Title: Arcane Dark

Author: EmberVixen

Paring: Haldir/OFC

Genre: Het fiction

Warnings: Graphic het smut, character death, violent battle scenes from Helms Deep, language alert!

Summary: A book that none can read. . .a prophecy that none can fulfil. . .a mishap that will change the course of existence. A magickal mistake from another plane of existence draws two unlikely individuals together. . .and both discover that the universe does not, in fact, revolve around their own pain.

Disclaimer: I dont own any of Tolkien's musings. Tala, Keltcher, Aeson and other OFCs are mine. The rest. . .his. Wish I had thought of them, but I didn't! I don't make money off of this, it's just for fun.

How to pronounce the names: Keltcher - (KELT-chyar)

Tala (TAH-la)

Aeson (AI-sun)

Chapter 1: Great Big Magickal Mishaps

"Touch him . . . see if he is dead."

"I'm not touching him, Keltcher. YOU did this. YOU do the touching. . ."

"I do not wish to touch him."

"Then well just assume that he's dead and you can explain this to Aeson. All of it."

"Why must you be so difficult, Tala?"

"Me?!" For a moment, she considered biting her companion. He rightly deserved it. But then again, knowing Keltcher, he might actually like it.

One booted foot prodded the armor-clad body with almost casual triviality. "I do not care if he awakens before the dawn or not. It matters not to me."

The woman planted both hands firmly on her hips, shooting him her best aggravated glare. "Well, it will sure as hell matter to you when Aeson takes a bite out of your pompous arse."

Keltcher sniffed indifferently. "What is it they say back in your world? As if?"

A low growl rumbled beneath her breath, but she held herself in check. For the moment. . .

"I can't believe Im bonded to you," she complained, folding her arms with a huff.

The Celt said nothing. He was used to her saying such things and usually worse. Rather than argue his point, he merely kicked at the rumpled red cloak with the toe of his boot once more.

"I suppose I shall have to carry him," Keltcher said aloud although he had really just been musing the thought to himself.

His bond-mate shoved him aside as if he were a child and grabbed the arm of the limp form a bit savagely. "Oh, get out of the way! I can carry him myself."

With that, she heaved the cumbersome body over her shoulder with a clink of metal and began hiking down the trail as if nothing important had transpired. Keltcher hastened to catch up with her, the tattered edges of his cloak fanning behind him. Aeson was sure to have his hide for this latest mishap in magick. Maybe more than his hide. . .

"You really should allow me to carry him," the Celt said again, as if she had not heard him the first time.

"Why? Feeling chivalrous?" Her voice was taunting, almost acidic.

Just why the Kerne had sought to pair them was beyond her. It wasnt as if they had the remotest of things in common, but for some odd reason, she almost loved the bastard at times. Almost. . .

Rather than argue with her, he merely shrugged, choosing instead to study the man that Tala so easily lugged across the rugged terrain as if he weighed nothing at all. Her strength even greatly exceeded his own, although none had informed exactly as to why. The man's silvery, flaxen hair caught the fading light of day as he jostled along upon his companions back, blood and other unidentifiable muck marring his skin. Actually, the "man" wasn't really a man at all. . .he was definitely something else. Something. . .mystical. Keltcher had heard of such creatures, although he had yet to see one up close.

"His ears, Tala, "Keltcher observed. "They are like yours."

The woman fingered the scarf that she so often wore which concealed that of which he spoke. True enough, the ears of their captive did bear a rather pronounced point as did her own, although she was certain that they were not kin. His scent was enough to assure her of that.

"He's an immortal," she said flatly, repositioning the body upon her shoulder. "And a heavy one."

Keltcher snorted and opened his mouth to speak but not before she cut him off with rather irate glower. "Shut up, Keltcher. Just shut the hell up."

No, she would never ask him for help. She would rather pass out than even think of begging for his assistance.

"An immortal?" the dark-haired Celt mused, fingering his warrior's locks absently. "This is a fine mess indeed."

"Its your mess," she reminded him hotly. "And you are the one who's talking to Aeson. I'm not getting my ass chewed because you can't keep your nose out of the Forbidden Book!"

The thought of illusioning her hair to a flaming purplish blue crossed his mind, but he decided against it. There was no telling what she might do to him while in one of her moods. Of course, he was the cause of her attitude to begin with, but that did not matter. Lately, she had been moodier than a feral cat in heat. He didn't ask why. She would not tell him regardless of if he asked or not. Her emotions were apparently privileged information and the tough banter that ensued when he questioned her was the greatest of facades.

Bonded or not, she would never share herself with him in that way.

He remembered the day he had found her, taken her from the eccentric plane of existence she termed "Earth". Aeson had insisted upon it, had been adamant about the importance of her moving away from such a place, but the Kerne would never specify his exact need for her, saying only that his magick could no longer protect her from those that would seek to do her great harm, those that feared that which they did not understand.

Keltcher had appeared amongst the bare white walls, unadorned by picture or sentiment, coldly impassive to the flow of life within the living space. The floor had been pristine, polished to a fine shine although the wood was weathered and worn, the furniture, though sparse, immaculately clean. Even the wobbling knobs upon every door had been scrubbed to tarnished perfection.

There had been precisely three books upon the massive shelves built into on corner of the room, one a positively archaic version of Jack London's "The Call of the Wild", another a tattered and well used Dictionary and the third, well. . .the third had been interesting to say the least. The book had been bound in cobalt leather, a solitary oak leaf stamped in gold imprinted upon the spine. Nothing more. Curiosity had gotten the best of him and he had plucked it from its resting place, thumbing idly through its pages only to find that they held no words, only ancient parchment that appeared to be freshly pressed despite the obvious age.

Strange. . .

Why would she own such a thing? After setting the book back amongst its brethren, he had begun the search for that which he had really been sent to retrieve. Somewhere. . . she was near. . .

He passed a fireplace that held only a wrought iron stand with no signs of ash or wear, walked through a kitchen which smelled only of bleach and other cleansers, searched through a bedroom with nothing but a neatly folded bed and worn dresser, but it had been in the bathroom that he had found her.

Blood stained the stark white of the tiles upon which she had lain, shards of glass littering the ground, her life-force ebbing in crimson rivulets from each wrist. Clutched tightly within her hand was a photograph, its image held together by scraps of yellowing tape. A man. A woman. Their child. . .

Her dark, nearly black hair mingled with the already drying blood upon the tile as he rolled her onto her side. The face that lolled back against the floor was not entirely unpleasant, although was it by no means intensely striking. Had she not been thoroughly coated in her own blood and tears, he might have been able to better judge just what she looked like, but that had not been his concern at the moment. The woman was clearly dying.

He had gathered her into his arms unwillingly, for she was at Deaths very edge, clinging to a thread of life that slowly unraveled with each passing second. Aeson wanted this woman? This weak being who had sought to take her own life? Disgust marred Keltchers fine boned features as he carried her into the center of the room, preparing to return back to his own plane, but not before she had opened her eyes. Gold. Almost yellow. Very much like those of a. . .

"The Alagos. . " she had said, her voice little more than a faint whisper.

Her gaze was fixed not upon him but rather urgently upon the bookshelf that he had perused earlier.

"Please. . .I must have it," she begged.

The book. Clearly that was what she desired.

Rather than waste time asking just what she wanted it for, he had simply taken the wordless volume beneath his arm and carried her into the mists of time, far beyond this realm and into his own.

She had no memory of it. Or of her life before this one.

"Keltcher. . ."

The sound of his name being spoken snapped his consciousness back into the present.

"Yes?"

"Could you at least open the door? I mean, since you are feeling so utterly gallant today?"

With a wave of his hand and a brief incantation, he did her bidding, the heavily carved oak slabs swinging open upon his command. A rather self-satisfied smirk curved his lips and he smiled at her in that infuriatingly superior way of his.

"Show off," she muttered, shoving past him with the steadily weighty body in tow.

Stepping inside of Aeson's home, she took a minute to survey her surroundings with quiet awe. No matter how many times she visited the House of the Kerne, the sight of it never failed to amaze her. Shelves upon shelves of literature adorned every wall, climbing further than even the tallest of library ladders, each volume carefully placed and maintained by an array of individuals who gladly offered their services without asking, for the entire history of all of Existence lay within the ancient pages, ever growing, ever changing. Here, the secrets of time lurked within countless pages, each one painstakingly hand penned by hours of patient scribes.

A nagging numbness pinched the muscles in her neck, reminding her of the burden she carried. No longer could she bear the heaviness of the form over her shoulder, so she set the supposed immortal down gently upon the nearest chaise, one arm draping limply over its satin edge, silvered head lolled at an almost ridiculous angle. For the first time, she actually took a moment to study his face.

He was quite beautiful. The angles of his face were softer than she had anticipated, more round, the cheek bones high and pronounced, his nose straightly aristocratic. The skin was pale, almost luminous, reminding her very much of the legendary vampires that she had often feared as a child. Even his lips were of the fairest of hues and quite full for a male, the brows delicate and defined above his still closed eyes. She found herself wondering just what color they were. . .

"Keltcher, go and find Aeson before he keels over right here, will you?" she said, her gaze never leaving the lovely planes of his features.

The Celt was about to say something rather caustic in response, but not before the melodic voice of the Kerne himself drifted from the hallway.

"Ah, I see that you have returned from the ritual fires early." The elegantly robed figure seemed to glide across the tapestried floor, the swish of heavily brocaded silk the only sound audible from his movements. His hair was unbound, flowing nearly his waist. . . brown velvet streaked with threads of silver. An intricately woven circlet of Celtic design adorned his head, encrusted with glimmering emeralds offset by a single moonstone within its very center.

To Tala, he looked as if he had stepped from the fabled pages of a story she had often read as a child of King Arthur and his proud Knights of the Round Table. Even after all of these years, his beauty had not faded, his regality never dimming.

"Yes, my Lord," Tala said irritably. "Keltcher here decided it was time for a visit from the fuck up fairy."

One dark brow lifted at her response. "The what fairy?"

Keltcher's elbow connected sharply with her ribs and she emitted a low hiss.

"Hey!" she barked, giving him a shove backwards in response. "Knock it off, Neanderthal!"

The corners of Aeson's vibrant green eyes crinkled with mirth at the sight of them. "Tala," he said gently. "Be careful with him. He is going to become one of the finest wizards in all of Viero."

Tala snorted. "Well, maybe if he stops conjuring beings from other realms when he should be practicing his levitational skills!"

Both brows lifted in tandem.

Keltcher wrung his hands, head bowed low. "I am afraid, my Lord, that I have. . .eh. . ." His gaze drifted to the unconscious being upon the chaise. His hand smacked against his forehead. "It is as she says. I conjured him. . ."

Shooting her a sharp glare he added, "but she did naught to intercede!"

"I didn't know what you were doing!"

"Nay, you did so!"

Aeson held up his hand in a silencing gesture. "It matters not who was at fault, but rather who this creature is and what ails him."

Moving towards the chaise, Aeson knelt beside the stricken body. The armor that adored the fallen being was of a design that he had never seen, but was light and well made, covering his entire body with various buckles and straps to hold each piece into place. A lot of good it had done him, apparently, for the faint thrum of his life-force dwindled away at a steady pace, the pale complexion growing sallow with the call of Death.

With a gentle and practiced hand, Aeson brushed the fevered temples, asking for entrance into the beings mind so that he might learn of his homeland. . .and of who he was.

Tala studied the countenance of her Lord carefully and for the first time ever, she saw the stoic features pale.

"My Lord?" she came to stand beside him, her hand resting upon his shoulder in concern.

"He. . he has seen much. . ." Aeson stammered as Tala helped him onto unsteady legs. "My child. . .I cannot reach further than his most recent of memories. It is you that shall have to heal him."

"Me?" Tala repeated incredulously. "But, my Lord. . .I have not the skill for. . ."

"Yes," Aeson interrupted, "you do. And you must."

"But why do we have to. . ?"

A finger upon her lips silenced any further protests. "You must do this. Alone."

Tala cast a dubious glance at the prone figure upon the chaise. She did not want to do this. It had been many years since she had even sought to heal anyone other than herself, for doing so meant taking on the emotional aspects of their pain as well as the physical, even if only for a brief time.

For the first time, the man upon the furniture groaned softly, murmuring in a strange language that she could not understand, his brow suddenly beading with sweat. She took a step towards him. Beneath the thickness of his armor, she could see the contours of his body. . .lean and hard. . .a warrior's build despite the slim grace that encompassed him. The flamboyant red cape that adored his shoulders was torn from the nearly fatal blow that he had received, the back plate dented and jagged with the blunt blow of an axe blade. An expression of intense suffering pinched the smooth features suddenly, and the being gasped, his breath little more than a shivering inhalation.

Compassion bloomed within the cracks of the walls that she so carefully erected every day against the harshness of her memories and she reached for his hand against her will.

Taking Keltcher by the arm, Aeson said, "come. She must not be disturbed."

The Celt followed the immortal ruler most reluctantly, his eyes never leaving the bent form of the woman that he had been bound to.

Closing the heavy oak doors behind them, Aeson turned the worried young man that stood beside him.

"Keltcher," Aeson began gently. "There is something that I must tell you about Tala."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The room was lit only by the soft glow of a single candle near his bedside, providing little light for the common eye, but Haldir's keen vision pierced the darkness with ease. For a moment, he was unable to recall his current surroundings, nor how he came to be in them. Nothing was at all recognizable and this caused a fleeting panic to his Elven senses until the realization of the previous nights peril flashed through his still hazy mind.

They had left him for dead. All of them. He had lain there for what felt to be hours, unable to move, unable to speak, unable even to breathe without the searing pain in the back of his head flaring his senses into darkness. And for what? Saruman's army had still stormed and conquered Helms Deep. Hadnt they?

Suddenly terrified at the thought of being a prisoner of the dark army that had slain so many of his people, he cast the rumpled sheets aside and sprang from the bed, but his legs betrayed him, sending him stumbling to his knees as scorching jolts of pain sizzled through his skull, nearly causing him to lapse into darkness once more. Having not the strength to pull himself from the ground and back into the comfort of the bed, he collapsed onto his side on the stone floor, laying his cheek against the smooth coolness, seeking to quiet the throbbing of his head. Rolling nausea coiled through his stomach and he swallowed painfully, refusing to become indecently sick while unable to move away properly.

He slid from his side and onto his back, lying as still as possible, eyes squeezed shut and teeth ground until the queasiness passed without incident. A chill shivered through his body as the coldness of the floor began to seep through the confines of the thin, billowy night shirt and it was then that realization struck him. Certainly no prisoner of war would have been cleansed and dressed in such a manner by their captors. Even his pale hair, which had been matted with dried blood, had been gently washed and combed with the greatest of care, the faint scent of lye and lavender still lingering amidst the flaxen strands. Both braids on the sides had been loosened and the silver stands spread unbound upon the pillows. His fingers probed the tender spot near the base of his neck and stopped short with an abrupt jerking motion when they made contact with the bandage wound there. In his haste to "escape", he had failed to notice the cloth wrapped completely around his forehead, beneath his skull and back again. No, he had not been captured, but rescued. But, by whom?

Another shuddering chill shook him followed by an unpleasant flash of oily heat as he remembered his place on the floor. Best to return to the warm confines of the bed if he could manage it. Calling for help was absolutely out of the question for this Guardian of Lorien. He would much rather succumb to the darkness that threatened his senses anew and lie prone where he had fallen rather than cry out for assistance.

Stubborn pride lent him strength as he sought the bed frame, first with one trembling hand and then the other, pulling himself into a sitting position. His head swam with dizziness, but he pressed on, practically dragging himself along until he was at last, once again upon the sheets. Welcoming softness embraced him as he laid his aching body beneath the many layers of fine blankets and his world faded into fevered darkness once more.