An arranged marriage could solve everything: Legolas' post-war melancholy, Lasriel's dream of freedom and a family, her mother's exile, King Thranduil's dark secret. But turning childhood friendship into love is not as easy as they thought - and nei...
~Thranduil visits his dwarf friends and decides to journey south. Legolas is journeying as well, blissfully unaware of a surprise waiting for him back home.~
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~♕~
"Love is putting someone else's needs before yours."
– Olaf, Frozen
~♕~
26. House
Glóin lived in a surprisingly simple house, considering his immense wealth; moderately sized and devoid of luxuries such as a the copper roof or stained glass windows the rich human merchants favored. It was made of stone, naturally, and like the bridge it was beautifully crafted. Different types of rock gave the walls color and shape, and instead of a garden it was surrounded by a courtyard with flagstones in matching hues.
Thranduil walked up to the marble gate with Nimrodel on one arm and a basket with two wine bottles on the other, nearly stumbling over a male pigeon who was strutting about, trying to impress a lady and hence oblivious to anything around him.
Spring was in the air; the birds were mating and Thranduil had seen flowers along the forest road. He felt like spring was in his heart as well – the spring of first love. Every minute spent with Nimrodel made him happy, and whenever they must be parted he counted the hours until he could see her again.
Before he knocked on the door, he stole a kiss, taking the opportunity while they were alone. As always, stopping was the hardest part. Kisses were like cake to a starving elf – sweet and tasty, but not very filling. He craved a ten course dinner that lasted for an entire night.
When Glóin let them in some time later, Thranduil hoped his friend wouldn't notice how out of breath he was, or how flushed.
"There you are, at last! Come in, this way." He led them through a corridor with tasteful carpets and tapestries that ended in a cozy dining room, not unlike Thranduil's own, where a few other dwarves were already seated.
Dwalin huffed. "What took you so long – tree watching?" But Thranduil saw the grin partly hidden under the old dwarf's huge beard.
"Of course," he deadpanned. "Cannot trust those little rascals to open their buds properly in time for spring without my supervision."
Glóin interrupted the ensuing roar of laughter. "Enough chit-chat. Time for the malt beer and ripe meat!"
A dwarf feast, Thranduil soon discovered, was very unlike an elvish one. For one, the amount of food they managed to down was astonishing, as if they compensated for their lack of height with a tenfold appetite. It was a lot more noisy too, and messier since they only used a knife and their fingers as cutlery.
"Eating like this is kind of liberating," Nimrodel observed, licking grease off her fingers.
The unintentional innuendo made Thranduil squirm as his thoughts went a forbidden route and his body responded accordingly. "I think I prefer forks," he said carefully.
