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esculentevil · 1 year ago

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(Thorinduil + Thingoropher AU) The Heart of the Mermaid/Miner

((Thorinduil Mermaid/Miner AU partly inspired by @rosalind-wt-blog’s art here; also for MerMay; ALSOalso: sorry this is so short, it’s really just a gloss ok: no it’s not: it was MEANT to be one but then my idiot brain decided “NO! It needs DETAILS!!! I need to explain THIS and explain THAT!!! Now, once more, from the top, WITH FEELING!!!” x.x, and alsox3 for the Thingol/Oropher dump: while trying to decide/figure out how Duil could be trying to get back his heart while heartless [which launched its OWN debate of how fitting that would be from a he’s so heartless viewpoint], I unintentionally created a really cool background history for this AU that I just HAD to use; and, conveniently, it made it both possible and logical to fit my other OTP in here so... yea; enjoy?))

☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ☆💎AO3🦪/⛏️Pillowfort🌲☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ☆

Long ago, during the course of the First Age, The Great Elven King Elu Thingol requested the aid of the Dwarf Lords of Old.

“Fashion for me a necklace befitting this gem,” he’d ordered, loud and grand, displaying for all present (the dwarrow lords in question, members of his court, his wife--giver of said gem--and child, lords and ladies of distant elvish lands) one large jewel glowing an enchanting golden hue that mesmerized them all.

But none more so than the dwarrows employed to frame it.

They coveted this gem, worshiped it as True Gold, and endeavored to have it--and have it they did: on the day they deemed to present the necklace made, they snatched the golden gem from the great elven king and brought his wrath down upon themselves and all their kin; and, thus, the land of Erebor was taken, the dwarrows within conquered and claimed, and Elu Thingol crowned anew: both Elfking and Dwarfking.

Thorin had grown up with this tale sung low and long into his heart.

His mother had whispered it to him, behind his father’s back, every night since his birth in the Third Age--long after the dwarrows of Erebor lost their mountain, freedom, and gold to the white waif of an elf they must since call their king.

Thrain had never liked her telling of it, saying it was too kind and considerate and more lie than truth for the Dwarf Lords of Old--the REAL Dwarfkings, that is--had simply taken what they were due when the blasted Elfking refused to pay; but Fis, arguably the stubbornest of all dwarf dames, ignored his eternal protests and kept telling it, insisting that it was important for Thorin to know all truths.

And, so, he did.

Not that it did much good.

By the time he was old enough to mine and make like his father and forefathers, Thorin had already come to agree with Thrain and Thror (his grandfather and one of Erebor’s true kings) about the events they were all too young to see.

This is why, when Thorin unearths something so precious and pretty and perfect as he mines, he shows it to his father and grandfather and NOT his mother.

She would have only had him turn it in to the false king.

Together, and with the blessings of the remains of the true dwarven lordships, the Sons of Durin settle on a name for this priceless treasure: The Arkenstone.

Elsewhere, deep under the surface of--not rock and stone but--sea and water, this item is known by a different name: The Heart of the Green Sea’s King.

The land of Greenwater is one far below the Surface World. It is a land of sand and coral and thermal vents and darkness with speckles of light--not of the sun but of those inhabiting it: merms, merfolk, merpeople--whichever you prefer.

They go by many names; but surface dwellers usually call them monsters.

To Thranduil, however, it is THEM whom are the true monsters.

Legolas, Thranduil’s son, does not agree with this.

He thinks they’re strange, sure, but in a cute way. And the hairy ones are cutest, he often says; and Thranduil can never bring himself to say they’re the grossest--for that’s his opinion and, like his own father, he likes his son’s independence.

But that’s just the problem: his father may not be his father for much longer.

Oropher, King of Greenwater of the Great Green Sea, is DYING.

And, to his grandson’s tears, the fault lies in The Hairy Ones.

Thus, Thorin and Thranduil meet: above the sea but below the stone.

Deep inside a cave dwarrows use to bathe, the merm surfaces in a hot spring--utilizing the heat of it for that is what he is accustomed to from the thermal vents--and finds his head almost taken off--not by Thorin’s axe or sword or even a bow and arrow, no, but by his bare hands: wet and hot and coarse and thick and STRONG; almost enough to choke him on the first try.

Almost.

Thorin might be powerful in his own way but he’s still just a tiny little short dwarf: he is NOTHING compared to the raw might of a merm’s tail, least of all Thranduil’s impossibly long, mithril encrusted, starlight one.

It chokes him back, digging the toughest metal directly into his tough naked skin, and squeezes not just his neck but his head and torso and whole body as well until he’s dizzy and breathless and SIGHTLESS--

King Thingol is not impressed when he hears the young dwarf miner’s account: he’s intrigued.

He’s heard tales of these tails before, long ago when sails from Valinor meant crossing the Ocean Green and seeing the sights only Valar, Maiar, and Eldar do.

Merfolk are legends: beings of the deepest seas that can command them like Elves do land, the Valar do Arda, and Elu Illuvatar does Everything; it has, thus, been a long held belief (supported by The One not really knowing much of them) that these sea creatures are the only form of independent life anywhere.

And Elu Thingol has always been interested in them thusly...

It is this interest that has Thorin, a thick and heavy and burly and land-loving DWARF, swimming down the underwater tunnel his would-be-killer had used.

The path leads him passed the mining holes and the hot springs’ halls and even the lowest housing units used by the nobility and ROYALTY of the dwarrows.

And that irritates him: the fact that this MONSTER--which came upon him while he was NAKED and trying to RELAX and TAKE A WELL-DESERVED, HOT, PAMPERING BATH--might not only have COME FROM but also very well LIVE down there where it’s DEEPER than even DWARROWS can live.

But he does not let it show, does not let it interfere, because, as the hole opens and leads him into this insultingly deeper dwelling... he will have his REVENGE.

Or so he thought.

Thorin did not come unprepared on this endeavor--he wasn’t ALLOWED to--and it shows.

Equipped with oil-slicked clothing [spun by elves for only they could be so ick], an ancient [but admittedly powerful for a metal item forged by elves] blade named Orcrist, and a[n ELVEN] spell that allows him to breathe like a fish underwater [seriously, these ELVES have the absolute WEIRDEST things...], Thorin’s task isn’t nearly as hard as it probably could be--but he [and his father and grandfather] is certain the weird spell is the only thanks the elves deserve.

Especially as the freaks are known for making GLOWY THINGS and THIS blade DOESN’T GLOW despite how HELPFUL that would be in the DARK DEEP (and, yes, he’s irritated about this because the elves made a POINT to SAY it glows--around ORCS, they said, whatever THOSE are--as though that’s a huge selling point even though, one, it’s not being SOLD, and, two, THERE’RE NO ORCS!!!)!

Except, Thorin finds (and, no, he’s not sure if the elves KNEW this before so still fire and flame to them), that a glowing sword wouldn’t have been that helpful: EVERYONE DOWN HERE GLOWS.

This makes finding the specific monster HE is looking for not particularly hard; however, it DOES make stealthing around much more difficult than it should be--even for a dwarf.

Everywhere he goes, he has to be sure not to get caught in any merthing’s light--or DISTRACTED by it because, blast it, it’s BEAUTIFUL most of the time--especially that of the one he’s actually looking for--even if his false king isn’t.

Elu Thingol isn’t particularly interested in WHICH merthing he brings back so long as he DOES bring back ONE.

Thorin just hopes to hit two stones.

He finds him surrounded by what he can only call his young.

They are all smaller than him and, although only one of them LOOKS like him, they all seem to do or move or even sound similar to him like Thorin (and Dis, his sister, and Frerin, his brother) does with his father and even grandfather (or mother in the case of Dis; their grandmother remains unknown to them).

And that’s a problem: if these littler merthings are his children...

Thorin can’t; he just... but he MUST.

And so he does.

He waits for the young ones to finish combing their hair--long and luscious locks of varying colors but mostly dark browns which he figures come from the mother (whom Thorin doesn’t see but can only assume must be unbelievably beautiful; worthy, certainly, of--MONSTER; that thing is a MONSTER; he’s not beautiful)--and (re)placing braids in each other’s before laying down in each other’s arms and tails and hair and fins and seeming to go to sleep like his younger siblings.

Thorin ignores the warm clench in his chest at the thought and sight.

Instead, he silently follows the beautiful monster that came onto him.

The glowing creature leads him to a cavernous room filled with wealth.

Gemstones that glitter under the merthing’s glow. Coins that catch all eyes. Metals that match the gray crust his almost murderer wears upon his long tail. Gold and silver and copper and garnets and sapphires and chrysoprases.

MOUNTAINS of them.

And upon them, in the center of the room, is a throne of giant white diamonds; and, upon it...

The Great King of Greenwater the Great of the Great Green Sea sleeps, seemingly, upon his white diamond throne amongst the well wishes and offerings of his loving people, frightened and sad and desperate to get him back.

But, the gaping hole in his chest, where his heart once lay centuries ago and long before the beginning of his reign, sits black and hollow and DARK.

Oropher the Green Maelstrom sits empty and barren upon his throne, surrounded by love and light but none of it his own.

For his heart, a beautiful giant glowing green pearl which should be buried deep within the living coral stone of his much beloved home above his giant throne, has been taken--MINED--by the very monster creeping into his royal dome.

One important thing to note about merms: their hair isn’t actually hair.

Technically, it is; but only in the sense that these long locks are really hair cells.

They’re receptors, delicate but strengthened by their unusually large size, and pick up everything from sound waves to actual waves that indicate movement.

Such as that of some creepy monster coming up behind one.

Thranduil might have noticed it sooner if he weren’t so tired.

In the wake of his father’s technical absence, he has been forced into his role: Thranduil is now king--however temporarily (and by the currents does he hope this is all going to end shortly with his father up and ruling as he does normally)--and doing his best to juggle both his father’s duties, his own duties as prince and father (and, yes, a part of him wishes he could tack husband back onto that list, if only so he could have back the comfort, aid, and love of his long gone wife), AND the duty of retaking his father’s heart so they can ALL return to normal.

But he does not notice the creeping presence as it enters, so wrapped is he within his woe and weep and want and wish for his father to return to him them.

And even when he did notice, he thought it was simply one of his many children--for why WOULD he assume one of The Hairy Ones from up above would come in the dead of night and follow him into his father’s seemingly empty abode?

What actually tipped him off was the lack of light.

Despite the movement he could feel through both the waves and his long hair, no new light came with it--and that’s strange as all merms glow (but his father... now, at least) with the light of life and love (the reason his father is now so dark: without his heart at least tangentially connected to him through his throne/home, he technically has neither, now... it is why everymerm has tried to fill the room with their love imbued minerals and metals, hoping to substitute their own love for his but it isn’t working and Thranduil’s panicking and that’s why he WENT there, up to The Hairy Ones, in the hopes to END THIS--to get his father BACK).

Confused and realizing it’s not one of his sons or daughters but expecting, really, little more than a random fish he could maybe make them all a little pet out of, the prince-king of the wetland realm turns around and finds himself trapped, staring down the business end of a fully loaded handheld harpoon gun.

And the one holding that gun... the very first Hairy One he’s touched.

Thorin can breathe underwater--this is the one thing he and his people will thank those blasted elves for--BUT--blast those idiots--he isn’t able to TALK.

Of course, he isn’t sure the merthings can--the monster didn’t bother speaking when he came upon him possibly as nude as he had been (which, truly, is just... a WEIRD thought--the thing is nude even NOW and Thorin’s not really sure what, exactly, to DO with that thought)--but he assumes they have a language--of SOME kind--that’s probably as alien to him as the waifish noise elves make.

Thingol actually said (yes, he was listening--only out of necessity, mind: preparedness is important; especially when one is embarking on a task alone) that their language, in the legends, was described like music and song: instruments for vocal chords and an orchestra in the throat.

Regardless of what is true: Thorin lets his gun talk for him.

That and his head.

He nods it in the direction he wants the merthing to go--back towards the tunnel--and keeps the gun trained on his (and Thingol’s) prize.

The monster, not an idiot, clenches its (Thorin isn’t sure what these things are--he passed by many of them but found no real way of telling their age or gender--and this one, especially, is a monster to him anyway) fists (in a move far too... SIMILAR to be comfortable) and, after glancing one last time at the figure shadowed and shattered and slain upon the spectacular diamond throne, obediently swims towards the hidden hole while giving the dwarf a wide berth.

Thorin pointedly ignores the sympathetic clench the monster’s horrified face makes him feel as they swim over the still sleeping bodies of his children.

Thingol praises Thorin upon his return, monstrous merthing in figurative hand.

Thorin’s father and grandfather and other such dwarven family are equally proud and impressed and pester him endlessly for information on the strange things.

Fis, however, is not either of these things.

No: she is furious.

Thorin didn’t think this was much of a problem: his mother usually calms down after enough time is given--although, yes, apologies often help speed up things.

He isn’t a liar, though; and, while a part of him feels bad for the children, yes, he’s not at all sorry to bring his own assailant to justice.

However, his mother does not agree--she does not SEE things this way--and, so, she demands--no: forces!--him to beg for forgiveness.

Fis, somehow knowing exactly where her husband and father-in-law hid it, takes and TURNS IN The Arkenstone.

Thingol is mesmerized by it--more so than he was by even the glowing gold gem that started this all those years ago--just as the dwarrows knew he’d be (because, obviously, they had been).

He’s also angered by their treachery.

They’re punished accordingly: incarceration in cages upon the mountaintop; barred caves otherwise open and vulnerable to the weathering elements; exposed holes in full view of the sun and moon and air and WATER and DORIATH, Thingol’s original/elven/forest kingdom just northwest of Erebor, where they are rendered naked and bared of their mountain’s wonderful and warm weight like worms tugged up by winter-weak, willowy birds.

And if this jarring removal from all that Thorin has known and held dear forever weren’t so horrid and painful and enraging, the young dwarven prince of Erebor would actually be more afraid of his mother’s still very present ire than Thingol’s.

The reason being, of course, that Fis isn’t done.

O, no: the great dwarf dame of Erebor has only just begun!

She may not fully understand what, exactly, it is that her son unearthed that day; but she DOES understand that it is not a toy or a treasure like THEY understand.

No, it is a heart--a PERSON--those same walls her son now misses and craves tell her--whispers into her mind through her dreams in the dead of night--and Oropher’s Heart MUST Be Returned!

And so, as she has always done, Fis obeys her true royal ruler--her mountain--and approaches her non-kin king with determination.

He is almost too distracted to notice her: The Arkenstone--as her son called it--lies like a cold star in his hands, brilliant and bright but also bitter and biting; despite it baring the same blue as a hot and sunny day, there is no warmth in it, no heart: there is no love in the glowing object; just immeasurable sadness.

It wants to go home; it wants to return to Orofer; it wants its FAMILY back.

And Fis aims to grant its wish.

“Such a lovely item, your majesty,” she begins, very carefully, and bows deeply after entering the Elvenking’s [Ereborian] throne room.

King Thingol hardly answers her, seems to not really hear her, and barely hums in acknowledgment of her praise or presence; and, for Fis, that is both good and bad: on one hand, it means he’s too enthralled by the blue gemstone in question to bother with her or what she has to say (which should mean a lot of leeway); but, on the other, it means he’s so enthralled by it... he might not give it up--which he NEEDS to do.

And Fis is determined to make that happen: “About as lovely as the merm, yes?

“I wonder which is lovelier?”

It was a good question; so good, it got Thingol to act.

The Great Elvenking quickly ordered the throne room closed to all visitors and had all of his foreseeable engagements cancelled for the rest of the day. Then, he made his way to his personal rooms--freshly (relatively--it’s been millennia) carved into the highest parts of The Lonely Mountain which he conquered almost effortlessly thousands of years ago (and, coincidently, directly above where Thorin and his accomplices are caged in their little cave-cells)--wherein the merm is collared and chained with dwarven metal and elven lock to his tub (really a grotto the dwarrows working on his chambers connected to a hot spring far below--probably the very one this creature attacked his miner-now-prisoner) (he chose this method of containment not just because it keeps the treasure inside HIS own space but also because it seems to need the heated water).

The creature hisses angrily at him--still, it does not speak.

But it DOES do something ELSE when it sees the gem.

Thingol had expected many things when he entered his rooms with the stone.

He expected the anger, for that is all the undersea being has been since arriving even back when it FIRST came to attack Thorin, and even the silence (again: NOTHING has been spoken or uttered by this thing but for HISSES--sometimes, Thingol actually wonders if it’s truly fish these things are based off of or snakes); he’d expected it to be as enthralled by the blue jewel as they have all been--or even, for perhaps this thing (as unbelievable as this thought might actually be since the merm is COVERED in precious minerals and metals of his own) simply isn’t able to appreciate the beautiful things in life, completely ignore it.

But what he DIDN’T expect...

Were tears.

It’s beautiful, in a way.

Not the tears!

No, not those.

The SONG.

Fis cries as she hears it, too: the long, deep, mournful cries of hopelessness and loss that are so loud, so resonant, so HURT... they can ALL hear it.

Thorin looks up from his cave of a cage and, for a moment, ceases to breathe; he isn’t sure HOW he knows, but he DOES: those painfilled wails are from HIM.; and a part of him thinks he should be happy about this--serves the monster right--but... he can’t.

NONE of them can.

And, this time, he mustn't.

The other thing that happens that Thingol was not expecting is a HOLE.

He’d known, of course, that the cells were virtually right under him/his rooms; what he hadn’t known was just HOW CLOSE that meant they were (and, legitimately, he can appreciate the cleverness behind the dwarrows doing this): Thorin and his company barely had to tunnel their way through the mountain before they are BLASTING through his bedroom floor!

The young dwarven prince, backed by his family and friends, stands dwarf-tall--covered in ash (possibly remains of fires used to attempt to say warm) and debris (from the tunneling) and all manners of filth (more the fault of the dwarrow designers, Thingol thinks, than his own--it really isn’t his fault they all chose, while building the cave-cage-cells, NOT to put certain things as though RUNOFF is good enough for a shower [even IF they have a surprisingly good waterfall here] over his near naked undershirt and thermals)--and admittedly menacing.

Or, at least, as menacing as a five foot dwarf can be to a nine foot tall elf.

The only good thing about this sudden breach is the shocked silence that it brings to the sea creature: even Thranduil had not expected THAT of all things.

Thorin bellows a war cry unheard in almost an age before he’s charging Thingol, bare fists raised in filth from digging through what only a dwarf could toolless; Thrain and Thror and several other dwarrows--friends and family of Thorin--follow after him and, in a blink, Thingol is overwhelmed and taken down.

The young dwarf prince seizes his chance and--as his father and grandfather and cousins and brother all converge upon the Elfking-no-longer-Dwarfking--snatches the glowing blue gemstone from Thingol’s weakened grasp.

His eyes then lock with the starlit silver that is the merthing’s gaze.

The Arkenstone is heavy in his palm--unnaturally so--as he continues to stare.

It alternates between frigid cold and furious heat, almost as though it is thanking him and cursing him all at once AND back and forth--as though it can’t decide which stance to take: hate or love; gratitude or resentment; joy or sadness.

It’s reminiscent of the glow itself: while mostly blue, there’s a fluctuation inside it of yellows, golds, oranges, and even pinks and purples and reds and GREENS that gives it an almost white light--as though one is holding the sun in their hand.

And all that light, that flux, shines brightest in the hope of the merthing’s eyes.

Dwarves make the best hidden doors and the strongest of all the metals abound, of this there is no doubt; but--sadly--even Thorin must admit that the best locks are not actually dwarven ones: no, this make lies in the talents of the gray elves whom somehow make the pieces of the locks, themselves... STICK together: there is no picking to be done when there is no SPACE between or EXPLANATION why the two halves don’t just simply FALL apart!

NOTHING is really keeping the collar together, as far as either Thorin or ... IT can tell; and yet it does not open or even look like it can! To either of them!

Therefore, as his family and friends fight the enraged Thingol behind them, Thorin kneels before the bejeweled creature and takes its chains in his hands.

And then: he PULLS.

Elves may have clever gadgets and powerful creations and straight up magic but nothing they have/make/do can/will ever stand up to a purely pissed off dwarf--especially if all Thorin has to do is yank the connection point from the wall.

As the item in question clatters to the floor, a new silence comes to the room.

Part of it is shock that Thorin just DID that--just RIPPED the entire CHAIN straight out of the WALL--but most of it is actually what ELSE Thorin just did:

The merm is holding The Arkenstone.

“Get ‘im home, son!”

Fis grins proudly at her eldest, eyes bright with unshed tears that are probably more left overs from how the merm’s heart-wrenching song had made her feel than anything else; she had run all the way from the throne room to Thingol’s when she heard the wail, expecting the worst, and couldn’t be happier, now.

She’s still angry, mind, and Thorin knows--now that he’s actually sorry about it--he’ll have to apologize properly to her later; but, for now, he’s making amends.

At least with his mother: “Orofer needs ‘is heart back!”

Thranduil’s in his once-attacker’s arms before he really knows what’s going on.

The short little Hairy One (who’s actually quite tall now that he’s seen so many) is wide enough that the cradle of his hold is surprisingly nice and comfortable--ignoring that he can’t really fit the merm’s impossibly long tail inside of it.

Were they underwater, this would be fine as Thranduil’d be able to swim himself his tail would just trail through the currents; however, above the water... Thranduil winces as his tail starts dragging along the cold and rough stone floor.

He quickly tenses his muscles, coils the offended limb tight about their bodies, and--if he marvels at just how thick and strong and WARM the Hairy One is... well, that’s his business.

Thorin almost immediately drops the merm when he coils around him.

Memories of that night only a short while ago are still vivid in his taxed mind and his breath hitches more than it should while he’s sprinting down the mountain’s insides to get the tailed creature down to the hot springs far below them (since that’s literally the only surefire way he knows to get the starlit one safely home) as the shadow of those long and coiling muscles overlap with the breathless, dizzy, SIGHTLESSNESS of almost being choked to death by his charge.

It is only the knowledge that he struck the other first, almost killed HIM first, and the command of his beloved mother that prevents him from actually dropping him.

And his pride.

And also, if he can be perfectly honest (at least with himself): the warmth of him, the softness of his skin, the smooth texture of his otherwise protected scales and the silkiness of his long and lustrous hair; the scent of the sea and algae and kelp and fruit and starlight and aquatic flowers (like the off-white lotuses that grow along the edges of their springs--where the water is a little cooler but still warm enough to keep them happy--although how they survive such little sun...) that permeates the air around him and wafts off him like light shines off crystals; the way he tucks himself closer and nuzzles his chin and TRUSTS HIM... true: it’s not FULL trust; but it’s there in its infancy and Thorin finds he wants to grow it.

By the time they’re in the hot spring, Thorin is panting and worrying.

For a split second, he fears the one thing he had to thank the elves for before: BREATHING UNDER WATER. Will he still be able to? Now that Thingol’s pissed at him and more than capable of just... (perhaps indirectly) drowning him???

He isn’t sure and he isn’t allowed to think much about it (the merm doesn’t know, after all, and therefore can’t be blamed for so eagerly returning to his element; he CAN, however, be questioned for grabbing Thorin’s hand and pulling on it).

Instead, he finds out through trial and error--the dwarvishest of ways.

Thingol is many things, though, including a monster when it suits/benefits him; but, no, he is not in the habit of murdering others by retracting a gift.

Just subjugating them.

If he had to guess, Thorin would figure Thingol is the reason the merm pulls him down under the surface with him--especially after they hear the distinct PLUNGE sounding from the hot springs telling them he’s coming after them.

For a moment, Thorin’s wounded and worried, freezing and panicking about what this must undoubtedly mean: for all that he loves his friends and family and people, overall, and for all that he is generally confident in how strong and powerful and resilient they all are, he knows Thingol is more so in every way.

There’s a reason, after all, he’s been able to be their forced king for millennia.

The image of his father and grandfather and brother and friends all dead--o, please, no defeated and downed on the floor of the Elvenking’s too-high rooms flashes in his mind before it’s dispelled and drowned by a soft and webbed hand (the one NOT clutching The Arkenstone--Orofer’s heart?) squeezing his rough and filthy one as the merm attached to it drags him deeper into the dark sea.

Everymerm is panicking in the throne room.

Their voices converge like an earsplitting orchestra and their light almost burns.

But, the sudden silence that falls when they all see their mature prince return with their beloved king’s heart and a Hairy One of all things...

Well, it makes the follow-up of an enraged Elvenking that much more deafening.

“Return the Arkenstone!!!”

Thingol’s voice echoes off the cavernous coral walls of the caveish throne room and ricochets off the mineral and metal mountains of riches ladden within it.

It vibrates the hearts of all those present, like a thunder clap shakes teardrops, and, for a moment, in between his near choking upon the very salt of the sea when it hits him that this means Thingol can SPEAK below as he does above, Thorin wonders if Orofer’s heart can feel the elf’s rage, too.

He honestly hopes it can’t.

(Let him be spared this.)

“It--HACKcoughUGHcoughCOUGHcouch--is not yours to begin with!”

Thorin does end up choking on the salty sea water surrounding him, after all, and he wonders how it is that the elf doesn’t have the same problem as him:

Has Thingol been down here before? (He DID say he was interested in them...)

Regardless of the answer, his coughing fit startled everymerm around him--especially the merm he came in with--and, so, they all turn to eye him worriedly--providing Thingol with a great opportunity.

He takes it, of course: both the opportunity and The Arkenstone.

The merm cries out and tries to take it back, tears in his already wet eyes and webbed fingers trying to be claws against the near triumphant elf.

Thorn cries out, too, enraged for the merm’s sake as well as those around them and also for his mother whom gave him this important assignment and, blast it, he will NOT disappoint her--never again.

The two pounce on the Elvenking and wrestle with him, all three trying to obtain the glowing blue gemstone--until it isn’t glowing blue anymore.

It’s green.

The three stop to stare at it, all taken aback.

Thranduil grins and sings with joy--his father recognizes his heart is near!

The merms around them realize what is happening, too, and begin to sing urgently and euphorically for the gem to be returned to its rightful place.

But, this isn’t all that they do: their joy and love is not bound by their voices, alone; no, is also lives in their minerals and metals, in their slates and stones, their coins and crystals, gems and gold: all of which now gleefully glow.

Thorin is mesmerized by it; awed and amazed; and so is King Thingol.

One of the things the elves’ spell doesn’t do is make the barer a better swimmer.

Swimming is something the bespelled must already be able to do--this is, actually, the main reason Thorin was so pissy about having to come down here: he CAN swim, yes, but he’s not very good at it; no dwarf really is; but elves...

Thingol, especially, can swim in ways Thorin and other dwarrows can not: specifically, by magically forcing air to do the swimming for them.

And, so, this is what King Thingol does as he nears Orofer.

“What beauty...” he murmurs, beholding the sight before him.

And while, yes, he IS looking at Orofer, that’s not really what he’s talking about: no, what he’s really referring to is the mountain the Mermking sits upon--and, no, not even the wealth and gold and GIANT DIAMOND: the LOVE.

It is a little known fact that the real reason elves condemn dwarves as greedy cretins is because they can see and FEEL it: dwarven hoards GLOW with greed whereas elven ones glow with PRIDE--even men’s hoards only glow with envy--and while each of these is a sinful glow, it is only the dwarves that attract worms.

This hoard’s glow, however, is something else ENTIRELY...

If Thingol had to say anything sinful about it, he’d probably suggest only one: lust.

Regardless of sin or saint, there is no denying the serenity that awashes him.

Nor is there any denying the siren call that compels him forward, gem in hand, towards the darkened, downed, shattered, shadowed king of the underworld.

The song echoes in his ears like a torrent--a storm--a MAELSTROM.

And it only quiets when Orofer the Great finally opens his green eyes.

The first thing the Mermking of Greenwater does is smile.

Not at Thingol, specifically, no: at the love he feels surging through him--all of it from his people and son and grandchildren and home--that’s been building--coalescing and accreting in his cavernous halls filled almost to point of bursting--for days.

His heart springs green--rich and vibrant and strong and enthralling--from both points--his chest and the coral above his throne from whence it was mined--and bathes the chamber in its emerald foresty magnetism for which is it named.

Greenwater the Great of the Great Green Sea is finally, once again, truly GREEN.

And King Thingol swears he could stare at this beauty for eons.

“Thank you, Graymantle.”

Thingol starts, overwhelmed, as the slowly warming creature beneath him shifts and speaks and suddenly stands to formally greet him--his royal guest.

“You have returned me.”

Webbed fingers, soft and heating and veined in green, caress Thingol’s cheek before the Mermking is swimming passed him and to his tearfully singing son; they embrace in showers of green and gold and gem and gentility and juveniles.

Thorin and Thingol are neigh on forgotten about; but they respectfully wait, realizing, in the ignorance, what their own almost took away.

“I apologize: my son should not have almost killed you.”

Thorin flushes and shifts under aforementioned son’s heated gaze. They’re all back where aforesaid deadly event took place--merms in the hot water while dwarf and elf sit in towels still being used to try and dry off--and trying to mend what almost became damaged beyond repair. King Orofer is extremely kind, understanding that neither of them could really help the way that they reacted and choosing, instead, to focus on the fact that they did, in the end, help his son and return his heart and offer both of their apologies and alliances and amends. “No, good king: it is I that attempted harm first; I am the one whom apologizes.”

Thorin looks up, as ashamed as he is anticipative; the mermprince looks back, starlit silver eyes cautiously curious and carefully contemplative.

Eventually, the whitette nods, “I should have tried talking to you.”

“A token of my gratitude.”

“Gratitude?” Oropher asks, warm lips turning up in a gentle smile as he swims towards the hot spring’s shore. There, kneeling beside his own simplified throne (for, while this is not a throne room, it is easier for them to conduct meetings together here than in either of their real ones; additionally, it rewrites the horrors the hot springs saw betwixt them in the beginning and now comforts them both), is Thingol the Graymantle, Elfking of Doriath and Elven co-king of Erebor, holding in his hands a beautiful necklace of mithril and emeralds and a gold star. “Whatever for?”

“Your kindness, generosity, and forgiveness.”

“My, what a tall order!” Thingol watches Oropher laugh and finds himself smiling despite the fact that he’d normally be annoyed at not being taken seriously. Greenwater’s king just... has that way about him: carefree but not careless, infectious but not irritating, and soft but surprisingly and sweetly strong.

This is why Thingol has decided to do what he never thought he could or would: give up the very thing that truly started all of this: The Gem of True Gold.

It fits snuggly against the length of Oropher’s neck.

The mermking hums as the last clasp clicks into place, relishing in the shine and squeeze and song as the item vibrates in time with his own voice. The gold star rests heavy against the hole in his chest where his heart used to be prekingship.

Deep sea-green stares up at night blue, their gaze creating a beautiful scape.

Oropher thinks he could get lost in that sky forever.

“Thank you.”

Thorin, Dwarf Lord and co-king of Erebor the [no longer] Lonely Mountain, flushes deeply under the heavy swaths of his royal robes as he sits on a rock beside the first merthing he’s ever touched and watches his nephew/sister-son play happily with aforementioned merm’s somewhat older son. Legolas, youngest mermprince of Greenwater, giggles and sings gleefully as Fili rolls around on the hot spring’s shores with him under the amused gazes of all--especially his mother, Dis, and his grandmother, Fis. They both adore the fry and, so, neither mind Thorin and Thranduil sipping mead and wine together.

“He’s always liked you hairy monsters; I appreciate you giving him one as a pet.”

Fis and Dis laugh uproariously as Thorin chokes and spits out his drink; Thranduil only giggles as Fili and Legolas continue playing, oblivious.

Eventually, Thingol lets go of his rule over Erebor, deciding he both misses home and has no need to subjugate Thorin and his people any longer.

There is talk of how this idea is really Oropher’s, who’s been helping the young and budding king grow into a magnificent one (along side his son, Thranduil, who’ll have none of that talk, thank you--he hates the young dwarf lord, understand: HATES), but nobody really minds: the dwarrows are happy regaining the right to rule their own mountain, the elves are happy to go home and see long missed loved ones, and the merms are largely unaffected (Doriath’s actually on the border of Greenwater due to a nice shoreline so...).

Thorin’s meetings with Greenwater, now that he’s The One Dwarfking of Erebor, still happen in the hot spring throne room, of course; but, now, it’s just him.

And Thranduil; whom, while still just a prince, is now an official ambassador--strictly, some say, for the Mountain King...

“Are you going to...”

Thorin trails off as he sits in the hot spring with his mermprince of a guest. Thranduil, calmly combing through his long and luscious and luminous white hair with a strangely unevenly bristled brush, glances at him in silent askance while waiting for him to continue. Neither one of them comment (anymore) on just how close they have become are to the day they violently met: both naked in the bath they were in that day they almost lost both their lives--to each other no less.

They don’t really have to.

They already know.

“King Orofer gave up his heart to be the great king that he is...”

Thorin frowns as he finds himself, yet again, terrible with words.

He struggles to ask what he really wants to but finds he’s too afraid.

Luckily, Thranduil seems to understand him--as he always does--and isn’t: “Indeed, my father has buried his heart in the coral stone above his throne; but, no, this does not necessarily mean I will also do this one day; it is very possible that I will never be king--we merms are an immortal race--and I am glad of that.”

“What about... to a person?”

Here, Thranduil stops his brushing and turns to fully look Thorin in the eyes--or, at least, he would if Thorin would allow it. Instead, the insecure dwarf looks away and at everything BUT the merm beside him. Thranduil rolls his eyes and smiles.

“Why, little dwarf king~ Are you offering yours~?”

The only thing louder than Thorin’s embarrassed stammers is his blush.

At it turns out, Thorin’s heart was not the only thing he gave to Thranduil.

Before he left, the young Dwarfking took the Elvenking aside and asked him: “What do I do? What did YOU do???”

To which Thingol simply said: “I gave him what I thought I could and would not, something I had foolishly thought no one else would ever deserve, and something I created for myself to represent and convey all of my love.

Thorin, ask yourself: what do you have that says and shows what you cannot?”

The answer, it turns out, had really been quite simple.

Long before the overtaking of the mountain by Thingol and back during the days of the original Dwarfking of Erebor, Thorin’s ancestor--Durin the Deathless--mined a stone from the depths of their mountain which seemed to endlessly absorb all light shined upon it. It was seen as an ominous magic stone--in fact, some even say it foretold the coming of the Elvenking and his oppression--and, thus, nothing was ever done with it: instead, it was hidden in Durin’s drawers and only ever spoken of to family; it is, perhaps, one of their darkest secrets.

But, to Thorin, this stone has always looked just a little blue.

The deepest, blackest midnight--or the depths of the sea.

It is with this stone that Thorin makes his courting gift.

A long mithril belt ladden with dark sapphires, black opals, black pearls, and even dark obsidian that wrap will Thranduil’s impossibly long tail--which, once, almost killed him; but, now, softens under his tentative touch and sometimes even holds him gently--with the light swallowing gem attached by a thin chain so that it may rest above the merm’s heart as though it has been given away...

He calls this blue-tinted/glossless gemstone His Blackheart.

And it is the mermprince’s--should he choose to accept it.

He does.

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