Siege Mentality

Chapter Eight

Thanks for all the reviews.

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However, no letter was needed, for the next day Celeborn rode into Imladris, on what the charitable might call a social visit, although it was more of an attempt to persuade his granddaughter of the merits of Lothlórien. His horse, nearly as proud and stubborn as its rider, narrowly missed trampling a girl who had decided that the best way to impress Thranduil's son was to learn how to climb trees. She was not nearly as good a climber as she was a kisser, especially when encumbered by platform heels and hot pants. If she had known that the prince far preferred the former talent, she might have saved herself a good deal of time, effort and pain. As it was, she fell with a resounding thud before the lord's mount. Elrond, hastily apprised of the visitors, smothered a grin behind his hand.

"I see that you do not miss my daughter so much that you cannot find amusement in folly," Celeborn groused, although he looked as if he rather enjoyed the prospect of informing her of the ill doings of the Half-elven.

"Not at all." Elrond tried to assume the expression of a husband bereaved of his wife, a feat that was rendered all the more difficult by the fact that he had been in her arms not ten minutes before. "I was … ah … imagining how much her grace outstrips that of these creatures."

"As you should. She is, after all, my daughter. But you never did appreciate her charms, did you?"

Elrond gritted his teeth. It would be a very, very long couple of weeks. He would have been even more worried if he had noticed the malevolent grin on the face of his rival's prodigal son.

"Quite so, my lord. For her charms are such that none could truly appreciate them." The Peredhel smiled tightly. "But come, we must find you quarters."

~*~

Elrond thumped his head repeatedly against the table, ignoring the dull ache in his temples. To find a room for the visiting lord had been an achievement worthy of the heros of old, and he felt decidedly as if he was nothing more than a mortal Man trying to find his way through Melian's labyrinth - although, if all the tales of Beren were true, that appeared to be rather easier than this. Naturally, he did not want his father-in-law too close to his rooms, so he had tried to persuade the son of Gondor to share a room with one of his father's subjects. Unfortunately, Boromir refused to move any closer to the rooms of Legolas, fearing for his life if he was brought any nearer to the youngster's followers. Elrond felt a degree of sympathy for him, as he had had to fish the Man from the Bruinen twice in the last week and remove the lead weights from his pockets and the bonds from his wrists.

Then, no one wished to take Thranduilion's chambers unless they were thoroughly aired and the bed replaced. At this point, adolescent girls begging him to change 'Leggy's' rooms to a suite on the ground floor had besieged him, so that they could sneak in to visit the princeling. Some had been blunt enough to tell him this. In truth, he did not know whether he despised them more or less than those who had reeled out coy yet inventive excuses, at least one of which had involved Quenya lessons. Elrond, tired and with frayed nerves, had told the persistent female that Legolas did not know Quenya. Unfortunately, this had not resulted, as he had hoped, in her fleeing the valley to pester the Men of Bree, but merely in a pair of over-plucked eyebrows being raised like startled tapeworms.

He had only been saved by the willingness of Samwise Gamgee to share a room with the Ringbearer. Elrond suspected that this had more than a little to do with rumours of late-night poker games and the rapidly diminishing stock of fine liqueurs. However as he felt as if someone had crammed a Balrog inside his skull, fiery lash and all, he agreed meekly.

Bowing his head over the scarred wood, his eyes unfocused, he did not hear the whisper of silken skirts until a mouth brushed his ear. He turned in sudden fear at who this new assailant might be, and grinned weakly but thankfully when he beheld his wife.

"I have a terrible headache, celeb loth-nîn," he murmured. "Look, Anar is already dropping below the horizon, and I have spent most of this day rearranging our uncooperative guests."

"Poor child," she giggled. "Perhaps I can make all your troubles disappear."

"And how might you do that?"

"Like this." She bent her head to suckle his ear and he chuckled hoarsely.

"Come, my love. 'Tis not safe here with your father around. Let us make haste to our chambers."

He began to tug at her hand, leading her from the room, when an angry bellow reached them.

"Does no one here speak at a normal volume?" he grumbled, then blanched as he recognised the voice.

"Adar!" Celebrían said as Elrond began to push her towards a cupboard. But they were too late, or Celeborn's pace was too swift, and before they could make much progress the Sindar lord was standing before them, his blue eyes bulging from their sockets.

"What is the meaning of this?" he stuttered once he had regained the ability to speak. "Curse you to the Void, Peredhil. You have been keeping my daughter captive against her wishes. I should have suspected as much."

With a howl of rage, he drew the sword which still hung by his side. Elrond reached for the nearest object to defend himself with. Alas, it turned out to be a volume of poetry from Gondolin, which was neatly skewered by his guest's blade. Not risking a backwards glance, he fled along the corridor with Celeborn at his heels and Celebrían not far behind, holding her skirts bunched up as she ran.

In and out of rooms they skidded, up and down flights of stairs and around priceless monuments, not a few of which were smashed in the process.

In the end, Elrond, although both younger and more agile than his father-in-law, was outwitted by the force of rage. He found himself pinned to the fountain in the main courtyard, deadly steel pressed to his throat.

"Adar," Celebrían remonstrated. "I am not here against my will."

"Nonsense, iell-nîn. You are clearly under some foul enchantment of his. Mayhap he is in league with Sauron."

He pressed his sword-point threateningly into the flesh of the half-elf's throat.

"So tell me, Master Thief. How did you steal my daughter's soul? I had a Silvan boy in mind for her, a good solid fellow with no Noldor airs, but then you came along. And now this…" he trailed off threateningly, and Elrond cast a hopeless glance at his wife, but she only shrugged.

At that moment, when the Lord of Imladris was resigning himself to a premature meeting with Mandos, there was a crack of thunder, and a voice boomed from the heavens, "Let my son go, you idiot of the Moriquendi."

"And who might you be?"

"Eärendil."

Looking up, the startled crowd saw that Gil-Estel was shining with a fearsome brightness in the pale evening sky, as if it might fall on their heads in a cascade of fire.

"Oh well, my Lord, you are not here, so I feel safe in asking, what in the name of Mandos has your son done to my daughter?"

"Nay, he is not here, but I am." A figure stood forth from the crowd, pulling his deep hood from his head.

"Oh Eru," Elrond groaned. "'Tis Maglor."

"Kinslayer," Celeborn hissed. "Keep your bloodstained hands out of it."

Maglor raised his horribly scarred hands with a sarcastic grimace.

"As you can see, my hands are indeed stained, but I can still use my head."

And with that, he charged the Sindar Elf, his head down like an enraged bull. Unfortunately, his move only succeeded in impaling Elrond with the tip of Celeborn's sword, which stick firm in the statue. Whimpering with pain, the Master of Rivendell cursed the sword-craft of old, which had forged such sharp blades.

"Now see what you have done," Eärendil shouted from on high. But Maglor was too busy trying to attack his opponent with his elbows and teeth to listen. "He is no son of yours. He did not even like you."

"At least I did not leave him," Maglor riposted round mouthful of silver hair, before locking his jaws round Celeborn's shoulder.

"Oh did you not?"

No one seemed to be paying much attention to the bleeding Peredhel by this point except his wife, but suddenly an unnatural silence fell, like the calm before some massive upheaval of the earth.

A glow grew in the courtyard, unearthly and terrible. Teltaurtharia buried her head in Legolas' shoulder, and he used this as an excuse to creep away as quickly as possible.

In the centre of the light a shadowy form could be discerned, and it spoke in a voice filled with menace, "I am Elwë, and what do you think you are doing to my son Telporno?"

"Tel-whatty?" Lis sniggered.

"Your son?" Erestor gaped.

"Well obviously I did not mean that literally," the shade snapped.

"And I do not appreciate jokes about the name." Celeborn now had his hands firmly locked round Maglor's neck, that is, until the son of Fëanor brought his knee up in an extremely interesting manoeuvre. The dark-haired elf used his foe's temporary incapacity to sit on his chest.

"Let Telporno go."

"You are dead," Glorfindel complained.

"So were you. Unluckily for you, you never learnt some of the more interesting aspects of the Halls. Mandos can be extremely accommodating about such ventures when one knows where Yavanna keeps her stash of pear brandy. 'Tis one of the advantages of having married a Maia."

"And look where there got you," a new voice interrupted Elu Thingol. "And now your 'son' is trying to kill mine."

It soon became apparent from his great stature and grim face, even in death, that this new spectre was none other than Ereinion Gil-galad.

"He is a cradle-robber and Telporno is in the right."

'Lord Celeborn is an idiot."

"What would you know of such things, boy-king?"

"Jewel obsessed duffer."

"Lord I-shall-call-myself-after-a-star-but-I-can-not-duck-even-when-it-is-really-obvious."

"So speaks the master of all bad schemes."

"Ha! At least I got a Silmaril, not some silly ring."

"At least I was not killed by Dwarves."

Soon name-calling had degenerated into the exchange of ethereal blows, and the two spirits were rolling in the dust like brawling children.

"Madman."

"Lunatic."

"Child of a murderer."

"Fingon was not a murderer."

"I was speaking of your mother."

In the midst of all this, Gimli son of Glóin, offended by the remarks being bandied about on the subject his people, began to hack at the knees of all and sundry. Erestor squealed and leapt into Glorfindel's arms. The latter looked more than a little pleased by this development, until the blade bit into his own legs, at which point he dropped his burden on the ground.

"Enough!" Celebrían decided that it was time for someone to take charge of the situation. "You and you." She pointed to the spirits, who, against all laws of metaphysics, had managed to become bloodied and bruised. "Go home and tell Mandos that you apologise for your behaviour. As for the rest of you, I shall be tempted to send you to join them unless you cease this instant."

They quailed under her vicious blue stare and began to slink away.

~*~

"This is fun," Elrond giggled. "Why do not all like my medicines so much?"

"It must be your human side, my dear."

The elf-lord found this hysterically amusing and began to roll round in the bed with tears of mirth pouring down his face. Disgusted, Celebrían left.

"Do you know where my father is?" she inquired of the Hobbit who was sneaking down the hall.

"I believe Maglor has him in chains in the dungeons," Frodo replied, trying to hide the dish of mushrooms under his waistcoat.

"We do not have dungeons."

"Well, my Lady, there were all the Dwarves…"

"I see."

Making her way to the newly fashioned dungeons, she yelled Maglor's mother-name in a passable imitation of Nerdanel, which Galadriel had taught her for any such occasions - unlikely though they seemed. It was a trick she in turn had learnt to keep Fëanor's interest in her hair at bay. The kinslayer, whom so many had feared, cowered against the wall like a chastised child.

"I do not believe that we need dungeons."

"It seemed…"

"I do not care what it seemed. Now let my father free."

Rather reluctantly, Maglor unshackled the Lord of the Galadhrim.

"Thank you, my daughter. Now we must make haste to Lothlórien. I am sure that Círdan would oblige you and annul the marriage."

She stopped dead.

"I do not wish it annulled, Adar. Why do you think that all assume I am in Valinor?"

"Well, 'tis obviously some trick of Elrond's…"

"Nay, it was my idea, for I could not stand to be pestered any more. Now, I shall lead you to your room where you will stay."

And so it was.

~*~

When Elrond awoke the next morning, it was with a pounding head, a painful shoulder, and a burning fury.

"What ever it takes, I shall stop Legolas' supply of these girls."

"Why?" Celebrían lifted her head from the edge of the bed where it had been resting. "I concede that they are irritating, but they are hardly to blame for the latest fiasco."

"Believe me, meleth-nîn." His jaw set hard. "They are to blame for all the ills of Arda."

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A/N: About Maglor's hands: they might well be scarred after being burnt by the Silmaril.

celeb loth-nîn - my silver flower.

Adar - father.

iell-nîn - my daughter.

meleth-nîn - my love.