To begin, it was just me and the monkeys.

I found this somewhat confusing at first; I had never been exposed to monkeys before and it was a long time before I understood what they were… and even longer before I realised their present condition was not their normal state of being.

But I digress.

Suffice it to say that I found myself custodian – guardian, caretaker, of a brand-new storage unit intended to house all those objects for which the local museums had neither space nor time nor appropriate conditions for display.

A very large area, cold, dry, with shelves that rolled together to save space and large display racks down the central area. Sliding vertical mesh storage provided safe places for thinner, intended-to-be-wall-mounted items. Drawers and wardrobes for clothing.

All this I learned as new members of staff arrived and were inducted. Generally I used to sit with my antlers and listen in. At first they people did not even notice me. After a while they became used to me.

My antlers? Well, not personally mine; I am not, obviously, an elk or a stag or any member of the genus cervidae. These were borne by my last steed, Bold Hart.

Of course, who these days has ever heard of a riding-elk? More like to deer than to moose, Bold Hart stood as high as I do at the shoulder… I had several such steeds in my time, but Bold Hart had the widest spread… looking at these antlers now, they are still magnificent! At some point they had been collected, and mounted with a false skull between – these were not taken for Bold Hart after death, I knew for a fact. No; as with all of his species, Bold Hart cast his antlers each year and grew a new set the following.

And why an elk? When one lives in the deeps of a forest it makes sense to use a creature of the forests. And when one stands almost two metres tall, and one's only alternative is a shaggy little forest pony, one adapts… The elk and deer of today, their backs are wrong for riding; they are not strong enough to bear a man.

But this was long ago.

And besides, the term 'man' does not apply to me.

The antlers, of course, are why I am here. They are my… transitional object, my totem, that one thing I cannot leave alone. If I were a ghost, I would haunt them.

I am not. I am a caretaker, a custodian… an anachronism, perhaps.

It had never occurred to me that there could be any others of my kind, why should it? After all, it was mere chance that I had not faded, my strong associations with Bold Hart keeping my fëa bright.

My awakening had been a surprise.

And so had the arrival of the monkeys.

It took me a very long time to get used to these simian artefacts, and when I realised properly what they were – the skins of poor dead creatures preserved and stuffed in a grim semblance of life – it took me a far longer time before I could bear to even look at them again. In fact, it was only once the tours started that I began to gain perspective, as the various guides explained how the monkeys got to be in such a sorry state.

One day, bored, I was listening in as a new guide was taking a tour. In truth, all were new, but this lady was newest. She was one of those pleasant, expansive women who were perhaps past their best without realising it. Not that human women have ever had any appeal for me; it is not their fault, they are simply not my species.

But the poor lady was put in charge of a group of schoolchildren. I am sure there is a better mass noun than 'group'… 'rabble' springs to mind as more appropriate 'orc-pack', perhaps… and they were asking questions the woman could not answer. She was becoming increasingly flustered and I saw one or two of the boys exchanging glances that told me, sometime father of three lively elfling lads in their day, that mischief was brewing.

The tour guide was trying to interest the children in a display of toys which their grandparents would have known, had they been lucky, but the delights of tin zoo trucks and brightly coloured tricycles was lost on these more sophisticated brats. From where the tour was positioned, my side of the storage area, with its racks of rolling shelves, was out of sight and I decided to take pity on the poor woman. I like to think I was mostly motivated by protecting my environment, but it did have rather more to do with the desperation in her voice.

So I went to the cupboard at the end, the one that held sharp things, and I took out a rather fine sabre.

There was a small, but interesting, selection of bladed weapons, and while none compared to the twin swords I used to bear, still I enjoyed practicing with them and now I stepped out, swirling the blade in a dance of steel over my head and around my body in swiftly arcing sweeps. Aware I was now the centre of attention for the entire group, I finished with a flourish, rested the tip of the weapon on the floor and folded my hands on top of it.

'This sabre was the weapon of choice of one of the royal princes of a minor European house in the nineteenth century. The tales all tell that he killed no less than three hundred men with it, before he was done. His own death was rather ignominious – typhoid, I believe. Miss Dunbar, good morning. I wonder if Marek didn't tell you I would be joining your tour today? No?'

She looked at me in a kind of fascinated horror. It's an expression I've seen many times, usually in the eyes of my enemies as they saw my implacable swords coming towards them…

I realised I had crossed a line. Until now, while many had known of my existence in a vague, peripheral sort of way, none had really noticed me. Now I had just announced myself and I realised something important. Being noticed made me real: I had a chance to become a part of this word, such as it was, once again.

The children were staring at me and I took advantage of it to introduce myself in the manner in which I would be addressed for the foreseeable future.

'I am… Professor King. I am the nearest thing this store has to an expert on all the collections. If you have any questions…?'

And they did. From the personal: 'Why is your hair so long?' 'Is it? I thought yours was rather short…' – 'Why are there so many dead animals here?' – 'Because the live ones wouldn't stay...' to the obscure. 'Yes, but what where the names of the men that prince killed...?' 'Do you really have time to listen to me recite three hundred names, many of them in a language you would not understand, or would you prefer me to show you the antique handcuffs?'

One question, just when I thought they had stopped, annoyed me a little.

'What's wrong with his ears?' the small voice whispered, very quietly, from the back.

I was there in an instant, having lost none of my customary fluidity of movement. Bent forwards from the hips, my hands clasped behind my back, my face a breath away from the child's, I answered him.

'Not a thing, penneth, which is why I was able to hear your question from almost the other end of the room. Have you any further enquiries you wish to make, may I ask?'

I saw him gulp and shake his head, trying to back away from the ice of my gaze. Perhaps it was unfair of me to single him out for such attention, but, really, it felt rather good to be assured that I had lost none of my accustomed menace. I do not know how old he was, I would guess at about thirty or so… no, I am thinking in terms of my own kind, let me see… about nine or ten, perhaps. I have tried to keep up, but it can be difficult.

Standing straight once more, I stalked away, leaving a cluster of nervous giggles in my wake as I re-joined Miss Dunbar and launched into a rather graphic explanation of the damage a man-trap (aisle seven, top shelf, well out of reach of little fingers) could do.

I remember how disappointed Galadriel had been when Celeborn had taken hers away from her, claiming that it was one thing to shoot arrows at trespassing Men, and quite another to trap them and then keep them as guests and make them listen to her granddaughter Arwen singing…

After that, of course, I gave them the nightmare version of everything – aided and abetted by the hapless Miss Dunbar who was almost smiling by the end of it - the dear little children were removed from my presence and I found myself alone once more.

Apart from the monkeys, of course.

Later, Miss Dunbar came back looking for me.

'Professor King? I wanted to apologise, nobody told me anyone was working here today…'

'In fact, I am here most days. I've simply never introduced myself before.'

'Well, I'm very glad you did. I love working here, but I don't usually do the school tours.'

'I know.'

'So… excuse my asking… have you been here long?'

'Yes. From the beginning, really. I arrived with the antlers, there. I even,' I paused to eye her speculatively, 'predate the monkeys.'

She laughed.

'Well, it's lunch time. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?'

About to decline, my curiosity was piqued.

'Thank you, yes.'

And so it was that I discovered I could leave the storage area and move around in the regions beyond; it seemed that once another person could see me, I was visible.

And hungry.

It is strange, but I did not remember having needed sustenance before.

I was glad now that I had spent so much of my lonely time keeping up with the linguistic changes so that I was able to read the menu. Not that it helped, much. What was a Frappuccino? It sounded dangerous, to me. Or Panini? Neither word seemed part of the culture around me.

Once more my exceptional hearing stood me in good stead. I saw someone at the counter, asking for food, and recognised the component parts of their meal so that by the time I and Miss Dunbar got to the head of the queue I was able to ask for a cheddar and ham ciabatta with side salad and a glass of orange juice. I was feeling quite proud of myself, until I realised I was supposed to pay.

No currency on me, of course.

Ms Dunbar stepped in.

'Let me,' she said. 'I did offer.'

'I am grateful, you are most generous.'

I could not remember having enjoyed a meal so much for millennia. But then, I could not remember quite when my last meal had been, come to think of it, so it was hardly surprising. I do not think it was just the food; I think it was the fact that I was interacting again, talking to someone who was listening, who was responding to my words. Someone who could understand me.

Mostly.

'So, where did you used to work?' Miss Dunbar asked. 'I know you said you arrived with the antlers, but where from?'

'From Eryn Lasgalen,' I said absently, so intoxicated with the flavours of food and drink that I was paying not near enough attention to my words.

'Oh, one of the Welsh universities?' she said, filling in the gaps in her own knowledge with a guess. 'I have a friend at Lampeter in the Special Collections Library there…'

I nodded and smiled, allowing her to continue in her misapprehension. It was easiest. She talked on for a while of books and how she much preferred working in libraries and... how did she put it...? 'behind the scenes' to leading tours, particularly of children.

'I'm a bit on the shy side, really,' she said. 'Libraries and museums, they attract people like me because of that. But what you don't realise, the places are always more full of people than they are of books or artefacts. Sometimes I feel like hiding.'

I nodded. After all, what had I been doing for the last millennia or so?

We finished eating and drinking but somehow we lingered, talking. I would like to say, talking easily, but in truth, it was not easy. After my near-slip with Eryn Lasgalen I was more guarded, and Miss Dunbar, having admitted to being shy, seemed to find it difficult to keep a conversation going, as if the admission had somehow stripped her of her ability to pretend she knew how to converse.

But, still, we sat, determined not to separate back into our individual islands of solitude. Indeed, I was not eager to move, since I was not sure how I would find my way back to my warehouse full of objects. Perhaps I would not be able to do so at all, perhaps, now, taken away from the reassuring proximity of Bold Hart's head-set, I would lose my grip and begin to fade, after all this time…

And all for what? Fruit juice. Cheese, ham, bread, a few green salad leaves…

Green leaves…

Green leaf

Greenleaf

Legolas

Legolas Greenleaf

My son.

The words stirred something, a memory, an ache, and I wished I had not come out from my sanctuary, wished I had not followed the words and connections through to remember.

My son. Oh, my son, so bright, so golden… what had become of him?

The last I knew, he had intended to sail West, with his friend the dwarf Gimli. But that was long ago now, thousands of years, and I had lost track of what had happened. Had he sailed with the dwarf? Or had his lover been able to persuade him otherwise? For now, the more I thought of it, the more I remembered, and I did recall he had a lover, one who did not want him to sail with his cross-species friend, one who would have had every right to be jealously angry… had he been? Had he been angry enough, jealous enough, lover enough, to keep my son on these shores, somehow, in spite of the ties of friendship with the dwarf?

I found myself longing to know, just as I recognised and realised I had been hiding from my memories as much as from the world.

A light touch on my wrist, making me flinch. I could not remember the last time I was touched by another living being. It was startling and shocking and made me hungry all over again.

'Are you all right?' Miss Dunbar asked. 'You looked a bit… sad. Lost in thought. I don't mean to pry, I'm the last one to… sorry.'

'No, no. My apologies, really. I was… something reminded me of my son. I don't know where he is.'

'That must be awful for you. I know where mine is… Durham University, studying Fine Art… But… you have to let them go, don't you?'

'Yes. Yes, I suppose you do.' I remembered how humans communicate with their faces, and so I smiled for her. 'I am sorry. It was very rude of me.'

'No, it fine. Nice, in a way, almost. That you don't feel the need to try and talk all the time. It's a lot easier than having to make small-talk.'

'There were always too many important things to say, I remember, for us to have time for the inconsequential.'

'Well, lunch break over. Thank you for listening,' she said, not realising that half the time I had merely been listening for the ghosts of footsteps from the past. 'I'll see you again?'

'Well,' I smiled again. 'I think you know where to find me. I'm always there. And I truly am sorry about lunch. Perhaps I could return the favour one day?'

'I'd like that. I'm on 2233, just ask for Lily.'

'Lily.' I didn't know what the numbers meant, but I stored them away in my memory, just in case I could find out. 'My name is Thranduil.'

'Is it?' she said. 'Sorry – it's unusual, I mean. But… it suits you.'

She flushed and got to her feet with a clatter.

'Well, don't want to be late back… see you again.'

'Until later.'

Back in my warehouse, I looked around with new, fresh eyes.

I knew everything here, of course, had seen it arrive, had read the labels, had listened in and understood what was behind them, what the systems were. But so much of what I had heard had been without context, familiar words put to unfamiliar uses… even though I had kept up with the languages, kept reading, there was nothing in this storage facility to help; it was a repository of the past, not of the present, and the nearest it came to the modern age were a few items from thirty years ago – not even a blink of an eye for an elf, but in terms of the present progress of humankind, an entire age of change.

Take transport, for instance.

I have been able to follow the development of transport, up to a point, from the objects housed here. In my day, of course, we rode, we had carts and horse- and ox- drawn conveyances, boats and ships, barges and rafts. I had my elk, a succession of elks. And that is how things stayed, for a very long time. Oh, designs altered – carriages became more comfortable, warmer, more padded, more upholstered… but very little changed for millennia. Then some brave fool invented an engine, and everything altered, it seemed, between one breath and the next; steam trains, steam carriages, horseless carriages, cars, trucks, motorbikes, aeroplanes, if you can imagine, tubes of metal transporting persons through the skies… space ships and rockets… all these things I read about, saw pictures of – even models, toys based on the vehicles.

And the bicycles.

I actually thought these were rather clever, when I first realised how they worked. A frame on which one sat, like to a horse (or an elk) but with pedals, not stirrups, to push into and make the wheels turn and carry you forwards. There were about a dozen of the things here, black and rusted and stern, all angles and circles, intriguing and enticing… they lived high above my head on top of the central rack of shelves, tauntingly out of reach.

Once, though, they brought some in – not so old, still working, I heard one of the staff say. Still in 'good nick', which seemed to mean, functional. They were the last made by a particular manufacturer, and as such, were to be preserved. The staff member even mounted one and rode up and down on it before leaving it propped against the side of the shelf.

Of course, I couldn't resist the opportunity to learn a new skill.

For three glorious weeks those bicycles were without a specific storage place, and so each night, once the store was empty, I would try them out.

It was not as easy as it looked.

Still, it passed the time, and, being an elf, I do heal remarkably quickly. Who knew the ground would be so much harder when you fell from a bicycle than off an elk?

By the end of the second week I had mastered it, and was riding around the warehouse with my long hair streaming out behind me like a pennant. It felt incredibly liberating.

Of course, it did not last; one day they came and took the bicycles off for display in the Transport Museum, and I was left eyeing the much older, more decrepit and locked-in-place iron steeds on top of the racks with regret. Their handlebars, especially on the ones with the rod brakes, reminded me of Bold Hart's antlers.

With a drifting sigh I pulled my attention away from the bicycles; I had been prevaricating, trying to avoid thinking about today, this day, and the memories that had risen up to sting me. As a half-way point between pain and memory, I allowed myself to consider Lily Dunbar instead.

She had seemed to like talking to me, even though she did not seem very used to talking in such a way. Presumably, as she had a son at the young adult stage of life, she must have – or have had – a spouse, or a partner… or perhaps she was divorced.

I had some knowledge of divorce, read of it here and there. It seemed odd to me, that you would consider being with someone and then breaking apart from them so suddenly with such apparent ease. But perhaps, when you do not have forever, you do not take as much care when choosing or seeking your fëa-mate, and then, you would not have long to decide whether to live with your mistake or cut yourself free.

Of course, even for us, it was not always perfect; there were sometimes mistakes, and when it was found that a couple had taken vows to please their families, where one or other (or sometimes both) were actually drawn to a partner of the same gender, rather than the opposite, sometimes an annulment could take place. But only for those who had not sworn beyond the bounds of Middle Earth, who had taken short vows which would end when death or sailing sundered them.

But never divorce.

As for me, I had had one great love in what now was starting to feel like a very long life – the mother of my children, now herself long dead, poor melleth... but there had been another, no more than a dear friend, really, but whose gentle companionship and bright, spiced humour brought me many long years of pleasure. I wondered what had become of her... vaguely, I thought there had been a ship... a small boat, rather, taking her to a larger vessel, taking her away, taking more than just her with it...

This was no good; I would become maudlin if I permitted myself to continue in this vein, and then I would mope, and perhaps even begin to fade. But I had lasted so long, it was becoming a matter of pride to me to endure. Perhaps I would still be here when humankind had managed to destroy their environment utterly, when nuclear war or accident would fireball across the planet, leaving behind just me.

And the cockroaches.

Well, that would be something to look forward to, would it not?