Author's notes for Blooded—I'm glad that I've finally had the chance to work on the sequel to His Lordship. I've gotten a few requests that I make a story that shows what happens to Figwit and the others, and I have to admit that I'd given it a bit of thought myself. However, I must tell you that Blooded, being in its very nature a sequel, will not be of the best quality. So please bear with the shoddy plotline as even I, the author, have no idea where this story will lead, how it will end, or if it will even be resolved.

I have to thank my li'l sis and her best friend, Wynter, Stardust60, Kleine Snowdrop, Erestor, GoblinBrat, and nevvy, for spurring me on. And I hafta wonder, where's miss ElfCakes? I'd like some of her sage advice (honestly!)

Also, a note on the opening sentence of the final paragraph of this first chapter; it's a quote from a book called Wieland, by Charles Brockden Brown. It's one of America's first novels, and it's a darn good read at that—about a man and his disembodied voice, a beautiful young maiden, a depraved lunatic... y'know, stuff like that. You should read it; I hope to be the first person to publish a fanfic about it someday!

Well, enjoy! Hope I didn't bore you to death!

Kid Frock

Figwit stumbled into his room and closed the door. His eyes were filled with hot tears, his heart and mind with despair and confusion. He had so many questions, and he couldn't begin to sort them out. After a few painful minutes of whimpering to himself, his mental turmoil gave way to a fitful, restless sleep full of violent dreams.

Downstairs in his office Lord Elrond's mind and body had finally given themselves over to the sedating effect of the miruvor. He was slumped over his desk, still clutching his empty wineglass. Like his son, Elrond was inflicted with a million terrible thoughts, memories, and images. The incident with Erestor and Malfanaion was played over and over behind Elrond's eyes, and each time the aftermath became more and more tragic. The wineglass in the anguished Elf-Lord's hand cracked in his tightening grip, threatening to shatter.

As these two Elves, so alike in both suffering and traits, were suffering the repercussion of revelation, Erestor still walked the halls unscathed. He prowled into the dining hall, as a tiger would make his way to the watering hole. Coolly stalking past the few Elves that were in there, he made his way to the hearth and sat down in a chair, ignoring the presence of all others.

All eyes were upon Erestor, as he sat watching the embers give off the last of their heat and light. All of the Elves that were in Rivendell proper at the time knew something was going on; some had even heard Lord Elrond's outburst, or had seen Figwit run down the hall with a shameful lack of composure. Anyone who'd lived in Rivendell for even a short amount of time knew it wasn't beyond Erestor to have caused such a commotion. They would also know that Elrond wasn't normally given to such fits of rage.

What had Erestor done, that he had driven his Lordship to the brink of ferocity? Everyone could guess where that gash on his face had come from, after all. All present wanted to know, but none were so foolish as to ask. An air of oppressive silence filled the room, and Erestor had neither to speak to nor glance menacingly at those who would dare break his silence.

As for Erestor, he continued to stare into the fire. His prickly demeanor had waned with the setting of the moon and the coming of dawn. People came and went, going about their business, doing what might need doing afore the crack of dawn. The embers were dead, grey cold things that would blow away with a small breeze, and Erestor's all-consuming wrath had given way to chill contemplation.

But "time will obliterate the deepest impressions." Even Figwit, whose last waking desire was to never open his eyes again, had found strength to awaken at the bidding of his friends.

Tsuzuku...