A Game of Chess: Chapter One

A Hatred Born

Rating: PG-13 (for future violence, certain inappropriate scenes, and what not). Rating will be eventually upped to an R.

Genre: Angst/Drama/Romance. Erestor, chief counselor to Elrond, harbors secret emotions that may be fatal to his reputation if discovered. In particular, animosity towards Isildur's heir, and contrary sentiments for Arwen. Takes place during the Fellowship's stay in Rivendell; co-stars other characters.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, for they are property of JRR Tolkien, creator of Middle-Earth. And as for all original characters, perhaps they own themselves.

A/N: Read, review, and flame at your whim. Constructive criticism and plot suggestions always welcome. I sort of have a liking for elf-dramas; I have two others in the works, The Carnival of Sovereigns and A Tale of Lothlorien Woods. Unlike the previous two, however, this elf-drama has all the characters of the Fellowship and non-elf supporting cast in it (alright, maybe not all, but most of them). Also, I thought Elrond's reaction to his own right-hand man lusting after his precious daughter would be

Ahem *cough cough*and there's always poor Aragorn's reaction, too

So, let the madness commence

A Game of Chess

A Hatred Born

Arwen Undomiel, the elven Evenstar, sat in her favorite armchair upon one of the many marble terraces of Rivendell. In her hand was held a half-finished shawl, netted out of gray silk cord; upon the plinth of the marble column next to her was perched a tray scattered with the pearls and white stones she was embroidering her handiwork with. The silver needle in her small hands would flick, in and out, in and out; and sometimes it would stop at intervals when its user would lift her head and gaze out at the lush paradise, keen elven ears picking up a particularly sweet bird-call. But it had been such a long time since needlework and fair sights were able to give avail to her precarious emotions. Aragorn had practically vanished into the wild; a few years ago she had heard her father Elrond speaking of how he and Gandalf the Grey had met up in Mirkwood, and were seeing to confidential business in that woodland; but that was all she had heard of him ever since they had parted in Lothlorien, some thirty years and more ago.

Out of the corner of her eye a pair of leather boots appeared in the portal, stopping just as they entered. Arwen, still bent over her embroidery, did not lift her head up to see who the boots belonged to — but a faint chill resounded through her heart, and she shuddered ever so slightly. The echo of trepidation within her prevented her curiosity from taking the better of her. She almost knew who stood in those shiny black things, and she dreaded him — it was not her father, for he never wore black on his feet — and it could not have been him - Estel. They approached slowly, the sound of their falling echoing throughout the terrace; and at length they halted — barely a yard from where her own sandal-clad feet rested. But, motivated by a sudden rush of courage and defiance, her curiosity won, and, pausing her movements, she glanced up at the intruder. And as soon as the courage had come on, it faded away again — to be replaced by disappointment. For it was indeed, him,; not her love, the Dunedain, but the very one she had guessed and dreaded.

Erestor, chief counselor and advisor to Lord Elrond, stood in front of Arwen, clad in his usual velvet floes of black and underlying silver. A slight pink tinge lingered in his otherwise pale cheeks — an unusual sight upon the face of an elf lord of his stature — and his dark irises flickered with an insatiable gleam. Arwen knew that under strong light his eyes would appear some species of indigo-violet, but right now they were as black as a smooth Palantir stone, riddled they were with some mysterious glint; and no less dark was his hair, as it fluttered slightly from a gentle incoming breeze. And at the moment, although Erestor said naught, his gaze remained fixed upon the Evenstar, cool, yet blazing, at the same time. Arwen sat up slightly taller. What had she been thinking a few moments before, that a princess, one of the House of Earendil and Elrond, would have to be afraid of some nobody in comparison? Even if the way he now gazed upon her could only fuel her growing suspicion of him. She set her needlework down on her lap and stared back, impassively and as dignified as she could, at him.

There reigned a lengthy, awkward pause between the two of them, before any of them spoke, melting away the thick silence. "My lady Evenstar," intoned Erestor, and his eyes flashed as he lilted with his harp-like voice. Arwen felt something stir within her and a forced, contemptuous half-smile twisted at her red lips.

"Erestor," she simply said.

The elf-lord's dark eyes swayed and lingered across her lithe, poised form, before it fell upon the abandoned handiwork that was backdropped against the cerulean silk of her garment. Daringly, he reached out a hand and fingered the creation briefly, before the look in Arwen's eyes forced him to withdraw.

"You simply get cleverer and cleverer by the day, Princess," Erestor purred, mouth curling into a smile. "I have not seen any of the handmaidens of Galadriel in Lorien weave a more cunning piece from a simple ball of thread." Arwen observed as the hand that had just touched the gray shawl wandered to his face and momentarily grazed his lips.

"I thank you for that assessment," she replied, her wont completely devoid of emotion. Her gray eyes, however, told Erestor otherwise, as she eyed him back almost malevolently. "And pray, what brings you here to converse with me?"

Erestor raised a fine eyebrow and gave a light shrug of the shoulders, making his sleeves rustle as he did so. Arwen cocked an eyebrow. "I was wondering if any company wouldlift your spirits, my Lady. I see that you are quite sad, every day — and I know not of the reason. Is there anything that I can do, to make you happy, Lady Evenstar?" Arwen deduced that her expression had to have lightened some, for Erestor sighed and extended a slender index finger, tucking a stray tress of ebony behind a pale pointed ear. "You know that I would do anything to please you, Princess."

A smile crept back onto Arwen's face at the words, but it was, if possible, even more forced than the last. "Anything to please me?" she echoed, a hint of incredulity playing in her voice.

Erestor drew in breath sharply, seeing the door of Chance open a small increment. "Anything," he whispered back, and he leaned forward a little.

Arwen snorted and fell back into her chair, jarring Erestor out of the fantasy he had fallen into. "Then, my lord, would kindly leave me in peace?" she said vehemently. Arwen then dropped her head and caught it with a hand of hers. "I am tortured, Erestor, and I have been living in this torture for yearsall I can think of is him"

The writhing snakes in Erestor's stomach had somehow spontaneously disappeared, leaving a total void in his chest, and his fleeting hope was quenched. And, before he knew it, against his volition, his shoulders were shaking. "Him?" he said faintly, and fell as if his head were swirling.

Arwen gasped, and her cheeks reddened. Oh, Nienna damn me, how could I have been so stupid? she cried at herself. I gave Estel away! But then, peeping up just a tiny bit, she caught the stunned expression on Erestor's face — and that emboldened her slightly. Then her wit flooded back into her again; and she sat straight up and pasted a huge, beaming grin on her face. Of course she wanted the foul elf-lord to know that she was already taken — it would at least discourage him and force him to keep his distance.

"Whyyes!" she mewed back, and she tapped the arms of her chair with her white fingers. "Him. The one whom I have given my heart to."

Erestor still gazed at her, a crazed smirk playing across his trembling lips. "And who may hebe?"

Arwen arched an eyebrow. "You know him, Erestor," she said. "Forty years is still a mere span of time to us elves. Estel, my father's adopted son? The heir of Isildur, the chief of the Dunedain, the Elfstone. His name is Aragorn, if you have truly forgot."

A leaden weight fell into Erestor's chest, and remained there. "Aragorn" he breathed, voicing each syllable with marked length and slowness, but to Arwen he had hissed the name. Then he set his jaw and gave the Princess a condescending look. "A man," he spat. "A filthy mortal."

A slight blush crept into Arwen's cheeks — and her silver eyes flared. Flares of anger. "He is not any ordinary mortal, my lord," she replied in a low voice. "The blood of Beren and Elendil runs in his veins. And you have no right to call somebody you hardly are acquainted with by such a derogatory name."

Erestor snarled. "But still he is doomed to die, my Lady, and there shall be no way to reverse that Fate of his," he retorted softly. "Do you truly think he deserves to have the hand of the daughter of Elrond, Lady of Rivendell, she who is far nobler and refined in both lineage and blood than him?" The Evenstar didn't say anything.

"Arwen," Erestor heaved, and the Princess recoiled. He had used her given name, the degenerate, and before she could even brew up a lashing retaliation, he leaned over her, his long black strands falling mere inches in front of her face, and he found both of her limp hands and placed his large ones over them. "If you choose him, he who is mortal and he who shall live only an insignificant span of life, you bind yourself to him. And of that you shall loose your immortality. Do you truly think that such is wise, that such is worthwhile? You, binding yourself to a mortal and becoming a mortal yourself, while you could simply have the love of any elf lord or Prince you wish, and forever live on in bliss?"

The look that Arwen dealt back to him was enough to freeze Erestor's heart in its coldness. "Be I married to one of my kind," she answered slowly, "I shall live on until the end of the world, yes — but I shall never be happy, while the world lasts. And, as long as I marry he who I loveall the bliss of the Ages of this Arda shall be mine. I have already made my own decision."

And Erestor, wise elf-lord, could not find a single statement to deal back to Arwen. At that moment all his rational thought fled from him, and he simply leaned in farther, the grip on her hands tightening, the faint breath from his lips playing on the tip of Arwen's nose — and just as he parted his mouth, and closed his eyes, to administer his passion-racked kiss, he was thrown off with a shocking force that he had not deemed possible for a lady to possess.

Arwen stood up, the shawl tumbling silently off her lap onto the floor. A faint silvery ping resounded as the embroidery needle, the thread and a strung pearl still attached to it, followed it onto the ground. "Erestor," said she, and her voice trembled. Blatant fury showed on her fine features; and, without even picking up what she had worked on for so long, she turned tail and swept out of the scene, dress and tresses fluttering behind her. Erestor simply stood, stunned; and right as Arwen disappeared into the adjoining colonnade, he strode forward, meaning to pursue her, but thought against the better of it. Instead he turned around, bent down slowly, and picked up Arwen's embroidery, along with its needle, off the floor. Convulsively, his hands clenched, crushing the work in his balled fists. What had he just heard?

You know him, Erestor. The heir of Isildur. The chief of the Dunedain, the Elfstone. His name is Aragorn, if you have truly forgotten his name.

He really had truly forgotten. Estel had happened to be a ravishing, strong-minded, wild youth who tramped endlessly about all the Princes and Lords of Rivendell, constantly getting into trouble, neglecting his studies, always precocious and insolent enough to chip in with an extra word or two in between the sentences of others. That Estel? Was he the one who Arwen had fallen in love with? Arwen was playing a cruel joke on him. No, impossible — she, the Evenstar of her people, could not have possibly been foolish enough as to have fallen in love with some dirty mortal with the likes of Estel. And how long did it take for him to win her? Perhaps, what not — a mere few days. Erestor squeezed his eyes shut, and a single tear escaped from the corner of one eye and trekked its way slowly down his face.

That was the way his patience had been repaid. His patience, his quiet yearning, his silent hope, that had sustained him for hundreds of years. He had fallen in love with Arwen Undomiel, the very fist time he had ever called upon Lord Elrond, without so much but a glance at her sublime appearance and her wraith-like body. That had been a beautiful, sun-filled day in Rivendell — an abnormally beautiful day in Rivendell — but even Rivendell's burning glory fell dim and gray in his eyes when Arwen had appeared. Silently, secretly, he had vowed himself to her, devoted himself to her, and given himself to her — taking to no one else, seeing no one else but her, and serving no other lady but her. And she had not even bothered to look back at Erestor, any of the uncountable times he and she had crossed paths upon the trails or within the corridors of the Last Homely House. Frankly, he wasn't even sure at first if she was aware at all of his existence. But Erestor was gifted with more patience than the average soul, and was persistent even for an elf — so he had managed to survive, all those centuries and decades, watching her, quietly wishing for her, hoping against hope that some day, one glorious day, she would finally come into his arms. And while he, the fool, had been blinded by his sheer perseverance, she had been stolen away by someone else, taken away by another, one who had barely known her for days, even. And that cursed one who stole her had been the heir of Isildur — the mortal who had come to live in the valley of the elves by sheer mistake. It was too much for Erestor to take in, all his slow subsisting for the last few hundred years of his life amounting in one moment to absolutely nothing. His knees gave way, and, with a thump, he twisted and collapsed into the chair.

How he hated Estel now. First it had only been some sort of an annoyance, an irritation, towards him, but oh, what he did not know. Now he simply hated the heir of Isildur with all his elven blood. And he delighted, both delighted and feared terribly, what he might have done to him if he ever fell within his reach again. He could strangle the bastard with his own bare hands. Or, strike him, injuring him, blemishing any part of his body he could hit. And best, he could just unsheath his long elven blade, and watch in pure pleasure as the man's face would contort and convulse in unthinkable agony, as he thrust the metal straight through his body. And it was optimum for Estel never to venture again into the Valley of Rivendell, or anywhere within ten leagues of Erestor; for there was nothing stopping him to do exactly what he had imagined he would do. But, then again, Erestor almost wanted him to come up to him. To challenge him. To compete with him. He almost wished that there could be a fair and even round with him, to win Arwen's hand and favor — and he would forever remember Aragorn's stunned face, when he had finally cut his legs from underneath him, defeated him, killed him, and claimed the Princess for his own. That indeed was starting to become a dream of Erestor's that was almost as strong as his hope for Arwen's emotions to spontaneously turn in his favor. He wanted to defeat his rival, in front of all the eyes of the world, as to administer his revenge. And that was what Aragorn deserved, for taking away his Princess. His Arwen.

"You shall not escape so easily, Aragorn, son of Arathorn," Erestor snarled, out loud. "And neither shall you win so easily. So you know who I am? I can make you pay, for the pain and torture you have put upon me — I can make you beg for your end, before I am finished with you." He paused, and cackled in a deranged laugh. "Come to me, Estel," he said. "Come to me, and I shall give you what you deserve, you filthy mortal."

Erestor closed his eyes, breathing heavily, and leaned back some in the chair, hands still toying subconsciously with the shawl. After moments had passed thus, he opened his eyes again, hissed underneath his breath, and forced himself up to his feet. If he was to tarry any longer, he would miss the morning briefing — and indeed that would make Lord Elrond unhappy. And of course, it would simply not do to displease the father of the woman that he desired. Erestor knew that Elrond surely had a bias against the mortal Aragorn — he was still a mortal — and indeed, if it truly came to it, Elrond did have the authority to force Arwen to sever her ties with her paramour. And that was exactly what Erestor was aiming for — to separate the two.

He smoothed down his hair, straightened out his robes a bit more, and discreetly slipped the shawl into his sleeve. What a precious thing it would be to him — another treasure to add to his collection — and even if Arwen herself came to ask it back from him, why, that was the exact thing he wanted. But, suddenly, before he could finish concealing the embroidery and leave the scene, cries echoed throughout the gardens and the adjoining colonnade, and he froze in his tracks. Then, all at once, there was a frantic burst of activity outside, and the shouts became louder.

"Gwaihir!" the elven voices cried. "Gwaihir has come!"

Erestor immediately changed direction and bolted for outside. And, to his amazement, just as he ran out into the gardens, barely fifty yards in front of him, he saw an immense brown eagle, winded and panting. And upon its back clung a gray-clad figure, hair in total disarray, stains and injuries blemishing his sullied appearance.

Gandalf the Grey had been rescued from Isengard.

End Part One

A/N: I thought that Erestor deserved a bit more attention — poor fellow, he only got his name mentioned once in the book! And - *swishes magic wand at keybord* perhaps I may add in Glorfindel, the other maltreated elf-prince. I was so enraged when they fired him from the FOTR movie.

Final A/N: I wholeheartedly thank all of you who have read it. I'm leaving it up to you reviewers to decide whether you want this story to go anywhere or not. If you wish so, I shall try to post the next chapter within 4-7 days. For those of you who've enjoyed this, please do read my other LOTR fics, all R-rated and angst/drama — The Redeemer, The Carnival of the Sovereigns, and A Tale of Lothlorien Woods. And for those of you who like Harry Potter as well, I have two more fics, both of the same specifications — The Evangelist and Expurgation. Enjoy those, too. That brings my total up to six fics, and as I write at the rate of a chapter (or even two) a day for now, I update all my stories in a round-robin fashion and new chapters shall zoom in every week or two. Until later, Kudos! ~Verok