The Half Breeds

Author: Bird
Title: The Half Breeds
Chapter: Dreams…
Rating: NC-17 over all (in later chapters)
Pairings: Let’s see, all the normal ones…Haldir/OFC, Legolas/OFC, TWINS/OFC…Thranduil/OFC…Various OMCs/OFCs…etc…
Warnings: Blatant Sexuality…graphic self-pleasuring…
Disclaimer: I own the OCs … but not much else…
Summary: Most of the Elves have sailed, but there are still quite a few left…Haldir is lonely. Elladan and Elrohir are bored. Legolas wishes to escape his home. Rumil and Orophin wish to find bed partners. The Avari want to be heard…
Timeline: Post War of the Ring during the early-ish/mid Forth Age (no exact date will be given)
Setting: Endore (otherwise known as Middle Earth, and basically the whole of Arda.) All places will be in their elvish names as this story is completely from Elven points-of-view.
Betas: Amy and Kath (the sweet dears putting up with my ADD and constantly changing mind…:P)

AN:
//text// - a vision from Ranohtar…

Saironnisse – there is no word for witch in Quenyan as far as I have found, so I combined the word for wizard and woman…

The lyrics below are roughly translated to mean – “They call me the black one, Llorona; black but loving…”


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Todos me dicen el negro, Llorona
Negro pero cariñoso.
Todos me dicen el negro, Llorona
Negro pero cariñoso.
(La Llorona, Frida Sountrack)
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“I dream of him every night, Galion. I dream of her every night, as well.”

Galion stood in the entranceway of the throne room, watching his king with sympathetic eyes. Nothing could change the past, what was done was done.

“Sire, there is nothing you…”

Thranduil looked up sharply at the valet standing so far away, so distant…so calm. Blue eyes, sad eyes…defeated eyes, regarded the silver-haired elf.

“I could have stopped her from leaving. I could have asked her to stay, locked her away in my darkest caverns…” Lack of sleep had hollowed the king’s features, dark patches under his eyes. He had not dressed since the night Legolas left, wearing the same leggings, his golden tresses tangling from the lack of brushing. His majesty did not even sleep in his own bed any more, seeking to torture himself by sitting all night, all day in his chilly throne room. Food was brought him regularly, but he turned it away, not even speaking to the maids who carried the trays.

“You could not have kept her, without destroying her spirit…and she was not yours to keep, nor were you hers…what of your wife?” Galion’s voice pleaded, but it soon grew more serious, almost a suggestive tone. “You should go after him…”

“To what end, another disagreement…another fight, perhaps even our deaths?” Thranduil shifted in his throne, bringing his attention to a large tapestry on the right, a scene of a hunt. A white doe flew through the woven scene of Eryn Lasgalen, elves in hot pursuit… “I still see her, feel her in every way,” his whisper floated eerily through the throne room, and he continued to stare at the tapestry. “I can taste her lips, wild growing honeysuckle…”

“But what of your wife!” Frustrated, Galion approached his reclining king. “Do you so easily forget her!”

“No…” Cold eyes shot to the valet. “I could never forget her…”

“So you know that you could never have had the other…not forgetting that your station would not, will not allow it!” He took a deep breath, “By our laws and customs, you are not allowed,” he finished in a low voice.

The windows of the outside wall of the room allowed an icy wind to tumble about the room, rustling all the cloth, a poltergeist begging for attention. Galion stopped in his step, locked in a visual embrace with the king.

“When I make love to an elleth who will allow me, it is her face I visualize, her name that I whisper at my release…” He ignored Galion’s remarks, and disapproving stares.

“I only wish to ease your pain…” Thranduil’s hurt sliced through Galion’s heart, loving the king as his own child. With every tortured breath Thranduil took, Galion wished he could change all that had happened, caught the first whispers of the inevitable and stopped it all. But it was too late now, and all he could do was try to convince the king that nothing could have been different…

“EASE MY PAIN!?” In damnable fury, Thranduil leapt from his seat, staring down from his pedestal. “What can you or I do to bring her back? Legolas blames me for her flight back into the wilds…she was the closest thing to a mother he ever knew! And I…I drove her away!”

The first snows of winter sprinkled past the fluttering curtains, white specks against the black night surrounding the caverns. A peaceful, yet chilling, spell was cast over the two elves, as Thranduil collapsed in exhaustion against the edge of frigid stone. The whole of the caverns were icy, dark and shadowed since the golden prince had left.

The elves of the kingdom barely dared to breathe, for fear of breaking the spell of silence cast over them by the king’s darkened mood and sorrow. And Galion was consumed by it…

“You should go after him, beg forgiveness for your mistakes, beg understanding for the choices you made, and pity for your sorrow…he would understand, though he will wish he didn’t. Legolas sees more in you, than you do yourself…” His tone that of a father, speaking to his errant son.

But Thranduil’s thoughts were far away…hidden deep in an ancient forest with trees older even than the oaks of Eryn Lasgalen, and the mellyrn of Lothlorien.

-------

Blank, unseeing eyes stared at the apex of his tent’s ceiling. He grimaced, having awakened yet again slick with sweat and sticky with his own semen, his hand tightly gripping his spent arousal. Every time he awoke in such a manner, he was still amazed that he could not distinguish between reality and the vivid dreams that haunted him each night.

Closing his eyes, Ranohtar visualized the images of the dream…

//“Ranohtar…”

The young half-elf, barely his majority, snapped his head up to greet his new master. The Kinn-lain had chosen him from among thousands, deciding that the “half-breed”, as Morwë had referred to him, would be the most suitable, the most heartless and detached. Though he had just reached his eightieth year, Ranohtar had already seen more battles, bloody wars of wergild between the bands of humans roaming the outer regions of Khand…

His pointy ears had given away his heritage, even among the human band, and had been duly noted by the terrifying elflord…//

He blinked away tears, willing away the memories of his elven mother, and the bastard mortal who’d claimed her. The sickening slice of metal through flesh still made his skin crawl when he summoned the memories of his first kill – but he did not regret. Morwë had not found him among his birth tribe, but as a fugitive constantly moving from group to group, trying to leave behind the memories of the dead mortal and the cries of his mother when they discovered his deed. She had been taken from him, as painfully and slowly as he’d taken the man’s life quickly and silently…mercifully.

Ancient pain tensed in the muscles and planes of his face…but he would not let the tears fall. That was over and done.

Now a new future lay before him, and Carniwen beckoned him in his dreams, though she slept yards away unaware of his visions.

It had been nearly four days since he’d shown her the maps, and he’d given her promise to speak with her again, but he had not. He was afraid, of what he could not figure out. That she would reveal him to Morwë? It was too late to worry about that, she already knew. That she would see the desire beneath his hard exterior? He’d already given her a brief show of his emotions.

Then what…?

He summoned the dream again…

//“My lord?” Ranohtar gave Morwë a questioning look, as the elflord reached down, taking his hand.

“Come, I have a gift for you, half-breed…” Morwë’s inflection on his name for Ranohtar oozed with disdain. But, he followed his master, wondering what a slave like he could receive. A warrior slave for the bloody work with which even a Dark Elf like Morwë wished to not sully his hands. Morwë led him to a tent, large and billowing in the desert winds, plain in all appearances. Reaching up, the elflord parted the doorway and stood to the side, beckoning for Ranohtar to enter.

At that moment he lost his breath.

“She is yours…” Morwë had failed to mention that it was only for one night. He had decided it unimportant to mention her bond to him. In fact, he had not even deemed it necessary to tell her of what was happening.

Lily-white skin, hair the color of crimson blood, she was a sight to behold. Ranohtar’s heart was hers.//

Slipping his hand under his blankets again, he traced his nails along his renewed arousal feeling the blood pulse through the throbbing veins. He retraced her curves, remembering when he’d first seen them. Pulling the skin stretching over the head of his shaft down slightly, he rubbed his thumb over the slit, slipping on the drops that already escaped…

//Dressed in the simplest of gowns, she exuded purity despite her recent bonding, innocent in the hearts of elves and men, unaware of the dark thoughts that brooded beneath their surfaces. Curious, Carniwen had watched him enter, a little surprised that her husband would leave her alone with the mysterious elf, the likes of which she had never seen.

“My lady,” he bowed, then straightened and shifted nervously, a bulge growing behind the lacings of his breeches and pressing against the leather painfully. She regarded him questioningly, unsure of what to say in reply. Standing with her fingertips pressed together in front of her, she forced her eyes to the floor.

“My lord…” she finally spoke, her voice soft and gentle.//

Nothing like the mature voice he heard from her now…a voice matured by a thousand cries of passion…a passion that tortured him when he heard it, an auditory voyeur from his own tent. It was a sound that both angered him and aroused him each time it intruded his ears but he unable to block it out, unwilling to block it out. Torture it was, but sweet despite the chunk it cut from his heart each time.

Just the thought of her lying so near…so near it hurt, caused him to moan, stuffing his fist into his mouth to stifle the noise. His fingers wrapped tightly around his stiffened member, slick with the drops of his desire, and he began the slow movements of delicious friction.

//She had been unwilling at first when he made his intentions known. But under his experienced hands, she folded.

“Morwë said you were mine…” She was confused by the dark elf’s words, but did not question her husband’s command. That was one thing he’d made clear during their bonding…never question, just do.

And she did. She allowed Ranohtar to love her, make love to her completely, overloading her senses with mind-blowing release, sweat matting her red tresses to flesh and slicking their bodies against each other. He was soft and gentle, rough and fast, and all in between.//

Groaning, he writhed at the memory of her soft breasts, pink nipples hard against his chest...breasts that fit so well in his cupped hands, flesh so pliable. He pumped faster, furiously, salt water streaking from the corners of his eyes at the intensity the memories created in him. Velvety skin increased the sensation of his hand gliding over pulsing veins and rigid flesh.

Ranohtar could still taste her sweet honey, swirling it in his mouth, the finest and rarest of wines. The imagined flavor mixed with that of blood, biting his lower lip as he arched his back… Her muscles had clenched around him spastically in her orgasmic explosion, forcing, wrenching every drop of his essence from his body, again and again. He could not stop his cry in time, hot seed spurting in torrents over his hand, her name a whisper upon his lips. Spasms and tremors wracked his body, till he finally laid still, his heart pounding and threatening to burst in his chest.

//Morwë stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the morning light.

“Ranohtar, meet my wife…”//

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Carniwen woke with a start, sitting up in her tent. She swore she had heard someone cry out. Listening, she strained to see if she could hear it again, but silence greeted her ears.

Wrapping her blanket around her more tightly, she snuggled back into her pillow, her nightmares returning…unanswered questions feeding her carnivorous doubts.

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Even in the dark, the jungle buzzed with life, and the voices of mysterious creatures performed a symphony of chirps, hisses, and un-elven screams. Bats screeched, whipping back and forth through the night air, devouring their insect prey. Morwë’s horse added to the sounds, neighing and snorting in discomfort at the strange surroundings. The stallion was unbound, free to wander the jungle in search for the sweet foliage in abundance. However, it chose to stay within the ring of light formed by the flames of fire, wary of the unknown creatures howling…

Nurwë’s hut and hammock swayed in the warm night breeze, the waxy green broadleaves of the shelter gleaming in the firelight of the bonfire, which created a wide ring in the tiny grove of trees. Food had been eaten, and the brothers refreshed enough to listen and discuss Morwë’s plans…

Morwë sat cross-legged, only a few feet from the crackling blaze, tracing geographic forms in the dirt. Nurwë crouched across from him, studying the mountains, waters, and roads his brother drew. A long road, reaching from Harad to Valinor, stretched across the ground.

Pale skin dyed copper by the firelight rippled as the two elflords shifted, speaking in low voices and discussing Morwë’s plans.

“And how do you plan to cross the seas? We are not able to sail, cursed and exiled…we have no way of redeeming ourselves like the Noldor can.” While Nurwë spoke, Morwë moved to sit back on his heels, folding his knees beneath him and flicking the dirt from his hands. Casting his eyes across the circle of light, he nodded toward Urewe who sat against a tree facing them.

“Do you always allow him counsel to all you do?”

Nurwë jerked his head up, regarding Urewe’s still form for a moment. The elf leaned his back against an ancient gnarled tree, wider in girth than most in the jungle. His hair still pulled back, Urewe stared at them blankly, most unsettling to Morwë. Across his lap lay one of his long-knives; curved and serrated, it shined in the flickering flames playing along its ridges.

“Yes I do; do you not have someone you trust… or at least trust enough?”

Morwë’s thoughts flew back to Khand and the half-breed he’d left in charge, trusting him to follow his implicit instructions. Trusting him on the pain of death if he did not…

“Enough, yes…” He stood, kicking and mushing the map he’d drawn, after he was sure Nurwë had it committed to memory. “There is only one way for us to reach Valinor, and that is through one we have not seen in millennia…the one we sold our souls to after the betrayal…” Morwë’s voice filled with hatred, his eyes narrowed but focused on someone not present. His fists clenched, gripping an invisible being’s neck.

“So you have felt the pull, also…” Unfazed by his brother’s sudden show of emotion, Nurwë rose in one fluid motion, turning to gaze in the dancing fire. “I feel it everyday, growing stronger each night…”

“…But it is not the pull of the sea…” Morwë’s voice was softer now.

“…Nay, but the pull of revenge, and I seek to squash it…”

“…So do I…by fulfilling it…” Nurwë faced his brother, dark eyes filled with sadness at his brother’s confession.

“…Then I have no choice but to agree…we are bound to each other by a force that none can destroy.” As quickly as it had appeared, the melancholy left Nurwë’s face, and he motioned for Urewe to stand. The half-breed quickly crossed the distance to his lord’s side, sheathing his knife in the holster strapped to his back. “This is my brother, and as such is to be treated to our finest. Go find the witch…” Urewe nodded and disappeared into the shadows licking at the edges of the circle of light. Morwë questioned his brother with a look, but was stopped with an upraised hand. “You must relax, and as my brother will have company tonight…”

Urewe appeared again, an elleth at his side. “My lord, Saironnisse…” He bowed when Nurwë waved him away, and left for good.

Nurwë motioned for the elleth to come forward and stand in front of the brothers. She was tall, but still shorter than either male. Her hair of light sand was drawn up into strands, thick fat cords with wooden beads that blended with the color of her hair, and her was skin a golden tan. Nut-brown eyes gazed proudly at them both. This was no shy or submissive elleth…

Morwë grew hot as he roved over her delicate frame, stopping briefly to stare at the dark marks that wrapped around her bicep. A snake looped its body, etched in ink on her flesh, its forked tongue flicking out in a hiss. Her soft animal fur dress fit her body snugly, leaving nothing to her audience’s imagination.

She did not bow, nor acknowledge him as anyone special, just licked her lips suggestively.

Nurwë smiled, “Consider this a welcoming present…to help you relax…”

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Unable to sleep, Ranohtar threw off his soaked bedclothes, sitting up. He would go to her now…now. Crawling, he blindly searched for his leggings, not bothering with his shirt. He pulled them on quickly and grabbed the rolled map with the charcoal markings, and then stumbled out the tent into the frigid night air, chilling him when it hit his wet skin.

Silver and round, the full moon stopped him. His heart sank to his stomach a tight knot forming in its pit. Each step he took filled him with dread for the betrayal he was about to perform, the fantasy he was about to fulfill. Would she turn him away, or did she feel the same way?

Barefoot, the individual grains of sand gritted between his toes though his heel was cushioned by the masses beneath. Disappearing footprints followed him, as the night wind swept them away whispering of the secrets it kept, urging him forward passed the quietly sleeping tents and elves. Occasionally he would stop, searching around him for the imagined and invisible eyes he felt watching him, but he could see no one. Quickly he closed the distance between himself and her dwelling.

Pausing in front of the flaps, he swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and reached out boldly to pull it open. Before he drew open the flaps, a vision of her from their first meeting flashed before him. It was enough encouragement, and he snuck inside.

Carniwen lay on her back, her breath erratic as she slept. The blankets tangled about her legs, revealing a long expanse of alabaster, marred only by the red of her tresses, scattered threads against her skin. He watched entranced, afraid to wake her and break the spell.

But she was a light sleeper, and she stirred as the wind blew into the tent behind him.

Ranohtar dropped the flap, kneeling beside her when she turned to face him. He could not read her expression, though his emotions were clearly written across his face. In one hand he gripped the rolled map, creasing it in fisted wrinkles. Sitting up, she stole his breath, revealing all the secret places of his delirium. His head swam dizzily, and he averted his gaze shyly, all his fears returning.

Neither could speak, afraid of breaking the silent spell.

“Ranohtar…” she finally whispered, reaching a hand out to caress his cheek, not bothering to cover herself, her modesty long before destroyed. He shifted his eyes to her hers again, holding the map out to her.

“I came to speak with you, as I had promised…” The urge to rush her, ravish her pounded in his groin, and his sanity held by a thread kept him back. She looked down at the parchment he tried to hand her, the soft pad of her hand still upon his cheek. He found his voice, and the words flowed freely, “Morwë strictly ordered me to destroy this…and I must tonight. Several days have already passed, and he could return at any moment. I must have your answer…tonight.” The question was unspoken, but she knew what he asked for…

Dropping her hand from his cheek, she untangled the blanket from around her and knelt in front of him, casting her hair behind her. With the tip of her finger she traced the fullness of his lips, feeling his breath hitch at her touch. Rising up to meet his height, their bodies inches from each other, she outlined the planes of his face with her fingers as if seeing him for the first time…

“I have never forgotten,” she breathed, her sweet breath hitting his features causing his nerves to tingle in excitement. His loins ached with her nearness, and he leaned forward expectantly. Capturing his face between her hands, she pulled his lips to hers.

So soft and moist she was, and he groaned into her. Still gripping the map tightly, he wrapped his arms around her, crushing her painfully against him. One hand reached up to tangle in her hair, wrapping the tendrils possessively around his fist. He thrust his tongue against her teeth, and she willing opened for him. Shivers ran up their spines at the sudden release of pent up desires.

He could not get enough, greedily devouring her mouth. But he pulled away, pressing their foreheads together, and he gazed into her dilated eyes, her skin flushed and heated from their exchange.

“We must destroy this now…” He dropped the map between their bodies, untangling his hand from her hair. Sitting back on his haunches, his eyes remained locked with hers as he tore the parchment into pieces. He did not care about the treachery Morwë planned, only about the chance placed before him to rescue her.

“You have a burning bowl?” He asked.

She nodded, turning to rummage through a traveling bag against the side of the tent. Carniwen pulled out a plain ceramic bowl, about four inches deep and six in a diameter. Gently she placed it between them, and then reached back in the bag, producing a flint and steel fire starter. Along with it was a small box, filled with charred bits of fabric to light the sparks.

Almost reverently, Ranohtar placed a few of the torn leaves into the bowl. She set a bit of the fabric on top, and then struck the flint and steel against each other to produce a spark. The charred cloth caught quickly, and blowing on it, Ranohtar encouraged the parchment to catch the flame as well.

Together, they added the rest of the map pieces to the bowl set between them, till all leaves were a pile of ash.

Mesmerized, he dipped a finger into the powder and gazed at it, so light against his dark skin. As he stared, she took his wrist and pulled his hand to her, placing a kiss on the inside of his palm so rough and calloused against her lips. She then scooped more ash out of the bowl, smearing it over his palm and fingers. He watched her in wonder, unsure of what she did.

Carniwen took his hand and boldly drew it to her neck, leaving a trail of dark ash across her skin. Down she pulled him, drawing his palm and fingers over her chest and breasts, down the flat of her abdomen and the slight bulge of her belly, stopping just above her nest of dark curls at the apex of her thighs.

He could not breathe, his arousal fighting against its restraint, and he felt he would pass out. All he had ever dreamt of sat before him, marking herself with his sin, claiming his betrayal as hers.

“Now…” she whispered, holding his hand against her belly, “There is no turning back…”

Staring into her eyes, he recalled Morwë’s words, hardening his resolve…

//“Ranohtar, meet my wife…”//