A modern re-telling of Tam Lin, with Lorna as Janet and Thranduil as the titular Tam. AU of the Ettelëaverse.

I recently ran across the Scottish ballad Tam Lin, and of course my weird brain had to decide that would be a great AU of my already AU. Janet struck me as a very Lorna type of character, which naturally meant Thranduil had to be Tam Lin.

This was supposed to be a one-shot, but of course it ballooned, like every other goddamn thing I write. You don't need to have read any of the other Ettelëa stories for this to make sense.

The first time Gran warned Lorna about the woods, it was five days after Liam's funeral, and Lorna barely even heard her.

"Right, Gran," she said dutifully, staring at the smooth, bleached wood of a kitchen table far older than she was. At twenty-eight, she'd only met her Gran a week ago, but the old lady treated her as though they'd known one another all their lives - it was a refreshing change from Mairead, who tiptoed around her, as though afraid she might shatter at any given moment. But then, she hadn't known her sister any longer than her granny.

"I mean it, allanah," Gran said, pointing a ladle at her. Though she was as small and wiry as her granddaughter, Lorna imagined she could do some fierce damage with it. "Lord Thranduil lives in those woods, and he'll brook no trespassers."

"Who in bloody hell is Lord Thranduil?" This was Ireland, not flipping England. Mairead had assured her that Gran still had all her marbles, but now Lorna wondered.

"He's one'v the Fair Folk," Gran said, dead serious. "You go that way, you'll come back with child - if you come back at all. No one has in centuries."

Lorna felt the blood drain from her face. "Gran, that's not funny," she said, rising with difficulty and reaching for her crutches. She'd broken her right leg in the accident that cost her both Liam and her unborn child, and the blasted things were yet another reminder. Her dry eyes burned, but she hadn't been able to cry since Liam's funeral, no matter how much she wanted to.

Gran crossed the worn pine floor, surprisingly spry for a woman of ninety-three. "Sure God I'm sorry, allanah," she said, cupping Lorna's face in one callused hand. "I shouldn't've said that. Sit back down now and I'll make you a medicine."

Gran's 'medicine' was tea with a healthy dose of whiskey, which Lorna would gladly stick around for. The doctors had warned her to keep away from alcohol, but she and the bottle were old friends, and she could use all the friends she could get right now.

"The woods're on your land, Gran," she pointed out as she sat. "This Lord Thranduil's the trespasser, isn't he?" Surely her gran couldn't be mad enough to actually believe that.

"Was his land long before it was mine," Gran said, taking the copper kettle off its nail on the wall. "I leave him alone, and he leaves me alone. It's been like that as long as the family's lived here."

Maybe it wasn't madness. Every family needed its ghost stories.

That night, lying in her narrow bed in what had been Mairead's guest room, Lorna stared out the window at the full moon. She and Liam had lived out of their van for so long that such a soft mattress felt uncomfortably alien, and made sleeping difficult - not that she minded, for when she slept, she dreamt of the accident, over and over, felt the icy water of the Shannon trying to suck her into its depths.

What was she to do with her life now? Mairead seemed to think that eventually she'd settle down to normal, but for most of Lorna's life, 'normal' had been sleeping rough in a warehouse. She'd not even got her Junior Certificate at school, and she'd yet to hold a proper, legal job. She wasn't at all prepared for a world of 'normal'.

Mairead was so very different from the rest of her siblings. Mam had only been seventeen when she'd had her, so Gran had raised her - she'd escaped Lorna's way of life, so they had next to nothing in common. It had come as a shock, if a good one, that she'd so readily opened her home to Lorna, though they'd never met before.

For that alone Lorna would try to adapt to 'normal', though she was enough of a realist to know that she might not succeed. Still, she owed it to Mairead to try.

The second time Gran spoke of Lord Thranduil was in May - an unseasonably warm and sunny May. Once Lorna's cast was off, she'd taken to wandering the fields, often aimlessly, marveling at all the green. Having grown up in the seedier side of Dublin, she and green were not well acquainted.

Since she hadn't yet got a job, she helped Gran quite a bit - the old lady flatly refused to hire any help, bur family was another matter entirely. They were whitewashing the walls - actual whitewash, not paint - with fresh air and sunshine streaming in through the open windows.

"I hope your ramblings haven't taken you to Lord Thranduil's woods," Grain said, dipping her brush into the pail.

Lorna smiled. There wasn't much that could make her smile, but Gran often managed it. "Of course they haven't, Gran," she said. "I'm not dead or up the yard, am I?"

Gran fixed her with a beady blue eye. "See that you don't. And for God's sake will you keep your hair out of the pail? You ought to pin it up." She touched her own braid, which was wound around her head like a snow-white crown.

Lorna looked at the end of her own braid; sure enough, a good two inches of the black had been soaked in whitewash. Mairead had been after her to cut it for months now, but Lorna wasn't having with it. Both Mam and Liam had loved brushing it, so it was staying past her bum, whether Mairead liked it or not.

"Whitewash is good for it," she said. "Like conditioner."

Gran snorted, but made no comment.

When Lorna went home that evening - and how strange it was, to have a home - she found Mairead had signed her up for bartending classes.

"Big Jamie says you'll not need a Leaving Certificate for that," she said, handing her the paperwork. "He's forever saying he can't keep staff - they're all off to the city as soon as they've enough work history under their belt."

Lorna was genuinely touched. "Mairead, I've no idea how I'll ever repay you for all'v this."

"You're my sister," Mairead said. "I'll have no talk of payment." She sounded like just like Gran, though they looked nothing alike - Mairead was tall and curvy, with a head of carrot-red, rampantly curly hair, and a face dotted with freckles. Her blue eyes were so like Mam's that sometimes it physically hurt to look at them.

"You'll start on Monday, so try to get some sleep the next few nights," she added.

Well, Lorna could try. She doubted she'd succeed, but she'd try.

On her first day of training, some idiot tried to grab Lorna's nonexistent bum, and she punched him so hard she dislocated his jaw and knocked out two of his teeth.

Big Jamie - well over six feet tall, with a face as red as his hair - burst out laughing, threw the idiot out onto the street, and clapped her on the back so hard he nearly drove the breath from her.

"You, I like," he said. "Who taught you that?"

"My old gang leader, Shane," she said, unspeakably relieved that she wasn't the one who'd got the boot. "He'd done a stint in the Army - taught us all sorts'v stuff."

"In here, you'll have use for that, from time to time," he said, still laughing. "You'll not abandon me for the big city, will you?"

"Sure God no. I grew up there, and I can't say as I'd recommend it."

"Good. Feel free to do that if any'v the drunks get rowdy."

Her course took six weeks, and she was surprised to find how much she genuinely enjoyed it. Maybe 'normal' wasn't so bad after all.

Once she'd properly started work, she managed to go a whole week without actually hitting someone - a bit amazing, considering how crowded the place often was in the evening. It was big and dark and smoky, for Big Jamie cheerfully ignored the law against smoking in pubs, and the village constables didn't seem to care.

The counter - dark mahogany, slathered with what had to be an inch of varnish - was too tall for her, so Jamie gave her a little footstool to drag around. Mixing the drinks wasn't exactly hard, but she still felt a real sense of accomplishment when people liked how she'd made them.

But, perhaps inevitably, a fight broke out on the seventh night. Big Jamie wasn't on hand to break it up - it was only her and Michael, a weedy lad of twenty-two, who looked as though a strong breeze would break him in half.

With a sigh, she hopped over the counter, squeezing between two patrons who seemed more interested in their Guinness than the fight. She had no idea who'd started it, or why, but the crash of breaking glass told her someone was smashing mugs.

She didn't recognize either of the men, but they looked like they could be brothers - medium height, with dark hair and eyes the same shade of hazel. One of them had a large, bleeding gash on his forehead, while the other had already acquired a split lip.

"Out, both'v you," she said, grabbing the nearest and shoving him toward the door. Lorna might be little, but she was extremely strong - not just for her size, but for a person in general, and the bloke seemed extremely surprised she could move him so easily.

"I'm not done with him!" the other one roared, and Lorna rolled her eyes.

"I didn't say you were," she said. "I said out. Your quarrel's your quarrel, but you'll not have it in here."

He made the extreme tactical mistake of grabbing her braid and yanking on it, hard. He started to say something, but she didn't give him the chance - she released his brother, snatched up the nearest mug, still half full of beer, and brained him with it.

Beer steins were heavy things, and didn't shatter like they did in movies, but it did drop him like a stone, and sprayed everyone within five feet with beer. She was going to have to wash the floor after closing, dammit.

There was a moment of silence, and then the crowd erupted with laughter.

When it finally died down, she said, "All right, you lot, here's the thing: I don't care what you do to each other, as long as you do it outside. I've done worse to people before now."

"What, a little thing like you?" someone asked. "What's the worst you can do?"

Lorna looked at him. "Let's just say I've done time for manslaughter, and leave it at that. You can ask Big Jamie - he's got all my records."

Silence followed that. It wasn't normally something she would share, but in this business, it might be a help.

People were suspiciously well-behaved for the rest of the night, but even when her shift ended, Lorna's veins were still singing with adrenaline.

Rather than walk straight home, she called Mairead to let her know she'd be in late, and went to wander the moonlit fields. She still hadn't got used to how pure and clear the air was, and even though it was well after dark, it was still rather warm.

It had been ages since she'd lamped anyone out like that, and it felt absolutely wonderful. She felt practically giddy as her bare feet whispered over the grass - she'd left her boots at the edge of the field, needing to feel the earth beneath her.

Eventually, her ramblings took her to the edge of the woods. She was honestly surprised that such a large patch of obviously ancient forest hadn't been chopped down ages ago. The trees were mostly beech and oak, so huge they had to be hundreds of years old. Surely they should have been cut down for firewood ages ago.

The canopy was so thick that only tiny shafts of moonlight pierced it, which left the interior unsettlingly dark. Anything could be living in there. It was hardly wilderness, and yet it felt like it should be. One thing was for certain - no way was she going in there at night.

"Do you not get lonely?" she asked, feeling like a bit of an idiot. "I mean, really, you can only take being a hermit for so long, right? Maybe someday I'll fetch my guitar, and sing you a song. Everyone likes music, right?"

Of course she got no answer. Wasn't it odd, how old superstitions could last so lo-

She didn't have a chance to finish the thought, for she caught a pair of the palest eyes she'd ever seen watching her from the darkness. They were human eyes, and yet…not.

Lorna ran like buggery.

She didn't get much sleep, but by the next morning, she'd convinced herself it had been her imagination - because really, what else could it be?

She went down to the kitchen, which was both crowded and loud - all four of her nieces and nephews were already at the table, inhaling pancakes and talking at cross-purposes. It meant that Lorna didn't have to say anything while she ate her own breakfast, idly wondering how Mairead got her pancakes so very fluffy. She'd been trying to teach Lorna to cook, but Lorna still hadn't even figured out the vagaries of their gas stove, and so far it had been an exercise in futility.

The kids scampered out before she was finished eating, so she actually had a chance to ask, "How come those woods are still standing? Those've got to be some'v the oldest trees in Ireland."

"Nobody'd dare cut down Lord Thranduil's trees," Mairead said, plugging the sink and turning on the tap.

"You can't tell me you believe that." Lorna couldn't imagine sensible, level-headed Mairead buying into superstitions.

"The whole village believes it," her sister said, dead serious. "Stay away from those woods, Lorna. I mean it."

Lorna stared at her. Mairead didn't seem to be joking at all. "And how does anyone know he's there?" she asked. "Popped up and rung the bell, have they?"

"People go in, from time to time, looking for him," Mairead said. "None'v them have ever come out. You can't understand, not being born here."

"I guess not," Lorna muttered. Weird.

The next few days, she asked about it at work, always questioning why the woods were still sanding, and discovered Mairead was right: everybody believed it. Even Big Jamie, who didn't look the sort to have any imagination at all, set down the mug he was wiping.

"No doubt you think we're all cracked," he said seriously, "being from the city and all, but it's true. Nobody goes near that place."

"I did," she said, "and I'm fine."

He paled. He actually paled. "You shouldn't have done that," he said. "Don't go back. Just don't. If he's seen you…."

"If he's seen me, what?" she asked, both amused and a little creeped out. "I didn't go in. He can't say I've trespassed, because I haven't."

"They say he walks outside the forest at night," Big Jamie said, and actually bloody crossed himself. Jesus, was it the Slender Man they were talking about here? "He might come looking for you."

Lorna snorted. "He can look all he likes. I'll choke him out with my braid." She'd actually done that once, so she knew it was possible.

Big Jamie just shook his head, and she decided she'd head out to those bloody woods her next day off, and prove to everyone that they really were cracked.

Monday morning, she cadged Mairead's digital camera, packed herself a lunch, and headed off into the sunshine. The whole summer had been ridiculously warm - for the first time in history, they were facing a water-shortage, which boggled her. She hadn't thought that could be possible in Ireland.

At least it made her walk pleasant. She'd head into the forest, snap some pictures, and be home in time for dinner. She just hoped there weren't any vicious animals, which was the only real reason she could think of for going in and never coming out - assuming that had ever actually happened, and wasn't just part of the superstition.

The woods were a lot more inviting during daylight. Having spent most of her life in Dublin, she hadn't really seen nature in person, and so couldn't identify most of the green undergrowth, but it was still pretty.

Not that there was a lot to identify. The canopy being as thick as it was, the ground was mostly moss and stone and little else. Taking Mairead's camera from her pack, she snapped away, following the line of a little creek. There was nothing unusual to be seen for a good half mile, until she rounded a bend in the stream and found something that stopped her in her tracks.

Roses, thousands of them, red and white and pink, scaling the bark of half a dozen trees. What in God's name were roses doing in the middle of an Irish forest? She didn't think they were native, but what the hell did she know? She'd take one to Gran, and get her opinion.

Picking a rose, she soon discovered, was not an easy thing, and she pricked the hell out of her fingers in the process. Eventually the stem snapped, and she paused to inhale its fragrance.

"Why have you taken a rose, little Lorna, and come here against my command?"

Lorna nearly jumped out of her skin, dropping Mairead's camera - which, of course, cracked open as soon as it hit the stone. Shit.

She turned, and found herself confronted with the tallest man she had ever seen - he had to be six-five, easily. His hair was long and silver-blond, his face like something carved from luminous white marble, and he wore some kind of flowing silvery robe that shimmered in the sunlight. His pale eyes, however, were a little too familiar.

"You are fucking kidding me," she said. Her every instinct told her to run like hell, but she couldn't move. In answer, all she could say was the first thing that popped into her head: "It's my gran's land, I'll do what I want."

He arched one impressively thick eyebrow. "This has been my land since long before your people arrived. You trespass, little Lorna." His voice was rich and deep, his accent not at all Irish.

How the hell did he know her name? It wasn't a question worth sticking around to ask. "Uh-huh, well, I'll just see myself out," she said - and booked it.

Or tried to, anyway. She hadn't got more than three steps before a long-fingered white hand clamped around her left arm with a strength that was honestly terrifying - Jesus, he had to move faster than a snake. Her heart lurched, adrenaline flooding her veins and jagging along her nerves.

Lorna rounded on him, but he actually managed to catch her other arm before she could hit him, and holy shit, she was going to die here, wasn't she?

"Kill me and I'll haunt you," she said, hardly aware of what left her mouth.

His expression was amused, not murderous, and though his grip was tight, it wasn't painful. "I will not kill you, little Lorna," he said, "if you sing me a song. You promised you would, did you not?"

That she had, though at the moment she couldn't think of a single song. "Could you maybe let go'v me first? I think we've established I can't run away." This close, she could smell him - something rich and spicy and alien, and far too distracting.

To her relief, he did, and she hopped up onto a tall boulder, feeling a need to close their height difference a bit. She couldn't look at him and think, so she shut her eyes, and her brain actually coughed up a song.

"If I ever leave this world alive
I'll thank for all the things you did in my life
If I ever leave this world alive
I'll come back down and sit beside your
feet tonight
Wherever I am you'll always be
More than just a memory
If I ever leave this world alive

She had a decent enough voice that she'd successfully panhandled with it and her guitar, and though her heart still thundered, she somehow kept it from wavering.

"If I ever leave this world alive
I'll take on all the sadness
That I left behind
If I ever leave this world alive
The madness that you feel will soon subside
So in a word don't shed a tear
I'll be here when it all gets weird
If I ever leave this world alive"

It was easier now, focusing on the words, rather than on her currently unseen companion. She just hoped to God he'd let her out again when she was through.

"So when in doubt just call my name
Just before you go insane
If I ever leave this world
Hey I may never leave this world
But if I ever leave this world alive"

Liam had loved this song - she'd sung it to him sometimes while they drove, since the van's radio didn't work. Her throat tried to lose with tears she couldn't shed, and she ruthlessly shoved it away.

"She says I'm okay; I'm alright,
Though you have gone from my life
You said that it would,
Now everything should be all right"

When she opened her eyes, she jumped again. Thranduil had silently drawn very near, so near that she could see flecks of silver in his arctic eyes. Her perch was high enough that his face was close to hers, close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath.

"Thank you, little Lorna," he said, tracing his fingers down her cheek. She ought to have slapped him for it - she really didn't like being touched by strangers - but somehow it didn't occur to her to do so. His fingers were cool, and inhumanly smooth.

"Can I go now?" she asked, her voice cracking.

"Not yet," he said, tracing his thumb over her jaw. "You have given me something, and now I will give you something in return."

Before she could speak, he closed the distance between them and kissed her, gentle and soft, his hand slipping through her hair to cradle the back of her head.

Lorna drew a sharp, startled breath, and he slipped his tongue between her parted lips, exploring her mouth with devastating thoroughness. He tasted like wine and spice and something else, something she suspected was pure Thranduil, and while part of her brain told her there was something very wrong with this, the rest of it couldn't figure out what.

She didn't protest when he stepped closer, standing between her legs, pulling her against him, his free arm wrapping around her back. Her hands came up to rest on the silvery brocade of his robes as he kissed her breathless.

Her vision was actually starting to darken around the edges by the time he let her up for air, his mouth traveling the line of her jaw. When he reached her neck he bit her just beneath her ear - not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make her moan. How could he know how much she liked that?

She felt him smile against her skin. He kissed his way down her neck, while his hands stole beneath her grey tank top - such large hands, his fingers so long they could almost span the width of her back with just one hand. Lorna shivered as they trailed up her spine, his fingers pressing with just enough pressure to make her gasp and arch against him.

When he laughed, she felt it as much as heard it. "One moment, Lorna," he said, stepping back and shedding his robe. He had some kind of black, high-collared tunic beneath it, with about a billion tiny buttons, and once he'd draped the silvery fabric on a patch of moss, he went to work on them, watching her all the while.

This was wrong, she was sure of it, but a strange, hazy warmth had suffused her mind, quite different from the heat of desire that pooled low in her belly. Her fingers itched to touch all that smooth porcelain skin - she wanted to feel him, to taste him, and from the heat in his eyes, it was mutual. She stripped off her tank top, leaving only the sports bra she didn't really need, her movements strangely drunken. Still, she couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious; she didn't just have the body of a pre-pubescent girl, she had a number of nasty scars from a lifetime of misadventure.

"You are beautiful, Lorna," Thranduil said, dropping his tunic carelessly onto the ground. He pulled her close, kissing her again, and she shivered at the feel of his skin against hers. Beneath her hands, the broad plane of his back didn't have a single blemish or imperfection, and she felt the shift in his muscles when he lifted her off the rock, depositing her carefully onto his robe. She'd never touched silk before, but that had to be what it was made of, for it was so very soft.

Again Thranduil kissed her, deep and hungry, and Lorna moaned when his hand slipped beneath the waistband of her jeans, his long fingers stroking and teasing. The heat in her belly went up a few degrees, and she tried to arch into his touch.

"Patience, Lorna," he laughed. "We have time." He removed his hand so that he could take her bra off, leaving her exposed and uncertain.

He arched an eyebrow, pure wickedness in his pale eyes. "Did I not tell you that you are beautiful?" he asked, and his silvery hair whispered over her skin as he kissed his way down her sternum, unsnapping and unzipping her jeans as he went. He stripped both them and her knickers off in one disturbingly smooth movement, tossing her sandals out of the way.

Before she could say a thing, he gently parted her legs, and then his mouth was on her, and what little rational thought she had fled.

His hands gripped her hips with that terrifying strength, keeping her pinned in place while his tongue possibly worked literal magic on her. Normally Lorna wasn't exactly vocal during sex, but he had her whimpering inside of thirty seconds, his tongue unerringly finding the little bundle of nerves that made her try desperately to arch, lapping at her with the delicacy of a cat, with the occasional long, slow lick that left her writhing as much as she actually could. Her legs were trembling, and she was so close, so close, but he didn't seem willing to let her over the edge.

"Oh, come on, Thranduil!" she whined, barely resisting the urge to kick him in the back.

He laughed, but obliged her - one last suckle and flick of his tongue was all it took, and she came so hard her vision actually went white, ecstasy firing along her every nerve like lightning. She keened, low in her throat, shuddering as aftershocks of pleasure sparked through her.

"Jesus goddamn Christ," she groaned. Her legs were so rubbery she doubted she'd be standing any time soon.

"Oh, I'm far from through with you, little Lorna," Thranduil said, and she'd swear his voice had dropped an octave. It actually made her toes curl into the silky fabric beneath her.

He eased two of his long, long fingers into her, stroking and exploring, thrusting slowly in and out, and God, was he trying to drive her insane? He was finding places inside her she hadn't known existed, places that had stars dancing behind her eyes and sounds of almost animal need spilling from her throat.

He laughed again, very quietly, and bent his head to kiss her, not seeming to mind at all when she sank her hands in his hair, biting on his lower lip. The pace of his fingers picked up, fucking her hard and deep, but his kisses were light and almost chaste, and when he stroked something deep within her, her muscles locked up from the sheer force of her climax, drawing a ragged, guttural cry from her chest. That was - that was - she didn't even have words for what that was.

She was still trying - and failing - to catch her breath when Thranduil scooped her up, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her onto his lap. "I would rather not crush you, little Lorna," he said, smiling down at her, and oh, he was beautiful when he smiled - he was always beautiful, but just now he seemed far less remote.

Lorna couldn't actually formulate a response - all she could do was run her hands up his chest, and wrap her arms around his neck, letting his hair slip through her fingers like water.

He bent his head and kissed her even as he slowly thrust into her - mercifully slowly, for it had been nearly a year since she'd last been with Liam, and Thranduil wasn't exactly lacking in that department.

His canyon-deep groan when he was fully inside her might just have been the sexiest thing she'd ever heard in her life, and the ragged exhale that followed made her shiver.

Thankfully, he waited a moment before he moved, and Lorna cried out when he did, her blunt nails digging into his back. His hair tickled over her shoulders as he kissed her again, his pace gentle but relentless, and Lorna didn't think she'd ever felt this beautiful, this wanted. It made him arch into him without thought or reserve or shame, craving every possible point of contact they could have, even as he thrust harder and faster and she thought she might honestly lose her mind.

He wound his hand in her hair, pulling her head back, and again bit just beneath her ear, thrusting exceptionally deep as he did, and Lorna nearly screamed, her nails scoring down his back, all but sobbing in her pleasure.

Thranduil buried his face in her hair, growling low in his throat as his movements became more erratic, until he thrust up into her one last, delicious time, groaning as he spent himself.

Lorna was still gasping when he gently laid her down on his robe, lying beside her and pulling her close. Her body was sheened with sweat, but his skin remained dry and smooth. His fingers played idly through her hair, stroking along her arm.

She knew she probably ought to say something, but she had no idea what. Sleep was already dragging her relentlessly downward.

When Lorna woke, she was fully dressed, wrapped up in Thranduil's robe, and alone. And very, very sore.

She'd been asleep for hours - it was fully dark, the faint light of the waning moon filtering through the trees.

Mairead was going to kill her. And not just for the camera.

Lorna was a terrible liar; if asked, she was going to have to tell her sister that she'd gone into the woods - though she had no intention of mentioning that their owner had literally fucked her senseless. That was private, thank you very much.

She pressed her face against the robe, inhaling deeply - it smelled like musk and spice and Thranduil, masculine and alien all at once. She wanted to take it with her, but that would be horribly rude, so she folded it as neatly as she could, leaving it on the bed of moss.

Wincing as she walked, she groped for the remnants of Mairead's camera, stashing the pieces in her pack before stumbling and tripping her way back to the forest's edge. Warm though the day had been, it was chilly now, and she hurried her way home under the stars. Jesus, it felt like she'd been reamed out with a damn hoe-handle; she needed a hot bath ASAP.

Mairead, predictably, was furious that she hadn't called - but she paled when she saw the leaves in her sister's hair. "Lorna, where have you been?" she asked faintly.

"The woods," Lorna admitted. "I took some pictures, dropped your camera - I'll buy you a new one, by the way - and had a chat with Lord Thranduil. He isn't half creepy, too."

Mairead actually looked ready to faint. "He didn't kill you."

"Well, duh. He said he'd let me go if I sang him a song," Lorna said, grabbing a beer out of the fridge, "so I did. We talked a bit, I took a very long nap, and now I'm home."

Mairead still looked ready to keel over at a moment's notice. "I'll not have you going back there again, Lorna," she warned.

"I've no plans to." Except…part of her did sort of want to. How strange it was, to have something so…so supernatural so very near by. Maybe she would go visit Thranduil again someday, and bring her guitar.

Lorna's next few weeks were too busy for her to think of going anywhere. As a means of earning a little extra cash, she helped the farmers bring in the hay on her days off, which left her exhausted enough that she slept easily.

By the time September came, her already dark skin was even browner, and she was feeling distinctly irritable. The smell of beer also turned her stomach, which made work a bit of a nightmare. It got to the point where it was actively making her sick, leaving her running for the toilets multiple times during her shifts.

"This is absolute crap," she groaned, rinsing her mouth out and spitting into the cracked porcelain sink.

When she opened the door, Big Jamie was on the other side. "Don't you look terrible," he said.

"I love you too," she snorted.

"Lorna, listen, if you're in the family way, I've got to hire someone for when you're off on leave," he said. "And whoever the da is, he'd best do right by you."

Lorna felt the blood drain from her face. "I can't - oh, Christ," she groaned. "Well, this is a mess and a half." She'd already been knocked up once - she ought to have recognized the symptoms herself.

"Who's the da, Lorna?" he asked, clearly ready to tear the man a new one.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," she sighed. "I didn't think I could get up the yard again."

"Lorna," he said again, "who's the da? I'm not old-fashioned enough to say you ought to get married, but he's got to stand by you anyway."

She glanced up and down the short corridor, then grabbed the front of his shirt and dragged him into the Ladies', shutting the door behind them. "You've got to promise me you'll not breathe a word'v this to anyone," she said. "Anyone, Jamie. The da, he's…he's not from the village."

"That's not helping, Lorna."

She grimaced. "I went and had a visit with Lord Thranduil a while ago," she said, "and evidently came out with more than I went in with."

Amusingly enough, Big Jamie's reaction was rather like Mairead's. He staggered and sat down on the toilet, ashen-faced. "You - are you daft? Lorna, he could have killed you!"

"Yeah, well, he didn't," she sighed. "If you really have to know, I sang him a song and we shagged like rabbits, okay? I didn't expect I'd have this little complication. Mairead'll kill me."

"You're not - keeping it, are you?"

"Of course I am. I lost the first one - I'll not lose this one, too." At least she'd got a baby, and not some supernatural STD. Would Elf herpes make you break out in glitter? Probably.

Big Jamie swallowed. "Lorna, Lord Thranduil's not human," he said. "Who knows what carrying this child will do to you?"

"I'll just have to find out, now won't I? Remember, Jamie - not a word. To anyone."

Lorna was smart enough to get Mairead drunk before she dropped that bomb on her, careful to disguise the fact that there wasn't any alcohol in her own mixers.

The kids had gone to bed, and Kevin was watching TV in the lounge, so the pair of them sat on the back deck, watching the sunset. There was a bit of a bite in the night air now, and Lorna sat wrapped in a fluffy red afghan.

"Lord Thranduil knocked me up," she said - unfortunately, just as her sister was taking a sip of her Mai-Tai. Pink liquid went shooting out her nose, and she broke into a hacking cough, upending the drink all over her lap.

Oops.

"What?" Mairead demanded, still coughing.

Lorna sighed. "Lord Thranduil knocked me up. I've got an alien baby, like Scully on The X-Files. Except getting mine was a lot more fun."

Mairead stared at her, helplessly. "Lorna…." She started, but trailed off. "I ought to strangle you."

"Why?" Lorna genuinely wondered.

"Because…because. Lorna, you can't just go shagging the Fair Folk and not expecting any consequences!"

"I cannot believe that just came out of your mouth. I'll be fine, Mairead. I've got another chance to be a mam."

"To a child who won't be human," Mairead pointed out.

"It'll be half human," Lorna said. "And it can go have play-dates with its da, or whatever, if he's interested."

Mairead buried her face in her hands.

Big Jamie must have kept his word, for no one else looked at her like she was a dead woman walking.

What was hilarious - and rather touching - was how solicitous and overprotective every single bloody patron became, as soon as she began to show - which, at her diminutive size, only took another fortnight. The men were especially bad about it; apparently, even the worst reprobates were hard-wired to look after pregnant women. They wouldn't let her lift anything - they even cleaned up the tables after themselves, and Mick, the man she'd lamped out with a beer mug, often stayed after, to help her mop the floor.

It was surprisingly easy for her to put off naming the father, though she didn't trust that to last once the kid was actually born. She'd planned to keep it to herself as long as she could - a plan that was dashed to pieces when the man himself strolled brazenly into the pub.

He wasn't wearing the robe this time - now he had on a long black coat, high-collared like his tunic, his silvery hair free. Lorna nearly dropped the bottle of vodka she was holding.

The general murmur quieted as everyone regarded this stranger - this very strange stranger. She doubted anyone would know who he was, give than she was apparently the only one who had seen him and lived, but he was imposing as hell.

"And here was me thinking you were meant to be sneaky," she said, setting down the bottle. "This isn't exactly sneaky."

"You did not come back," he said, arching an eyebrow and taking a hastily-vacated seat at the bar.

"I didn't know that you wanted me to," she retorted. "Anyway, I've been busy. And pregnant," she added pointedly.

He smirked. "I did say I would give you something, did I not?"

"I didn't think this was what you had in mind," she said dryly. She was surprised at how very glad she was to see him, and not just because he was so easy on the eyes. She'd wondered about him quite a bit since that day. "D'you want a drink?"

"Your people have not made decent alcohol in centuries," he said. "Once you have had your child, you must taste some of my wine."

Now it was Lorna who arched an eyebrow. "I think I already did," she said. "Wouldn't say no to more, mind you."

"Lorna, is this the bloke what knocked you up?" Michael asked.

"That would be him," she said, still looking at Thranduil. "Up to you whether or not they know your name yet, mate."

"But they do know my name," he said, taking her right hand - it looked positively tiny in his own. "They've known it for hundreds of years."

Some bright (or at least, sober) spark must have worked that out, for there was a sharp gasp, and the scrape of a chair as somebody scooted away.

"Walk with me tonight, Lorna, when you are free." There was a strange, almost wistful yearning in his pale eyes, and she wondered if he really was lonely.

She smiled. "Okay. But I've got to ring my sister first, or she'll have the bloody Guarda out looking for me."

He returned her smile, kissed her hand, and left without looking at anyone else.

There was quiet for a moment, and then Alec, twin of Mick the Drunk, spoke. "Lorna," he said, sounding both shaken and pained, "tell me Lord Thranduil isn't the father'v your sprog?"

Lorna pinched the bridge of her nose. "I can't, because he is. I didn't think he'd ever come here, though, because I thought he didn't do that."

"He doesn't," old Orla said, crossing herself. Her blue eyes were wide with real fear. "You…and him…?"

Lorna rolled her eyes. "Yes, me and him. Jesus, d'you want details or something?"

"I could stand to hear a few," Dai said, and grunted when someone elbowed him.

She smirked. "I'll give you just one to chew on: the things that man can do with his tongue shouldn't be legal."

She had to fight not to laugh at old Orla's expression, which went from fearful to thoughtful.

Lorna carefully didn't tell Mairead why she'd be out late - just that she would. Once she'd closed up shop, she found Thranduil out back, patiently waiting.

"You're lurking without a permit," she said, and took his arm when he offered it. The air was downright chilly, but a walk would warm her up.

"I do not know what a 'permit' is, but it sound unpleasant," he said. "There is too much stone in your village, Lorna. I don't like it."

"How did you know my name?" she asked, looking up at him. In the moonlight, he almost seemed to glow.

"Lurking," he said, a little smugly, "without a permit. You intrigued me, the night you visited the edge of my forest, and I followed you home."

"Because that's not creepy," she said, shivering a little.

"I could hardly court you if I did not know your name."

She halted, dragging him to a stop as well. "Court me?" she asked. "Why?"

There was a thread of sorrow in his pale eyes. "Nobody has ever offered to give me something without expectation of anything in return."

"What, never?" She didn't know how old he was, but it had to be at least a few hundred years. That was appalling.

His lips twitched into a humorless smile. "I have been given many gifts to appease me - to keep me where I belong. No one has ever gifted me anything simply because they wanted to."

"Okay, first off, that's horrible, and second off, as soon as I learn how to cook, I'm baking you a pie. I'd say let's go get drunk, but I'm off the stuff until I pop this kid out."

Thranduil actually laughed, and she couldn't help but smile back. "I look forward to both," he said.

"Good. You can't beat booze and pie, especially together."

The pie, naturally, is a reference to Lee Pace's role on Pushing Daisies. I don't own the song Lorna sings - that's "If I Ever Leave this World Alive" by Flogging Molly.

Title means "surprise" in Irish. Drop me a review and tell me if this is worth continuing or not.