Mirkwood Manor
Chapter 6
Disclaimer in Chapter 1. Hannon le, everyone, for your exceedingly kind attention. This is an AU, so it slips away from canon. Forgive the obvious oversights, additions and inconsistencies with Master Tolkien's brilliant works, but I'm just writing for the pure enjoyment it of it all. Hope you find some enjoyment in it too! And now: On with the show!
* * *
"Legolas...can you hear me, mellon nin?"
He could hear, yes, but could not at the moment speak, so severe was his agony. He felt hands hurriedly tending his injuries, pulling away his clothing, applying pressure to gushing wounds. The smell of simmering herbs and spilled blood let him know that he was in a house of healing. But these healers were not Elves, for they spoke in the harsh language of Men.
"Aragorn," he managed through clenched teeth, and nearly cried out as someone pulled a deeply embedded arrowhead from his left thigh. He opened his eyes and saw the blurry rush of the healers fighting to staunch the bleeding. He began to tremble as all warmth left his body in a sudden rush.
Strong hands took hold of his left hand and held fast.
Legolas coughed harshly, and blood filled his mouth and spilled down his chin.
Tears fell from Aragorn's eyes.
"Whatever grace I have, whatever strength I have, let it pass to thee..."
"I do not fear death," Legolas whispered, his voice trembling.
"I know, mellon nin. But it is my prayer that you do not die, and that you do not miss the final ship to the undying lands. Live for this, if not for me."
"I cannot leave...not when your life... your kingdom... hang in the balance."
"It is the concern of Men, Legolas. It need not be your concern."
Legolas paused to take offense at this, but then cried out, the offense all but forgotten. His body seized in a fit of agony when cleansing herbs where placed upon his severest wound. Aragorn cringed – he'd never heard his friend scream in such a manner before. He held Legolas' trembling shoulders down, and gave the healers a warning look. They obediently continued their work with a more careful touch.
"I am your friend," Legolas panted, "and... your servant. My life is...yours."
"Then do as I command you. Live. You will be on your feet in short order, and I will see you to Rivendell, even if I must carry you there myself."
"Nay. My place is at your side. Let the argument end here, and let the last ship sale on, for only death will release me from my oath to serve you."
* * *
"Awake and arise."
Tristan stirred and wiped his eyes with his fists.
"Hi," he said groggily.
"Good morning."
"Is my mom here?"
"Not yet, but she will be arriving soon."
"What time is it?" Tristan asked, stiffly pulling himself into a sitting position.
"One quarter after the hour of five."
"Why'd you wake me up so early?"
"It is my ritual to stroll the gardens at first light. Would you join me?"
Tristan pulled himself from the couch and stretched.
"Where's my hat?" he asked, touching his ears, feeling exposed and insecure.
"You need not hide who you are with me," Legolas said, pulling his hair back and proudly revealing his own ears. "Be proud of who you are. Come."
* * *
They walked the gardens slowly and for what had to be close to an hour, in mutual, solemn silence. They watched as the sun rose and settled upon them, bringing the promise of unusual but welcomed warmth to the day. When they arrived the place where Tristan first revealed his true heritage to Legolas, they sat. This would hence become their place of friendship and meeting.
Legolas noticed young Tristan shudder.
"Fear not," Legolas said.
"I'm not afraid."
"Good. I know you have many questions, about me, about yourself. Perhaps about your father. I wish to answer as much as I can in the time we have left."
"Does that mean I can't come back?"
"Of course not," Legolas said, touching the boy's shoulder with a reassuring hand.
"Baren bar lin."
"What?"
"That means my home is your home. You may visit as often as you wish, and whatever we cannot finish today, we shall finish another day. You have my word."
Comfort came quickly to Tristan, who merely stared at Legolas at first, then smile.
"First question?" asked Legolas.
"Can you do that glow thing again?"
"I can. And so can you, though you are probably not yet aware of it."
Legolas allowed his true nature to shine. Tristan smiled.
"That is so cool."
It was Legolas' turn to smile now.
"Next question?"
"Is your name really Mr. Greenleaf?"
"It is merely a loose translation of my true name."
"Which is?"
"Legolas."
"Legolas," he said, then repeated it, letting the foreign sound of it roll around until he became used to it.
"Legolas...I like it. So...what are you? And am I like you?"
"We are part of a ancient race of being known as Elf."
"Elf? Like, elf? Nuh-uhn! Elves are little guys with green shorts and funny voices, like in children's books! You don't look like that. And I don't either!"
"Nor did any Elf I ever met. Children's literature has done much to malign and degrade the image of the Elf, to my sincere irritation. Reduced us to harmless, ignoble caricatures. But the Elves of my time, whose blood you share, were mighty warriors, noble kings, artisans and philosophers. They were beautiful creatures, lithe and elegant, strong and brave, with a profound love for nature and all its glory that ran deep in our souls. Our very strength came from nature - the trees, the grass, the soil, the water and the rock, from the air and the elements. It would be arrogant to say that we were among the most beautiful in all creation, yet, it would not be far from true. For thousands and thousands of years, we lived, fought, hunted, and some even died, in a world that no longer exists."
"What do you mean, some died? Everybody dies."
"And many did. On the field of battle. Or worse, fell victim to a broken heart. All others now reside in a place that is unattainable, called the Grey Havens, or the Undying Lands. You see, the Elf is immortal."
"You don't die?"
"Not as humans do, from illness, or age. We can die, as I said, from a wound, or a wounded heart. But otherwise, yes, we live for a very, very long time."
"How old are you?"
"It's difficult to calculate by your standards of measuring time, but if I were to estimate, I would say...nine thousand, one hundred and four years. Thereabout."
Tristan's mouth fell open. As before, Legolas prompted him to close it with a finger to his chin. Only this time, his mouth fell open again.
Legolas laughed.
"So, you'll never die?"
"I may. I may not. I will not know until the moment arrives."
"And what about me?" Tristan asked, a little afraid to hear the answer. "Will I live as long as you?"
"You may. Your human half makes you vulnerable to all the maladies that befall humans. Your Elf half, however, could provide you with unusual strength and longevity. You have yet to be tested. Come," Legolas prompted Tristan as he stood, "no more questions."
"Why?"
"Let your senses tell you."
Tristan looked confused at first, but then stood and closed his eyes, his face showing his hard concentration. Suddenly his eyes opened wide and he smiled.
"My mom's here!"
Tristan took off in a shot ahead of Legolas, racing back into the halls of Mirkwood Manor.
"Na-den pedim ad, Tristan," Legolas whispered. "Until we speak again."
* * *
Tristan opened the heavy main door for his mother and leaped into her arms. Charlita was so grateful she did not wish to let him go. Eventually she did, and gave her son a good long look.
"Are you okay?"
He nodded enthusiastically.
"Do you have any idea how angry you made me? Or how frightened I was? Don't you ever do that to me again! Go running off, no phone call, no nothing. Do you understand me, Tristan?"
"Yes, he said, sheepishly.
"And bothering Mr. Greenleaf...you know, he could fire me for this."
"He won't. He told me baren bar lin!"
"What does that mean?"
"It means it's okay."
"It's not okay as far as I'm concerned. Understand?"
Tristan nodded, wanting to move on from the subject.
"You still mad at me?" Charlita asked, this being her turn to ask sheepishly.
"Not anymore. You mad at me?"
"No," she said, "not anymore." She gave him another hug.
Tristan touched her mother's still swollen lip with the tip of his finger.
"Does that hurt?"
"Not much. Where's Mr. Greenleaf?"
"In the garden."
"Good," she said, looking around, not wishing to be seen by him.
"And where's your hat?"
Automatically the boy's hands shot up to cover his ears. And then he thought better of it, and dropped his hands, proudly letting his ears show.
"I don't need it here."
"So, Mr. Greenleaf knows?"
"Yes. He said I should be proud of who I am."
"Haven't I always told you that myself?"
"Yeah, he but says it cooler."
"Right," she said, shaking her head. She handed him one of two duffle bags she had brought with her.
"There's fresh clothing, your toothbrush, and your school books. I want you to go get cleaned up. I'll put you in a cab to school."
"Cool!"
"You're not the one paying for it. Now get going."
Tristan took hold of the bag and ran up the wide steps, taking two at a time. Charlita smiled at how agile and swift her son was. She had always marveled at how he was never as clumsy as other boys his age. It went beyond athletic. It was more like physically elegant. Not exactly words one should generally use to describe one's son, but nothing else seemed to fit the bill.
Once he had disappeared, Charlita took stock of her surroundings, looking carefully around the foyer, listening for signs of her employer. Remembering his stealth, she knew it would do her little good as he could appear seemingly out of nowhere.
She moved as quietly as she could down the hall to the archive room. The door was closed – good! He would not be inside. She entered, turned on the light, and closed the door softly behind her. She would have to move quickly, not because time was of the essence, but because if she did not act now, in the moment, she knew she would soon lose all nerve.
Valgur had demanded that she bring him some sample of her employer's collection – something he could use to determine its value. It took all that she could muster to simply choose a piece – an intricately detailed map with dried brown edges – and gingerly roll it up and slip it into her bag. She knew it would be a mistake to put Valgur off. Better to show him and hope he would find no value in it, and pray he leave her alone due to lack of interest. But she hated betraying her employer this way. She recalled, when first they met, the way he implied how precious his collection was to him. Were he to find out she was stealing from him, even if it was to protect him, and to save herself and her son from Valgur's wrath, she was certain that she would be summarily dismissed and her reputation despoiled. Yet to deny Valgur was to invite great pain. This was a lesson she had no intention of learning once again.
* * *
"Wakey wakey..."
Marisol prodded Valgur with a finger. She didn't really want him to wake up. She enjoyed lying there and watching him.
Where had he come from, this oddly beautiful creature, this otherworldly man whose charm was enticing and yet also a bit creepy? Marisol had always been attracted bad boys - destructive, incorrigible, unrepentantly selfish men whose objective was only to satisfy the craving of the immediate, the now. It suited her tastes because that too was her only objective. In truth, the worse they were, the harder she fell for them. But more times that not, she found herself left behind, abandoned, forgotten. She made no excuses, nor did she harbor some deep desire to change one day. She was perfectly happy to continue as she always had, haphazardly escaping ruin and death for the thrill and mystery bad boys offered.
She was chilled by his strange beauty – it both attracted and frightened her, making her stomach flutter, making her head light as heralding a fainting spell. His skin was so pale that it almost seemed to glow. His eyes – what color were they? – mesmerized her. Even with bed head he was beautiful – every thick, blue-black strand of hair was perfect even as it was out of place.
Valgur stirred and opened his eyes. Sleeping was not usually not so often essential, not for an Elf. However Valgur had adopted many bad human habits such as drinking in excess and other acts of debauchery, often suffering their ill effects as badly as humans did. He required some downtime to recuperate and regenerate.
Valgur sat up quickly, shaking out the cobwebs in his brain and then getting immediately out of bed. He grabbed his clothes and began dressing, no thought or word of greeting to Marisol.
"I thought we could go get breakfast," Marisol said, determined to be acknowledged.
Valgur continued to dress, not even looking Marisol's way.
"Hey..."
Nothing.
She reached for one of her spike heeled shoes on the floor and threw it at Valgur. Valgur turned quickly and caught the shoe without effort. His eyes burned into hers.
Marisol cringed.
"I don't like being ignored," she said, "not after what we did last night."
"Last night," he said, buttoning his shirt, "is over. A new day has dawned. And I must now take my leave."
"Will you call me?"
Valgur didn't answer.
Marisol slid out of bed, using the sheet to cover herself.
"Look, last night you were all, 'please help me, I'm a poor lost lamb' and this morning you're all acting like a...like a jerk! And all that stuff you said, about being from an ancient race, about being a warrior and all that crap, you almost had me believing you."
"Actually it was all true. I used it to get you into bed. In retrospect, however, I should have simply settled for taking your money."
Marisol picked up her other shoe and moved to throw it.
"Do that, and you shall regret it."
She believed him, and let the shoe fall from her hand.
"I need a one last favor," Valgur said.
"Die."
"Not anytime soon, love. I need your car keys."
"Kiss my - "
Valgur was across the room and had the woman's head in a vice grip before she could say another word. She squirmed, tried to scream, but could not.
"Perhaps you did not hear me. I NEED YOUR CAR KEYS. Now please, tell me where they are."
Marisol pointed a shaky hand to the dresser by the door.
"Lovely," Valgur said.
He pulled her close, his smooth cheek brushing against hers.
"I wish I could say I had a good time, but among my many faults, flaws and bad habits, lying to a woman is not one of them. You're a spoilt, self- centered, arrogant little pig of a girl, good for one toss and not a particularly good one. The women of your time are so unschooled in the ways of love. So selfish, so awkward, and not to mention boorishly loud. As I will never have back the time I wasted with you, I demand payment in the form of your little black automobile. Fair enough?"
He forced her head up and down in a farcical agreement.
"Good! Now the time has come to say goodbye."
Despite the pressure of Valgur squeezing her face, she uttered a common and descriptive curse. The expletive made him smile.
And then he twisted her head quickly until he heard her neck snap, and felt the full weight of her body go limp.
Valgur let her body drop to the floor, then headed for the door, grabbing the keys from the dresser.
He blew Marisol's dead body a kiss, smiled, and left.
* * *
"Miss Huffington?"
She jumped and barely suppressed a shout at the sound of her name, at the sound of his voice. All day she had managed to avoid contact with her employer. And now, just as she was about to leave, she had hesitated, pulling from her bag the map she had determined she would sneak out of the manor. Wondering if she should return it to its place, and risk Valgur's volatile temper, or keep it and leave, hoping her employer would not be the wiser. If only she had not hesitated, felt the weight of guilt for what she was about to do, she would have been long gone by the time Mr. Greenleaf had appeared. She looked down at her hands. The edges of the old map had practically turned to dust, coating her fingers. She quickly blew the residue away.
"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come in."
She did not turn around to face him, but slipped the map back into her bag and pretended to keep busy about her work, hoping to discourage a conversation.
"I meant not to startle you," Legolas spoke as he continued into the room. "My apology. I've come to look in on your progress. How goes the work?"
"It goes well," she said, keeping her back to him, not wanting him to see her face. The bruising had darkened as the day grew older, as it usually did before eventually improving and fading.
"Perhaps you will show me?"
"I was just about to leave," she said, praying he would not keep her. "Perhaps tomorrow, or better, next week, when the system is online and ..."
"Turn around."
She froze where she stood.
"What?"
"Turn around. Please."
"Why?"
"Because, it is difficult to carry on a conversation with your back."
There was not much she could do but follow his wishes. She had an excuse in place – plausible denial – but knew deep down that he would not easily accept it or agree to be fooled. She swallowed loudly, then turned slowly, eyes on the floor. When she faced him, her eyes rolled up to meet his.
She heard his breath catch in his throat, saw how his lips parted and eyes widened in deep distress as concern dawned on his face.
"I know it looks terrible," she said, forcing a smile, "but it looks worse than it actually is, I assure you."
"Then you will not mind sharing with me how your injuries came to be."
"It's very silly, and very embarrassing. I feel stupid telling you, really," she said. "But I opened the door...the door to my apartment...my front door...last night. And I forgot to close it. So I turned, and ran into it. Right into the door. So stupid. Busted my lip good. And the side of my face. Tiniest cut. Nothing really."
Just as she thought, he would not easily buy into her lie. Not that she was particularly convincing. Be she would hold fast to her story, and not let him sway her toward a confession.
"Indeed? Hm. You have a very dangerous door," he said.
She nodded, awkwardly avoiding his intense gaze.
"And how did your door managed to bruise your neck?"
Her heart leaped with fear of discovery. A hand shot to her throat to hide the obvious bruises, a necklace of red and purplish finger marks. She had been so careful to wear a scarf on the way in to work to hide the injury, but had taken it off a few hours earlier as the warmth of the day crept into the archive. She had meant to put it on again, but had forgotten.
"I will ask you only once what has happened," he said, "and I will not coerce an answer from you. If you say I should mind my own business, I shall. But if you choose to answer, I demand the truth."
"I've told you the truth."
"Who did this to you?" he insisted.
"You said you would not coerce me."
"Charlita," he said, using her given name for the very first time since their introduction, "do not let stubborn pride be your undoing."
Charlita turned away, covering her face with her hands. She fought not to cry, not to let her emotions get the best of her. But she failed.
"I could tell you," she whispered, "but what would be the point? This is the consequence for a mistake made long ago. And there is little you or anyone else can do about it."
Legolas took a step closer.
"Sometime, help is available in the least likeliest of places."
She thought about it – how easy it would have been to blurt out everything she had been carrying for so long, purge her system of the evil infection that was Valgur. But knowing his capabilities when it came to violence, she feared for the safety of the man that stood before her.
"Miss Huffington," Legolas said, returning to a more formal tone, "if you fear for my safety, I can assure you, your fear is unfounded. Your tormentor poses little threat to me."
"How do you do that? Read my mind like that?"
"It is your face I read, a face which reveals the very core of your heart. For good or ill, you can hide little from anyone. Not even what lies hidden in your bag."
"What?"
Legolas held out his hand for the bag she clutched. She opened it, and removed the stolen map.
"I'm so sorry," she said in a whisper, "truly sorry."
She placed the map in his hands. Tears spilled down her cheek.
He stared at it, not quite sure how to proceed, or what was appropriate to say. Anger began to burn within him, but the need to understand her motives outweighed the need to seek retribution.
Charlita took a deep breath, and raced for the door.
"Where are going?"
"Home," she said. "I assume I am fired."
More of a statement than a question.
"You assume too much. I insist you remain at least until you have adequately explain yourself."
She stopped short of reaching for the door then turned back to Mr. Greenleaf.
"I can't. You won't understand. I can't explain further. Do not ask me. It's all so complicated, so out of control, that ..."
Charlita nearly choked, indeed, nearly fainted, as Legolas pulled back his thick platinum hair, revealing his perfect, pointed ears. He glowed, ever so slightly, making Charlita gasp. She fell back against the door, her legs gone weak, threatening to give out from under her.
"Stay," he implored, "for it appears we both have much explaining to do."
* * *
End Chapter 6
Thank you for your kind attention. Please come back and read chapter 7 when it's up. And please, by all means, review. Your comments are deeply appreciated and make me a better writer. Not to mention a happier one.
Disclaimer in Chapter 1. Hannon le, everyone, for your exceedingly kind attention. This is an AU, so it slips away from canon. Forgive the obvious oversights, additions and inconsistencies with Master Tolkien's brilliant works, but I'm just writing for the pure enjoyment it of it all. Hope you find some enjoyment in it too! And now: On with the show!
* * *
"Legolas...can you hear me, mellon nin?"
He could hear, yes, but could not at the moment speak, so severe was his agony. He felt hands hurriedly tending his injuries, pulling away his clothing, applying pressure to gushing wounds. The smell of simmering herbs and spilled blood let him know that he was in a house of healing. But these healers were not Elves, for they spoke in the harsh language of Men.
"Aragorn," he managed through clenched teeth, and nearly cried out as someone pulled a deeply embedded arrowhead from his left thigh. He opened his eyes and saw the blurry rush of the healers fighting to staunch the bleeding. He began to tremble as all warmth left his body in a sudden rush.
Strong hands took hold of his left hand and held fast.
Legolas coughed harshly, and blood filled his mouth and spilled down his chin.
Tears fell from Aragorn's eyes.
"Whatever grace I have, whatever strength I have, let it pass to thee..."
"I do not fear death," Legolas whispered, his voice trembling.
"I know, mellon nin. But it is my prayer that you do not die, and that you do not miss the final ship to the undying lands. Live for this, if not for me."
"I cannot leave...not when your life... your kingdom... hang in the balance."
"It is the concern of Men, Legolas. It need not be your concern."
Legolas paused to take offense at this, but then cried out, the offense all but forgotten. His body seized in a fit of agony when cleansing herbs where placed upon his severest wound. Aragorn cringed – he'd never heard his friend scream in such a manner before. He held Legolas' trembling shoulders down, and gave the healers a warning look. They obediently continued their work with a more careful touch.
"I am your friend," Legolas panted, "and... your servant. My life is...yours."
"Then do as I command you. Live. You will be on your feet in short order, and I will see you to Rivendell, even if I must carry you there myself."
"Nay. My place is at your side. Let the argument end here, and let the last ship sale on, for only death will release me from my oath to serve you."
* * *
"Awake and arise."
Tristan stirred and wiped his eyes with his fists.
"Hi," he said groggily.
"Good morning."
"Is my mom here?"
"Not yet, but she will be arriving soon."
"What time is it?" Tristan asked, stiffly pulling himself into a sitting position.
"One quarter after the hour of five."
"Why'd you wake me up so early?"
"It is my ritual to stroll the gardens at first light. Would you join me?"
Tristan pulled himself from the couch and stretched.
"Where's my hat?" he asked, touching his ears, feeling exposed and insecure.
"You need not hide who you are with me," Legolas said, pulling his hair back and proudly revealing his own ears. "Be proud of who you are. Come."
* * *
They walked the gardens slowly and for what had to be close to an hour, in mutual, solemn silence. They watched as the sun rose and settled upon them, bringing the promise of unusual but welcomed warmth to the day. When they arrived the place where Tristan first revealed his true heritage to Legolas, they sat. This would hence become their place of friendship and meeting.
Legolas noticed young Tristan shudder.
"Fear not," Legolas said.
"I'm not afraid."
"Good. I know you have many questions, about me, about yourself. Perhaps about your father. I wish to answer as much as I can in the time we have left."
"Does that mean I can't come back?"
"Of course not," Legolas said, touching the boy's shoulder with a reassuring hand.
"Baren bar lin."
"What?"
"That means my home is your home. You may visit as often as you wish, and whatever we cannot finish today, we shall finish another day. You have my word."
Comfort came quickly to Tristan, who merely stared at Legolas at first, then smile.
"First question?" asked Legolas.
"Can you do that glow thing again?"
"I can. And so can you, though you are probably not yet aware of it."
Legolas allowed his true nature to shine. Tristan smiled.
"That is so cool."
It was Legolas' turn to smile now.
"Next question?"
"Is your name really Mr. Greenleaf?"
"It is merely a loose translation of my true name."
"Which is?"
"Legolas."
"Legolas," he said, then repeated it, letting the foreign sound of it roll around until he became used to it.
"Legolas...I like it. So...what are you? And am I like you?"
"We are part of a ancient race of being known as Elf."
"Elf? Like, elf? Nuh-uhn! Elves are little guys with green shorts and funny voices, like in children's books! You don't look like that. And I don't either!"
"Nor did any Elf I ever met. Children's literature has done much to malign and degrade the image of the Elf, to my sincere irritation. Reduced us to harmless, ignoble caricatures. But the Elves of my time, whose blood you share, were mighty warriors, noble kings, artisans and philosophers. They were beautiful creatures, lithe and elegant, strong and brave, with a profound love for nature and all its glory that ran deep in our souls. Our very strength came from nature - the trees, the grass, the soil, the water and the rock, from the air and the elements. It would be arrogant to say that we were among the most beautiful in all creation, yet, it would not be far from true. For thousands and thousands of years, we lived, fought, hunted, and some even died, in a world that no longer exists."
"What do you mean, some died? Everybody dies."
"And many did. On the field of battle. Or worse, fell victim to a broken heart. All others now reside in a place that is unattainable, called the Grey Havens, or the Undying Lands. You see, the Elf is immortal."
"You don't die?"
"Not as humans do, from illness, or age. We can die, as I said, from a wound, or a wounded heart. But otherwise, yes, we live for a very, very long time."
"How old are you?"
"It's difficult to calculate by your standards of measuring time, but if I were to estimate, I would say...nine thousand, one hundred and four years. Thereabout."
Tristan's mouth fell open. As before, Legolas prompted him to close it with a finger to his chin. Only this time, his mouth fell open again.
Legolas laughed.
"So, you'll never die?"
"I may. I may not. I will not know until the moment arrives."
"And what about me?" Tristan asked, a little afraid to hear the answer. "Will I live as long as you?"
"You may. Your human half makes you vulnerable to all the maladies that befall humans. Your Elf half, however, could provide you with unusual strength and longevity. You have yet to be tested. Come," Legolas prompted Tristan as he stood, "no more questions."
"Why?"
"Let your senses tell you."
Tristan looked confused at first, but then stood and closed his eyes, his face showing his hard concentration. Suddenly his eyes opened wide and he smiled.
"My mom's here!"
Tristan took off in a shot ahead of Legolas, racing back into the halls of Mirkwood Manor.
"Na-den pedim ad, Tristan," Legolas whispered. "Until we speak again."
* * *
Tristan opened the heavy main door for his mother and leaped into her arms. Charlita was so grateful she did not wish to let him go. Eventually she did, and gave her son a good long look.
"Are you okay?"
He nodded enthusiastically.
"Do you have any idea how angry you made me? Or how frightened I was? Don't you ever do that to me again! Go running off, no phone call, no nothing. Do you understand me, Tristan?"
"Yes, he said, sheepishly.
"And bothering Mr. Greenleaf...you know, he could fire me for this."
"He won't. He told me baren bar lin!"
"What does that mean?"
"It means it's okay."
"It's not okay as far as I'm concerned. Understand?"
Tristan nodded, wanting to move on from the subject.
"You still mad at me?" Charlita asked, this being her turn to ask sheepishly.
"Not anymore. You mad at me?"
"No," she said, "not anymore." She gave him another hug.
Tristan touched her mother's still swollen lip with the tip of his finger.
"Does that hurt?"
"Not much. Where's Mr. Greenleaf?"
"In the garden."
"Good," she said, looking around, not wishing to be seen by him.
"And where's your hat?"
Automatically the boy's hands shot up to cover his ears. And then he thought better of it, and dropped his hands, proudly letting his ears show.
"I don't need it here."
"So, Mr. Greenleaf knows?"
"Yes. He said I should be proud of who I am."
"Haven't I always told you that myself?"
"Yeah, he but says it cooler."
"Right," she said, shaking her head. She handed him one of two duffle bags she had brought with her.
"There's fresh clothing, your toothbrush, and your school books. I want you to go get cleaned up. I'll put you in a cab to school."
"Cool!"
"You're not the one paying for it. Now get going."
Tristan took hold of the bag and ran up the wide steps, taking two at a time. Charlita smiled at how agile and swift her son was. She had always marveled at how he was never as clumsy as other boys his age. It went beyond athletic. It was more like physically elegant. Not exactly words one should generally use to describe one's son, but nothing else seemed to fit the bill.
Once he had disappeared, Charlita took stock of her surroundings, looking carefully around the foyer, listening for signs of her employer. Remembering his stealth, she knew it would do her little good as he could appear seemingly out of nowhere.
She moved as quietly as she could down the hall to the archive room. The door was closed – good! He would not be inside. She entered, turned on the light, and closed the door softly behind her. She would have to move quickly, not because time was of the essence, but because if she did not act now, in the moment, she knew she would soon lose all nerve.
Valgur had demanded that she bring him some sample of her employer's collection – something he could use to determine its value. It took all that she could muster to simply choose a piece – an intricately detailed map with dried brown edges – and gingerly roll it up and slip it into her bag. She knew it would be a mistake to put Valgur off. Better to show him and hope he would find no value in it, and pray he leave her alone due to lack of interest. But she hated betraying her employer this way. She recalled, when first they met, the way he implied how precious his collection was to him. Were he to find out she was stealing from him, even if it was to protect him, and to save herself and her son from Valgur's wrath, she was certain that she would be summarily dismissed and her reputation despoiled. Yet to deny Valgur was to invite great pain. This was a lesson she had no intention of learning once again.
* * *
"Wakey wakey..."
Marisol prodded Valgur with a finger. She didn't really want him to wake up. She enjoyed lying there and watching him.
Where had he come from, this oddly beautiful creature, this otherworldly man whose charm was enticing and yet also a bit creepy? Marisol had always been attracted bad boys - destructive, incorrigible, unrepentantly selfish men whose objective was only to satisfy the craving of the immediate, the now. It suited her tastes because that too was her only objective. In truth, the worse they were, the harder she fell for them. But more times that not, she found herself left behind, abandoned, forgotten. She made no excuses, nor did she harbor some deep desire to change one day. She was perfectly happy to continue as she always had, haphazardly escaping ruin and death for the thrill and mystery bad boys offered.
She was chilled by his strange beauty – it both attracted and frightened her, making her stomach flutter, making her head light as heralding a fainting spell. His skin was so pale that it almost seemed to glow. His eyes – what color were they? – mesmerized her. Even with bed head he was beautiful – every thick, blue-black strand of hair was perfect even as it was out of place.
Valgur stirred and opened his eyes. Sleeping was not usually not so often essential, not for an Elf. However Valgur had adopted many bad human habits such as drinking in excess and other acts of debauchery, often suffering their ill effects as badly as humans did. He required some downtime to recuperate and regenerate.
Valgur sat up quickly, shaking out the cobwebs in his brain and then getting immediately out of bed. He grabbed his clothes and began dressing, no thought or word of greeting to Marisol.
"I thought we could go get breakfast," Marisol said, determined to be acknowledged.
Valgur continued to dress, not even looking Marisol's way.
"Hey..."
Nothing.
She reached for one of her spike heeled shoes on the floor and threw it at Valgur. Valgur turned quickly and caught the shoe without effort. His eyes burned into hers.
Marisol cringed.
"I don't like being ignored," she said, "not after what we did last night."
"Last night," he said, buttoning his shirt, "is over. A new day has dawned. And I must now take my leave."
"Will you call me?"
Valgur didn't answer.
Marisol slid out of bed, using the sheet to cover herself.
"Look, last night you were all, 'please help me, I'm a poor lost lamb' and this morning you're all acting like a...like a jerk! And all that stuff you said, about being from an ancient race, about being a warrior and all that crap, you almost had me believing you."
"Actually it was all true. I used it to get you into bed. In retrospect, however, I should have simply settled for taking your money."
Marisol picked up her other shoe and moved to throw it.
"Do that, and you shall regret it."
She believed him, and let the shoe fall from her hand.
"I need a one last favor," Valgur said.
"Die."
"Not anytime soon, love. I need your car keys."
"Kiss my - "
Valgur was across the room and had the woman's head in a vice grip before she could say another word. She squirmed, tried to scream, but could not.
"Perhaps you did not hear me. I NEED YOUR CAR KEYS. Now please, tell me where they are."
Marisol pointed a shaky hand to the dresser by the door.
"Lovely," Valgur said.
He pulled her close, his smooth cheek brushing against hers.
"I wish I could say I had a good time, but among my many faults, flaws and bad habits, lying to a woman is not one of them. You're a spoilt, self- centered, arrogant little pig of a girl, good for one toss and not a particularly good one. The women of your time are so unschooled in the ways of love. So selfish, so awkward, and not to mention boorishly loud. As I will never have back the time I wasted with you, I demand payment in the form of your little black automobile. Fair enough?"
He forced her head up and down in a farcical agreement.
"Good! Now the time has come to say goodbye."
Despite the pressure of Valgur squeezing her face, she uttered a common and descriptive curse. The expletive made him smile.
And then he twisted her head quickly until he heard her neck snap, and felt the full weight of her body go limp.
Valgur let her body drop to the floor, then headed for the door, grabbing the keys from the dresser.
He blew Marisol's dead body a kiss, smiled, and left.
* * *
"Miss Huffington?"
She jumped and barely suppressed a shout at the sound of her name, at the sound of his voice. All day she had managed to avoid contact with her employer. And now, just as she was about to leave, she had hesitated, pulling from her bag the map she had determined she would sneak out of the manor. Wondering if she should return it to its place, and risk Valgur's volatile temper, or keep it and leave, hoping her employer would not be the wiser. If only she had not hesitated, felt the weight of guilt for what she was about to do, she would have been long gone by the time Mr. Greenleaf had appeared. She looked down at her hands. The edges of the old map had practically turned to dust, coating her fingers. She quickly blew the residue away.
"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come in."
She did not turn around to face him, but slipped the map back into her bag and pretended to keep busy about her work, hoping to discourage a conversation.
"I meant not to startle you," Legolas spoke as he continued into the room. "My apology. I've come to look in on your progress. How goes the work?"
"It goes well," she said, keeping her back to him, not wanting him to see her face. The bruising had darkened as the day grew older, as it usually did before eventually improving and fading.
"Perhaps you will show me?"
"I was just about to leave," she said, praying he would not keep her. "Perhaps tomorrow, or better, next week, when the system is online and ..."
"Turn around."
She froze where she stood.
"What?"
"Turn around. Please."
"Why?"
"Because, it is difficult to carry on a conversation with your back."
There was not much she could do but follow his wishes. She had an excuse in place – plausible denial – but knew deep down that he would not easily accept it or agree to be fooled. She swallowed loudly, then turned slowly, eyes on the floor. When she faced him, her eyes rolled up to meet his.
She heard his breath catch in his throat, saw how his lips parted and eyes widened in deep distress as concern dawned on his face.
"I know it looks terrible," she said, forcing a smile, "but it looks worse than it actually is, I assure you."
"Then you will not mind sharing with me how your injuries came to be."
"It's very silly, and very embarrassing. I feel stupid telling you, really," she said. "But I opened the door...the door to my apartment...my front door...last night. And I forgot to close it. So I turned, and ran into it. Right into the door. So stupid. Busted my lip good. And the side of my face. Tiniest cut. Nothing really."
Just as she thought, he would not easily buy into her lie. Not that she was particularly convincing. Be she would hold fast to her story, and not let him sway her toward a confession.
"Indeed? Hm. You have a very dangerous door," he said.
She nodded, awkwardly avoiding his intense gaze.
"And how did your door managed to bruise your neck?"
Her heart leaped with fear of discovery. A hand shot to her throat to hide the obvious bruises, a necklace of red and purplish finger marks. She had been so careful to wear a scarf on the way in to work to hide the injury, but had taken it off a few hours earlier as the warmth of the day crept into the archive. She had meant to put it on again, but had forgotten.
"I will ask you only once what has happened," he said, "and I will not coerce an answer from you. If you say I should mind my own business, I shall. But if you choose to answer, I demand the truth."
"I've told you the truth."
"Who did this to you?" he insisted.
"You said you would not coerce me."
"Charlita," he said, using her given name for the very first time since their introduction, "do not let stubborn pride be your undoing."
Charlita turned away, covering her face with her hands. She fought not to cry, not to let her emotions get the best of her. But she failed.
"I could tell you," she whispered, "but what would be the point? This is the consequence for a mistake made long ago. And there is little you or anyone else can do about it."
Legolas took a step closer.
"Sometime, help is available in the least likeliest of places."
She thought about it – how easy it would have been to blurt out everything she had been carrying for so long, purge her system of the evil infection that was Valgur. But knowing his capabilities when it came to violence, she feared for the safety of the man that stood before her.
"Miss Huffington," Legolas said, returning to a more formal tone, "if you fear for my safety, I can assure you, your fear is unfounded. Your tormentor poses little threat to me."
"How do you do that? Read my mind like that?"
"It is your face I read, a face which reveals the very core of your heart. For good or ill, you can hide little from anyone. Not even what lies hidden in your bag."
"What?"
Legolas held out his hand for the bag she clutched. She opened it, and removed the stolen map.
"I'm so sorry," she said in a whisper, "truly sorry."
She placed the map in his hands. Tears spilled down her cheek.
He stared at it, not quite sure how to proceed, or what was appropriate to say. Anger began to burn within him, but the need to understand her motives outweighed the need to seek retribution.
Charlita took a deep breath, and raced for the door.
"Where are going?"
"Home," she said. "I assume I am fired."
More of a statement than a question.
"You assume too much. I insist you remain at least until you have adequately explain yourself."
She stopped short of reaching for the door then turned back to Mr. Greenleaf.
"I can't. You won't understand. I can't explain further. Do not ask me. It's all so complicated, so out of control, that ..."
Charlita nearly choked, indeed, nearly fainted, as Legolas pulled back his thick platinum hair, revealing his perfect, pointed ears. He glowed, ever so slightly, making Charlita gasp. She fell back against the door, her legs gone weak, threatening to give out from under her.
"Stay," he implored, "for it appears we both have much explaining to do."
* * *
End Chapter 6
Thank you for your kind attention. Please come back and read chapter 7 when it's up. And please, by all means, review. Your comments are deeply appreciated and make me a better writer. Not to mention a happier one.