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Chapter Three: A Convincing Argument
Feren was trying his best, but it was extremely difficult to carry on a conversation with someone who was across the room from you, especially a room as large as this great hall. It was also difficult to keep from sobbing in misery. Only an hour into this job, and Feren's back already ached as though it had been struck by the hammer of a cave troll. He vaguely wondered how many discs had slipped out of place.
"How do you fare?"
Feren jerked his head upwards at Galion's words. "Fine," he said shakily, grinning with a glassy-eyed stare.
Galion shook his head. "Your back wouldn't ache so badly if you didn't slouch so. Posture is key! You're as bad as His Majesty. He seems to think that his bad posture is 'fabulous' or some other rot, always slouching on his throne, and then has the cheek to complain about his backache later!"
Unable to conjure up a snappy reply, Feren absently nodded, his neck cracking audibly.
An hour later, Feren and Galion were close enough to carry on a conversation that did not require yelling in order for them to hear each other. The two servants of the Elvenking didn't immediately take advantage of this fact, however. Galion continued to scrub in a vigorous fashion, his back as straight as a rod. Feren's scrubbing was of a more lethargic sort, his body position resembling the shape of a candy cane. Apart from their heavy breathing, the two elves remained silent, attempting no conversation.
An hour later, when they were only a few meters apart, Feren could bear it no longer. "I want to steal The Lyre. Can you help me?"
Galion's legs gave way, and he fell to the floor with a gasp of pure horror, spilling his bucket of soapy water over the already-shiny floor. He looked up at his companion with wide eyes. "You ask me to commit treason!" he whispered.
"No no no!" protested Feren. "I phrased that wrong. What I meant to say was: Can you help me liberate Eryn Lasgalen from the horror that is The Lyre of the Elvenking, and help me send it to my poor cousin Lindir, who will put it to infinitely better use?"
Galion stared at the floor, unknowingly hugging the mop handle against his shoulder. "You ask me to put my personal wants before the needs of my king," he said, voice quavering. "You ask me to consider my migraines and insomnia before the joy of the Elvenking."
"Your migraines will be gone before you know it, and you should be getting a full night's sleep before long," said Feren, confidence growing. "But those are just side benefits. Most importantly, you'll be helping the Elvenking. He's so obsessed with that lyre that he's ignoring matters of state. He'd rather play it than sleep, and it's driving a rift between he and Legolas. Don't you see, my friend? You'll not only be helping me, Lindir and yourself, but you'll also be helping Thranduil."
"That's King Thranduil to you," scowled Galion. "Honestly. Why do young elves these days have no respect for the monarchy?"
"Maybe 'cause the monarchy pays minimum wage."
Galion ignored this remark, seemingly lost in thought. Finally, he spoke. "You've given me great deal to think about. Let me consider this for a short while. I will give you my answer in three days, on the day of the Elvenking's party."
With that, the butler picked up his mop and pail and strode away down the hall.
Feren sighed in frustration. Three days? Lindir was pining away at this very moment. He needed that lyre immediately, and Feren needed the lyre gone even sooner than that; the painful pressure upon his brain increased with every pluck of those accursed strings. At the moment, however, the only thing for Feren to do was to write to his cousin, explaining the reason for the delay in the lyre's delivery.
Not bothering to search for a seat, Feren sat down where he had been standing, pulled out his handy dandy parchment scroll, and began to write.
To my dear old cousin, of whom I am extremely fond:
Sorry, old bean; there's been a bit of a delay in the obtainment of your lyre. I've been trying to sway Galion to our side- no one knows the king's habits like he does- but the old boy is reluctant to assist us. I've got this, though. He'll be a faithful ally before you know it. Never fear! That lyre will be in your hands before you can say 'lembas'!
Hugs, your favourite cousin, you-know-who
P.S. You do understand that that last statement was hyperbole, right? I'm just making sure:)
Feren folded the paper, put it in an envelope, and licked the seal(his favourite part of writing a letter). He pressed it firmly closed. This task accomplished, he walked to his room. He had several things to accomplish over the next three days, the first of which, barring the mailing of his letter, was the successful obtainment of a pair of earplugs.