Bound by Duty

by a_sweet_potato

Summary:

As part of a negotiation to forge an alliance between the elves and a dwarves, a marriage pact was struck between the two races. Durin, freshly fallen from his father’s favour and stripped of his title as heir to the throne, was the prime candidate to be wed to Elrond, who volunteered on behalf of the elves. The two get off to a rocky start, made worse as Elrond discovers the elves' motives for the arrangement may not be as innocent as they may seem. But soon found themselves facing more trouble than they had anticipated from a simple political alliance. Forced to set their initial animosity aside to work together against greater foes, trust and love comes to grow between them.

Notes:

Full disclosure: author has raging ADHD and way too much going on in life right now, so updates may be sparse. The entire fic is fully plotted out, so it's highly unlikely to be abandoned, but I cam incapable of following a fixed update schedule and have a tendency to drop off the face of the earth for short periods of time. Sorry.

Chapter 1: Durin

Prince Durin the Fourth stood next to the throne of his father, the King, not bothering to keep the scowl from his face. 

The throne room was packed out. Dwarf lords of Moria were stood on either side of the tall stone pavilion carved into the heart of the mountain, one between each torch pillar lining the centre walkway. Behind them stood counsellors, warriors, miners, servants, crowding the edges of the hall. On the other side of the throne stood Durin’s brother, Farin, the Crown Prince’s neckpiece glistening on his chest. Every so often, the flickering of firelight caught the gold neckpiece in just the right way, and a flash would settle into Durin’s eyes, taunting him.

It had only been weeks since that particular neckpiece had been ripped off of him. Sometimes, when he stood still, he could still feel the ghost of his weight on him, and he still hadn’t quite gotten used to the eerie lightness that lingered when he turned his head. When he was first disinherited by his father in the heat of the moment following a particularly intense disagreement, he thought it was simply the old man’s temper, and he needed to wait a few nights for the heat to blow over. But the next day he had found Farin sporting the familiar heirloom, and it was like a boulder had dropped from his throat through his stomach, and into his guts. 

Still he had held out hope that this was all a ruse to scare him straight, and that when things had settled and King Durin had found an excuse to rescind the title from his brother and restore his birthright. You know how yer father gets, Narvi, his father’s counsellor, had told him, give him time, he’ll come round. 

But if the deal hadn’t been sealed before, it certainly was now, as he found out that he was being sold like some broodmare. 

A horn blast, and the sound of marching, like the rusting of leaves through the woods, except more crisp and precise. Narvi lead the party of elves through the great stone gates to the hall, their lithe forms towering over the tallest warrior they had more easily than Durin was comfortable with. Could still probably snap them like a twig, he thought sourly to himself.

The elves had reached out a few moons ago, looking to contract the dwarves in the construction of a new forge in the realm of Eregion, not far from the mountains of Moria. Additionally, they wanted to consolidate an alliance between the two peoples, to secure the guarantee that the dwarves would pledge their army to the elves’ causes when they needed it. Why, and why now, Durin did not quite understand, as they were living in peaceful, uneventful times after the conclusion of the War of Wrath, and he didn’t like the impression that the elves seemed to be gearing up for something and involving his people in something they couldn’t see coming. 

His father had been cautious, as well. But the elves laid it on thick, sweetening the terms with promises of supplies, trade, aid for expansions and fortifications, and returning the pledge of their army. Eventually the benefits of short-term gain had won out against the burden of an unseen, long-term commitment that had not yet reared its head. But he wanted guarantee of the promises the elves were making, given the nature of the terms that were struck. Eventually, the parties agreed on a marriage pact as a solution both had found acceptable, and Durin had been the natural choice on their part.

Marriage to an elf, with no chance of starting a family, no chance of having heirs of his own, even if he worked his way into his father’s grace now, he would be unlikely to restore his inheritance, without means of continuing the royal line.

This really was his life now.

As the elven party drew closer to the front of the room, his father the King made to stand from the throne, holding both his arms out by way of welcome. Durin studied members of the group, stubbornly refusing to let any form of anticipation or nervousness grow. He did not care, Durin firmly reminded himself. This was simply a petty, cruel move made by his father to utterly dismantle his life, and the outcome would be the same no matter which elf he was to be bound to. It made no difference whatsoever. 

At the head of the party was a tall, imposing elf with long dark hair, clad in golden robes. A golden circlet rested upon his brow, moulded like a braid of branches, down to the fine veins that ran across the surface of each leaf. Their King. Durin’s eyes passed over him quickly, and scanned the remaining small handful of elves that now stood behind him, each one of them having the potential to be his betrothed. 

Two elf maidens with golden hair, partially tied back in intricate braids resembling circlets. One of them stood tall and proud, a firm, serious look in her eyes. The other had a softer demeanour, a gentle smile resting on her lips. In the next row, a dark haired elf maiden — shorter, slightly stouter by elven standards but only just. Next to her stood a young-looking elf lad with shoulder-lengthen jet black hair to match hers. 

That was as far as Durin’s survey had gotten when the elven King’s booming voice spoke up to address his own father. 

“King Durin. Thank you for your most kind and warm reception. We are excited for this budding new chapter of cooperation and connection between our peoples.” 

Beside him, Durin’s father grunted. The eleven King, unfazed, continued. Holding out his right arm in one sweeping gesture, the party parted and an elf stepped out from the back of the party, walked through the path that had been cleared for him, flanked by fellow elves on other sides, and came to stand besides his King. 

Durin had missed the particular elf during his initial scan, as he had been tucked away at behind his companions. He started at him intently now. The elf looked young — though he could never tell with elves, all of them clean shaven, with skin as pale and smooth as a dwarven newborn’s butt cheek, but he looked, at the very least, significantly younger than the elven King by comparison. He didn’t keep his hair long like most elves Durin had seen seemed to do. Instead, a shock of brown curls lay atop his head, the tips of a pair of pointy ears peeking through. Absentmindedly, Durin wondered if they are as soft as they looked, then mentally kicked himself for such childish, ridiculous thoughts. Instead, he turned his attention to the elf’s robes, which were cotton white and plainer than what the other elves were wearing, with the only details a layered feathered motif upon each shoulder, running down the very top of the sleeves. A light teal clock ran down his back, fastened at his neck with a brooch in the shape of a star.

“May I present Elrond,” the elven King’s booming voice jerked Durin out of his observations. Beside him, the elf — Elrond — ducked his head into a shallow bow. “Son of Eärendil the Mariner and Elwing the White. Descended from the lines of the Vanyar, Teleri, and Noldor, as well as all three great houses of the Edain, Elrond has served as my herald for many centuries.” 

The statement took Durin off guard. Centuries. But of course — elves were practically immortal, he reminded himself. It must have been why they so readily agreed to the marriage pact, he thought bitterly. He was now bound to one of them for life, but it would be nothing but a blink in the life of the elf, on the grand scale of things. He would simply sit around reaping the benefits of their alliance, wait to outlive Durin, and simply move on. Durin’s scowl deepened. This was simply not fair. 

“Elrond is expertly learned in history and art, and a master with words and managing state affairs. He is much excited to integrate into your culture and pioneer growing the relationship between our peoples. I have no doubt he will become a great asset for you here in Khazad-dûm.”

Blushing, Elrond bowed his head again, and offered a shy smile to no one in particular. Durin resisted the urge to roll his eyes, seeing right through the demure act. His father grunted again next to him.

Suddenly, Elrond’s gaze shot up to Durin, making the latter jump a little. His wide eyes were startlingly grey, Durin begrudgingly noted, the firelight dances in them, sparkling. Once again Durin couldn’t help but feel that there was an inexplicable kind of beauty about him. Shaking his head to lose the thought, Durin fixed the elf with a glare. Elrond did not break his gaze, nor did he return Durin’s aggressiveness. Instead, he simply kept holding eye contact, looking at him with a neutral expression tinged with a hint of softness. Slowly, deliberately, Elrond cocked his head ever so slightly to one side. An irrational discomfort of embarrassment passed over Durin. Inexplicably, he felt mocked. Pointedly, he looked away.

“You and your party are most welcome, High King Gil-Galad of Lindon.” His father’s voice rung in his ear. “Please, allow us to provide you with chambers to rest and recover after your journey, before our feast for tonight. Let it not be said beyond our realm that dwarven hospitality has been found lacking.” He let out a hearty chuckle, reciprocated awkwardly by the eleven King. 

Farin, his brother, has been tasked with showing King Gil-Galad to his chambers. Narvi was given the rest of the accompanying party of elven lords, ladies, and maids. Elrond, unsurprisingly, had been directed to Durin with the instruction that he was to be taken to the room prepared for him, away from the guest quarters, as he was to be staying long-term. 

Not waiting to see if Elrond was following, Durin marched out the phone room, crossing a stone bridge over a deep chasm. 

He’d only just moved into the new quarters himself, having to free up the room designated for the Crown Prince to his brother after their recent shift in positions. His new chambers weren’t bad — almost as big as his old ones and came equally decked out in furniture and decorations. Not that he had ever cared about this sort of thing in life, but he had been grateful that the change in rooms minimised his further humiliation. It was located a few living blocks down from his old one, which had been close to his father’s bedchambers in the royal quarters. In some ways, he was even grateful for the added distance between him and his father, easing the discomfort from the tension between their relationship somewhat. That was where Elrond’s new assigned room was to be as well, the chamber down from his and conjoined by a shared bedroom in the middle and a passageway leading to individual, private quarters on each side, as was custom.

Behind him, he’d heard light strides, almost inaudible over his own loud stomps on the stone flooring. Soon enough an outline appeared at his side, and Durin was mildly annoyed to find that Elrond’s long strides were easily keeping pace with Durin’s furious marching. 

“Your home is a beautiful place, very fascinating. I have read about the intricacies of dwarven architecture, of course. How your people sound the mountains and literally carve around the load bearing columns. It is as if building in reverse, using negative space. It is ingenious.” Beside him, Elrond had started rambling enthusiastically, not even sounding slightly out of breath from the walking when Durin himself was trying not to pant. He rolled his eyes, which did not deter Elrond in the slightest. He chattered on. “I am most excited to learn more about this. And all about your culture as a whole, especially your language. I have studied languages before, of course, but Quenya and Sindarin are closely related languages. Even Westron has distant elvish influences. Khuzdul, however, is so etymologically distinct—”

“We are alone, you can drop the act.” Reaching the limit of his tolerance, Durin finally interrupted Elrond gruffly. There was a pause, and momentarily Durin worried if he had offended his guest, before reminding himself that he did not care and that was, to some extent, the goal.

“I beg your pardon?” When Elrond finally replied after only a short beat, his voice had been light and easygoing as before, with no sign of offence taken.

Frustrated, Durin tried a blunter approach. “How’d you get roped into this, anyway?” He asked.

Elrond blinked. “I offered. It was an honour to play a central role to what will perhaps be the most important alliance of our age, plus an excellent opportunity to learn more about dwarven culture first-hand. As I mentioned, I have always been most fascinated by your unique history.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Durin said dismissively. “So, what? They just hand over any elf who fancies themselves a bit of a field trip? We at least took this pact seriously. Doesn’t yer king have any heirs for this sor’ of thing?”

If Elrond was hurt by what Durin had fully intended to be a jab, he once again didn’t let it show, plastering his face with a diplomatic smile that made Durin’s teeth itch. “High King Gil-Galad does not have any children of his own, no.” He explained amicably, as if to a child, “as his herald, I am as close to an heir as he has got. Rest assured, Prince Durin, we hold this treaty is the highest regard. In fact, on some views I have a stronger claim to the throne than he.”

The final sentence came accompanied by a breathy laugh, clearly meant to be in taken in jest. Still, it made Durin turn his head to gape at Elrond. If he dared utter such a treasonous thing in Khazad-Dûm, he’d have gotten in big trouble. Well, bigger trouble than he was currently in, anyway. And he was kin to the King. For anyone else without such privilege of status, it’d have meant certain banishment. Still, Elrond has looked entirely unfazed, engrossed in turning his head in all directions, bright-eyed, soaking up the new environment with a thirsty curiosity like a dwarf child’s first trip to the overground. 

“Why’d you not take it then?”

“I have no wish to rule.” 

Oh, the irony. Durin swallowed down a bark of laughter. “And being married off to a dwarf like a pawn is your life’s dream instead, is it?” He said, not quite bringing himself to care about how bitter he sounded.

For a while, Elrond was silent. Just as Durin thought that he had finally managed to crack him and broken down his pretences, however, the diplomatic smile returned to his face as he turned to look at Durin, sincere as can be, eager, polite. “It is a great opportunity for both our peoples, and I am glad to be a part of it.” 

Durin wanted to growl, but he was realising more and more by the second that he cannot show Elrond his true position on this. Not only will he jeopardise any chances of clawing his way back to his father’s good graces if he’d let the elves get a whiff that he wasn’t committed to this alliance, but it would give Elrond far too much power and leverage over him. He had hoped that the elf may be his ally in this may detest this duty as much as he did — as he didn’t imagine they harboured any more love for the dwarves as the dwarves did them — and they could negotiate a mutually beneficial arrangement. But Elrond was good, far too good. Durin couldn’t get a read on his true feelings about this at all, with the elf saying all the right things and behaving perfectly diplomatically. And before he could be sure of Elrond’s true intentions, Durin could not trust him. 

“Though you’ll have another shot at it after I die, I suppose. It won’t matter much to you, these next couple decades.” He said sourly, going for the trump card.

No response came from next to him this time, and Durin took small triumphs where he can get it. Deeming himself as the winner of this particular conversation, he rounded a corner to come up to the carved stone archway which marked the entrance to what would become him and Elrond’s marital home. 

Chapter 2: Elrond

“Are ye lost, lad?” A booming voice called out from behind him. Elrond whipped around.

He had been wandering aimlessly around the complex bridges of Khazad-dûm for the better half of the morning now, having woken up alone and with Durin nowhere in sight of their semi-shared quarters. His relationship with his betrothed had not come along as smoothly as he had hoped, but Elrond was not going to let that put a damper on his mood, sticking to his plan of soaking up as much of dwarven culture, and integrate into dwarven society society as quickly as he could. The impromptu stroll had been a part of said plan. 

Technically speaking, he wasn’t lost, for there was nowhere he’d intended to be. Still, he couldn’t find his way back to anywhere useful, not being accustomed to identifying the nuanced difference between the winding rock tunnels and stone hallways, not to mention the staircase to different levels doing his head in. So he smiled to the dwarf now walking towards him, and ducked his head into a single nod.

“I’m afraid so.” He replied amicably.

“Has my brother not given ye a tour proper yet?”

“Your brother?” Elrond scrunched up his brows, momentarily confused. Then his eyes fell upon the golden neckpiece upon the dwarf’s breast, and realised who this must be. He shared Durin’s thick head of auburn hair and bushy beard to match, and the area around the eyes radiated a sense of familiarity to Elrond, despite him having known Durin only briefly. He was of leaner build, however, at least by dwarven standards, though that was still very stout for an elf like Elrond. He bowed slightly, correcting his oversight, “of course, my apologies, your highness.”

“Augh, Farin, please.” The Crown Prince waved a hand dismissively, grinning broadly.

“Farin.” Elrond echoed, “well met.”

“Come, I’ll show ye around before I return ye to yer chambers.” Farin beckoned, marching off towards one end of the of the bridge they were on, back the way he had come from. 

They headed down a flight of stairs and through a semi-enclosed structure that was somewhere between a walkway, corridor, and tunnel. Emerging from the other end Elrond found himself gazing at a large open atrium, tall and vast enough to contain whole complexes and buildings, trees and pastures layered beneath the walkway they were standing on. Beyond where they were standing, architecture dotted around the caverns, stacked on top of each other in intricate arrangements, fitting in impossibly much but without imparting an ounce of claustrophobia. Sunbeams mixed with flickering torchlight, and the whole place was alit in a dim, comforting hue.

Elrond couldn’t help but suck in a breath of awe. He had passed the place on his way in with the rest of his party, and the scale of it had hit him then. But they had walked on quickly, keeping pace with the dwarven diplomat who’d been focused on guiding them to the King, and he had been far too anxious, and bloated with anticipation, anyhoo to truly take in the full extent of dwarven architecture like he was able to now. It was very different to Lindon, and Elrond wondered how he would feel about that when the haze of nerves and novelty has worn out. Currently, however, he couldn’t quite tell, being still too excitable at the prospect of his new life. 

“Not half bad, eh?” Beside him, Farin chuckled heartily. Elrond suddenly realised that he had been gaping, wide-eyed, mouth slightly ajar, at the scene before him. He quickly closed his mouth in embarrassment, flushing slightly. 

“It is beautiful.” Elrond gushed earnestly, “a true feat of engineering. The way you harness the sunlight, especially, and how they fall on the crops. I’d never even heard of something like it before, much less seen it.”

“It’s a close-guarded secret among our people, aye. Generations of stone-singers have resonated these walls, and a network of mirrors are set up within the tunnels above,” Farin gestured up at the skylight, which were so high up in the huge atrium that it seemed as out of reach as the sky would be from the surface of the ground, “to direct the beams exactly where we need it. The craft is passed on through oral teachings alone, you’ll find no writings on it, for fear of it falling into the wrong hands. But of course, you’re no outsider anymore, eh?”

At this, Farin shot him a cheeky wink. It was a charming gesture, but Elrond was no stranger to the intricacies of politics, as he was sure Farin was not either. This was a test, his instincts told him immediately. 

“It gladdens me to hear you think so, Prince Farin.” He said, dodging the question diplomatically with an easy smile. The Prince’s grin did not falter, but his gaze lingered on Elrond for just a split second, almost imperceptibly, before he turned around and started walking along the wide bridge that ran along the length of the cavern. 

They wound through the intricate web of passageways, up and down flights of stairs and weaving in and out of tunnels, walkways, corridors. Farin kept up a running commentary, pointing out the living quarters, nurseries and schools, forges and entrances to the mines. Elrond’s head was beginning to spin slightly. He had a reasonably good sense of direction, and a great memory from his years of studies, but the added dimension of going up and down defeated his navigational skills. It didn’t help that not everything was accessible on one level, and sometimes they needed to get to another level to continue in a certain direction. It also didn’t help that the mountain was sectioned off by walls with tunnels through them, so there was no clear view of the entire structure of the city. Elrond told Prince Farin as much, who nodded sympathetically.

“Ye’ll want to start by memorising the route to the main places,” the dwarf Prince advised, “feast hall, throne room, exit gate, from your quarters. These will follow the widest and grandest walk-bridges, so when in doubt, so just look for that if you’re ever lost. Then when you settle in you can expand the skeleton route in yer mind and note where they branch onto other places.”

“That makes a lot of sense, thank you.” Elrond accepted the advice sincerely.

“No worries, every dwarven child has been there.” Farin teased, shooting him another cheeky grin which made Elrond blush. He couldn’t tell if he was being patronised or if this was just the dwarven way of banter and friendliness. Keen on fitting in, he decided to give Farin the benefit of the doubt, and smiled back good-naturedly. 

“I suppose I’ll have to start studying your language, too, like every dwarven child.” Taking the opportunity, Elrond segued onto a subject that had been pressing on his mind. Learning Khuzdûl had been something he was most excited about when it came to this arrangement. Dwarves had an extensive history and folklore that was almost, if not entirely, on par with the elves, and it had been rarely translated or exported due to the way the race had fiercely guarded their culture. The thought of gaining access to this huge chunk of knowledge, be it through reading or conversing with the residents of Khazad-dûm, and being one of the few outside the dwarven race to do so, was tantalising to Elrond. 

“I have made a start, of course, from a few scraps of scrolls I’d found lying around,” Elrond took care to leave out that they’d been inherited from his once-foster father, Maedhros, “but my pronunciation is likely wholly shameful.”

For a split second, Elrond thought he saw a flicker of surprise across Farin’s face. But it had been so quickly reigned in by the Prince that he wondered if he had been imagining it in his paranoia. 

“I don’t imagine you’ll need to, all dwarves are taught the Common Speech and are fluent. You should’t run into any problems with that here.”

“Of course, I have no doubts. However, I would love to demonstrate my commitment to this pact, not to mention I want to pull my weight around here and actively contribute to Khazad-dûm, knowing the language would allow me to be more useful. I want to be of service to the city and your family, Prince Farin.” Elrond supplied readily. Ever the diplomat, he had rehearsed this spiel carefully before embarking on the journey here, anticipating that he would likely meet resistance in receiving Khuzdûl tuition, and that wanting to learn their most closely-guarded histories would likely not be taken as a compelling reason to convince the people involved that he should be allowed to. 

In all fairness, it had not been entirely a lie. He was eager to showcase his worth. While he understood that between the two kings, this marriage pact had been nothing but a symbolic gesture to be held over the other party, but privately Elrond had something much more in mind when he volunteered himself for the job. For one, he would never allow himself to be reduced to some trophy to be paraded around and not expected to contribute in any substantial way. For another, he believed that if he could demonstrate the virtues of his race, he could break down the distrust and animosity between their peoples, and encourage a genuine relationship of cooperation and friendship rather than the begrudging one that their treaty had secured presently. Though he’d kept this motive hidden even from his King and fellow elvish lords involved in the negotiation of the pact, worried that he would be called naive, or worse, have his loyalties come under question. 

“I see.” The excuse seemed to go over well enough with Farin, though he still sounded on reluctant. Nevertheless, he relented, much to Elrond’s delight. “Well, I have some old books lying around from when my Gerda and Gamli were learning their letters, that’ll be a good place to start. I’ll have a guard drop them off at yours later today.”

“That is very kind of you, it is much appreciated.” 

Farin waved a hand, acknowledging Elrond’s gratitude. “But of course, the best way to learn is through conversation. Yer in the heart of dwarven culture now, go speak to people. Yer husband, for a start.”

“Not my husband yet.” Elrond retorted in jest, the light tone and smile masking the way the subject brought down his mood almost instantly. 

Durin had barely talked to him all of the previous afternoon and evening, after their initial conversation on the walk to their chambers. After he’d dropped off Elrond in his chambers, he’d disappeared somewhere until the welcome feast, when he’d reappeared in the doorway and gruffly called for Elrond before marching him over to the feast hall without any attempt at striking up a conversation. Afterwards, they’d returned to their quarters with only a few clipped exchanges regarding the sleeping arrangement and time for breakfast the next day, before Durin slunk off into his own chambers. Good night, Elrond had called out as the door between their bedrooms clicked shut unceremoniously.

Thankfully, his joke was rewarded with a hearty chuckle, and Elrond was not questioned further on how his relationship with Durin had been coming along. Instead, Farin clapped him on the back, just above the small of his waist.

“Come, one last place I wanted to show ye.” The Prince said, before speeding up along the path they were travelling down.

After having wound through several more twists and turns in the mountain, Elrond having long given up on trying to remember the way in which they were going or building up a sense of direction around here. I’ll have all the time in the world to get there, bit by bit, he excused himself. Finally, they squeezed through a particularly tight of tunnels where Farin had to angle himself almost sideways to get past, and Elrond, though slender enough, had to duck down low to fit the height of the passage. Emerging on the other side, Elrond couldn’t help but gasp audibly again. 

The very rock of the mountain had cracked open. Sunlight poured down from the skies directly overhead, lighting up the mist in the air that was spraying from the massive waterfall which seemed to appear out of nowhere above ground, and disappear back into nowhere into the depth of the caverns below. On the sides of the rock face, thick moss and small twiggy saplings grew, painting the inside of the mountain green. Cool droplets brushed Elrond’s skin, as if a veil drooped over his face. He closed his eyes, savouring the sensation while the roar of the falling water thundered in his ears. 

When he opened his eyes again, he looked over at Farin, who was grinning broadly up at him. Water beaded on his thick hair and beard, glistening in the sunlight. “Not bad, eh?” He asked, voice slightly more raised than before to compensate for the sound of the waterfall.

For the first time since he first entered Khazad-dûm, and perhaps even longer before then, Elrond had felt genuinely delighted. “Now I’m regretting not paying attention to the route here,” he gushed, returning Farin’s wide smile with one of his own, awestruck, “I’d love to come here every day, if I could.”

“Just ask Durin to take ye. We used to come play all the time when we were wains, before our mam got paranoid about us falling into the cavern.” Farin said, rolling his eyes affectionately. 

Thinking of Durin had put a damper on Elrond’s mood once again. This time, the wondrous sight must have been so disarming, and his thoughts so preoccupied with it, that he had forgotten to put on his careful, diplomatic mask, and instead let his face fall slightly. Farin, ever the attentive Prince, caught the change in an instant. His own expression fell, and became suddenly more serious. He turned his head back to the scenery in front of him, not looking directly at Elrond when he spoken again after a hesitant pause.

“Listen… the business with Durin… It’s not you.” He sighed.

Elrond’s brows furrowed, his attention instantly perking. “How do you mean?”

“I don’t imagine he’ll have told you this, but he’s recently had a fight with our father about… well, doesn’t matter now. Point is, he was stripped of his title, you see. Before that, he was heir to the throne. He’s my elder brother. ” 

The revelation hit Elrond like a gut punch. It explained so much about Durin’s attitude towards him, which he had just previously chalked up to dwarven animosity, and the general impression he got that Durin hadn’t exactly consented to the marriage. This added a new layer of nuance to the situation, however, as Elrond could imagine that the finality of being married off to some elf for life, without the chance of bearing heirs, would essentially seal this fate with no chance of reversing his sentence. He remembered suddenly remembered their conversation from the day before, and his comment about his claim to the elven throne, and cringed inwardly, wondering if he’d made things worse between them inadvertently. 

“I… didn’t know that.”

“Aye, well,” Farin continued, shrugging slightly, “you can imagine why he ain’t thrilled about this arrangement that was thrust upon him by father. He thinks it’s being rubbed in his face, now, sealing his fate.”

Of course, no dwarf married to an elf would ever be named heir to the throne, even if he got back in his father’s good graces again. “I see.” 

“I do hope he’ll come round eventually, but, as I said, lad, it’s not on you. Come, I’ll return ye to your quarters before I head off to the meeting with my father.” He turned around, making to leave. Elrond followed, subconsciously beginning to chew on his lips before he caught the old habit resurfacing, and willed himself to stop. 

Farin’s words weighed on him as they wound their way back into the busy city centre inside the mountains, preoccupying Elrond with contemplation over taking in the sight around him. It wasn’t just its content, although that shone a new light on the prospects of his relationship with Durin, but he also wondered why Farin had chosen to disclose this. Was it a warning, a well-meaning consolation, or something less amicable — a gloat or a taunt, intimidations, or was he simply making sure that Elrond knew his place around here? Did Farin seek him out specifically to tell him this? What implications did this have on the status of their treaty?

He gave his head a light shake, banishing the thought. He was surely being too paranoid, he chided himself privately. Farin had been nothing but kind to him, the first friendly face he’d seen since arriving in this place. Between the tenseness between him and Durin, and the pressure of assimilating into a completely new environment and culture, with the interests of the elven race resting on his success, was making him on edge, and seeing challenges where there weren’t any. 

By the time the streets and architecture became familiar again — now that he could at least distinguish the layout of his abode from the rest of Khazad-dûm — Elrond had resolved to put this new information out of mind unless it became necessary to do otherwise. He would not be dissuaded from trying his best to get Durin to warm up to him, even if, by the sounds of it, the odds were stacked against him. Failing that, he would resort to gaining the trust and approval of other members of the royal family, having already made a headway with Prince Farin. He’s had to prove his worth many times before, this would be no different.

“Ye good to find your way back from here?” Farin’s voice lifted Elrond from his thoughts. He looked up, blinking, and realised they were at the entrance to the compound in which his chambers were located. He nodded absently, mustering a polite smile. “Aye, well, I best be off to my father’s council meeting.” 

Before he could say anything, the Prince had already made to leave. After a few strides, however, he turned back to Elrond, still rooted to the spot, looking slightly lost. “Listen… if ye need anything while yer here, or if my brother is being a stubborn git and ye need me to come knock some sense into him… just let me know, aight? I’m always around, very hard to miss.” 

Farin flashed him another lopsided smirk and a wink, and Elrond couldn’t help but smile back, despite the knot in his stomach. 

“Thank you, Prince Farin.” He said earnestly.

Once again, Farin waved a hand, “Farin, please. You’re family now.”

Chapter 3: Durin

The feast raged on all around Durin, the hall alive with the sound of drunken guests. 

Spread across the main table were all the traditional celebratory dwarven food. Roasted pork knuckles, beef joints, lamb shoulders, stuffed with earthy herbs and glistening with juices and fat, laid among plates of corn ribs, lightly charred vegetables doused in gravy, and potatoes cooked in just about every way imaginable. At the centre, circled by all the other plates, laid what used to be a whole pig, its dismantled state showcased just how long the feast had been well-underway. Mead and wine flowed freely, and the guests were not shy to take advantage. Everything about the scene were exactly what one would expect of a dwarven celebration fit for the wedding of their Prince. 

Usually, Durin would take to the setting as a duck to water. Ever since he was a wee boy, he had loved the feasts his father threw for whatever occasion. He would always eat to his heart’s content, indulging in all his favourite foods at once, before strutting around charming the dwarven lords and diplomatic guests with his quick wit and outspoken nature. At Farin’s wedding, half a decade ago, he’d been the merriest of all, telling embarrassing tales of his little brother to the boisterous laughter of the small captive crowd around him, gesticulating so wildly the mead in the tankard he was holding swished out onto the stone floor. Farin, always the quiet, mild-mannered one to an almost un-dwarven extent, blushing and swearing privately in Durin’s ear that he would regret having done this at his own wedding. 

Little did he know then that he would be here now, cowered in a corner, sulkily picking at the slices of meats he was holding, not even having finished the first plate. 

It felt as if all of Khazad-dûm were here tonight, the hall was a mingle of braided beards and metal helms, as packed as Durin had ever seen it. As the guests got progressively more intoxicated, dwarves started climbing their way onto tables to start rival factions of drinking songs, such that the tall elven company blended into the crowd more and more as the night wore on. It was only after some careful scanning that Durin managed to locate the small group. 

Compared to the dwarves, the elves were much more reserved. They stuck to themselves entirely, watching the celebration around them with a polite, but mildly pained smile, looking somewhat overstimulated. Some of them were huddled close, talking among themselves. Their High King, dressed in a golden ceremonial robe that was somehow more pompous than the one he had arrived in, was engaged in a conversation with Narvi, his father’s counsellor. He was slightly bend down, no doubt straining to hear the dwarf over the noise of the feast hall. 

Next to them, Elrond was listening in on the conversation intently, nodding to himself as he did. He was wearing the same robe as he did earlier when they were handbound at the ceremony, light green with faint, finely embroidered motifs lining the collar and seams, and a sleeve so billowy it may as well have been a dress. It accentuated Elrond’s slender form even more, and he almost shone. Durin remembered suddenly feeling flustered as he took Elrond’s hand — as soft as he thought it would be against his own rough skin — so that the woven chord could be bound over them. He swallowed thickly, feeling the same lump in his throat that he had felt then coming back to him now as he watched Elrond dip his head yet again, his curls catching the candlelight. 

As if sensing Durin’s gaze on him, Elrond looked up from the conversation in front of him, and found Durin’s eyes with his own across the crowd. Durin wasn’t sure if he’d wishfully imagined the way his face lit up as he offered Durin a shy smile. Overcome with momentary panic, Durin looked down quickly at his plate, then scolded himself for his discomposure. He was forced into this, he reminded himself, so why was he feeling like some giddy, smitten, dwarf girl with a silly crush? 

A hand suddenly landed heavily on his shoulder. Thanks to his already-agitated state, Durin jumped harder than he would like to admit.

“Oomph, what’s gotten into you tonight?” His brother’s voice rung out next to him, slightly slurred and smelling of alcohol as his breath reached Durin’s face. He scowled. “Most dwarves are cheerier at funeral feasts — not to mention this ain’t just any wedding feast, it’s yer own! You’ve barely even touched your plate.” 

Durin didn’t dignify his brother’s jab with a response, but he did allow Farin to wrench the empty tankard in his hand away, and replace it with one full of mead. The only thing he didn’t skimp on tonight, the same as any normal celebrations, was the drinking. 

“Augh, come on. I know this ain’t quite what you imagined in life, but it’s not so bad. He’s quite the looker, that one.” Having gotten no reply, his brother teased, jostling Durin in the shoulders and wagging an eyebrow at Elrond, who had thankfully stopped looking in their direction and had turned his attention back to his company. Durin rolled his eyes and huffed. 

“Easy for you to say, you’re not the one stuck in this mess, safe with yer own family, wife, kids, the whole lot o’ them.” 

He didn’t mean to sound this bitter, having tried to mirror the jesting, teasing tone of Farin’s. In truth, he didn’t even think he was this bitter, and it surprised even him how the words came out. He wasn’t thrilled about the recent developments in his life, of course, and it stung how quickly his father had cast him aside and sealed his fate. But it wasn’t as if he’d been particularly interested in wedding a dwarf woman and having kids, in the first place. He always thought he would, as heir, to continue the line, but there wasn’t anyone he was close to having his eyes on, and there was little more feeling to it than a sense of duty. Not so dissimilar to his situation right now, really. 

At the very bottom of it, it was still his falling out with his father that was the root of the issue. Nothing more.

Perceiving where Durin’s true gripe laid, Farin leaned in and lowered his voice, suddenly more serious. “Look, brother, what’s happened these past few months… I never asked for any of it, yeah? I’d be a liar to pretend I hate this new arrangement as much as you do, but it was entirely father’s idea, I did nothing to encourage him. I would never do that to you.”

Surprised, he looked up to meet his brother’s eyes for the first time. Farin had never directly addressed what had transpired with Durin, and nor did he broach the topic with his brother. It had remained the oliphaunt in the room, until now. 

“‘Course.” Durin mumbled, frowning slightly, wondering why Farin had thought it necessary to bring this up now.

“No bad blood between us, yeah?” Farin smiled tentatively, his hand still resting on Durin’s shoulder, though making direct eye contact now, “whatever father chooses to do.”

Durin nodded his assent, still frowning — from confusion and a new feeling of being slightly patronised. Had he really looked that sorry for himself? He suddenly felt like a petulant child, sulking at having lost a game, causing his younger brother to need to seek such assurances from him and to console him. Suddenly he felt a bit embarrassed, and hoped his blush would be taken as a sign of alcohol consumption. Clearing his throat, he waved a hand dismissively.

“‘Course not,” he said, voice with its usual hearty boom once again, “what would you take me for, we’re brothers.”

Farin beamed. “Good,” he said, clearly relieved, then his face quickly dropped once again. “Oh ho, speak of the Balrog.”

Following his brother’s gaze, Durin saw that his father the King had left his post near the elven party, and was now making his way towards them, a waddle in his gait from the heavily decorated armour he was wearing, and no doubt the amount of mead and wine in his body. Farin patted Durin’s shoulder sympathetically, gave him a nervous smile, and slipped into the crowd.

It took King Durin a while longer to stroll to where he was standing, all while he watched out of the corner of his eyes, trying to appear at ease and not make it too obvious he was following his father’s movements with anticipation. Upon reaching him, King Durin turned around wordlessly, standing shoulder to shoulder with his son, and watched the crowd from the edge of the hall without uttering anything. For a while, the two simply stood there, sipping from their respective tankards, with Durin occasionally stealing a brief glance sideways at his father.

“You did well tonight.” Finally, just when Durin was about to give in and acknowledge his father’s presence, the King spoke up first. His voice was deep, firm, but with a quiet calmness that betrayed little emotion. 

Since their explosive fight, a few months ago now, the two had come to an uneasy truce. They hadn’t been on speaking terms for a few weeks, exacerbated by the King’s quick decision to replace the role of his heir with Durin’s younger brother. Eventually, however, the ice began to thaw as King Durin appointed his son new administrative duties now that he was not longer Crown Prince, and eventually explained the terms of the treaty with the elves and his involvement in the marriage pact to him. They’d still not addressed the fight after it had happened, and a palpable tenseness filled the air between them every time they spoke, which was only when it was absolutely necessary. Still, one could say that they were, at the very least, civil with each other.

“Thank you.” Durin simply nodded, not really bothering to shoulder the responsibility of keeping the conversation running.

“You will continue to fulfil this duty, I have no doubt.” King Durin continued, evidently not paying much mind to his son’s response and focused on saying his piece, “this alliance is important to us, and your role is paramount to keeping it in place. The elf is yours now. Make sure he fits in, and that he is content, but keep him in place.” 

Biting down his dissent, Durin nodded in acknowledgement once again. There were much he wished to say on the matter. He didn’t trust the elves and their motives, and it seemed all too convenient for one of them to waltz into this place and learn all their closely guarded secrets, with a commitment that would take his lifetime to fulfil, but was no more than a mere blink of an eye to the elves. Why them? Why now? Did his father even ask? But it was agreed that parties involved in the marriage pact were not privy to the exact terms of the treaty, to avoid a conflict of interest, and anyhow, him and his father’s newfound peace was still too brittle for this kind of questioning, so he kept his mouth shut, and nodded a third time. 

“Go entertain our guests. You’re supposed to be the host of this occasion.” Suddenly, his father said, slapping him on the back. Durin couldn’t quite tell if it was a reprimand, an order, or a stiff attempt at a lighthearted jest. “At the very least, ye should be seen with your new husband once or twice, eh?” 

I’ve already been seen with him plenty, he wanted to grumble, but held his tongue. He let his father make his way back into the crowd of guests, and resumed nursing his drink, steadily ignoring his father’s final words. 

Involuntarily, his eyes found Elrond again. The elf had found himself in conversation with another dwarf, one which Durin recognised as Bildir, a High Lord of Khazad-dûm. The dwarven Lord said something, which prompted a burst of laughter from Elrond. It wasn’t one of those dainty, polite smiles or even chuckles that he had seen from elves normally. His head was tilted back, his teeth fully bared, his cheeks squeezing his eyes shut, and his shoulders shook as he laughed with his whole chest. Turning back to Bildir, he replied something which earned him a boisterous chortle. The two knocked their wooden mugs together, liquid splashing up from the clunking, and Elrond knocked his head back and drunk deeply.

It was such an unreserved display that it disarmed Durin completely. Elrond had behaved exactly as Durin had expected him to on their first meeting, the day he arrived — polite, proper, every word meticulously scripted and articulated with well-rehearsed inflection and tone. It had grated on Durin’s nerves to no end. Even if he hadn’t doubted its truth and sincerity, there was a degree of impersonal artificialness to it that made his teeth itch, and reminded him of everything wrong with elves and their match, like fire forcefully bound to water.

But this Elrond, here, was the polar opposite. The way he grinned widely, without a care for grace or elegance, the way he joked — and judging by Bildir’s reaction, it wasn’t some flowery, diplomatic bullshit either — it fascinated Durin inexplicably as his eyes trained on the elf, unable to look away. This Elrond was so genuine, so endearing, and charming in an authentic manner.

He seemed almost… dwarf-like.

A compulsion came over Durin, and before he could think any better, he found himself nudging his way through the crowd towards Elrond. Slinking up to the conversation, Durin offered an awkward nod to Bildir by way of greeting, suddenly self-conscious about the intrusion, despite it being, technically, his feast. But Elrond noticed his approaching first, and turned towards him, a smile flooding his face. 

“Durin.” He greeted warmly, the name coming out so softly it was almost like a breath. His face had a rosy tinge, from the drinks or the warmth of the crowd and firelight, Durin did not know. His eyes had a dreaminess to it that Durin hadn’t observed when he had been conversing with the dwarf Lord, radiating raw affection. 

Affection towards him, Durin, he realised with a start.

The elf must be drunk off his face, Durin concluded. It was the only way this all made sense. They’d barely spoken a word to each other since Elrond had first arrived in Khazad-dûm, and Durin had shown him nothing but a deep indifference bordering on open hostility. There was no way Elrond truly felt any degree of fondness towards him. The thought jostled him out of his trance from earlier, and replaced the strange, intoxicated mood he had found in himself in with a renewed sense of annoyance and exasperation, which he could feel creeping back into him. 

“I was just telling yer lad here abou’ that time ye tried to ride a boar that hadna been broken in, how it threw ya off, an’ ye almos’ got trampled tae death.” Bildir slurred loudly, drawing Durin’s attention away from Elrond and his conflicting thoughts. 

“Thank you fer that.” He responded, the intended deadpan voice not quite coming across as he had to shout to be heard over the noise of the bustling crowd. 

“We couldn’y tell if twas you or the boar who had been squealing!” Bildir continued, slapping Durin so hard across his upper back that he lurched forwards. The dwarf Lord looked to Elrond as he spoke, the jab clearly meant for the elf’s benefit. Elrond responded by flashing Bildir a wide grin that made something in Durin’s heart stir.

“Augh, I expect you two will want tae be off pretty soon, so I’ll leave you to it.” Having had his laugh, Bildir suddenly declared, patting Durin on the shoulder. He flushed instantly. 

Not quite understanding the insinuation, a confusion descended over Elrond’s face. “What…” He began to ask, voice drowned out by the cacophony around them. Then he looked over at Bildir’s wagging eyebrows, and Durin’s flushed face, and realisation dawn on him. His eyes widened, and his lips fell open into a small ‘O’ shape. A darker shade of pink flooded his face to match Durin’s, only much more prominent due to his lack of facial hair. 

Bildir barked out a deep belly laugh, and waddled away, drinking deeply from his tankard. Durin watched as he walked away, scowling at his back. 

“Sorry.” Elrond turned to him and offered sheepishly. Evidently still embarrassed. 

Durin waved a hand. “Don’t mind Bildir,” he said gruffly, “he likes tae think he’s funny.” 

He looked up, and found Elrond gazing down at him curiously, as if he was trying to figure a puzzle, or to comprehend the interpretation of a particularly obscure piece of poetry. The look pricked under Durin’s skin, and he wasn’t sure why. It was just so raw… so earnest, it made Durin want to lower his guards and reach out, inviting him into his defences. 

Suddenly uncomfortable, Durin ducked his head, avoiding Elrond’s eyes. 

“We should start making our way out, though.” He said again after a while, not knowing what else to say, and being aware that Elrond was still looking at him, the weight of his gaze making hairs on the back of his neck stand. Besides, he’s had quite enough of the feast already, and was eager for the night to be over. 

“As you wish,” came Elrond’s reply, the strange tone creeping into his voice again. Durin dared not call it love, or even affection, but it was something so utterly soft with devotion that it could be little else. 

Mutely, he held out his hand, and allowed Elrond to place his in it with a timid smile, and guided him through the crowd. He made sure to pass in front of his father’s line of sight, as he stood now near the head of the feast table, conversing with Gil-Galad. Both Kings paused in their conversation to watch them head off, his father giving him a serious, approving nod. Farin, who had been standing next to them, winked at him. Durin could not roll his eyes in his brother’s direction without it being seen by his father and the elven King, so instead he ignored it, and focused on carving a path towards the exit of the feast hall.

The cool mountain air caressed his burning cheek, flushed from the alcohol and from Bildir and Farin’s teasing. Beside him, Elrond let out a sigh. Durin peered over, and caught sight of the elf out the side of his eye. Elrond’s soft skin glowed in a dim blush, and the twinkle of firelight from the cavernous city danced in his eyes like stars. His ceremonial robes flowed and swayed in the breeze that filtered through the mountain vents, the intricate fabric caressing him almost as a stream of water. 

A hungriness overcame Durin as a lurch in his stomach. Perhaps it was the drinks, perhaps it was because now they were alone and he had the time to really take in Elrond for the first time that night, the weight of the wedding bond setting into his psyche, but he suddenly found himself thinking he really wanted to peel that robe off his new husband.

Grabbing Elrond lightly but firmly by the wrist, he sped up his pace, and tugged a bewildered elf all the way back to their chambers.

Notes:

The absolutely wonderful and insanely talented @finrodsketchbook (main: @assortedvariety ) on Tumblr made some art for this chapter, please check it out if you want some adorable visuals: [1] , [2]

Chapter 4: Durin

Notes:

CONTENT WARNING: this chapter is rated EXPLICIT for sexual content, which is higher than the overall fic rating of Mature. No additional warnings (e.g. for any kinks/non-con/underaged stuff) apply. The chapter contributes very little to the plot and is entirely skippable if you don't want to read explicit content.

I chose not to up the rating of the whole work because I know people filter for the explicit rating when they are only interested in reading smut and I don't want to misrepresent how much smut is actually in the whole fic :)

All but two of the candles had burnt out over the course of the feast, by the time they had made it back, enshrouding the main bedroom that they were supposed to share in a dim, intimate hue. He stumbled into it, still dragging Elrond behind him, and stopped by the foot of the four-poster bed, turning around to regard his groom. 

The soft candle fire lit him up in a way that was almost otherworldly, the light seemed to congregate around him like a halo, illuminating him from behind. Durin gazed up upon it, drinking in the sight until he was almost dazed. Simultaneously, it felt as if the weight and reality of their union was finally sinking in, and that he was so lost in the moment nothing else mattered and time itself had faded away. 

“Durin, we don’t have to—” Elrond started, but was immediately cut off by Durin’s suddenly jerking into action.

Hearing Elrond speak had shaken him from his trance, and renewed that previous sense of urgency that he’d felt entering the room. Before Elrond could go on with his offer, Durin marched up to him and grabbed him by the front of his robes, the light fabric bunching in his grasp, and shoved him roughly onto the foot of the bed. He climbed onto the bed himself, and — now hat his face was level with the elf’s — smashed his mouth into Elrond’s. 

“Oomph.” A noise of surprise came from Elrond and their lips connected, muffled by the kiss. 

Immediately, the taste of mead from the feat hall flooded Durin’s mouth. As he licked away the remnants of the sweet honey mixed with the slightly-bitter alcohol, however, the taste of Elrond poured in. He tasted of flower petals and fresh grass, and the sun. There was such a lightness that flooded Durin, and at the same time an unfathomable depth to that lightness.

Gradually, as they settled into the kiss, Elrond began to reciprocate more boldly. Durin stilled, letting him place rapid, feathery light pecks along his lips, almost like gentle nibbles dancing elusively across his mouth. The ghostly brushes teased Durin, drawing him in, and he could only withstand so much before the patience had run thin and he had to grab the elf by the shirt and ram his mouth onto Elrond’s once more, with renewed fervour. 

This time, he coaxed open Elrond’s mouth with his tongue, and Elrond let him, parting his lips ever so slightly and tilting his head back to grant Durin better access. Durin took his time exploring Elrond’s mouth, taking in the softness. Occasionally, he would feel Elrond’s tongue flick across his shyly. But for the most part, he simply leaned back and took Durin in, sighing in content to the rhythm that Durin set. 

When they finally broke apart for a breath, Elrond was fully lying down now, with Durin bearing down on top of him. He looked up, a dazed, enthralled look shining in his eyes, and Durin knew there was no going back. He must have him, all of him, now. 

“Clothes.” He rasped, barely containing himself, “off, now.” 

Elrond nodded mutely, still wide-eyed and full of reverence, and scrambled up from the bed. He unlaced his wedding robes in swift, elegant movements, and Durin watched intently as he slipped  the garment off, picking it up off the floor and folding up the material in two nimble moves, before he placed it delicately on a chair in the corner of the room. The skin of his torso was pale and flawless as marble, but Durin noticed for the first time that the elf’s slender form was lined with well-defined muscles. It was easy, by dwarven standard, to view elves as skinny and frail compared to their own stout frames, but it was evident from the view before him that they were anything but. 

When Elrond had moved onto removing his stockings, Durin realised with a start how fully clothed he still was himself. His fingers moved to work at the clasps on his forearm, the ceremonial armour, a lot more clumsily. The metal pieces clanged on the stone floor as they were strewn around him carelessly — vambraces, spaulders, cuirass, codpiece… until he was in his underclothes. He looked up to see Elrond, now fully undressed, padding up to him. 

“May I?” His groom knelt down before him, and hooked a finger over the waistband of his breeches, pausing to look up at him tentatively with gleaming, eager eyes. Durin nodded stiffly, heat rising in his chest all of a sudden. With a quick but delicate move, Elrond pulled downwards, laying him bare. He followed suit by lifting his tunic over his head and tossing it over his shoulders, not really paying attention to where it had landed. 

Inching closer, Elrond pressed his lips to Durin’s torso, kissing a trail down from around his nave to just above his groin, before breaking away momentarily. Shivers ran down Durin’s spine, feeling the cool, slightly damp skin on Elrond’s lips brush up against his own skin, which had been warmed by residual heat from the armour covering his body. The breath from Elrond’s hovering tickled his skin before the elf leaned back in, leaving another kiss, on his inner thigh this time, causing Durin to shiver. 

Overcome with impatience at last, Durin let out a low, frustrated growl, and reached out with his hands and lifted Elrond’s chin roughly with his fingers, interrupting him mid-kiss. Elrond, grasping his meaning immediately, let himself be guided upwards and rose once more, his cheeks rosy, his breaths heavy with anticipation, eyes bore into Durin’s, searching. 

“Bed.” Durin commanded again, not able to elaborate further with his voice getting stuck in a lump in his throat. 

Luckily, Elrond need no more instruction, letting himself fall onto the bed and shuffling upwards until he was lying fully on the mattress this time. Durin wasted no time following, climbing onto the bed himself and settling on top of Elrond, feeling his soft, flawless skin, as smooth as marble itself, underneath him. His hand reached down and found Elrond’s cock, only half-hard at this point, and took it into his hand, giving it a well-measured squeeze. 

The response was instantaneous. Elrond gasped and arched his hip into Durin’s hand. Suppressing an involuntary smirk at the sight, Durin started stroking Elrond’s length in earnest, the soft skin in stark contrast to the rough callouses of his own fingertips. He revelled in the choked moans escaping the elf’s throat, and watched as Elrond turned to half-bury his face into the pillow as shots of pleasure washed over him. Before long, Elrond’s breaths became more laboured and ragged, and involuntary shivers began rocking his torso. Durin could tell he was close.

Taking his hand away abruptly, Durin leaned down and pressed a scathing kiss to Elrond’s lips, feeling the hardness between his legs press against him. A small whine escaped Elrond, protesting the sudden absence of stimulation right before he was sent over the edge, but it was quickly lost between their lips. 

“I’ll come first before you do.” He demanded. 

There was a possessiveness that burned in the pit of Durin’s stomach, driving him on as though in a haze. He wanted to prove — to himself or to Elrond or both, he did not know — that he was in control, despite being thrust into the arrangement without a say. He wanted to retain some semblance of power, and in that moment, it translated to a desperate, fierce sort of hunger. 

To his credit, Elrond did not seem to share the same need for dominance. Instead, he merely nodded mutely, a look of affection glinting in his eyes and the hint of a smile hidden in the curve of his lips, inviting Durin in to lean down and smash his mouth against it once more.

“The bottle— next to the bed.” Durin gasped when hey broke apart again. Elrond wasted no time to comply, grasping clumsily for the small clay bottle out of haste, and tossing it to Durin. 

The cork came off with a crisp ‘pop’, and Durin tipped some scented oil onto his fingertips, before bringing his hand between Elrond’s legs, brushing between the globed cheeks of his ass, which were impossibly soft and somehow even smoother than the skin on the rest of his body, which Durin hadn’t thought possible. Instinctively, Elrond parted his legs wide to allow Durin better access, shifting his weight on the mattress and adjusting his position until his hole was in the open. Durin brought the tip of his middle finger to it, pressing against the entrance with the pad of his fingertip before pausing momentarily.

It crossed Durin’s mind then that they had not talked about which way this would go. In the urgency of his desire driving him on, once thing followed another quite naturally and this was the arrangement that they had ended up with, and Elrond had followed his lead without objection every step of the way. However, through his frenzied mental state, it occurred to him nevertheless that he should confirm.

“This okay?” He asked tentatively, looking up to find Elrond peering down at what was going on between his own legs, his head propped up by the pillows at the head of the bed. His breaths were deep and slow, in a way that sounded deliberate, controlled. He was trying to calm himself down, Durin realised, though he couldn’t tell if it was from anxiety or anticipation.

But Elrond only nodded again. “Yes.” His breath came out as a half-whisper. “Please.”

Without needing any more encouragement, Durin sunk his finger into Elrond. 

He went straight up to the third knuckle on the first thrust, the copious amount of oil he used easing the passage. Still, he heard Elrond’s breath hitch as he jerked his head back. The heat was maddening. Elrond’s insides enveloped his finger, warm and velvety, and already Durin was imagining what bliss it would be to be fucking into it in earnest. His could feel his cock responding instantly to the thought. 

Despite his body’s eagerness, Durin took his time pulling his finger out, slowly and steadily this time, purposefully dragging it out, before going back in with the same slow pace. He repeated this several times, watching intensely at the way Elrond’s breathing changed along with it, his face reacting to his every move, down to every minute twitch. 

When Elrond started wriggling impatiently, Durin deemed him ready enough to take a second finger. He twisted them around inside Elrond, parting and closing the two digits to work him open gradually, curling them into various angles to explore every fold, every crevice inside of him while drawing out various moans and whines from his throat. When he was loose and relaxed enough, Durin then began pumping into him with more conviction, driving his fingers in all the way with one fluid motion, keeping it inside, filling Elrond up until he whined and clenched around him, before pulling out and repeating. The unpredictable, sporadic rhythm was driving Elrond to insanity, he could tell, and Durin took great amusement breaking down the flawless diplomatic composure that the elf had displayed so far, leaving him a writhing mess under his handling.

“Durin,” Elrond begged at last, reaching his limit, “please.”

Though he knew exactly what Elrond was begging for, Durin ignored him, opting instead to continue with his fingers a while longer. His digits were gliding in and out with no resistance whatsoever by now, and he was free to move inside the elf in whatever way he pleased — however fast, slow, twisting, curling, pressing at whatever angle — methodically taking Elrond apart thrust by thrust. 

“Durin,” Elrond said again, gasping between words, “if you want to come before me, you’re going to need to start fucking me really soon.”

That warning was motivation enough for Durin to finally get a move on. Removing his hand, he shifted forward to position himself for his entrance. Seeing this, Elrond spread his knees further apart to accommodate, so that Durin could kneel between his legs, with the tip of his cock pressed up against Elrond’s hole. The prep had make the initial entrance easy, his sphincter muscle relaxed and loose, taking in the head with an easy pop. But Durin’s girth was significant, and he could see, looking down, how the skin around Elrond’s asshole tightened and strained to accommodate his thickness.

Beneath him, Elrond bit back a whimper.

“Shhh.” Durin soothed. The bottle of oil had been discarded to one side after it had last been used, now lying a handspan away from Durin’s calf. He reached behind and took it again, pouring out some more onto his hand before rubbing around his cock and Elrond’s hole for further lubrication. “You’re okay.”

Two fingers hadn’t quite been enough to match the size of his cock, he should have gone up to three. But he’d gotten carried away in the act, and now both of them were far too impatient to go back to prepping. 

So Durin soldiered on, making small rocking movements that opened Elrond up gradually, shuffling into him inch by inch. Their eyes locked, and Durin’s gaze bore into Elrond’s startling grey eyes intensely as he worked his way in. Elrond held his gaze for the most part, save for the the split moments where he would screw his eyes shut and suck in a breath when Durin’s movement was too sudden, and too large. At these times, Durin would reach for the bottle again, and slather more oil in the space where they were joined. 

Eventually, he found himself buried up to the hilt inside Elrond. He paused there a moment, savouring the sensation. It was exactly as he had thought it would be when he’d first sunk his fingers into Elrond, the warm softness enveloping him. He could feel the walls of Elrond’s insides clinging to him, and the ring of entrance clenched around the base of his cock, squeezing him deliciously tightly. 

“Alright?” He looked up and asked Elrond, while he was still sheathed deep inside him. Wordlessly, Elrond nodded his assent, before swallowing, and Durin watched as the knot in his throat bobbed up and down once with the act. 

Then, slowly, after he had savoured the sensation enough, Durin pulled out until only the tip of his cock was left inside Elrond.

With the previous stretching, the re-entry was a lot smoother. Durin couldn’t help but toss his head back and moan as he slid back in with one steady motion, Elrond’s tight hole clutching at him. From here, he couldn’t resist for long before he picked up the pace, thrusting with increasing power and urgency until he was slamming his hipbones into the elf with every move. His fingers clutched Elrond’s waist with enough force to turn the already-pale skin around it white, and he growled with utter desire, mind driven to blankness by the sheer pleasure sparking up his spine.

Through the sheer haze of his frenzy, he could hear noises coming from beneath him, made by Elrond — a mixture of groans of pleasure, gasps of surprise, and the occasional small chokes of pain. They triggered something primal in Durin, driving him on until he was completely lost in the act. The surrounding room faded and the stone walls that framed the room fell away. Nothing remained but the two of them and the frantic rhythm of his thrusts, Elrond’s delicate skin in his palms and his body under Durin’s, his own cock rock-hard, pressing against Durin’s stomach as his movements brought the distance between them to nothing, his hole taking in all that Durin had to give.

His elf. His, his, his.

Starting to feel the pressure building now, he sped up even faster. Elrond, sensing this, arched his back cooperatively, and began tilting his hip up rhythmically to match Durin’s movement, letting himself be guided by the dwarf’s grip on his body. He clenched even tighter around Durin’s cock, fuelled by his own pleasure that he was drawing from this, the pressure giving Durin the final push over the edge. He came with a low groan, collapsing on top of Elrond, dropping his forehead onto his cool, muscled abdomen and feeling his cock twitch and pulse inside the elf.

For a while he laid there, catching his breath. The coolness of the room felt nice as he radiated away the heat and sweat from their fucking. Then, falling out of Elrond with a wet pop without care for the stream of cum flowing onto the fur blanket, he tilted his head down to press a kiss to where his lips fell, just above Elrond’s nape, and from there started kissing a trail downwards.

“Now you,” he announced, glance up as his lips were still hovering a mere inches above Elrond’s skin, before bringing his mouth over Elrond’s still-hard cock. 

“Wha— hrgn!” Elrond began to ask, before the noise was stuck in his throat as surprise and pleasure took over instantly.

Elrond’s cock was not as thick as Durin’s, but slender like the rest of him. As Durin took it into his own mouth, running his tongue up and down its sides, he thought it suited its owner perfectly. How a cock could be elegant, Durin did not know, but he thought that Elrond’s was utterly gorgeous. The tip of it was salty with his wetness as he swirled the tip of his tongue over it, working his way up and down Elrond’s length with a fervour and reverence which borderline worship. He was rewarded with sounds of sheer pleasure, washing over him from above his heads like crashing waterfall — loud moans and pants escaped Elrond freely, his usual composure thrown to the wind as he fucks himself into Durin’s mouth. 

It didn’t take long until Elrond was close. “Durin,” he warned, hands reaching down and fingertips gently resting atop Durin’s head by way of getting his attention, “I’m gonna—”

In the nick of time, Durin took his mouth away and replaced it with his hands, Elrond’s cock wet and warm from the saliva. He gave it a few pumps, looking down and awed by how beautiful it looked, grasped inside his rough palm, before thick ropes were shooting out and landing all over Elrond’s stomach, glistening with a pearly hue under the firelight.

“Durin, Durin.” Elrond breathed in a dazed voice. 

Durin looked at Elrond, his hair tousled by the friction and their movement throughout the night, sticking up in all directions. Durin shuffled up besides him so he could brush a stray strand from his eyes. Elrond leaned into the touch, closing his eyes to savour the tenderness, his throat bobbed from swallowing. Durin trailed his hand down Elrond’s face, tracing his jawline with the side of his fingers, Elrond’s skin shone in the dim flickering light of the candles, pale as the most unblemished stone, pure as freshly-cracked geode, soft as mountain snow. 

He looked ethereal.

His elf. His. 

All of a sudden, it was as if a veil of mist had been lifted from around his head. He propped himself up with his elbows and rose from the bed, discombobulated almost like he was waking up from a trance. He frowned, and suddenly felt sick to his stomach, an unspeakable wave of irritation washing over him as reality slammed back into place.

Turning away abruptly, he all but fled the room, not daring to glance back at the crestfallen look on Elrond’s face.

Notes:

Once again thanks to the amazing generosity and talent of @finrodsketchbook on Tumblr, I am able to offer art to go with this chapter:
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Chapter 5: Elrond

Notes:

Here begins the blatant and shameless ripping off of the ROP plot and also significant chunks of dialogue, with some adjustments and cutting and stitching of different scenes to suit the plot of this fic. Enjoy!

Also fun fact I wrote this chapter close to 2 months ago but couldn't post until now because I haven't finished Chapters 3 and 4 yet lol.

It took Elrond a while to register that fact that it was morning. The sun did not shine across his face as it would back in Lindon. In fact, the sun did not shine at all. Only flickering firelight illuminated the room, as it did night and day, invariantly. The only sign to indicate the time of day had been the number of metal pins still stuck into the side of the candle. Elrond wondered how long it would take him to get used to waking up like this.

He sat up gingerly, pushing off the fur blanket he’d been bundled up under onto his lap. He was still slightly sore from the previous night, but it was by no means unbearable, or even unpleasant. The sheer ferocity of Durin’s eagerness had surprised him, given his reservedness in the days following Elrond’s initial arrival, and even during the wedding ceremony and the feast after.

Elrond had never given much thought to what would happen during their wedding night, much less what he wanted. It was true that he went into the arrangement willingly — forced marriages were unfathomable and a deadly violation in elven culture — but he wasn’t naive enough to believe this wasn’t a political necessity for either side, and that any romance or attraction, if there were to be any, were subsidiary to the treaty. He knew he wouldn’t have said no to anything, but as it had quickly become apparent just how much Durin was resistant to their union, he’d put the possibility out of his head, and stopped thinking any further on the matter. 

And of course, just as Durin had gotten him to believe that maybe he had actually wanted this, and just as Elrond was getting into it all, his new husband turned around and disappeared without saying a word afterwards.

It was all incredibly confusing, really. 

Remembering it was the morning that the elven party had been set to depart, Elrond got himself dressed into some plain robes, and stepped outside his chambers. The light was whiter outside, thanks to the faint trickle of sunlight that filtered in through the sun shafts. He walked down the path that connected the front of his quarters to the rest of the city, and found the main walk-bridge easily enough, following it just as Farin had shown him towards the front entrance of the mountains, where he found the party he came with, already saddling up their horses in the small guest-stables. 

“Ah, Elrond,” Gil-Galad looked up at the sound of footsteps, straightening when he saw his former herald. Handing the reigns of his horse to Camnir, whose own horse had already been geared up and on standby, the High King walked towards Elrond. “I had been meaning to catch you before we left. Walk with me.”

With this, Gil-Galad gestured towards the stone bridge, back where Elrond had came from, and lead him at a leisurely pace away from the small crowd gathered at the stables. Elrond followed automatically, falling into the familiar habit of taking dutiful steps beside his King. 

“How are you settling in?” Gil-Galad asked amicably. 

“Well enough. Crown Prince Farin had kindly dropped off some material for learning Khuzdûl, I have already made a start. I have only spoken with the King shortly, at the feast last night, but he has been most welcoming.” Elrond reported readily, having interpreted the High King’s question as a check for his progress more than mere chatter, ever the devoted subject. 

“And your new husband?”

At this, Elrond ducked his head to hide his blooming blush, the events of the previous night coming back to him. Conflicting feelings once again swarmed him, and quite frankly he really wasn’t sure where they stood given all that had transpired over the past few days. But of course, it would not do for his King to hear this.

“He has been courteous enough,” instead, he said carefully, not technically a lie, as Durin had never been outright hostile towards him, even in his disinterest. “I would not have expected him to take to the arrangements immediately, of course. Dwarves are naturally a reserved race, and this is most unorthodox for them. However, I am confident that I can build trust between us, and between all of our people. He has… shown himself to not be completely closed off to the relationship, last night.” 

The final line was instantly regretted by Elrond as soon as it left his mouth. He didn’t know what in Eru’s name had possessed him to divulge that piece of thinly-veiled information. Gil-Galad gave him a measured look with one raised eyebrow. Elrond forced himself to stare back evenly, fighting the blush that was creeping back up his face again, refusing to incriminate himself further by averting the gaze. 

Thankfully, Gil-Galad chose not to dignify it with a response. 

“Good.” The High King said instead, moving on with a renewed formality to his tone. “There is something else, Elrond, that I wished to speak with you about.”

Perking up with attention, Elrond turned his full attention towards Gil-Galad, raising an eyebrow to invite him to go on. However, Gil-Galad did not elaborate immediately. He looked around warily, and, with a slight tilt of his head, gestured for Elrond to follow him. 

They walked now with a slight haste that had not been present before. Not overly so, as it was clear the elven King was careful to not draw attention to their excursion. But there was a purpose behind his strides as he sought out a more secure spot to continue their conversation. Silently, Elrond followed suit, trailing behind him. 

Before long, they had turned off the main pathway above the hollow cavern of the city. Following a smaller trail against the inner crag of the mountain, they happened across a small alcove in the rock face, just spacious enough for the occupation of two elves. Gil-Galad ducked his head, and stepped into the shelter of the rocks. Elrond followed, finding himself lightly pressed against the cool stone, leaning away from Gil-Galad to maintain the proper space between them. 

There were no one around them now. Still, the High King glanced around towards the only opening that exposed them still to the trail outside, waiting a moment as if expecting someone to pass by. Eventually, satisfied by their security, he turned his gaze back to Elrond. For a while, he said nothing, and simply regarded him carefully, as if weighing his herald up and down. Elrond resisted the urge to squirm under the interrogating scan, and bit down the question about what was happening, awaiting instead for Gil-Galad to proceed. 

Eventually, he did, after a heavy sigh. “Are you familiar with the Song of the Roots of Hithaeglir?”

Elrond’s brows immediately scrunched. Gil-Galad had seemed so pressed, so serious, he found it hard to believe that his King had dragged him out privately with such secrecy, just to speak to him of some fanciful bedtime tale that Maglor used to tell him as a little elfling. 

“I do not understand.” He admitted slowly. 

“It speaks of a battle,” paying no mind to enlighten his herald of his motives, Gil-Galad pressed on, “high among the peaks of the Misty Mountains, over a tree within which some claim was hidden the last of the lost Silmarils.”

It was a familiar tale to Elrond. Hearing it again now, he could almost picture Maglor, in the rare moments the twins had managed to cajole him into bed with them before they were tired enough to fall asleep, him in one arm, Elros in the other. The scrolls laid out in front of them neglected as Maglor knew the tale off by heart, and the twins cared only for his words, and not the words written on the page. It had been just a tale to him then, as a boy, not able to grasp the full extent of how his foster fathers’ fates were shackled and twisted by those very Silmarils. Now, Elrond found himself tensing up at the memory, and frowning to himself, still searching for the reason behind Gil-Galad’s reminder of the Song. 

“On one side, fought an elven warrior, with a heart as pure as Manwë, who poured all his light into the tree to protect it. On the other, a balrog of Morgoth, who channeled all his hatred into the tree to destroy it. Amidst their duel unending, lightning ensnared the tree, forging a power as pure and light as good, as strong and unyielding as evil. They say it seeped down the roots of the tree, into the depth of the mountains, where it laid, waiting, for centuries now.” 

Gil-Galad paused, then, fixing Elrond with a meaningful stare, as if expecting him to suddenly appreciate the relevance of the story, now that it was complete. When Elrond made no such revelations, and simply kept frowning at him, Gil-Galad continued in a somewhat more exasperated tone, slowly spelling out the significance of his words. 

“I have received confirmation that the dwarves have found this product, this ore, mithril, here in Khazad-dûm.”

That was a turn that Elrond had not expected. “But the battle is simply an obscure legend,” disguising his surprise, he countered evenly, not so easily convinced by his King’s cryptic words, “regarded by most to be apocryphal.”

“I have very good reasons to believe the validity of my sources. Regardless of the truth in the legend itself, the dwarves have made a new discovery of such a material fitting the characteristics of the mithril that it prophesied.”

“Still, even if we were to… entertain such a… bold hypothesis,” Elrond said carefully, unyielding in his disbelief but not wanting to offend the King, “what does it matter to us?”

“Saving our people from certain doom, Elrond. That is what matters to us.” 

Before Elrond could process the deeply unsettling, bombshell of a news that Gil-Galad had dropped on him, the latter moved to produce a piece of leaf that had been stowed in the folds of his robe, and held it out to him. Elrond took the leaf and turned it over in his hand. It was a withered, blackened thing. Thick, twisted veins crawled across its surface as a disease, almost obscuring its entirety in its dark grasp. But the shape of the leaf, along with the last, desperate tinge of gold seeping through the black blight, made it undeniable from where it had been sourced. A thunderous hum suddenly flooded his ears, as if he had been clubbed over the head. 

“I first took notice of it just prior to Galadriel’s return from the North. I had hoped that by bringing an end to the last vestiges of war, we might arrest the decay. But when Galadriel returned, she had only proved that the evil of Sauron dwells still in this realm. Thus, despite our every effort, our decline has only quickened.”

Finally, finally, it was all beginning to click for Elrond. The legend in the Song, the High King’s utter conviction that the ore existed, the decision to tell him this, just as he had secured his place in Khazad-dûm, afforded the privilege of an insider, a consort to a member of the royal family. 

“You want me to find it. The ore, mithril. You think it could restore the Great Tree.”

“The blight upon the tree is but an outer manifestation.” Ignoring Elrond’s interruption, Gil-Galad carried on, the urgency in his voice completely unveiled now, “I’m sure you can understand the inner reality it reflects — that the light of the Eldar, our light, is fading.” 

“If the situation is so dire, why not ask for it during the negotiations, as part of our terms of the treaty? If the dwarves have truly discovered such a miracle substance, they would surely wish to celebrate this at the first opportunity.” 

Shaking his head, Gil-Galad sighed in defeat. 

“The King guards it closely as a secret. He has put an outright ban on its mining, and forbade anyone breathe a word of its existence. Even with my source, we’ve heard nothing but rumours. Though given the description of the ore and its location, it is too much of a coincidence to not be what we are looking for. Even then, even if we could confirm its existence, it would not be wise to push this head-on. The dwarven King is stubborn, and doing so could further alienate him, and endanger the whole treaty.”

“So you chose to deceive him!” Elrond said hotly, now that the full picture had been revealed to him, “you planted me here, to spy. You had me believe I came to Khazad-dûm with a proposal of friendship, but in truth, you sought something far less honest, didn’t you?” 

For once, Gil-Galad said nothing, and simply kept looking at Elrond with an unrelenting gaze, leaving him to feel the reality of the predicament sink in. Deep down, Elrond knew that there wasn’t a choice to be made. The gravity of the situation was terrifying, and its weight fell entirely upon his shoulders. It wasn’t something he could just walk away from, no matter his principles.

He felt betrayed, tricked, put in an impossible situation with a choice where no options left him intact. It was true that, had he been informed of the real reason behind this move by the elves beforehand, there was no way he would possibly have agreed to it. But he would have worked tirelessly to find alternatives. He would have worn down the dwarven King with his diplomatic charm. He would have saved his people on his own terms. 

Instead, his King had trapped him in a hopeless position he could not escape from, and only told him when it was too late. 

“I swore an oath to Durin, when we wed. Pact or no, it was an oath sworn willingly, and without deceit — that I knew of at the time.” Elrond insisted stubbornly, swallowing down the fear and despair in him, and pouring every bit of conviction he had into his voice. “To some, that may now hold little weight. But in my esteem, it is by such things our very souls are bound, and I do not intend to let mine slip away.”

“If the elves abandon Middle Earth now, the armies of Darkness will march over the face of the earth.” Gil-Galad’s voice was trembling now. Not from nervousness, but from the sheer ferocity with which he was speaking to Elrond. His eyes were ablaze with a piercing intensity, and there was an ice-cold fury written on his face. 

It made Elrond’s own eyes widen, afraid. 

“It will be the end, not just of our people, but of all peoples. If preventing that is not reason enough to make you reconsider your oath, I suggest you find another.”

With an air of finality, the High King turned around with a sweep of his golden robes and marched off, leaving Elrond, frozen on the spot save for his fingers that were still twirling the stem of the decaying leaf, feeling as if the entire mountain had crashed down upon him.

Chapter 6: Elrond

For the next few days after the departure of the elven party, Elrond walked around in a daze. Over and over again, he turned the conversation he’d had with his King in his head, contemplating his options. As much as he hated the rationale behind Gil-Galad’s decision to put him in such a position, the elven King was right — he couldn’t go straight to the dwarves and confront them head-on, it would spook them, put them on high alert, and push them into guarding their secret more fiercely. Besides, the damage had already been done. He had already been an unwitting accomplice to deceit on behalf of the elves, and even if he were to come clean now, he doubted the dwarves would appreciate the nuance of the situation and not completely lose what little, tentative trust they had of him. 

Therefore, as much as he hated it, doubling down on the espionage was his best option. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, he told himself, though not quite convinced. 

And so he found himself trailing behind Durin as he pattered about, overseeing the mining activities of the kingdom, which was one of the duties King Durin had assigned to his son after he had been freed from his responsibilities of Crown Prince. 

It was difficult work, as despite Elrond’s highest hopes after their wedding night, Durin had gone back to his stubborn, icy ways, shutting out Elrond’s attempts at communication. He spoke with Elrond on a strictly need-to-know basis, concisely letting him know of their daily plans, his own whereabouts, when and where they are needed, and other logistical necessities. Beyond that, there was no effort at small talk, and any chatter that Elrond offered were met largely with noncommittal grunts and hums. It didn’t help that Elrond himself, now burdened with ulterior motives, had felt constantly guilty and sheepish about his efforts at diplomacy, which had most definitely dampened his enthusiasm, if only subconsciously. 

At the very least, Durin had allowed his presence beside him as he went about his daily business, for which Elrond was grateful, and took it as hopeful sign that Durin had at least been a little bit receptive of the potential partnership. 

“So what is it you guys mine down here?” He struck up the conversation again, for the third time that day, after the previous two attempts had tapered out. 

There was a pause beside him. The sound of Durin’s heavy, purposeful strides rung out from the stone floor and filled the silence between them. Elrond’s light gait, by comparison, was entirely soundless as he fell into pace beside his dwarven husband, wondering if he would have to resign to being ignored, once again. 

Eventually, however, Durin grunted back a response. “Iron, mainly, can never have enough of that. We need it for everything — armour, weapons, tools, building… Gold is our main export, it’s the most valuable, and ye elves do love shiny things.”

Elrond let out a small, friendly huff, allowing the jest. He took it as a good sign Durin was warming up to him, however slowly, as he got used to Elrond’s presence and conversation. 

“What else?”

“Rubies, rarer to come by. Here in the Misty Mountains we have the largest veins in all the continent, but we still don’t produce enough for it to be considered a pillar of our economy. It fetches a nice price, though, with men and elves both. Or sometimes we just keep it for our own use, makes for nice jewellery and ceremonial pieces.” 

“And are these your only mines?” 

He had tried to keep the tone light and curious, letting his gaze wander over the stones about him to appear as if he were striking up a conversation absentmindedly. But Durin, ever cautious still to the nature of their arrangement, narrowed his eyes instantly. “Why? Ye after somethin’?” He asked pointedly without missing a beat. 

Feigning innocence, Elrond shrugged. “I am simply taking an interest, is all. I’m trying to understand more about the goings-on around here, what we do, if I am to be a part of it.”

“Right.” Durin mumbled, his gaze softening. To his credit, he looked a little apologetic.

Not remotely the first time that week, or even the first time that day, he felt the familiar pang of guilt. Durin did have good reasons to be suspicious, after all, as Elrond did, in fact, have an agenda that was far from innocent. Nothing from what he’d observed so far had given him any leads to go on. The mining activities had been, as Durin had described, perfectly standard. No ores that came out of the mines, nor any substance he could see anywhere in the city, matched Gil-Galad’s description. As far as he could tell, there were no signs the dwarves were keeping any secrets, either. No suspicious mining activities that were unaccounted for, no signs of inactive mines that had been shut down or abandoned. Growing desperate, Elrond had taken to tailing Durin even more closely, hardly letting him have a moment alone, in an effort to catch any hint at all for his hunt. 

“There’s another, at the back of the mountains, in the west. That one’s mostly a quarry, though. Marble, slate, always needed as fine building materials. Though the settlement in the Iron Hills up north produce far more than we do here. Iron, as well, we have to source some of ours from them, and we hardly export any ourselves. The real prize in that other mine, once ye go deep enough—”

Having reached the entrance tunnels, Durin paused to bark some orders in the direction of the mechanical elevators, leaving Elrond hanging, wide-eyed and with bated breath for him to continue. He wondered if he’d finally worn down Durin’s guard enough to be let in on the most precious secret of Khazad-dûm, if he was about to be told of the existence of the mithril that he was after. With a low groan, the pulleys sprung to life, slowing turning and clattering until the mechanical elevator started crawling into a descent down the shaft. Satisfied, Durin turned his attention back to his conversation with Elrond.

“— is obsidian.” He finished.

Elrond’s heart sank.

“Pesky things tae mine, they are, almost hard as diamond, cer’ainly harder than the steel yer average pickaxe is made of. Brittle as glass, though, one wrong swing and the chunk’s ruined. But it’s well worth it — when crafted right it’s sharper than any blade ye can smelt. Makes for excellent arrowheads, too. Though it’s largely fallen out of favour as metal ones are easier to mass produce, some folks still prefer it. Not to mention, they’re just dead pretty tae look at.”

“I see.” Elrond replied halfheartedly, then felt slightly ashamed when Durin shot him a quizzical look in response to his disinterest. He felt bad about roping Durin into this long speech, and then struggling to pay attention, especially since this was the most open Durin had ever been with him. But his mind was still reeling from the disappointment of not finding out about mithril, and preoccupied with devising new plans to uncover its secret. 

More and more often he felt the urge to just ask Durin directly about it. Except he couldn’t do so in a way that doesn’t immediately give away the fact that he knew far more than he should. Sighing inwardly, he turned his attention back to the activities of the mines around him. 

The chorus of clinking sounds echoing from deep in the shafts suddenly became apparent to Elrond, some light and melodic as notes plucked from the strings of a harp, others a dull thudding. He could make out from the mixture the striking of pickaxes against rock, the clatter of ores into mine carts, the clanging of the cogs and wheels of the shaft elevators, and the footsteps of many dwarves scurrying back and forth, their wood-cladded boots tramping upon the stone. The cacophony enshrouded Elrond like a thick blanket. 

“Y’alright?” Durin’s gruff voice cut through the noise. Elrond turned his wandering sight back onto him, finding his dwarven husband with a quizzical look upon his face, directed at him. “You’re lookin’ a bit pale.”

Giving him a tight smile, Elrond assured, “yes, I am. It’s much different to the quiet of Lindon here, and will take me some adjusting, I fear.”

That prompted a bark of mocking laughter from Durin, though it was not fully hostile, but rather somewhere between derisive and teasing. “I’ll bet. I can see ye elves mooching about all dainty in yer woods. You don’t have to follow me around all the time, ye know, I managed just fine before you’d arrived.” 

He didn’t know if this was some thinly veiled attempt at a dismissal on Durin’s part. If it was, he feigned ignorance to it, smiling politely. 

“I have no doubt.” He said, “but still, I wish to be of service. I know that I am not of much help right now, but allow me the opportunity to learn, and before long I will be pulling my own weight around here, and will for many years to come.” 

Durin fixed him with a long, measuring stare, but after a moment sighed and rolled his eyes. “Suite yerself,” he grumbled, before trodding onward to get on with business managing the mines, letting Elrond trail after him. 

They spent the rest of the day weaving in and out of various mineshafts, with Durin shouting instructions here and there, prodding slackers into work, co-ordinating the delivery of carts upon carts of ore to their rightful place in the smithy, ready to be processed, and generally overseeing the progress of the mines. Elrond watched, taking in all that he could see, filed away as much information as he could, and tried his best to quash the growing unrest and despair in his chest, which was becoming more and more suffocating. 

At the end of the day, they walked back to their quarters, and ate a simple dinner consisting of slices of roast beef sandwiched between two pieces of hearty, dense dwarvish bread. Durin declared that tomorrow they will be visiting the forge and overseeing some work there, before retiring to his private room, leaving Elrond to himself for the night.

Needing sleep less than dwarves do, Elrond had taken to staying up some nights working on his Khuzdûl, anxious to develop a grasp of the language as soon as possible so he could begin to read the documents and tomes stored in the records room in the mountain. It had always been his aim to do so, one of the few goals that he had in mind just for himself, for his own curiosity and thirst to broaden his knowledge. However, given the recent revelation, a new, less innocent motive has seeped into his sense of urgency, as it did into most things he did these days. Already he’d found himself side-eyeing the occasional letter correspondence he could see on Durin’s desk in his room, and scrolls he’d exchange and pick up out in the field, but he hadn’t been able to glean anything from the runic symbols with his limited grasp of the language.

Tonight, though, he decided he could do with a bit of rest. Being peredhel, he did need more sleep than full-blooded elves, and he was aware that he had not slept the night before, and only gotten half a night’s worth of shut-eye the night before that. But when he had changed into his nightclothes and climbed into bed, he realised that sleep would not come easily to him that night. 

His thoughts raced tumultuously inside his mind, fuelled by anxiety and frustration. He was aware that time was ticking by, and his silence and lack of any progress would not go unnoticed in Lindon. Indignant as he was about being placed in such a position, he also recognised that this was a mission of incredible stakes that had been entrusted to him and him alone by the King on behalf of his people, and not for nothing. This awareness plagued Elrond as he laid flat on his back and stared at the ceiling, running through various ideas of what could still be done, thinking up plans for the next day — perhaps he could do some prodding elsewhere, like the head of the mining team, or Narvi, the royal advisor to King Durin, see if any of them may left something slip… — until the shifting shadows etched by the flickering firelight onto the stone above lulled him into an uneasy slumber.

---

He was woken up in the middle of the night by the sound of scuffling in the room over. 

Eyes shooting open, Elrond laid still in bed, straining his ears to listen. Even with elven hearing, the sounds were faint, muffled through the thick stones that separated his private chambers and that of Durin’s, and there was their shared bedroom in between the two. Nevertheless, he could make out the sound of feet, then the scraping of stone against stone, then a lighter sound — metal, perhaps, or wood — some sort of contraption or lid popping open, then the fluttering of parchment, and more footsteps, growing fainter this time. Then he could hear no more. 

Carefully rising from the bed, he swung his legs out from under the blankets. The cold stone floor kissed the bare soles of his feet, and the flickering torchlight did naught to chase away the slightly-damp mountain chill from his thin nightgowns. He padded across his room, dipping through the open round archway of the main bedroom, and hugged the walls to remain out of sight as he came up to the entrance to Durin’s room.

But upon peering into the grand, well-decorated chamber, he could see no occupant within it. The bed in the corner — a single — was empty and unmade, the blanket bunched to the foot, seemingly in haste. Around the room there was silence, and as far as Elrond could there, nobody was there. 

“Durin?” He half-whispered as he entered, more so allowing himself plausible deniability if he had simply missed the dwarf in his scan afterall, but no answer came.

The large stone table at the far end of the room was strewn with parchments, rolls stacked upon each other perilously on the sides, and more were unfurled, laying on top of others, half-curled. Inkwells, stone-quills, and various pieces of stone and trinkets also found its home on the smooth marble surface.

Upon the centre of the table was a small wooden chest with its domed lid hanging open. Elrond recognised that the sound he’d heard earlier was likely this very chest being taken out from some place of storage and unlocked. Confident that he was alone, he walked over silently to it, circling the table until he came upon the other side of the chest, and looked inward. 

He could have gasped aloud.

Inside the chest, laying upon a soft, black velvet bed, was the most beautiful ore Elrond had ever laid eyes on. Its silver hue seemed to be emitting a light of its own, with a gleam so pure that it was almost like a liquid, pooling onto the dark material it was lying upon. The shine shifted deftly in the dimly lit room, ethereal and hard to pin down, even when Elrond strained his eyes and stared, hard. He could only stare as it twinkled and danced, enthralled. 

Grey glitter. Mithril. 

Without thinking, he reached into the chest and took the single piece of ore into his hand. It was barely a finger long, and no thicker than two knuckles. But even for its size it was impossibly lightweight, and it barely felt as if he was holding onto anything at all. Under his fingertips, the cool ore was unyielding. It wasn’t just hard like a stone was in Elrond’s gentle squeeze, but the resistance was almost alive, like a faint thrumming repelling his attempt to imprison it in his grip. He turned it over in his hand, lost in wonder. 

Under normal circumstances, he would have heard the footsteps down the corridor from a mile away, with plenty of time to allow him to replace the ore and duck back into his chambers, silently and unnoticed. However, captivated as Elrond was by the mithril, he did not hear Durin’s return until an accusing shout came from behind him. 

“I knew it!” 

Startled out of his trance, Elrond whipped around, still holding the incriminating piece of mithril in his hand, and saw Durin shadowing the doorway closest to the desk he was standing by, arms crossed. His mouth fell open as he attempted to explain the situation, but Durin did not give him the opportunity 

“I knew you’ve been up tae no good, snoopin’ around the place! Simply taking an interest, my arse! You’ve been after this this entire time, haven’t ye?”

Guilt flooded Elrond as he was caught red-handed. He tried to think of a way to talk himself out of the situation, but knew even as he tried that it was a futile effort. He can see how this must have looked to Durin, standing in his private quarters in the middle of the night, holding a piece of ore he should not have known existed, that he had taken from an unlocked chest, after having been bombarding Durin with questions about the dwarves’ mining activities for days on end. 

Enough lies had flooded between them already, more than he had ever intended for a lifetime.

“Yes,” he admitted finally. Then, cutting off Durin’s growl of anger, he quickly added, “but it is not as it looks — I can explain!” 

Pointedly reaching up and plucking the mithril ore from Elrond’s hand and dropping it back into the chest, Durin faced Elrond, hands on his hips, and bit out, “fine, then. Explain.”

It was at this moment Elrond’s mind blanked entirely. Where to even begin, with the mess of a web that has been woven at this point? Everything came to him all at once — the tale of the Silmarils, the wedding pact, the blight, his conversation with Gil-Galad where the impossible responsibility had been laid upon him, the fate of the elves… and he could not articulate any of it without relying on all the others. He opened his mouth and closed it again repeatedly, words escaping him. 

At last, an idea came to him. “Wait here.” He said hastily to Durin, much to the latter’s bewilderment and mild annoyance, and turned to rush from the room. 

In his own chambers, tucked away in a drawer in the small desk at the corner of the room, was the piece of leaf that Gil-Galad had given him upon their parting. When he opened the drawer, it was lying there just as it were a few days ago, angry black veins contorting across its surface. Elrond suppressed the shudder upon seeing it again, the horrific reality condensing itself in his gut anew, and picked it up.

Returning to Durin, he presented the evidence, holding it out by the stem. Durin frowned with one raised eyebrow as he slowly reached out to take it from him.

“’Tis a leaf.” He said flatly. 

“Not just any leaf, but the leaf of our Great Tree in Lindon. The very one from which came the sapling I gave you as our wedding gift. Its very life-force is tied to that of all the elves of the land. But see the blight upon it, the blackness that consumes its light. The tree is decaying, Durin. That’s why we need the mithril.” 

“How did you know,” Durin asked slowly, still staring at the leaf he held in his hand, turning it by the stem, “about the mithril?”

“King Gil-Galad told me, before he left for Lindon, the day after we wed. He said—” Elrond took a deep breath, reluctant as he knew he was about to reveal the full scale of the elves’ deceit. But he saw no other choice, for the tale must be told, and Durin must be made to understand the gravity of the situation. “He said that he had heard rumours of the dwarves’ discovery of a new ore, and that the description of the ore fit a legend we had of a substance which contained the very light of Valinor itself."

Without any prompting from the other, both of them instinctively glanced down at the mithril, put back in its chest. The light shone on still from it, as if the very sun and moon dwelt inside. 

“He believed that this ore — this mithril, is the key to our salvation. But he’d also heard that the dwarves were… unwilling to share even the knowledge of its existence, and that if we had asked outright then you would only have denied it and shut your ears to our pleas.”

“So youse lied.” Durin, who had been listening intently until then, finally cut Elrond off, his voice bitter. “And you have continued to lie to me since.”

“I had no choice! It was clear from the very beginning I could not come to you openly. You’ve done nothing but shut me out since you first laid eyes on me. I’ve made every effort to gain your friendship — your love,” Elrond cried in desperation, hurt evident in his voice now, “and have received in return nothing but hostility and distrust!”

Durin barked out an indignant laugh. “Don’t speak to me of distrust.” He spat. “Was I so wrong to be wary of you? Did you not have ulterior motives that you hid from me from the very start?”

Closing his eyes in frustration, Elrond sighed, regaining the composure in his voice. Not out of any newfound calmness, but rather suddenly feeling very tired. “I fear we are going in circles here.”

“Are we now.” 

“Yes! Or do you deny that if I had been forthcoming with you about our predicament and told you truthfully what we had been looking for, you would not have lent an open ear, but rather you would have doubled your efforts at secrecy, and made sure I never discovered the truth?”

Suddenly, as if Elrond has struck a nerve, Durin’s face contorted in fury. Not the kind of annoyance that so far he had displayed, from being justly indignant at the deceit, but a new kind of reaction that was more visceral, as if it had suddenly become far more personal. Subconsciously, Elrond scrambled back a half-step, but Durin pressed forward, closing the gap between then by jabbing a finger up in Elrond’s chest.

“Ye don’t know the half of what you’re talkin’ ab—”

His growl was cut off suddenly as his eyes snapped downwards towards the table. In his anger, he had let go of the leaf Elrond gave him, and it had fluttered, unintended by him, into the chest, laying on the velvet next to the mithril. 

Both elf and dwarf drew in a sharp breath simultaneously as they watched how — from the tip of the leaf that almost touched the mithril, spreading inwards — the dark ropes that had gnawed at the leaf’s surface shrunk, dissipating almost as mist blown away by wind. Light poured from the ore into the leaf, and soon it was golden again, radiating the warmth of the sun. 

Taking a deep breath, Durin spoke, voice quiet again. 

“What will happen, if the elves do not find a solution?”

“Without a solution, without mithril,” Elrond replied, hope rekindled more than ever before despite the weight of the words he uttered, “every elf must abandon the shores of Middle Earth before long. Those who do not will perish, their immortal souls will dwindle into nothing, slowly diminishing, until they are but shadows swept away by the tides of time, forever.”

Durin grimaced briefly, eyes still fixed to the leaf, which was now laying completely unblemished inside the chest. Absently, he reached in and picked it up, running it between his thumb and forefinger. Elrond watched him hopefully, perceiving that his mind was softening, though he seemed more troubled than ever by this new revelation. 

“Leave me.” Eventually, Durin said, his voice flat and weary. 

Deciding it would be unwise to push the matter further, lest he achieve the opposite effect, Elrond obeyed, turning to walk back to his own quarters. When he has almost reached the archway leading out of the room, however, he paused and turned back to Durin, who was still standing where he’d left him, looking down at the golden leaf in his hand. 

“Not from the start.” He said. “When we wed — when I swore my oath to you, I didn’t know. I cared not what reason the elves had for the alliance. I had intended then — as I still do now — only my devotion to you.”

No reply came from Durin, nor did he look up at Elrond’s words, or make any movement as indication that he had received them. With one last lingering look at the dwarf, Elrond left.