Once again, my thanks to those who took the time to review the last chapter and let me know what they liked - or disliked, should that happen.
Constructive feedback is a gift ;)
Chapter 9
The shrewd, green-eyed healer the prince had sent, alarmed by her state of dismay, found nothing wrong with her body; little did she know it was Naima's mind that was ailing. She left Naima with a sleeping potion and the instruction to drink it, but the vial now stood, still full, at the foot of her cot. The scarce rays of the sun reflected on the carved surface, shards of rainbow dancing over the stone walls as if to distract Naima from her gloom.
The prison was a quiet place, serene despite its usage. Nothing disturbed the silence under the stone but the hush of the river below and the occasion drip-drop of water. The perfect place to wallow in self-pity, or compose a plan to escape.
Naima opted for both, in that specific order. Anguish had left her shaking and tearful until the bottle of oblivion had become almost too tempting to resist, but the realization that slumber would do naught to solve her problems had provided a welcome kick of adrenalin and set her brain to work. Naima was nothing if not rational. No matter how convenient an explanation insanity was, she allowed herself to rule it out, opting to trust the doctors' opinion instead.
Whatever remained, however improbable, must be the truth.
Naima raised her eyes to the rows of numbers that crept along the wall. Time could work in strange ways, that much she'd learned. Could it be that her dreams had been real, memories of a future not yet past? Or worse, that the world itself could unlock capacities she hadn't known she possessed?
One thing was certain – never before had Naima dreamt as often and in such detail as here, in Arda. While back on Earth the recurring visions had visited her every week or so, she'd dreamt no less than three times about the same man in the space of a few days, and once at least of events that had not yet come to pass.
In her line of work, such abilities were considered as an eccentricity at best, most often viewed as unprofessional, unbalanced – the kind of opinion that invariably led people to question one's sanity. Those claiming to see the future were considered as charlatans or loons, as Cassandra's myth had sadly proven long ago. Yet science could not explain everything, and Naima herself had wondered, after that tragic night, whether her mother had truly known something she now couldn't justify; it was sweeter than to simply believe that her father had succumbed to his wife's sickness.
Strangeness ran in her veins, that much was undeniable, and it spoke louder and clearer than ever since she'd set foot on Ardian soil.
The hypothesis raised many questions, too many to address while Naima still reeled from the possibility, not quite daring to believe it but longing for an escape from the harsh alternative. If she could, indeed, see the future, what did she already know?
This man Naima had barely met would come to care for her, despite the strange and adverse circumstances that seemed to prevent the birth of romance; after all, she was a prisoner and he, her guard. Naima had witnessed his grief and his willingness to save her, his skill in combat and their final parting. Freedom lay somewhere in the events of her future; but how to choose the path that would lead her to its edge? Would she know an opportunity when it presented itself?
The snide little voice that liked to argue whispered into her ear again: if her visions did come true, would Naima have the nerve to use his affection to advance her own cause? Would she have the guts to leave him, to use the weakness he didn't know he possessed and never look back?
oOoOoOo
Naima heard the footsteps long before his silhouette appeared in the corridor. The prince stepped lightly, as if loath to wake her – the healer must've informed him about the potion, yet he'd come to check on her anyway, despite the certitude she'd be asleep. Though only two kinds of men crept up on sleeping women, yet Naima didn't fear him.
From the shadows, Naima watched him halt before her cell, his eyes narrowing as soon as he saw her staring back. Prince Charming was disappointed; his princess was already awake.
"Lhaewen told me your hand is mending," he began, crossing his arms on his chest in what was clearly a reproach. "You should rest to recover your strength."
Naima sighed. That's what Lhaewen had said, word for word, but Naima was unwilling to explain she'd find no peace in this cell, not when left alone with such troubling thoughts. "I'm not tired," she said instead. "There's much for me to think about." Ardian was coming easier to her, now that she could practice it every day.
A perfect eyebrow rose at her words. "If you wish to speak to the King again…"
"…And confess?" Naima scoffed. "There's nothing more I could say that would convince you to let me go. Despite what you may think, I'm not a spy."
The tilt of his head deepened, hopefully a sign of interest rather than disbelief. "And who are you, then?"
He leaned against the nearby wall, well out of reach should she make to grab him; he didn't trust her yet, but at least he was willing to listen. Naima silently marveled at the graceful strength he so effortlessly flaunted. Lean muscles and sharp features, he was a naked blade come alive, fascinating and absolutely deadly.
"My name is Naima, and I'm a traveler." This wasn't entirely false, and Naima counted on the sincerity her words contained to gain his confidence.
"Naima." He tried out her name for taste, sending down her spine a shiver that was hardly unpleasant. "My name is Legolas," he offered in return, "son of King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm."
It occurred to Naima that their exchange so far was devoid of any etiquette applicable when addressing royalty. "Legolas," she repeated, waiting for him to correct her – he did not.
"If you have no desire to speak," he said instead, "I will return later."
He was persistent, she had to grant him that; not that it surprised her considering their future encounters.
"Stay," Naima called out as he was about to turn away. On her lips, the request tasted like a pale mimicry of his own future pleas. "I never said I didn't want to speak – I simply don't have the answers you seek."
"How do you know what it is that I seek?" Legolas asked, sounding curious rather than offended, and Naima shrugged.
"If you're hoping I'll confess I was plotting your demise, you're going to be disappointed."
He narrowed his eyes, as if trying to discern the lies in her voice. Just as Naima convinced herself that her chance at gaining his trust was gone, Legolas leaned forward, his shadow stretching towards her. "You could start by telling me where you come from," he suggested, and in the darkness of her cell, Naima repressed a smile of victory.
oOoOoOo
"A strange place, the one you hail from," Legolas pondered aloud when she was finished.
He was sitting with his back against the wall, one knee drawn to his chest, oblivious of the droplets that landed in his hair and turned its golden hue into something darker. He'd taken the story with surprising indifference, as if he'd expected something of the sort – that, or he didn't believe her at all.
"Why have you come here?"
Naima frowned. "I've told you: we've come from my world to see yours. To see what it looks like and who lives here…to study it." Regulations be damned, she'd told him everything – or close to – feigning nonchalance, as if describing a trip to the local park. What Legolas didn't need to know was that the true reasons of their expedition ran deeper than simple curiosity.
"I meant, why have you come to Mirkwood?"
"By accident." He quirked an eyebrow, finding it hard to believe, and Naima shrugged. "We'd meant to arrive elsewhere, but our instruments failed us, and we landed by the mountains nearby." She waved a hand towards the wall, unable to tell whether the general direction was correct or not.
"By the Hithaeglir?" he prompted, and it was Naima's turn to raise an eyebrow.
"Perhaps, is it how you call it?" The pronunciation was foreign, unlike any Ardian word she'd heard before, but reminding her of the tongue the elves that'd found her had spoken. She was learning a new language! Naima made a mental note to remember the word.
"What happened to the others?"
She should've expected the question, yet the underlying implications hit her conscience hard. "Two were wounded and returned back home. One got lost…. I was looking for him when I was attacked." Finley's boyish face came to haunt her, and she pushed the guilt aside. It'd been his choice to come along, just as it'd been his decision to run away. "You know the rest."
"Do I?"
Legolas watched her in silence, his blue eyes veiled and impossible to read, until Naima started to fidget on her cot. "Don't you ever travel anywhere?" she piped up, eager to regain the upper hand.
Her question seemed to catch him unawares. "We do not." Legolas pondered his own answer for a moment before adding: "Not for a long time."
"Why?"
He turned his face towards the chasm, and just as Naima thought she'd gone too far and offended him, he sighed and leaned his head against the wall, offering his face to the sun rays that filtered from above. "Mirkwood is not a safe place," he admitted in a low voice. "I have a duty to my people…and to my father. In times like these, a prince cannot wander as he pleases, though I have sometimes gone as far as the borders of the realm."
He confessed to his excursions with a contrite smile, like a child admitting a mischief.
"Not safe indeed." Flexing her hand, Naima watched as her scar tugged on the skin around it. There had to be another one in her back, where the spider had stung her, but without a mirror she could neither see nor reach it. "Was it always like this? I mean, the giant spiders...?"
She knew all too well where those had come from.
"Spiders are a blight to our realm." A muscle in his jaw twitched as Legolas clenched his teeth. "But they are not the danger, merely the consequence. I am glad we could find you before you came to harm."
"Me too." A cheerless snicker escaped Naima's lips. "Did you…kill them?"
Legolas nodded. "Some of them, yes, but they breed at astonishing speed. Are there no spiders on Earth?"
"Much smaller ones." Naima parted her thumb and index to indicate the average size of a spider back home. "Even I can deal with those; a sturdy shoe is usually enough to get rid of one."
Legolas chuckled and she smiled in return, this time in earnest, but their mirth did not last.
"For most of my life they have been a threat to my people," Legolas resumed, "ever since the Enemy has settled in Dol Guldur, in the South." His voice turned bitter.
"The enemy?" Naima echoed, unease settling in the pit of her stomach.
"The Necromancer. His spawn multiplies, corrupting a forest that was once green and prosperous. His minions rove the woods and kill our people." Yet the tremor of fury in his voice betrayed a sorrow that ran deeper than duty.
"Your mother," Naima muttered when she remembered her dream, biting her tongue in regret as soon as she'd spoken for Legolas snapped to attention at once, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"What do you know about her?" Already, he was pushing himself off the floor, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists.
Naima recoiled, almost falling from her cot in fright, all pretense of confidence forgotten for his face bore all the fury of an orphaned son. "Nothing! I…I simply guessed," she stammered, ashamed of her lie. "It's just that...that you seemed so sad, and I've only met the King..."
"Forgive me." Legolas rubbed his eyes wearily and stepped away, staring into the distance; Naima suspected it was the past he was looking at. "My mother died when I was young. She disappeared while returning home, to these woods she loved so much."
And to you.
"I'm sorry." Such a bland thing to say, but what else could Naima offer to his distress?
The WOPUS' official statement about the Incident had been brief and dry, nothing more than words on paper, the consequences of the failure solely of political nature; the worst that could happen was a drop in public opinion, and who really cared if private aids kept flowing in? Here, in Arda, entire continents had been swallowed in the aftermath, along with the death toll this implied. Of all the people back on Earth, Naima was the first to face someone whose life had been changed by the actions of a few.
Legolas shook his head. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You were not born when it all began."
A tight, lumpy skein of guilt had formed in Naima's throat, yet she merely nodded, relieved that she needn't confess about her visions or her knowledge of what had really happened to Arda. The truth would only hurt him more, and then gone was her chance to leave.
"I must go."
Brushing off his hands on his thighs, Legolas strode off towards the stairs, his steps heavy with the sorrow that Naima had unwittingly woken. From the tautness of his shoulders to the set of his jaw, he was wound like a coil that would take days to release, if no-one triggered him before then.
"Rest." Legolas halted at the end of the corridor, his eyes lowered to the ground as if he refused to look at her. "You need not fear any danger here, you have my word on that."
He disappeared into the mist, yet long after he was gone, Naima kept pondering their exchange.
Guilt and regret – both her long-time companions, their workings all too familiar. How long would Legolas have to bear their poison before it subsided again, slipping through the cracks of everyday life, allowing itself to be forgotten before something small, trivial, woke the pain again? In her case, relapse usually came at the approach of the holidays and, inexplicably, whenever her friends complained about their overbearing, over-caring parents.
No matter how different the worlds they both belonged to, she and Legolas were not unlike, but whether it'd make her plan any easier to carry out, only time would tell.