Siege Mentality

Chapter Nineteen

Sorry for the long wait –things have been hectic.

Thanks to Nemis for betaing this.

And on with the show…

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Elrond was awoken by a delicate finger trailing down his spine, light as a feather against his bare skin. Momentarily he smiled, enjoying the sensations radiating out from that line.

But then he was jolted from his reverie. A very big jolt, like an Oliphaunt crashing into a very pissed-off mountain. Celebrían most definitely did not have long, lacquered fingernails as hard and cruel as the cold mountain air about them, more like Smaug's talons than normal nails.

These … implements tapped impatiently against the muscles of his shoulders, drawing initials on his skin. He uttered a muffled scream and jumped away. Or rather, he tried to do so, a process which was more than a little impeded by the strong cords binding his ankles and wrists. They paid a definite resemblance to a deeply unpleasant hybrid of baling twine and Orc guts, and were tied in such tight and impenetrable knots that his hands had turned a violent shade of blue. The Elf was unable to see his feet but he had a sneaking suspicion that they would match the sky above in hue. Certainly they had not been this numb since he and Elros had drunk themselves into a stupor on moonshine when they were but thirty years of age and been found by a panic-stricken Gil-galad asleep under an upturned row-boat.

And although he was lying in a patch of snow on the lower slopes of Caradhras, it was not the same patch of snow as he had fallen asleep on. For one thing it was a good deal colder, lacking not only a blanket but also the comforting presence of a certain silver-haired elf-maiden.

He groaned and tried to squirm away from his … captor. The only response was a chuckle made throaty by far too much Malibu, and a contented bounce against his back. He groaned again, louder and more exasperated this time, and bent his neck at an exceedingly odd angle to be able to look at the girl. Once he clapped eyes on her, he decided that he would have liked Círdan to have put his eyes out after all, following that incident with the iced buns. Her hair was a painful shade of platinum blond, approximating Celebrían's silver fairness yet managing almost to be its apotheosis. It fluoresced in the bright light of the mountains, stinging eyes within a five-league radius, and paid a greater resemblance to hair that had been treated to an unexpectedly drastic chemical treatment than the Lady of Imladris' brilliant shade. It fell past her shoulders in an extraordinary wave, as per the conventions. Alas for her dramatic intentions, it was also a mass of split ends which would have been greatly improved by a bowl of custard dumped over her head, or a good, swift decapitation.

Elrond had a sneaking suspicion that by the end of this encounter his wife would be more than happy to oblige with the latter.

He met her glaring green eyes, of a shade which matched that of Galadriel's face during one of her ring-of-power-induced tantrums, and winced. Once, long ago, he had seen eyes like that set in Annatar's face as he stood before the gates of Lindon, pleading his case with a sweetly melodic voice, his hands moving hurriedly to emphasis his arguments. Then, as now, the gaze had professed great friendship, open and lucid and charming, but beneath, in the depths of the irises, the soul twitched and shuffled like something revolting in the bottom of a stagnant puddle. One of the things that puts people off microscopes and indeed sight for life. Yes, one of those.

"Hi, my name's Relia," she declared brightly, shoving her bosom forward like a pair of overcooked potatoes, pale and voluminous. Elrond noted with a nervous twitch that they were but barely covered by a bustier the colour of congealed blood, accompanied by a skirt which could be more accurately described as a slender belt, a pair of laddered fishnets, and silver stilettos which had speared deep holes in the snowdrifts – all of which looked exceptionally interesting with a fur-lined parka and a fisherman's hat which she had found in a cupboard in Imladris.

"Where am I?" he croaked, finding his voice weak, his throat sore. "More importantly, why?"

"Carad-thingy." She smiled like an electric storm in the upper atmosphere when Manwë was in a vile mood after a row with Varda on the precise hue a sunset should be. "We're just a bit further up and … er … left-ish than everyone else. And I brought you here. I rescued you from your evil wife."

Try though he might to live up to the idea of being as kind as summer, Elrond felt his blood begin to seethe like a cauldron of mutton stew at this description of his wife. "If I were you I would not use those words to describe the Lady Celebrían," he said curtly, "for her father would not take it kindly." He did not add that Celeborn would have to stand in line behind him before he did anything.

"Ah, 'the Lady'," she pounced immediately. "See, you don't care about her, otherwise you wouldn't have called her that."

Elrond resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. "I chose, although I am thus humiliated, not to denigrate my wife my wife by referring to her familiarly to one such as you."

Relia almost purred. "Wouldn't you like to learn what I am?" She struggled to her feet, sinking several inches into the soft new-fallen snow, and tottering slightly like a skiff in high winds. "I shall be your love and bear you away from all this tedious shit to live in a palace in the far East, and you shall bathe in scented milk twice a day." She had absorbed that idea from a book and had neither the brains nor the common sense to wonder about how one might smell after bodily immersion in dairy products.

"And what of the Ring?" Elrond asked, more from the general principle that one must humour lunatics than anything else. And anyway, although talking to her was a strain on his fabled patience, it was nothing to what looking at her was doing to his eyes. He felt his eyeballs sauteeing gently at the abomination. "Care you nothing for the fate of the world?"

"Forget them; I want to have sex with you." Relia pouted. "C'mon, Elly. Let's do it." She stared fixedly at the arch of his eyebrows, saliva virtually dripping from her fangirl fangs.

"No." He edged backwards. It was one thing to be courageous in the face of all the legions of Mordor, but this was something else entirely. Already knowing the futility of the action, he tugged at the bonds confining his wrists. His grey eyes widened with anger and fear alike as he shrank back into the snow, struggling. Alas for his composure, he looked very appealing indeed, his black hair vibrant against the snow, his long legs curled up protectively. The very finest trickle of cold sweat, the product of more fear than experienced by your average lightning-struck small fluffy animal, worked its way down the side of his face. Even as he cursed it, Relia all but swooned: a mussed, sweaty peredhel all of her very own; her wildest dreams had just come true. Life was perfect, although admittedly those dreams had not tended to include the desperate expression of panic in his grey eyes.

"Pleeease…" she wheedled, extending that single syllable to truly amazing lengths lengths.

"I am married."

"I bet I'm better than her."

Elrond decided that he would far rather face Morgoth armed only with a knapsack of crusty bread rolls and dressed only in mismatched gloves than contend with this determined terror with narrow, calculating eyes and hands which begun to wander across him in the most disconcerting fashion as she sank back down beside him. "I doubt that. And it matters not, for she is my wedded wife, and my love for her is too great to be shared with the world, in word or in deed. I demand that you free me."

"Don't want to. I'm going to make you love me."

The greatest loremaster in Middle-earth gave up on the persuasive potential of rational thought at this point and began searching for a sharp stone under his bound hands with which to saw at the string. Alas, the heavy snowfall had long since covered any such useful object. He sighed and cursed under his breath, wondering for the millionth time how desperate the situation would become before he would feel justified in utilising Vilya. It was already becoming tempting, and if it had not been for his concerns over the fate of the One Ring he would have called on it. As it was, he was reduced to feeling like a terrified, trapped elfling who knew that he would be stuck in the old trunk until the end of Arda, and, if Eru Ilúvatar was as forgetful as he, beyond. Even the trunk seemed more appealing, in fact, but Relia took his hyperventilation as excitement, and beamed, bouncing up and down.

Somewhere in the far distance, an avalanche started.

"How did you capture me?" he asked wearily, hoping that conversation with this madwoman with shoes which could be used as offensive weapons might postpone any unfortunate incidents and allow him to break his bonds by sheer brute force.

"All those idiots were sleeping." She tossed her head haughtily. It had been a hard day's trek, struggling up the lower slopes of the mountain with Maglor burbling and sighing happily at the jewel-like glint of the sunlight on the snow, while Celeborn interrupted his glaring only to converse with Denethor on the problems of finding decent childcare. But rather than admit to the same exhaustion that everyone else felt, even the Elves, Relia had consumed enough ProPlus tablets to feed an Orcish army for a year's hard march. "I stuck a dart in you with this icky smelling stuff on it to tranquilise you."

She retrieved the dart, which did indeed smell noxious, from her bag, and waved it round merrily, but Elrond paid no attention to it. "Celebrían…? Did you…?" His tightly controlled temper slipped from his control as panic flooded through him, and he felt the strands of the string binding him begin to part and fray beneath his frenzied actions.

"Oh, she's fine. My friend Leggy sneaked in beside her and she didn't even realise you were gone."

Elrond shuddered at the thought of his beloved wife waking up in the arms of the worst letch in Middle-earth – and that was something for a region which also contained Glorfindel of Gondolin. And then he shuddered more at the thought of her ready temper when she realised what had happened. All things considered, it was a miracle the Misty Mountains were still here. Instinctively, he reached out for her with his mind, soothing her anger.

Where are you, El-nín? Oh, the wrath of Morgoth shall be nothing to what I intend to do when I find that girl. Legolas found the whole fiasco so amusing he could not stop himself telling me. Although that might have had something to do with the dagger at his throat.

The elf-lord received a brief, hastily cut-off glimpse of Legolas' hand being removed from Celebrían's breast at knife-point, and vowed to find a deep, spider-infested ravine in which to deposit the princeling as soon as possible. Possibly a deep, spider-infested ravine with two-foot metal spikes.

Meanwhile, Relia, who had been ordering him to strip, not having quite enough brain cells to work out that it would be rather difficult to do so when bound hand and foot and deposited in two feet of snow, noticed that she had rather less than his full attention. Having watched his every move in a seething fury of jealousy for the past weeks, she knew that particular vague look, and, despite having the, intellectual capacity of a cucumber sandwich, she was able to guess who was the centre of his thoughts.

She whipped out the jewel of Asaloiliand, which in actual fact was a rather grubby lump of cubic zircona, she brandished it in his face. "By the power of Asaloiliand the Fair, I command you to stop! I won't let you talk to her."

Elrond's eyes slowly crossed as he tried to focus on the gem. Tentatively, he probed it with the very edge of his consciousness, tensely awaiting a savage blow of power. He breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed, his eyes uncrossing; it was more inert than a Brandybuck after several barrels of strong mead.

"That has no power to command. In fact it has no power at all."

"Oh." Relia looked downcast, and he had a very momentary flash of sympathy for her. But only very, very momentary. "The woman in the junk shop – ah, I mean, the bazaar in Minas Tirith told me it was very powerful, and made by Sauron's wife."

Elrond wondered if Morgoth would like company in the Void. Even a mad, bad, and quite frankly ridiculous Ainu with a penchant for jewels and singing girls would be better than this, and certainly not quite as soul-destroying. The next moment, he thought that perhaps the Valar had been listening to his thoughts, for he could see nothing but darkness and dancing spots of light, far off in the distance. Squinting, he could see that they were fragments of a snow-covered landscape, coming closer and closer… He became aware of a throbbing pain in one temple and a trickle of blood making its way down his face.

Relia, coming to the conclusion that there was nothing to do which would make the putative Jewel of Aasaloiliand into a functional magical weapon, had chosen the other option open to her and thumped him on the side of the head with it with all the force of her strength. "See? See? I'm invincible!" The flames of madness in her eyes leaped higher and she began chuckling like a pair of asthmatic bellows.

There was a scream and a thud as Peony jumped out from behind a large lump of granite and pounced on the other fangirl. No one hurt her Elrond and got away with it. The camp had been in uproar when it was discovered that the Lord of Imladris was missing, and as search parties were dispatched, it had been all too easy to slip away from the Elves assigned to keep the fangirls corralled together and go to look for him herself. Especially as the Elves seemed more interested in each other than in the fangirls. Very, very much more interested.

She hefted her HTML manual high above her and brought it down with a resounding clonk. Relia collapsed in the snow, unconscious.

Bobbing from one foot to the other with joy at her victory, Peony freed his hands, and soon he had recovered enough circulation to be able to free his own feet, although the pins and needles reached epic proportions which should have been remembered in song and story for Ages to come.

"Thank you." He bowed gracefully, tugging his cloak around himself and wondering what in the name of Mandos he was supposed to do with an unconscious fangirl. Perhaps there were some hungry wolves...

"Oh, my poor, brave peredhel…" Peony took a step closer to him and smiled up at him. "You must have been sooo brave…"

He began to suffer a twinge of nervousness, but held still, praying to any of the Valar who were not too drunk to listen that he had not heard that note in her voice.

"How you must have suffered," she continued, although in truth she had been rather more interested in how glamorous and noble he looked, even sprawled on the ground, his eyes flashing in anger, than in any torments he might have undergone. "Let me make it up to you."

She closed the lingering distance between them and, pressing her lips to his in a soggy kiss, let one hand travel down between their bodies, fingers reaching for the laces of his breeches, warm and slightly sticky from the chocolate she had been eating while she waited.

Elrond sprang back, breaking her grasp, his sword, which Relia had foolishly not deprived him of, already in his hand. Memories of some of the more frightening fangirls whom he had encountered during the siege of Orodruin flickered before his eyes and he had to shake his head vigorously to dispel visions of the more interesting uses for Aeglos which they had suggested. Really, to even think that he and Gil-galad would… And that they would with the fangirls participating…

This time it was Celebrían who soothed him, her mind light and firm against his.

We will be there soon, meleth-nín.

He took strength from her words, and turned his attention back to Peony, who was looking at him with an expression like a kicked baby Balrog – furious and upset at once. And entirely capable to setting fire to his shoes. She pouted even more, reflecting that at least Hobbits only brandished turnips or the occasional head of cauliflower when propositioned, not highly polished bits of potentially lethal metal. It really was most tiresome to be threatened – but perhaps it was just an obscure Elvish mating ritual and he would jump her any second…

"Oooh, kinky…" she murmured throatily, shifting so as to show him more of her cleavage than he had ever had a desire to see.

He might be accounted a great warrior, he might have survived the War of Wrath and the breaking of Beleriand, he might have lost more of those close to his heart than it was thought possible to bear, but even Elrond had a point at which his resolve and bravery failed. As her words sank through the levels of his consciousness, passing all the tests which his disbelieving brain imposed on his horrified ears, he broke and ran.

Light and fleet of foot, he sped over the snow, following the barely visible path, navigating by dead reckoning alone back towards the camp, with Peony hot on his heels, cursing and stumbling as the foolishness of platforms in the wilderness was impressed upon her. The wind whistled past his ears; the ground rumbled and rolled as if the mountain was conspiring against him, but still he pushed onwards, the steel bright in his hand.

Such was the speed of his descent, in fact, that he had reached the camp before he knew it, colliding with Finrod, whose head was bent over a volume on philosophy, discussing some abstract concept with Amarië while they – very technically - guarded the fangirls.

The Noldorin Elf put out one hand to steady his assailant. Seeing who it was, his clever face broke into a wide grin. "We feared you lost, kinsman."

"I very nearly was," Elrond said grimly. "These fangirls…"

"Could we not abandon them somewhere?" Amarië asked, casting a poisonous look in the direction of one of the girls who was ogling her betrothed.

"We could…"

But at that moment, Celebrían struggled into sight. Snow dusted her silver hair, there was a smudge of dirt on one cheek, and she was holding onto her father by her collar, but she had never looked more beautiful to Elrond.

Quickly he went to her, enfolding her in his arms.

"I really should not let you out of my sight," she muttered, pulling his head down for a kiss.

"A very good idea."

After a long time, he raised his head regretfully. "May I ask why you were leading your father round by his collar, meleth- nín?"

Celebrían rolled her eyes. "He tried to bite Maglor again."

"AHEM!"

They swivelled, and saw Peony standing on the edge of the group, her face red with petulance and cold, but mainly petulance.

"I'm going to go and sit on top of the mountain until you realise you love me and want to snog me." She stamped one foot for emphasis, and headed off back up Caradhras.

"That seals it." Elrond pinched the bridge of his nose. "We must take the road through Moria."

Celebrían assented. "I for one have no intention of going over any mountain which has a deranged harpy sitting on top." And she kissed Elrond again, just to make her point.

Or something.