Siege Mentality
Chapter Fourteen
Wherein I discover that I am not too proud to grovel for reviews … please *g*
And regain some semblance of plot … sort of.
And the can-opener makes an appearance *smirks*
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Legolas smiled deviously around a mouthful of silver hair streaked with blue and purple, and clutched the girl closer. This was one more for his tick-list in more ways than one. Tarienariel had been holding out for a proposal of marriage, claimed that the royalty of Sighing-Trees-Wood would not approve of such a liaison. While every elfling knew more of the geography of Middle-earth than she did, it was true that she would probably be grounded until the age of forty if her parents knew what she was doing know. Which was half the point as far as the prince was concerned.
"Oh Leggy-kins." She kissed him deeply, and he slid his hands down her sides, trying to ignore the insistent prickle of the dragon-scales with which she had accidentally endowed herself. Glaurung would be proud. And he thought idly of … well, that would be telling, would it not? It was not as if he loved her either, but she was certainly a mighty fine one, and a conquest besides…
Their clothes littered every available surface, and Tari would be picking leaves out of her training bra for months. The chamber was empty, apart from the copulating pair, the stone pedestal adorned only with a pair of lurid day-glo green socks and a discarded bow. Really, it was a terrible inconvenience to carry the wretched thing round all the time, but the fangirls seemed to expect it. As if he would really be shot at in Rivendell…
An arrow soared past his ear and buried itself in Tari's shoulder – not deep enough to cause serious injury, but with the vehemence of Elu Thingol when confronted by scruffy Atani. The self-proclaimed princess of a self-proclaimed realm squeaked like a startled rabbit and slid off her paramour's lap. Legolas reached for something with which to cover himself up; finding nothing, he decided that he could not care anyway.
"You should not be able to shoot," she complained to the intruder. "You are not a warrior, thee ist a boring old healer."
Elrond strode into view, clad in full armour, the burnished plates glinting in the sunlight, apart from the final streak of orc blood which had never come out. A bow, which had once belonged to the king of Gondolin, was held tightly in one clenched hand.
"Idiot child, do you really think that I spent most of my time on the slopes of Mount Orodruin composing a treatise on the healing properties of clover?"
Celebrían, bouncing up and down on her toes by his side, clutching a quiver full of arrows and a kitchen knife, blushed.
//As I remember, meleth-nîn, your activities were far more interesting…//
//And they are not now?//
//Prove it…//
//Half an hour. Our chambers.//
//My father is busy commiserating with Lord Denethor. We will be undisturbed…//
His face matching the hue of his robes, Elrond turned back to the girl.
"Do they not have a saying in your world, 'do not judge a book by its cover'?"
"My world art Middle-earth. And you can't have been a warrior."
"Your world is most emphatically not Middle-earth, or I am an orc. And yes, in the name of all the Valar, I was a warrior. Think you that in those dread times, there was aught else I could be?" He scowled. Then he started, sudden realisation fleeting across his face. Imagine someone who has just realised that instead of unlocking their car, they have somehow managed to trigger a massive nuclear strike on Moscow. A little more appalled. There you have it. "Oh Eru, my chair. You … in my chair…"
His eyebrows pulled together until they resembled the cleft in the Misty Mountains. Celebrían decided that half an hour was far too long to wait to drag him to her bed.
Legolas and Tari did not even have the grace to blush.
"It was amusing, my lord," the former replied with a grin.
"And where else art there when you won't give me a room, and the Hobbits have taken over Leggy's for their poker game?" Tari flicked her psychedelic hair back over one shoulder, narrowly avoiding blinding a squirrel which had been foraging for nuts and politely minding its own business.
"I shall never be able to use that chair again. I shall never even be able to look upon that chair again." The Master of Rivendell looked as queasy as when a young Arwen had left slugs in his riding boots.
"Come, hiril-nîn." Celebrían tugged at his sleeve. "There is naught to be done here, and argument cannot avail us, as our guests lack even the manners of a seagull."
"But…"
//If you do not divest yourself of your clothes soon, I shall do it for you…//
"I bid you…"
But he was interrupted by a sudden flash of light. A girl, garbed in robes suitable for an entirely different world, flashed into existence in the centre of the council chamber and landed with a thud, similar to a lump of dough being pounded against a baker's slab, in one of the chairs. The three Elves and one half-elf, half-dragon, half-human gawked at her.
"I am Berialessa, daughter of Nessa and Beren," she proclaimed in a voice which was supposed to be majestic, but instead sounded as if she had been gargling seashells. "I have been sent by Dumbledore to aid in the Ring-quest." She batted her eyelashes prettily, and a cold wind swept through the chamber. "Hang on, where is everyone? Hello, Legolas, have you seen Haldir anywhere about?"
Elrond weighed up the advantages of interrogating this new visitor, and decided that, on balance, his bedchamber was definitely the place he wanted to be. Grabbing his wife's hand, he pulled her through the corridors, fumbling at the lacings of her dress.
Swinging through the door of their rooms, he narrowly missed tripping over his sword, a pile of books the size of Thangorodrim, and one small creature who resembled a feather duster. Grabbing Pippin by the scruff of his neck, he ejected the Hobbit and turned back to Celebrían.
"You dreamt of it, too, melethril?"
"Aye. You were so very surprised to see me that day, were you not?" She smiled softly at the memory.
"Well, if you had been propositioned by the most unholy assortment of creatures, including, may I add, an orc, and Elendil's unwashed son, who smelt of the Dead Marshes and had no taste at all in jewellery, you would have been surprised to find the one you actually wanted standing in your tent."
"You wanted me?" She took a step closer, toying with the fastenings of his armour.
"Oh heavens, yes," he groaned, reaching under her remaining garments, luxuriating in the warmth of her skin.
"Would you do it again?"
"Care to test my willingness, my love?"
"Yes…" She tugged at the leather thongs binding the metal plates together. "Ummm … melethron, you were in somewhat of a rage when you donned your armour, were you not?"
"Yes, but I cannot see what possible relevance that can have now." The Noldo bent his head and paid rather serious attention to the tip of her ear.
"Elrond … ai …" She batted him away regretfully. "I can no more concentrate when you do that than I can sew."
"That was my intention."
"But it appears you pulled the knots rather too tight. You are stuck."
"But, hervess-nîn, I cannot be stuck. It is remarkably inconvenient at this time," he wailed and sank down on the edge of the bed.
"Nevertheless, you are," Celebrían riposted tartly. "'Tis a pity, but it seems that we must forgo our activities."
"No!" Elrond sprang up and began to pace around the room like Erestor when he had found some discrepancy in the tax records. "I could…"
"You could…" She blushed. "But…"
"Yes, but…"
"Aha!" Inspiration struck like a beam of wood – quite literally as so engrossed was he in this new thought that he banged his head on the lintel. Bending down, he began to rummage through a crate – which included, among other things, Elros' rattle, Elladan's spare socks, a volume of exceptionally bad poetry on the qualities of Legolas' physique, which one of the fangirls had dropped while running for her half-elven life, and a flask of vintage miruvor.
"What are you doing, Elrond? I always knew that your family were a bit odd to say the least, what with a seagull and a star, and several mad kings, but I never thought you were touched in the head…"
"I have it!" Elrond straightened, brandishing an odd object in his hand. "Celebrimbor gave it to Gil-galad, just before the unfortunate incident with the a power-crazed Maia and a flagpole."
"What is it?"
"He said it was a can-opener, although he could not explain what he meant by a 'can'. Now there was one who was definitely a few leaves short of a tree."
"And what do I do with it?" Celebrían looked skeptical.
"Well, I found that it cuts metal."
"And how did you do that?"
"Gil-galad got locked in a storage trunk by accident, and I used it to cut through the hinges," Elrond said sheepishly – if there were sheep who were six foot tall and who grinned insanely.
"How?"
"'Tis a long story, involving the High King making some rather unfortunate comments about Círdan's beard…"
"So you want me to use this on your armour?"
"Yes. Well, this is actually Glorfindel's armour, as I could not find mine. I suspect that your father has hidden it in a tree," Elrond looked abashed at this, but his wife merely giggled.
"Well, let me see to what use I can put this 'can-opener'."
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Much, much later, the Lord and Lady lay side by side in bed, simply relishing the sensation of skin on skin.
"The bed was much less narrow this time," Celebrían spoke first, tracing fine patterns on his skin.
"And you made no mistakes regarding my sword."
"You fiend to remind me of that," she said severely.
"I found it endearing." Elrond propped himself up on my elbow and smiled lecherously down at her.
"You did not. You went very white, and then so red you must have been like a beacon to the enemy. I am surprised that we were not interrupted by a horde of orcs and Sauron himself." She occupied herself with testing the sensitivity of his skin.
"I think I would have preferred that to an outraged Sindar lord, whose daughter I had just ravished," Elrond sighed.
"Really? I thought 'twas I who ravished you." She paused, and a sudden thought struck her. "Why did you think it prudent to wear so much armour?"
"'Twas a battlefield, meleth-nîn."
"Nay. I meant this morn."
"Oh that. Well, I wished to put as much solid metal – in the absence of sheer rock – between the … the creature and myself," he confessed.
"You feared being propositioned?" Celebrían teased.
"That does not seem to be the problem. Rather, I feared having all my skin flayed off by a daft girl in possession of nails so long that they would put Curunír's to shame, and who might be over-enthusiastic in defence of that princeling."
"True…"
"Oh Mandos, Mandos, and thrice-bloody-Mandos." Elrond sat bolt upright, nearly knocking himself unconscious on the headboard. Abstractly, he noticed that his undertunic was dangling over the mirror. "No….no … how can I not have remembered?"
"What is it, El-nîn?" Celebrían asked solicitously. "You have not left my father and Maglor in the same room, have you?"
"Nay. 'Tis far worse."
"There is such a thing?"
"Aye." He pulled a pillow over his face.
"Now, herven, I do not wish to be married to an asphyxiated corpse." She pried the pillow from his hands. "What ails you?"
"That girl landing in the middle of the council chamber should have reminded me, but I have long since ceased to pay attention to their ramblings."
"Should have reminded you of what?"
"The Ring," Elrond whimpered. "We have forgotten about the Ring."
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