Bard became a puzzle to the Elvenking. A man in the prime of life who is handsome, with a fine head of brown hair and the deepest, darkest, most brilliant pair of copper coloured eyes. Ones that he resented in the close way which they were kept upon his person, and the inflexible supervision exercised over them; a pot of honey to buzzing bees. Any human woman would be proud to have such a man as her husband, yet his time had been taken with duty and the king, and any means of courtship had been elusive to time, unless done beyond their extensive talks. The bowman’s selection of the king’s time was, in its way, complimentary, even though he knew it was taken for the sake of knowledge into territory unknown; as a king and a guest of the Woodland Realm. 

                      “Bard”

Truly it became suffocating to be around the human. 

Each scratch in his lungs needing immediate attention. Had he noticed? The way he would grasp his neck in intervals, hoping it would alleviate or soothe the pain. Or better, would more wine drown the heated ache in his gut? To chill his veins and seize the harsh beats of his heart. Thranduil was sure with every encounter, surely his body would betray him and every treacherous act would alarm and ring bells like that in his home town, catching Bard’s attention undeniably. 

However this night specifically, when the moon bathed stretched limbs of the trees and to those whom beseech themselves upon it’s rays, did this king hold his throat attentively.  Close–Bard is so close to him–each sway of the wind sending his pale locks to brush a broad shoulder, an act unwillingly done, but one he wished to do of his own; nature is crafty to accomplish such feats. The Elvenking cannot deny that he is goodness and attention itself to he, and that he is fond of him; just as one whom idolizes a savior, he draws all sorts of life from ancient bones.

                      “Bard” his name rolled rich like the dew on a spring flower “That of which I cannot see, I feel in my heart” the back of his embellished hand delicately brushes Bard’s cheek “Allow me to demonstrate what you have undone to me”

Thranduil wanted nothing more but to drown. Succumb his will to the human, and melt himself into mortal strength. No amount of wine or spirit, could compare in taste and exhilaration, than what he currently felt with his lips tightly locked on to Bard’s. It was more than he had imagined. All those times he caught himself in dazed thoughts wondering, pondering, exactly what his kisses would be like–and they are indescribable. They are blistering and perfect, he is sure they are whispered against his lips, actively seeking for more and more; a greedy king. Intoxicating–a far better buzz than what fills his  goblet daily could do, and he is hooked, addicted! Why must he be so delicious! He must break free! and reluctantly does, but not before parting with a final peck.

The king’s first impulse was to not let his sentiments be known, but to keep them under observation for a time. He dismissed the bubbling thoughts of taking his son  as soon as they formed. To seal the very mouth that spewed vicious words of bane, and tactically, decisively, consume every one of them as if he were parched man begging for his thirst to be quenched. 

But even Thranduil had been so disposed, there would be difficulty about finding accommodation to quell an unhealthy darkness. 

Moreover, it was a small place they reside, or rather, the position from where the Elvenking stood next to Legolas, whom comfortably seated on his throne, parades a smug grin to his father. Here they were alone. Strict solitude from the eyes of soldiers or ears of hand maidens, his unexpected appearance had altered so much, he may have had difficulty recognizing his father. His face wore a frigid look, and his eyes had acquired a sharpness to them enough to kill a man, but at forming wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, did his mood change to amusement. 

                               “The impulse of cruelty is as violent as the impulse to love.” Thranduil purrs curling a lithe finger under a solid chin to raise Legolas’s face upwards  “If not prepared, it can take you by surprise”

Just an inch teasingly away, the king strikes, a snake sinking it’s fangs deep into the veins of it’s victim dripping numb toxins into the stream. He subdues his son’s mouth, hungrily consuming him. It’s smooth and hot, their breathes intermingle, and any chance the prince may have to say his peace, is further silenced by rough brushes of ravenous reverence upon thin lips.

A small smack echoes in the throne room. The Elvenking popped his lips free and takes a moment to eye the plump visage of his work–red and glistening–he licks his own in artisan approval. 

                                   “I do not think you were prepared”

Occasionally, on these nocturnal rambles, did they encounter similar relations in their private lives, either by allurements or by force, each to their own they are lead far away from those around them, sucked into their own little world; at least to this king, he is directed from the point towards which he holds proceeding towards his human companion. On some evenings they last till the first streaks of the grey dawn appears and the miserable hark of reality coupled with the slight ache of a hangover heralds a new day–each wiser to the other.

Those with eyes wide and twinkling with mischief to follow silken strides, would find the behavior of the Elvenking odd, displaced, and completely unlike his nature to diverge from his obstinate behavior among other creatures than elves. Thranduil is actively seeking the pleasantries of a human king.

Yet on this evening, sitting in his gardens sharing the starlight with Bard, does a reoccurring topic arise. Though it is articulated differently than the human’s usual speech, the loss he felt must have been so great, his defeated words ushered empathic emotions of the icy king. 

                         “Love is a poison once injected, will run its course until death or immunity results. There may be remedies, things to ease and soothe the pain, but like all things experienced in life–no one is ever the same before–not after the loss of innocence, no matter how small or large.”

It’s odd, he thinks, feels, and whispers. Never would he expose a side of him thousands and thousands of years spent building thick defenses to ricochet all those painful thoughts and feelings away, would reduce him to a squawking bird. How is it the frailty of a mortal human man does he disclose his inner conflicts? I trust him too much to let my guard down. 

                          “It is far more painful to awake from a beautiful slumber when the continuity of life is still lost to you…” the king pauses to drown himself in the attentions of his companion “…and my life is forever until no longer do I wish for it. You are blessed.”