Disclaimer: Tolkien owns- most of it. I own the plot. The Emperor owns the
Romans. Now to figure out who was Emperor in 20 BC... wanders off
muttering.
A/N: Elrond means Star Dome. Elrohir means Star Lord. Elladan means Star Mortal. Celeborn means Silver Trees. I hope I have not bored you.
Horror and Death.
Elladan staggered slightly in the baking heat of the afternoon sun. It was hard to believe the day could get this hot, but here he was, sweltering away as proof of it. How their captors managed it in armour, he did not know. Maybe they were used to it.
His heart burned with shame. He had failed his mother. He had failed his father. He had not defended his brother and he had let his grandmother be harmed while her husband watched. He was disgusted with himself.
The rope burned as it twisted over his skin. His wrists were fixed behind him, he could not steady himself so well when he stumbled, though still with more ease than a human. His balance felt off.
Where was his mother? He could not see her. Perhaps she was too far ahead or behind him, yes, that made the most sense. She was simply out of his sight.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Erestor was pacing slowly along, or as slowly as possible under the circumstances. Celebrian was leaning heavily on his shoulder; she still seemed rather shaken. Her silver hair was sticky with sweat, and he was taking half of her weight. She had been chained in front of him, but they had let her move back so that she would not fall when unsupported.
He wished she could stand with one of her kin, but they were too far apart for that to be possible. And as for her grandchildren...
Almost against his will, he turned his eyes to where the Royal family of Mirkwood had led half their numbers into...safety, he supposed. It had to be better than here. The heat of the chained and manacled band on his neck, the harsh sand that ground into his feet with every step, Celebrian's half- dead weight on his shoulder...was it too much to ask that it should end?
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Tindome's back ached. Her head swam. Her feet were as heavy as lead. She felt dizzy and nauseated. She kept tripping over her feet.
She was following her brother in absolute trust. Her friends and family had never let her down, and they would not now. Her great-grandmother had told her about how Thranduil had held Mirkwood against Sauron, without even the help of the Three, who had apparently been very powerful around that time.
Thranduil was leading this group. Thranduil had held out against an evil Maia trying to take over the world. Therefore, they would be safe.
But the sun still hammered down, and they were still walking, wondering about how they could find water, and what they would eat, and where they would sleep, and if the Romans would find them.
The Romans.
Her mother had known about the Romans. Her mother had known a lot of things. She had once told Tindome that she had been forced to learn those things. Tindome hadn't understood why. Elenlome had said that, before she'd been an Elf, she'd lived in a different time.
That had culminated in she and her siblings getting a thorough education of where their mother had come from, along with why she knew some completely pointless things.
But her mother wasn't here now. Nana and Ada were gone. Those people in armour had taken them somewhere, or so Ninquedil said. But maybe her sister was wrong. Maybe Elenlome and Elrohir had escaped. Maybe they were just a few hours walk away, tracking the group in front of them.
Tindome would hold on to that hope until she saw her parents in chains.
But now Legolas was turning the Elves next to them down a gully, and she followed, because in all her young life, her trust had never been betrayed.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Thranduil continued to lead them on.
He had to. His entire experience and sense of self told him to help his people, to keep them safe, to ensure that no harm came to them. He felt guilty at leaving so many behind, but he knew that, if any of their numbers were to evade slavery, they had to be led. They had to have some semblance of order, and someone to make hard decisions. They needed to have one who would do all he could for them.
He had taken up this responsibility before, in Mirkwood, when Oropher had been killed at the Last Alliance. He had led the Elves there for thousands of years. His warriors had been incredible fighters, honing their skills continuously in the struggle for their home.
Now he was doing it again. He was leading fighters and children, cooks and craftsmen, healers and trainers. Their survival was on his head.
He could hear water. They were no longer travelling over sand, but coarse, sparse grass. He had seen cattle- a long way off, but an indication of civilisation.
That meant that this land could be lived in.
He turned towards the sound. They had to drink. He had no wish to lose an Elf to dehydration. Even if that was highly unlikely-
And then he saw the child, staggering after her siblings, and knew that, being only a few hundred years old, she could not take it as well as the rest of them.
He would not let her die. He would not let anyone die.
"King Thranduil."
Thranduil did not bother to look at the speaker.
"I am not a king, Olorin," he said tiredly. "I gave up that position when we left the shores of Middle-Earth. I am just an Elf now, one who happens to be leading half of the Eldar who left Valinor."
"Maybe so, but you have assumed control. You are a king now, at least for a while. You admitted it yourself, you are leading them. You are, therefore, their lord. You are their leader, and your archers and fighters will still heed you, because, to them, you will always be a king."
Thranduil stopped and faced Gandalf. "Mithrandir, look at them! They are tired and thirsty. Their stomachs are empty. They are mostly Teleri, Noldor, and Vanya, all of whom have never acknowledged me as lord, or those Sindar and Silvian who did not serve under my command. The ones I see from my own realm...Olorin, how am I supposed to lead them when I have not done so for millennia?"
He turned away from the Isatar to follow the others down the hill. The beck glinted tantalizingly below. Already he could see the children of Elrohir nudging through the crowd at the banks, the older two gently helping their sister to kneel and drink.
He spoke, not taking his eyes from his son or daughter, where they stood by Lothmiren, his wife. "Gandalf- I cannot do this."
He strode toward his family, needing to speak with them, to have them understand- to understand himself.
They looked up as he drew near, then hurried to meet him. Their faces were serious. He was not sure what to say. That he had refused leadership? That they did not need him?
"Ada."
Legolas...he was concerned, worried for his people. So was Thranduil, but he had not had to do that for so long, he was no longer sure he was able.
Ruling a kingdom- it was not easy. It was a hard, demanding task. Leading a group of bewildered Elves might be easier, but after a while they would sort themselves out- and Thranduil did not intend to be there when they did.
No, he intended to be far away from here, tracking the captive Eldar. Maybe he would have others with him, or perhaps he would be alone. But he did not want to be ruling them when he left. If he were their king at the time of his departure, they would be lost without him.
The captive Eldar...
"Ada?"
"Love?"
His wife was watching him closely. Too closely.
"Ada, you must lead them," Legolas said earnestly, gazing at him, turning to glance at the drinkers, then back to him. "Father, they..."
"They do not need me, Legolas. They need Lord Cirdan, or Lord Elrond, or the Lady Galadriel. They need Lords Elladan and Elrohir, or Lord Celeborn, or High King Gil-Galed. They need Glorfindel, or even Hadlir. The Marchwarden of Lothlorien would be a better choice than I! All those people have been taken, Legolas, and they must be found. You must keep them alive, or Olorin must, or Radagast, or Melien. I have to find those that can care for them more effectively."
His son stared at him in open astonishment.
"Ada, no."
"Legolas..."
"Father, you are the only one here who can manage this. Yes, I was once a lord of Ithilien. Yes, I fought in the War of the Ring, and was one of the Nine Walkers. Yes, I was a member of your council for several hundred years. But I did not pull Mirkwood back from the edge of despair. I have not led warriors into desperate and hopeless battles, and come out victorious. I did not hold a kingdom against Sauron for millennia, while one of his strongholds festered in the south of our land. I did not march to war in the Last Great Alliance."
Thranduil tried to interrupt then, but Legolas held up a hand. "I am not finished. It was not I who defeated Ringwraiths and orcs continuously for centuries without an Elven Ring. It was not I who laboured to protect our people for so long- and succeeded. You did all of that, Father, and you are the only one here who can protect those that have escaped."
He was staring intensely at his father. "Ada, do you think I do not want to find them? They are my friends, and many I respect. But those we have must come first. When you have organised them properly and sufficiently, then you can track down our comrades, and I will come too. But before that..."
Thranduil looked steadily at his son.
And then he turned and walked away.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Lothmiren found him at the base of a small hill, half a mile up the creek. The sun was setting, and his golden hair flowed down his back like molten lava. He was sitting on a hummock of earth, staring absently out at the water, and did not hear her approach.
Still, he did not seem too surprised when she settled down beside him and slipped an arm around his waist.
Neither spoke for a short time, and then he glanced at her, before returning his attention to the landscape.
"I will come back," he said softly, leaning against her. "And then, when we are secure, I will search for our companions."
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Elrond was searching for his wife.
Although the former Lord of Imladris knew perfectly well that he would not be able to go to her, it set his heart at ease to know that she was well.
Slightly more at ease, anyway.
After a week or so, they had been able to make out a city in the distance. The Romans, two days later, had apparently also been able to see it, and had quickened the pace. Evidently, they were eager to get to it.
Nobody was surprised.
The city now before them was colossal. It towered over them, daunting, even a mile away. Traders crowded the roads, which were absolutely straight, and ran through well-tilled land- the desert had been left behind some time ago.
The Elf in front of him turned her head slightly.
"It's Rome."
Elrond was confused. "How do you know?"
"Lady Elenlome apparently said, 'The city of Rome. Pass it on.'."
The Peredhil nodded, and muttered the message to the Elf behind him.
Rome seemed huge a mile away, but that was nothing compared to viewing it from almost directly under it's walls.
The place was immense, a giant structure that seemed to be one great thing, but was in fact many smaller ones. It was known to all that it must be much broader than it was tall, and deeper, but that seemed almost impossible as he stood beneath it. Had he not known something of building, Elrond would have sworn it was about to come crashing down on him.
It was a place that demanded respect, and won it.
As he passed between it's doors, he realised that Rome was, indeed, many different building, and what they had been viewing were only the walls. Inside, the many streets were almost all crammed with people. There was a tremendous stench.
They were led down one of the less populated streets, where the one line was broken down into six smaller ones, although each was still rather large. There seemed to be a debate going on over the Eldar, but Elrond shut it out.
Or rather, he shut out the entire world until someone tried to hand a wooden tag about his neck.
His head came up and he kicked at the trader, not even noticing similar struggles going on all around him. He jerked his neck until they finally hung the sign on him, and then proceeded to spend all of the hour they were left there in attempting to get it off.
He would have asked for help, but their hands were bound in such a way as to make detaching another's tag impossible.
They were eventually shoved unceremoniously out of that street, and led to a- well, Elrond had to assume it was a market. It certainly smelled right.
Upon entering, the head of their line- the other five had been left behind- was approached by a man with a hard, brutal face and a heavy build. He, and several like him, were apparently interested in 'purchasing' the Eldar. They spoke for a time, and then strode down the line, looking at the Elves. Elrond suddenly realised that almost all the Elves in this line were fighters- as though the slavers had wanted to get rid of them as quickly as possible.
One of the prospective buyers had noticed the twins, and apparently found it extremely amusing that they were identical. The rest roared with laughter, and then set off down the line, selecting some of the better fighters. They mainly seemed to be sceptical of the Eldar's fighting abilities- a situation that was quickly resolved after Celeborn tripped one of them up from three feet away for leering at his wife, and Gil-Galed attempted to burn off his bonds in a nearby furnace and would have succeeded if one of their captors had not smelled burning flesh- the High King hand not uttered a sound, despite the excruciating pain.
In the end, the new group walked off with twenty Elves, now all manacled together at ankle and wrist. Quite a few 'hired muscle' men were accompanying them, as their new 'owners' had apparently learnt their lesson after Elrond had tried to throttle one of them with his chains, and Celeborn had proven to be a complete nuisance if you were trying to drag him away from Galadriel. Of course, if you wanted to STAY with the rest of the captives, he was a true blessing.
Elrond was now walking beside his sons, and behind Gil-Galed. He might have been tired, but he had to be strong for them. That was all he could think of now, the fact that his sons needed him.
Celeborn's anguished cry tore him out of his churning thoughts.
"Artanis!"
The Sinda was staring at a platform at the other end of the market, where his wife was now standing, while people gathered around, and someone began to shout, none of them knew what.
And then they were being dragged away, tears blinding the eyes of all who had seen it.
Valar, Elrond thought bitterly. They are as bad as orcs!
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Elladan was shaking.
He did not want to. He did not want to admit it, but he was scared.
So scared.
This was not like running down orcs. That was a different fear. You knew that you could easily lose your life, but at least you could fight for it. With this fear- it was not the free, screaming, easy, and fluid fear of battle. It was a whimpering, trodden, black, stifling kind of fear. It ate away at him until he could no longer think.
It was worse than being in a chain-trap. When the sharpened links sliced at your hands, at least you knew you could escape. But he was trapped now, and so securely he couldn't breathe without almost sobbing in terror.
His vision had barely begun to clear when they were suddenly being herded down into the tunnels.
One peculiar thing about Elves is that they have a tendency to be rather claustrophobic.
So maybe it was not surprising when more than half flat-out refused to move.
The whip came down on his back in a terrible portrayal of agony. He flinched away from it, gasping in pain, but refused to enter the black, gaping hole whose roof would cut off even the sight of the sky.
He was not sure how many strokes they laid upon his skin, only that he was stumbling forwards, choking and crying and leaning against his father for the support that he so desperately needed.
The Elves had had to dim their glow until it vanished- they could not have these men knowing that they were not human. Elladan, in his weakened state, had no trouble with this.
After what seemed like miles, they were forced into a cell, of sorts, with a barred front that looked out on to a sandy arena. People were filling the stands, and Elladan felt a wave of apprehension.
The guards that stood about the rim of this place bore the weapons of the Eldar. He felt his father's body tense in fury.
And then...
The two warriors faced one another. One wore much armour and carried a short sword. The other was clad in a tunic and armed with a net and trident.
Blood began to flow.
It could almost have been a laughing-stock, but they did not laugh. They felt horror instead, and disgust, and hatred for the people who had organised all this. They loathed those men who enjoyed this suffering, hated those who could stand in the seating and cheer.
The white sand became red and sticky with life-liquid.
It was only after an age of this atrocity that the man with the sword forced his opponent to the ground, and then looked to the crowd. Almost simultaneously, hands raised, the thumbs either up or down.
The thumb of the clearly most important man was up.
In one swift motion, the first fighter cut off his victim's head.
Elladan gave a soft cry, that intensified as the killing went on. If it had been open warfare, or the settling of a grudge, he could have understood, but it was not. It was human on human for the amusement of the rest. It was despicable.
Elladan had seen horrors before. He had fought in many battles, and seen the carnage at Helm's Deep. He had borne his mother's broken body from the cave where the orcs had held her, and had been tortured by the foul beasts himself, more than once. He had heard the screams of his brother and father. But all that was far in the past now, and this bloodshed was too much for one who had lived a thousand years and many more that had been full of peace.
Too young. The older Elves had seen worse than he, and they could barely stand it.
The twins could not. They might have fought these people briefly, but that had not been this, that had been for freedom, and none had died, and they had had too.
Were it orcs, it would have been a different tale- but men had never been this violent before.
The two boys pressed their faces into their fathers' cloak and whimpered gently, tears streaming from their eyes.
And not just for the massacre in front of them.
Because this was what they had to become.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
A/N: Soooooo- our Elves are becoming gladiators, Thranduil is a king again, Elenlome- who, incidentally, is the only one who knows squat about the Romans- has vanished, the twins are in hysterics, we've met Thranduil's wife, while half of our Eldar are sold in Rome, everyone is upset, and what do I intend to do about it? Nothing. It's half term next week, so I will write more, but first I have to go to a barn for three days.
Said barn does not have Internet connections.
Blast.
A/N: Elrond means Star Dome. Elrohir means Star Lord. Elladan means Star Mortal. Celeborn means Silver Trees. I hope I have not bored you.
Horror and Death.
Elladan staggered slightly in the baking heat of the afternoon sun. It was hard to believe the day could get this hot, but here he was, sweltering away as proof of it. How their captors managed it in armour, he did not know. Maybe they were used to it.
His heart burned with shame. He had failed his mother. He had failed his father. He had not defended his brother and he had let his grandmother be harmed while her husband watched. He was disgusted with himself.
The rope burned as it twisted over his skin. His wrists were fixed behind him, he could not steady himself so well when he stumbled, though still with more ease than a human. His balance felt off.
Where was his mother? He could not see her. Perhaps she was too far ahead or behind him, yes, that made the most sense. She was simply out of his sight.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Erestor was pacing slowly along, or as slowly as possible under the circumstances. Celebrian was leaning heavily on his shoulder; she still seemed rather shaken. Her silver hair was sticky with sweat, and he was taking half of her weight. She had been chained in front of him, but they had let her move back so that she would not fall when unsupported.
He wished she could stand with one of her kin, but they were too far apart for that to be possible. And as for her grandchildren...
Almost against his will, he turned his eyes to where the Royal family of Mirkwood had led half their numbers into...safety, he supposed. It had to be better than here. The heat of the chained and manacled band on his neck, the harsh sand that ground into his feet with every step, Celebrian's half- dead weight on his shoulder...was it too much to ask that it should end?
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Tindome's back ached. Her head swam. Her feet were as heavy as lead. She felt dizzy and nauseated. She kept tripping over her feet.
She was following her brother in absolute trust. Her friends and family had never let her down, and they would not now. Her great-grandmother had told her about how Thranduil had held Mirkwood against Sauron, without even the help of the Three, who had apparently been very powerful around that time.
Thranduil was leading this group. Thranduil had held out against an evil Maia trying to take over the world. Therefore, they would be safe.
But the sun still hammered down, and they were still walking, wondering about how they could find water, and what they would eat, and where they would sleep, and if the Romans would find them.
The Romans.
Her mother had known about the Romans. Her mother had known a lot of things. She had once told Tindome that she had been forced to learn those things. Tindome hadn't understood why. Elenlome had said that, before she'd been an Elf, she'd lived in a different time.
That had culminated in she and her siblings getting a thorough education of where their mother had come from, along with why she knew some completely pointless things.
But her mother wasn't here now. Nana and Ada were gone. Those people in armour had taken them somewhere, or so Ninquedil said. But maybe her sister was wrong. Maybe Elenlome and Elrohir had escaped. Maybe they were just a few hours walk away, tracking the group in front of them.
Tindome would hold on to that hope until she saw her parents in chains.
But now Legolas was turning the Elves next to them down a gully, and she followed, because in all her young life, her trust had never been betrayed.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Thranduil continued to lead them on.
He had to. His entire experience and sense of self told him to help his people, to keep them safe, to ensure that no harm came to them. He felt guilty at leaving so many behind, but he knew that, if any of their numbers were to evade slavery, they had to be led. They had to have some semblance of order, and someone to make hard decisions. They needed to have one who would do all he could for them.
He had taken up this responsibility before, in Mirkwood, when Oropher had been killed at the Last Alliance. He had led the Elves there for thousands of years. His warriors had been incredible fighters, honing their skills continuously in the struggle for their home.
Now he was doing it again. He was leading fighters and children, cooks and craftsmen, healers and trainers. Their survival was on his head.
He could hear water. They were no longer travelling over sand, but coarse, sparse grass. He had seen cattle- a long way off, but an indication of civilisation.
That meant that this land could be lived in.
He turned towards the sound. They had to drink. He had no wish to lose an Elf to dehydration. Even if that was highly unlikely-
And then he saw the child, staggering after her siblings, and knew that, being only a few hundred years old, she could not take it as well as the rest of them.
He would not let her die. He would not let anyone die.
"King Thranduil."
Thranduil did not bother to look at the speaker.
"I am not a king, Olorin," he said tiredly. "I gave up that position when we left the shores of Middle-Earth. I am just an Elf now, one who happens to be leading half of the Eldar who left Valinor."
"Maybe so, but you have assumed control. You are a king now, at least for a while. You admitted it yourself, you are leading them. You are, therefore, their lord. You are their leader, and your archers and fighters will still heed you, because, to them, you will always be a king."
Thranduil stopped and faced Gandalf. "Mithrandir, look at them! They are tired and thirsty. Their stomachs are empty. They are mostly Teleri, Noldor, and Vanya, all of whom have never acknowledged me as lord, or those Sindar and Silvian who did not serve under my command. The ones I see from my own realm...Olorin, how am I supposed to lead them when I have not done so for millennia?"
He turned away from the Isatar to follow the others down the hill. The beck glinted tantalizingly below. Already he could see the children of Elrohir nudging through the crowd at the banks, the older two gently helping their sister to kneel and drink.
He spoke, not taking his eyes from his son or daughter, where they stood by Lothmiren, his wife. "Gandalf- I cannot do this."
He strode toward his family, needing to speak with them, to have them understand- to understand himself.
They looked up as he drew near, then hurried to meet him. Their faces were serious. He was not sure what to say. That he had refused leadership? That they did not need him?
"Ada."
Legolas...he was concerned, worried for his people. So was Thranduil, but he had not had to do that for so long, he was no longer sure he was able.
Ruling a kingdom- it was not easy. It was a hard, demanding task. Leading a group of bewildered Elves might be easier, but after a while they would sort themselves out- and Thranduil did not intend to be there when they did.
No, he intended to be far away from here, tracking the captive Eldar. Maybe he would have others with him, or perhaps he would be alone. But he did not want to be ruling them when he left. If he were their king at the time of his departure, they would be lost without him.
The captive Eldar...
"Ada?"
"Love?"
His wife was watching him closely. Too closely.
"Ada, you must lead them," Legolas said earnestly, gazing at him, turning to glance at the drinkers, then back to him. "Father, they..."
"They do not need me, Legolas. They need Lord Cirdan, or Lord Elrond, or the Lady Galadriel. They need Lords Elladan and Elrohir, or Lord Celeborn, or High King Gil-Galed. They need Glorfindel, or even Hadlir. The Marchwarden of Lothlorien would be a better choice than I! All those people have been taken, Legolas, and they must be found. You must keep them alive, or Olorin must, or Radagast, or Melien. I have to find those that can care for them more effectively."
His son stared at him in open astonishment.
"Ada, no."
"Legolas..."
"Father, you are the only one here who can manage this. Yes, I was once a lord of Ithilien. Yes, I fought in the War of the Ring, and was one of the Nine Walkers. Yes, I was a member of your council for several hundred years. But I did not pull Mirkwood back from the edge of despair. I have not led warriors into desperate and hopeless battles, and come out victorious. I did not hold a kingdom against Sauron for millennia, while one of his strongholds festered in the south of our land. I did not march to war in the Last Great Alliance."
Thranduil tried to interrupt then, but Legolas held up a hand. "I am not finished. It was not I who defeated Ringwraiths and orcs continuously for centuries without an Elven Ring. It was not I who laboured to protect our people for so long- and succeeded. You did all of that, Father, and you are the only one here who can protect those that have escaped."
He was staring intensely at his father. "Ada, do you think I do not want to find them? They are my friends, and many I respect. But those we have must come first. When you have organised them properly and sufficiently, then you can track down our comrades, and I will come too. But before that..."
Thranduil looked steadily at his son.
And then he turned and walked away.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Lothmiren found him at the base of a small hill, half a mile up the creek. The sun was setting, and his golden hair flowed down his back like molten lava. He was sitting on a hummock of earth, staring absently out at the water, and did not hear her approach.
Still, he did not seem too surprised when she settled down beside him and slipped an arm around his waist.
Neither spoke for a short time, and then he glanced at her, before returning his attention to the landscape.
"I will come back," he said softly, leaning against her. "And then, when we are secure, I will search for our companions."
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Elrond was searching for his wife.
Although the former Lord of Imladris knew perfectly well that he would not be able to go to her, it set his heart at ease to know that she was well.
Slightly more at ease, anyway.
After a week or so, they had been able to make out a city in the distance. The Romans, two days later, had apparently also been able to see it, and had quickened the pace. Evidently, they were eager to get to it.
Nobody was surprised.
The city now before them was colossal. It towered over them, daunting, even a mile away. Traders crowded the roads, which were absolutely straight, and ran through well-tilled land- the desert had been left behind some time ago.
The Elf in front of him turned her head slightly.
"It's Rome."
Elrond was confused. "How do you know?"
"Lady Elenlome apparently said, 'The city of Rome. Pass it on.'."
The Peredhil nodded, and muttered the message to the Elf behind him.
Rome seemed huge a mile away, but that was nothing compared to viewing it from almost directly under it's walls.
The place was immense, a giant structure that seemed to be one great thing, but was in fact many smaller ones. It was known to all that it must be much broader than it was tall, and deeper, but that seemed almost impossible as he stood beneath it. Had he not known something of building, Elrond would have sworn it was about to come crashing down on him.
It was a place that demanded respect, and won it.
As he passed between it's doors, he realised that Rome was, indeed, many different building, and what they had been viewing were only the walls. Inside, the many streets were almost all crammed with people. There was a tremendous stench.
They were led down one of the less populated streets, where the one line was broken down into six smaller ones, although each was still rather large. There seemed to be a debate going on over the Eldar, but Elrond shut it out.
Or rather, he shut out the entire world until someone tried to hand a wooden tag about his neck.
His head came up and he kicked at the trader, not even noticing similar struggles going on all around him. He jerked his neck until they finally hung the sign on him, and then proceeded to spend all of the hour they were left there in attempting to get it off.
He would have asked for help, but their hands were bound in such a way as to make detaching another's tag impossible.
They were eventually shoved unceremoniously out of that street, and led to a- well, Elrond had to assume it was a market. It certainly smelled right.
Upon entering, the head of their line- the other five had been left behind- was approached by a man with a hard, brutal face and a heavy build. He, and several like him, were apparently interested in 'purchasing' the Eldar. They spoke for a time, and then strode down the line, looking at the Elves. Elrond suddenly realised that almost all the Elves in this line were fighters- as though the slavers had wanted to get rid of them as quickly as possible.
One of the prospective buyers had noticed the twins, and apparently found it extremely amusing that they were identical. The rest roared with laughter, and then set off down the line, selecting some of the better fighters. They mainly seemed to be sceptical of the Eldar's fighting abilities- a situation that was quickly resolved after Celeborn tripped one of them up from three feet away for leering at his wife, and Gil-Galed attempted to burn off his bonds in a nearby furnace and would have succeeded if one of their captors had not smelled burning flesh- the High King hand not uttered a sound, despite the excruciating pain.
In the end, the new group walked off with twenty Elves, now all manacled together at ankle and wrist. Quite a few 'hired muscle' men were accompanying them, as their new 'owners' had apparently learnt their lesson after Elrond had tried to throttle one of them with his chains, and Celeborn had proven to be a complete nuisance if you were trying to drag him away from Galadriel. Of course, if you wanted to STAY with the rest of the captives, he was a true blessing.
Elrond was now walking beside his sons, and behind Gil-Galed. He might have been tired, but he had to be strong for them. That was all he could think of now, the fact that his sons needed him.
Celeborn's anguished cry tore him out of his churning thoughts.
"Artanis!"
The Sinda was staring at a platform at the other end of the market, where his wife was now standing, while people gathered around, and someone began to shout, none of them knew what.
And then they were being dragged away, tears blinding the eyes of all who had seen it.
Valar, Elrond thought bitterly. They are as bad as orcs!
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Elladan was shaking.
He did not want to. He did not want to admit it, but he was scared.
So scared.
This was not like running down orcs. That was a different fear. You knew that you could easily lose your life, but at least you could fight for it. With this fear- it was not the free, screaming, easy, and fluid fear of battle. It was a whimpering, trodden, black, stifling kind of fear. It ate away at him until he could no longer think.
It was worse than being in a chain-trap. When the sharpened links sliced at your hands, at least you knew you could escape. But he was trapped now, and so securely he couldn't breathe without almost sobbing in terror.
His vision had barely begun to clear when they were suddenly being herded down into the tunnels.
One peculiar thing about Elves is that they have a tendency to be rather claustrophobic.
So maybe it was not surprising when more than half flat-out refused to move.
The whip came down on his back in a terrible portrayal of agony. He flinched away from it, gasping in pain, but refused to enter the black, gaping hole whose roof would cut off even the sight of the sky.
He was not sure how many strokes they laid upon his skin, only that he was stumbling forwards, choking and crying and leaning against his father for the support that he so desperately needed.
The Elves had had to dim their glow until it vanished- they could not have these men knowing that they were not human. Elladan, in his weakened state, had no trouble with this.
After what seemed like miles, they were forced into a cell, of sorts, with a barred front that looked out on to a sandy arena. People were filling the stands, and Elladan felt a wave of apprehension.
The guards that stood about the rim of this place bore the weapons of the Eldar. He felt his father's body tense in fury.
And then...
The two warriors faced one another. One wore much armour and carried a short sword. The other was clad in a tunic and armed with a net and trident.
Blood began to flow.
It could almost have been a laughing-stock, but they did not laugh. They felt horror instead, and disgust, and hatred for the people who had organised all this. They loathed those men who enjoyed this suffering, hated those who could stand in the seating and cheer.
The white sand became red and sticky with life-liquid.
It was only after an age of this atrocity that the man with the sword forced his opponent to the ground, and then looked to the crowd. Almost simultaneously, hands raised, the thumbs either up or down.
The thumb of the clearly most important man was up.
In one swift motion, the first fighter cut off his victim's head.
Elladan gave a soft cry, that intensified as the killing went on. If it had been open warfare, or the settling of a grudge, he could have understood, but it was not. It was human on human for the amusement of the rest. It was despicable.
Elladan had seen horrors before. He had fought in many battles, and seen the carnage at Helm's Deep. He had borne his mother's broken body from the cave where the orcs had held her, and had been tortured by the foul beasts himself, more than once. He had heard the screams of his brother and father. But all that was far in the past now, and this bloodshed was too much for one who had lived a thousand years and many more that had been full of peace.
Too young. The older Elves had seen worse than he, and they could barely stand it.
The twins could not. They might have fought these people briefly, but that had not been this, that had been for freedom, and none had died, and they had had too.
Were it orcs, it would have been a different tale- but men had never been this violent before.
The two boys pressed their faces into their fathers' cloak and whimpered gently, tears streaming from their eyes.
And not just for the massacre in front of them.
Because this was what they had to become.
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A/N: Soooooo- our Elves are becoming gladiators, Thranduil is a king again, Elenlome- who, incidentally, is the only one who knows squat about the Romans- has vanished, the twins are in hysterics, we've met Thranduil's wife, while half of our Eldar are sold in Rome, everyone is upset, and what do I intend to do about it? Nothing. It's half term next week, so I will write more, but first I have to go to a barn for three days.
Said barn does not have Internet connections.
Blast.