Chapter 27 – Green Door Yonder
It was a fine afternoon, with the sky clear and the sun slanting down upon the streets, untainted by cloud or mist. Since it was the last day of the working week, tradition dictated that fishermen from the town gathered into their favoured inns, singing and conversing through evening and twilight.
Although, as it were, drinks were ample and it was often not long before conversation rose into arguments, and the singing turned into tuneless wails which gave the bartender a headache for hours to come.
Such was the circumstances in which the old friends met, still unfortunately suffused in the smell of their day's catch, in the inn by the river. Soon the strength of their beverages brought warmth to their brows and a swell to their spirits. They hung their heavy fishing coats on the backs of their chairs, and ordered another round of drinks.
That was when the opening of the door let in an icy drought of evening air, sending shivers through their newly exposed tunics. The string of bells by the handle clanged sharply. In irritation one of the fishermen turned, ready to hurl out a bout of insults, and stopped short.
For a moment the man was sure that the drink had finally gone to his head. His bottle of rum, unlike the milder meads of his friends, was making his head swim and temples throb. In his significantly intoxicated state, the intruder of the bar seemed to be walking from a dream.
The first thing he noticed was the cap, tilted impishly over her head; and a fine thing it was. He could tell that it was silken at a glance, a beautiful cerulean silk with indigo tints which shimmered beneath its surface like reefs under a dusk sea. Adorning its comely hem was a pattern of twining vines of a craftsmanship he had only yet seen on tapestries, the red hue an echo of the satin hair tucked beneath.
It was then that he forgot all about the cap, with all its soft silk and twilight colours. Her hair was unbound and framed her face like a cloud; drifted down her slender neck in smooth waves. Like crinkled velvet. He was reminded of the cornfields of his childhood, which always seemed to catch flame under a noon sun. Vaguely, he concluded that the girl should be draped in silk and jewels, not clothed in a simple shirt and course slacks, with only a cap to adorn her beautiful air.
She turned, and he sucked in a breath. The lass had eyes the colour of rain. Stormy against her young face and porcelain skin.
He ducked his head back around and pushed against his neighbour. The man, who had been nursing a jug of ale, spilled his drink and glared back at his drunken friend.
"Look there," he urged, his words slurring heavily upon his tongue. "Do you see her too?"
The man set down his ale and looked backwards. "Of course. She is no ghost."
His friend drew back, frowning, affronted by the indifferent remark. Meanwhile, the rest of the company had noticed the cause of the disturbance. The girl was now conversing lowly with the bartender, an elbow resting upon the counter, her head tilted in interest. A murmur of speculation passed through the friends.
"I do not trust her nymph-like manner," one muttered.
"You are mistaken," said another, his voice hushed. "You see here the grace of an elf maiden."
"She is an angel, not a nymph!" The drunken man clamoured. He was silenced by a look from his more sober companion.
"She is neither, you oaf." The man leaned forward upon the table with an air of superior knowledge, an amused look in his dark eyes. The bickerers halted in their speech. "She is as the trees and the rivers; a creature of peace and fury. Depending on which side of her blade you happen upon."
The first speaker merely grunted and grumbled, turning the bottom of his mug up to the low ceiling beams.
"Either way," he said slowly, "there is a fierce look about the lass. No decent girl should have that look."
"Girl?" The dark-eyed man evinced grim smile over the edge of his pint. He stretched out his legs in the complacent manner his companions were accustomed to seeing. "This is no girl."
"Who is she then, pray?" his friend challenged.
"Do not be deceived by the youth in her eyes. I dare say that she is older than you and I."
The bitter one snorted. "Wasted all her years on tree-hugging, so I hear."
The drunken man looked up blearily, in vague bewilderment, as the girl left the counter to circle back towards the inn's exit. He reached up and tightened his collar, for the unfolding of the door had brought in another blast of cold wind, and his muttered curses were drowned out by the harsh tinkling of the bells.
Eroth grit her teeth as the cold once again assailed her face and hands. She pressed the cap down lower over her ears, and started down the street. Two streets down away from the river. The green door around the corner. The bartender wasted no words.
The elleth cast a look back at the inn. She had ordered a drink after the enquiry, curiousity overtaking her better judgement, and wished she had brought a flask of water to rinse her mouth. It had neither the taste nor the strength of Elven wine.
Soon Eroth found herself standing before the familiar door to Epping's Bakery. It was just before dinnertime, and the sky was darkening from blue to black. Another gust of harsh wind tore through the street, and the elleth bound up the steps, hesitating in the doorway.
Ring the bell and I'll know it's you. She found the bell hanging in the shadow of a beam, tugged at its string, and waited.
Erewhile footsteps sounded out within, a light patter of slipper-clad feet. Someone fiddled at the lock within, and the door creaked open slightly, bathing the door step with golden light.
A smile danced onto the elleth's features. "We meet again, little one."
Nym looked up at her, chewing on her lip, before opening the door wider.
"Hello," muttered she with a shy smile, before casting a look over her shoulder. "Ehlark, mother! It is the lady."
Erewhile Eroth found herself once again in the little parlour full of curiosities, where the fire was brighter and warmer than ever, and a large white cat lay curled up on the rug.
"Regal as an emperor, she is," Ehlark remarked, greeting her with a wry smile. "Her name is Balin."
He led Eroth through another door and into a narrow kitchen. The elleth ducked low to avoid a string of onions, only to nearly collide with a basket of unknown vegetables. The sound of sizzling rose from a slew of pans in the corner, and under the illumination of hanging lamps a crooked shelf of plates clung to the wall. Slivers of wind stirred the smoke from the fire, whispering in from open windows.
The sky outside was a deep blue now, and the evening's frost clouded the glass panes, flickering golden from the candlelight. At the end of the kitchen was a round table covered with white cloth, ornamented with a vase of violets. Beside the flowers sat a bowl of unknown substance.
Approaching it curiously, Eroth lifted a spoonful of the mixture. It had the look of gruel.
"What is this?" she asked, then quirked an eyebrow. "Why do you laugh?"
"We call it porridge, my lady," Ehlark said. "Made from milk and oats."
"That is curious." Eroth was under the impression that oats were feed for horses. "May I taste it?"
"Do feel free. We have no courtesies here." Gwen had entered the room, folding up some thick gloves. She was wearing a faded blue apron, to which Nym was clinging, peering out from behind its hem. With an encouraging look from her mother, the girl clambered onto a chair at the table.
Eroth lifted the oats to her lips and tasted it cautiously. She wrinkled her nose. Why did Haradar like them so much?
"The food of Men is very different."
"You should hear of some practises in this town." Ehlark drew out a chair. "There is a penchant here to soaking cooked rice in wine; an elegant dish, but rare."
"Indeed?" Eroth mused. "It seems somewhat of a waste of good wine." Such practises would have been ill tolerated under the trees of Greenwood.
"I hear that the Elves of the Woodland Realm are very fond of such beverages."
"That," the elleth said, smiling, "I cannot deny."
She accepted the seat, and was surprised to find that the table was rather low to the touch. Eroth leaned her elbows upon the surface.
"If the ways of men seem so strange," said Ehlark, "the ways of the Dwarves must be quite astonishing."
She folded her hands under her chin. "How so?"
"Ripped meat straight of the bone they prefer, in great halls underground, beside roaring fires."
"That is not so different from the ways of my kin."
"I thought the Elves were dainty folk, more gentle in manner." There was incredulity in his tone. "Is that not so?"
Eroth smiled. "We do have our delicacies. Nonetheless you think of the ways of Lorien, or of Imladris. In my dwelling there is many a merry gathering. You should see the Great Hall at night. Under the bright glow of lanterns the long tables are laden with all sorts of game from the depths of the forest, and we would dance and sing 'till the sun rose over the branches, and the lanterns were no longer needed. 'Tis truly a sight for sore eyes."
She looked at Ehlark, her eyes shining. "The Elves of Greenwood are raised to be hunters and warriors. 'Less wise and more dangerous' they say of us." Eroth smirked. "It is not particularly wise a proclamation, when it is known that we are dangerous."
"My lady, you were tutored in fighting?"
"One could say so," Eroth said slowly. An image came to her mind, one of a pale spring morning, and two elflings in the shadow of a boulder. Will you teach me now, Thranduilion? An answering smirk. That would depend on my mood.
"But that is a different story."
"Have you seen her?"
Legolas looked at the figure of the bartender before him, who sat hunched despondently over a glass. There was no break to his rigorous polishing. The ellon narrowed his eyes. Where had his friend disappeared to? It was futile to predict what specimen of trouble the elleth had gotten into this time.
When the customer repeated his enquiry, the bartender lifted an eyebrow.
It appeared that strange folk were frequenting the town this day. He looked down at the glass in his hands; it now shone with a rarely acquired sheen. "Of whom do you ask?"
"The girl with the silken cap and black trousers." There was a note of impatience to the customer's voice.
The man paused in his ministrations. "Slim, pale, hair like a blackbird's beak? Aye, I have seen her." He set the glass aside and displaced a bottle from the shelf, applying his cloth to it with renewed care, and grunted out, "I won't be forgetting a face like hers. A real looker, ain't she?"
"Well." The enquirer sounded displeased. "Where did she go?"
The man was becoming irritated. His next reply was dismissive. "She's around an' about. Didn't see her go; I don't watch my customers turn the corner of the street, ye know. Got my own business to look after."
Legolas drew himself up, tapping long, slender fingers upon the wooden counter. The bartender looked up. He had expected some unruly lad looking for his girl; someone with pink fingers and dirty nails. His bewildered glance was met with icy blue eyes, inquisitive but keen beneath dark brows. They were clear as streams and wise – a strange wisdom for a lad so evidently young. The man was reminded of the elm tree in the market place, with its ancient branches strewn with tattered ribbons of well-wishing, so wise it was believed to be.
This enquirer was lean and tall, golden-haired, and held himself with regal grace. The man swallowed furtively. Decidedly not one of the gangly youths who snuck into his larder at night and cracked the crated eggs.
"When did she pass, sir?"
There was a queer, soft tenor to the stranger's voice, which he had not noted before. This customer was not from Lake Town. He was not from the North.
The bartender laid aside his cloth.
"She came just this afternoon, sir. 'Afore teatime. I remember serving bread and cheddar before she walked in." He drew himself up straighter. "Got her a roll and a pint of ale. Perhaps it was too strong for the lass; she only sipped."
A glint passed through the enquirer's eyes, but in a blink his pale brow was smooth again. He seemed almost amused; such changeful moods. "Perhaps," murmured he. "Thank you. I will seek her elsewhere."
"You need not." The man allowed a grim smile to pass over his lips. "She is at the bakery."
A dark eyebrow was lifted.
"Two streets down," he sighed. "The green door just around the corner."
When the door once again closed, the bartender cast a glance over the counter. The table in the corner still bore its previous visitors, now bleary from wine and cheer, too absorbed in muttering and snoring to pay heed to anything beyond the bridge of their noses. Wearily, he sank back into his seat, rubbing his temples. The rumbling snores did not help his predicament.
Slowly, his brows drew together. That serene youth with his curious grace and piercing glance – he thought he knew his identity.
The man took no fancy to fireside tales, but he remembered those who spoke of the fair folk who dwelt ever in the shade of the trees, and who gazed upon starlight and danced away their eternal lives in song and mirth. Yet trouble had clouded the brow of his visitor.
It seemed that myth belied the Elves; they were no absent muses, lost in dreams and the ebbing of time. Keen still was their gaze and sure their hands, which held gracefully the cool weight of a bow or the hilt of a sword, wielding and weaving their secret tales, and setting their songs to drift down the river of yore, steadily, serenely as a morning mist.
Author's Note:
I hope you enjoyed this chapter! After seeing so much things through the eyes of Elves, I wanted to climb into the bodies of mortals for once - and here it is! It's easy to forget just how different, how strange these Wood-elves are to those folk of Lake Town.
Guest: unfortunately, I'm not very keen on a legolas/eowyn pairing, but if ever I change my mind I will tell you!
Aralinn: hello again! Thank you for your feedback! I admit the plot line isn't very much of a long straight lane at the moment, but I guess you'll just have to wait and see ;)
Me And Not You 1001: thank you for your review! I'm glad to know that my story has grown in some way, and that it means something to you. Happy reading!
legolasgreenleaf15: once again your review has got me grinning stupidly at the phone - hannon le! I was a little hesitant in introducing another character and yet another mystery, so I was relieved that you enjoyed Pelior's story. I thought I'd give Legolas a little more appreciation in this chapter - I wonder if it came through? And you're right about Balthoron; but is he really the cold-hearted advisor he seems to be? Happy reading, mellon nin :p