A Dance for the Elven King

BY : Gwyndolynelizabeth
Category: +Third Age > Het - Male/Female
Dragon prints: 6646
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings, nor any works written by Tolkien, nor the characters therein. I do this for personal enjoyment, and I am making no money from writing this little diddy.

The Greenwood was lit with elven lights against the darkening twilight, so radiant that the forest river shimmered like gold, and the canopy of ancient boughs was gilded in firelight, so that it could have been a sunset.  The halls of the elven king were open, for the elves adored the stars, and the night would be long, the forest full of mirth; Venerated, the stars shared their light with the elves on this night, one of only a few each year: Midsummer’s.   

Sweet  Dorwinion  wine parted Thranduil’s lips as he lifted another goblet to his mouth, and drank as though naught else on earth could quench his thirst. Warmth pervaded his body as he sat upon his carven throne, and pleasurably watched crowds of dancers, singers, and other revelers making merry, filling his halls and the vastness of the great Greenwood with a thousand songs.

Before him, the crowd grew silent, as veiled women, their faces hidden, wove through the crowd, hissing for silence. Music and laughter could still be heard in the distance, but wherever these ghosts went, silence followed, and the faces of those standing about were bright with intrigue, flushed with wine, and summer heat.

“Wherefore have these ghosts come?” Thranduil chuckled heartily as a shrouded figure whirled in an easy circle before him, arms snaking and fingers curling—reaching —, evident beneath a translucent veil; also evident was the gentle shape of a woman, with painted feet and bells tied round her ankle. “Show yourselves, ghosts!” Thranduil laughed, intrigued.

Upon his request, each of the shrouded figures gathered together before him, kneeling, waiting, and silent. No one spoke for a moment, but a rustle amid the crowd drew Thranduil’s attention to a fiddler, a   and a drummer; the two minstrels politely made room for themselves among the bystanders, who eagerly gave them room, intrigued to see what would happen. The minstrels were dark men, with painted, leather skin, strange to the northern lands; the drum one of them held proudly at his breast was wide, and deep—it was sure to deliver a mighty sound, but he did not begin to play forthwith. Instead, what came was the rise of a woman’s voice from beneath one of the white shrouds.

Trickling, her voice ebbed, and flowed, not uttering any language the elven king knew.

She seemed to moan, and wail, but it was a beautiful sound.

The cry of her song was totally unfamiliar, and those who looked on were filled with reverence. Thranduil noticed that the women beneath the  veils began to slowly move, their chests heaving in exaggerated breath and all in unison to a rhythm which could not yet be heard. Each shroud gilded like spider silk over sumptuous bodies, clothed only by thin, white gowns, hardly more than chemises; the opacity of their garments was compromised by firelight as they breathed in unison, breasts brushing against fabric in a tantalizing way. Thranduil sipped his wine, watching.

Suddenly there arose many more sweet voices, all singing together, and their sound was wild, though they were in perfect harmony.  Together their voices rose and their song escalated into the heavens. Then, they stopped. The steady beat of a deep, low drum broke the haunting wail of the sirens’ song. 

A steady rhythm beat life into the night, punching to the gut. Thranduil sipped his wine.

One woman rose to her feet, while the others remained seated. They rolled their heads to and fro with the beat of the drum, eyes closed, arms outstretched, fingers curling, dancing, breasts rising and falling. She stood very still, and her lowered face lifted, though her eyes were closed. Thranduil’s curiosity sparked when he saw that her full lips were painted red. Slowly, she pulled the fabric of her veil over her body, letting it slither down her form like fog across moorland. 

Drumming reverberated around the bonfire, and the elves watched on, hungrily, for something from the women which would fulfill the powerful beckoning of the drum. Thranduil lifted his cup to his lips, tasting the sweet wine left along the rim as he allowed his gaze to linger upon the woman standing before him, though her eyes were still closed, and she could not see him look.

She moved her feet, side by side, in time to the beat of the skin drum. The movement of her feet caused her hips to sway left, and then right, again, and again. With each motion of her left foot, the bells around her little ankle chimed, adding to the rhythm of the drum, and she lifted her arms over her head, her hands carefully calculating every motion they made, twisting, writhing around each other; hair as black as midnight cascaded in an ebony plait nearly to the floor as she arched her back and followed the graceful descent of her arms backward. Keeping steady time, her hips continued their tantalizing sway.

Thranduil watched the rosy bud of her nipple brush against the thin fabric of her chemise, the rise and fall of her generous hips, and the delicious twist of her abdomen as the muscles beneath honey colored skin twitched with the strain of lifting her body out of such a dramatic arch.

 He glanced round, and saw the hunger in others’ eyes as they drank in the sight of her, seductive writhing. There was not one eye belonging to a male which was not upon some part of her. Her cheeks were flushed, but Thranduil was sure she knew precisely what she did. 

She lifted her head, and opened her eyes. They were as green as hawthorn leaves. He thought he saw her smile, ever so faintly, as she caught his gaze, and held it with every bend of her body. The boldness of her stare intrigued the king, for she did not lower her eyes. The song of a fiddle joined the percussion of drum and bells, and her feet swept her around the bon fire; her maidens joined her, and they made a ring around the fire. As the fiddle quickened, so did their footwork.

With every pass around the fire, Thranduil saw the green eyed woman watching him. When she turned her head, or twirled in spirals where she stood, she always looked back to him. Amber light reflected in the silken sheen of her hair.

Wine parted the king’s lips as he drank.

When the fiddle song died, so did the other women give up their place around the fire, withdrawing, and the woman who was seemed to revel in the luxury of having all eyes solely upon her. Once more, her body gave way to the beat of the drum, twisting beneath the delicate shroud of her white dress; as she lifted her snaking arms over her head, her feet changed the rhythm of the drum as she made sure to hit the earth with the heel of her left foot with every step she made—the bells around her ankle kept time.

Her emerald eyes flashed to Thranduil, as they had done for the entirety of her dance. The expression on her face changed as she watched him watching her, and he saw this change. She quickened the tempo of the drum beat, moving in a circle before Thranduil’s throne, bending, twisting, and shaking every bit of her that was ineffectively hidden beneath layers of gauze. Always, her eyes flashed from where they wandered, to the king, heavy, dark lashes beckoning to him as her painted lips parted and she lowered herself to the earth.

She had to have heard the calls of other male elves in her small, yet attentive,  audience—her flesh reacted to their eagerness with a demure blush, and Thranduil caught himself smiling when he saw the timid flush of color wash over her honey colored skin, for she was no coy creature. She sat on her knees facing him, shoulders ebbing side to side with the sway of beaten drum, chest rising and falling to the sound of the music, until sheer momentum kept her appetizing mounds of flesh heaving, vibrating.  

Thranduil observed as her hips and abdomen gyrated in time while she sat on her feet, and could not help but picture that intent circumvolution of flesh—now adorned with glimmering beads of sweat—uncovered by any whispering excuse of a gown, naked, knees spread, dirtied from writhing on the ground; in his mind, her legs were parted by a man’s body laying beneath her, each beat of the drum an eager thrust into aching, prurient flesh.


  The elven king was every bit as beautiful as he was rumored to be. The dancer watched sapphire eyes travel over her, and she loved it, prideful in the lusciously fervid gesture of her knees parting ever so slightly as she moved. She could see in his eyes what he was thinking, but she was well accustomed to such eager stares when she danced. She was familiar with it: feeling eyes upon her while she was envisioned in salacious ecstasy. But she had never danced for the enjoyment of elvenkind.

All her life she had been told that the Eldar were ethereal beings, present within both the earth and the spirit world, filled with starlight in their veins, rather than blood, and transcending of base, earthly pleasures so easily distracting to men and women. She had never met an elf to prove wrong everything she had been told about their kind.

She knew their beauty was because they were blessed by the gods, created first as watchers of the world, but when she saw the elven king’s eyes flash in the amber glow of the fire while the fiddle once more took up a slithering, haunting tune, and her body found new rhythm, she saw a look she had seen in many men’s eyes:

Pure, unadulterated lust. When his eyes flashed in golden light, he was like a beast, carnal in his intent. The dancer smiled inwardly, though she assumed he could see in her eyes how she enjoyed the permeation of his gaze. She hoped he could see. She hoped that every elf watching her dance saw the way their king looked upon her, that they could see how intense his desire was for her. It was euphoric, how obvious his yearning was. He had no shame, for he was a king.

Blazes of golden fire illuminated the gems within his eyes.

She saw him drink his wine; his fingers played along the length of the wooden staff lying across his lap, a seemingly idle gesture (they tapped in time to the beat of the drum), but she knew the strain he felt. Low, melodic drumming coursed through her body, and she smiled outwardly, daring to close her eyes, daring to be blind as she lifted herself onto her knees and turned the tender arch of her back to the king.

What does this king wish to see?’     

She trailed her fingers over her thighs, allowing the gown she wore to bare one sun kissed shoulder, and heard the crowd of onlookers plead for more. Above all else, she could feel the elven king’s gaze burning into her skin. The feeling was exquisite, but overwhelming, so she opened her eyes and found his gaze over her shoulder. She watched it fall from her eyes to her backside, which was her intent. His hand clutched the staff across his lap. His knuckles were white with pressure, but an elegant thumb stroked the grain of the wood, not so idly.

The dancer turned to face the king once more, whirling where she stood, stirring the dust beneath her feet, lifting her hands through her hair, relishing the feeling of sweet, night air trickling over her neck. She allowed her hands to run themselves over her body, watched the king follow her fingertips. He did not look into her eyes. She saw his thumb stroking the wood of his staff, and smiled. He saw her smile.


Thranduil sipped his wine, trying, against all odds, to contain his desire, but the woman trailed her delicate fingertips over her body, brushing against her chemise along the curve of her waist, over her breasts, somehow missing their rosy tips, toying with those who watched her as they waited for her to betray her coyness. She did not. Her painted lips were full, parted slightly, beckoning to him, and he was sure they tasted many times better than the wine in his hand.

Every design painted in the air with her hands was intentional, practiced, careful, and exact. Every time her hip rose and her little foot flicked the dust, Thranduil felt the desire to know her beneath him grow; when she felt the music overtake her completely, she would shake all over, the music seeming to ripple through her body like a tidal wave of sensual prowess.

She knew how seductive her show was—he could see it in the smile in her eyes when she feigned distraction from his attention.   

He wondered what her lips tasted like, tracing the rim of his cup with his thumb. When the dancer’s back arched and her waist twisted, he could see the pleasure it brought to her. Her lips would move once in a while as though she were singing along to herself while she performed, but Thranduil could think of nothing more than to capture them, and worship her for the skill she had of inspiring such lust in him.

Thranduil wondered what she sounded like--what came out of her when coaxed.

Then, as the fiddle began to play quicker, and the drum beat faltered to but a quiet pulse, the dancer began to spin as she had done before, running her fingers through her dark hair. But when she ceased to spin, instead of returning immediately to the next round of choreographed steps, she walked toward Thranduil, and he watched her come.


Never removing her stare from her target, the dancer brushed past one of the king’s attendants as he stepped forward to hinder her path. The elven king lounged upon his throne as a cool, imposing beacon of opulence, but his icy stare burned like fire.

What would happen if she reached out and touched him, in front of everyone, despite him being the king?

She walked slowly, careful to make even the way she walked alluring.    

She felt heat swell within her as she saw the elven king gesture with just the faintest wave of his hand in protest when his attendant once more tried to keep her from approaching. Excitement rose as she finally stood before him. Incredulous, he reacted to her audacity with an elegant smirk, setting her insides aflame. He was like a hunter, waiting for his prey to fall into a trap, and the dancer was suddenly overcome with a fleeting wash of timidity. If she continued, what would happen?

The fiddle lagged, as though her accompanist could hardly believe what she was doing. She hardly noticed when he stopped playing, altogether.  She heard a rhythm in her head, and it was all that mattered in that moment as she reached her arms over her head, following the ascension of her hands with her eyes, carefully planning each motion of her fingers and wrists as they came down again, slowly. The elven king watched her create intricate patterns in the air with her hands, until she lowered herself to the ground at his feet.

“What now?” The dancer thought in a rush of hesitance. Instead of giving in to the audacity of what she did, she gestured for her accompanists to continue playing, for they had stopped, presumably because they feared what she did would end with them having to leave quickly. The fiddle began a slow, melodic melody, snaking out of the silence of the watchful crowd. The dancer felt the melancholic notes cam her blood. When she looked to the king once more, his gaze sought hers, and she held it, and it encouraged her.

Heart fluttering, she began to sway where she sat, never leaving his stare;  she rose to her feet once more, feeling the song of the fiddle course through her veins, moving her body as though of its own will as she twisted, bent, and shimmied in a performance which was only for the king.


Thranduil could not believe the boldness of this small, approachable woman who saw what he wanted, though he said nothing, and wished to give it to him. The touch of her small hands upon him was all he could think of as his gaze travelled from the piercing green of her wide eyes, to the delicate bow of her lip, to the space where her neck met her collar bone—awash with blush in the firelight—to the curving in of her narrow waist, and the curving out of generous hips, and thighs. She moved like a snake, but was so warm blooded that it caused a heat within the elven king. With each quickening, or slowing, of the fiddle, she mimicked the rhythm with her own interpretation of it, considering each possible movement she made as though it would save her life. Though she was skilled, Thranduil glimpsed the slightest hint of nervousness when she finally broke her stare, though only for a second, to glance at her footing—he could tell she was trying with every twitch of her muscles to look as effortless as possible.

This fleeting vulnerability was satiating.

Then, without compromising the rhythm she had created, the dancer reached out her hand, the gesture carefully calculated.

Thranduil took her hand. Her skin was burning.  With keen ears, he heard the whispers of onlookers who marveled at the audacity of the woman, or in jealousy of the king being the recipient of her affections. He could not help but smirk as with one gentle pull of her hand, he commanded her to come closer.

To get any closer, he had to pull her onto his lap, but with a graceful descent, she did as he asked.


The dancer’s entire body burned with amorous longing, only to be fanned into flames when she parted her legs and straddled him, feeling how taught his body was. His hand still holding hers, he stroked her palm with his thumb idly, though that contact was enough to inspire madness in her blood.


The song of the fiddle seemed distant, and low. It did not play with great speed, but it seemed to whisper and moan. The woman’s painted lips parted with heavy breath as she adjusted to his presence between her legs. Her coy smile stirred Thranduil’s loins, for she knew the strain it caused him to straddle his lap and not touch her body to his. He had no reservations. He was king. He did as he pleased, and his will was done without question.  The dancer saw this in him, he knew. As though a surge of energy rippled through her entire core, she arched her back dramatically in an elegant and sweeping line, and snaked upright once more, the momentum of her erotic stunt thrusting the succulent, fleshy mounds of her heavy breasts toward the king—a bold, lewd display, for the explicit act which the rolling motion of her body (a trembling ripple sneaking its way from the arousal between her thighs to the tilt of her chin) unabashedly mimicked.


The dancer felt the king’s hands run over her thighs with tantalizing hesitance. What had he to be hesitant about? She wondered what he was considering. Then, she felt him searching for the hem of the dress gathered around her knees, and felt the warmth of his fingers finally contact her eager flesh as two large, gently groping hands worked their way over the swell of her rear, beneath her dress; everyone could see him groping her rear, but she was not embarrassed—she heard the others murmuring amongst themselves, and even her accompanists faltered in their melody once more.

She watched a change come over his eyes while he watched the teasing gyration of her hips hovering over his swollen erection.

She felt his anticipation pulling at her  gut.

She saw how his jaw twitched as he fought to maintain his steely demeanor while her backside pressed into his palms. The way he kneaded her flesh drove a fire deep into her center. The way his lips looked in yearning to taste her caused a rashness to consume her mind.

She leaned forward and took his chin between her thumb and forefinger. His hands were still. His lips beckoning and ready as she brushed her own against them. She did not kiss him, but she felt him sigh against her mouth when she pulled away, for he wanted more.    

Then, a thought came to her.

She wondered if she had gone too far.

What would happen next?


To Thranduil’s dismay, he saw the woman’s eyes break the spell she cast upon him. She smiled, removing his hands from her backside with the gentlest motion, never breaking her gyrating rhythm, but withdrawing from the intensity of their connection. She made it appear intentional as she lifted herself away from him, avoiding the subtle protest of his fingers pulling at the fabric of her gown.

She spun, and twirled, smiling, but never looking upon the king.

Thranduil’s pulse quickened with frustration, for she had finished her dance, but left him hot and wanting of so much more. He hid his arousal with a simple placement of his silken cloak, and waited to see if the dancer would look upon him one last time. The drum and fiddle ceased to play, and a rise of cheering and applause followed her roguishly demure farewell. But she did not look the way of the king again, and, instead, quickly made her way to her accompanists, who stood ready by with a robe for her to slip into. He watched others approach her, and shower her with praise and compliments, but never once did she look over her shoulder at the one she had focused such arduous attention upon, yet removed herself so suddenly from. His attendants were silent, for they recognized their king when he was irked.

The dancer disappeared through the crowd with her two accompanists, who led her into the shadows, and out of sight. Thranduil rose and speedily followed after. 

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