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Chapter 10: The Breaking of the Fellowship
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Moira assessed her reflection in the jet lavatory mirror. It was bad.
The hair was fucked beyond all recognition: sections of it had stuck together and there wasn't any prying them apart. Who knew that hair gel left in for more than 24 hours would go solid like that? Moira had finally rinsed the mop that once was hair in the lavatory basin and knotted it in back. It still looked like shit and wet pieces kept slipping free, but at least it wasn't defying gravity.
The bigger tragedy was the dress: that gorgeous black party dress had wrinkled overnight like a fuckin Shar Pei, and it had stains in the pits. Eew. Moira felt stuck to the once slinky-soft fabric. This dress had never been intended for multi-day use without some major laundering in between. Still, Moira thought the makers might've put a warning on the label: "Not intended for chased-by-hell-spawn-creatures use. Dry clean only."
She didn't even want to think about all the stuff back in Nic's apartment. Stuff that those asschair dudes had probably pawed through and slimed on. Her favorite Juicy jeans with the lace-up front. The best push-up bra ever. Her toothbrush. All as good as ditched. Well, at least if a girl was going to get stuck with only one pair of shoes, she couldn't go wrong with strappy Manolo Blahnik sandals. That hurt like hell to run in.
Clenching a damp face-towel in her fist, she rubbed at the raccoon-smudges under her eyes. A tentative knock sounded on the narrow lavatory door. Moira tried to ignore it.
"Hey, Moira? You okay? Can I come in?" The voice was low, considerate. Gentle. Moira gritted her teeth and rubbed her face angrily.
The little door-latch thingy jiggled, and Moira turned and flashed a look at it. No lock. How could there be no lock? Was this a bathroom or what?
"I'm in the bathroom, do you mind," she growled.
"So? Wouldn't be anything I haven't seen before," the voice said. Shit. She could almost see the smile in his voice.
"A nice person would totally forget that factoid," she snipped. Before she could react, the door unlatched and swung out. Leo slipped inside and latched the door behind him.
"Hey! You're still dressed," he observed, with a shiteating grin. As if he'd fully expected her to be stark raving nekkid. Moira frowned furiously and squeezed the face-towel. The lavatory was already a little cramped and humid, but with Leo in there, it felt like she was squashed into a marble-and-polished-wood clothes dryer. Whilst wearing a stinky, sticky dress. In an effort to create breathing space between them, Moira edged over and sat on the toilet lid. Leo grinned and folded his long arms loosely over his chest.
Silence stretched. Moira pursed her lips. She wasn't about to say anything. Talking would just encourage him. She shook the face towel out, laid it flat over her knees, and began folding it primly into squares. Ignoring him completely. Maybe he'd get the idea.
"You okay, Moira?" he asked, after a while. Again, with the gentle voice, no longer laughing at her.
"Of course," she said briskly. "What makes you think I'm not?" She focused on the towel, folding it into ever tinier sections.
"You've been in here almost an hour," he replied.
Moira said nothing.
"And it sounded earlier like you were horfing."
Moira's head shot up, and she glared at him. "You were listening at the door? Oh, you are such a perv."
Surprisingly, Leo wasn't grinning. He looked genuinely concerned. Which summoned some unpleasant memories for Moira. If anything, her scowl deepened.
"I could hear because I was sitting in the chair right next to the lavatory," he told her. "I don't think anyone else heard."
Moira swallowed and pursed her lips again. She felt alarmingly close to crying. Shit! And she'd just spent the last half hour convincing herself that she could fucking handle this. Heir of the Whoosiwhatsit Realm et cetera. Hunted by pissy knife-wielding assassins. Sure. No biggie.
"Yeah, well you can just ..."
Leo pinned her with a gaze. She vaguely remembered that stare from Abby Greenblat's party. It was one of the very few things she remembered from that night. She felt her face heating with embarrassment and hated herself for it.
"Moira, just let it out. You don't have to do this alone," he said. Soft, genuine, almost like he really cared.
Moira didn't want to give in. And for-sure not to Leo. But she really did feel overwhelmed. Despite all the lip-pursing and frowning, she felt tears swell against her eyelids. She blinked, trying to maintain control. She closed her eyes, as if the fact that she couldn't see the blur of her own tears made them somehow less real. But after a long moment, she felt the inner dam burst, and she just couldn't stop it any more.
She didn't even notice careful fingers in her hair, pushing errant strands out of her damp face. Moira didn't resist. Nor did she flinch when he pulled the towel from her lap and wiped her face. She heard her own loud sniffles.
"I guess... I just keep hoping that I'll wake up from all this. Think, 'Whoa, I must'a drank too much last night' and it'll all be a weird, horrible stupor dream."
"Which part has been the worst?" he nudged gently.
Moira thought about it. What was the worst part? Being chased by knife-wielding assassins? Losing her Gucci luggage in New Orleans? For-sure missing her physics mid-term on Monday? Being stuck in a lavatory with Leo? Or finding out that -- surprise! -- she was a major player in a global and secret war that involved elves?
"Not knowing," she answered at last. "I fucking hate it that everybody else seems to know exactly what's going on. I mean, they all knew who I was before I knew. How's that supposed to make me feel, huh? I may act blonde sometimes, but I do have half a brain, you know. Why couldn't they just tell me right off? Do they think I'm that f-fucking c-clueless?" The tears were back, but Moira swiped at them angrily with the back of her hand.
"They were trying to protect you, I think," Leo said. He sank to his haunches in front of her, filling the slight space between them. For the first time in a long time, Moira felt no annoyance. Yeah, this was Leo. And yeah, she thought he was utter slime. But he was being really nice right now. She vaguely recalled that he'd been awfully nice at Abby's party, too. Before the lemon-drops and table dancing, anyway.
"Yeah, well, I wish they'd just stop. Am I part of this Telcontar family or what? Warrior house 'n' shit, right? So you'd think I'd be all Xena Warrior Princess or something." Moira drew herself up and stood. She felt a rush of strength, like all the generations of Telcontar warriors might actually have donated a scrap of courage. And all she had to do was pick it up and use it.
Leo leaned back on his heels and eyed her speculatively for a moment. He seemed to be looking for something in her face, and when he found it, he pulled a snarky smile. "Well, you would look hot in one of those leather bustiers," he informed her.
"Don't even go there," Moira warned, looking down at Leo and suddenly remembering her beef with him.
"Where? Why is it that every time I tease a little, you go all SuperBitch on me? I don't mean anything by it, Moira," he said. He waggled one eyebrow provocatively. How did he do that?
"Maybe it has something to do with that night at Abby Greenblat's," she snipped, remembering vividly why she didn't like him.
Leo looked puzzled. "But, Moira, I thought you li..."
Moira never heard the rest of that thought. Because Fate -- or, more likely, Minou -- chose that very moment to yank the plane onto its side. The jet dove and spun, pulling Gs, and Moira lost her footing, slamming her elbow into the marble basin. Right before she collapsed on top of Leo.
#
"Moira! Let me in! Are you alright?" That was Birdsong at the lavatory door. Moira could see the door latch jiggling. And she could hear his voice, urgent and rough. But when she tried to reach for the latch, her arm stuck. It took her a few seconds to realize that one arm was jammed between Leo and the toilet, and the other was draped awkwardly underneath the paper dispenser.
Underneath? Why was it ...?
Holy shit, the plane was sideways! Moira was just about to scream, but then the floor started moving, and she realized that she wasn't really lying on the floor. She was lying on top of Leo. And her skirt had caught on the flusher handle on the way down (the way sideways?)... at any rate, her entire dress was ripped up the side. Oh, this wasn't going to look good. Moira really didn't want Birdsong to see her like this. Or anybody else, actually.
"I'm just fin..." she began. But her breath caught mid-"fine": In one smooth movement, Leo put an arm around her waist, set his back against the marble counter top and slid up, pulling her up with him. She should have known by his grin that he was up to something. But her brain was moving too slowly to stop him. She heard the door open, knew Birdsong was right there, and still couldn't figure out what was going on.
That was when Leo kissed her.
Oh, not a real kiss. Not a suck-in-the-breath-cause-this-is-the-big-one kind of liplock. Just a brush of lips across hers. And another grin. The shit. He'd made sure Birdsong had seen it, too. But before Moira could protest or lay into him, Leo was handing her over to Birdsong. Just like nothing had happened.
The fleeting look on Birdsong's face reminded Moira of his fury during that spat with Minou earlier. But the expression passed in a moment, and Moira couldn't be sure she'd even seen it. Birdsong took her arm firmly, pulling her into the main cabin of the plane. He steadied his hands against her waist and urged her forward. Only forward was really sideways. Literally walking on the rubber strip between the paneling and the carpet, Moira battled wonky angles and vertigo all the way back to her chair.
"You need put your seatbelt on right now," Birdsong told her calmly.
"What's happening?" Moira asked. She glanced around, noting that the others were all belted in with over-the-head-and-across-the-chest harnesses. Ali's knuckles shone white on her chair arm. Greg had his thumbs hooked into his harness, and he shifted between utterly calm and squirrel-nervous: typical Greg. Minou had disappeared again, and Moira wondered if she was a pilot or something.
"We're under attack," Birdsong explained.
Like some bizarre moment out of a Tom Clancy movie, Moira heard Minou's voice drift in from the cockpit, issuing orders to her pilot: "Thirty-five mils in the gunsight, go to ARM on those missiles, and set the centerline tank to blow off." Moira couldn't make sense of it, and didn't even try.
Under attack. Again. Joy! Moira slid into the harness, secured it, curled her fingers over the chair arms, and held on for dear life.
"Ass-charn?" Moira asked the professor, trying to come off as very cool about this. Despite the fact that she was no longer entirely sure which way was up. And the plane apparently couldn't decide on just one angle.
"Not this time, I'm afraid," Birdsong answered. Moira scowled. Figure it to be something else she didn't have a clue about.
Almost as if he read her mind, Greg spoke up, raising his voice over the thin air and roar of engines: "Dragons."
No way. No fucking way. Moira was just about to point out that she had read that book, and the dragons died off in the first age, thank you very much. But then the plane lurched -- again -- and Birdsong even had a tough time keeping his balance. Which was saying a lot. Moira had never realized that being elfy meant having really wicked coordination. He made it look like some kind of raked-stage ballet as hopped from the side of one chair to the next, until he was back in his seat by the emergency exit.
"You mean dragons, like the flying, fire-breathing kind?" Nic asked, obviously having his own struggle getting his mind around this latest development. Moira felt strangely comforted by her cousin's obvious confusion and distress. At least she wasn't the only one confused as hell.
The plane hurked left; engines screamed. Moira clenched her teeth hard to keep from screaming in harmony.
"No," said Alicia, very calmly. "These don't breathe fire, or at least not enough to harm us. The great dragons are long gone. Of course, any dragon is dangerous." Her voice had settled into a strange cadence totally at odds with the crazy angle of the plane and the thunder of jet engines.
Birdsong muttered something under his breath, and Moira stretched to hear it. But the plane banked again -- to the right this time -- and then Minou called back from the cockpit, interrupting all possible thought.
"Lasgalen, I need missiles! Damn urulóki are out of just range of the cannons."
Birdsong nodded once and wrenched his leather seat backwards, so that it was facing the low teak sidebar. He slid his long hands under the lip of the paneling and nudged something there. The glossy surface rose, separated, and revealed a sleek control panel. Birdsong set his hands lightly on a pair of joystick-looking devices.
"Do you see them?" Minou's voice streaked back.
Birdsong didn't reply out loud, but he nodded almost imperceptibly, and one hand moved slightly on the control. The plane lurched, rolled, and thunder echoed from the left side, near the wing. Moira wrenched her head around to look out the oval window, and she saw a trail of white smoke streaking back to something behind them. Had they just fired a missile? At a fucking idragon/i??
Wiggling in her harness, Moira looked beyond the white streak, peering in to the painful bright sky until her eyes watered. But, just before the plane juked again, she saw iit/i. Or rather, part of it. Just the tip of a leathery wing, beating furiously in the thin air. It passed over the white contrail of the missile, unwittingly maneuvering smack into the path of certain death. Just that wing was easily as big as a horse. And it was impossibly close to the plane. It could reach out one of those long talons and swipe...
Moira swallowed a wild keening that rose in her throat. The dragon dipped below her window, and she wondered if it was dead. She hoped it was dead. She'd never been so freaked out in her life.
"Scratch one dragon on the port side," Birdsong said, almost as if he were calling a cricket match. Moira forced herself to breathe.
The air thinned, and the hair on Moira's forearms pricked. She wondered how many silent conversations were whiffing through the air around her. She felt very left out and vulnerable.
And suddenly very, very pissed.
Pissed at reality, at her situation, at the fact that she couldn't ido/i anything to rescue her own damn self. She was also pissed at Birdsong for letting her take his farqin class in the first place. And at Nic for boinking an elf and not even bothering to tell her. Of course at that shit Leo for ikissing/i her. In front of Birdsong. Oh, and last but not least: utterly and humongously pissed at the leather-winged monster that was attacking them this time: dragon, goblin, four-leaf clover. She didn't much care which particular mythical creature had decided to mess with her today, but she wanted very badly to kick its ass.
And then, cutting through her fury and confusion: "Shh, Moira," came the soft voice in her head. Sparkling and cool, like a sun shower. "This will be over soon."
She struggled to turn her head -- the Gs were now pressing her back against the seat so hard her sinuses felt like they were on fire -- and looked over at Greg. He was staring back steadily, and she knew without a doubt that it was his voice in her head, making her blood tingle and her breath come fast.
"I'm not scared," she thought, half in wonder and half in defiance. Greg's lips curled slightly, and his eyes crinkled at the edges. He smiled. Wait. Had she actually talked to him using her mind? Did she have mental powers? Well, it would make some sense, wouldn't it, since her great-great-nth-grandma was an elf? Didn't that king-dude marry an elf? Details from the movie blurred in her mind, but she thought the chick had pointy ears.
"That's because you are a wonderous creature," Greg said in her mind. And Moira saw the reflection of those words in his eyes. He meant it. She suddenly felt the air thicken in the cabin. It warmed, soothing her aching muscles, quelling her anger, dulling her panic. Making her feel, for the first time in days, perfectly safe.
Another missile ripped through the sky just beyond the jet cabin, and Moira felt the lurch of the plane as it climbed almost vertically, tearing blindly through the cloud ceiling. Something lit orange behind them, painting the clouds in garish colors.
"Impressive, Lasgalen," came Minou's voice, from the cockpit. "Another down, but I think their nasty little brother is coming around again."
"We are out of missiles. Take us over 40,000. He cannot fly long at altitude -- the air is too thin. Your dark lord has not kept up with technology, it seems. Pity." Birdsong's voice roiled in the cabin, casual, almost as if he were chatting about subject-verb-object structures.
Moira's sinuses screamed and her ears felt like they were exploding, but still the jet tore relentlessly upward. She gritted her teeth and kept staring into Greg's fathomless eyes. That inexplicable feeling of safety webbed around her. Black lace edged her vision, burrowing inward. She felt light, insubstantial. Floating.
"Stay with me, Moira," came Greg's voice, out loud and from some distance.
Moira struggled to reply, but the black lace had woven tighter, and now all she could see was a pinprick of light, right in the center of her vision. Greg's face was there. She wondered why he was out of his chair, how he could possibly stay on his feet when the jet was basically vertical. But then he was right next to her, pressing something over her face. Moira forced herself to breathe slowly and not panic.
"Gwonîn, help Nicolas. They can't breathe," Greg said, looking back over Moira's shoulder. Moira blinked, felt movement, and in her periphery saw Leo scramble up the aisle toward Nic.
After an eternity or two, the sharp incline leveled off a little, but Greg still held the mask over her face. Moira heard some chatter from the cockpit, and Birdsong made a noise that could almost be described as a chuckle. Other voices filtered in as Moira's vision returned to normal. But she didn't bother translating them.
Greg still crouched beside her in the aisle; his hand rested on her shoulder. Moira took it without hesitating. She curled her fingers around his, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.
"All clear?" she heard Birdsong ask.
"Yes. We're out of danger... for now," said Minou, ducking back into the cabin. "I don't have the last dragon on radar, and I can't see him either. But our plans have altered." Moira opened her eyes slowly.
"What do you mean?" asked Nicolas.
"They're tracking us, obviously. So we can't just go straight to Finestra." Minou darted a glance at Birdsong. Her face was full of meaning. "We'll have to split up."
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In The Fellowship of the Ring I 2 The Shadow of the Past, Gandalf tells Frodo that, since the passing of Smaug, '...there is not now any dragon left on earth in which the old fire is hot enough...', so at least some dragons of this kind must have remained on Earth at that time. But they probably didn't breathe fire.