Last of the Edhel

Chapter 7

By CinnamonGrrl for Technoelfie

Reality came back in a deafening and unwelcome surge. What have I done? Thranduil's mind wailed as he returned more fully to himself. He levered himself up and off her, blood thrumming unsatisfied in his veins before coming to a near-total standstill, because instead of scrambling away from him, instead of fleeing as she really ought to have...

...Hermione Granger— Hermione— rolled to her back and reached for him, trying to draw him onto her again. Faint moonlight streamed in through the window, lighting her dark eyes like stars and accenting the tender curves of her lips, and he thought he might scream with frustration and disbelief.

"Elbereth," he whispered, closing his eyes. "Elbereth, help me." There was a long, protracted moment of deathly silence, and then he felt the air shift as Hermione moved. He opened his eyes again to find her much as she had been before, kneeling before him as he sat on the floor, her hands outstretched to him.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly, face grave and concerned. He could not bear to see it, and closed his eyes once more.

"I did not bring you here to accost you," Thranduil said at last. There were so, so many things wrong with what he had just done, he could not begin to count them.

Hermione laughed, a soft and womanly sound that made a tingle start at the base of his spine. "Pity," she said, surprising him into opening his eyes to stare at her. She was smiling impishly, her bushy hair cascading over her shoulder as she tilted her head to one side, studying him as best she could in the near-total darkness. "It's not accosting if I want it, too, is it?"

"You do not understand," he told her between gritted teeth, and tugged his hand from her grasp. She'd taken to rubbing small circles on his skin with her fingertips. It was very soothing and distracting, as it had meant to be, but he wanted to be neither soothed nor distracted. "You are a child."

"Maybe," Hermione conceded and shifted closer, close enough that he could smell her hair and feel the heat radiating from her. "But I still want you." She took his hand again, and with a boldness that shocked and secretly thrilled him, pressed it over her breast. Against his palm, the nipple was a hard point, and Thranduil felt himself shudder as his fingers curled over its plump roundness. "I still love you," she breathed, shifting closer still until her knees were braced on either side of his hips.

"Then you are a fool," he groaned, feeling the last of his control slip at her words. His hands shot out to grab her waist, jamming her down on his lap as he bucked upward. The heat pouring from between her legs scalded him even through the layers of fabric that separated them, and her sweet moans in his ear were not helping him to regain control of himself. "We are both fools."

Her fingers slid through his hair, tugging him toward her chest, and he bit down over her nipple through the cloth of her garment. "Mngh," Hermione said distinctly. The scent of her desire made him lightheaded, and her trembling evolved into full-blown shaking before she went still for a split-second, then cried out, writhing against him.

That was all it took to send him crashing into his own pleasure, and with a final lunge against her, Thranduil's head fell back as he arched endlessly up, rubbing himself into the notch of her thighs, his pleasure only heightened by the kisses she pressed over his face between mumblings of, "I love you, love you..."

He could not bear to hear it, and kissed to her make her quiet. She did not seem to mind his method, and indeed returned his kiss with great enthusiasm. Gradually, their heartbeats slowed, lips and tongues moving more gently and less passionately against each other until it was more a slow caress than anything else. It was clear she was a novice at this, but then it had been so long since Thranduil had kissed anyone, he might as well have been a mere elfling of a few centuries himself.

Reality slowly seeped back, invading his languor, and a dim sense of horror made itself known. He had just come inside his trews, he realized, after rubbing himself like a dog against this young woman. Cold crept within him, spreading like ice crystals, at the knowledge he'd taken advantage of her on myriad levels. He was Edhel, she was mortal. He was strong, she was weak. He was her warden, she his captive. He was ancient, she just a child.

The number of betrayals mounted, and he tried to shrink away from her in his shame, but she was sprawled bonelessly against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder. He felt a sense of foreboding, that she would always be thus: trapping him in her softness, and he but nominally struggling to be free.H

 Did the fly secretly long to be devoured by the spider?

"Alfirin," Hermione murmured contentedly, and rubbed her cheek against him.

The sound of the false name on her lips broke his paralysis, and with firm hands he lifted her from his lap. "Return to bed," he instructed, refusing to look at her as he stood. His trews were clinging wetly and uncomfortably, and he realized with great embarrassment that he had drenched the entire front of himself.

"I need to wash," she said quietly, peering through the darkness in his direction, and he was relieved to know she could barely see a thing.

His vision, of course, was unimpeded by the lack of light, and he strode from the room without looking back as Hermione hesitantly got to her feet. Were her legs as shaky as his own? The memory of how hers had quaked as they clasped him during her climax made him shudder once more, though whether in horror or renewed desire he was no longer able to discern.

He pushed open a door, and motioned for her to enter. "This is the water room," he told her, lighting a candle for her to see by. "You may wash here." When he turned to go, her soft voice stopped him.

"What about you?" she asked, and he damned them both for the worry he heard in her tone.

"Do not concern yourself with me," Thranduil grated out.

She laughed, but there was little humour in it. "A little late for that, now," she said, and shut the door.

Thranduil waited until he heard the familiar gasping sound of the pump being worked, and the splash of water into the basin, before leaving. He wended his way through the ancient tunnels until he came to the underground spring where he usually bathed, and stepped into it fully dressed. He slumped back against the rough stone wall, and let the strong current cleanse him. He felt more bleak than he could remember, moreso even than when Legolas had sailed west, more bleak than when his wife had died, more bleak than when he had taken this task of protecting the Source.

For the first time in his long, long life, he did not know what to do.

Hermione did not sleep well, her mind flooded by memories of her interlude with Alfirin and thus guaranteeing she spent a restless night tossing back in forth in his bed. Upon waking, she rubbed her eyes, then padded over to the door to the terrace, pushing it open and stepping out. There were many plants and flowers in vast tubs, and the low stone wall around the terrace held a number of smaller pots as well. The entire perimeter of the terrace was tightly enclosed by the trees of the forest, and she suspected that even if a person stood on the ground directly below, they'd not know there was anything but the flat, uninteresting face of the cliff overhead.

Hermione found a bare spot on the wall and sat, tilting her head back to feel the sunlight on her face. She felt weary, but calm. Her anger and fear of the day before had eased, sometime during the course of the night, into a weary acceptance as her practical nature asserted itself. Ok, so she was being held against her will by a creature from whom once glance made her knees weak with lust. If his actions from the night before were any indication, that affliction was not entirely one-sided.

He appeared to be aware of any and all attempts she might make to gain access to the Source. This meant there were two choices for her: the first involved somehow managing to sneak around him to get to it; the second, openly convincing him to allow her access. The simplest option of just leaving it alone was no option at all—there was no way in hell Hermione was going to be so close to helping Ron and not even try.

She was, quite frankly, surprised at her composure. It wasn't every day, after all, that you get kidnapped by the man—Elf—of your dreams, have him cook you the best meal you've eaten in months, hump you senseless, then desert you in the bathroom whilst he scarpers. Not the most flattering of encounters, but, she pondered, he had seemed fairly traumatized by it so at least he hadn't just been using to her get off.

It concerned her. Most men she knew would have been thrilled to have an eager woman practically gagging for it, but Alfirin had seemed almost anguished by his reaction to her. There was no mystery to her own behaviour toward him: feeling him arch helplessly against her, feeling the hard stroke of his erection against her, had easily been the most arousing thing she'd ever experienced. It was a miracle she'd lasted as long as she had.

And all Hermione could think was, how can I make it happen again? And then she felt ashamed, because wherever Alfirin was, he was upset about something, and here she was, trying to devise ways of getting him to shag her for real. Women were always lamenting how men used them for sex, and she was doing the same.

I'm wanton, she thought as she passed through the bedroom on the way to the corridor and downstairs. Her stomach rumbled, and she realized she was hungry in more ways than just one.

Though she called Alfirin's name on the way to the kitchen, he did not reply. Probably has some Centaurs to menace, or a perhaps wolf dared to venture too close and needs a bit of terrorizing, she thought blithely.

Then she felt bad at her less-than-flattering thoughts of him, because on the table was laid out a pretty feast for her. The table was set for one, and there was the rest of last night's loaf of bread beside a small dish of butter, a jar of honey, a plate of fruit, and a jug of milk. And in the centre of the table was an impossibly elegant little vase holding a single, perfect spray of deep purple lilac.

Hermione could not wipe the foolish smile from her face even when she was chewing. He was adorable, even if his actions were fueled more by guilt, she suspected, than affection. What an odd, odd man. Elf. Whatever. His bread was excellent, too.

After eating, she cleaned up as best she could and then began to wander. Once her curiosity about the kitchen and solar had been satisfied, she began to prowl around the other rooms. The last room on the bottom floor was a workroom of sorts, with heavy tables and tools and myriad supplies on the deep shelves. Upstairs, besides the two bedrooms and the water room as Alfirin called it—a bathroom with the toilet situated over running water so all waste would simply flow away—was a library of sorts.

Inside were books, many many books. Some were bound in leather, some in the bark of trees, some in heavy, slubbed silk. All were exquisitely calligraphed in a flowing script that made no sense whatsoever to Hermione—the letters were neither Roman nor Greek nor Cyrillic of any sort, she was sure. Still, bibliophile that she was, she couldn't resist running her hands over them, opening them and tracing the lines with a fingertip.

"I will teach you to read Tengwar, if you wish," Alfirin said from behind her, and she turned to see him standing in the doorway. He had clearly just come from being in the Forest—his boots were dirty, there was a leaf in his hair, and though his bow was nowhere in sight, his knives and quiver were still strapped to his back.

Hermione replaced the book and approached him. "I would like that," she agreed, tilting her head back to study him. His ageless face looked as it ever did, and his hair was neatly arranged in its customary plaits, but his green eyes seemed different, somehow. It was as if his weariness had somehow deepened since the last time she'd been able to look so intently at him, and she felt a pang of regret that she had caused it.

"I'm sorry," she said.

He quirked a golden brow. "Are you?" he asked casually, and strolled past her to walk to the door leading to the terrace. Pushing it open, he stepped out into the sunshine filtering through the leaves. "Why would you be sorry?"

There was a tone to his voice that Hermione did not like, not at all, bitter and hard and dry. She followed him outside, not allowing herself time to admire the lush vegetation growing in ornate clay pots around the terrace's periphery, nor the roses winding up the stone face of the cliff. "I'm sorry that I've caused such a disturbance in your life. If not for me, you wouldn't be so..."

Her words trailed off uncertainly as he turned to face her, his expression bland. "So...?" he prompted, seeming a combination of amused and slightly offended.

Hermione threw her hands up in exasperation. "I don't know!" she exclaimed at last. "You aren't happy, that's certain."

"And you attribute that to yourself?" At her nod, he smiled, a slow and rather nasty smile. "I assure you, Hermione Granger, that not all things originate with you. I was not happy with my lot long before you insinuated yourself into my life."

Stung, she stepped back, but would not give up. "For how long?" she asked impudently. "How old are you, anyway?"

His smile widened, and seemed more a baring of teeth than anything else. "Older than you could possibly comprehend." He sighed, then, and looked down to where his fingers were mutilating the petals of a rose. "Older than I can comprehend, sometimes."

Would he ever give her a straight answer? "So, you can't die?" She was impossibly intrigued by all this, and wondered how it were possible that she'd never come across the history of a race of immortals through her intensive studies.

"I can die," Alfirin corrected, and smiled once more, without much humour but with an immense amount of sorrow. "I simply will not."

Hermione couldn't think of a reply to that, so she kept quiet. "Thank you for breakfast," she said after an awkward silence. "It was... nice of you."

His eyebrow twitched a tiny bit. Instead of replying, he surprised her with a slight bow, hand over his heart. There was a slight, very pretty tinge of pink to his cheeks, and it took her a moment to realize he was both thanking her and apologizing for their quasi-lovemaking.

"About last night," she began, hope plain in her voice.

Thranduil held up a hand to still her words, and took a moment to study her. Hermione Granger was a creature of great spirit, he decided, and about as different as a person could be from the elleths of old.

Whereas elven females were tall, willowy, and hopelessly lovely with sleek, straight hair, Hermione Granger was short and bosomy. Her face was fresh and eager, not really beautiful but still somehow appealing, and her hair... it was as if her immense energy could not possibly be contained in flat, neat locks. The length of coarse brown curls seemed to practically vibrate from the force of her vitality.

Great intelligence lit her dark eyes, and he felt himself eager to begin teaching her what he knew, as if he had the right to presume to be her mentor. He had seen the reverence in her gaze and touch for his books, and knew she would be an eager and apt pupil.

He almost groaned as that path of thought took a darker, more sensual turn, and forced his wandering mind back to the issue at hand. "I have decided that you may send word to your kin," Thranduil told her, watching her carefully.

"Oh, thank you!" she exclaimed, smiling. Then she sobered and added,  "I'm sensing there's a 'however' coming."

He stepped toward a barrel in the corner of the terrace to hide his smile at her perceptiveness. "However," he continued accordingly, dipping a bucket in the barrel, "I will approve the content of your letter. Only then may you send it."

He began to water the plants around them, and she did not answer right away. "Are these terms acceptable to you?" She was watching him, an indecipherable expression on her face, but her eyes were bright in a way he did not trust. "You should know that I will be able to detect any enchantment you place on the letter, Hermione Granger. Locating spell, invisible words... nothing shall be on the parchment save what I wish to be there."

Her shoulders slumped the tiniest bit, and he frowned hard to keep from smiling. She was utterly transparent. He wondered if she realized how little she was able to deceive him, and contemplated telling her, but decided against it—it was terribly amusing to watch, after all.

"I told you last night," she said crossly, "it's just Hermione."

The memory of just when last night she had said that lashed through Thranduil's mind, and he recalled all too clearly the feeling of her beneath him, of the friction of their bodies as they gave each other pleasure. She seemed to remember too, because her breath quickened and her eyes turned hungry as they raked over him.

This had to be stopped, now. "There is much to do today, now that you are here," he said repressively. "We must find more clothing for you—" heavy, thick, shapeless clothing, he vowed, "--and there is another bed to be built." He did not think he could be more clear in his intentions that the actions of last night never be repeated.

"There... er... I mean," Hermione said with uncharacteristic stammering, and Thranduil put the bucket down to wait patiently for her to regain some coherence. To his amusement, her face was flushed and she could not seem to hold his gaze. "You don't have to build another bed," she blurted out at least. "We can share."

He could not keep from smiling at her discomfort. "I would not think of imposing so," he demurred.

"I want you to impose," she replied passionately, then seemed almost as taken aback by the force of it as he was. Her blush intensified significantly, until her ears were nearly glowing. "Er."

"Ah, but I am a restless sleeper," he said lightly, taking up the bucket once more and upending the rest of its contents on a particularly large and wild bramble of roses. They were darker than pink, but yet not red—actually almost the same colour as Hermione Granger's cheeks at this moment. "I could not rest easily knowing I was disturbing you."

She only glowered at him.