hîr celevon

The king groaned in displeasure when the hard floor kept pushing against his back, but Celeborn’s weight was not on top of him to make up for it. His cousin really got up, unbelivable. Rubbing his face in mild irritation, he heard the door open and what the lord said to the one who disturbed their peace was worth letting Celeborn get up. Thranduil could not stop the smirk spreading on fine lips, seeing his cousin being so authoritative was absolutely perfect in every way.

    He did not even mind receiving an order.  Thranduil doubted there was anything he would  refuse if Celeborn asked him to do it while anyone  else daring to order the king would be punished.

          And what a tempting order it was.

Raising to his feet, Thranduil sauntered over to his love, wearing the same smirk he wore as he listened to Celeborn send the other lord away. “Demanding.” It was a rich purr that rendered the reprimanding tone entirely moot. HIs hair was just as dishevelled as Celeborn’s, another sight he had missed dearly. The debauchery of the afterglow, letting go of perfect noble countenance.

When Thranduil was close enough, he pulled the other into his arms, the strong grip of an experienced warrior coupled with the devotion of a lover. Ringed fingers buried themselves in that silver hair, a feature of Celeborn’s Thranduil had always deemed very appealing. It put the glow of Ithil to utter shame, far more beautiful than the fabled fullmoon most admired. Like this he fulfilled the other’s wish, pressed their lips together in an urgency that resembled a man suffocating, desperately yearning for air and Celeborn’s breath was his own as the kiss turned a little more aggressive.

Celeborn opened his mouth to welcome Thranduil’s kiss. He nipped at his lips and slowly drew Thranduil’s tongue past his lips, carefully sucking on it. His eyes opened a little as he grinned, knowing that the king was as affected by this as he was. The king’s fingers stung as they tugged on his hair but Celeborn found himself yearning for more and he pushed Thranduil away roughly. There was no innonce in the way he looked at his lover now. 

Strong and sudden arms were around Thranduil’s back as Celeborn kissed him fiercely and pushed him to walk backwards towards the bed. One hand wound its way to grasp the king’s face and to hold him roughly and between them, Celeborn felt heat bolt to his groin and make his entire body tingle. 

                  Lord Celeborn’s words would put him at ease, a balm to the uncertainty tying      knots into his belly warmed by wine. Such reasons are perhaps why he does speak so      forwardly in the presence of his lord, the fear and thereafter comfort that may be had      from trusting in Lord Celeborn’s wisdom. Haldir would endeavor to learn from these      words gifted to him but though there is some soothing, he cannot entirely push the worry      from him for the travelers who will soon take their of the golden wood for greater perils      beyond.

Upon the nearest surface he places the emptied glass, not wanting for more lest he watch his words for aught else that may slip through unwarranted. He notices the unfinished glass opposite him, wondering if there are some concerns that still cause unrest for the lord of Lorien. Haldir will not pry for tis not his duty to ask questions out of his place but only to listen should Lord Celeborn wish to give them voice. In part, he hopes that any ails troubling his sovereign may not be given to his own circumspect. But that part of him who would not give aid is selfish and small, not the finer part of the warden’s mettle. What more there is of him would offer whatever council or comfort may be had for the golden wood ruler, simple or small though it may be.

      The long moment of silence is an unnoticed comfort, allowing him the solitude       to sift through the myriad of unpleasant thoughts who would argue their own        import, their own measure of truth to the circumstances beyond their world.                 “Mayhaps I am mistaking my own thoughts if my fear stems not from their                  arrival but of what is to come upon their departure. An orc pack trod through                 Nimrodel just shortly into the eve of their first night in Lothlorien. Slew they                  were, and surely done so, but what other beasts may come for these                  travelers is an ill thought. As you say,” here a heavy, weary pause slips                  from his lips, “ w e may only protect them whilst they rest.”