elvenpiratelady | Happy birthday, Elb! (Reply)

It was my brother's birthday on the sixth of June, and this is the cake. It was like this on friday evening: two days later, there is only a square about 4cm across left. Underestimate the appetites of teenage boys at your peril. If anyone wants the recipe, I'll happily type it up.

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Link 1: young Celeborn! Link 2: young Fallë! (Or the other way around. Or possibly one of them's Himeord. Your choice.)

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AN: I own no characters here. It started out as one drabble, then I couldn't get from A to B, so it's Drabble and Son of Drabble with a slight timeskip in between. I forgot the first rule of drabble requests and didn't actually ask

teh_elb what she wanted me to write about. *sheepish* So, trying to cover all my bases: Thranduil, Celeborn, angst, stars, implied slashiness, and swordfighting.

Regarding the slashiness: you may read this as 'Thranduil has post-Last Alliance nightmares, Celeborn finds a way to distract him' or 'Thranduil has post-Last Alliance nightmares, Celeborn finds a way to distract him, wink, wink'. I leave it in your capable hands, oh readers.

War Legacy

He dreams of fire, dust, and monsters, cold steel, and writhing, sinuous shadow. The dead surround him, hair and banners turned to cobwebs, burnished armour fading, hands and faces like old bone. They reach out to him and he drives them away, his companions, brothers-in-arms, even his own father—

He wakes with a gasp like drowning men brought to the ocean’s surface, the hymn to Elbereth on his lips. He mumbles through half of it before he checks himself, and the words wither and fade in the dark. He knows that he is far beyond her reach. There are no stars in Mordor.

Here, he has lost all sense of time. A thousand years might have passed, and the grief, the shock, the joy would still be too new to bear. The Last Alliance, painstakingly drawn together, has done its work and dispersed again. He hopes that the horrors will scatter when they begin to rebuild the world again, but he doubts. They are some miles north of the Black Gate, yet the dreams follow him. In a world free again, in a new age, Thranduil son of Oropher fears that he is going mad.

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*insert snippet of time here*

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Distraction

The silver one dances on the hard-packed ground. No torches burn, for they are finally rid of the shadow, and the stars in the sky are all the lamps he needs. No armour weighs him down: he is silent, fluid, mesmerising, an impossibly beautiful sight in a world still tangled with shadows. And he is watched.

One dance finished, he lowers the sword and tilts his head to receive the benediction of the stars, breathing the night air in long draughts. His eyes close. Everything is still, until the silver one speaks. ‘Well met, Thranduil.’

‘And you, Celeborn.’ The voice is young, and does not yet ring with kingly authority. ‘Forgive me— I have intruded—’

‘Not at all. If a sword-dance keeps the night-wraiths at bay, then I would gladly dance another.’

‘I would not keep you from your bed—’

He moves forward so quickly that the newcomer takes a step back in reflex. ‘Do you think I would sleep?’

They are almost of a height, and Thranduil takes time to notice the tension in Celeborn’s shoulders, the silver hair coming unbound from hasty braids. Celeborn’s eyes show wildness barely restrained; he imagines that his own hold much the same emotion. ‘I think you would sleep,’ he says at last, ‘and I think you would regret it when next you woke.’

‘Yes, and yes.’ The smile is rueful in its recognition, twisted at the edges. ‘You are not the only one to walk under a shadow. I only hope that this miasma will fade as we move further north.’ He steps back a pace and into a defensive stance, his sword tracing pale fire against the sky. ‘Come. It is a night better spent dancing than facing the shadows alone.’

Thranduil takes a moment to remove his tunic. The night air is cool, and goosebumps shiver across his skin, but after Orodruin’s fires he doubts that he will ever be cold again. The swords move like falling stars, and each clash in the quiet is like a hammer striking sparks.

There is no speech, no wine, no song, but a sword-dance with Celeborn, Thranduil finds, is distraction enough.