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Greenleaf & Imladris 22-Bereth:To Have and To Hold	By : MPB Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 3363 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Chapter XI: Unholy Desire

Gimli managed to grasp the handle of his axe. With a mighty effort, he one-handedly swung it, embedding the blade in the spider-creature’s skull or whatever passed for a skull in it. It shrieked and released him. As it scrabbled away from him, Gimli wrenched the axe free.

But the beast was still able to fight and it reared, ready to pounce on its erstwhile victim. It did not look like the spiders of Mirkwood but it may have been their distant kin. It was smaller and bristly with claw-tipped appendages but, thankfully, had no venom in its bite. Gimli glowered at it in rage.

“Come on, you mangy excuse for a monster!” he bellowed, brandishing his axe.

The creature leaped at him but without the element of surprise it was less effective. Gimli dealt it several serious blows until, finally, he lopped off two limbs. As the limbs concerned were what the beast had been using at the moment to cling to its perch, their sudden loss caused it to topple over and fall to the ground far below. It landed with a hideous squelch atop several orcs, trembled violently for a moment, before going still.

Glancing down after the creature, Gimli took a quick look to see how Elladan was doing. To his relief, the Elf-lord had dispatched the rest of his foes quite nicely. Bleeding profusely from the wound in his shoulder, the stouthearted Dwarf determinedly resumed his attempts to destroy the talisman.

Meanwhile, Elladan had managed to shut the heavy door to the chamber. Grabbing two of the scattered black swords, he quickly slid them across the latch. He finished not a moment too soon as evinced by the pounding from outside that indicated more orcs were trying to get in. He kept an eye on the door, sword ready, just in case they managed to break in.

********

“You are a comely thing, maethoren”—my warrior—Alieth said crooningly as she approached the Elf-knight. “And a feisty one.”

She suddenly lifted her hand and ran the back of her fingers down Elrohir’s cheek. He jerked away and stepped back out of reach, eyes hard and wary.

“What do you want from me?” he demanded tightly though he feared he already knew the answer.

She laughed softly. “Why you, pretty one,” she said. “I would have you.”

Elrohir felt a wave of loathing sweep through him. The very thought of being touched by the abomination before him shriveled his soul.

“I would die first, witch,” he said, almost spitting out the words.

Her eyes narrowed though she smiled. “You will die then,” she agreed. “But before you do, you will know what it means to spurn me.”

Elrohir started and whirled around as the chamber door slammed shut on its own. He noted with foreboding that the top of the panel was open but barred. It recalled to him the dungeons of men. Suddenly, he understood what the chamber had been used for and what manner of occupants had been confined within. He looked back at the sorceress.

She had vanished and Maeglin stood before him once more. He drew a sword from beneath his dark robe. It was black. Black of hilt and black of blade.

The Elf smiled with a malice that was chilling. “Beautiful is it not?” he said, playing with the sword. “My father taught me the art of its making. And he was considered a master of such weapons. But this is special for another reason.”

Elrohir kept a wary eye on his opponent’s hands. He had not survived all these millennia by dropping his guard even for a moment.

Maeglin held up the sword, pointing the blade at Elrohir. “The blade is poisoned,” he drawled. “But do not fear just yet; this poison does not kill. That is not its intention. One cut from this and your limbs will go numb. You will find it difficult to move or walk. Indeed, you will find it difficult to resist anything Alieth has planned for you.” The malice in the smile deepened. “That is what you desire, is it not, Alieth?”

“Aye, Lomion,” Alieth’s voice whispered. “If the child will not willingly lie in my arms, then I will be as pleased to have him by force.” The whisper rose to a hiss. “And when I have had my pleasure, you may then send him to the Halls of Mandos.”

“Delighted,” Maeglin said.

He approached Elrohir with an arrogance born of the confidence that the darkling Elf would not be able to damage him. He dropped into the stance of a warrior as did Elrohir.

The two Elves circled each other, one filled with the desire to dominate and conquer, the other with the need to defeat and vanquish. With terrible suddenness, Maeglin lunged at Elrohir, black sword flashing with wicked speed. With equal speed and skill, the younger twin parried each stroke, ever conscious of the need to avoid getting so much as a scratch on himself.

And a thought nagged at him. An impression to be more precise. Something about Maeglin was very wrong. He’d sensed it at the start of the other’s tale. And it had grown as he’d continued to recount it. He suspected what it was but he could not be certain just yet.

*******

After knifing the last orc in the yard, Legolas found himself torn between seeking Elrohir and helping Elladan and Gimli. Even as he had battled his share of the goblin troop, he’d been keenly aware of the sounds of sharp cries and clashing metal resounding from the windows of the turret. He worried that his friends were facing more foes than they could handle, that they might fail to destroy the talisman.

A harsh bellow from the tower caught his attention as he recognized Gimli’s voice. It had not been made in pain or fear but in sheer anger.

He smiled grimly. He decided they were quite capable of taking care of themselves if Gimli’s roar was any indication of his mood. He dashed into the keep.

His first thought was that the interior did not in any way match the exterior of the hold. He’d been expecting some elements of grandeur within. Plush furnishings, marbled floors, heavy tapestries on the walls. But the entrance hall was practically empty and the floor was of the same rough-hewn stone as the walls of the keep itself. Clearly, it had been designed with the intention to impress or awe from afar, nothing more. An odd intention, Legolas mused.

He reached out with his mind, trying to sense where Elrohir might be. There were three corridors leading away from his location. He guessed one led to the tower wing. Another...the kitchens and storerooms perhaps? He strode to the last one. Almost at once, he felt the tenuous connection surge in the recesses of his mind. He sprinted down the passageway, praying he would find his mate soon.

*******

Stroke and counterstroke. It was a nightmare duel and one that was heavily balanced against Elrohir. No matter how many times he got past Maeglin’s defenses, the other's wounds healed instantly. Elrohir knew he could not keep it up indefinitely, superior elven endurance and strength notwithstanding. He was not yet fully recovered. Sooner or later he would tire enough to allow his opponent to slip his blade through.

It did not comfort him that Maeglin did not intend to kill him yet. What Alieth had in store for him while he lay helpless from the poison was, in his opinion, worse than death. For she would strip him of his honor and dignity and violate his very soul. Elrohir knew he could not endure such a fate.

Fatigue soon took its toll of him. It seemed to resurrect the deadly chill he’d experienced after the feeder’s assault. He felt his hand tremble as the cold snaked into his joints, slowing his reflexes for just one split second. It was enough.

He gasped as he felt the black blade slice across his right arm. Almost at once he felt a curious numbness creep up and spread. Stumbling, he leaned against the wall, trying to keep hold of his sword, trying not to fall as the lack of sensation made its way down to his legs. Finally, he felt his knees give way and he was forced down upon them. His sword slipped from his now senseless fingers and landed with a clang on the floor.

Maeglin did not wait for him to collapse completely but pulled him up and almost threw him onto the divan. He tossed his black sword down then wrested Elrohir’s bow and quiver away, tossing both aside. He straightened. And changed. Alieth stood in his place.

“He is ready for you now, my dear,” Maeglin’s voice cooed.

Alieth eyed the Elf-knight. She smiled.

The sorceress knelt before him, almost straddling him. She reached out a hand and caressed his cheek. “So beautiful,” she murmured. Her hand moved down to his chest, stroked her palm over its broad expanse admiringly. “I do not believe I have had a fairer one than you in all my long years.” She fingered the clasps of his tunic.

There was a sudden sharp gasp and she paused in her fondling. “Lomion?”

“Wait, this one is different,” Maeglin said, his voice oddly hushed. “I smell her sweetness in him, feel her glow, her very essence. He is of Idril’s line! My golden Celebrindal, the only one I ever loved.”

“You never loved anyone,” Elrohir snapped. “You only wished to dominate and corrupt and ruin. My foremother saw you for what you were and reviled you.”

Alieth slapped him hard and the voice of Maeglin barked, “You will hold your tongue, pen neth”—young one—“lest you wish to feel my full wrath.”

“Lomion, Lomion,” soothed Alieth. “You can have your revenge for his hurtful words. Why not take him yourself? ‘Twill be fitting, do you not think, that he so reminds you of her?”

There was a pause. And then Maeglin chuckled lasciviously. The sound sent a shock wave of revulsion through Elrohir.

“You are right, Alieth.” The sorceress’ face and form shimmered into Maeglin’s countenance and body once more. He leered at an increasingly appalled Elrohir, raking the Elf-knight’s lean, muscular frame with rapacious intent. “Mayhap we should not kill this one after all. Our bed has been cold these many years. He will warm it quite nicely for us. What say you?”

“An excellent idea, my dear lord. The very thought is enough to undo me,” Alieth crooned desirously. “Take him now!”

Horror coursed through Elrohir’s veins. As Maeglin bent down over him, he desperately tried to twist away from him. With a supreme effort, he lashed out with his arm, striking the other Elf’s cheek hard enough to force him back. Maeglin gazed at Elrohir, almost amused by his defiance, and just as impressed.

“Still fighting, sweet one?” he remarked. “‘Tis so uncooperative of you.” He cupped Elrohir’s face and forced him to look at him. “Such a lovely creature,” he murmured. “I believe you are even more interesting than Idril. Certainly more gamesome.”

Compelled to stare at his tormentor, Elrohir glimpsed something that caused his suspicions to coalesce in that instant. The ramblingly told tale with its near-theatrical overtones. The overweening manner, almost flamboyant as to be absurd. The slew of egregious decisions not to mention a distinct failure to sort out priorities. He saw the reason for all these flaws in the depths of his enemy’s eyes.

Madness.

To be continued…
- 11
- 12
- 13
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Greenleaf & Imladris 22-Bereth:To Have and To Hold