Title: Wild Justice 
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer2000@yahoo.com
Rating: R
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor;
Elladan/Orophin
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.    
Feedback: Please!
Warnings: BDSM.  Be warned--this is a very naughty fic.  I am a bad person and I
promise I'll be spanked later (and hopefully often).
A/N:  This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc (and yes, I know,
it is getting entirely out of hand.)  Read them in
order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be
confused and to miss inside jokes.  



Elrond managed to wriggle out of his bonds and return to his chambers unseen, or
at least he hoped so.  Wartime stealth training had its uses, especially when
one's father-in-law happened to be insane.  He had immediately dressed and gone
looking for Celeborn, a strange calm filling him.  He was not even upset when he
was told that Celeborn had already returned to the Golden Wood.  He had not
ranted, raved or thrown anything--had not even wanted to do so.  He simply
returned to his room, undressed once more, and lay on his bed, enjoying the feel
of the cool breeze from the open window on his bare skin.  From where he lay,
Elrond could see the evening stars shining brightly over the treetops, and their
familiar light was soothing.  He was surprised at how serene he felt, as if
there was no great decision before him.  After a moment's reflection he realised
that it was not so much that a decision did not exist as that he had already
made it.  

Celeborn had to pay.  Oh, yes.  Of that, there was no longer any doubt.  But,
more than that, he had to be made to pay elegantly, subtly, and fully.  No
longer would a simple display of submission be enough, for Celeborn had dared
what no one had in 6,000 years, and that sort of humiliation deserved something
special in return.  There was also Galadriel to consider.  The elf queen was
just as much to blame, as far as Elrond was concerned, as her dear husband.  She
had also humiliated him and caused him three days and nights of unspeakable
torment, although, in her case, he did accept that there had been some
provocation.   The same could not be said for Celeborn, who had brought this on
both himself and Elrond with seemingly no concern for the consequences.  It was
also a consideration that, in this, there was the possibility that Elrond would
need an ally.  

His eyes glowed silver in the night, as he managed to farspeak his
mother-in-law.  Thoughts were conveyed and images passed, along with that one
careless comment of Celeborn's, "Leave my wife to me.  I have something special
in mind for her."  After a time, all alone in his room, Elrond began to smile.  

*   *   *

Orophin of Lorien was a stunning elf.  Both of Haldir's brothers had the same
aristocratic bone structure and exquisite fair colouring characteristic of
Silvan elves, but there was an added grace to their movements and a predatory
look in their beautiful eyes that reminded Elrohir of great, wild cats on the
prowl.  Orophin, the tallest and leanest of the three, especially conveyed the
impression of a big, sleepy feline, draped bonelessly as he was along a tree
limb, his eyes half lidded with ennui--until, that is, they fell on their party. 
One look at the fair elf at Elrohir's side and Orophin's face lit up as if his
birthday had come early.  Although they already had a guide, who had met them
near Lorien's borders to escort them to the Lord and Lady, Orophin quickly
volunteered to join them.  Before Elrohir could think of a reason to refuse, he
hopped off his perch and dropped gracefully to the ground, retaining his balance
although his eyes never left their party.  Elrohir hated him on sight. 

Glorfindel did not seem to notice the Galadrim's regard, being too busy chatting
with Erestor who rode to his left.  Elrohir wished, not for the first time, that
his lover was a little less flamboyant in appearance.  Glorfindel was looking
especially edible that morning, attired in a royal blue velvet tunic with deep
bell sleeves along which white embroidery carved the outlines of birds and
flowers.  His silver white leggings hugged his thighs like a second skin,
displaying the shift and play of his muscles as he easily guided his large white
stallion.  It was one of a line of magnificent horses, all descendants of the
same sire, and all quite impossible to tame--by anyone but Glorfindel.  Honey
blond hair spilled down his back in a careless wave, unconfined as he preferred
to wear it, and his indigo eyes were lit by amusement at some inanity Erestor
had spouted.  Orophin's delighted turquoise gaze never left their party and, by
the time they reached the outskirts of Caras Galadhon, Elrohir was almost
apoplectic.  His mood was not helped by the Galadrim's insistence on following
them up the stairs, which was, Elrohir was sure, to enable him to watch the way
Glorfindel's lean buttocks clenched and relaxed as he climbed them. 

Elrohir could feel a tiny pulse throbbing at the base of his throat, and his
left eye was twitching slightly, perhaps explaining the odd look his grandmother
threw him when they reached the council hall.  His reply to her greeting was
smooth, however, and he returned her questioning look with an innocent smile. 
He was fully aware that she had always had trouble reading his thoughts, and he
tried now to make his mind as blank as possible.  He did not even glance at
Orophin, although he was aware that the haughty Galadrim had not left the
chamber despite the fact that there was not the slightest reason for him to
remain.  

The interview was brief, as it was merely designed to welcome Elrohir and his
party to the Golden Wood and assign them to their rooms.  To Elrohir's
annoyance, he discovered that he and Glorfindel had not been given a single
chamber, but rather suites on opposite sides of the royal talan.  Not that it
mattered, of course, he would sleep where he liked, but it concerned him that
perhaps it indicated disapproval of the relationship by his grandparents.  He
sighed.  They were both so perfect all the time--no doubt they expected him to
make a loveless but politically correct union as his mother had done.  Well, too
bad.  He was not giving up Glorfindel, no matter the coercion that might be
used, so they had best just forget it.  He had spent his whole life being the
good son, and the good grandson, but on this he was immovable.  

Elrohir wanted to protest when his grandparents invited Glorfindel to remain for
a political discussion.  He was about to point out that the whole party was
tired and needed rest after their journey--intending to grab a quick session
with his lover before dinner--but Erestor chimed in with a request for a tour of
the city.  After that, he could hardly claim to be tired if an old elf like
Erestor was still bouncing with energy.  Indeed, Erestor had seemed unusually
vivacious ever since they left Imladris, although why remained a mystery. 
Elrohir could not even fathom why he had come along.  This was supposed to be
his and Glorfindel's journey, but somehow they had acquired quite an entourage. 
Two Noldorian servants of his grandmother had accompanied them--although why
they had not returned with her after her recent visit had never been
explained--and Haldir and Gildor had also ridden along.  At least the latter was
understandable as the Marchwarden had already spent a good deal of time at
Imladris for no particular reason that Elrohir could see.  Normally, couriers
delivered their messages and went home, but Haldir had stuck around for several
weeks, apparently doing nothing more than seducing Elrond and then Gildor. 
Elrohir was beginning to dislike his entire family.

His indignation increased as Orophin was delegated by Lord Celeborn to show them
about Imladris.  On the one hand, it did keep him away from Glorfindel, but, on
the other, it meant that Elrohir had to endure his presence all afternoon.  He
was effrontery personified, and apparently as depraved as his brother, for he
never missed an opportunity to brush up against him or hold his arm as they made
their way along Lorien's many swaying rope bridges.  Honestly, one would think
he was an invalid in need of aid!  Just to prove a point, Elrohir took a short
cut as they neared the hot springs, sliding several stories down a rope support
that slanted towards the ground while the others descended by way of the more
traditional ladder.

"You would make a good border guard, young one," Orophin told him once they had
caught up.  "Let us know if you ever tire of the decadent life of a princeling
and want something useful to do!"  He moved ahead before Elrohir could think of
a suitably cutting reply.

Erestor declared that he had to have a bath in the springs, and Elrohir
reluctantly agreed to accompany him.  He was surprised to note, as they settled
into the steamy water in one of the inner caves, that Erestor was not as pudgy
in the flesh as the rather old fashioned robes he favoured usually made him
appear.  Indeed, a nearby young elf was eyeing him with what looked like
distinct interest.  Elrohir tried momentarily to see him objectively, but it
didn't work.  He supposed the black drape of his hair--such an unusual colour
for elves, which matched his obsidian eyes--was pleasing, and his body, despite
being that of a very old elf indeed, looked quite youthful.  But, to Elrohir, he
was just Erestor--his tutor, mother substitute and, occasionally, friend--he
simply couldn't see him any other way.  

So caught up was Elrohir in trying to decipher the mystery of his old tutor's
appeal, that it took him a moment to realise that Orophin had also disrobed and
joined the small party of elves in the pool.  Elrohir moved another few feet
away, ostensibly to give him more room, but Orophin followed him.  With almost
unbelievable impudence, he caught up a strand of Elrohir's chestnut hair and ran
it through his fingers.  "So remarkable," he murmured, "like the bark of a young
oak when the sun shines upon it."  Elrohir regarded him with disdain, but the
presence of others kept him from expressing his annoyance in clear terms. 
Instead, he simply moved farther away, settling near Erestor who was sprawled
out in apparently blissful abandon at the deeper end of the water.  His head
thrown back, his eyes closed, his full, red lips open, he soaked up the steam as
if he had been starved for it.  Which was silly, Elrohir thought, as they had a
perfectly good steam bath at Imladris.  It was obvious, however, that Erestor
was not going to be much good as a diversion, a fact that was especially
irritating when Orophin swam over to join them.

Crowded into a small niche at the deep end of the pool, Elrohir balanced on the
narrow rocky ledge running along the wall three feet or so below the water line. 
When he tried to shy away from Orophin's presence once again, however, he lost
his footing and plunged under the hot water.  He was a perfectly good swimmer,
for Elrond had insisted that all three of his children be taught at an early
age, but before he had a chance to kick off from the bottom, he was caught in
strong arms and pulled back to the surface.  He emerged from the water to find
himself clasped to Orophin's chest, while their legs intertwined.  "What . . .
what do you think you're doing?," he sputtered, when he'd drawn in enough air to
be able to speak.

"Rescuing you.  Lord Celeborn made me responsible for your party, after all." 
The mocking expression on Orophin's face would have been enough to enrage
Elrohir, but the fact that he suddenly felt a strong hand caressing his buttocks
was enough to make him forget about propriety in front of the other elves.  He
sucked in enough air to allow him to hold forth at length on the subject of
Orophin's many failings, while at the same time kicked at him to remove the
unwanted embrace.  Orophin thwarted both intentions by simply dropping off the
ledge and dragging Elrohir with him, back under the steamy water.  The annoying
creature then took advantage of his disorientation to slip a practised tongue
between his lips.  Under the circumstances, Elrohir thought he could be forgiven
for biting it . . . so he did, hard.

Orophin released him and Elrohir quickly returned to the surface, amazed to find
that everyone else was still in the languid positions in which he'd last seen
them.  How could they possibly be so blind?  At that instant, Orophin's wild
eyed countenance broke the surface and sent a wave splashing over Erestor, who
sputtered and made enough of a fuss that Elrohir was able to escape.  Looking
back as he hauled himself out of the pool, he saw Orophin's eyes on him, and
they glittered in a way Elrohir didn't like at all.  It could be, he thought, as
the Galadrim's gaze slid down his water slicked skin and a tiny smile appeared
on his lips, that he had been wrong about the object of his interest.

*   *   *

"You are playing with fire, brother--don't blame me if you end up burned." 
Haldir was, in truth, not very interested in the discussion into which Orophin
had drawn him.  His usually level-headed brother had not been able to talk of
anything but Elrond's youngest son since the elfling arrived, and after three
days the topic was beginning to bore Haldir.  Especially as Orophin had managed
to trade shifts with a fellow guard and gain himself a period of leave in the
city, which meant that Haldir's plans to have the talan all to himself were
ruined.  It would serve Orophin right if Glorfindel . . . well, maybe not. 
Haldir didn't think Elrond's counselor would seriously harm his poor, deluded
brother, but then, where the Balrog slayer was concerned he would rather not
take chances.  He turned a serious eye on Orophin.  "You are insane.  Elrohir
belongs to Glorfindel--an orc would have enough sense to leave him be!"

"There is no union between them," Orophin replied sulkily.  "They have not
bonded, so how do you know my attentions will be unwelcome?"

Haldir humphed, and turned back to the mirror to inspect his latest acquisition. 
It was truly appalling, but Gildor had liked it . . . he personally did not
think red was his colour, but it was almost impossible to refuse his lover
anything.  All Gildor had to do was look at him with those huge brown eyes of
his, and Haldir melted.  This time, that meant that he was doomed to appear at
the festivities that evening in a blindingly crimson tunic.  Still, he thought,
cheering up, he was certain Gildor would make his sacrifice worth 
while . . . Haldir would see that he did.  

Completing his inspection of his toilette, Haldir resumed his attempts to save
Orophin's life, or at least his dignity.  "From what you told me about this
afternoon, I do not think it sounds as if Elrohir was particularly impressed." 
The young Peredhil had demonstrated his delight in Orophin's interest by
overturning a hot bowl of hot broth into his lap at lunch.  He had apologised
prettily for his clumsiness, but Haldir had heard from a few elves who witnessed
the incident that it had looked almost deliberate.  What Orophin had done to
deserve the attack Haldir didn't know, but he strongly suspected it had been his
brother's idea to rearrange the seating so that he occupied the chair beside
Elrohir.  "In any case, no elf in his right mind would purposely challenge Lord
Glorfindel.  You ARE mad.  Go find another dalliance--this one is too much for
you, brother."

Haldir could see that his words had no effect at all, except possibly to make
Orophin more determined.  "We'll see," he replied, checking on his own
reflection with a determined look in his eyes.  Haldir gave a shrug; he had
tried.  He just hoped he wasn't going to be picking a quiver full of arrows out
of his brother's stubborn carcass anytime soon.  It was fortunate that he had
noticed the problem early on, and taken preventative measures . . . 

*   *   *

Elladan stood at the window to his rooms and read again the curious letter
Haldir of Lorien had written him.  It was absurd--he barely knew the elf--so why
would he make such a request of him?  Everyone knew his preferences--he had
never tried to hide them--so why would Haldir even think of him for such an
errand?  Of course, he reflected, he and Elrohir did look remarkably alike, and
so a substitution might actually be possible, especially since Elrohir and
Haldir's brother had just met.  Haldir assured him that he would keep them apart
as much as possible until Elladan could arrive, but the feasibility of the plan
did not mean that he considered it an attractive proposition.  On the other
hand, Imladris was very dull at the moment, and Lorien contained a large
assortment of beautiful Silvan maidens just waiting to be introduced to some of
the more interesting bits of knowledge he'd picked up through the years.  And if
some of them weren't exactly maidens, well, so much the better.  Elladan smiled
as a gentle wind ruffled his hair.  Oh yes, a trip to Lorien sounded like just
what he needed.

*   *   *

Haldir was having trouble containing himself.  Gildor had insisted on dressing
in a matching tunic and the red that so washed out Haldir's fair complexion
added a golden glow to his companion's honey coloured skin and brought out
auburn highlights in his long, dark hair.  It also molded to his beautiful
behind like a second skin, as the only tunic the stall keeper had had that
matched Haldir's was a little too tight on Gildor's muscular form.  Haldir
swallowed and tried to remember that they had at least another hour of this
endless party to get through, but it was no use.  All he could think about was
pressing himself against that slim, hard body, and caressing those smooth, firm 
cheeks . . . He looked about a little frantically for somewhere, anywhere, they
could be alone, but the cursed talan was crowded with guests and Celeborn stood
near the doorway, certain to intercept anyone who tried to leave early and
thereby insult his guest of honour.  

Haldir accepted the inevitable and ran a hand through his hair, trying to
distract himself by concentrating on cataloguing the many different costumes
worn by partygoers that evening.  The delegation from Mirkwood was especially
well dressed, as they always were when visiting the Golden Wood--almost as if
Thranduil was making some kind of a statement.  The king himself, on a rare
diplomatic visit, was especially stunning, attired in a deep green satin robe
over a golden tunic.  Emeralds shone at his fingers and a huge, carved example
of the gem decorated the ostentatious but beautifully made choker he wore. 
Dwarvin make most likely, Haldir mused; you had to give the annoying creatures
credit, they did do stunning work.  Of course, it seemed only fitting that they
should have SOME use . . . 

He was brought out of his reverie by a surreptitious stroke down his back that
stopped tantalisingly just before the swell of his hips.  Gildor looked
innocent, but a mischievous light danced in his brown eyes as he slowly drew
Haldir back towards the wall.  He found a position in which they were protected
from prying eyes on one side by a support beam of the talan and from behind by
one of its interior walls.  It wasn't much as privacy went, however, for in
front of them the party guests passed by in chattering profusion, but it would
have to do.  

*   *   *

Elrohir was in hell.  He had too much to watch and none of it was good.  That
cursed brother of Haldir's wouldn't leave him alone, causing him to have to keep
moving just to avoid his roving hands.  What he couldn't stop was the way
Orophin's his eyes roamed over his form as if he was a starving man and Elrohir
was a banquet.  Even from across the room, it was making Elrohir decidedly
uncomfortable.  But Orophin was a minor inconvenience when compared to the real,
show stopping, evening ruining, desperate threat that was the King of Mirkwood.  

Elrohir had thought he would faint when his grandfather had introduced him to
Thranduil, who had glanced at him, smiled slightly, and then turned the power of
his considerable magnetism full on Glorfindel, where it had stayed ever since. 
Thranduil was . . . amazing.  Even catching only the slightest edges of his
personality, as he obviously did not consider Elrohir to be worth bothering to
charm, was like being nearby when a flash of lightening hit a tree.  Elrohir
could feel a frisson humming along his skin from just being near him.

Elrohir had hated Orophin when he thought he might be competition for
Glorfindel's affections, but he didn't feel that way about Thranduil.  No, this
was more like full-blown terror.  Observing them now, Elrohir could not deny how
well they looked together.  They were standing along the edge of the talan, yet
somehow, wherever Thranduil was seemed to be the centre of attention.  He almost
glowed, his silver hair radiant as a star under the light of a nearby lantern.  
His jade eyes flashed as brightly as the emeralds he wore, and his every
gesture, look, and breath was an invitation, but one designed to appeal to one
elf alone, the beautiful creature who stood at his side.  Elrohir choked on his
wine and tried to look away, but it was impossible.

Glorfindel was like the sun to Thranduil's star.  His robes of pale green silk
perfectly complimented those of Celeborn's guest, his honey coloured hair was a
nimbus about his face as his bright blue eyes laughed at something the king had
said.  Glorfindel's eyes only took on that particular shade when he was
genuinely amused, which he had no right to be by that . . . that . . . creature
from Mirkwood!  And Thranduil kept TOUCHING him, resting a hand on his arm to
illustrate a point, leaning just closer than necessary to whisper a comment in
his ear, bantering with him as if they'd known each other their whole lives. 
Which they most certainly had not!  Had Thranduil EVER visited Imladris?  No,
and even his visits to Lorien had been few and far between.  So what right did
he have, laughing so easily and joking so intimately, with an elf he barely even
knew?  And Elrohir's elf at that.  Glorfindel was HIS, and . . . 

A sudden burst of pain caused Elrohir to look down and see that his wine glass
had shattered.  Cursed things, he thought, picking shards out of his palm, they
made them better at Imladris.  Of course, everything was better at Imladris,
where, for instance, you didn't have gorgeous elf kings trying to steal your
lover from you right in front of your very nose . . . Elrohir glared at Orophin,
who had sidled up alongside him to proffer a handkerchief, and stalked off in
the direction of his wayward lover.  Thranduil had better watch out, or he might
accidentally slip off the talan and plummet head first to the hard forest floor
below.  Yes, that would just be a shame.

*   *   *

Haldir, who had been positioned facing the crowd by his naughty companion, could
not see what Gildor was up to behind him.  He was not sure what to expect, as
his lover usually let him take the initiative, and the fact that Gildor had
suddenly chosen to do so, and in such an open location, was enough to cause a
warm wave of desire to flood Haldir's entire body.  He felt Gildor's hands slide
beneath his robe, a cherry coloured affair to match his tunic, and pull up the
hem from the back so that Haldir continued to look respectable from the front. 
Haldir had to maintain a placid countenance while warm hands explored his back
and cupped him lightly before reaching lower to tug up the hem of his tunic.  He
could not repress a shiver of delight as those so talented hands slid up his
inner thighs, but he did swiftly close the front of his robe so that, hopefully,
he would not have to explain to Celeborn on the morrow why he had spent most of
Thranduil's welcoming party being felt up.

Haldir's thoughts soon grew too chaotic for such concerns, however, as Gildor
continued his public seduction.  The air was suffused with his scent--honey
sweet and spicy; it was, Haldir fervently believed, the most intoxicating aroma
he knew.  His vision began to blur as Gildor paused his exploration of his lower
back to feel for the indentations and stroke them lightly.  A warm finger then
quested beneath his loincloth to slide teasingly along his cheeks and caress the
cleft between them.  Haldir could not suppress the silly smile he knew had taken
over his face.  He should tell Gildor to stop, that he couldn't control himself
much longer, but then that lovely finger slid easily inside him and he lost his
train of thought completely.  His flesh grabbed greedily at the intruding
digits--when had there become two?--and a low purr of deep, relaxed ecstasy
escaped him.  Several nearby guests glanced at him strangely, then turned away,
not quite hiding amused grins.  Elbereth!  There simply HAD to be somewhere they
could go . . . 

Inspiration struck and Haldir towed an unprotesting Gildor behind the curtain
draping a small niche nearby.  It was usually used for showing off a large
carved urn, but a recent storm had toppled it from its platform and it was
currently undergoing repairs.  No one else was there--not surprisingly as it was
barely large enough to accommodate the two of them--and Haldir immediately
claimed Gildor's lips.  His companion's mouth was as soft and delicious as
always, and his silken hair draped over Haldir's hands as he backed him into the
wall, pressing his body against him hungrily.  He could feel Gildor's arousal
twitch against his leg as the beautiful creature in his arms uttered a low moan
into his mouth; Haldir almost came just from that sound alone.     

Haldir shivered, both from the sensations flooding through him and from the
chill of the evening air that hit his skin when Gildor reached down to pull up
his tunic once more, then dropped to his knees to take him in his mouth.  The
swirling of his tongue, from root to tip, over and over again; the pressure as
he swallowed, sucking him greedily deep into his throat; and the soft noises he
made combined to take Haldir over the edge, biting down on his lip hard to keep
from screaming Gildor's name loud enough to be heard along the Northern Fences.  

"Haldir, I . . . oh.  Sorry."

Haldir turned dazed eyes on the form that stood awkwardly behind him, as Gildor
made a choking noise and clutched at the curtain to draw it closed again,
withdrawing himself as he did so from his previous occupation.  Haldir felt the
loss of his warmth immediately, and turned to glare at his brother, while
re-arranging his robes as well as he could.  "Don't you have somewhere you need
to be, Orophin?," he asked through gritted teeth.

Gildor was sitting on the floor, convulsed with laughter.  "I think we severely
shocked a few people," he said, when he could speak.

Orophin just continued to stand there, and Haldir, who usually loved his
brothers dearly, seriously considered choking him.  "What. Do. You. Want?"

"I, er, was hoping you could help me.  I haven't been able to get Elrohir alone
all evening and . . . "

"Get. Out."  

"But, if you could just . . . "

"Out!"  Orophin took one look at his brother's purple countenance, and fled,
mercifully letting the curtain fall closed behind him.  Haldir looked down on
Gildor, who was laughing so hard that tears were coursing down his face.  He
smiled as he ran a hand over his lover's shining head.  "Now, where were we?"

TBC

A/N: The title is from a quote--Revenge is a kind of wild justice--by Francis
Bacon.


Title: Wild Justice 2/? 
 
* * *

Elrohir watched the elaborate preparations being made in the small glade with
considerable interest.  He had seen Erestor leaving the royal talan that
morning, looking quite furtive, and decided to follow him.  He had little else
to do.  Glorfindel was stuck in political meetings all day as he had been since
their arrival in Lorien, although he gave only vague answers to queries as to
what was going on.  Frustration and worry over the fact that Thranduil was also
in these meetings had been enough to make Elrohir very edgy.  Discovering
whatever Erestor was up to, then, would provide a welcome diversion. 

Elrohir followed his old tutor to a glade quite distant from the city, and
became steadily more mystified by his elaborate efforts to avoid being seen. 
Erestor was dressed unusually in a plain, grey-green ensemble that blended in
perfectly with the deeper foliage; whenever he stood still for a moment, Elrohir
had great difficulty seeing him.  He almost lost him twice, and had to close the
distance between them or he would certainly have done so.  It was rather amusing
to be tailing Erestor, who had been one of his teachers in the art of
concealment and stealth.  Strangely, Elrohir had never before wondered why
Erestor had taught those lessons, rather than Glorfindel who had instructed him
in most of the other arts of war.  Now, however, as he found himself having to
use all his talents plus a good bit of luck to follow the dark shadow through
the forest, it made sense.  It also caused him to wonder what, exactly, Erestor
had done in the days of the First Alliance.  Now that he thought about it, he
could not recall a single story having to do with Erestor's role, yet he was
certainly old enough to have participated.  And, as Elrond had not founded
Imladris until the war was well along, he couldn't very well have been his
housekeeper then!

Erestor finally made his way to a small glade.  Elrohir, skulking behind a tree,
peered out onto a strange scene.  About twenty elves, Noldor by the look of
them, were milling about the open space.  Elrohir only recognised two of them,
those supercilious blonds Elros and Camthalion, who were standing over to one
side, arms crossed, surveying the others with their usual icy expressions.  But
they looked up as Erestor approached and, to Elrohir's surprise, broke into twin
smiles of welcome.  Elrohir could not remember ever seeing those two evidence
any emotion, much less a friendly one.  He found it a little creepy and
unconsciously drew back a bit further into the shadows.   

After a few moments' conversation that Elrohir was too far away to hear, Erestor
turned to face the throng of elves and clapped his hands imperiously.  "All
right," he said, raising his voice and drawing something out of the wide sleeve
of his tunic.  "Over here, gather round everyone."  He surveyed the elves who
arranged themselves into two lines in almost military formation before him, "Let
us be perfectly clear.  I am here as a favour to the Lady Galadriel who
expressed an interest recently to Lord Elrond about having some of her servants
trained in certain matters.  What I am going to teach you has already been
learned, in part, by two of your number," and he indicated Camthalion and Elros
with a flourish of his riding crop.  Elrohir paused to wonder what he was doing
with a crop with no horse in evidence, but Erestor was continuing on and he
concentrated on trying not to miss anything.

"The skills I am about to teach you may shortly be needed in an important
mission.  However, we have much work to do, as you are all presently the
strictest of novices," and here he punctuated his words by thwapping his crop on
the thigh of a nearby Noldor.  The proud elf said nothing, but shot him a glare
from angry blue eyes.  Camthalion and Elros seemed to find something amusing,
for they exchanged arch looks behind Erestor's back.   Erestor also smiled, a
little strangely Elrohir thought, and ran his hand gently along the elf's sleek
head.  "You don't like it when I do that?," he inquired softly, his tone almost
too low for Elrohir to hear.  He chuckled, then suddenly grabbed a handful of
blond hair and jerked the elf's head toward him while forcing him to his knees. 
"I think we've just found our first volunteer."  He released him to allow Elros
and Camthalion to each grab an arm and tow the struggling elf off into the
woods.  Erestor watched them for a moment before turning back to the assembled
elves.  "Lesson one--you do what you are told, how you are told and when you are
told.  There is only one master here, and that is me."

The elves looked at each other but there were no arguments.  "Good."  Erestor
rocked back on his heels, apparently pleased.  "Then strip."

"Er, sir?"  One of the Noldor spoke up, looking a bit confused.  Erestor smiled
more broadly and walked slowly over to him.

"You have a question?"

The elf looked a little unsure, but persisted nonetheless. "Yes, sir.  Er, we
were told that we are here to be trained in interrogation techniques."

"Yes, that is one of my specialties."

"Well, in that case, why do you want us to . . . disrobe?"

Erestor glanced up as Camthalion reappeared at the edge of the forest.  "We have
volunteer number two, Cam," he commented briefly, and the elf in front of him
looked about fearfully as Camthalion moved quickly towards him.

"Any other questions?," Erestor asked the assembled elves.  They looked at each
other for a second, then, as their fellow elf was dragged protesting into the
undergrowth, quickly began stripping off their clothing.  Erestor smiled at them
and caressed his crop with a loving motion.  "I do so love my work," Elrohir
heard him mutter.  

*   *   *

Celeborn knew, of course, that Elrond would try something, but he had expected
it and made certain preparations, so the thought did not initially concern him. 
His first clue that something more ominous than he'd anticipated was possibly
occurring was the silence.  He began to worry when days passed and he heard
nothing from Imladris, as, by now, Elrond must have discovered his little
deception.  Celeborn had been extremely pleased to hear that Deya and her band
of gypsies were in the area of the Last Homely House, as their magic combined
with his own had virtually insured Elrond's subjugation.  Fortunately, she
happened to owe him a favour.  Of course, being Deya, she had turned the tables
on him rather neatly, practically insuring that Elrond would eventually discern
what had happened by dressing the last dancers almost identically to the two of
them.  Celeborn sighed.  It was so hard to get good help these days.

In any case, it was foolish of Elrond to believe that Celeborn would ever drop
his guard where he was concerned; his son-in-law could plot all he wanted, but
he would never have the opportunity to put any of his plans into action.  It
would be a relief, however, whenever Elrond got around to trying something, as
this eerie silence was beginning to grate on Celeborn's nerves.  He hoped Elrond
wouldn't do anything too extreme and cause him to have to retaliate.  Now that
it was all in the past, he almost felt as if he owed Imladris' master a
favour--he'd felt more alive in the past few weeks than he had in centuries, and
still had the pleasure of dealing with Galadriel to anticipate.  Despite
everything, that little trip to Imladris had been an excellent notion.  

The second hint he had that things might be becoming complicated was Galadriel's
decision to make another quick trip to Imladris, ostensibly to visit Arwen.  As
his lovely granddaughter had just returned home after an extended stay in
Lorien, Celeborn found this extremely difficult to believe, not to mention that
his wife had not bothered to even try to make her excuse convincing.  There was
something in her clear blue eyes that worried him.  If Galadriel was plotting
with Elrond, this whole situation might become considerably less amusing very
quickly.  There was no way for Celeborn to prevent her journey, however, nor
could he follow her as someone had to remain to continue the negotiations with
Thranduil.  It was going to be difficult enough to explain his wife's sudden
absence; obviously both of them could not just disappear.

Celeborn poured himself some more wine and scowled at the pretty green glass
bottle that held it.  A Mirkwood vintage.  The opaque glass rather reminded him
of Thranduil's clever green eyes, and he absentmindedly rubbed the bridge of his
nose.  Thranduil was yet another problem.  The king rarely left his realm, and
never without good reason.  Celeborn had no idea what he was doing here, taking
up endless hours in roundabout discussions that, when examined later, were shown
to be completely meaningless.  Elbereth, but the elf could talk!  They had spent
almost four hours in consultation the day before, and he still, for the life of
him, could not recall a single point of interest.  There had certainly been no
explanation for the king's visit.  

Thranduil wanted something, of course, that was sure, but just what it was
Celeborn had no idea.  Whatever it might be, though, he apparently had no doubts
that he would obtain it.  He positively dripped power, and his easy confidence
in his own authority vastly annoyed the Lord of Lorien.  Thranduil had moved
into the royal talan and made himself and his huge entourage as comfortable as
if he owned the place, monopolizing the servants who practically fell over
themselves to wait on his every need.  Celeborn had had to fetch his own wine as
all the available help were busy in the king's quarters.  He should have known
that he couldn't expect to take a few weeks off for a much-deserved break
without having to return to a mess, but this was more than he had planned.  He
sighed and finished his wine.  Why did he have a feeling that this was going to
be a very long week?

*   *   *

Elrohir was feeling a little dizzy.  It was an extraordinary experience to see
an old friend and mentor, who you had long believed you knew thoroughly,
suddenly transformed into a very different person.  The martinet in the glade
looked like Erestor, but the resemblance ended there.  The dandified little
housekeeper who had fed Elrohir treats and indulgently failed to report any of
his childhood capers to Elrond, was completely gone.  In his place was a tyrant
and sadist of unbelievable proportions.  Elrohir could hardly believe what he
was seeing as the day wore on.  And he had thought a few of Erestor's suggestion
to him about ways of pleasuring Glorfindel were over the top!  He now realised
that his old tutor had merely been playing with him.  He wasn't playing now--or,
if he was, Elrohir REALLY didn't want to be there when he decided to get
serious.

For hours, the twenty nude Noldor were put through tortures Elrohir doubted if
he would ever have thought up, no matter how many ages he might live.  Erestor
had early on declared that, before they could interrogate anyone properly, they
had to understand the uses of both pain and pleasure, and the best tutor for
that was experience.  Elrohir wasn't sure about the pleasure part, but the pain
was undoubted.  He would probably never be able to excise from his brain the
image of Erestor, in the dispassionate tone he had always used in the
schoolroom, giving an extended lecture of the basics of torture with various
"volunteers" as visual aides. 

The first two elves actually ended up better off than some of the others.  They
reappeared as Erestor was holding forth on the merits and disadvantages of using
a cat of nine tails over a cane or crop.  Unfurling one of the former, he walked
casually over to where the two elves had been stripped and tied in different
ways.  The first was shackled hand and foot and suspended from a thick,
overhanging tree limb.  Metal bars had been placed between his cuffs to insure
that his limbs were spread quite far apart.  The other had been affixed to a
strange contraption that looked like a large wheel.  

"The cane," Erestor lectured, "is usually considered more painful than the crop
but considerably less than this," and he fondled the heavy braided leather
weapon in his hand with affection.  "Usually, it is best to begin subtly and let
the individual rest in between sessions, to give them time to think about what
might be coming next.  Start with the crop or the cane," he advised, "and move
on from there as needed."  He nodded at Camthalion who proceeded to give the
first trussed elf a number of sharp whacks across the buttocks with the long,
thin reed in his hand.   Elros followed this by applying a riding crop to the
thighs and buttocks of the other elf.  Erestor had them stop after eight or ten
strokes and called the observers over to examine the differences between the
marks.  Spinning the elf on the wheel upside down, he brought his bright pink
posterior to eye level and nodded approval at Elros.  "Nicely done, but then,
you always were a quick learner."

After a discussion on the merits of the cat, as Erestor fondly called it, he
looked about as if searching for a volunteer on whom to demonstrate, but the
assembled elves all seemed to suddenly find the grass extremely interesting and
none met his eyes.  He sighed, "perhaps we'll leave this for another day, when
you've advanced a bit further."  He looked rather disappointed, Elrohir thought
in amazement.  Had he actually expected anyone to volunteer?

Their meditation on the local flora did not save several elves from being
brought forward to demonstrate the proper use of nipple clamps, of which Erestor
seemed to have an astounding collection, complete with weights of differing
sizes.  "It is truly amazing," he was saying, as he attached a particularly
heavy specimen to the clamp biting into the breast of one large elf, "how much
pain one of these tiny things, if properly applied, can inflict."  The elf, who
had steadfastly refused to show any emotion up to this point, winced slightly as
Erestor adjusted the device.  "Such clamps can also be applied to the genitals,"
he commented casually, his hand sliding down the front of the hapless elf, whose
face had taken on a warm pink flush by the time Erestor began to stroke a thumb
over one soft, furred ball.  "Similar weights may be attached to either the
penis or testicles, varying in size depending on the amount of . . .incentive .
. . you wish to apply," he continued.  This little piece of information caused
the elf on display to lose his recently acquired colour and begin to look
seriously worried.  Erestor smiled into his suddenly huge blue eyes with
tolerant amusement.  "But that's also a lesson for another day," he murmured
before releasing the slightly shaking elf, whose eyes glistened with tears of
profound relief.  
 
And so it went, hour after hour, as such things as methods of using ice and hot
wax, various types of gags, and whether blindfolds or hoods were best in
particular situations were discussed with no more concern than if Erestor was
conversing on the weather.  He finally released the sore, aching and extremely
subdued Noldor just after lunch, sending them off with the ominous
pronouncement, "We'll move on to intermediate lessons tomorrow!"  

Elrohir sat on the ground, partly to make himself smaller so as not to be
noticed by the departing Noldor, but also because his head was frankly spinning. 
What a completely bizarre way to spend a morning.  Glorfindel was never going to
believe this.  The fresh, green smell of the woods was comforting, and he
thought that perhaps, in an hour or two, he might be able to return to the talan
unaided.  Then, out of nowhere, Erestor's animated face appeared in front of
him, black eyes glittering wickedly.  "Lunch, young one?  Or would you like to
stay and play with the boys?  I think Elros and Cam are going to remain awhile." 
Elrohir suddenly found strength flowing back into him, and he scrambled to
quickly follow Erestor, glancing back over his shoulder to see Cam spinning the
wheel with a delighted expression on his face. 

TBC



Title: Wild Justice 3/? 

* * *

He had been having a wonderful dream.  He was in a place of light and beauty,
laughter and song, with plenty of food and a blissful absence of pain.  He did
not know where this place was, or who the shadowy figures who populated it might
be, but that did not matter.  He did not even know his own face anymore.  He had
once spent as much time as he dared, when the overseers momentarily left him
alone, staring into the dark pools in the center of this endless cavern of
stone.  The torch-light had allowed him to just make out his haggard features in
the murky water, but what he had seen was no more familiar to him than the face
of a stranger.  

He vaguely thought that once, long ago, his hair had been dark and silky, not
the wispy white strands that now framed his face; and perhaps he had not always
looked so weak, almost translucent, as if part of his body had faded along with
his memory.  It had been impossible to tell in his poor mirror what colour his
eyes were, but he rather thought that perhaps they had been blue . . . It did
not matter anyway, and these days, he no longer even bothered to look.  Nothing
was of importance except continuing the dream for as long as possible.  To awake
was to return to pain, darkness and despair.  

He thought, in some part of his mind that was still able to function, that the
dream world he saw had once been real.  In another place and time, he had known
happiness, almost a foreign concept to him now, and health, instead of this
constant weariness and unrelieved pain.  Once he had stood proud, not constantly
bent with aches some part of his mind insisted he should not have.  Then others
had listened to his words with respect, instead of beating him if he even dared
to raise his eyes from the ground.  Yet, whenever he tried to focus on those
memories, or to see his dreams more clearly, waves of pain flooded through him
and awareness of anything was soon blotted out.  It was still important to him
to see the face of the one who always seemed to be by his side, but never quite
within vision range--a presence that, although hidden, felt familiar.  Yet he
never could, for even trying to focus on that one brought pain quicker and more
sharply than anything else.  

He had learned through the seemingly endless years to remain still, as the
beautiful dream people danced in front of his vision and charming music played
somewhere out of sight.  That way, occasionally, something new would edge its
way into his vision, and he could add another tiny fragment to the largely blank
canvass of his mind.  He did this more for lack of anything better to do, rather
than a burning curiosity to know who he was, what his name had been and what had
happened to him.  Those questions had once fired his mind, but the centuries,
the almost unceasing work and the regular torture inflicted by his captors had
largely convinced him that it was irrelevant.  He would die here, he knew that
now, in the dark and the damp, and never again see the light of the stars. 

*   *   *

Elwyyda blinked as a sudden flood of light hit her eyes when the hood was
removed.  She immediately turned on her captor and bit him as hard as she could. 
She'd have rather taken an axe to him, but her hands had been securely bound
behind her and anyway, she had not had anything that remotely resembled a weapon
in so long that she doubted she would know what to do with one.  The light
surprised her, though, for the mountain was always dark, for the goblins hated
the day.  Then, as large hands slipped a gag into her mouth, she had a chance to
look about and see that, wherever this strange place was, it was assuredly not
the mountain.  

She looked up to see shapes slowly coalesce around her as her eyes adjusted. 
The one immediately in front of her was nursing a wounded hand, and looking at
her in high annoyance.  She would have lunged for him again, except that, first,
strong hands were now holding her firmly around both bound arms, and, second,
her brain finally registered the fact that she was not, in fact, looking at an
orc.  Instead, the creature who glared at her as he wrapped his hand in a
handkerchief was . . . 

"Zirak!," she tried to grab him, but could only struggle uselessly against her
captors.  But no, wait.  It could not be he.  Zirak was much thinner and his
hair, though light, did not have the same sheen; it looked like dirty cotton,
but had once had a silver tint to it.  That was why she had given him his name,
meaning silver in the tongue of her people.  This one's hair was like spun gold,
and he wore a sapphire tunic of a fine weave, not dirty rags.  But they had the
same eyes, a bright, true blue, and a light seemed to radiate from both of them. 
This one, then, must be another like Zirak.  She had occasionally seen them in
the mines, but only from a distance.  Reassured that, at least, it was not the
goblins who had found her, she stilled and waited.

"A dwarf!  I might have known.  Why didn't the guards gag her?," the one that
was not Zirak asked, his voice as fair as the words were harsh.  

Another of the shining ones answered, "They gave her drugged wine to render her
unconscious.  One underfed dwarvish female is hardly a threat in any case. 
Besides, she is here to talk and a gag might make that somewhat difficult. 
Please, Haldir, stand aside and let Gildor try.  He has been known to have
success in these cases."  The voice came from over her shoulder, so she could
not see who spoke, but another of the bright ones approached and caught her
attention.  He was dark of hair and eyes, but there was a gentleness about him
that reminded her even more of Zirak than the other.  

He smiled down at her, and his eyes were kind.  "If I remove the gag, will you
speak with us a time?  We will not hurt you." 

Elwyyda nodded cautiously, and the cloth was removed from her mouth.  The dark
one gestured and the hands holding her arms were withdrawn.  He removed the
strange, grey rope, freeing her from her bonds, but she was not deceived.  The
golden haired one behind him was armed, with a long, well made knife at his
belt, and he looked at her with suspicion.  She glanced about and saw four other
shining ones, one near each of the exits to the large, round room.  Getting out
of here was not going to be easy, but she was determined to try.  She was NOT
going back there; she would gladly die first.  

"I am called Gildor," the dark one, who had seated himself on the floor before
her, said as easily as if they had known each other all their lives.  It was
strange, Elwyyda thought, but she almost felt as if they had.  This one reminded
her of Zirak so much that it was necessary to remind herself that it was not,
could not, be he.  But, she thought, examining the one before her carefully,
perhaps this was what he would have looked like, had not the goblins so
delighted in torturing him.  "Why did you call me . . . Zirak, was it?"  

Elwyyda would have preferred to say nothing, but she had so long been
conditioned to answer or suffer greatly for it, that her response was almost
automatic.   "You are like him.  You look like him."  Her voice sounded rough,
even to own her ears, compared with the lilting quality of this Gildor's, but he
did not seem to notice.  The golden one winced, however, as if the sounds hurt
his delicate ears.  She smiled grimly; the goblins made noises that would cause
him considerably more pain than her attempts at speech.  She felt like telling
him that dwarvish voices, too, could be fair, but not when they had spent most
of their lives either unused or screaming in agony.  Still, what was the use? 
Elwyyda was not accustomed to wasting effort--better to hoard your strength for
survival.

"How do I look like him?"  The question seemed an innocent one, and Gildor's
eyes were large and clear, not narrowed in hate as the orcs' usually were.  

Elwyyda considered for a moment, then reached out a tentative hand to touch his
arm where it glowed beyond the short sleeve of his tunic.  "You shine," she
whispered, astonished at the feel of his skin.  She had never known anything
like it.  Even Zirak's was not so fine.  The golden one stepped forward, a
warning on his lips, but Gildor glanced at him and he did not interfere.  

"And Zirak shone?"  Gildor asked, more urgency in his tone, but he did not draw
back from her touch.  She just nodded, feeling suddenly shy.  Her clothes were
torn and stained, and had originally been cast offs from another prisoner who
had not survived.  Aule knew how long it had been since they were actually
clean.  She had not seen her reflection in so long that she had no idea what she
looked like, but knew her appearance must be terribly rough in comparison to the
beautiful creature in front of her.  Even Zirak was not so fair, she thought in
amazement.  This one's voice was almost like music when he asked her, "So Zirak
is not a dwarf, then?"

Elwyyda shook her head.  She suddenly longed for a bath, to be clean and dressed
in fine clothes like Gildor.  She glanced down at her hands, with their scars
and calluses and the collective dirt of years of harsh work in the mines, and
wished that they could be clean and soft like his.  But even then, she thought
sadly, they would still be stubby and clumsy, while his hands were almost works
of art . . . 

The golden one said something in a language she did not know.  At least Elydda
thought it must be a language, for Gildor replied in similar sounds.  But it was
not anything like Khuzdul or Westron.  She contented herself with examining
Gildor more closely, and found it beautiful how the sunlight coming through the
high windows of the room gilded his dark lashes.  Finally, he turned back to
her.  "Can you describe him for me?"  When she hesitated, Gildor scrambled to
his feet.  "Is he my height?"  

Elwyyda walked slowly around him, trying to remember.  For some reason, she
wanted to answer this one well. "Maybe.  But you are straight."

"And he is not?  He does not stand straight?"

She shook her head, then hunched over slightly.  "Like this," and she walked
with the bent, dragging stumble that was all she had ever seen Zirak use.  His
foot had been injured once, long before she came, and the mine passages,
although plenty high for the orcs who never walked fully erect, caused him
constantly to have to bend over.  She supposed he had become used to it.   

Gildor nodded thoughtfully.  "And what else?  Is he dark like me or," and he
indicated the golden one, "fair like Haldir?  Oh, forgive me, this is my
partner, Haldir of Lorien."  The other one and Elwyyda both looked at Gildor as
though he was mad, to introduce her as if she was some kind of equal, but
neither commented.  

After a moment, Elwyyda shook her head slightly and answered his question.  "No,
not like you or him," she shot a look of irritation at Haldir, who was scowling
at her again.  "Zirak is . . . ", she sighed and looked about.  It was hard to
speak, to remember the words.  There had been few needed in the mines, and over
the years, one just forgot them.

"Like this?"  Gildor summoned another of the shining ones, this time with black
hair and eyes that gleamed.  "This is Lord Erestor," he added, smiling as he
introduced them.  Elwyyda wanted to ask him to stop doing that, as it was . . .
inappropriate somehow.  She was a mine slave, and an escaped one at that. 
Introducing her to people who wore fine clothing and smelled of spices and
flowers was . . . well, it was almost obscene.  She could not imagine what she
was even doing here, but Gildor's warm brown eyes were regarding her
expectantly, so she shook her head.  He did not seem upset, but simply called
over another elf.  

Elwyyda noticed that the door nearest her, by which the black haired one had
been standing, was now unguarded, but she did not try to run towards it.  She
did not know what lay beyond it, and did not want to anger these people.  She
had yet to see an orc, but they could be waiting outside to take her back if she
displeased the bright ones.  She had escaped by showing infinite patience,
always watching for her chance.  She could do so again.  In the meantime, why
not tell them?  What more harm could be done to Zirak by them or anyone else? 
In the mines, death was sometimes preferable to life, when the pain became too
great.  She had long thought that was the case for him, but he had been her
friend and she had refrained from saying so.  When he wished to die, he would.

"Like those."  She pointed at the robes worn by this latest addition to their
little group.  He was true zirak--hair and eyes and clothes--so bright that he
almost blinded her.  "Like that one."

"Silver?  Oh, but of course--Zirak, what else?"  

Elwyyda watched as the bright ones spoke together in their pretty language.  It
was strange, like singing instead of speech . . . She swayed slightly on her
feet, but did not fall.  Showing weakness in the mines would get you killed. 
Her mother had died because she fell over in her exhaustion, and the orcs had
simply kicked her off into a chasm.  Elwyyda had been only a child then, but she
remembered.  Through the years, she had learned to sleep standing up if need be,
but she wished her fatigue would leave her now.  She did not want to sleep only
to wake up and find that she was back in the mines.  She had slept very little
since her escape, for that reason.

"You are fatigued." Gildor put a hand on her shoulder, but his touch was gentle. 
"Come, I will show you where you can rest."

"And . . . ," she was too tired to think of the word, although it was a simple
one.      

Gildor did not seem to notice.  "And eat and wash and everything you want.  Come
with me," and he smiled at her again.  Elwydda thought suddenly that she would
follow this one anywhere if he continued to look at her like that.

*   *   *

Haldir finally managed to escape from the-meeting-that-would-not-end and
immediately headed for Elladan's rooms.  He had one more duty to perform that
day before he could, finally, manage some time with his lover, and he wanted to
get it over with as soon as possible.  He had been suffering from steadily
mounting frustration for several days and it had finally become extreme.  It
seemed as if the world was conspiring to keep him away from Gildor.  Every time
they tried to be alone, someone or something interrupted--often his lust-crazed
brother, who was going to get himself killed if he didn't find another object of
affection.  

Glorfindel hadn't seemed to notice the situation yet, probably because he was
frequently stuck in meetings, but it was only a matter of time.  And, of course,
he might not have to do anything in the first place, as Elrohir was well on the
way to finishing off Orophin all by himself.  In the last two days, Orophin had
been tripped, stepped on and almost tipped off the edge of a talan, and those
were just the incidents Haldir knew about.  The Valar alone knew what was
happening besides.  At this rate his stubborn brother would need to return to
the Northern Fences for a holiday--killing a few orcs would be positively
restful compared to his treatment in the city lately.
 
Haldir paused in the corridor, head cocked, listening.  High-pitched feminine
giggles echoed dimly from beyond Elladan's closed door.  Of course.  He should
have known.  Elladan had been here less than a day, much of which had been spent
greeting his grandparents, and yet here he was, already . . . occupied.  Haldir
should have nabbed him as soon as he showed up at the borders.  He hated to be
interrupted himself, especially as it had been happening all too frequently of
late, and therefore decided to return later, hoping to catch Elladan free for a
moment or two.  They really had to discuss their respective brothers before
something truly unfortunate happened.  

He was just turning away as the door opened and Elladan appeared, tunic awry and
a satisfied grin on his face, supported on each side by an elf maid in a similar
state of disarray.  Haldir's eyes narrowed as he recognized Celebrethil and
Ithilessar both of whom he had favoured with his attentions in the past.  Of
course, he had a permanent lover now, but still . . .  It was positively
indecent the way they were hanging all over Elladan, not that the elf seemed to
mind in the slightest.  It quickly became obvious that none of them was in any
condition to have a serious discussion, although they cheerfully invited Haldir
to accompany them to the baths.  He declined, watching with half irritation and
half amusement as the three headed slowly down the corridor.  The maidens did
their best to keep Elladan walking a somewhat straight line, but as they had
apparently been tippling a bit along with him, the three merely succeeded in
lurching in tandem down the hall.  They bounced off one last wall before
disappearing from sight, still giggling like maniacs. 

Oh well, Haldir thought, cheering up.  He'd try again after dinner.  Perhaps, if
he was quick, he could catch Elladan as he left the dining hall, assuming he
didn't drown in the baths and managed to sober up enough to attend the meal.  In
the meantime, maybe he could catch Gildor alone for a few minutes before someone
or something intervened.  He went off humming happily.  His good mood lasted
just long enough for him to return to their room; there he discovered his
companion busy attempting, of all things, to fix the hair of that ridiculous
dwarf Thranduil's spies had dragged in.  By the look of things, Gildor was not
enjoying the experience, but wore the expression Haldir had learned meant that
he intended to stay with something until he finished it.  Haldir had often had
reason to be very grateful for his persistence; this wasn't, however, one of
those times.  

Haldir watched Gildor struggle with the creature's severely matted locks for a
few minutes before crossing the room and taking the comb away from him.  "Go. 
Sit.  I'll do this."  If he didn't, any chance of some time alone would be lost. 
He was glad to see that Gildor had persuaded it to bathe at some point and had
dressed it in one of his tunics.  Unfortunately it was a new one--the bright red
about which he had very fond feelings as the last time they had . . . interacted
. . . Gildor had been wearing it.  Well, he wouldn't again, Haldir thought in
disgust.  The bath the creature had taken needed to be repeated--maybe a few
dozen times--and what WAS that in its hair?  He wrinkled up his nose at the
smell that wafted up from the stiff substance beneath his hands and saw Gildor
glare at him.  What was wrong with the elf today?  

Haldir, of course, knew the answer to that, which was why he tried to be as
gentle as possible while imposing order on the mess before him.  Gildor adopted
things--cats with only one leg, birds with broken wings, wounded
humans--virtually anything that looked helpless was impossible for him to
ignore.  Haldir had seen the menagerie of deformed creatures he had collected on
his travels and brought back to Imladris, where most of them made serious
nuisances of themselves thereafter.  He'd persuaded Gildor to leave his
collection behind, assuring him that they would be more comfortable in familiar
surroundings, so he supposed it shouldn't surprise him that his lover had found
a substitute.  Haldir rather thought he'd prefer another three-legged cat. 

The little dwarf sat stiffly under his hands while he worked.  Gildor calmed
down when he saw that Haldir intended to take good care of it and stretched out
on the divan, smiling at the two of them.  Haldir continued his work, but his
eyes were on his companion more than they were the dwarf.  Gildor looked
wonderful.  His tunic was wet in front from, Haldir supposed, the sopping hair
of the dwarf on which he'd been working, and it outlined a beautifully sculpted
chest.  He was wearing a faded green ensemble in soft, much washed cotton that
hugged every contour.  It also, Haldir thought dreamily, brought out the green
flecks in his eyes that were often not noticeable.  He picked up the pace a
little on his work, but tried to avoid pulling its hair in the process, as he
preferred to keep Gildor in a good mood.  Elbereth!  It would be easier just to
cut the mess off and let it grow again!

Finally, after what felt like half an age, Haldir managed to work through most
of the tangles.  Some few remained, but he would have liked to see anyone defeat
them.  Gildor checked his work and agreed--they would have some cutting to do. 
"But tomorrow, I think," Haldir said smoothly.  "The poor child is tired now. 
Let her rest.  I assume rooms have been assigned?"  Gildor agreed that they had,
and escorted the thing away, promising to return shortly.  Haldir smiled after
him, then hurried about, making preparations.  They still had an hour or so
before dinner, and he did not intend to waste it.  

By the time Gildor returned, Haldir had tidied up the room, changed into a sky
blue silk robe and reclined gracefully on the divan.  He smiled invitingly as
Gildor entered, but his lover didn't appear to notice.   Instead, he pulled his
damp tunic over his head and began to root around in the wardrobe for another,
delighting Haldir with the view of a well toned back tapering down to perfect
buttocks that were straining against his tight fitting leggings.  The day was
definitely looking up.

"I think they may be right, Haldir," Gildor commented, giving up on the wardrobe
and starting to look through his bags in search of something clean and
relatively wrinkle free.  "In fact, the situation may be even more grave than we
thought.  I had a chance to talk to Elwyyda some more and she described seeing
several of the "shining ones" as she calls us, at work in the mines.  As she was
restricted to only one area, there may be even more that she doesn't know
about."

Haldir sighed.  Gildor did not seem to be in the appropriate mood.  "That's
impossible.  If a large group of elves suddenly went missing, it would certainly
be noticed.  And I refuse to believe that any elves could be held captive for
any length of time by goblins--and as mine slaves at that!  They would have
found a way free or died trying.  No elf would, or could, live like that." 
Haldir moved over to Gildor, who was now rooting around under the bed.  His
lover had many good traits, but tidiness was not among them.  "Leave it," he
murmured.  "For what I have in mind, you won't need clothing."

Gildor shot him an amused look, but continued his search.  "Dinner is in an hour
and I have to look respectable."

"We'll skip it."  Haldir decided that he could see Elladan later; the elf
probably wouldn't be at the meal anyway, if he remembered his former companions'
talents as well as he thought he did.  

"We can't skip it.  What if they want to ask me about what else Elwyyda said?"

"Then they can come and find us," Haldir murmured, pushing him back onto the
bed.  

"But . . . this is important, Haldir . . . ," Gildor began, but his complaints
tapered off as Haldir let his robe fall to the floor.  He wore nothing beneath
it, and Gildor swallowed, looking torn.  Haldir didn't wait to see if lust or
duty would win out, but covered Gildor's body with his own.    

"So is this," he replied, turning his attentions full on his charming companion,
who squirmed into a more comfortable position on the bed but continued his train
of thought.  

"But . . . she said that Zirak had been there a very long time.  That an old
dwarf who had been caught years before told her that Zirak was there when he
arrived, so who can say how long ago he was captured?  Perhaps so much time has
passed that no one remembers."

Haldir nuzzled the base of Gildor's neck, savouring his spicy sent.  "Elves do
not simply go missing, Gildor.  Someone would have gone looking for any that
did, and recorded their loss if they could not be found.  It simply isn't
possible.  Besides, what kind of name is that for an elf?"

"But, do we not have to assume she is telling the truth?"  Gildor's voice became
a little breathless as Haldir began kissing a trail down his chest.  "We have to
investigate--can you imagine elves, perhaps lost for centuries, forced to work
deep underground?"  A shudder ran through him at the very thought.  Haldir
agreed--he personally could think of no greater torment for a lover of the stars
and wide-open spaces--but wished Gildor would not worry himself so over
something so unlikely. 

"Someone could have paid her to say these things," Haldir commented, tugging at
the lightweight fabric of Gildor's leggings, slowly revealing the beauty within. 
"It could be nothing more than an attempt to lure us into a trap. Besides, she
is a dwarf.  You cannot trust anything they say.  She could simply be telling
you what she thinks you want to hear."  He dipped his head to pleasure Gildor,
only to find his previously willing lover sliding out from beneath him to stand
at the bedside, regarding him in annoyance.  

"You can't really believe that."  Gildor had no idea of the sight he made,
Haldir thought dizzily, with his hands on his hips, his leggings around his
ankles, and his skin slightly flushed.  Haldir had never seen anything so
beautiful, or anything he wanted more.  He reached for him, but Gildor attempted
to move back, apparently intent on finishing their discussion.  Thankfully his
leggings tripped him up and Haldir quickly followed him to the floor.  

"I'll believe anything you like, lirimaer, but I would prefer to discuss it
another time."  Capturing Gildor's lips in an insistent kiss, he insured that
further debate was impossible.  He would never get tired of this, he thought,
sighing into his lover's mouth, while sliding a hand down his silky back to
caress his perfect cheeks.  The oil was on the bedside table, easily within
reach, and Haldir smiled as his fingers closed around it.  Finally!  

Suddenly, Haldir couldn't stand it any more and flipped Gildor over on the soft
rug beneath them.  "I need you now, melethryn," he growled, finding with ease
his companion's small entrance and gently pressing an oil-slicked finger within
it. As always, Gildor was warm and velvet soft inside.  As Haldir pushed a
little deeper, his lover's flesh clutched tightly around his fingers.  Perfect! 
It was all Haldir could do not to hurry things any further.  He had sworn to
himself never to risk hurting Gildor, however, and he kept his promise,
carefully preparing him until he could easily accept three fingers.  Oh, Haldir
thought as he finally positioned himself between his lover's thighs, how very
much he needed this . . . 

"Haldir . . .," Gildor was breathing heavily, "I think that was a knock at the
door."

"No, it wasn't."  Haldir had heard, but was determined to ignore it.  If it was
Orophin, he didn't think even brotherly affection would save him.  The knock
came again, louder this time, and Haldir could have cried with frustration.  NO! 
Not again!  "Ignore it," he told Gildor desperately, but his lover was already
sliding from beneath him.  

"Haldir, it could be from the council--Lord Celeborn or King Thranduil may wish
to see us."  Before he could stop him, Gildor had flung on Haldir's discarded
robe and opened the door, using his body to shield his lover from view. 
Erestor's amused black eyes nonetheless peered around Gildor's broad shoulder to
twinkle at Haldir, who was lying wretched and unfulfilled on the floor.  Haldir
was too miserable to care.  He must have offended some deity at some point, and
the Valar were amusing themselves tormenting him.  It was the only explanation.

"So sorry to, er, interrupt," Erestor commented, grinning like the fiend he was. 
"But your presence is requested in Lord Celeborn's chambers.  We'll be dining
informally tonight."  His eyes ran over Haldir's form appreciatively.  "Not
quite THAT informally, however . . . more's the pity."

"I don't suppose," Haldir commented wearily, "that you could stall them for,
say, fifteen minutes?"

Erestor laughed.  "My dear Haldir, is that all you need?"  He clucked his
tongue.  "How very disappointing."  Haldir glared at him, but it did not seem to
have much of an effect.  "In any case, I am afraid not.  Lord Celeborn was most
insistent that I fetch you right away.  Cheer up, young one--there will be time
for play later."   

Haldir did not bother to comment as he painfully hauled himself to his feet,
going to look for his loosest clothes.  After dinner, he promised himself, as he
tossed Gildor one of his own robes and met his partner's sympathetic gaze.  Come
what may--up to and including a massive orc invasion--he was going to take
Gildor to bed and keep him there, possibly for a week.


TBC   


Title: Wild Justice 4/? 

* * *

Glorfindel had long suspected some ulterior motive behind Thranduil's visit to
Lorien.  That had not been a difficult to surmise, as anything else would have
been out of character.  He had been prepared, however, to accept the king's
story, especially with the dwarf's evidence, at face value, as even the ruler of
Mirkwood could not fail to be moved by such a tale.  Thranduil's odd reluctance
to come to the point in recent discussions had also been explained, as he was
waiting to see if his spies could locate the dwarf again, having lost her after
hearing only part of her story.  Glorfindel agreed that Thranduil's reputation
would have almost insured disbelief had he not produced some type of proof; it
was difficult enough to accept as it was.  

His suspicions had all been raised again, however, by the king's apparently
casual advice that Elrond be brought from Imladris to assist with the medical
side of things, should anyone actually be recovered.   Celeborn had looked
impassive, but then, he usually did.  The length of time he took to answer,
however, made it clear that he, too, had his doubts.  Thranduil and Elrond were
no longer actually enemies, as the last five hundred years had seen a gradual
lessening of tensions between the two kingdoms following his long ago diplomatic
assignment.  But no one could call them exactly friendly.  Elladan had visited
Thranduil's court on his coming of age and had apparently made a good
impression, but for Thranduil to actually request Elrond's help in 
anything . . . well, it was odd.  Celeborn at length agreed, however, having 
no good reason to refuse, and the meal came to an end shortly thereafter. 
Glorfindel lingered as the others filed out, intent on finding out what
nefarious plans Thranduil might have in mind for Elrond.

The king looked well, he thought, attired unusually for him in blue, all velvet
and sapphires and delicately wrought mithril adornments.  Glorfindel had
marveled at the richness of Thranduil's attire since he arrived, as the king had
dressed much more plainly in his own land, but he seemed to be making extreme
efforts to look enticing in Lorien.  Of course, Glorfindel reflected, he
sometimes forgot how intimidating the Golden Wood could be to those not
intimately familiar with it.  Not that he seriously thought Thranduil was
unsettled by much of anything, but perhaps the adornments were a way of evening
the score a bit; in effect, he was saying that Mirkwood may not be as attractive
as Lorien, but it, too, has points of beauty.  One of which was currently
regarding Glorfindel with a little smile on his face.

Thranduil tipped the bottle in his hand slightly in Glorfindel's direction, but
he declined.  It was always best to be clear headed when dealing with the king.
It was also necessary to employ a little deviousness.  "I congratulate your
people on locating the dwarf.  Her evidence will be most useful in finding this
mine."

"They should never have lost her in the first place," Thranduil replied, leaning
against the mantel and regarding Glorfindel through half closed eyes.  They had
eaten in Celeborn's library.  It was thought best to discuss these events in
private, as their nature was sure to inflame the passions of the entire elvish
community should they become generally known.  Besides, nothing was as yet
proven.  Thranduil had explained that the humans had captured a dwarf who was
raiding their supplies and those of his people who lived near the borders of
Mirkwood.  They had turned her over to his agents at his request, and recounted
the tale she had told her gaolers of a mine run by goblins and orcs where
captured peoples of all races, including some elves, laboured unceasingly.   His
spies had thereafter lost the little creature, but at length caught her again
after drugging a wineskin that they left unattended near a house she had
recently raided.  They had swiftly brought her to Lorien so that the king's
story might be substantiated.  

Glorfindel had been pleased with the setting for their discussion, as the
library was one of his favourite places in all of Lorien, containing written
treasures from ages past as well as some of the most intricate wood carvings he
had ever seen.  It was impossible to tell where, exactly, the walls of the talan
began and the trunk of the huge mallyrn ended, as all were engraved with vines,
flowers and scenes from Lorien's history.  The huge fireplace was virtually the
only thing in the room that was not made of some type of wood. The library was
cavernous, as Celeborn had amassed quite a collection, but it seemed suddenly
much smaller than before, despite the fact that only he and Thranduil remained. 
The king looked casual, leaning against the stones as he drank his wine, the
firelight glimmering off the jewels at his neck and those embroidered into the
fabric of his robe and turning his hair to purest silver.  

Glorfindel did not like the way Thranduil's eyes roved over him, and wondered if
anyone had explained about he and Elrohir.  He supposed he should have mentioned
it, but it had been Celeborn who introduced his grandson to the king, and as he
made no mention of the relationship, it would have been awkward for Glorfindel
to do so.  It also seemed difficult to bring it up now, as it was more than a
bit of a non-sequiteur, and Thranduil had yet to make any type of advance. 
Still, Glorfindel felt the weight of that gaze on him, and shifted slightly. 
Only Thranduil could manage to make him feel young and somewhat uncertain.  He
noticed that the king's smile had grown somewhat bigger, and wondered what the
price for the information he wanted on Thranduil's plans was likely to be.  

*   *   *

Elrohir had just finished a very unsatisfactory meal, practically alone as,
although people had surrounded him on all sides in his grandfather's banqueting
hall, he had known practically none of them.  Celeborn, Erestor, Thranduil and
Glorfindel were all dining together, apparently on "state business" which did
not require his input.  Even Gildor and that annoying Haldir had gone missing,
although Orophin, as usual, had been at his side the whole meal.  Elrohir had
almost given up trying to get rid of him, as nothing seemed to work.  He had
settled for simply ignoring him.

Elrohir finished eating early as, although the food was excellent, his appetite
was poor, and he escaped from the hall as soon as he could.  He was intent on
finding Glorfindel even if it meant interrupting an important diplomatic
discussion.  He had hardly seen his lover in days, which had certainly not been
his intent on bringing him along.  Besides, he thought in high irritation, he
had been trained in diplomacy, too, and by Elrond of Imladris at that.  So why
shouldn't he be there?  He wasn't some elfling who could not be trusted to keep
quiet about a sensitive matter.  The more he thought about it, the more incensed
he became that he had been so casually excluded.  He was as much his father's
representative at Lorien as Glorfindel, even if he was actually less familiar
with it.  But how was he supposed to become knowledgeable if no one ever allowed
him to observe?  

By the time he made his way to his grandfather's library, he was quite
distressed and his colour was up.  Just outside the door was a sight calculated
to send his blood pressure even higher.  Orophin, propped against the door, arms
crossed over his broad chest, smiled gently at him.  "I wouldn't do that if I
were you." 

"Do what?"  Elrohir couldn't imagine how the annoying Galadrim had reached the
library before him, as he was certain he had left him behind, still eating, in
the hall.  

"Go into the library.  Of course, it is your decision, but don't say I didn't
warn you."  Elrohir glowered at him, not the least because Orophin's eyes had
started to wander over his body as they were prone to do.

"Get out of my way."

Orophin shrugged and moved aside, clumsily knocking into the door as he did so. 
How this one had ever made it onto the border patrol was a mystery; he had
probably slept his way into the position, Elrohir thought in disgust.  He slowly
cracked open the door to avoid interrupting any discussion that might be going
on, as his grandfather's displeasure was not something to be risked
unnecessarily.  He almost immediately had to put a hand to the wall to keep
himself from falling over.  Time seemed to stop--he couldn't even feel his heart
beating anymore--and he started to grey out.  Strong arms pulled him back and
quietly shut the door.  He was helped along the hall and out into the cool night
air, which did absolutely nothing to revive him.  He barely registered its
presence.  "Breath," a voice commanded him, as his head was pushed between his
legs.  He was going to be sick, he knew it, yet nothing happened as he sat on
what felt like an overturned log, and tried not to faint.

After a few minutes, the world began to coalesce around him again and he sat up. 
He and Orophin--of course, he thought resignedly, who else?--were in a small
glade.  The great talan could be seen only a little way away, but the
surrounding trees gave this area a feeling of privacy.  Elrohir vaguely realised
that Orophin was talking.  " . . . inevitable, really.  I mean, everyone knows
about their affair--how else do you think the fences were mended between your
realms?  But I didn't know how to tell you. I wasn't certain that you would even
mind.  After all, many would be pleased with whatever crumbs someone like
Glorfindel was willing to allow them."

"What?"  Elrohir still felt disoriented, and could not quite believe what he had
just seen.  But the image was seared onto his eyes, and even when he shut them,
there it was.  Thranduil, his beautiful body nude and glowing in the firelight,
and Glorfindel, holding him in a tight embrace . . . he WAS going to be ill.

"Relax," Orophin's voice soothed him, as a gentle hand caressed his hair.  "I am
sorry you had to find out this way, but you would have discovered the truth
sooner or later.  Isn't it really better to know?"

Elrohir wanted to scream that no, it most certainly wasn't.  But hadn't he
already known?  Hadn't he suspected as much from the first time he saw them
together?  The sun and the moon, he had thought then, and what was he?  Nothing,
nothing at all in comparison.  He tried to tear away from Orophin's grasp, as he
couldn't let someone, especially this arrogant Galadrim, see him lose control
completely.  But strong arms held him tightly and calming noises were made, and
Elrohir suddenly didn't want to leave this warm embrace.  Where was he to go,
anyway?  Back to his cold rooms, or to Glorfindel's, which would be equally
empty?  He didn't think he could bear that, not when it felt like his heart was
being literally torn from his chest.

Orophin was running a light touch down his back, but, for once, it did not feel
sensual.  Instead, his hands were soothing and sympathetic, and Elrohir found
himself leaning into them gratefully.  Slowly, the touch became a caress, and
the arms around him tightened as Orophin drew him into a kiss.  It was soft and
gentle at first, and Elrohir was surprised to find himself warming to it,
especially when Orophin slipped between his lips and began exploring his mouth. 
Here was someone who wanted him, who had wanted him since they first met. 
Elrohir hadn't wanted to admit it, but there was something alluring about
Orophin's feline sexuality, and the grace and controlled power of his movements.  

Why not, he thought suddenly.  Why should he be the only one in a cold, empty
bed this night--it was obvious that Glorfindel would not be.  So Elrohir did not
protest when Orophin began to slowly slide his robes from his shoulders, pausing
to explore with his lips the areas revealed.  He said nothing when Orophin
suddenly stood and divested himself of his own robes, just noticing in a
detached kind of way that the moonlight on his skin was attractive, and was so
bright that, where it fell through a gap in the treetops, it lit him almost as
well as day.  His arousal was obvious, as was his languid smile.  "Lle naa
vanima, Elrohir," he murmured, slowly removing the rest of Elrohir's clothes. 
"I have waited a long time for this."

*   *   *

Glorfindel broke away from Thranduil, his heart racing.  As usual in the king's
presence, he was feeling slightly off kilter.  He had not been expecting his
companion to suddenly put down his wine and, as if some type of invitation had
been offered and accepted, simply let his robes fall to the floor.  He should
have known never to underestimate Thranduil, but the quickness of the king's
actions left him momentarily stunned, and the feel of that satin skin on his
brought back some very attractive memories.  Thranduil lost no time in capturing
his lips, and Glorfindel briefly returned the kiss, his arms going automatically
around him to pull him closer.  Thranduil tasted of the wine, dark and sweet and
burning, and he was good; Glorfindel had forgotten just how good . . . A second
later, however, he broke away, remembering that his actions were no longer
solely his to decide.  

Besides, he didn't want this, he told himself, as he retreated to the far side
of the room, trying to put some much needed space between himself and the
beautiful creature who pursued him.  Thranduil waited until the bank of windows
behind him stopped Glorfindel's retreat, then followed.  His approach was slow
enough that Glorfindel had ample time to admire his perfect body, now clad only
in his shimmering jewels, as he came closer.  "Why do you run from me,
melethron?," Thranduil asked, reaching out to run a hand down Glorfindel's
brocaded robe.  "Your body disagrees with you, I think," he commented, as his
hand located the evidence of that fact.

Glorfindel drew away and turned to look out the window, trying to get himself
under control before anything excessively foolish happened.  It was in that
moment of confusion that he saw them, lit up as if on a stage by Ithil's light,
clearly visible from this far above the parting in the trees.  He stood, rooted
to the spot, hardly breathing as he watched Elrohir, who he had designated as
mela en' coiamin, leaning against a fallen log, his head thrown back in seeming
rapture as one of the Galadrim took him into his mouth.  

Glorfindel felt Thranduil's hand on his back, as the king came to stand behind
him.  "You see," he murmured, "some elves know what the night is for.  Come," he
coaxed, his arms going about Glorfindel to pull him close, "let us see if we old
ones remember, too, hmm?"

Glorfindel could barely hear him through the rushing in his ears, which sounded
as if a violent windstorm had suddenly blown up.  His vision seemed to narrow,
to the point where all he could see was the two figures in the glade, the one on
its hands and knees golden fair next to the dark beauty of his lover.  HIS
lover, Glorfindel thought savagely.  All of his high sounding conversations with
Erestor about letting his young companion stretch his wings a bit and gain some
experience went out the window as a violent shudder shook him.  He shrugged out
of Thranduil's hold and left the room, not bothering with the stairs but instead
sliding down a support cable to the ground below.

*   *   *

"The Valar preserve us!"  Haldir had taken advantage of Gildor's insistence on
checking up on the dwarf to slip back to the library, intent on retrieving the
bottle of truly excellent wine he had seen there for his planned evening's
entertainment.  Almost at the door, he managed to step nimbly out of the way as
it crashed open and Glorfindel came barreling out, a look on his face unlike any
Haldir had ever seen.  It told him as certainly as if someone had screamed it
that his brother had about two minutes left to live.

Abandoning caution and good sense, Haldir took off after Glorfindel, managing to
arrive in the little glade just in time to see the enraged Elda grab Orophin by
the back of the neck and lift him entirely off the ground.  His brother, not
inconsiderable in height or weight, dangled from Glorfindel's grasp helplessly,
a ridiculously dumbfounded expression on his face.  Orophin's lack of clothing
and obvious arousal told the tale without any need for words, which was just as
well as neither he nor Elrohir looked capable of speech at the moment.

"Glorfindel, no!"  Two voices rang out, almost simultaneously, and Haldir's head
whipped about to see Thranduil and Lord Celeborn stride into the glade behind
him.  Noting that their command had not even registered on Glorfindel, Haldir
moved forward to be ready in case more active interference was needed. 
Elbereth, but he hoped it wouldn't be, as he saw with dismay the fury that had
turned Glorfindel's usually bright blue eyes virtually black.  

"Put him down, seneschal, and explain yourself!"  Celeborn's tone of voice was
close enough to a shout to break through Glorfindel's rage.  Orophin was dumped
unceremoniously on the ground, where he sat, still apparently in a state of
shock, his eyes fixed on the wicked looking knife in his assailant's hand. 
Haldir hadn't even noticed it, but now his blood ran cold.  He gingerly reached
out to take it, but almost as if by magic, it was suddenly gone.  A second later
he noticed the edge of the carved hilt sticking out of the top of one of
Glorfindel's boots.  Haldir didn't wait for permission, but dragged his
dumbstruck brother out of harm's way.

"Perhaps we should discuss this indoors," Thranduil offered mildly, and Celeborn
nodded once, tersely.  

"All of you, in the library, now!," he stated, before turning and stalking back
to the talan. Haldir saw a look pass between his brother and Thranduil then,
almost one of warning on the king's part, but had no idea what it meant. 
Gathering up Orophin's scattered garments, he thrust them into his brother's
arms.  "Get dressed," he ordered, keeping an eye on Glorfindel.  

The fiery light was fading from Glorfindel's eyes, and he looked like someone
just awakening from a trance.  "Lle wethrine amin," he said softly, but he was
not addressing Elrohir as Haldir would have expected.  Instead, the words were
spoken to Thranduil, who merely sighed.  

"For your own good," the king commented, equally strangely from Haldir's
perspective.  He had the definite feeling that he had missed something, but
frankly did not want to know what it was.  At the look that passed between the
Eldar, however, he shivered.  He was profoundly grateful not to be King
Thranduil.

The scene that followed in the library wasn't pretty.  After a considerable
dressing down by Celeborn, Orophin reluctantly admitted that he had been drawn
into a plan by the king of Mirkwood to separate the two lovers.  Haldir closed
his eyes in embarrassed disbelief at Orophin's complete lack of judgment. 
Sometimes it was difficult to believe that they had the same parents.  He was
vastly relieved when Celeborn decided to blame the whole affair on Thranduil,
but his lord addressed the king in terms that made Haldir sincerely wish to be
somewhere else.  The least of them was "irresponsible troublemaker," and it went
on from there.  Thranduil sat quietly throughout the tirade, neither attempting
to comment nor visibly reacting.  Even his skin tone stayed the same, except for
a slight flush that could be blamed on the wine he had poured himself.  It was,
Haldir noted regretfully, the bottle he had planned to nab for his and Gildor's
enjoyment.  When Celeborn finally wound down, Thranduil still seemed
unconcerned.  

"Do you have nothing to say for yourself?," Celeborn thundered.  

"Only that you will regret this, Celeborn," Thranduil replied, looking
undisturbed.  There was a thread in his tone that sent a chill down Haldir's
back, however, and the king's peculiar half-smile didn't help.  Haldir thought
suddenly that he was also very grateful not to be Lord Celeborn.  He reflected
on the honest, loving, beautiful creature who waited for him in their rooms, and
a bolt of love and desire flashed through him.  Ah, Gildor, he thought fondly,
how I will please you tonight!

A moment later and the object of his affection burst into the room, ending what
had become a very uncomfortable silence.  "She's gone!," Gildor announced,
highly agitated.  "Elwyyda's disappeared!"  

TBC

A/N: The translations for the elvish phrases follow.

Lle naa vanima--You are beautiful.
Mela en' coiamin--The love of my life.
Lle wethrine amin--You deceived me.


Title: Wild Justice 5/?  
 
*   *   *  
 
The cave was large and dank and, as usual, Glorfindel did not like the 
sensation of being under a large amount of stone.  Especially in this case, 
as there were signs that a cave-in had taken place recently, and he kept 
glancing up at the roof uneasily.  Erestor had pointed out that it was the 
best place to interrogate their captives, however, and he had to agree.  He 
stood by the entrance, where a slight breeze tickled his face and he could 
keep the late afternoon sun in view, while Erestor and his band of trainees 
did their job.  He preferred not to watch.  
 
Glorfindel had always found Erestor's abilities at information extraction 
impressive, but rather sickening to behold.  The fact that those currently 
under interrogation were slavers, and particularly harsh ones at that, did 
not much alleviate his distaste.  Violence in battle, which, ironically 
enough, Erestor always found unpleasant, seemed somehow more . . . 
honest . . . to Glorfindel.  He did not mind shrink from hacking an enemy 
to pieces, if  that enemy had a weapon and an equal opportunity to do the 
same to him.  But this sort of practised cruelty always rather unsettled his 
stomach, no matter how much he agreed with its necessity.  He tried to 
concentrate on the condition some of the captives they had liberated had 
been in when they found them, instead of on the steadily increasing cries 
from the inner areas of the cave.  
 
"Cheese?"  
 
"What?  Oh, no, thank you."  
 
Erestor came up beside him, continuing to eat his late lunch placidly, even 
as a particularly wrenching scream echoed through the air.  Glorfindel 
winced slightly, but made no comment.   Erestor settled himself on a large 
boulder near the entrance and looked him over pensively.  "You should eat 
something, you know.  You look awful."  
 
It was true, Glorfindel knew.  He'd accidentally seen his reflection in a 
stream that morning and hadn't bothered to look again.  The scene two 
nights before between he and Elrohir still made him nauseous to 
contemplate, and he had not helped the problem by getting very drunk in 
his rooms thereafter.  He had not seen Elrohir since as the search team had 
left at first light in pursuit of the dwarf.  
 
"I take it he found out about you and the king?"  Erestor looked 
sympathetic.  They had not really had a chance to discuss the issue before, 
as all their time had been spent on the trail.  It had been easy enough to 
find, but catching up to Elwyyda had proven more difficult, as she had had 
the intelligence to steal a horse.  They had finally tracked her to a well-
traveled road heading north, but then made the unpleasant discovery that 
someone else had found her first.  Well, it could be worse, Glorfindel 
thought; it could have been orcs, in which case there would be no chance 
at all of ever seeing her again, or of  
locating her mysterious mountain.  
 
"Orophin told him.  I tried to explain."  Glorfindel repressed another wince 
at the memory, instead running a hand through his already tousled hair 
until it stuck out wildly in every direction.  He could not stop seeing 
Elrohir's eyes, hot with outrage and yet filled with tears, as he asked him 
WHY.  Suddenly he wanted another drink.  
 
"I take it the explanation was not very helpful."  
 
"He hates me, Erestor.  He thinks I was toying with him, that he was only 
one of a string of lovers that I gladly threw over as soon as Thranduil 
appeared."  
 
Erestor smiled, and waved a flask under Glorfindel's nose.  This he 
accepted thankfully, noting as it burned its way down his throat that it 
definitely wasn't miruvor. "If he knew Thranduil better, he might feel 
otherwise," Erestor commented.  "The king is not accustomed to being 
denied what he wants.  And he wants you.  He made that rather clear in 
Mirkwood, as I recall."  
 
Glorfindel gasped, both from the alcohol--what WAS this anyway--and at 
a shrill screech from indoors.  "That was 500 years ago!  You would think 
he'd have forgotten by now."  
 
Erestor shrugged, looking philosophical as he casually glanced back in the 
cave.  "Be careful, Cam.  I want information, not a corpse."  He retrieved 
his flask and took a drink.  Its potency did not seem to bother him, but 
then, Erestor was a connoisseur.  He'd probably long ago become 
accustomed to it.  "Thranduil has lived a long time, Glorfindel.  He has 
learned to be patient.  There is a difference, however, between patience 
and forgetfulness.  I do not think Thranduil has forgotten you; you are not 
rid of him yet."  
 
"I'll never trust him again."  
 
Erestor looked surprised.  "I didn't know you'd trusted him before.  At any 
rate, your feelings are not the point.  Until you convince the king to leave 
you alone, patching things up with the young one will be difficult.  You 
may have scared off Haldir's brother, but there will be others . . . Elrohir is 
very fair."  
 
Glorfindel glowered at his friend.  "Is this supposed to be comforting?"  
 
"Oh, forgive me.  I was under the impression that you wanted advice, not 
comfort.  I can tell you that all will be well if it will make you feel any 
better.  However, unless you do something about this situation, I am not at 
all sure that it will be.  The problem is that you are not accustomed to 
thinking like Thranduil.  You have to be devious enough to beat him at his 
own game."  
 
"You think I can't be devious?"  
 
Erestor looked him over critically.  "It's hard to say--you aren't exactly at 
your best at the moment--but I have never known intrigue to be your 
forte.  My dear Glorfindel," he said calmly, as his companion flushed, "do 
please try not to become emotional.  I know you are upset and that I speak 
plainly, but I thought you wanted my help.  Otherwise, what are we 
talking about?"  
 
Glorfindel glanced around.  No one was within hearing range, especially 
not with the caterwauling going on within the cave.  "What did you have 
in mind?"  
 
*   *   *  
 
Elrohir spied on Thranduil from his hidden vantage point high in the limbs 
of a tree adjacent to the library windows.  The king was reading 
something, his long silvery hair almost covering his face as he bent over 
the leather bound tome before him.  He was dressed fairly plainly that day, 
in a light green cotton tunic and leggings with only a few mithril 
adornments.  One of the latter was a large, beautifully wrought hair clip 
from which his silken tresses cascaded over his shoulders.  
 
Elrohir had finally calmed down enough to examine the question logically, 
and had come to a few important conclusions.  First, Thranduil was far 
more attractive than he would ever be, was a king, was vastly wealthy, and 
was personally magnetic.   Second, he and Glorfindel had a previous 
relationship that Thranduil obviously wanted to continue; wanted it badly 
enough, in fact, to risk jeopardizing relations with Lorien by concocting a 
risky scheme to obtain his desire.  Third, Glorfindel obviously still felt 
something for the king; in spite of his protestations, Elrohir knew what he 
had seen.  Added all together, the situation seemed completely hopeless, 
and Elrohir knew he should just give up.  Thranduil always won--at least 
that was his reputation--and who was he to oppose him?  
 
The king chanced to look up from his reading at that moment, and locked 
eyes with Elrohir, green to brown, for what seemed an eternity.  There was 
nothing said, but some communication passed between them anyway.  
Thranduil was the first to look away, returning to his book as if nothing 
had happened, while Elrohir sat, stunned, clinging to his tree limb.  
Thranduil had not looked at him with contempt or even with pity.  Instead, 
there had been a challenge in that stare, as if he saw Elrohir as a 
formidable adversary.  It took a few moments for Elrohir to absorb that, 
and to understand what it meant.  When he finally slid down the tree some 
while later, it was with a fourth resolution in mind.  This time, despite all 
the odds, the king of Mirkwood would not win.  Elrohir went off in search 
of his brother, a determined look in his eyes.  
 
*   *   *  
 
Haldir waited until he sensed the last elf slide into place around the small 
camp.  It had taken the better part of the night to catch up with their 
quarry, even with the slavers' information.  It had started to rain heavily 
early in the evening, and the water had obscured the trail.  Thankfully, the 
family was in an old wagon with a wonky back wheel, which kept their 
pace slow and forced them to stay on the larger, firmer roads.  Finally, 
after managing to lose them three times when the road passed various 
likely looking junctions, the band of elves finally caught up with the 
purchasers of that annoying dwarf.   Two days and nights of ceaseless toil 
she had caused them.  Personally, Haldir would have preferred to let her 
stay with the family once she was questioned, as she couldn't possibly 
receive any worse treatment from them than she had in the mountain all 
those years, but he knew Gildor would never agree.  He closed his eyes in 
horror of the thought of a dwarf living in his family talan.  He would never 
live it down.  
 
The circle of elves began to close in silently, although with the sound of 
the rain and the decibel level of the snores coming from inside the little 
wagon, their caution was probably unnecessary.  Haldir reached the door 
first and cautiously reached for the handle, just as something bit him on 
the ankle.  "What the . . . ?"  He jumped back and peered under the wagon, 
but it was far too dark even for elvin eyes to make out much.  He thought 
he saw something moving--probably a rabid dog based on how his ankle 
felt--only to see it scurry across to the other side where Gildor nabbed it.  
 
"Elwyyda, it's me!"  Haldir heard Gildor's delighted tones and scowled 
even harder.  He should have known.  The next time he came anywhere 
near the creature, he was wearing armor.  And she probably WAS rabid . . 
.  
 
Their party retreated into the forest once Gildor had sawed through the 
stout rope tying the little dwarf under the wagon.  It was fortunate that 
they had arrived when they did, as she had already made good headway on 
freeing herself by rubbing the rope over a rough iron nail in the wagon's 
floorboard.  She struggled halfheartedly, but Haldir thought she looked 
almost glad to see them--or at least, to see Gildor.  She glared at Haldir, 
although why was a mystery.  SHE had bitten HIM after all, not the other 
way around.  He eyed the remains of Gildor's tunic which she still wore 
with a true sense of loss, and listened as his lover tried to worm 
information out of her.  Erestor volunteered to talk to her, but the look 
Gildor sent him could have curdled milk.  "Talk only, I assure you," 
Erestor said, amused, but Gildor was having none of it.  Finally, after 
nearly an hour standing under still dripping skies, they had enough 
information to go on with and set out again, Elwyyda riding behind 
Gildor, her small arms tight about his waist.  
 
*   *   *  
 
He awoke to darkness, as always.  Sometimes he thought he had forgotten 
what light--real light, from the sun or a star--actually looked like, for it 
seemed so very long since he had seen it.  Sometimes he was convinced 
that he never had; that all he had ever known was flickering torchlight, 
which was itself a rarity here.  The overseers needed very little light for 
their huge eyes, and often he was left to toil alone in the darkness, just as 
he awoke every day to blackness so heavy it was almost possible to reach 
out and touch it.  
 
It was in those moments before they came to get him, when the final wisps 
of the dream left his mind and he faced the start of another day, that he 
most often thought of death.  He had seen it come to so many over the 
years, to other creatures who had their strength and youth devoured by 
ceaseless labour, and at first he had pitied them.  In recent years, however, 
he had begun to look on them with envy, for at least theirs was an escape 
of a sort and an end to the constant pain.  He had begun to long for such 
release even more since his last true friend went away.  He had tried to 
persuade her not to attempt escape, for the penalty if caught was a harsh 
death, but she had been obdurate.  
 
In the end he had been unable to hold her back just for selfish reasons, 
knowing that, although the chance was slim, she nonetheless might make 
it.  His injuries and size would never have permitted him to take the route 
she had found, after giving up precious hours of sleep to prowl the tunnels, 
silently as a cat, walking the way he had shown her.  One night she had 
gone, slipping through the little crack she had located into an adjacent 
cavern that was not well guarded.  He hoped she had made a complete 
escape, but there was no way to know.  Still, he hadn't seen her dragged 
back, tortured and killed as an example to all the others, so a small hope 
remained.  
 
As pleased as he was at the thought of her escape, it deprived him of the 
last comfort he had known.  She had been kind and, occasionally, when 
the gaolers were careless, they had managed a few minutes' conversation.  
Other than for the dreams, those talks had been the only bright points in 
his life.  Without them, he had no reason to value continued existence.  
But despite the fact that he ate almost nothing, giving his meager rations to 
the other slaves whenever the overseers weren't looking, his body 
continued to cling to life.  Sometimes it made him despair, for what can 
one do when even death is denied?  
 
One can endure.  However, he had felt his strength beginning to fade in 
these last few days, and he smiled at the hope of release--if not today, then 
soon.  It was nice to feel himself almost floating, as if his spirit was trying 
to escape from the body, but could not quite manage it.  In the past week, 
as his strength ebbed, a strange thing had happened.  He had suddenly 
begun to see things in his dreams that had never come within sight before.  
At first, it had not been an appreciable difference, just a slight widening of 
his field of vision, so that he could see more dancers than before, as well 
as the edge of a table far to the left, loaded with what looked like every 
kind of delicacy.  But two nights ago there had been more.  
 
The presence beside him, always felt but never seen, had at long last 
resolved itself into the figure of a person--a beautiful male with laughing 
grey eyes and long, dark hair, who had leaned near to ask him something.   
He could not hear the question, but it did not matter.  He probably would 
have been unable to answer in any case.  He was mesmerized, not only by 
the beauty of his companion, but also by the knowledge, sure and clear as 
nothing had been in countless years, that he had once known that face, 
known it as well as he did his own.  That morning, yet another piece slid 
into place, as the sounds of the heavy footfalls of his goalers woke him 
from his uneasy rest.  One sound had risen above the light music and idle 
chatter of his dream--a name, spoken in a voice that was clear and 
powerful and not at all like his was now, but had once been his own.  
 
But he could make out no more.  Harsh hands grabbed him and dragged 
him to his feet, pushing him into line with the others.  A new cavern had 
been opened up, deeper than before, and there was much work to do.  He 
stumbled on the way to the passage, feeling disoriented and unsteady on 
his feet.  One of his gaolers stepped on his right hand when he extended it 
to break his fall, adding a new pain to a limb already raw and broken from 
past accidents.  He knew he would bear the pain long, for his body no 
longer healed itself as it had once done.  He was jerked back to his feet by 
a tug on the heavy collar around his neck, and forced back into line.  He 
barely even noticed, so captivated was he by the name that still echoed in 
his thoughts, almost obscuring the harsh curses of the overseers.  It was 
like music, he thought wearily, that charmed the ear as it healed the soul.  
 
"Elrond."  
 
*   *   *  
 
They rode the rest of the night and well into the next day before reaching 
the foothills of the Misty Mountains.  The dwarf gave them directions as 
well as she could, but she had escaped at night and had not been 
concentrating on anything besides getting away as fast as possible, making 
her a poor guide.  For three days they searched a number of likely looking 
caves that she thought might be the right entrance, but found nothing.   
Haldir refrained from making pointed comments about her uselessness, as 
Gildor had grown very protective of the little creature.  So much so that he 
even slept by its side--no, her side, Haldir reminded himself, having 
already received a lecture from his lover on the proper use of pronouns.  
 
Not that Gildor had been his lover any time recently, as there had been no 
opportunity for it on the mission and Haldir doubted that he had enough 
energy in any case.  Urgency, and a feeling that time was running out had 
overcome the whole group.  It was foolish, Haldir told himself for the 
hundredth time.  Even if the dwarf was telling the truth, anyone who had 
toiled in the mines as long as this Zirak and lived would certainly still be 
there whenever they managed to find him--if they ever did.  Still, he felt a 
constant urge at the back of his mind telling him to hurry, and he pressed 
on as unceasingly as the rest.  
 
The morning of the fourth day of the search dawned with little reason to 
hope that it would be any more productive.  However, as the company was 
eating their lembas and wishing that it was safe enough to make a fire to 
brew tea, they heard them.  Orcs can move silently when they feel 
threatened, but this group was large and must have felt secure.  As the 
elves looked down from the precipice on which they'd camped, the line of 
ugly, brutish creatures below pushed and jostled each other, spitting curses 
and making no effort whatever at silence, as they hurried back to their 
caves before the sun rose further above the horizon.  The line seemed to 
go on endlessly, but finally the last few passed, failing to notice that they 
had picked up a silent company of followers who stayed just out of sight.  
 
A few moments later and the line of orcs made their way into a narrow slit 
in the rock that could easily have been mistaken for a shadow cast by the 
sun.  The small company of elves were now kitted out in the garb, 
including facemasks, of the last twenty-five orcs, whose bodies were 
stashed in a nearby ravine.  They passed through the entrance 
unchallenged along with the rest of the company.  
 
Haldir tried not to breathe, as the stench coming from the garments he had 
liberated for his disguise was almost overpowering.  Eyes watering, it took 
him a few seconds to adjust to the almost darkness within the caves.  He 
then followed Erestor, who was leading the dwarf on a chain towards 
several lumpy looking guards.  Surprisingly, Erestor managed a 
convincing imitation of the black speech used by the orcs, including harsh 
vocalizations that Haldir would not have believed could have come from a 
elf.  What he said to the two huge goblins who stood near a tunnel leading 
downwards Haldir could only guess, but they seemed happy, slapping him 
on the back and grabbing for the dwarf's chain.  Jerking her cruelly 
forward, they attached a metal collar around her neck, then pushed her 
ahead of them down a steeply sloping passageway.  Erestor gave them a 
short head start, then followed.  
 
The darkness was overwhelming, and Haldir fought down panic as they 
kept going what seemed like a ridiculously long way underground.  At last 
the tunnel leveled out and a few torches in heavy iron sconces gave 
enough light to illuminate a cavern with dripping stalactites and a few 
pools of water that smelled strangely.  Passing through it, they emerged 
onto one of the most amazing sights Haldir had ever seen--a huge cave, 
seemingly a mile across, being worked by what had to be a thousand 
slaves.  Some were chipping away at the sides of the chasm with picks, 
while others gathered up the piles of rock into large containers that still 
more pulled and pushed along tracks in the floor.  What they were mining 
Haldir could not have said, but it was easily the biggest operation he had 
ever seen.  
 
Their party skirted the edge of the chasm along a narrow path, carefully 
pressing back against the walls as the light was too dim to see the way 
clearly.  Finally they came to a smaller cavern where a group of thin 
pallets were littered about the floor.  The dwarf was chained to a ring set 
into the stone above one, her guards having left her there for the moment.  
Erestor quickly crossed to her, pulling a huge bunch of keys from his 
pocket as he did so.  Seeing Haldir's look of surprise, he just winked as he 
flipped quickly through the bunch.  "One of these will fit almost any lock-
-a handy thing to keep around."  Apparentlly his boast was not an idle one, 
for a few moments later Elwyyda was free and guiding them rapidly 
through a maze of interconnecting caves.  
 
Haldir noticed slaves of almost every type as they hurried along--men, 
dwarves, halflings, even orcs who must have irritated someone--but no 
elves.  He was becoming seriously worried that the dwarf had led them all 
into a trap when they reached another tunnel going what seemed to be 
straight down.  Haldir almost balked, wanting some proof that this really 
was the way before he descended, but Erestor, Glorfindel and Gildor 
fearlessly followed Elwyyda into the darkness, making the decision for 
him.  Erestor's Noldorian apprentices crowded in behind him, causing 
Haldir to feel even more claustrophobic in the narrow passage, but he 
moved along at a good pace nonetheless.  
 
When Haldir had begun to feel certain that they were being led into the 
centre of the earth itself, the passage gave way into a tiny room.  At the 
end was a solitary, hunched figure who did not turn from his slow, steady 
digging even though he must have heard them enter.  It was impossible to 
tell in the dim light who, or what, he was, but Elwyyda gave a small shriek 
and launched herself at him, almost obscuring him from view as her arms 
went as far about him as possible.  This, Haldir could only surmise, was 
Zirak, although whether he was elf or no was impossible to tell.  
 
The trip back was much worse than the one in.  Haldir decided that, once 
this was over, he would try to put the whole laborious climb through 
murky darkness, constantly in fear of discovery, and jumping several 
times into adjacent caves to keep from being found out, from his mind.  At 
least Zirak was no trouble; after seeing the limping shuffle which was his 
best attempt at a walk, Haldir simply scooped him up on his back and 
carried him until his breathing grew laboured, at which time one of the 
Noldor assumed the burden.  They had traded off several more times 
before that nightmarish climb was over, but finally made it to the first cave 
again.  After incapacitating the guards by the simple expedient of lopping 
their heads from their ugly shoulders, Haldir felt much better, and was 
able to emerge from the darkness with some feeling of justice being done.  
Of course, it still remained to be seen if it had been worth it.  
 
They put a good distance between themselves and the cave before 
stopping.  A group of Noldor went after the horses while the rest turned to 
examine Zirak.  Haldir was almost sick at what he saw.  Now that they 
were once more in sunlight, it was undoubted that, as impossible as it 
seemed, the creature propped against a tree was actually an elf.  But it was 
an elf as Haldir had never seen one, and fervently hoped he never would 
again.  Whitish hair straggled about a haggard, cadaverous face, skin 
almost without colour, at least the little that showed under layers of filth.  
The creature was recognizable as one of the first born only because of a 
pair of hauntingly beautiful blue eyes.  He was dressed only in a few 
heavily soiled rags which bared his ribs, all of which Haldir could count.  
Countless bruises and half-healed welts covered his whole body.  Haldir 
could not imagine why they hadn't healed, but then, he had never seen an 
elf who had undergone this much trauma.  Perhaps there were limits even 
to elvin healing abilities.  
 
Haldir had been so appalled by Zirak's appearance that he had not 
immediately noticed the reactions of his companions until Gildor let out a 
bleat of distress.  Haldir glanced at him, only to see his big brown eyes fill 
with tears that shamelessly coursed down his cheeks.  The faces of the 
others were more reserved, but no less intense.  Most of the Noldor looked 
like they were wishing they had killed a few more orcs while in the caves, 
with several so flushed with rage that Haldir would not have been 
surprised if they had simply turned and headed back for the mine.  The 
reactions of Erestor and Glorfindel, however, were the most intriguing.  
Both were simply staring, not in pity or anger, but simply in openmouthed 
astonishment, at Zirak.  Erestor's hand had crept up to his throat and his 
eyes were huge.  Glorfindel was in little better shape, having lost all 
colour in his face, and one hand clenched and unclenched unconsciously.  
 
Suddenly, Glorfindel seemed to snap out of his trance, and with a terse 
comment to the rest of them to wait on the horses, he dragged a shell-
shocked Erestor into a copse of  nearby trees.  Haldir listened with all his 
might, as he suspected everyone else was doing except for Gildor, who 
had dropped to his knees before Zirak and was attempting to clean him 
with the aid of his handkerchief and some water from a flask at his waist.  
He continued to sob openly as he did so, something that did not seem to 
bother or, indeed, even to completely register with Zirak.  Elwyyda 
hovered about, offering her own, extremely soiled handkerchief, which 
Gildor accepted but did not use.  Haldir thought it could hardly make a 
difference, as it would be almost impossible for the elf to get any dirtier.  
 
He turned his attention back to the conversation taking place among the 
trees, but caught little of it.  He could see part of Erestor's face around the 
trunk of a large tree, and he seemed highly agitated, but his words were 
mostly unintelligible.  Haldir did hear him shout, "But that's imposs . . . " 
before Glorfindel clapped a hand over his mouth, and, presumably, told 
him to be quiet.  Haldir glanced at Zirak again, but saw nothing to explain 
their distress other than his lamentable state.  He noticed now that Zirak's 
left leg seemed twisted and his foot mangled, before he looked away, 
unwilling to see any more.  
 
Glorfindel and Erestor returned about the same time that the horses were 
brought up, and had a short argument over who should ride with Zirak.  
Haldir waited impatiently for them to decide the issue, which did not seem 
to him a point about which to contend.  Zirak actually stank--why would 
anyone want to ride with him?  Yet Erestor and Glorfindel almost came to 
blows over who would have the honour.  Eventually Glorfindel won, and 
an almost comatose Zirak was hauled up onto the enormous white 
stallion.  Gildor had managed to coax him into drinking a little miruvor, 
but it had not had any obvious effect.  Haldir seriously wondered if they 
would not soon be arguing over who had the right to bury him.  
 
He sighed and turned his horse's nose in the direction of home.  He hoped 
this Zirak did survive, not least because of the information he could no 
doubt give them about the mines.  If he had lived there long, there should 
be little he didn't know, and they would need all of it.  Haldir was certain 
that, as soon as Zirak's condition was seen in Lorien, they would be 
overwhelmed with volunteers to return here.  The Galadrim had much 
work to do.  
 
TBC


Title: Wild Justice 6/?

*   *   *

Elladan peered around the tree trunk and felt Elrohir's 
too-tight tunic pull across his shoulders.  He and his 
brother looked a great deal alike, but Elladan was slightly 
broader and a little taller, something that usually 
precluded them from sharing clothes.  There was good reason 
this afternoon, however, to break with custom.  "I can't 
believe I'm doing this," he said for perhaps the tenth 
time.  Elrohir paid him no attention, but simply hunkered 
down further behind a bush, waiting.  "How do you even know 
he's coming?"

"He'll be here.  I've watched him for three days--he always 
bathes here.  And at around this time."

Elladan sighed and leaned his forehead against the trunk of 
the tree.  He had to be insane.  He did owe his brother a 
favour, but this was well over the top as far as he was 
concerned.  "Just remember your promise," he commented, 
scowling.

Elrohir grinned.  "Afraid you can't take him?"

Elladan did not rise to the bait--he was in no mood for 
jokes.  "He's not a member of the border patrol for 
nothing.  I can take care of myself in most situations, but 
if this gets out of hand . . . "

"It won't."

"It had better not."  Elladan shifted and wished Orophin 
would just get on with it.  He was supposed to have been at 
the spring by now; it would be just his luck if today the 
annoying Galadrim decided he was already clean enough, or 
went somewhere else.  Then they'd have to repeat this 
ridiculous charade all over again another time, and he 
didn't want to think of the wear and tear on his nerves if 
that happened.

For lack of anything better to do, Elladan watched his 
brother, who had now all but disappeared under the bush.  
Elrohir was usually so level headed; this was not at all 
like him.  Ever since he had taken up with Glorfindel, 
however, he had been subtly changing.  Elladan personally 
felt that, were his younger sibling to lose out to the 
king, it might be a blessing in disguise.  He couldn't 
imagine what Elrohir saw in the elf anyway.  He supposed 
Glorfindel was attractive, if you liked males, but he was 
so cold.  Elladan still remembered with chagrin some of the 
cutting remarks his old tutor had made when he was 
inattentive in a lesson, and he was surprised he didn't 
still have bruises from some of the falls he'd taken in 
sword practice.  Even wooden swords hurt when wielded 
strongly enough, and he didn't recall Glorfindel ever 
holding back.

No, it was a mystery to him why Elrohir was practically 
frantic at the thought of losing Glorfindel.  But, it was 
not Elladan's place to interfere in his brother's affairs; 
he certainly would not have appreciated it had the opposite 
been true.  He could only hope Elrohir knew what he was 
doing.  Elladan, who had had a chance to get to know 
Thranduil somewhat during his stay in Mirkwood, seriously 
doubted that any plan Elrohir could concoct would fool the 
king even for an instant.  Thranduil was almost uncanny in 
the way he managed to stay three of four steps ahead of 
everyone else, and his intelligence was formidable.  
Elladan remembered a game of chess he had played with the 
king during which Thranduil had dictated two letters, kept 
up an involved conversation on politics with a visiting 
dignitary and dressed down his wine steward for the quality 
of the vintage served the night before.  And he had still 
managed to win the game.

If Elrohir liked males, it was a mystery to him why he 
wasn't following the king of Mirkwood about; there was, 
after all, nothing cold about Thranduil.  Elladan had been 
a good brother, however, and refrained from expressing his 
opinion on Elrohir's lack of taste or on the odds of his 
plan's success.  However, good brother or no and debt or 
no, Elrohir had better get this right because this was 
NEVER happening again.

"Stop looking so tragic.  It's not as if I asked you to 
sleep with him," Elrohir looked amused. "Although, come to 
think of it, that would broaden your horizons."

"My horizons are quite broad enough, thank you."  That was 
it--the only way this whole event could possibly get any 
more absurd was for him to be given sexual advice by his 
younger brother, who had been and probably remained little 
more than a novice.  Elladan, on the other hand, was widely 
experienced and thought he could be trusted to know what he 
did and did not like.

"You don't know what you're missing," Elrohir commented, a 
dreamy look crossing his features.  Elladan repressed a 
shudder at the image his mind suddenly conjured of Elrohir 
and Glorfindel . . .  Wonderful.  That was all he needed 
right now.

"Neither do you."

"Shush!"  Elrohir must have heard something, for he 
wriggled further under his bush after uttering his warning.  
A second later and Elladan heard it, too, a light tread 
through the forest undergrowth--the sound of an elf 
approaching with no concern about being overheard.  Well, 
he thought grimly, it's show time.

*   *   *

Gildor watched as Erestor fussed about Zirak, dabbing at 
him hesitantly with a tiny handkerchief, doing very little 
to improve the elf's appearance.  Gildor wasn't a healer 
himself, but he had gone through the basic first aid 
training that all Elrond's agents received, in case of 
injury to themselves or to a fellow operative.  He had also 
taken care of his share of sick animals from time to time, 
and even performed emergency repairs on a couple of trees.  
Which was why Lord Erestor's actions made little sense.

It almost looked as if Erestor was afraid of Zirak, or at 
least wary of hurting him further.  Gildor supposed that 
was understandable, as the elf was obviously in very 
serious condition, but doing nothing was not likely to help 
him.  They were still two days' ride from Lorien where, 
Gildor fervently hoped, Lord Elrond would be waiting for 
them.  Until then, they could only do a limited amount for 
Zirak, but even that small aid did not seem to be 
forthcoming.  Even Lord Glorfindel, who Gildor would have 
sworn was afraid of nothing, seemed strangely subdued, and 
did not seem inclined to interfere with Erestor's efforts.

Finally, Gildor could stand it no longer.  They had ridden 
hard all day, putting as much distance between themselves 
and the mountain as they could, but had paused as night 
fell to make camp beside a small stream.  Gildor tested it 
and the water, although only tepid, was certainly suitable 
for bathing.  It seemed obvious to him that the first order 
of business was to get Zirak cleaned up, as his feeble 
efforts earlier in the day had done little good, and to 
examine the extent of his injuries.  As Erestor was making 
little headway with the first and none at all with the 
second, Gildor offered his services.  To his surprise, 
Erestor seemed actually relieved, and Zirak's comfort was 
from then on Gildor's responsibility.

Bathing him was a somewhat traumatic experience, as it was 
not until Gildor removed his few rags that he realised just 
what a task Lord Elrond had before him.  Personally, he 
would not have known where to start, although he rather 
thought it would be with trying to bulk him up a bit.  
Gildor hated to see anything underfed--fo