AN: Thanks for the reviews everyone. I don't mind people saying what they think of the story. I have thick skin and I can take it. However, I would like to thank those who stood up for me (Elflingimp, Caethieu, West Trekker, and gilraenvardamir) and for defending my story and my right to take a chance with a storyline that has never been done— perhaps, for good reason. But I am thankful that I have the chance to write this and have people read it. Enjoy!
Chapter Three
"Get out of my shop, whore," the man said dragging Istimiel from the small store by a meaty hand on her arm. Once outside he flung her away and she stumbled, landing in a heap on the ground, "we don't need the likes of you looking for customers here. This is a respectable trading store and I won't have the reputation sullied because you come trying to ply your trade."
He spat on the dust in front of her and retreated into the dark interior of his shop. The people around Istimiel had frozen in place when she had been hurled into the street. After watching her public disgrace, they began to move, whispering and pointing, jostling around her with suspicious glances. She pushed back her hair that had worked loose and tucked it behind her ear, trying to regain some of the dignity she had just lost. She would not allow one foolish human's rejection to cow her. There were plenty of others who would wish to hire her; elves rarely worked outside their own people's holdings. She would find a place.
"Whore," a woman spat as she walked by.
"Dwarf," Istimiel shouted after her pulling herself up swiftly and dusting herself off. Istimiel arranged her clothing into some semblance of order and moved on.
The streets were choked with people today but that was nothing new. A growing city like Lindon was expected to have an overflowing population of all kinds of people. Good, noble, poor, and bad, she thought ruefully. Istimiel shook her head and took another street. She had to find employment within the next few days or she would use the rest of her savings, a meager amount and one that could not sustain her long. As if to remind her of her growing desperation, Istimiel's stomach growled loudly.
Pressing a hand against the offering organ, Istimiel shoved her way through the crowd until she reached the nearest fountain. Several tin cups were reposing on hooks around the top of the fountain but Istimiel cupped her hand instead and brought the cold water to her lips instead. The water gurgled in her empty stomach but she knew she would have to wait longer for her single meal of the day. If she ate now she would never be able to sleep during the night. Taking another mouthful of water, Istimiel fought back the urge to cry. She was a grown woman after all.
"Right move along now, missy," a gruff voice said.
The elf turned and saw one of the guards from the nearby law office watching her from under the brim of his iron helmet. He was only one of a pair that guarded the house of law. It was their duty
to keep the outraged and indignity from rushing inside and throttling the lawyers. Apparently it was also they duty to keep folks from simple freedoms as well.
"Get going now, we don't have time for the likes of you muddying the fountains," he said raising his spear slightly as if he would shove her away. Istimiel backed away instantly.
"I'm going, there's no need to push," she said.
"Just get along. This neighborhood is for decent folk."
Istimiel suddenly dazzled him with a brilliant smile. She felt his defenses drop at the sight and knew that she could lay hand on him now if she darned. But instead, Istimiel turned around and walked away, staying the sash-ay of her hips that came naturally after so many years. No one spoke to her or looked at her strangely here, but Istimiel knew that one charmed guard was not enough to allow her the right to rest in this public place. She was doomed for a long day of walking the streets and being told to move along again and again. It did not matter that she was looking for honest work, Istimiel had marked herself for good. The only quarter of the city she would be welcomed was the dark and smoky dens of the human taverns; the whorehouses.
"Excuse me," a hand on her elbow stopped her. Istimiel sighed, preparing to turn and do battle with yet another annoyed human being. Instead, she found herself face to face with a prince.
As she quick eyes took in the face of the half-elf before her, Istimiel's mind struggled to place the features. Which twin was this? The healer or the politician? His gray eyes showed recognition and his mouth was tight and tense, his fingers hard enough to hold her in place and yet gentle enough not to bruise her skin.
"My Lord Prince," she curtseyed swiftly, her eyes dropping to the ground as she lowered herself.
"No look, don't do that," he said pulling her to her feet again, "I'm not the prince today. I'm just another elf. Please, I'm trying not to draw attention to myself."
Istimiel shuddered a bit and drew away, "I'm not—please, prince," she added in a lower tone, "Let me by, I am not welcome here. If anyone should know you than—" she stood apart from him completely and adopted a scornful expression, "I'll not taint the likes of you—half-elf."
The expression on the prince's face was shocked. His dark skin paled around his mouth and he said in a furious undertone, "How dare you. I was not trying to engage your services, Madam; I was trying to speak to you as any other person. However, since you obviously have no desire to even speak to me, I will leave you to yourself."
He turned on his heel and marched in the opposite direction. Istimiel hesitated for a moment but no one had noticed their conversation. She hurried after him; she had to make amends now if she could be forcibly ejected from the city and thus from any chance of livelihood. For a half-elf he moved fast and she was forced to break into a run to catch up to him. As she did, he stopped dead in the street and she smacked into his shoulder sharply.
"Ow," her hand flew to her nose as blood became flowing out.
The prince uttered something between a snort and a growl and taking her by the shoulder moved her to the side street and out of the path of the crowd. Istimiel found a fine linen clothe pressed into her hand.
"Here," he said gruffly, "Tilt your head back and the flow will lessen."
Istimiel took it and did as he told her, "Prince Elrond?"
"I told you I am not a prince today," he said in an angry whisper, "And no, I am not Elrond."
"I am sorry," she tried to say.
"Don't talk," he cut her off, "I doubt you have anything to say beyond the platitudes that I don't want to hear."
He fell silent but stayed where he was. He seemed concerned despite his anger and Istimiel was grateful. She might yet have one more chance to persuade him in her favor. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that he was young for an elf, but old for a human. While his features were dominated by his elvish heritage there was a cragginess to his jaw and brow that was obviously human. His gray eyes, the finest feature in his face, were restless and moved back and forth over the crowd but not apparently from watchfulness as much as a desire to see everything. He caught her eye and she looked away.
"I am sorry you hurt yourself," he said at last, "I didn't mean for that to happen. I only wanted to talk to you for a moment."
Istimiel waited.
"I saw you in the streets and –I saw how people were treating you. It wasn't right."
"People treat me that way most of the time, Elros," she said feeling bold to use his given name. He was un-phased by it.
"That doesn't make it right." He answered. He looked at her, "I'm not a healer like my brother but I can see when someone is ill. You look terrible."
A wagon passed in the street and stalled the conversation. Elros moved a mite closer and said, "You haven't done well since I saw you last have you?"
Istimiel's heart thumped in her breast. She wanted to say yes; she wanted to tell him how the King's words had torn her confidence and left her feeling broken. She wanted to tell him her purse was empty but for three small coins. She wanted to tell him she was slowly starving. And she wanted to tell Elros that if it hadn't been for him and his noble king she would be making a good living. She wanted to tell him—but she would rather die.
"I do well enough," she lied.
"I see," he looked away as if embarrassed for her.
She took the handkerchief away from her nose and saw the blood had stopped. She balled the materiel in her fist and said, "Thank you. I'd give this back but—"
"No need," he said quickly touching her hand lightly, "Pardon me for bothering you."
"I pray you, don't apologize," Istimiel said faintly, "You were only being kind. It is no risk for you to speak to me."
Elros' brow darkened and he said, "You needn't feel concern for my reputation, madam. I am a prince of the Noldor."
He bowed curtly and though swept away with the current of inhabitants, his cloak billowing around like a dark cloud. Istimiel waited only a moment and darted after him, shoving the soiled handkerchief into her skirt pocket. Knowing the prince's wish not to be revealed as more than a noble, she dragged her cloak over her clothing to hide the dress of her trade. As she reached him once more, he stopped and rounded on her with a question already in his eyes.
"I am sorry to stop you again, my lord," she whispered, "I only—if you could tell me just—how is?"
The Prince amazed her by taking her hands and smiling, "My dear lady, I was wondering if you would ask. He is as well as can be expected. You are in no danger of being arrested for negligent care or attempted murder. I daresay if there was a thought of it my brother and I would have killed you already."
"I can take some comfort in that I suppose," she replied withdrawing her hands gently, "Goodbye sir. Thank you for your kindness."
"You are most welcome," he said inclining his head. Then a flicker of amusement flashed over his face and he whispered, "Even for a Peredhel?"
"Eru forgive me for having said those words," she answered and bowing slipped into the throng.
G G G G G G G G G G
"Sire, may I speak freely?" Elrond asked.
Gil-Galad looked up from the swarm of papers littering his desk. He held a magnifying glass in one hand and a map in the other. His eyes were red rimmed and bleary after a sleepless night. Lines around his eyes alerted the young prince to the headaches that were a constant now. The few medicines that eased the pain also caused drowsiness or lethargy and Gil-Galad refused their use from often than not.
"Of course, Elrond, go ahead," he laid done the map, spinning the handle of the glass slowly in his hand as he listened.
"Sire, you are not well. You are working too hard and sleeping too little. Because of your accident it is imperative that you take as much rest as possible. I think it is important that you seek the aid of the royal physician for a further cure and that you allow Elros and me to take over some of your responsibilities for the time being. This would insure you time for treatment and recuperation. Now I know you dislike the idea of resting," Elrond hurried to say, "But my King you must consider your condition for the good of the people."
Elrond squared his shoulder and his chin rose a fraction, "My brother and I have been under the tutelage of some of the greatest minds of this age and I think we can be trusted to care for Lindon and the kingdom until you are well. If you would but give us the opportunity to serve you, I know you would not find us wanting in ability."
Gil-Galad stood and went to stand beside Elrond. The Peredhel was only a few inches shorter than the king and had begun to fill out his frame. The High King took his foster-son by the shoulders and said, "My dear Elrond what would I do if I did not have you to worry over me?"
"Kill yourself before you are five thousand?" Elrond answered seriously, "Truly, sire, you must rest."
Gil-Galad patted Elrond's shoulder moving away toward the window. He pulled the cords that drew the curtains back revealing a stunning vista of the city below. He winced at the bright light but leaned his fists on the wide sill and spoke without turning.
"Do you know how old I was when I became High King of the Noldor, Elrond?"
"You were thirty-five, sire," Elrond replied instantly, "You were living with Lord Cirdan at the Havens."
"I loved the Havens," Gil-Galad said his voice reminiscent, "I loved the smell of the ocean and the wash of the waves over the sand and out to sea again and again. It was constant, faith; it never changed. I loved, love Cirdan like a father. I could never have asked for a better parent than Cirdan was to me. I have often thought about what it was about him that made me love him so much. The first was that he was as constant as the North Star, never wavering or changing and the other was that he never lied to me. When my uncle was killed Cirdan came to me and told me I had to be the High King. He knew, as he always does, that I feared the post. He knew I did not wish to be king."
"My lord," Elrond began.
"Nay, Elrond, let me finish," Gil-Galad said sharply. He dropped his imperious tone almost instantly, "You see how easy rule comes to me now. How simple it is for me to command and be obeyed. It was not always so simple or so easy."
Gil-Galad twisted around until he faced his foster-son. He had never told anyone this, none save Cirdan. Not even Gil-Galad's closest friends were privy to his thoughts, "I became stern and flinty as the years went by. I taught myself to see the worst in people first, to expect the lies and the flattery and to find the truth, if there was any, in the speeches of my advisers and colleagues. You see, Elrond, I was taught to suspect everyone."
"I have never thought of you as suspicious, my lord. Every ruler must be cautious."
Gil-Galad gave a wan smile, "You are good to say so. One likes to think one is good at hiding their faults. But Elrond, understand that these years of judging and distrusting people have made me—reluctant to relinquish my hold over them."
"But your health,"
Gil-Galad shook his head, "Is not so important. So my head aches, common men live with worse every day. So shall I. And I will not rest the sleep of the drugged. It disrupts the mind and causes unquiet dreams." His voice dropped.
Elrond shifted his feet in a nervous gesture uncommon in him, "I still hold to my position, Sire. If your health continues to decline than I shall purse it further; at least until you will rest."
Gil-Galad stared hard at his ward tempted to lose his temper with the stubborn Peredhel but something of his natural patience won out and he nodded instead, "But I shall have no time for resting in the months to come. I expect visitors of great renown and power. When they come I shall not have time to worry you or anyone else about my head as everyone will wish to know the state of my heart."
Elrond's ears pricked up, "Your heart my lord?"
"Indeed," Gil-Galad went back to his desk and retrieved a letter from under a heap of correspondence, "This letter came through my private communications last months. I have answered it and received a reply only yesterday. Read and see what you think." He tossed the letter lightly into Elrond's hands.
"The paper is very fine, almost transparent and yet I cannot read anything written inside," Elrond murmured as he left the weight of it in his palm, "And the crest—" he looked up, "This is from Celeborn and Galadriel!"
Gil-Galad motioned for him to open it. Elrond did so careful not to break the green wax seal too much. Unfolding the missive, Elrond scanned the lines swiftly, his keen gray eyes taking in everything, his thin lips moving as he silently read.
"Oh," he suddenly exclaimed, "Oh!"
"You see?" Gil-Galad prompted.
"Aye, I do," Elrond looked up from the open letter. He was almost trembling with interest, "The Princess Celebrían is very beautiful is she not?"
"I have reason to think so. Galadriel has always been heralded as the fairest in Arda and Celeborn; I have to say is one of the best looking men I have ever seen."
"I have yet to meet them," Elrond said folding the letter slowly as if he would see the faces of the senders if he looked hard enough, "My parents knew them."
"And their parents before them," Gil-Galad said, "Both of our houses have been long in their acquaintance. I believe they come to see you and your brother as much as they come to see me."
"Even Elros must be curious to see them for all his love the humans," Elrond decided. He went to the window and then to his desk, "Is there anything that needs to be done in order for their arrival to be made smoother? Rooms must be prepared and –and the guard must be increased. I could see to it myself, my lord, if you but give the word."
"Elrond, my dear boy," Gil-Galad chuckled, "All is provided for. As I said I have already communicated with them and all is in readiness. If you were more in the world and less in your books you would have seen this by now. Elros guessed at it a few weeks ago."
"He said nothing to me," Elrond was annoyed.
"I asked him not to," Gil-Galad hastened to say, "Don't blame him."
"If it was at your request then," Elrond gathered an armload of papers into his arms and with a bow strode out of the room.
There was a new energy about the young prince that pleased Gil-Galad to see. Elrond was too much given to solitude and grave company; over the years the King had done what he could to bring laughter and ease into the lives of his wards but he had only succeeded in some measure with Elros. Elrond seemed wedded to his melancholy nature—surely it would take a shock to bring him out of it.
With Elrond safely gone, Gil-Galad relaxed in his chair, resting his aching head on his arms. He would have to be more cautious in future if Elrond was going to threaten a coup every time he had a headache. It wasn't that they grew worse, not at all. It was simply that they were persistent and wearing.
Gil-Galad ran his hand hard down the back of his neck and groaned. He would not allow this to disrupt his ability to function. Perhaps the visit of the Lothlorien dignitaries would be enough to distract him. As Elrond had mentioned with excitement, Celebrían was said to be very beautiful and she was coming here for the sake of discovering whether or not they might find love together. Gil-Galad frowned at the thought; he was too old for love, he thought. Too old and she was too young. Not for the world would he chain a young woman to himself for the sake of state and kingdom. He was forced into that life by birth; he would be damned if he saw another brought into by marriage.
Love was not going to become another learned action for him. Love, when it came, would come as naturally as breathing and he would wait forever it he needed to.
G G G G G G G G G
It was a dark night.
Istimiel sat in the corner of the smoke filled tavern, her hands wrapped around a mug of hot wine. She had finished her small meal and was trying to make herself feel satisfied on the scanty fare. She had chosen the corner to keep away from any of the men who might have recognized her and perhaps have propositioned her. Under her heavy burgundy cloak, the red petticoat was hidden as was the fitted gown and tempting low neckline that was a tool of her trade. They were suddenly too garish and too exposing.
Even with these concealments, her face was lovely enough to draw the attention of several men. But if she chanced to catch their eye, Istimiel's face hardened into a cold and freezing expression that even an idiot could not find welcome in.
She was suddenly, utterly tired.
Dragging her feet to the tiny room she had taken, Istimiel tried to remind herself that all this suffering was worth it; it was honest. But as she fell onto the narrow little cot, tears pooled in the corners of her eyes, refusing to fall and give her relief. This life, with its empty stomach and difficult existence would be nothing if it were not for the overwhelming sense of being alone. Her lovers had always cared enough to stay the night, wrapping their arms around her body and holding, at the very least, in feigned love.
Pulling her cloak around her, Istimiel tried to block out the sounds of people in the tavern below and think on her course the next day. She must plan ahead if she hoped to do anything to relieve her situation. Tomorrow would take her to the industrial section of Lindon. Surely there among the smiths and tanners, surely there was some occupation that could be had for a few coins. There was the danger of being recognized, but she had plan for that too. If one knew how to make one's self desirable than one could perform the reverse.
She would have to find new clothing and her long, golden waves would be braided into a simple bun if need be. But first she would sell the few baubles of jewelry she carried on her. They were not rich items and meant less, but they would bring in enough for her to present herself as an elf looking for nothing other than honest work.
I am looking for honest work; she told herself fiercely, I am not pretending now.
Of course she wasn't pretending anymore. Starving in the city was just as bad as starving in at her cabin and since she was determined to do neither she had to change her life. At this point, she couldn't afford to pretend anymore.
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