The Half Breeds

Author: Bird
Title: Half Breed
Chapter: 8 – And so this night ends for all…
Rating: NC-17 overall
Warnings: None...well, it is a bit on the angsty drivelly side...
Disclaimer: I own the OCs … but not much else, Nurwë and Morwë are Tolkien’s
Timeline: Post War of the Ring during the early-ish 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)
FEEDBACK - I always accept feedback. If you wish to make a critical analysis, do not hesitate to PM me...I'll read through it and take into consideration your questions and suggestions...Thanks.
Archived: Finally…:D www.scribeoz.com , adult-fanfiction.org , www.tongueincheekscribe.com
AN: Nuranto – Death giver, there is no Quenyan word for killer or assassin so I made one up…

If you read my story "Tickle-Goblins" you may recognize the name of the elleth from Legolas' dream...yes they are one and the same...


----
See here, my good man, I have come for your wife,
Riteful, riteful, titty fie day,
See here, my good man I have come for your wife,
For she's the bane and torment of your life,
With a riteful la, titty fie day,
Riteful, riteful, titty fie day.
(The Farmer’s Curst Wife, Traditional – Devil Speaking)
----


//Crimson liquid mingled in her hair, blending in with her tresses. Her lover lay strewn on the ground, the cause of her anguish…//

Morwë jerked his gaze from the fire. Numb with fury, he swept his hands through the flames, tossing embers, wood, and sparks through the air. He seethed unaware of his brother approaching from behind.

“She told me everything.” Nurwë, calm and collected, knelt behind his squatting brother, hands running soothingly over the sodden material of Morwë’s tunic. A slight twitch gave away Morwë’s surprise at his brother’s touch. Fingers pressed and rubbed knots, remembering familiar terrain from years and ages before. “What will you do?”

“Kill him. His treachery will not go unpunished, and he will die…slowly…painfully.” Teeth clenched, Morwë summoned his vision of Ranohtar’s death, steel through flesh. Damned half-breed, his treachery condemned and reflected the millennia of death he’d personally meted out.

“And what of her…” Nurwë’s hands squeezed harder, working on a particularly stiff knot.

“I know not. I want to hurt her, but death? I am not sure…” What had he told her? Did she know the extent of her ‘lover’s’ role? What had Ranohtar told her about Morwë’s ride to Harad? Surely he had shared that information…

Ranohtar would die, and he would reduce her to a quivering slave once again…

Nurwë nodded. “Whatever you choose, you have my sword…” A hand reached over Morwë’s shoulder and clasped his hand reassuringly. Squeezing it back, Morwë stood and faced his brother. His hair lay about his shoulders, a tangled mass of soaked ebony.

“I want to leave as soon as possible. Dawn if it is feasible. You know of my plans, and I want you to come with me.”

He nodded again in understanding, running his fingers through his brother’s tangles. “Remain one more night. You cannot leave too quickly, or they may suspect…”

----

Azure glowed in pitch-black shadows, watching the brothers. A single finger ran the length of a serrated blade. Two hands slithered up his back, over his shoulders, fingers splaying across his chest. Tendrils of heat crept from the finger-points of pressure, tingling as they spread through his skin.

“Work your magic elsewhere, witch.”

The fingers stopped, flexed and retreated. Serpentine arms uncoiled from around his shoulders, fingers lightly tripping across his twitching muscles like tongues.

“Will they send you?”

He stiffened, cold replacing the heat of her talented fingers. Lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowed, Urewe tilted his head slightly till she came into his peripheral vision.

‘Black magic elleth…’

“Explain.”

Demurely she slipped past him to the tree in front of him. Turning, she squatted on the ground. Rolling her neck, Saironnisse gazed up, lips partially open as if waiting for something. He did not shift, move…breathe. One hand still gripped his long-knife, the point to the ground. Saironnisse traced the curve and serration with her eyes, noting the razor thin edge. Sharp. Sharp enough to slice through bone easily. Edge to hilt, hilt to hand…hand to veined and corded forearm…

“You know what I speak of, you’ve done his bidding before…” She spoke casually, averting her attention to the soft ground, drawing circles with her fingertips in the dirt. Pinching a bit of dirt between her forefinger and thumb, she contemplated its grittiness for a moment. Stretching one shapely leg out toward him, she continued.

“Killer.”

The word flowed off her lips as if she’d said ‘lover.’

A small blink acknowledged her.

“You know what has occurred, hiding in the shadows, watching and pretending no one knows…” Her lips curled into a smile, but she did not raise her eyes to his. “Morwë wants to exact his revenge on Valinor and the elves who betrayed him…and Nurwë likewise.”

Urewe swung his knife up in a tight arc, slipping it into its holster.

“I -”

“You cannot say no; he owns you.”

“I would never say no.”

She jerked her head up and met his blank stare. Still, after a thousand years, she could not read him, the only elf she’d ever failed to seduce.

“If only that were true,” in one fluid movement Saironnisse coyly stood, eyes raised to his. Glowing orbs in the dark, unsettling sky blue topaz gems set in onyx stone. They did not belong to him, or so it seemed. She often wondered if they were not actually stolen…perhaps the orbs from one of his victims’. Breathy and low, “You tell me no…” She crept closer, hand raised to touch him.

Urewe caught her wrist, gripping it disdainfully and holding it away from him. Power pulsed beneath his skin

“Have you not done enough? Find someone else for your sordid seduction,” the only sign of his displeasure flaring nostrils, and she bowed her head away from his piercing, appraising gaze. “I wish not for your magical, malignant administrations.” Throwing her hand down, he turned to leave.

Drawing herself up, but daring not to let him see the anger in her face, she hissed after him, freezing Urewe in his tracks.

“You have no right to judge me, Nuranto.” Tossing her head defiantly, Saironnisse watched him pause; she twitched her lips and nose imperceptibly, keeping her sneer at bay.

Rolling his eyes and fluttering his eyelids, Urewe breathed deeply, reigning in the anger that threatened, slowly exhaling. His fingers spread out by his side, daring not to clench and give her the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him.

“Call me Nuranto, for that is what I am. Truly, I am not different from you. We both deal in the dark arts…you fuck with body and mind, and I kill and destroy. But I do not…”

She cut him off quickly, “You hide it. You hide what you are, silently standing by, nonchalant of what you have done…”

Cold tremored up his spine, and she saw his shiver, the corner of her lip rising.

“…And you will follow him, the dog that you are, and do his bidding till it kills you…”

He pinned her to the tree before the last word left her mouth, his forearm pressed tightly against her throat. A small yelp escaped her lips, the rough bark digging into her tender and scratched back.

“Kill me, Nuranto. I desire it…” she rasped. Her eyes pleaded, her voice begged. All of her assuredness, all of her calm disappeared. Urewe searched her expression, realization dawning. She was baiting him for a darker purpose. This went further than sexual seduction; she wished to seduce his deadly side.

His anger abated with the pleading in her eyes, his hold loosening.

“No,” his whisper soft. Urewe dropped his hands to his sides, backing away. She remained pressed against the tree, a glare of betrayal watching him.

“No?” She hissed through clenched teeth, her jaw clamped painfully tight. “You did not see what I saw! You did not see!”

“And why should I care? Does mercy appear in these eyes?”

‘No…’ She searched his depths, knowing that mercy did not exist in his heart. He would not acquiesce to her demand for death.

“He betrayed his master. He deserves the consequences. If Nurwë asks me to kill the elf, I will do it.” End of discussion. ‘Why do you suddenly care? You have been privy to such things before and have even been present at many executions…many of elves you knew, and you just as cold and uncaring as I…’

“What is this?”

Ellon and elleth continued to stare at each other.

“Lord Nurwë, nothing.” Saironnisse bowed respectfully, turning away from Urewe’s penetrating stare.

“I truly hope so.”

-----

And so the night passed, and Ithil rose, a full brightly shining disc of silver.

Heavy lidded and wine-warmed, Legolas stumbled down the corridor on an equally unstable-legged Celegrod. Joviality had taken over, and the two exiled sons of Eryn Lasgalen relaxed in light of their joint situations. Forced laughter and smiles had soon become genuine as more wine was imbibed and more antics related by all four of the Imladris residents.

Ithil beamed moon-rays, disjointed, through the same cut glass windows that had welcomed the golden rays of Anor earlier that day. Blue-silver splattered the walls and elves as they passed through.

After a silent pause outside their adjacent doors, Celegrod and Legolas parted each other’s company and entered their personal rooms.

Legolas shut the door behind him quietly, and stood for a moment in the middle of the richly adorned guest room. Even without servants, his friends had managed to keep the style and grace of the twins’ father. Dinner had been a simple but elegant affair, venison hunted by the twins and prepared by Erestor, with vegetables grown personally by Glorfindel. Eyes had sparkled with merriment, and Legolas felt a pang of sorrow. Here most were gone, and the remaining residents found happiness and seemed to lack nothing. But at home, most still remained…

He shook his head, trying to dispel his thoughts, but only grew dizzy with the effects of the wine. Groaning with drunken pain, Legolas collapsed on his bed, almost instantly slipping into reverie. The exhaustion of emotion and travel overtook his senses, and he drifted off. Silky, feathery softness engulfed him as he wrapped the blankets around himself and sank his head into the inviting pillows.

Tomorrow he would ride again, and the distance between father and son would grow…

But his sleep was not peaceful, and instead he tossed and turned. Sheets entangled about his legs, pillow soaked and hair matted with sweat. Tormented dreams assailed his mind, magnified by the affects of the wine…

//Gwanwen.//

‘Adar!’

//You are dead to me.//

‘Adar! I did not mean it! Tell me you did not mean it either!’

//Silence.

“Legolas, where is your Adar?” Dark ringlets tightly coiled bounced happily, despite the elleth’s grim expression.

“Selde.” He was too obvious. She would know in a matter of seconds.

“Legolas, where is your Adar?” Her voice grew sterner, and her eyes clouded over with carefully checked anger.

The young elfling peered helplessly up at the tall elleth, large blue eyes expressing his uncertainty of what to say. What could he tell her, what could he say? That he’d caught his father in a most unexpected and unusual position? He didn’t even know the meaning of what he’d seen, but that he knew it wasn’t right.

“Selde, please do not leave me alone…”

‘Oh, Ada, what have you done now…?’//

Thranduil sat up straight in his throne, waking from a tumultuous dream.

‘What have I done…’

On shaky legs he stood, blindly stepping his way through the darkened room. Clouds obscured the moonlight, casting an eerily dark shadow across his path toward the door. Clinging to the arched doorway, cold stone, Thranduil stopped. Galion leaned against the wall, sitting with his head back and eyes closed. He was not in reverie, not if his eyes were closed.

Turquoise eyes shot open, and Galion leapt to his feet, his arms instantly around the king’s shoulders.

“My lord…” The valet’s eyes filled with concern, matching his voice.

Thranduil held his hand up to silence his friend.

“Galion, I just wish for sleep. Help me to my son’s rooms. Then send me some food, so I can eat and sleep with something in my stomach.” To accentuate the king’s words, a deep rumble escaped the empty pit of his stomach. He smiled weakly.

“My lord,” Galion knit his brow, supporting Thranduil with his shoulders, the king’s arms now wrapped about his neck. Melancholy seemed to infiltrate every aspect of the king’s being, oozing from every pore. He’d heard a cry from within the throne room, knowing full well that the king slept, fitfully.

Slowly the duo inched their way through the corridors, pausing occasionally so Galion could readjust his hold on the larger elf. Only twice before, in the long years he’d known Thranduil, had the elf seen the king so broken.

Stopping briefly before the prince’s chamber, Galion levered his foot against the door and pushed forcefully. He and the king stumbled forward into the frigid room.

This had been the second longest night of their lives.

Thranduil fell into the bed, shivering with the air blowing in through the open curtains. Galion swiftly crossed the room, whisking the thick, heavy curtains shut. Before returning to the king’s side, the valet lit and set several candles on the small table in the room. Back at Thranduil’s side, he pulled the blankets up and around the king’s body.

Glassy eyes stared up at him.

“Galion, I dreamt about them both.”

“I know, my lord.” He finished tucking the blankets around him, and crossed the room to light a fire with the few logs in the crate.

“They haunt me. I lost them both.”

Kneeling, he place three of the logs in the grate, pushing two waxy fire starters beneath the metal rods of the grate. In moments he had a small spreading flame started. The dry wood caught quickly.

He pondered the flames for a moment before rising.

“You could not have stopped either one.” He rose to his feet and turned back to his lord, once again crossing, bringing one of the chairs with him. Setting it beside the bed, he sat near the head.

“I am glad childbirth took her…”

“…Otherwise you would have had to take matters into your own hands.” Galion finished for him, leaning back in the chair with his hands propped on his knees. “Let me call a serving maid to bring you supper.” He stood again, and disappeared into the hall, returning shortly.

Adjusting his velvet robes, and tucking a few escaping strands of silver hair behind his ear, he settled back into his chair.

“I will never know if I could have given the order.”

“Thranduil, betrayal is never easy to deal with. You showed mercy to her by letting both she and the child live as long as they did.” The child. Thranduil rotated his head to the side, his cheek against the soft downy pillow. The familiar scent of his son, woody and spicy, attacked his senses and for a moment he was lost in a flood of memories and regrets.

“I could not kill my own child, innocent and yet unborn.” Nor the wife who carried him, despite all. Thranduil’s mind clouded with memories of the Sindar beauty, childhood friends, lovers, husband and wife…enemies.

Galion nodded his understanding, staring at the wall opposite. He bit his lower lip, holding back a retort regarding the so-called ‘mother’ of Legolas. But he knew the king still held her in his heart, confused by her treachery.

A soft knock interrupted their thoughts, and an ellon poked his head though the crack in the door. Galion rose to his feet, and took the tray from the elf, whispering something about leaving the king alone, and that he would personally see to Thranduil’s needs. Bowing, the ellon left.

Galion set the tray bearing a small amount of cheese and bread, and a bottle of wine, down on the table. The cheese was soft with a thick rind, and Galion spread some on some torn bits of the crusty bread and arranged them on the small pewter plate sent along with the food.

His knuckles turned white as his grip tighten around the edges of the plate. The image before him shattered his nerves.

Lying in the bed, Thranduil was ghostly pale and small-looking. His golden hair dulled by his lack of bathing was a hideous mass of tangles, his eyes unseeing marbles as he stared at the ceiling.

Galion barely held the plate steady as he crossed back across the room. He could not be sure which he dreaded most, this weak whisper of the king, or the raging madman from earlier.

Legolas had only been gone less than a week, and already his father seemed ready to fade.

Thranduil’s voice jostled Galion visibly.

“Galion, tell me honestly? Is adultery a good reason for a wife to plot her husband’s death?”

Food and plate hit the floor with a clatter.

----

‘So beautiful,’ he thought, stroking his fingers carefully through her untamed hair. Finally she slept peacefully, after having been shaken by her frightening vision. Helplessness over ran him. He could offer her nothing more than weak promises.

He and Morwë matched each other almost perfectly in skill, and cunning.

‘It all happened too fast,’ he thought bitterly. Ranohtar shook his head in disbelief and gazed at the elleth lying before him. His heart rose to his throat, choking him. This would end all too soon, and it was time he left the tent for his own.

‘What sorcery had worked its way into her mind tonight?’

His hands fumbled around the tent floor, feeling under blankets and pillow till he brushed against the thin ceramic bowl. A layer of ash still coated the inside, and he hastily cleaned it with his leggings. Looking around, he found the bag she had taken it from, and searching again, found the flint and steel. He shoved the items back into the bag, pulling the drawstring tight and tying it.

Even with his movements, she did not stir.

He lay back down beside her, molding his body to hers. By instinct, she snuggled into his nude warmth, murmuring against his skin. Her breath tickled against his bare chest, and he tucked his hand beneath her head to bring her closer to him.

Time was fleeting, and he had to leave soon before the other awoke.

Shifting, he tried to rise again, but felt her hand grasp him desperately. Her face rose to his, large grey eyes meeting his. A question hung on her partially opened lips.

“You must go?”

He nodded, opening his mouth to speak. Carniwen touched two fingers to his lips, silencing his forthcoming words. Once he was quiet, she let her fingers wander across his features, as if seeking to memorize them all. Quickly and briefly, their lips met in a heated but short kiss.

Removing himself from their embrace, he pulled on his breeches and plaited his hair. Already the air grew moist with twilight dew. In less than an hour the others would begin to awake. So distant and surreal did the outside world seem when before him sat Carniwen.

Giving her one last longing look, he slipped from the tent into the budding morning. The silver of the night gave way to the pink of the rising sun.

And a new day began.