The Name of the Nine
by Koulagirl

Elrond awoke alone. The floor was cold. Stone, he supposed, though it was smooth against his skin. Smooth... and cold. Elrond shivered. His bare skin rubbed against the stone, and he realised that he was naked.

It was too dark for Elrond to tell where he was. He closed his eyes, focusing on his surroundings. He sensed nothing, for stone did not speak to Elves of the city. He opened his eyes, willing them to adjust to the unbroken darkness. He saw nothing.

Even an Elf could not see underground.

The Valar sometimes surprise us, though they have been quiet since the Assimilation. It is the influence of the religion of Men, long turned from the beauty and magic of nature. Their cities spiral above our heads, stone and metal blocking the sun from our skin. The songs of the trees cannot be heard over the noise of what Men call civilisation, and we call chaos. Yet we live here, surviving with the hope that one day our forests will be restored, and the sun will warm us once more.

We move amongst Men, deal with them as they deal with each other. They do not seem to fear us, now that we have joined them here. Though we are taller than they, leaner and more graceful, our differences often remain unmarked, as those between Men. Yet there are those who hate us; they resent us for coming into their cities, buying their food and living in their houses. They hurt us because we are different, and we refuse to fight back. It is true that we take their jobs, but only because we are better suited to the physical labour required. They say our strength is unnatural, and our speed merely illusory.

Those who hate us are led by the Nine. We know not who they are, or why they resort to sabotage in order to threaten us. What we must call our homes are vandalised when we return from work, and nobody dare search when one of our race disappears for fear that we too, are lost. Glorfindel, our Elven Ambassador to the Chief of Police, says that they will do nothing without evidence, but the Nine are careful not to leave us a trail to follow.

But we cannot go home, and we had nowhere else to go when Men destroyed the Greenwood for their industries. They welcomed us then, but now they turn against us. I feel the hate towards us growing, and fear that we must resort to fighting on the streets in order to defend all that we have left.

The Valar sometimes surprise us, but they have been quiet since the Assimilation. Our prayers go unheard, and the path to the West is closed to us.

Elrond knew of the Nine. He was one of few; in a privileged position. Friends with Glorfindel and secretary of Gil-galad, Elrond had respect in his own right. He had always assumed that his position afforded him protection - his absence would be immediately noticed, and he mattered enough that a search would be carried out, at least by Glorfindel.

Yet he was blinded, and he only realised that he was bound when he tried to curl up, tried to hide his eyes from the light. Now that he knew of the bonds, he could feel them on his skin. They marked him, drawing him back from the coolness of numbing limbs and forcing him to study the shadow suddenly cast on his body. Something had appeared in the doorway. Elrond could not recognise it as Man or Elf, if indeed it was either. Tall as an Elf, it appeared as broad as a Man, yet moved with the agility of an Elven dancer. It spoke not in words or thoughts, but in sensations. It touched Elrond, rough fingertips learning his form as if searching for a weakness. Elrond felt its confidence, and knew fear.

Fear was the name of the Nine.

I spoke with Glorfindel today. My reasons for seeing him were not personal, and they have left me with this sense of disquiet which distracts me now. Glorfindel has promised to speak with the Chief of Police regarding my secretary's absence today. I fear that this will not be enough; I do not presume on my senses, but I feel that an evil has befallen him. I always hoped that I would sense him if he was in distress, yet this silence is more than I can stand. Wherever he is, he cannot reach out to me.

The main difference between Elves and Men is not physical. The physical is merely a shape, it differentiates us but it is not significant enough to distinguish. It does, however, have a base in the physical - it is the mental, a part of the mind. Our senses are much more refined than those of Men, though this is not to say that we use our senses differently, or have more developed sense organs. Our advantage comes from our ability to read what we sense, which is in turn partly due to our heritage as Woodland Elves. There were three kingdoms of Elves before the Assimilation - all separated by distance and nature. The land spoke to us of the distress of the Greenwood before we received messengers, and the land told us that Men were seeking our lands in turn.

Their knowledge of our abilities comes from our effort to defend the Greenwood. We used the changes in the air to dodge the bullets of Men, and the sounds of their swords to guide us to their camps. They defeated us through numbers alone, for even then we were beginning to wane. We did not know our enemy, for their minds were strange to us. They blocked the way West at the back of the Greenwood, preventing our retreat and cutting us off from our true homeland.

We agreed to the Assimilation, and to contribute to the cities of Men, though the harm to our souls was grievous. Survival gave us hope, and then began the whispers of the Nine.

There were still trees in the city, then, and they spoke to us of riders in the night. They hunted Elves, and harmed the trees so that they could no longer speak.

Elrond, was I so lost in memory that I forgot to look after you? Glorfindel says that the Nine have become bolder. You would be a coup for them, you are close to me and the Elves look to me as a leader, merely because of lineage, not because of my worth. You, of course, were always more worthy of their respect than I, yet you were happy to remain under me, both in our modest line of work and in my bed in our home. They could use you against us, for we could not harm you, one of our own.

Elrond, I reach out to you with my mind; it is our greatest gift, the connection between us. We are of one race, and our connection with Arda, the earth beneath us and the sky above us, allows us to join with one another as if we were made to be one.

I pray to the Valar that your silence, and the cold void of your absence do not mean that you have been killed as if a tree surrounded by stone. You were always my reason and you guarded my slumber in your dreams.

The thought that I may not see you again holds me in thrall to my emotions. Glorfindel says that I must be calm, and focus on living day by day, but I do not feel as if it is the right thing to do while you are not there with me.

Elrond had no way to resist the being's touch, or ignore the soundless voice. Fingers spoke to him of days in darkness, and a deep hatred for a race that had taken their place in the scheme of Men. The Nine had been the source of wonder for Men before the Assimilation - until the first Elf had walked through the gates of the White City.

Elrond saw an image, a darkly coloured Elf appearing from shadows, illuminated by the last rays of the sun. How could that not enchant the fickle race of Men?

Elrond had no answer, for he could not speak. The hand of the being pressed against his mouth and prevented his breathing. The being gave no name, nor any means of acknowledgement.

<< I am one of the Nine, and your race has wronged me. >>

Elrond knew fear, and was left gasping for breath in darkness. The air he breathed was tainted by a foul presence, repugnant and dangerous.

I last saw Elrond at sundown. Men measure time with clocks and watches, but we still feel our days end when the air cools and the stars greet us in the darkness that follows. The last hint of light was reflecting from Elrond's hair when he turned back towards me and raised his hand. I smiled, though I was strangely disconcerted.

I blame myself for not walking with Elrond as normal. We are - were - discreet, but we could appear together outside the offices and not arouse suspicion. I remained behind, watching Elrond walk away. I fancied that I saw a shadow following him, and dismissed it. I believed that I was only seeing the light abandon the streets, yet now I feel as if I foresaw his disappearance.

Glorfindel says that there is no evidence that he has actually been taken, yet I know that he would not leave me otherwise. Glorfindel has been a source of strength and support, so far, but he can only do so much. I cannot ask him to kneel by me, so that I may touch him as if he were Elrond. Nor can I ask him to desert his duties in order to help me with the office. Elrond does - did - so much that I do not know whether I can replace, or survive without him. More than his actions is - was - his presence. Being unable to sense him at all tears at my soul, and my guilt does little but aid the damage to my heart.

It is dark again now, and I look into the shadows as if the one that hides Elrond from me would step away if it could only feel the intensity of my gaze. It doesn't, of course; the shadows are dark as ever and they crowd my heart with insecurity and fear. My soul reaches out to find only darkness, for you are not near.

It is as if you are no longer there.

I speak as if he can hear me, not knowing whether he can reach out and find me as I search for him. I think, sometimes, that if he could touch my heart, I would have found him. He would be here.

Yet he remains silent, and I alone.

Desperation names me his as I cry my despair to the night. For I have lost you and without you, I feel nothing but emptiness. Men call this 'cold'; it is absence of feeling, rooted to a core that slices painlessly through my spine and grips my heart in a case of ice.

<< We used to be Kings of Men, in the days that Men had Kings and we walked the Earth freely. We prospered, independent of your woodland domains. The people looked to us to lead them - to set an example for them and to rule them.

Men decided to revolt, and caused us to flee. We returned, scant years later, to find a Parliament in our place, and no room for us in our own palaces. The people looked elsewhere to find guidance, finding it in the Elves who settled in the city. When the Greenwood was burned... we were forgotten. >>

Elrond shuddered when foreign hands, almost ghostlike in their soft inconstant touch, slid down his back. Sweat was spread along his skin, slickness reacting with cool air, unwarmed by sun or breath.

<< Men looked to you, displaced though you were. You came among them, and did not complain when forced to work for your lives. Even now, you walk the streets, proud and beautiful. Your hair shines and lies long to your waist; your eyes glitter in the absence of light. You have strength beyond that of the mortal Men, and already you have seen many lives of Men while you wait for the forests to be regrown and your talans rebuilt.

You claim the respect owing to us, and carry on, innocent. The Valar's light is strong in you, little one... do you think that if I claimed it for myself, Men would welcome me? Would I at last have the homecoming I deserve? >>

Elrond wanted to scream, but he was gagged when he opened his mouth.

<< I am one of the Úlairi, little one, and when I am done with you I will take my place in your city. >>

Glorfindel says that nothing can be done, yet I refuse to lose hope. When the sun is at its brightest I am reminded of faith - faith in the Valar, that they have not forsaken us now that their forests no longer reach the sky; faith in Elrond, that he would not succumb to whatever force separates us without giving me a chance to reclaim him; faith in myself, that I will find him; faith in those around me, who will not let me fail.

I have spent time in my rooms lately. Moreso than normal, so I'm told by the House Steward, who worries far too much for my health. Erestor means well, but he knows nothing of what plagues me when the sun is down, indeed, in any moment but that of midday.

My sword calls to me. I have kept it in good repair, out of respect, and perhaps in memory of the years I spent in my childhood home. Yet it has never shone so brightly, nor has it had an edge so sharp. I have thought of using it, freeing my soul from my body - the price worth the reward of preparing chambers in the Halls for myself and Elrond. Even if my soul found Elrond, it could never return to my body, but I could watch over him for as long as he walks Arda, from the place that will be our home until the end of the world itself.

The time for such an action has not yet come.

Winter approaches, and the sun wanes... when winter is at its coldest and the sun does not rise, I shall lift my sword and spill Elven blood. I will ask none to come with me, for their protests would betray their belief that Elrond no longer lives - they will ask me to have hope, when they have none to share with me, lighting the days of darkness. Life for them goes on - they have no memories to darken the brightest of rays, no gifts to remind them of what is gone.

Yet I cannot exist without the thought of Elrond - what he would say, where he would be. He no longer turns the bedcovers down for me when I need to rest, or runs my bath. I do not hear him sing for me...

I feel his cry of pain, sharp and abrupt. My sword at my waist, as if there of its own accord, and years of training accenting the set of my shoulders, I leave the building, a mansion of wood and stone serving no purpose but to obscure nature, and seek the direction of the unspoken scream. None else hear it - Glorfindel follows, at a distance. He tries to stop me, but my path takes me away from him. I know not where I am, only where I must be.

The first blow is but glancing; it is named fear for that is its effect. A mere scratch, deep into the exposed arm. Elrond lay huddled, curled into himself as if he could hide. The Úlair did not relent; the second blow released a cry of pain, sound so loud it deafened Elrond to his captor's taunts. He knew not what weapon had been used to inflict it, a sting crossing his spine and buttocks. It lay in the shape of an arrowhead, pointing downwards, though the point of joining lay unmarked.

Elrond knew he was bleeding when a finger penetrated him. Blows continued around the centre of Elrond's pain. He keened, but he did not hear. He shed tears though he could not see them or taste their salty warmth.

The Úlair pressed inside him once he was forced to open. Elrond could feel it move inside him, thick and blunt. He could not struggle, any give in the chains was rendered unusable once the Úlair grasped his hair, lifted his head. Then the Úlair was all around him, a dissolving mass of smoke and air, forcing pleasure from his body with soft touches.

Elrond did not want to survive this. The blood that leaked from his back took with it his will to live, and the strain of orgasm drained the last of the strength from his soul. Purer darkness than this beckoned, welcomed him with warmth. Oblivion called, and Elrond, having known awareness, looked to answer.

<< I want you to suffer, little one, for the wrongs your race has done mine. I will bind your soul to this earth, so that your shame lasts for eternity. >>

The Úlair solidified, shoving inside him once again. The gag was ripped from his mouth, and Elrond breathed the foul air, though through another's will.

Elrond felt the seeds of life take hold within, and screamed when awareness crashed around him. Sound he did not understand, nor what heralded the sudden light. The Úlair left him, and he cried, for he was no longer alone in his suffering.

I feel when I am near. There is no need for me to pause, nor wait. The air is heavy with Elrond's presence; he is close. Yet I hesitate - he is changed, somehow.

That is enough; I must get to him. I do not bother with observing the building, nor noting its location. Appearance and surrounding do not matter now. It is a strange feeling, to be so driven. Purpose moves me, and icy anger strengthens me. I lift my head as if to smell the air, and sense a way in.

Following Elrond is not difficult; his mind is as familiar to me as my own. His silence unsettles me, for it is that of defeated acquiescence. I am not used to this broken sense of soul; it is as if he fades while still living. His essence is mingled with a strange other, one who means no harm, yet I know not it's form.

I reach the door with no recollection of the path I took. I kick it, unwilling to check my brutality. My body stretches, the action fluid. The door opens inward, as if in relieved invitation.

There is one there, standing over a chained and bloodied form. It keeps vigil as if over one lost to the Halls, but it is not Elven. A mere shadow, it takes the form of a Man as it stirs. It stands, challenging me.

Elrond moves, hiding his eyes from the light. He has lost his luminescence - his skin does not glow, nor his soul shine. It is the shadow-Man who has done this. He even takes pride in his work, for he is first to strike.

It is not in an Elf's nature to kill for the pure ecstasy of killing. Even in the gravest of battles, we kill only in defence and never cede to the bloodlust that takes Men and animals in its grip.

But my sword whispers to me; it catches the only light in the chamber on its silver blade. It asks for blood and death. In the darkness lies an evil, waiting for the fatal strike. I will not let it claim me, for the sake of the one who lies, chained and broken, on the floor.

I can not lie and say that this battle gives me no joy, nor that this contest holds no danger. Neither motivate me, for I wish to kill. That it may be necessary does not occur to me.

My adversary is unreadable; there is nothing for me to learn from its thoughts. With only motion to rely on, I give in to the clinical beauty of the slash of mithril. I become an extension of my sword, and I seek to kill. I do not listen to the whisper that surrounds me, nor do I heed the warnings of the flesh as I bleed. The shadow-Man, the Úlair, has caused Elrond to be taken from me.

In my hand, my sword hums. I take a step back, spinning the hilt in my hand. The grip settles; slightly worn, it moulds to my skin. The Úlair follows me, and I thrust forward; I drop my arm, and my sword slashes downwards.

The Úlair screams. Like a rush of wind, borne on a burgeoning flame, it flies past me. It has become dust, no better than that which becomes soulless mud in the winter rains.

I am warmed because it is no longer there.

"Gil-galad?"

I cross the room; crouch beside Elrond. The last act of my sword is to snap the chains that hold him, then it calms, and holds me in its thrall no more.

I lift Elrond, despite his protests, and hold him to my chest. I no longer need to be here - Elrond needs to return to our rooms, our life. I am the one to take him.

He cannot want me now. I am tainted, weakened. I have been touched by another, and if he loves me beyond his disappointment with my unfaithfulness, he will be reminded when he learns that I am no longer able to tend to my duties, when he learns that I carry the child of this abhorred union. He is compassionate and brave, but even he cannot love one who is weak.

He carried me to his home, no longer mine. He bathed me, kissed my forehead and my cheek. He let me sit on his lap; a rare privilege before, now a painful and undeserved task. He placed his hand over my stomach, and whispered in my ear. He told me that all would be well. He has set Glorfindel to deflecting the police - Men are suspicious, he said, and he did not hide his intentions when he came for me.

In time, I could have been happy there... none would have seen me as I am now, marked - held here by Gil-galad's will and the child within me.

Gil-galad sees my thoughts. He comes into my room - the small room next to his, where I always used to sleep when he did not need me. He sits beside me, and strokes my hair. He tells me that I am his as long as he has strength to protect me, and the will to love me. He doesn't ask me to perform any of the tasks I used to delight him with, and I do not volunteer.

It is an uneasy truce, and this balance between awkward submission and fluent joining will not last.

Though he says he loves me, I am tainted, weak, and he will leave me. I let myself be taken because I was not strong enough to resist - he came after me, but he will not always do so.

But now he lifts me, he holds me against his chest, my head on his shoulder, and rocks me. He says that the child does not matter - he will always love me, because I am Elrond, and I am his.

I cry, knowing that he fakes the truth in his soul, open to me as it always has been. He places his hand - his sword hand, the one that struck the Úlair - over my child. Warmth flows through my body, and my child moves.

This does not change who I am, he says. Only I can do that. He thinks I am beautiful because I lived where others would have died.

I survived the Nine, and I survived fear.

Fear is the name of the Nine, but they do not name me.

The End

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~~~~~~ The Name of the Nine by Koulagirl ~~~~~~

The Name of the Nine
by Koulagirl