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Chapter 41 - Love letters from Hell or The Man-Whore of Rohan

Tel Lindar

Chapter 41

Love letters from Hell or the Man-Whore of Rohan

Holy Moses I have been deceived
Now the wind has changed direction and I'll have to leave
Won't you please excuse my frankness but it's not my cup of tea
Holy Moses I have been deceived

Elton John/Bernie Taupin
Border Song

It was if all the air was sucked out of the room.

Why do you think I am here? Your bow resides in this castle…

The dark Wizard was on his knees on the other side of her in an instant. “Who? Where?”

“I do not know.”

“What do you mean you do not know?” Severus hissed. “It is here, you,” he used his hands to circle around his head blindly, “sense it. Do we need to walk up and down the halls until you find it?”

Thranduil smiled lamely before standing up. He touched Bronwyn on the shoulder. “It does not work that way. It is here; I feel its presence strongly, but it is not like the child’s game… Hot and cold?” Severus raised an eyebrow. “Were you never a child? ‘You are getting warmer, warmer, you are hot, oh now you are getting cold.’“ The Elf went to the bar and poured whatever was available in a high ball and handed it to Bronwyn. “Drink this.” He watched as she gulped at the beverage. “I could go to the parapets, the dining hall, classrooms, it would not matter. It is here in this building somewhere.”

Severus stood up, hands running through inky locks. “I would ask what good is this, but now we know someone here has it.”

“Under our noses.” Bronwyn finally spoke, her voice shaky. “All this time, under our noses. What a joke they have been playing on us.” She drained the glass. “On me.” Amadeus whined, nosing her hand with the glass away from her, as if to tell her no more. She set the glass down with a decided ‘thunk’ on the floor. “I know. I would pay tomorrow and I have classes.” She wanly smiled at Thranduil. “I have arseholes for parents and students who would like nothing better than to see me ejected forcibly from this school, simply because I am a muggle.” She stared down at the empty glass in the floor. “Or was married to an elf.”

Thranduil shook his head. “Do they not realize who their forebearers are?” He returned to the bar and poured two more high balls.

Bronwyn was staring into the fire in her fireplace, deep in thought. “No. Very few actually.” She steepled her fingers. “I suspect the Malfoys think they simply sprang from the ground, their gifts bestowed on them by whatever deity they think hands out magical gifts.”

Thranduil was smiling and he handed a glass to Severus. “No one gave them anything.” He went to the fireplace, to inspect the objects placed on it. “It is a combination of Elven blood and families living generations on ley lines.”

“So the lines do have something to do with it!” Bronwyn shot up from her seat, her hand immediately reaching for Amadeus. Severus’ ears pricked. Bronwyn mentioned this several times to him, her theorizing and speculation marvelously spot on. To hear a second opinion that agreed made the entire theory almost plausible.

“But of course they do.” Thranduil was holding a photograph of Duncan, inspecting it closely. He replaced it reverently. “Many Elven strongholds were built on the crossing points of them. Imladris, Lorien, Edellhond… Mount Doom was built on ley lines, as was Isengard.” His voice trailed off, the Elf Lord deep in thought and fond memory. “There is a small home in what is now Wales, on the coast where many lines cross.” Bronwyn’s ears perked up. “Always women there, beautiful, powerful women.” He stopped for a moment and smiled, before smiling humorlessly at Severus. “But you know about them.”

He stared at his glass, realizing that he hadn’t drunk from it. He downed it quickly, grimacing at the expected burn. “The Witch King of Angmar built a fortress on a crossroads of ley lines, but-“ he pointed to Severus, glass still in hand, “not as many or as powerful as those I speak of in Wales.” He picked up Bronwyn’s glass from the floor. “That ancient family of witches begat a most powerful line.”

Thranduil quickly changed subjects, his tone changing. “There is a museum in Edinburgh that specializes in weapons of antiquity. The proprietor and curator is a good friend; one I have known for many years. I trust him.” He moved into the kitchen area, the clinking of glasses in the sink. “He recently informed me that for some time, someone was looking for a bow.” The Elven King returned to the doorway and leaned against it. “An Elven bow. As time went by, it became obvious that the inquirer was looking for Legolas’ old bow.”

Both Bronwyn and Severus stood up. “Are you sure?”

Thranduil’s look was of pure emotional hurt. He addressed his answer to the white wolf in the room. “Am I sure?” His hand went to his heart and he bowed his head. “She asks me, ‘Am I sure?’ Bronwyn, you wound me. Am I sure?” His head shot up and he looked tersely at the wizard. “Of course I am sure!” He skirted the edge of the room. “Someone has hunted the bow for some time and now they have it. They knew what it was. They simply did not know who had it.” Pent up energy was suddenly released as he exhaled. “Now they have it and they do not know what to do with it. How dark have your dreams been, lirimaer?”

Bronwyn sank back into the couch, head in hands. “Horrible. Horrible nightmares.”

“Of things of our world and best forgotten.”

“Aye.” She shrugged. “He looks for the last Balrog.”

Thranduil exhaled painfully. “That is something best left to rest undisturbed.” There was silence for a few moments, each member in the room focusing on a different, inanimate object as if the secrets of the world were contained in them. “Bronwyn, I came here to help you, aid you in this search. Your time to find it grows short, indeed and I am prepared to call in reinforcements if necessary. Your child is a demon-spawn and you must retrieve it as quickly as possible. I realize you have teaching duties, but you need to find time to visit my friend’s museum and speak with him.”

“Reinforcements?” Severus sneered.

“Aye,” the Elf Lord mocked back. “Reinforcements. Both Elven and Wizard. I fear this child is most powerful and cunning. I will take no chances.” He made his way towards her front door. “What I would not give for a muster of éoreds of Rohirrim at this time.” He stopped and turned, a long finger in the air. “Or better yet, the Army of the Dead. Damn Elessar for releasing them.”

“They would only answer the King of Gondor anyway, Thranduil.” Bronwyn replied ruefully. “Do we even know who he is anymore?”

“I do,” Thranduil smiled evilly. “It would blow your mind the many roads and dips in life the King of Gondor has taken. Almost as many as the King of Rohan.” He opened the door and stepped into Bronwyn’s darkened classroom. He stomped his foot in ire. “Where in Mordor are my rooms and my things? Can someone tell me where I am going?”

***
If you feel that it's real I'm on trial
And I'm here in your prison
Like a coin in your mint
I am dented and I'm spent with high treason

Take me to the Pilot
Elton John/Bernie Taupin
***

The fog bathed the city; sunlight barely penetrating the gloom of the soot and dirty snow piled in the creases and crevices of corners and dark places. So when the tall, dark man seemed to appear in the alley, emerging from the mist, no one took much notice. They took even less notice of the small woman who was clutched to his side. It was cold, foggy and drizzly; perfect weather for January in Scotland! Severus watched what few people were out hurrying along, not paying attention to the twosome huddled in the entrance of the lane. A rather cold drop of melting snow plopped on the wizard’s nose and he watched it drip off in ire. He reached for his wand…

“No.” Bronwyn’s hand clasped his. “You don’t want to bring undue attention to us.” With her coat sleeve, she gently brushed the moisture from his face. Silently, they broke apart, heading towards the mouth of the alleyway. The two stepped onto the street, looking about, trying to get their bearings. Finally, the woman pointed to the left and she pivoted, walking briskly in the cold. The man followed after, the tails of his great black coat, flapping behind in the wind.

“Severus, do button up.” Bronwyn stopped to admonish him. “You will become ill and then I will have to nurse you back to health. I dare say you aren’t the well-behaved patient I was!”

Severus stopped to fasten his coat snapping at her as he did so. “No doubt you would ply me with peppermint tea and pester me until I willingly gave up the ghost. How much further?”

Bronwyn looked and pointed. “Not far. A block or two that way.”

The surly Potions Master grabbed her by the hand and proceeded to drag her in the direction she pointed. “Might you walk a bit faster? I do not wish to be out in this weather longer than necessary.” They crossed the quiet street and soon the two stood across from a large, brick building.

“Well, Madam?”

Bronwyn looked up, reading out loud. “’British Hall of Ancient Weaponry.’ That’s it!” The building she pointed to was a rather austere Victorian walkup, several stories and gaunt. She started to step into the road, only to be stopped by the Wizard.

“Are you sure?”

“No!” she spat sarcastically. “I’m leading us on a wild goose chase!” Severus looked positively mutinous and she quickly attempted to soothe the prickly professor. “I am certain this is where Thranduil sent us. If not, maybe we will get some different leads. Come on. Let’s get me out of this weather!”

She pulled up the hood on her coat and scurried down the walk and across the street, leaving Severus to follow behind, enjoying the view she presented; her Barbour coat swaying behind her. “Ah yes, think about yourself…” She darted between parked cars and what few people were out, murmuring apologies before disappearing into the front door of the museum.

Severus apologized to no one; in fact, the few people he encountered took great pains to avoid him, go around him, the scowl on his face enough to terrorize most superstitious people. He followed her into the building, not allowing her out of his sight.

The building inside was warm and dry and smelled of ancient metal and air. Dirks and claymores hung on the walls, display cases of ancient axes and hammer heads. An elderly security guard sat snoozing behind a podium.

“I would wager he is as old as any weapon here,” Severus smirked in her ear. Bronwyn smacked at him and made her way over.

“Excuse me?”

The man slowly woke up, a slight amount of drool edging the corner of his mouth. “Oh! Good day madam. Sir.” He inclined his head at Severus, who responded with his haughtiest look. “What era of weapons are you interested in seeing today?”

“Bronwyn gave him her sweetest smile. “Actually, I was hoping to speak with your curator or whoever purchases or loans your exhibits.”

“贰丑?”

“I said, I would like to speak with your curator,” she enunciated.

“贰丑?”

“Your Curator?”

“A cure? A cure for what? This is a weapons museum, missy.”

“Oh gad!” Bronwyn turned to Severus. “The man is deaf!” She saw him reach for his wand. “No!” she hissed. She looked back up at the elderly guard and said slowly and loudly. “Your! Curator!”

“Mr. Andrew?”

Bronwyn and Severus looked at each other. “Yes.”

The man began to rummage around the top of his podium. “Here. We have one.” He handed her a card with the name ‘Lee L. Andrew, Curator’ printed ascetically in the center.

“Is he in?”

To Bronwyn’s relief, he nodded to a cage against the wall, a young woman with spikey hot pink hair, sitting behind it. Bronwyn tucked the card into her pocket and strode across the gallery.

“I have an appointment with your curator.” She pulled out the finely embossed business card. “Mr. Lee Andrew.”

The young woman was reading what appeared to be a tawdry romance novel; a busty young woman being clutched by Pirate Fabio. Bronwyn tried to figure out what the name was and who the author could be. To her ire, the woman dog-earred it and set it in the floor. She began peering through an appointment calendar. “I do not see…-“

“The appointment was made by Thrann Drewal, I believe.”

The receptionist was flipping through the book. “I’m sorry. I do not see…”

Severus leaned over Bronwyn’s shoulder. “Madam, what type of torture device is that hanging behind you?”

The girl looked over her shoulder. “Torture device? I don’t recall…” As her voice wandered off, her gaze searching the various articles and knives hanging behind her, Severus whispered, his wand concealed beneath his coat, but still grasped and pointed at the calendar. He pointed with his other hand. “That one there.” As her back was turned, Bronwyn’s name scrolled itself elegantly in the book. “Oh, Are you Bronwyn Morgan ap-”

“Yes, that is me.”

“Strange,” the girl muttered to herself. “I could have sworn he had nothing scheduled today.” She tapped her lip with a home-manicured finger and picked up the phone.

Apparently, ‘Lee Andrew’ had forgotten the appointment as well. The buzzing back and forth between the two was almost comical.

“Who did you say made the appointment?” The young woman didn’t even attempt to cover the mouthpiece.

“Mr. Drewal.”

She returned her attention back to the telephone. “She says a Mr. Drool called you.”

“Thrann. Drewal.”

“Thrann Drool. Yes sir. That’s what I said. Mr. Thrandrool.” There was more buzzing. “Her name is-” she looked back at the appointment book, “Ms-”

“笔谤辞蹿别蝉蝉辞谤.”

The look she gave Bronwyn was not kind. “Professor Bronwyn Powell.” More buzzing. “Yes sir.” She set the phone down in its cradle and picked up her book. “He will send someone down for you in a few minutes. Mr. Andrew said to feel free to peruse the exhibits. He might be a few minutes.” She opened the book. “Oh. By the way, have you met Mr. Andrew?”

“No, I haven’t.”

She leaned forward, as if to tell a secret. “He’s one of those…elfy folk.” She looked around to see if anyone was eavesdropping. “You know; long hair, the ears. He’s nice to look at, if you go for that kind.” She looked at Severus as if he hadn’t bathed in a month. “I don’t suppose you do,” she muttered, as she returned to her book.

Severus and Bronwyn moved to the far end of the gallery, away from the receptionist and snoozing door guard. They pretended to study the array of oriental swords.

“I have never in all my years come across such ineptness.”

Bronwyn smiled, never taking her eyes from the incredibly sharp weapon in front of her. “Do tell us how you truly feel.” She slowly moved down the wall. “I would pay money to see you develop a nervous tic just about now.”

“I do not know what makes me angrier. Her unprofessionalism or the fact I will have to deal with yet another Elf.”

Bronwyn stopped, not really paying attention to the weapon on the wall. “You do not have to deal with the Elf. I will. You are-“ she eyed him askance, “transportation and a body guard.” She continued to wander slowly, pretending to be interested in the nasty things on the wall. “I would have been happier to have taken the train in for the weekend and brought Amadeus with me.”

“Considering the importance, this was more prudent, Bronwyn.” Severus’s voice was a drone.

“I still would have liked to bring Amadeus.”

“He is keeping Lupin company.”

“Still, I would have preferred-”

“Bronwyn,” Severus continued to murmur wearily, “your safety is an issue or have you forgotten?”

“No, I have not…. Holy shite! I do not believe it!”

Severus looked to see what had her attention so riveted.

High on the wall, was a sword; a wickedly sharp-looking and wonderously made weapon. “It is a sword,” he intoned drolly.

She had him by the sleeve, hissing. “That is not just a sword! I don’t believe it! That curator has a lot of fucking explaining to do!” She continued to scan the walls. “Holy fucking Béma’s balls!” She was now pointing at another sword, mounted high on the wall. It was difficult to see the detail from the distance, but Severus could at least make out some of the features, the etchings on the pommel and grip.

“Perhaps, you could tell me why these weapons are making you curse like a sailor?”

She smirked at him. “That-” she pointed to the first one, “is Andúril, the Flame of the West!”

“And that means?”

“That was Aragorn’s, King Elessar’s sword. He fought at Helm’s Deep with it, the War of the Ring. It was reforged for him from the Shards of Narsil!” Severus continued to stare at her blandly. “That is the sword of the King of Gondor! Made from the shards of a First Age Sword! He summoned the Dead with that sword.”

“And that elf back at Hogwart’s knows who that king is?”

Bronwyn was muttering angrily to herself. “Why? My God!” she was now perusing the entire wall. “Everything up there came from Middle Earth!” She pointed to the second sword. “That is Guthwine! ?omer King’s sword!” she stepped back.

“I thought you said Aragorn was King of Gondor.”

The Bard hissed angrily. “Gondor was not the only country in Middle Earth! ?omer Eadig – meaning ?omer the Blessed – was king of Rohan! He and Aragorn were close friends!” She fell silent for a short time, ancient memories flowing over her. “He married Lothiriel, the Princess of Dol Amroth; her father Prince Imrahil, was vassal to Gondor. In addition, ?omer’s sister, ?owyn married Faramir, the Prince of Ithilian, Steward to Gondor, as well as a vassal to Gondor. There are extremely close ties among the countries and principalities of the south.” She exhaled sharply between her teeth and pointed. “I recognize Guthwine! The pommel is two horses’ heads. Beautiful thing.” She turned on the Wizard, eyebrows knitted in consternation. “That sword was buried with him! I was there! I saw it! Why is it here now?”

Severus mind was working furiously, although to look at him, one couldn’t tell. “Madam, these weapons, if they are what you say they are, are thousands of years old. They could not possibly survive-”

“But have because they are Elven-wrought.” She shook her head. “Lothiriel was extremely beautiful; he loved her so… I can’t… I can’t remember her face…” Bronwyn looked up, sadness on her face. “I am boring you. I am sorry.”

Severus shrugged. It wasn’t boredom that pulled his thoughts inward, rather her inability to recall a minute memory. There was a gentle touch at his sleeve.

“Mr. Lee will see you, now.” The woman at the desk was standing behind Severus. Her faux-leather skirt was too short and too tight and her heels were ridiculously high. She motioned to Severus to follow her and toddled off.

In his mind, Severus heard Bronwyn growl, ‘Shouldn’t wear that in public, slut!’

“Nice outfit,” the dark wizard leered. “I would love to see you in it.” Bronwyn drew up, eyes blazing. “Especially the heels.” He leaned in. “And black garters. I would fuck you all night, dressed like that.” He motioned gallantly. “After you.”

The glare he received as the diminutive woman stalked by was worth it.

They followed the receptionist through a recessed, unnoticed door and down a long hall, the obscenely high heels echoing through the passageway. There were pictures of forests, pastoral scenes… Bronwyn stopped before one. As Severus met up with her, he touched her on the shoulder, to move her along. As they resumed their pace, she continued to look back, to inspect the picture.

“Why are you dragging?”

“I’ve been there, Severus. I just… can’t… place it…” She shrugged and turned back to the young woman walking in front of them.

At the end of the hall, they came to a door. She threw it open and stated, “You should be able to find your way out,” before turning and clicking back up the hall.

Severus appreciated the view for as long as Bronwyn would allow him, which wasn’t long. His voyeuristic musing was rudely interrupted by Bronwyn’s high-pitched screeching.

“驰翱鲍!”

The blonde elf was making his way to the door, disgust on his face, and pulled Severus inside before slamming the door. “Do not scream, Bronwyn. I swear you would break glass!”

“I’ll break a glass over your head, you rat bastard!”

Severus made his way to where a generously stocked sideboard sat. He poured himself a liberal hi-ball of Bell’s, taking a sip and appreciating the slow burn. He turned to the twosome, now arguing in that sing-song language the elves preferred. “Excuse me,” he raised his glass, “You do not mind, do you? Thought not.” He put his nose back in the glass. “Good.”

In a blink, Bronwyn was standing in front of Severus, pointing wildly behind her. “Severus! Do you know who this bastard is?”

Severus drained his glass, before turning his back in order to pour another generous whiskey. “A pointy eared one. Just like the others. They all look the same to me, truth be told.” He lifted his glass. “I take your name is not Andrew Lee?”

For a moment, an elven smile lit the Firstborn’s face. His hand went to his chest. “I apologize. My manners are lacking. Mae Govannen, Severus Snape. I am Lialidrul of Mirkwood-”

“Yeah, yeah, save it, already!” Bronwyn was curt and to the point. “Can we just get to the point?“

“Could you please lower your voice and let bygones be bygones?”

She was in his face, hopping, furious, her white fisted knuckles clenched at her sides. “You called me a pet! A FUCKING PET!”

The Elf dropped his head. “Aye, but I hoped we were past that.”

Severus set his glass down on the side bar with a decided *chink*, a sardonic smile on his lips. “A pet? Do tell. Was she house-broken?”

“Stop that!” Bronwyn hissed over her shoulder. “You are not helping!”

The highball returned to his lips, the smile, widening. “I am not here to help. I am here to watch and make sure you do not trip into a mud puddle.”

The diminutive woman rolled her eyes. “Mam ffwrchio bachgen am un gast!” Her voice raised to a pitch Severus was certain was only heard at an opera house and he took silent pleasure in watching the elf squirm.

The door flew open and the pink-haired secretary stood in the doorway. “Do I need to call security, sir?”

Lialidrul shook his head. “No, we-”

“I can take care of her right now, if need be!”

“You do not wish to do that,” Severus spoke calmly, his voice echoing in the glass. “She is fine; just easily excitable.”

The woman looked back at the Elf. “Are you sure?”

“We are fine, Lottie.” He gestured to Bronwyn. “Profess - Bronwyn and I have a long history, some of it rather volatile.” He shrugged and attempted to look amused. “At times, she likes to remind me of some of my more brainless stunts. Truly, it is nothing. You may go back to your desk.”

The woman scowled before shutting the door. They listened to her heels click down the hall. For a few precious moments, there was total silence.

Bronwyn inhaled.

“Please do not. You are irate and I do not blame you. Would you like a glass of wine?”

For a moment, Bronwyn glared at the Elf, tension emanating from every pore. Finally…

“Sure. It’s your bar.” She waited patiently while he poured a glass of white and handed it to her with a nod. She strolled over to the window and stared out into the filthy snow-covered landscape. She took a sip, forcing herself to calm down. The last person in the world she expected to ever see again was this Elf who infuriated her to no end.

Severus was watching her, reading her, her mood.

Once she managed to get herself under control, she turned to the elf. “Surely, our arrival is no surprise?”

“N’uma,” Lialidrul was swirling his wine in the glass, contemplating the depths. He downed the last little bit and scowled. “I have never gotten used to this swill you men drink.” He set the glass down gently and finally looked her in the eye. “I am not surprised; however, I had hoped to have some warning.”

“Well, here’s,” Bronwyn shot him a bird, “your warning. I was told you probably knew something about the whereabouts’ of my bow-“

“Legolas’ bow.”

“Whatever! Either way, I wondered why this old antique museum would know anything about a weapon made in Middle Earth during the Third Age and I find you have robbed all of the graves of every major player of the War of the Ring!” By now, she was in his face, one arm slung to the side, gesturing wildly. “You have,” she began ticking her fingers to count, “Andúril, Flame of the West, Gimli’s Ax, Sting-”

“Bronwyn,” Severus drolled, his voice echoing in his glass, “is that not the lead singer for the Police?”

“Yes! NO! Not the same Sting!” She pointed at him. “Don’t interrupt. Don’t get drunk! You’ll be bloody useless and I’ll have to get us home!”

“Will not happen,” Severus whispered manically. “We shall end up in a swank, muggle hotel somewhere, having swing from the canopy sex!”

Bronwyn didn’t hear. She turned back to the Elf. “Guthwine! You have Guthwine! I was at ?omer’s funeral! It was buried with him!”

“That one was a bit difficult to retrieve,” Lialidrul admitted. “I waited nearly five centuries and I still had to break his fingers to get it.” Bronwyn gasped in horror. “It was not too bad, only two actually.” The Elf pondered deeply. “He had a tight grip.” Lost in thought, he made as if to grasp the sword.

“WHY?” Bronwyn sputtered. “Why on earth would you rob a grave for a weapon?”

With this, the Elf gazed her serenely. “Because they were Elven wrought; because they were weapons of legend, because there is a chance they will be needed again. You-” he pointed to Bronwyn, “will more than likely face a balrog only whispered of, if we do not get your bow back in time or worse, although I cannot imagine anything worse. You will need Sting. If the King of Gondor were physically whole, he would have need of Andúril-”

“If he were physically whole?”

“Yes.” The elf nodded. “Derek, the old security guard who is deaf? He is the King of Gondor.”

Bronwyn threw her hands up in exasperation. “Oh my God! I’m doomed.” She turned her back on the elf. “Do we have any clue who the King of Rohan is?”

“I am sorry, no we do not.” Lialidrul shrugged. “The line splintered so many times. Those Rohirrim procreate like rabbits.” At that moment, his phone rang. With an apologetic shrug, he picked up the phone, “Lottie? I am tied up for the rest afternoon-“

“I would bet my wand he would love to be tied up,” Severus leered at Bronwyn.

Bronwyn’s finger almost went up his nose. “Do not go there!”

Lialidrul’s jaw went slack. “Oh, he is? Well, send him down. He knows the way.” He hung the phone up very gingerly.

“Let me guess,” the Wizard began. “Mr. Drool has arrived?”

Lialidrul rolled his eyes. “Do not call him that.”

Within a minute, Thranduil entered the room, accompanied by the receptionist. He kissed her knuckles. “Are you free tonight?”

“For you, I am always free,” she twittered before turning back around and heading back down the hall.

Thranduil stood in the doorway, obviously enjoying the view.

“You pervert!” Bronwyn hissed as he finally shut the door. “Do you have any idea how much younger she is than you?”

The Elf went to the sideboard and poured himself a shot glass. “You cannot talk, my dear.” His finger wagged between the Bard and the Wizard, his obvious insinuation clear.

“Yes, I can! I was born in this half of this century!”

“I can guarantee you,” Thranduil sat down at Lialidrul’s desk and began to fidget with the computer mouse, “that she is explosively volatile in bed and she would be a worthy opponent in the bedroom.” He spun in the chair and turned on the monitor, its humming quietly buzzing. “One last fling, eh Lialidrul?”

Lialidrul’s smile was far, far away. “Fancy a threesome, sir?”

Thranduil’s jaw dropped in mock indignation. “Have you already sampled the wares?”

“She is Rohirrim, sir.”

Bronwyn’s jaw flapped. “What? Are you serious?”

“Serious as finding your bow, Bronwyn.” Lialidrul was still smiling. “Those with Rohirrim blood have a delightfully faint musky scent. Leather and horses. It is in their skin. And Lottie has the strongest Rohirrim scent that I have sensed in a millennium.”

“You know, Bronwyn,” Thranduil got up from the chair and allowed Lialidrul to sit, watching over his shoulder as the Elf began to pull up his email, “You should not have settled down with Haldir so quickly. Before ?omer Eadig met Lothiriel, he was all the rage with the ladies.”

“The Elleths loved him as well.”

“It is probably why he went to Rivendell so much. He was quite the popular man!” Both Elves were now nodding in agreement.

“Are you telling me, ?omer Eadig, King of Rohan, probably their greatest king, was a man-whore?” Bronwyn had her forehead pressed against her fingers.

“Up until the minute he met Lothiriel, yes, he was.” Lialidrul was scrolling furiously, “Once he met her however, he was smitten.”

“All Rohirrim were quite earthy,” Thranduil was now addressing Severus. “I suppose it was from breeding the horses. Their women knew how to ride.”

“In more ways than one!” Lialidrul grinned. “Ah! Here we are!” The sound of his printer began to drone. “I have the earlier emails in a file, but I kept the most recent ones in my email.” He stood up and went into a barrister style filing system. “I can write notes on print outs.”

Thranduil was spreading the printed emails on Lialidrul’s desk. “Do you have the old emails? The original letters?”

“Emails? Original letters?” Bronwyn interest was now piqued and she forgot her earlier fury. “For what?”

The Elf had opened a drawer and pulled out a sizable file. “Fifteen years ago, I began to receive inquiries about an ancient bow. When I requested more information, the interested party would… disappear. After that, whoever was inquiring would add more and more information to the request. It was obvious they were looking for Legolas’ bow. Once I realized there was a pattern, the specifics, I kept the letters and emails together, including the original envelopes.” He dropped the folder on the desk and began to peruse the file as well. “I managed to go through older requests and glean several that matched.” He pointed at one. “As you can see, someone has gone to great pains to change their handwriting. The mailing envelopes as well come from different parts of the United States, Canada, and Great Britain.” He looked up at me and wagged his finger. “One was even from New Zealand! Our little want-to-be Bard is quite the jet setter.”

Bronwyn was back at the window, muttering, “Damn! I really did like ?omer!”

Severus stood next to the Elf, looking down at all the paper being spread out across the desk. “What am I looking at?”

Thranduil was spinning in the chair. “Why, my dear fellow, you are looking at the paper trail of all of Bronwyn’s trials. How about some lunch? Chinese, anyone?”

~*~
Through a glass eye your throne
Is the one danger zone
Take me to the pilot for control
Take me to the pilot of your soul

~*~

?

Several hours later, all four lay in the floor, the letters, emails, and envelopes in haphazard heaps amongst Chinese take-out. Bronwyn’s high-heeled boots were kicked off and thrown into a corner, much to Thranduil’s relief. Bronwyn lay on her back, her head propped in Snape’s lap, the last email from someone looking for Legolas’ bow in her hand. Severus was perusing the first letters, carefully examining them.

“This one,” he waved the second letter at the woman in his lap, “was not written by your thief.”

“How can you tell?”

“It was written under duress. The handwriting is not similar and is shaky, as if the writer was terrified or… hmmmm…”

“Hmmmm what?”

“Under compulsion,” he began. He laid the paper in his lap, his wand out and waving. “Yes. The writer was forced to pen this.” He grabbed another letter. “This one was also forced.” One by one, he checked each and every hand written letter. All of them showed traces of compulsion.

“What about the emails? How can we tell if they were forced as well?”

“It is electronic. I cannot. Is it possible to trace them to their original origin?” Three pairs of eyes focused on one elf.

“What you are asking for is called ‘hacking’ and yes, it can be done, but it takes time and it costs dearly. It is highly illegal.”

Thranduil leapt up from the floor. “I have money. How fast can you get in touch with this ‘hacker’?”

“It will have to be done quietly. I will contact him and let you know as soon as he has found something.”

“We might come up lucky,” Bronwyn removed herself from Severus’s numb leg and crawled to where her shoes were tossed. “If whoever thought they were safe behind a computer, we might come up lucky.”

“Now that we are that far,” Thranduil grabbed his suit coat and threw it on, “I believe it is near to late and I think I shall get lucky tonight!” He reached into his wallet and pulled out several large pound notes, tossing them on the floor next to the Wizard. “Take her to a nice restaurant and then to a five star hotel on me. Buy her an outfit like Lottie’s with extremely high heels. Enjoy yourselves tonight.”

With that, he turned and exited the room.

tbc