A/N: Still plugging away at this fiction...Hope someone is reading it.
Elladan turned to Legolas and handed him a stack of clean, freshly laundered clothes. "Here," he said softly, arching one eyebrow at the awed expression on Legolas's face. "You may change in the bathroom, if you wish," he said, clearing his throat slightly to disrupt Legolas from his reverie. The young ellon was running his hands over the smoothness of the clothes, feeling the almost invisible seams and the thickly lined interior to block against the cold. He blushed brilliantly red and ducked inside the bathroom, shedding his clothes almost before the door was closed. The filthy, ripped tunic was balled up and wrapped inside his frayed leggings. Elladan had even thoughtfully included a clean pair of breeches, so Legolas stood almost completely unclothed in the bathroom. He hesitated before he tugged on the breeches. Was this another test? The bath hadn't been a test, not so far. But would they hurt him later for dressing in such finery? There was no other option, he decided, and fastened the breeches around his waist. The clothes were small, but they hung pitifully from his wasted frame, sagging in places where he lacked meat and sinew. He couldn't believe his luck when he buckled and narrow, braided leather belt around his tunic. The tunic was of a simple, clean color blue, and the leggings were dark. His feet were bare, but he didn't care. The clothes felt so nice on his battered body, like a balm on a festering wound.
Amariel gaped at the hand-me-down skirt and bodice, running her hands over the firm ridges and silky ribbons of the bodice, fingering the heavy woolen skirt. She couldn't tell the color, but the texture was marvelous. She hadn't worn clothes this nice since...Almost seventy years ago. She stared at the floor, fighting the tears that were welling in her scarred eyes. "My lords," she faltered. "What do I need to do to repay you? Name your price, my lords, please."
"Lady Amariel, there is no need," Elrohir said, tipping her chin back. "Please, Nimrodel will assist you in dressing. There is no need to be thankful - the clothes are old enough as it is."
Amariel hugged the clothes to herself, plunging her fingers amid the stiff fabric, still amazed by the generosity of the elves. But she sensed a trap, like a rabbit about to be snared. There had to be a catch. A bath, new clothes, what next? No doubt she would have to entertain their Lord Elrond later that evening, but if the treatment was good she decided she would be able to bear it. Her sensitive ears picked up the sound of a light footstep approaching, and Elladan greeted Nimrodel warmly. "Nimrodel, little one, could you assist Lady Amariel in dressing? Bodices that fasten behind are impossible to tighten by one's self." There was an automatic smile in his voice when he addressed Nimrodel, and Amariel wondered if he was fond of her. In her experience, it was more dangerous to be liked by a man than to be hated. Nimrodel forced a smile, still unnerved by Amariel and Legolas's bizarre behavior.
"Of course," she said, and opened the bathroom door. Legolas came out, smoothing the front of his tunic self-consciously. His clothes hung awkwardly on his frame, making him seem slightly pathetic. But the part the twins were staring at were his arms. The tunic fell to the elbow, leaving the forearms exposed - and in Legolas's case, leaving his brutally chafed wrists and bruised forearms open for scrutiny. Running behind a horse was not easy, and for a good three inches above his wrist he was chafed enough to bleed. He tugged at the sleeves to cover it, shame coloring his cheeks. Nimrodel helped Amariel inside, mouth open in horror. The twins immediately converged on Legolas, examining him carefully for any other bruises. Amariel longed to help, but the sound of their voices was shut out by the closing of the door. "If you'll give me your old clothes, I can burn them," Nimrodel said, wrinkling her pretty little nose at the sight of Amariel's tattered clothes. "I don't think you can get much use out of them anymore."
Bit by bit, Amariel's body was revealed, the bruises and cuts emerging like terrible actors performing a hideous play. Nimrodel covered her mouth with her hands when the boot-shaped bruise was uncovered, and tears sprang to her eyes when she saw the neat, deep scars above her breasts. The urge to hug the older elleth came hard and fast, and Nimrodel fought the urge with difficulty. The poor thing would no doubt be even more terrified if Nimrodel touched her. Amariel began slipping into the warm woolen socks, and then stopped. She struggled with herself internally, debating the same thing Legolas did. Would she be punished for putting on airs? She tossed aside the idea recklessly and allowed Nimrodel to fasten her skirt behind her. The skirt was a simple gray item, and would have looked very nice on her if Amariel had any meat on her bones. As it was, she looked like a child playing in her mother's clothes. The bodice was a cream color, and Nimrodel began fastening the ribbons, hands faltering as she closed the sights of Amariel's battered, bruised, thin back from the eyes. When she was finished, Nimrodel reached for a comb and began attempting to comb the mats and snarls from her hair with limited success. Amariel stilled her hands.
"Your Master..." she began, fighting with herself on how to pose this question. "What does he use?"
"I - I'm afraid I don't understand," Nimrodel said, confused. Amariel played with her bruised fingers in her lap restlessly.
"Does he use a belt, his hands, a whip, what? What does he use to punish you?" Amariel asked. The question shocked Nimrodel beyond comprehension, but the flat, expressionless tone in Amariel's voice made her want to cry.
"I have never seen Lord Elrond lay a finger on anyone," Nimrodel said truthfully. "Save perhaps spanking his daughter, Arwen, when she has done some naughty thing, and that was only when she was a babe. He is very firm with his children, but a patient man. I promise you, he will not hurt you."
The words made no impact on Amariel. She had been promised that before, and it had always been broken. She stopped Nimrodel from brushing her hair yet again, and gathered it at the nape of her neck, tucking it into her tunic. When she stood up, she held her hand out automatically, looking for a clue as to where the door was located. The sight of that hand, split on the palm, groping innocently for something stable, had a curious effect on Nimrodel. The young elleth burst into tears and helped Amariel out the door, still crying. How could someone have been so hurt and still be living? Elladan instantly was at Nimrodel's side. He knew what she was crying about, and he comforted her with a gentle touch to her arm. "Strength, little one," he murmured. "Strength. Come with us, I wish you to speak with Ada about our newcomers."
Legolas and Amariel gripped each other's hands as they waited outside Elrond's study door. Elrohir had gone inside, leaving Elladan and Nimrodel to keep watch over the battered elves and make sure no further harm came to them, either from themselves or each other. There was a long, poignant silence in which no-one spoke, none of them wishing to speak first. Legolas and Amariel knew their place; slaves did not speak unless spoken to, and Amariel had taken a very risky gamble in speaking to Nimrodel. However, she judged by the way Elrohir and Elladan asked her to fetch things, that she was a servant, perhaps a High Slave, or just a commoner. Amariel, thanks to her unnaturally sharp ears, heard footsteps approaching the door. After a moment, it swung open, and Elrohir's voice sounded. "Legolas, Amariel, come inside."
Hesitantly, the two of them went forward, hearing the doors shut behind them. Legolas, having the gift of sight while he companion did not, gazed awestruck at the beautiful study. Books, of all shapes and sizes, lined the walls, perched on thick, solid oaken shelves. A massive desk, covered with neatly stacked scrolls and several sheets of flat paper, dominated the room. The carpet was of a rich crimson, deeper and somehow more heavy than any other red Legolas had seen. A stained glass window let in draughts of sunlight, flooding the room in brilliant golden light. In front of the desk was an elf, but unlike any elf Legolas had seen. He was tall and broad-chested, a firm, wise, noble profile, tall and somehow rather imposing. He was dressed in a silver-blue robe, knee length, with white leggings beneath it, and highly polished black boots. Instantly, Legolas and Amariel knelt, palms flat on the ground, legs crossed at the ankle. Elrond was taken aback, and exchanged a meaningful glance with Elrohir. "Friends, you may stand," he said, his voice impossibly rich and deep, thicker than a vat of chocolate and smoother than the glass of a mirror. He said this in Elvish, which Legolas did not understand, but Amariel stood, quaking, and helped Legolas to his feet. Elrond pierced Legolas with his wise, beautiful gray eyes, and Legolas drew instinctively closer to Amariel. "Does he not understand Elvish?" he asked worriedly.
"M-my Lord and Master, if I have won your pleasure, I will say thus: He does not know the tongue of his people, my lord, only the little I have been able to teach him. Our Masters did not approve of me conversing in a language they did not understand." Amariel said, flinching like a whipped dog. Elrond's brow rose. He examined Legolas with fresh interest.
"He reminds me of someone, although I know naught who," Elrond said, almost to himself. He then turned to Amariel, and tilted her chin back. At his touch, she gave little squeak and convulsed, shoulders drawing in as she tried to minimize the target. "Shh, child," he said, laying a soothing hand on her shoulder. "I shall not harm you." He allowed her a minute to gather herself, and then he examined her scarred eyes once more. The wound had been clumsily cleaned, most likely infectedbeen infected , but it was very old and white with age. It danced elusively across both eyes, ending with a ragged twirl near her temple, and she had been very fortunate it did not prevent her from opening her eyes. Whoever had blinded her had done it with a skillful hand. "Who blinded you, child?" he asked softly.
"Urrian, my former Master, my lord," Amariel whispered, drawing closer to Legolas. The blond ellon understood not a word of their conversation, but he gripped Amariel's hands tighter to ease his discomfort. "I deserved it, Master, I did. But please, I have learned my lesson, and I shall not displease you, I promise!"
"Shh, child, shh," Elrond said gently, turning her cheek with one finger. He patted her shoulder, wanting to do nothing more than crush them both in a hug, but knew they would be terrified if he did. "You have done nothing to displease me. No crime deserves the loss of sight, child. You are both free elves - I can promise that none shall harm you again."
The words had no ring of freedom to the elves. They had been promised freedom before, only to have it snatched from their grip. But Legolas, the younger of the two, felt the tiniest glimmer of hope. They had always had Masters who promised freedom, only if they did their work properly. Perhaps the work would be hard, but at least they had new clothes. And they were moderately clean.
Perhaps this Master would be different.