Chapter Text
(1)
The Elvenking of the Mirkwood loved fine wine, a fact that had long been the secret to the prosperity of nearby Lake-town. Even though darkness had begun to fester within that vast forest, the Silvan warriors who hunted giant spiders by day would still laugh and revel at feasts by night. At these feasts, their king would also indulge in merriment and did not often speak to them of the past.
Their king, His Majesty Thranduil of the Woodland Realm, was an Alpha of strikingly fair and haughty features, tall stature, and an intensely oppressive pheromonal presence. Yet, the king was always kindly and amiable towards them, even though he was not originally of the Silvan folk, but an ancient Sindar Elf of unimaginable age. His homeland was not here, but the legendary Sindarin kingdom of Doriath, that land of beauty which had fallen in the First Age. As for this ancientness, the Silvans paid little mind to the mysteries it might hold. The secret to the Silvans' happiness lay in focusing on enjoying the present moment. Some might scornfully call them simple-minded and brawny, as if it were a flaw or inadequacy, rather than a mercy belonging to eternal beings.
Thus, none of his Silvan subjects truly dwelled on the fact that their king had only a son and no wife. The king had lost not only his own father in the war against the evil at the end of the previous age, but perhaps also a beloved who had perished before their union could be formalized—a common tragedy in times of war. When the king returned, he brought back only a third of the army that had marched out, and an infant in swaddling clothes. The king did not speak of it, so they did not ask. They loved their king and had no wish to cause him further sorrow. Such was the wisdom of the Silvan folk.
This continued until the Prince of the Mirkwood came of an age to understand, and began to ask, over and over again, about his mother.
At first, it was innocent bewilderment, then insistent questioning, until finally, the Silvans could only watch as their Prince—who had also turned into an Alpha—stormed out of the King's study once more, the aggression in the air palpable even to Betas.
And the King sat at his desk, gazing silently at the official missive just arrived from Rivendell, and sank alone into distant memories. He thought of a time long ago, when he was still considered young by himself.
(2)
At that time, he was just over three centuries old, in excile with his father Oropher in the shadow of Doriath's downfall. Doriath had fallen, brought down by that dreadful oath sworn by the famous Omega who changed elven history and his seven Alpha sons—the Fëanorians were determined to reclaim the Silmarilion that Beren and Lúthien had taken back from Morgoth, even at the cost of kinslaying. Doriath had fallen, its very ruins sinking beneath the waves along with Beleriand after the War of Wrath. His carefree childhood and beautiful youth thereafter became nothing more than faint memories. The displaced Sindar elves were the most reluctant to sail west to the Blessed Realm of Valinor. The lands west of the sea were a wondrous paradise they had never set foot upon, but Middle-earth beneath their feet was the land they had fought for. Most elves who chose not to sail after the war settled in Lindon.
That day, on his way to Forlindon, he still wore a worn velvet robe in the Sindarin style, his golden hair tied back with a simple cord. A life of hardship and displacement had not dulled his beauty; instead, it had added a warrior's resilience and pride—which, unfortunately, became a target for certain idle drifters, those not permitted to return to Valinor. The relatively scarce Alphas and Omegas seemed born to add more discordant variations to the Ainulindalë. Even elven history was largely shaped by Alpha and Omega leaders, and they were less inclined than Betas to find contentment in unchanging peace. Such nature, left unguided, often led astray.
"Look who's here, parading around in rags."
The leader of the idle Noldor drifters, an Alpha, blocked the path, the smell of liquor mixed with pheromones assaulting the senses. "A stray dog that fled from Doriath, daring to seek an audience with our High King?"
Thranduil looked down disdainfully at this ill-intentioned mob, tucking the letter in his hand into his robe—it was a formal document from his father Oropher to Gil-galad, the current High King of Lindon, concerning whether their proud band of Sindarin survivors could secure an independent settlement within Lindon. Years of exile had taught him restraint, but the pride of a Sindarin noble still boiled in his blood. "I have official documents that must be delivered personally. You'd best scatter before I make you."
"Documents?" Another drifter, provoked by his contempt, spat, "What does a Sindar like you have worth delivering, besides a pretty face—"
Before he could finish, Thranduil struck. His face indeed made it hard for strangers to believe he had once served as a captain of the court guard in Doriath, and was an Alpha warrior who had survived sacked cities and war. Training from youth allowed him to easily land a punch to the speaker's gut, but the combined pheromonal pressure from several Alphas pressed down on him. Holding back his strength, unwilling to accidentally kill, and outnumbered, he was thrown onto the rough stone pavement.
"Who do you think you are?" The leading Noldor Alpha finally looked down upon him, uttering reckless words. "Without the protection of Thingol's throne, what pride do you Sindar have left to—"
"Do you all wish to be exciled once more?"
A young voice spoke, gentle and calm, yet carrying undeniable authority.
Another form of aggression quickly permeated the air—a potent, invasive compulsion emanating from a powerful Omega, seeping into the senses of the present Alphas, sending a bone-chilling dread through them. The idle elves froze on the spot. Upon seeing the newcomer, they swiftly retreated half a step, bowed their heads in deference, and then fled the scene in haste.
Thranduil looked up, ready to express his gratitude, but upon clearly seeing the young Omega who had walked up to him, he froze in place, his mouth opening but no sound coming out.
The dark-haired elf stood in the moonlight, his gentle grey eyes like mist-covered lakes at night. He wore a simple silver robe, a Lindon official's badge fastened to his belt. He appeared barely of age, yet his bearing and demeanor revealed a composure that seemed weathered by ages, incongruous with his youth.
And that face itself made Thranduil blurt out without thinking: "King Dior?"
The last King of Doriath. Son of Lúthien. The unattainable moonlight of his youthful years, fairest among the Children of Ilúvatar, now standing before him as if returned from the dead?
(3)
Since his exile, this was the first time he had looked so closely at a face. A face that in a daze reminded him of the splendid halls of Doriath, the carefree years under King Thingol's throne, and the fleeting glimpse in his youth of that person from his homeland—a face that ultimately never belonged to him.
He hurriedly stood up and took a step forward, completely forgetting the proper distance dictated by social etiquette.
That elf, seemingly accustomed to such reactions, smiled helplessly, "The one you refer to must be my grandfather."
"My……Then, you must be Elrond, right?”
Thranduil could not tear his gaze away from his face. "The last time I saw you and your brother, you were only three or four years old..."
The young half-elf proactively extended his hand. "Yes, I am Elrond, son of Princess Elwing of Doriath, and currently Chief Advisor to the High King Gil-galad. I seem to have some faint memory of you. You must be the son of Oropher. ”
Thranduil grasped his hand in return; the grip was warm and firm. "Thranduil, son of Oropher. Former Captain of the Court Guard of Doriath, and now... nothing yet."
A minister of a fallen kingdom, an orphan in exile—such titles felt so hollow now.
"A pleasure to meet you. ” Elrond indeed had heard that Oropher had brought a group of Sindar survivors. "I know you are seeking autonomy for Harlindon."
"Yes, I have come personally to deliver a missive."
As Thranduil reached into his robe for the letter, he realized their hands were still clasped together.
He attempted to withdraw his hand, but Elrond held on a little tighter.
"I will take you directly to my High King. His Majesty Gil-galad has granted me unrestricted passage." The young half-elf's voice was gentle and pleasant. "Also... your face is injured."
Thranduil subconsciously raised his other hand to touch his cheek, where a thin scratch was oozing droplets of blood. Elrond had already grabbed a clean handkerchief with his free hand and pressed it gently against the wound on his face.
Too close. This Omega was far too close.
For a moment, Thranduil was speechless and discovered, with embarrassment, that he had begun involuntarily releasing pheromones meant for attraction. Yet the powerful young Omega before him, who had effortlessly dispersed a group of Alphas earlier, did not respond with the aggressive scent of rejection as before.
"You called me ‘King Dior' earlier," Elrond said, withdrawing the silk handkerchief and smiling to break the silence.
"...You resemble him greatly."
"Many of the Sindar say that. Of course, I never met him."
"He died very young," Thranduil said softly, "even younger than your current age."
The tenderness and nostalgia in that voice were not merely reverence for a monarch.
"So, you had feelings for him."
The wise young half-elf concluded, seeing right through him with ease, yet still not releasing his hand.
At last, he awkwardly averted his gaze from that face. That youthful, naive affection had long ago sunk into the deep sea along with Beleriand, yet now it was being dredged up once more.
"...To recall it now is more a remembrance of the departed and times past." Thranduil withdrew his hand, stiffly trying to steer the conversation back on course. "My apologies, I meant no offense."
"They say that after Dior wore the Silmaril, his beauty surpassed that of all the Children of Ilúvatar in the world."
He remembered that the half-elf, long accustomed to speaking disingenuously, was already adept at offering comforting lies: "To compare me to him, how could I possibly take that as an offense?"
After personally delivering the missive into Gil-galad's hands, Elrond actually followed him out, unsettling him even more. He tried to drag his thoughts back to the matter at hand. Gil-galad's attitude had been mild yet reserved, not immediately responding to their request for autonomy but promising careful consideration. That should have been the sole focus of this visit. However, that face so resembling King Dior, that half-elf blending ancient Sindarin blood with some more elusive quality, once again came to effortlessly disturb his composure.
Powerful Omegas always delighted in letting the world know their allure; it was also their method of rule, much like the High King he had just met—a style of leadership entirely different from what he and his father, as Alphas, were accustomed to. Alphas often secured obedience and devotion by demonstrating physical strength, thereby naturally establishing order. But what Omegas excelled at was subtly bending the wills of others, and it was especially potent against Alphas. So it was that Thingol caused the mighty Melian to linger for him; that Beren led the clever Lúthien to fall for him; not to mention how Fëanor incited many of the Noldor and his seven Alpha sons to follow him in rebellion.
Throughout history, Alpha-Omega unions seemed always to add particularly splendid variations to the Ainulindalë, yet also inevitably brought discordant notes of tragedy and disaster.
(4)
In truth, Elrond had always wished he were a Beta. Unfortunately, in the end, his brother Elros presented as an Alpha, while he presented as an Omega. The Fëanorians who had adopted them were quite pleased at the time, convinced that the brothers were destined for great futures. Yet, he found himself unable to rejoice for a long while. A deep-seated aversion to turmoil, born of his own experiences, was etched into his very bones, and the Alpha and Omega designations seemed fated to never know peace.
Just as he had never been able to control being fatefully drawn to Thranduil.
Even at their first meeting in Lindon, he had already overstepped by actively reaching out to take the hand of that tall, fair Alpha. But that feeling was still far from enough. Reason warned him to stop; wisdom showed him the parting he could already foresee; experience reminded him of the mad consequences of an A/O union. Then Thranduil merely gazed at him, captivated, and he forgot all of that, never wanting to let go again.
Gil-galad watched with a knowing, wordless smile as Elrond, distracted, swiftly finished his conversation and immediately headed out the door to catch up with that handsome Alpha, engaging him in talk once more.
With a few well-chosen words, he easily made the other lower his guard, confiding more to him. He listened greedily as Thranduil spoke in a deep, pleasing voice of the history of his homeland, which Elrond had not personally witnessed, and of his present ideals and aspirations.
"...My father wishes to rebuild an army. He believes Middle-earth will still have need of warriors. But sometimes I think perhaps we should learn to accept peace."
"Peace requires more cooperation to safeguard. High King Gil-galad is also forming an alliance."
Thranduil turned to look at him. "And what of you? What do you wish to protect now, Elrond?"
The young Half-elf fell silent.
Yes, what did he wish to protect now? Memories? Legacy? The home he had almost never truly possessed?
Or was it that he merely wished to prove his own worth—could a Half-elf with a tumultuous past, a solitary Omega, relying on his own intellect, find a place in this new world that aligned with his ideals?
He didn't have time to answer, because Thranduil, whom he had only just met, suddenly leaned down and finally, as Elrond had wished, actively kissed him.
"The pheromones you just released... smelled like an epic still being written. Like wisdom itself."
Was that a lovers' whisper? The young Elrond did not know; he had only seen cruder words in the most lowbrow of texts. He only knew his hands had already climbed to the back of Thranduil's neck, pulling him closer.
He looked into those blue eyes and felt a certain long-dormant instinct awakening within his blood. Was it the Sindarin heritage acting up? The nature inherited from Thingol and Melian, from Beren and Lúthien—a helpless attraction to beautiful things?
Or was it simpler: the natural desire when a young Omega and a tall, handsome Alpha gaze at each other with mutual affection? Why couldn't he have presented as a Beta?
Thranduil asked softly if he wanted to go somewhere less disturbed.
He closed his eyes, listing in his heart all the reasons he should not continue: his duties, his ambitions, his newly begun career beside Gil-galad, his ideal of rebuilding a certain order, and the absurdity of being mistaken by this Alpha before him for his own grandfather.
Then he opened his eyes, looked at that eager, beautiful face, and whispered, yes.
(5)
They followed the oldest tradition of the Sindar—uniting in the most primal way beneath the starlight, amidst the trees. Perhaps there was also the exile's nostalgia for their homeland, the reckless passion under the moonlight, and the young soul's yearning for connection. Intense, rich pheromones bloomed and diffused gloriously through the woods. In a moment of ecstatic oblivion, Elrond looked up and saw his father, that Star of Hope, sailing among the constellations.
So this was the ultimate truth. This was the meaning of eternity.
Starlight and grass, rivers and forests finally awoke truly in his eyes—how beautiful everything in the world was! How absurdly comical those contrived verses seemed by comparison! Hope and love were no longer lofty concepts in his mind but flowed, in that very moment, between his legs.
Finally, exhausted, they lay together on the grasses of Lindon, weary yet light-hearted in each other's embrace.
He recalled what other Omega poets had written: that Beren wandered long with Lúthien in the woods, and that alone was contentment, a happiness greater than any of the children of Ilúvatar ever knew—the Lay of Lúthien had manifested from his spirit onto his very being, making him wonder now why he still sought, when he could find bliss so effortlessly.
Then that fair Alpha playfully wrestled and tumbled with him on the grassy forest floor, and after catching him, kissed him with abandon.
After the deep kiss, Thranduil caressed his face, looked into his eyes, and said earnestly that he loved him, that he felt they had become one, that he could no longer imagine a life apart from him.
The perceptive Half-elf heard the sincerity in those words and was, for a moment, speechless.
He should have felt immeasurably happy, yet those words of courtship made him think distractedly of the past, of not long ago, when he had spoken similar, yet far more profound words to his High King.
His High King was also an Omega; there had never been a physical bond between them. Gil-galad had never fully awakened his senses, but they had sought together, had discoursed loftily on love and passion in all their forms.
Not long ago, he had told his King that his love for him likely surpassed all else in this world, that he was willing to surrender his soul completely to be assimilated by him, that he felt their spirits had merged into one, that he might only ever truly love him.
That was a deliberate, considered choice, the sovereign offering of free will, a priceless loyalty tested by time.
Yet the Alpha before him, upon first seeing him earlier that day, had called him by his grandfather's name.
Perhaps it could be called fate, a love at first sight like that of his forebears, Elrond tried to convince himself.
But, throughout history, which of those famous Alpha-Omega pairs had not stirred towering waves, only to ultimately turn to foam upon their crests? The union of Thingol and Melian brought the splendor and protection of Doriath, yet indirectly led to its later isolation and decline; Beren and Lúthien wrote the most magnificent and tragic of famous tales with their very lives; and Fëanor, with his own hands, burned his soul along with the fates of many beings in Middle-earth.
And he, a young Half-elf of troubled lineage, an Omega who perhaps yearned for peace more than even the average Beta—was he truly ready to step into such a destiny? This beautifully, gloriously prelude to ruin?
He looked up again at his father, at that Star of Hope drifting in the night sky—perhaps that was the fate of the Half-elf: to forever seek, forever wander, forever only able to dock briefly in any harbor.
(6)
Elrond wished to deliberately forget that moonlit night and every reunion thereafter. Or rather, he tried to reinterpret that encounter with rationality: it was merely a momentary impulse, a mere physical attraction between two young Elves under special circumstances. Thranduil saw him as a substitute for Dior, and he himself was distracted by Thranduil's beauty. It was simply a surrender to and indulgence of the senses, nothing more. He attempted to deceive himself using the manipulative techniques at which Omegas excel.
Because in the end, he had to remain in Lindon, to continue learning all he could, to try and heal all the wounds he could mend, to pursue ideals alongside his High King, to use an Omega's wisdom and charm to shape Middle-earth.
That Sindar Elf, indeed, had been utterly heartbroken by him. At their parting, in emotional turmoil, he accused Elrond of being heartless, of deceiving his sincerity, of being as prone to lying as all Omegas, and said he should have seen it clearly long ago.
Looking at the face before him, now occupied by sorrow and anger, Elrond feigned composure and nodded, expressing regret. He conceded that these accusations held merit, but stated that they each had their own duties and missions, which should not be abandoned merely for the pursuit of sensory stimulation.
For a fleeting moment, as Thranduil's pupils dilated in disbelief, seemingly almost unable to restrain himself from resorting to violence, Elrond imagined himself rushing forward, pleading with him not to leave, or using his pheromones to seduce the other into forcibly taking him away.
However, he only rationally contemplated the possibility. In the end, of course, he chose what he was most adept at in matters of personal feeling, and what was also most prudent for the greater good: concealment and evasion.
He silently watched as the other turned and left in anger and pain.
Fortunately, he had already imagined and foreseen this scene, so when it unfolded before his eyes, he remained relatively calm.
Until that night, when he returned to the presence of his High King, he suddenly could not stop the tears from falling, and soon began to sob.
He quickly cried to the point of becoming incoherent, even confessing that he should never have yielded to an Omega's nature from the very beginning. Gil-galad, also an Omega, gently comforted him, repeating over and over that it was not his fault, that this was simply the fickleness of fate.
Under his uncontrollable questioning, his King also assured him that the spiritual love between them would remain entirely unchanged from beginning to end; that no matter what happened, no matter how far apart they were, this love would remain constant, even when death do them apart.
Oh, why had he not presented as a Beta, who would feel content at such a moment? Why could those noble words no longer easily soothe an Omega who had tasted supreme bliss? His Alpha had been pushed away—for ideals, for missions, for all the order they each fought for—Thranduil had left, utterly disillusioned.
"Ereinion, I don't know. Perhaps I am just a cowardly, selfish, and despicable Half-elf."
"Elrond." Gil-galad's embrace held not the slightest trace of desire. "This is not your failing. The world holds many coincidences of chance. Perhaps in days to come, you will have another opportunity..."
He looked at his King, his dearest friend, the one with whom he was spiritually laid bare, watching as the other wiped away the ceaseless tears falling from the corners of his eyes.
"Perhaps, had I truly gone with him to Greenwood back then, I would now be at his side, secretly weeping for being unable to speak with you daily anymore. Perhaps I am simply this greedy by nature, this fickle and inconstant."
Omega leaders were inherently skilled in these games of rhetoric, and were even more precise and merciless when using them to belittle and wound themselves. In the end, his High King could only silently hold him close, with gentleness.
(7)
"Lord Elrond."
He pulled himself from his memory, for Legolas had suddenly spoken. “Can I ask you a question?”
"Please, feel free to do so.”
"Have we met before?"
Legolas looked at him earnestly. "From the moment I first saw you, I felt an odd sense of familiarity. It's as if... as if I've known you for a very long time."
"Perhaps it is because I bear a face that holds echoes of many past ones,"
Elrond offered a faint smile. "When I was much younger, many said I resembled my grandfather, King Dior of Doriath. Perhaps you have seen his portrait among your father's collections."
As Legolas gazed at him intently, he looked back. He watched the night breeze stir those light blond hair, saw the moonlight cast soft shadows upon that young and fair face. The sight made his vision begin to blur.
"You make me feel... warm, yet you seem... very lonely.”
"A wise one is often alone. That is the price of that choice."
"What did you choose then?”
"Duty. Ideals. Purpose."
He looked toward the distant mountains. "And... to bear the secrets found within the footnotes of epics."
(The End of Volume One)