Siege Mentality
Chapter Three
Thanks to everyone who reviewed.
Pennhothwen: Thanks for pointing out the mistakes. I'm afraid they are the result of typing when I'm very tired.
This one goes to Nemis for guessing.
~*~*~*~*~
"Is it safe?"
"I don't know." Zelda pushed her friend back into the darkened storeroom, and peered round the corner, only to feel a tugging on her sleeve. "What is it now? You're messing up my top."
"Are you sure we should be doing this?"
The girl, whose hair was dyed an unattractive shade of yellow approximating a dandelion, rounded on the other.
"I'm going to do this, so you can quit whining, Sarah. You're only here because you fancy hobbits not Legolas," she snapped.
"Don't call me Sarah. I told you: I'm Peony, Liz." There was a crackle of barely restrained maliciousness in the girls's voice as she pushed a strand of brown hair behind her ear.
"I'll call you Peony if you shut up right now … someone's coming." She pressed her eye to the narrow gap as foot-treads, too heavy to belong to any elf, approached along the corridor. Boromir passed scant inches away, and her lip curled in disgust.
They waited for what seemed like hours, crammed against an assortment of brooms and a pile of unwashed tunics, which Gil-galad had left there in the Second Age when he had forgotten where his room was.
Finally it was all too much for their limited attention spans and they risked the trek to the rooms where they had seen Legolas disappear earlier. They tiptoed along the corridor, listening for every breath of air. Unfortunately, they were so busy listening and watching their feet that they did not notice the obstacle in their path until it was too late. They collided with it unceremoniously, reeling at the sudden solidity of the air. Strong hands grasped their arms to prevent them from falling, but the grip, although not cruel, was not kind, and certainly did not belong to a certain Sindarin prince. They looked up, and up still further, into a grim face framed by dark hair.
"'Scuse me, Mr Weird –Pointy-Eyebrows, but can you tell me where Leggy is?" the bolder of the pair ventured.
One of those eyebrows, fabled since the First Age when they had daunted even Kinslayers, rose higher still.
"I could tell you," Elrond's words were measured, as if he was pronouncing a great doom, "but I shall not."
He bent down and suddenly the duo found themselves suspended in midair, their arms pinned helplessly to their sides.
A face craned around a door a few yards away, silvery hair tumbling over bare shoulders.
"Have you returned with the cream from the kitchens, El-nîn?"
Celebrían caught sight of the struggling, squirming bundles captured under each of her husband's arms.
'I see that I must wait."
"I apologise most sincerely, my lady." Indeed, there was more than a trace of regret in his face. "But I am determined not to allow the haven which withstood the armies of Sauron fall to these … creatures."
~*~
It had been a long and tiring walk to deposit the girls on the road, especially when the one who kept muttering about furry feet had begun to screech improbable tales of love in a voice which would have made Maglor follow his brothers to Mandos. Elrond briefly considered the mass of administrative detail awaiting him in his office, but then a far more appealing prospect reared its head and he remembered why he had left the quiet sanctuary of his rooms. With hurried steps, he made his way to the kitchens.
Lindir stood in the middle of the vaulted room, screaming wildly, until the hobbit, who was trying to filch mushrooms from under a fast-moving knife, covered his ears and retreated beneath the table until his only his hairy feet stuck out, like inquisitive rabbits.
"What ails you?' the Master of Imladris inquired calmly, although he dreaded the answer.
"It … it …" Lindir spluttered, incandescent with rage. He gained a semblance of control over his emotions, although his fists clenched and unclenched by his sides. "It is that these halflings have eaten all the stores of Imladris, and now Legolas Thranduilion has taken the last of the cream from the cold-rooms for his own appalling purposes. My Lord, we have nothing to eat tonight apart from a leg of gammon and a few carrots."
"Ooh, carrots." A small hand reached out from under the table, and Pippin snatched one of the scarce vegetables, chewing on it voraciously, completely undaunted by Elrond's ferociously glare.
The elf-lord shook himself, mastering his rising irritation, and assuming the benevolent look he had learnt from his foster-father, although he knew that Gil-galad had frequently stood on a cliff-top in Balar and screamed throughout the night after wearing it.
"Do we have apples?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"Well then, you have the makings of a sweet dish at least."
"There is no honey left." Lindir did not have the nerve to tell Elrond that his foster-son had begged for it with a particularly lecherous expression on his noble face.
The elf-lord sighed.
"Well, summon my sons and tell them that they must hunt this afternoon," he paused. "Lindir, do we have any … condiments?"
The fair-haired elf fumbled through the shelves until he found what he was searching for. He held the garish jar aloft.
"'Tis something that one of the paramours of Thranduil's son dropped."
Carefully unscrewing the blue lid, Elrond sniffed the contents dubiously.
"As it appears to be all that remains of your famous stores, Lindir, I shall make use of it. It does not smell like a poison of the Enemy."
He strode off, leaving a besieged Lindir to his worries.
~*~
"Celeb loth-nîn?" he called uncertainly in the darkened room. Immediately, Celebrían moved from the shadows and wrapped her arms round his neck, pressing herself against him.
"Do you have the cream?"
"Alas, it appears that our libertine guest has used the last of it, and the Hobbits have eaten the honey … but I have this."
He produced the jar from the folds of his robes, and his wife sniffed at it as cautiously as he had.
"It smells of nuts, and it is pleasant enough. Let us see what use we can put it to…" She smiled at him lustfully and drew him towards the bed.
~*~
Elrond awoke from his light doze in the arms of his beloved wife to a searing pain. Briefly he wondered if he was still dreaming, suffering the wounds which had been inflicted on him on the Dagor Dagorlad. Celebrían lifted her head from its comfortable pillow on his chest and yelled in a most unladylike manner at the sight which she beheld. Spirals of raw red were traced across his torso, leading inexorably downwards.
'Elrond, you must go to the Houses of Healing."
"Fret not, my love, it will pass," he muttered, determined not to scream.
"What did you promise when we were married?"
"That I shall always love you?" Elrond's tone was hopeful.
"You swore never to become like my father, otherwise I shall leave you and elope with an obnoxious march-warden," Celebrían corrected severely. "Now I shall take you to the Houses of Healing."
Such was the glint in her eyes, so reminiscent of her daunting mother, that Elrond wrapped the thin sheet around himself and followed her meekly.
~*~
From the shadows, two sets of eyes watched beadily.
"He's gorgeous!" one voice whispered.
"Eeew! Don't be ridiculous!' Zelda replied. "He's icky compared to Leggy-kins."
But her friend's eyes continued to trace the retreat of the tall figure.
~*~
"What is it?" Despite her earlier acerbity, Celebrían was nearly frantic with fear.
The healer looked up from his examination of the raw stripes on Elrond's skin.
"Did he eat anything unusual?"
She shook her head mutely.
"Was he testing a new salve on his skin?' he questioned gently, completely ignoring the rather irritable patient on the bed. "It would not be unusual…"
"I was not," Elrond broke in with a scowl on his face, drawing himself up onto his elbows. "I am perfectly competent to diagnose myself.
"Well then, what is I, my Lord?"
At the Peredhel's flummoxed expression, the healer turned back to the cowled lady by the side of the Lord of Imladris. He could not understand why she was here, but had ceased to be surprised by anything many centuries ago.
"Has he done anything unusual? Has he touched anything strange?"
In the deep shadows cast by the hood, Celebrían blushed scarlet, and, in halting words, she explained.
"Well … I … We … There was to be cream or honey but …" she continued her embarrassed explanation, the fingernails digging into Elrond's hand leaving no doubt as to the revenge she would exact on him.
"Well then, it seems that this is a reaction to that." The healer inclined his head. "I can make a salve of athelas to place on the marks, but he must bear this."
Eventually, the Lord and Lady of Imladris were left alone.
"I shall never let you persuade me to go in search of cream again," Elrond laughed, but his words grew more sombre. "Do I have strange eyebrows?"
As he fell into sleep, Celebrían giggled at her first memory of those eyebrows, and kissed the much-maligned arch.
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