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On other, more proper nights, they'd be sharing commentary on politics, or their every day events, perhaps even exchanging a word of gossip here or there and sharing in fond laughter for the people who share the word with them, while the fire in the grate burned low, and their tea slowly grew cold in their hands, for their mouths were too busy chattering to sip much. Tonight is not a proper night, for they both feel the weight of a discussion breathing down the backs of their robes. A discussion that both of them have been anticipating in their own ways. It is not a foreboding discussion, one that brings the promise of pain and discourse, but there is a certain severity, a certain weight to the words they've yet to speak.
Legolas, for once, pours himself another glass, aiming to wade far deeper into the pools of drunkenness for his part in the upcoming conversation. There is no particular excitement lacing his tales of his time in the Glittering Caves, and he has little awareness for whatever does happen to dance its way off of his lips. He does not even find disappointment in his father's neutral expression this eve, when otherwise he might. A wonder, for even now, the Elvenking distrusts the dwarves, finds little joy in that his son has found a rather good friend in one. Every boy seeks his father's approval- at least, in his experience. He is no exception to this rule, even if he does the opposite of what his father might wish.
But the night is late, and they've no more to discuss, no more to waste their time on. The silence claws at Legolas’s throat, like a nasty infection spreading through his veins, muddying his blood and bearing illness. It's hard to breathe. The room has not changed one bit, though with Cressida’s presence, he expected it to. He expected it to be incredibly different around here, marred to his culture, his history. The woman, to his memory, loathes their people. But the one awaiting at his father's side, she is quiet, polite, calm. She does not intentionally push him to anger. Days ago, he feared they'd fight before the Elvenking, and now he wishes that they could. He's not sure how to reconcile his expectations with the woman who now holds his father's attention, his heart, his soul.
Heart's match. A preposterous thought.
And yet, they are. They exude the energy. They move in tandem, their expressions on par even when they're not looking at each other. His father treats her as an equal, shows no displeasure with her, pines after her so much it's ridiculous. And she looks after the Elvenking with just as much longing and fervor. Sickening, absolutely sickening how they behave, how they simply exist in the same room together, the feeling of their mutual love suffocating any soul unlucky enough to wander through their vicinity, seeping into the very mountainside, painting the walls with it and lining the floor like plush carpet. But they're meant for each other, their feä one in the same if she was pulled here, the Valar, maybe even Eru himself having made her for his father.
Thranduil Oropherion, Elvenking, ruler of the Woodland Realm, leader of the Sindar, deserves far better than her.
“Unless you intentionally work yourself towards bursting your capillaries, my son, I suggest you speak of what we know you came to discuss.”
At his father's words, Legolas slowly raises his eyes from the heady, deep red wine in the gem encrusted cup to his father's icy blue eyes. They have the same eyes, he knows. But Thranduil's hold an uncharacteristic amount of patience in them this eve. Accompanying it; curiosity. It throws Legolas off. Everything about this eve throws Legolas off. The wine is not working as well as it usually does; the fire grate crackles instead of remaining empty and chilling; there are fresh flowers on the desk and table that come from his mother's garden; he is not sitting in his usual chair, for his father has taken it; this ostentatious court outfit is too tight on him; Galion is not also here, pretending not to listen as he waits for them at the door.
A migraine pulses at the back of his eyes. Perhaps he can feign an excuse to get out of such a discussion, buy himself time to think of a proper, believable reason to leave the court early, leave his father's lands early, get away from the Elvenking and his betrothed. Though Legolas has few memories of his mother, and holds little affections for her, perhaps that is a valid enough cause to leave. He can accuse Thranduil of trying to forget her through Cressida. Perhaps he can claim he does, in fact, hold attachment to the mere thought of his mother, if he acts so deeply offended enough to pull it off.
But that is almost laughable; no one would believe it, not even himself, and if he cannot believe it, he cannot feign it.
He swirls the wine in his glass. Thranduil blinks, prepared to wait him out. Legolas takes a deep breath, and exhales slowly; after so many years, he still feels like an elfling, small before his father, worthless before a great king, the most beautiful specimen of their species. A nausea tickles at the back of his throat. This man is as much a stranger to him as anyone else is. They hold no incredible fondness for each other. They have seldom spoken since Thranduil sent him to Elrond for reporting on Gollum’s escape. That was nearly a century ago. And they had no close ties prior to that; there was far too much tension between them due to his mother's passing. He loves his father greatly, wholly, with something desperate and dark within him, the desire to please the man that sired him. But he would just as soon abandon the man than have his favor or attachment, a though that he cannot hold in his mind too long lest he drive himself mad.
“Ada…” Perhaps the more endearing term will appeal to his father, if they must have such a conversation. He clears his throat. Sips the wine. It is bitter, this harvest. Not so sweet as it usually is. He wishes there were no fire in here; it is growing far too warm and he does not wish to anger his father with his fidgeting. “Lady Cressida tells me that she has informed you of our history. That… that I have lain with her.”
At her name, Thranduil smiles to himself a little, and raises his own glass to his lips. He takes a sip, slow, content, eyes lock on his son's. This conversation, he does not shy away from, for some reason that Legolas finds wholly unfathomable. “Yes.”
His tone gives no hint as to his opinions on the matter. Legolas swallows, trying to dismiss how thick his tongue feels in his throat. Another hurried drink of wine grants him no relief from the discomfort. He knows Men sometimes have the condition in which their throats and tongues swell when they encounter certain foods. It cannot happen to elves, but perhaps he can claim he is the first of their kind to experience such a fate. There's supposed to be other symptoms, right? Damn, he should have studied Men more when he was amongst their kind.
Accursed Valar, abandoning them to each other. He should have Sailed while he still had the chance. No matter if he looked like a coward, running from every possibility of Sauron and shirking his responsibilities to the Fellowship.
“Are you…” he pauses. Damn. Words should not evade him as swiftly as they do. “Does anger overtake you with such knowledge?”
The Elvenking does the one thing Legolas does not expect him to do: he laughs.
Thranduil has thought much on what a conversation with his son would be like. The awkwardness and hesitation, he has much expected; the fearful question, he has not expected whatsoever. There sits Legolas, his son, whom has lain with his betrothed, pathetic and fidgeting with a cup of wine, like an anxious elfling confessing to having done something wrong. He is no less fearful of Thranduil now than the time he tore a handwoven tapestry for mere accident of carrying his sword so carelessly through the halls, though he has aged far, far beyond that. Thranduil cannot help the chuckle that escapes him, even if it brings Legolas even more confusion.
“No.” He lifts a finger to indicate he has more to say on the subject, and takes a moment to compose himself. And there are many reasons as to why he's not angry, though he knows most of them wouldn't please Legolas. They're only part of the main truth, the key truth, the whole truth. And the whole truth, in Legolas’s case, is this: “You are my own blood. In a way, that brings me comfort. It is not so different from my lying with her.”
The confusion grows on Legolas's face and in his heart, for though he sees the truth in his father's eyes, such a truth does not quite make sense to him. "I am more than your blood."
"Yes," Thranduil agrees. And though he knows he should not make such an admission, there is little reason for him to avoid honesty in this case; it will bring his beloved far more joy than his silence ever could. "That is of no consequence. I… appreciate the image brought forth when she speaks of your time together. You are not an unattractive elf, and that she has lain with you shows fair taste."
"Then she has falsified her admission of who graces her bed." Legolas rises from his spot, cheeks turning red with anger, and only his father would notice the way he sways due to the wine he refuses to stop sipping. "You know of the Elves? Of the Men?"
Thranduil shrugs, counting off the names on his fingers. "Lord Elrond, the Marchwarden Haldir, the Rohan Horsemaster and King, several elven maidens of the Golden Woods, several Maidens and Men in Gondor's court-"
"And her behavior brings you no shame?" Legolas demands.
"I have no reason for shame, she does not search for satisfaction beyond myself now that she is at my side." Thranduil smiles at his son's discomfort. Slowly, he sips his wine, watching the way the younger elf squirms, fights the urge to chug his drink, fails. He is uncomfortable and vulnerable, exactly as Thranduil would have him. "It brings you shame, ion nin?"
"Her loyalty belongs to you, her soulmate, her king." His eyes narrow, but the wine has snuck up on him. There is little fire in his words, and what is there cannot conceal his true feelings, a strange blend of concern and jealousy. "She is wrong to share what rightfully belongs to you so openly. And I am ashamed to have been the first in this world to have tasted her flesh. In your position, I believe I might be furious if someone laid hands on my beloved."
His voice softens at the end, and Thranduil knows his son is being honest. He rises from his spot and walks to the wine cart, beckoning his son to follow. Though he knows he should not encourage the boy's drinking habits, he himself has not yet had his fill of the wine, and admittedly he sees the way Galion's fatherly side comes out around Legolas; he knows the man will care for him when he stumbles drunkenly into the hall later on, and, well, who is he to deny Galion's fatherly urges? He selects something rather strong off of the top shelf, uncorking it as he turns to his son.
Legolas watches as he takes the glass out of his hand, setting it aside in favor of pressing the bottle into his fingers.
"Drink, ion nin," Thranduil commands softly.
And he does. There is little hesitance in the first drink, there under his father's gaze, but the Elvenking is only further encouraging. Seldom does he share in his hoard of wine, and Legolas is not one to turn down such gracious gifts. He takes another sip, and another, until he has had a quarter of the bottle, far more than he intended to drink in the first place. It follows the other wine, loosening his tense shoulders, clouding his head.
Thranduil takes the bottle, setting it down on the top of the cart instead of pouring himself. He loves his son, truly. He loves Legolas with every beat of his heart, every fiber of his being, every breath in his lungs. But he is Cressida's husband, her heart's match, and that means she comes first. He turns, backhanding Legolas with all the force he can muster, sending the elf crashes into the chaise and tumbling over the cushions for fault of his own drunken feet. Thranduil's own hand is stinging with the force of the smack, and his robes are slightly disheveled. He fixes them before walking over to the boy, who lays dazedly on the floor, his eyes filled with tears as he cups his cheek.
There will be a mark from the ring he wears, Thranduil knows, and already the blood begins to well up, dripping down his boy's soft, milky skin. Still, even as the shame pricks at his neck, he tells himself he had to do it. He kneels, now, at Legolas's side, slipping his hand under his son's shoulders and pulling him upright. "Look at me, hinya. I need you to understand, I am not needlessly cruel. Do you understand, my little leaf?"
Legolas stares up at him, his blue eyes still filled with confusion, bordering on fear; Thranduil has not once raised a hand against him. Even as a child, he did not physically punish Legolas, he did not believe in such a thing. That he is so quick to correct him in this way, it startles Legolas beyond even considering his actions comprehensibly.
"Darling boy." Thranduil pulls his hand away from the reddened and bloodied skin of his cheek. There is a nasty mark, one that will be visible and easily identifiable come morning, even with the surrounding broken veins that now seem to spiderweb slowly away from the impact site. He runs a soothing finger over it, though he does not bother to heal it. The pain, the shame, they are part of the punishment he now gives his son. "You would deny me, you would shame me, if I offered to share my greatest treasure with you?"
"Ada?" Legolas asks, unable to stop the tears from falling, from mixing with the blood welling where the ring cut him, though he tries not to grimace at the pain.
"Cressida is my heart's match. And soon she will be your queen. If you disrespect her again, senya, I will treat you as a traitor to the crown, and to the harshest extent possible, if only to make an example of the lengths I will go to for the sake of defending my wife's honor." Thranduil speaks with a softness, still caressing his son's face with all the gentleness he lacked moments ago. "She is far too kind to encourage such punishment, Legolas. You have not seen the woman she truly is, someone more than the wretched beast you have made of her. You vilify her for the fact that you met her at her weakest, when she was most vulnerable, and terrified of what being brought to this world meant for her, when she was still adjusting to change, still learning our customs, still unaware of the fact that our people are far kinder than many of hers even have the capacity to be. I would have you show appreciation for your queen, and seek forgiveness, little leaf."
"Atarinya, please," he whimpers.
"Such a lovely sound." Thranduil swipes his thumb over his quivering lip, watching the way his eyelashes flutter. "Cressida would thank me. She would proudly bear my mark. Will you, boy?"
A challenge of sorts, Legolas knows. Will he stay? Will he face the courts with his father's ring so clearly marking his cheek, a sign of his king's wrath? Even if he does not yet know the reward for such a thing? Or will he run like a little coward, with no hope of ever returning?
"Whatever you would have of me, my King, my father." His words are sluggish as he leans into his father's touch, and he does his best to ignore the sting. It comes at the cost of his tears, and the cost of rising blush. Such a fair boy, with such lovely shame.
Thranduil pulls him in, cradling him to his chest. There, it is warm, comforting, and Legolas feels like an elfling again as he weeps into the fabric of his father's robes. The velvet is soft beneath his fingers, and if he listens closely, the heartbeat in his father's chest sounds doubled, as if Cressida's heart resides there, too. What a strong love, if it moves his father to such extremes. What a fearsome, terrible love, if it forces his hand in this way.
And all the same, Legolas would not have it any other way from this man who made him, from this man who sculpted him into who he is. Because that is, perhaps, the worst truth of all, this eve; Legolas would behave no differently than Thranduil. He would demand freedom for his beloved. He would demand worship at their feet. He would have nothing less than the best for them. Thranduil is merely modeling that, the very behavior ingrained into their bodies.
"I would have you confess and beg for forgiveness at her feet in the morning," Thranduil murmurs into his hair. "I would do more, if only I knew it would not hurt her. She defends you, already, ion nin. Even before your arrival, even expecting your hatred, she defends you. You will thank her. And you will beg, on your knees, come sunrise."
"Aye, atya." There is no more he can say. Thranduil is drawing back, cupping his cheeks, looking at him, for once, as the most adoring father in the world might. There is a deep love, and a deeper pride in his eyes, and if not for the burning in his cheek, Legolas might forget exactly why he is here, on the floor, being held by his father. But it is not to be.
"You will stay until you have thought long and hard how best to earn your queen's favor."
"Yes, my King." Legolas swallows, his tongue feeling far too thick, and his mouth too dry. He does not know why he asks, only knows that he needs to ask it, need to reassure himself on such matters. "Will you go far?"
"Only to my beloved's side." Thranduil rises, pressing a gentle kiss to his son's forehead. "I rather think I might like to watch her sleep a while. She is so lovely under the moon's light. "
As he walks away, Legolas finds himself leaning against the couch. And truly, now, he could blame the wine for the words that tumble out next, if he wanted to. But it's not the wine, it's the pressing need to know his father's opinion, know what his relationship with Cressida is like, especially in how they lie with each other. "She is lovelier, still, with her mouth full of you, or covered in your seed. Isn't she?"
Thranduil pauses at the door, the smile dancing there on the edge of his lips. "She is lovely any way she will have me."
~ - ~
Her hair spills across the pillow. Tonight she lays towards the center of the bed, a hand stretched out onto his side, as if she reaches for him in her sleep. The cover is tucked around her hips, allowing him a glimpse at the lovely silken nightgown she wears this night. It is of her own design, the neckline dipping, the straps thin as they hold the fabric there over the swell of her breasts. It is thin, and there is the obvious outline of her hardened nipples, but even more captivating is the line of her ribs. What dreams hold her now cause her to arch her back in the slightest, and she teases him with little mumbles, soft whimpers.
Thranduil pulls the covers down, having left his clothes on the floor with all the intention of simply sidling up next to his beloved Cressida wearing nothing more than his flesh. But here she lies before him, too lovely to ignore, and too peaceful to wake. He takes in the split in the fabric that ends at her hip, the lace hugging her in ways he wishes he could. Barely noticeable is the line of tonight's selection of panties, the strap thin, the color matching her gown, and he wonders if that was on purpose or not. He would like to think so; she knows, whether he wants her to or not, that he likes that particular article of clothing on her, the way it clings to her, hides her from him in the simplest of ways. Tearing her panties off is like opening a gift, and by the Valar she's nothing but a gift.
She still reaches for his side of the bed, though one hand rests on her stomach. One leg is bent out to the side, the other stretching straight out. He reaches out, shifting the fabric of the gown to give himself a better view of his little gift, and groans quietly when she's revealed to him. He aches with desire for her, his cock hard, already leaking with the anticipation. The panties sit softly in the bend where her legs and hips meet, the skin soft and perfect for marking. He'll have to bite her there soon, he thinks as he begins to stroke himself. He'll have to mark the outline of her precious panties, trace the shape of the hem with his tongue until she's dripping with need.
Her abdomen moves with the rise and fall of her breaths, and occasionally she shifts in her sleep. She's very clearly far beyond the reaches of consciousness, and yet, as if she knows what he desires, she shifts her legs open even more, knees pointing in opposite directions. All that separates him from her is the thin piece of wretched fabric that she insists on wearing. If she weren't wearing them tonight, he could look at her bared self, take in the shape of her most intimate places, plan his next escapade between her legs. He could wake her with his tongue, pin her there, feast until she's writhing and he's desperate to fill her.
But no, he waits, his hand working slowly up and down his shaft as he pictures it. He can be patient, he can make do with the images painted in his mind. He would settle between her legs, content to rest there while he covers the soft insides of her thighs with kisses, with caresses. She'd stir a little, and he would reach up to run his palm up her side before taking her hand, lacing their fingers together over her stomach. And he wouldn't intentionally wake her; if anything, he'd do his best to keep her asleep. Something tells him she wouldn't mind being used in her sleep. There's much worse things he's done that she's enjoyed, and taking her in her sleep isn't so terrible, comparatively speaking.
So he'd take his time, getting her used to being touched in her sleep. He'd keep his hair to one side, so it wouldn't tickle her with every pass of his lips. And because he'd stay there, mostly between her thighs, only occasionally traveling up to lap at her navel, or suck bruises into her hips, he'd be able to smell her growing arousal, that warm, desperate scent. She'd soak through the fabric of her panties, without a doubt, and he wouldn't bring her relief yet. He'd tease her, his tongue and lips drawing closer and closer to the edge of her panties- maybe he'd even hook a finger under the edge, tug at them, watch the way they sink into the curve of her lips as she soaks them with her arousal, teasing him with only the outline of her shape.
And maybe she'd try to get away from him in her sleep, or find relief. He'd only give her a small break, rest his head on her stomach, pin her legs down while he ruts into the bed. But he'd get no relief from the unkind mattress, just as he gets no relief from his hand now. He'd have to resume the teasing. He'd do it for hours if he could, until her desire drips down the front of her panties, and trails down into the cleft of her ass, and she's so wet she wakes herself up. But even then, he wouldn't let her up. He'd keep her pinned underneath his arms as he laps at the fabric, sucking her flavor through her panties as he pleasures her through that devious little cloth. It's only fair that he teases her now, after she's hidden herself from him for so many hours.
The most lovely sounds would come from her lips as he worked at the fabric, at tracing her through it. A symphony, a private little show just for him, his tongue the conductor to her orchestra. He'd tease her, never quite putting enough pressure on her, never quite giving her swollen clit enough attention. He'd chase her taste down the cleft of her ass, flip her over if need be. She responded so well to Galion's tongue, she'd respond with equal fervor to his. Perhaps she'd push back onto his face, demanding, wanting.
With desperation, he works himself as he considers this.
Perhaps she'd like him there between her cheeks so much that he'd be forced to peel the soaking panties to the side for her. She'd already be soaked in her own arousal and his spit, and she bathes nightly, he wouldn't have to worry about the taste. So he'd take his time there, too, lovingly working at her tight hole. And even if he hated himself for it, he knows he wouldn't be able to help but tease her fluttering pussy every once in a while with a flick of his tongue. She'd keen into the pillow, probably try to fight his hold, but he would keep her there until he was satisfied with all that he'd drawn out of her.
They'd leave no mess on the sheets, he simply wouldn't allow it; he'd catch all of her flavor on his tongue, there would be no other option. She might weep at the overstimulation, but it would only be returning the favor. He knows what the drag of her panties feel like, he knows how horrible it is to need relief so desperately, and all one gets is the burn of the fabric against themselves. He would let her beg. He might turn her over, if he were inclined to be nice, if she begged prettily enough.
But he'd tease her further, still. He'd use the fabric to tease her entrance, to pinch her desperate clit, and she'd cry for him. She'd be trembling with need for relief as he is at this very moment, and she'd vow to give him anything he wanted, and he would tell her he wants only her pleasure. And he would bring it about in a painful way, because she like the pain, he knows this as he knows his own hands. He would graze his teeth over her clit, flick the tip of his tongue over it, that sensitive little bundle of nerves, and he'd hear her desperate cries, and he'd draw back, teasing her just a bit more. And when she's crying, saying she can't handle it any longer, perhaps then he'd give into her. Perhaps then he'd flick her quite harshly, and she would reach her climax with a scream-
The thought brings about his own climax, the pleasure curling in the depths if his gut. Ropes of thick cum land across her thighs, her panties, her stomach, the nightgown, some of it even landing on her neck and cheek. She flinches, her eyes fluttering open at the feeling of Thranduil's release across her body. He can feel her confusion in his mind, followed by a sharp realization, and a soft interest in the sight of him naked before her, cock in hand, still dribbling with his release.
"I suppose this is considered an honorable greeting to get from one's king?" Cress jokes, sleep weighing her voice down heavily.
"If my Queen finds it honorable, I would be pleased to repeat such an interaction," he grunts, trying to stave off the rest of his release. It's dripping all over the bed, and truly he does not wish to wait for the sheets to be changed before sleeping. Even if it means trying to end the relief of an orgasm early.
Cress laughs tiredly. There's no hint of displeasure from her, though it was quite the rude awakening. Instead, she is almost devious in her feelings, the teasing want coming from beneath his ribs. He watches as she pulls the nightgown off, careful not to spread the mess any further than the fabric or her skin. She drops it neatly to the floor on his side of the bed before lifting her hips to slide out of her panties. Before he can ask what she's doing, she gets to her knees, moving towards him. With one hand, she thrusts the panties into his mouth, and with the other, she swipes up a bit of his release with her fingers, moving them to her clit.
"Mmpf, 'Ressida-"
"You woke me for this, I will at least enjoy it," she comments, pushing him backwards.
His back hits a post and he has to reach upwards, his hand wrapping around a beam to steady himself. Cress leans, taking the head of his cock into her mouth as she plays with herself. The filthy little minx moans, sending the most divine vibration down his shaft, and he finds himself seeing stars as she draws another orgasm out of him, right on top of the last. The strength of it tears at his thighs and his abdomen, and he aches with pleasure at the sight of her swallowing as much down as she can. His cum drips out the corner of her mouth when she cannot swallow it, and he wants to kiss her, to force it back into her mouth with his tongue.
Her own climax is not far behind, her body clenching with her own earned relief. Though he did not put it there himself, his cum drips down her thighs, too, and when Cressida pulls back, she is a mess marked by his seed. His son was right, she is undeniably perfect before him now, covered in his release. Forget the moonlight, all he needs is her shining eyes, and her pretty lips covered in cum and spit, and her chest coated by it, too, her thighs trembling with her release and his own, her fingers still buried within herself.
"I take it your talk with Legolas went well?" She asks, voice now raspy with the use of her throat instead of weighted down by sleep.
"Incredibly." He finds himself laughing as he releases the post and lowers himself to the mattress beside her. "I hope I didn't tear you from sweet dreams?"
"I believe this is far sweeter." She pulls her fingers out of herself and raises them to her lips, none too shy about cleaning herself of her pleasure before him. "Perhaps we can make the next dream better, Elvenking?"
Thranduil fears he cannot marry her soon enough.
~ - ~
It is a morning of rest, as there is no work to be done in the courts, and no meetings to be held until later in the afternoon. Thranduil sits on the floor with his back to the couch while he brushes his hair. Cressida lays above him, tucked under a blanket while she works on her journal for the day. It is not yet time for breakfast, and they are not ready to leave the room, not when the fire is going so nicely, and there's still the softness of sleep in the air.
A servant sets a tray before them on the table, filling their cups with hot water, which turns blue with the pea flower leaves in them. They both hold off on reaching for the cups in favor of their current pursuits, and the servant departs. What silence overtakes them does not last long, a mere few strokes of the pen or brush, and both of them look up towards the door. Thranduil sets his brush on the table and rises, pausing only to brush a kiss to Cress's cheek before heading to the door.
It is likely the servant, having forgotten some insignificant little thing. He would easily dismiss them, tell them not to return until they are out for the morning. Then again, it could very well be some terribly significant thing. But Thranduil finds he quite literally could not feel anything more than irritation for whatever interrupts them- his attention lies only with his wife, his Queen, his love. He would reluctantly handle whatever the matter is, but when all is said and done, he would return to Cressida's side once more.
Only, when he opens the door, he is met with flashes of the night before. Red blood, turned a crusted scabbing color. The bright heat of a fresh bruise turned into a swollen sickly black. A sharp spider's web of tangling veins only darker beneath the damaged skin. The clear outline of his ring marking his son's poor face.
He has never looked more beautiful, in Thranduil's opinion.
"Atarinya." Legolas lowers his head respectfully. If any shame lies in his heart for the mark he now bears, it is not present in his expression, nor is the pain that must come from speaking, or blinking, or really any movement of his head. One hand is tucked behind his back, and the other holds a bouquet, the calla lilies freshly picked and arranged amongst sprigs of cattails and long grasses, all neatly bound in twine and a single silver ribbon.
"Legolas." There is a reason that Thranduil does not use the same sentiments as his son, does not grant him yet the satisfaction of an accepted apology. He reaches out and hooks a finger under Legolas's jaw, lifting his head to further survey the bruise. Even at this rate, the mark will last the week. There's no sign of healing hands or so much as a clean cloth having graced his skin, and there's still the dullness of the wine lingering in the boy's eyes.
Thranduil traces the shape of the bruise, from the way it stretches towards his temple, down to the way it curves towards the edge of his lips. Legolas winces at the pain, but his head leans into the touch, and a soft look of elation crosses his dazed eyes. Thranduil lowers his hand and ignores the sorrowful look in his son's eyes. "So you kept it. Good."
The praise brings a bit of the spark back into his eyes, and Thranduil steps out of the way, gesturing for him to come in. Cressida already looks on from her journal, having caught the sound of the prince's voice, but when he steps in and turns towards her, it is not a pleasant look of surprise on her face- no, it is horror that overtakes her. The words written on her pages are smeared to incomprehensible stains as she sets the journal aside and leaps up, practically running to meet Legolas part of the way into the room, stopping just before she crashes into him.
"Ernil nin! Oh, what happened, Legolas?"
She tentatively reaches up towards his face, but he thrust the flowers out before him, pushing them into her outstretched hand before she can touch him, and lowering his head in shame. "Please, my Lady. Accept these as a token of my apology. My bias and poor temperament have overcome me, and I falsely spoke ill of you. It was wrong and unkind, and I desire to rectify what poorly begotten lies have fallen from my tongue. What punishment you wish to dole out, I will gladly take, for it is your right as my future queen to demand satisfaction for the trespasses I commit against you.
Cressida takes the flowers and sets them aside on the waiting couch, turning back to take Legolas's hands in hers. He's turned in a way that hides the mark from her eyes, and won't look up, even as she pulls his hands towards her. "Legolas, forget the flowers, forget our differences, we can save those discussions dor later, all I want right now is to get you to a healer-"
"No." Legolas drops to his knees, clinging to her morning robes and leaning his face against her thighs. "No, you don't understand, no healers. I need your forgiveness, my Lady, or I need your punishment. Nothing can be right until then. I beg you, I beg you with all that resides in my soul, even if it means spending the rest of my life making right all the ways I have wronged you-"
"Legolas, I forgive you. There is nothing to forgive, but I forgive you. Tolo, lasgalen, let me help you." She runs her fingers over his good cheek, reaching to take his jaw so that she can simply look at the nasty mark. "Fair prince, let me look-"
Her words die out as she sees the full length of the mark, the shape of the cut. A certain distant pleasantness curls in her stomach- not her own, for it is not familiar, and her own disgust rises in the back of her throat at the sight of the mark. The crusted blood now drips down in streams of watery red, the flakes melting away with the heavy tears that flow from Legolas's eyes. And he knows the realization is takes hold of her, because the moment Thranduil's large hand settles on his shoulder, he flinches away from his father's hold and into her arms, something that would otherwise never happen.
Cress runs his hand over Legolas's hair and pulls him away from his father's touch, up to his feet. "Your punishment is to let me take care of you. Now let's get you into the spring so you can wash off before you lie down and rest. I smell the wine on your breath, tuig nin, I know you have not slept."
Perhaps after some rest, he will be far more rational. Or perhaps she will simply send for a healer and a meal while he sleeps, there in their bed, so that she might keep watch over him, over both of them. She does not yet look to Thranduil for an explanation, she knows she will start screaming at him, and that is not something she wishes to do while Legolas remains in this state, with this desperation in his eyes.
A tremble has set into his hands, but he allows her to tug along, offering no complaint for how she leads him to the wash room and away from his father, who watches with all the stillness and silence of a statue, or perhaps the dead. They pass through the archway and the curtains separating the rooms, and Cress murmurs the enchantment for the lamps and warming the spring. There in the dim room, she guides Legolas to the edge of the pool and reaches for his belt.
He stiffens only for a moment before he allows her to pull the royal robes off of his body and help him out of his boots. There is a certain lack of coordination in how he moves, but she does not mind it. All the while, he does not take his hands off of her shoulders, using her as slight support, and when he is entirely bared to her, he does not release her. She needs to know. She needs to.
"I am sorry," he whispers. "You… you bring my father joy. He does not often have that, as a ruler of our people. That he finds that with you… my shame matters not."
"Are you ashamed of him or for him?" She asks softly.
Tears only well in his, returning like a bitter secret being pulled off of his lips. "I am ashamed because I have nothing but jealousy in my heart. He caters to you with no expectations of you other than returned affection and pride. And you- you are beyond what beauty this world holds, and you have experienced more of life than any of us will ever be able to. I am jealous of both of you, and it is an illness festering in my blood. Do you not understand, Cressida? Can you possibly understand?"
She does. She will never be able to tell him how deeply she understands his feelings, but she does understand them, intimately so. Instead of responding, she steps closer, one hand on his hip, the other around the back of his neck, and she pulls him downwards, brushing her lips against the bruised skin just beneath the cut. It is a gentle kiss, soft and uncharacteristically affectionate for their relationship, and his hands tighten briefly on her shoulders. When she pulls away, he is craning towards her, his lips nearly touching hers, and when she speaks, he can feel her breath on his skin.
"Come evening, we can return to irritating each other, fair prince. For now, freshen up and allow me to keep watch over what dreams keep you company. Aye?"
"Aye, fair queen," he breathes.
And she is stepping back, leaving him to his devices without waiting for the sound of him sinking into the waters below. Through the curtains, Thranduil waits for her, leaning against the back of the couch and following her path through the room. Even as she wears anger like a skin, she does not scare him. Even when she comes to a stop before him, the whip in her voice as she all but tears at him from inside his rib cage.
"Tell me, my King, how many years of life lie in your veins."
He pauses, having expected anything but that. "Somewhere around… maybe seven thousand? I stopped counting somewhere last age-"
The fire is now in his nose, and he is impressed first and foremost with her speed. He is impressed, too, that she hit him hard enough, and with proper enough form that he is bleeding and her knuckles are mostly undamaged. He puts a hand to his nose, stopping the blood before it can drip down onto his robes, and narrows his eyes at her.
She only points an accusing finger at him. "You will never lay an unkind hand on him again."
"He spoke poorly of my wife, Cressida, what more am I to do?" Thranduil snaps. But there is no anger within him, and she knows that. It is only admiration, and a startling mouthful of arousal.
"If you have spent seven thousand years walking this earth, I expect you to know more ways to handle differences than violence, especially against your own son," she hisses at him. "When Legolas is done, he is going to lie down in bed, and he will be seen by a healer. After he sleeps, you will apologize to him, and you will allow me to decide how people are punished for speaking ill of me. Do you understand me, o'Elvenking?"
The words are sneered, with the anger of a dragon, and the ferocity of a queen he would do anything to keep at his side. Even if it means yielding to her wishes over his. He nods. "Aye, tarinya. I understand, my beloved wife."
She lowers her hand and steps back from him, nodding to the door with a cold expression. "Now send for breakfast and a healer. And stop being a wicked man or I will take your son and return home."
"A very wicked man, indeed," he mutters to himself on his way to the hall. "Empty threats, my dear, empty threats."
If she had better aim, his sword would be through his throat and not the wood of the door.