#in a matter of minutes for laying only a finger on haldir

[youjustwaitsunshine]

happy to report that i still desire aragorn carnally 🙏🙏🙏

[beaflower77]

Help Me : Conclusion

She saw the two ellyths who had insulted her earlier, running, scattering, back and forth, up and down the hallway. In that dreadful moment, Beatrice made a decision. “Stay here. Be quiet.,” Beatrice told, instructed the two elflings, scrunched up hiding behind a multitude of clothing in the wardrobe, now fast beginning to become wrinkled. Handing the infant elf off to Galearon for safety, “Do not go, Mama.,” pleaded Galearon. Faelor was determined for honesty with her, “They are not nice to you Beatrice. They say mean things about you.,” he mentioned brutally to her. “To leave them out there, exposed, would be meaner Faelor.,” Beatrice reminded him. “Mama.,” again pleaded Galearon, and Beatrice had to swallow, not to reply. “Stay here. Stay still. Quiet now.,” she insisted. And Beatrice so carefully, silently, clicked shut the wardrobe door.

Looking up, down the hallways, the two ellyth finally scattered by. Shocked to see Beatrice standing unharmed yet, they scrambled over. “Come here you two twats.,” Beatrice commanded in a hushed, but harsh tone, waving them closer. They didn’t register her own insult, nor understood. Shoving, hurrying them into the bedchamber, the ellyths fell over each other in a panic. Closing the doors with a minute click, but one which seemed to echo with deefening silence, “Help me!,” Beatrice demanded, starting to push a small desk in front of the doors, in a vain attempt for security. “That will not stop them.,” the one said, while the other looked round for a secure hiding place. “Get in there.,” Beatrice told them, nodding off her head toward the wardrobe.

Opening the wardrobe, a tiny, tinkling sound of a surprised shriek came forth from one pretty mouth of an ellith. “Oh. What are they doing in here?,” she piped up, turning her head in panic, looking back at Beatrice. Whether she was alarmed for her own safety or their's, one couldn’t tell. The other ellith merely looked on in confusion. “Should they be here?,” she asked, while also wondering if all could fit. When a sound moved them all, “They are not far behind.,” the first informed a now panicked Beatrice, reminding her of the invading orcs, lumbering down the halls. Beatrice scrunched up her face in desperation. 

Looking at the ellyth in disgusted, abject horror, not bothering to hide it, “Shut up. Get in or stay out. I don’t care.,” as she pointed toward the wardrobe, making sure the two wouldn’t pull her little ones out to save their own necks. “But they are my elflings. My loyalty is to them first.” Beatrice pushed, prodded, the two frightened ellyths forward. And somewhere in the back of her mind, in her hearing, even though it wasn’t very good, Beatrice heard something not quite right. “Hurry! Get in now!,” she insisted harshly, pushing, pushing, and trying not to waste any more precious time, her mind racing. 

Having no time to hide herself, and no more room in the vast wardrobe, knowing Beatrice was horribly exposed, knowing she was not a trained fighter, knowing she didn’t want to face what could be coming down the halls, Beatrice looked round the room, scanning perfectly clean, lovely, but very empty corners, and grabbed at the one piece of battlement her eyes laid on. A candlestick. “This is stupid.,” Beatrice stated to herself. “I hate candlesticks. What the hell am I supposed to do with this?!” Looking again round her, trying to find a hiding place, Beatrice came up empty handed. “Well, this isn’t going to work. Crap.”

Much like the game hide and seek, when the seeker’s anger, fury very much outweighed its’ opponent, knowing the fury was going to overpower, damage her, Beatrice squatted behind an unexposed side of a large bed, the only other large object in the chamber and started rocking, weeping, wishing to disguise, melt herself in the bedcovers, wishing for Lindir. Anyone. She wanted to be in that wardrobe. She wanted to be with that infant. Beatrice wanted the security of Faelor and Galearon, their small, bothersome troubles. Beginning to hear a light rumble from inside the wardrobe, “Shut up!,” Beatrice hissed, daring herself not to throw the exquisitely crafted, stupid, gold candlestick at them and leave them all to fend for themselves.

Ducking down further, Beatrice glimpsed something shiny under the bed, and narrowed her eyes against the darkness surrounding her. And reached, stretched, wrapped her small fingers round its’ handle, prying it foward. Knowing exactly what it was, what it was meant for and what she would have to do with it, at the same time, not wanting to. Beatrice’s stomach pitched. If she could actually lift it, let alone hold onto it, if it came down to a fight, maybe, she could just delay, just enough for an escape.

A beautifully forged sword of elven steel, with an immaculate deep, dark ruby centered inside the hilt, with deeply etched symbols likened in the shapes of a capital B and S, lay there alone under the bed, hidden, unwrapped, unsheathed. Lovingly forged no doubt by some Eldar, Beatrice assumed. Pulling it out, she gripped it hard, tight. BS. That’s what this is, Beatrice imagined, a bunch of BS. Stupid. I’m no warrior, she thought to herself. Then needing to envision all the soldiers, warriors that ever existed, whom she respected, admired, Westley, The Dohomey, Nzinga of Ndongo, Jennie Hodgers, MacLeod, Glorfindel, Athlidon, Wonder Woman, Beatrice shakily stood, breathed, gave herself some ground, took a battle stance, knowing enough not to paint herself into a corner, should something come through those doors, and centered herself like the root of an oak. You will not touch my elflings, was her mantra. You will not touch my elflings, Beatrice cringed, brutally sinking inside herself, all the while wondering, where the hell is Lindir? 

Outside, against the darkening skyline, night decended like a heavily clawed, treacherous beast. Beatrice could still hear the horrible sounds, the crunching or armor, bone and bodies. The calls, the cries, the commands given, obeyed. “Kill them! Rush them! Show no mercy! Close that path off! Charge them! Run! Get out of here now!” Stampeding down the paths, orders sounding from both enemy, friends, victims. Hoping her friends, mentors and beloved, were safe, not forever maimed, scarred or dead.

The elves held ground, battling the invading vileness. “Glorfindel! Cut that path off!,” ordered Elrond, slicing off an orc’s head, while swinging round burying his sword into anothers’ middle. “Come enjoy the taste of my blade, you lager heads!,” Glorfindel employed with ravaged mirth, descending down on furious, snarling orcs. Erestor and others rushed to the south, exposing a small squadron, trying to race toward the stables and beyond. Racing against time, Athlidon charged two, cleanly dicing arms, limbs, heads, while protecting Gwingnis, his wife, and dodging misguided arrows. “Make your way to the staircase inside! I’ll hold them back here! Go to our daughter!,” issuing her an order. Rushing off, Gwingnis decided to shove over a stone bench, toppling one charging after her, and chopped his head off, ringing her sword against the stone path.

Having but a fair moment, looking up toward the front of the city’s windows, Lindir saw candles flicker in a few particular rooms. And thought. “Haldir!,” he yelled. “The windows! There’s candles still lit!,” motioning his head up and above. “Take point! I’ll go check!,” knowing if someone was still up there, hiding, those candles should have been long extinguished by now. Whoever was in those rooms, was an easy target for any nighttime creature. “No Lindir!,” Haldir ushered back. “I’ll go! My path is clearer than yours! Watch yourself!,” pointing his sword in front of Lindir, as he himself rushed an unaware orc, cleaving its’ neck half off, leaving it writhing on the stone path.

Can’t someone else do this?, Beatrice screamed inside. Looking up, fear taking hold, chamber doors bursting forth, ushering far away, darkened monsters of human dreams. An ugly, colossal orc, stumbled in, strangling a stream of garbled, messed up words and sounds within his throat, coming toward her, as others rushed past down the halls. It slammed, hurled its’ filthy, vocal mess at Beatrice. And Beatrice could not take her riveting eyes off it. Nor move. Oh, crap. Doesn’t anyone know we’re here?, was her first thought. Her second, Man, you’re an ugly Betty, you smell horribly.

Fight or flight? Which one to choose? Flight? No. Beatrice was not about to abandon anyone. But fight? God no. She had never trained for something like this. Madness, that’s what this was. What kind of world was this? Horrible, hideous. Yes, just like the one she had left. Only here, the monsters were of a different size, color, and smell. Still, still they were monsters. And Beatrice was no warrior. But still, still she had hidden elflings. She could at least protect them. And again, where the hell was Lindir?! And was he safe?

Beatrice froze, waiting the ugly, overly large, vile depravity out. When the orc charged, Beatrice had no idea what she was supposed to do, or actually did. Ducking down, depending upon her survival instinct, bending wide with her knees bent, planted, Beatrice leaned, forced her body forward, as she made her too heavy sword to arch round, and slammed it down into the orc’s back heal, slicing a tendon. “AAhhhggg!,” it screamed, wargled. That sound, that was the only sound Beatrice let into her ears and she couldn’t stand it. Over and over, that scream. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!,” Beatrice wailed, in any attempt to put the miserable screech from her ears, as she bashed, slashed, furiously over and over, jabbing the heavy sword like a humongous steak knife, into the orc’s foot, toes, legs, not giving it a chance to swing at her. Yet. 

That Beautiful, sweet sword was just too heavy to keep lifting.

And Beatrice knew, it was only a matter of time.

The orc blood splattered out. On her gown, her torn, dirty, beautiful gown, which exposed her legs, destroying the silkiness of them. On her arms, face, making her disgusted. On the bed, the immaculate, golden laced covers. slime, ooze, poured out, covering the floor. The softly made elven gown, lovingly placed over a sturdy, dark green settee. Beatrice went nuts. she couldn’t stop. With each jab, with each slice, she believed she was battling, killing an overgrown house spider. Only this spider had two thick, powerful legs, two stronger arms than hers, and one large, massively, ugly mouth with pointed, angry teeth. A mouth which wouldn’t stop screeching at her. Until, her last exhuasted jab, when Beatrice couldn’t convince her arms to lift that sword further.

A moment without Beatrice’s deranged attacks, the orc moving its’ leg, its’ body out of range, and took one large hand, backhanding her across the room and menancingly advanced. “You die!,” it gargled, sputtered, as Beatrice landed bruised, crumpled against the wall. Her head, ears, ringing, seeing stars. Raising its’ weapon high, the orc swung downward. And stopped, stilled. The orc stiffened mid-flight. Beatrice looked up at the frozen in time horror on its’ face. Pitching forward, it dropped its’ weapon with a thud. An arrow in its’ throat. Grimacing, Beatrice watched as it buckled at its’ bloodied knees, dropped, hit the floor flat. Beatrice, drawing her face into a disgusted snarl, inched, crawled away, as if it were still a deadly house spider, twitching. “Gross.,” she openly admitted.

Looking up, Haldir removed his arrow, wiped it across someone’s crisp, newly washed robe, now crumpled on the bed, and held his hand out to her. Taking hold, Beatrice shot up, slamming her body into his, holding fast, curling her fingers round the back of his tunic, shaken, grateful with little growing confidence. “Where is Lindir?!,” Beatrice demanded, looking up at her protector. “He is fine. Downstairs. Who else is with you?,” calmly, determined, Haldir questioned, while visually scanning the chamber for anything hidden in the darkness. 

Galearon, by this time, had had enough. No more could he emotionally, physically handle being stuffed into that wardrobe. Bursting out, still holding gently, but firmly to the infant, “Mama, Mama!,” he cried, holding the elfling for Beatrice to take, rushing her body, her safety. Taking the elfling, noticing with some surprise the little ellith made not a peep, somehow knowing danger was round her, Beatrice now bent, collapsed against the floor, bending, scooping Galearon close to her and the infant. Touching his face, making eye contact, “You okay?,” Beatrice asked, realizing the emotional, psychological effect this outburst was likely to have on both Faelor and Galeraon. And where was Faelor exactly?

“Faelor was scared.,” Galearon simply said, pointing behind himself. “I kept the elfling busy and quiet.” Knowing when to let fibs be fibs, “Okay.,” Beatrice gave in with. “I was not!,” Faelor determinedly stomped his foot, his boot, at the floor, outrage, upset dawning on his face, folding his arms. Pointing to Beatrice, “I was mentally telling Mama to get the candlestick and throw it at the orc, but did she use it? No!” Turning to Beatrice in all seriousness, “Why did you not use the candlestick Mama? You could have popped it into its’ eyes. Or mouth.,” Faelor asked, defending his mental clarity and Beatrice’s obvious lack thereof. 

Stunned. Mama? I’m not exactly your Mama, Beatrice began to think. “Um. Because. It was too pretty?,” was all she could think of. Haldir himself was having enough. “Elflings.,” Haldir muttered. “Not now.,” Crossing to the window, signaling to the others down below, extinguishing the candles within, “We need to leave.,” beckoning the little group. Hearing more noise, abruptly swinging into action, his body, eyes toward the opening again of the wardrobe doors, Haldir raised, readied his bow. “No!,” Beatrice’s arm, hand, shot out, startling, stopping his, as the two young ellyth clamored out with questioning, scared glances. Looking back down at Beatrice, “We need to leave now.,” Haldir again insisted. Following Haldir down the halls, “See.,” as Faelor glanced over at Galearon, clinging, cuddled against Beatrice’s skirts, “I told you. I told you Beatrice did not use Lord Erestor’s candlestick because it was too pretty.” Widening her eyes down at Faelor, “Easter’s?! Lord Easter’s?!” Crap, she decided, I’m so dead. Haldir was not concerned, nor bothered by that blatant fact.

Rounding the corner, the group came to a standstill before a tight faced, battle worn Tonare and Lindir. Looks exchanged, acknowledgments made, Lindir then advanced on Beatrice, as she locked eyes on Tonare. “Where is Gwingnis? And their Ada?,” nodding down, meaning the elflings, needing to know. “Gwingnis is below, she is alright. It is over now.,” Tonare tersely replied. Lindir, looking down at the tiny elfling, nestled in Beatrice’s arms, “She is very quiet Beatrice.,” he stated, placing a light hand on her head, stroking gently, lovingly, and another lighter hand on Beatrice’s abdomen, in full view of all present. “And you?,” Lindir asked. “You are alright, BeAh?” Nodding her head, feeling the full effects of the night’s ordeal, but worrying more for Faelor, Galearon, the elfling, returning them to their parents.

Finding, handling the elfling to Gwingnis, her Nana, smiling through sad, joyful tears, Beatrice heard, “Ada! Ada!,” as Galearon now wanted down, suddenly scrambling, squirming from Beatrice’s hold. Elflings ran to a kneeling, out stretched armed Ada. Turning, facing their Ada, wiping her face with the partially torn, dirty sleeve of her gown, Beatrice and Lindir shockingly heard the elflings pronounce, “Mama stabbed an orc! She stabbed it in its’ toes!” “Mama?,” asked their Ada, in confusion. Yeah. That, thought Beatrice, wanting an explanation herself. Faelor decided to up the anti, “Beatrice stuck us in Lord Erestor’s wardrobe! She was going to throw a candlestick at the orc!,” then just as suddenly proclaimed, “I told Mama not to.” Their Ada looked up at Beatrice, “Mama?,” he inquired. Again Faelor had to say it, “Mama said Crap! I told her that was a bad word Ada, but she did not listen to me. She said other bad words too. Mama does not listen very much.” Galearon insisted of his brother, “Faelor, don’t you remember? Mama said a ton load of bad words. I remember them all.” Ugh!

As their Ada kindly, but with much confusion, stood, glanced down at Beatrice, “Mama?,” gently, again he asked, as if to say, I don’t know what to think. As Lindir, Beatrice and their Ada stood there, contemplating this rare word and its’ meaning, “You adults are useless.,” Galearon grandly announced. “Mama Here. Nana There.,” he concluded, pointing off to the vast unknown of the Valor’s universe where his actual Nana was. It seemed Faelor agreed, “I want to sleep with Mama Here tonight. Galearon wants to too.,” he decided, pulling at his Ada’s tunic.

“I never meant…to…,” Beatrice apologized. Shaking his head, waving her off, “No. No. It is alright. It is good.” Looking down at his elflings, “You cannot sleep with…Mama..Here, for she sleeps with Lord Lindir. Come now.,” scooping up the two at once, walking off, “Let me clean you. You are a filthy, stinking mess.” But not without Faelor and Galearon proudly, loudly announcing to all of Imladris, “Ada! Beatrice made a grand mess of Lord Erestor’s bedchamber tonight!,” widening their arms and smiles for all to see. “Can Lord Erestor sleep with us tonight Ada?!” “No!,” issued their Ada’s answer.

Having heard the ugly proclamation, “My bedchamber? What has happened within my bedchamber?!,” demanded an exhausted Erestor. “A dead orc!,” sang the elflings, from up the path. “A dead orc Lord Erestor! With blood all over! Everywhere! And on your robes! And bed too!,” leaving Erestor to look at Beatrice with disgruntled abasement. 

As Lindir looked at the leaving elflings, back to Erestor, down at Beatrice, he grimaced, “Could you not have fled to another bedchamber?,” he asked.

Oh, I’m so dead, decided Beatrice.