A/N

Here's chapter two! Urgh, I have no idea why, but each chapter I write seems to be getting longer and longer...and I am truly sorry about that, because I can guess how hard it must be to keep reading on. But I've made up my mind that, from the next chapter onward, things will be shorter than this chapter and a bit shorter than the last.

Weeelll...that's about it from me for now. Hope you enjoy this too.

Kim: Hmm...sorry about that. I'll certainly go back and change it as soon as I can. Thanks for the review, and I hope you enjoy this chapter too.

Disclaimer: It's all Tolkien's, remember?

Chapter Two: Not built for slavery

"Calm down, you are merely overreacting," said the tall, figure. "They will be here shortly."

"Nay, you know not what troubles me," said his companion, as he continued to pace up and down the small, poorly lit room. "This…delivery of theirs, there is just something about it that…makes me wonder…"

"That makes you wonder…?" prompted his taller companion.

"The lineage." There was a brief moment of silence.

"What would the lineage matter? At least, to us and our…plans?" He shook his head. "You overreact; the delivery will be just another poor, unfortunate soul who has been so tortured and humiliated that he will be easy to bend, to our will."

He smiled, although there was nothing pleasant about it. "He will join our cause, and we will gradually, gradually grow in number." He laughed. "If only the oh-so-noble Wise knew of just how much danger their beloved world is in…"

His slightly shorter companion shook his head.

"Let us not be hasty," he said, a warning note in his voice. "Besides, about this…delivery…what makes you think that it is a male?"

The taller figure was silent for a moment or two.

"I merely assumed…" He paused. "If it were not a male, they would not be alive; they would have been disposed of long ago."

"Yet if it were a maiden, they would have kept her alive for…the 'entertainment' she could give them, and, at the end, when they are short of money, they would sell her to the highest bidder, in this case, to us."

"You are…serious about this?"

"Aye." There was a slight pause. "How would one of the Elves come to be in the captivity of Men as such, for such a long period of time? Or perhaps, the question should be; how is it that none of the other Elves came out to rescue her from her captors?"

"Perhaps she was not important. Perhaps she was an outcast."

"Nay, that would not make sense. Being the noble beings they are," spat out the shorter figure, "they would never leave one of their own to such torment and humiliation, even if they despised her."

"What are you thinking?"

"They did not know she was held captive." He paused once more. "Or perhaps they did not know of her existence."

He saw his taller companion's eyes glitter in the darkness of the room.

"Does that make…her –if you are correct- a valuable asset to us, or does that make her just another Elf for us to…recruit?"

"We will have to see, when she –and yes, I am sure that I am correct- is brought to us." He smiled.

"But we cannot let this distract us; we still have a fair amount of work to complete, before we will be able to…welcome Him."

"Aye, you are right there, my dear friend. But preparations have been going quite well, do you not think? If we keep this pace up, we will have time to…rest before we are required to welcome him."

"Gorthaur grows in power, steadily. Aye, we know what it is that he is after. If only we could spare the time to aid him in his task…" The tall figure sighed. "For how pleased would He be if we welcomed him with His greatest servant?"

His shorter companion shrugged as he tugged at his beard.

"He would be pleased, I will not deny that, but this is Gorthaur's battle, not ours."

"But if we could get the Ring and hand it over to Him-"

"-He will have no purpose for the Ring, my friend, and you should know this. His aims are greater, far greater than what the Ring can offer him, and it is our duty to aid him."

"They will not remain aloof; once they get their first whiff of the rumour of His awakening, they will send out a force, as great as the last one in the War of Wrath, and destroy him…"

"And imagine their surprise when they are met by a force as great as what they sent out, a force comprising mainly of their own kind!"

The taller companion nodded, before a grim expression passed quickly across his face.

"They will be involved in the battle too...our brethren, our...friends..."

"Brethren? Friends?" snorted the shorter figure. "Aye, they might have appeared as our friends when we first set out, but they never intended to play the part of a friend. Curumo was too intent, too focused on finding out about Gorthaur's plans and work." He shook his head. "Aiwendil, foolish and simple-minded, was only concerned about carrying out the bidding of Yavanna Kementári. And Olórin...well, I have naught to say of him!"

"He was genuine, though, at least for a while. 'Tis a pity that we will have to join the fight against them."

"My dear Pallando, we have already joined the fight against them, with all our planning and our hard work." The shorter figure shook his head. "Do not worry yourself over the fates of our foes –yes, foes, for that is what they are. We have other things to worry about. When did the Men say they will be here?"

"It will take them a while. The last I heard of them, they were busy hiding their tracks from the increased Elf patrols."

"Elves," snarled his companion. "I rue the day they were created! It matters not; they will rue the day they were Awakened when He returns to us." He moved to the door. "Come, Pallando, we must go and check on our dear recruits."

Elrond was in his study, although this time, he was not seated at his desk. He stood before one of the arched windows, gazing out at the night skies with a pensive expression on his face.

His searching grey eyes found Eärendil the Mariner, the one object in the sky he always turned to in times of trouble, hoping each time for some kind of guidance for, surely, Eärendil saw more than any of the Wise on Middle Earth did, from his position up in the sky.

As he took in the brightly shining star, his mind wandered, as he wondered about the item that caused the star to shine brightly.

The Silmaril of Fëanor, son of Finwë and Míriel Serindë.

"Ai, I fear that nothing good will come of this," he muttered, to no one in particular. Having heard everything that his sons had had to say about the events that had befallen them, it had pained him to learn that it was Men who had killed three Elves and brutally beaten a fourth.

Not just any Men, but Men from Gondor, if the symbol that Elrohir had seen on the vest of one of the Men was accurate.

Old feelings made themselves known as Elrond pondered on the race of Men. Why had Elros felt the need to be counted among such a cruel, evil race? For Elros was not of like mind to them. How was it that Men such as Beren, Tuor and even Turin existed in the Histories of the Children of Ilúvatar, for they were Men of great courage and honour, never succumbing to Evil, not even Turin, for all his misfortune was brought upon him by a Lord of Evil?

And lastly, was he really expected to allow his daughter, his dear daughter, to forsake her rightful immortality for one of the race of Men? For the Heir of Isildur, no less?

The light of Eärendil gave him no answer, causing him to sigh heavily. It was then that it happened, as he continued to gaze up at the skies.

There were mountains of fire eerily resembling Orodruin...the tower of Barad-dûr was present...as were the legions of fell creatures who had sworn their allegiance to the dark powers.

A Man there was, holding up a gleaming sword as he stood outside the Gates of Mordor...a Man who looked much like the ancient Númenoreans themselves...a Man all too familiar...

And then the scene changed.

There were more towers this time, partly shielded by dark smoke, and guarded by winged beasts who circled the towers. There was a serious of gaping holes, rent into the earth...to form pits. Pits that were menacing to the eye; pits that hid the vile beings that were created in them.

A lone figure arose from the pits, radiating evil. He was clothed in glittering black, and carried in his hand a frightening weapon; a sinister looking hammer. Upon this figure's head, was a crown made of a silvery-black metal. And upon that crown were two brightly shining jewels.

And suddenly there was...a family. A familiar dark-haired adult Elf stood with his two young sons, a smile on his face as he looked down at a dark-haired, pale faced Elf-maiden. Their attention seemed to be on the bundle in the Elf-maiden's arms. A...baby...?

There was a large number of Elves, in dark-coloured armour. A look at that was all that it took to confirm them to be of the Elven race but...their eyes glittered with malice and cruelty

The scene shifted, to show the jewel-crowned figure once more, with his hammer raised; poised to attack. A moment later, the hammer was brought down...

Elrond stepped hurriedly away from the window, feeling akin to being punched hard in the gut. His breaths came in quick gasps, and he soon found that he needed to sit down.

Stumbling to the nearest chair, he plopped down on it, heavily, and leaned forward with his head in his hands. If he had known that he looked far from the calm and collected Elf-lord he had the reputation of being, he would not have cared, as he focused on everything that he had...seen.

He had seen the fortress of Barad-dûr, and the minions of Sauron; of that he was sure. The Man he had seen...after years of having fostered him, it was not hard to place a name to his face.

But it was everything he had seen after that that troubled him.

He had been fortunate to have never stood before the towers and the pits that he had seen, for he had been but a child when they had still been standing. And when he had grown into adulthood, neither the great fortress of Angband nor the dreaded pits of Utumno existed.

"Morgoth...that was Morgoth..." The Half-Elven lord leaned back in the chair he was seated on, a grim and troubled expression on his face as he stared at nothing in particular. For that was who the crowned figure he had seen was; Morgoth –as he was called by Fëanor, or otherwise known as Melkor, one of the greats amongst the Ainur.

As his thoughts moved to the Elves he had seen; the family and then the...army, he remembered why the dark-haired adult Elf had looked familiar. He had been slain in Eregion; this the Peredhel knew for a fact, as he had been the one to see to his burial, amidst the ruin of his once prosperous dwelling.

But the other Elves...they did not appear to be...normal. Their eyes, ai, were full of the malice and greed one would expect of those who have turned from the path of good...

Grey eyes narrowed in thought. If that was-

"My lord? Lord Elrond...?" Effectively snapped out of his thoughts, he looked up hurriedly, in time to see the brunette Healer.

"What brings you here, Meluial?" he questioned, trying to keep his void devoid of any kind of emotion.

"She has woken up, my lord," answered Meluial.

Sensing a presence nearby, she opened her eyes, wincing as she found her vision hazy. It took her a long while for her eyes to focus, and when they did, the grey eyes widened as they landed on the silhouette of the tall figure.

"I...I..." she closed her mouth as she heard the hoarseness of her voice, just as the itching started in her throat.

"Here," said the tall figure, "drink this. It will help with your throat." She stared vacantly at the goblet that was held out to her, and a surge of fear arose in her gut as she remembered the last time she was offered something to drink.

"No," she said, hoarsely, grimacing as she shook her head only to feel great pain.

"It will help with-" Elrond stopped, startled, as a heavily bandaged arm suddenly shot outward and slapped the goblet out of his hand. Stunned, he watched as the goblet fell to the ground, spilling its contents over its surface. Surprise clear on his face, he turned to the Elf and was once again caught off guard by the fierce, loathing expression on her face, even as she struggled to sit up.

"I...will never drink one of your...one of your vile, disgusting...potions ever again," she hissed, her voice low and hoarse. Elrond moved closer to her as she continued to struggle to sit up. In the pale light that filtered into the large room through the windows, he could already see blood staining some of her bandages.

"No, you must not move," he said, quietly, placing a hand on her shoulder and wincing as she flinched at his touch. "You had a fair number of injuries, and they will re-open if you move."

"L...like you care..." said the grey-eyed Elf, hoarsely, but she eventually did as he told her and stopped moving. Elrond stared at her impassive face for a moment.

"I am Elrond, of Imladris," he said, feeling somewhat lame, but not wishing to talk of anything else with the clearly distraught Elf. "Do you have-" he stopped when he saw the look she gave him.

"E...Elrond?" she echoed, fear suddenly creeping into her eyes. "They...they sold me, then? To...you...?" Elrond's eyebrows shot up.

"Nay, little one," he said. "I am not a-"

"-Forgive me, M...Master Elrond..." stammered the Elf, hoarsely, even as her face paled. "I...I did not mean to be so...rude. I...I thought...I...I am sorry. Please...please do not hurt me..."

A feeling of great sorrow surged through the Half-Elven lord as he took in the genuinely frightened expression on the Elf's face, as she stared up at him. He could only imagine what she must have been through, to think that he was her master, and that he would hurt her for what he could only be described as a natural reaction for one who had been through everything she had been through.

"I am no slave trader, little one," he said, seeing that she was nowhere near as old as he or some of the other Elves were. "I am Elrond Peredhel of the Elven refuge of Imladris." Seeing the frightened expression still on her face, he added, "I am not of the race of Men, little one. I am one of the Elves...the Firstborn..."

"Elf..."

Elrond nodded.

"Aye, Elf," he said, "Just as you are." He was relieved when, after a while, the frightened expression on the Elf's face started to fade.

"Peredhel...?"

"Aye, Peredhel," said Elrond, a little surprised.

"What...how?"

"My father, Eärendil, had the blood of the First and Secondborn in him," said Elrond, noticing that the impassive expression was back on her face. "As was my mother, Elwing." He saw the recognition that flickered in the grey eyes, similar to his own, at the mention of the name. "Does the name seem familiar to you?" he questioned, softly.

Her brows furrowed and she appeared as one in deep thought, as though she was trying her best to remember something.

"Díor Eluchíl..." she said, hoarsely, after a while. She frowned. "Eluréd and...Elurín..."

If he was confused, Elrond did not show it.

"Aye, Díor Eluchíl was my mother's father, and Eluréd and Elurín were her older brothers," he said. He watched as she raised a hand to her itching throat and quickly moved to the table that was by her bed. Taking out another goblet, he poured some water into it and held it out to her. "Here, drink, and the itching sensation will go away," he said. She stared at the goblet in his hand for a long time, and he did not press her further.

Ai, they must have made her drink foul things indeed, for her to fear drinking anything given to her –even when it is for her own good.

When she nodded her agreement at last, Elrond lifted her head, supporting it with his free hand as he tipped the goblet to her lips with his other. "Slow sips, little one, or you will choke..." She was only able to take three sips before she started coughing. Placing the goblet back on the table, Elrond whispered soothingly as her body wracked with coughs. "'Tis alright...there is nothing to fear...your body is not used to it, 'twill pass, 'tis alright..."

"Where...am I?" she managed to gasp out, once the coughs had settled.

"In Imladris," said Elrond, "The Elven refuge." He wondered at the wide-eyed expression that she sent him. "My sons brought you here, after finding you with a group of...slave traders. They fought them off and brought you here for you were greatly wounded and they feared for your life..."

"I-" the fearful expression was back on her pale face. "The Masters...?" Her voice rose in its pitch as she looked around her in fear. It took him a while to realize who she was talking about, and when he did realize, Elrond quickly clasped one of her hands in his own, noting how she flinched at the contact.

"They are not here. You have nothing to fear while you remain here," he said, as comfortingly as he could, even as he unconsciously wondered who the Elf reminded him of –apart from the likeness to his daughter. "They fled, but you have nothing to fear for while you are here in Imladris, you are under the protection of the Elves. You are under my protection."

And then, just as suddenly as she had knocked the first goblet out of his hands, the dark-haired Elf burst into tears.

Elrond stared at her in dismay for the briefest of moments, before doing what anyone else would have done. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he gently, slowly, pulled her up -noting that she did not struggle against him- and pulled her to him.

He stroked her head as her tears continued to fall, trying not to move her too much as he knew that her wounds would be aggravated. "'Tis alright, hush now...they will not hurt you again..."

When the last of the sobs had died down, and when he was sure that she was in a slightly calmer frame of mind, Elrond held her away from him.

"What is your name?" The red-rimmed eyes widened slightly.

"Lass," she whispered, after a while. "...Lassie." Elrond's eyes narrowed.

"Those are not names," he said, an angry note entering his voice as he thought of her captors.

"I am sorry!" exclaimed the Elf, pulling away from him as she bowed her head, but not before he saw the grey eyes widen in fear. His expression softened.

"There is nothing to be sorry about," he said, softly. "But...those are not proper names; they are what one might call a female –usually of the race of Men." Obviously, slave traders would not use whatever names their captives already had. "What is your real name? The one given to you by your mother, or by your father?"

He watched as her brows furrowed once more, and waited patiently, although he had to wonder how it was possible for her to no remember her real name.

How long was she in the 'care' of those slave traders?

"I...do not know..." there was a semi-panicked note in her voice, causing Elrond to shake his head fervently.

"It does not matter. I am sure that you will remember you name in due time," he said, reassuringly. "'Tis not important at this point in time, my lady."

"I am no lady...I am a slave..."

"I do not know what your...captors told you, but believe me when I say this; no daughter of the Firstborn...or son, for that matter, should be enslaved. We are a free people, and were not built for slavery."

He noticed too late that his tone had frightened her even more. "Ai, I did not mean to frighten you..." he said, softening his tone immediately. But it was too late; she would not look at him. "Where is your home?" asked Elrond, defeated. He saw her tense. "I need to know, so I can inform your mother and father."

"...He is...dead."

"Who is-" Elrond stopped. "I...am sorry," he said, quietly. "But...I will still need to know where your home is. Your mother must worry greatly for you-"

"-She is dead too." Elrond was not to be deterred.

"Do you have any other relatives? For I am sure that they-"

"...My two brothers were...captured...they were...we all served the Masters..." Elrond frowned. Two brothers? Valar, they were all...captives of the slave traders. How is it possible that none were sent out, to look for them? This is an outrage!

"What was the name of your father? Or even your mother?"

"...I was told...not to mention my sire's name..." Elrond's eyes narrowed. Something is not right here... "Naneth...she was called Fíriel..." A quick mental run-through confirmed Elrond's initial thought; he knew of no Elf by that name.

Of course, there were a fair number of Elves in the other Elven realms that he knew naught of, but the grey-eyed Elf...well, something about her told Elrond that he should know where she came from, and who her family was.

He sighed. This was going to be a bit difficult, but he did need to know if she had any kin who would worry at her disappearance. If they are worried, they certainly have a strange way of showing it.

"Do you know the name of your grandfather? Nay, I do not mean the sire of your father," he said hurriedly, "I mean your mother's sire."

The Elf nodded, but soon stopped as she raised a hand to the bandage on her stomach, letting out a small whimper as she touched it. Looking down, Elrond saw the blood stain on the yellow robe, and knew that he would soon have to change the bandages. He also knew that it would be unwise to do it now, when she was awake –he would try and spare her the pain of the wound being seen to, if he could.

He stood up and pressed his hands lightly onto her shoulders. "No matter," he said, shaking his head. "You have just woken up, and your injuries still need time to heal. I should not be questioning you in this manner –I am the one at fault, for you need your sleep."

When she was lying down once more, he drew the covers around her, giving her a somewhat tired smile as she looked at him, the impassive expression back on her face. "Sleep well, little one," he said, as he turned around to walk away, intending to ask Meluial to watch over her once more.

"Elurín..." Hearing the hoarse whisper, Elrond stopped in his tracks. "Elurín...was my grandfather..."

A/N

Phew! Again, that was LONG! Hehe, sorry to leave it at such an...abrupt point, though!

Till next time!

Siriusgirl1