Snow After Fire
"So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings."
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit
The Elf King of Mirkwood knows of the wrath and ruin of dragons. But when it came time to slay the last of the Northern drakes, he learned of some more intimate details. Ones he intended to take with him to the grave…
A daunting task, to say the least, for an immortal being.
These memories haunted him more often during the winter, when the skies were grey and the stars faint. Misfortune had a tendency to befall him when the mental barriers he'd built over the day fell away during sleep. When a pale hand parted the veil of reality and transported him back to those snow-covered fields tainted with burning blood.
"Amin ithil." A silky voice would whisper in the darkness of his chambers. "Im gelir ceni ad lín."
The honeyed words made the proud king jolt awake, heart racing as his sharp eyes scoured the room for signs of an intruder. There was only one creature who would not rue the moment it referred to the ruler of the Woodland elves as my moon. Only one who would think that it was a pleasure to see him again, despite the fact that he would not return the sentiment. Would not admit to it, at least.
Exhaustion would again take hold of his senses. And his torture manifested itself in a manner he had not experienced in a long, long time.
With silver eyes.
That glistened like starlight.
"Why do you come to me like this?" he asked desperately, for the creature straddling his supine figure was as riveting as she was nude.
"This is my natural form." She replied softly, guiding his hands to the prominences of her hip bones.
In truth, he knew that it was not. Her other form was far more terrifying… and magnificent. But the way his blood simmered within ancient veins made it impossible to argue. Though how he wished it were true.
"And what of my… attentions?" Sighed Thranduil, for she had sifted a hand through the length of her pale hair. Knowing too well of the effect it had upon the elf. "This union is not natural."
"Is your son not natural?" she drawled, spreading her hand over his trembling abdomen.
His mouth parted, then closed. He had no reason to lie to a figment of his dreams.
"He strong-willed." He muttered, sitting up amid the covers to caress her cheek. "Like his mother."
Her smile could sear through his flesh. Not unlike her fire.
"I am glad." She told him, closing her eyes as she kissed his palm.
He felt her shift, and immediately raised his other hand to grip her forearm.
"Where are you going?"
She laughed at his concern before answering, "To kiss you, fool."
And then she did. Fiercely and wholly – her warm body flush against his as her mouth worked violently to subdue that of the Elven King. A challenge that he met with equally ravenous desire.
"The dawn is coming." She whispered hoarsely, hands slipping beneath his robes to trail across the rich musculature beneath them. He knew that she was warning him. Encouraging him to make the most of a torture that might never come again.
"There is still much time," he moaned against her neck, tracing her curves with his hands. "And so much to do until the garish sun awakens."
The dragon had won the argument, Thranduil knew, but he would win the next battle. And if he awakened with regret...
So be it.
A/N: Not intending for this to be a one-shot, but I'll likely only continue based on feedback and whether or not the premise is well-received. And if I have time/motivation.
Legolas' mother is a mystery in lore, and I'm horribly attracted to Thranduil on many levels. And dragons... who isn't attracted to them?