Mirkwood Manor by Lacadiva

Rating: PG/PG13 for violence in upcoming chapters.

Synopsis: AU – Legolas never made it to the undying lands, and has lived several thousand years. He leads a lonely, contemplative and sadly boring existence in modern day America. He hires an archivist and student of ancient history to organize and preserve his "collection" of books, maps and writings of Middle Earth, but a threat from someone from her violent past – one who harbors a deadly secret of his own – brings danger and adventure back into the warrior Elf's life. I'm brand-spanking new to LOTR fanfic, so I know I have many facts wrong; I just hope I can tell a decent, entertaining story with Mirkwood Manor. Please review. Hannonle.

Chapter 1

The house was very old and covered in ivy and shadow. It stood far from the street, up a path that wound through lush gardens still thick with flowers and foliage – despite the lateness of the year - and trees older than the house itself. Turning leaves rained down continuously on the unusually green lawn, slowly overwhelming it in a blanket of gold, rust and blood red. Never had Charlita seen colors so vibrant. And were the flowers not so fragrant, or the way, even in the fading light of an early fall sunset, less beautiful, she would have sworn this was the precursor to painful albeit clichéd death in a bad Technicolor horror movie.

She held out a hand to catch a falling leaf – a sign of good luck, she decided when she was a little girl. Perhaps this will be the job she's been searching for. Maybe this employer will be a little less eccentric than her last, and perhaps will tolerate her busy schedule. By the look of the place, he would no doubt balk at her hourly rate even though he could obviously afford it. The rich were funny that way.

She took a deep breath, straightened her clothing one more time, and tucked a thin dark dreadlock into the colorful scar wrapped around her head, and made her way up the stone steps to the huge front door.

She reached for the rusting iron doorknocker that was as big as her head, and quite heavy. She gave it a good effort, lifting and bringing it down in three hard raps, and heard it reverberate against the ornate door. She took a moment to break away from concentrating on being a good interview subject to admire the workmanship that went into the door, the wood and iron work, the small, hand-painted window glass. All of it seemed very early European, perhaps fifteen hundred years old or more. Artisans would have to have been flown in to refurbish and recreate such a majestic home. Just as she was reaching out to touch the doorknocker again, she heard a latch disengage. She quickly snapped into "hire me" mode and forced a smile. Charlita hated being such a phony, but she desperately needed the job.

The door opened just wide enough for whoever was inside to peer out without being seen accept in silhouette.

"Yes? What do you want?"

The voice was male, and sounded quite tired, thought not particularly old and far from weak, she surmised. Accented, but she could not quite discern what region of England or perhaps Ireland. She took a deep breath, hoping that her duties would not also include taking care of the old crone. She was explicit in her letter of introduction that she sought archival work, would accept translation assignments, but did not wish to add caretaker, nurse and housekeeper to her responsibilities. She hoped he would bother to read it.

"I'm looking for a Mr. Greenleaf."

Silence.

"I'm responding to your ad in the university paper. You need an archivist. I'm here regarding the position."

"Ah."

That was it, all he said. The door remained in its position, but Charlita was not sure if the old guy was still there or not. So she reached out and pushed the door. It was heavy, and creaked, a deep, almost mournful sound that sent a shiver through her.

She stepped inside. It was even more breathtaking. Spacious, parsimoniously furnished, but with antiques that she swore only carbon dating could identify the year in which each was crafted. She expected gloom, mustiness, and dust motes floating in and out of her vision. But the air had a certain lightness to it, and the darkness was simply natural – there currently were no electric lights on, thought fixtures were in place. There was a tremendous chandelier that hung in the middle of the great hall, its crystals dangling like frosty, delicate tears threatening to rain down upon her head.

There was a wide, winding staircase. And plants everywhere. An incredible variety of plants. Nothing particularly exotic, but all were lush and meticulously maintained. Obviously loved. That was the only way she could describe it.

"I wonder," she whispered under her breath, "what the rest of the place looks like?"

"Perhaps I'll show you," came that voice. It seemed to come from every direction at once. "Depending on the outcome of the interview."

Charlita gasped and turned about, and found a man standing in the shadows. He lit a match and placed it to a candle's wick. She strained to get a good look at his face as amber light allowed her to see some aspect of it – chiseled features, eyes that caught a hint of the candlelight and seemed to absorb and reflect it. Long, platinum-white hair that fell down his back and cascaded over his strong straight shoulders.

"You scared me," she confessed, not meaning to, and instantly thrust out a hand as a show of good will and trust.

"I'm Charlita Huffington. I'm here about the archivist position. The ad in the university press said to apply in person."

"You seem a bit old for a college student."

"I'm a returning student. I was married for a few years. I decided to go back to school and pursue my Ph.D. in history and ancient civilizations."

"I see."

A long silence. She felt as if she was being evaluated, sized up, scrutinized. Was she too old? When did 29 get to be old? Was she too ethnic? She'd been growing the dreads since her ex-husband became her ex, over three years now, as rebellion, as protest, as claiming and embracing the African part of her triune heritage with enthusiasm. She was quite proud of every little twist. She found herself growing impatient and rather angry. She'd been on the receiving end of a preconceived notion far too many times. Had he already made up his mind about her?

"Look, Mr. Greenleaf – "

"Shall we continue this in the library?"

She forgot what she was going to say. She caught a glimpse of his face again and was equally chilled and warmed by what she saw. A thin breeze caused the flame of the candle to flicker and dance, and she saw those odd eyes of his seem to do the same. In the half-light she could see no sign of lines or wrinkles. No gray beard. Not even the smell of mustiness she'd expected from a man living alone in such a huge place. Instead, she smelled sandalwood and hints of sweet moss and wheat, elderberry and rosemary, and ...

"Miss Huffington?"

"Yes?" she said, snapping out of her reverie.

"The library?"

"Yes. After you," she said.

* * *

He poured her a second cup of tea. She admired his masculine grace and elegance, his genuine hospitality. Despite her earlier fears, she found herself thinking of this Mr. Greenleaf as more of a perfect host, rather than a potential employer. She found herself telling him almost everything about herself – her work at the university, her love of ancient cultures, her fascination with weapons and literature of the distant past. She told him about her thesis, and that depending on whether or not she got the job, most of the material she would be archiving for Mr. Greenleaf, with his permission, of course, would probably find its way into her paper. She told him of her ultimate dream to create a place – not a stuffy museum – but a different place where people could view and experience ancient artifacts from all over the world. Where they could actually handle some of the more stable objects, or even use them to get a taste of what life might have been like.

"Imagine," she said with a wide, engaging smile, "what it would be like to sit down to a an authentic dinner prepared with kitchen wares and utensils from over five thousand years ago? Or combing your hair with an implement over ten thousand years old?"

"I can imagine," Mr. Greenleaf said, unable to stop his own smile from creeping upon his face.

"Perhaps it's a bit farfetched and outlandish..."

"I think it is a very noble idea."

"Well," she said, landing back on earth, "if it happens, it's a long way off. I still have my thesis to write, I still have a son to raise and student loans to pay back. Which brings us back to the position."

"Yes," he said rising somewhat stiffly. "Come with me, please."

He led her down a long corridor to a locked door. He wore the key on a thin, leather braided rope around his neck, tucked down into his shirt. He opened the door and turned on a light. It was very soft, very dim. He stepped back and allowed Charlita to enter.

Her mouth involuntarily opened, and though she wished to speak, she could barely make a sound. Her eyes traveled the entire room. Every surface, every shelf, from floor to ceiling was filled with old papers, scrolls, giant leather bound books. Yellowing, crumbling, ink fading. All so very beautiful to her eyes.

Again she tried to speak, but only a soft sigh escaped her lips. She held out her arms, knowing she should not touch a thing, but so desperately wanting to.

"This," she finally was able to squeak out, "this is incredible. May I?"

Mr. Greenleaf nodded, and she reverently touched a map with curled, crumbling edges. It made her shudder.

"How does one come into possession of such incredible artifacts?" she asked breathlessly. "It's so much."

"There was more," he said, "but much has been lost to me over time. Still, it is rather daunting, this task. The last applicant took one look at the room and quite nearly fainted. Needless to say, he declined to accept the position."

"He didn't understand," she said in a whisper.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Huffington?"

She was startled – he should not have been able to hear her. She realized how ridiculous she sounded, how crazy.

"He didn't understand what a treasure all of this is. Voices from the past. It goes beyond history. It's unraveling the thoughts and feelings and hearts and deeds of everyone who came before us. How can you understand where you are or where you're going, if you don't know where you came from? I'm sorry. You must think I'm whack."

His gray/blue eyes regarded her curiously.

"Whack. Nuts, you know, psycho, wacko, out of my mind. I'm not. Not really."

Greenleaf merely considered her words and nodded.

"I need someone," he said, picking up a heavy leather bound book and blowing dust from it, "who is expert in preservation, and can create a usable archive for me. A library of sorts."

He held the book close for a moment, almost as if to hug it, then placed it gently back from whence it came.

"That happens to be my specialty. If you look on my resume you'll see my work for the Smithsonian and the Museum of African Art in Washington, DC, the Museum of Modern Art in New York City, the Whitney, and -"

"I don't need to read your resume."

She felt the stab of failure in her heart. How had she lost this job so quickly? Was she too enthusiastic? Not enthusiastic enough?

"Your passion for your work is quite clear. And refreshing."

"I got the job?" she asked, a little too incredulously.

"You'll start immediately. Take as long as you need to organize this room any way you wish. The only thing I require is that you agree not to remove anything from this house, or divulge any information you might glean from the various writings in my collection. I'm afraid I must insist upon that."

So much for her thesis, she thought. But it would be worth it, just to spend an hour in this room.

"Please understand," he said, his own eyes wistfully traveling the room, "this collection is very dear to me. Each work is as if a close friend had put pen to page. This is all I have left of them, and of a very special time."

He spoke with such a conviction, such a deep sadness, those last few words, that Charlita felt tears burning the corners of her eyes.

He continued, his voice almost in a hush.

"Your hours can be quite flexible. It is essential that you work quietly and that your comings and goings do not interrupt or disturb mine. You are free to use other parts of the house as well, though my library is off limits unless I am present and feel obliged to extend an invitation. You may avail yourself of any food and drink you desire while under my employ, and you may use the gardens to rejuvenate, unless of course you find me there in some meditative repose. I ask that you allow me my solitude and take advantage of the garden once I am returned to the house."

"Fine," she said, speechless at his gaze. As if he were strangely telepathic, he broke eye contact with her. "And what about my salary requirement?" she asked.

"I have no problem with what you ask."

Again a stab of disbelief, a nagging feeling in the back of her mind.

"Forgive me if I come across as suspicious, but this is just a little too...perfect."

"In what way, Miss Huffington?"

Charlita reached out and touched a curled piece of brown paper with just her fingertip. The page was deliciously ancient, and left a thin film of dust on her finger. She deeply desired to reach out and touch another one, smell the oldness, read the pages, decipher the ancient script.

"I don't know. I guess...I'm used to things being tougher."

"Then you should be both glad and grateful."

"I am!" she said in her defense. "Look, I'd love the job. But I have a few demands...uh, requests of my own."

"Ask," Mr. Greenleaf said, taking a step closer.

"Well...number one...I'm a professional."

"Go on."

"I'm here to archive your collection, not to substitute as a housekeeper or errand runner. I don't pick up dry cleaning and I don't cook. You wouldn't want me to, anyway. I'm a terrible cook."

"Very well. No errand running and no housekeeping or cooking. Is there more?"

"Yes," she said, taking a deep breath. "No staying late to help out at parties. No answering your phones. No rides. Unless you need to go to the doctor's or something. Although, you don't look like you need to go very often. I mean...you're not as old as I thought you were going to be. You don't appear to be old at all."

"I assure you Miss Huffington," he said with a touch of a smile, "I'm much older than I appear."

"Whatever. And most importantly, no..."

"No...?"

"It's not like I'm saying you'd ...people can be...I've worked for men...who think that just because...the point is, I'm divorced, but not desperate."

Greenleaf paused to consider her words, and find meaning in them. When it dawned on him, he smiled and nodded.

"I am quite satisfied to live quietly alone. Your honor will be safe under this roof."

Her honor? She smiled, blushed.

"Good," she said, relieved. "Then we have an agreement?"

"I believe we do. Welcome to Mirkwood Manor, Miss Huffington."

End Chapter one. Your comments/reviews welcomed.