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The Woes of Celebrian	By : VladimirHarkonnen Category: Lord of the Rings Movies > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 8632 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own anything of Tolkien's Legendarium, or of Peter Jackson's Hobbit trilogy. No profit is intended to be made at any point in this story.

Chapter List
- 1-All for want of a horseshoe nail
- 1
PROLOGUE:
MORIA, AZOG'S THRONEROOM:
On his great throne in Moria, Azog the Defiler looked upon his armies. The anger that stewed within him was toxic, he knew. He had not survived since the last days of the War of Wrath, when his father was slain by a Longbeard of the line of Durin and when he had seen the first Dark Lord dragged out by the other Valar, weakened and pathetic, to this point of the Third by being a fool. A Balrog, slumbering. Thankfully not awoken by the two Orcs that had seen it. Others might have dismissed it in the foolish acts of pride that made for proud but dead Orcs. He had sent a fifth of his legions out to discover the strength of his foes beyond the mines of the former Dwarven kingdom. Most of these were sent to raid the human societies, to probe at the frontiers of that Gahn-Dore, Row-Han, and the other societies that were the kind of targets wise Orcs tended to only raid on a small scale. These were the weaklings and the simpletons, if they survived to return they would return worthy, but he suspected he had little to fear.
And there was his son, Bolg, whom he had sent out first of them all. Bolg was young, and he was arrogant. Yet he was of his blood, a proud and ancient lineage. Like all his kind, Bolg and he were products of the ancient ways of the First Wars, when Melkor had looked upon Avari and remade their souls, transforming them. He had made them warriors and warlords, where Orcs like Azog were the standard Orcs of their time. Now, in this Third Age of the Elves, he was the Defiler to those outside his people, but to his kind he was Azog the Last. Last of the Firstborn Orcs, survivors of his master's dreadful wars against the Elves and the wars of fallen Angmar.
He was above all else a survivor, and he would not see his kingdom lost to the likes of the soft and weak Elves. Azog sat on his throne, his fingers steepled. He, the mighty White Orc, would find his way forward. The old settlement of Gundabad was abandoned, he had seen to that personally with a raid he had led with his son by his side in his last mission as his second in command before becoming leader of a Warband in his own right.
Azog sat and waited. Soon, destiny's clarion call would ring. And soon......he would have to face the risk that this Necromancer that sent the pulses of Power that stirred the hot blood of his kind and congealed it into forces of steel and fire might be what he was afraid it was. Centuries since the Dark Lord had fallen. Two millennia of this age. He had become accustomed to being a great lord in his own right, he had no desire to yield to the mastery of another. Then again, when did any Orc ever get what they wanted? Gettting a heart's wish was for Men and Dwarves and the sickly simpering Elves.
THE NORTH OF ARDA, NEAR THE FOOTHILLS OF THE MISTY MOUNTAINS AND THE EDGE OF THE GREAT GOBLIN'S TERRITORY:
Celebrian sat in the middle of the camp. She had not liked the rationale for the diversion so far to the east, but then who could have predicted that the hordes of Moria would suddenly burble out of their realm to the degree they had? Throngs of Orcs had stormed the outer frontiers of Gondor, others had sought to raid Rohan and parts of Eriador that were seemingly defenseless. The straightforward route to Lothlorien she had wanted to take would have put her party straight in line for an Orc band of considerable size squatting between them and Rivendell. There were no good options, and her guides had decided on a combination of audacity and the realities of Orc interrelationships.
Orcs did not love other Orcs, they fought many forgotten and unnamed wars that the true peoples of Arda, the Free Peoples, chose neither to care about nor to reckon worthy of name. Azog of Moria and the Great Goblin of the Misty Mountains were deadly foes, and fear of the Goblin, it was hoped, would lead to an ironic kind of shielding from turning the wiles of the Enemy against himself and themselves. Be that as it may, Celebrian had favored going quietly in small groups back to Rivendell, not taking any chances that were unnecessary.
Only she and the two soldiers closest to her immediately perked up when the woods around them went totally silent. That was never-she heard a shrieking sound, the Black Speech. The old black Speech, the kind her husband had mentioned was used in the War of the Last Alliance. A very young but massively built Orc with a crudely simian face and massive jagged armor stormed toward them, roaring in Orcish speech.
Crude arrows with black feathers surged out, and the two soldiers were struck with arrows, several breaking against armor, but in their fury to get their swords from their scabbards, other arrows landed, some in the cheek, more in the throats. They slumped over. The Orcs stormed the camp, all twenty-five of them. The towering Orc was not familiar to Celebrian then, though he would become so over the course of time. Her first sight of Bolg son of Azog was his sadistic glee in taking his sword to hew his way through the unarmed men of her camp, though none debased themselves by pleading for mercy an Orc would not give in any event. The hot smell of Elven blood was in the air, and so was the knowledge that her companions had all gone that night to the Halls of Mandos.
She was the daughter of Galadriel who had seen Valinor and was older than the Sun. She was not scared of any stripling-Orc, a whelp of the servants of the Lesser Enemy. She stared at him coldly and proudly. He smiled, licking the blood on his sword as she scoffed in distaste.
The Orc surprised her by speaking a very crude Westron:
"You wife of Star-Dome?"
She blinked. She knew it was a rhetorical question, if the Orc was asking, he already knew. The Orc smiled, teeth reddened by Elven blood.
"You come with us now."
She glared.
"No."
"You misunderstand, Celebrian wife of Elrond," Bolg spoke not in Sindarin but in Quenya, bar her name and Elrond's the language his father had learned just enough of from the Old Days to permit his son the use of a weapon the Elves never expected. Her eyes were very wide, her hands trembling.
"I do not give you the choice." Then in his Orc dialect he shouted: "Boldog, Targun, tie the Elf-cunt's hands." She stared bemused, the Orc-babble not something she readily wished to understand, then crude Orcish rope was around her hands, and only then did she try to struggle as the Orcs laughed, Bolg moving toward her and then leaning down beside her.
His words made her freeze in fear, whispered into her ear by a voice that was crude and breath that was fouler than any natural thing should have said "You'll make a pretty mother for whelps, little harlot."
His next words terrified her more:
"Send word to my father by raven. We have captured the wife of the Star-Dome. I shall go personally to Moria to deliver this little gift."
His hand slid down to her waist, and then lower. She squeaked in a very genuine fear at the combination of sensations from his sharp armor digging at her skin, though not quite making her bleed, and at the sensation of Bolg's hand on her pussy, his fingers brushing her in a way that was both cruelly intimate and a blatant telegraphing to her of what her all too near reality held for her.
"You are already a wife, so unless your husband is so weak and limp-dicked an elf to not have consumated your marriage, you're no vigin for Elven standards. You've not yet had the pleasure of Orc, though."
His thick black tongue reached out and licked along her cheek.
"You will, though. In time, little Elf, you shall become a fine Orcish slut."
Celebrian's glare and its baleful element was marred by her paleness, her trembling hands, and the ease with which Bolg picked her up and placed her on his Warg, their turning to the south. She missed the orders that he gave to his band to continue the patrols, the fear the more genuinely real for the kind of situation she was in. It was not a pleasant experience either to ride a warg fearful that the armor that was ripping her dress to shreds would make her a dinner in a warg's belly.
They had not gone far when the night began to turn to the day. The Orcs had prepared many spider-holes for this passage, and it was in one that Celebrian found herself dragged in and given a crude Orcish piece of bread to eat. As she tried to reach for it with her aching wrists, Bolg removed his codpiece and tapped a quickly erect cock both larger by far than any Celebrian had seen outside a stallion (though only a third the length of one, if so thick she wasn't sure how Orc females could take such a thing) with a pair of bulging buboe-like structures on either end. He tapped it on her face.
"Do you want to eat, little Elf?" His Sindarin was surprisingly good for an Orc. Gritting her teeth, hungry and thirsty in spite of herself, the Orc tapped her face with his cock again.
Then he spoke the words she dreaded to hear 'Suck me off and swallow and I will give you bread and water.'
Celebrian sighed. She would be rescued by Elrond.....and she knew the truth that Elrond also knew. The myth that Elves 'faded' when raped was just that: a myth, a fireside tale to keep Elven women in settlements away from war. Their lineage more than most knew this, their relative Aredhel had been one of those who most cruelly subverted it, and from that subversion was shaped the fate and birth of Elros and Elrond both. Of everyone who could understand, her husband would be first. Knowing this, knowing she wanted to survive and deny the Orcs their satisfaction, Celebrian opened her mouth, bracing herself as the Orc without much of any further ado simply rammed his dick inside of it.
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The Woes of Celebrian