Disclaimer: All recognisable characters, concepts and places are property J.R.R. Tolkien and/or his estate. All things Haredhil, however, are mine. Neener. ;P

Rating: This may reach R in a couple of places down the line, and I will give proper warning if it does. Overall, though, PG-13.

A/N: My first romance fic, and an AU, due to some mucking about with the Silmarillion (nothing Middle-earth-shattering, worry not). I was pondering the Haradrim and the Variags and got to thinking about savage Elves, and this is the result. More will be explained as the story goes along, but for now all you really need to know is that in this universe, there are Elves inhabiting Khand (a land east-southeast of Mordor, traditionally allied with Sauron, just in case anyone's going "Where...?").

Nínui, Year 1404 of the Third Age

The day had been pleasant, with the rays of Anor warming both earth and air alike, further weakening the chill of rhîw, whose tendrils of frost continued to linger. 'Twas the rising of Ithil and the cool of night which silvered once more the grounds of Imladris, and brought a shiver to the spines of those who remained yet awake within the Last Homely House, and their numbers were greater than usual.

Erestor, once sentry to the High King Gil-galad and now chief counsellor to Elrond Peredhil, Lord of Rivendell, flexed his fingers around the balustrade that encircled the balcony he stood upon, curling and uncurling them, and all who knew him and would look upon him then knew the repititive action was symbolic of his agitation. Though it was not uncommon for Imladris to receive visitors or take in weary travellers, it was indeed quite another thing for the haven to not only willingly invite an enemy into its boundaries, but also to shelter them for the duration of their stay.

They were known as Haredhil, the Elves of one of the southernmost regions of Khand, and they came to Rivendell under the guise of negotiations, with pretty declarations of "making peace" with their Foredhil-gwanyr. Already they had been refused council by the rulers of Lothlórien and Mirkwood, and though Erestor had urged Lord Elrond to follow their example, Glorfindel had not, and in the end the Lord of Imladris had sided with the golden-haired Elf.

Nearly three months had passed since the agreement had been made - plenty of time for Erestor to nurse whatever wounds the others perceived they had inflicted upon his pride, though in truth his ego had been little harmed by Lord Elrond's decision. Erestor's position was one of reason and objectivity, and he pined not for the Half-elf's personal favour. He respected his lord's choice on the matter, but that did not mean he accepted it as the correct one.

No good can come of this, he silently fortold, and gripped the banister more tightly. His grey eyes, keen even in the shadow of night, scanned the southwest-facing slopes of the ravine in which Rivendell was nestled. As if to further prove his voiceless omen, three dark riders appeared at its edge, and started swiftly down the steep path that would lead them to the main house. Cloaked in black, they resembled the Nazgûl much too closely for Erestor's comfort, and gloomily he wondered how far from the truth that comparison lay. Khand was a wicked land, teeming with thieves and savages; only a fool would be unwary of a people who fain made their homes there, yet claimed to be good and noble of heart.

Lord Elrond had agreed to hear out their proclamations of peace, but he was no fool. A group of guards five strong was already on its way to "greet and escort" the Haredhil to the stables, a thinly-veiled act of caution that their guests would likely see right through. No matter; if they truly were seeking peace, they would understand and take no offence of the extra monitory measures.

Though he neither saw nor heard Glorfindel's approach, Erestor could sense the other Elf-lord's presence on the periphery of his psyche, and therefore he was not surprised when a melodious voice acknowledged from behind him, "They arrive."

It was a statement, not a question, and Erestor made no motion to respond to it. He felt the heat of Glorfindel's hand upon his shoulder, and ponder in regard to its meaning. Reassurance? A beckoning gesture meant to draw him back inside? No...

Concern, he finally decided. Though only minorly, Glorfindel was worried for him.

But of course, reassurance served as the tow-headed Elf's excuse.

"Be not too leary, gwador-nîn," he softly spoke. "They will be quite carefully watched, and vigilently kept from that which is not theirs to see and hear."

Erestor gave no further reply than a solitary nod of his head.

"Calm, then," Glorfindel pressed as if the dark-haired Elf were caught in the throes of a violent fit of temper, "and let us greet them properly."

He turned to go and, wordlessly, Erestor followed him.

It was on the front steps of the house that they met the mighty and wise Lord Elrond and the fair Lady Celebrían, who both appeared regal and proud, and wore fine robes befitting of a first meeting with the lord of another realm, however shady it was deemed to be. Near to them stood Lindir, one of the priveleged guards who had been entrusted with keeping watch over Elrond and Celebrían's children, until they had come of age.

Elrond imparted a nod to the two counsellors upon their arrival, the sound of hoofbeats in the distance already overcoming the continuous din of the Bruinen. One of the horses called out a loud whinny as the visitors and guard unit reached the stables, and but moments afterward, those who resided in the House of Elrond received their first glimpse of the strangers from a dark and distant land.

They were mere silhouettes at first, hints of forms paler than the surrounding night moving ever closer, their cloaks and hoods still shrouding their faces. It was not until they reached the base of the stairs that halted, and made to show themselves.

The first to push back his hood was the tallest of the three, his hair ruddy brown and plaited flat to his head in thin rows. He had a finely-boned, determined - though not imposing - face, and heavy-lidded eyes of deep grey.

The second contrasted the first in his appearance, this one's hair so pale as to be likened to white gold, plaited in the same style as the other's. His eyes were a dull shade of blue, though their colour seemed the only dull thing about him. His features were sharp and angular, and his mouth had a curl to it that led Erestor to believe he sneered far more often than he smiled.

And the third - why, the third was no male at all, but rather a grave maiden. Her face was beautiful, but fair she was not: like her two companions, her skin was warm and browned from many years spent beneath the bright heat of Anor. Her hair had likely once been dark, but it, too, had been affected by the harshness of the sun in her realm, and was now stripped to a gleaming auburn. All this might have appeared boring and monochromatic, had it not been counterpointed by the startling lightness of her eyes, which were so pale a shade of grey that their irises all but blended together with their whites.

It was not until he heard someone speak his name that Erestor remembered to breathe.

Once his heart began to beat once more, its pace was irrational. He swallowed discreetly, inwardly berating himself for his momentary foolishness and praying to Eru that he had only been introduced, and not spoken to.

"It is both an honour and a pleasure to be granted admittance into your realm, Lord Elrond," the tallest one said earnestly. "I am known as Lithir, Lord of Caras Hargil. This--" he gestured to the pale-haired Elf with a small wave of his hand, "--is Anorast, my most trusted advisor. And this--" he turned now to the female, pride and a fierce protectiveness shining in his eyes, "--is my daughter, Gwelwen."

At his words, one thing became instantly certain: exotic as these Elves did seem, it was obvious that they had not followed the Variags' descent into savagery - leastwise, not wholly.

Erestor looked upon Gwelwen, unable to tear his gaze away from her until she, too, flicked her ghostly stare upon him. The glance had all the effect on him of a silent scream. His blood ran as ice water in his veins, and he could not hold her eyes. Mayhap, he mused to himself, there is a trace of wildness in these Haredhil that awaits its unmasking...

"Come," said Lady Celebrían to her guests, "take some rest in our Homely House, for your journey has been long, and you are no doubt weary from travel."

Elrond dismissed the five guards who had accompanied the Khandian Elves to the house, and the remaining eight ventured indoors.

They would break fast at the usual time tomorrow in the great dining hall, after which the first of several more formal meetings would commence, and there was no telling how much of the day would be lost to talk. Erestor mutely thanked Ilúvatar that Gwelwen would not be attending it. Already she had caused one lapse in his normally extremely attentive mind; he could not be sure how severely his concentration would suffer if made to spend hours in her presence.

"Erestor."

He quickly shook his mind free of his thoughts at the sound of Lord Elrond's commanding voice, and looked questioningly at the Half-elf.

"Do escort the Lady Gwelwen to her chambers."

Erestor nodded. "Of course, my Lord." Stoically, he offered the maiden his hand. Her fingers were as ice against his palm as he led her down the corridors of Imladris, and neither offered any words or trifles that might have served to break the tense silence that fell into pace between them. Erestor was both relieved and reluctant when they at last reached the door to her rooms - though her fingers were cold, they were soft, and rested with the weight of a butterfly against his skin. It was an odd and not entirely unappealing sensation.

"I shall return in the morning to escort you to the dining hall," he said quietly, and Gwelwen nodded once as she opened the door and stepped beyond its threshold. For a few moments, she simply glanced around the main room, and Erestor patiently awaited her approval of her accomodations.

"Thank you," she murmured at last, her voice low and just as warm as the colour of her skin against his ears. "Good-night, Lord Erestor."

"Good-night, Lady Gwelwen," he returned, and closed the door with a soft click, biting back an alleviated sigh once he was on one side of it and she on the other.

Composure set firmly in place, Erestor made his way toward Lord Elrond's study, where he, his lord and Glorfindel would speak briefly of the new arrivals before retiring for the night. One of the five sentries had already taken his position at the end of the hall that contained the Lady Gwelwen's quarters, and he nodded to the guard as he passed.

A strange turmoil had begun to stir inside of him, for he could not discern whether the cause of the gooseflesh that prickled his skin was seated in pleasure or unease - or perhaps both. Whatever the reason for it, the sudden anxious feeling pressing near the back of his tongue unnerved him. It was an anticipation the likeness of which he had not known in nearly one thousand years, and he was wary of it.

He was the last to arrive in the study, and it was refreshing to see that for once his eternally pensive face was not out of place. His lord greeted him and bade him sit down, which he did.

"Anorast does not walk," said Glorfindel, and he would have sounded amused had it not been for the apprehension in his eyes, "but rather he prowls, like a great cat, and does so with his head held high so as to better taste the air for prey. He is searching for something. For what, I do not know. But I would sooner make merry with a warg than place my trust in him. His voice is a serpent's hiss that bodes only ill."

"How queer, then," Lord Elrond frowned, "that Lithir would keep him so near, for I can find naught but sincerity in both the lord's mannerisms and voice. He is...nervous of being here, but I believe his spoken intentions are true. There is a way to him that leads me to believe he takes no joy in false promises, and finds no glory in his marred realm."

"I suppose it is possible," Glorfindel spoke again, "that unofficially, Lithir and Anorast rule jointly, and in their differences create a balance by which leadership is successful."

Lord Elrond nodded, and steepled his fingers against his chin in thought as he turned toward his silent advisor. "Erestor, what think you of these first impressions?"

Erestor glanced down at his lap, a vision of palest grey flashing in front of his eyes, and a wraithlike scream ringing in his ears. "I think, my Lord," he began, "that first impressions, while important, can easily deceive, and we should wait until morrow before furthering our conclusions with respect to our guests' true faces."

Taking this wisdom in, Lord Elrond nodded acquiescence. "Very well. You are both free to go. Try to take some rest tonight," he ordered, his eyes focused on the dark-haired Elf, "for tomorrow will be long and tiresome, of that I have no doubt."

The two counsellors stood and bowed shortly before leaving the Lord of Imladris to his solitude and ruminations.

"My friend," said Glorfindel as they walked the long corridor that would lead them to their respective rooms, "I highly recommend you heed Lord Elrond's request. You look tired. How long has it been since last you slept?"

"The Second Age," Erestor answered, willing a trace of humour into his voice. The response had the desired affect: Glorfindel laughed easily, and placed a hand once again on the other Elf-lord's shoulder once they reached the door to his quarters.

"Then indeed, you should seek sleep tonight. Rest your mind and be content to dream. Tomorrow will afford plenty of time for seriousness."

"If Lórien allows, I shall walk that realm," Erestor promised, a small smile forming on his mouth as he opened the door to his rooms. "Good-night, Glorfindel."

"Good-night, gwador-nîn. Rest thee well."

Once within the privacy of his chambers, Erestor relaxed somewhat, standing not as tall as he did in the company of others and admitting the fatigue that lay behind his eyes to reveal itself. He really was tired, he relented to himself as he disrobed, and began to unweave the plaits in his long hair. Oft times - far too many for Glorfindel and Lord Elrond's liking, despite the latter Elf-lord being guilty of the same - he simply forgot to sleep, and remained awake for days on end, not realising until his mind caught up with his body how badly he needed rest.

It was not that he had reason to distrust slumber; rather, he simply did not find the delight others sought in its embrace. His dreams were not extravagent flights of fancy, nor were they wrought with terrible visions of times long past; they simply were, and he neither enjoyed nor disliked them. Logical to the very end, his dreams were like extensions of his waking thoughts: cool, calculating and precise. Hardly more than a tool he sometimes employed to sort through his daily intellections, and clear his mind of clutter for the next day's quandaries that needed solving.

Thus it was with indifferent resignation that Erestor found his bed that night, and allowed his eyes to grow glassy and half-lidded as he entered the realm of Elven-dreams, expecting nothing more than the colourless images that usually haunted his mind as he travelled its paths.

Black and white he did see, and grey as well. But in time, new colours began to join the old, their vibrance sending a strange, warm thrill coursing through him. Flashes of honey-brown skin, and hair that whipped like a dark flame in the arid wind; shell-pink lips, and eyes the colour of clouds that were clear and bright with passion.

When he stirred the following morning, with the first rays of the dawn cutting pale lines across his bed, he could still feel the ghostly presence of hot kisses peppering his face and neck. His heart quickened within the cage of his ribs as he sat up abruptly, and his breath became shallow.

"What devilry is this?" he asked the emptiness of his bedchamber, his voice hoarse, then ran a hand over his face, pushing damp hair out of his eyes. Shakily he rose, heading for his bath without thought.

A nearby underground spring had been connected to Rivendell's plumbery, allowing warm water to be pumped into the private baths of the main house's residents. The steam that coiled into the air as he soaked away the sweat from his body rivalled the fog that misted his mind. Never before had he experienced a dream of such a sensual nature, let alone one which lacked any real provocation. It took him more effort than it should have to force the images of it from his head, and when they at last fled, he was left with an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach that gave him no want for the first meal of the day, nor want to escort the object of his discontent to receive it.

This is folly, he scolded himself, shaking his head in disgust. You are making a grain of sand seem a desert. 'Twas but a dream, nothing more. She is Haredhil.

Stepping free from his bath, Erestor nodded as if to reaffirm his rightness.

She was Haredhil, a culture nearly severed from all Elvenkind, thriving in the shadow of Mordor. There was no telling of the enchantments her people possessed, no way of knowing what black sorcery could be cast by their wicked hands, and the euphoria of magic could make one feel at "peace" indeed.

He quieted his thoughts when his unease began to morph into anger. He could not endure the day simmering with rage the cause of which was so unclear. 'Twas but a dream. He was an advisor, an impartial; to be emotionally distant and unbiased toward that which he was examining played largely into his ability to perform his duties successfully. She was Haredhil; he would have nothing to do with her beyond helping to decide the best course of action for her people to take in order to achieve peace.

Appropriately clothed and groomed, Erestor left his chambers and started for hers with stern eyes and silent steps.

Translations (all Sindarin):

Alagos a Elin - "Storm of Wind and Stars"
Gwelwen - "air maiden"
Lithir - "sand lord"
Anorast - "sun dust"
Haredhil - "South-elven"
Caras Hargil - "City of the Southern Star"
Foredhil-gwanyr - "North-elven kinsmen"
gwador-nîn - "my brother (sworn; not by blood)"
rhîw - "winter"
Nínui - "February"
Anor - the sun
Ithil - the moon

Questions? Comments? Criticism? Compliments? Alliteration? I'd love to hear any and all. :)