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"It is infuriating that you keep putting up this long –" – slam – "– infuriating –" – slam – "– show –" – slam —. "I can not want you in the way you want me." Cold blue eyes stared at you, waiting for the outburst, the anger he so desperately wanted to bloom across your face.
When Thranduil started to feel something – anything – stirring in his chest, he started a fight. You noticed the two of you fought often. More so now than at the beginning of your not-quite-a-marriage two years ago. You didn't think that was a coincidence, but what the hell did you know?
You'd thought you'd entered a partnership with someone civil.
Nodding almost imperceptibly, you kept your face still. "And what, exactly, makes you think I want you, Thranduil?" You let just a little sarcasm creep in.
He narrowed his icy eyes, evaluating you.
The issue, however, was that you did want him.
Over the last two years, you had come to want him very much, although you admit you are unsure how it began, given his general demeanor.
Well, that's a lie. He's an elf. And he is handsome for an elf, at that. His face alone gives his behavior a pass for the first three, maybe four encounters.
But this was not one of his better looks, and you'd have no issue turning down this version of the Elvenking for the rest of your very mortal life.
White hot fury flashed across his face. "You know what I mean. Constantly, you show it. And I cannot — will not — respond the way you want!"
You leaned back in your chair. "I do not know what you mean, Thranduil," you said firmly, shaking your head exaggeratedly. "What is it that I show you?" - You weren't showing him sex or physical affection, certainly, so – "What is it that you claim to see from me that you can not respond to, Thranduil?"
The more you said his name, the angrier he would get, which is why you kept doing it. Thranduil all but snaked his way to gripping the desk across from you, leaning over your papers. Curtains of snow-white hair hung between you as he glared down. Not exactly giving you the "high ground," so to speak, but the fact that he came this close to you meant he was already on his back foot.
“You…are….constantly…HERE. You ask after me, you bring me food, you manage to interrupt me during every letter I've written in the last four weeks. You bring me books you think I might like, and you leave me letters about your work. I do not know how to respond to you. I have lived alone in these chambers for centuries, and yet you are HERE. I do not want this, and I do not want you. And I do not know why you continue to make this arrangement so difficult by pretending."
You blinked at that, tilting your head. Slowly. You were giving him time to suss it out on his own. But his rage was icy, bathed in wine from the dinner. And it seemed he couldn't do math in the cold.
You set the quill down and steepled your fingers, elbows resting on the desk as you looked up at him looming above you.
Fine.
"Everything you have just 'accused' me of is what spouses do, Thranduil. Husbands and wives. Partners. To put it bluntly, you bought yourself a wife, Thranduil, through an even exchange: you have a skilled negotiator and Queen, and my uncle's people have food and protection."
Muscles in his jaw worked, and he opened his mouth quickly. "That is not–"
You held up a hand, cutting him off. “Ah-aht, no, Thranduil. No. You've said what you wanted to say — both this night and many, many others. And now you will let me do the same."
The look on his face didn't change, but his mouth snapped shut.
It might do him some good to shut up for a moment, even if it gave you heartburn to demand it.
"It weighs on my heart that someone asking after your wellbeing startles you so," you said steadily, fingers tapping against the desk as if making an observation that it was raining outside – but the truth of it stung you.
It did hurt that he was so…that he thought someone making sure he ate was…It was heartbreaking.
But, it was becoming increasingly clear that his heart was not yours to mend.
You sighed again. At this point, you were sighing more often than breathing. "Thank you for this final, clear message that you take no pleasure in our" — Marriage? Partnership? It had never truly been either — "Contract. I will make my thoughts equally plain: I have one job in Greenwood. It is to be your wife and Queen. And in truth, it's a shitty job, but I'm going to do it as best as I can, Thranduil. I agree, our quarters are not ideal. I will move to a different part of the palace within the week."
Thranduil held your gaze. You cocked an eyebrow and stared back. You thought you saw another muscle in his jaw twitch, but you weren't sure. When he finally spoke, his tone was softer, almost gentle, which you had not expected. "I do not want to…put on a show..."
Your eyebrows shot up at that. You were done being lectured in your own study. "You purchased a fucking show, Thranduil. Now you're angry when it's performed for you? Fine. That's your choice, and I am happy to stop acting like this is a working partnership." You snorted and broke eye contact, reaching for your quill.
Head down, squinting at the parchment, you did your best to dismiss him. It had taken you an extraordinary amount of effort to say all of this to him for several reasons, and you could not look him in the eye any longer.
Firstly, fuck him for coming into your study, knocking books around, and talking too loudly after you both sat through an entrant for Arda's Most Boring Banquet award and smiled as his Queen was supposed to. King Amdír's son Amroth wasn't exactly the best conversationalist, and yet, converse you had with the obnoxious Silvan.
And you were feeling quite unappreciated at this moment, considering you'd also negotiated an agreement for open trade of leather goods from Amroth's father during the dinner. While Thranduil drank — a reminder that he is, at least, two glasses in — and muttered every time you stood near him at a respectful distance.
Secondly, this was the only time you had ever considered your relationship with Thranduil as a contract that he did not seem to understand.
You knew what was being exchanged. The elvenness of it all had been jarring at first, yes, but you learned from a young age you would enter a political marriage, and you had been raised for one. Binding your family and people to the largest local realm ruled by a nearly immortal being was a solid strategy to ensure your village's great-great-great-grandchildren would be protected and fed - and it was the equivalent of a brief, 10-year contract to someone like Thranduil. You had no qualms about this, and you entered the agreement with him with open eyes as equals.
Yet, you had not probed deeply into his understanding of it until today. Of what partnership meant to him. In any way.
Leaving behind a book he may find interesting? About a topic, if you recalled correctly — and you know you did — he discussed at dinner once and noted he wished to understand better.
That was too much after two years of knowing each other? Of knowing each other in any capacity? Even just as a member of his court, much less his wife?
If so, he had a very weak understanding of any kind of partnership, marriage or otherwise, and you truly had expected more from him.
Thirdly, you did not want to leave his chambers or stop asking how he was, or stop bringing him books he might like, or leaving notes about your day. As irritable and obnoxious and, honestly, unpleasant as Thranduil could be….
You found him endearing in those milliseconds he allowed himself to feel anything but anger. All together, he was many negative things, yes. But he was also protective of his family and his people, wise in how he negotiated relationships with neighboring kingdoms and the High Elves. He was well-read and, when he allowed himself to show it, he had this wonderful wit and charm that was…well, he was charming.
You had been charmed.
And over the last two years of this arrangement, you realized you wanted to be his wife in more than just a contractual sense. You think you've fallen in love with him. And you know you want him to want you in return.
But.
He just plainly stated that he did not want that. That he did not want you.
And if this is where you were, then this is where you were. Your options were limited, your contract signed, and your choices made. You had not expected to find love here. Confirming it was absent didn't change a damn thing, and at this point it did not sting. Your job was to negotiate contracts on behalf of Thranduil Oropherion, the Elvenking, and to attend events as his Queen.
That was it.
Leaving him books or being pleasant was not part of the contract you signed.
Your thoughts drifted aimlessly, landing on the question of how you would like your new chambers laid out — since a significant takeaway from this conversation was that spending time in the same room — palace — realm — continent — with you angered him.
The conjoined study layout here was not ideal. Thranduil had a tendency to shout profanities at his correspondence before replying in a more civil manner. You had grown accustomed to it — even smiling on occasion when he invented new ways to swear at Elrond or Celeborn — but perhaps it was best to avoid that distraction now that you were...
Well, if Thranduil isn't nearby, it doesn't matter if the rooms are conjoined or not.
With a small sigh, you noted that request with an asterisk to return to later.
You were halfway through the next line when you realized he had. not. moved. At all. Not even an inch. He was still staring at the top of your head as you wrote, long hair falling into the space between you.
Why? This conversation, much like your illusions of ever having a civil working relationship, was over. You set the quill aside gently as you looked up to meet his eyes. "Yes, Thranduil?"
"So, that is what it was, then?"
Furrowing your brow, you shook your head in confusion. "I don't... wait, what?" Your gaze met his. All the ice in his eyes had melted, but the rest of him moved stiffly as he leaned back, letting go of the desk.
"Fine."
He spun on his heel, hair flaring around him, and walked out.
"Fine!" you shouted after him, half rising from the desk to make sure it carried to the next room.
You weren't sure why you were shouting at him, but you'd make sure you'd be the one to shout last.
//
The next morning, you asked a courier to take your note to Thranduil requesting new chambers on the far side of the Halls. 'Note' was a generous term: it was a list of items for him to approve, signed with the first initial of your name.
Warm, it was not.
But the guard said he had been instructed "not to deliver messages to King Thranduil at this time, my lady. His Majesty requests your presence in the throne room."
You arched an eyebrow.
"Thank you for letting me know." You waved your hand to dismiss him as you turned back to your desk.
"Ah," he said softly, shifting his stance uncomfortably.
Thranduil. Are you familiar with an old saying from the lowlands? 'Bite my ass?' If not, then it is unlikely you're familiar with that phrase's cousin, 'Go fuck yourself.' I am happy to explain both to you, whether you want to learn or not.
"My Queen, I would be deeply honored to, um, guard you as you travel to the throne room," he ended weakly because guarding a queen while she walked in the safety of her own halls was a ridiculous thing to suggest.
Thranduil was doing something very stupid. You weren't sure what, exactly, but you could sense it.
"I appreciate your offer, Lieutenant, but I'm not going to the throne room today." Thranduil had, at least, taught you a few tricks for leadership. Or, more accurately, intimidation.
The young ellon looked very torn as if quickly repeating the hierarchy structures of Greenwood in his head and continually arriving at the conclusion that Thranduil was always at the top. "Your Maj—"
"You're dismissed, Lieutenant." Yes, Thranduil was at the top of all of those hierarchies. But you lay just beneath him.
…Well…not in every sense…
After one more glare in his direction, the guard left quickly.
So, you used the opportunity to take the scroll he would not deliver to Thranduil and went to look for Carasta, Thranduil's private secretary. Walking from your section of your chambers through Thranduil's, your goal was to get to Carsasta's work table on the far side of the suite. You would provide him with the list of your requests. If Thranduil didn't want to accept your request from Carasta, the most organized and pleasant elf you'd ever met in any realm, that was fine. You would find the nearest builder and take the walls down yourself, but you were not spending one more minute sharing your chambers with Thranduil than either of you wished to.
You rounded the corner and stopped suddenly. Thranduil was sitting on Carasta's desk. Sitting was the wrong term. Lounging.
"Hello, wife."
He was in dark, silvery robes without his crown, his long legs propped up against a chair. With a far-too-broad smile on his face.
Something stupid was happening.
"King Thranduil," you said, inclining your head.
"Melethnín," he said softly, his eyes going wide. "What brings you here? I hoped you would join me in the main hall."
My love? You cocked an eyebrow. "I'm leaving a note for Carasta regarding my chambers," you said evenly, reaching around Thranduil's long form to place the scroll on Carasta's desk. You didn't even want to guess how he made it from the throne room to Carasta's desk that fast.
Was he even in the throne room earlier, or did he know you'd ignore him?
"Ah, I am eager to read this," Thranduil said happily, picking up the scroll and opening it.
It took everything in you not to snatch it from him. Even though he had been the original recipient.
Icy eyes skimming your notes, he tsked loudly. "Ah, melethnín, this is not sufficient. Not at all! I would not have you move so far from our shared quarters. Mmm, no, we shall draft a new plan together. It is only right for a queen to have a full suite for her study and work, verinya."
My love. My wife.
So, something very stupid.
You sighed. "Thranduil. I am moving my chambers to the other side of the Halls."
He shook his head, his face the picture of innocence as he rolled up the scroll and hid it away in his robes — where, you didn't know because his robes were almost skintight. "I do not want you to leave our chambers."
"I'll write another request, king."
"I'll intercept it, queen."
"Thranduil."
"Melethnín."
A long pause.
"You asked me to leave you alone."
He shook his head firmly. "No, I said you were always here."
"You shouted that you wanted space."
He cocked his head, arrogance on his face, as silver hair cascaded over his shoulder. "I certainly did not. I acknowledge I raised my voice in an unrefined way, for which I truly apologize. But I did not demand space apart from you. And on either account, I find I have changed my mind, verinya ."
My wife.
"You will find I have not, veronya ." You spun on your heel and walked out.
You heard him raise his voice mockingly, calling, "I haven't interrupted your day, have I, my love?" at your back as you left.
"No. You're fine," you ground out loudly as you stalked away.
"Fine," came the muted reply from three rooms away.
//
Two months later, and Thranduil had not stopped yet, though his tone had grown less mocking, at least.
He came to you for every meal — and he managed to carry on many thoughtful conversations despite the one-word replies you often gave. He brought you books — frustratingly, the titles were interesting, and he had clearly listened to you at some point to pick them out. He came to ask you questions while you wrote letters and arranged new trade agreements — his comments were obnoxiously helpful and pertinent.
Thranduil seemed to think that acting pleasant toward you was a punishment of some kind.
And it was because it felt like a perverse game. He was showing you what you could have if you…if he….
Well, you weren't sure what. Something you could not have? He had been very clear. And, you knew he could be very petty.
Thranduil also seemed to be playing more than one game, particularly by calling you every pet name devised by Elves or Men — and you think you caught a Dwarven term of endearment or two in there as well, so clearly he was not aware of the origins of the term, or he never would have uttered it in his halls.
And yet, you did not know why he continued this game for so long. But you suspected the other shoe would drop at some point.
It was the second time that evening he had scooted his chair closer to yours, the two of you practically sharing a desk.
"May I recommend you revise? Perhaps to add another clause here — we can't be held responsible for orc raids. Transfer of ownership occurs when the wine leaves our barges, even if within our borders. I have spoken with Celeborn on this point already and told him it was not up for discussion." He tapped a long finger on the side of your paper and looked down, eyes crinkling as he smiled. "Don't let him go around us, melethnín."
He kept breaking your heart with this game, and you were done.
"Thranduil, stop."
The smile slipped from his face. "Ah. Of course. I'll leave you to it," he murmured gently, turning back to his side of the desk.
When did we pick sides of the same desk?
You sighed and stood, creating some distance between the two of you.
You were done. It was done now.
"You have made your point. I understand. You think it's suffocating. That I am suffocating. I understand. I understood this two months ago when you told me that you would remain married to me — unwillingly — if I left you alone. And I have moved to limit our interactions since then."
You held back a scream but did not manage to stop a snarl from escaping somewhere deep in your chest. "I will never send you a book ever again; on my oath to Varda and Manwë, I will never speak to you outside a royal function ever again. Please, just stop."
Thranduil stood as well, rising fluidly and pausing to gently place his chair under his half of the — under the desk. He was, well, patient as he turned to face you, a surprising softness in his eyes.
"I changed my—"
"— yes, Thranduil, you changed your damn mind about the damn rooms. I heard you. I have not changed mine. I am not asking you to alter our marriage contract. This is a small thing. I want to move to my own study — per your request — and I cannot understand why you have fixated on this so strongly."
He did not want you to leave this space. Yet he did not want you to stay in this space. No option was good enough for him.
You crossed your arms. You had seen him be petulant before, but two months? You finally met his gaze, and it was exactly what you were expecting. Anger splashed across his face, that one small muscle in his cheek that always twitched.
"Contract."
"Fine. Contract." You threw your hands up in frustration and started rummaging through the desk. "If you want to read the damn thing to ensure I'm following it, I'll tell you right now there are exactly zero requirements around—"
"Carasta's files are much more organized," Thranduil said icily.
You looked up, letting the papers in your hands scatter to the desktop. "Marry Carasta then, goddamnit. I don't care." You were so tired that it came out as a flat statement.
Taking a deep breath, Thranduil seemed to try again, looking for patience in himself you had never seen him find.
"I don't want to be married to Carasta," he said simply, managing to keep his voice steady. "I want to understand."
You furrowed your brow even more. He wasn't making sense.
"You aren't making sense."
A slight growl escaped him. "What is it that you want? You…I didn't understand what you meant by…" he huffed and managed to do so haughtily. "Was it a show or not?"
"Was what a show?" You looked around the room as if expecting to spot the audience, letting your hands drop to your legs in a clapping sound. "The only person complicating this is you. I have stopped reaching out, as you have asked. Why are you fighting—"
"So it was." He spun on his heel again.
Oh, I think the fuck not. You were absolutely not going to do this for another two months. You were a patient woman, but you had limits. Honestly, one limit. And you had reached it.
You snatched at his arm, grabbing a layer of his cape, which allowed him to walk several more feet before feeling any resistance.
"Stop. Oh, for fuck's sake, just stop."
"I am stopping," he replied through gritted teeth, hair swinging as he jerked his head to look at you. "I am done."
You imagined you heard the sound of the other shoe dropping on a marble floor somewhere far away.
You both stood still for a long moment, your hand holding the edge of his cape like an awkward flag between the two of you. His eyes were still white flame, staring into the distance, not meeting yours. The set of his shoulders and the jut of his chin said he wanted to argue again.
That he was feeling something.
Why? Done with what?
"What are you done with?"
Thranduil shrugged your hand off his cape and swept it dramatically behind him. "This. Because you...I thought you did not, and then I thought you did, and now it is clear my first impression was correct, and you do not. I have approached this incorrectly twice now. I will not attempt it a third. You have been clear."
You cocked your head at him. The two of you hadn't used a meaningful noun in quite some time during this argument. The negotiator in you knew that was the type of risk that had to be corrected immediately.
No one was ever on the same page the first time.
But you had a suspicion.
"Define 'this,'" you all but whispered.
"Absolutely not. I am done speaking of it. I will not allow you to mock me."
Your eyes narrowed. "I'm not mocking you; I'm asking you a question. We have strayed so far from the start of this conversation that I fear we are saying the same thing and don't know it."
He glared at you. "That can't—"
"Why has your behavior been so different the last two months?"
Thranduil shifted almost uncomfortably but managed to keep venom in his tone. "You indicated this is the behavior of those who are partners." A slight pause, his voice turning sullen. "Of husbands and wives."
It took all your focus not to move a single muscle in your face. "You indicated several times that you did not care for me to be your partner or your wife."
"Yes," he hissed, "But I changed my mind because I thought I had misunderstood before, and I do not know how to show that to you properly now."
Thranduil started pacing, his long legs turning the study into two, maybe three steps at most, before he spun again. His robes barely fit the space.
No. This— No. You felt a laugh somewhere deep in your chest, but you forced it down in case he misunderstood.
Which you both seemed to be doing often.
"Tell me, specifically, what you are trying to show me," you asked cautiously.
This was not a time for miscommunication. You would stay here the rest of your mortal life if needed, but you would walk out of this room knowing what the fuck he meant.
Because you thought you already knew.
He shook his head, silver hair glinting in the firelight.
"Thranduil."
He was still glaring at the hearth, nearly shaking in anger. But he hadn't left or slammed any doors, which was a good sign.
One of the first things you had learned about negotiating years ago when you first followed your uncle to his council meetings as a child was that the party who named an honest, earnest number first was on their back foot. Yes, it was possible to put out an offer first and still make more from it than expected or hoped for — and sometimes, offering first was both a wise and generous way to proceed — but generally speaking, it took extraordinary skill or luck to argue for more after naming the first number.
So, generally speaking, the party that moved first was not in a strong position.
Generally speaking.
But, you had an extraordinary amount of skill — that's why you were in this room. At the same time, you hadn't felt particularly lucky lately, but…you would still name a number first.
Fine.
"Melethnín."
That got him to turn with inhuman speed, his face a mask of rage. "I said do not mock me." His icy eyes locked with yours.
"I am not mocking you."
His brow furrowed. "Then why," he said quickly, crossing the study in two large steps to loom over you, "did you call me that?"
"Why," you challenged back, "have you called me that for the past two months?"
Thranduil's pale eyes had not yet left your face, inches away now, searching you for any hint that you were lying or mocking him. His gaze did not waver, and he finally leaned back, satisfied. "You do not know what it means. You are mocking me."
A harsh chuckle at that. "I know exactly what it means, and I am not mocking you." You put a hand on your hip at the implied insult that you, the goddamn Queen of the Elves of the Greenwood, wife of the Elvenking, did not know the most basic endearment your people use to address their spouses and children. "Well, correction, now I am mocking you…. you're questioning my understanding of vocabulary? Well, how good is your Khuzdul, again, Thranduil? Zigil’ûl is a Dwarven term of endearment; I'm surprised you deigned to use it."
He hadn't noticed "Silver Stream" was not in Westron?
His eyes softened, but still, anger flashed across his face as he stared down at you. "You have not answered why you are using an elvish term of endearment to refer to me."
You thought about pushing back. But something very fragile in his eyes made you pause. It felt like a risk, but…you were willing to name a second number.
Fine.
A sigh. "I used this Sindarin term because it's how I refer to you in my head."
Thranduil cocked his head, looking at you curiously now, some of his rage fading. "How good is —"
"— I am fluent in Sindarin. We speak it fifty percent of the time we are together instead of Westron. Stop it, Thranduil."
He did stop at that, at least for a moment, as thoughts started churning in his head. His pale eyes flicked around the room, looking at everything but you. A surprising sign of vulnerability from a king who would lock eyes with Manwë himself and never blink if given a chance. If able to take that chance by force.
"No." Thranduil shook his head again, still refusing to meet your gaze, speaking to your bookshelf. "No, I will not stop until I understand. You said I had purchased a performance and that you would stop performing it. You just looked for the contract to show me what you were required to do as my wife."
A pause as he turned his head toward you but stayed facing the other direction — ready to run.
"But, if your past behavior was a performance, then…I do not understand why you would call me melethnín in the privacy of your own mind, especially now," he ended with a noise between a sigh and an irritated groan, still not meeting your eyes.
Oh.
You saw the issue now. Thranduil thought you showed care for him in the last two years because it was what was expected of you.
A performance.
Not because you actually gave a damn about him as a partner or as a husband or even a person.
And then, you pulled back from him. Because he asked you to. Because he did not understand that caring about him was something you genuinely wanted to do. Enjoyed doing. Thranduil had not wanted to be part of a show because he….
He thought you were being cruel to him. As you thought he had been to you for the last two months.
He was that wrong for two years?
You looked up to meet his gaze. Thranduil hesitated, seeming to have the same revelation but finding himself much less confident in the outcome. "So, please explain it. Why would you call me your love today?" he asked again, his voice so soft you barely heard him.
Naming the third number in a row was too large of a request to concede, even for him. Even now that you understood. You needed some kind of assurance.
"A counter-question, first. Have the last two months been a performance on your part, Thranduil?" Some vulnerability entered your tone, too, though you wished it had not. "I will not allow you to mock me, either."
A pause. "The first two days were, yes."
You raised an eyebrow at that, but he met your gaze unflinchingly. "And then I found I…I preferred it. I enjoyed being closer to you and hearing your thoughts. And I noticed the quality of your contracts improved."
You crossed your arms. "Mmhmm."
Thranduil cocked his head, his eyes soft now, his tone surprisingly sweet and earnest. "So if you'll forgive those first few days, melethnín, then no, I have not been false with you in these past months." A brief hesitation. "Was it…Before. How you showed that you cared for me. Was that an act for you?"
You paused, considering carefully. "For the last two months, any modicum of patience I've shown in your presence has been an act. But no, nothing before the night…we last fought," you ended simply.
"Oh." A faint blush rose to his cheeks.
You both stood there, staring dumbly at each other.
Thranduil dipped his head in embarrassment. "It is rare, but I find even I need time to learn."
You nodded slowly. He was telling you that he had misunderstood. Maybe he was telling you he loved you. But he remained frustratingly vague.
You were struggling between the urge to kiss him or punch him. You tried to calculate your odds at both and concluded you'd need to do it in a specific order for it to work. Kiss first, then punch.
A knee to the groin was the only way he wouldn't see it coming until it was too late. But you also had a growing interest in that area…
No matter what you chose, you wouldn't be fast enough. Maybe while he slept.
"So, to summarize," you started slowly. And then your mouth shut gently. You opened it a few more times to speak, but nothing came out, so you stood there with your hand on your hip, moving your mouth like a fish.
The politician and jackass in Thranduil got there first. "To summarize, you have been in love with me since the day we met, and over the last two months, I've learned that there are certain merits to being the recipient of that love."
You felt your eyebrows shoot to your hairline, and your mouth fell open again.
The arrogance!
"The arrogance. Absolutely not. Revise it."
A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, but he remained silent. He was teasing you. You'd enjoy it thoroughly in any other context. "No, you do not get to be this way with me after all of that, Thranduil…"
The smirk grew as he leaned closer to you. "I will no longer answer to that name when you use it. You'll have to try another, melethnín."
Fine.
"Heconna." Bastard.
Thranduil raised an eyebrow at that one. "Fluent, indeed. But I have time. I can wait for you to find the correct term."
"Pellopë." Jackass.
The smirk never left his face. "Yes, we've established that you know and use words in both Sindarin and Quenya that most Eldar would blush to hear. I'm sure this vocabulary is useful when you swear at local merchants and drink in their bars — a very queenly activity."
Thranduil was still teasing you, and it was becoming harder to stop him. To want him to stop. He finally came close enough to snake his hands low around your hips, craning down at you, nothing but a blend of mischief and arrogance in his pale eyes. "Mmm, I'm happy to give you a hint, wife."
This was the most surprising day you had experienced since coming to Greenwood. And you were going to use it to your advantage as much as you could.
Too many things were still unspoken.
You shook your head and leaned back — gently, without leaving his arms. You still wanted him badly, and your resolve was weakening the more he leaned into you. Gods, he smelled good. "Absolutely not. Not until you revise it."
Thranduil sighed, his long fingers splayed across your lower back as he nudged you closer to his chest in return. "To summarize: Your caring behavior toward me was never an act or obligation on your part, and neither was mine. We seem to," he hesitated a beat, "Love each other, though we are quite ineffectual at speaking plainly with one another."
Thranduil reached out to tuck back a strand of your hair, his finger gently tracing the rounded shell of your ear as you fought to repress a shiver. "With this new understanding in mind, our marriage no longer needs to remain contractual alone if you wish to become closer. As I do." His fingers brushed against your face, trailing down your neck softly to trace your collarbone. His other hand kept you close against him. "Is this revision more to your liking, melethnín?"
You frowned, moving your hands to rest on his chest. "Yes. But you owe me an apology for more than the last two months."
"Yes," Thranduil agreed softly, his forehead coming to rest against yours. "Would you like me to begin reciting my long list of sins now? Or would you prefer we kissed instead? I have a rather clear preference, but," he shrugged over-casually. "I will make time for both."
You hesitated. "Both."
"Fine, verinya," he murmured, gently tilting your face up.
"Fine, veronya," you whispered back against his lips.