Mirkwood Manor
Chapter 5
See disclaimer in Chapter 1. Hannon le, everyone for your very kind and encouraging reviews and comments on the first four chapters. Onward.
* * *
He lay gravely wounded, his blood soaking his tunic, and seeping into the ground. How many arrows had found his body? Three that he could see. Maybe more, considering the rain of enemy arrows flying over trees and finding their targets in the bodies of the men who lay dead upon the battlefield, men who guarded the King's entourage.
The pain was intense, excruciating. Still he reached, straining to take hold of one of his knives. His fingers gripped the handle, and though his strength was waning, he would force his way to his feet and fight again.
They had been ambushed and surrounded. Legolas had killed perhaps a dozen of the ones who stood against the King of Gondor and wished him dead for reasons not made clear. Men who spoke against the King and had turned their words into deadly action. For years Aragorn had ruled the kingdom of men and his people had been content. But now a few malcontents, seditionists who claimed to be patriots, had stirred the embers of war in the hearts of the like-minded, and though they were few, they were vicious and surprisingly well organized. Where they lacked in number they made up in blood lust and treachery.
They had attacked his party, this band of seditionists. Legolas surmised that there had to be someone on the inside, someone close to King Aragorn, someone trusted and well informed, in order to have known where they would be at this time. This sojourn to Rivendell was to have been a secret. A respect paid to the last of the Elves, to honor those who had sailed off to the Undying Lands and to bid goodbye to the last to leave. Among them should have been Legolas. This, Legolas had believed, would be the last time he was to see his dearest friend, brother-in-arms, and king of men.
Now Legolas lay bleeding, perhaps even dying. He called to the Valar, and upon every ounce of strength remaining in him and yanked an arrow forcefully from his left shoulder. He suppressed the urge to cry out, then pulled himself to his feet. Four men came rushing toward him. He dispatched of each quickly with a few mere strokes of the blade. He looked for Aragon, and found him, fighting off three at once. Even at Aragon's advanced age, his hair nearly all white, his face seasoned with deep lines, he fought as he always did, with strength and spirited abandon.
And when the seditionists had all been dispatched or subdued as prisoners, Legolas allowed himself to give in to the pain and weakness from blood loss. He collapsed, hitting the ground hard. His eyes were open yet he saw nothing. His lungs were barely filling with air. He thought he heard voices, someone calling his name over and over.
"Aragorn, why do you say my name with such sadness?"
* * *
Charlita was never good with hiding things, or keeping secrets from her son. Tristan could read hidden emotion the way most people read road signs – a single glance that gave way to immediate and unquestionable understanding and action. So even with her back turned, he knew something was wrong when he returned from the store.
"Mom?"
"I'm okay," she said quickly, keeping her back to her son.
Tristan gave the room a quick and thorough look. He dropped the bag and ran from the apartment.
"Tristan, come back!"
He did not.
He searched the halls, behind the fire doors, the room with the trash chute, the laundry room, looking for him.
"Where are you!" he shouted.
Charlita stepped into the hall and watched as her little boy shed his innocence and took on the role of protector.
"He's gone," Charlita called out, "He won't be back."
She hoped he believed her.
Tristan stopped by the elevator and looked at his mom. There was still blood on her lip, now drying, barely covering the swelling. Her eyes were red from tears and her shoulders were hunched with great tension.
"Where did he go?" Tristan cried. "Where did my father go?"
"I don't know. I promise you he won't be back."
"I hope he does come back. I want him to come back."
"Why?" she asked, already afraid she knew the answer. Before he could say another word, she held out her arms to her son. He quickly stepped up to her and wrapped his around her. It was then the boy returned, her innocent child. Hot tears quickly spilled down his cheeks, and she felt him shudder with anger, fear and grief. She could not quell the anger in his heart, but she could soothe the sadness and soon allay his fear. She pulled him away and knelt down to look into his not quite blue, not quite brown eyes.
"If he comes back..." she began.
Tristan pulled away from her.
"If he comes back, I'll kill him for what he's done to you."
"No!" she begged. "Don't talk like that. No talk of killing. You're too young to talk that way."
"But I'm not too young to die."
The realization struck as a knife in her heart. Would Valgur go that far?
"No," she begged again. "I want you far away from him. I don't want him anywhere near you. I'm going to send you away -"
Tristan pushed away from her, the hurt on his face so deep that it nearly shattered her resolve.
"You can't send me away. I won't leave you! You can't make me go."
"Yes, I can. I'm your mother."
Tristan's hurt became anger. She'd seen him blow up like this before. It was a burning, like she's seen in his father's eyes.
"You think I can't take care of you!" Tristan shouted, then backed away and began running.
"Tristan!"
He kept running, down the hallway, through the fire door and down the stairs. She could hear every footfall, reverberating on each metal step, becoming fainter as he grew nearer the ground floor. She wanted so much to run after him, but knew she'd never catch him. Her beaten, aching body would never be able to keep up. She silently prayed he would run around the block a few times to disperse his anger, and come home, sweaty, repentant and hungry. And she also prayed that wherever Valgur was, he would not use this opportunity to grab her son and employ him as a pawn in some sick, twisted scheme.
* * *
The side street was darker than the main drag. Heavy hanging trees obscured and blocked what little light there was from street lamps. And unlike the main drag there were not very many people out walking. As a matter of fact, looking over this shoulder and straining to see before him, he could find no one other than himself out on this chilly night.
He pulled his hat down over his ears and zipped his down jacket all the way up, despite how he hated the way the zipper rub against his chin until the skin became raw. The growing cold was worse.
He hoped he had gotten off at the right bus stop. No one was around whom he could ask for directions. But he soon found the winding path that lead to the house he had only been to once. He walked the path, smelling the richness of the foliage surrounding him, feeling a sense of calm easing the racing thoughts in his head.
Tristan stood before the door and reached up on his toes to grab hold of the heavy doorknocker. He slammed it down three times, then stood back, waiting.
Waiting. No one answered.
He slammed the doorknocker again. This time he heard movement inside, or rather, felt there was movement inside. The door opened.
Legolas stood staring down at the boy with a confused look.
"You said I could visit you anytime. This is anytime."
* * *
Legolas built a fire in the library, and invited Tristan to sit in his favorite red, soft leather couch near the hearth to warm himself.
"So tell me," Legolas began, "what prompts this visit? And is it sanctioned by your mother?"
Tristan shrugged, his typical response. Legolas stood with his back to the roaring fire, his visage taking on the flames' golden glow. Tristan sat back, frightened, but only for a moment.
"How do you do that?" Tristan asked.
"Do what?"
"Glow."
"It is part of what I am."
"What are you?"
"First things first, Tristan. You did not come here without reason. And I will not accept another shrug for an answer."
Tristan nearly shrugged but caught himself.
"You're like my father, but you're not."
"Can you elucidate?"
"Why do you use such big words?"
"I'm sorry," Legolas said. "To elucidate means –"
"I know what it means, it means to spell it out, explain."
"I underestimate you. Forgive me. Please, continue."
Tristan took a moment to collect his young thoughts, and looked Legolas in the eyes.
"He looks like you. The same ears. The same funny way of talking."
"So, you believe your father and I are of the same...heritage."
"I don't know. I've only seen him a couple of times when I was a little kid. Mom never let me talk to him. Which is good, because I don't really want to. He's mean. He hits my mom."
"Is that why you're here? Did your father hurt your mother tonight?"
Tristan saw the look of concern upon Legolas' face, and wondered for a moment if he should be telling his family business to a man nearly a stranger.
Legolas recognized the boy's troubled look, and knelt down to reassure him.
"Tristan, please know that whatever you tell me I will hold in the strictest confidence. It stays within these walls, and I will not dare speak of it without your permission."
"Promise?" Tristan asked for further reassurance.
"Promise. Tell me this. Your father, does he hit you as well?"
"No. But mom's afraid he'll take me from her."
"She loves you very much."
"I know that."
"Why do you come to me with this?"
"I don't know. I just needed somebody to talk to."
"Then I am honored that you chose me. However, I think it would be wise to consult the local authorities on this matter."
"The police?" Tristan asked then sneered. "They won't do anything."
"Perhaps you should reconsider," said Legolas, "rather than wait for something worse to happen. Tell me, what is your father's name?"
"It's a funny name. Valgur. I don't know his last name. Mom said he didn't really have one."
"No, he wouldn't."
Legolas turned away so the boy would not see the subtle change of expression on his face.
* * *
Legolas stared at the sleeping Tristan, who was sprawled out on the large leather couch, his face on the thick yet supple armrest. Gentle snores issued from his partially opened mouth. His body rose and fell with rhythmic breathing. Legolas reached down and removed the boy's hat, marveling at the idea and sight of this half-elfling in his presence, then covered him with a soft woolen blanket the color of damp moss.
He noticed his hands were shaking. It was but a slight tremor, unnoticeable to the human eye but quite disturbing to an Elf. The news that Valgur lived had driven Legolas to the point of distraction. His anger for the dark-haired Elf ran deep, not only because of what Valgur had wrought against Legolas, but against so many innocents, and against his closest friend. More than a few Elves had danced dangerously upon the line between good and evil. Indeed, some had fallen victim to the beguiling nature of evil. Many, fueled by greed and influenced by Men, sought power and thus turned and fed on death and destruction. Those Elves were forever banished from the Realm, or executed, or denied a place with their kind in the Grey Havens.
No Elf, in Legolas' memory, had a heart as sinister and unrepentant as Valgur's. Were it not for Valgur, Legolas would be living life transformed among the Elves, and not hiding among the race of modern man.
He stood before the fireplace and tried to trace his memories back to Valgur, to his betrayal, to his banishment, to the last battle between them. As the memories began to unfold, there came a trilling sound, irritating and insistent, breaking his dark reverie. Legolas looked around the room confused by the interruption. What was causing this? Then he realized what he heard was simply Tristan's cell phone.
Legolas picked up Tristan's discarded jacket from the floor and checked the pockets. His hands found something made of cool metal and plastic. He pulled the ringing phone from the pocket and looked it over, trying to figure out how to work this particular model.
"Hello?" Legolas spoke softly, hoping not to wake Tristan. The phone continued to trill. He held the phone up, shook it, and then flipped it over. "Hello?" he tried again. It continued to make that irritating noise. He shook it again, and the phone flipped open. The trilling ceased. He heard a voice issue from it. A familiar voice. He held the phone to his ear.
"Tristan are you there?" came the voice from inside the phone. "Say something. Tristan, where are you?"
"Hello," said Legolas.
"Who is this?" Her voice was no longer agitated but frightened. "Where's my son?"
"He is here. He's fine. Quite fine."
"Who IS THIS?"
"Miss Huffington?"
"Mr. Greenleaf! Oh, my gosh...is he there? He shouldn't have bothered you. I'm so sorry."
"Apology accepted, thought it is unnecessary."
"I can be there in fifteen minutes to pick him up."
"Nonsense. He's quite comfortable and sleeping soundly. Whatever agitation drove him from home seems now to have run its course. Why not let him remain and take him home tomorrow."
"I don't want to cause any trouble."
"It's no trouble at all."
"Did he...talk to you about what was bothering him?"
He heard the embarrassment in her voice, the fear, but knew not what he could do to reassure her. He hated lying, but knew that full disclosure at this time may not be prudent. He wanted the boy to know that he would under all circumstances keep his word. Tristan's fears and concerns must remain in confidence.
"Actually, he said very little."
There, not too great a lie. Though in his heart he knew that the size of the lie did not make it any less a lie. But he could not bring himself to betray Tristan. Perhaps Miss Huffington would fully disclose all that had transpired with a little prompting.
"Perhaps you could...elucidate."
"We had a fight," she said. "He can be very stubborn."
"A trait inherited from his father, perhaps?"
Silence. Like the forest before a storm, before the winds would come and turn the leaves backwards to warn of the approaching squall.
"Are you sure it's all right for Tristan to be there? I can come get him..."
"He is perfectly safe with me," Legolas assured her. "We'll both see you in the morning. You are coming to work, aren't you?"
"Yes," she said quickly. "I owe you a great debt, Mr. Greenleaf."
"We shall talk more tomorrow."
He did not mean to make is sound so much like a threat. He heard the line disengage, and Legolas closed the cell phone and placed it on the floor near the couch where Tristan slept.
He moved near the fire and stood, determined that he would stay here the entire night, standing watch over Tristan. And whether Tristan would desire it or not, he now had a protector and benefactor in Legolas. For if indeed the child was the product of Valgur's seed, Legolas was sure the boy was in some danger. Legolas also knew that he would soon face Valgur in battle once again. Perhaps, this time, it would be the last.
* * *
It was shortly after midnight, and Valgur was bored. He loved walking the streets at night. He loved the silence. He loved the fear he could instill, when he'd pick someone to follow. Particularly a female. The females of this species were so easily terrified. It no longer offered a challenge, but it did bring him some dark amusement.
The woman he picked tonight was not on foot, but sitting doubled parked in a car that Valgur deeply coveted. A black Mustang convertible. Amazing sounding engine, like a spider queen prior to mating. Or killing. Such power, insufficiently used by the pretty young female that sat behind the wheel talking animatedly on her cell phone. Valgur watched her from just across the street, biding his time, planning his move.
While he waited, he considered his visit to his lovely ex-wife, Charlita. He was sorry when the divorce papers were given him to sign by his court- appointed attorney, while he was serving his first year behind bars. Not sorry that Charlita wished to divorce him, but that she had grown wise to his manipulations, immune to his lies, and weary of his mistreatment. Now he'd have to find a new female. They were so easy, these women. Lavish them with attention, promise them love, threaten them with mystery and the unknown, and they were his to bend or break at will. Play the suffering, misunderstood, loveless soul, and they would leap to be the one to end the suffering, and provide the love and understanding, even if they must sell their own souls to do it. Valgur loved modern human women. So lost and jaded by their independence that they barely recognized when they had been enslaved.
Better than human females when it came to manipulation, thought Valgur, were aged human males. The older and more physically incapacitated, the better. Anytime he found someone in need, there was room for great and skillful manipulation. Play upon the loneliness, the need for others to care for their needs, and Valgur had only to wait until their passing to take without fit or fight whatever he wished. There was sometimes the messy detail of family, who can be quite greedy when it came to an estate, but often these old men had no one, or no one interested enough to give of themselves or their time. So upon their "sad and untimely" demise, Valgur would be there to take what money or possessions he could before the legal authorities would step in and claim whatever was left for the survivors or the state. And he was often instrumental in helping the old men get to their next life, or whatever they believed in. A pillow over the face, and accidental over- or under dose of prescribed medication, or an accidental fall down a wide and winding staircase. So many ways to get what one needs. He wondered what this Mr. Greenleaf would be like, and what method would be most efficient in hurrying him to his afterlife. Charlita did not seem to have much to say about him (and he was inclined to believe her). She said that Greenleaf's fortune seemed to lie inexplicably in old books and papers. He would ask her to steal for him a sample of his so-called fortune so that he could determine its worth and potential wealth. Perhaps it would fetch him a little "getting around" money until he could find the next unwitting benefactor. Right now, his attention was drawn back to the young woman eagerly leaping out of her Mustang.
She was proving to be most cooperative. She headed to the brightly lit ATM to make a late night withdrawal. Valgur loved ATMs. Quite an amazing invention, he believed. That one could simply pass a thin plastic card into the mechanism, punch in a few numbers on a key pad, and be given great amounts of cash for such simple effort both amazed and amused him. Having no card of his own, he often liberated cards from such unsuspecting individuals as the driver of the Mustang convertible. He simply appeared, seemingly out of nowhere – surprise being the key advantage – and then took from them what they had just taken themselves. But not tonight. Valgur like everything he saw. Not just the car, or the cash. The woman was equally worth having. Young, pale, pretty despite her thinness and round ears. Long legs, barely covered in a tiny skirt. Preoccupied by her own beauty and easily distracted by the simplest things. Valgur decided tonight he would have it all.
"Hello," he said, as she was about to climb back into her car. "Could you help me please? I seem to have run out of gas."
"That is so tired and overused," she said, eyes rolling up to the night sky.
"You don't believe me?" he asked, the hurt showing on his face, which had an immediate affect on the young woman's expression.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"Perhaps a lift to my car, or better yet, to a nearby hotel. I'm new in town."
"Where are you from?"
"Far, far away."
She like this. She smiled.
"I like your accent. Are you English?"
"Not exactly. I like your accent too."
Her smile widened.
He took the next shot. "And you have a beautiful smile. Angelic in nature. I know I will be in safe hands."
"Yeah, this place can be dangerous if you don't know your way around. What's your name?"
"Valgur. And yours?"
"Marisol."
"How elegant, how beautiful. An ancient name."
"Really? Does it mean anything?"
"I'm afraid the translation to your tongue would not do it justice. However, your smile does."
She giggled. She was almost there.
Valgur wrapped his long strong arms around himself and faked a shiver.
"Are you cold?" she asked, taking the cue.
"A little. I've been walking for hours now, trying to find someone kind enough to help a stranger in a strange land."
"Good luck," she said.
"Yes. Although I have to admit I understand their hesitation. This world can be a very violent and ugly one at times. So unlike...."
"Unlike what?"
"Where I come from. A land of great peace and uncommon beauty. Ancient, magnificent. Forgive me, I've grown very nostalgic since my arrival, and I have no friends here. I'm quite alone."
"No friends? That sucks."
"Yes," he said mournfully, letting his blue/black eyes drift as if caught in memory, while his blue/black hair floated in the evening breeze, giving only a hint of his exotic elvish ears.
Marisol could not stop looking at him.
Closer, he thought. Almost there.
"It was lovely speaking with you, Marisol. I shall remember your kindness forever."
Valgur turned and began to walk away.
"Wait!" Marisol called out, watching him leave. She got behind the wheel, gunned the engine and drove up to Valgur.
"I can give you a ride."
"It isn't necessary," Valgur said, tempering his tone, drawing the pity from her heart like poison from a wound. "I can walk. But I do deeply appreciate the offer."
"No, get in. Nobody should be alone out here at night. Please."
Ensnared.
Valgur smiled. He knew that was his greatest weapon in the disarming of a woman's common sense. And her heart. He climbed in, throwing his hair back, freely letting his pointed ears show.
"The women of your time are so giving."
"What do you mean, of my time?"
"Did I say time? I meant, of your country."
"Right," Marisol said. She saw him shiver again.
"I'll put the top up and turn on the heat."
"I'd like that," Valgur said. He let his body go limp, as if he was about to pass out, letting the full weight of his body lean against hers for just a second. He knew he was overdoing it, but he loved this game far too much to stop now.
"Hey! You okay?"
"Yes, forgive me. It's the first time I've sat down in hours. I'm quite weary. And I have eaten since...I believe I've lost track."
"You're going to make yourself sick."
"Then I am lucky to have found an angel of mercy to take care of me, if only for an hour."
"Sit back, we'll get you something to eat. Do you have any money?"
"A little. All I have is yours."
"Foreign guys are so sweet."
"Any kindness I have to offer," Valgur said, reaching out to touch her hand with his long tapered fingers, "is merely a reflection of you."
She looked down as she entwined her fingers with his, and gasped. She could have sworn that his hand was glowing.
"Tell me about my name," Marisol said as she began to drive away.
End chapter 5. Hope you'll come back. Please review and respond.
See disclaimer in Chapter 1. Hannon le, everyone for your very kind and encouraging reviews and comments on the first four chapters. Onward.
* * *
He lay gravely wounded, his blood soaking his tunic, and seeping into the ground. How many arrows had found his body? Three that he could see. Maybe more, considering the rain of enemy arrows flying over trees and finding their targets in the bodies of the men who lay dead upon the battlefield, men who guarded the King's entourage.
The pain was intense, excruciating. Still he reached, straining to take hold of one of his knives. His fingers gripped the handle, and though his strength was waning, he would force his way to his feet and fight again.
They had been ambushed and surrounded. Legolas had killed perhaps a dozen of the ones who stood against the King of Gondor and wished him dead for reasons not made clear. Men who spoke against the King and had turned their words into deadly action. For years Aragorn had ruled the kingdom of men and his people had been content. But now a few malcontents, seditionists who claimed to be patriots, had stirred the embers of war in the hearts of the like-minded, and though they were few, they were vicious and surprisingly well organized. Where they lacked in number they made up in blood lust and treachery.
They had attacked his party, this band of seditionists. Legolas surmised that there had to be someone on the inside, someone close to King Aragorn, someone trusted and well informed, in order to have known where they would be at this time. This sojourn to Rivendell was to have been a secret. A respect paid to the last of the Elves, to honor those who had sailed off to the Undying Lands and to bid goodbye to the last to leave. Among them should have been Legolas. This, Legolas had believed, would be the last time he was to see his dearest friend, brother-in-arms, and king of men.
Now Legolas lay bleeding, perhaps even dying. He called to the Valar, and upon every ounce of strength remaining in him and yanked an arrow forcefully from his left shoulder. He suppressed the urge to cry out, then pulled himself to his feet. Four men came rushing toward him. He dispatched of each quickly with a few mere strokes of the blade. He looked for Aragon, and found him, fighting off three at once. Even at Aragon's advanced age, his hair nearly all white, his face seasoned with deep lines, he fought as he always did, with strength and spirited abandon.
And when the seditionists had all been dispatched or subdued as prisoners, Legolas allowed himself to give in to the pain and weakness from blood loss. He collapsed, hitting the ground hard. His eyes were open yet he saw nothing. His lungs were barely filling with air. He thought he heard voices, someone calling his name over and over.
"Aragorn, why do you say my name with such sadness?"
* * *
Charlita was never good with hiding things, or keeping secrets from her son. Tristan could read hidden emotion the way most people read road signs – a single glance that gave way to immediate and unquestionable understanding and action. So even with her back turned, he knew something was wrong when he returned from the store.
"Mom?"
"I'm okay," she said quickly, keeping her back to her son.
Tristan gave the room a quick and thorough look. He dropped the bag and ran from the apartment.
"Tristan, come back!"
He did not.
He searched the halls, behind the fire doors, the room with the trash chute, the laundry room, looking for him.
"Where are you!" he shouted.
Charlita stepped into the hall and watched as her little boy shed his innocence and took on the role of protector.
"He's gone," Charlita called out, "He won't be back."
She hoped he believed her.
Tristan stopped by the elevator and looked at his mom. There was still blood on her lip, now drying, barely covering the swelling. Her eyes were red from tears and her shoulders were hunched with great tension.
"Where did he go?" Tristan cried. "Where did my father go?"
"I don't know. I promise you he won't be back."
"I hope he does come back. I want him to come back."
"Why?" she asked, already afraid she knew the answer. Before he could say another word, she held out her arms to her son. He quickly stepped up to her and wrapped his around her. It was then the boy returned, her innocent child. Hot tears quickly spilled down his cheeks, and she felt him shudder with anger, fear and grief. She could not quell the anger in his heart, but she could soothe the sadness and soon allay his fear. She pulled him away and knelt down to look into his not quite blue, not quite brown eyes.
"If he comes back..." she began.
Tristan pulled away from her.
"If he comes back, I'll kill him for what he's done to you."
"No!" she begged. "Don't talk like that. No talk of killing. You're too young to talk that way."
"But I'm not too young to die."
The realization struck as a knife in her heart. Would Valgur go that far?
"No," she begged again. "I want you far away from him. I don't want him anywhere near you. I'm going to send you away -"
Tristan pushed away from her, the hurt on his face so deep that it nearly shattered her resolve.
"You can't send me away. I won't leave you! You can't make me go."
"Yes, I can. I'm your mother."
Tristan's hurt became anger. She'd seen him blow up like this before. It was a burning, like she's seen in his father's eyes.
"You think I can't take care of you!" Tristan shouted, then backed away and began running.
"Tristan!"
He kept running, down the hallway, through the fire door and down the stairs. She could hear every footfall, reverberating on each metal step, becoming fainter as he grew nearer the ground floor. She wanted so much to run after him, but knew she'd never catch him. Her beaten, aching body would never be able to keep up. She silently prayed he would run around the block a few times to disperse his anger, and come home, sweaty, repentant and hungry. And she also prayed that wherever Valgur was, he would not use this opportunity to grab her son and employ him as a pawn in some sick, twisted scheme.
* * *
The side street was darker than the main drag. Heavy hanging trees obscured and blocked what little light there was from street lamps. And unlike the main drag there were not very many people out walking. As a matter of fact, looking over this shoulder and straining to see before him, he could find no one other than himself out on this chilly night.
He pulled his hat down over his ears and zipped his down jacket all the way up, despite how he hated the way the zipper rub against his chin until the skin became raw. The growing cold was worse.
He hoped he had gotten off at the right bus stop. No one was around whom he could ask for directions. But he soon found the winding path that lead to the house he had only been to once. He walked the path, smelling the richness of the foliage surrounding him, feeling a sense of calm easing the racing thoughts in his head.
Tristan stood before the door and reached up on his toes to grab hold of the heavy doorknocker. He slammed it down three times, then stood back, waiting.
Waiting. No one answered.
He slammed the doorknocker again. This time he heard movement inside, or rather, felt there was movement inside. The door opened.
Legolas stood staring down at the boy with a confused look.
"You said I could visit you anytime. This is anytime."
* * *
Legolas built a fire in the library, and invited Tristan to sit in his favorite red, soft leather couch near the hearth to warm himself.
"So tell me," Legolas began, "what prompts this visit? And is it sanctioned by your mother?"
Tristan shrugged, his typical response. Legolas stood with his back to the roaring fire, his visage taking on the flames' golden glow. Tristan sat back, frightened, but only for a moment.
"How do you do that?" Tristan asked.
"Do what?"
"Glow."
"It is part of what I am."
"What are you?"
"First things first, Tristan. You did not come here without reason. And I will not accept another shrug for an answer."
Tristan nearly shrugged but caught himself.
"You're like my father, but you're not."
"Can you elucidate?"
"Why do you use such big words?"
"I'm sorry," Legolas said. "To elucidate means –"
"I know what it means, it means to spell it out, explain."
"I underestimate you. Forgive me. Please, continue."
Tristan took a moment to collect his young thoughts, and looked Legolas in the eyes.
"He looks like you. The same ears. The same funny way of talking."
"So, you believe your father and I are of the same...heritage."
"I don't know. I've only seen him a couple of times when I was a little kid. Mom never let me talk to him. Which is good, because I don't really want to. He's mean. He hits my mom."
"Is that why you're here? Did your father hurt your mother tonight?"
Tristan saw the look of concern upon Legolas' face, and wondered for a moment if he should be telling his family business to a man nearly a stranger.
Legolas recognized the boy's troubled look, and knelt down to reassure him.
"Tristan, please know that whatever you tell me I will hold in the strictest confidence. It stays within these walls, and I will not dare speak of it without your permission."
"Promise?" Tristan asked for further reassurance.
"Promise. Tell me this. Your father, does he hit you as well?"
"No. But mom's afraid he'll take me from her."
"She loves you very much."
"I know that."
"Why do you come to me with this?"
"I don't know. I just needed somebody to talk to."
"Then I am honored that you chose me. However, I think it would be wise to consult the local authorities on this matter."
"The police?" Tristan asked then sneered. "They won't do anything."
"Perhaps you should reconsider," said Legolas, "rather than wait for something worse to happen. Tell me, what is your father's name?"
"It's a funny name. Valgur. I don't know his last name. Mom said he didn't really have one."
"No, he wouldn't."
Legolas turned away so the boy would not see the subtle change of expression on his face.
* * *
Legolas stared at the sleeping Tristan, who was sprawled out on the large leather couch, his face on the thick yet supple armrest. Gentle snores issued from his partially opened mouth. His body rose and fell with rhythmic breathing. Legolas reached down and removed the boy's hat, marveling at the idea and sight of this half-elfling in his presence, then covered him with a soft woolen blanket the color of damp moss.
He noticed his hands were shaking. It was but a slight tremor, unnoticeable to the human eye but quite disturbing to an Elf. The news that Valgur lived had driven Legolas to the point of distraction. His anger for the dark-haired Elf ran deep, not only because of what Valgur had wrought against Legolas, but against so many innocents, and against his closest friend. More than a few Elves had danced dangerously upon the line between good and evil. Indeed, some had fallen victim to the beguiling nature of evil. Many, fueled by greed and influenced by Men, sought power and thus turned and fed on death and destruction. Those Elves were forever banished from the Realm, or executed, or denied a place with their kind in the Grey Havens.
No Elf, in Legolas' memory, had a heart as sinister and unrepentant as Valgur's. Were it not for Valgur, Legolas would be living life transformed among the Elves, and not hiding among the race of modern man.
He stood before the fireplace and tried to trace his memories back to Valgur, to his betrayal, to his banishment, to the last battle between them. As the memories began to unfold, there came a trilling sound, irritating and insistent, breaking his dark reverie. Legolas looked around the room confused by the interruption. What was causing this? Then he realized what he heard was simply Tristan's cell phone.
Legolas picked up Tristan's discarded jacket from the floor and checked the pockets. His hands found something made of cool metal and plastic. He pulled the ringing phone from the pocket and looked it over, trying to figure out how to work this particular model.
"Hello?" Legolas spoke softly, hoping not to wake Tristan. The phone continued to trill. He held the phone up, shook it, and then flipped it over. "Hello?" he tried again. It continued to make that irritating noise. He shook it again, and the phone flipped open. The trilling ceased. He heard a voice issue from it. A familiar voice. He held the phone to his ear.
"Tristan are you there?" came the voice from inside the phone. "Say something. Tristan, where are you?"
"Hello," said Legolas.
"Who is this?" Her voice was no longer agitated but frightened. "Where's my son?"
"He is here. He's fine. Quite fine."
"Who IS THIS?"
"Miss Huffington?"
"Mr. Greenleaf! Oh, my gosh...is he there? He shouldn't have bothered you. I'm so sorry."
"Apology accepted, thought it is unnecessary."
"I can be there in fifteen minutes to pick him up."
"Nonsense. He's quite comfortable and sleeping soundly. Whatever agitation drove him from home seems now to have run its course. Why not let him remain and take him home tomorrow."
"I don't want to cause any trouble."
"It's no trouble at all."
"Did he...talk to you about what was bothering him?"
He heard the embarrassment in her voice, the fear, but knew not what he could do to reassure her. He hated lying, but knew that full disclosure at this time may not be prudent. He wanted the boy to know that he would under all circumstances keep his word. Tristan's fears and concerns must remain in confidence.
"Actually, he said very little."
There, not too great a lie. Though in his heart he knew that the size of the lie did not make it any less a lie. But he could not bring himself to betray Tristan. Perhaps Miss Huffington would fully disclose all that had transpired with a little prompting.
"Perhaps you could...elucidate."
"We had a fight," she said. "He can be very stubborn."
"A trait inherited from his father, perhaps?"
Silence. Like the forest before a storm, before the winds would come and turn the leaves backwards to warn of the approaching squall.
"Are you sure it's all right for Tristan to be there? I can come get him..."
"He is perfectly safe with me," Legolas assured her. "We'll both see you in the morning. You are coming to work, aren't you?"
"Yes," she said quickly. "I owe you a great debt, Mr. Greenleaf."
"We shall talk more tomorrow."
He did not mean to make is sound so much like a threat. He heard the line disengage, and Legolas closed the cell phone and placed it on the floor near the couch where Tristan slept.
He moved near the fire and stood, determined that he would stay here the entire night, standing watch over Tristan. And whether Tristan would desire it or not, he now had a protector and benefactor in Legolas. For if indeed the child was the product of Valgur's seed, Legolas was sure the boy was in some danger. Legolas also knew that he would soon face Valgur in battle once again. Perhaps, this time, it would be the last.
* * *
It was shortly after midnight, and Valgur was bored. He loved walking the streets at night. He loved the silence. He loved the fear he could instill, when he'd pick someone to follow. Particularly a female. The females of this species were so easily terrified. It no longer offered a challenge, but it did bring him some dark amusement.
The woman he picked tonight was not on foot, but sitting doubled parked in a car that Valgur deeply coveted. A black Mustang convertible. Amazing sounding engine, like a spider queen prior to mating. Or killing. Such power, insufficiently used by the pretty young female that sat behind the wheel talking animatedly on her cell phone. Valgur watched her from just across the street, biding his time, planning his move.
While he waited, he considered his visit to his lovely ex-wife, Charlita. He was sorry when the divorce papers were given him to sign by his court- appointed attorney, while he was serving his first year behind bars. Not sorry that Charlita wished to divorce him, but that she had grown wise to his manipulations, immune to his lies, and weary of his mistreatment. Now he'd have to find a new female. They were so easy, these women. Lavish them with attention, promise them love, threaten them with mystery and the unknown, and they were his to bend or break at will. Play the suffering, misunderstood, loveless soul, and they would leap to be the one to end the suffering, and provide the love and understanding, even if they must sell their own souls to do it. Valgur loved modern human women. So lost and jaded by their independence that they barely recognized when they had been enslaved.
Better than human females when it came to manipulation, thought Valgur, were aged human males. The older and more physically incapacitated, the better. Anytime he found someone in need, there was room for great and skillful manipulation. Play upon the loneliness, the need for others to care for their needs, and Valgur had only to wait until their passing to take without fit or fight whatever he wished. There was sometimes the messy detail of family, who can be quite greedy when it came to an estate, but often these old men had no one, or no one interested enough to give of themselves or their time. So upon their "sad and untimely" demise, Valgur would be there to take what money or possessions he could before the legal authorities would step in and claim whatever was left for the survivors or the state. And he was often instrumental in helping the old men get to their next life, or whatever they believed in. A pillow over the face, and accidental over- or under dose of prescribed medication, or an accidental fall down a wide and winding staircase. So many ways to get what one needs. He wondered what this Mr. Greenleaf would be like, and what method would be most efficient in hurrying him to his afterlife. Charlita did not seem to have much to say about him (and he was inclined to believe her). She said that Greenleaf's fortune seemed to lie inexplicably in old books and papers. He would ask her to steal for him a sample of his so-called fortune so that he could determine its worth and potential wealth. Perhaps it would fetch him a little "getting around" money until he could find the next unwitting benefactor. Right now, his attention was drawn back to the young woman eagerly leaping out of her Mustang.
She was proving to be most cooperative. She headed to the brightly lit ATM to make a late night withdrawal. Valgur loved ATMs. Quite an amazing invention, he believed. That one could simply pass a thin plastic card into the mechanism, punch in a few numbers on a key pad, and be given great amounts of cash for such simple effort both amazed and amused him. Having no card of his own, he often liberated cards from such unsuspecting individuals as the driver of the Mustang convertible. He simply appeared, seemingly out of nowhere – surprise being the key advantage – and then took from them what they had just taken themselves. But not tonight. Valgur like everything he saw. Not just the car, or the cash. The woman was equally worth having. Young, pale, pretty despite her thinness and round ears. Long legs, barely covered in a tiny skirt. Preoccupied by her own beauty and easily distracted by the simplest things. Valgur decided tonight he would have it all.
"Hello," he said, as she was about to climb back into her car. "Could you help me please? I seem to have run out of gas."
"That is so tired and overused," she said, eyes rolling up to the night sky.
"You don't believe me?" he asked, the hurt showing on his face, which had an immediate affect on the young woman's expression.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"Perhaps a lift to my car, or better yet, to a nearby hotel. I'm new in town."
"Where are you from?"
"Far, far away."
She like this. She smiled.
"I like your accent. Are you English?"
"Not exactly. I like your accent too."
Her smile widened.
He took the next shot. "And you have a beautiful smile. Angelic in nature. I know I will be in safe hands."
"Yeah, this place can be dangerous if you don't know your way around. What's your name?"
"Valgur. And yours?"
"Marisol."
"How elegant, how beautiful. An ancient name."
"Really? Does it mean anything?"
"I'm afraid the translation to your tongue would not do it justice. However, your smile does."
She giggled. She was almost there.
Valgur wrapped his long strong arms around himself and faked a shiver.
"Are you cold?" she asked, taking the cue.
"A little. I've been walking for hours now, trying to find someone kind enough to help a stranger in a strange land."
"Good luck," she said.
"Yes. Although I have to admit I understand their hesitation. This world can be a very violent and ugly one at times. So unlike...."
"Unlike what?"
"Where I come from. A land of great peace and uncommon beauty. Ancient, magnificent. Forgive me, I've grown very nostalgic since my arrival, and I have no friends here. I'm quite alone."
"No friends? That sucks."
"Yes," he said mournfully, letting his blue/black eyes drift as if caught in memory, while his blue/black hair floated in the evening breeze, giving only a hint of his exotic elvish ears.
Marisol could not stop looking at him.
Closer, he thought. Almost there.
"It was lovely speaking with you, Marisol. I shall remember your kindness forever."
Valgur turned and began to walk away.
"Wait!" Marisol called out, watching him leave. She got behind the wheel, gunned the engine and drove up to Valgur.
"I can give you a ride."
"It isn't necessary," Valgur said, tempering his tone, drawing the pity from her heart like poison from a wound. "I can walk. But I do deeply appreciate the offer."
"No, get in. Nobody should be alone out here at night. Please."
Ensnared.
Valgur smiled. He knew that was his greatest weapon in the disarming of a woman's common sense. And her heart. He climbed in, throwing his hair back, freely letting his pointed ears show.
"The women of your time are so giving."
"What do you mean, of my time?"
"Did I say time? I meant, of your country."
"Right," Marisol said. She saw him shiver again.
"I'll put the top up and turn on the heat."
"I'd like that," Valgur said. He let his body go limp, as if he was about to pass out, letting the full weight of his body lean against hers for just a second. He knew he was overdoing it, but he loved this game far too much to stop now.
"Hey! You okay?"
"Yes, forgive me. It's the first time I've sat down in hours. I'm quite weary. And I have eaten since...I believe I've lost track."
"You're going to make yourself sick."
"Then I am lucky to have found an angel of mercy to take care of me, if only for an hour."
"Sit back, we'll get you something to eat. Do you have any money?"
"A little. All I have is yours."
"Foreign guys are so sweet."
"Any kindness I have to offer," Valgur said, reaching out to touch her hand with his long tapered fingers, "is merely a reflection of you."
She looked down as she entwined her fingers with his, and gasped. She could have sworn that his hand was glowing.
"Tell me about my name," Marisol said as she began to drive away.
End chapter 5. Hope you'll come back. Please review and respond.