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Summary: When Elrond is short a courtesan for the fifteen year exchange, what will he do? Pimp out his daughter -- that's what! Arwen arrives in Mirkwood and meets Father and Son. Parody, D/s, SI, slash, anal, bdsm, f/f, m/f, m/f/m, solo and general bad taste. NC-17
Introduction: Please Read First


Nine and a Half Weeks in Mirkwood
By Acharn Lend




Disclaimer: Not my garden. I just play in it. And I do not play well with others..


Chapter 10: The Halls of the Elvenking

Arwen awoke to a light mist falling over the open plain of the Anduin. This was not how she had anticipated coming to Mirkwood. She had fantasized a flower bedecked procession in the sunlight, through blossom laden trees, with little bluebirds fluttering down onto her shoulders. Yeah, right, but this was Mirkwood. A dark entrance between two leaning trees awaited them, with a murky pathway beyond. Glorfindel led them in, and they had not gotten twenty feet before they were stopped.

"Who seeks entrance into the Woods of our King?" said a chill voice.

"It's Glorfindel with the girls. It isn't like you weren't expecting us . . . Prince," the Balrog Slayer replied in a weary tone.

Arwen caught a flash of pale hair through the mist, as a tall, slender elf materialized in their path. Arwen examined his form carefully, for if this was Thranduil's son, here lay a clue as to the looks of the new master she would be serving. This elf was fair, even for one of the Eldar for whom fairness was a given. But the fairness of his countenance was marred by a cold hauteur, as if his beauty reflected the chill of a winter morn before the first touches of spring. She felt his eyes run her over, appraising and contemptuous. She heard Eliene gasp beside her.

"Mae govannen, Legolas Thranduilion," said Glorfindel formally, as three other elves stepped out of the trees to take their place beside their prince.

"Mae Govannen, Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower in lost Gondolin, more recently of Imladris," replied Legolas with equal formality. "I see that, as always, you have not missed an opportunity to insert yourself into the proceedings wherever the courtesans are concerned."

Beside him, one of the Wood-elves, a dark haired ellon, tittered. "Huh-huh. He said 'insert.'"

"Heh-heh-heh. Insert," echoed a pale haired elf at his side. Arwen began to suspect that there was a significant amount of inbreeding in this realm.

Legolas silenced them with an icy glare. "Glavras, please retrieve my horse," he directed a third elf. "Ride with the courtesans to see that there is no . . . mischief. My Lord Glorfindel, ride next to me."

"Mischief?" Arwen felt Eliene stiffen beside her in response to the prince's tone. "Does he think us elflings? Or does he perhaps fear an escape attempt on our part?"

Arwen remained silent. The thought of cutting and running, as any sane, self respecting elf might do under such circumstances, had crossed her mind.

The one Legolas had addressed as Glavras approached Arwen's mount. "May I?" he asked, and she obliged by offering him her stirrup and allowing him to swing up behind her. "No spider will dare drop down on you now, little lady," Glavras said merrily, settling companionable arms around her waist.

Beside them, the other two Wood-elves were playing a game of 'scissors, paper, stone' to determine which would get to ride behind Eliene, a game which deteriorated into further colloquy and bitch slapping when the two could not agree on whether paper wrapped stone or stone crumpled paper. Eliene stared stonily ahead, no doubt preferring the prospect of death by spider bite to either one of those two 'protecting' her and copping a feel.

"Enough. Fefalas, you ride behind the courtesan. Brethil, find a seat behind one of the guards," Legolas snapped curtly, and the train rode off down the Elf Path.

"Is this not like nothing you have ever seen before?" Glavras said brightly.

Arwen could only nod. The wood was dark and dismal. The trees were festooned with streamers of moss and what looked to be old spider webs. Moisture dripped everywhere. No wonder King Thranduil chose to live underground. A cave must be positively cheery after this.

At least the elves seemed friendly, with the exception of the king's son. Very friendly indeed, Arwen thought, as she began to feel a growing bulge in Glavras's crotch pressing against her back as he held her close. A most hope inspiring bulge it was, and Arwen thought there might be benefits in Thranduil's realm to make up for the gloomy surroundings.



Thanks to the gods of anomalous geography, the train reached the eastern part of the wood within two hours. The train halted at one end of the stone bridge that spanned the Forest River and dismounted. At the other end of the bridge, in front of the stout magic gates which protected his underground fortress, stood Mirkwood's king, flanked by his nobles. Legolas joined his father and motioned Glorfindel and the two courtesans to approach.

Thinking back to the lovely Mirkwood courtesan, and her confidant grace as she had knelt before Elrond in the courtyard at home, Arwen did her best to loosen her panicked, sweaty palmed grip on her contract and lifted back her hood. She assured herself that whatever lay ahead, she could face it. After all, these were Elves, excellent Elves of an excellent realm. What harm could possibly come to her here?

Even so, she kept her eyes lowered as she and Eliene crossed the bridge and approached the king. She heard Glorfindel announce them; "Sarnwen, courtesan of the House of Elrond at Imladris. And Eliene, of The Golden Wood."

Still not daring to look, she knelt on the stone steps and held out her contract. Beside her, she heard Eliene do the same.

A deep and masterful voice rang out. "Legolas, my son, which of these will you take as your customary boon?"

Arwen's heart pounded in the ensuing silence. At last she heard the lighter, familiar voice of the prince. "My pleasure is to take the light haired one, My Lord Father. I would have the courtesan from Lorien for my own."

"So be it," Thranduil said. Arwen both heard and felt Eliene gasp and suppress a shudder before attaining her feet and going to her new master.

"Very well. Rise, Sarnwen, courtesan of the House of Oropher, and come to me."

Arwen did as she was bidden, eyes still lowered. She felt a movement and a click at one of the rings of her collar. Without thinking, she reached up and felt a tiny charm, an oak leaf, clipped there as a token of ownership. She had been claimed. Even if she was the last one chosen, and the slight annoyed her more than she cared to admit. She was Arwen Undomiel for Elbereth's sake! At home, at Rivendell, she was never the last one chosen for any team, whether it be for the rope pull, ring around the rosie, or even the sack race. But she was not at home, she reminded herself. Here, respect would have to be earned -- most likely by abasing herself in the worst of ways, which is always a crackerjack way to earn respect!

At last, she dared to raise her eyes, and when she had done so, her nervousness fell away to be replaced by stark terror. Thranduil Oropherion was the most beautiful elf she had ever beheld. His hair was of the brightest gold, rivaling that of Glorfindel himself. His eyes glowed with masterful power, and they changed back and forth between brilliant sapphire and glowing emerald, depending on which fangirl we want to please at the moment. His finely chiseled lips were both sensual and cruel, and she felt a secret stirring at the thought that they would soon be pressed against various portions of her anatomy. The last thing she wanted to do was to disappoint this great lord. Morie's words sang in her head, 'What you must make certain of is that he loves you.'

Down she went on her knees again. "My Lord!"

She heard a soft chuckle, and a large palm cupped her chin, raising her gaze to him once more. The corners of Thranduil's mouth quirked upward in a sly grin. "It's GOOD to be the king!"

The moment was spoiled somewhat by a discreet snort of disgust from Legolas. "Come, Eliene, we are leaving."

The rest of the crowd began to disperse too. Thranduil motioned her to rise. "Come, Courtesan, there will be time to acquaint yourself with your new home later. Right now, the king wants to play with his new toy."

She followed him through twisting corridors of stone, up staircases and through secret doors. At last they reached what she realized must be his private chambers. Her heart had ceased its frantic hammering, but her stomach was clenched in knots of nervous fear.

He ushered her through a door, and she heard the click of a lock as it shut behind them. A lock, in an Elvish dwelling, she asked herself? Who could the king be trying to keep out? What paranoia had inspired him thus? And then she realized with a start that the lock was most likely to keep her in. Oh, this was not good.

"Please be seated," Thranduil said, taking a chair behind a small table that held a decanter of red wine and two glasses.

Arwen complied, chiding herself for her bashful lack of grace. Was she not Elrond's daughter, and used to such occasions of courtesy to visiting nobles? And yet, the shoe was now on the other foot, and she was no noble, at least not in Thranduil's eyes. She raised a brow in silent question, and then poured wine for both of them at his silent nod. "Thank you, My Lord."

"Sarnwen," Thranduil began, in soft yet commanding tones, "We must have a few words, to discuss your new place here."

Silently, Arwen waited, her glass of wine sitting untouched before her.

"Mirkwood is not so rich in courtesans as either Imladris or Lorien. That pussy-whipped distant cousin of mine, Celeborn, seems to have courtesans coming out of his -- er I mean they seem to grow on trees. There are at present only three courtesans in my own realm. Yourself, my male courtesan, Firdal, and Eliene, now that Elesse is traded to Imladris. Since Eliene is, by old agreement, the sole property of my son, that leaves you and Firdal to handle my needs and those of the court. I hope you will be up to the task."

"I shall do my best, my lord." Arwen replied as seriously and reverently as if her father had just ordered her to entertain a delegation from Mithlond or prepare comfortable lodging for one of the Istari.

"I am certain you will. However, I will caution you once and only once. Whatever is said, done, overheard, or discovered within these walls will stay within these walls." He gave her a stern and significant look. "I do not take kindly to spies or strangers within my realm."

"You may rely upon my discretion, Sire," she murmured. Her father had oft warned her that Thranduil was off his nut where matters of privacy were concerned. Elrond found it humorous. Now Arwen was not so sure.

"Now, expectations. Each realm does things a bit differently. Here in Mirkwood, I have claimed you as mine. Hence none shall approach you without my leave, and you may approach none without my leave." He paused until Arwen nodded her understanding. She did her best not to gulp. Each realm does things a bit differently? How did that affect the rules and practices as delineated in Aliass's Black Book, rules she had relied upon when agreeing to undertake this job of courtesan? At home, Morie and the others had been allowed to approach anyone they wanted, and they had been well treated. Well, at least she was safe here as long as she did not directly disobey, she reminded herself.

"Good," Thranduil said, with an evil grin. "You can expect to be attending me exclusively, with a few exceptions, for the next year or so. I was never very good about sharing my toys."

Again, Arwen nodded, thinking, poor Firdal, when will he ever get a chance to sleep?

"You will be housed across the hall, next to Firdal's room. You will be meeting him later this afternoon. Much later," he said with a salacious wink. "These, of course are my rooms, and you will become very familiar with them. I will expect you to wait upon me at the evening meal and to report to me first thing each morning to be given my daily requirements. Provided, of course, that you are not still in my bed."

The look that Thranduil gave her as he ran his eyes up and down her body made her shiver. "You have not touched your wine."

"I have heard of the strength of Dorwinion, My Lord, and I would not like to render myself incapable of pleasing you."

He laughed. "I think you would have to be most far gone before that could happen. Drink. Caution is for the weak and the frightened. Tell me, Sarnwen, are you frightened of me?"

"May I speak candidly, My Lord?"

He nodded slowly.

She swallowed. "I am terrified."

"Good," he said with a chill smile. "I like that in a courtesan. You are probably most right to be afraid of me. Now drink your wine and prepare to face your fears. Along with everything else I mean to give you."

Arwen lifted her goblet and slowly drained it. She hoped that everything they had said about Dorwinion being a good anesthetic was true. She rose and dropped her gaze submissively. "I am ready, My Lord."

* * *


Bada-bing!

How cruel of me to end it there! I'm quite the sadist, am I not? But I promise that in the next chapter, our little Peredhel will be getting quite the education at the hands (and other parts) of the mighty Elvenking.



Faithful Servant: What do you mean we're out? We just got two barrels in last week! I cannot continue this lovely and charming tale without some mind numbing liquid fortification!
Double Trouble: Patience. Patience. Next chapter, I promise.
Denny: Welcome to the gang. I'm glad you like it so far. Yes, ungrateful, weak children can be a trial and need to have some character beaten into them. And then we write about it.
Gorthaur: You want to abuse Eliene? Er, why? Oh, nevermind -- she'll be in the scary clutches of the mysterious Prince Legolas for many chapters to come, and I'm sure it will be awful. Dreadful. Nasty. Happy now?
Half Elf: Oh Really? I'm terrified to be on your shit list -- NOT. You haven't been able to raise an army since the first millennium of the Third Age. So don't be getting your Noldo knickers all in a twist.

* * *


L.T.: Hmmm . . . Do you think we could have had a little less false modesty in the describing of our persons? "The most beautiful elf she had ever beheld?" "Hair of the brightest gold?" "Emerald eyes," or were they "sapphire?" I fear I shall have to summon Faithful Servant and have him fetch me a bucket.

T.O.: Lala! You are just jealous because I did not lay it on as thickly in my description of Prince Legolas.

L.T.: Not hardly! I am above such pettiness!

T.O.: If the light Elven shoe fits, my son! But hang onto your hacca, for as the Edain say, 'you ain't seen nuthin yet!'


Chapter Eleven: Of Royal Oaks