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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 takes part in the Battle of the Five Armies. And I'll bet she kicks butt! 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: This is not my garden, I just play in it. Time for a little cleanup.

Chapter 27: The Blood-Dimmed Tide

"Excuse me, excuse, me. Pardon me," muttered Arwen, as she elbowed her way to the front of the lines. It wasn't all that hard to get to the front, because the mighty Silvan warriors seemed almost grateful to yield place to someone else who would then be closer to the axes of the Dwarves.

Thranduil and Bard stood out front, looking tough, as the army of Dain advanced around the eastern spur of Erebor. As they marched, they sang a battle song in Khuzdul which struck terror into the hearts of those who waited. "Hi-ho, hi-ho, to hew some Elves we go . . ."

Bard looked grimmer than ever, while Thranduil seemed to be shifting from foot to foot as if he had to visit the garderobe. Arwen could hardly blame the Elvenking. The Naugrim were short in stature, but their mighty war axes made up for it, and the angle of a Dwarven swing was at the proper height to be aimed directly at an Elf's most prized possession.

"Why don't you go handle this, Bard?" said Thranduil nervously. "The sight of me will just get them needlessly worked up."

"No way . . . My Lord," replied Bard, looking even more grim. Arwen noted that he had 'grim' down to a science. " I will defer to your vastly greater experience in diplomatic matters."

"You would," Thranduil muttered.

"Yoo hoo, Nancy Boy and Unshaven One," yelled a red-haired dwarf across the distance. "Get your butts on out here so we can do the requisite woofing before my small yet effective army kicks your asses." This must be Dain himself, Arwen concluded.

"Ai, I knew the Naugrim were foul!" Legolas exclaimed from a pace behind his father. "But we have no donkeys. And if we did, we should not allow their abuse!"

Bard rolled his eyes, while Thranduil blinked at his son. "I am most seriously considering purchasing Jacks and Jennies and instituting a Mirkwood Donkey Show just to teach that treacherous little Imladris courtesan a lesson," Thranduil said. "I should have taught all courtesans a lesson ere, now. But at the moment, my son, we have other more pressing matters. Be still and let Ada do his negotiating!" He turned on his heel and went out to meet Dain.

"Who are you that sit on the plain as foes before defended walls?" demanded the dwarf.

"Oh, puh-leeze!" said Thranduil wearily. "Bard and I have a stake in this hoard, and we aren't going to move until we get some assurances".

"Assurances?" said the dwarf. "You know 'assurances' will make an ass of u and our ances!"

"Huh?" said Thranduil.

"Allow me to clarify," said Dain, bowing suddenly to whack the Elvenking in the groin with his helm.

"Hey, you just smacked my mentor in the johnson!" cried Bard, as Thranduil doubled over with a miserable groan. He rushed forward and began to bitch-slap Dain, while Thranduil writhed helplessly on the ground.

"Somebody, please kill me now," Arwen heard Legolas whisper.

As if on cue, the sky turned dark. The elves, men and dwarves looked up to see flocks of bats and crebain filling the sky. Also on cue, a rain of whitewash descended.

"Halt!" cried a masterful voice across the field. "Dread has come upon you all!"

"Ya think, Gandalf?" said Thranduil miserably, picking himself up out of the dirt and wiping off bird droppings. "And by the way, where the hell have you been?"

The old Wizard ignored this. "The Goblins are upon you! Bolg of the North is coming, O Dain, whose father you slew in Moria! Behold, the bats are above his army as a sea of locusts. They ride upon wolves and Wargs are in their train."

"Oh, crap," Dain muttered. "I thought this was going to be an easy in and out. Cousin Thorin is going to owe me for this, big time!"

"We must all fight together!' Gandalf continued. "But first . . ." He strode to where the Elvenking stood. "My lord Thranduil, put out your left hand and remove that ring!"

Thranduil clasped his hand in a close fist. "And what if I do not?" His face was suddenly a mask of cunning malice.

Gandalf seemed to turn darker and grow about two feet. "Thanduil Oropherion, you will remove that ring or I will cut your finger from your hand!"

"Okay, okay! You don't have to get all huffy about it!" Thranduil exclaimed, flinching a bit as he pulled off the ring and held it out. "Manwe Tapdancing Sulimo, but some of the Istari can be impatient . . ." His voice trailed off, as a look of sudden stricken horror came over his face. "Ai, Valar! What have I done . . .?" The ring dropped from his nerveless hand and fell to the ashy soil that was the formerly green valley of Dale. Quickly, Gandalf stooped to pick it up, protecting his hand with the sort of soft paper usually used in the privy.

All around, Arwen saw the Wood-elves putting their hands to their heads and looking as if they had just come off a two week bender. She was feeling rather strange herself. Had she actually slept willingly with Erestor and Lindir, and Valar forbid, some of the ellith? Not to mention agreeing to the cockamamie scheme that had brought her here.

"You have fallen, unwitting, into a snare of The Enemy, O Elvenking, as have we all," said Gandalf. "But now is neither the time nor the place for explanations. For Doom is upon us, and we must look to our own survival."

"No shit, Sherlock," said Dain, looking nervously at the sky, which was filled with bats. Big ones. "I don't know what's up with Blondie, here, but I smell Goblins. How's about we work up a battle strategy pronto?!"

Bard nodded his enthusiastic agreement, and it was quickly determined that the Men of Laketown and the Naugrim would take up a position on the eastern spur of Erebor, while Thranduil and his Wood-elves made a stand on the promontory of the western spur that they called the Ravenhill. Thranduil was still looking rather shell-shocked, but he had managed to pull himself together enough to plan a volley of elf-shot from his archers, followed by a charge of his pikemen once the Orcs had been lured into the valley by a feint of the Lakemen.

'I guess you'd know all about premature charges and getting creamed by surprise flank attacks,' Arwen thought sourly. But one look at the Elvenking's face softened her heart. He looked sincerely confused and pained behind his grim resolve. Whatever the past, Arwen decided that if anyone knew how to survive a battle, it was Thranduil, and she would stand with him until the end. And failing that, she would stick close to Legolas, because he was one hell of a fighter, and he was her ticket out of there if things went down the privy again.

The tale of the Battle of the Five Armies has been told elsewhere and shall not be repeated here. Arwen was bruised and covered in black blood when she heard the cry, "The Eagles!" and looked to the western sky.

One thing was for certain; a giant eagle packs a larger load than a creban. Amidst the orcish cries of "Eeeyew," and "Yuck!!!" as the Goblin army was deluged in whitewash and fled off to the east and west, Arwen sank to her weary knees and praised Elbereth.

* * *


To my gentle readers:

I thank you all for bearing with me this far. As you see, there was more at work here than met the eye. Explanations will be forthcoming in the next chapter

To my savage readers -- and that would mean you, Gorthaur, Denny, Man of Craft, and Elfbeater -- you can all bugger off now. The bloodshed and the floggings are over with now. No more fun for you in this charming and innocent tale.

* * *

L.T.: But not the sex? You promised Gim-- I mean Aglarond13 some Gloin action. If you don't deliver, I owe him three barrels of ale. We have a small wager going.

T.O.: And what do you get if you win?

L.T.: Three barrels of ale, which prospect gives me no pleasure at the moment. I fear it will be at least a yen before I can consume ale again without disgracing myself.

T.O.: How very original! You should have held out for the Arkenstone, my son, because I am a man of my word.

L.T.: Ai, Adar -- I would far rather part with three barrels of ale than submit the Lady Undomiel to any further humiliation. She has been generous enough throughout this tale.

T.O.: I believe that may be accomplished. Brace yourself, Leaf, for I know I shall have to . . .

TBC in Chapter Twenty-eight: Some Revelation Is At Hand