Of Elven Rivalries

(a/n I'll be using my fair share of Sindarin in this and I'll have the translations at the end of the chapter)

Damn my father, damn him to any of the nine levels of Voldemort's Realm.

I am three hundred and thirty three years old, yet I am still locked up. I am not even allowed a balcony that faces the city! I want life, true, the waterfalls that I have perfect view of are wonderful, but they are the only organic life I can see besides Ron, Hermione, and Hagrid.

My father refuses to see me, and when I do see him, he tells me that this is for my own safety, because nothing is supposed to happen to the youngest son.

The virgin son, I swear if everyone doesn't just SHUT UP about this whole virgin bullshit, then I'm probably gonna become paranoid and start thinking that they're gonna burn me as a live virgin sacrifice.

But, I cant seem to get anyone's attention around here. I've tried to talk to Ron or Hermione about my troubles, even though sometimes they are stupid, like, I'm two hundred years past my majority and I sill haven't bedded anyone or been bedded.

I used to hurt myself by cutting my hair all the time, it hurts to cut the hair of an elf, you know. We bleed whenever done so. Only the blood from our hair is usually red, the blood can sometimes be black, as with myself. This is the mark of a pure submissive.

In elves, there are (classically) two types, a submissive and a dominant. The blood of a pure submissive is black while that of a true dominant is a very dark azure blue.

I say pure submissive and true dominant because, in the past few centuries, they have been fading away and now it is truly rare to find either, although dominants are harder to find, because of the will they must posses.

There are five registered dominants throughout the world, and I am one of ten registered submissives.

I wish I was a dominant, then I wouldn't be locked in here.

Slowly, the door creaked open, disrupting my musings.

'What the...'