"Surrender to me... surrender to me..."

The voice gave him a chill as he huddled in a corner of the kitchen, holding the biggest, sharpest knife in his hands. His body shook as he heard her calling to him, beckoning him.

"If you don't surrender," she drawled in that dark, thick voice, "you condemn Lothlorien to the same fate as you did Imladris. You didn't think I would stop here, did you?" Shrill laughter rose up and Erestor backed further against the wall, clenching his jaw so that his teeth would not chatter. "Simply surrender yourself to me, and you will safe them. You have little choice now; you see what I can do. Your life for all of Lothlorien. It will be your fault that they die. Your fault. Yours."

She was above him, behind him, before him. "Surrender," she hissed.

"Never," he croaked, and pierced the knife into her chest, then shoved her backwards. It would not kill her, it could only buy him time. The halls were eerily silent as he ran through them, seeming more of a dark maze where once the beautiful home filled with light once was. He wanted to scream, to expel his fear with his voice, but it would do no good. No one would hear him, anyhow.

They were gone. All gone. All of them. Gone. And she was all that remained. With her piercing gaze, her venomous smile. Her gruesome teeth, and her deathly bite. Had they only known what she was when they found her at the gates of the valley...

But vampires were rare, a legend many thought. A tale told at midnight in the Great Hall of Fire, which stood now, empty and cold, like the bodies of Elladan and Elrohir, of Lindir the minstrel, the rest of the house, and even of Glorfindel. It was a warning. A warning she gave him when he did not believe her first warning.

She was obsessed. Obsessed of him. Wanting him, always watching him, following him. She came to him one night and seduced him - tried to seduce him. He was polite. Repaid her attentions with complimentary words before excusing himself.

Her persistence grew. He would receive gifts, small tokens. Looks of longing. It was when she came to his rooms, hiding herself in them before he arrived for bed the night before last, that she made her final move. He declined, she insisted. He told her to leave; she told him he would regret it. He laughed.

He had not laughed since. He woke to find death, death and loneliness. Not a single member of the household had been spared, save for himself. The looks on their pale, sunken faces frightened him more than knowing the act itself. The marks on their throats made it quite clear what had happened. And all the while that he searched the house for some sign of life, the laughter followed him, and the sing-song words.

"Surrender... surrender to me..."

The twins were in their beds, eyes open and mouths agape in terror. Lindir was a crumpled heap in the cellars, and had clawed and fought his way from her until the very end. And Glorfindel...

Erestor fell to the ground outside of the house, sobbing as the images came back into his mind. He could not go to Lothlorien, for he would not reach them before she would, nor any of the other realms, for that matter. Escaping to Valinor was out of the question - she would follow him, and what would he do then? She had spared him, and now he knew why- his submission had to be a willing one, for if he struggled, if he did not agree to her pact, his fate would be the same as the rest in the valley.

His hands clutched the grass, ripping out blades by the roots. In the darkness, he felt her rather than saw her as she approached him, sighing and clucking apologetically.

"Poor darling, but, you know, I am not doing this only for myself." She knelt beside him, smoothing back his hair as he faced the ground. "Why do you fight me? You may be immortal, but you are not invincible. Wouldn't you like to be? To live forever, without being tied to Eru and his dreams? You aren't losing a thing, you're gaining something great. All you need to do is trade your master for a mistress," she cooed, but it came out to Erestor like the hissing of a snake.

What choice did he have, though? How many more lives would he have the burden of being responsible for. His eyes were closed as he lifted his head, tears still streaming from them. They began anew as he lifted his head, exposing to her his neck. She grinned, her fangs gleaming in the starlight as she pushed back his collar and lowered her head.

“Up,” she commanded.

Eyes still closed, he stood up.

“Up!” Her words were more insistent, but he didn’t know how to appease them. He tried to open his eyes, but to no avail. Suddenly, he was falling- down, deep down, into some sort of cavern or pit. Still, he could not open his eyes, and so he merely screamed.

- - -

“Up! Get up, Erestor!” Huffing in frustration, Faerfaen did the most logical thing next.

She shoved him off of the bed.

“Blessed Eru!” she shouted above the noise of her husband’s outcry. “It’s barely a two foot drop!” Rolling her eyes as the sound of feet pounding in the hallway came to her ears, she edged over to the side and peeked down at a now fully-awake elf. “What’s the matter with you, thrashing about like that?” she demanded as the door to their quarters was kicked open. Moments later, Glorfindel, holding a sword but still in his nightclothes was in the room, with his wife behind him, trying to stand on her tiptoes to toss a robe around her husband’s shoulders.

“I came as soon as I heard the screaming. Is it orcs?”

“It’s the wine,” complained Erestor, trying to get comfortable on the floor. He reached up blindly and yanked a pillow down from the bed.

Glorfindel, trying first to sheath his sword, then realizing he had no scabbard, slung it over his shoulder and waved toward the sprawled form. “Morning, counselor.”

“Mmmphhcph.”

With an exasperated look to her neighbors, Faerfaen poked down at Erestor with one foot. “What was causing you to make such a fuss?”

“Hmm? Oh... vampires,” he admitted sleepily from the floor. “And the wine.”

Both ellith regarded Glorfindel, who shrugged. “What? I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

“And the balrogs,” added the dozing voice.

“Bad husband.” Glorfindel was slapped a half dozen times or so on the shoulder as he sheepishly backed first into the door, and then toward the exit. “You said you had long duty last night – you were in the Hall of Fire telling stories again, weren’t you?” For emphasis, she landed a smack on his retreating rear, causing the golden-haired elf to yelp and practically jump as he was chased from the room.

As the door to the hallway was closed, Faerfaen sighed and reached down to poke her husband again. “Erestor.”

“Uhn.”

“Erestor.”

“Uhgn.”

“Erestor!”

“Hmnh.” Erestor sat up, peering up over the edge of the mattress, trying to focus his bleary eyes on his wife.

Stripping one of the pillows of its case, Faerfaen wadded it up and stuffed part of it into Erestor’s mouth. “Go back to sleep.” For emphasis, she pushed his head down, and he gave no protest, curling up on the floor as she turned over and drifted back into reverie.