The Trees Remember
Chapter Nine
"The Heir of Númenor"
Haldir gazed intently at the door. The air seemed stiff, almost poisoned. He had felt the same stillness in the air many times. Nature reacted to that which opposed it, things that were dark and brooding cast intangible shadows upon the balance of the world. Elves had a sense of that unbalance. Haldir felt it now.
One single sound signaled to the Elf that his feelings were correct. Something heavy dropped on a carpeted floor, but the vibrations in the air were threatening. Danger was near, but it was not concentrated on him. He reached for the malevolent force with his mind, seeking the source of his malcontent.
In a flash, he exited his quarters and slipped into the hallway. Elladan, Elrohir, and Legolas stood in the corridor already, hands poised upon their swords. They were closer to the mysterious darkness, and therefore felt it first. Upon seeing each other, it became obvious that whatever threatened them assaulted Elaneth first.
They silently fell into a formation and approached the elleth's room. The door stood slightly ajar and the lights were on, but there was near silence in her quarters. They felt her presence, unmoving not far from the door. She knew something waited for her. There was another sound, so slight it was barely noticeable. Breathing.
The quiet ended abruptly. A heavy footstep hit the floor, and a moment later, a man appeared in the hallway. He was dressed as the S.S. men had been in a dark trench coat and fedora, yet he looked startlingly different. He held Elaneth firmly in his grasp. He faced the sons of Elrond and Legolas, but Haldir's presence was unknown to him.
The elleth squirmed against him, causing the pistol to press against her temple more firmly. She cursed under her breath. He had been hiding in the one place she did not expect: in the window frame behind the curtain. It took too much patience, too much poise, and too much stealth for a human to do such a thing. Yet this man had.
"Tell them to put down their weapons," the man said, in broken German.
"You tell them," Elaneth spat.
"They would not understand me."
"Perhaps they would if you spoke better German, traitor."
The butt of the pistol crashed against Elaneth's temple. A blinding pain seared behind her eyes. She fought to regain control of her mind. Her body slumped forward, and her eyes squeezed shut. It was the perfect opportunity, yet the pain was so sudden, she could not grasp it. Her dagger was so close to her hand, and so far from the man's mind. The man pulled her back against his chest, and the chance to escape was gone.
"He wants you to lower your swords," Elaneth said, in Sindarin.
"There is no honor in holding an elleth in front of you," Legolas said, stepping forward. "Release her and fight us honorably."
"Italians have no honor, Legolas," Elaneth sneered. "They follow whoever will grant them the most."
"What are they saying?" the Italian barked. "Tell me or I will kill you."
"They say you are a boorish WOP--"
The Italian cocked the hammer of his gun in thoughtless rage. Elaneth closed her eyes, only to feel the gun fall away from her. It hit her shoulder and bounced to the floor. Her eyes snapped open, then closed again in horror. Lying at her feet was the pistol with the Italian's hand still attached, one finger on the trigger.
The assassin betrayed himself to the Embassy guards by shrieking in agony. On the floors below them, the Elves heard the Irish sentinels mobilizing. Elaneth spun around. Haldir stood there with his sword at the Italian's throat. Trails of blood dripped down the shining silver sword and splattered on the white carpet.
"That is two times in as many days, Elaneth," Haldir said. "Perhaps I should give you lessons in self-defense."
A smile touched her lips for just a moment. She turned away from the Italian's handless arm, unable to look at the gruesome sight of stringy tendons and muscle.
"What is this?"
The man who spoke was the highest ranking officer among the Embassy guards, a Sergeant Major in the Marines. Elaneth judged from the number of rectangular flags and metals on his uniform that he had seen nearly all the horrors war could generate. Except a one-handed Italian held at sword-point by an Elf.
"He is an Italian assassin," Elaneth stated, cringing as she turned to glance at him. "He was waiting in my room."
"Germans and Italians," the Sergeant sighed, shaking his head. "You must have said something in one of your speeches to really piss them off."
Elaneth nodded. "I am beginning to regret my harsh words."
She knew this was not the reason the Axis forces were following them, but if the Sergeant Major needed to believe that, Elaneth would let him.
"We will guard your rooms for the remainder of the night, Miss Livingston," he continued.
The elleth shook her head. "He came in through the window."
The solider started at this statement. They were on the sixth floor of the Embassy.
"We will not sleep this night, however."
The Elves gathered in Elaneth's room simply because it was in the center of the corridor, and that was where the soldiers chose to stand. Elaneth was clearly concerned about the event, but she would not speak about it unless directly questioned.
"Do not trouble yourself about this, Elaneth. You could not fight him with his weapon against your head," Elladan said, attempting to console the elleth.
Elaneth shook her head. "Nay, Elladan, that is not what troubles me."
"Then what does?" Elrohir asked.
She wracked her brain trying to think of way to explain such a thing to them, but without hours of political science lessons, she would be unable to make them comprehend.
"Italy is not the superpower that Germany is. Mussolini copies Hitler like an admiring younger brother, yet he lacks in every area. Hitler controls Mussolini like a marionette. Compared to the German S.S., Italian Fasci di combattimento are damn near laughable. They have none of the skill that the Germans do and inspire no fear. I cannot understand why Mussolini would attempt to accomplish what Hitler cannot."
"This reminds me very much of the War of the Ring," Legolas said. "So many mysteries, yet clearly leading to one person."
The others nodded.
"That is what frightens me," Elladan admitted. "If it is the Dark Lord we seek …"
He did not finish his thought, but he did not need to. Elaneth shook her head, wishing to Ilúvatar that the Allies would win before they were forced to confront Adolph Hitler.
An hour before the sun rose, the Elves were ready to leave Ireland. Elaneth tried to prepare them for the flight to London in an airplane.
"The driver is ready to take us to the airfield," she announced.
"What is an airfield?" Elladan asked.
She struggled for an answer. "It is where we will get on the vehicle that is to take us to England."
"What is this one like?"
She dreaded saying the words. "It is a flying machine."
The Elves looked at her incredulously. Elaneth wondered if it were possible that they had not yet seen an airplane in the sky. Most of the U.S. Army Air Corps was stationed on the west coast, but commercial airlines carried passengers from New York to nearly every city in the US.
The car ride to the airfield was short, but strangely silent. Elaneth tried and failed to explain the mechanics of an airplane. She had flown before, although she thought it wholly unnatural. She hated it in the best of conditions.
The airstrip was barely more than a barren potato field. The airplane, as Elaneth called it, looked like a giant metal bird. It was smaller than the fell beasts of the Nazgûl, but larger than the eagles of Middle-earth. It was painted garish red with two white strips on the wings.
Three other airplanes of vastly different design sat farther away. Those planes were long and sleek, blue-gray with white English letters on the side, and on the tail of the plane, a painted flag. Men dressed in brown flying uniforms stood beside them.
"Those are RAF pilots," Elaneth said, nodding to the men. "They will escort us safely to London."
"This is Lady Rogue," the commercial pilot said, patting the side of the aircraft. "We'll have you to London in an hour and a half."
The inside of the aircraft was cramped and uncomfortable, just like Elaneth remembered. The seats were fairly new, but wobbled from side to side nonetheless. Just the thought of rocking back and forth during the entire flight made Elaneth nauseous. There was practically no leg room, which for Elves, was terribly inconvenient. A guilty smile touched her lips at the sight of the Elves crunched into their seats; their knees in their chests.
"Fasten the seatbelt," she instructed.
"We need a device to keep us in the seat?" Elrohir questioned.
"I do not feel so confident in this machine," Legolas said.
Elaneth wanted to agree with him, but she said nothing of the sort. There was only one other way into England, and that was far more dangerous than an airplane.
The pilot started the engines and checked the gauges for accuracy. The sound alone caused the Elves to start. They hastily latched their seatbelts, and looked to Elaneth for reassurance. She had nothing to say. The very thought of soaring through the air caused her head to swirl.
"Ready, Miss Livingston?" the pilot asked.
"As ready as I'll ever be. Try to keep it smooth, Patrick. I hate these things, and my friends have never flown before."
Patrick nodded. "I'll do my best. Turbulence has been reported over the Midlands, however."
Elaneth nearly dropped her head into her hands, but she did not. The taxi down the airstrip was the easiest part of the flight. The moment the wheels lifted from the ground, everything went from bad to worse.
To say that the Elves were uncomfortable would be a vast understatement. Elaneth had been forced into a plane so many times she often forgot about the side effects. Clogged ears and motion sickness were things the Elves had never felt.
They kept up brave fronts, but Elaneth saw their unease. Legolas gripped the armrests of his seat so tightly that his knuckles turned white, Haldir and Elrohir, who were seated by the windows, kept their attention focused solidly on the center of the cabin, and Elladan turned a sickly shade of green. Elaneth almost laughed at the absurdity of putting four Elves of Valinor on an airplane.
"The air is for birds, not Men and Elves," Haldir declared.
"It is the only way to get safely to England," Elaneth said. "I would not endanger us again by taking another ship."
"I do not consider this safe," Haldir replied.
Elaneth was glad she had decided to take a ship to England, even though that ship had been sunk. The new transatlantic flights were nearly ten hours. She was sure the Elves would have had panic attacks in that length of time.
Finally, the plane touched down at Heathrow and the three RAF escorts departed back to their station on a carrier in the Irish Sea.
As the Elves climbed down the stairway to the tarmac, a man standing near the bunker caught their attention. He was dressed in a crisp, dark blue uniform with numerous metals on his breast. At his side hung a thin sword with an intricate gold hilt. He stood over six feet tall, an unusual and impressive height for a Briton. His boyishly handsome faced concealed his age, but in the depth of his sea-gray eyes churned wisdom. The moment the Elves looked at the man, their hope rekindled.
"He is Númenórean," Elladan whispered, almost not believing it. "The line of Elros has endured."
Though it had been many millennia, the Elves recognized the blood of Númenor. It was the first time they had felt that blood line since their arrival. Though it was distinctly changed, it remained forever superhuman in its quality.
"Andre!" Elaneth cried.
She and Andre ran towards each other with arms outstretched. He picked her up and spun her around.
"Elaine!" he grinned. "It has been far too long, love. I could hardly believe it when I heard your voice on the line."
"I am so happy to see you! I thought I never would again."
His brow furrowed. "I was in the last World War, and I survived."
"I meant me. It is a long story, but we're a day late and on an airplane for a reason, Andre. We'll tell you all about it. Right now, however, we must be off. We are being followed by S.S. soldiers."
The man's face grew stern, and his age was suddenly apparent. He briefly scanned the Elves, then turned quickly and led them towards his car.
Andre Walker was an amiable man when German S.S. soldiers were not lurking about. His gray eyes held a spark of joy in them, even in the direst of circumstances. He spoke very little to the Elves on the drive through London, but his Elvish was understandable. It was the same oddly changed Sindarin that Elaneth spoke.
London appeared to the Elves very much like Boston had, but this city was not only metal and smoke. There was an underlying history and culture in everything they saw. Each cobblestone and brick seemed to hold an ancient and profound story. It was clearly an older city than both Boston and Washington, D.C. Perhaps it was the memory of the Shire seeping through the soil that allowed London to retain its history while progressing with the times.
As Elaneth had done in Washington, D.C., she pointed out the major buildings in London. As they passed by the Houses of Parliament, she began a long dissertation about the pros and cons of a Parliamentary system of government which resulted in bewildered looks from the Elves and bored glances from Andre. Buckingham Palace created a quite a stir among the Elves. Apparently, it was a shabby building compared to the Citadel of Minas Tirith.
"Here we are," Andre smiled, turning the car left. "Highgate Village."
"Moving up in the world, I see, Admiral," Elaneth teased.
"What does that word mean?" Legolas questioned.
"Admiral? It is a military rank. He's the second-highest ranking officer in the Royal Navy. He commands the fleet in the Mediterranean."
The Elves looked at the man with a new appreciation. Like Andre, all four of the ellyn were among the highest ranking officers in their realms in Middle-earth.
The road curved through Highgate Village lazily. The higher up in the hills Andre drove, the nicer and bigger the houses became. At last, they reached the crest of hill and turned onto Hampstead Heath. The houses were massive, fit for great Lords and Admirals. Sparse woodlands surrounded each home, offering a bit of privacy in the center of London. The din of city life seemed to fade away in the tree enclosed community.
Andre eased the car into a driveway in front a large white house. A young man waited for them at the front door. Andre introduced him as Colin, his son. He was barely into his teenage years, but as tall and strong as his father. Seated at his feet was a behemoth of a dog.
"Hello, Colin," Elaneth greeted. She patted the dog. "Mellon."
"The dog's name is Mellon?" Legolas asked, bemused.
Colin nodded. "Thranduil chose his name. He said it was fitting for man's best friend."
The boy's Elvish was not as good as his father's, but Legolas understood him well enough. Like Andre, Colin's accent was tonally rich and precise, unlike Elaneth's somewhat slurred American drawl. Elvish sounded better with an English accent, Legolas decided.
The guests were seated in the drawing room, and a middle-aged woman brought them tea. Her hair was gray at the temples, and there were lines around her eyes, but she had a vigorous spirit. She was called Lilly, and she was Andre's wife.
"Would you care to join us, Lilly?" Elaneth asked, politely.
"Oh, dear, no. I can't talk politics. Anyway, I have to go to the grocers and get dinner for tonight. Colin, come with me. I'll need your arms to carry the bags."
He began to protest, but Andre gave him a firm look.
"Yes, mother," he answered, and followed her from the room.
When mother and son left the house, Andre began asking Elaneth and the Elves questions. Most of their conversation was the retelling of past events. Elladan relayed the proceedings at the Council in Valinor, and Elaneth told the story of the past six weeks. Andre listened to all of this with a furrowed brow.
"Then there is only one thing to do," Andre concluded.
The others waited expectantly.
"Get you into Occupied Territory."
Author's Note:
Fasci di combattimento "official" name of the Black Shirts. Italian versions of the S.S.
Thank you SpaceWeavil for sorting out my historical and geographical inaccuracies in this chapter. Without her, a majority of you would be laughing right now. Especially, if you're British.