"I am done, I am done,
I don't care how you feel
I am done, I am done for now
And I see, I see with every glance I steal
I am done, I am done for now
You say you're used to playin' with fire
You say your heart is on your sleeve
You say you're sometimes sentimental
Well, that ain't showin' through to me."
- Vance Joy, 'Playing with Fire'.
ooOoo
Cailiel had insisted that she wear her red dress to the feast that night. Dignitaries from the kingdoms of Men, Dwarves, and Elves had gathered together to discuss some great peril (i.e. the ring), and to dress otherwise would, apparently, be extraordinarily disrespectful. Not only to them, but to Lord Elrond, who had announced her as his ward to all and sundry.
If it had only been for the dignitaries and their feelings, Merrill would have gone in her breeches, but she owed Lord Elrond a lot, and if this small sacrifice on her part pleased him, then she would grin and bear it and wear the damn dress. She would not, however, be parted from her boots. The slippers Cailiel had thrust upon her were flimsy, impractical, and uncomfortable, and there was only so much Merrill was willing to put up with for one evening.
The disappointed exhalation Cailiel issued was pointedly ignored, and Merrill was speedily dispatched to an evening of meaningless small talk and meatless canapes.
She began down the hallway, the flickering torchlight limning her face in a soft, orange glow. Just as she turned right, Legolas melted out of an alcove and greeted her formally.
"My heart is glad to see you well, Merilinith." He was resplendent in a form fitting silk tunic of celadon green that illuminated his eyes. It was embroidered at the cuffs, the throat, and the hem with golden thread that glittered when he moved, and his trousers were a deep brown. Polished, brown boots adorned his feet, and he'd pulled his hair back from his face in a low ponytail, his customary braids conspicuously absent.
Merrill stomped down hard on the butterflies that exploded in her stomach and determined she should be rational. He was, after all, nothing like his character in the movies, from what she had seen, and that was whom she had fantasized about as a teenager – not him. "Thanks… So, do you often skulk about in random hallways? Or is this new?"
He opened his mouth to reply, stopped, then closed it and shook his head perplexedly. "I think you mean to jest, but I am not quite sure when it comes to you. In any case," he continued, rumpling his hair with one, careless hand. "I was waiting in the hopes that you would do me the honor of escorting you to the feast. Radhrion kindly allowed me to take his place."
That didn't sit particularly well with her; she wasn't anyone's to display like some doll. "I do believe I can manage to find my way to the dining hall without assistance, no matter what Radhrion says," she remarked coolly.
His face fell into something akin to confusion and she realized he had never before had such an offer declined.
Merrill sighed and relented. It wasn't his fault that she did not fit into this chivalric, romantic age. She was the odd one in this situation, not him. "…But you could walk with me, if you'd like. I just don't like the idea of being escorted or traded-off. It's so antiquated and paternalistic. I put up with it from Radhrion and Lord Elrond because, well, they've sort of adopted me. But it would be weird to let a stranger treat me like that, you know?"
"I do believe you are speaking another language, again. Would you consider explaining what it is you mean?" He offered her his arm, and she shook her head gently and began to walk. Legolas padded alongside her silently.
"I guess I mean that all this polite arm holding and escorting makes me feel like a possession more than a person. Does that make sense? I feel like a doll, and I don't like it."
Legolas gazed at the floor as he walked, giving Merrill a chance to steal another look at him. He was handsome; that didn't need repeating. All elves were exemplars of beauty. But there was an innocence about him, a purity, that she found endearing and frustrating, all at once. He was what her mother would have called a 'new soul'. There wasn't a smudge of taint on him; no darkness sat behind his eyes, no sorrow dwelled within his voice. He was, in some ways, quite child-like.
"You lack consistency," he said finally.
Merrill's hackles went up, but she managed a polite, "Excuse me?"
Legolas linked his hands behind his back. "You refuse my kindness because of your dislike of being treated as a possession, but allow such treatment from others… how is that not inconsistent?"
"It… is, a bit, I grant you," Merrill grudgingly agreed. "But it's also about choice. I choose who is allowed such familiarity – I choose for whom I will bend my rules. Yes, I would prefer it, in some ways, if the others wouldn't constantly treat me like glass, but… I guess I kind of like it, too. It makes me feel loved, coming from them. So, you're right. It is a contradiction. But, '…I am large - I contain multitudes.'" (1)
Legolas nodded slowly. "That almost makes sense."
"That's a bad sign," Merrill said with a straight face. "You don't want to learn the language of Merrills. Ask Radhrion, it has absolutely ruined him for all polite society. He laments daily."
They drew up to the door. The booming voices and laughter behind it made Merrill cringe; she hadn't been in company with numbers exceeding five or six others since before her arrival in Middle Earth. And this group sounded particularly boisterous, and more than half gone in their cups.
Merrill risked a look at Legolas; his face glowed with anticipation and good feeling. He really was unspoiled by the evils of the world. A wave of sadness washed over her; he would not be so for very much longer. The ring quest would give Legolas many things: a best friend in the shape of a dwarf, and experiences interacting with humans and his own kin, among them. But so, too, would it give him grief, and a grim knowledge of death and the still elusive concept of mortality – a harsh lesson for an immortal.
"Shall we?" she asked, elbowing his side. A jolt ran up her arm and Legolas jumped, turning his eyes on her and rubbing his side warily.
"Don't look at me," she defended, holding her hands before her in a show of innocence. "Static electricity happens to the best of us."
He edged past her and pushed the door open, determinedly avoiding contact. But she wasn't given long to dwell on this; the noise crashed over them, effectively ending their awkward stare-off. Legolas pointed across the teeming room to a table set just the slightest bit higher than the others; Elladan and Elrohir had returned, and beside them were four children with mops of curly hair. Elrond served the dark-haired child, himself, which Merrill thought was odd, until troubled blue eyes met her own. Frodo… that's Frodo. Which means… she stood up on her toes to make out three, sandy colored heads. Two of the hobbits were huddled together, laughing uproariously at some joke the other had said. The third hobbit was chubby, and steadily adding more and more food to Frodo's plate: Sam.
"Have you never seen a Halfling before?" Legolas pitched his voice so she might hear over the din.
This was too surreal. "Not real ones."
He tilted his head to the side.
Merrill had to remind herself that he was, in fact, a strong, Elven warrior and not a puppy she could adopt and take home for cuddles and tummy rubs. "No matter how adorable you may, or may not, appear right now, my answer is the same."
An all too male smile lit across his face, and his eyes repeatedly flickered to her own before skittering away, the traces of pleasure clear in his glittering eyes and the slightest blush staining his cheeks.
She threw her hands up in exasperation. "Yes, you're adorable! I admit it. So lose the smug smile and let's go eat."
"As you wish, my lady." His teeth flashed white against the tan of his skin.
He has a really nice smile, she thought reluctantly. Really nice.
As they wound their way through the room, several elves in the uniform she had seen Legolas in the first day they'd met stopped him and spoke, appraising her from the corners of their eyes. Perhaps they don't wish their princeling to consort with the common rabble. Whatever the case, Legolas eagerly introduced them to her, translating their replies. They didn't speak Common, and she didn't speak Sindarin, a fact they found suspect, if their expressions were anything to go by.
When they had finally made it to the high table, they were seated beside a dark haired man in a tunic of black with silver embroidery, and a Dwarf with a violent red beard, whose own clothing, though well made, was notably less frilly and favored comfort and utility over style. Beside him sat Radhrion, and the two appeared deep in conversation.
Legolas held her chair out for her politely before a conflicted look stole across his face and he jerked his hands back as though he'd been burnt. He shifted uncertainly from foot to foot.
I think I might have broken him, Merrill thought a little guiltily.
"Thank you, Prince Legolas."
His face went hard at that, and he sat without another word.
Well, this evening is going to be loads of fun, I can just tell - sat beside a moody elf princeling and an over-loud Dwarf with the terrible twins just waiting in the wings to make it all a thousand times worse.
"Legolas!" the man in black and silver cried joyously. He stood as Legolas did and they embraced affectionately. "Na vedui! Gwannas lû and, mellon nin." (2)
Legolas beamed, parting from the man's embrace only to twist his hand over his heart. The man did the same. "Mae g'ovannen, Estel. Lend and?" (3)
The man sat and rubbed his face tiredly. "Dae and. Tôl trastad, Legolas. I gala gwath." (4)
"Iston, a nidhib di ndaged," Legolas' face darkened for a fraction of a second, before he slapped the man on the back companionably and said, "Tolo, mado, a hogo e-mereth." (5)
The man gripped his shoulders, squeezing briefly. Then his sharp gray eyes landed on Merrill. They put her in mind of wolves on the Discovery channel; lean and keen with hunger, but watchful and wary with wisdom. "You must be Merrill. I have heard many good things about you."
Merrill, a piece of cheese halfway to her mouth, hastily set it aside and brushed her fingers off on her napkin, offering the man her hand. "I guess you weren't talking to Ronny, then. It's nice to meet you…?" she trailed off expectantly.
"Forgive me, my name is Estel, but you may call me Strider, if you would like." He accepted her hand and raised it to his lips.
Merrill choked on her cheese and yanked her hand away. For his part, Strider did not appear to take any offense. Instead, he kindly offered her his napkin and moved her water closer to her hand. Legolas stared at her as though she had admitted aloud to playing Badminton with Orcs in her spare time.
Aragorn. I am talking with the future king of Gondor, the heir of Elendil. The last of the line of kings. The love of Arwen. Merrill searched the room for a moment and found her seated three seats down, her eyes dancing as she watched them converse.
"Who is Ronny?" Aragorn inquired, politely changing the subject.
"Oh, well, he's sat just there." She waved in the elf's general direction and babbled, "He is always hard on me – says it's for my own good, or some nonsense."
A voice whose tone was well versed in the ironic slid into the conversation. "That's because it is, little bird. And you've no notion what a sacrifice it is, on my part. But I force myself so you will be strong." Radhrion leaned past his Dwarven dinner companion and pointedly ignored Merrill's rolling eyes and soft, "Sure you do."
"Radhrion, by the by. An old friend of Elrond. Splendid to meet you, at last."
"And I you, Radhrion. Arwen has told me of you, as well," Aragorn's voice was bordering on reverential and Merrill sighed; this was going to go straight to Radhrion's head, and there would be absolutely no living with him.
She picked up her dinner roll and began to smother it in the most decadent and creamy butter she had ever before seen. Let them talk; Merrill would put her time to better use.
"She is much kinder than I deserve, I am sure," Radhrion replied graciously. "I take it you are here for the Council?"
Aragorn set his fork down and said haltingly, "I am… but I have been asked not to say more until tomorrow. Lord Elrond is adamant."
Radhrion's fingers toyed with the stem of his goblet, inching it back and forth across the table. A frown creased his brow. "Yes, it would seem he has said much the same to the others. Oh!" He straightened in his chair and smacked his forehead lightly. "But where are my manners? This is Gimli, son of Gloin, of Erebor. He comes with his father bearing ill tidings, though he won't say more, stubborn lad."
The red-bearded Dwarf bowed in his seat to Aragorn, but passed over Legolas and Merrill. "Stone above, stone below, Ranger. I have not met one of your kind in many long years."
"Nor I yours, Master Dwarf. How fares Erebor and the King Under the Mountain?"
Gimli gazed into his goblet for a moment before reaching into his pocket to reveal a silver flask. He dumped half of its' contents into it, stopped, considered, shrugged, and dumped the rest in. The dwarf took a sip. "Ahhhhhh," he groaned appreciatively. "That's better. Elf drink is weak and tastes worse than horse piss." Legolas's eyebrows slanted sharply and several elves around the table glared, but Gimli continued, "Give me Dwarven whiskey, any day. Now, what was it you were asking?" Aragorn opened his mouth to remind him, but Gimli roared over him. "Ah, yes. Erebor. Well, King Dain yet lives, and his rule is just. Erebor flourishes, Mithril flows like water, and her halls ring with the sounds of many hammers."
Aragorn smiled. "And glad am I to hear it. But please, allow me to introduce my companions. This is Prince Legolas, of the Greenwood, and this is Merrill, ward of Lord Elrond."
Merrill bowed her head in acknowledgment, but Legolas angled his body away from the conversation, entirely, meaning that he faced her full on, his knees brushing against the side of her thigh. Merrill's muscles tightened, and she tried to ease away, but an unknown elf on her left peered down at her as though she were some manner of rodent when she accidentally bumped into him. As there was nothing for it, Merrill edged back over. It's not like he cares, she told herself. I could probably strip naked and cover myself in honey, and he'd just go on about the dangers of summer colds and offer me his coat. Not that I would want him to respond any differently, she hurriedly reassured herself. She let her leg relax. He shivered, but did not move away.
"Aye, I know of the prince of the Mirkwood," Gimli said darkly. "His father imprisoned my own many years ago without cause, and then extorted our king for gems. I see the Mithril doesn't fall far from the vein."
Legolas scowled but did not deign to reply, which was somehow so much worse.
Gimli's already ruddy face grew even redder, and Merrill leapt into the fray and blurted the first thing that came to mind: "If you wouldn't mind, would you tell me about Erebor? I have heard many stories of its magnificence, but never from one who has lived there." She cringed and hoped she hadn't laid it on too thick.
The dwarf eyed her, mistrust wrinkling his brow. "And why should an Elf maid wish to hear about Erebor? Don't you lot just prance around in the woods writing poems to daisies?"
Merrill threw back her head and laughed heartily at this, startling the Dwarf even further. "Me? Write poetry? No, no, no, no, no. I'm afraid any verse of mine would make the reader's eyes bleed. I'm not exactly great with the pen – err, quill. I know a few by others, but that's as far as I go, and then I'm tapped."
Radhrion and Aragorn both encouraged her to give an example, and even Gimli professed some, little interest. So she obliged:
"Awake! Awake! for the earliest gleam
Of golden sunlight shines
On the rippling waves, that brightly flow
Beneath the flowering vines.
Awake! Awake! for the low, sweet chant
Of the wild-birds' morning hymn
Comes floating by on the fragrant air,
Through the forest cool and dim;
Then spread each wing,
And work, and sing,
Through the long, bright sunny hours;
O'er the pleasant earth
We journey forth,
For a day among the flowers." (6)
Aragorn and Radhrion clapped when she finished. She inclined her head in a performer's bow, and a black curl sprung loose from her braid and flopped across her nose. Legolas watched its movement intently. He even smiled softly, in a way that was far too familiar for her liking, when it broke free of her fingers. The pin she held fell and she swooped down to retrieve it, only to find his hand there, first. Legolas offered it to her courteously, his smile now beyond all bounds of common decency. How in the hell does he go from petulant, naïve, ten year old to suave, entirely too handsome, heartthrob in the span of five minutes? Merrill snatched it out of his hand and tossed it on the table, tucking her curl behind her ear with an unsteady hand.
Gimli wasn't best pleased. "See? Poems about flowers," he accused.
Merrill gladly launched herself back into the conversation. "Withhold judgment for just a moment longer, Master Dwarf. This next one is for your ears alone." She stood and stepped carefully over Legolas' legs before squatting beside Gimli's chair and whispering the song, 'Do Virgins Taste Better Than Those Who Are Not?' into his ear. By the final stanza, Gimli was howling with laughter. He clapped her hard on the back, nearly driving her face into the table with his enthusiasm.
"THAT is poetry!" he exclaimed, wiping tears from his eyes. "Are you sure you're an Elf, lassie? I never thought to hear such a song from the lips of one so fair."
"Flatterer." Merrill winked at him, and the dwarf actually blushed. "But wait until later – I know so many more."
"If you are quite done scandalizing our esteemed guests, little bird, it is time to move to the Hall of Fire." Radhrion stood and so, too, did the others.
"You're not scandalized, right, Gimli?" Merrill asked playfully as she got to her feet.
The dwarf chuckled, "It'll take more than that to scandalize me, lassie, but you're more than welcome to keep trying."
"So have I earned a tale of Erebor, yet?"
Gimli glanced around conspiratorially, and said in a low voice, "You tell me another of those songs of yours, and I'll tell you about Erebor."
She stuck out her hand and he looked thrilled when she shook his. "You got yourself a deal."
And with that, Gimli excused himself and went to rejoin his kin.
Aragorn, too, left them, his eyes scanning the hall even as he bid them good evening. Merrill observed the moment he found Arwen; his entire face grew tranquil, and the years and worry fell from his shoulders like a discarded cloak.
She stood off to the side of the door, her bright eyes glittering when he drew near. For a moment, they stood in silence, content just to breathe the same air, inhabit the same space, then Arwen lightly traced the back of his hand with her fingertips. Her eyes beckoned as she turned to go, but Aragorn stood utterly still.
A small, blue cloth fluttered to the floor behind her, and he stooped and tucked it carefully into his tunic, patting it as though to reassure himself it was real, before following her out.
Merrill sighed; their love was impossible, in so many definitions of the word, but that was its beauty, she realized. It overcame; it stepped easily over obstacles that had succeeded in tripping others.
The room was swiftly emptying, but Radhrion and Legolas still stood beside her. The former held up the wall, his eyes missing nothing; he would regale her later with tales of the follies of the other guests, she knew. His observations were witty and tended towards the sarcastic; they never failed to make her laugh. The latter stood remarkably close, though he stared off over her head at something she couldn't see. A flush stained the tops of his cheekbones and she could see how tightly his teeth clenched.
Curious, Merrill followed his gaze, craning around a few of the taller Elves, and found the twins. They looked as innocent and sweet as kittens in a basket - especially kittens who had just finished shredding the curtains and peeing in your shoes.
They waved merrily at her. One of them indicated Legolas and mocked swooning into his brother's arms before regaining his feet and waggling his eyebrows suggestively. The other made kissy faces while his brother batted his eyelashes coquettishly, hiding what was meant to be a feminine giggle behind his large hand.
Merrill felt Legolas tense beside her.
So that was how they wanted to play it, eh? She lifted one finger to her throat and then jerked it across meaningfully. If you make this evening more uncomfortable for me, so help me I will tell Arwen who keeps switching her hair oils with purple dye! Merrill tried to convey promises of death with her eyes, but that only seemed to encourage them; they blew her kisses before strolling out, hands tucked in their breeches pockets.
She peered at Legolas from the corner of her eyes; he was looking anywhere but at her, the faintest flush on his tanned skin.
Those twins! One of these days… to the moon, Alice!
A distraction was required. Gimli was brought to Merrill's mind, and his interactions (or lack thereof) with Legolas seemed fodder, enough, for the distraction made necessary by the twins' behavior.
"Hey, Radhrion?"
"Yes, little bird?" He asked, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.
"What's with Dwarves and Elves? Why do they hate each other?"
Radhrion shrugged expansively. "The answer to that question is lengthy and repetitive and petty. Suffice it to say, that they hate for much the same reasons all races do – misunderstandings, usually willful, and a distinct disinterest in celebrating differences. They would all rather cling to past injuries (real or imagined) and build up their fortresses of dislike and disgust than accept each other and forgive."
"My own experiences have taught me otherwise, Radhrion. And it seems you have forgotten King Thingol's fate in his dealings with them." A muscle in Legolas' jaw ticked. "Dwarves are a grasping, greedy, base lot. They are quick to anger, steeped in suspicion, secretive, cold, and crude," he glanced at Merrill, a frown camping awkwardly on his lips. "Elves tend not to be able to countenance their company for overlong, though it would appear there are exceptions to every rule."
Merrill pinched the bridge of her nose. So much for not being a petulant ten year old, she thought a little bitterly. "Yes, yes. I'm a bad elf. You'd think one of you people would come up with a new way to insult me. Feel free to continue to imply that I am defective because I dared to make conversation with a dwarf; really, I don't mind. Besides, you have no idea how much you are going to cringe when you look back on this conversation. I would pay good money to be a fly on that wall."
"Will you ever make sense?" he growled, glaring down into her upturned face.
She lifted her chin, her eyes flashing dangerously, and wished he wasn't so damn tall. "Will you?"
Legolas made a noise in his throat like the love-child of an earthquake and a chainsaw, threw up his hands, and brushed past her without another word.
"How unfortunate," Radhrion said as he stretched lazily. "It would appear that a certain prince dislikes our Dwarven friends."
Merrill blew a loose curl out of her face and replied, "I wouldn't worry about it. These things have a way of sorting themselves out, you know."
Radhrion pursed his lips. "Another gem gleaned from your world, I take it?"
"Yup."
"Lovely," he muttered, raking his hand through his dark, brown hair. "This evening has turned out to be a veritable spider's web of secrets. I cannot wait until tomorrow. My curiosity grows with each moment."
Merrill, however, could not bring herself to agree. I'll save tomorrow's troubles for tomorrow, she determined. Besides, tonight has more than enough of its' own.
A pair of impossibly blue eyes loomed in her mind and she mentally swatted at them.
No. Just – no.
A/N:
(1) Walt Whitman.
(2) At last! It has been too long, my friend. (I)
(3) Well met, Estel. Long journey? (I)
(4) Very long. Trouble is coming, Legolas. The shadow grows.
(5) I know, and we will defeat it. Come, eat, and drink of the feast.
(6) Lily-Bell and Thistledown Song I by Louisa May Alcott
My last exam is tomorrow! :D So here's a long chapter to compensate for the abominable brevity of the last.
As usual, everyone who has supported me in this somewhat insane endeavor of mine by favoriting/following/reviewing or some combination thereof has my sincerest gratitude. I couldn't do it without you all. When I get stuck, when the insidious whispers of self doubt gnaw at my soft spots, I fall back on your reviews as one might a life jacket when in a boat captained by an enthusiastic, but untried, amateur. So - THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU for trusting me enough to steer this 'ship' away from any icebergs, lol.
Oh - and I freaking LOVE Gimli... so expect more of that adorable Dwarf. But don't worry - not everyone is going to like Merrill (she's no Mary Sue) in the Fellowship. In fact, most will dislike her or be utterly indifferent. :) Gimli, though, was won over by thoroughly ribald and dirty lyrics, and will continue to be so. I've always seen him as the sort of Unwilling Uncle of the Fellowship; sure, he's the one who takes you out and gets you drunk on your 21st birthday, and will probably chuck condoms at you and mutter something through a raging blush about "No bairns', at some point, but he'll also make sure you remain, for the most part, on the straight and narrow, and will take great pleasure in deflating your sense of self-importance whenever it grows too large. Good Guy Gimli :)
Best wishes ~