Well-Made
Jaded Scorpio

Disclaimer:
These Characters belong not to me
They belong to Tolkien and his family
I make no profit
And no money
I do this out of love you see

Author’s Notes: MUAH HA HA!!

September 12, 2003

Disclaimer: Not mine—just borrowing—though the original character man seems to be in many Elf-slash fics.

He hacked his way through the tangle of thorn bushes, swearing. He was a big brute of a man, once a soldier, but everyone he had ever served under was now dead. He roamed the wilds, taking what he needed from those he chanced across.

Ahead, at the edge of the copse of trees, there was a flash, like the glint of metal. He dropped low, instantly on edge. He doubled back to where there was a low rut in the ground that would give him more cover.

He peered out through the scrub brush. There was a figure among the trees, solitary it seemed. He scanned the surrounds for companions for many minutes before deciding that the figure was indeed, alone. Then he crept closer, for he feared little, but knew well the advantage surprise would give him.

Finally he was close enough for him to see the person at the edge of the trees. His jaw nearly dropped in shock. It was an Elf.

And what an Elf! He was tall, very tall, and his flesh could have been carved from living marble he was so pale and smooth. His chest was broad and tapered to a tight waist. His face was half hidden by a heavy curtain of auburn hair that gleamed like copper in the sun.

He was reclining against the silver trunk of a tree, his arms folded across his well-made torso. The man felt a surge of lust in his loins as he watched the handsome Elf daydream, with his foot resting casually back against the tree. So innocent, he thought, greedily devouring the sight before him.

The Elf turned back towards him, and he froze in place. The Elf’s face was perfection, high cheekbones, lips lovingly sculpted, sharp straight nose. His eyes seemed to be gray, but it was hard to tell at that distance. They were piercingly bright, like flames. Indeed, he could not look long on the white of the face of the Elf, and looked instead on the copper and gold phoenix that rested at the base of his throat.

The Elf was simply the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He almost felt ashamed then, of the grime on his hands, his ragged clothes, his weather-marked face. He could not look into the face of the Elf long, and that made him angry. He saw the beauty, but missed the shadow of pain that was on him. He saw the expensive garments, the jewels on the scabbard of the Elf’s sword, the head held proudly. It made him angry.

The Elf was staring right at him now, and as he wondered if those eyes could pierce his cover the Elf nodded to him suddenly. Rage overtook him. What was this creature to look at him so? To stand there, so perfect and beautiful and eternal and superior? He would take him, and break him. He imagined those fine lips parted in a scream, those long white thighs parted around his waist as he pounded into him. His red blood would stain the grass, he vowed, and charged.

Before the point of the sword reached him, the Elf spun, and reached out with a long white hand, the left hand, and snapped the man’s neck.

He turned then, to the one he’d been watching come up the hill on the other side, his brother.

“Maedhros?” his brother asked, looking down at the twitching corpse.

He said merely, “He had an ill-favored look about him.”

END

End Notes: One of the meanings of Maedhros’ name is a glint of metal, and I couldn’t resist referencing that.
I was tired of all the elf-rape fics, and was thinking about what a *real* Elf would do. A Son of Fëanor would never stand for that crap!