‘You are more of a headache than you are worth,’ Thranduil says with a sigh at the sight of the young Dwarcen prince sprawled in his bed, joyously drunk on Dorwinion and flushed with arousal and boldness. He makes a tempting picture, half-naked on top of the linens, his body shaped into a thing to admire by training and discipline his people so gladly employ.
Inviting him along with the Ereborian delegation to the festivities in the Woodland Realm might have been a mistake.
'You want me,’ Thorin claims, unabashed, staring straight at the Elvenking.
He is not incorrect, although Thranduil is quite certain that the desire he feels for the prince does not show on his person. But oh, how he desires to touch, to spread that body beneath him, to take Thorin as his own and to be claimed in return! Yet he remains steady in his resolve. He will not give in to such carnal urges.
Not when the prince is so young and so clearly intoxicated. The Elvenking would never take advantage of one who in the culture of his kin is not yet old enough to stop being thought of as a child.
'You should sleep,’ Thranduil says with an air of finalty about it.
Thorin rolls his eyes and grumbles something undoubtedly derogative, but he offers no other protest before sliding under the covers for warmth. He is asleep in minutes.
Thranduil meets Thrain in the halls some time later and when the crown prince enquires as to the whereabouts of his son, the Elvenking sees no reason to withhold the ibformation. Clearly, he has not known enough about Dwarvish customs, he soon learns, because Thrain’s face first appears shocked, then goes through a myriad of emotions vaguely connected to each other before settling on conemplative.
'I am certain my father the King will agree with me as I accept your honourable proposal,’ he says in a manner far too official for a chance meeting in a hall in the late night hours.
Thranduil is not a small amount confused.
'What proposal?’ He asks.
'Why, your marriage proposal, O Elvenking Thranduil, my friend. Have you not taken my son, the prince and heir of Erebor, to your bed?’ Thrain replies cheerfully.
'I allowed him to sleep there,’ Thranduil admits in mild alarm.
'And in doing so, you have inquired for his hand in marriage. Were you to, ah, have a tumble with him and then send him to his own bed, now that would have meant nothing in the end. But you do have honour, Master Elf, and so his hand in marriage you shall receive like you ask,’ Thrain explains.
Thranduil decides Dwarves in general are ridiculous. He also really has a headache now.
When Thorin awakens, he’s sore all over. His head is a mess of pain and his throat is on fire. He is also on the floor in front of his designated chamber. He gets up groggily and finds that there is a note stuck to his forehead. He takes it and reads the contents in elegant Elvish cursive.
“ Do not come near my bed again. By the way, the engagement period for Elves is at least a hundred years. This period is of course devoid of any carnal pleasures to be enjoyed in each other or another’s company. I will agree to shorten it to half a century, but I do expect to be heartily courted and showeted with gifts to adhere to both your tradition and mine. I enjoy white gems and silver gold. Yours truly - Thranduil Oropherion, King of the Woodland Realm.”
What in Durin’s beard even happened last night?