The Half Breeds

Author: Bird
Title: Half Breed
Chapter: 9 – Confrontation…
Rating: NC-17 overall
Warnings: off scene violence… mostly left to the imagination…and Galion says fuck…
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: I have had commentary that the four stories going on at once is slightly confusing…let me know if you want me to give you a quick recap…thanks…;)

Thank you to Moxiw, Thandewindolin (that is a blantant misspelling! Very sorry! But I am having trouble with my computer being really slow tonight, so I am not making anymore than necessary clicks...:(...) and to Emmess, who is also my wonderous beta, for all the encouraging feedback...moxie e-mail me at absolute_revolution81@yahoo.com if you have any questions! I don't want you to be confused! Tell just what is confusing, I will take a look, see if I can help you out! :) Bird

~~~~
I didn't even feel it
It happened so fast

Ain't it fun when you know
that you're gonna die young
(Ain’t it fun, Guns ‘n’ roses)
~~~~

Waking was a dream. Preparing was a dream, as was riding off.

Six heavily laden steeds flew toward the High Pass of the Hithaeglir. Asfaloth led the group despite the years of age echoing through his bones.

Two weeks of hard travel lay before them. Already the air smelled of snow, and the tiny white flakes fell sporadically about them. Blizzards would not be far behind, and all knew that haste was of the utmost necessity. The Vale of Anduin would not be pleasant during a blizzard. Vast, the plain would be desolate blanketed with the white powder.

Before they reached the pass, the wind picked up, whirling the flurries around them furiously. Even they could feel the biting cold, despite their elven defenses.

Glorfindel led the group, Erestor on his roan nearly at Asfaloth’s shoulder. Celegrod rode his dappled mare close behind. Legolas strayed far behind, watching in amusement the antics of the twins.

Elladan weaved back and forth with Elrohir in the space between Legolas and the other three riders. Some sort of contest had been started, or continued from a previous time - Legolas could not be sure -, between the Peredhil. Dark unbound hair flew wildly about squinting, serious eyes as both riders crouched low. Occasionally, one would throw the other a challenging glare.

From his position, Legolas could not tell if the other three were even aware of the game behind them.

No stop was made till the riders were safely beyond the howls of the pass, the mountains creating a forceful tunnel of blowing air-currents and faster falling snowflakes. Whipping hairs stung their faces, and the bitter cold reddened their faces. Elven stamina kept them going, only stopping and camping beside the frigid waters of the Anduin for rest when they knew their animals could take no more.

----

Anger and heat spurred the southern riders eastward. Morwë would deal with the half-Easterling.

Jungle and grassy plain melted into the desert sands in a few days’ travel.

Visions of what he expected to find danced through his mind. Or rather, they rutted through his mind. Again he saw red.

‘How dare he! How dare she!’

Hooves flung sands of grain haphazardly, and Southron steeds rapidly beat the dunes. Morwë had heeded his brother’s advice and remained the second day. And they had made plans, which involved scouting out human settlements surrounding the jungle and procuring horses for travel.

Then appearances had altered around the fire. Stripped to bare skin, Nurwë and Morwë had revived the ancient art of warrior-mark, or rana-tehta. Only Morwë bore the marks, but in accordance to the ancient tradition, both the marker and marked had to be naked.

“Chief Morwë,” Nurwë had spoken solemnly. “The symbol of your tribe.”

“Wolf.” Wolves symbolized the first tribe he’d belonged to, before the great journey.

The Haradhrim Avari had gathered around, ellyn only except for Saironnisse. Morwë learned quickly that she was the exception to many rules, the serpent that flattened itself and squeezed through the tightest cracks.

Urewe had stood silently to the side, while Nurwë painted the grisly scene across his brother’s chest, shoulders, arms and back. Thin brushstrokes glided across pale skin, leaving trails of black ink in their wake. Dragon stood to one side, wings cut off, wrapping its claws around his left shoulder from behind. A wolf leapt across his right shoulder, its front paws and claws pressing and ripping into the flesh of a large rat centered on his abdomen. Mouth opened and teeth bared, the wolf appeared to be preparing to tear into the crushed rodent.

Saironnisse had kept herself as far from the ceremony as the circle of light permitted. All was in accordance to her vision, and it horrified her.

She and Urewe would be left behind when Nurwë and Morwë rode off back east to exact revenge and finalize their plans.

Lines flowed across the rippling muscles of his back, and she watched with morbid fascination the light and shadows playing off the planes of the Khandhrim’s body. Both were perfect specimens of the elven warrior, and Saironnisse could not tear her eyes away from the deadly duo.

Remaining naked, Nurwë had helped his brother back into his tunic and leggings. His clothing completely covered the temporary tattoo. Ranohtar and Carniwen would never know of its existence, until it was too late.

To conclude the ceremony, Nurwë had plaited his hair in an intricate pattern of braids and faceted onyx beads. A tiny gold hoop now graced his left ear, one in his brother’s right. It had been years since he’d worn such marks of his ancient past.

Morwë stared into the watery heat stretching out in front of him. He clenched his jaw against the urge to strike them both down at the moment of his arrival.

----

The noon sun rose high overhead, and Ranohtar squinted towards it. They had met one last time over the course of three days, again in the dark of night. Making love was not the intent, but discussion of Morwë’s planned assault on the elves of Valinor. Again she had questioned how.

How could Morwë set foot in Valinor? It was not possible for him to sail upon the Grey Ships of the Havens. Cirdan and his lot would not allow him to step even upon the planks leading up the sides of the vessels, much less into the Havens themselves.

And again, why should they care what revenge Morwë harbored against the Eldar?

He had had no answer for her, but that for some reason, he felt compelled to try and stop this.

She still had not understood, and nearly infuriated him. ‘Was she herself not a victim of Morwë’s sordid cruelty?’ He had bit his tongue, and it still throbbed now, a reminder to him of her naïveté.

Now he stood in the unbearable sun thinking, thinking that she had to be torn between two worlds. Yes she had expressed her loyalty to him, but then her vision had counteracted that.

His eyes wandered around the encampment. Elves wandered about, and he’d known them all their lives, or since the day he’d come here. Children crawled out of tents to quickly scramble to the next into the cooler air of shelter.

One little elleth paused and stared up at the stoic warrior gazing down at her. She’d caught him staring. Two small fingers stuck into her mouth, and her eyes slowly drifted to his face, filling with awe or fear, he wasn’t sure which. Dusty blonde hair lay about the girl’s shoulders in straw-like strands. She must have been about four.

What had he been doing all these years that he’d never noticed the children before, or how frightened of him they seemed to be? He knew the answer – fighting. Fighting for Morwë wherever the ‘lord’ sent him. Never had he just mingled with the people with whom he lived.

These people trusted Morwë to protect their very lives.

He stood thinking, and suddenly staring ahead over the child’s shoulder at a mass of riders from the south.

Quickly he turned back to the child, kneeling before her, a benevolent smile crossing his lips.

“Your name, elfling.”

Her lips separated in a gasp, as the dark peredhel spoke to her. She pulled her two fingers out of her mouth, and hid them behind her back, shyly toeing the earth with her booted foot. A shout to his left turned his attention, and an older elleth walked purposefully toward him. Her eyes squinted in the sun, the determination in her step seemingly a warning. An angry eye turned on him, as she tightly clasped the child’s hand, startling the young girl.

“Laurinya, come with me.” Mother glared at Ranohtar, protectively shoving her child behind her. “Leave the half-breed alone,” her words hissed through her teeth. After all these years, the same prejudices survived, despite the service he’d rendered these people.

He mouthed the child’s name, letting the words flow off his lips and committing them to his memory. ‘Golden Dawn.’

He could hear the riders approaching to the right also catching the mother’s attention. Her angry expression dropped to a respectful one, and she bowed to the mounted ellyn before picking up her child and returning to her tent.

Ranohtar watched the child staring at him over her mother’s shoulder, taking note of the pale sea green eyes she exhibited.

“Ranohtar,” amusement sounded in Morwë’s voice, and the warrior turned to face his lord. “Have you finally found an elleth that captures your fancy? She seems a bit young.” Ranohtar’s face masked over.

“No, my lord.” He offered no explanation, and Morwë did not pursue.

Instead the elflord swung one leg over and in front of him, and slid off the horse to his feet. Ranohtar grabbed the horse’s reins, planning on guiding the horse to the canvassed stables himself. Morwë’s hand on his chest stayed him.

“No, Ranohtar. Let one of the keepers take him.” As if waiting for such a cue, a young ellon appeared at their side, taking the reins from the peredhel and leading the horse away.

Ranohtar’s attention turned to the still mounted elves behind Morwë. He only recognized one, Nurwë. He nodded curtly to the Haradhrim lord. Everything about the elf screamed savagery, and he was just as Ranohtar remembered. Three others had ridden with them, and all remained expressionless.

“I am going to my tent. Show my brother and the others to the guest tents.” Morwë turned on his heel without a backward glance, still masking his anger. He’d not seen her among the elves out in the daylight, but then he’d not expected to.

Carniwen was crouched over something when he threw the flap open without announcement or ceremony. Startled, she jumped, her thick braid thumping her back. Her head whipped around, and a small sound escaped her lips before her expression hardened.

Morwë stood, dressed just as he’d been when he’d left. However, his hair was braided and she immediately noticed the golden hoop in his ear. Often she had noticed the small pierced hole, and he’d never answered her questions concerning why he had it.

He wore a hungry look she recognized so well, and her heart thumped frantically in her chest. But something about his demeanor was different, and her vision flew to the front of her mind. Her hand rested lightly over her dagger hidden beneath the mussed the blankets. Once again she was torn between her desire to kill him, and to feel him. She fought to hold Ranohtar, replacing her vision with one of him and their night.

“Do you not wish to wait for the night?”

He grinned lecherously, but nodded his head affirmatively.

“I wish to wait, but I have wearied travelers that are in need of companionship while I tend to important matters of politics.” That smile was unsettling. His arm held the flap above his head, and he peered down at her. As if distracted, the lustful look left his face, and he pulled back out of the entranceway, calling to someone across from them. In a matter of seconds, another elf, practically identical to him, appeared at his side.

Carniwen held her ground, resisting the urge to shrink back. She’d only ever heard of Nurwë, never having met him. He stood half naked, the sunlight silhouetting him and giving his skin a golden hue. The leather straps of his weapons’ holster crisscrossed his chest, bringing her attention to the hard flesh beneath.

His grin mirrored the one Morwë had dropped.

Again the Khandhrim lord seemed distracted, though momentarily, and he turned his attention back to the elleth on the ground in front of them. He knew what she hid beneath covers.

Darkness spread across his face, and the swiftness, with which he pulled Carniwen to her feet, left her breathless. Her hands came up empty as she stood unsteadily.

“Take her now, brother. I need a moment to think before I council with Ranohtar.” He shoved her unceremoniously toward Nurwë, who caught her with strong arms wrapping tightly about her. His warmth was vile. Struggling would have been futile, and she left with him toward the tent designated as his.

Morwë’s greeting left much to be desired, and many questions and fears threatened her sanity.

He shut the flap tightly as they walked away. Her distraction was imperative. Hands rummaged beneath the blankets, retrieving the leather-encased dagger. Sitting back on his haunches, Morwë slid the slender weapon from its sheath, turning it in his hands. She never let it dull.

Quickly he replaced it in the leather and slipped it into his belt.

Sniffing the air, he finally noticed a faint stale scent of ash. Had this been where the two had made love?

He shook and closed his eyes, holding back a bellow. Morwë knew that it was not just the adultery that angered him, but the act of betrayal from Ranohtar with his trust. That he’d actually allowed himself to trust anyone in the first place. Ranohtar’s death would be a private affair, just between them. Publicity tended to turn the deceased into a martyr.

Morwë charged out of the tent, his blood pumping icily through his veins despite the heat. Ranohtar had followed Nurwë’s directions implicitly. Two fresh horses stood waiting, and they would ride out together…alone…to the outlying lands upon the rumor of warring human bands. It had happened before, and the Easterlings were growing restless again in their wanderings.

Ranohtar sat atop his mount. Morwë was atop his in seconds, and they rode out into the desert’s dunes.

Silence surrounded them as they rode, finally coming to a halt miles from the encampment. Neither needed to speak. When their eyes met, each knew the other knew…

------

Blood and sand never mix. The grittiness of the sand seeps into the wound, painfully grating, itching and dirtying the flesh.

Fingers of blood, dark red against white, spread through the sand quickly, aided by the loose grains.

“Did you think I would not know? She is my bonded, Half-Breed. Mine Hwenti whore!”

Ranohtar’s eyes glossed over, and he tried to block his master’s words. He could felt the metal of the dagger’s blade as it slid sickeningly through his flesh, once, twice, thrice…countless. The weapon and sheath hit his chest when Morwë tossed them down in disgust.

The image across Morwë’s skin was emblazoned in his mind, and Ranohtar understood its meaning. The wolf sank its teeth deep, ripping out his heart, throat and all.

What a price to pay for a love so recently requited. Ranohtar prayed silently, and he’d never prayed before. He prayed Carniwen would be quickly dispatched, that she would not suffer long.

As if reading his mind, Morwë bent over the bleeding warrior, taking the dagger once again in his hand. With the other hand, he pulled Ranohtar’s face to his.

“Do not fret over her. I have other plans for MY wife, and they do not involve killing her.” His eyes glinted. “Did you think you could actually stop me? Did you think any of it through? And after all I have done for you, this is how I am repaid!” His lips all but pressed against Ranohtar’s ear, Morwë’s whisper tickling the skin of his inner ear. “I could have turned you over to your mortal-father’s tribe, and watched your execution at their hands. Funny how everything ends as it should eventually anyway…

I will have a trophy to share with her…Betrayer.”

Morwë redressed and slapped Ranohtar’s horse on the rear, sending it off to perish in the desert. Casting a last look at the corpse on the ground, he tucked his prize neatly in hand and mounted his own steed. He wiped his unbloodied wrist across his lips, wiping away the dripping sweat above his lips. His hands were sticky with the blood of Carniwen’s lover, and Morwë knew she would know exactly what had happened.

It would not be long before vultures smelled the stale, hot blood.

-----


“Master Galion,” the young elf stood arms folded, dressed in the dark-grey wool winter-uniform of the Mirkwood guards.

Galion ignored him for a while, lost in his own thoughts.

The elf cleared his throat, trying to gain the valet’s attention.

Galion turned his head slowly. He had been thinking about Thranduil’s last words to him. It had shocked him to learn that the king had been so detached from his bonded and their surroundings. If he had been paying more attention, he would have seen beyond her false excuse.

Or maybe he’d seen the truth and through the years had blinded himself to it? Not that it made Thranduil’s own actions any better…his mind drifted.

//Summer was such a bright and cheerful season, full of vigorous life and relatively mild this far north. So why did their world have to be so dark and cold?

“Malterin. Wife.” Her rounded belly controlled his attentions, and a surge of anger coursed through his blood at the thought of his child, so innocent. She stood profiled against the bright green of the summer foliage and flowers blooming in the shade of trees. A blanket laid spread on the ground beside them, and he’d caught her unawares, asleep and beautiful with dappled sunlight playing upon her features.

Silver tendrils of hair hung freely well past her waist, and Malterin carried an air of false innocence, glittering dark blue eyes wide. Her pregnancy was well into its final stages as the delicate material of her gown could not conceal, and the child would be born anytime soon. Thranduil was torn. The law, an old one left over from ancient days, clearly stated the punishment for the endangerment of the king’s life, and his heart split in two.

But whatever happened, the child would be saved, his son would live.

“What do you want to name him?” Her voice was barely a whisper and nearly lost on the gentle breeze. Thranduil stood silent, and she turned to face him fully, her hand absentmindedly caressing her belly. “I love the trees of Greenwood. Name him for the forest, name him for me…” Her voice pleaded with him, her eyes searching his for anything.

Though his heart wrenched, his eyes narrowed and hardened further, and he did not answer her.

Her expression quickly matched his.

“I do not expect your forgiveness, nor do I expect your understanding. Just know that my reasons are my own…”

“So you will not give me a reason!” His words sprang forth in a bellow, his body barely restrained from doing them both a great harm.

“Just as you cannot give me a reason for leaving my bed for another…”

‘So,’ he thought bitterly, ‘she did this to punish me…’

“I know what the penalty is, death. I accept it. Do not mourn me…I will not wait for you in the Halls of Mandos. Reject us…”

‘Oh, my treacherous love!’ His heart pounded, trying to break free of its bone cage.

“Once my son is safely in this world, and you are gone…I will think upon you no more…”

Legolas had been born that night, during a sudden summer torrent that had filled the skies in a matter of hours. And after hours of thunder and screams, she had excepted her final destination…//

Galion, the eyes and ears of both Oropher’s and Thranduil’s reigns, had known everything. He’d been the one to discover Malterin’s secrets. It had pained him just as much as it had Thranduil. Both had kept the secret of her betrayal from everyone unknowing in the kingdom, doling out punishments to those who’d thought to join her. A small number of ellyn and ellyth had disappeared shortly thereafter, barely enough to consider. Such an insignificant amount for such a terrible scheme…

Galion had also been thinking of Elu Thingol’s court all those many years ago, searching for a pleasant memory among the dark. Long before Oropher had left to create his own kingdom past the mountains of mist. He’d left so many whom he’d loved behind in Lindon, just to serve a young aspiring lord.

He shivered in the icy cold of the caverns and sighed. ‘And this is where it has taken me…to the brink of madness with a king unable to perform his basic duties, trapped and destined to freeze to death.’ It was getting tiresome and something had to give, soon.

“What is it, ellon?” The guard snapped to attention.

“Intruders in the forest, Master Galion.” The elf’s features twisted into a strange expression of distrust and curiosity. “From the north, Moriquendi of the Forodwaith…a small party.”

'The kin of Eöl have left their own caverns…' his mind took a while to process the information, wearied from the emotional turmoil of the past weeks. He refused to decide on this matter. This was beyond his scope of duties, and he would force the king to finally retake his position. Forget his turmoil and his anguish, he'd lived for millennia with it, and he could live another still...

In a whirl of velvet and cold air, he left the guard standing alone.

Legolas’ heavy door slammed, cracking against stonewalls. Thranduil shot up, staring wild-eyed at the furrow-browed valet.

Galion lost no time, and did not stop in his stride. Jerking at the bedclothes in Thranduil’s grasp, he pursed his lips, stern eyes flicking over the pale king.

“Get up.” Pull.

“I am dying.” Jerk back.

“You are not! Get up now, or you will truly die for I am not adverse to kinslaying, as you well know…” Harder pull.

“I will fade…” Covers tugged to chest and wrapped around fists.

“Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Bed.” Thranduil stared wide-eyed at his friend’s uttered curse. “You would have faded long ago, if you were going to fade. You are king, and you have duties to attend.” Finally Galion won his tug of war with the king.

Accusation shot through Thranduil’s eyes, and he refused to budge.

“I know that you are stronger than this!” Then Galion dared something new, he shoved the king off the bed in a pile of linens and flailing limbs. “You did not fade when your bonded died, and you did not fade when the other left you. YOU will not fade now! I will not allow it!”

It was all the truth. Galion did know that the king was stronger, but he also knew that the king had finally come to a pinnacle in his self-loathing. Thranduil had every right to fade if he so wished, but not on Galion’s watch. He had to intervene.

A golden head popped up over the side of the bed, glaring at Galion.

“Let me correct myself: I WANT to die.”

Turning, Galion set about folding linens and straightening the bed. “And your people want a warm castle. They want fires lit to eat away the chill your heart has cast over them. In fact, some have said they prefer the promiscuous you. At least the caverns were never cold then.” He shook the wrinkles out of the linen in his hand, folding it neatly in half. Hiding a smirk from the large king sprawled like an elfling, Galion kept his eyes on his work. “Do not use your son and Celegrod as excuses to succumb now…”

Thranduil did not answer, but turned his head away.

“If you really wanted to die, you would have taken care of it more swiftly, with a dagger perhaps.” Galion walked around the foot of the bed, reaching his hand down to the sprawled king. “Stand up. YOU have business to attend. Our brethren to the north have left their frozen caves, and are traveling through the forest this day,” he voiced sternly.