A/N I decided to post both chapters together just so I could catch up to what I posted on AO3.

This was not home. Celeborn, Lord of Lothlorien, was at a loss. For he stood upon a rock strewn plain, and this was not a place he knew. Perhaps he was hallucinating, and this was all a trick his mind was playing? Though he figured that if he was going to lose his mind it would have happened some thousand years before now. This was real, he was sure, though how, he did not know. All he knew was the feeling of hanging suspended in a void, then finding himself in a place he did not know. He made a full circle as he slowly took in his surroundings, his breath came in quick gasps and formed before him before disappearing. There was nothing but dried grass amid large rock formations, and far in the distance, a forest. He closed his eyes and tried to feel his wife through their bond, but there was nothing-solely a hollow void. His breath came even faster. Reaching to his belt he felt his axe and using it as an anchor he started slowing his breathing. It would do no good if he passed out because he was hyperventilating. The forest. He should go to the forest, and maybe the trees would hold some answers.

Having decided on a course of action Celeborn took one more deep breath and held it before releasing it. He had a plan, and for right now, that was all that mattered. Then the ground shook, and deep voices seemed to overtake the atmosphere. Looking up, Celeborn saw three giants start to raise themselves up from behind one of the bigger rock formations, which all three towered over. He must have been really disoriented if he had not sensed them beforehand. One looked to be rubbing sleep out of its eyes, and if anyone was still looking after him, they would think him too small to worry over and go back to sleep.

He was not so lucky.

Speaking further unrecognizable words and with savage smiles aimed at each other and him, the giants lunged. They were slow and clumsy, though no less dangerous for outnumbering him and being, well, giants. As he dodged one pair of hands and deflected a dagger that was half his body length at the least, he was unable to avoid the fist that wrapped around him, pinning his arms and lifting him into the air.

He was going to suffocate. It would either be from the fist that was slowly trying to crush him, or the breath of the giant that had gotten him. He was slowly being moved toward the gaping mouth and he could see the excitement in the beady eyes. Then in a feat of desperation and strength, Celeborn ripped his arm-axe and all-from where it was pinned beside him, and in a quick move he sliced the giants neck open. Celeborn was instantly covered in the gushing blood as the giant flailed and gurgled, then fell, as if in slow motion.

Celeborn's landing was not graceful as he barely kept his balance in the slick blood that now covered the ground. He was unprepared for the savage kick that crushed his already bruised ribs and sent him flying into a wall of rock. Looking up from where he landed he saw a foot coming in to crush him. He rolled away and sliced at the foot with his axe. The giant howled and jumped about pathetically. It was time to end this. Celeborn got up,wiping blood not his own from his eyes, and charged. It was pitiably easy to end the remaining two giants. He sliced one across the stomach and as he fell he grabbed its dagger and stabbed the other through the heart. Then once the first one finished falling, he cut its head clean off.

Celeborn stood amid the carnage and could not help but feel disgust-mostly at himself for being so sloppy. A cry from the skies drew his attention, and looking up he saw an eagle circling by then head towards the forest. The forest, that's where he needed to go. With a deep breath that strengthened the muscles in his legs he began walking toward the trees.

High King Peter of Narnia, The Magnificent, Emperor of the Lone Islands, and Lord of Cair Paravel was bored. But honestly, what sane being wouldn't be? He had been stuck for hours trying to hold civil conversation with a bunch of flowery Colormen in the city of Tashbaan. He just wasn't sure how much longer he could put up with listening to 'what the old poets said'. Did no one speak for themselves in this country? It seemed every other word was some quote or another such saying, and for Peter, who liked to think of himself as a forward speaking, get to the point kind of fellow, it was frustrating. All this would be much easier if his brother had come as well. But King Edmund had seen it fit to go galavanting in the west, saying something about how since he was the Count of the Western March he should really see how the citizens were doing that way. It was all balony if one were to ask Peter. His good brother just didn't want to come to Colorman, and had left Peter to his own devices, the sneak. So much for being called King Edmund the Just.

But alas, Peter would just have to tough it out. Though in all honesty he would much rather be facing a giant or two. At least it would be less painful. And he was sure someone had mentioned some form of entertainment an hour or two ago. Somewhere between a poet's wisdom on correct crop placement and how the only proper way to drink tea was the way the Tisroc (may he have constipation) drank it. But as of yet no entertainment had appeared to save him his sanity.

But at last! Out of a door to the right, came a dozen brightly clad girls walking in a line. They caused a hush to fall throughout the grand room holding many higher ups (as long as they kept the Tisroc's favor) of the Colorman government. The girls came to a stop in a large clear area in front of the long table where all the men sat.

Peter had never seen any dancing quite like this. The girls' clothing was colorful, full of pinks and yellows, and they all had bright ribbons that they threw around in coordinated disarray. It was quite a sight, and it ended far too quickly for his liking. The way Peter saw it, the more the girls danced the less he would have to talk. But he just had to hold out one more week, then it was home. The thought made Peter smile.

"I see the dance pleased you, O King."

Peter turned toward the voice. It was the prince that had been entertaining him throughout the day. Well, he was a prince, though he wasn't very high up in the latter; seeing as how he was twenty-something in line to be Tisroc (May he stub his toe). He was all fake smiles and flattery, causing a sour feeling to form in Peters stomach when he was first introduced. And the feeling had never left.

"It was a very nice dance," Peter responded.

"You may have whichever you wish," The prince continued with a smile and a twitch of his hand toward the dancers.

"Pardon?" Peter was quite confused. Surely the prince did not mean he could have one of the girls?

"Why the dancers, O King! Pick whichever you like. A gift," he held out his hand as if it contained a handful of pretty trinkets. All Peter had to do was pick out the shiniest one.

"O Exalted Lords! Barbarian King! Feast your eyes upon a beast, a creature of barbarian lands!"

The cry caught everyone's attention, including the Prince's. Luckily saving Peter from having to wrench a response from his shocked mind. He had been offered a living being as if it were nothing!

"See now O Great Ones! I bring you an enchanting creature of far off lands!" A man was standing where the dancers had been. Though now he had the floor all to himself. And with the movements of a showman and a grand gesture he pointed to the side. Out of the door where before the dancers had entered was dragged a man unlike any Peter had seen before. But this was no man. His very essence cried something other. And though he stood in chains with his clothes dirtied, bloodied, and ripped; he commanded the room. For all eyes were on him.

The Being was fair and tall, towering over his captors. And Peter wondered for a moment if perhaps he was a form of dryad, but quickly dismissed the thought. This Being was far too material, and besides no dryad would have survived being forcefully taken from its tree. The very thought made a hot anger boil inside of Peter, but he clamped down on it. He could not afford it. But still, the thought of this Being belonging to a tree somehow felt right.

He stood still, the Being, as he was showcased. All that moved were his eyes. Calculating. Judging. And cold as ice. Peter could not recall seeing such eyes. They were as a frozen lake: still and deep and ancient. There was a foreverness about the ageless face, for though he barely looked older than Peter himself, he seemed to radiate a knowing. Something Peter had only seen in the oldest oaks and wisest centaurs.

The showman stepped up and grabbed a lock of the Beings hair, and Peter vaguely wondered if it burned, though from cold or heat he could not guess. For looking at the gossamer locks they seemed as warm as the sunlight they appeared to be filled with, yet they also looked as cold as a glacial mist. But then the man pulled the hair back, and all thoughts of texture left Peter's mind. For a perfectly pointed ear was being showcased.

A gasp from many mouths resounded in the great room. Though Peter himself found that he wasn't so shocked. For how could he, seeing as how he was the King of talking beasts and dancing trees. Pointed ears was not something that would perturb him.

"A gift, O High One," the man was looking at the Prince, "For you to present to the Tisroc (may he live forever)". The look on the Prince's face was calculating, but before he could respond, the showman was once again talking, "And a gift I bring for the Barbarian King!"

Once again out of the side door a man walked out. In his hand he carried a long wrapped bundle, and as he got closer Peter stood up to receive it. He could not help the small inhale of breath as he unwrapped it, for he had never seen such craftsmanship. It could even rival the work of his Narnian dwarves. In his hand he held a sword, and it resembled none he had seen before. For it seemed one long piece of steel (or silver, Peter could not quite recognize what it was made of); it had no hand guard, and it was engraved beautifully from the hilt to the very tip. It was a sword made for Kings. And Peter was all of a sudden very aware he was not the King it was made for, and seeing as how it could not possibly be of Colorman make; he loathed to think where it came from. But he was also aware of how he and his were greatly outnumbered, and he could ill afford to offend.

With a deep breath he spoke, "Thank you, good sir, it is a mighty gift indeed".

But then Peter made the mistake of meeting the eyes of the Being. And oh how they burned. Where before they had been cold, now they smoldered. A fire had been lit in their depths, and Peter couldn't help but remember that it was blue fire that burned the hottest. Then it clicked. For who else could such a sword belong to? But there was nothing Peter could do. And oh it gulled him! For though he was a King, this was not his country, and he had no say.

"Very nice. Does it speak?" the Prince had slowly risen and had started to make his way around the table toward the figures in the middle of the room. The movement caught the Being's attention, and the burning gaze moved to the Prince. Peter couldn't help but be relieved as the eyes released their hold on him.

"No, Great One, it is dumb,"

"Well it is better that way. It can be quite bothersome when they talk back." The Prince was now in front of the being and reaching out the prince caught its jaw, moving the beings head from one side to the other as if he was inspecting a horse. It angered Peter to no end.

"Make it kneel," the Prince's voice was almost bored.

The men that had dragged the being in started trying to manhandle him to the ground, but he would not budge. He stood tall. And his eyes never left those of the prince, looking down from their higher perch. Indifferent. As if it was all below him. And the Prince's nonchalant attitude started slipping. Until he was incensed.

With an angry growl, the Prince kicked up his leg, and with his foot on the chain that held the beings hands together, made to pull down. It was a well practiced move, and Peter was sure that it had worked many times, causing an unsuspecting slave to fall to their knees with the chain caught beneath the Prince's foot. But it didn't work. The Being would not budge, and Peter had to wonder at its strength. The Prince was left with one foot in the air and a face that was getting redder by the minute. It was quite comical in Peter's eyes.

Then in a quick move that Peter nearly missed. The Being moved the chain so it caught the Prince's ankle and with minimum movement but obvious strength he pulled. And the Prince went flying backwards. A Gasp resounded across the room, and then silence followed. It seemed as if all was frozen.

Until with a great growl the stunned Prince launched himself off of the ground, and pulling his scimitar free he aimed a blow at the Being's neck. It would be fatal. Except it never connected. With a loud ringing it was stopped mere inches from slicing through flesh. In a quick move the Being had used the chain between his hands to stop the blade. The Prince tried to pull his scimitar free, but it would not budge.

All those watching had stood to their feet and the sound of guards drawing their blades resounded across the room. Though none of that seemed to matter to the Being standing resolute in the middle of the grand room.

"Take him!" The Prince was still trying to pull his blade back, "Take him, and teach him about his better!"

The Being still would not let go of the scimitar, and it seemed that he did not even feel the club blows that were raining down on his back. Until at last, without any warning, he let go. The Prince, who had been pulling with all his might once again went flying backwards to land in a heap on the ground. Peter could have sworn that he saw a corner of the Being's mouth slightly rise up in what could be nothing but a smirk. Peter himself agreed, for he himself was hard pressed not to laugh.

Though now it seemed that the defiance had gone out of the Being, and he let himself be dragged away. And Peter could do nothing but watch, and wonder of his fate. Whatever it be, it could not be good. Especially not after the spectacle he had made of the Prince. Once again, Peter was assailed by feelings of helplessness. He hated it! He was a king, and not just that, but a High King! Helpless should never fit into his portrayal. But here he was, and it angered him.

With a strained smile the Prince dismissed all in the room, and then without a backwards glance he swept out of the side door. For his part, Peter fled as quickly as his dignity allowed. He really wished that he didn't have to become a spectacle to all of Tashbaan on his return to the house given to him for his stay. The constant yelling of ' Way. Way. Way' could really get on one's nerves, and Peter also didn't understand why they had to call him 'Barbarian King'. It seemed to him that King would suffice just fine.