Chapter Text
Chapter One: A Ranger’s Return
Nestled within the northern reaches of the great Mirkwood forest, Minas Ithil jutted proudly above a canopy of twilight foliage. The tower’s vigilance from atop a sheared cliff left it isolated beneath a soft moon, casting ashen stone in a white silver. Branches of timeless Fána Oaks twined into the grooves and crevices of the ancient stronghold, twisting along a spiraled peak piercing towards a star-littered sky.
Built by woodland elves many generations before, the ivory watchtower was unlike other structures made from elvish hands, for most Eldarin crafts were surreal and whimsical in their design. Minas Ithil, however, was unusually imposing. Viewed by many as a symbol of fortitude, the lone tower stood as a beautiful intimidation, a stalwart sentinel amidst Mirkwood’s shadowy reputation.
Beneath the tower, the Isil Valley expanded outwards towards the distant looming of the Grey Mountains. Densely packed by hardwoods, the forest appeared to be an impregnable net of trees and leaves thickly intertwined, a sea of greenery darkened by the evening sky. From within this valley, a ranger from the north spied Minas Ithil through a thinning of entangled branches. Relief eased into the man, for he knew his tireless journey was soon to come to a much needed end. Long days and longer nights had worn this particular traveler thin, and the thought of respite now within reach brought an easy smile to his lips.
The surrounding woodland was quiet. Early hours of a still-dark morning blanketed the forest in mute tranquility. Mirkwood would not stir for several hours yet, and only at the first glimpse of the sun beginning its ascent would the forest draw from its reticent slumber. Until then, the man remained mindful of his presence, deliberate in his approach so as not to disturb the peaceable silence. A ranger for many years now, the secrets of stealth were no stranger to him, yet he took extra care to cover his tracks tonight. Shadow clung to him, concealing him from the average eye. He would be impossible to spot to someone untrained, and even those wise enough to look would hardly be able to spy the ranger’s silhouette gracefully moving beneath Minas Ithil’s vigilance.
As the watchtower loomed closer, the ranger’s anticipation grew. His strides were full of purpose as he broke through the treeline and hurried into the tower’s courtyard. With the forest no longer obstructing his view, the man could see more clearly the intricate care in which tree and stone were woven together to fortify the tower, though he did not pay the details much mind as he hastened towards Minas Ithil’s entrance.
The ranger was welcomed with an easy push of large double doors. They swung inward with a faint creak as the old wood groaned beneath the weight of his hands. There were no torches or lanterns lining the welcoming hall, for there was no need. Free light of the moon and stars filtered through large windows, and just as Minas Ithil glowed from the outside, so too did it shimmer inward. A million glittering stars seemed to live within the walls and ceilings, their twinkling incandescence fading only when a stray cloud passed overhead.
If this were his first time laying eyes upon the inner tower, the man might have been overcome by its celestial airs. Many visitors were often left awestruck, for Minas Ithil’s beauty was best appreciated during the eve; but while the ranger could appreciate the riveting appeal of elvish architecture, his pace never slowed to admire it with more than a passing glance.
Breezing his way through the Great Hall, the man followed a twisting stairway leading him up the centermost part of the tower. The profound quiet of Minas Ithil made it seem abandoned, but thus was the reserved nature of the elves who dwelled here. Trained much like the ranger in the art of going unnoticed, the elves of Minas Ithil would only be known if they wanted to be. It was hardly the type of welcome most would expect upon arriving at a fortress of such renown, but the man preferred the lack of customary greetings over the exhaustive manners that would otherwise be exchanged.
Time was not something he intended to waste here, especially after having anticipated his arrival for many weeks now.
As he ascended the tower swiftly, the ranger arrived at its summit. He stopped just outside of a room, and while not as grand as those seen in the Great Hall, the door that stood before him was attentive in its detail. Leafy vines skirted along the edges of a rounded arch, a stark contrast against the fair stone of Minas Ithil’s walls. During the day, the vines were a rich, savory green, but at night their leaves roused with a gentle golden light. That golden luminescence shown upon the center of the door where an emblem was inlaid. A large crescent moon was evenly encircled by seven four-pointed stars, each bearing their own white gems, and above those stars was an eighth star, the star of Earendil, shining with the light of Isilmë. It was a crest symbolic of elven nobility, one that signified the Moon’s Majesty.
Taking a moment to ease his excitement, the ranger knocked lightly. Once, then twice, before he took the initiative to swing open the door and step inside. A glorious sight greeted him upon his arrival, and though the ranger had lived for many years and seen many things, he was not immune to the striking awe that overcame him the moment he entered the chamber.
His muted attention first took in a bare silhouette basking beneath the watchful eye of the moon. The figure was sprawled out in a manner that revealed nothing of consequence, yet the ranger couldn’t resist imagining what lay beyond his ability to see. Tendrils of silken hair, an ink black bathed in low light, cascaded over porcelain skin. The ever-dark strands lay delicate in their framing of muscle and curvature, tempting in the way they spilled across stretches of unblemished proportions.
Fixated by the nakedness revealed to him, the man yearned for a glimpse of parts that eluded his gaze, but wisdom stayed his tongue from voicing the thought. Instead, he focused on what he was permitted to see, and that was a form rigid in strength, yet so fluid in its slender shape. He followed a trail of muscular striations leading southward before his attention shifted. His eyes changed course to sweep along a noble chest, up a slender throat, until finally settling on a burning golden glare.
“You’re late, Shanks.”
The man blinked upon hearing his name, breathing for the first time since his arrival, “…I was delayed,” Shanks paused before thoughtfully adding, “By river trolls.”
Thin lips flattened with displeasure as a subtle frown disturbed an otherwise stoic expression, “River trolls?”
Shanks let the door close behind him as an easy smile lightened his haggard appearance, “Three of them. First they came when I was asleep, then they tried their hand at making a stew.”
Stepping further into the room, Shanks settled on a bench not far from where his companion lay with a relieved sigh, “There was a lengthy debate on how best to cook me. I was more partial to the soup rather than the sauté, but the trolls didn’t seem to care for my opinion on the matter. One of them even suggested a good roasting to bring out the nuances of my flavor—whatever that means.”
The ranger’s posture was careless in the way that he sat, loose and without a single regard for propriety. Mirth and mischief brightened the reddish gleam of his eyes, and when he spoke next it was to teasingly provoke, “What do you think? Would I be better boiled or seared, Melda?”
“I would prefer you to be punctual for a change, ranger.” Came the sharp reply.
Shanks minded the attitude not, and instead favored silently watching as the elven lord of Minas Ithil finally deigned to sit up. The flex of the elf’s muscles when he moved was absurdly distracting to the ranger, but nothing was more enchanting then the disgruntled look the elf wore as he came to stand, still unabashedly bare.
Averting his eyes so he did not see more than what he was permitted to, Shanks cleared his throat and said, “I apologize, my lord. The wilds are not favorable to timely schedules. Though if you deem it necessary to prostrate myself for forgiveness, I can certainly abide.”
A tap to his shoulder signaled Shanks to turn back around. His companion, now donned in a loose robe, glared at the ranger with another minor frown pressed upon his expression.
“There’s no need. With how filthy you are, you’d sully my floor.”
“Come now, are you not happy to see me?” Chuckling warmly, the ranger stood and met the elf lord with a hand laid over his heart and his head bowed: a proper greeting in elvish custom, “Because I am thrilled to see you, Mihawk.”
Smothered by the weight of Shanks’ heartfelt smile, the elven lord over Minas Ithil, known to those close to him as Mihawk, relented to the ranger with a quiet sigh. It wasn’t as if the elf was truly irritated anyway—if that were the case, Shanks wouldn’t have been permitted in the realm of Mirkwood, let alone the privacy of Mihawk’s bedchambers.
“I suppose it is better that you are here rather than not at all,” Mihawk admitted, “Even so, river trolls? A man of your stature shouldn’t be deterred by those feeble-minded monsters.”
In an attempt to plead forgiveness for his mishaps, Shanks gathered one of Mihawk’s hands within both of his own and, after soothing his thumbs across faultless skin, bent to feather the elf’s hand with a noble kiss.
“My journey was rushed to ensure I could arrive before the solstice.” He murmured against the cool skin beneath his lips, “I was careless and tired. Again, I am sorry.”
Mihawk said little in response to the apology. Instead, the elf seemed inclined to relish in the attention the ranger bestowed, allowing Shanks the privilege of several close moments before removing his hand from the ranger’s grip.
“You are in desperate need of a bath.” Mihawk said, wrinkling his nose for dramatic emphasis, “Come with me.”
When he made a motion for Shanks to follow him, the sleeve of Mihawk’s robe slipped to reveal a pale shoulder. The ranger’s attention was caught by the careless display, but he shook the distraction from his mind to stride after the elf.
Mihawk escorted him through the quiet halls of Minas Ithil until they arrived at his private bath. Fed by a natural spring, the water was clear and cold to touch, and beneath the night sky it was mirror-like in its dark reflection. The elf lord helped the ranger to strip, aiding Shanks in the loosening of his belts and clasps that held the many tools and medicines he took with him on his journeys. Finally, when the ranger was bare, he sunk into the cool spring waters with a sigh of contentment.
“It has been so long since I last visited your healing waters,” Shanks remarked with his head leaned back against cold stone, “I had forgotten how wonderful they feel.”
Mihawk did not answer him directly. Instead, the elf lord reached for a pitcher and filled it with water. Tapping Shanks on the underside of his jaw in indication, Mihawk tilted the ranger’s head back before pouring water over Shanks’ red hair. Then, after reaching for nearby soap, Mihawk threaded his fingers through knots and tangles, easing weeks of dirt and grime from the ranger’s scalp. At the sensation of Mihawk diligently washing his hair, Shanks closed his eyes in utter bliss.
“Since you were appointed Chieftain of the Dúnedain, I feel that I have seen you less and less.” The elf eventually spoke, prompting Shanks to open one eye and look at him.
Mihawk didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, he focused on his current task. After the first rinse of Shanks’ hair, Mihawk repeated the process of scrubbing and rinsing several more times until he was content with its cleanliness. Following that, he nudged the ranger forward so he could gain access to the man’s back. Shanks obeyed the elf’s whims with little resistance. The lord’s touch was rejuvenating grace as he massaged sore muscles and bone deep aches. With each firm press and scrape of nails across the sun worn tan of Shanks’ skin, it felt as if the ranger was unburdened from one less responsibility.
In his peace, Shanks could have let the quiet linger, but there was a weight in the silence that settled. Though Mihawk took great care in tending to the travel-wearied ranger, the tension in his posture was unmistakable.
Unable to ignore his companion’s troubles, Shanks turned to catch Mihawk’s hand before the elf could begin his newest task.
For his part, Mihawk showed little reaction to the gesture. His quiet staring never once faltered from the ranger as Shanks said, “My leave is not by design, Melda. If I could be here more often, you know I would.”
The gold of Mihawk’s eyes always showed most brilliantly at night. They were the color of treasure, a glimmer of the most coveted of metals. Some looked upon the elf and found his staring to be eerie, for it was narrow and often unblinking, yet Shanks took comfort in that unfailing steadiness. Ever since he first laid eyes on the elven lord many years before, the ranger found Mihawk to be nothing short of remarkable. Sharp as he was beautiful, refined as he was lethal. Mihawk truly embodied his title’s namesake: lord over the night sky. Mysterious in his darkness, yes, but comforting in the quiet ennui he exuded.
After holding Shanks’ gaze for another long moment, Mihawk was the first to look away. With a nameless tension between them severed, the elf resumed his previous tasks with focused efficiency.
Knowing there was nothing to be said if Mihawk was in no mood to talk, Shanks turned to his thoughts. Silence, which usually held more welcome for him, left the ranger feeling uneasy. Since assuming the mantle of Chieftain of the Dúnedain, or Rangers as many knew them to be, Shanks was hardly permitted a moment to rest. There was always some matter or another in Middle Earth for him to tend to, and with a recent uptick in Orcish activity, Shanks didn’t think the demands of him would lessen anytime soon.
Still, while he understood the responsibilities that came with his title, he couldn’t help but regret his recent absences. Not only did their frequency increase in past years, but so too did their duration. Time was viewed much differently by elves than men. Months and years to an elf would be what mere minutes felt like to a man, but did that same notion apply now? To Shanks, every moment apart from his dearest friend felt like the width of eternity stretching between them. Did Mihawk feel the same? The elf must have, for there was such melancholy in his presence tonight that Shanks couldn’t help but feel ashamed for having been gone so long.
Though, such distance between them was no fault of their own. Mihawk was an elven lord, and while he had endeavored to accompany Shanks on the ranger’s quests in the past, his importance to the protection of Mirkwood and its surrounding regions meant he could not be gone for as long as Shanks tended to be. Then Shanks, now a leader of the Dúnedain and a man whose destiny reached far beyond even that, never seemed to have enough time to spare. His quests had become more dangerous as of late, and they tended to demand everything he had to give and more. It was fortunate if Shanks was even permitted a moment to sleep, so what time then was left for leisure or the pleasure of Mihawk’s company?
None, or so it would seem.
In that regard, Shanks understood Mihawk’s frustrations all too well, but while he could dwell on the unfairness and stew miserably about it, he decided he would much rather enjoy the present to its fullest.
Shooting a playful look over his shoulder, Shanks teased, “To think you have become so attached over the years. Are you not the same elf that threatened to disembowel me when we first met?”
As expected, Mihawk’s expression pinched at the blatant provocation.
“We have gone over this several times,” the elf chided, “How else was I supposed to react to a strange, filthy man lying naked in my bed?”
“Well…” Shanks began thoughtfully, his insinuation clear, only to have his head forcibly dunked underwater for his impertinence.
The ranger re-emerged with a bright laugh, all sour thoughts gone in the face of Mihawk’s jaded ire.
“It was an innocent mistake, Melda,” Shanks excused as he swept wet hair from his eyes, “You were sleeping in what I thought was my room. How was I to know my childhood chambers were on loan to a guest?”
“You should have inquired about it.” Mihawk insisted in the same prim manner he always did when they had this argument, “But beyond that, what sane man tumbles into bed covered in layers of dirt?”
“I had just returned from a perilous journey where I was gone for months,” Shifting closer to the edge of the bath, Shanks laid his head near where Mihawk sat, dampening the edges of the elf’s robe, “So forgive me if bathing was overshadowed by my delirium.”
“Oh?” A brow arched in what would seem like a disdainful expression, but Shanks took no offense to it, “Is that why you saw fit to proposition me like a whore as soon as you were discovered?”
The ranger smirked, “Such foul language! I expected better manners from you, my lord.”
Again, Mihawk did not bother to hide his irritation as his eye twitched. A sharp, dissatisfied breath left him, and with his foot he pushed Shanks and his goading smiles away, “Must you always see fit to mock me?”
“It is a favored pastime, yes,” Shanks said, drifting closer once more in fearless defiance of Mihawk’s glare, “Mostly because I am the only one permitted to do so.”
“I should have killed you when I had the mind for it.” The elf grumpily mumbled.
Taking pity on his friend, Shanks situated himself between Mihawk’s thighs and wordlessly encouraged him to let his feet dangle in the bath. Then, once he thought the elf agreeable to it, the ranger cradled one of those slender legs within his hands, soothing his palms upward once before sliding down to grab Mihawk’s foot. As soon as Shanks’ thumbs pressed into the soles of Mihawk’s arches, the elf closed his eyes and tendered a sweet sigh between his lips.
“Has Beckmann arrived yet?” Shanks asked, firm hands working to ease Mihawk’s tension.
A hum left the elf distractedly as he answered, “He arrived the day before yesterday.”
Shanks nodded. After a few minutes of massaging one foot, Mihawk toed him with his other one in a silent request for Shanks to shift his focus. Grinning at the other’s shameless demand, the ranger complied.
“Mm. Despite being so irritating, you do have your uses.”
Shanks chuckled, sounding both warm and endeared, “Are you sure you want to be biting the hand that feeds?”
“I will do whatever I please,” Mihawk said, shooting him a haughty look, “And you will like it.”
“Is that so?” Shanks questioned, torn between laughing and becoming distracted, yet again, by the way Mihawk’s robe slipped to reveal more of his defined chest.
Spying where the ranger’s attention diverted, Mihawk leaned forward, bright eyes demure in their playfulness. Fingers came to grip the underside of Shanks’ chin, correcting his straying gaze so that he was forced to hold the elf’s stare instead. Kept by a deceptively strong grip, Shanks strove to keep his interest from showing, but that was made difficult with Mihawk so near.
“Just as I thought.” The elf mused, amused by Shanks’ habitual obedience, “Men are so easy.”
Shanks pulled away from Mihawk with a glare, “Are you having fun?”
“Plenty.” Mihawk’s smile glinted beneath the moonlight, as sharp and cutting as the rest of him.
Grumbling under his breath, Shanks ran a hand down his face and over his bearded jaw.
Elves were beings unfathomable to the average man. Beautiful in ways only art could mimic, the Eldar were the epitome of physical perfection, but beyond their uncanny appearance was their maddening minds. Their long history and endless years made their perspectives a complete mystery to simple-minded men, and although Shanks was raised alongside elves in his youth, that did not keep him from feeling out of his depth when dealing with them. This notion especially applied to Mihawk. The elf lord was the most maddening of them all, and while Shanks’ own heritage granted him the privilege of a life longer than other men, he did not think he would ever have enough time to grasp Mihawk’s confounding ways.
Tightening his grip on Mihawk’s foot, Shanks figured there was only one way to remedy the insult of Mihawk’s teasing. The elf only had a short moment of realization, a slight gasp of ‘don’t you dare’ sung in elvish before Shanks yanked him into the water alongside the ranger. Retaliation was satisfyingly sweet, even sweeter when Mihawk surfaced like a wet, somber cat.
“Rhaich!” Mihawk cursed, the crude elvish exclamation uttered with a clipped tone and a sharp roll of his tongue, “Dôl gîn lost, Rainë!”
“Goheno-nin, Melda.” Shanks laughingly apologized before continuing in the common tongue, “But my head is not empty. I can assure you, it is filled with many thoughts.”
“More like nonsense.”
Mihawk muttered another string of eye-raising insults. Truly, he could have made a sailor blush if they were privy to the elvish language. Shanks heard them with a grin, pleased by his ability to rile the elf up like no other.
Still, it did not take long for Mihawk to calm down. A few minutes passed, and while the elf could hold a grudge lasting centuries, he apparently was not all that bothered by Shanks’ childish revenge. He discarded his robe, laying the soaked fabric over the edge of the pool. The darkened waters hid him from the waist down, a small granting of mercy upon Shanks’ sanity. Though, the rivulets of beaded water slipping down Mihawk’s front, shining beneath a still-bright moon, did nothing to lessen the elf lord’s appeal. He was the lord of night, after all. The master of Ithil, the moon, and the one chosen by the Goddess Varda herself to bear the title of eve. Mihawk was truly a phenomenon Shanks would never cease being impressed by.
“You are fortunate that I am fond of you.” Mihawk sighed out in an effort to dispel the quiet, “But why that is, I cannot say.”
The ranger thought he might have an answer. It sat on the tip of his tongue, a truth begging to be said. Still, he did not utter his confession aloud, choosing instead to continue his previous intent to bathe. Mihawk observed him quietly, his countenance contemplative.
After scrubbing away the last remnants of his recent adventure, Shanks’ fingers began to prune signaling the end to his wash. Disappointed to have it end so soon, Shanks hauled himself out of the bath to dry off. Mihawk followed shortly thereafter, and while Shanks did not endeavor to look behind him, he could hear the near-silent padding of Mihawk’s feet tip-toeing around to find a new robe to wear.
“Come sit over here when you’re finished,” Mihawk called from across the bathhouse, “You’re in need of a shave.”
Nodding in answer, Shanks finished drying before donning a pair of trousers set aside for him earlier. After that, he ambled over towards the vanity Mihawk waited beside, the elf following his movements with expectant eyes.
Feeling relaxed now that he was clean, the ranger plopped himself into a chair with a languid sigh. He did not question the straight blade held between Mihawk’s fingers nor did he make more than a small grunt of surprise as the elf settled on his lap.
Shanks slanted Mihawk a tired look, but otherwise surrendered to the elf’s manhandling with little fuss, “I can groom myself, you know.”
“Really?” Mihawk feigned following the careful scrape of the blade across Shanks’ skin, “With the way you look, one might be inclined to believe otherwise.”
Shanks rolled his eyes, “The wilds are not ideal for the continued maintenance of one’s appearance, Melda.”
Mihawk angled Shanks’ head to the left more firmly than what was necessary, “Regardless, you must take better care of yourself.”
An offended frown came to Shanks’ lips, “I did not think I made for such a sorry sight.”
Upon hearing the ranger’s miffed tone, Mihawk turned Shanks back to facing him, “That is not what I meant.”
“But it is what you said.”
“Shanks.” The elf huffed impatiently.
“Mihawk.” Shanks mimicked, undeterred.
With an annoyed scoff, Mihawk leaned back so that he could better glare at the ranger. He looked to be such a frigid creature with the way he glowered and scowled, so cold in his immortal appearance. Yet his warmth atop Shanks’ thighs was undeniable, and the pliability of his hips beneath Shanks’ hands was most distracting.
“Am I not allowed to worry about you?”
In response to Mihawk’s stiff questioning, Shanks said, “I don’t see a reason for you to worry. It is not as if I have returned to you battered and bruised.”
In wordless defiance of Shanks’ assertion, Mihawk ruthlessly pressed his thumb into a hidden bruise just underneath the ranger’s rib cage. Shanks sucked in a hissing breath, pain flaring along with his annoyance as Mihawk shot him a provoking look.
“I understand that your journeys come with many hardships and that you will not always have the luxury of self-care, but regardless, you have a terrible habit of neglecting your needs.” Mihawk’s eyes trailed Shanks’ front as if to make another point, “You cannot expect me to be thrilled when you come to me thin and on the verge of collapse. I expect you to be worn and weary, but this?” Mihawk settled his hand over Shanks’ chest where the ranger’s unreliable diet had resulted in a noticeable loss of muscle, “…is unacceptable.”
Upon hearing the elf’s genuine concern, the rising fight in Shanks abated. He was too tired to argue and it would have been a losing battle if he tried. Mihawk was right, as much as the ranger was pained to admit it. As chieftain, he often scolded his rangers for doing the very thing he, himself, was guilty of. The Dúnedain couldn’t afford to be anything less than at their best, otherwise they were vulnerable to attack and its even more dangerous counterpart: illness.
Still, being scolded didn’t do any justice to Shanks’ current mood. He had come to Mihawk eager for comfort and company, yet instead the elf’s temperament continued to rile Shanks’ own.
“I will finish this by myself,” he insisted, gesturing to the trimming of his beard, “And then I’m going to bed.”
For obvious reasons, Mihawk was not receptive of Shanks’ abrasive dismissal, “Don’t be ridiculous. I always finish what I start.”
The ranger groaned, “Melda, please. Why are you being so difficult?”
“I am not being difficult, I am concerned.” Mihawk resumed his earlier task of cleaning up the lines of Shanks’ facial hair, and trimming what had grown past Shanks’ preferred length, “And I have every right to be.”
“And I appreciate your concern,” Mihawk’s dubious glare forced Shanks to reitierate, “I do, but I would prefer to enjoy my first night of rest rather than be chided by the one whom I most wished to see.”
Shanks could spy the warring conflict passing behind the golden barrier of Mihawk’s eyes. For a moment, the ranger feared he had truly set the elf off, but instead of allowing his anger to get the better of him, Mihawk took a deep and calming breath.
“Very well.” He relented, “…Forgive me. It was not the time to bring up such matters.”
Unable to bear any ill will towards the other, Shanks caught Mihawk’s hand gently with his own. Unblinking, the elf merely watched as Shanks pressed a chaste kiss to Mihawk’s palm. It was a gesture of both unspoken forgiveness and apology, and as Shanks let his mouth linger for as long as Mihawk would permit, he revelled in the rare privileges only he was granted.
“Do not apologize.” Shanks whispered, feeling his own irritation ebb in the wake of this simple affection, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
Something tender in Shanks’ heart ached as it always did in moments like this. The sensation was pleasant in a way, yet profound, and tugged at him with a loud insistence to be acknowledged. Oh, and he acknowledged it. In the years Shanks had known this beautiful elf, there wasn’t a moment he went without knowing just how much love he held in his heart for Mihawk. That was a truth carried with him always. Whether it be to the farthest stretches of Middle Earth or even in the small sliver of space left between them, Mihawk never strayed far from the ranger’s thoughts. His most treasured companion. His dearest in more ways than one.
When Shanks bravely considered closing the remaining gap between them, he banished the thought before he could consider it further. At the mature age of forty and three, Shanks was well enough into manhood even by his long-lived standards, and he knew what he felt for Mihawk was not what he would feel for a friend. The desire itself could be explained, for men often coveted beautiful things, but the depth of Shanks’ feelings went far beyond simple attraction. It was consuming. It was the culmination of having come to know Mihawk so thoroughly in their years of friendship, and in many ways, Shanks’ affection was only natural.
Mihawk was his best friend, his Melda, and loving him was as seamless as breathing. And yet, Shanks hesitated.
There were many reasons why he did and many reasons why he shouldn’t, but before Shanks could get too lost in his thoughts they were quickly silenced. With noble generosity, Mihawk took it upon himself to finish tidying up the ranger’s short beard. The smooth, experienced caress of his fingers swept away the last vestiges of Shanks’ conflict and put the ranger completely at ease.
“I am finished,” Mihawk said, “Your appearance is much improved.”
Having not realized that he closed his eyes, Shanks opened them again to find a soft blush flattering the elf’s expression.
“Already? Must the pampering end so soon?” He wondered.
Alas, with no valid excuse to remain, Mihawk lifted himself from Shanks’ lap. The ranger was then free to consider himself in the mirror, and the reflection that stared back at him was a much better version of the sorry ranger that initially arrived. A trim and a bath worked wonders on freshening him up as Shanks was no longer the rugged vagabond of the wilds, but rather a man of proper importance.
Pleased, Shanks turned to thank Mihawk only to find the elf already gone.
Well, he thought with a small frown, he could have said goodnight at the very least.
No matter, Shanks was familiar enough with Minas Ithil to know which rooms he was permitted to stay in. It did not take him long to find his way to bed and an even shorter amount still before he collapsed with a groan on top of silk sheets. Mihawk’s bed would have been preferred. It was larger and luxurious in a manner befitting of a lord. Though, Shanks didn’t have the mind for complaint. Soon enough his eyes drifted shut, and the night as he knew it bled into the realm of his peaceable dreams.