Responses to Reviewers
Alagaith places a pile of freshly printed-out reviews in front of Tanglinna. "Work to do, Mordil! And please, read this one first! kingmaker says he suspects that I am 'a darn good thief'", he says with a flattered grin. "It is quite satisfying to see my professional skills appreciated... I believe our dear reviewer deserves a reward! Haven't you got any friends in Rivendell? You should convince them to introduce kingmaker to Lady Arwen very soon..." He seems unable to stop beaming at the review.
Tanglinna smirks slightly. "I shall see what I can do. He certainly deserves to meet her. From what I can ascertain he is what is known as a fanboy and like their female counterparts they get rather ... giddy when confronted with their favorite...hm, obsessions." Grinning at this, he adds: "Never fear kingmaker, you are not alone as Tree knows several fanboys of the Lady Arwen, though her husband prefers the Lady Galadriel. I will have a talk with Thranduil about arranging a meeting for you. I suspect he is still, ahem, 'supporting' JastaElf. They are quite close you know, my dear king and my darling Jasta."
Alagaith chuckles. "In that case, it is very suspicious that 'your darling Jasta' was almost knocked out cold when you called her this... And she even hugged you! I wonder if the king will like this..." He gives Tanglinna one of his well-known all too innocent looks.
Tanglinna raises one brow. "The king knows that I would not move in on...erm...his 'territory'", he states, chuckling slightly. "And everyone knows that Jasta's heart belongs to the king alone, so I don't believe your concern ...and it is quite sincere" - a sneer underlines the utter lack of irony of this statement - "...is necessary."
Alagaith smiles peacefully "Yes, yes, Mordil... Who said 'Unhand my wife, you villain?' But that is another story..." Successfully avoiding Tanglinna's glance, he turns to look at the reviews again. "Anyway, you still have a lot of other admirers... Venyatuime seems ecstatic that there are 'more Tanglinna stories' now - and thinks that 'Silver Peacock' is a 'great nickname'!" He smirks at this.
The Master Archer promptly smirks back. "Yes, Venyatuime is a great fan of mine. She is quite wonderful. She belongs to an archery club, so she must be. As for the nickname...well, I suppose it isn't too bad... Silver Peacock indeed!" he mutters; then, however, he smiles. "But did you notice Hel's review, my dear thief? She thinks, and I quote 'Seems like there are two peacocks, not only one.'" A slow smirk spreads over his face.
Alagaith grins a little. "Well, Hel, a wise man - or elf? I can't remember! - once said that the faults and flaws we spot in others are most often our own... So there may be two peacocks indeed - but as 'skulking peacock' would not sound quite as convincing as 'skulking cutpurse', I will not allow Tanglinna to change my nickname... Speaking of nicknames, Mordil - the evil witch queen calls you 'an old sourpuss'... She can't ever have seen you when you are under the influence of orcish brandy." Thinking of that special incident, he sniggers a bit.
Tanglinna, in turn, frowns slightly. "I suppose that part of the tale will have to be told as well, won't it, O Linlote? One never has enough nicknames, though I will have to have a word with Legolas about 'Old Sourpuss.' Or perhaps I should let Kal the Magnificent talk with him, though she admits that they wouldn't be doing much talking... - fangurls!" he mutters, but quickly grins again. "Speaking of orcish brandy, you weren't exactly your old skulking self then either."
This remark causes Alagaith to blush a little. "Well... perhaps not... But I suppose Kal the Magnificent's opinion of me will not be more favourable after hearing about that incident..." he replies with a dramatic sigh.
"Just what are you implying?" Tanglinna enquires, puffing up slightly, like an offended peacock. "On second though, never mind. I don't want to know what you are going to say." Scowling a little, he continues: "Well, you have made a conquest, Linlote. Legolasluva seems to have become one of your fangurls. She thinks you are...what is the word? Oh yes, roguish. Hmph! Yes, I suppose he could be considered a rogue. I suppose I am rather boring for merely being an archer and one that is not...roguish." Folding his arms over his chest, he adds: "I don't think I am that boring.... Am I?"
Alagaith gives him a highly roguish grin. "You are, Mordil - perfectly boring. Now cover your ears please."
This strange request provokes a suspicious look from the silver- haired archer. "Why?"
The thief is not ready to give any reasons. "Just do as bidden."
"After you have just called me 'perfectly boring'?" Tanglinna retorts. "If I weren't such a nice, boring person I wouldn't comply so readily. Very well. I will humor you...just once." Having stated this, he covers his ears and glares upward.
It is Alagaith's turn to look at him suspiciously now, but finally, he turns to the reviews again. "Very well, legolasluva... I must say that I am grateful for your kind words, I even feel honoured, but my joy was somewhat diminished by the fact that you classified Tanglinna as 'getting kinda old' and had to mention those 'stupid' things he did again... He does deserve better than being compared to me in such an unfavourable way - especially since he clearly has the better eye colour... My remaining eye is just plain grey, like the sky over Nargothrond on an extremely rainy day."
Poking Tanglinna, he explains with the most harmless expression: "I have expressed my gratitude for those most flattering compliments properly now... We can continue."
"I can only imagine what you have said about me." Tanglinna answers with yet another suspicious glance before he looks back at the reviews. "Dis Thrainsdotter, you and I need to get together some time to reminisce about the friends we remember but we have lost. I extend my sympathies to you on your losses." He presses his hand to his heart, head bowed; after a moment of silence, he points to the next review. "Nilmandra has nearly as many sentences ending in question marks as periods." Chuckling slightly at this discovery, he proceeds: "Shall we answer them all in order? Something like 'Yes; Yes; Probably;Partly;No;Yes.'`?" He frowns a bit, contemplating these short answers. "Did I do that correctly?"
Alagaith nods. "Yes, as far as I can see... But the theories expressed in sentences with periods are also... intriguing. Why does she believe that I must have been in the mines?" Turning to look at Tanglinna, he enquires: "Do I look like that?"
The Master Archer chokes back a laugh and has to clear his throat before he answers: "Of course not.... Were you...in the mines, I mean?"
Alagaith shakes his head "No. Some of my friends were, but I was... elsewhere." Knowing very well that this description is rather vague, he grins somewhat sheepishly. "Nilmandra will find out sooner or later, I suppose. For, as daw the minstrel kindly points out, I do have 'a past and hopes and a family'..."
"Which all leads to the questions about your lady-wife", Tanglinna observes. "Do you wish to answer them?" As he knows about the lady-wife, he wonders about Alagaith's willingness to speak of her.
The thief suddenly looks very serious. "She was not an outlaw..." he says after some hesitation. "Not at first. And she died in childbirth... Oh well - enough of her now, even if ember cannot wait to learn more!" Turning his head, he pretends to be studying. . . something. . . somewhere.
Tanglinna lays a hand on Alagaith's shoulder. "Well..." he starts and clears his throat. "Lutris, as you see, I didn't tell Linlote very much at first, as I was a bit too angry to say very much as I suppose the name 'Old Sourpuss' would be all too true. But I did manage to 'tell him' a few things later." He winks.
Alagaith is smiling again. "Indeed you did... And you were certainly as 'poetic' as Miss Aranel says!" he replies with a chuckle.
"I wouldn't have called what I told you poetic, but thank you, Miss Aranel, for thinking that, on occasion, I can be." Tanglinna answers and bows slightly; then, he smirks. "Well, I suppose it will soon be time to introduce our...our supporting actors. Then things get rather...well...odd and ... odd..." Frowning slightly, he finally concludes: "Yes, odd is definitely the word for it."
Alagaith is frowning as well now. "Yes, odd... Shall we continue our tale?"
"Most assuredly." Tanglinna confirms and grins in what he hopes is a 'roguish' manner. "Perhaps I can win back some of legolasluva's heart before it is all over."
He winks at the screen and then grins at Alagaith who instantly grins back. "Impossible! - But on with the tale now."
Chapter 2 - In Which a Fierce Silvan Warrior Meets a Noldorin Thief
Tanglinna's POV
My senses - battle-honed and hardened - took over, and I had my bow drawn, arrow nocked and pointed at his one good eye in a heartbeat. It is only with a tight control that I kept the arrow snug against the string and not buried in his waiting flesh. My eyes flicked over the eye patch, which brought a brief flow of unpleasant and unwanted memories. Growling slightly, and with more force than was necessary, I hastily kicked Lalven's sword out his reach, not that this thief wouldn't be dead before his fingers brushed the cold, bloodstained metal.
"Who are you?" I hissed through tightly clenched teeth.
As my initial shock and anger receded beneath the cold, impassionate aspect that comes all too readily on the battlefield - a necessity of survival - I studied him critically, noting the ragged clothing was ill fitting and worn. But the thing that captured my attention was his cloak, perhaps because Lalven's cloak was still clasped in his hands, not dropped hastily on the ground. I must have caught him more off guard than I thought. The cloak this thief wore was as tattered as the rest of his clothing, but was draped in such a way that I knew what he was. The way the folds were caught up in the brooch designed in a distinctive spiraling pattern spoke all to clearly to the fact that he was a Noldo..A Noldo. The brooch could have been stolen, though who but one of the Noldor would drape their cloak in such a fashion?
I felt the hot anger returning. He was one of the Noldor.
The day that Doriath fell beneath the blood-hued blades of Feanor's sons was a day I tried not to think on. It was the sort of day that is nightmarish in its intensity and air of unreality; it was the day that what innocence I still possessed was swept away on a rushing tide of fear and death. Kill or be killed was the maxim that pounded through our brains and our souls. On that day . . . I killed an elf . . . . Then the driving emotion had been fear and horror at what was being done, but with this petty Noldorin thief before me, it was anger. I don't think he knew how close to death he was at that moment.
Lalven's cloak, the rich green fabric pouring over his hands, was clear evidence of his guilt. Stealing from the dead . . . . A wave of disgust broke over me.
Elven laws on theft are severe, and few are willing to risk the punishment that will befall them if caught in such a crime. I suspect that is why the punishments are so harsh, to work as a deterrent to wrongdoing. The first offense of a thief is punished with branding - a cam-tehta is burned into the skin of the right wrist, something not easily hidden. It is a severe punishment, a lasting punishment. This mark, known to all elves, is a mark of shame, something one must live with forever. It is a symbol of a thief; it shows that you are someone who cannot be trusted, a disgrace. How must this feel, to know that anyone who sees it will regard you only with suspicion and perhaps contempt? All of this was what the Noldorin elf risked - merely to take a cloak from a dead warrior.
Scars may mar the skin, but they mark the soul as well. As elves do not scar easily, they are usually the result of a deliberate act. Scars are a constant reminder of the act that brought them into being or in the case of the cam-tehta the act that perpetrated it. One must learn to live with them, and this is not always an easy thing.
Anger at his stupidity made my next words come out in a harsh bark.
"Drop the cloak and lie down with your face to the ground, Noldo, or my arrow will find a new home in your throat."
He had told me his name, though I didn't speak it. To speak it would make him real - make him a person. I didn't want to think of him that way; he was a thief and he needed to remain a thief so I could take him to whatever judgment was passed upon him. If I acknowledged his name, I might pity him; our laws leave little room for pity.
I could see the fear on his face and he complied quickly, for which I was grateful. A pang of remorse sang through me for another elf from another time haunted me once again. I had not extended the courtesy of speech to that elf in Doriath; he had died without being aware that I was there, not much more than a scared child caught up in the fear and confusion of that day seeing only the injustice of what that Noldo was doing, slaughtering elves I had known . . . . We had fought side by side at Dagorlad, old grievances laid aside for a greater cause, but I admit that what happened at Doriath had shaped my thoughts toward them. Perhaps I should have spoken to the Noldorin elf in Doriath . . . .
I shook my head to rid it of these thoughts, though standing on a bloodstained battlefield amid my fallen comrades brings such somber and unwanted meditations.
I drew a breath, exhaling slowly before I placed my foot against his neck, not hard enough to hurt him, but exerting enough pressure to let him know that I would brook no opposition from him. I bent my long bow to unstring it; the strong cord would suffice to ties his hands, immobilize him until I could turn him over to someone who could secure him with stronger ropes or chains.
He would stand trial, but the verdict was a foregone conclusion. I felt a pang of regret that I was the one to find him holding the cloak in his hands. I wondered if he would try to dispute this, for surely he knew what would happen to him when he was pronounced guilty. If he were lucky Thranduil would send him to Mirkwood for the trial; at least he would have a few extra days before the cam-tehta was marked on his wrist, changing his life forever. Or perhaps that would only make it worse. Anxiety about the unknown or what we think we know, can be more trying than the actuality itself. . . .
~*~*~*~*~*~*
Alagaith's POV
Clad in green and grey, equipped with one of those dreaded long bows against which armour offers no protection, piercing silver eyes fixed on me, the epitome of a woodland archer was standing in front of me - and unfortunately his arrow was pointed at me. I dared not move.
Resting immobile meant - and this was even more unfortunate - that I kept standing where I was, the fallen captain lying at my feet and part of the evidence for my crime in my very hands for, of course, I was still holding the gorgeous cloak. It might have been possible to come up with an explanation for this situation, not with a story that anybody would have believed, of course, but with something that sounded at least possible enough to enable a compassionate captor to pretend he was convinced that I had merely lifted up the cloak out of curiosity, convinced enough to let me escape. For caught I was, and already as good as condemned, not only because this Silvan warrior did not look as if he had any pity to spare for a robber of the dead. While picking up a cloak was, perhaps, not a crime in itself, there was nothing that could excuse the presence of the silver elm leaf in my pocket.
If I was lucky, they would give me a fair trial - but I knew well enough that, on a battlefield, a trial could be over in a few moments, and after the hideous bloodshed of the previous night, their minds and hearts hardened by what they had done and suffered, they would not be too reluctant to hew off a filthy thief's hand; for this was what was going to happen.
Elven laws on theft were as severe as simple - a brand for the first offence, the loss of a hand for the second, and being caught for the third time usually meant that there would never be a fourth time. Ironically, the second time was bound to lead straight to the third. I did not know if the doubtlessly wise lawmakers and the equally wise judges who applied those laws really believed that someone who had been unable or unwilling to lead an honest life before would miraculously be changed as soon as one hand was missing - but perhaps I was misjudging them, and the only purpose of those laws consisted in discouraging those toying with the thought of stealing. Perhaps it did deter those who still had a choice.
However, the fact that they took but one hand instead of a life - though I had seen people die of such a wound if it was ill-tended - might have indicated that such a sentence was not only meant as punishment, but also comprised the slightest bit of hope that the wicked offender would not relapse into his old ways. It was not quite obvious to me how that change for the better was going to take place. I, for my part, was fairly certain that losing a hand would not bring me any closer to some resemblance of respectability. If my last dreams of regaining what I had lost had died the day I had been branded, they would be buried if my hand was cut off. How very strange that everything they did to punish a thief would make him even more of a thief and an outcast!
Being a branded thief had already robbed me of any chance to regain a place in elven society, for who would ever welcome someone who was "a veritable shame to all elvendom" - those, at least, were the words of my prospective mother-in-law when she forbade me to see her daughter ever again - and believe him that he had learnt his lesson? But had forgiveness ever been offered, I could have been of some use. Without any self- flattery, I could claim that I had been quite an able warrior once - I had beaten Lord Gwindor at swordplay twice before he was made a slave in Morgoth's mines (and, well, he in turn had beaten me three times back then) and was still rather proud thereof, and I did not lack other skills that might have been used for earning a living in a perfectly honourable way, but after the loss of a hand - especially if they would choose to cut off my right hand, and I was sure they would do so - the range of things I could do would be greatly diminished, while stealing would still be possible, if a bit more difficult.
Maybe - maybe! - I could have admitted that for certain. . . mistakes I had made, some sort of punishment was in order, but this?
I am straying from the story I am supposed to tell, though, for I cannot claim that I calmly mused on all of this the very moment I was standing on the battlefield; much of it only came to my mind during the following hours and days.
My first thought was, in fact, that my hand was forfeit, the stolen clasp proving my crime, the brand denouncing what I was, and for the briefest span of time, I already saw myself confined in a gloomy cell until the terrible wound was healed, not turning me out into the wild wounded and weakened being the only sort of mercy they would grant me, no real mercy, though, but rather a further cruelty, as my friends and family would hardly be able to wait for my release out here at this time of the year, if they ever learnt what had happened to me and where I had been taken, so that being free again some day would not be overly pleasant either, but would mean a long row of sad and lonely days that I would spent learning how to survive somehow marred and crippled.
But - as my father would have said, giving me a stern look of reprimand for being so afraid - fear had never won a battle, and so I made an effort to breathe steadily and to force my wayward thoughts into the right direction, towards an escape plan that would work.
At the moment, I was at this archer's mercy, but we were alone, and therein lay my only hope. True enough, there was hardly anything I could do - and certainly nothing I would do! - if he simply kept the arrow aimed at me; I would have to go along with whatever he asked of me, as I was not foolish enough to believe that he would not shoot me if I gave him reason to do so. I was, however, fairly certain that he would not simply order me to walk ahead of him, not even necessarily because he thought that I would attempt something foolish. A warrior's pride could be his downfall, and this fine archer looked like a proud warrior who would not consider a miserable thief a worthy foe. He would probably assume that he could safely try to tie my hands, and to do so, he would have to put down his bow. For a moment, however brief, we would be more or less equally matched, and I would grasp that opportunity.
For the first time in weeks, I was very grateful to know that I looked rather pathetic. This valiant woodland warrior would not suspect that the pitiable and somewhat starved bundle of rags he was facing actually knew quite well how to fight. If I could lull him into believing that I admitted defeat even now, I would be able to take him by surprise. It was a pity I had left my sword with Seven - or perhaps not so great a pity at all, for while my sword would have been visible, my dagger was well hidden, and perhaps, the archer did not even suspect that I was armed. Yes, I would take him by surprise!
"Who are you?" my prospective captor asked - or rather hissed, to be precise.
"Alagaith Alagaerion." I replied after the slightest bit of hesitation, using my full name, partly to feign that I was ready to comply with whatever he asked of me, partly because it felt oddly reassuring to state then and there that this was who I was. It had been a good and proud name in the beginning, and it was still my name, though less frequently used than in my youth, quite the only thing that had remained mine all the time. Claiming it now helped to counteract the contempt and disgust I read in this most respectable warrior's eyes. I took great care not to sound too defiant, though; he had to be convinced that I would not offer much resistance.
"Drop the cloak and lie down with your face to the ground, Noldo, or my arrow will find a new home in your throat", the archer ordered, sounding rather determined, to say the very least.
I did as bidden, and it did not even cost me an effort to look frightened. Truth to tell, I was afraid. Even if I hoped to be able to take my opponent unawares, it would have been fatal to underestimate him; he was certainly not invincible, but not harmless either. It was not that he appeared to be a trained warrior, and one too recently emerged from battle to have calmed down completely. I must admit that the way he acted and talked did scare me.
The prospect of being caught by a fierce Silvan warrior had not been pleasant, and having to realize that the aforementioned scary wood-elf was also slightly unhinged did not exactly make things better. Whoever felt he had to boast with his poor rhetorical skill in such a situation was either not quite in his right mind or a pompous fool who believed that his sad attempt at a use of poetic language would impress me while a simple 'Lie down or I will shoot you' would have been quite sufficient.
Something else was strange about what he had said. I had not expected him to use my name - they never did - but it occurred to me that it was peculiar that he would address me as 'Noldo'. Of course, he was Silvan, while I obviously was not, but it did surprise me that he would consider ancestry as the defining quality setting us apart from each other. The circumstances under which we had met simply did not invite making that kind of distinction. Had he called me 'thief' or 'villain' or whatever flattering descriptions could have come to his mind in this situation, I would not have been overly surprised, but 'Noldo' did sound as if he was prejudiced enough to detest me even for the one thing that I was fairly innocent of. I could hardly be held responsible for the fact that I had been born to Noldorin parents. But would these matters be of any importance, anyway? I would be gone before he could act on his silly prejudices, or so I hoped.
It was a bit awkward that he had decided to make me lie down and place a foot against my neck; he would sense any movement, however small, and would not tolerate it. Reaching for my dagger now was not an option. I could only hope that I would manage to throw my captor off and run to reach the rocks again before he could string his bow again - for he was unstringing it now, probably planning to put the bowstring to an unintended and unpleasant use. I would have to try to use the brief span of time he would need to restring it to run for cover, and once his arrows could not reach me that easily any more, I would be more or less safe. He could follow me, if he so chose, but if I found a better weapon than a mere dagger - and there simply had to be some sword lying around, of that I was certain! - he would not stand a chance. And if it did not work . . . If it did not work, I would be able to trade the name of 'One-Eye' for 'One- Hand', so it simply had to work.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
Tanglinna's POV
I had unstrung my bow, the string stained with sweat, dirt, and blood, a small reminder of the great conflict so recently passed.
"Don't move," I muttered at that wretched Noldo, slowly removing my foot from his neck.
I had not carried my sword with me; I had been only too glad to lay it aside after the battle was over. I was an archer, not a swordsman, though I do know how to use one. We all do. My arm and shoulders still ache from getting too reacquainted with Celair-Dagnir, my bright sword. It had been left back at our camp, peaceful once more as it lay by my bedroll. I did carry my dagger, Don Gwaedh, at my waist. I sincerely hoped that I would not need it, not even to threaten this Noldo.
I knelt swiftly beside him; prepared to pull his wrists behind his back, bind them with the bowstring. It was strong and would hold him as long as was necessary.
The next thing I knew, I was on my back staring at the cold sky, pain knifing across my right hand.
What had happened?!
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Alagaith's POV:
To describe what happened between the moment my captor knelt by my side to tie my wrists with his bowstring and the moment I darted off across the stony ground would take more time than my actual actions; suffice to say that disobeying the order not to move, turning, unsheathing my dagger, throwing my captor to the ground, slashing the fingers of his draw-hand and jumping up to run for the cover of the rocks were one movement.
It may seem like unnecessary cruelty that I chose to cut the archer's fingers, but it was, in fact, a precautionary measure. Even if surprise and pain would not be sufficient to distract him long enough to enable me to get to safety, it would cost him more of an effort to restring his bow and nock an arrow, and if I was fast, I could reach the rocks before he could either shoot me or catch up with me.
So I ran, knowing well enough that, if I was caught again after this attack, more than a hand might be at stake.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Tanglinna's POV
That cursed Noldo thief!!
It took me a few heartbeats to realize what he had done and, ignoring the pain that burned where he had cut my fingers - he had *dared* to cut my fingers! - I pushed off the ground, filled with the anger that I had fought off earlier when I had first found him. A snarl split my lips and with a growl, eyes flashing as the coward fled, leaping nimbly across the rocky terrain, I started after him. He would be very sorry that he had merely shoved me down and cut me! I pulled Don Gwaedh from its sheath..
Yes, he would be very sorry!
TBC
Alagaith places a pile of freshly printed-out reviews in front of Tanglinna. "Work to do, Mordil! And please, read this one first! kingmaker says he suspects that I am 'a darn good thief'", he says with a flattered grin. "It is quite satisfying to see my professional skills appreciated... I believe our dear reviewer deserves a reward! Haven't you got any friends in Rivendell? You should convince them to introduce kingmaker to Lady Arwen very soon..." He seems unable to stop beaming at the review.
Tanglinna smirks slightly. "I shall see what I can do. He certainly deserves to meet her. From what I can ascertain he is what is known as a fanboy and like their female counterparts they get rather ... giddy when confronted with their favorite...hm, obsessions." Grinning at this, he adds: "Never fear kingmaker, you are not alone as Tree knows several fanboys of the Lady Arwen, though her husband prefers the Lady Galadriel. I will have a talk with Thranduil about arranging a meeting for you. I suspect he is still, ahem, 'supporting' JastaElf. They are quite close you know, my dear king and my darling Jasta."
Alagaith chuckles. "In that case, it is very suspicious that 'your darling Jasta' was almost knocked out cold when you called her this... And she even hugged you! I wonder if the king will like this..." He gives Tanglinna one of his well-known all too innocent looks.
Tanglinna raises one brow. "The king knows that I would not move in on...erm...his 'territory'", he states, chuckling slightly. "And everyone knows that Jasta's heart belongs to the king alone, so I don't believe your concern ...and it is quite sincere" - a sneer underlines the utter lack of irony of this statement - "...is necessary."
Alagaith smiles peacefully "Yes, yes, Mordil... Who said 'Unhand my wife, you villain?' But that is another story..." Successfully avoiding Tanglinna's glance, he turns to look at the reviews again. "Anyway, you still have a lot of other admirers... Venyatuime seems ecstatic that there are 'more Tanglinna stories' now - and thinks that 'Silver Peacock' is a 'great nickname'!" He smirks at this.
The Master Archer promptly smirks back. "Yes, Venyatuime is a great fan of mine. She is quite wonderful. She belongs to an archery club, so she must be. As for the nickname...well, I suppose it isn't too bad... Silver Peacock indeed!" he mutters; then, however, he smiles. "But did you notice Hel's review, my dear thief? She thinks, and I quote 'Seems like there are two peacocks, not only one.'" A slow smirk spreads over his face.
Alagaith grins a little. "Well, Hel, a wise man - or elf? I can't remember! - once said that the faults and flaws we spot in others are most often our own... So there may be two peacocks indeed - but as 'skulking peacock' would not sound quite as convincing as 'skulking cutpurse', I will not allow Tanglinna to change my nickname... Speaking of nicknames, Mordil - the evil witch queen calls you 'an old sourpuss'... She can't ever have seen you when you are under the influence of orcish brandy." Thinking of that special incident, he sniggers a bit.
Tanglinna, in turn, frowns slightly. "I suppose that part of the tale will have to be told as well, won't it, O Linlote? One never has enough nicknames, though I will have to have a word with Legolas about 'Old Sourpuss.' Or perhaps I should let Kal the Magnificent talk with him, though she admits that they wouldn't be doing much talking... - fangurls!" he mutters, but quickly grins again. "Speaking of orcish brandy, you weren't exactly your old skulking self then either."
This remark causes Alagaith to blush a little. "Well... perhaps not... But I suppose Kal the Magnificent's opinion of me will not be more favourable after hearing about that incident..." he replies with a dramatic sigh.
"Just what are you implying?" Tanglinna enquires, puffing up slightly, like an offended peacock. "On second though, never mind. I don't want to know what you are going to say." Scowling a little, he continues: "Well, you have made a conquest, Linlote. Legolasluva seems to have become one of your fangurls. She thinks you are...what is the word? Oh yes, roguish. Hmph! Yes, I suppose he could be considered a rogue. I suppose I am rather boring for merely being an archer and one that is not...roguish." Folding his arms over his chest, he adds: "I don't think I am that boring.... Am I?"
Alagaith gives him a highly roguish grin. "You are, Mordil - perfectly boring. Now cover your ears please."
This strange request provokes a suspicious look from the silver- haired archer. "Why?"
The thief is not ready to give any reasons. "Just do as bidden."
"After you have just called me 'perfectly boring'?" Tanglinna retorts. "If I weren't such a nice, boring person I wouldn't comply so readily. Very well. I will humor you...just once." Having stated this, he covers his ears and glares upward.
It is Alagaith's turn to look at him suspiciously now, but finally, he turns to the reviews again. "Very well, legolasluva... I must say that I am grateful for your kind words, I even feel honoured, but my joy was somewhat diminished by the fact that you classified Tanglinna as 'getting kinda old' and had to mention those 'stupid' things he did again... He does deserve better than being compared to me in such an unfavourable way - especially since he clearly has the better eye colour... My remaining eye is just plain grey, like the sky over Nargothrond on an extremely rainy day."
Poking Tanglinna, he explains with the most harmless expression: "I have expressed my gratitude for those most flattering compliments properly now... We can continue."
"I can only imagine what you have said about me." Tanglinna answers with yet another suspicious glance before he looks back at the reviews. "Dis Thrainsdotter, you and I need to get together some time to reminisce about the friends we remember but we have lost. I extend my sympathies to you on your losses." He presses his hand to his heart, head bowed; after a moment of silence, he points to the next review. "Nilmandra has nearly as many sentences ending in question marks as periods." Chuckling slightly at this discovery, he proceeds: "Shall we answer them all in order? Something like 'Yes; Yes; Probably;Partly;No;Yes.'`?" He frowns a bit, contemplating these short answers. "Did I do that correctly?"
Alagaith nods. "Yes, as far as I can see... But the theories expressed in sentences with periods are also... intriguing. Why does she believe that I must have been in the mines?" Turning to look at Tanglinna, he enquires: "Do I look like that?"
The Master Archer chokes back a laugh and has to clear his throat before he answers: "Of course not.... Were you...in the mines, I mean?"
Alagaith shakes his head "No. Some of my friends were, but I was... elsewhere." Knowing very well that this description is rather vague, he grins somewhat sheepishly. "Nilmandra will find out sooner or later, I suppose. For, as daw the minstrel kindly points out, I do have 'a past and hopes and a family'..."
"Which all leads to the questions about your lady-wife", Tanglinna observes. "Do you wish to answer them?" As he knows about the lady-wife, he wonders about Alagaith's willingness to speak of her.
The thief suddenly looks very serious. "She was not an outlaw..." he says after some hesitation. "Not at first. And she died in childbirth... Oh well - enough of her now, even if ember cannot wait to learn more!" Turning his head, he pretends to be studying. . . something. . . somewhere.
Tanglinna lays a hand on Alagaith's shoulder. "Well..." he starts and clears his throat. "Lutris, as you see, I didn't tell Linlote very much at first, as I was a bit too angry to say very much as I suppose the name 'Old Sourpuss' would be all too true. But I did manage to 'tell him' a few things later." He winks.
Alagaith is smiling again. "Indeed you did... And you were certainly as 'poetic' as Miss Aranel says!" he replies with a chuckle.
"I wouldn't have called what I told you poetic, but thank you, Miss Aranel, for thinking that, on occasion, I can be." Tanglinna answers and bows slightly; then, he smirks. "Well, I suppose it will soon be time to introduce our...our supporting actors. Then things get rather...well...odd and ... odd..." Frowning slightly, he finally concludes: "Yes, odd is definitely the word for it."
Alagaith is frowning as well now. "Yes, odd... Shall we continue our tale?"
"Most assuredly." Tanglinna confirms and grins in what he hopes is a 'roguish' manner. "Perhaps I can win back some of legolasluva's heart before it is all over."
He winks at the screen and then grins at Alagaith who instantly grins back. "Impossible! - But on with the tale now."
Chapter 2 - In Which a Fierce Silvan Warrior Meets a Noldorin Thief
Tanglinna's POV
My senses - battle-honed and hardened - took over, and I had my bow drawn, arrow nocked and pointed at his one good eye in a heartbeat. It is only with a tight control that I kept the arrow snug against the string and not buried in his waiting flesh. My eyes flicked over the eye patch, which brought a brief flow of unpleasant and unwanted memories. Growling slightly, and with more force than was necessary, I hastily kicked Lalven's sword out his reach, not that this thief wouldn't be dead before his fingers brushed the cold, bloodstained metal.
"Who are you?" I hissed through tightly clenched teeth.
As my initial shock and anger receded beneath the cold, impassionate aspect that comes all too readily on the battlefield - a necessity of survival - I studied him critically, noting the ragged clothing was ill fitting and worn. But the thing that captured my attention was his cloak, perhaps because Lalven's cloak was still clasped in his hands, not dropped hastily on the ground. I must have caught him more off guard than I thought. The cloak this thief wore was as tattered as the rest of his clothing, but was draped in such a way that I knew what he was. The way the folds were caught up in the brooch designed in a distinctive spiraling pattern spoke all to clearly to the fact that he was a Noldo..A Noldo. The brooch could have been stolen, though who but one of the Noldor would drape their cloak in such a fashion?
I felt the hot anger returning. He was one of the Noldor.
The day that Doriath fell beneath the blood-hued blades of Feanor's sons was a day I tried not to think on. It was the sort of day that is nightmarish in its intensity and air of unreality; it was the day that what innocence I still possessed was swept away on a rushing tide of fear and death. Kill or be killed was the maxim that pounded through our brains and our souls. On that day . . . I killed an elf . . . . Then the driving emotion had been fear and horror at what was being done, but with this petty Noldorin thief before me, it was anger. I don't think he knew how close to death he was at that moment.
Lalven's cloak, the rich green fabric pouring over his hands, was clear evidence of his guilt. Stealing from the dead . . . . A wave of disgust broke over me.
Elven laws on theft are severe, and few are willing to risk the punishment that will befall them if caught in such a crime. I suspect that is why the punishments are so harsh, to work as a deterrent to wrongdoing. The first offense of a thief is punished with branding - a cam-tehta is burned into the skin of the right wrist, something not easily hidden. It is a severe punishment, a lasting punishment. This mark, known to all elves, is a mark of shame, something one must live with forever. It is a symbol of a thief; it shows that you are someone who cannot be trusted, a disgrace. How must this feel, to know that anyone who sees it will regard you only with suspicion and perhaps contempt? All of this was what the Noldorin elf risked - merely to take a cloak from a dead warrior.
Scars may mar the skin, but they mark the soul as well. As elves do not scar easily, they are usually the result of a deliberate act. Scars are a constant reminder of the act that brought them into being or in the case of the cam-tehta the act that perpetrated it. One must learn to live with them, and this is not always an easy thing.
Anger at his stupidity made my next words come out in a harsh bark.
"Drop the cloak and lie down with your face to the ground, Noldo, or my arrow will find a new home in your throat."
He had told me his name, though I didn't speak it. To speak it would make him real - make him a person. I didn't want to think of him that way; he was a thief and he needed to remain a thief so I could take him to whatever judgment was passed upon him. If I acknowledged his name, I might pity him; our laws leave little room for pity.
I could see the fear on his face and he complied quickly, for which I was grateful. A pang of remorse sang through me for another elf from another time haunted me once again. I had not extended the courtesy of speech to that elf in Doriath; he had died without being aware that I was there, not much more than a scared child caught up in the fear and confusion of that day seeing only the injustice of what that Noldo was doing, slaughtering elves I had known . . . . We had fought side by side at Dagorlad, old grievances laid aside for a greater cause, but I admit that what happened at Doriath had shaped my thoughts toward them. Perhaps I should have spoken to the Noldorin elf in Doriath . . . .
I shook my head to rid it of these thoughts, though standing on a bloodstained battlefield amid my fallen comrades brings such somber and unwanted meditations.
I drew a breath, exhaling slowly before I placed my foot against his neck, not hard enough to hurt him, but exerting enough pressure to let him know that I would brook no opposition from him. I bent my long bow to unstring it; the strong cord would suffice to ties his hands, immobilize him until I could turn him over to someone who could secure him with stronger ropes or chains.
He would stand trial, but the verdict was a foregone conclusion. I felt a pang of regret that I was the one to find him holding the cloak in his hands. I wondered if he would try to dispute this, for surely he knew what would happen to him when he was pronounced guilty. If he were lucky Thranduil would send him to Mirkwood for the trial; at least he would have a few extra days before the cam-tehta was marked on his wrist, changing his life forever. Or perhaps that would only make it worse. Anxiety about the unknown or what we think we know, can be more trying than the actuality itself. . . .
~*~*~*~*~*~*
Alagaith's POV
Clad in green and grey, equipped with one of those dreaded long bows against which armour offers no protection, piercing silver eyes fixed on me, the epitome of a woodland archer was standing in front of me - and unfortunately his arrow was pointed at me. I dared not move.
Resting immobile meant - and this was even more unfortunate - that I kept standing where I was, the fallen captain lying at my feet and part of the evidence for my crime in my very hands for, of course, I was still holding the gorgeous cloak. It might have been possible to come up with an explanation for this situation, not with a story that anybody would have believed, of course, but with something that sounded at least possible enough to enable a compassionate captor to pretend he was convinced that I had merely lifted up the cloak out of curiosity, convinced enough to let me escape. For caught I was, and already as good as condemned, not only because this Silvan warrior did not look as if he had any pity to spare for a robber of the dead. While picking up a cloak was, perhaps, not a crime in itself, there was nothing that could excuse the presence of the silver elm leaf in my pocket.
If I was lucky, they would give me a fair trial - but I knew well enough that, on a battlefield, a trial could be over in a few moments, and after the hideous bloodshed of the previous night, their minds and hearts hardened by what they had done and suffered, they would not be too reluctant to hew off a filthy thief's hand; for this was what was going to happen.
Elven laws on theft were as severe as simple - a brand for the first offence, the loss of a hand for the second, and being caught for the third time usually meant that there would never be a fourth time. Ironically, the second time was bound to lead straight to the third. I did not know if the doubtlessly wise lawmakers and the equally wise judges who applied those laws really believed that someone who had been unable or unwilling to lead an honest life before would miraculously be changed as soon as one hand was missing - but perhaps I was misjudging them, and the only purpose of those laws consisted in discouraging those toying with the thought of stealing. Perhaps it did deter those who still had a choice.
However, the fact that they took but one hand instead of a life - though I had seen people die of such a wound if it was ill-tended - might have indicated that such a sentence was not only meant as punishment, but also comprised the slightest bit of hope that the wicked offender would not relapse into his old ways. It was not quite obvious to me how that change for the better was going to take place. I, for my part, was fairly certain that losing a hand would not bring me any closer to some resemblance of respectability. If my last dreams of regaining what I had lost had died the day I had been branded, they would be buried if my hand was cut off. How very strange that everything they did to punish a thief would make him even more of a thief and an outcast!
Being a branded thief had already robbed me of any chance to regain a place in elven society, for who would ever welcome someone who was "a veritable shame to all elvendom" - those, at least, were the words of my prospective mother-in-law when she forbade me to see her daughter ever again - and believe him that he had learnt his lesson? But had forgiveness ever been offered, I could have been of some use. Without any self- flattery, I could claim that I had been quite an able warrior once - I had beaten Lord Gwindor at swordplay twice before he was made a slave in Morgoth's mines (and, well, he in turn had beaten me three times back then) and was still rather proud thereof, and I did not lack other skills that might have been used for earning a living in a perfectly honourable way, but after the loss of a hand - especially if they would choose to cut off my right hand, and I was sure they would do so - the range of things I could do would be greatly diminished, while stealing would still be possible, if a bit more difficult.
Maybe - maybe! - I could have admitted that for certain. . . mistakes I had made, some sort of punishment was in order, but this?
I am straying from the story I am supposed to tell, though, for I cannot claim that I calmly mused on all of this the very moment I was standing on the battlefield; much of it only came to my mind during the following hours and days.
My first thought was, in fact, that my hand was forfeit, the stolen clasp proving my crime, the brand denouncing what I was, and for the briefest span of time, I already saw myself confined in a gloomy cell until the terrible wound was healed, not turning me out into the wild wounded and weakened being the only sort of mercy they would grant me, no real mercy, though, but rather a further cruelty, as my friends and family would hardly be able to wait for my release out here at this time of the year, if they ever learnt what had happened to me and where I had been taken, so that being free again some day would not be overly pleasant either, but would mean a long row of sad and lonely days that I would spent learning how to survive somehow marred and crippled.
But - as my father would have said, giving me a stern look of reprimand for being so afraid - fear had never won a battle, and so I made an effort to breathe steadily and to force my wayward thoughts into the right direction, towards an escape plan that would work.
At the moment, I was at this archer's mercy, but we were alone, and therein lay my only hope. True enough, there was hardly anything I could do - and certainly nothing I would do! - if he simply kept the arrow aimed at me; I would have to go along with whatever he asked of me, as I was not foolish enough to believe that he would not shoot me if I gave him reason to do so. I was, however, fairly certain that he would not simply order me to walk ahead of him, not even necessarily because he thought that I would attempt something foolish. A warrior's pride could be his downfall, and this fine archer looked like a proud warrior who would not consider a miserable thief a worthy foe. He would probably assume that he could safely try to tie my hands, and to do so, he would have to put down his bow. For a moment, however brief, we would be more or less equally matched, and I would grasp that opportunity.
For the first time in weeks, I was very grateful to know that I looked rather pathetic. This valiant woodland warrior would not suspect that the pitiable and somewhat starved bundle of rags he was facing actually knew quite well how to fight. If I could lull him into believing that I admitted defeat even now, I would be able to take him by surprise. It was a pity I had left my sword with Seven - or perhaps not so great a pity at all, for while my sword would have been visible, my dagger was well hidden, and perhaps, the archer did not even suspect that I was armed. Yes, I would take him by surprise!
"Who are you?" my prospective captor asked - or rather hissed, to be precise.
"Alagaith Alagaerion." I replied after the slightest bit of hesitation, using my full name, partly to feign that I was ready to comply with whatever he asked of me, partly because it felt oddly reassuring to state then and there that this was who I was. It had been a good and proud name in the beginning, and it was still my name, though less frequently used than in my youth, quite the only thing that had remained mine all the time. Claiming it now helped to counteract the contempt and disgust I read in this most respectable warrior's eyes. I took great care not to sound too defiant, though; he had to be convinced that I would not offer much resistance.
"Drop the cloak and lie down with your face to the ground, Noldo, or my arrow will find a new home in your throat", the archer ordered, sounding rather determined, to say the very least.
I did as bidden, and it did not even cost me an effort to look frightened. Truth to tell, I was afraid. Even if I hoped to be able to take my opponent unawares, it would have been fatal to underestimate him; he was certainly not invincible, but not harmless either. It was not that he appeared to be a trained warrior, and one too recently emerged from battle to have calmed down completely. I must admit that the way he acted and talked did scare me.
The prospect of being caught by a fierce Silvan warrior had not been pleasant, and having to realize that the aforementioned scary wood-elf was also slightly unhinged did not exactly make things better. Whoever felt he had to boast with his poor rhetorical skill in such a situation was either not quite in his right mind or a pompous fool who believed that his sad attempt at a use of poetic language would impress me while a simple 'Lie down or I will shoot you' would have been quite sufficient.
Something else was strange about what he had said. I had not expected him to use my name - they never did - but it occurred to me that it was peculiar that he would address me as 'Noldo'. Of course, he was Silvan, while I obviously was not, but it did surprise me that he would consider ancestry as the defining quality setting us apart from each other. The circumstances under which we had met simply did not invite making that kind of distinction. Had he called me 'thief' or 'villain' or whatever flattering descriptions could have come to his mind in this situation, I would not have been overly surprised, but 'Noldo' did sound as if he was prejudiced enough to detest me even for the one thing that I was fairly innocent of. I could hardly be held responsible for the fact that I had been born to Noldorin parents. But would these matters be of any importance, anyway? I would be gone before he could act on his silly prejudices, or so I hoped.
It was a bit awkward that he had decided to make me lie down and place a foot against my neck; he would sense any movement, however small, and would not tolerate it. Reaching for my dagger now was not an option. I could only hope that I would manage to throw my captor off and run to reach the rocks again before he could string his bow again - for he was unstringing it now, probably planning to put the bowstring to an unintended and unpleasant use. I would have to try to use the brief span of time he would need to restring it to run for cover, and once his arrows could not reach me that easily any more, I would be more or less safe. He could follow me, if he so chose, but if I found a better weapon than a mere dagger - and there simply had to be some sword lying around, of that I was certain! - he would not stand a chance. And if it did not work . . . If it did not work, I would be able to trade the name of 'One-Eye' for 'One- Hand', so it simply had to work.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
Tanglinna's POV
I had unstrung my bow, the string stained with sweat, dirt, and blood, a small reminder of the great conflict so recently passed.
"Don't move," I muttered at that wretched Noldo, slowly removing my foot from his neck.
I had not carried my sword with me; I had been only too glad to lay it aside after the battle was over. I was an archer, not a swordsman, though I do know how to use one. We all do. My arm and shoulders still ache from getting too reacquainted with Celair-Dagnir, my bright sword. It had been left back at our camp, peaceful once more as it lay by my bedroll. I did carry my dagger, Don Gwaedh, at my waist. I sincerely hoped that I would not need it, not even to threaten this Noldo.
I knelt swiftly beside him; prepared to pull his wrists behind his back, bind them with the bowstring. It was strong and would hold him as long as was necessary.
The next thing I knew, I was on my back staring at the cold sky, pain knifing across my right hand.
What had happened?!
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Alagaith's POV:
To describe what happened between the moment my captor knelt by my side to tie my wrists with his bowstring and the moment I darted off across the stony ground would take more time than my actual actions; suffice to say that disobeying the order not to move, turning, unsheathing my dagger, throwing my captor to the ground, slashing the fingers of his draw-hand and jumping up to run for the cover of the rocks were one movement.
It may seem like unnecessary cruelty that I chose to cut the archer's fingers, but it was, in fact, a precautionary measure. Even if surprise and pain would not be sufficient to distract him long enough to enable me to get to safety, it would cost him more of an effort to restring his bow and nock an arrow, and if I was fast, I could reach the rocks before he could either shoot me or catch up with me.
So I ran, knowing well enough that, if I was caught again after this attack, more than a hand might be at stake.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Tanglinna's POV
That cursed Noldo thief!!
It took me a few heartbeats to realize what he had done and, ignoring the pain that burned where he had cut my fingers - he had *dared* to cut my fingers! - I pushed off the ground, filled with the anger that I had fought off earlier when I had first found him. A snarl split my lips and with a growl, eyes flashing as the coward fled, leaping nimbly across the rocky terrain, I started after him. He would be very sorry that he had merely shoved me down and cut me! I pulled Don Gwaedh from its sheath..
Yes, he would be very sorry!
TBC