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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! In this chapter, much fun is had with hairstyling and terminology. Plus a sneak peek into Mirkwood's economy. 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

Not my garden, I just play in it. Ah, but isn't it full of such lovely flowers to uproot? But no sex this week, I'm sorry. We have plot development to wade through!

Chapter 14: The Lay of the Land

Arwen awoke in her cozy bed. Not to sunlight and birdsong, as it was a cave, underground, and night and day were pretty much the same. But she was feeling pretty damned cheerful nonetheless, because, to tell the truth, she had never had it so good, if you know what I mean, and I think you do!

She stretched and smiled prettily, the words of an ancient Elvish Lay rising unbidden to her lips: "Oh she wept with delight when he gave her a smile, and trembled with fear at his frown!"

Which kind of summed up her new life in Mirkwood.

She hopped from her bed and went to her armoire, taking out a fresh linen dress. Having absolutely no wardrobe choices to make would be saving her a lot of time in the morning. Humming some more of her lay, she looked in her pack for her hairclips and then was brought up short. Oh, right . . . that wasn't an option either. She'd have an extra fifteen minutes to sleep in. Jolly!

She gave her dark tresses a simple brushout, and her eye fell on her collar, reflected in the looking glass. The sight of the spikes made her think of Imladris, and she sighed with a hint of homesickness. Was Elrond enjoying the new courtesan from Mirkwood? Was she enjoying him? And had her brothers let Firiel go yet?

A knock at her door brought her from her reverie, and she opened it to find Firdal standing there. "Good morning, babycakes," he trilled. "I'm sent to see if you require some medical attention after last night. What with our king's size and all -- wink, wink -- you wouldn't be the first to need a stitch or two."

"I'm in one piece," she replied. "Fortunately His Majesty was most careful. From the sound of things last night, you might be the one in need of a healer, Firdal."

"Oh, too true! I very nearly burst a gut trying not to laugh. 'Oooh, take that, Master Balrog. And THAT!'" The blond courtesan threw himself on her bed and lay on his back giggling. "Tis a good thing he leaves for Imladris tomorrow, or I fear I should not survive."

"Where does one find breakfast around here? I'm so hungry I could eat a warg."

"In the kitchens. Can't have the likes of us courtesans cluttering up the dining hall. I hear Master Glavras is scheduled to give you the grand tour." Firdal got up off the bed and held the door for her. "I do hope you like archery. That is all Glavras ever talks about. He is a kindly sort, but not the sharpest arrow in the quiver, if you catch my drift."

"Archery is not my skill," Arwen replied, "but I am always eager to learn anything new." And it was true -- already, during her sojourn in Mirkwood, she had learned ONE new thing.

Down in the kitchen, Glavras was indeed waiting, and he proved as effusive as his name, chattering on while Arwen and Firdal broke their fasts. "I am scheduled to show you around today, Sarnwen. Would you like to see the library first?"

"I have already seen the library," said Arwen, swallowing a mouthful of freshly baked bread. And indeed, it was too much time in a library, reading a certain Black Book, that had gotten her into this fix, at least partly.

"Then we'll start with the spinning and weaving halls, and then the woodworking shop, and then the smithy. I think you will find it most interesting. King Thranduil encourages his courtesans to explore their interests in their spare time, which they don't seem to have much of, considering he wants each and every one of them in his bed thrice a day. Of course, some pastimes are not recommended, given the rule about not tying back your hair. Smithing is out, because of the forge. Woodworking is not a good idea because you'd catch your long locks in the turning lathes. I suppose you could try cooking . . ."

"No cooking," said Firdal, shaking his head. "Remember the courtesan who thought he'd try his hand in the kitchen and caught his hair on fire while basting a roast on the spit? His flaming run from the kitchens to the Forest River has become somewhat of a Mirkwood legend."

"Aye, he'd have made it too, save that he did not know the spell for opening the gate," said Glavras shaking his head sadly. The two ellyn put their hands to their hearts and bowed their heads. "Giril hîdh nen gurth, Nauril. You will be missed." Glavras sighed. "I guess that leaves needleworking for a hobby. I hope you like embroidering, Sarnwen."

"Oh crap," Arwen muttered under her breath.

They toured the various workshops and the weaving halls, where Arwen was surprised to see great piles of spider webs being spun into fine thread. "Do you mean to say that Mirkwood silk is not made from bales of silk cocoons traded from the east, as is generally supposed?" She thought of her father's fine robes at home, and her own gowns, and suddenly she was happy to be wearing linen, however humble.

"Hush, it's one of King Thranduil's great secrets," Glavras laughed. "He says that if the great Elven lords and ladies with their Rings of Power are going to leave him twisting in the wind trying to fight Dol Goldur and the dragon, Smaug, both with naught but the seat of his pants, he is going to take the fruits of the shadow in his Wood and damn well turn a profit from it. I have seen the thread spun from the eastern silk and the thread spun from the spiders' web, and the latter is far superior -- once you forget its origins. And what those snooty Noldor on the other side of the Hithlaeglir don't know, won't hurt them"

'Right,' thought Arwen. Glavras was definitely not the sharpest arrow in the quiver. She was going to have a thing or two to tell her father when she got home. But not her brothers. She sniggered at the thought of them wearing clothing that had come out of a spider's ass.

"Enough boring stuff," said Glavras. "How would you like to practice some archery?"

"Now you're talking!" she said enthusiastically. "My skill is mostly with a blade, but I would dearly love to learn to shoot a bow as well."

They took weapons from the armory and went outside to a cleared glade in the forest, with a series of targets set up at the far end of the field. Arwen's eyes narrowed as she spied Prince Legolas already there, with Eliene. He was standing behind the little courtesan, holding her hair firmly back in his hand.

"No, like this," he said, as Eliene let a shaft fly off into the trees. "Take a breath, pull, sight down the shaft, and loose it." This time, her arrow hit the target, just barely. "You will have to do better than that, Courtesan, if ever we are attacked and you find yourself fighting for your life. This is not the Golden Wood, with many Wardens to guard the borders, and tall Mallorns to take refuge in."

Arwen glared daggers, took up her bow, set and arrow to the string, and released it toward the target. "Ow! Sweet Elbereth, that hurts!" she yelled as the string caught her blowing side hairs and wound them tightly round it.

"Here, let me take care of that for you," Glavras said. He tried without much success to untangle them, and then took out his dagger and began to cut her free.

"Ow! Quit pulling!" Arwen whined.

"Hold still, I've almost got them all. And don't worry -- it'll grow back."

"You do realize that if this had been a battle you'd both be orc fodder by now," Legolas snorted contemptuously, looking down his finely chiseled nose at the two of them. "Courtesans should keep to the bedchamber and off the archery field if they do not mean to do it right. And that goes for you too, Glavras."

"Oh, aye! Is that so? I can beat you with one hand tied behind my back," Arwen's guide responded.

"You're on, sucker," said the Prince with a wicked grin. "Eliene, go sit down and have a rest."

Eliene sat down at the edge of the field and Arwen, having no wish to become entangled with her bow again after just being cut free, joined her while the two ellyn lined up and began to fire off arrows as if there was no tomorrow.

"I'm not supposed to talk to you," Eliene said tightly.

Arwen startled. "He is dictating whom you may speak to? He goes too far. Perhaps we can get together later for some girl talk. Where is your room?"

"I have none. I sleep on a cot in the Prince's dressing room. He is very . . . territorial."

"Valar!" Arwen exclaimed. "He hasn't struck you, has he?"

Eliene shook her head. "He hasn't laid a finger on me -- other than what you saw today."

"Not a finger, perhaps," said Arwen slyly, "but I'm sure he's laid something else. If he is anything like his father."

"No. Nothing. Zip. Nada. I've cleaned his room, dusted his bookshelf, sharpened his white knives, and aired his doublets. He seems to want a servant rather than a concubine. I'm starting to think he's gay."

"What did you do, yesterday to displease him before dinner?"

"I've done nothing," Eliene said bitterly "It's quite humiliating, really -- I am not so privileged as to have a mighty king to pamper and look after me the way you do, Miss Prissy Pants."

Arwen sighed, remembering scrubbing out the privies the previous afternoon. Some privilege! But the venom in Eliene's voice made her cringe. If Legolas had not actually mistreated his toy, there was little recourse. She turned her attention back to the row of targets, where Legolas had landed a pattern of arrows that spelt out a vulgar insult concerning Glavras's manhood.

"Oh, really?" said Glavras, loosing a shot that landed in the perfect center of the last target.

"Yes, really," replied the prince, taking aim and letting fly.

"Hah! You missed the target altogether," laughed Glavras. "My arrow still stands alone."

"Check again, my friend, and you will see the two halves of your arrow lying upon the ground. My arrow split yours in twain!"

Glavras walked to the target, inspected carefully and came back shaking his head. "Well, I'll be dipped in buglush -- you are right! Very well, I yield the wager. I shall serve as your buttboy for a week."

"And you had best do a good job of it," replied the prince. "Come, Eliene," he said, turning on his heel and striding off the field. The little courtesan scuttled after him.

Arwen met Glavras with a raised eyebrow. "Buttboy?"

"Yes, I must collect all of the prince's arrows from the targets -- you see how they are all hung on barrels, or 'butts' -- sharpen them, and return them to his quiver. Why? What did you think it meant?"

"Never mind," muttered Arwen, as Glavras motioned her to come and help him. "This prince, he is most . . ." she paused, looking for a suitably diplomatic term for 'pain in the ass.' The best she could come up with was, " . . . supercilious."

"Aye," her Wood-elf guide sighed. "But it is nothing personal, Sarnwen. There is a history with him that you know little of. There was a time our prince was gay. Now I fear he is becoming bitter."

Arwen rolled her eyes. This Glavras truly was NOT the sharpest arrow in the quiver. She bent down to the target, grasped the fair-haired prince's buttshaft, and gave it a vicious pull.

* * *


Ho-hum, lot's of boring exposition, but our little Peredhel sex toy needs some time off to recover her strength. She'll be needing it in later chapters!

No time this week to thank you all individually. It's my sainted aunt's begetting day coming up. She, herself, has passed to Mandos long since, but we still throw a helluva party in her honor. Merry be the Greenwood!

However, I will take this opportunity to welcome Elfbeatermagenta to the readership. You and Denny should get along swimmingly.

* * *

L.T.: How lovely! We're waxing Shakespearean! "The very pin of his heart, cleft in twain by the blind bow boy's buttshaft!"

T.O. I thought this story could use some redeeming social importance. A little culture with our smut?

L.T.: Sure. Go for it, Adar!

TBC in Chapter Fifteen: More to Being A Courtesan Than Lying on Your Back