Half the Distance

Title: Half the Distance
Series: Innocence Stripped Away
Chapter: Thirteen : Lack Of Self Control
Author: Orchyd Constyne
Contact: soultornasunder@gmail.com
Website: http://www.hithanaur.net/
Update List: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/nairn_orchyd/
Beta: Alex Cat

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Imladris, Spring, Third Age 2086

The door to Erestor's office flew open, slammed against the wall, its panes of glass rattling in the casing. Erestor looked up disinterestedly from the parchment he had been writing on. Thranduil stormed inside, his green eyes blazing, his cheeks flushed.

"You sick spider-spawned son of an Orc!" Thranduil bellowed, stopping just before Erestor's desk.

Erestor stared at Thranduil blandly. "Good morning to you, too, King Thranduil. I trust you slept well?"

Thranduil slammed his hands down on Erestor's desk. "How dare you?" he hissed.

"How dare I what?" Erestor challenged, rising from his chair. His voice remained even, unfazed.

"I spent hours last night tending to the wounds on Teledan's back, the back *you* cut to ribbons!" Thranduil shouted. "He will have scars, and not all of them on his body. And, if that were not bad enough, you ignored a stop word, Erestor! You do not deserve the title Ingor, you soulless bastard!"

Erestor tsked as he crossed his arms. "Such a temper."

Thranduil's fists clenched at his side. "You do not know my temper, Erestor. Not even a fraction of it." He stepped closer to Erestor. "You ignored a call to *stop*. A plea of a person in pain. You intentionally harmed him. That is unacceptable. A violation of the trust placed in you."

"Teledan is not a person, he is a slave," Erestor sneered. "Yours, as I recall. He has no identity of his own; even his name he received from you. So, is it really his welfare you are concerned with, or the fact that I broke one of your toys without asking first?"

"He is a person!" Thranduil couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Teledan *feels*. He has thoughts, emotions, desires. By the Valar, Erestor, you cannot truly stand there and tell me that those you dominate are nothing more than meat for you to do with as you please!"

Erestor smirked, and the expression was unsettling. There was *nothing* in his eyes. Nothing that made Thranduil believe the Erestor he had once known was the same Elf standing before him.

"I do not intend to stand here and tell you anything. You have not the right to judge me. Not when you are the one who keeps nameless slaves to service your every whim. Clean your own house before commenting on the state of mine."

"My house is full of consenting Elves who trust that I will stop when they ask me to!" Thranduil found himself physically ill having this conversation with Erestor. "I know their names. I know their families. I know their wants. Their needs. I am a King before I am anything else, and I will be damned before I let one of them be harmed!"

"Then be damned with you!" Erestor finally snapped. "If you had not been so caught up with my Glorfindel, perhaps you would have been able to tend to your things better!"

Thranduil was dumbfounded. "Teledan is not a *thing*! If that is how you see one who submits, then it is little wonder that *your* Glorfindel found he needed the comfort of *my* bed!"

Erestor moved so fast. One instant, he was standing with his arms crossed, and the next, Thranduil was staggering backwards. He felt more than heard the bone in his nose cracking, and looked up with watering eyes to see Erestor calmly returning to his desk and his duties. "I so enjoy our little chats, Your Majesty. Feel free to stop by anytime."

Thranduil put his hand to his nose, the blood seeping through his fingers, and hissed, "Do not think you can just walk away from me, Erestor!"

Erestor looked up from his desk with eyes the colour of night. When he spoke, his voice was... different. As though it belonged to someone else. "I really do suggest you leave, Thranduil. *Now*."

A chill ran down Thranduil's spine as he looked into the dark, emotionless eyes. What concern he had for Teledan, for Glorfindel, evaporated under the icy, inhuman stare. For reasons Thranduil couldn't place, he didn't *want* to stay. He didn't want to speak another word.

He couldn't be certain what Erestor would do.

Because *that* wasn't Erestor, and that *was* the only certain thing he did know.

Thranduil backed away.

He didn't run, but he also did not turn his back to Erestor. Those eyes followed him as he exited the room. It was frightening, that gaze.

A solid pit of dread settled in Thranduil's stomach as he made his way to the House of Healing.

*****

That evening, Erestor sat in the sitting room of his suite when a light knock came at the door. When he opened it, he got as far as "Lady Cel--" before the slap of her hand across his face snapped his head to the side.

"The next time I hear that you have laid a hand on a guest in *my* house, I will have you horsewhipped from here to Caradhras!" Celebrían informed him, her face full of anger.

He slowly righted his head, and he looked down his nose at her.

"Do not glare at me so, Erestor," she said, stalking into his suite.

"Do come in, my Lady," Erestor muttered, slamming the door shut.

She whirled around, her white dress flaring dramatically, and pointed her finger at him. "What in Morgoth's hell do you think you are doing?"

"I believe I was reading," Erestor said, nodding to the book open on the armchair.

"You know very well what I mean," she insisted, narrowing her eyes. "I want to know what possessed you to behave as you did with Lord Thranduil and his companion. It is not like you at all."

Erestor took a defensive stand. "Who is it like, then, if not me?"

Celebrían stalked across the room and poked him in the shoulder. "Do not play word games with me, Erestor Coruonion. I am still Lady of this house and you *will* show me the proper respect and answer me directly when I put a question to you."

Anger began to bubble within him, threatened to spill out in cruel words meant to drive Celebrían from the room. He opened his mouth, something harsh on his tongue, when he realised just who he was talking to.

This was *Celebrían*. She was the Lady of Imladris, daughter of Galadriel, and his *friend*. She was more than that. He loved her. She was as a sister to him! How could he want to see her cry? Want to drive her from him?

The strange shadows that had darkened his spirit lifted then. Shame, powerful and consuming, coursed through him. How could he have done that to Teledan? To *Thranduil*?

He bit his lip. "I-I do not know, my Lady," he whispered. "Things have been odd of late. Strain between Glorfindel and me, coupled with this meeting of the realms... I have acted atrociously, and I apologize."

Celebrían's fury began to abate. She reached out, took his hand between hers. "Erestor," she said softly. "I am here to help. Please, tell me what has happened. I will do anything to right what is wrong."

Erestor closed his eyes, the weight of his sins threatening to bring him to his knees before her. "There is nothing you can do, my Lady."

"There is always something that can be done," she insisted, her eyes pleading with him.

He shook his head, took his hand from between hers. "You should go now," he said. "It is late. Please extend my apologies to Lord Thranduil."

Celebrían nodded slowly, her gaze full of pity. That pity brought the anger back up. How dare she pity him? Pity instead that fool of an Elf who dared to name himself King of a realm! Because when Erestor was through with him--

"My Lady," he said tightly. "Please leave my chambers."

There must have been something in his voice, in his eyes, because the pity quickly turned to fear. She saw something in him. The same thing Thranduil had seen. Erestor knew they would discover all his secrets soon, and that made him so--

"Go!"

Celebrían nodded, bustling out of the suite quickly.

She didn't even look back.

Erestor's steps to the door were measured. His hand shook with the effort to not punch it shut. As soon as he closed the door, his other hand slammed against the wall as his back arched severely. He cried out, pain filling his eyes, and after a nerve wracking moment, his muscles released.

He crumpled to the floor, panting. When his vision cleared and his mind clamed, all he felt was the fire of his back. Painfully, he managed to rise to his feet and walk into his bed chamber. Once there, he unlaced his tunic, and then his shirt, throwing them carelessly onto a chair. The white shirt he had been wearing under his tunic was striped red.

Erestor went to his mirror and turned around, staring over his shoulder at his reflection.

Upon his back were five whip marks, fresh and bleeding.

TBC...