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An Honourable Assassin	By : narcolinde Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 3998 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: 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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Assassin's Creed

Now the Twins were not about to roll over and go to sleep just when all Angband was about to explode, spewing evil and destruction amid the populace of the fair valley of the Bruinen, or at least of the Last Homely House, which was more important since the targets of this unprecedented malice lived there. This wasn't just a grudge or a score to settle or a way to recoup injured pride; it was hate of Feänorion proportions. They had to stop it, with or without their father's co-operation. Elladan and Elrohir rose, bathed, put on their armour, and went to hunt down that unscrupulous Wood Elf.

Recalling something about a sparring match, the brothers thought they had a good idea of where to find the scoundrel and headed for the training grounds, swords belted on and daggers stowed in stealthy pockets. They arrived to find the place deserted for as yet there was insufficient light for any of the novice warriors to be practising and not quite the hour for the changing of the guard. Not to be put off, they waited.

Time went by and at last birds started chirping as Anor crept above the horizon. The pages and squires arrived and started putting things in order for the day's events, nodding respectfully to the imposing Lords and silently pitying whoever was supposed to spar against the grim and perilous Orc-slayers this morning. The postern was opened amid the galloping clamour of a troop of cavalry as the night watch came home. No sooner had they entered than the morning patrol headed out the same gate. The weapons master arrived and clanged on the great gong until a bevy of young recruits shuffled out of the barracks mess hall, hastily swallowing down the last of their morning meal and shying badly as they approached and had to pass by the stern and glowering countenances of the identical brothers. It became obvious that once again the Assassin of Sirion had evaded the Sons of Elrond.

This is useless; they are not holding the competition here.

Aye, but where then?
Your guess is as good as mine.

Well, we need to find them. Erestor has no idea what he's befriended. For all we know, Legolas could be murdering him right now.

Don't be an idiot; Erestor's an Assassin. No one can defeat him. In fact, perhaps he does know what he's dealing with and is dispatching the diabolical proto-orc even now.

That made the brothers feel better and they smiled in a way that made those nearby feel sick. Still, the Twins wanted to know for certain that the problem had been dealt with appropriately and it was distinctly possible that Erestor was too enamoured of the cunning Wood Elf to kill him. It would be up to Elladan and Elrohir to defend their kinsman's heart and the honour of their House. Not that they could actually kill him, of course; they were not Assassins. Still, they were sure Legolas could be run out of the valley before he could conclude his fiendish scheme. Few elves had enough gumption to stand up to one of them, much less both together. Thus they decided they needed to locate Erestor after all.

How? Nobody seems to know where Erestor's been hiding this impudent little tree rat.

Nonsense, somebody has to know.

In the next instant the answer came to them and at once they stormed back to the house, furious to have been lied to by the staff. They banged through the kitchen and slammed open the doors to the employees' refectory, making everyone inside jump in fear and drop whatever they were holding in their hands at that moment. There were numerous cries of pain and a lot of mopping up of hot tea. The Twins ignored the ruckus. Faces dark and eyes flashing, they surveyed the room until they found the culprit. Arms raised and fingers pointing, they shouted at the betrayer to come forth. Faelon cowered low in his seat as his fellows cleared off, fleeing the oncoming warriors.

"You!" hissed the brothers together. "Where is Erestor?"

"I…I cannot tell you," stammered Faelon, face wan and body trembling as the menacing Lords loomed over him. "Erestor made me swear. He…he's an Assassin, you know, and sworn oaths are very important to him."

"Do you think," said Elladan coldly, "he meant you to keep that oath on pain of death?"

"What?!" squeaked Faelon, eyes ricocheting between the matched expressions of icy rage. "You…you wouldn't; that's kin-slaying."

"You're no kin of mine," snarled Elrohir, tipping Faelon's face toward him with the point of his dagger, "but Erestor is and your inordinate discretion has placed him in terrible danger."

"If we don't stop this, something dreadful could happen to him. If something dreadful does happen to him, then something worse will happen to you."

"Guaranteed."

Poor Faelon didn't know what to do. Erestor would send him packing if he disobeyed orders. He'd be disgraced and no other realm would hire him for a position of importance. He really liked the prestige of being the personal secretary to the Assassin of Sirion. Still, the Twins would put him in the infirmary for a month if he defied their wrath. Elladan calmly unsheathed his sword and laid it across the remains of the breakfast to help him decide. The secretary relented, whispering out the hidden location and then promptly keeling over onto the floor in a dead swoon.

Much reassured about their power to incite dread and stupefying terror in the hearts of lesser elves, the brothers left him there and headed off toward one of the less civilised sections of the valley. The directions were accurate and in due time they came to a clearing where a sizable compound had been neatly constructed, consisting of three architecturally appealing buildings, a small stable, a paddock in which two horses stood munching on grass, and a training arena. They'd never have known the place was here, so well was it obscured, and it was obvious it had been here for quite some time. It was also obvious what it was here to provide.

The training arena was not empty and the match was well under way. The brothers halted at the sidelines and stared in astonished disbelief and morbid fascination, unable to avert their eyes for the sight was grotesquely compelling. Legolas and Erestor were duelling with the deadly weapons with which Elrohir had seen them in town. Nay, not duelling, nor sparring, nor testing their skill against one another; they were attacking with the full frenzy of a pitched battle. The Twins could only gape in horror as the two spun, jabbed, swiped, parried, brandished, battered, sliced, razed, cut, and mauled each other.

They were naked, paired in a whirling dance of destruction, a blur of lean, athletic bodies streaked with freely flowing blood, gold and ebony hair whipping through the air, entwining and then separating as they leaped and lunged, ducked and rolled, kicked and blocked. They gave mighty shouts of rage and fury, blasted one another with vile insults, and loosed agonised grunts of pain, all mixed with the horrible sound of blades rending flesh. How they could continue in light of the violence each was perpetrating upon the other's person was mystifying.

Yet it became clear within a matter of seconds that they were not trying to kill each other. For all the flying blood and clashing steel, there was a definite lack of dismembered body parts littering the reddening sand. The moves and counter-moves were graceful, balletic, even beautiful and the cuts made, though placed in areas the brothers new to be mortal zones, were shallow and superficial. Not even the voluminous tresses suffered any serious injury, though every now and then a wisp of black or yellow floated through the swirling cloud of crimson dust. This, when it happened, seemed a grander coup than any laceration of fragile flesh.

Then suddenly the clear note of a gong rang out and the two stopped in mid-strike, bowed politely, and retreated to opposite sides of the arena.

Glorfindel was waiting in Erestor's corner and carefully bathed his friend's wounds and applied a healing salve. He urged the seneschal to drink water laced with miruvor and then made him sit and close his eyes to gather his strength, all the while murmuring encouragement and giving hints about the best strategy to use.

Legolas was alone and simply crouched next to the wall, dumped a bucket of water over his bleeding body, swallowed down an entire water-skin of unknown contents, and then put himself in a healing trance during which he sang an eerie mantra beseeching Tulkas for strength to endure beyond such physical limitations as blood loss, broken bones, gaping wounds, and gouged eyes to emerge victorious over his opponent.

"Eru's Arse," said Elrohir softly.

"Bugger a Balrog," hissed Elladan.

"You know what this means," droned Elrohir.

"Another bloody Assassin," they groaned in concert.

Before they could do anything to stop them, not that there was anything they could do that would stop them, the gong sounded again and the combatants instantly returned to the heat of battle, from serene stillness to unleashed fury in the passing of a heartbeat. As they watched Thranduil's Golden Assassin of Greenwood dancing his duet of death with Erestor, the brothers knew they were thoroughly out-classed. Legolas was so far out of their league it made them feel small and inadequate. The ground was getting slick with blood and the Twins turned away, sickened with disappointment and disgust.

Their Noble Deed to save Erestor's fragile heart and spare Imladris a serious comeuppance forgotten, the brothers trudged back home, went back to their rooms, cast off their armour, threw themselves into their favourite chairs, and sulked. After stewing in silence for a time, Elladan rose and retrieved a bottle of highly intoxicating liquor, opened it, drank deeply, and passed it to Elrohir as he resumed his seat.

"That's it; we're done," sighed Elladan.

"Aye, Erestor can have him."

"Absolutely nothing in our repertoire of sexual tactics that could ever match the impassioned ferocity on display back there in the woods."

"True. Wonder what kinds of things someone like that gets up to?"

"Do you really want to know?" They shuddered in unison, not entirely from disgust, but decided it wasn't worth risking their lives to find out. What they'd already seen was more than enough and probably sufficient to get them killed if either Assassin ever discovered their spying.

"Assassins!" Elladan spat, leaning forward to wrench the bottle from his brother who seemed intent upon keeping it.

"Who would have guessed it, an Assassin in Mirkwood," Elrohir shook his head. "I guess we understand now how Thranduil holds the Wraiths at bay." They drank in silence for a while.

Elladan and Elrohir were not squeamish about warfare and killing. They had no qualms about slaughtering huge numbers of orcs, evil men, or wargs, and would willingly go up against Nazgûl if the occasion arose. They would never, however, spill the blood of another elf. The kin-slaying were too much a part of their history to ever consider it. Assassins were a different breed of warrior altogether. Or so they'd been told. Or, rather, so the legends and lore and myths maintained. Those who really knew about Assassins, their father for one and Erestor another, didn't talk about them. Those who feared the idea of Assassins had plenty to say and lots of stories to tell.

"Assassins!" Elladan burst out again. "Obsessed with killing, mad with blood-lust, insane."

"Aye, they kill because they really like it not because they have to."

"Not like us."

"No, not like us at all."

"And just because they're better at it than any other elf, man, dwarf, balrog, orc, uruk, Wraith, or various and sundry demons, they think they're above the Laws of Decency and Honour."

It was said Assassins were machines of death and destruction, trained from childhood in so many ways of fighting, taught to master so many different kinds of weapons that once grown to adulthood they were unstoppable, unbeatable. Only another Assassin could hope to survive against one. Upon reaching maturity, they only got better and more experienced as the years passed. There was a ranking among them, determined by contests such as that taking place in the hidden compound, shrouded in mystery for the precepts and customs of their obscure Order were secret.

Filled with youthful, starry-eyed admiration for their tutor, Elladan and Elrohir had hoped to be trained as Assassins when they were very young, but their Nana had put a stop to that. Their Ada had agreed, saying it was not what any parents would want for their sons because it was such a horrible and bloody lifestyle. Erestor had bluntly told them their spirits were too weak and their bodies would never withstand the strain. They were simply not Assassin material. The brothers naturally feigned relief that they would not have to become cold-blooded, unstoppable killers, but this was a ruse.
"Vile! Disgusting!"

"Useful folk in a nasty war, though."

"Now I understand how Thranduil holds the Wraiths at bay."

"You said that already."

Few in number now, in the Time Before Time the Creed of the Assassins was much revered and to be named to this elite brotherhood was an honour unsurpassed. Back then, when Melkor himself roamed across Middle-earth with his legions of evil adherents, Tulkas hand-picked the first Assassins and trained them to be Iluvatar's Death Commandos. Until the Valar captured their renegade brother, Assassins were the only people skilled enough, brave enough, and crazy enough to stand against him. They preserved life on Arda for centuries uncounted. They diminished in the way all things elvish diminished and for the same reason: Melkor turned them against one another during the bloody days of the kin-slayings of the First Age.

Elladan and Elrohir had believed Erestor to be the very last, for so their father had told them. They were more than a little terrified of their kinsman yet also justly proud, for any realm with even one Assassin attached to its service was a realm to be feared and courted as an invaluable ally. The bottle went back and forth several times and eventually fell empty to the floor. Elrohir got up to find another and the activity must have stimulated his circulation, rejuvenating his dulled mental processes somewhat. Denied access to the Golden Assassin of Greenwood, the Noble Deed resurfaced; after all, they had to save face somehow.

"Hold. what if Legolas is here to do more than break Erestor's heart?"

"You think Thranduil sent him to kill Erestor?"

"I do. From what I saw, Erestor has met his match, muindor."

"Nay! He wouldn't."

"He might."

"Why would Thranduil suddenly want revenge after all this time?"

"Obviously, he didn't have an Assassin before. Imagine, training up his own son in such a despicable profession just to avenge himself on Erestor."

They imagined it. No doubt the amount of highly intoxicating liquor they'd consumed made this possible without revealing exactly how ridiculous such a scenario was.
"What are we going to do about it?"

"Nothing we can do. We're no match for an Assassin."
"Legolas is out there testing our dear old tutor, finding all his weaknesses and blind-spots, learning how to kill him."

"We have to do something."

"There will be war between Mirkwood and Imladris."

"I am not going to kill elves, not even Wood Elves."

"Nor I."

"We have to tell Ada."

Elrond was in the Laboratory where he and his assistant were consulting the articles Legolas had written, along with the original results of his extensive analysis of the putrid sludge he'd gone to such pains to obtain, which the Wood Elf had been happy to provide the night before, and comparing them to the recent results of the Lore-master's experiments. They seemed excited in an understated kind of way and looked up smiling when the Twins knocked.

"We need to speak with you Adar. Alone."

"It is urgent."

Elrond's expression altered immediately into a harried frown; he knew the indications of over-indulgence as well as anyone and his sons' agitated auras, high colour, and the scent of alcohol quite gave it away. It wasn't even noon yet and his sons were well on the way to drunken inebriation. Before he could answer the assistant spoke.

"I'll begin the preparations for another trial, Hîren," he said and turned to leave but Elladan refused to let him pass.

"You're the spy!" he shouted, grabbing the ellon by the arm. "Don't try to lie; I recognise your voice."

"What? I am a student of lore, like your father," protested the assistant, trying to free himself in vain.

"Elladan! Let him go at once!" Elrond took his assistant's other arm and tugged him loose from Elladan's hold.

"No, Ada, this is the one who was plotting with Legolas in the courtyard beneath my balcony last night," Elladan explained. "He knows everything!"

"Talk, you sneaking spy!" Elrohir bellowed, looming forward until he was mere inches from the assistant's frightened countenance.

"Enough! Stop this!" Elrond shouted, shoving the accused elf behind him. "Go to the study and I will hear what you have to say there, but this histrionic scene is inexcusable." He was just winding up to deliver a long harangue against the evils inherent in excessive consumption of strong drink when Glorfindel ran into the room, hair and garments smeared with crimson gore.

"Lord Elrond, you're needed in the infirmary at once," he announced and promptly ran back out.

A second of tense silence passed and then the assistant unleashed a howl of misery and sorrow. As he pushed past the Lords of Imladris, his panic stricken voice followed him out. "No! Legolas, Ernilen, you were supposed to wait!"
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An Honourable Assassin

Assassin's Creed