Siege Mentality
Chapter Thirteen
A flashback/dream/thingy of Elrond's to the Last Alliance, triggered by certain events in the previous chapter. Featuring a Gil-galad cameo, yet more apoplectic rage from Celeborn and an unexpected visitor… Enjoy!
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The nine terrible figures stood on the broken crag; their black garments whipped by the foul wind, which blew off the battlefield, carrying with it the reek of the dead. Tendrils of mist drifted in and out of their faceless hoods. Hatred was in their eyes and terror in their crooked hands.
"Bugger this for a game of soldiers," one said eventually. "I am not really in the mood for petrifying a few Elves. What say you that we go home and play poker?"
There were muffled sounds of agreement, and, with his otherworldly sight, the Witch-king could see frantic nodding and the third Nazgûl – always a bit of an idiot – searching his pockets to see if he could find his wallet. He would need it – the other Riders had been mercilessly fleecing him for centuries.
"We cannot," the seventh reminded him primly. "Our lord wishes us to…"
"Sod what he wishes us to," the Witch-king exclaimed in exasperation. He could not imagine how such a petty bureaucrat had come to be gifted with a Ring of Power – it had probably been meant for his sister who had been infamous for biting the fingers off one suitor. "Do you really think that he will notice? He will be too busy trying to stop the orcs from eating the prisoners, and the prisoners from eating the dungeon walls – and getting that malodorous Balrog out of his bed."
"Really, you would think that a Dark Lord would have better taste in lovers," the second Nazgûl piped up.
"Oh? I rather thought that Aralk had shared your bed first…"
It should have been impossible for the spectral form to blush, but he did so anyway.
"Ah … yes. Now, what were you saying about poker?"
And so the encampments of the Last Alliance were left in peace for another night – well, by the forces of the Shadow anyway – for the fangirls went abroad and with them went chaos and the howls of those caught rather less than willingly in battlefield romances.
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Lord Elrond of Imladris sat slumped over his desk, doodling rather sentimental poetry in the margins of the map spread out before him. Realising what he was doing, he flushed vividly in the half-light and began to obscure it with firm pen strokes. So engrossed was he in his task that he did not notice the warrior creep up behind him and slip slender mail-clad arms around his neck. 'Twas as skin brushed against skin that he was jerked into horrified awareness.
"Oh, Eru, no." He banged his head on the trestle table, upsetting a bottle of thick black ink. "Whoever you are, please cease these attentions. You know not what you are doing. Last night that abominable girl with the unsuitable attire shoved Isildur into my bed and I nearly fell over my own feet trying to escape. And tonight, tonight … Nay, please believe I have no interest in these warrior bonding rites of which you speak."
His earnest declaration was punctuated by the steady thud of flesh against wood – and occasionally the overturned bottle.
"What a welcome you give to your soldiers." The voice was light, musical, and so very familiar. "Curses and ink in your hair – 'tis lucky indeed that your own tresses are so dark. But in the end, I think I am pleased that 'tis not your pleasure to bed them all."
Elrond cracked one eye open and peered cautiously at the figure who sat, unconcerned, on the edge of his bed. No Elf this young should be in the midst of the war…
"Remove your helm," he snapped in commandment. "Do as I bid you, vile illusion of the Enemy!"
Two small pale hands reached up and unbuckled the leather straps, lifting the ornate, concealing headpiece away, and mithril hair shone free in the light of the single candle.
"Oh."
"So do I look like an orc?" Celebrían inquired gently. "I confess I smell like one. My tent-mate has little concern for even the cleanliness which can be found in this place. Indeed, I believe that he never bathed before coming here either."
"You have a tent-mate?" Elrond's expression of stupefaction was replaced by one of protective rage. "I have heard the stories … A young maiden of high rank and fair body in this place… I will tear his eyes out and make him eat them with a mustard sauce and a small sprig of parsley, not to mention other parts of his anatomy…"
"Fear not, hir-nîn." She stopped him. "I threatened to kill him if he so much as touched me."
"What with?" Elrond pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off an incipient headache, feeling thoroughly baffled by the turn of events.
"My sword, of course. I am a warrior," she mocked him affectionately. "And if that fails, there is always this." She slipped a bejewelled, but exceedingly sharp, dagger from her sleeve.
"Ah, I see."
"My father gave it to me."
"Really?" He found that between confusion and her presence, he could produce no more than monosyllables.
"Well, he intended me to use it on you if he you ever so much as laid a finger on me, but that course of events did not appeal to me."
"Oh." He paused. "Are you sure that you are not a male in disguise? My experiences of the past few years have led me to believe that any who seeks entrance to my bed is more likely than not to be a male, impelled by one of these nefarious girls."
"A male in disguise as a female in disguise as a male," she chuckled. "'Tis not very likely, is it, hir-nîn?"
"You have not been here, hiril," he stated darkly. "You would be surprised … wait: did you just say that you would not reject my touch?"
"Aye." Her heart pounding in her mouth, Celebrían began to shed pieces of armour. When she reached a buckle which was awkwardly placed, Elrond came to stand behind her, his fingers trembling uncontrollably, his breath warm on the skin of her neck.
"So," he whispered against her hair. "Why are you here?"
"I became bored of my father's attempts to persuade me into a marriage – did you know, he even sent me letters to that effect – anyway, marriage with a blond march-warden with less conversation than a dish of baked halibut," she said candidly. "And…"
"And?"
"I like my fish a little less cooked and a little more exotic." Celebrían turned to face him, twirling a strand of her hair nervously round her finger.
"You mean like those strange things with the purple ridges and the pink spots they catch off the coast of Harad?"
"Nay, I mean like a certain peredhil lord." When he looked even more uncertain, she elaborated. "I prefer you, Elrond. You do not have pink spots, do you?"
"You would be surprised at this moment." He laughed tenderly as she blushed.
"Oh… well that certainly makes things easier for me." And she blushed again, deeper and darker than before.
"Really?"
"Would you stop saying 'really' as if you knew not what I was doing here," she said, exasperated.
"But I do not. I presume that you have decided to join your father in the fight for the freedom of Middle-earth."
"Well, there is that, but…must I remove all my clothes, and all of yours?" she complained. "I am here to seduce you, Elrond of Imladris."
"Oh! Really?"
It was this point that Celebrían decided that the best way to silence her love – who seemed to be remarkably deficient in wits for one accounted a master of lore – was to kiss him.
"So you…" Elrond drew back first, his grey eyes dark, his breathing ragged.
"Yes. If you…"
But she got no further, having been swept off her feet and deposited rather swiftly on the low camp bed.
It was only after many minutes that her discomfort moved her to words.
"Meleth," she began tentatively. "I have heard many tales of these things, although I know not of them from experience, as my father promised to garrote all who came within a league's distance of me, and please forgive me if I offend you, but should it be that hard?"
Elrond's rather notable eyebrows found their home under his midnight locks as he thought of certain portions of his anatomy.
"…But I am afraid it seems to be digging into me…"
He had not thought it was that obvious, and a quick glance down reassured him that his body's reaction should not be discomforting. He noticed something else, however.
With a frown of dismay, he unbuckled his belt.
"'Twas my sword, not… well not what you imagined, celeb loth nîn…" he trailed off.
"Oh? So … that. Oh … that is much nicer. And less sharp and leathery."
For a long time, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing and the protesting squeaks of the bedsprings.
"I see now that you are no male," the elf-lord remarked huskily, at last.
"Elrond!" Celebrían pretended to swat him, only to have her wrist caught in an iron grip and conveyed effortlessly to his lips. "Ai … mmmm…"
But their reverie was interrupted by frantic pounding on the canvas of the tent. The lady ducked under the mussed blankets, and Elrond tugged his no less dishevelled tunic over his head.
"In the name of all the Valar, Peredhil." Gil-galad burst through the tent flap, looking rather less calm and collected than usual. "I cannot believe what has happened."
The half-dressed elf-lord cast a horrified glance at his bed, expecting a torrent of invective on the propriety of seducing the daughters of close allies to burst upon his head. But none came.
"Me … me…" the High King continued, raking one large hand through his black hair until it stood up in all directions like a frightened hedgehog. "They tried to … these … things… these orcs tried to… Last night 'twas a creature which I believe was an Atani female, but nevertheless appeared to have purple hair, and which offered to massage my back. And now…"
The caped figure who had accompanied him into the tent drew back his hood with a fearful hand.
"Is it safe?" Silver hair gleamed in the moonlight streaming through the open flap.
"No, but it would be a good deal more safe if you would close the Valar-forsaken door, Lord Celeborn."
Elrond began to pray that the aforesaid Powers would whisk him off somewhere else – any where, even into the study of his childhood tutor who had believed sincerely in the power of well declined Quenya verbs to change the world – and Celebrían with him, if her utter silence was anything to judge by.
"What ails you?" he asked. "Is it an attack?"
"Yes, pen-nîn tithen, it is an attack," Gil-galad responded sarcastically, tightening his belt which had hung loose. "We wish you to charge up the slopes of Orodruin wearing naught but your undertunic, and attack Sauron himself with a dinner fork. Once you have done with that, could you wrestle the Enemy in the Void that is Without, bearing only a pewter letter-opener…'
The peredhel blinked a couple of times at these unusually harsh words, but his full concentration was still bent on the huddled mass in his bed, and, more importantly, the single silver lock which trailed across the pillow…
"They tried to… they tried to … with him…" Celeborn stammered.
"These girls tried to make me take my Sindar colleague into my bed," the Noldorin monarch finished succinctly. "I know not where they get their ideas…" His gaze followed Elrond's own. "Oh, dear Eru, you have not succumbed to them, have you? How much of the liquor Thranduil's troops distill have you drunk? You will be very sorry for this in the morning … as will the other."
"Is that one of mine?" Celeborn's glassy eyes miraculously brightened "If that is you, Haldir, I shall hang you from the nearest tree – and that is some distance away, believe you me. You were supposed to marry my daughter – either you or one of your brothers."
The bundle of blankets quivered.
"You will hear more about this than you want to, march-warden." In one stride, before either Noldo could stop him, he had crossed the room and yanked back the covers. An expression alike unto a cow, which has just caught the first sniff of formaldehyde, wafted across his usually serene face. "Cele … Cele …"
"Celebrían," she said helpfully.
"Celebrían. What will your mother say when she hears of this?"
"Well, she did say 'Good luck, iell-nîn. Your future husband will be hard to persuade, and mine you should prepare to tether to a tent-pole'."
"Aaargh!" He threw himself at the Half-elven lord, but a solidly muscular arm was in his way.
"Now, now, mellon iaur," Gil-galad reproved him. "Is this not better than Elrond bedding Haldir?"
"No."
"Then the Sindar are odder than I thought." He turned to Elrond. "I bid you good night, ion-nîn. Use it well."
And they did, despite the occasional screams of rage from the encampment of the Elves of Lóthlorien.
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ion-nîn – my son. No, I'm not implying that Gil-galad was actually Elrond's father, just that he was his foster father.
pen-nîn tithen – my little one.
iell-nîn – my daughter.
hir-nîn – my lord.
hiril – lady.
Feel free to review and tell me what you think. Yes, I do realise that what you think is probably that I need to be confined in a mental institution :)
