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This story is rated «NC-17», and carries the warnings «Implied and graphic non-con/rape, incest, prostitution, power games, angst».
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Simulacra (NC-17) 
Written by Vanwa Hravani09 November 2011 | 30013 words | Work in Progress
IX
He didn’t look up as a shadow fell across his bar. ‘What’ll it be sirs?’
‘We’re looking for an elf.’
Rolling his eyes as he continued wiping glasses, the man replied sourly, ‘Yeh can’t go comin’ in here treatin’ my place like it’s some kinda brothel. ‘Sides, he ain’t working just now. Come back later.’
‘We will see him now.’
‘Give ‘im a little peace, why don’cha? Quit yer demanding. Let ‘im sleep a bit.’
‘Now.’
Mumbling something rude about foreigners, the counterman finally raised his eyes to the insistent stranger with the odd accent, and caught his breath. The one before him had thrown back the hood of his cloak. Tall and stern, with a regal bearing and… something else. He knew an Elf Lord when he saw one. And two more flanking him besides, hooded and cloaked, and ready. He’d warrant they had swords under there, and those wicked curved knives he knew so well. Breathtaking workmanship. Deadly blades.
‘My apologies, my lord. Please forgive my rudeness. You’ve come for ‘im, eh? Upstairs, last door. Be… careful.’
Elrond replaced his hood and the three turned silently toward the stairs.
Like the Common Room, the hallway smelt of greasy smoke, rancid ale and too much humanity. The end of the hall smelt worse. Their knock was greeted by a fierce curse from inside and a vibration as something hit the door. Elrond strode in and threw back his cloak. A second string of Common Tongue obscenities erupted – and stopped short. On a grimy cot in the corner, Haldir’s eyes widened, then squinted in the blazing white light. His knees hit the warped wooden floor hard.
‘Forgive me, my lord. I did not know you.’ And he slid into unconsciousness.
Stifling his shock and trying not to breathe, Elladan quickly rifled the three drawers of the wooden chest. ‘Nothing here worth taking, Ada. Human rags, nothing else.’
‘Fine. Elrohir, carry him. Elladan, behind us.’
When they returned to the Common Room, the barman stood waiting, a small wooden trunk next to him on the bar.
‘He’ll be wantin’ this, my lord. Asked me to keep it safe from him… ah, for him… His special stuff. I put a couple bottles of kaihf in as well. He’ll… ah… need it. Every few hours. You’ll… know.’
He opened the lid of the box to reveal the deep red of the Marchwarden’s cloak. Nestled in its folds were two ivory handled knives and a jeweled hair clip in the shape of mallorn leaf.
At a nod from his father, Elladan lifted the box, keeping one hand free for his sword.
Elrond stood a moment before the barman, who swallowed nervously. The ancient one cleared his throat.
‘Thank you. For taking care of him.’
In a swirl of dark cloth, he was gone, leaving behind a large gold coin.
The barman closed his eyes, and sighed.
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I am looking forward to reading more of this – I adore all of the undercurrents in their relationship.
— pinbot Wednesday 6 August 2008, 20:25 #