Title & Chapter Number: Wild Justice 26/37
Author(s): - Author's Index
Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and an evil mind. I blame society for the latter.
Warnings: Slash, duh. 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).
Betas: Nope
Cast: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin
Timeline: Pre-LotR AU
Spoilers: None
Summary:
Notes: 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. Just FYI, flaming me to tell me what a sick, perverted so and so I am is a waste of time. I already know all that. The title is from a quote--Revenge is a kind of wild justice--by Francis Bacon.
Gildor paused and looked around. A glance behind him showed that Elwyyda had been right; the portal was visible, but so faint that he would not have been able to see it at all if he hadn't known where to look. The room in which he stood was beautiful, with much brightly polished wood, a heavy plush carpet on the floor, and lined to the high ceiling with an impressive collection of scrolls and books. An open tome on a nearby table had an amazing illustration of the two trees; it was so lifelike that Gildor almost thought he could see the wind blowing through the treetops, causing the intertwined silver and gold leaves to flash and glisten independently.
He shook his head. He wasn't supposed to be sightseeing, but trying to find Zirak. He moved across the study to the door at the far end, and almost ran into the elf standing there. He did not know him, but it could not be Zirak; this elf radiated power and personality, and was also one of the most attractive individuals he had ever seen. Gildor managed to stop gaping at him after a moment, and could only be grateful that he did not seem to have noticed.
"You are Gildor?" The elf's brow wrinkled a little in surprise and his beautiful blue eyes looked puzzled. "But I know you, do I not? Did you live in Lindon once?"
Gildor shook his head and suddenly he knew. As incredible as it seemed, this WAS Zirak. The elf moved with a fluid grace that was completely at odds with the slow shuffle Gildor had previously seen him use and he stood tall with a kingly bearing, not in a bent, humble attitude. His hair was a rich, deep brown that only missed being black because of the warm chestnut tones threaded through it. They glimmered in the dim light, as did the bright, cornflower blue of his eyes. Gildor realised he was gaping again and forced himself to snap out of it. "I . . . I never knew Lindon, my lord." Gildor did not know why he added that title to his address, as he had never been informed of Zirak's status, but it only seemed fitting. He simply had to be from a noble house--his every word and gesture proclaimed it.
"I am certain I know you from somewhere; I never forget a face. But no matter, come with me." Zirak took Gildor by the arm and led him swiftly down the passageway to where it connected with a long gallery hung with many portraits. It, too, was a beautiful room, with the highly polished wood of the floor almost blinding in its brightness under several hanging chandeliers, but Gildor had no time to admire it. The fierce battle that was taking place at the far end caught his eye at once and he stood, staring in shock, as Lord Elrond fought an elf who looked exactly like Zirak, right down to the old fashioned, blue velvet robes they both wore. Lord Elrond was in an advantageous position half way up a broad, curving staircase, for his opponent was below and therefore did not have the height advantage. Their swords flashed almost too swiftly to see, and the sounds of combat filled the room. Gildor had never seen such skill, and was rather abashed to think of how proud he had been to win the sword contest at Imladris several years before. Lord Elrond had judged it, and had had nothing but praise for his abilities; he now saw just how amateurish his talents must have seemed to one with that kind of prowess. Yet the other elf was also skilled, and seemed to have more power behind his thrusts; slowly, Lord Elrond was being driven up the stairs towards a dark corridor at the top.
Gildor moved instinctively forward to intervene, but Zirak held him back. "No, you cannot help him. You do not have the strength to fight against his opponent and would only be injured or distract Elrond and cause him harm. That is not why I brought you here." Gildor looked down to see Zirak holding out a delicately wrought, mithril dagger. It was a beautiful thing, with unusual etching along its polished blade, and a large sapphire set into its carved hilt. "Take it." Gildor did so, admiring the way it caught the light; whoever had made this was a master indeed. "Now," Zirak told him calmly, "I would appreciate it if you would kill me."
~*~*~*~
"He was bewitched."
"What?" Glorfindel looked up to see Erestor standing over him, wiping his hands on a cloth. He looked calm and unruffled, but his eyes glittered with repressed emotion.
"Tuor. The idiot of Mirkwood. I can't believe I once helped to train that elf."
Glorfindel sat up from his position reclining against a tree trunk, to better observe his friend. Erestor squatted inelegantly before him so that they could speak privately. "Who bewitched him?"
Erestor sighed. "That is a good question. He says that a scouting party of orcs captured him a few days ago while he was on patrol. They supposedly took him to a cave in the mountains where he was put under an enchantment by a shrouded figure. He was told that, if he informed them when and where our attack was to come, he would be rewarded. When he was asked what he wanted, he replied you. Dead. Preferably painfully. Of course," Erestor smiled evilly, "he assures us that the spell must have been responsible for his request, as he has nothing but the greatest respect for you."
"Of course."
"Whoever it was apparently convinced him that Thranduil would not be harmed, and the Mirkwood elves who did not fall in battle would be released. The belief was conveyed that the orcs' quarrel was with Lorien alone." Glorfindel regarded Erestor in disbelief, but his friend just shrugged. "I am simply telling you what he said--I did not say that I believed him. In any case, when we were delayed this morning because of Elrohir's little fit, Tuor slipped off to warn his new found friends that the previous information he had delivered was wrong, and agreed instead to assist them by calling off the sentries. Fortunately, I became suspicious and followed him; unfortunately, I could not get close enough to hear what he was saying to the two figures he met."
"But you might have been alerted by the fact that they were orcs."
Erestor shot him a glance but, presumably due to his status as temporary invalid, did not respond as he might have. "They were heavily muffled up--I never saw their faces. And I don't like ambushing people in a forest. There are too many places where reinforcements may be hiding." He paused while Elrohir brought Glorfindel some miruvor to drink, then left to tend to the others. Luckily, other than for Glorfindel, they had few wounded. Considering how the battle could have turned out, he considered his own wound a minor price to pay.
"I did not discern his plans until he sent the sentries away, and by that time the orcs were practically on top of us." Erestor looked about the glade, where dozens of orc carcasses still lay, disgust on his features. "I did not expect an attack by daylight, but the forest canopy apparently dims the light enough that these animals can see to fight."
"So how much of his sad tale do we believe?" Glorfindel's faith in Tuor's words hovered at about zero, but Erestor seemed slightly more optimistic.
"He was put under some sort of enchantment, of that I do not think there is much doubt--I have seen cases like this before. However, his hatred and jealousy of you is also undoubted, and the spell would likely not have been effective if it had not had that base from which to draw. I also believe that, enchantment or no, he was aware that elves would die because of his actions, but seems not to have cared as long as Thranduil was not one of them. Since he aided the attack by sending away the sentries, he is undoubtedly guilty of kin slaying, even though he does not appear to have raised a hand against an elf himself."
Glorfindel refrained from commenting that Tuor had been perfectly willing to raise a hand against him, and that he was likely the secret assassin who had almost caused Elrohir's death. For that alone he would pay, and dearly, but he might be of use first. "Is he willing to help mitigate his fault by assisting us?"
Erestor smiled. "More than willing, after some persuasion, although I would not trust him out of my sight. He thinks he can lead us back to the cave where he was questioned, and possibly get us inside. It seems to me that this is our best chance to rescue any elves who may be trapped in the mines, as the main force of orcs must still be chasing our army." Erestor saw Glorfindel's expression and nodded. "I agree with you--I, too, would prefer to aid them--but common sense dictates that we take this chance while we have it. We may never have another as good. Besides, we cannot tilt the odds greatly in their favour by rejoining the party--there are too few of us--but we CAN do this."
Glorfindel nodded. He agreed that their odds were considerably better with most of the orcish force elsewhere. Even thought there were only twenty-four of them, and one might well turn traitor given half a chance, this was the best opportunity they were likely to get. Glancing up at the small amount of blue visible through patches in the trees, he noticed that the morning was all but gone. "We had best hurry, then, before night falls and gives the orcs an advantage."
~*~*~*~
Haldir reached Lord Elrond's rooms after a brief search of nearby floors. He found Gildor sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand firmly grasping Elrond's, while the master of Imladris was curled up against Zirak. All three appeared to be fast asleep. The scene was so unlike anything he had expected that Haldir just stood there until Elwyyda glanced up and ordered him out. She was sitting in a chair on the far side of the bed, looking like nothing so much as a nanny watching over her infant charges--a brooding nanny wearing a deep frown. Just the sight of her was enough to enrage Haldir.
"Gildor . . . ," he put out a hand towards his lover, only to have the dwarf let out a screech and come flying at him from around the bed.
"No! Do not touch him! He will come back when he is finished."
Haldir glared at the creature who stood between him and his lover, as she had been doing since her arrival at Lorien. If not for her, he and his lover would not be having all these problems; if not for her, he and Gildor would likely never have quarreled. He was about to give her a proper dressing down, which she had needed for some time, but then a horrible thought entered his head. What if he had been right all along and she really WAS mad? What if they had brought back a dangerous lunatic who had waited for the appropriate moment, and then poisoned all within her reach? Haldir felt dizzy from the very thought of Gildor's death; if he was too late, he would never forgive himself!
Knocking the dwarf aside harshly, he knelt at the side of the bed, frantically searching for some sign of life. Yes, there it was--Gildor was breathing, but only very shallowly; the Valar only knew what the mad creature had given him! Haldir moved to take his lover into his arms, intending to carry him to the healers, momentarily forgetting that his weak ankle would likely make that impossible. It became moot when the room abruptly fell away.
Haldir fell with a thud to his knees in pitch-blackness. A second later, the dwarf fell on top of him, knocking the air from his lungs and squashing him almost flat; she must have been eating well since her arrival in Lorien. "See?" Her harsh tones grated on his eardrum, "You're messing everything up! I should have locked you in!"
"I . . . where is this place?" Haldir had never seen anything like it, and could not imagine how he could have been transported anywhere so quickly. Had someone snuck up behind him and hit him over the head? He rolled out from under the dwarf, feeling for any bumps on his cranium as he did so, but he seemed fine. The dwarf could not have assaulted him in any case, unless she had acquired an accomplice; she had been knocked halfway across the room by his blow. She was, he noticed, still rubbing her arm and muttering to herself.
"We must go back," she announced by way of reply. "You will only get into trouble here, as you always do."
Haldir gave her a suitable glare, then ignored her. He did not need her help; he was perfectly capable of getting out of this situation himself. It was the dwarf who gave him the first clue of how to do so, however inadvertently. Seeing his expression, she moved quickly to where a large, slightly cracked mirror rested against the black surface of the wall and stood before it, arms crossed over her chest, rather in the form of a guard before the portal to a treasure house. "Go back!," she ordered again, and once more Haldir ignored her. Then a flash of colour in the mirror captured his attention. Since it was obviously not reflecting his own surroundings, Haldir decided that it had to be a doorway despite its appearance. He hoped it was the way out, but at least the room beyond it seemed well lit, which made it much more appealing than his current position. The fact that the dwarf evidently did not want him to pass only made it still more attractive.
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