Faded Light

(For additional notes and disclaimers please see top of Chapter 1.)


- - My apologies for the long delay, but here's two new ones.
Thank you for your comments Ninjamonkey...it's actually what reminded to post something...- -


Chapter 10

Unexpected Reprieve


The Haradrim priest regarded the sleeping Elf curiously, wondering at his Dark Lord’s purpose for wanting this particular slave.

Even in sleep, his expression seemed troubled; he was very pale even for a creature of the north, and a large bruise had appeared on the side of his face where Arya had struck him.

Elves were such strange creatures; although in truth the priest had never seen another Elf before. But there was no denying this one’s remarkable beauty. Certainly it would have been a pity to have him die so senselessly at Arya’s hands.

It was not difficult to understand Javad’s infatuation with the young whore.

“Assuming you can keep the Elf alive...” he was saying to the healer.

“I will do my best, my lord; though he is very weak and half-starved...I think Arya would have let him die some time ago, were he not such an expensive slave. There probably won’t be much pleasure to be had from him for some time, however...” he added, making the same assumption that Arya had before, that Behdad wanted the Elf for himself.

Well, thought the priest, it might not be such a bad idea to let the slave pleasure him one of these nights. It was not as if the Elf had not lain with nearly everyone in the city who could afford his exquisite favors.

Males were not Behdad’s chief preference; still, it might be quite enjoyable to spend some time with such a famously talented whore. It would still be several months, after all, before Behdad could present the king with the gift of the slave.


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Slowly Dafi became aware of voices nearby and recognized one as belonging to the chief priest, Behdad, but he could not make himself move.

His head spun and everything hurt...

Though he couldn’t catch everything that was said, he did hear mention of the healer...

The only times he was ever sent to the healers’ was to endure hours of sadistic torture and cruel loss...Valar, it was too soon for him to have conceived again...

But what else could have had him brought there?

He couldn’t remember the previous night with any clarity; he had drunk too much; had been drinking too much for months now and worse.

Whereas before he had always taken little of what his customers offered, he no longer cared about keeping a clear head; the wine and the powdered herbs some gave him allowed him the gift of oblivion. And it made the recollections of his nights seem like the memories of a fevered dream.

His mind was a fog, but of one thing he was certain. Arya would be angry.

A slave lying in the healing rooms was one who was not working, and such idling did nothing to increase Arya’s wealth, which always put him in a mood even more vicious than his usual cruelty.

In the year and a half since the last pregnancy, Arya had been brutal enough no matter how hard Dafi worked to pleasure the brothel’s patrons...but the greater his cruelty and demands, the more difficult Arya seemed to be to satisfy, so that he usually had the young Elf working in one of the dirty little backrooms now. For a few coins, anyone from the bar could come and use him there for up to twenty minutes, which often meant the slave taking up to a dozen men within a few hours...

He finally opened his eyes, trying to chase away those images, and made an effort to sit up only to be eased back gently by a young Man he knew to be one of the younger princes, the one who had always seemed somehow different from his brothers.

“It’s all right,” he said. “You’re at the healers'...you fainted.”

As if reading the thoughts behind the fearful blue eyes that slowly met his own, “Do not worry about your master...he is not here. You need to rest now.”

An older Man standing nearby turned to the prince. “See to it, Highness. Make sure he has what he needs. I’ll return this afternoon.”

“Perhaps you would like something to eat?” said the young Man when Behdad had disappeared followed by the healer.

Sitting up more slowly this time, the Elf obediently took the cup of broth the prince offered him...

“You don’t have to eat that if it’s not to your liking,” he said lightly and smiled, as if reading again through the slave’s expressionless mask. “I’m sure we can find you something else.

“Some fruit instead.” He took the broth and turned back to a tray, Dafi now saw sat on a table by the door, returning with a fresh selection of Harad’s most beautiful fruits, brightly arranged on a long plate.

He gazed uncertainly at the incredibly appetizing dish; unable to recall the last time he had had anything but bread or that disgusting porridge-like brew Arya so stingily provided. And he could not understand this strange kindness, which had become so unfamiliar.

No doubt, he thought, it will require payment later on.

He sighed to himself. It was so frustrating to not even be able to ask what was expected of him.

“I’m Prince Emau, by the way,” said the young Man. “You probably knew that. But there are some who actually don’t, being that I am only a younger son by a lesser wife.”

Slowly, Dafi nodded that he understood and made himself try some of the offered fruit. Who knew when he would be allowed anything so edible again?

A ringed hand raising his chin brought him out of his thoughts after a moment. “Eat first, brood later,” said the prince lightly, before taking a closer look at the Elf’s bruised face. “Arya has a heavy hand,” he said sadly.

The slave dropped his gaze again, ashamed anew of all his bruises and scars.

“Look,” said Emau finally sounding a little impatient, but even then his tone remained neutral. “Arya isn’t around, and no one is going to beat you here. All right...you don’t need to be so on edge.”

He nodded once more and tried to appear less anxious before the prince. But he only found himself relaxing a little when Emau, satisfied the Elf had eaten enough, took the tray away and left him alone with his bewildered thoughts.

Never again, in this life or the next would he be able to feel at ease around any human, he thought; even one with apparently sincere intentions. And there were not many of those in any case...

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(For additional notes and disclaimers please see top of Chapter 1.)


Chapter 11

Intrigues in the Greenwood

“He spoils him,” Thranduil’s daughter-in-law complained lightly, watching from a terrace as the Elvenking showed his young grandson how to hold the small bow he had been given for his Begetting Day. The golden haired toddler had just turned seven and looked so much like Legolas at that age, he had had his royal grandfather wrapped around his finger from the first time his parents brought him to visit Mirkwood.

“It doesn’t matter what Feredir or I say. He could bring home an Oliphaunt, and Thranduil would let him keep it,” she said, picking up her sewing basket and looking absentmindedly through it.

“I don’t doubt that,” said Leralonde. “But it is good to see Uncle smile again. He only does anymore with Ithilhen around.

“He’d give him the kingdom, if he could. If there wasn’t such opposition...”

“Leralonde, do not even joke about that,” she looked up and put the basket away again. “Feredir left Mirkwood to dissuade such talk.

“I think it is time you got used to being next in line, Highness.”

“I thought your husband left to find Legolas,” was the prince’s unhappy retort. He had hoped to persuade her to his way of thinking.

Instead, she shook her head and lowered her voice, leaning forward anxiously. “Leralonde, do you know what would happen if you were to refuse the throne?" she asked and answered her own question.

"With you and Legolas out, Feredir and Ithilhen would not last, even if they are not technically in the line of succession. And your cousin, Esarulir would stake his claims, his daughter being conveniently betrothed to your brother, and then how long would you, yourself, last...? Saes, Londe, such things are not for idle talk.”

“Alatariel, you do have a gift for making everything seem a vast conspiracy. Many, however, would prefer to make my father the antagonist in that story.”

She gave him a small ironic smile, “I rather think your father is the only thing standing between Esarulir and his ambitions. Ruthlagor,” she said, “no doubt, thought by letting Esarulir’s daughter marry your younger brother, he could keep Esarulir at a safe distance from the throne. But then Legolas disappeared.”

“You would have made a fine bard Tari,” the prince could not help laughing, “Esarulir, ambitious...?”

“Think what you will, Highness. But, Saes, do not put too much trust in that cousin of yours. What do you think is the real reason your father has so long delayed your brother’s marriage?”


TBC...