#vampire!thranduil

It was as if time simply stopped existing in the pervasive shadow of the tall trees that stood motionless around her, like malevolent sentinels.

As she narrowed her eyes in distrust and confusion, her gaze was inexorably drawn to a narrow path winding through the impenetrable obscurity ahead; it was akin to a faint ray of light cutting through a menacing labyrinth and her body moved towards it before her mind could even clear completely.

Weary and more than just a little scared, she pressed on tirelessly, her eyes glued to the forest floor – littered with dead leaves and tiny twigs – until she suddenly could feel the silver moonlight pour over her head like a shower of light.

She had no idea where she was and how she had managed to stray so far from the route she had mapped out in her head prior to her departure; ever vigilant, Aggie had of course heard tales of the man-eating forest she’d have to pass by and had resolved not to set foot into it if she could help it.

“Don’t even look at it,” the elderly aunt she had visited had warned her, “strange things happen within that wood!”

Starting early and making good time, Aggie had been confident that she’d reach the small village on the edge of the vast woodlands before nightfall, but somehow, she must have gotten turned around.

It was only then, after musing pointlessly about her uneventful and tiring day, that she realised that she had been walking for many an hour and that she had reached a clearing, bathing in a pearlescent shimmer that told her that it was the dead of night and she was no closer to finding her way back than before.

At the far end of the slightly oblong space, the boughs of the old trees seemed to tangle into a sort of natural awning that plunged the ground beneath them into inky blackness.

For a moment, she thought she heard the echoes of a song and the hint of woodsmoke caress her tired senses and – once again – she was set in motion by forces beyond her own reckoning.

Not long after, she reached a stair braided out of old, creaking roots that led ever downward.

Every fibre of her being objected to being drawn under the earth never to surface again, but a leaden fatigue descended upon her now and the idea of finding shelter for the night became so overwhelmingly appealing that she ventured on.

As soon as her nimble right foot touched solid earth again, lights flared up as if her mere presence had ignited the torches lining a high corridor that seemed to stretch on endlessly.

“No,” she mumbled, but – even to her own ears – her voice sounded feeble and muffled by the ambient silence that had a positively physical weight to it as it settled on her shivering frame.

Aggie knew not if it was her weariness or a trick of the light, but the corridor seemed to contract and shorten before her very eyes; she now could make out an intricately carved and richly decorated double door and – despite her better knowledge – she hastened towards it.

As if they had sensed her approach, the doors swung open noiselessly.

Stumbling once more, Aggie found herself in a dimly lit room – cavernous and huge – that was as devoid of life or movement as the rest of this accursed forest.

“Hello?” she called tentatively and shrank back as she caught a movement ahead.

Stepping into a pale ray of light falling through an opening in the dark ceiling that seemed comprised of roots and packed earth, the most marvellous creature she had ever beheld extended his arms as if in welcome.

“Good evening,” the being said in a voice that reminded her of the terrible wrath of an unleashed river, “little one. I am Thranduil, Lord of these Halls.”

Thranduil, Aggie thought with a shiver of apprehension, was as white as if someone had poured pure starlight into the approximate shape of a man; his long, gleaming hair flowed like water down broad shoulders and his piercing eyes shone with a cold light. 

From this distance, everything about him seemed unnaturally pale; he looked colourless as if someone had drained him of all the usual signs and tokens of life and there was something distinctly frightening about the stiff elegance of his movements that gave the impression that he was holding his breath to avoid moving so swiftly that he’d blur like lightning cutting through the darkness.

“You look tired,” he went on when she didn’t reply, “allow me to offer a humble repast to a very welcome traveller.”

Aggie felt herself nod – amazed and entranced – and step forward at his discreet beckoning motion. 

Servants materialised out of the shadows, laying out a marvellous feast on a low table that she had not seen upon entering the ever-shifting room. Candles were brought in and lit by eager hands, but Aggie’s mind was cloaked in an obscuring fog.

“Come now,” Thranduil urged, “and tell me of the world outside.” The way his eyes – grey as an overcast sky and yet iridescent with reds and violets – flitted over the bare skin of her wrists and throat made her flinch, but she was overcome with a ravenous hunger such as she had never known before all of a sudden.

Everything about this place terrified her and yet, she could not muster either the courage or the will to stand and leave.

Moreover, Thranduil was compelling in his motionless, rapt attentiveness so she told him more about herself, her movements, her family, and her village than was rationally advisable.

An orphan, an unmarried woman, lost and alone in a strange forest, she all but screamed her own vulnerability at him.

“Indeed,” he purred, leaning forward eagerly. “You will make a great addition to my coven. If you would be so good as to follow me to my rooms; I have some truly excellent wine set aside for situations like this one.”

“Will I die?” Aggie asked brazenly, struggling against the supernatural sense of calm and comfort radiating from the sharply smiling creature. If these were her last moments of motion, sound, and colour, she would embrace the frantic beating of her heart and savour every second of blood-curdling fear if that was all that was left to her.

“Die?” Thranduil laughed, revealing sharp teeth that glittered like blades in the flickering candlelight, “oh no! Everything but that. I will make you mine. I will steal you.”

“Steal me?” Aggie echoed in a hollow voice; she was nobody’s property and she had made that quite clear, or at least she thought that she had.

“You’re one of theirs,” Thranduil smirked, “and I will poach you, if only to see which one of those terribly distasteful monsters they’ll send to retrieve such a treasure.”

Curiosity now drove Aggie to follow him; not only was she almost certain that he was some unholy demon – frozen in time forevermore – but she had apparently been rubbing elbows with his kind before. 

She had a good idea who, in her immediate vicinity, could be meant by his cryptic words and she was desperate to find out if she was right.

So, that was the first chapter...Stay tuned to see how this goes on!

-> Chapter 2

Fingon did not believe in such things; if one was to ask him, people were merely bored and that was why they came up with that kind of ridiculous story. These were only dark trees having grown wild for too long so that their boughs were hopelessly entangled; there was nothing inherently sinister or threatening about them.

Brave as he was, he was not daunted by the night and its wavering shadows either even though he had to concede that it might have been imprudent to traverse an unknown and wild forest without the bright, merciful light of day to guide him along the paths that now all seemed hidden and shifting under the bleak gleam of the moon.

A flash of flame shot past him and just as he turned his head to catch a better glimpse at the fiery ball that had passed his peripheral field of vision, his exhausted horse reared up and threw him. Usually, he was an excellent rider, but he had been so distracted by the potential fire that he had not been bracing for the eventual fall and consequently, he tumbled off the back of his trusty steed in a tangle of flailing limbs.

His head smashed into an unfortunately placed rock and his vision went white for a few moments; when he blinked frantically to regain control over his mind though, an angel was bent over him in visible worry.

Long, fiery red hair – falling in soft waves around the most gorgeous face Fingon had ever beheld – bracketed an otherworldly glow such as he had never seen before.

He was also incredibly tall, Fingon realised in a daze, and his bright grey eyes kept returning to the spot where the sharp edges of the rock had torn the skin as if inexorably attracted by the warm blood seeping into the fertile earth beneath him.

Fingon made to speak but the pained neighing of his horse made the strange apparition whip around at such a speed that he seemed to blur before Fingon’s burning eyes; before the injured man could so much as sit up to lift a hand, the angel had vanished and the noble steed had relapsed into silence.

It took a few moments, but – at long last – Fingon scrambled back to his feet and groaned as the world started spinning madly around him. He had hit his head harder than he had surmised and the probing fingers he brushed along the pulsating ache at his temple came away blood-stained.

He knew not how long he had stood there, desperately embracing a young tree to avoid falling back to the ground but – when a young woman collided with his immobile form – the moon had already passed its zenith in the sky.

“Ey!” he called out, transferring his iron grip from the trunk to her shivering body. “Where do you come from?” “Don’t ask, you don’t want to know,” she replied breathlessly and threw a nervous glance over her shoulder. “Come away from here, it’s not safe.”

“I was thrown by my horse and now I can’t find it,” he babbled, looking down into her frantic eyes and frowning in confusion. “I am Fingon by the way.”

“Agnes, Aggie if you want,” she panted and started to tug him along, but his staggering feet kept getting entangled in the undergrowth and stray roots. “Your horse is dead and gone, believe me! You’re bleeding!”

Her voice was so shrill and panicked that he touched the wound again; the sickly trickle had already slowed and lessened and he offered her a warm, encouraging  smile.

“Are you afraid of blood? I am so sorry; it’s nothing though, don’t worry.”

For a second, Aggie just stared at him before barking out a short salvo of derisive laughter. “Afraid…me…no,” she wheezed and kept pulling. “Come now; the night is waning fast and we have to find shelter until the sun comes up.” “Did you see the angel?” he asked as he tried to keep up with the scrabbling frenzy of her tiny feet. “I saw an angel, just after I was thrown off the horse.”

Again, she gave a bitter laugh that was hacked off at the end as if she had simply bitten down on it and choked it.

“You saw no such thing, you bloody fool,” she hissed, looking back over his shoulder as she turned to face him and lead him away walking backwards. “If you don’t want to share your horse’s fate, I’d urge you to save your breath and start running. There are no angels in this wood tonight. Only death.”

She shivered, evidently overcome with a traumatic memory, and drove Fingon on even more insistently.

“You’re not from here, are you? Otherwise, you’d know that one does not bring dumb beasts into this forest,” she ground out between gritted teeth as she steered him towards a cave in a small rocky formation at the end of a steep incline.

“No, I was just passing through,” Fingon admitted. “I am expected at home by my father and my future bride.”

“Oh wonderful,” she sneered, “if you want to see your beloved ever again, you’d better hasten!”

“She’s not my beloved and I’ve never seen her before,” Fingon, still somewhat foggy-brained, mumbled. “I was to meet her tonight but…”

“Yes, yes,” Aggie groaned, “your horse was startled, you fell, and then you just stood there hugging a tree.”

“Also, I’ve seen the most incredibly beautiful creature. Are you sure that he was not an angel? How can you know?”

They had almost made it to the mouth of the cave now; Aggie had switched their positions again and was now shoving Fingon up the hill as if he was but a cart stuck in the mud.

“He was bent over me when I came to,” Fingon went on dreamily, “but then my horse neighed in the distance and – in a flash – he was gone.”

This gave Agnes pause.

“You were bleeding then? And he just…Never mind. You’ve been extremely lucky!” she muttered and sighed deeply as they entered the cold, clammy hole in the rock wall. “We’ll stay here until the sun comes up.”

“What are we hiding from?” Fingon asked drowsily; the trek to their sanctuary had jolted him and he was bleeding profusely once more.

Agnes just shook her head and motioned at a heap of dead leaves and moss in one corner. “Lay down and rest. We might get you to your bride yet.”

Somehow, Fingon instinctively knew that she did not truly believe in her own words, but his head was pounding painfully now and all he wanted was to close his eyes and visualise that worried, stern face he had glimpsed earlier once more.

He was dimly aware that the strange woman by his side was afraid of something, but he had the instinctive, unshakeable impression that she was not worried about herself. Maybe, he thought languorously, it was she who was the danger and he’d die where he lay.

At least he wouldn’t have to face his father’s disappointment; Fingon was not afraid of death, he was merely scared of not having lived as well, as earnestly, and as fully as he might have.

When he awoke once more, it was to a low, slurping sound.

His eyes felt as if they were filled with sand, but he forced them open only to see Agnes – pale and weeping – sitting propped up against the cave wall. A tall, silver-haired creature was cradled in her arms and its blood-smeared mouth was sucking eagerly at a spot just beneath her collarbone.

“Aggie,” he cried out in alarm. Immediately, the being spun around, eyes ablaze with a strange, cold light, and bared its teeth at him.

“It’s fine, Fingon,” she slurred weakly. “I’d explain, but my mind is swimming and my tongue is heavy. Everything is all right though, worry not!”

Pushing himself up on his wobbly arms, Fingon discovered that the mysterious, flame-haired angel he had seen earlier was crouching only a stone’s throw away from him; the ethereal being looked badly beaten up though and its lids kept fluttering as if it was struggling to keep its eyes open.

“There,” Fingon cried, “that is the angel I have told you about.”

The creature having latched on to Aggie’s skin again gave a wry chuckle at his enthusiastic cry.

“I know,” Aggie whispered, “but that is no angel.” “What is wrong with him?” Fingon asked, feeling his pulse beat against his injured temple like a hammer; already, he felt weak and disoriented once more.

“No time to explain,” Aggie replied softly and then, tilting her head down to the entity in her lap, she hissed: “I invoke your debt to me, Thranduil. When you carry me out of here, we shall take them with us. The man is injured and needs rest and I won’t see my Master’s son burned to a heap of ashes come morning. I buy your strength with my blood. You owe me this much.”

Fingon didn’t hear the reply as blessed oblivion fell over his mind once more.

They are my blorbos and I will smuggle them into everything...I am sorry...

So...small intermezzo from the other side lol

Lots of love

-> Chapter 7

Generally, the townspeople were rather forgiving when it came to their young daughters and sons being called into the mansion, never to return to the familial fold. Not all of them were dead, of course, but those who had survived their arrival in the household had long outlived their own parents and siblings and were changed beyond recognition.

It was practical and efficient to wait until Agnes – the maiden he had chosen after seeing her strolling along the forest edge one evening – would not leave behind any witnesses who could get it into their heads to come looking for her.

“I’ll go get her then,” he grumbled, pushing aside his annoying older brother. No doubt, Celegorm had informed the others before telling him and the pressure to dutifully reel in the young woman was on.

Impatience and a gnawing sense of foreboding plagued him the whole day as he glared at the walls, waiting for the merciless sun to go down so he could sneak down into the village and remind Agnes of the promise her mother had made.

When he arrived at the deserted cottage though, the whole extent of his own foolishness hit him like a slap in the face. She was gone.

“Looking for the girl?” an old, toothless crone asked without meeting his cold eye. “She’s gone to visit an aunt after her mother died. Dear Aggie was expected back yesterday, but she’s never arrived.”

“How do you know?” Caranthir hissed sharply; the dull grey of dusk was quickly darkening into shades of blue and black and he should have been able to breathe better.

“She’s sent a message with one of the travelling merchants,” the woman informed him in a clipped tone, evidently ill at ease to be addressing one of the fine folks who were seldom seen in their simple, rustic village. “I hope she’s not been turned around in that accursed forest. Nobody will go in there to go look for her and it is said that horses and other beasts lose their nerve under those evil trees.”

Spinning around too fast for her dim eyes to follow – a dangerously careless action – Caranthir pulled back his clawed hands at the last moment before he could strangle the crone where she stood. “Worry not,” he purred in a frighteningly smooth voice, “if she’s in the forest, we shall search and find her.”

Without acknowledging her trembling words of gratitude, he turned on his heels and headed back home.

“Why the long face?” Curufin sat on the wide stairs, fiddling with something at a dizzying speed. “Where is the girl?”

“She’s missing,” Caranthir growled. “One of the townswomen thinks she might have lost her way in the forest.”

At that, his brother looked up sharply and – setting down whatever it had been he had been deconstructing and putting back together – he inserted his fingers into the corners of his mouth and gave a sharp whistle.

“I doubt that you’d send Celegorm after her,” Curufin explained with a knowing smile before turning to their youngest brothers – infamous twins and apt hunters – to task them with finding any traces of the misplaced quarry.

“What is the matter?” Maedhros strolled into the foyer, the very picture of self-possessed calm which made Caranthir loathe him intensely.

“Moryo has lost that girl from the village he had his eye on,” Curufin tattled carelessly. “The twins will see what they can find out. In the meantime, what’s for dinner?”

“Not good,” Amrod whispered as they stepped out onto a bright clearing; the night was fading fast now, and they needed to get back to the safety of their mansion if they didn’t want to risk spending the whole day in some nearby caves without ascertaining first that there would be no sunlight filtering through crevices in the rock in the most uncomfortable patterns.

“If he has her,” Amras agreed, “then we have a serious problem on our hands.”

They exchanged a long look as they crept a bit closer to the hidden entrance to the halls of the Woodland King; something in the air told them that their quarry was alive yet and the fact that she was just beyond their reach filled them with frustration and maddening impatience.

Nonetheless, time was running out and so were their options at the given moment.

“That’s beyond our competencies.” They shrugged in perfect synchronicity; conflicts with other covens were for their older brothers to deal with and they would not even try to convince the master of this enchanted realm to hand over the prey of another vampire just because his brothers said so.

“Moryo will be so terribly cross though, no matter what he actually wants her for. He can be stubborn like that!” It didn’t matter who had voiced their shared thought or if it had been spoken aloud at all, they both knew that they’d be the bearers of dark and distressing news.

Flitting homewards, they didn’t spare a single glance backwards; the girl was not theirs to chase nor secure and thus, they had no qualms about leaving her to her fate deep within the bowels of an underground kingdom in which they’d find no sanctuary from the burning day.

They arrived just in the nick of time to find their brothers assembled, sated and yet tense, in the gloomy salon of their mansion, evidently awaiting their return and their assessment of the situation.

“Thranduil,” Maglor mused quietly as soon as they had finished their report, “interesting! I wonder what he wants with that insipid, little creature.”

“Defying us,” Celegorm spat; he had been locked in for too long and was spoiling for a fight. “He is disrespecting our family and our claims.”

Immediately, loud and belligerent discussions broke out that were cut off abruptly by Maedhros lifting his hands – tense palms outwards – and clearing his throat a few times.

“Brother,” he then asked Caranthir, “do you insist upon your claim? If so, I shall go and try to reason with Thranduil. No doubt, he has been aware or was made aware of our claim on this woman’s blood and life. It would be callous and outright treasonous to deny our rights.”

Gratitude flooded Caranthir’s face in a hot flush as he nodded gravely; he could not explain to the others what he had seen and still saw in young Agnes but he wanted her for his own. Maybe, it had been her melodious chuckle – surprised but exempt from terror – upon seeing him lurking in the shadows.

There was a fearlessness in her calm, acquiescent demeanour that had intrigued him and – if he was completely honest – her headlong flight only made her more interesting to him. What had she thought she’d achieve?

“So be it then,” Maedhros sighed. “I shall go and see if I can get her back. You stay here and keep out of trouble while I am away!”

Another long day of pacing and waiting was upon them during which Maedhros locked himself in the library to discuss his battle plan with Maglor; while his oldest brother was the most diplomatic, Caranthir could not deny that Maglor was probably the most charming and had a vast array of rhetorical skills that made people believe that they were acting in their own best interest when it was really he who was leading the dance.

Despite being truly thankful, Caranthir also resented the fact that he was not consulted on the matter; Agnes was his prey after all, but he was sent away like an unruly child who had made a mess of things. He hated the quiet suspicion that this was actually the case; it hurt his pride to know that his older brothers would have to intervene on his behalf, but he also had to admit that he would not have been able to approach this matter with the delicate tact that undoubtedly would be needed if they didn’t want to cause another nocturnal war to break out.

“Nelyo will get her back,” Celegorm grinned; it was a sharp, cruel smile that didn’t even try to dissimulate the unspoken threat of what he’d do if their elders were to fail in their quest.

Caranthir found himself hoping fervently, childishly, desperately that, indeed, Maedhros would succeed for Curufin had been right when insinuating that Caranthir didn’t deem his chosen prey safe within the merciless clutches of Celegorm the hunter.

“I am almost hurt I was not asked to retrieve her,” Celegorm quipped as if reading the thoughts behind Caranthir’s stern brow. “I am the one with the hound after all.”

“We know where she is,” Caranthir shot back acidly. “There is no need for tracking anymore. We just need to get her back. I just need to get her back.”

So, that was a tiny insight into the motivations and sorrows of the other side.

Lots of love from me <3

-> Chapter 5

“Thranduil?” Aggie’s eyes opened haltingly as if her lids were weighed down with all the years he might well have robbed her of in his demented frenzy. “What did you mean when you said you’d keep me?”

“We’ve touched on the subject,” he said softly as he held out another goblet, filled with refreshing, cool water, to her patiently. “How many of the distasteful lordlings do you know?”

Aggie took a deep drink and let her eyes wander around the persistent gloom of the chamber as she tried to pull together her scattered thoughts. “The tall red-haired one and the humming, smirking one; they both strike me as agreeable enough.”

Thranduil made a face but didn’t interrupt her.

“The one who came to call me to the mansion, oh and the silver shadow of the trees,” Aggie went on counting the progeny of the elusive master of the town on her fingers like a child.

“There are three more,” Thranduil let her know with a sharp, disdainful smile, “inconsequential but dangerous.”

“Are they…are they what you are?” Aggie asked, looking up at his renewed pallor with shrewd curiosity.

“They are.” He made a choked, gurgling sound at the back of his throat.

“What do they want with me then?”

For a long while, she thought that he would not answer her question as he merely stared at her with unblinking, unfathomable eyes from which the light was draining in invisible tears of dust and ash; it was a heart-wrenching sight and Aggie yearned to reach out to him to cradle his cold, stony cheek in her moist palm.

“Have you ever seen her? The one they call mother?”

Aggie shook her head; she had only ever caught a single glimpse of Lord Fëanor and that had been so long ago that she hardly remembered what he had looked like anymore. Nevertheless, she was sure that she had never seen his wife.

“She is their mother, she has carried and birthed them,” Thranduil ground out almost reluctantly. “Nerdanel is a legend.” He placed his icy hand on Aggie’s and smiled sadly when she flinched under his glacial touch.

“You have seen the change your blood has provoked in me, we both have,” he went on resolutely, “and it is believed that, if one was to keep up this rhythm of feeding on fresh, human blood – given willingly – for long enough, other functions might return. It has only been done a few times.” He paused, his eyes widening dramatically as he made an artful pause for effect.

“Nerdanel has managed it 6 times; the last of her progeny – the twins – almost killed her though, and she had to be changed in the nick of time. In hindsight, nobody can truly comprehend how Fëanor – the most impulsive and least rational of us – has achieved this, but he and his wife have 7 perfect hybrid children.”

Aggie’s mouth fell open in aphasic shock; it was one thing to learn that the elusive gentry in whose shadow she had grown up was made up of immortal beings and another to accept that they were even more than that. A living mystery, a puzzling contradiction, a ghastly perversion of life itself…

“I never put much stock in these stories; blood was a means to sustain my endless life and not much beyond,” he went on sombrely, not meeting her inquisitive gaze. “Now that I have felt the difference a willing sacrifice can make, I’ll have to rethink my whole stance on the matter.”

“And do they…what…how does that make them different?” she stammered.

“What do they eat, you mean? Can they eat human food?” Thranduil stroked his chin pensively, his eyes roving hungrily over the nervous blush on Aggie’s face. “They could. If they satisfy their father’s heritage thoroughly so to say, they get close enough to what their mother once was to feast and even go out at dusk.”

Envy burned in the depths of his glassy eyes as he felt a leaden paralysis engulf his limbs, progressing quickly now; his body and mind struggled against the age-old shackles though and he felt a sense of primal panic he had not experienced for many long years.

“So you are all prisoners of your curse?” Aggie inquired softly, stretching out her arm invitingly at the sight of his vain struggle. She had seen the ferocious blossoms of happiness when he had drunk deep from her veins, and she could understand that he’d crave another taste – no matter how fleeting – of the echo of life.

Thranduil grasped her slender hand tenderly and merely breathed a kiss onto the thin skin on the inside of her wrist, revelling in the discreet drumming of her pulse just underneath it before tearing himself away from that seductive source purposefully.

“So, they want me as cattle? An incubator? A concubine?”

“Yes,” Thranduil acquiesced, “and – loath as I am to admit it – they were right in choosing you. Look at you, Agnes, already sitting up and offering your blood once more. You’re stronger than you look and enchantingly discerning. They tirelessly lure, seduce, and compel innocent mortals into doing their bidding in megalomaniac, egotistical hopes of recreating the miracle of their own birth.”

“You hate them, don’t you?” There was no judgment in Aggie’s voice, only detached curiosity; after what had transpired only mere hours ago, she felt comfortably numbed when it came to the grotesque extent of the nightmare fairy tale she had stumbled into. “Enough to pilfer me?”

Thranduil shrugged uncomfortably before admitting in a low, vibrating tone that Fëanor’s sons could see the sun. “You don’t understand how long it has been since last I’ve truly seen it and breathed the warm air vibrating with its golden rays. Sure, it is weak still or already dimming when they behold it, but – to an extent – they can stand in the sun’s glow and yes, I envy and hate them for it. I’d gladly deny them the strength your virginal blood would have conferred them.”

He paused and then smiled softly. “That was before I learned how delightful you are, of course, and now, they’ll have to win you back by killing me for I enjoy your presence – your light, your life, your resilience – too much to give it up. At the end of the day, I guess I am a monster after all.”

Shivering, Aggie drew the luscious furs tighter around herself; she knew nearly nothing about this creature in front of her but the idea of seeing him torn apart by the young men she had seen from afar a thousand times filled her with reluctance and dread. She didn’t want any of them to come to harm and she wondered if her mind had been addled by the wine or the poison dissolving slowly in her system for her to care thus for murderers and abominations, but she couldn’t help disliking the notion of them getting hurt despite her better knowledge.

Morality, she knew, was nothing like the straight, virtuous path the preachers described and much more like the treacherous swamp it led through.

Thranduil had been good to her and – even as she mused about this – he was calling for a repast and some more water on her behalf; surely, it was only natural to feel a smidgen of loyalty to the first soul – dead or alive – that had shown any kind of true interest in her well-being since her mother’s passing.

As she ate, Aggie felt new strength invigorate her body and her resolve hardened further.

“Am I your prisoner then?” she then asked in a matter-of-fact tone after putting aside her plate; Thranduil had watched her dig into the offered dried meat and fresh berries his servants had retrieved from the storehouse for her with such riveted fascination that he didn’t seem to notice her shifting mood.

It was – so he had informed her almost defensively – common to entertain some reserves to feed emaciated prey; Aggie could not help but chuckle at the idea that poverty and misery sent ripples of deprivation even into the darkest and most impenetrable of shadow realms.

At her sudden inquiry, he flinched minimally as if moving his body was becoming increasingly difficult as the seconds ticked by.

“No,” he answered after a long moment of quiet contemplation, “you may leave this place whenever you choose. I will not keep you against your will.”

This proclamation surprised her, and she cocked her head, motioning with a strip of salted rabbit, still clasped between her twitching fingers, for him to go on.

“There are enough hapless fools getting lost in the forest,” Thranduil smiled apologetically. “We all have our legends and covers. I would not starve, and I admire you too much to do what I said I’d protect you from.”

“The Lord who came to my house invited me,” Aggie corrected him gently. “He did not take me by force and – when my mother begged him to let me stay with her until she passed away – he agreed readily enough. I wouldn’t want to see any of you hurt! I won’t watch either one of you die because of me! I won’t!”

Her voice rang like unsheathed steel now and her eyes shone, hard and resolved.

Thranduil’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment. “You are decided to find forgiveness and excuses for the most wretched creatures under the moon, I see,” he then murmured pensively. “You truly are a marvel!”

Before he could say more though, an armoured guard entered briskly and exchanged a few whispered sentences with Thranduil.

“Stay with her,” the king barked and waved another slew of unnaturally pale warriors to Aggie’s side. “We’ve got a visitor,” he then informed her, “and he’s brought a dead horse.”

Aggie opened her mouth to protest and offer her own blood to strengthen her host, but he had swept out of the room before she could even find the words.

Worried beyond what was recommendable or even warranted, she turned her attention back to the feast she had impatiently discarded and silently decided to do whatever was necessary to ensure the survival of everyone involved, herself included.

They would have nothing to fight about if she was gone, did they? Thranduil had said that she was not held here, so – in the name of misplaced but inescapable compassion – she’d slip away. All she had to do was to get rid of her guards now!

As promised, here's the next chapter!!!!

Lots of love!!

-> Chapter 6

Though he would not have readily admitted it, he was pleased to see that she cared so unreservedly for a creature she was supposed to fear and loathe; he would not have believed it possible that one such as she was – young, alive, thriving – could ever see beyond the glaringly obvious monstrosity of his kind.

In truth, it made painful, all-consuming hope blossom within his cold, unmoving chest.

Of course, he had no intention of kicking off a major conflict and – had it not been for her stunt – he would certainly have been torn apart by Maedhros sooner or later; before meeting Aggie, Thranduil might not even truly have regretted seeing his torturous existence terminated at last.

As things were though, he would be more than willing to grant her wish and let that insolent pup return to his insufferable litter of heel-nipping, yapping siblings if that pleased her. Making her smile had quickly become addictive in the highest degree to him, and he was surprised and alarmed enough by that development to clam up all the more decisively.

“I have saved him from the sun,” Thranduil drawled, revelling in the flare of ire in her eyes and the way her hands curled into fists as if she believed that she could do any real damage to him. “What more would you ask in the name of one who came here to murder me?”

“Did he though?” Aggie shot back shrewdly; after the night she had had, she was not easily cowed or misled by cryptic assertions and half-truths anymore.

“I guess not,” he conceded with a swirl of his hand. “Nonetheless, he almost succeeded.”

“But he didn’t,” she spat, tugging the archaic shift she had been given aside to make him look at the bruises and bite marks marring her skin. “Did he? No, he didn’t for you stand there, alive still, and argue with me!”

“It was not he who saved me,” Thranduil hissed; he felt a pang of guilt at the sight of her mistreated body and the bad conscience – another new and entirely unpleasant sensation – made him defensive. Unfortunately, he seemed momentarily unable to dig into his own reserves of anger and dissatisfaction.

“You know that you cannot save us all,” he said in a much softer voice, cupping her flaming face in a cold palm. “We are beyond rescue. We have been for longer than your family tree has blossomed.”

When she threw her arms around his icy neck fitfully and pressed eager, soothing, imploring kisses onto his stony cheeks though, Thranduil felt as if he might have wept if that had still been within his power.

“I will not give up on any of you,” she asseverated passionately. “Not until my own heart stops beating in my chest. Let him go!”

“The sun is up, darling Aggie,” Thranduil murmured against her warmth, “and he is too weak to travel. Would you have me personally escort my foe and would-be assassin back to his mother’s apron strings?”

“If need be,” she declared haughtily; Thranduil’s predatory senses caught the flash of unease passing through her eyes like a shadow though and his interest was piqued by the tinge of guilt he had picked up on.

“What have you done now, Agnes?” he asked in a forbidding tone even as he bolstered her behind with his arms and carried her out of the throne room over into his private quarters. It had been quite a trial, but one of his captains had unearthed an old stash of healing herbs they had been given by some poor soul trying desperately to save their life through entirely misguided blackmail.

A bath would do Aggie good, Thranduil decided, she had not slept, and her body was weakened by how much she had been willing to give him to restore his flickering, failing vitality.

“I’ve sent Fingon to check on him,” she admitted in a small voice, not struggling or objecting as he bore her away swiftly down dark corridors she didn’t even see.

It was only due to his superior reflexes that Thranduil could avoid crashing into the nearest wall in shock at this revelation.

“You’ve sent the poor man to his death? Oh, you’re a dangerous woman, Agnes.”

Her eyes were soft and pleading in the lightless depths of the hallway and her mouth curled into a half-smile. “If he really is that weak,” she murmured pensively, “I am sure that Fingon can hold him at bay long enough to flee, if he so wishes.”

This speech only deepened Thranduil’s confusion; Maedhros was a prisoner in these halls and the king had not expected that he’d try to deploy his nasty tricks of seduction in a place heavy with spells that were anathema to his own.

Pushing open a heavy stone door, he set Aggie down on a soft bench and bent over the large bathing pool, dug into the very floor and taking up the better part of the room, to fill it with warm, soothing water for her. All the while, his mind was racing though, considering and weighing the possibilities her words had painted in his imagination.

“You’d strengthen the enemy?” he finally asked as he led her over and held her hand as she walked down the few steps into the restoring brew of herbs and heated spring water. “You’d invigorate Maedhros the tall so he can have another go at me?”

“No,” Aggie cried out, her vehemence dampened by the relief sloshing against her bare skin. “I want him strong enough to travel back to whence he’s come. He shan’t…”

“Queen Agnes,” Thranduil mocked tenderly, “mistress of the undead, chiding them like naughty schoolboys and making them behave according to her rules.”

“Well someone has to,” she scoffed and leaned back in the spacious pool with a contented sigh. “All shall be well.”

Her blind, unwavering faith was disturbing to Thranduil, especially as it made him secretly wish he could be the being she clearly seemed to think he was capable of being instead of the mean, destructive abomination he knew himself to truly be.

“Your friend is going to end up dead, Aggie,” he then imparted the hard, deplorable wisdom of truth in a mournful voice. “Fëanor’s pup will suck him dry and leave only his cracked bones behind.”

“We’ll see,” Aggie replied, her eyes closed and her face incongruously relaxed in the given circumstances, “I have faith in Fingon. It doesn’t hurt all that much and I’ve told him so to hearten him.”

“You want him to be murdered?” Thranduil exclaimed; he could not understand how she had gone from crouching over that man’s unconscious body like a feral animal, ready to die to defend him, to sacrificing him to a known atrocity.

“Of course not,” she giggled. “Dear king, you are alive, I am alive, Maedhros is yet alive…what makes you believe that Fingon will surely die?”

“He cannot…” Thranduil spluttered, crouching down by the edge of the tub. “You must be jesting, Aggie. You sent the man to Maedhros’ bath in hopes that he’d join you in your selfless sacrifice? This is folly!”

Sitting up brusquely, Aggie dragged a wet hand across Thranduil’s cheek, half-expecting it to congeal into a layer of glittering ice on his lifeless skin and smiled.

“Thranduil, I am not insane despite what you might think. I am aware that both you and Maedhros could have torn me apart like a ragdoll…but – let me reiterate – I am very much alive. Actually, I am presently sitting in the first proper hot bath of my life and – I am sure – if I asked for a cup of water, you’d get me one. Is it so absurd of me to base my expectations on my own experiences rather than some old folk tales?”

“Water or wine?” Thranduil inquired instinctively, already turning to call for one of his servants when Aggie grabbed his hand and pulled him back to face her.

“You’ve been nothing but good to me thus far,” she said insistently, “and it really is a small sacrifice. I do not know what will happen to Fingon, but I am comforted by the fact that he will get to make up his mind about it on his own.”

“You underestimate our powers of seduction,” Thranduil groaned, exasperated with her unexpected, unquenchable optimism.

“Ah poppycock,” Aggie laughed. “I am aware of your powers of seduction, and I am counting on them. Now, I wouldn’t refuse a glass of wine.”

As he summoned one of the discreet shadows flitting around his halls, Thranduil wondered how it had come to this; he profoundly disagreed with Aggie on every count, but a part of him was almost convinced that she’d end up being right.

After an eternity of sullen silence and morose loneliness, he was particularly ill-equipped to be hosting an old foe, a complete stranger, and a woman who was on her best way to revive more than his desire to live. Indeed, he was growing increasingly fond of Agnes’ ludicrous bravery and stubborn but utterly skewed morality; she was life itself – temperamental, random, and unstoppable – and the more he indulged, the more he craved to let her chase away the dust and the cobwebs.

“Your wish is my command,” he sighed, “my midnight sun.”

Her joyous chuckle and the muted splashing sounds made Thranduil’s fossilised heart soar and so he gave the order to prepare a feast for their two mortal guests; if Aggie’s prophecy came true, they’d both need all the strength and nourishment he could provide.

“I’ll send Fëanor a bill for my nanny services,” Thranduil muttered and froze upon realising that he had almost made a silly joke, something that had not occurred in thousands of years. “Strange things are happening,” he told the dumbfounded vampire in front of him. “Very strange indeed.”

“Why don’t you join me here?” Aggie called from behind him and Thranduil froze; how many more of his weaknesses could he reveal to her before she’d stumble across one she found accessible enough to use it against him?

New title style and lots of love from me! <3