Siege Mentality
Chapter Twelve
*dances at all the reviews*
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Midnight in Imladris. A time for silence, for the snores of well-fed hobbits and … well, other activities best omitted from the chronicles. Or so it should have been, if it were not for the tattoo of hooves on the cobblestones, the loud voices in the courtyard.
Grumbling ferociously, Elrond Peredhil shrugged himself into a robe, while his wife sat on the edge of the bed, her tousled hair falling around her bare shoulders.
"Come back to bed, meleth-nîn."
"Nay." He shook his head in regretful refusal, trying to ignore the tantalising glimpses of skin exposed by the sheets. "I cannot."
"Do you think that we shall ever…"
"Not while we are thus inundated," he said with a wry grin and a brief kiss to her cheek… which turned into a rather longer kiss to her mouth, and a blush stealing across his cheeks.
But as he strode from the room, slipping effortlessly into the persona of the Lord of Imladris, his faint smile was replaced by a scowl which would make a Balrog decide to give up the whole fiery sword business. It did not help, of course, that he found Legolas pinning a girl against the fine draperies.
"Leave it," he warned, summoning up the same tone of voice which he had used on his children when they had reached the stage of a fight when they were pulling each other's hair. "Did you father not teach you not to play with your food, Thranduilion?"
Areltialia flushed and pouted, but the princeling barely spared him a smirk, engaged as he was in unbuttoning her shirt. These clothes were so much more useful, so much easier to remove, he reflected with a silent but evil giggle.
Elrond clenched and unclenched his fists, wondering if using Vilya to incinerate the pair would be a breach of the sacred trust. Probably not, but more important matters awaited his attention, and he stomped off, not caring whom he awakened.
Which did not matter that much, as the clamour in the courtyard would have awoken all of Eriador and summoned Manwë himself. The Hobbits were already wandering around, demanding breakfast, their incongruously large feet sticking out from the bottom of their nightshirts like so many rabbits.
Rabbits for hobbits, hobbits for rabbits, the ridiculous chant settled itself into mind, and he mused, not for the first time, whether he might be insane by the end of this.
The sight which met his eyes in the courtyard nearly confirmed it. There was a man, tall and dark, comforting Boromir, who appeared to be weeping on his shoulder.
"There, there, 'tis alright. You are a warrior, are you not, brother mine?" the stranger asked with a smile.
"Good day to you, or might I rather say, good evening … or good night…" Elrond's last words, rather spoiling the pose of a gracious elf-lord were, mercifully, spoken under his breath. "What brings visitors to Imladris in the dead of night?"
"Mae govannen, Lord Elrond." The elvish greeting, accompanied by a gracious bow, startled the Master of Rivendell. Looking closer, he still only saw a human, clad for travel. And one rather in need of a wash, at that. Yet with the heir of Isildur as a foster-son, he had become rather used to the filthy state of Men when they returned from the wilds. Perhaps it had been the same with Elros. But he had always thrown his twin in the sea before he had a chance to notice. And seaweed smelt far worse than the soil of Beleriand.
Before the uninvited guest had a chance to continue his answer, Boromir, his forehead creased in a frown, interjected, "Yes, Faramir. What brings you here? Were you not in Ithilien?"
Ah, Denethor's younger son. A small face, smeared with the remains of a cream bun. Elrond remembered with a sigh that it had been quite that long, even if one was only measuring in the years of men, since he had last left the North.
"Ah, well, father decided to recall me to the White City for a family picnic."
"Yes?"
"One featuring roast son."
"Again?" Boromir was incredulous. "But the last time was only a score of days before I left."
"Well, you know how he is." Faramir shrugged, but even in the darkness, Elrond could see the bitterness written on his face. "Uncle Imrahil has tuna sandwiches. Father has roast me. I am rather tired of trying to get the oil out of my clothes, so once I had sponged down the worst stains, I decided that a good long jaunt in the country was what I needed. And I met some rather interesting people…"
The figure who had stood unnoticed in all the hurly-burly emerged from the shadows. Moonlight shone on the armour of Rohan, highlighting the neat figure of a young warrior. But there was something not entirely right, something which reminded Elrond of … but the recollection slipped across his mind before he could grasp it.
"This is a friend. He will not tell me his name, but he proved himself useful when we came across a horde of the strangest creatures as we forded the Greyflood."
"You should know what orcs look like by now…" Boromir teased, looking more cheerful than he had in weeks.
"Will you ever cease with that one?" Faramir complained half-heartedly. "I was fifteen and it looked more like a bush. Nay, these were human and female, more or less, yet…"
But whatever he may have been intending to say was drowned out by the pounding of a fresh set of hooves on the path before the gate, more frantic, angrier than those of the younger Son of Gondor. The warrior moved stealthily in front of him, his pose, the way his hand touched lightly to the hilt of his sword, all profoundly defensive.
There was a curse in a loud voice, and then the steward of Gondor swung through the archway, the coat of his mount filmed with a faint sheen of sweat.
"Faramir," his voice was hoarse and angry. "Faramir, you forgot your cloak."
And the two brothers simply looked at each other and shrugged.
"I guess he's in the mood for a salad," Boromir whispered.
"What in the name of Mandos is going on?" The rest of the household, led by Aragorn, had, it seemed, arrived.
"This, Estel, is the Steward of Gondor," Elrond said with admirable composure, considering that his gaze was fixed on the dull scarlet marks on his seneschal's neck. He could only guess who might have left them there, and wonder who would be missing from the Last Homely House in the morning. While he hoped that it might be one of the mounting number of fangirls, but he had a suspicion that he might be lacking a person of rather more importance…
"Ecethelion's son…" The Ranger caught himself before he revealed too much. "Well, this is delightful, but I have places to be…"
The Master of Rivendell, all too acutely aware of what those places might be, halted him with an upraised hand.
"Stay, my son. I would have no less a person find a room for our new guests. Put Lord Denethor … let me think … ah, yes, I believe there is room with Lord Celeborn."
With a devious smile, the peredhel watched as the new arrival was led away. Turning back to the others, he was about to suggest that the Sons of Gondor could share a room, when a blond head poked round a pillar.
"Have I missed anything?" Legolas enquired, strolling into the moonlight.
"You have not been detained long enough for that," Glorfindel's keen, blue eyes shone with malicious humour. "I, however…"
But the Prince of Mirkwood was no longer listening.
"Éowyn!" he cried, his eyes fastening on the warrior by Faramir's side. "Éowyn, how long it has been!"
And with a quick hand under her chin, he kissed her. In a fraction of a second, a sword blade was held against his throat.
"You!" she spat. "This will give me great pleasure, you coward. This will be my revenge against you and your friend Grima."
With perfect fluency, she delivered a solid punch to his jaw. Legolas slumped to the ground, unconscious, to the cheers of all around. Even Elrond decided that his helpless laughter was more than justified.
Only Faramir stood silent, his face a mask of amazement.
"A girl…"
And as dawn broke, Elrond dreamt, and remembered…
TBC
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