Author's Note: Is it weird to dedicate a chapter to one person, when the whole story's dedicated to someone else? Probably. Anyway, this chapter dedicated to houses for helping me make it better. It wasn't so good before. It's entirely due to her influence that it ended up this way (so, if you hate it, I guess it's her fault). Heh.

Last of the Edhel

Chapter 6

By CinnamonGrrl for Technoelfie

Once inside the crevice in the face of the cliff, there was no light. Thrown suddenly into the pitch-darkness, Hermione whimpered and clutched at Alfirin's tunic. He untangled her fingers from it, allowing her to clasp his hand, and pulled her along behind him.

The way twisted and turned, and there were moments when she was sure she would not fit through, but eventually they emerged from the tight space to what appeared to be a foyer of sorts. Round, with a domed ceiling, a single wall-sconce held a burning torch. Hermione could see that the floor beneath their feet was of an intricate mosaic of what looked like glass, a border of vines not unlike those guarding the entrance to this place, surrounding a scene of two glorious trees on a hill.

Arched, fluted columns rose around the periphery of the foyer, and beneath the arches were five doorways leading only to darkness—they were not lit. Alfirin took the torch and began to walk down the passage that was second to the right.

"Where do the other ways go?" she couldn't help but ask.

"You will see, eventually," was his answer.

She frowned. "Where are we going?"

"That, too, you will see," he said, this time with a slight edge to his voice. Hermione flushed and felt her irritation resurface. What was he out-of-sorts about? She was the one who'd just been kidnapped.

The passageway in which they walked was carved from solid stone, and was decorated with a floriate scrollwork that was so old, the edges had softened from their original crispness, giving them a rather more shabby, romantic look than had been intended, she felt sure. This floor, too, was mosaic, but only of a single colour—a dark, bottle green that reminded her of Alfirin's eyes.

Gazing at him, striding ahead, Hermione shivered. The torchlight flickered against his strong body, highlighting the broad shoulders and long limbs and golden hair, and her mouth went dry as desire came to war with her anger. The conflict within her was making her feel slightly queasy, actually. This was going to be pure torture, she groaned mentally, and squeezed her eyes shut.

It was thus with great surprise that she thudded into his back when he stopped short. "What will be torture?" he asked, and she realized with horror that she'd spoken aloud. "You will come to no harm here, unless you prove a threat to the security of the Source."

Hermione forced herself to swallow the lump in her throat. "I just meant, being away from my family and friends will be hard," she said, trying to make her voice sound normal.

"I have no doubt being parted from them will cause you pain, and for that, I am sorry," he told her. "There can be no other way, you realize this, do you not? I do not wish to kill you."

"Can't I at least send word to them that I'm safe?" Hermione asked, hating the pleading tone in her voice. "So they don't worry?"

He was silent a long moment, hair burnished red by the torch he held. It flickered in his eyes, reflecting the flames, and the walls of the passage around them seemed to constrict and wrap more tightly around them. Hermione's unease increased, and her hand went to her belly, pressing lightly. "I will consider this," he said at last, then turned and began walking again.

Hermione let out a sigh of relief, and felt the walls recede once more. He was very, very intense, and bearing the brunt of his scrutiny made her feel... naked, like he was somehow able to peer into her mind. She was fairly certain she was in love with him, but she was also fairly sure it was far too soon for her to be sharing the intricacies of her brain with him.

The corridor stopped abuptly at a steep circular staircase, and she trudged up after him for what seemed like forever. At the top, the corridor continued straight for a few metres, and then made a sharp left turn. On the right appeared a series of doors. Alfirin passed the first, and pushed open the second. He placed the torch in another sconce, and stood back to allow her entrance.

Hermione stepped through the door into a room with a vaulted ceiling. Well-lit by fat candles in sconces around the room, the walls were painted a creamy, mottled yellow, and the floor here was of brown stone. To the right, a long oaken table with scores of scars on its surface looked sturdy enough to stand a horse upon, or perhaps Hagrid, and a dozen mismatched chairs were clustered round it.

To the left was an immense fireplace, and an intricately carved divan stood at right angles to a rather throne-like chair before it. The entirety of the far wall was a broad expanse of windows, and Hermione realized that this room had been cut into the sheer face of the cliff. The glass of the windows was so wavy and distorted that seeing clearly through them was impossible, even had it been daytime. Two sets of double doors led outside.

"This is the solar," Alfirin said, then gestured to the doors. "Beyond is the garden terrace." He turned to the right and went through a door, pausing when she remained standing. "Will you follow?" he prompted, a little impatient.

Obediently, she followed, and found herself in a kitchen. There was another huge hearth, but of brick instead of stone, and there were three niches in each of the side-walls. Two of the niches held loaves of bread, slowly turning brown as they baked. A spit, turned out on its hinge away from the fire, held a roasted chicken, and an iron pot was suspended over the crackling flames on a hook.

Alfirin stirred the contents of the pot, humming briefly in approval as he sniffed the fragrant steam rising from it. "It is done," he announced, and turned to the shelves carved into the thick wall for plates and bowls. "You are hungry," he stated, and Hermione was about to frown at his presumption when she realized she was hungry.

"Put these on the table in the solar," Alfirin commanded, handing her the stack of dishes along with utensils and linens, and she did, setting the table as he carried in the iron pot, then a platter with the chicken, and a board with a loaf of bread. It did not escape her, the strangeness of such a mundane task, as if she were an honoured guest instead of a captive in this place.

He set two goblets and a bottle of wine on the table before setting to carve the bird, and Hermione noted that he placed the best bits of meat on her plate before serving himself. She frowned.

"Why are you doing this?" she demanded, her voice low and angry.

His hands stilled. "You know why. I cannot allow you to reveal anything about the Source—"

"No, I understand that," she said. "I mean, why are you being so polite and nice? I'm not your friend. I'm not a guest here. You've kidnapped me, and are keeping me here against my will." She sat back in her chair and folded her arms over her chest, glaring fiercely at him. "At least be honest about it."

Alfirin sat back, too, and took up his wine glass, sipping deeply before answering. "To my knowledge, I have not deceived you in anything. My actions here are merely an attempt to salvage something of the situation. Would you prefer I throw you in my dungeons and feed you naught but bread and water, as befits a prisoner?" He surveyed her over the rim of his glass, his gaze cool. "Because that can always be arranged, Hermione Granger."

She tried to glare him down and their eyes locked in a battle of wills until, surprisingly, he smiled. "How interesting you are. Will you not eat before the food is cold?" His voice was smooth, persuasive, and Hermione found herself eating a spoonful of vegetable stew before she even knew it. The realization made her even crankier, and she frowned around a mouthful of chicken.

"You can't just change the subject when you're losing an argument," she grumbled, pointing her fork at him. "That's not fair."

Alfirin laughed. "As if fairness has a place here," he scoffed, and buttered a slice of bread before handing it to her. His tone turned flat, and more than a little bitter. "You had best learn that there is no fairness, no right or wrong. There is only the Source."

He seemed infinitely sad, sad and angry and just… without hope. Hermione forgot, for a moment, that she was furious at him and put down the bread to touch his hand, wanting to give comfort, to erase that look of despondency from his beautiful face.

Automatically, his hand turned up and clasped around hers, gripping almost convulsively, as if he couldn't resist, and his gaze latched onto her face. In his eyes, she could read an almost heartbreaking despair before he came back to himself and blinked, erasing everything but a vague disdain.

He pulled his hand from hers. "Eat," he commanded, and turned his attention to his plate.

Hermione took up her own goblet and drank. The wine was smooth and mellow, slipping down her throat effortlessly, and it was only when her head began to feel like it weighed a hundred kilos that she realized that it was, perhaps, stronger than the wine she was accustomed to drinking.

Replacing her goblet on the table with great care, she heard a soft exhalation and looked up to find that Alfirin was laughing softly at her. In the candlelight, he looked like a young god, and she felt her breath catch at the sight of him, even as her heart gave a queer twist in her chest.

The smile fell slowly from his lips, and he tilted his head to one side. "It is not wise to gaze at a man so," he told her. "Not wise at all."

"Like what?" she asked, the wine filling her with a rebellion she would not normally have expressed.

"Like you would give your soul to him," he answered, and stood, picked up one of the candles on the table. "Come, you are tired, and have taken too much wine. It is time for you to sleep." To her surprise, he held out his hand to her, and she placed her own in it, allowing him to draw her up.

Alfirin led her from the solar into the corridor again. At the end of it was a circular staircase cut into the stone of the cliff, and at the top, another corridor with doors. He entered the first room and placed the candle on the prettily carved little table beside the bed. "This is my chamber," he announced. "You will stay here until I can build another bed in the other room."

The room's vaulted ceiling was lower than the solar's, but still boasted a wall of windows and a single door leading out to what she suspected was another terrace. Curtains of pale fabric fluttered in the breeze, and he went to draw them closed.

Hermione stared at the bed—the big, soft bed with creamy-white linens and fluffy pillows and what appeared to be a coverlet of some sort of dark, silky fur—and then slowly, slowly turned to face him. His face was impassive as she stared up at him, and she felt once more the immense conflict of resentment and longing.

Just as her hand was reaching out, he stepped toward the door and said, "I will sleep in the next room." He plunked her rucksack, which he'd snagged on the way out of the solar, onto a chair by a window. Halfway out the door, he paused. "Your every emotion reads clearly on your face," he commented as if discussing the weather. "You should learn to hide yourself better."

With that cryptic comment he was gone, the door snicking shut behind him, and Hermione slumped onto the bed, awash in a glut of confusion, disappointment, and half-realized desire. Feeling rather forlorn, she curled up on her side, pillowing her head on her arm. She marveled at being in a room cut from solid rock, and stared out the window. Trees swayed in the moonlit night, moved by a breeze that was scarcely a whisper, and she felt exhaustion steal over her. It was not long before she slept.

She woke up again several hours later, and was panicked for a moment to be somewhere unfamiliar until she remembered where she was. Calming down, she found herself once again staring out the window. The wind had picked up, and the tree branches were waving more energetically than before, their leaves sussurating in the breeze that had made the night chill and damp.

Hermione realized she'd taken to petting the fur coverlet beneath her as if it were Crookshanks, and horror and guilt welled up in equal amounts in her belly at the thought of the cat. In a flash, she was off the bed and dashing to the next room where Alfirin slept.

Except, of course, she'd been so noisy that he was awake long before she flung open the door, sitting up from his nest of blankets before the banked fire in the grate. "Please!" she exclaimed, dropping beside him onto her knees and reaching out to grab at him. "I just remembered... my cat! He's at Harry's, and no one knows I was there, and Harry's not coming back for weeks!" She paused to sob in a breath. "You have to let me tell someone I'm here, so they can get Crookshanks. If you don't, he'll starve to death."

There was a long silence before Alfirin replied. "These are risks you should have pondered before you started your course of action," he said at last.

"How was I supposed to know that an ill-tempered Elf protecting the Source was going to kidnap me?" Hermione demanded, dropping her hands from his arms.

Even in the darkness, she could feel the amusement radiating from him. "I am not ill-tempered," was all he said. "I would have killed you a week ago, if I were."

He wasn't taking her seriously. In her frustration, Hermione struck at him, only meaning to smack his arm. She hadn't counted, however, on his lightning-quick reflexes, and soon found herself pressed face-down against the floor, outstretched arm twisted behind her back as he pressed his weight against her.

"Do you not fear me at all?" Alfirin asked. "Do not mistake my lenience with you for softness. I am kind because I choose to be, not because I must, and will not tolerate violence from you in any form." He released her arm, and she exhaled the breath she'd been holding against the pain, trying to cradle her sore arm close.

"You seem to have a notion of romance where I am concerned; best now to dispel that notion, I think." His weight on her made it hard to breathe, and her lungs were aching for more oxygen. "Do you think your avowals of love will move me? Perhaps make me more amenable to your need for the Source to help your friend? I assure you, they will not."

His voice in her ear was low and menacing, and she felt truly frightened of him for the first time. "Do you think to seduce me? By all means, try. You might even succeed; it has been a very long time since I have lain with someone." He settled his hips more firmly against her backside, making her aware of his position on top of her. "But my body is the only secret I would share with you; you will never have the Source. Ever. I have not relinquished my journey West only to shirk my duty for a mortal female."

Hermione was silent a long time, her breath gasping through her lips as she struggled to think of what to do. Even though panic clouded her mind, arousal was snaking through the clouds at the feel of him against her, and she wondered what was wrong with her. She was being held hostage by an Elf of dubious sanity, pressed to the cold stone floor while he came perilously close to either killing or molesting her, and she was starting to get turned on?

In shame, tears filled her eyes even as heat rushed through her to pool low in her abdomen. He was still speaking, saying something about how honoured she should be that he spared her life, when her hips decided they desperately needed to push back up into him.

Thranduil was angry, more at himself than at her. His damnable weakness had stayed his hand with mercy when his duty demanded her death to keep the secret of the Source, and now this wilful and vexing woman would have to live with him for the rest of her life. That fact did not summon as much distaste as it should have, and he was disappointed with himself for the shameful pang of relief that his solitary vigil was finally at an end.

He rather hoped she planned to try to seduce him for the Source; she'd not succeed, but it would have been quite a novelty for this young innocent to lure him toward temptation. Not that he needed much luring, truth be told; he'd been half-aroused ever since her bold announcement of love the previous night, and every time he settled down she would gaze at him with her huge eyes, looking as if making love to him would be the pinnacle of her life.

No, he would not be swayed from making this point. She had to know that, try as she might, he would not shirk his duty to protect the Source. Elbereth, how he hated the thing...

" 'Twould have been far easier for me to have ended your life, Hermione Granger, and—" his words cut off with a curious gurgle in his throat at the unmistakable pressure of her rounded backside against his groin. Before he could still it, his own pelvis undulated in response.

His sensitive ears picked up the tiny hitch in her breath, the speeding up of her pulse. "It's just Hermione," she told him, her voice breathless and husky in a way that made his skin itch. And then she rubbed against him again. Her soft flesh gave against him, cushioning his erection exquisitely, and Thranduil's body, starved for contact, capitulated immediately.

He found himself dropping his head to her shoulder as he ground repeatedly, mindlessly against her, clasping her waist and holding her still for his onslaught. She whimpered and turned her face to him, lips brushing his cheek, and he buried his hand in her hair so she was locked in place for his kiss.

Her mouth opened for him at once, and she whimpered when his tongue swept inside. She tasted of wine and fear and arousal, and Thranduil found himself hurtling toward some indefinable goal where there was nothing but this delicious friction, this softness crushed to his aching body.

A pain in his scalp dragged him up a little from the depths of his lust, and he blinked slowly to find her hand fisted in his hair, pulling hard as she called the name he had given her. "Alfirin," she said insistently, "you're hurting me."