Without

By CinnamonGrrl

Part 26

Reset

The sun shone brightly the next morning. The birds sang, their gentle tunes wafting lightly on the air; the squirrels chirruped as they stocked their larders with nuts and the stream burbled merrily as it flowed by. A sweet breeze undulated through the blossoming trees, and fruit bowed their branches low. It was idyllic; it was perfection.

It might have been the bowels of hell and raining a plague of locusts for all the cheer in Elessar’s group that day.

One by one, as each awoke, they evidenced great distress over the perfectly clear memories they had of their actions the previous night. Haldir rose first; without a word, he strode off into the trees without looking back. Elessar stumbled over to Arwen and dropped to his knees before her, burying his face in her lap like a penitent and entreating her forgiveness. Boromir said little, just a muttered litany of “I’m sorry,” to Dawn, but his eyes were haunted. Dawn herself only clutched at him, when she wasn’t shooting anxious glances at Arwen, that is.

And Arwen… she was calm. Perfectly, flawlessly, beautifully calm. It’s easy to be calm, you see, when one has spent the better part of the night planning the utter decimation of one’s foes. It was she who directed the others to pack up their meagre camp; it was she who declared they would now search for the missing Haldir; it was she who came between his knives and the fallen log he was systematically hewing into matchsticks and informed him it was time to continue their march.

“They have found Corinne,” she told them then. “She and one other. She has been wounded—“ Haldir’s eyes gained another layer of misery at this news— “but not badly, and will survive.”

“Who is this other?” Boromir asked, ever distrustful of newcomers.

“He is known to Dagnir, a vampire from her home world,” Arwen replied. “He has protected Corinne, and treated her injury.”

Dawn gasped sharply as wild hope flared within her, pushing aside the horror and embarrassment that had threatened to choke her since waking up. “Spike?” she asked, voice quavering. “Is it Spike?”

“I do not know his name, just that Dagnir trusts him, even if the others do not,” Arwen said. “And Legolas is jealous; Dagnir and the vampire had a… warm reunion, Radagast tells me.”

“She’d only be happy to see two vampires,” Dawn reasoned to herself. “Angel or Spike, and Angel’s dead, so it must be Spike!” Her voice rose in volume until by the end of the sentence she was practically shrieking. Joy and excitement filled her-- whatever was happening, Spike would fix it. He always had, sense of failure about Buffy’s death aside.

“It must be Spike,” she repeated, smiling up into Boromir’s face as they once more began to follow the path they’d been on since descending the mountain. He tried bravely to summon an answering smile, but it was rather shaky around the edges and she gave him a one-armed hug, knowing him to still be upset about… last night.

As the hours passed, it became clear that there was an unspoken agreement to never mention it, ever again, but a fire was burning in their eyes, and a new determination tautened their nerves.

Violated by Aker not once, but twice now, Haldir was nearly incandescent with a blind and barbaric fury. Almost thoroughly incapable of civil speech, Arwen had exiled him to the rear of the group and he now stomped along behind them, and woe betide any hapless flora or fauna that came near him: already he’d killed enough rabbits for both luncheon and dinner, and it was only mid-morning.

Radagast had contacted Arwen, demanding to know more about what had happened when she’d so distressedly begged for help, but she had refused to part with any information other than the bare minimum. “He says we must return to the mountain,” she informed her group.

“Will we encounter once more the forces that have… manipulated us?” Elessar asked, his voice husky with apprehension.

“I hope not,” Dawn said fervently. Boromir only gripped her hand more tightly.

They walked. Once past the clearing where they’d nearly ravished each other the previous night and nothing seemed to possess or overwhelm them, they allowed themselves to relax marginally. Boromir actually ventured a tiny smile at his wife, and the rigid set to Arwen’s shoulders shifted to a slightly less tense set.

Only Haldir remained edgy, and so when the first arrow narrowly missed Elessar’s head, was perfectly primed to turn and nock his own arrow in one smooth movement. “Sniper,” he growled, crouching slightly as his grey eyes flew over the surrounding area. The meadow through which they travelled was ringed by trees over a half-mile away; only an elf would have been able to achieve such accuracy at such distance. Unless…

Faint laughter caught his attention; he saw by the way Arwen came alert that she’d heard it as well. A breeze sighed past him, causing the sleeve of his tunic to flutter, and the air around him shimmered for the barest moment. Was that the sound of…?

“Hooves,” Boromir whispered, looked round at the others, his gaze sliding quickly off Haldir to rest on Elessar. “Did you hear hooves?”

Gondor’s king nodded shortly, eyes scanning the grasses around them for some hint of what was happening. There was a flash of white and black and brown behind Dawn, and they all whirled to face it, but it was gone. The sound of hoofbeats came from the right of Haldir, and they turned to it, but after the merest impression of something curving gracefully, there was nothing but the whispering wind before another arrow came at them, this time sinking into the dead-centre of Boromir’s shield.

“They but toy with us,” he said, his voice tapering to a higher octave when something rushed by him and he shuffled quickly away from it.

Haldir turned to face Elessar, eyes narrowed and lethal. “I am well and truly finished being the toy of Aker,” he stated, and the next time the air blurred in his vicinity he loosed his own arrow at it.

In a flash, there appeared a figure before them, facing away so all they could see was the extremely tall build and slender hips wrapped in some pale gauzy material. The head seemed bent low, as if bowed in sorrow. A thin, strappy jeweled armband tinkled merrily when the figure’s hand came up and snatched Haldir’s arrow from the air just before it would strike.

It turned to face them, lifting its head proudly, and they saw that before them stood a female. The strap of her quiver lay between small bare breasts with chocolate-brown nipples, and she loosely held at her side a bow banded with many bright colours. The head of a gazelle rose gracefully from slim and muscular shoulders, crowned by a magnificent set of black antlers, their arc fluid as they curled back from her brow. The narrow face and elongated ears managed to convey a sense of alert malice as the mouth drew back in a surprisingly human smirk.

“Satet,” Dawn whispered in awe and fear from behind Boromir, clutching fistfuls of his overtunic as she peeped over his shoulder. “Patroness of archers. Oh, shit.”

“You are gifted among elves,” Satet addressed Haldir, her voice nowhere near human-sounding, seeming to consist more of scratchy raspings, “but how will you fare against a goddess?” She raised her bow, effortlessly nocking and sighting down an arrow at him.

“Haldir, do not,” Elessar warned him, but the elf was beyond counsel at that point.

“I think the question, madam, is how you will fare against a march-warden,” Haldir replied coolly, arms a blur of motion as he aimed his own bow at her. For a long, endless moment they stood there, arrow-points trained between the other’s eyes, until the twang of a third bowstring drew the attention of both. Satet whirled to aim at Arwen, but the elleth’s arrow struck her in the joint of her shoulder, causing her bow to drop from numbing fingers.

“Bold,” Satet said admiringly, and removed the arrow from her flesh. Before their eyes, it healed good as new, and Satet flexed her fingers experimentally to test their recovery. “But I am bolder.” She motioned to her bow and it flew up from the ground to fit itself into her hand, and quicker than the eye could see, fired off a shot at Arwen.

“No,” Elessar cried hoarsely, and tried to put himself between the missile and his wife, but Satet’s speed could not be beaten—the arrow struck Arwen’s slender body with such force that she was flung backwards a good ways, landing hard on her back. She did not move again.

Another arrow struck Satet, this time in the throat—Haldir’s. As she was removing it, Elessar turned with a feral gleam of rage in his eyes and sprang at her, Andúril held aloft for a mighty killing blow, Boromir and and Dawn right behind him.

Satet’s legs seemed to morph, her knees to bend the other way and her feet to shorten into cloven hooves, and she sprang easily out of the way of her attackers, landing lightly a dozen yards away. Her eyes, dark and liquid, gazed upon them almost pityingly. “It is to my great displeasure that I must do this,” Satet said, “for it is clear you are all beings of great courage.”

Boromir groped frantically for Dawn, thrusting her behind him, and took the arrow meant for her as well as his own. They pierced him through the midriff and chest with such force they emerged from his back, and one punctured Dawn’s shoulder. Skewered together so, both tumbled to the ground as a green pinpoint of energy began to grow above them.

“Intriguing,” Satet rasped at the sight, springing effortlessly away from Elessar when he charged her, and firing off an arrow in mid-leap that struck him directly between the clavicles. He halted as suddenly as if he’d struck a wall, dropping heavily to the ground, and Haldir was alone.

He matched her strike at Elessar with one of his own, firing repeatedly and with perfect accuracy as Satet leapt about on her gazelle’s legs, anticipating her movements and hitting his target each time; by the time he was out of arrows, he’d got her in each limb, the throat, chest, belly, and pubis, but each time the goddess gasped the shaft of the arrow in one hand and wrenched it free; immediately, the wound closed up and healed, flesh and fur knitting flawlessly.

“Excellent,” she told Haldir when he dropped his now-useless bow and unsheathed his daggers. “Truly formidable. Were you on the other side of this conflict, I would take you as my student.” She took a step forward on her hooves and gazed speculatively at him. “That is still a possibility.”

“Were you on the other side of this conflict, I would be honoured,” he ground out. “But as it is, you must kill me, for never shall I join with you and your foul master in taking Aman.”

Satet tilted her bestial head to one side, surveying him closely. “A pity,” she said at last, and nocked another arrow, but instead of aiming it at him, she spun and let it fly toward the body that hurtled from the green portal that had grown while they’d spoken.

“Ow,” said Buffy, looking down at the arrow protruding from her stomach. Eyes searching her surroundings, she saw Haldir staring at her, his face anguished. “I hate being gut-shot.” She staggered forward a few steps before falling to the ground. “Dawnie,” she murmured, managing to touch her sister’s cheek before dying.

“Dagnir!” howled Gimli as he burst from the portal and saw her prostrate form on the trampled grass; he barely managed to fling his axe at Satet before her arrow lodged in his groin. Legolas said nothing, but his face was a beautiful, terrible thing as he began to empty his quiver into the strange being standing before them. With a rather equine laugh, Satet began to bound about again, almost dancing as she picked her way delicately through the growing number of strewn bodies.

Spike hurtled out into the meadow, took one look at Buffy’s lifeless body, and let out a fearsome howl. Dumping Corinne back off him, he flung himself with dizzying speed toward Satet, nimbly dodging the arrows with which Legolas and now Thranduil pummeled her, and leapt onto her. Changing to game-face in mid-leap, he sank his fangs past her fur into her throat and clung limpet-like as she strove to free herself of him.

Radagast raised his staff and began muttering in a low voice. The ground under Satet’s feet began to rumble, and then in a rush surged upward to encase her from the waist down in what looked like brown cement. The meadow’s thick grasses seemed to come alive and began to undulate and creep around her until her arms were firmly trapped against her sides. Spike released her and staggered back, trying desperately to regain his footing. Corinne came cautiously forward and pulled his arm around her shoulder to brace him as those left alive encircled her, weapons at the ready.

Haldir pushed his way to her and placed his blades against her throat. Staring deeply into her eyes, he said, “Save them.”

The goddess struggled against her bonds. “I cannot,” she gasped as Radagast made the grasses squeeze her more tightly. “Naught I can do.”

“She lies,” Thranduil stated flatly. He stood to the side, arrow trained smack between her eyes, arms rock-solid as he held the bow drawn.

“Anything can happen here,” Haldir said. “The impossible is possible in this land; make it so, goddess, else you will find yourself in pieces.” He pressed his daggers closer; all it needed was a single flick of his wrists and her head would be separated from her body.

Satet closed her eyes a moment, and Radagast’s face sharpened. “She speaks to Aker,” he muttered.

When she opened her eyes again, there was fear in them. “Aker agrees you shall have another chance against me, as many as you need,” she murmured breathlessly. “He feels this is great sport, watching you die time and again.”

“Game?” Spike demanded from where he knelt by Buffy’s and Dawn’s bodies. “This was just a game to him?”

“I want to remember,” Haldir demanded, and this time his blades drew thin lines of scarlet that stained the buff-coloured fur of Satet’s throat. “I want to remember.”

“And so you shall,” she replied, “for you are worthy of my favour.” The expression in her eyes changed to regret. “A pity, elf,” she told him. “Your ruthlessness would have made you a fine student… even consort. It is not yet too late… you are sure? You are determined to fight me, rather than join me? For I would make you a god.”

A muscle flickered in Haldir’s jaw. “I am sure,” he replied, and with a jerk, decapitated her.

***

Reset

They walked. Once past the clearing where they’d nearly ravished each other the previous night and nothing seemed to possess or overwhelm them, they allowed themselves to relax marginally. Boromir actually ventured a tiny smile at his wife, and the rigid set to Arwen’s shoulders shifted to a slightly less tense set.

Only Haldir remained edgy, and so when the first arrow narrowly missed Elessar’s head, was perfectly primed to turn and nock his own arrow in one smooth movement. “Sniper,” he growled, crouching slightly as his grey eyes flew over the surrounding area. The meadow through which they travelled was ringed by trees over a half-mile away; only an elf would have been able to achieve such accuracy at such distance. Unless…

Faint laughter caught his attention; he saw by the way Arwen came alert that she’d heard it as well. A breeze sighed past him, causing the sleeve of his tunic to flutter, and the air around him shimmered for the barest moment. Was that the sound of…?

“Hooves,” Boromir whispered, looked round at the others, his gaze sliding quickly off Haldir to rest on Elessar. “Did you hear hooves?”

Gondor’s king nodded shortly, eyes scanning the grasses around them for some hint of what was happening. There was a flash of white and black and brown behind Dawn, and they all whirled to face it, but it was gone. The sound of hoofbeats came from the right of Haldir, and they turned to it, but after the merest impression of something curving gracefully, there was nothing but the whispering wind before another arrow came at them, this time sinking into the dead-centre of Boromir’s shield.

“They but toy with us,” he said, his voice tapering to a higher octave when something rushed by him and he shuffled quickly away from it.

Haldir turned to face Elessar, eyes narrowed and lethal. “I am well and truly finished being the toy of Aker,” he stated, and grabbed Dawn’s wrist.

Boromir started in alarm, but something in Haldir’s face halted him. “What are you doing?” he settled for demanding.

“What needs to be done,” Haldir replied. Pushing back Dawn’s sleeve, he drew blood from her forearm with the point of his arrow and smiled viciously when a portal began to expand in the air where the blood dripped. “The others will come; between us, we shall defeat her.”

Elessar frowned. “Defeat whom?” he asked. “How is it you know these things?”

Haldir released Dawn and turned to where he knew Satet would appear. “Another time, I will tell you, Elessar,” he answered the king. “If we survive.” With a sigh, he fired his bow, and Satet materialized to snatch the arrow from the air.

“You are gifted among elves,” Satet addressed Haldir, her voice nowhere near human-sounding, seeming to consist more of scratchy raspings, “but how will you fare against a goddess?” She raised her bow, effortlessly nocking and sighting down an arrow at him.

“Haldir, do not,” Elessar warned him, but the elf was beyond counsel at that point.

“I think the question, madam, is how you will fare against a Slayer,” Haldir replied coolly, arms a blur of motion as he aimed his own bow at her. At his words, her eyes widened in alarm and a tiny part of his brain noted it; what about a Slayer could give a goddess such pause? For a long, endless moment they stood there, arrow-points trained between the other’s eyes, until Buffy tumbled from the portal.

Part 27

Thousands of years Satet had served The One, Netjer; thousands of years She had followed where Netjer led, and She was still amazed at Its startling idiocy where competent alliances were concerned.

When the fell creature, banished millennia before by the inhabitants of this Arda, had contacted Netjer pleading for a partnership, most of Its children, the Netjeru, had counseled against it. This Melkor was an unknown entity, and Heka, god of magic and of persuasive speech, had seen in him a kindred spirit, and so warned His ruler.

But Netjer fell prey to his sweet words, and would not be swayed. Melkor would have the assistance he needed.

What the Netjeru had not counted on was that the gods of this world would be sage beings themselves, well capable of making their own alliances. One with a group of deities called the Powers That Be was particularly fruitful. They arranged for champions of the light to be sent to Arda, to help the Valar’s own children battle Melkor and the Netjeru.

The Powers’ first champion, a Slayer, was sent when her time in her own world was finished. It had not been foretold for her to join with one of Arda’s finest warriors and befriend several more, but the Valar certainly weren’t going to complain—they were great believers in rewarding hard work.

Clever, too—as soon as they learned that the first champion’s sister was none other than the Key itself, they entreated the Powers to have her/it sent to Arda as well. Only too happy to get it/her out of their celestial hair, the Key was chivvied along accordingly. No one expected her/it to join with another of Arda’s finest warriors, let alone to produce a child from their union, but the Valar certainly weren’t going to complain, for the same reason listed above.

The second champion, another Slayer, was sent on after her death, but as this one had been somewhat problematic whilst alive, she’d been plunked right in the middle of the Valar themselves for “attitude readjustment”. Her time of confinement was coming to an end, and when the Valar were satisfied with her, there were plans to send her to Arda to meet up with the other champions. In her case, it was planned that she would form a connection with a warrior of Middle-Earth, but knowing this one, she’d fight it the whole way out of sheer perversity.

It was too late for the Netjeru to do anything about the first champion and the Key; what was done, was done. But the second champion, the volatile one… ah, that destiny was not yet set in stone.

A plan was hatched. The brainchild of Sehkmet, goddess of war, it involved a plot so complicated that the mere thinking of it caused Satet a splitting migraine—and in one of the Netjeru, a migraine could last a century or more. Satet shook Her gazelle’s head in dismay… Sehkmet was always full of devious plans, but She’d also been fooled into thinking that beer stained red with pomegranate juice was blood. Not the pointiest arrow in the quiver, was Sehkmet.

Said plot involved preventing the second champion from being able to pass from Aman to Arda, and when passages were to be blocked, Aker was your man. So to speak. Thrilled to be called into service, as for millennia all He’d been doing was granting wishes for those foolish enough to employ His Weshem-ib and thus funnel their life-energy to Him, Aker needed but one more sucker, and he’d have the power to rupture the One Path between Arda and Aman.

What He hadn’t counted on was the Powers sneaking another champion into the mix when the Netjeru weren’t looking, one whom none would have suspected to be a threat: a scholar whose knowledge of the Netjeru was daunting in its scope and magnitude. Blissfully ignorant that His latest victim was not merely a sad rube trying to obtain a distant dream, Aker had sent Corinne Williams to meet with the very people who she never should have been paired with, the very people who could be the downfall of the goal Aker was trying to procure. Never let it be said that the Powers didn’t enjoy a good joke every millennia or so.

Aker had tried to destroy the scholar when she’d had the cheek to destroy his Weshem-ib, but Seshat had rescued the woman and given her the choice of serving Her, and merely set her outside the haven of the library when she refused. Satet smirked; Seshat had always been so damned sentimental of Her followers. Her protection of the scholar had allowed the Powers to deposit the fourth champion, the vampire, in Aker’s realm itself and keep the woman alive.

The others had come to Aker’s realm to save her, something few had expected. As far as the archery goddess could tell, there was little of significance about the woman, quite unlike that magnificent elf. Ah, now there was a minion worth having… his skill with the bow was impressive, but only a portion of his attraction for Her... he was so intense, so upright, so stalwart. It would have been delicious to continue their little game, to whittle away at him over and over until in desperation he accepted Her offer, if only to end the torment of seeing his companions killed time and again. As a token of her favour, Satet allowed him to remember what had gone before. She hoped he would appreciate it, as it would not come again. The Netjeru were not known for their mercy (aside from silly Seshat, that is).

And so, as the cycle repeated itself again, Satet found herself anticipating the upcoming confrontation a trifle breathlessly. It had been long since she’d been so challenged, and she was greatly invigorated by it.

It was time. In her formless state, she could see the determination writ large on the elf’s noble features as he used the Key to create a portal, summoning the others, and felt a illogical pang of hope for him. Foolish, yes, but gods were supposed to be impetuous. She squared her shoulders and prepared to reveal Herself.

***

Reset

Buffy tumbled through the portal, and Haldir deflected Satet’s arrow with his own, shattering it into a hundred pieces. Taking their cue from him, Elessar and Arwen began not to shoot at the goddess, but at the missiles she was aiming at them all.

“I remember too, elf,” the goddess hissed at Haldir, eyes alight with the rage of a scorned female as She fired at them, hands moving so quickly they were just blurs. “I remember, and my quiver never depletes,” Satet exulted. “What shall you do when yours are empty?”

“Then we’ll just have to kick your ass without benefit of artillery,” Buffy told her calmly, and launched into a series of back flips that allowed her to miss the back-and-forth flurries of arrows while bringing her ever-closer to the goddess. Thus were Legolas and Gimli able to exit the portal without undue danger, and Legolas joined his skills to that of the other archers, destroying Satet’s missiles before they could hit Buffy or anyone else.

“Haldir knows more than he’s letting on,” Dawn shouted from behind Boromir, peeping over his shoulder.

“Doesn’t he always?” Buffy quipped, and rolled out of a somersault with fist cocked, planting it right between Satet’s eyes. Reeling back, the goddess was hard-pressed to stay upright, but managed to gain her footing and spring away from the Slayer just before she could land another blow.

Then Spike jogged out onto the meadow, and finding a battle already engaged, dumped Corinne off his back. “Oi, short stuff!” he shouted at Gimli. “Come watch the schoolgirl.” Gimli glowered but trotted over to place himself between Corinne and the goddess.

Dawn’s head whipped around to him. “Spike?” she shrieked with joy.

“Hey, Nibblet,” he greeted her casually as he sped by, borrowed sword already in his hand. “Ready, Slayer?”

“Always,” she replied in that deadly-serious voice that always sent chills down his spine. The moment the others stopped shooting, they launched themselves at Satet in a classic pincer attack, joined shortly by Elessar with Andúril bared, Legolas with his daggers, and Boromir and Dawn coming forward at last.

Reset

Satet gave a high-pitched giggle and her legs altered to gazelle’s hindquarters; she sprang away with a laugh and came down on the other side of the portal. Thranduil pitched from it at that moment and, sensing something ominous nearby, twisted in mid-air to sink one of his knives hilt-deep into her belly before landing hard on the ground.

Furious, Satet jerked free the dagger and flung it at him; he dodged it neatly and instead plucked it from the air, slashing at her. Her gazelle-legs tensed, preparing to leap, but Radagast fell from the portal and slammed into her.

She staggered back a ways, ears twitching angrily, and reached for her bow only to find Thranduil had snatched it up as he’d regained his feet and now stood a good dozen paces away, examining it closely. “An exceptional instrument,” he commented, turning to his son. “What say you to the irony of attacking the creature with its own weapon, Greenleaf?”

Legolas caught the bow Thranduil threw to him. “Ever have I been fond of irony, Ada, as well you know,” he replied coolly, and sent an arrow right between her eyes.

Reset

“Game?” Spike demanded. “This was just a game to him?”

Unacceptable,” Haldir demanded, and this time his blades drew thin lines of scarlet that stained the buff-coloured fur of Satet’s throat. “Help us; tell us how we can end this.”

Satet stared at him a long moment, elf and goddess locked in a battle of wills, before she slumped in defeat. “Each of you brings something unique,” she said at last, her raspy voice immeasurably sad. “The two newcomers must be first, and employ their strengths. Only then will you succeed against a god.”

She turned then toward Corinne. “You, scholar. I give you impetus to riddle my words… Defeat me, else there be no cure for your affliction. The vampire’s ministrations shall not stave off death for much longer.”

After this extraordinary statement, Satet turned once more to Haldir and gave a narrow smile. “And now, elf?”

A muscle flickered in Haldir’s jaw, and with a jerk, he decapitated her.

Reset

Corinne remembered. She remembered Satet’s words to her, and puzzled over them until she thought her head would split. Over and over the scene played out, in endless variations, and the increasing weariness in Haldir’s eyes as they failed time and again made her ache on his behalf. She had figured out that Spike was one of the newcomers, but who was the second? Thranduil, for joining the rescue mission at the eleventh hour? She’d finagled it several times so Spike and Thranduil were the first out of the portal, but that had ended just as badly as all the other times.

Maybe she was all wrong-headed about it, as Spike would say… whispering into his ear, she told him what she knew and asked for his opinion. In response, the eyes he turned to her were both gimlet and frustrated.

“You know, for someone who’s supposed to be a scholar, you’re about as perceptive as a bag of hammers,” he said sourly, dumping her off his back and glaring.

“What’s going on?” Buffy asked mildly, having become used to periodic squabbles between Spike and Corinne over the past day.

“Oh, nothing,” Spike said airily. “Miss Thick-as-a-Brick here just now decided to get some input from yours truly on an… academic matter. And it only took our horrible deaths repeating-- how many times, luv?”

“Thirty-seven,” Corinne answered sullenly. “That’s just counting how many since I’ve been able to remember it… I think it’s happened a lot more than that. Haldir was…”

“Ok, really wanting to jump on the clue-wagon, here,” Buffy interjected. “Splainy in simple terms even a blonde can understand?” Ignoring Thranduil’s expression of deep insult, she listened while Corinne tried to elaborate on what little she understood of the whole thing.

“It seems fairly obvious that the two newcomers to our world are Spike and Corinne,” Gimli said in his my-patience-is-running-out-when-can-I-kill-something tone. “We must identify their unique skills and formulate a plan around them.”

Everyone turned to him in suprise. The dwarf merely raised a brow so aloof even Thranduil would have been hard-pressed to out-snoot it. “Let us begin,” he told them magnanimously, and so they did.

An hour later

The others were still squabbling about their parts in the plan, most notably Radagast who felt he should go first instead of Spike, the sooner to do his earthen-prison move, but Legolas wasn’t paying attention to them; his focus was, instead, upon a pinpoint of light in the distance.

A green, glowing pinpoint, to be exact. “Dawn’s blood has been spilt,” he said quietly, eyes flying to his wife. In a heartbeat, she was racing through the swamp toward it, the others pelting after her. Spike tossed Corinne so she fell through in a baseball slide, and the arrow Satet sent her way zoomed harmlessly over her head.

“Hi!” she greeted the other group cheerfully. “Don’t mind me, just distract her, okay?” All but Haldir returned to their attack; his eyes burned like coals as they examined her.

“You are teal,” he accused.

“I’m fine,” she assured him. “Fight now, mocking of Corinne later.” With a brief nod, he turned away.

Scuttling low on the ground, she made her way behind them and began giving them directions. “We need to distract her from the portal, so the others can come through safely. Also, getting her back to the portal would be ideal.”

And so they continued, the goddess never realizing She was being herded in a particular direction. At one point, after Haldir scored an especially choice shot under Her jaw, She sighed and slapped one hand to Her hip while the other removed the arrow, waving it around as She gesticulated. “Have none of you yet learnt that arrows do not harm me?” Satet turned to Haldir. “I had thought you more canny than this.” Her tone was exasperated, that of a teacher to a student who continues to make stupid mistakes.

“I’ll give you canny,” Spike said from behind, and leapt onto Her back. Changing to game-face in mid-leap, he sank his fangs past Her fur into Her throat and clung limpet-like as She strove to free Herself of him.

“Spike!” cried Dawn joyfully, and he somehow managed to grin at her around his mouthful of goddess, freeing his grip round Her neck for a moment to wave. She sprang away in a fury, and Spike found himself actually riding Her around the meadow as She bucked and twisted in an attempt to dislodge him. At one point he let out a classic bronco-buster whoop, bringing some much-needed laughter to the serious bunch.

Then came Radagast, staff already upraised, and muttering in a low voice. The ground under Satet’s feet began to rumble, and then in a rush surged upward to encase her in what looked like brown cement. She tried to change to human form and then back to a gazelle but the meadow’s thick grasses seemed to come alive, undulating and creeping around her until her arms were firmly trapped against her sides.

“Step brightly!” Spike called, and as Buffy, Legolas, and Gimli emerged from the portal the entire group ran over to where Satet was pinioned in place. Spike jumped off the goddess, staggering a bit from his wild ride. “Bloody hell, that girl’s got the juice,” he gasped, and fell over. Dawn immediately ran to him, pulling his head on her lap and babbling nonsense as she cried all over him.

“You do not know what you do,” Satet panted when they surrounded Her. “We but try to secure a home for ourselves!”

“At the expense of those who already call it home!” Elessar exclaimed as Haldir reached for the quiver-strap that lay between her breasts. With a wrench of his hand, the strap was broken and the quiver, dangling from his hand. “Hear me, Aker!” the king called out, addressing the vacant air but knowing he was heard. “End this now, else your servant be slain.”

Haldir tossed the quiver to Corinne, and in a heartbeat had his daggers at Satet’s throat. “Your answer, Aker!” he roared.

Satet closed her eyes a moment, and Radagast’s face sharpened. “She speaks to Him,” he muttered.

When She opened her eyes again, there was misery in them. “Aker says He does not bargain with lower beings; He feels this is great sport, watching you die time and again.”

“I don’t get it,” Buffy said grouchily, slapping the flat of her sword into her palm.. “Why all the fuss and bother to set us up to die over and over? It makes no sense, especially from a time management standpoint.”

“It is not sport,” Arwen said slowly. “Aker tries to divide us, so we shall not rally to aid when we are needed.” Her eyes raked over her husband and the others in their group. “He has already weakened us, and broken bonds of trust that we shall need if we are to conquer these gods.”

Elessar turned to Satet and smiled at her, eyes glacial. “A brilliant maneuver; one I might have to deploy myself, once your corpses lie scattered at our feet.” The king seemed utterly confident of this outcome. “Tell us, Aker, how will your reputation with your king fare when it comes to pass that a group of lower beings have managed to defeat one of your illustrious folk?”

Satet’s eyes became dreamy once more. “He says He will spare you, if you leave me alive.”

“And we believe him because we’ve all spontaneously suffered major lobotomies?” Buffy demanded. “I’m thinking not.”

Thranduil picked up Satet’s bow and now stood examining it closely. “An exceptional instrument,” he commented, turning to his son. “What say you to the irony of killing a creature with its own weapon, Greenleaf?”

Legolas tossed his bow to Corinne at the same time Thranduil threw Satet’s to him. “Ever have I been fond of irony, Ada, as well you know,” he replied coolly, and sent an arrow right between her eyes.

Weakened by near-total blood loss and the lack of her quiver, Satet’s form went rigid with agony. She turned her gazelle’s head toward Haldir, her expression of reproachment and loss. “Remember me?” she rasped.

“No,” he replied coldly. “There is no mercy in me for you or any of your ilk.” And he walked away from her as she died, striding over to Corinne. “Glad I am to see that you live,” he told her, gaze fixated somewhere around her chin. “But what took you so long to discern a winning strategy? And why are you teal?”

*Arda = Middle-Earth
Aman = Valinor
Ada = Father


Part 28

Haldir strode over to Corinne. “Glad I am to see that you live,” he told her, gaze fixated somewhere around her chin. “But what took you so long to discern a winning strategy? And why are you teal?”

“It took me so long because I’m stubborn,” Corinne replied, allowing her eyes to travel over him. It was the first time she was looking at him since the breaking of the cartouche, and it was disconcerting in the extreme to know him so intimately, to expect the little things such as how he stood or the way he held his shoulders, but yet have so little right to that knowledge.

She’d had much time to think about things over the past few days, what with the walking and the running and the being carried and all. She knew their bond was broken, from the lack of stomach ache at being parted from him as well as their minds being closed to each other, but she found herself thinking about him entirely more often than was reasonable for people of mere acquaintance, wanting to share thoughts with him, to show him things, to listen to his voice, to breathe in his scent, even just to hear him breathe as he slept.

A wry, familiar smirk curled the corner of his mouth, sending a zing of awareness into her belly. So the attraction’s still there, too, she thought. “Stubborn. Yes, indeed.” Then he seemed to remember something, and the smirk fell abruptly from his face. “And your colour?”

“I’m teal because a pygmy shot me with a poisoned dart, and I think it’s turning me into a zombie.”

His eyes deftly avoided hers as he scrutinized her, coming this time to latch onto her left ear. “We will find a way to heal you,” he promised.

There was something… not right about him. “Haldir,” Corinne entreated, reaching for his hand. “What’s wrong? I know that we’re not bonded by the cartouche anymore but—“

He stepped nimbly out of reach. “I thank you for your concern, but all is well.” Now he was looking at her right shoulder instead of her face. “I must speak with Dagnir.” And he was gone, his long stride eating up the ground toward Buffy.

Elessar called for them to begin the march back to Mertsegur, and with Arwen on his arm, began to head south toward that mountain. Haldir was being yelled at by Buffy for some reason while Legolas stood back and grinned in relief that it was not he on the receiving end of her displeasure, and Gimli walked with Radagast—two saturnine figures happy to be silent in each other’s company.

Dawn had yet to release Spike from her death’s grip on his arm and, truth be told, he looked none to eager for her to stop fawning over him, patting her arm affectionately and calling her “Nibblet” every thirty seconds. On the vampire’s other side walked Boromir, seeming more puzzled than anything at the furious spate of chatter between his wife and her old friend.

That left Corinne and Thranduil, and the butterflies in her belly at being ‘alone’ with him took to frenzied flight as he aimed a slow smile in her direction, but she gladly accepted his offer of an arm to lean on, as her leg had started hurting again. “Thanks,” she said somewhat breathlessly.

“It is my pleasure to assist one so brave,” he replied seriously, eyes gleaming like burnished emeralds down at her.

“Brave?” Corinne dismissed the idea with a snort of laughter. “Hardly. I’ve been so scared the past few days I’ve near pissed myself.”

“Courage is not lack of fear, my lady, but carrying on in spite of it,” Thranduil told her gravely. “And it was a brave woman who went, alone, through that portal, knowing what fate might have met her.”

Corinne felt her cheeks warm. “Well, if you’re gonna put it that way,” she conceded, hazarding a glance up at him. Feeling reckless, she added, “How are things going with Legolas and Buffy and you?”

“Beautifully, until Greenleaf remembers we are at odds and decides to dislike me again,” he replied smoothly. “It is ever thus with children, Elrond tells me… glad I am that Elbrennil and I had only the one, for I doubt it would amuse me as much had I three such attitudes to endure.” He flicked a faint smile at her. “Have you any children?”

Unaccountably, the memory flooded Corinne’s mind at that moment of the last time she’d thought of having children, that blessedly perfect moment of making love with Haldir before it had all gone so terribly, horribly wrong. Desire warred with horror as she recalled his hoarsely spoken words of love: “With my last breath, I will love you,” and then the cruel vice of his hands on her arms, the hard press of his mouth on hers, sharp teeth cutting her lips as he shoved his knee between her thighs, intent on finishing what they’d started.

Pulling away from Thranduil, she wrapped her arms around her waist and stared at the back of Haldir’s head. In mid-sentence, he seemed to sense her attention, for he stopped and turned to face her. His eyes for once did not skitter away, instead locking with a desperate pain on hers, and she knew that all the despair and fear and betrayal she’d felt—no matter that it hadn’t really been him—showed on her face, in the way she rocked back and forth in unconscious misery.

A tired sort of acceptance settled on Haldir’s face then, and he lowered his head. To see him, this proud and fine elf, so defeated made her hurt terribly on his behalf, and she started toward him before she knew what she was doing. At her first step, his head flew up again and this time his gaze was wary, even warning.

“Do not go to him,” Thranduil instructed softly from behind her. “He will not thank you for it.”

As she watched, stricken, Haldir turned from her and began walking once more, catching up to where Buffy and Legolas stood waiting for him. After that, the exhilaration of their triumph over Satet left her quickly, and it was with more than a little embarrassment that she submitted to being hoisted into Thranduil’s capable arms.

Feeling safe and comfortable for the first time in days, surrounded by the divine scent of the king (what was it about Mirkwood’s royal family? she wondered drowsily) she fell into a shallow sleep.

“You haven’t stopped glancing back at her for the past hour,” Buffy mentioned casually at Haldir’s side. “How long’s it going to take for you to admit that you still feel something for her?”

Haldir sliced her a glance out of narrowed eyes. “I have not looked at her but once,” he protested, the sneaking of another peek at Corinne belying his words. “I do not trust Thranduil,” he said when Buffy merely raised her eyebrows in great skepticism.

“What, do you think he’s going to ravish her? Here? Now?” Buffy goggled at him. “What is it with you jealous elves?” For no reason that Haldir could discern, the Slayer turned to her husband and dealt him a none-too-soft blow on the shoulder. “Aren’t your women allowed to have male friends?”

Legolas rubbed his shoulder and turned an appealingly wounded look upon her. “It is one thing to have friends,” he told her. “I do not begrudge you your friendship with Gimli, or Elessar. But when your friend looks upon you with lust in his eyes…” He turned a piercing stare toward Spike, who gave him a jaunty two-fingered wave in salute, much to Dawn’s amusement.

Buffy sighed. “Sweetie, it’s just a look. Not like we’re gonna go hog-wild and begin ravishing each other…” Her words trailed off as Haldir went a sickly green shade. “Hal?” she asked. “Haldir?” She turned to Elessar. “What’s wrong with him?”

Elessar surveyed the elf before him a long moment. “I believe,” he said at last, “that my lady wife is better equipped to explain the trials we have endured.” He gave her an enquiring glance, not wanting to volunteer her for something she did not wish to do.

Nodding, she stepped forward. “Come, all ye of Dagnir’s party,” she said, “for I would explain this but once, and never again.”

It was a curious group who joined her apart from the rest, eager to hear what she would say; it was a furious group that dispersed once she was finished.

“And suddenly, the way Boromir and Haldir are staying twenty feet away from each other makes sense,” Buffy muttered grimly. “I am so gonna kill Aker…” She turned to Radagast. “Is there some way to resurrect him, so I can kill him twice?”

“If there is, I will find it,” he promised with dour purpose. “I tired of mind-games during the War, and will not suffer them again.”

And in Thranduil’s arms, Corinne pressed her face against his shoulder and wept silently for Haldir and the violation he had endured, not once, but twice.

***

“The primordial waters, Nun, are the font of all existence,” Corinne explained when they reached the edge of the river that encircled Mertsegur. “Once a year, Isis sheds a single tear, and Satet collects it in her jar to pour it into Nun. It is all-healing, all-soothing, all-curing.” She sat on the ground and began struggling to remove her runners, then glanced upward at the group watching her. “Well? Unless you’re all going to watch while I have a skinny-dip, I suggest you hie yourself elsewhere.”

“P’raps I should stay with you,” Spike offered, sending her a licentious grin that was more joke than anything. “Just to make sure you don’t float away.”

Buffy cuffed him playfully over the head. “That’s gallant of you, Fang Jr., but I don’t think so.”

“Actually, Buffy, that’s a decent idea… my fingers stopped working properly hours ago, and I could dictate notes to him while I swim,” Corinne interjected.

Spike frowned. “Oi, I was just trying to get a cheap look,” he protested. “Not volunteer myself for secretarial duty.”

“Too late, you’ve got it,” Corinne told him with a laugh, and tossed him the little notebook and pen Dawn had given her, and in which she’d scribbled (to Thranduil’s puzzlement and amusement) until her hands had failed her. “Point number one: lava-land. The paths seemed to have been formed of cooled magma, approximately two meters wide, of uneven surface…”

Grumbling, Spike dropped heavily to the ground and began to write. Buffy turned away with a grin, allowing Corinne to finish undressing, and joined the others. A splash a few moments later told her Corinne was in the water, and her exclamation of “holy crap, it’s cold!” confirmed it.

An hour later, nothing had been accomplished but the filling of the notebook, cramps in Spike’s hands from all the writing, and Corinne had turned a deeper shade of teal from cold.

“Pet, it’s not working,” Spike told her flatly. “Get your arse out of the water.”

She stumbled out, letting him wrap her in a cloak. “I d-don’t think that the Tear of Isis is in the w-waters yet,” she said, more to herself than to him. “Go get Satet’s quiver, will you?” He left her, and she curled onto her side to try and generate a little warmth until his return.

When the quiver arrived, it was borne not by Spike, but by Haldir. “What is wrong?” he demanded, a current of concern underlying his gruff tone. “What need do you have for this?”

She reached for the quiver, uncaring how the cloak fell open and exposed her ample charms for the world (or in this case, Haldir) to see. Not like he hasn’t seen them before, she thought crossly, and thrust her hand into the quiver. Arrows, arrows, and more arrows. “Dammit,” she muttered, and turned it upside down. Out fell arrows, a small jar of bowstring wax, and…

“Ha!” she exulted, catching the tiny phial before it could fall to the ground. “Here,” she said, thrusting it at Haldir, “you pour it in.”

He frowned. “Why me?”

“You’re closer to being a god than I am,” Corinne replied. At his expression of frank disbelief, she continued. “You are! Beautiful, immortal, talented… “

“And vastly unworthy of every one of them,” he finished bitterly, standing. “What I have done negates every good characteristic I possess.”

“None of it was your fault,” Corinne told him urgently.

“It was my body that forced itself on you; my body that would have raped you,” he replied, his face pained. “And my memories that play in my head, reliving the moments without end. And that does not count what occurred with Boromir… ai…” He covered his face with his hands, shaking his platinum head.

“I knew when it happened that it wasn’t you, Haldir,” Corinne told him gently. “And Boromir knows, too.”

“It could not have happened, were I not capable of it,” he insisted. “I do not know who I am anymore. All that I can be sure of is that our bond is over, Corinne, and whatever we had because of it… whatever we felt because of it… that must be over, as well.”

“You don’t just wake up one morning and stop loving someone,” she said softly, reproachfully. “The cartouche made us want each other, but I fell in love with you all by myself.”

“Corinne, do not!” Haldir exclaimed, his shoulders rigid. “I cannot endure more of this.”

“We can help each other, Haldir,” she entreated, the hope on her face fading to resignation when he turned away from her. Wrenching off the phial’s plug, she tipped it over the water. A single, thick droplet hung poised at the lip of the phial for a long moment; a ray of sunlight hit it and a multitude of colours refracted and bounced round the woman and the elf. Quivering, it fell into the water, and where it hit, a thousand light-filled ripples undulated in response, the clear depths of the water seeming to gain an effulgence before being whisked away by the current.

Dropping the cloak, Corinne stepped into the water, braced for the cold but pleasantly surprised to find it as warm as bathwater. “Mmm,” she said, and dove under the surface to submerge herself. Coming up for air, she gazed at her hands and with great satisfaction noted that they were turning, albeit slowly, from teal to their normal peachy-pink colour. Reaching down to feel her wound, she found that the swelling was all but gone, and the puckering of the scar Spike had given her barely able to be discerned. “Whoo!” she cried in delight.

Her delight was short-lived, however, when a rumbling began under the water, intensifying with each second until the water around Corinne was bubbling and roiling. Scrambling out of the water, she grabbed the hand that Haldir proffered and fell heavily against him, knocking them both to the ground.

As suddenly as it started, the rumbling stopped, but the world could have fallen apart for all the notice Corinne and Haldir paid it. “I love you,” she said, cupping his cheek in her hand. His skin felt, as always, like the finest-grain suede, and she couldn’t resist laying her own cheek against him. “Please don’t do this to us.”

His eyes, charcoal-dark, were anguished when she pulled back to look at him. “I must.”

“I can’t believe this!” she shouted, bounding to her feet, clutching the cloak haphazardly around herself. “I never thought I’d see the day when I was the brave one and you were the coward, Haldir of Lothlórien.”

Anguish turned to anger; in a heartbeat, his eyes were snapping sparks at her, and he opened his mouth for rejoinder but the others bounded around the line of trees, drawn by Corinne’s yelling. It was clear to all assembled what they’d been arguing about.

Spike and even Thranduil grinned widely at her state of undress, and with a rebellious glare at Haldir, she unblushingly allowed Mirkwood’s king to drape his own cloak around her shoulders and lead her away.

“Many fine sons could you bear with those hips,” Gimli said admiringly, following them. “Tis a fine shape you have to you, lass.” The look he shot Haldir spoke volumes. “Even if some are too stupid to claim you, there are dozens of others who would leap at the chance.”

“Enough of this,” Radagast grumbled. “How I long for the lot of you to be struck mute.” He glared them all into silence before continuing. “A bridge has risen from the waters, but shows signs of instability; we should cross ere it disappears again.”

Corinne hurried to change behind the curtain of Thranduil’s judiciously held cloak; a quick inspection by Spike of her wound proclaimed her good as new and so it was only her heart that hurt as she stepped onto the bridge. Made of stone, each massive block was heavily carved with hieratic script and hieroglyphics.

“What does all this say?” Buffy asked, mystified, but Corinne was too occupied in taking a rubbing of a particularly fine carving to answer immediately.

“See those bits with ovals around them?” she called to the others at last. “Those are cartouches; don’t touch them, just in case.” Immediately, Boromir, Arwen, and Gimli jerked back, looking sheepish. “This is the entrance to Ta-tenen,” Corinne continued. “There seems to be some dissent on whether or not things that occur within can change the course of history, as if all existence is in an ungelled state of flux and anything can happen, but…” She waved her hand over one of the stones. “It’s only on that one block, and I think it’s more superstition than anything, a warning to be careful of consequences.”

Elessar looked far from happy, having to accept her educated guess, but as there was little else to go on, clamped his mouth shut and proceeded. The opening in the mountain, at the other end of the bridge, loomed like a great dark mouth, ravenous and insatiable.

Feeling a thrill of fear ripple up her spine, Corinne did something she’d never done in her life: she prayed. “Please, Seshat, hear your child,” she entreated in a whisper so faint even the elves and the vampire could not have heard her, hoping that deity was aware of her plea. “Protect us, guide us, help us to survive this.” She had no idea if Seshat actually heard her, but it made her feel a little stronger, and it was with this tiny extra bit of strength that she stepped over the threshold and into the mountain of Mertsegur, en route to the isle from the dawn of time.


Part 29

Darkness fell about them like a shroud as they stepped into the belly of Mertsegur. Even the sound of their footsteps, shuffling in the dust, seemed muffled and subdued, and they found themselves speaking in whispers.

“This puts me in mind of Moria,” commented Legolas, none too happy.

“Except no dead dwarves,” Buffy added. A gruff hmph elsewhere in the area was Gimli’s confirmation of the sentiment.

With a whoosh, two wall torches burst into flame on either side of them, revealing their surroundings. They stood in a corridor made of deeply carved stone, tall-ceilinged and elaborate. As they watched, two more torches lit spontaneously further down the corridor, and then two more further beyond them, the action repeating until the entire passageway was visible.

“That’s our welcome, then,” Spike muttered before turning to Corinne, who’d jumped in fear at the first torches’ igniting and grabbed his hand. “You sure there isn’t someone else you’d rather be hand-in-hand with, pet?” he asked, nodding pointedly toward Haldir. “Someone more elven, like?”

Haldir’s shoulders stiffened visibly, filling Corinne with a sense of great consternation. “Certainly,” she replied, and marched over to Thranduil. “With your permission, your majesty?”

“My permission, and my pleasure,” he replied at once in silken tones, tucking her hand securely in the crook of his elbow. Haldir’s spine went even more rigid, if possible, and Corinne almost relented but Thranduil swept them in typical grandiose manner past the Guardian and it was too late.

“You love teasing him, don’t you?” she muttered.

“Of course,” he muttered back. “Tell me it is not enjoyable to watch him grind his teeth so.”

“I think ‘tis fitting,” piped up Legolas. “He delighted in torturing me thus during the war, with Dagnir.”

“It would behoove us to be less conversant and more watchful,” Radagast said repressively, brushing past them none-too-gently and suddenly finding himself on the ground and blinking up at the torchlight burnishing the head of the King of Mirkwood.

“My pardon,” said Thranduil, face most determinedly innocent. “How distressing that you would accidentally trip in that manner.”

The wizard’s face was like a thundercloud as he opened his mouth to reply but every member of the group with enhanced hearing whipped their heads around to the end of the corridor.

“Incoming,” Buffy said, and everyone fell into battle stances, with her, Boromir, and Elessar at the forefront and the elves flanking on either side, bows at the ready.

A huge hoof stepped out of the murky shadows, planting itself with a thud on the stone floor. It was attached to an equally immense, heavily armoured leg. “Yowza,” Dawn muttered, and took a firmer grip on her pike as the rest of the creature hove into view. “Is that… it can’t be!” she exclaimed, whirling back to look with wide, accusing eyes at Corinne. “What the hell is that doing here? It’s Greek! I thought this whole fever-dream was Egyptian?”

The minotaur was massive, with a huge, horned head resting atop a thickly muscled neck. In each meaty fist it gripped two short-handled axes, and was already swinging them in anticipation of its battle with them. With a single blow, it knocked Boromir’s sword out of his hand, sending it clattering against the far wall, and precious moments were wasted as all assembled blinked in astonishment, for neither Boromir nor his sword were exactly petite lightweights.

Then it roared, shaking the stones around them, and they were galvanized into action. Buffy and Elessar rushed it, and while it was thus distracted by them Haldir and Dawn came at it. The elf hamstrung it, making it fall to one knee, and Dawn got a clever blow in when she maneuvered the tip of her pike into the fleshy bit between jaw and shoulder. With an agonized bellow, it lurched backward, knocking Buffy over in its death throes.

“Ahh!” she yelped in surprise as she flew backward to the shadows from whence the beast had come.

“Alright, Slayer?” Spike called back to her.

“No, not really,” she replied, her voice so calm that it put everyone on instant alert.

“Stay here,” Haldir commanded Corinne as he rushed by with the others.

“Yes, stay here,” Thranduil reiterated. Gimli merely glared in her direction, as if daring her to disobey the elves. She sighed, tapping her foot, and waited. It didn’t take long; before she’d tapped three times the sounds of another fight and Dawn’s unhappy, “How many are there?” floated around the corner.

“I hate being useless,” Corinne muttered to no one, gazing around and mentally cataloguing her surroundings. Corridor made of dry-fitted stone, grey, intricately carved using metal tools if she were any judge, against which rested a Scythian-style hunter’s bow banded with multiple colours…hm. Legolas must have dropped Satet’s bow and quiver some time during the slaughter of the first minotaur. She picked them up, slinging the quiver over her shoulder for ease of carrying and started to inch her way forward, curious to see what was happening with the others.

As she did, a sound made its way to her ears… seductive, ripe, satiny-smooth and yet rough like a kitten’s tongue, prickling her nerves to attention. It was a sort of keening, a wailing that spoke of heart-rending misery at the same time it whispered of unimaginable delights.

“Oh, oh, ohhhhhhh.” The sound echoed mournfully off the walls.

After what Arwen had told them had happened to their party, Corinne felt a jolt of fear and found herself awkwardly drawing an arrow from the quiver and fitting it to the bowstring.

“What the hell am I doing?” she murmured to herself, feeling like her eyeballs would pop out of her head if her eyes widened any further. “I can’t shoot a bow. I can’t even pull a bow.”

There was a flash of orangey light then, and before her materialized no fewer than four… things. Definitely female, their skin was pale grey, but the struts of the bat-like wings that flapped slowly, suspending them a few feet above the ground, and the long hair that cascaded to their hips were black as night. Milk-white eyes and hands with only four slender fingers beckoned to her, and she realized that the keening had stopped, leaving her in utter silence, surrounded by…

“Sirens,” she breathed. Oh, this was weird. And bad, she amended when one began to coast toward her, seeming to float more than fly… in a heartbeat, Corinne pulled back the bowstring, and a tiny part of her mind registered a vague surprise that she would have the strength to do such a thing, but then she released the arrow and…

It split, mid-flight, into four arrows, one for each siren, and hit in the dead-centre of each of their chests.

“Oh, ow, owwwwwwwww,” they keened, milky eyes gazing with shock and longing at her. Corinne was filled with an odd sense of betrayal, as if she weren’t supposed to have defended herself against them, but with another flash of orangey light and a fizzling noise, the sirens seemed to simply crisp up, and soft clouds of ash fell to the floor.

“Ok, that was messed up,” Corinne stated, arms hanging in shock by her sides, the bow dangling from limp fingers.

A feminine cry of pain sounded from around the corner, and she found herself jogging toward it and peeking around. The battle wasn’t going very well; there were at least a half-dozen minotaurs and even with two of the ‘good guys’ on each, they weren’t making much progress. Spike and Dawn wrestled with the one nearest to Corinne, and as she watched, it swiped at Dawn with one of its axes, knocking the pike from her hands and sending her skidding across the floor to hit her head on the wall.

“Nibblet?” Spike demanded, jabbing with his sword at one of its trunk-like arms. “Nibblet?” His voice rose with a tinge of panic, and he turned to regard Dawn. Taking advantage of his opponent’s distraction, the minotaur pulled back his axe to hit the vampire, and Corinne found her arms working once more without her brain’s input: an arrow was plucked from the quiver, fitted to the string, and fired at the minotaur in a single, flawlessly smooth motion.

Spike turned back in time to see the arrow flying at him, and his eyes rounded with shock, as the missile—the wooden missile—was flying directly for his heart. Just as it would pierce his sternum, however, it changed trajectory in an abrupt motion and swerved around him to embed itself in the vulnerable area at the back of the minotaur’s neck.

It dropped both axes and tried to reach for the arrow, to wrench it free, but its arms were so burly and muscle-bound that it could not reach, and soon was falling to the ground, eyes glazing in death.

Spike stared at her a scant moment before bounding over to her and wrenching both quiver and bow from her. “An idiot-proof bow,” he muttered admiringly, slinging the quiver over his shoulder. “Bloody marvelous.” He began firing in an almost haphazard manner at the other minotaurs; the arrows jogged this way and that, one swooping around Thranduil to lodge in the eye socket of the one he and Elessar battled whilst a second arrow plunged between Gimli’s legs to come up and puncture the belly of the one fought by the dwarf and Legolas.

“Help Dawn,” Spike instructed her, and Corinne pulled her mesmerized gaze from the carnage he was wreaking to scramble over to the woman’s limp form, grasping her under the arms and carefully pulling her away out of danger.

“Oi, Slayer, head’s up!” Spike called, firing an arrow at her foe. She jerked back and it skewered the minotaur in the throat, pinning her long braid to its body and dragging her down when it fell to the floor.

“Spike, you idiot!” she yelled, pulling her plait free, and got a cheeky grin for her trouble before she rounded on the last two: Radagast and Haldir seemed to have things in hand with theirs, as it was bellowing furiously at the hail of melon-sized rocks the wizard was pulling from the air to toss with admirable accuracy at its head whilst the elf set about carving the creature into more manageable pieces.

Buffy took a running leap and landed squarely on the shoulders of the one Boromir and Elessar were fighting, and taking a firm grasp of its horns, wrenched until its neck snapped with a sick crunch.

“Oh, just kill it already,” Corinne admonished Haldir when it became clear that he was merely toying with it. He flashed her a silvery glare and darted his hand under its arm to plant a dagger to the hilt in the centre of its chest before striding over to her, not even watching as it fell with a juicy gasp to its knees (Radagast dropped another, particularly large, stone on its head and gave a satisfied, “hah!” when it keeled over).

“Did I not tell you to stay where I left you?” he demanded, grasping her arms and shaking her. “Why will you never obey me?”

His hair was mussed, his eyes were bright, and a very pretty flush of exertion had stolen over his ivory cheeks. In short, he looked enchanting and Corinne felt perfectly justified in wriggling free of his grasp, winding her arms around his neck, and giving him a good hard cuddle.

“Now what are you doing?” he gritted out, trying to dislodge her, but she clung like a barnacle, going so far as to plant little kisses along his jaw.

“I’m not going to make it easy for you, you big jerk,” she informed him, to the great amusement of their audience.

Hands like vices gripped her wrists and wrenched her away, dropping her on her butt. “Do not do that again,” he told her, his voice frosty. “Do not.” Wheeling about, he yanked his dagger out of the dead minotaur and wiped it on the leg of his trousers, resheathing it and its brother on his back before stomping away, the others parting before him.

Buffy gave Corinne an encouraging grin before hurrying after her friend, Legolas and Spike a pace behind, and the others set about recovering from the battle before falling in behind.

“Don’t know why you want such a grouch,” Dawn commented as Boromir fussed over the tiny bruise at her temple. “I got myself a nice, good-tempered guy.” She exchanged a sweet smile with her husband. “We had no trouble at all falling in love, did we, honey?”

“It was the easiest thing I have ever done,” he replied, helping her to her feet. “And something I do again every time I look upon you.” When both women sighed, he looked deeply embarrassed. “Please forget I said that.”

“As if,” Dawn crowed. She snuggled against his side and they joined the similarly affectionate king and queen of Gondor in wandering down the passageway.

“What is it about killing things that puts you people in such a good mood?” Corinne wondered aloud, for she was still somewhat shaken by her having offed a herd of sirens with the aid of a seemingly magical bow, and being surrounded by ferociously fighting bull/men creatures. “Am I the only moderately sane person here?”

Predictably, no one answered. Sighing, she trudged along behind them.

***

It took several hours for them to reach the end of the long, winding corridor. It seemed around every turn was another group of minotaurs or sirens. The latter especially proved difficult for the males of the group to defeat, as they were much more inclined to stop in the middle of an attack to listen to the beguiling wails, their eyes dreamy as they smiled blissfully up at the winged creatures. Consequently, it fell to Buffy, Arwen, Dawn, and even Corinne equipped with Satet’s “idiot-proof” bow to take them down more often than not.

“Typical,” Dawn huffed to her sister as she nailed a siren with her pike.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Buffy replied with a grin, closing her husband’s gaping mouth with a gentle hand before thrusting her sword into the chest of one of the latest group of sirens. “I think they’re kinda cute, gaping and drooling like that.” She stretched up on tiptoes and kissed Legolas until his eyes lost the glazing-over they’d acquired with the siren-song and he was looking down at her with a mixture of fondness and frustration that they were not in an appropriate place to continue that train of thought.

“Have we come to the end, then, tithen maethoramin?” he asked, looking past her to where the corridor appeared to end abruptly.

“Hm,” was her response, and she cautiously approached the flat wall ahead, placing her palms against it, then her ear. “I hear… water,” she said, and began to push. One by one, the others came forward to add their strength. It moved inch by inch for a few agonizing minutes, and then with a lurch, fell away so quickly they had to leap back to keep from overbalancing and pitching forward into the abyss that had just appeared before them.

Ok, not an abyss per se, but… as Corinne crept forward to Haldir’s side to investigate, it was the only word she could think of to describe the immense cavern on the other side of the gaping hole they’d just created.

The ceiling of it arched far, far above and the water Buffy had heard coursed with frightening speed far, far below. The walls of the cavern seemed to be encrusted with gems or the like, because a magnificent array of colours refracted and bounced all around them, issuing from some mysterious source she couldn’t detect.

An eerie humming, like a chord struck on a set of crystal goblets, emanated from the cavern, vibrating and shuddering through them on a visceral level until Corinne was sure she could feel it in her very bones. Her hand slipped of its own accord into Haldir’s and for a moment, before he remembered that he could not have anything to do with her, Haldir laced his fingers with hers and squeezed tenderly, even forgetting himself so far as to give her a faint smile.

And then the threads wandered out of nowhere, wrapping around them with suffocating strength and alarming speed, wrenching them apart. Buffy, as the strongest, was able to resist the longest but eventually even she was overwhelmed by the threads. In every colour of the rainbow, the threads pinned their arms to their sides, tangling in their legs, sneaking around their faces. In short order they were rendered blind, mute, and crippled.

They were lifted off their feet, and the sensation of being hefted aloft was made even more disconcerting when the humming grew louder, and many-coloured lights flashed so brightly Corinne could see them past her eyelids and the threads that bound them closed. With a gasp she realized they were being plucked from the passageway and hauled out into the midst of the cavern, and remembering the great height at which they’d stood above the thrashing waters below, felt her stomach as well as her hopes plummet.

Frantically, she wracked her brain for some clue as to what was happening to them, but it was hard because the humming was loud, so loud, seeming to fill her head until she was sure it would burst—

And then it stopped.

Feeling the sudden lack of sound almost like a physical blow, Corinne writhed within her fabric prison, struggling fruitlessly to be free. Then the threads around her face released, and her eyes watered from the onslaught of lights reflecting into them.

When she could see, she craned her neck as far as she could and found that their entire company was suspended hundreds of feet in the air by thousands of slender, gossamer, shimmering filaments.

And before them, in mid-air, stood two figures. The female was easy for Corinne to recognize: Tayet, goddess of weaving, held a drop-spindle and idly created yet another thread while she watched her newly-captured prey with avid eyes. Catching Corinne’s gaze, she smiled, a slow easy grin of pure malignance. Shuddering, Corinne twisted away, only to find herself looking upon the male of the pair.

Of an indeterminate age—not child, not adult—he seemed oblivious to the two snakes that wound sinuously around his torso as he surveyed their company with flat, emotionless eyes. A golden collar was looped like a lariat round his neck, with the long tail hanging to his navel, and two cross-arms mimicking his winglike collarbones, reaching outward.

“An ankh,” Corinne pondered. “An ankh, two snakes…” Then she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Those symbols could only mean that before her stood Heka, god of magic and speech, and that was a bad thing. She only hoped the others, worn down by their previous experiences with mind-games, would not easily succumb, and her last thought before consciousness faded was of Haldir. “Seshat, protect him…”

*tithen maethoramin = my tiny warrior


Part 30

Terror and joy.

Opposite emotions, but remarkably similar in their scope, in their power, in their seduction, in the lengths to which people would go to avoid one or acquire the other. Heka had used them often to obtain His goals over the past tens of thousands of years of His existence, and rarely had He encountered beings able to resist.

He anticipated few such problems with this group; they seemed simple enough. A few handfuls of elves and humans, a vampire—hm, intriguing, that one could come in useful—a dwarf, and an Istari. In all, a fascinating blend of races. The wizard alone would pose trouble for Him; with a wave of His hand, Heka separated the tapestry-wrapped bundle that was Radagast from the others before getting down to business.

One of the snakes twining around him slithered down around his leg to more closely investigate the strong woman, known as Dagnir or the Slayer… her fears were many, and all revolved around the safety of her loved ones, especially that elven husband of hers. Heka clucked His tongue in derision; how easy she would be to manipulate with a few nudges in the direction of abandonment… As for the husband, his was of a dilemma than a fear, per se: to heed the call of the Valar and leave for Aman, or stay with his human wife in Arda? Heka mixed up a little nightmare involving rejection by both the gods and his wife, and with a flick of the finger, set it on Legolas.

There were three other couples, three other pairs bound together, heart and mind. The first of them featured an elven female and human male, both their souls weighing heavy with responsibility—for the kingdom they ruled, and for the consequences of their love. The elleth’s fear involved being cast aside by the Man for whom she’d forsaken immortality; his was an interesting mélange of both horror and a peculiar, desperate hope that she would change her mind about being his mate, and leave for eternal life in Valinor.

Heka frowned in displeasure; the ones who tortured themselves were never any fun. With a disgruntled twitch of a shoulder, He sent dreams of infidelity and the destruction of Gondor to Arwen and Elessar respectively, and nearly dislodged the second snake, which glared at him as it gripped just a tetch too hard around his neck. Smirking, Heka loosened it with a thought.

The second of the pairs were both human, but the female was… Heka sucked in a deep breath as the magnitude of her power made itself known to Him. This was the Key, the nexus of all magic, the joining-point for all mysticism in any dimension, any universe.

“They made it into a person?” Heka thought in baffled outrage.

Of all the harebrained schemes… to force all that sheer untapped potential into a small, frail, finite container was sheer lunacy. And He’d lay odds that she had no idea of the extent of her abilities, either-- that she had no concept of what she could accomplish. It was almost perversion that her main concerns were over her offspring, her mate, her sister; such petty issues when she could destroy entire solar systems with a single word. With a sour look that spoke of frustration and not a small amount of jealousy, He channeled some persistent images of death and mayhem her way before turning to her husband.

This one had been beleaguered recently, especially by that lustful inhibition-releasing spell Heka had worked for Aker a few days ago. It would seem it had called into doubt all he thought he knew about his sexuality… How He loved to make them doubt themselves! A few fantasies involving various males of Boromir’s acquaintance should do nicely, the god thought, and made it so.

The last pair were another mixing of races. The elf had been hard done-by of late, first under the thrall of the cartouche, then the same spell as for the Man—ah, they were the causes of each others’ anxiety, Heka realized, reading further into Haldir’s mind, excellent—and then Satet’s mixed blessing of permitting him to remember each failure as he strove time and again to defeat Her. Despair, loneliness, shame… poor elf, Heka thought mockingly, and decided to send him something pleasant to stew over, made all the more bittersweet because it was actually obtainable. “This one refuses to accept what is being given to him with both hands,” Heka thought in amazement. Self-denying types never failed to mystify Him, and there were few mysteries left for one such as He.

As for the woman… her fondest dreams had already been offered to her by Seshat, that old softie… Heka made a mental note to speak to Her later. It simply wouldn’t do to have His specialty usurped just because She wanted to impress Her new followers. Folding His arms, He tapped His fingers thoughtfully on the opposite slender bicep. What to do, what to do… her greatest fear was that the elf would find her undesirable now that he wasn’t enspelled by the cartouche any longer. A future involving significant weight gain, the addition of several hairy facial moles and a severe flatulence issue, and an obviously unfaithful elven husband should do the trick, He mused, and sent that her way.

The dwarf was easy to lead along… give him his own gem-laden mountain and a gold-haired elleth named Galadriel and he was ripe for the plucking. The vampire, however, was somewhat more complex. In Heka’s experience, the undead were usually concerned with naught but the feed; this one’s fondest wish was to have the Slayer for his own. With a tiny smile, Heka separated him too from the rest, to be dealt with more closely at a later time.

He came to the last, another elf. Related to the mate of the Slayer, if He was not mistaken…and for the first time in at least eight thousand years, came up blank. No fears? No joys? How was it even possible? Pressing harder, he forced himself into Thranduil’s mind and was assailed with an almost overwhelming sense of ennui. “What is this?” He demanded, so riled that he woke up the elf with a jolt and put the question to him personally.

The lower being’s green eyes opened slowly. “What is it you want of me?” he asked, and there was no trepidation, no alarm. Just mild curiosity and, deeper down, a slight sense of weariness.

“How can it be that you have no fears, no hopes, that I can play with?” Heka queried somewhat snippishly.

Thranduil smiled slowly as he comprehended what the god wanted to know. “I think,” he replied slowly, “it is because both my greatest terror and my greatest joy have already come to pass; there is naught you can do to me.”

“Tell me,” Heka commanded, coming closer, hands clenching and unclenching in fury. “Tell me.”

“My wife, my Elbrennil,” Thranduil replied, his voice faltering for the first time in centuries as he said her name, “is gone from me these last two millennia. That was my keenest sorrow, to lose her. She was of the Noldor, proud and fierce, and her black hair fell past her knees… when she died, the world became dark for me, and dark has it remained since.” Lost in his memory of her, his eyes became distant for a moment before he remembered his audience.

“As for the joy… I have seen the birth of my son, my Greenleaf, and nothing can ever surpass that. He is my image, but for Elbrennil’s eyes, and bears her nature, thank the Valar…” Thranduil smiled. “I am replete, knowing our love created such a fine elf. There is naught you can do to me now.”

Then his emerald gaze turned speculative. “But you, god… what can there be for you? Do you spend your days as errand-boy for others? Have they greater power or importance than you?”

“They do not,” Heka refuted, eyes very narrow and snakes hissing in agitation. “I fulfill my purpose.”

“That sounds like a hollow existence to my ears,” Thranduil said, then added, “Well I know the hollow existence, for it has been my own since Elbrennil passed to be with Mandos.” He heaved a sigh. “At least I have a land to rule, a people to lead, a realm to protect.” Schooling his expression to one of polite interest, he asked, “Do you have aught of those for yourself?”

Heka was practically grinding His teeth. “I do not,” He admitted with great reluctance, “but I have been promised a great augmentation of my powers once this is done.”

“Augmentation of powers?” Thranduil inquired mildly. “So you can continue to apply them for the purposes of others?” A wheat-gold brow raised in skepticism, but he said nothing except, “If you will be satisfied with that, so be it.” He shrugged. “It would not satisfy me.”

“The satisfaction of lower beings does not interest the likes of us,” Heka replied somewhat nastily, stung by the implication that this elf-creature was more discerning than He.

“As you say,” Thranduil conceded with a slight nod, somehow conveying a vague sense of humoring Heka rather than believing Him.

Heka’s frustration with the elf peaked; He was not known for His forbearance or patience in the best of circumstances, and as He had been a bit touchy of late concerning this very issue it was a surprise to no one (read: the snakes that clothed him and Tayet) when He emitted a wordless scream of fury and, with a single slashing motion of His hand, ripped off the sheltering cage of threads that bound the king of Mirkwood.

Then He smiled as the elf fell.

***

Misery without end; sorrow and loneliness and shame and fear. Buffy was buffeted by storm after storm of those emotions, reeling back and forth from the wallops as they crashed into her, and a single searing thought tore from her soul: make it stop. Anything, I’ll do anything, but please, make it stop.

And a teasing, almost flirtatious voice answered her: Not yet.

Whimpering, Buffy’s mind cowered, huddled in on itself, trying with increasing desperation to shield itself from more anguish. Another age of pain, another request, another playful denial.

“Not yet, not yet,” she muttered. “When?” A tiny spark of anger started, and began to supplant the fear; growing steadily, as things do with plenty of fertile ground, her rage built until it exploded. She wrenched herself awake, and finding herself trapped in some sort of hazy binding, began to fight like a wild thing, with claws and fangs. The threads began to give way, and it was only with a hurried grab at them that she kept herself from falling into the busy water in the very great distance below.

“I’m not a big fan of heights,” she muttered, and squinted as she gazed around her. Except for eight other similarly-wrapped bundles, there was no one in the huge, empty cavern, and she breathed a sigh of relief before frowning. It was hard to remember what had been going on before the pain, before Legolas had laughed and deserted her, told her she was doomed, that being with her was a curse…

“Legolas,” she breathed, and scrutinized the other bundles until she saw a telltale flash of familiar pale-gold hair; swinging her weight on the tattered fragments of her own cocoon, she reached out and took hold of him, climbing on and wrapping her legs around as she reached for her boot-knife and began hacking at his restraints.

Eventually she uncovered his face, and gasped to see his eyes closed. He slept, like all elves, with eyes open, if somewhat glazed over, and to see him thus, so deathlike, frightened her. “Legolas,” she whispered in his pointed ear, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him, repeating his name, until the haze of sleep melted from him.

“Dagnir?” he mumbled. “I care not for Aman, if you cannot be there with me; I will remain with you always, only never leave me. Lle naa hûn nîn, herves nîn, amin mela lle.”

Crying, Buffy kissed him again and again, promising him without words that he had nothing to fear, and finally he came to full consciousness. His eyes, blue as lapis, stared into hers for a long moment. “It wasn’t real,” she told him, and felt a fresh wash of tears when he slumped against her in relief.

“We have to free the others,” she said, and resumed her hacking at his bindings. When his arms were free, she left him to untangle his legs, swinging over to Elessar and beginning to work on him.

“I do not suggest you wake him as sweetly as you did me,” Legolas suggested with a hint of his usual mischievous smile, going to work on the next person, who happened to be Corinne.

Buffy tended to agree, so she just slapped Elessar’s stubbled cheeks lightly and repeated his name until he came awake, then cut away his wrappings so he could work on Boromir. She moved on to Arwen, then Dawn.

Haldir was last, and he smiled blissfully, eyes still closed tightly, when she uncovered his face. “Corinne,” he murmured. “The children are well this morning?”

The others fell silent and stared at him; Corinne, who was having trouble holding on to the remains of her shroud, whipped her head around. Buffy grabbed her arm and for one heart-stopping moment, she was suspended in space held only by a deceptively fragile-looking woman… then she was locked, arms and legs, around her elf and Buffy was swinging away to help hack Gimli free, as the dwarf was most vocal about being woken from his most pleasant dream of ruling a mithril-rich mountain, the Lady of the Wood by his side.

“Haldir,” she told him, her voice low as she smoothed back a lock of his hair, “there are no children.”

“No children?” His voice, rich with amusement, was frankly skeptical. “That is not what you said last night, when you complained that there were far too many running around in our talan. You even blamed me for giving them to you, though I do not recall your complaining much at the time.” His eyes fluttered open, so clear and unshadowed and happy that Corinne felt a pang at having to disappoint him.

“I’m sorry, Haldir,” she said, feeling like her heart was breaking. “But we don’t have any children. It was—“ her throat closed up then, and she had to fight to speak. “It was just a dream.”

“Impossible,” he said flatly. “Ataralassë, our first child, how Celeborn delights there is a new generation to pester him in his study, now that she can read… Earo, so sturdy as his uncles teach him archery, and Cualla with her little dolls… Failon, newly weaned, to your great relief. How can you say they are but a dream?”

Longing so pronounced it caused her physical pain coursed through Corinne as she imagined these children of whom Haldir spoke with such a wealth of love. Our children, she thought with despair. “Please, Haldir,” she entreated, trying not to cry. “You have to believe me. Look around. There are no children; we’ve never—“ her throat protested again. “We’ve never made love. We’re not in Caras Galadhon; we’re trapped under Mertseger in Aker’s realm, and you have to wake up because we have to get out of here.”

Haldir did look around, and finding himself surrounded by seven people swinging from ragged and torn fabric wrappings and studiously avoiding looking at him while Corinne waited, watching him carefully, felt faint as reality returned to him. “Ai, Valar,” he sighed heavily.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, hugging him.

“As am I,” he replied, refusing once again to meet her gaze.

“Sorry to break up the angst-fest,” Buffy called quietly from where she was clinging to Legolas like a monkey (much to his delight, if his luminous smile was any clue), but Thranduil, Radagast, and Spike are all missing.”

“Something must have happened to them,” Dawn said immediately. “If they’d gotten free on their own, they’d have woken the rest of us up. Wouldn’t they?” she continued, only slightly uncertain. She didn’t doubt Spike’s rescue of her and the others at all, but Thranduil and Radagast were unknown quantities and the wizard in particular seemed unpredictable. “They would, right?”

***

Thranduil thanked the Valar for the ninth time that day for making him an elf of the forests; his many years of shimmying up trees served him well as he climbed nimbly up the sheer face of the cavern toward where Radagast was fixed against its wall. He was still wet from his impromptu dunking when the disagreeable adolescent god with the unhealthy fondness for snakes had allowed him to tumble into the waters below. It had taken all his considerable swimming ability to keep from drowning and instead make his way to the narrow strip of shore, but he had managed it.

The gods had taken the vampire, still bound tightly, and disappeared through the waterfall just discernable at the far end of the cavern; they seemed content to leave their prisoners trussed like fowl waiting for the feast. There was no way he could reach his son and the others, though he would have greatly preferred to free them instead of the wizard, but Radagast was attainable and the others were not. Thranduil prided himself on his acceptance of facts, no matter how harsh they might be. He had not lied when he spoke of his wife; wiping his sweat-damp hand on the seat of his trousers before claiming another hold on the rock he climbed, he idly wondered why not.

“At last,” he muttered upon reaching Radagast, and prayed the little ledges upon which he stood would hold throughout as he slipped a dagger free from its sheath and began carving the wizard from the fabric that bound him. Radagast came awake before he was completely uncovered, and began to struggle until Thranduil told him to be calm; he ceased wriggling but continued to gripe.

“Of all the beings in this accursed place, it would be you… and I have no doubt you will try to apply guilt for my rescue to make me assist your elves in defending the forest.” The one eye that was thus far revealed shot the king a beady glare. “Do not think I will weaken in that regard, for I shall not.”

“I would hope you would be made of sterner stuff,” Thranduil agreed placidly, thinking fondly of how he would like to beat the wizard with his own staff. Like his son, he was a great fan of irony. “Would it not be a tragedy for a span of three thousand years of neglect to be broken?”

“Neglect?” Radagast demanded. “If that is how you see it, elf, then your eyes have failed you.”

“That seems… unlikely,” Thranduil replied smoothly, and cut the last strip. With a smile like the sun cresting the horizon, he watched as the wizard fell away from the wall with a short, sharp cry of surprise to hurtle toward the water hundreds of feet below. “There are such few pleasures to be had in an old elf’s life,” he said happily, and pushed off to follow after his adversary.

He might get to liking this diving thing, he thought consideringly as the wind rushed through his hair. It was quite engaging, and certainly made one’s blood flow faster. Perhaps a trip to the Rauros falls was in order when they returned to Arda… his body barely disturbed the surface of the water when he reached it at last, quite unlike the undignified and enormous splash that Radagast had caused a few moments before.

Reaching out, he grabbed the wizard by the scruff of his rusty-robed neck and began swimming for the shore. Quite the invigorating experience this had been, indeed.

*Lle naa hûn nîn, herves nîn, amin mela lle = You are my heart, my wife, I love you

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