Chapter nine: The Rangers are Come

Five elves walked into the tavern's common room, still clad in their cloaks but no longer so restrained, not so careful – after all, everyone knew who they were. Yet they were not about to provoke a scene by pushing their, so far, relatively good luck by flaunting their elvenness Legolas caused enough sensation in his own lands, and Glorfindel could only imagine the impact his features would cause on humans; indeed Zadnazir had been left gawking with but a glimpse of his lover's exotic, alluring features – even with his hair pulled back and tightly braided.

Legolas' boots thunked over the floorboards, his strides long and confident, and Glorfindel smirked, for his lover was reveling in the feel of the soft leather encasing his feet and calves. The boots were his, he seemed to be saying, they were his – and fie to any who harboured designs upon his elven footware. A smile almost escaped the High Constable as he remembered the expression upon Legolas' face when Gildor had presented him with his boots. How his ex-lover had managed to locate them, and then retrieve them, was a story the Noldo would one day narrate to them, he felt sure, for there was certainly a heroic tale to be had.

Glofindel smiled for Legolas seemed young then, innocent and playful - so much more than he himself could ever hope to be in this his second life. It was one of the things about Legolas that Glorfindel knew he could never have and yet, to step back and watch his lover's antics was a rare treasure, one Glorfindel enjoyed almost as much as Legolas himself.

He shook himself then, for he could not afford to lose focus, not now, for they had come to seek out the rangers that would take them to Arathorn. This was no time for ancient, star-struck, warriors to fawn over a lover.

Zadnazir stood behind his bar, serving ale and making small talk with his regular clients, as the smell of hearty food beginning to fill the dense air. However the man spoke mechanically, for his eyes and his focus were on Glorfindel and the company of elves. Gildor was right, the Rangers had arrived, yet so far, there was neither sight nor sound of them in the Slaughtered Lamb.

Five jugs of frothy ale thudded onto the table before them, the buxom woman who had born them letting her, now empty, hand feather over Legolas' forearm protector and flashing him a smile that was an unmistakable invitation to do with her what he would. She played with fire, mused Glorfindel, watching as Legolas gave her a dazzling smile and the woman's eyes turned misty and spellbound, her tongue flicking over her bottom lip, a gloss of saliva in its wake. Galdithion smirked while Gildor snorted – in mirth or disdain Glorfindel could not say.

"I cannot see them," began Galdithion, his eyes scanning the crowds of people in the room.

"Nay, they have not arrived here, although I assume they know where we are," said Gildor, his own eyes searching without finding.

"We must be cautious," began Legolas, finally having wrenched his eyes away from the lusty serving wench. "We must make no assumptions but let them come to us and prove their identity – take no risks and stay alert for we are now more vulnerable than ever."

Silent nods were the only answer Legolas received and so the five elven warriors settled in for an evening of hushed talk and tense expectation. Yet after only half an hour had passed by, the inevitable finally happened. Raucous laughing and jeering began to dominate the centre of the room, and the elves looked over their shoulders in search of the source of the cacophony. Seeing the group of men sitting around a table towards the centre of the room, their reaction was to hunch over a little more, as if they could disappear, or somehow merge with the wall behind them.

"Hey – hey!" shouted one man, standing and flapping his arms in the direction of the elves.

"Bet that's them over there – look!" he shouted as he smiled, saluting with his jug of ale which sloshed over the side and onto the already slippery floor.

Another man grabbed the drunkard's tunic and yanked him back down onto his wooden stool that tilted dangerously under the weight of the unsteady man, who now laughed outrageously, as did those around the conspicuous table.

"What of it? Who wants to meet a fuckin' elf?" Said one visibly peeved and very large man. "Nothing but a bunch of whelps with nothing better to do than sing and prance around like queers."

The others at the table laughed as they slapped their thighs, glancing over at the elves' table every now and then, wondering if their words were achieving the undoubtedly desired effect of riling them into action.

There was that word again, thought Galdithion somewhat irritated, 'queer' – he still hadn't understood it's meaning and much less the connotations associated with it, in spite of his companion's humoured efforts to explain. Well, whatever it meant, their intentions were not good, that much was clear, and Galdithion bristled under the onslaught of insults.

A warm hand brought him back from his mounting irritation, placed as it was under the table and high upon his thigh. His lover's bright silver eyes bore into him, silently explaining that he should sit it out. He would, of course, but should anyone decide to approach them, lay a finger upon his brothers, he would not hesitate – indeed he would reap sweet satisfaction from slapping the fat, sweaty man across those repulsive, chubby cheeks – delight in the resounding crack of skin against skin, and Galdithion smiled sadistically.

"Do you think they 'ave children? Never 'eard of elf kids before."

"Nah, they's all queers ain't they – "

"Then why are all our womenfolk fawning and squirming an' donning their pretty dresses?"

"Only your mother…"

"Shut the fuck up – your sister's the biggest slut I ever met…"

"What is the matter with the men in this town?" asked Galdithion, somewhat rhetorically. "They insult their friends, their families – their whole lives revolve around aggravation and provocation – I mean how can they live like this?" he mused.

"'Tis not quite so common, Galdithion. I hope that you will get the opportunity to experience the brighter side of humanity, for it does exist, in spite of what appearances may suggest," said Gildor somewhat flatly.

But Galdithion did not answer him, still unwilling to completely forgive the Noldo for his actions against Legolas. Indeed he could feel both Glorfindel and Elladan's eyes riveted on his own, he could feel them boring into him. There was a war raging behind Galdithion's summery blue eyes, and he almost wished that Gildor would defend himself – but he did not – he bore the brunt of Galdthion's mistrust with a quiet dignity that grudgingly reminded him of why Glorfindel had kept Gildor's company for so long, why Legolas trusted him.

Galdithion's mind sharpened of a sudden, for the jeers and taunts had ceased, and the noise inside the crowded room had lulled significantly. Turning his head to the door, his eyes settled upon five tall men. 'Dour, menacing,' he thought to himself, before 'dangerous, foreign,' joined the barrage of impressions that came to him spontaneously. It was by no means the first time he had seen Rangers, but it had been a while, and he had not seen them upon their own territory – human territory. They were tall, cloaked from head to foot in black fabrics of linen and leather, suede and cotton, but black, except for their weapons that peeked over their shoulders; short bows and long swords that glinted in the now still candle flames – for no one spoke, breathed even, as they slowly stepped forward.

Eyes followed them as they moved forward, their shrouded heads moving this way and that as they searched, until the foremost member of their group locked eyes with the bartender, who simply jerked his head towards their table. Only then did the noise slowly, timidly begin to occupy the room once more, however much it was tentative and superficial, for many sat in wait of the events that would transpire at that remote table where the elves sat, hidden yet surreptitiously observed by all.

"Mae govannen."

Glorfindel seemed momentarily taken aback, not having expected the Sindarin greeting.

"Mae govannen."

"I am Arhad of the Dunedain Rangers, captain of this group…"

"I am Glorfindel, Captain of this elven contingent," returned the High Constable cautiously.

"From where do you hail – Glorfindel?" asked Arhad, a hint of sarcasm in his strong yet quiet voice, whether from disdain for elves, or because he thought the name to be a copy from the books of old, Galdithion could not say.

"That is not an easy question to answer, Captain. Personally, I hail from a land that is no more…"

"And now?" asked the captain, a little impatiently, and Glorfindel stiffened as his nostrils flared.

"I am Glorfindel of Imladris, Captain of her guard," he said simply, matter-of-factly, not a hint of his growing irritation present in his stance or tone, at least not to the humans. For Galdithion and the rest of them, Glorfindel's patience was being sorely tested. He was a warrior with an acute sense of protocol, and allied commanders showed each other respect – not disdain. It was brash and uncouth – unbecoming of a leader.

"I have been charged with escorting you and your men. We cannot disclose any more than that – are you willing to follow us?"

Glorfindel took his time as his eyes searched the light grey ones of the Dunedain that stood before him, only a little shorter than himself. Turning his head, his eyes met the shrouded figure of Legolas who gave the slightest of nods. It was enough and Glorfindel told the ranger as much, as the man's eyes lingered for a moment on the anonymous elf whose acceptance the elven captain had sought.

"If your mission is to escort us to your leader, then we shall follow."

"And if it is not?" asked a warrior that stood behind Arhad. His tone was a dare, and Galdithion wondered at this lack of discipline within a group so small.

Glorfindel smiled, undoubtedly recognizing the youthful exuberance of an inexperienced warrior and diplomat.

"If it is not – should you lead us astray – your folly will be duly noted and summarily avenged."

There was an awkward silence then, broken only when Arhad held out his arm and gently gestured to the rash warrior to resume his place behind him.

"Rest assured, Glorfindel. You are considered allies to my people," said the captain, his tone now apparently sincere.

"So be it. Tell us then, what you would have us do," said Glorfindel.

"I fear you are no longer safe here. We are camped close to the town walls. Collect your belongings and meet us in ten minutes outside these doors," said the man authoritatively, before adding, "and do not keep us waiting."

Glorfindel's blond eyebrow rose almost to his hairline, his irritation with the Dunedain captain peaking such that Galdithion knew he would not trust his own mouth right now, preferring a simple nod of the head. He was getting good at this, he mused, or was it simply that he had become more observant?

And, just as the group had entered, so they left the crowded and somewhat muted hall of The Slaughtered Lamb. Nobody stopped them, called out to them, even though they were charged with keeping these lands safe. They were feared, realized Galdithion, or was it respect? Both, perhaps, and who could blame these people, for they were forbidding and cold, as if the weight of suffering had become too much and their emotions had retreated in defense.

Glorfindel signaled to his group with a nod of his head. Rising, they made their way to the main doors to collect their belongings. However as they passed the table of rowdy humans, Galdithion lurched forward, falling to the wooden floor with a mighty crash that shook the tables around them.

Silence reigned once more as the locals took in the unlikely scene of an elf, sprawled indecorously upon the floor, his legs this way and that, his long hair now loose and hanging around his face in luscious chestnut locks.

Elladan moved forward and offered a hand to the stunned sylvan, who rose slowly, his jaw clenching in both anger and indignation.

Legolas moved forward, Glorfindel's calming hand upon his bracer, but the king stepped away, pulling down his own hood and delighting as the man's face turned from outrageous, drunken humour, to stunned terror. Legolas was now so close to the paralyzed human their noses almost touched.

Strange though it was, the room watched this, almost humourous play of emotions upon the man's face, yet they had not expected him to scrunch his features so that his face became utterly contorted in what seemed to be acute pain. The elf was not touching him it seemed, and low, alarmed murmurs began, for surely this was elven magic…

Indeed the other humans at the table stood so suddenly their chairs scuttered backwards, hitting the floor just as they reached the main doors.

"Now now," said Legolas in what was almost a whisper. "You would do well to avoid me after that childish display, for you have irritated me," said the king in such a pleasant voice it was hard to reconcile what he said with the way that he said it. The man whimpered and then whined as pain shot over his face once more, and the alarmed murmurs were back.

"Apologise "

"I…er….. sorry?" squeaked the man, and Glorfindel almost felt sorry for him, for he was sweating and pallid – panicked at what he believed were his final moments upon Arda.

"You are forgiven," smiled Legolas somewhat evilly as the smell of fresh urine came to him. It was then that he moved back, tipped his head a little, replaced his hood, and then walked from the Slaughtered Lamb together with his company.

Once outside, Elladan searched Legolas' eyes in silent question, to which Legolas answered as he held out his right hand.

"I must wash my hands before we leave," he said in disgust, and Galdithion chuckled first, until finally, all five were immersed in infectious giggling as they took the stairs. The sound of mocking laughter and jeers resounded in the Slaughtered Lamb, no doubt at the expense of an utterly embarrassed man who was drunk no more, for his balls throbbed mercilessly, and his wet trousers would be the talk of the town for many days to come.

….

Exactly ten minutes later, five hooded elves stood before five shrouded rangers. There was a silent war between them, the reasons for which Elladan could not fathom, for they had hardly shared words, and yet Arhad and his men had already made it clear that they were not sympathetic to this cause – whatever it was.

The initial, somewhat veiled antagonism between Glorfindel and Arhad had made the elves wary of confiding too much, of relaxing in any way until the reason for such disdain could be discovered.

"You will follow us," was all Arhad said before the five rangers swirled on their heels and marched away towards the outskirts and their camp, not waiting for the slightest hint of consent from the elves. And so, Legolas and his elves slung their scant travel packs over their shoulders and, after a swift glance of trepidation, they took up the pace behind the somber company.

…

It did not take them long to reach the Rangers' camp, if that is what it truly was. They were still inside the town walls, just next to the stabling area. The ground was dry and the men soon had a healthy hearth crackling and spitting, over which a metal structure hung.

Gesturing with his gloved hand, Arhad sat with his men as Glorfindel and the others did likewise, setting their packs behind them but well within reach – they would be taking no risks after the episode with the king's boots.

The silence was somewhat uncomfortable, and strangely, it was Arhad himself that broke it.

"This, is Menel, my Lieutenant," he said simply, and Menel nodded as he slipped his hood back, revealing his thin, lined face and long, black hair.

"Your face is familiar to me," said Gildor, as he slid his own hood back, revealing his straight silvery hair. "Was your father a warrior?"

"Aye, he was. He was killed some sixty years ago." Said the man, somewhat confused with the words of the strange elf.

"Benaison was a good man, and an excellent scout."

The man's eyebrows rose and his mouth fell a little open before he closed it once more, visibly collecting himself before answering.

"How did you come to meet my father?" he asked, curiosity colouring his voice as he sat forward, closer to the one named Gildor who undoubtedly had a spellbinding tale to tell.

"I have often ridden with the Dunedain, Menel, although I have not done so for some time now."

"You are of the wandering elves? I have not seen them for many years but I would have remembered you…" he trailed off, somewhat embarrassed at his own rash words.

Gildor smiled only slightly, for the man had, for a moment, dropped his mask of austerity and cold indifference, grudgingly it seemed.

"I was their leader, until other duties took me to other lands, and other responsibilities."

"Then perhaps you will still know some of our elders…"

"Perhaps, although your Lord is known to us all, for we met not long ago in Rivendell…" said Gildor softly, chancing a quick glance at a still hooded Legolas.

"He did indeed travel there, for the crowning of a new High King. When he returned he did not reveal much, and yet his silence said more than enough – something, something happened…"

"Menel," said Arhad sternly.

"Forgive me, Captain," said Menel softly.

It was the younger ranger that spoke then. "You must forgive our Lieutenant, Glorfindel. He is sometimes soft and…"

"Eldonar," came Arhad's command – for command it was. "Prepare our food. We have days of hard travelling ahead and an early start to make. We eat, we sleep, and tomorrow, we travel long."

Legolas regarded them from under his ample hood. Menel was what Zadnazir had described as a 'believer,' while Arhad, their captain was not, and his sternness, his condescending manner towards Glorfindel pointed at rejection – rejection perhaps of this thing the child had foreseen. He didn't want to believe and yet something seemed to pull at him.

As for the younger ranger – Eldonar and, he assumed, the other two members of the group – Legolas wagered they were novices. Yet the arrogance of the boy suggested he had some place of importance in this Dunedain society – a young lord, perhaps. Legolas smiled to himself, for the boy was over-confident.

Galdithion bent his head closer to Elladan and spoke quietly in Sindarin, as Elladan nodded and answered in hushed tones. The elder elves simply sat cross-legged before the fire, allowing the smell of roasting chicken work its way into their nostrils and setting their stomachs to growling – watching, and evaluating – planning.

Arhad did likewise, until Menel broke their uncomfortable silence and spoke in Westron to his captain, who simply nodded, or grunted from time to time. And the three young novice rangers – for that is what they were – prepared their meal with a somewhat lighter conversation. They spoke of maidens and battles as they chuckled quietly and Legolas found himself smiling at their antics – however arrogant Eldonar had been before – it had been the fruit of youth, a malady that would be cured with time.

Legolas had calculated four, maybe five days of travel, although he could not be certain, for Arathorn's position was a mystery. And yet the king wagered they would be five of the longest days of travel he would remember…

New characters:

Arhad: Captain of the Dunedain Rangers

Menel: Lieutenant

Eldonar: Novice Ranger. A Lord, and cousin to Gilraen, wife of Arathorn.

Calrenair: Novice Ranger

Denhir: Novice Ranger