Siege Mentality
Chapter Six
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Aragorn stood before the desk; his noble shoulders slumped in defeat. He had attempted to look like the king he might be, but only succeeded in looking like the child he had been.
"Ada…" Elrond's heart softened at the name, which he now so rarely heard from the man's lips, but he would not allow himself to be swayed.
"Pen nîn tithen, you will do this. I have made my mind up, and this is to be your task."
The Dúnadan steeled himself for the unpleasant ordeal. A gaggle of girls trooped into the room, giggling and twittering.
"What is your name?" Elrond pointed to one, who stood near the front of the crowd, dressed in a gown which appeared to have been hastily fashioned from a undergarments with a length of curtain tacked to the bottom by rather inexperienced needlework.
"I am Galadriana." She tossed her head. "I am the Princess of Lórien."
"You are not," the elf replied in a measured voice.
"I am," she squeaked.
"Do you not think I would know my own wife's sister?" he asked rhetorically. "As it is, she has no sister. Thus, I know you are not the Princess of Lórien. Furthermore, there has not been even a King or Queen in the Golden Wood in many a year."
"You're married?" the girl asked. "Ewww."
The others joined in her chorus of disgust, all except one, who merely appraised him, wondering how she might pry him from his wife. If they had had the wits to look, they would have seen a face of a beauty they could never hope to achieve scowling at them from behind a drapery. Celebrían did not much appreciate their analysis of her husband.
"That matters not." Elrond, however, looked more amused than offended. "I present to you Aragorn son of Arathorn. He will show you the wonders of Imladris, and teach you a little of elven culture."
Returning to his work on a trade treaty, which suddenly seemed to be of remarkable interest, he bade them to depart.
"What's Imladris?" Turquoise whispered to the girl next to her as they filed through the door.
"I dunno."
Aragorn has heard.
"This, my ladies, is Imladris, the valley of the cleft, in the Common Speech named Rivendell.'
They simpered at being called ladies and barely heard his explanation.
The scion of kings, wishing that he was back in the wilds or even on the brink of Mordor itself, lead them to the kitchens, hoping that this at least would be a simple place to begin. He had not expected to find Lindir chasing Merry and Pippin around the room with a rolling pin, swearing so foully that even an orc would have blushed. Nor had he reckoned on finding the Legolas Thranduilion in one of the storerooms, nestled among the potato sacks with a girl who had managed to sneak away. The princeling waved at his admirers over his companion's shoulder.
Once Aragorn had managed to separate the skirmishers, he decided that it would be safest to leave the kitchens. As they did so, two more Hobbits sneaked past and began to stuff food inside their clothes.
They proceeded to the gallery where the Sword that was Broken was kept.
"The Last Alliance of Men and Elves was formed to combat the might of Sauron. They fought not simply for themselves, but for the freedom of all and the hope of the future. On the slopes of Mount Doom … Yes, what is it?" he broke off.
"Was Legolas there?"
"No, he was not, but Oropher, his grandsire, died valiantly in battle."
"I bet he'd have done well though," Em said, waving her bejewelled hands excitedly. "I bet he'd have killed Sauron and been able to use the Ring for good."
"Do not speak of it so loudly," Aragorn barked, already wearied beyond measure by this feat of endurance, and wishing, not for the last time, for his foster-father's quelling glare. "The Ring is evil, and none of us can wield it, not even the wisest … among whom I would certainly not number the son of Thranduil." He muttered the last words under his breath.
Ensuring that his audience was, if not silent, then at least no more raucous than usual, he continued, "On the slopes of that terrible mountain, Elendil was slain, and Gil-galad was slain, and all seemed to be lost…"
"What about the Hobbits?" Peony inquired, momentarily abandoning her plans to seduce Elrond.
"There were no Hobbits there," Aragorn responded.
"But…"
"There. Were. No. Hobbits. There. This was the Last Alliance of Men and Elves. As I was saying, it seemed that there was no chance of victory…" he trailed off. One of the girls had picked up the hilt of Narsil, and was waving it in violent circles, narrowly missing her friends' scalps. Retrieving the blade, Aragorn concluded that it would be best to beat a strategic retreat from this place.
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The archery range had been a mistake. Amandil (who still thought that her adopted name was too pretty to belong to any man, despite Glorfindel's poorly stifled guffaws), Sandy and Galadriana had fainted dead away at the sight of Legolas' bow lying discarded on the ground. Eventually, they had awakened, only to mutter incoherently through his exposition on the Valar and the creation of Arda.
The only response to the sight of the memorial to Gilraen had been particularly unfortunate: one girl had grabbed his tunic in a vice and leaned in to kiss him. Although he had pulled back immediately, he was sure that he had seen a pair of angry blue eyes belonging to a particular elf maiden gleaming in the shrubbery.
"Now we are in the gardens of Imladris. Does anyone know why these are so important?" he sighed heavily, vowing that he would never again underestimate Erestor's talent in teaching squirming children.
"Because we can sing to Legolas here?" Turquoise suggested, lugging the drooling burden on her friend Sandy along. "Like this?
"Oh Leggy,
You are so yummy.
You are so cute
I'd like to see you in your birthday suit."
Far away in the library, Elrond clamped his hands over his ears at the wailing noise.
"No. The elves cherish these gardens for the sake of Yavanna Kementári, Queen of the Earth, who loves all the Olvar, the growing things. She is one of the Aratar, the greatest of the … urkkkkk…"
A strong hand had reached down from an overhanging tree, grabbing his collar and drawing him up into the branches. Brushing twigs out of his eyes, he sighed in relief.
"My Evenstar … thank the Valar." He grinned at her. "Between those who wanted Legolas, and those who had an unseemly interest in the Hobbits, and the one who kept making the most suspicious inquiries about your father…"
"And the one who tried to embrace you," Arwen added dryly.
"… And that one, I feared for my sanity." He kissed her tenderly.
"Shall we stay here?" she giggled, between attempts to undo the buttons of his tunic.
"Although I fear that this ordeal is your father's way of punishing me for my pursuit of you, I shall bow to your wishes, my lady."
The fangirls wandered aimlessly around, confused by the disappearance of Aragorn, and thoroughly lost. Legolas sauntered along the path, and they turned to him, like hounds at bay.
"Good day." He bowed deeply. "Might I escort you back to the house?"
As one they followed him, their eyes glazed, leaving an almost imperceptible trail of drool. The gardens were once again silent, apart from the rustling of the tree in which the two lovers sat, and the occasional curse and scream as Gandalf discovered that Saruman had filled the pockets of his spare cloak with dead frogs and copies of the best-selling pamphlet 'How to Breed your Own Army of Evil – by M. Morgoth."
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