Chapter 4 Silver Lining

In the realm of Middle-earth, Arwen Undómiel was a vision of timeless beauty, enchanting all who crossed her path. Her long, raven-black hair cascaded like a silken waterfall down her graceful form. 

It was said that her eyes held the radiant light of a thousand stars, their grey depths revealing an ageless wisdom and an inner fire that could capture the hearts of both Elves and Men alike.

Arwen's presence was nothing short of ethereal. She moved with an otherworldly grace, each step as delicate as a petal on the wind. 

Her stature was both regal and elegant, a testament to her noble lineage. 

As an Elf, her features were distinct: finely pointed ears that marked her as one of the Firstborn, and an agelessness that was the hallmark of her kind.

But it was not merely her physical attributes that made Arwen so captivating. Her beauty was a reflection of the purity of her spirit and her unwavering love for Aragorn. 

Her choice to become mortal, to forsake the timeless existence of her people, was a sacrifice that revealed the depth of her character. 

It was a beauty that went far beyond the superficial, a beauty of the soul that shone as brightly as the Evenstar, the jewel she wore, a symbol of her enduring love and undying devotion.

Arwen's loveliness was not just skin deep; it was a radiance that illuminated the world of Middle-earth and the hearts of those who beheld her, a reminder that true beauty lies not only in physical charms but in the nobility of one's spirit and the sacrifices made for love.

Unfortunately, at this very moment, our beloved Arwen found herself in an exceedingly trying situation.

'Father!' Arwen Undómiel desperately wished to call out when she witnessed her father's fall. 

Regrettably, she was utterly paralyzed, unable to even blink, let alone muster the strength to move her lips to voice her concerns. 

Strangely, her hands appeared to be free, able to wander wherever they pleased, and they ventured perilously close to her own wet sex, the epicenter of her inner turmoil. 

Despite her nearly three thousand years of existence, she was far from immune to the enchanting charisma of our main protagonist.

The very air seemed to hold its breath, enveloping the scene in a heavy silence broken only by the hushed rustling of the leaves. 

Arwen's heart raced, mirroring the turmoil of the moment, and her normally poised countenance bore the marks of her inner struggle.

Now, as for Eowyn Elfsheen, her reaction took a distinctly different path. She, too, was affected by the unfolding events, but her response was veiled beneath the facade of clutching her own chest. 

In reality, her hidden yearnings and desires stirred within her, as she sought a sense of fulfillment that remained just out of reach. 

Her ample bosom heaved with pent-up emotion, a reflection of the emotional tempest raging within her.

In this moment of shared tribulation, the two women each faced their own inner turmoil, a testament to the intricate tapestry of emotions woven into the grand epic that was their lives.

"Absolutely enchanting!" Our evil protagonist smiled with a malevolent glint in his eyes as he regarded his prize. 

With an imperious gesture, he beckoned them forward, and the two individuals moved as if they were mere puppets under his control.

"Hello, dear fairies. My name is..." The only conscious man in the scene began, but he abruptly silenced himself. 

The name he once bore in the past had lost all significance following the profound transformations that had consumed his body, soul, and spirit. 

Thus, he paused, seeking a more suitable identity, one that would reflect his newfound power and his determination to rise from the ashes of the pitiable existence he had once known as him.

"...8. You may now refer to me as Dark Lord 8," our malevolent protagonist declared. 

With this declaration, he sensed the bindings of the original Li Qiye dissipate and experienced a profound sense of liberation and true rebirth. 

The very heavens seemed to acknowledge the ascendance of a new immortal, as visions of dragons and titans kneeling in the sky persisted for a dozen breaths before fading from view.

In the end, Dark Lord 8 had to close his eyes for a few more breaths, taking a moment to savor his newfound power, before he reopened them to gaze at the two muted women.

"I believe that you two must have numerous questions swirling in your minds. Let us retire to the privacy of our chambers to discuss them," Dark Lord 8 suggested, guiding the two bewildered women through the labyrinthine passages of the castle. 

They eventually arrived in a lavishly appointed chamber that was intended to serve as the marital bed for Arwen and Aragorn later that day. 

Unfortunately for them, our malevolent protagonist had far darker plans for every corner of this room, marking this night as one of blood and pleasure they would never forget.

THUD! The imposing double doors closed with a resounding finality as our malevolent protagonist made his way to the grand bed on one side, showing it more affection than his present victims. 

The sudden turn of events had been beyond his wildest imagination. 

While fleeting thoughts of his long-lost family, parents, and siblings occasionally intruded upon his consciousness, they were but distant memories, lost in the vast expanse of eras, epochs, and eons that Li Qiye had traversed and imparted upon him. 

It was these experiences that had stripped away his empathy for human life, as well as the enduring scars from the torment he had endured from his bullies in his past.

Dark Lord 8 closed his eyes, indulging in half a dozen minutes of contemplation, before he finally recalled that he was not alone in the chamber.

"You may speak," he granted permission, remaining reclined with his eyes closed, savoring the fortuitous encounter that had unfolded today.

One of the women fell to the cold floor, gasping for breath as she struggled to manage her surging emotions of intense sexual arousal.

The other, older and wiser, stood her ground, silently observing the peculiar scene. 

She took a deep breath, attempting to quell her nerves and the unwelcome desire that had coursed through her since she first laid eyes on the dark-robed man who had disrupted her wedding. 

Arwen was not naive; she understood well why this enigmatic and powerful figure had abducted her and Eowyn. She knew that men could be beasts in human flesh should circumstances favor their fortune.

After some time, when Eowyn's panting had somewhat subsided, Arwen approached the center of the room, her fingers gently grazing the doors. 

Then, her steps led her to a nearby pot of flowers, where she touched the soft soil with a sense of determination.

"Help me," she whispered softly. A subtle, shivering motion coursed through the pot until it gradually took the form of a key, sculpted from the very soil itself. 

Arwen was not one to resign herself to fate; she was determined to find a way to escape with Eowyn. 

She tiptoed back to the chamber's entrance, poised to use the newly formed key when our evil protagonist's voice reverberated throughout the room.

"Kindly bring your husband Aragorn when you return," he declared. Arwen froze at the words, her heart sinking with realization.

The grand doors remained steadfastly closed, and Arwen turned to face her captor. 

The striking man lay there, an aura of indifference enveloping him, as if he were entirely unfazed by whatever decision she would make in the next breath. 

In all her years of existence, Arwen had never felt so profoundly helpless as she did in that moment. Nevertheless, her helplessness did not mean she couldn't choose the lesser of two evils.

"How may this humble slave be of service to you, my Lord?" Arwen inquired, her voice quivering slightly, as she reluctantly accepted the breaking of her marital vows. 

With no apparent means of escape from this man's grasp, she had resigned herself to sparing her beloved husband, Aragorn, from the indecency that was sure to unfold. 

Arwen continued to bow low, adopting the posture of a perfect servant from a bygone era.

"Oh? You are truly a woman of wisdom, Arwen Undomiel," our malevolent protagonist commented, lifting his head to meet the gaze of the submissive elf. 

She, however, kept her head lowered, maintaining her meek posture.

"I am entirely ignorant of the ways of intimacy between a man and a woman. Would you, Lady Arwen, be so kind as to educate me in the intricacies of this captivating art?" Dark Lord 8 inquired, a teasing glint in his eyes, though he hardly anticipated the response he would receive.

"Of course, my Lord," Arwen replied, her demeanor calm and composed, as she slowly bridged the distance between them. 

She passed by Eowyn, who had succumbed to unconsciousness after experiencing an overwhelming torrent of sensations in a remarkably short span of time and came 10 times in a row just by touching herself. 

In this dreadful and tragic experience, this may have been the sole silver lining. Arwen would endure this ordeal in solitude, at least for the time being.