strong and hard, shaped by music, and Thranduil draws a satisfied breath.
“Go on.”
“It is my pleasure to serve,” Arthen says, his hands busy. “An honor, a great honor to be in the bed of the king -“
“You talk too much,” Thranduil says, and sees Arthen smile before he bends to put his mouth to better use. Thranduil lets his head fall back and closes his eyes, giving himself over to heat and pleasure.
There had not been a day like this in some seasons - years, perhaps, not since a winter with more rain than snow drove the hungry spiders closer to the Road. This is the third time they’ve gone in force to clear the nests, and the first time he has taken his son, for all that he knows Legolas to be both talented and well-trained, and of course there were more spiders than expected and a clutch of spiderlings hatched out of season. The work is done, and no one killed, but there are cuts and bruises and a few poisoned stings to nurse in the warmest rooms beside the fires. Thranduil himself is unharmed, as is his son, and now that all are accounted for, he sinks still lower in the warm water of his bath, letting his hair spread about him and the ripples lap at his chin. He has worked the last of the spider silk from his hair with oil and a fine-carved comb; he is clean of ichor and sweat and leaf-mould. And still the water stings in his scratches and his temper is restless.
He sits up abruptly. His captains are all gone but two, and their business can wait until tomorrow; Legolas is off with his friends to celebrate his first serious fight, and the keeper of the keys can leave his feud with the steward of the upper halls for another day. The minstrel that he acquired at the end of autumn sits quietly in a corner, teasing a thread of song from his half-muted harp, and Thranduil lifts a dripping hand.
“Enough.”
The minstrel stills his strings, and the captains exchange a muted glance.
“We’ll finish this on the morrow,” Thranduil says. “For now - it was a good day’s work, and you deserve your rest.”
The captains bow themselves out as Thranduil pushes himself up and out of the water, the keeper of the keys following more slowly. Arthen sets his harp aside, but Thranduil catches his sleeve.
“Stay.”
He makes it just this side of an order, but Arthen pauses, then fetches a robe as though he were a page. That suites Thranduil’s mood, and he lets the man drape the heavy silk across his shoulders. He waits, and after only a heartbeat’s hesitation, Arthen frees his hair from the robe, spreading it out to dry across the warm brocade.
“Attend me,” Thranduil says, and turns toward his bedchamber without a backward glance. They have played this game before, or something like it, and he has not found Arthen reluctant. He sprawls on the piled furs that cover his bed, letting the robe fall open so that his nakedness is displayed on flame-colored silk. Arthen’s eyes widen and he draws a hungry breath, but masters himself enough to drop his gaze politely.
“Wine,” Thranduil says. “And close the curtain.” He thinks he sees gratitude for that last: Gondor has stone walls and doors that lock, which allows for more modesty than is common among Silvan elves. It is easier to pretend that no one hears when the curtains are drawn, though the truth is more that no one cares.
Arthen brings the wine and Thranduil takes it from him, the rich red wine of autumn. He takes a long swallow, grateful for its heat, and waves his hand. “You are overdressed, minstrel.”
The color rises in Arthen’s tanned face, not much bleached by a few weeks underground, but he reached for the strings of his gown, loosening them to reveal his shirt and the coarse hair beneath his throat. He pulls off his boots, sheds gown and shirt and finally trousers, while Thranduil sips his wine, stroking himself to hardness. There is no mistaking Arthen for anything but a Man, his limbs sun-browned in contrast to paler body, the hair curling dark across chest and groin, paler on arms and legs where the sun has bleached it. His skin is marred, flecks of old scars and a new bruise on his shin, but he is beautiful nonetheless. He is hardening under Thranduil’s gaze, and reaches for himself to speed his pleasure, but Thranduil shakes his head. Arthen stops, with an effort that makes him shudder, and Thranduil drinks again.
“Please, my lord,” Arthen says, his voice rough, and Thranduil smiles over the rim of his cup.
“You can do better than that.”
Arthen’s breath catches, half laughter and half passion. “Please, my lord…”
“Please what?”
Arthen licks his lips. “Please, my lord, it would be my honor to serve you, if only you would permit me to do so.”
“You are well-spoken, minstrel.” Thranduil sets his cup aside. “Come, then.”
Arthen kneels between his legs, running his hands up the inside of Thranduil’s thighs. They are strong and hard, shaped by music, and Thranduil draws a satisfied breath.
“Go on.”
“It is my pleasure to serve,” Arthen says, his hands busy. “An honor, a great honor to be in the bed of the king -“
“You talk too much,” Thranduil says, and sees Arthen smile before he bends to put his mouth to better use. Thranduil lets his head fall back and closes his eyes, giving himself over to heat and pleasure.