A Far Distant Shore
Chapter Four

Rating: PG-13
Category: Humour, Drama, AU
Pairing(s): Erestor/Glorfindel, Haldir/Rabbit, Orophin/Elladan, Elrond/Rumil, Legolas/Gimli, Elrohir/Frost, Mauburz/Rhimlan, Amaris/Ilinuil, and others
Warnings: Slash (means: two male Elves in love), Mpreg, Angst, Language
Summary: Valinor gets a little visitor, Gimli makes a friend, and Orophin finds himself doing more baby-sitting.
Notes: Meadbunny Rating: 4
Beta’d by Maeglin the Traitor.

Mauburz’s trek to see the Valar took five days. This  tale occurs during her absence.

When suppertime came the old cook came on deck,
Saying “Fellahs it’s too rough to feed you.”
At seven pm the main hatchway caved in,
He said “Fellahs it’s been good to know you….”
- Gordon Lightfoot, ‘The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald’.

The little Half-Elf jogged along as quickly as his skinny little legs would take him, his mop of shaggy red hair hanging in his face. He was clad only in breeches, and an old cotton shirt, much too large for him. Under his left arm he clutched a floppy brown toy puppy. A woman, who marched him quickly through the silent streets of Gondor towards the docks, held his right hand. He noted that she was wearing a fur cloak and good boots, while he himself had to stumble along with no cloak and bare feet. She told him he needed none, as Elves did not feel the cold.

The Elves who had perished on the long trek with Fëanor to reclaim the Silmarils would have disagreed with her on this point, but they, alas, were not there, and the little peredhil did not dare disagree with her. Aunty could be most unpleasant when angry.

They reached the docks, and Aunty sat him down on a box. He was half-afraid she would take his puppy from him, as she disliked it nearly as much as its owner, but she was plainly interested in other things. Suddenly she pulled a comb out of her velvet pouch and thrust it at him.

“Brennon, comb your hair.”

He took the comb, and began carefully running it through his fine, silky hair, which he knew would just be a mess again in minutes. His mother always said he had his Ada’s hair; fire red and fine as hen’s teeth. He could only vaguely recall his Ada now, but he did recall him braiding his hair carefully, only to look like he had been allowing rats to sleep in it moments later. Brennon was not sure what had become of his Ada. Mother said he went someplace deep with lots of other Elves, and never returned. Not long after, his mother had been killed in the siege of Gondor, and Aunty had come to claim him.

Aunty was his mother’s sister: that much he knew, but other than that he had hardly seen her until his parents died. Then she had shown up, weeping and desperate to claim him and his infant sister. She was furious to learn that the baby had died in the battle as well, and there was only Brennon. He did not know why, but over the years he had been living with her, he learned not to ask. She was quick with a belt when infuriated, and quicker still to deny him food or make him sleep with the horse when angry. His current state was such that his own parents likely would not have known him.

He glanced up as he heard men approach. They came out of the gloom, shrouded in heavy cloaks to keep the cold sea air at bay. Brennon was yanked off his box and forced to stand up before them, while the men looked him over. One suddenly began to laugh.

“You’re out of your mind, you old hag! You think we’re going to pay you good gold for that? You said he was an Elf.”

“He is an Elf, look at him!”

“Blue eyes right enough,” said the man, “but red hair? Where’s his ears? He’s ugly as sin, he’s got no points on his ears… that’s no Elf, that’s some Rohan orphan you found. Trouble us no more, you old witch, or we’ll cut you for shark bait.”

“I tell you he is an Elf! Brennon, tell them who your father was.”

Shivering with fear and cold, he said in a small voice “Ithilnaur of Lothlórien.”

“Look you old slut, I can teach my parrot to say ‘Ithilnaur of Lothlórien’, but it doesn’t make his daddy an Elf either. That waif is scrawny, ugly, under-sized and he’s got no bloody pointed ears. My wife has her heart set on a little baby Elf-girl. I bring that home to her and I’ll be sleeping with the goats. Get away with you, I have a man in Osgiliath says he can get me a Sindar.”

“But..!” she started to say, but the men simply turned and walked away. In a rage, she turned to Brennon. “Useless little filthy waif, you could have had a nice home if you weren’t so ugly! Stay here, then, maybe someone will come along who wants you.”

Brennon watched in horror as she stomped off and left him, alone on the dock in the dark misty night. Not knowing what else to do, he huddled by the box in terror, as the strange ships moored at the empty pier creaked and moaned at him.

The long night passed slowly. Gradually the sun peeked over the horizon and began illuminating the mist, and men began appearing on the docks. They set about their work; not noticing the Elfling huddled by the boxes. They loaded and unloaded their ships, some singing, some laughing. Their voices were loud and rough, but they didn’t seem terribly dangerous. Still, Brennon had learned the hard way that not all adults were what they seemed.

His stomach burned and rumbled within him, but he could see no food that he could steal, even if he dared to. Aunty had whipped him often enough for that habit. Still, when he saw a man seat himself on a nearby crate and begin sharing his bread and cake with a great blue parrot, it was more than he could stand. Cautiously, Brennon emerged from his hiding spot and stepped forward.

The man was easily the fattest he had ever seen, and looked as though he had been in more than a few battles. He smelled terrible, like rum, rotten fish, and the beach when the tide was out. He was missing an eye and had a wooden leg, but seemed jolly enough. He gave a piece of cake to the parrot, which daintily accepted it with one foot and began to eat. Then the man noticed Brennon and broke into a grin.

“Well good morning to you, skinny! What’s a wee bloke like you doing down here?”

Brennon wasn’t sure what to say, even if he could manage to think of anything other than the food the man was eating. The sailor seemed to guess what Brennon wanted and broke off a piece of the cake.

“Here you go, eat up. You can use it and I’ve had plenty.”

Brennon snatched up the cake without question and swallowed it down, nearly choking. It had been two days since he had been given anything, and the soft, sweet seedcake seemed the most delicious thing he’d ever had.

“Hungry, eh?’

Brennon nodded, finally swallowing down the last of it. “Thank you. My name’s Brennon, who’re you?”

“Folks call me Maxie. This here is Crackers. What are you doing alone on the docks, boy?”

Brennon didn’t want to tell him; he was afraid Maxie would go looking for his Aunty and make her take him back. Stressed and frightened, his emotions boiling into a mass he could not name, he began to cry.

“Oh, there, there now, little mate! Yer mum and dad were lost in the war, weren’t they?”

Brennon nodded, and without his wishing it to, his tale exploded forth. “Ada went to the deep place an’ never came back, an’ the Orcs ate mama an’ Aunty took me down here an’ tried to sell me but the men said I was too ugly to be an Elf but I AM an Elf or least I’m half an Elf and she told me to stay here in case someone wanted me ‘cause she didn’t and I think she is the meanest ugliest lady ever was and if my Ada was alive he’d KICK HER ASS!”

Maxie roared with laughter, not because the tale was amusing, but because he could not help but admire the little Elf’s spirit. “Yeah, I bet he would, I bet he’d kick her good. Well cheer up little mate; I’m a orphan meself, and look how good I turned out!”

Brennon wasn’t certain he found this reassuring, but he smiled a little. The man passed him his great blue bird. “Here, I have a job for you. You stand here and guard Crackers for a minute, and I’ll get you some more cake. Okay?”

Brennon nodded, though in truth he found the great blue Macaw intimidating. It had huge claws and a scary curved beak, not to mention the fact that Crackers was nearly as big as he was. But Crackers was a bird who had never been harmed by Men, and so found no reason to harm them. He sat patiently on Brennon’s little fist, periodically ruffling up his feathers prior to shouting obscenities that made Brennon’s ears turn red.

“Geez, Crackers, you’re a rude bird,” muttered Brennon. “I hope people don’t think it was me done taught you all them words.”

Crackers shouted a suggestion to two of the dock-whores that would have earned a grown man a slap across the face. Finally, Maxie returned with more cake and a stein of cold water, both of which he gave to Brennon.

“There ye be, little mate. Now, I had me a talk with the Captain, and he and I both agree that there is a job on board this ship that you’d be just right for.”

Brennon looked up. “Job?”

“Job. Well, you’re a big boy, out on your own in the world. Big boy like you needs a job to earn his keep.”

Brennon wasn’t sure what he thought of this. “That’s nice of you but…” He paused, unable to put his thoughts and fears into words. Maxie seated himself down on a crate and faced the child.

“Look, Brennon, we’re a trade ship, and we’re pulling out in just a few hours, as soon as the tide is right. I don’t want to leave you here all alone. I been a little orphan waif, just like you. You can come along on the ship with me. See all sorts of far off lands, do all sorts of things. But I can’t make you go. So you have to decide. Do you want to come with me on the big sailing ship, or do you want to stay here alone? It’s up to you, wee mate.”

***---***

Brennon’s job was manning the crow’s nest, a job his mother would not have approved of. Sitting there, the wind blowing his hair, he could vaguely recall his Ada standing on the roof of their little house, and his mother shouting at him to get down before he broke his silly neck. He could remember his mother’s friends asking her how in all Arda she had managed to get an Elf for a husband, and her grumbling that he simply followed her home, and that Elves did what Elves did. Brennon had frequently giggled at the mental image of his Ada simply following his mother like a lost puppy. What the Elfling did not know was that he had, quite literally, tracked her from the Golden Wood to Gondor, after having glimpsed her riding along with her parents in their simple cart in search of a better life.

Elves did what Elves did.

Manning the crow’s nest was not a bad job. Brennon got to use the spy-glass, and Puppy was allowed to come up with him to help. He got the same pay as a man would; bread, meat, fresh water, a silver a month and a ration of rum. Within six weeks, he was drinking and swearing with the best (or rather worst) of them, gambling his pay away and fighting. Maxie taught him to use a cutlass, and to smoke a pipe. His parents would have been horrified, but aboard ‘The Jolly Wench’, Brennon was a working crewman. He could do as he pleased, so long as he did his duties first.

However he behaved, the crew never forgot that Brennon was, after all, just a little half-Elf. He was 25 in mortal years, but as he was an Elfling, this made him roughly the same age as an 8-year-old human child. When the crew went ashore, Brennon usually took the opportunity to just play on his bunk with Puppy and Crackers, and Maxie never failed to bring him back some little trinket. What the men did ashore, Brennon never really found out, and did not ask about. He would have been horrified to learn that his new friends looted, burned, and generally pillaged. If asked, Brennon would have said the “Jolly Wench” was a trade ship. In truth, she was a pirate vessel. But pirate or trader made no difference to him. He now had a place where he was at least useful, if not exactly loved and wanted.

***---***

He had been serving aboard the ship a little over six months when the storm blew up. It began as a blackening sky and gusting wind. Soon the rain started up, but Brennon was not worried. He had weathered a few storms, though none were terribly serious. He knew, however, this one was different almost as soon as it started. There was a feeling in the air, and he could tell the men sensed it too. As the sea began to roughen, they changed course and began seeking the nearest harbour.

They did not make it.

***---***

It had been late afternoon when the cry had gone up that Gimli was missing. By the time the camp was organized for a search, it was night, and the spring evening was turning grey and miserable. Soon a storm blew up, threatening to tear the tents and pavilions from their stakes, the rain slashing down from the black and boiling sky. The booming thunder was painful, and the horses soon pulled their stakes and fled, racing off into the blackness. Syrdanna huddled within the main pavilion, small green faces peeking fearfully from under her wings. Every child in the small community was wailing with fear.

“I see the Vala of the Ocean is amused at least,” commented Faramir wryly, watching the sea boil and lash from the dubious safety of Gimli and Legolas’ pavilion. His own was in shreds, and tossed into the sea for the sport of the ocean creatures.

“Yay for Ulmo,” grumbled Glóin. The Dwarf glanced over at Legolas. The Elf looked tense and unhappy.

“We will find him,” said Glóin softly.

Legolas nodded, but would not be at peace until Gimli was found and safely home. He glanced up as the tent flap was pulled back, and in stepped his father, along with Gaelemir, Maedhros and Fingon. Legolas made an effort to rise to his feet, but settled back into his chair as Maedhros made a motion for him not to stir himself.

“We cannot set out until the storm has settled,” said Thranduil. “We would manage but a short distance before driven back or blown into the sea.”

Legolas nodded, saying nothing, plainly deep in grief. Thranduil wished he had some words of comfort, but knew well there was no comfort for one concerned for those they loved.

The Elf-King turned as something small and wet ran into the tent, pursued by Orophin. Little Balin reached his Ada and clung to his leg, while Orophin pulled up to attention. Thranduil picked up his frightfully ugly baby and stared at the young Galadhel.

“Orophin, why are you chasing my child around in a storm? And where are Veet and Liritar? I thought I left them in charge.”

“Ah, you did, your Majesty.”

“And where are they?”

“Playing strip Tablero with your archers, Lord.”

Thranduil slapped his hand over his face and shook his head. “I should have known better. Well at least they chose well for a replacement.”

“Thank you, your Majesty.”

Maedhros raised an eyebrow. “Ladies knew their place when I was younger.”

“If you can find a place for those two, you’re welcome to try and stuff them into it,” said Thranduil.

Fingon laughed quietly. Balin meanwhile grabbed up a handful of gold hair and yanked it. “Boat,” he said.

“Boat?” said Thranduil, trying to extract his hair from Balin’s fist. “Where do you see a boat?”

“Boat on water broken.”

Thranduil looked at his child, puzzled. “Where?”

Balin pointed vaguely towards the cliff. Thranduil looked at Orophin. “Did you see a ship?”

“Nay, your Majesty, but I confess I was not looking.”

“Do so now.”

Orophin bowed, then darted out of the tent. He returned moments later.

“There’s a ship smashed on the rocks below, I believe it to be a corsair. It could be traders blown off course, but the tide is high. We cannot reach them.”

Thranduil sighed and shook his head. “A most foul night this has been. Find Glorfindel and tell him of this. Perhaps in the morning we can convince him and the lady Syrdanna to look for survivors, if there are any to be found.”

Orophin nodded and departed once more, while those in the pavilion settled themselves to wait out the storm.

***---***

Slowly, Gimli awoke.

He had been hit, that much he knew. Hit by whom, and with what, was a little less obvious. He had a splitting headache and even lying still he felt as though the room was spinning. Carefully he raised a hand to his head, feeling his stomach threaten to bring up everything he had ever eaten in his life.

“Carefully, laddie,” said a gentle voice. “Nae be tossin’ yer grub on my floor.”

Gimli opened one eye and stared sourly at the Dwarf before him. He was tall for one of his kind, and singularly handsome. More like one of the Men of Rohan than a Dwarf, his long, red-gold hair and beard carefully groomed. He was clad only in breeches and boots, and gleamed with sweat as though he had been at some heavy task. His broad chest was tattooed with strange pagan symbols, depicting knots and stags in a continual circle. His heavy hair was just beginning to show touches of grey at the temple, and he stood before Gimli in the full flower of his strength and maturity. Gimli had never been one to cast an eye towards males of his kind, but this was indeed a truly fine-looking Dwarf.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“You are in my private chambers. Seemed safer than leaving you where my daughter could get hold of you. Here, sit up, there’s a good laddie. Careful now. Drink this. It will settle your head and your stomach. I am Berhin Stormringer, Chief of this Clan House.”

Gimli’s first instinct was to stand, but his legs would not permit it. Berhin put out his hand to settle him.

“Sit, and drink yer brew.”

Gimli did, hearing odd noises, not unlike the sounds of an Elf practicing his hand to hand combat. He assumed it was just his head, but as the potion eased his hurt and nausea he realized that he did indeed hear the sounds of an Elf kicking the daylights out of some inanimate object. He gave Berhin a questioning glance, and the Dwarf-Lord smiled.

“That’s just Lossenaur, nae be paying him heed.”

Gimli tried not to, but the Elf landed a particularly vicious blow. He winced at the sound of the impact, then looked up sharply as he heard a Dwarf cry out.

”Lord Stormringer, he’s got me again!”

Berhin cursed and rolled his eyes. “Right back,” he said, and left briefly. Gimli sipped his brew and smiled at the sound of Berhin’s voice: gruff, but kind and affectionate.

“What are ye up to now, ye big bully? Come now, let him go. There’s a good big deranged Elf. Nay don’t be leveling shots at my noggin or I’ll lay ye flat!”

There were several crashes, and the distinctive sound of a cage door shutting. Moments later Berhin appeared. He seated himself on a carved stone chair and looked at Gimli, smiling. An eerie scream sounded in the next room, and the sound of a body hitting metal.

“He’ll calm down,” said Berhin. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” said Gimli. “What have you got out there?”

“That, my boy, is a long tale, and one that concerns you in some ways. Just so ye know, my youngest daughter Crysalin is accusing you of violating her.”

Gimli sputtered with outrage. “I would nae ever do such a thing!”

Berhin raised a placating hand. “I know, laddie, I know. And I dare say it was she who gave you that lump on your head. I tried over-looking her antics for many a year, but no more. Time she was made to pay for her misdeeds.” He rose from his chair and motioned to Gimli. “Come, join me in the other room by the fire. It is warmer, and once you feel a bit better you can have a wee bite to eat.”

Gimli set down his empty cup and carefully rose to his feet. He did feel better than he had, and followed the Lord slowly out of the room. Berhin began to speak.

“You see, Crysalin is my youngest child. I have nine children in all. When she was but a wee little thing, her mama died.”

“I am most sorry to hear that my Lord.”

Berhin nodded. “I thank ye. Well, we all took it hard, but she hardest of all: perhaps because she was so young. Poor little lassie was devastated, and we all took it into our heads to pay special attention to her.” He chuckled. “Spoiled her bloody rotten, and that was the problem. Seemed the more we did for her, the worse she became. Screaming, yelling, tantrums, abusing her nanny… there was no appeasing her. She grew from an angry, unhappy child into a VERY angry and unhappy young woman. Then I got this fool for a gift.”

They had just entered Stormringer’s private parlor, and Gimli stopped dead at the sight of the Elf he saw there.

It was the eyes that halted him in his tracks: cold, and pale grey, fixing upon him with a deadly intent. His black hair bore streaks of dark red in it, and hung wild and loose around his shoulders. His skin was not fair and pale; rather it was tanned a soft gold, and covered his rippling muscle like glowing silk. He was bruised, and flecked with blood, panting from his recent exertion, his knuckles torn and bleeding. He tossed his head at the sight of Gimli, then looked towards Berhin.

“It’s all right, Loss,” said Berhin. “He’s a guest.”

Gimli had the feeling that, if Berhin told the Elf to, he would kick his head square off his shoulders. He grinned in what he hoped was a placating manner. Lossenaur stared him down, unimpressed. As Gimli gazed back at the tall Elf, a thought sank into his brain.

“Wait, did you say ‘gift’?”

Lossenaur roamed off to go stand in a fountain. The silver water poured over his powerful, beautiful body, and it was then Gimli realized the Elf was naked. He shook his head. Elves. No regard for nothing. Well, except his Elf. Legolas, of course, was perfect.

Berhin seated himself. “Aye! Gift! And a right pain in the arse he be!”

Lossenaur turned his back to the Dwarf-Lord, his black hair flowing down his back.

“But how is it you were given an Elf?”

Berhin shook his head. “All part of the tale. Lossenaur is Noldo, with all the charming traits that go with it. He fought alongside Fëanor at the battle of Túna, and indeed helped him to burn the White Ships.” Berhin smiled and said in a stage whisper: “He’s a naughty little Elf.”

Lossenaur flicked water at Berhin, much of which landed on Gimli. “Rude too,” he muttered.

“He was barred from Valinor,” said Berhin, “but his family beseeched the Valar to let him return. Finally, the Valar relented, and Loss’ elder brother went forth on a journey to find him and bring him back. Was gone for centuries. When at last he brought him back, Loss was mad. Mad at what he had seen, his own deeds, the loneliness of the years, and the sheer horror of what he had helped Fëanor to do. His family tried for years to help him, to no avail. Finally, at a loss, they handed him over to me in the hopes I could do something with him, as I am a healer.”

“Gave him to you,” said Gimli, still a little uncertain he had heard right.

“Gave him to me, an’ I have the paperwork to prove it! Bloody Noldor think too damn much, or not enough, as it suits them.” Berhin chuckled warmly, causing Gimli to think that he had a special fondness for these Elves. “So, I am the proud owner of an Elf. And a hellish gift he was. But his ada had long been a friend to my Clan, so I set about to try and do what Elven healers could not. I set about mending Loss.”

Berhin filled his goblet with mead and had a drink. “Years I worked, long and hard, trying to determine what vexed him, what calmed him, what fears clutched his heart. I need not tell you that it took up much of my time, and Crysalin, however much she hated my attention, hated it more when I spent all my waking hours restoring a soul to one so badly damaged he wished no longer to live. Gradually, Loss came around and turned into the fair and timid lad you see before you.”

Loss had finished with the fountain and shimmied into a snug-fitting pair of leggings. Soaking wet and plainly well aware of his own beauty, he walked over to an effigy of Fëanor dangling from a chain fitted into the ceiling. With a lethal grace few but the best Elven warriors could manage, Loss leap up and delivered a kick to the effigy’s head. Gimli winced with the sound of the impact.

“Most fair and timid,” said Gimli. “But I am still at a loss, my Lord, as to what this has to do with me.”

“My daughter craves most that which is forbidden her. You are wed. Doubtless she acted the flustered virtuous maid when you told her, but it would only serve to whet her appetite. Then there is the little matter of to whom you have given your love. That was what nearly cost you your life.” Berhin raised one hand and showed Gimli a broad band of gold encircling one finger. “My daughter disapproves greatly of Dwarfs who chose to love one of the fair folk.”

Gimli gasped, then looked towards Lossenaur, who was currently bloodying his knuckles on the practice dummy. “You bound to him.”

“I did, not but a fortnight ago. My Clan and family think it odd, but are well used to living with and near Elves, and to the oddities of a Clan Chieftain who favours healing over gems. Crysalin was outraged well nigh beyond reason. Much as it grieves me to say this, she tried to murder you, and naught but a thick skull saved you.”

Gimli heard the same clanking noise of a great cage door opening, and looked towards it. It was then he noticed there was a second door to the room in which he sat, a great barred door, such as may be found in a dungeon. He wondered if Berhin had installed it to keep Lossenaur from fleeing while still mad. Certainly now it did not seem to be locked, and a handsome young Dwarf was pushing it open with one foot, his hands occupied with a great tray.

“Your lunch Da’.”

“Oh, thank ye! Bring it to the table and join us. Gimli, this is my Eldest boy, and as fine a warrior as he is a gem cutter! Brenin, say hello to our guest!”

The young Dwarf set down the tray, then bowed deeply to Gimli. “Brenin Stormringer at your service, sir!”

“Gimli, son of Glóin, at yours, young Dwarf!” Gimli scowled as he noticed the boy had a rather impressive black eye. “Been practicing your warrior skills?”

“Aye, with Da’s pet Elf. I was raised to think Elves were shy and gentle and wise. That one’s a ruddy menace!”

Berhin filled his cup again. “Be nice to your step-da’.”

Brenin grumbled. “Tell him to be nice to me.”

“Loss be nice to me boy here.”

Loss made a snort of derision that required no translation, then his head shot up as he listened intently. Gimli was astounded as Lossenaur’s manner turned abruptly from that of a highly trained and arrogant Noldor warrior to that of the most refined and elegant Elven lord. He walked to the door and opened it, bowing as he did so to the young Dwarf woman who appeared, carrying yet another tray. She laughed.

“Loss you are such a charmer.”

“To you he is!” said Brenin, indignant.

“You plainly fail to appreciate his courtly charms,” said the woman. She smiled at Gimli as she set the tray before him, then curtseyed.

“Pearl, daughter of Berhin at your service good sir.”

“Gimli son of Glóin at yours, my lady.”

“I am glad to see you looking better than when I first saw you. I trust Da’ has told you how you came to be here.”

“All but how I was actually transported.”

She smiled, setting the tray down before Gimli, then seating herself. “Brenin and I found you. We came looking for you after Crysalin spun that tale about how you violated her. The Healer-Woman proclaimed her a miracle; she has been violated twelve times this year but remains a virgin.”

“Dreadfully inept rapists here in Valinor,” remarked Brenin. “Loss! Come get your lunch.”

Loss walked over to Berhin, graceful, elegant, powerful. He seated himself beside his husband and began daintily helping himself to the assorted delicacies. Gimli found himself reluctantly admitting that Loss was indeed a most fair Elf. Not as fair as his Elf of course, but nearly.

They ate their lunch, then settled back with tea before the fireplace. Loss stretched himself in a feline pose on a daybed, content to be the loveliest thing in the room. Gimli tried to relax, but could think only of Legolas.

“Berhin, my husband must be well-nigh frantic with worry…”

“Oh yes of course, forgive me. Pearl, would you take a note to Prince Legolas for our guest here?”

Pearl fetched Gimli some paper, ink and a quill, and he wrote out a note for his beloved husband, though personally he suspected that Legolas would not let her return alone. Gimli accepted a lit pipe from Berhin, then scrutinized the Dwarf-Lord. He looked tense and worried.

“Can I aid you with your troubles, Lord Berhin?”

Berhin shook his head, then looked at Gimli with eyes full of sadness and concern. “Gimli, my daughter has caused you much harm. She nearly cost you your life. But, for all her misdeeds, she is still my child. As the wronged party, it is your right to demand punishment, but please, I beg of you, do not demand her head.”

Gimli shook his head. “I would nae do such a thing. But you do realize that she must be punished.”

“I do indeed. And I confess it is long overdue.”

Gimli puffed his pipe thoughtfully. “Pampered girl you say? Spoiled?”

“Spoiled, aye. Never did a day’s work. Never wanted for a thing.”

Gimli nodded. “My Lord, I think I have a punishment that would suit the both of us, and would make a most lasting impression on Crysalin.”

***---***

It was just after dawn when Brennon awoke. He had washed ashore on the bejeweled beach of some fair island, an island so beautiful that all he could do after he dragged himself to his feet was stare, mouth open.

“Wow!” he said softly. “This is the prettiest place I ever seen! What do you think, Puppy?”

Brennon suddenly realized with a shock that he was not holding Puppy. It was with a huge sigh of relief that he noticed the soggy brown form being shoved about in the surf. He ran into the water to retrieve his companion, then looked around for any of his ship mates.

He saw no one, and sad little of the ship, save for splintered wood floating in the surf and scraps of sail. The “Jolly Wench” had been reduced to driftwood, and the crew was not to be found. Brennon stood on the shore, watching the wood wash in the foam, and it took some time for the full understanding of what had happened to occur to him. He was alone. Totally alone, like he had been on the night his Aunty abandoned him. Shaking, he began to cry, finally collapsing on the beach and sobbing loudly.

Brennon cried for a long time, until he had a headache and was making hysterical little hiccups. He was shaking, and weak with hunger and exhaustion. Finally he was forced to go in search of food and fresh water. Dragging himself to his feet, clutching his limp and sodden puppy, he began walking along the shore.

Had Brennon gone right, he would have soon encountered the great piers where the ships were moored, but he did not know that. He went left instead, following the beach for a couple of hours until at last he reached a path that led upwards. By now it was just a little past noon, and he was near fainting with hunger and dehydration. Finally, he reached the top of the path and found himself on a green, flat cliff top covered with grass nearly as tall as he was. In the distance, he saw Elves putting up fallen pavilions, and heard children laughing and playing. Near-starved and dazed, the little ragged Half-Elf began making his way towards them.

***---***

Haldir sat, holding Rivil, watching his husband and daughter play in the high grass.

There was no denying that Rabbit was a different sort of Elf, and there was no more clear demonstration of that than his little hunting games with Bramble. This particular game set his teeth on edge, but it had never resulted in either being harmed. Still, it concerned him, because it reminded him that he shared his life with beings utterly unlike himself.

This game was a stalking game.

He could hardly see Bramble, seated as she was in the grass, playing tea party with her dolls. Rabbit likewise was in the grass, slowly and silently creeping up on her. Bramble of course was well aware her Sia was back there, but to pretend she did not notice him was all part of the game. She kept playing, and Rabbit kept sneaking, Then, suddenly, he lunged.

He landed over top of Bramble, who turned to meet him head-on. They collided with giggles and play growls as she fended him off, and Haldir shuddered as he watched his daughter, with careful precision, land blows that would probably deter a man-sized attacker, and likely kill anything her own size. But Plains Elves lived a dangerous and nomadic existence; it was important to know how to defend one’s self from an early age.

Orophin walked up just then, coming to stand beside his brother. “How fares the family today?”

Haldir smiled, a bit tensely. “He is an Elf, yet not an Elf. There is much about him I do not understand. But that is one of the many things that draws me to him.” He looked at Orophin. “How fares Frost?”

“He is weak, but he is well, and not pleased to learn he must go through this again in nine months. Lord Elrond is keeping a careful eye on him.”

Haldir nodded. “That is good.” He winced as he heard Bramble land a blow, and Rabbit dropped to the ground, feigning death. Giggling, she sat on him and waved her arms.

“I did it Ada! I killed the monster!”

Rabbit began slowly getting up, gently dumping her off. “Best try again!” said Orophin. “I think your monster is still alive!”

The stage reset itself. Bramble resumed playing tea party, and Rabbit slunk into the deep grass to become a predator, intent on feeding upon Elfling. Orophin shook his head.

“Haldir, you have a unique family.”

“I do,” said Haldir, and smiled. He adjusted Rivil’s small weight. “ And there is naught I would trade them for.”

Rabbit began slowly slinking through the grass, prowling silently. Bramble was already giggling, pretending she did not see him. Her sensitive ears heard the sudden rush as he lunged at her, and she turned, then gasped in horror as a stone flew from seemingly no where and struck Rabbit square in the head. He crashed to the ground, then slowly sat up, shaking his head and plainly stunned. Haldir straightened and looked to see what was wrong, then called Bramble’s name as she charged into the grass.

“You hurt my Sia!” she screamed, and suddenly there was a battle going on in the grass.

Haldir stayed where he was as he had his arms full of Elfling. Orophin ran into the grass, pulling Bramble off of something small and terribly dirty.

“You hurt my Sia!” she yelled again, outraged, swiping at her opponent.

“I was not! I was saving you from the monster! I didn’t even see a see-yuh.”

“You hit him with a rock! I’m gonna kick your teeth in!”

Seeing Orophin was handling Bramble, Haldir made his way over to Rabbit. He crouched beside him, concerned at the glazed look in his eye. “Rabbit?”

Rabbit swayed. “What hit me?”

“I’m not certain, I did not see.”

“I’m going to kill it.”

Orophin appeared just then with a very ragged, dirty little Elfling under one arm. He was kicking his little bare feet and waving a wet brown toy puppy.

“You put me down you big bully or I’m gonna sic my puppy on you!”

Haldir gasped at the sight of the child. “Penneth what happened to you?”

“I’m not no penneth I’m an Elfling!” He smacked Orophin with the puppy and screamed obscenities. “Let me go! Let me go!”

“Where are your parents? You are so thin!”

Brennon was beginning to cry. “I ain’t got no parents they’re dead and the ship done sank and Maxie’s dead, an’ I think Crackers is dead too and I didn’t want the monster to eat the little girl and let me go!”

Brennon managed to get his elbow into Orophin’s gut, but though the tall Elf made a noise of pain, he did not release the child.

“You see to your husband and children,” said Orophin. “I shall tend to our little rabbit-slayer here.”

Haldir nodded, and watched as Orophin began carrying the screaming, swearing, thrashing Elfling to his large tent.