In which Elladan attempts to teach Katje to fight, Thranduil gets bad news (and is a pretty pretty princess), and yet again displays the fact that his interpersonal skills are very lacking.
When Katje woke, she found both Ratiri and Geezer sleeping. They both looked healthy and unharmed, so she listened to her insistent bladder and went to find the bathroom.
Unlike Dale, there actually were bathrooms here, not stinky outhouses. The 'toilet' was a stone bench with a hole, but it actually flushed by means of a very small aqueduct and pull chain. Toilet paper wasn't a thing, but there were stacks of fabric squares and a bowl of water to wash with – the soiled cloths went into a small basket on the floor. The stone was frigid on her ass, but you couldn't have everything.
She washed her hands in a basin in the infirmary, then went to find food. As much as she distrusted telepaths, whatever that little Lorna woman had done seemed to have helped Ratiri, so she felt safe leaving him for a while. He was in good hands with Geezer and the healers.
Could they make a life here? The caverns were beautiful, but as she had in Erebor, she missed the sight of the sky. Geezer wanted to go back to Erebor, but the Elves were more Katje's style, even if they were annoyingly celibate. The Dwarves had been very kind, but they were too loud and boisterous even for her, and that was really saying something.
The kitchens weren't too far from the healing wards, but it was far enough that she was starving by the time she got there. A dozen cooks were hard at work, but she managed to cadge some of that sweet water and a bowl of something like oatmeal, topped with cream and brown sugar.
She ate slowly, watching the Elves at work. They were so graceful that they somehow made such a mundane chore as cooking look like a dance, wasting not a single movement. The large room was warm and bright with candlelight, but what she really wanted was a window. Much as she would rather not deal with the cold outside again, she'd endure it for a look at a blue sky – or even a cloudy one.
What would this world look like in spring and summer? Probably damn beautiful. She'd always kept in good shape – it went with the profession – and part of how she did so was by taking long hikes through Holland's various national forests. This place, untouched by modern pollution, was sure to be amazing.
One of the staggeringly attractive dark-haired twins (she wasn't sure which one) appeared at her side out of apparently nowhere. "Can you fight?" he asked, his English as heavily accented as her own.
"Fight?" she repeated.
"Sword," he said, making a swinging motion with his hands.
"No. No swords in my world."
He eyed her speculatively. Katje was well used to being physically assessed by men (and women), but not in this way. "Eat," he said. "Then follow. Arandur will help."
She had a terribly uneasy feeling that she was about to make a very large fool of herself.
Elladan had higher hopes for Katje than he'd had for Lorna. Katje wouldn't be as strong or as graceful as an Elf, but she was built like one, and could be trained. Elrohir had mentioned that her stamina was good for an Edain, and that she did not complain when it started to flag. They could make something of her, if she was willing to learn.
The indoor training halls were quite impressive – very large, with training dummies, a long row of archery targets, and several woven mats for grappling practice. They were also, at the moment, very crowded; the guards were bored, and there was little else for them to do.
Katje hesitated when she saw them all, but he gave her a gentle nudge forward. Arandur waited by a rack of practice swords, looking bout as awkward as Katje – Elladan intended to make certain he practiced, too, because no Elf should be as under-trained as Arandur, not even a scholar. Erestor, who ran his father's libraries, could fight as well as any of the rest of the valley's inhabitants.
"Tell her we will not be doing anything today that could hurt her," he said. "For now I want you to show her the basics of using a sword, and I will correct you both when you get it wrong."
Arandur looked like he dearly wanted to say something unpleasant, but kept silent because of who he would say it to. He translated that to Katje, who gave Elladan a scowl. Here was one who likely cared nothing for anyone's title.
She picked up a practice sword, testing is weight, and it was very obvious she had never held one before. Arandur showed her how to properly hold it, well enough that Elladan felt no need to say anything.
Her first attempt at swinging it, however, made him sigh inwardly. Clearly she was afraid of hurting Arandur, and was holding back a good amount of her strength. Edain of this world knew how strong and durable Elves were, but Katje had not been around them long enough to really understand
"Harder," he said – one of the few words he could speak in English. "Hit harder."
She looked rather alarmed by that prospect, and he thought he knew what the problem was – Arandur looked delicate even for an Elf. She was probably afraid she'd break him in half if she tried.
Elladan held out a hand. "Arandur, give that to me," he said, and knew he wasn't imagining the relief in Arandur's eyes as he handed over the sword. Facing Katje, Elladan said, "Hit me."
Her trepidation vanished, and she swung the sword in an arc that was graceful but totally inaccurate. He read her strength in the force of the blow; she was not as strong as Lorna, but she was no weakling. Footwork couldn't be addressed while she was wearing a dress, unfortunately.
"Arandur, go correct her," he said. "Then we need to find her some proper training clothes."
Thranduil wished he could have woken when Lorna did. He wished he need not have seen any of what the Lady had showed him.
"It must happen, Thranduil," she said, and it was only the grief in her voice that kept him from utterly loathing her. Standing this close to her, he saw that her dark eyes contained a night sky, the pinpoint lights of millions of stars spilling across them. "They must happen."
"No," he said harshly. "This is not your world, and that future belongs to no one now. What would you have me do – allow her to march to Gondor, knowing what will await?"
"If you do not, many will suffer for it," she said gently.
"Many are not my concern. That is not a fate I would wish on anyone, let alone Lorna. Middle-Earth is not your purview, Lady, and neither is the fate of its occupants."
"You will have to address it sooner or later," she said.
"No," he said icily, "I will not. Let me wake, Lady. You have shown me enough."
Wake he did, both infuriated and vaguely ill.
"The fact that you people sleep with your eyes open will never not be creepy." Lorna was sitting beside the fire, fiddling with a ball of string she'd found Eru knew where. She must have taken a bath, because her hair was wet.
Thranduil sat up. "Lorna, you cannot ask me why I say this," he said gravely. "When we heal the infection in my mind, we must ensure I cannot be re-infected. When you go to Gondor, I am going with you."
He was rather surprised that she didn't immediately ask why. Instead she looked at him searchingly. "The Lady showed you something nasty, didn't she?"
"Yes," he sighed. "And I will not allow it to come to pass. If you trust me on nothing else, trust me on this." That would, he knew, be a difficult thing for her to do. Eru knew he'd given her little reason to trust anything he might promise.
"I don't even know how to fix you at all," she said. "Let alone…immunize you."
"We have Lady Galadriel to aid us with that." He ran a hand through his hair, and paused when his fingers brushed over what felt like ribbon. "Lorna," he sighed, "do I want to know what you have done with my hair?"
She laughed so hard she almost fell over. "Go look in the mirror," she said. "I've turned you into a pretty pretty princess."
With another sigh, he stood and went to the mirror, which hung over a dressing table of pale wood. Lorna had woven several braids into his hair, a bow of pink ribbon at the top and bottom of each. "Where did you find this ribbon?"
"Menelwen got it for me," she said, climbing to her feet. "It doesn't quite match your dress, but it went better with your hair."
"Every time I think you cannot grow more obnoxious, you somehow manage to surpass yourself," he said dryly, unfastening the bows. He hoped Galadriel had not dropped by and seen him like this. "Just for that, I won't be giving you any trousers."
"Oh, I'll find some somewhere. Just be glad digital cameras aren't a thing here."
Oh, he was. He really, really was.
"I'm gonna go check on the other humans. Have fun with your hair, Princess." She hurried out the door before he could throw something at her.
Lorna felt quite pleased with herself as she headed to the healing wards. She'd wanted to do something to his hair for months, but had never thought she'd have the opportunity. It was only a pity she didn't have a curling iron.
There were quite a few people out and about, and she gave them all a wave or a nod as she traversed paths and platforms, descending long flights of stairs. She was an inordinately good mood, in spite of Thranduil's cryptic words, and she wasn't going to destroy it by thinking on them too closely. That could come later, when she had Galadriel to help pry it out of him. For now, she wound her way to the door of the healing wards, and hesitated.
In another universe, another future, she'd made friends with these three at the same time. Here, now, they were their own group, and she was going to be an outsider in one sense or another no matter what. It felt a bit weird, being a kind of alien among her own people, but she wouldn't fix that by lurking out here. In she went, bracing herself, though she did not know why.
As expected, it was empty, so she snooped around until she found Ratiri's room. He was alone, and still asleep, and she paused to watch him, thoughtful. This man would have played a vast role in her life, in another world, and here she barely knew him. What had he been like, in that alternate universe? What had she been like? Galadriel was right – touching Thranduil's mind had changed her, and she doubted it had only made her more obnoxious.
How would she have really fared, in the nightmare that was the Institute, with that monster Von Ratched? She'd like to think she would have handled it well, but she doubted it. She couldn't fault Ratiri's reaction to finding out she was a telepath, though it really had hurt.
Sleep well, mate, she thought, and left as quietly as she could. Where would Katje and Geezer be? Well, Geezer liked his weapons – he'd probably be wherever they were. Unfortunately, Arandur had never got the chance to show her where that was, so she would have to wander.
However, first she wanted some goddamn trousers. She'd taken the only clothes she had with her to Dale, and she was afraid Galasríniel probably really had burnt them, but she might be able to swipe some basics from Tauriel, who at least wasn't a full foot taller than her. Screw this 'dress' nonsense. Trust Thranduil to know how much they annoyed her.
She headed down to the guard room, figuring there would probably be at least one person there, if not several. Before she and Arandur had left, the guards had been pretty bored, and while there had been plenty of excitement since, it was not the type that they liked.
The room, she found, was very warm, but it contained only Faelon, who was oiling his boots.
"Where is everyone?" she asked.
"Training hall," he said with a slight smile. "I'm off that way myself, once these boots are done. Elladan is teaching two of our Edain to fight."
Lorna groaned. "Those poor bastards," she said. "We'd better rescue them, but first, has Tauriel got any kit I could steal? This dress is driving me mad."
"Did she give that to you?" he asked, setting down the boot. "It was hers, when she was a child."
"It was – oh, that sneaky son'v a bitch." Thranduil was a dead man. Dead Elf. Whatever, he was a dead something.
"You didn't know that?"
"No," she said dryly, "I did not. Someone is going to hear about it, however. Well, if this fits, has she got any practical things my size?"
"You'd have to ask her. She's with everyone else."
"I hope she's not letting Elladan kill Geezer and Katje. C'mon, leave the boot and live a little."
Leave it he did, first carefully storing the tin of oil. It didn't reek, as she would have expected leather oil to do; it had a pleasant, woodsy smell that would make a damn good scented candle. Did scented candles exist in Middle-Earth? If not, she was definitely inventing them.
"What've you lot been doing since we all got back?" she asked, following him out into the corridor.
"Worrying, mostly," he said. "Wondering if the King will ever be cured of his madness, and if more of your kind will appear."
Lorna debated telling him about Von Ratched, and decided against it. "Well, Lady Galadriel's here, and I doubt there's much'v anything she can't do. Thranduil'll get all his marbles back in the box by springtime, and then we can all do…whatever."
"Are you still thinking to make for Imladris, when the snow melts?" he asked, looking down at her with an expression that was faintly hopeful – she was pretty sure he wanted to go, but not alone.
"I was thinking south," she said, "and I'll explain why later, when I've got more information. I might need your help, if you're willing to give it." Because there was no way in any hell there ever was that she'd take Thranduil to Gondor. He was King of the damn Wood-Elves – he couldn't just go haring off, even to meet a threat like Von Ratched. Not to mention the fact that he would be horrendous to travel with for such a long journey. Three days on that damn elk were bad enough.
"Why would I not be?" Faelon asked.
"Just trust me," she said. "You really might not be. I can't say more until I know more."
He didn't look as if he liked that explanation, but she knew he'd let it be. Faelon wasn't the sort to push.
When they reached the training hall, they found it so crowded that she suspected most of the Guard was there. A few were practicing, but the bulk of them were watching Elladan and Katje, who appeared to be locked in a staring contest. Katje had been given practical clothes, at least, probably borrowed from a female guard – the standard tunic and leggings that she somehow managed to wear like a model. Lorna didn't swing that way, but she thought Katje was gorgeous, no matter that she was obviously frustrated at the moment. Her golden hair was tangled, her cheeks flushed with anger, exertion, or both – if not for her rather venomous expression, she could have passed for an Elf.
Elladan came at her with his practice sword, and she dodged with impressive grace. Unfortunately, that was all she managed – when she attempted to strike him, he somehow twisted the sword right out of her hand. Her expression was so shocked that Lorna had to bite back a laugh. He'd done the same thing to her, and even watching from the outside, she still had no idea how he did it. Witchcraft, probably.
"Don't go showing off with her, Elladan," she called in Sindarin. "It's not fair to the poor woman. I told you we didn't use swords in my world."
"That," he said, "is very evident. She has potential, however, if she can find it."
"Have you actually told her that?" Lorna asked. "All you're doing is frustrating her."
"I do not know the words. You tell her."
Lorna looked at Katje, who seemed grateful for the interruption. "He says you've got potential. I've told him we don't use swords on Earth, so if he's surprised we're rubbish at it, that's his own fault."
Katje laughed, sounding a trifle out of breath. "These people, they are too good at everything."
"Tell me about it. It can give you a right inferiority complex if you let it. I told him to stop showing off with you, but God knows if he actually will." Judging by his expression, he had no intention at all of behaving himself, and Lorna wished she had her bag of cheese. "If you surprise him, you'll throw him off. Trust me. Biting usually works."
Both Katje's eyebrows rose, and her lips curved into an absolutely wicked grin. She turned it on Elladan, who suddenly looked wary.
"What did you say to her?" he asked.
"I told her to surprise you," Lorna replied, and laughed at his expression.
She had to hand it to Katje – the woman could do a slinky Marilyn Monroe walk like nobody else she'd ever seen. The practice sword hung lazily in her hand, but Lorna could see that her fingers were still tight around the hilt. Elladan obviously had no idea what the hell she was doing, so he bore down on her with his sword. Rather than try to parry, she ducked, dodged, and straightened up in time to grab his collar with her free hand, and give him a very delicate peck on the lips.
He froze, and she whacked him in the back of the knee with her sword. It didn't make him fall, but it did make him stagger, and his expression made Lorna laugh so hard she had to lean on Faelon so she wouldn't fall down.
"Do you think it worked?" Katje asked, her evil grin traded for an equally evil smirk.
Lorna was laughing too hard to speak, but she nodded. "Aye," she gasped, when she finally could. "Bet an orc's never tried that before, have they Elladan?" she asked in Sindarin.
"No," he said, still looking quite disturbed. "I would not recommend she try it against orcs, either. Though I doubt she would be tempted to." His eyes narrowed, and dread filled Lorna's stomach. "Why don't you show everyone your shoulder trick?"
Oh, hell. "Christ, Elladan, that'll be three times in as many weeks," she protested.
"The healers can take care of it," he said. "Unless you're afraid?"
"Oh, sod you," she growled. "All right, class, this is how you get away from an irritating attacker without needing the opportunity to bite them first." God, she wished she had trousers. Not that she cared if anyone saw her knickers, but kicking with a long skirt was pretty much impossible.
She marched out to the center of the ring, while Katje drifted to the side, clearly wondering what was going on. Lorna tried to roll back her sleeves, which were a little too long in spite of this being a child's dress (thank you, Thranduil), and of course failed. Fuck it. "Come get me, if you can."
It was an empty taunt; she couldn't run for shite in a dress, but she couldn't make it entirely easy on him. She dodged a few times, until he grabbed her and spun her, pinning her back against his chest as he had in Dale.
"This won't sound pretty, but I'm sure you've all heard it before," she said, and wrenched her shoulder out of place with a hideous crack that made more than a few of them wince. Knowing that Elladan would expect her to twist out of his trip as she'd tone before, she instead planted her feet on his thighs and shoved herself upward, kicking him in the gut for good measure. The dislocated joint let her essentially do a side somersault right out of his arms, though she didn't actually manage to land on her feet. Of bloody course she'd have to land on her knee, which also made a crack, though not nearly so awful.
"That was disgusting. Why did you do it?"
It was almost funny, how uniformly the guard stood to attention. "Hi, Thranduil," Lorna said, struggling to her feet. "Elladan asked me to give a demonstration. Speaking of which, Elladan, you're the size of a tree – turn around and hold still."
He did, and she braced her arm hard against his back and shoved her shoulder back into the socket, swearing in Irish the entire time. More than once Elf cringed, and Katje shuddered at the noise it made. It did sound pretty gross, and of course it hurt like a bastard.
Thranduil arched an eyebrow. "And this works?"
"On people who aren't expecting it. You should've seen Elladan when I first did it."
"I thought she had gone mad," the Elf in question said dryly. "Granted, she was very angry. Anyone who wishes to practice that, pair up."
Not many seemed anxious to try it, but a few drifted to the rest of the practice mats – including Tauriel and Menelwen. A dislocation probably hurt a lot less if you were an Elf, because Elves were lucky arseholes who didn't seem to have any physical problems whatsoever.
"Could you do that again?" Thranduil asked, and oh great, the Smirk was making an appearance. There was no way this was ending well.
"If I had to," she said, rubbing her shoulder. "Before you ask, no, I won't try it against you. I know a losing battle when I see one."
Up went the other eyebrow. Dammit, she should have got rid of those things while he was asleep. "You would concede without a fight, Dilthen Ettelëa?" he asked. "That is unlike you."
Lorna rolled her eyes. "I'm stubborn, Drag Queen Barbie, but I'm not stupid. A.) you'd break my arm, and B.) I don't need to look like a fool in front of everyone and their dog. The trick only works if it's a surprise, and you've seen it." Elladan himself had told her she wouldn't stand a chance against Thranduil, and he probably knew what he was on about. Shit, she'd only halfway held her own against Elladan because he'd underestimated her – Thranduil had to have enough of her memories to know how she fought.
Damn it all, he was giving her the 'I want to eat your brain' look. Running away wasn't usually her style, but she was out like trout – or would have been, if she wasn't hampered by the frigging dress. It made her shamefully easy to grab, and then she was stuck, feet dangling a good foot off the ground, shoulder burning like a mad bastard. Son of a bitch.
One of the things that had terrified her about Thranduil for quite a while was how strong he was. She was certain Elladan had to be just as strong, but he hadn't really used it against her. She knew already she wasn't breaking Thranduil's grip, so she'd have to either surprise him, or make him want to drop her.
She let herself become utterly dead weight, turned her eyes to the heavens, and sang. "I'm a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world. Life is plastic, it's fantastic," she managed, before laughter overtook her and she slammed the back of her head against his nose. She was dimly aware of Katje's choked snort, which only made her laugh harder. "Come on Barbie, let's go party." A kick to his knee. "Ah, ah, ah, yeah." Another kick, this one just as useless. Damn bare feet. "Come on Barbie, let's go party."
Not only was it not working, his grip tightened until she found it hard to breathe. Jesus, was he actually trying to hurt her? Was this some kind of revenge for the hair ribbons?
Logically, she knew she shouldn't panic. He needed her alive if she was to fix his brain, but logic had no place in dread. Von Ratched had been stupidly strong, too, even more so than her, and memory of that incident sent terror spiking through her, her heart rate skyrocketing. Thranduil was touching her hands, so she wrenched her shoulder out again, gritting her teeth against the pain, and throwing both hurt and fear at his mind as hard as she could.
She felt him flinch, but he still didn't drop her, and oh Christ, she was going to die like this –
One of the oil-lamps on the wall exploded, raining shards of glass, the burning oil splashing onto the floor. Lorna was vaguely aware of several cries of alarm, but another went a moment later, and a third after that. Now she was really bloody scared, so much so that she barely recognized the shriek of twisting metal and the scramble of dozens of feet.
Half the lights blew next, plunging the room into shadow, and why would he not let go? Once she got out of this, she really would murder him in the face. With extreme prejudice.
Not until the room was nearly dark did he release her, letting her back down onto her feet surprisingly carefully. Though her right shoulder was still dislocated, she rounded on him and punched him with her left hand. Surprisingly, he actually let her do it.
"What the fuck was that about?" she demanded in English. Her heart was still thundering, adrenaline jagging through her system like lightning.
"Telekinesis," he said, with a smile that was downright disturbing. "Von Ratched as hit, and you had it in your dream. Anger obviously was not enough to draw it out, but have you ever been really, truly terrified here? So afraid you thought you might die?"
While it was possible he had a point, he was still an arsehole. In the dim light he looked every bit as creepy as she'd thought him upon first meeting him, his pale eyes almost glowing. "Even if you're right, I didn't need a bloody audience. Piss off, Thranduil. I am so beyond done with you right now." She stalked off, her good mood utterly ruined. She needed a drink, and then she needed to hit something.
You know, Thranduil, you do sort of need to retain Lorna's goodwill, if she's actually going to want to help you. I know you mean well, but you are just not good with people. Fear being the initial catalyst for Lorna's telekinesis comes from her canon – she just wound up horribly afraid a lot earlier in her book than she did in this story.
The idea for Lorna singing "Barbie Girl" at him comes from Shingingheart of Thunderclan.
Title means "Practice" in Irish.
