Chapter Three
Legolas drew a deep breath and released it slowly, walking to the far side of the mostly empty great hall of Meduseld. He had his Lothlórien cloak on and hood pulled up, just a little weary of all the stares and gasps he elicited from the people of Rohan who had never seen an elf before. It was perhaps what Elizabeth had first experienced when she came to Greenwood as the sole human female in the kingdom. Thinking of his family brought a brief smile to his face, particularly his young sisters whom he had a pronounced soft spot for, though he certainly loved his brothers too. But not even those pleasant memories could cheer him for long, and his brows soon furrowed again with troubled thoughts.
The oppressing feeling of darkness had lessened somewhat since Galdalf had freed King Théoden from Saruman's enchantment, but he found he was gripped by the same restlessness since they had first ridden into Edoras. As though he were waiting for something to happen. But what? Was there to be some attack that he was meant to forewarn others of, or some similar danger? But surely Galdalf would be aware…
His gaze strayed to a shadowed corner nook with a small chair, partially hidden from the rest of the hall and he went and sat down, still mulling over his confusing emotions when he felt something beneath him and leaned to the side, pulling the object from the thin cushion covering the seat of the chair.
A book. But the people of Rohan had very few books, more preferring an oral tradition of their histories, so where had this volume come from? He examined the smooth, red leather cover and fine gold embossed design, depicting flowing vines of leaves in a design that looked rather rich and entirely elvish, frowning as he wondered how something of elvish origin had ended up in Meduseld.
He opened the book to where it fell open naturally in the middle and drew in an astonished breath at the words written neatly in English. Where in Elbereth's name had an English book come from? To his knowledge, only Elizabeth had such things and she had certainly never traveled to Rohan. He glanced up to be sure he was still unobserved, then sat back, his eyes scanning eagerly over what was written.
I swear, if just one more of these Viking-wannabes tries to grab at my ass then pretend innocence, I'm going to strap my smaller knives to each butt-cheek and dare them to try it then! Instead of playing at getting cozy with me, it would seriously benefit them to make friends with a razor and a big bar of soap. I've seen cleaner pigs. If I had a recipe for how to make Ivory, I would make a killing here. Or...actually, when I really think about it, maybe not...they might not know what to do with soap. Probably wash their horses with it.
And I could fill an entire volume on how badly they need to invent tampons or anything that isn't an unfortunate adult diaper for when the red witch comes to visit, and thank God my period is so irregular so it isn't often. Being a woman in this Medieval Times sideshow sucks. Big time. But if I ever get bored of living, I can always commit suicide by marriage to one of these bearded giants, and if his lack of hygiene doesn't kill me outright on the wedding night, at least I have death by disease or childbirth to look forward to. Hell, what's not to love?
Legolas chuckled, thoroughly entertained by the frank and decidedly satirical voice of the writer, and turned the page to continue reading.
As a sick experiment, I find myself wondering what would happen to this male dominated society if I had a copy of Playboy to add to the mix. Would pornography really make them any hornier than they already are, or would it do something truly harmful as I suspect, like increase violence against women, as we're already seen as objects?
With Gríma constantly drooling on his fancy robes and leering at poor Éowyn, I admit the horror of rape has been on my mind a good deal of late. I'll always be grateful to Éowyn for her warning to lock my door when I first came to Edoras. More than once, I've heard my door handle turn late at night when no one should be about. The newest kitchen girl – I think her name was Breta – just up and disappeared one day. I've heard the gossip, and I can't help but think it's one of the sons-a-bitches that work for Gríma who knocked up the poor girl and ruined her. I just hope one day they get what's coming to them.
Women do have some type of respect among the Eorlingas, but in a society such as this, they really have little say as to what happens to them. It's just like our history in so many ways. They are the property of their fathers, brothers or husbands. That's the most chilling prospect for a women like me, used to freedom and the American way, and when I consider a fate like that, everything in me rises up to yell: Fuck. That. Noise! I would rather go to my grave a cantankerous, neurotic virgin rather than have some man-ape telling me to to get to the kitchen and make him a sandwich, then beat me black and blue if I tell him to do it his damn self. This may be some people's fantasy to live in this kind of primitive world, but I think I can safely say it's never been mine. If I could figure out how to wake from this freakish nightmare and go back home, I would do it in a heartbeat. I might even make a vow to never set foot on another airplane and live out the rest of my life traveling only in the US. I doubt I could keep it though. God knows I have wandering feet, even though I do love the land of my birth.
It's strange the things you miss from home when you contemplate never seeing it again. Lately, it's been the blistering, shimmery heat of a Texas summer, the bluebonnets waving cheerfully in the breeze when I drive down highway 67 in Betsy. I miss walking in the woods with the big mesquite trees, all stubborn and cantankerous as the state they thrive in. And I especially miss the smell of Mom's burgers and Daddy's cologne, and the way he always welcomes me home with a bone-crushing bear hug.
But here I am making myself even more sad, now that I know he isn't really my father. And now I hear Darth Vader's voice in my head: 'No. I am your father'. Curse my brain full of pop culture and movie quotes, they always surface at the least appropriate time. But at least I'm smiling through my tears now, so that's something, I guess...
Legolas ran a finger across the small discolorations on the page that he knew were from the tears of the writer, feeling a pang of sympathy from his own feelings of missing home. Some of what was written he didn't fully understand, but he certainly understood the emotions expressed and caught most references. He thumbed through more pages, then opened the front cover, his heart inexplicably thumping harder in his chest as he read the name written there in the same hand.
L.G. Wyche
His lips pressed tightly together as he read the name again, curious as to what the initials stood for, when a strange sense of familiarity flooded him. He turned pages until he came to the final entry, his finger following the series of small, green twining leaves drawn around the border of the page.
Gríma is getting worse. Every time I play for Théoden, I swear I see moments of stark clarity and the real man boldly staring out at me, managing to break through the bonds of his dementia. He's so strong, I just know it, and I want to help him. But no sooner do I see or FEEL the connection with Théoden, and that smooth bastard, Gríma, swoops in to mess things up again. Fuck him and the horse he rode in on. He's definitely the villain of this little world I find myself trapped in, but I have a bad feeling he's not the worst thing out here. There's… I don't know. Something else. Like that pressing sense of pending doom I always used to get when I was a kid, just before something bad happened or somebody died.
Everything is so different to when I came here two years ago. I wish I could define this feeling but I'm not sure how, and my nightmares of the giant spider monster are getting worse again. Like I feel eyes on me all the time now, watching...watching. Maybe waiting for something? I want to run away from the danger that seems so close I can almost feel it pressing against me, but where can I run to? Better the devil you know than the devil you don't, and I haven't forgotten the monsters that roam the range here. Things keep changing in Edoras, and not for the better. I'm scared. No, not just scared, I don't think I've ever been more terrified in my entire life. Whatever IT is, I think it's coming soon, though I have nothing more to go on than that familiar feeling in my gut.
Even though I can speak their language fluently now, I'm still viewed as the foreign freak by these people, and the realist in me knows that won't ever change with their prejudice against outsiders. I'm like a candle in the dark, praying not to be snuffed out. God help me. I've never felt so alone.
Legolas closed the book with a sober expression, and stared across at the crackling flames of the great hall's fire. He understood what the writer was trying to describe perfectly, as he felt exactly the same way. He scanned the few women bustling around the space, attending to chores, or conversing together quietly, wondering if any of them were the mysterious visitor that came from English lands, then immediately rejected the possibility. They all looked like ordinary Rohan folk. Whatever the appearance of L.G. Wyche, he felt certain he would know her on sight. He further thought that he would very much like to speak with her.
Éomer flicked the piece of straw he had been twirling between his fingers and looked up when the door to his cell was flung open. Háma stood there smiling, his expression more hopeful and filled with joy than any he had worn in a long while.
"My lord, you are free! Gandalf has come and the king is restored to himself once more. Gríma has chosen banishment as punishment for his crimes and has fled Edoras. I have come to take you before King Théoden."
Having stood to his feet, Éomer released a shocked breath. "Gríma is gone?" At Háma's nod of assent, some of the grimness left the Marshall's face. "Thank Béma. Lead on, Háma."
The two men hurried from the cell, neither of them taking note of the forlorn woman watching them from behind the bars of her own cell.
Théoden drew a slow breath and gripped his nephew's shoulder. "I know you did all you could to thwart Gríma's influence and also obey me, and it was a difficult line to walk. I am grateful for your loyalty, Éomer."
Éomer lowered his head in acknowledgment. "You are my king, uncle."
Théoden released his nephew and nodded grimly. "You have done your duty, just as Théodred did his, even unto death. I could ask for no more from either of you." The king's eyes drifted over the people in the hall, a frown growing on his face as he leaned nearer to his nephew and dropped his voice. "When I was bound, I remember music and a sweet voice singing to me."
Nodding, Éomer crossed his arms. "That is the Lady Laurelin, a gifted bard from some far, foreign land who I and my men found by chance, stranded in the East-mark. I took her to Aldburg where she learned to speak the common tongue and earned her keep by working in the kitchens of my house. After a year, when I discovered how truly skilled she was at playing and singing, I brought her here to Edoras, thinking her songs and tales might well please you."
Théoden's eyes narrowed in thought. "But where is she now?"
Háma stepped closer to the two men on the king's dais. "When Lord Éomer was imprisoned, Lady Laurelin fell into disfavor with Wormtongue when she spoke out against him, and he ordered her imprisoned as well. She yet remains there."
"Fetch her here, I would speak with her." Théoden sat back down on his throne as Háma hurried to do his king's bidding.
Before long, Háma led a wide-eyed, somewhat disheveled woman before the king. She stared in amazement, scarcely able to recognize the handsome older man sitting on the throne, compared to the decrepit, elderly king who had so obviously been suffering from dementia. The transformation was nothing short of miraculous, and Laurelin was completely captivated, to the point that she took no notice of several new faces in the hall. The king smiled and she hurriedly curtsied and looked down, blushing.
"Lady Laurelin." She looked up into the proud blue eyes of the king, shining with intelligence and awareness. He extended a hand to her. "Come here, child."
She quickly walked up the three steps and slipped her hand into his, noting how strong his grip was and met his gaze. He examined her face for a silent moment, judging what he could see of her character, then surprised her by pressing a light kiss to the back of the hand he still held.
"You played and sang your songs, trying to reach me. I felt it. I want you to know that your music was the only thing that could, even briefly, cut though the haze over my mind, allowing me small glimpses of reality. I...appreciate the kindness."
Laurelin released the breath she had been holding, her face breaking into a wide smile. "I knew it! I knew that horrible man did something to you. Once in a while, I saw you, looking out at me, and I only wanted to help."
"It was a help. Something to reach for through the haze," Théoden said, squeezing her hand. "Will you play and sing for me now, so I can hear it with a clear mind? Just one or two songs, then you may go and freshen up. I know the cells are far from comfortable, and I do regret you suffered them unjustly."
"Of course," she nodded, smiling happily.
Théoden's remarkable recovery was the best news in...well, since she had been stranded in Rohan. She quickly retrieved her guitar from the shadowy nook where it had been stored during her time in jail and pulled a seat close to the steps of the king's dais and tuned her instrument quickly while she decided what to sing. Smiling, she looked up at Théoden and launched into one of the bard songs from Skyrim, one of her favorite video games, which she had already translated into the common tongue in her free time and adapted to fit Rohan.
~o~
"We drink to our youth, to the days come and gone
For the age of oppression is now nearly done
We'll drive out the evil from this land that we own
With our blood and our steel we will take back our home
~o~
"All hail to Théoden, you are the brave king
In your great honor we drink and we sing
We're the children of Rohan and we fight all our lives
And when our father's halls beckon, everyone of us dies
~o~
"But this land is ours and we'll see it wiped clean
Of the scourge that has sullied our hopes and our dreams
~o~
"All hail to Théoden you are our brave king
In your great honor we drink and we sing
We're the children of Rohan and we fight all our lives
And when our father's halls beckon, everyone of us dies
~o~
"We drink to our youth to the days come and gone
For the age of oppression is now nearly done."
~o~
In the back of the hall, several of Éomer's men had raised their ales in proud salute. "Hail, Théoden King!"
Laurelin grinned to see more cheerful and smiling faces in the hall than she ever had before, and somehow knew things would be much better, now that their king seemed to be restored to his right mind.
She had already heard gossip that Gríma was gone, which was a huge relief since she had called the man a lying son of a motherless goat, and got thrown into the cells for her trouble. She had actually regretted having lost her temper and was very glad she had been stranded in a place like Rohan, and not somewhere that lopped a woman's head off for getting a little uppity with someone in authority.
Still smiling, she tucked her guitar away again and paused, feeling a strange sensation, like an itchy awareness between her shoulder blades, which she knew meant someone was watching her. Frowning, she whirled around, searching the hall, noting a few new faces, but none of them were paying her the least attention.
When she finally saw a cloaked and hooded figure tucked away in the back of the hall, she knew she had found the one watching her. He was so deep in the shadows she had almost missed him, but she could just make out his eyes in the glow of the firelight, and see they were trained on her. Whoever he was, his mama had obviously never taught him it was rude to stare. She narrowed her eyes and held his gaze boldly, not about to be intimidated, and his eyes seemed to crinkle as though he were smiling, but she couldn't really tell. He was very tall, that much was certain. What was it with all the tall men in Rohan?
Quickly losing interest in the staring contest, she headed off for the lower level of the hall, where the kitchen and servant's quarters were, including her little room, eager to get clean and change into something fresh and a little better suited to hobnobbing with a king.
Less than an hour later, she hovered in the doorway, clean and dressed in her wine velvet gown, uncertain at the sight of some new people she had never seen before, but noting with relief that the staring fellow was gone.
She had heard more gossip in the kitchen before she came back up, about a wizard who was responsible for freeing Théoden, and looking at the old man with the long, white beard and white clothes, she was sure he fit the description. He looked like he was straight out of some storybook or fantasy movie, and when he glanced at her and winked, she quickly looked away, embarrassed to be caught examining him just as rudely as the man had looked at her earlier.
Éowyn walked up to her, a slight smile on her face. In the year since Éomer had brought Laurelin to Edoras, the king's niece had gone from coldly ignoring her, to frosty cordiality, to finally looking like she might be tempted to approve of Laurelin at some future date. The bard just did what she always had with such hard cases— tried to kill her with kindness, and wait to see if the ice ever melted.
"I suppose I should commend you for defending my brother to the point of being imprisoned yourself, and I will, if you assure me you did it for loyalty's sake, and not in a misguided attempt to win his affections in some way."
Laurelin stared in open-mouthed horror and shook her head firmly. "Lady Éowyn, I swear that was the furthest thing from my mind. Your brother is a good man, and Gríma was a snake in the grass, but I have no aspirations or interest in any man beyond friendship, and that's the honest truth. I know I probably shouldn't have said what I did to Gríma, but my mother always told me I tend to leap first and look later." Laurelin squinted uncertainly. "Does that...translate?"
"Yes." Éowyn smiled more genuinely. "We have a similar saying here. Would you like to come meet Gandalf? He's the wizard I saw you looking at with so much interest."
Laurelin chuckled nervously and shook her head. "Not if he turns people into insects for staring. I actually thought I might just step out for a bit of air. After so many days in a cell, I think I really would enjoy that."
Éowyn tilted her head and nodded. "Then perhaps you'll come back after your walk and play a bit for everyone."
"That would be my absolute pleasure," Laurelin said with a grateful smile, then sidled to the closest way out and made good her escape, immediately drawing a deep lungful of fresh air and sighing in appreciation. Without the evil snake and his thugs, the shadows felt safe again. Following the path cast by the torches in the dark, she went around to the back of the hall where fewer people usually ventured and leaned against the wall, staring up at the stars. They weren't the same constellations she had grown up with in North America, but over time she had learned to find them just as beautiful, and they shone much brighter without city lights to interfere.
A movement from the shadows drew her gaze and she startled to see a man even shorter than her, with a long, red beard, smoking a pipe. He looked very solidly built, and had some rather fierce looking weapons on his back.
"Oh, excuse me, sir, I didn't see you there. Am I disturbing you?"
The man blew a dense, gray plume of smoke into the air and gave her a long look. "Not at all, lass, I was just enjoying a smoke before the evening meal. You're welcome to stay if you'd like. Are you from Edoras?"
She chuckled and wrapped her arms around herself against the night chill. "No, I'm definitely not from here. I was separated from my own people in a terrible storm two years back, and the people of Rohan found me and let me stay with them. To be honest, I have no idea how to get home again. I don't even know the way from here," she finished wistfully.
He lifted his pipe from his mouth again and nodded. "I thought your manner of speech sounded very different to these folk, and you don't quite look as though you are from the same stock as the women hereabouts, if you'll pardon me saying so. I am Gimli, son of Glóin, at your service." He made a small bow and looked at her expectantly.
She grinned and extended her skirt to either side of her and dipped low, performing her best curtsy. "How do you do, Sir Gimli? I am Laurelin Grace Wyche, and it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
He nodded approval. "You have some fine manners, Lady Laurelin. You must come of a good family, wherever you hail from. What is your land called? Perhaps I know it."
Laurelin straightened and wrapped her arms around herself again. "I think I come of a very good family, though they're just average folk, not royalty or anything, and I'm from America. Texas, to be specific."
Gimli pursed his lips and finally shook his head. "I have never heard of this Texas, America. Are there any dwarves there?"
Realizing that must be what he was, she nodded. "Absolutely. There are lots of dwarves in my country. They live wherever they choose, and have productive, happy lives. Their culture is probably a little different from yours, though, as I believe they prefer to be called Little People in America."
Finished smoking, Gimli tapped out his pipe as he pondered her words, and finally looked back at her, his eyes gleaming brightly from under his bushy brows. "Well, if there are dwarves in your land, I suppose it must be a fine place, no matter what they choose to call themselves."
She nodded, a faint smile on her lips. "I bet you would like it."
He smiled and offered his arm. "Well, shall we go in now, lass? I think it must be about time to eat, and I know I smelled some fine roasted meat coming from the kitchens."
Laurelin took his arm, and they began to walk back together. "Are you a meat lover then, Sir Gimli?"
He smacked his lips loudly and laughed. "Very much so. And yourself?"
She sighed in wistful remembrance. "Lord have mercy, the cooking and eating of meat is a favorite pastime in Texas. You would love it, all the succulent chicken, pork and beef you can sink your teeth into. For appetizers, there's meat. For the main courses, meat, and for dessert, sweet meats! It's paradise. And the slow-cooked ribs; they're enough to make a grown man weep for joy. And then we also have this dish called chili..." She slapped a hand against her heart and smirked at Gimli, and he grinned back.
"Tell me more about your people's cooking methods, Lady Laurelin. That's sounds well worth listening to!"
Gimli and Laurelin made it back into the hall in time to sit down at one of the long tables set up for dining, and dug right in. She was introduced to the wizard, Galdalf, who was enjoying smoking his own pipe, and to the man who was identified as a Ranger, Aragorn. She gathered he must be important, not only due to his grave, mature manner, but also for how the other two seemed to defer to him.
"Where is the elf?" Gimli asked, after seating Laurelin beside him and looking expectantly at Aragorn.
"I believe he said he wished to take a solitary walk before retiring."
Laurelin was staring between them in puzzlement. "I'm sorry, did you say an elf? Like….a tiny little person...with pointy ears?" She held her hands up to indicate a small size between one and two feet and Gimli roared with laughter while Aragorn smiled and shook his head.
"You've obviously never seen an elf before, Lady Laurelin, which isn't really surprising as they tend to keep to their own lands. They are usually quite tall, much like us in appearance. Although, yes, they do have pointed ears, and the men do not grow beards."
She leaned back in obvious amazement, her green eyes wide. "Well, shut my mouth! The few times I've heard something spoken of elves here, I thought it was just made up stories, like where I come from."
Aragorn and Gimli both gave her strange looks at her odd expression, before the Ranger answered. "As I said, they do keep to their lands. I doubt there are many in Rohan who have ever seen an elf before Legolas, and perhaps think of them as myth."
Maybe it was like some of the video game elves she had played as, but that really just seemed too outlandish to be real. Laurelin turned back to her meal with a shrug, thinking of tv commercials of Keebler elves, and had a sudden, strong craving for fudge striped cookies.
Sitting bolt upright in bed, with a terrified scream trapped in her throat, Laurelin stared wildly around her dark bedroom in a panic before dropping her face into her hands, shuddering while she waited for the dream to lessen its grip on her as it always did once she was awake.
Some people had arachnophobia just because they didn't like spiders, she had it because she had lifelong nightmares of giant, murdering arachnids, stabbing her to death. Since she was just a little girl she had the same dream, but as she aged, it became far more detailed and increasingly more frightening.
Throwing back the covers, she scanned the room again in the dim light of the fire that burned low on one side of her bedroom, trying to decide what to do next. There was no way she would try to sleep again, and she really wished it were possible to go out and get some air… Her head jerked up when she remembered Gríma was gone, and it was safe to go outside, despite it still being dark.
Hurrying over to the wardrobe that held her clothes, she pulled out her most comfortable pair of faded jeans and a dark t-shirt, desperately in need of the familiar. When she had on her boots, she put on her velvet coat, opened the lock to her door and crept out, taking silent steps on the balls of her feet. Opening the outer door as quietly as possible, she sighed in relief when she took a deep breath of the cold, crisp air.
She headed to the back of the hall, as was her usual preference, and sat down on the edge of the stone walkway, staring up at the bright stars, one in particular twinkling brightly as though it were winking at her. Laurelin smiled at her silly thought, then gasped as a shooting star streaked across the sky, standing to her feet again to have a better view.
Tilting her face up to the stars, she wondered what she should wish for. Her first inclination was to wish to go home, but she felt it might be a waste of a wish, as she had already wished that thousands of time. Maybe she should be a little more wily with her wish?
"Oh beautiful, wish-granting star in the sky, I wish for….chocolate," she whispered, then giggled.
Legolas tracked the movement of the woman with his eyes from where he was concealed in the dark. He had thought he had found L.G. Wyche the previous day, when she had been brought into the hall to play and sing for the king. He was enchanted at the first glimpse of her lovely face, so different to the Rohan folk, as he had somehow known she would be. But when she sang he had been truly moved, for it was obvious she had a rare gift for music, quite beyond anything he had heard from a human, not counting Elizabeth. It was...surprising.
He was further intrigued by the way she had immediately felt his gaze on her, and had unerringly found him in the dim light of the shadows where he had lingered, boldly challenging him and holding his eyes with her own. Perhaps he should have taken the opportunity to introduce himself then, return her book and discover her name, as well as how she had come to be in Rohan, but something made him hesitate. What if he was wrong, and that woman wasn't the one who had written in the small book he carried, the one from English lands?
A falling star blazed across the sky while he mulled over his thoughts, and he held his breath when he heard her whisper words in English, proving beyond any doubt that she truly was the one he was meant to seek out. And she wished for chocolate? He smiled, shaking his head in amusement, and wondering if Elizabeth could be prevailed upon to share her highly prized chocolate with this young mortal, should they ever meet.
Crossing his arms, he decided he would seek her out in the hall tomorrow. He had no wish to frighten her by appearing before her suddenly in the dark like a wraith. When she shifted her weight, he caught a glimpse of her unusual attire she wore beneath her fine outer robes. Further proof of her foreign origins, as if he needed more.
Yes, tomorrow he would seek her out and reveal that he too spoke English, and gain her trust. It would be a welcome thing to speak to another person from Elizabeth's lands, and perhaps he would learn more about that place that had always fascinated him.
Lyrics adapted from:
Age of Oppression, a Skyrim bard song, as sung by Malukah
~o~
