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It was a temperate day, mid-spring, many moons following their union when curiosity in vivid color first began to take shape.
They stood together in the higher caverns of Thranduil's palace, a solar, he called it-- one of the few places the light of the sun could breach the darkness without becoming a sickly, choked yellow. Here, is spilled across smooth stone in patterns of gold, bathing them both in its good tidings while they spoke.
This day, as with many before and many soon to follow, the Elvenking shone beneath the rays without becoming eclipsed by the cold reflection of silver, or the bold reminder of red.
Far beneath their feet, in the deepest of the caverns where Thranduil's quarters had been carved, there were no mirrors. He kept nothing that would reveal any detail of his countenance to his own eye, and it was not for vanity's sake-- but nor was this choice borne of the need to be humble. Even beneath the appreciation of Thorin's gaze, there were moments when he could not quite seem to reconcile himself with his spouse's fascination. When Thranduil dressed (for those occasions when Thorin was allowed a glimpse of routine), he did so with a pattern of contentment; long fingers agile and patient against fabric, but otherwise unconcerned for what the results brought.
Until, one morning, the warmth beneath Thranduil's skin had swelled enough to ward away the tight, austere silver lining.
And now-- now, he wore green. Dark, prolific green; of soft grasses and shimmering leaves, and the ribbing of his tunic, train, and robe no longer seemed quite so hollow.
Quite the becoming reminder, in truth, when those who had doubted the bridge they had built came calling anew. A reminder, perhaps even for Thranduil himself, that he was not merely of steel and stone, but also the receptive earth. That he might take life, but so too could he grant it. Beneath the sunlight, he bore his dominion unlike any other.
It was the most exquisite thing Thorin had ever seen, and he told him so.
Pride was Thorin’s gift, as he observed the gracious lines and curves of Thranduil’s body, hidden beneath diaphanous fabric until the elf shifted just so. Just enough—providing the press of weightless, seasonal brocade against the modest beginnings they had forged together. Tender and new, this welcome change, and it caught the Dwarrowking’s eye for as long as it was revealed, until the generous draping of Thranduil’s raiment obscured it once more from view.
Here they found a lull in conversation following Thorin’s sudden words, the relaxed slope of Thranduil’s shoulders a timeless thing. Thorin had prepared himself for a vague sort of otherworldly withdrawal from the elf, another change of focus now that he had been discovered—but this time, it seemed the Elvenking found solace in returning the gesture.
Blue was Thorin’s color; endless as mountain lakes, clear and still, but promising unforeseen depths. It appeared to cross Thranduil’s mind, as it had once crossed Thorin’s own some few moments previously, that a mountainous wellspring was best for the land. It brought rich joy to the soil, exultation to the high stalks of the fields, and florid, ripe sweetness to berries and fruits as their branches and vines drooped beneath their weight.
Oh, but Thranduil’s amusement came swift and steady, the bow of his lips split and curling at either corner, revealing rare dimples that none but Thorin were fit to see.
Soil, water, sunlight. Beautiful.
It does not occur to Thorin that they have begun a new cycle; that he is offering a smile in kind, until Thranduil’s thumb glides slow and true against the curve of his cheek—as though the sight of it were not enough, that he must also feel it, define its shape, and keep a memory when the daylight should fade. Blue against green is a blissful first thought, and Thorin’s cuff glides against flowing fabric as he takes the liberties that Thranduil allows him. He follows the same pattern that the Elvenking had drawn that same morning; a single caress, a simple line, smoothing from just below the fitted brocade at Thranduil’s sternum, down his front.
And he paused there, over Thranduil’s navel; the apex of what had been sown with love and dedication, still no more than a bud. As their interlude of mutual indulgence drew to a close, Thorin watched as the lines of their fingers joined, comfortably at rest, and their conversation resumed beneath the gilt dappled light of high above.
No need for a mirror, of course, when one knew what they would find.