Mirkwood Manor
Chapter 7
Hannon le, everyone, for your exceedingly kind comments, and forgive the delay in getting this next chapter published. This is an AU, so it slips away from canon quite frequently, I'm sure. 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, with your kind indulgence: On with chapter 7!
His strength was returning slowly. He was far from fully restored. The injuries were massive, and he had come very close to giving in to shadow. There was no greater pity than when an immortal creature such as an elf, who might otherwise live until the earth itself gasped its last breath, succumbed to death by gruesome chance.
Legolas pulled his tunic on gingerly, careful not to aggravate the wounds that were wrapped tightly and still healing. His tunic hung loser on him than before, the loss of body mass an indication of the toll taken on his suffering body. Over his tunic came his armor. Legolas hugged one arm closely to his body, still feeling a weakness in the limb, as he reached with the other for his quiver. It seemed heavier than he remembered, but he knew full well that once he returned to the heat of battle this, as well as his aching body, would be of little concern to him. He was determined to face his enemy again. He had a desperate score to settle.
"Master Elf," one of several Healers spoke before Legolas could drag himself completely out the door, "it is unwise for you to be moving about. Your wounds require more time."
"An elf needs little time for recuperation," he said with wavering conviction.
"True, under normal circumstances. But you have suffered more than most, Master Elf."
Legolas knew this was true. And he felt it. But he also knew he had little choice. Time was crucial, for if he did not act swiftly his prey would depart to places unknown and justice for the vile attack against Aragorn, the King of Gondor, his life-long friend would never be served.
"My suffering is of little consequence," he said, willing his old strength to return. He slung his quiver across his shoulder, biting back the urge to groan as pain radiated through every fevered muscle. He felt his body shudder, but he fought to hide this from the Healer.
"King Aragorn will be greatly displeased. He would never allow this," the Healer humbly rebuked Legolas.
"He shall come to accept it. Have them fetch my horse, and make ready for my departure."
"Is it not considered rude in your culture to stare?"
Charlita could not tear her eyes away from him. She could barely speak, or hardly breathe. Her mind was flooded with rushing images of dense green forests and leaves shining with dew, moss-covered mountains and streams with the purest water flowing swiftly over pearlescent stones. Her heart skipped as she imagined the sound of swords clashing, her body shook at the thought of horses' hooves thundering across the plain, racing to the horizon. Where did these images come from?
She backed away from him, fear suddenly making her whole body tremble. She kept backing away until she made impact with a wall.
"Stay away," she said in a nervous whisper.
"Do not fear me," Legolas said, reaching out a glowing hand.
"NO! Don't touch me!"
"I am not Valgur."
"But you are like him."
"We are both elfkind, true, but I am not in manner like him. I would hope you knew that by now."
Somewhere in her heart and her mind, she did. Still, she raised a hand, demonstrating her intense desire for distance.
"I need a moment," she said. "Let me think for a moment."
She felt her legs weakening, her knees buckling. The room suddenly became a gray fog. She felt her body begin to slide toward the floor. Strong, sure arms took hold of her, pulling her back from the brink, and urging her to a chair to sit. She did not fight him. Her hands found his arms and held tight. The muscles were like stone. The strength she felt was both tremendous and alarming.
"I'm okay," she said, willing him away from her.
"You swooned. Be still until the faintness passes."
"No, I'm okay," Charlita insisted, letting go of his arms and pulling away from him.
"Does Tristan know about you?"
"Yes."
"He kept it from me."
"That is my fault," Legolas confessed, "I asked him to keep it secret for a time. Forgive the deception."
"No wonder he came here. No wonder he trusts you. It's true. All true. About the ages. About Middle Earth. About the elves."
Legolas nodded once.
"The maps, the books," she said, head still spinning, "they're from then."
"Yes," said Legolas, "as am I."
"This is too incredible."
"Stay here," Legolas insisted, "and I will fetch water for you."
She watched him as he left. She considered standing and running, getting out of there as fast as she could and getting as far away as possible. But the room was still undulating and she was slowly losing her apprehension. Now she wanted answers.
Legolas returned as he promised with a small glass half filled with water. She took it, murmuring a thank you and took a sip from it. She'd always wondered why, when people fainted, they were offered water. Now she knew. It gave one a focus, and allowed one time to collect their thoughts.
"How many more of your kind are there?" she asked.
Legolas' eyes, which were once bright, seemed to dull at the thought of this. Sadness claimed his expression.
"No more, I believe it is safe to say. All that remain stands before you. And Valgur, of course."
"How do you know about Valgur?"
"Tristan spoke of him. He left out many details. Perhaps you could provide more."
"How much did he tell you?" "Enough to know that you are in great danger, so long as you have dealings with him. You were stealing from me at his behest, were you not?"
Charlita's head dipped slightly to hide her renewed shame.
"What does Valgur know about me?"
"Nothing. I told him you were an eccentric old man...."
Her voice trailed off, as her eyes began to examine Legolas' unlined face.
She asked in a fearful whisper, "How old are you?"
"As old as he," Legolas confessed. "Nay, older, if memory serves."
"This is insane."
"But nonetheless true. Please, Miss Huffington. I would have you tell me everything you know of Valgur, and all you suspect."
"And what will you tell me in return?"
"In time, all the truth there is. For now, some small ignorance of the truth will serve to keep you alive."
She told him everything. How she and Valgur had met. Their short-lived marriage. The schemes and scams perpetrated on the innocent and unsuspecting. The violence that tainted their relationship and destroyed her trust in virtually everyone. The fear of losing her son. The fear she carries still at the mere thought of Valgur. And how his resurfacing had torn her orderly world apart.
And now, he wanted to know what might be worth stealing from the elderly Mr. Greenleaf. Charlita was surprised to see her employer smile a bit at hearing this part of the tale.
"So little changes over time," Legolas said, "even after several millennia. Avarice, deceit, betrayal."
Legolas unrolled the map that Charlita was going to take to Valgur and gave it a long look.
"This will not do," he said, and tossed the map gently back to the table. He picked up a different map. He smiled.
"Give him this one instead."
"Why?"
"See if he remembers it. It is a place forever etched in my memory. I am willing to gamble that it will be the same for Valgur. He will doubtlessly ask you many questions. Do not answer him. Instead, tell him to seek his own answers. Insist that he come and see for himself."
"You want him to come here?"
"If he wishes to come, yes, let him. Let the map be the lure. Let him come and I will rid you and your son of Valgur forever."
"Wait," Charlita said, leaping to her feet, her heart racing now. "You're not going to kill him are you?"
Legolas did not answer.
"I won't be a party to this. I won't be an accessory to murder. Even if it is Valgur."
"You still love him?"
"No!" Charlita insisted, a little too harshly. Had he hit a nerve?
"You do wish to be rid of him, do you not?"
"Yes. Can't you just scare him off, make him go away?"
"The Valgur I remember would never respond to mere scare tactics. Charlita, do you trust me?"
"How can I trust you? I don't even know if Greenleaf is your real name."
"Call me by my true name, but only when you are here. Anonymity is crucial to my existence. Without it, I am lost. My name is Legolas. Now, will you trust me?"
This time she nodded.
"Then this is what you must do."
She did exactly as Legolas explained. She arranged for Tristan to be returned from school to Mirkwood Manor. Once he was secure, she would venture home long enough to leave the map given her by Legolas in an envelope taped to her front door. She would return to the safety of the Manor, and await Valgur's undoubtedly frantic call on her cell phone. She would not yet reveal their whereabouts, until Legolas had time to devise a more intricate plan. For now, they would settle for seeing Valgur become ensnared by curiosity and fear.
She sat in stillness and silence, absorbed in the calm that settled upon Mirkwood Manor. Would that her own home could feel this tranquil, especially in the midst of life's many intrusions and mishaps. She felt unusually safe within the walls, knowing that just out in the garden were Legolas, her employer and benefactor, and her son. She imagined they had much to discuss, considering their common ancestry.
Beside her on the soft cushion was her cell phone. She was to answer it only if Legolas was in the room, so that he could monitor her responses and thereby choose a plan of action based on the conversation.
It was still fifteen minutes until the eighth hour, and her calm was beginning to give way to restlessness. She stood and moved to the glass doors that lead to the garden. The path was milky white from a close and generous moonlight. She stepped outside and felt the chill air surround her. She wrapped her arms around herself and began to quietly, slowly follow the path, hoping to see somewhere in the dark her son, and that he was fine in the presence of the elf who had now become her boy's mentor.
She heard not only voices, but the sound of hard metal clanging together. She picked up her pace to follow the sounds, then stepped behind high leafy hedges to spy on – or rather, observe – her son and the former Mr. Greenleaf.
Despite the cold, Legolas wore no shirt or jacket. In Legolas' hands were two long knives – white handled, gleaming, sharp. He stepped, struck out, stepped back, struck an imaginary foe behind him, turned and blocked an imaginary blow and struck again. She watched this display of grace and ferocity, elegance and deadly force with wonder and excitement. His muscles rippled and dance with each move, and his long white hair took to the air with every turn of his head. His face showed a determination and discipline she had never witnessed before. And then he stopped.
Despite the quickness of his deadly routine, he was neither winded nor was he sweaty. He flipped the blades deftly, with a cockiness common to every male she'd ever met. He then offered the blades to Tristan.
"No!" Charlita called out before she could stop herself.
Tristan and Legolas turned at the sound of her voice. Charlita came out of hiding.
"What are you teaching my child?"
"I'm not a child!" Tristan cried in his defense.
"I'm teaching him," Legolas said, "how to defend himself."
"Not with those things," she said, pointing to the long blades.
"Mom!"
"Don't "mom" me! You could hurt yourself with those things. I won't allow it."
"As you wish," Legolas said, and moved the blades from Tristan's reach.
"No, Legolas!"
"She is your mother, and I must respect her wishes as they pertain to you."
"No!" Tristan cried, turning angrily to his mother. "When are you going to learn to trust me?"
Charlita had no answer. It was the fear of every mother. The fear that her child was no longer a child. The realization that she could no longer adequately protect him. She could put her foot down, deny him this opportunity to find out how strong he could be, make him feel small and inconsequential. Or she could take a risk, let him try. Somehow she knew that Legolas would allow no real harm to come to him.
"Will you protect him?" she asked, needing to be sure.
"With my very life," Legolas promised.
"All right," she acquiesced. "Just don't do anything stupid. As if this isn't stupid enough."
"Cool!" Tristan said, and reached for the knives.
"Not yet," Legolas warned. "Calm yourself first. These are dangerous weapons, the chosen weapon of elven assassins. They are lethal, sharper than you can imagine. Do not let your zeal to use them be your undoing."
Tristan nodded and took a deep, calming breath. His face became unstressed, his body still and sure as he reached for the blades Legolas offered.
Charlita heard her breath catch in the back of her throat as her son took hold of the knives. She watched as Tristan held them out in a defensive stance, one high, one low, as Legolas instructed. She marveled as her son followed Legolas's every instruction, duplicating the exact routine she had witnessed Legolas performing. The blades seemed quite natural in her half- elven son's hands, more natural than a baseball bat or a video game control. She was amazed and proud. And a little frightened.
The moment was broken by soft chimes from far away, inside the house.
"My cell phone," Charlita said, dread in her voice. "Valgur."
"Inside," Legolas said, taking the knives from Tristan and ushering them back to the Manor.
"Try to sound natural," Legolas said, as he slipped into a button down shirt. He hovered just behind Charlita where she sat on the sofa, and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
"I am here," he said, hoping to boost the woman's courage rather than inhibit her performance.
Charlita nodded and pressed the talk button on the cell.
"Hello?"
"WHERE ARE YOU?"
Charlita nodded to Legolas, just to confirm that the caller was indeed Valgur.
"I had to leave. Bit of an emergency. Did you get the envelope?"
"I did. I need to see you. Where are you?"
"I'm not coming home tonight. I'm staying with a friend."
"Listen to me, Charlita, and listen well. You are to leave wherever you are and come home now. I need to see you. I need to talk to you about this Mr. Greenleaf person."
"What do you need to know?"
"Where did he get this map?"
"I don't know. I'm just archive the stuff for him. I can ask him, but he's pretty closed-mouth about his precious maps and books. I can't even understand the language, and I have a BA in ancient languages. Do you know what it says?"
Charlita looked up at Legolas. He nodded and gave her a thin smile.
"Nevermind," Valgur snapped. "I need to know where he got this, and if there are any more. I also need to know everything you can tell me about him."
"Why? Do you think he may be an old acquaintance?"
There was a brief silence. Charlita looked to Legolas for strength to continue.
"Listen, you little twit," Valgur said in a low, angry voice, "if I find out you're playing me..."
"Playing you? Val, I don't understand. What is the significance of that old map?"
"JUST DO AS I SAY! And tell me where I can find this Greenleaf. I want to know where he lives, what he does. EVERYTHING!"
"The connection breaking up, can you hear me now?"
"Don't play with me, Charlita."
"I'm sorry, my phone's dying. The battery's almost spent. What did you say?"
"If you don't tell me what I want, you'll be the one that's dying, darling Charlita. And that is a promise I will enjoy keeping. And don't think for a moment I'll spare Tristan just because he's my little whelp. I'll make you watch him die first. Now, bring me more maps. Bring me whatever you can fit into that cheap bag of yours and bring them home tomorrow. And no leaving anything pinned to the door. I want to see you in the flesh, as it were. Understand me?"
"Yes, I understand. I'll see you tomorrow."
With that the line went dead.
Charlita looked up at Legolas with eyes that could not hide her fear.
"He wants more maps. He wants to know everything about you. He says he'll kill me if I don't do as he says."
"He's not very original, is he?"
"He also said," she began, unable to stop the single tear from rolling down her cheek, "that he'll kill Tristan, that he'll make me watch him die."
Legolas felt the dread radiating from her. He knew nothing else mattered more to her than the life of her son. He knew not what he could do to set her mind at rest. He only knew that he could not fail. Not fail her, Tristan, or himself.
"I hope you know what you're doing, Mr. Green...Legolas," she said, now as if she were reading his mind.
Legolas moved to the double doors that lead to the garden and looked up into the darkness. The moon was higher, farther away than earlier.
"The moon is veiled," Legolas whispered, though loud enough for Charlita to hear. "A shadow grows close. Darkness draws near."
"That's not very reassuring," Charlita said.
"Fear not. Where there is darkness, there will always be light. Eventually. You'll be safe here. Come. Let me show you to your room."
Valgur was incensed. He threw the phone against the wall, and then systematically began to destroy Charlita's apartment. What he could not break, he used to break other things. What he could not tear apart, he merely stomped upon, ruining with the dirt from his boots. When his anger was spent, as well as his suddenly violent burst of energy, he again turned to the map, which now lay upon a heap of broken vases and picture frames on the floor.
He picked it up gingerly, knowing that the aged parchment could easily crumble to dust. Not that this map could garner him one single piece of paper money. Nor would he sell it if an offer were upon the table. This map offered him a piece of his distant past.
Centuries, millennium had past, and still he remembered vividly the elf that stood against him at the shores of the land of Lhun. The proud, self- appointed guardian of the King of Gondor, who had hunted him down, accused him – rightly – of treachery, and, despite serious injury, challenged Valgur to a fight to the death. All while the last ships were pushing back, away from the shores. Knowing that he himself would remain among the vile race of men for the rest of his long days made him fight against this self-righteous, blindly heroic kinsman all the harder. He worked quickly to dispatch the elven assassin, only to collapse from a wound that pierced his heart and should have killed him outright. He bled into the sand, watching his immortal life slipping away. His only joy was knowing that he had heaped equal pain and suffering upon his foe. He watch his blood mingle with his enemy, and knew that even as he was dying, so too, was the blond elf, Legolas.
But fate had taken a strange turn in Valgur's favor. Valgur did not die. He dragged himself away from the battlefield, and fell into deep unconsciousness in the middle of a narrow road not far from Brandywine. He awoke from many days of coma and found himself under the gentle care and ministrations of a young and human widow whose name he had forgotten, but whose heart had suffered long under the yoke of loneliness. His story – lies – fell upon desperate ears eager for adventure, and soon he'd learned many a lesson about the frailty of the human heart.
As for his foe, could only assume that death had found him and claimed him.
But now, he knew the truth. Now, clenched in his trembling hands was proof positive that his enemy, like him, was very much alive.
"Mr. Greenleaf, indeed," Valgur snorted, and raced out of the apartment.
Valgur would finally get what he had merely dreamed of all his long life.
To mete out his final revenge against the Prince of Mirkwood.
End chapter 7
Comments welcome. Share chocolate.
Hannon le, everyone, for your exceedingly kind comments, and forgive the delay in getting this next chapter published. This is an AU, so it slips away from canon quite frequently, I'm sure. 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, with your kind indulgence: On with chapter 7!
His strength was returning slowly. He was far from fully restored. The injuries were massive, and he had come very close to giving in to shadow. There was no greater pity than when an immortal creature such as an elf, who might otherwise live until the earth itself gasped its last breath, succumbed to death by gruesome chance.
Legolas pulled his tunic on gingerly, careful not to aggravate the wounds that were wrapped tightly and still healing. His tunic hung loser on him than before, the loss of body mass an indication of the toll taken on his suffering body. Over his tunic came his armor. Legolas hugged one arm closely to his body, still feeling a weakness in the limb, as he reached with the other for his quiver. It seemed heavier than he remembered, but he knew full well that once he returned to the heat of battle this, as well as his aching body, would be of little concern to him. He was determined to face his enemy again. He had a desperate score to settle.
"Master Elf," one of several Healers spoke before Legolas could drag himself completely out the door, "it is unwise for you to be moving about. Your wounds require more time."
"An elf needs little time for recuperation," he said with wavering conviction.
"True, under normal circumstances. But you have suffered more than most, Master Elf."
Legolas knew this was true. And he felt it. But he also knew he had little choice. Time was crucial, for if he did not act swiftly his prey would depart to places unknown and justice for the vile attack against Aragorn, the King of Gondor, his life-long friend would never be served.
"My suffering is of little consequence," he said, willing his old strength to return. He slung his quiver across his shoulder, biting back the urge to groan as pain radiated through every fevered muscle. He felt his body shudder, but he fought to hide this from the Healer.
"King Aragorn will be greatly displeased. He would never allow this," the Healer humbly rebuked Legolas.
"He shall come to accept it. Have them fetch my horse, and make ready for my departure."
"Is it not considered rude in your culture to stare?"
Charlita could not tear her eyes away from him. She could barely speak, or hardly breathe. Her mind was flooded with rushing images of dense green forests and leaves shining with dew, moss-covered mountains and streams with the purest water flowing swiftly over pearlescent stones. Her heart skipped as she imagined the sound of swords clashing, her body shook at the thought of horses' hooves thundering across the plain, racing to the horizon. Where did these images come from?
She backed away from him, fear suddenly making her whole body tremble. She kept backing away until she made impact with a wall.
"Stay away," she said in a nervous whisper.
"Do not fear me," Legolas said, reaching out a glowing hand.
"NO! Don't touch me!"
"I am not Valgur."
"But you are like him."
"We are both elfkind, true, but I am not in manner like him. I would hope you knew that by now."
Somewhere in her heart and her mind, she did. Still, she raised a hand, demonstrating her intense desire for distance.
"I need a moment," she said. "Let me think for a moment."
She felt her legs weakening, her knees buckling. The room suddenly became a gray fog. She felt her body begin to slide toward the floor. Strong, sure arms took hold of her, pulling her back from the brink, and urging her to a chair to sit. She did not fight him. Her hands found his arms and held tight. The muscles were like stone. The strength she felt was both tremendous and alarming.
"I'm okay," she said, willing him away from her.
"You swooned. Be still until the faintness passes."
"No, I'm okay," Charlita insisted, letting go of his arms and pulling away from him.
"Does Tristan know about you?"
"Yes."
"He kept it from me."
"That is my fault," Legolas confessed, "I asked him to keep it secret for a time. Forgive the deception."
"No wonder he came here. No wonder he trusts you. It's true. All true. About the ages. About Middle Earth. About the elves."
Legolas nodded once.
"The maps, the books," she said, head still spinning, "they're from then."
"Yes," said Legolas, "as am I."
"This is too incredible."
"Stay here," Legolas insisted, "and I will fetch water for you."
She watched him as he left. She considered standing and running, getting out of there as fast as she could and getting as far away as possible. But the room was still undulating and she was slowly losing her apprehension. Now she wanted answers.
Legolas returned as he promised with a small glass half filled with water. She took it, murmuring a thank you and took a sip from it. She'd always wondered why, when people fainted, they were offered water. Now she knew. It gave one a focus, and allowed one time to collect their thoughts.
"How many more of your kind are there?" she asked.
Legolas' eyes, which were once bright, seemed to dull at the thought of this. Sadness claimed his expression.
"No more, I believe it is safe to say. All that remain stands before you. And Valgur, of course."
"How do you know about Valgur?"
"Tristan spoke of him. He left out many details. Perhaps you could provide more."
"How much did he tell you?" "Enough to know that you are in great danger, so long as you have dealings with him. You were stealing from me at his behest, were you not?"
Charlita's head dipped slightly to hide her renewed shame.
"What does Valgur know about me?"
"Nothing. I told him you were an eccentric old man...."
Her voice trailed off, as her eyes began to examine Legolas' unlined face.
She asked in a fearful whisper, "How old are you?"
"As old as he," Legolas confessed. "Nay, older, if memory serves."
"This is insane."
"But nonetheless true. Please, Miss Huffington. I would have you tell me everything you know of Valgur, and all you suspect."
"And what will you tell me in return?"
"In time, all the truth there is. For now, some small ignorance of the truth will serve to keep you alive."
She told him everything. How she and Valgur had met. Their short-lived marriage. The schemes and scams perpetrated on the innocent and unsuspecting. The violence that tainted their relationship and destroyed her trust in virtually everyone. The fear of losing her son. The fear she carries still at the mere thought of Valgur. And how his resurfacing had torn her orderly world apart.
And now, he wanted to know what might be worth stealing from the elderly Mr. Greenleaf. Charlita was surprised to see her employer smile a bit at hearing this part of the tale.
"So little changes over time," Legolas said, "even after several millennia. Avarice, deceit, betrayal."
Legolas unrolled the map that Charlita was going to take to Valgur and gave it a long look.
"This will not do," he said, and tossed the map gently back to the table. He picked up a different map. He smiled.
"Give him this one instead."
"Why?"
"See if he remembers it. It is a place forever etched in my memory. I am willing to gamble that it will be the same for Valgur. He will doubtlessly ask you many questions. Do not answer him. Instead, tell him to seek his own answers. Insist that he come and see for himself."
"You want him to come here?"
"If he wishes to come, yes, let him. Let the map be the lure. Let him come and I will rid you and your son of Valgur forever."
"Wait," Charlita said, leaping to her feet, her heart racing now. "You're not going to kill him are you?"
Legolas did not answer.
"I won't be a party to this. I won't be an accessory to murder. Even if it is Valgur."
"You still love him?"
"No!" Charlita insisted, a little too harshly. Had he hit a nerve?
"You do wish to be rid of him, do you not?"
"Yes. Can't you just scare him off, make him go away?"
"The Valgur I remember would never respond to mere scare tactics. Charlita, do you trust me?"
"How can I trust you? I don't even know if Greenleaf is your real name."
"Call me by my true name, but only when you are here. Anonymity is crucial to my existence. Without it, I am lost. My name is Legolas. Now, will you trust me?"
This time she nodded.
"Then this is what you must do."
She did exactly as Legolas explained. She arranged for Tristan to be returned from school to Mirkwood Manor. Once he was secure, she would venture home long enough to leave the map given her by Legolas in an envelope taped to her front door. She would return to the safety of the Manor, and await Valgur's undoubtedly frantic call on her cell phone. She would not yet reveal their whereabouts, until Legolas had time to devise a more intricate plan. For now, they would settle for seeing Valgur become ensnared by curiosity and fear.
She sat in stillness and silence, absorbed in the calm that settled upon Mirkwood Manor. Would that her own home could feel this tranquil, especially in the midst of life's many intrusions and mishaps. She felt unusually safe within the walls, knowing that just out in the garden were Legolas, her employer and benefactor, and her son. She imagined they had much to discuss, considering their common ancestry.
Beside her on the soft cushion was her cell phone. She was to answer it only if Legolas was in the room, so that he could monitor her responses and thereby choose a plan of action based on the conversation.
It was still fifteen minutes until the eighth hour, and her calm was beginning to give way to restlessness. She stood and moved to the glass doors that lead to the garden. The path was milky white from a close and generous moonlight. She stepped outside and felt the chill air surround her. She wrapped her arms around herself and began to quietly, slowly follow the path, hoping to see somewhere in the dark her son, and that he was fine in the presence of the elf who had now become her boy's mentor.
She heard not only voices, but the sound of hard metal clanging together. She picked up her pace to follow the sounds, then stepped behind high leafy hedges to spy on – or rather, observe – her son and the former Mr. Greenleaf.
Despite the cold, Legolas wore no shirt or jacket. In Legolas' hands were two long knives – white handled, gleaming, sharp. He stepped, struck out, stepped back, struck an imaginary foe behind him, turned and blocked an imaginary blow and struck again. She watched this display of grace and ferocity, elegance and deadly force with wonder and excitement. His muscles rippled and dance with each move, and his long white hair took to the air with every turn of his head. His face showed a determination and discipline she had never witnessed before. And then he stopped.
Despite the quickness of his deadly routine, he was neither winded nor was he sweaty. He flipped the blades deftly, with a cockiness common to every male she'd ever met. He then offered the blades to Tristan.
"No!" Charlita called out before she could stop herself.
Tristan and Legolas turned at the sound of her voice. Charlita came out of hiding.
"What are you teaching my child?"
"I'm not a child!" Tristan cried in his defense.
"I'm teaching him," Legolas said, "how to defend himself."
"Not with those things," she said, pointing to the long blades.
"Mom!"
"Don't "mom" me! You could hurt yourself with those things. I won't allow it."
"As you wish," Legolas said, and moved the blades from Tristan's reach.
"No, Legolas!"
"She is your mother, and I must respect her wishes as they pertain to you."
"No!" Tristan cried, turning angrily to his mother. "When are you going to learn to trust me?"
Charlita had no answer. It was the fear of every mother. The fear that her child was no longer a child. The realization that she could no longer adequately protect him. She could put her foot down, deny him this opportunity to find out how strong he could be, make him feel small and inconsequential. Or she could take a risk, let him try. Somehow she knew that Legolas would allow no real harm to come to him.
"Will you protect him?" she asked, needing to be sure.
"With my very life," Legolas promised.
"All right," she acquiesced. "Just don't do anything stupid. As if this isn't stupid enough."
"Cool!" Tristan said, and reached for the knives.
"Not yet," Legolas warned. "Calm yourself first. These are dangerous weapons, the chosen weapon of elven assassins. They are lethal, sharper than you can imagine. Do not let your zeal to use them be your undoing."
Tristan nodded and took a deep, calming breath. His face became unstressed, his body still and sure as he reached for the blades Legolas offered.
Charlita heard her breath catch in the back of her throat as her son took hold of the knives. She watched as Tristan held them out in a defensive stance, one high, one low, as Legolas instructed. She marveled as her son followed Legolas's every instruction, duplicating the exact routine she had witnessed Legolas performing. The blades seemed quite natural in her half- elven son's hands, more natural than a baseball bat or a video game control. She was amazed and proud. And a little frightened.
The moment was broken by soft chimes from far away, inside the house.
"My cell phone," Charlita said, dread in her voice. "Valgur."
"Inside," Legolas said, taking the knives from Tristan and ushering them back to the Manor.
"Try to sound natural," Legolas said, as he slipped into a button down shirt. He hovered just behind Charlita where she sat on the sofa, and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
"I am here," he said, hoping to boost the woman's courage rather than inhibit her performance.
Charlita nodded and pressed the talk button on the cell.
"Hello?"
"WHERE ARE YOU?"
Charlita nodded to Legolas, just to confirm that the caller was indeed Valgur.
"I had to leave. Bit of an emergency. Did you get the envelope?"
"I did. I need to see you. Where are you?"
"I'm not coming home tonight. I'm staying with a friend."
"Listen to me, Charlita, and listen well. You are to leave wherever you are and come home now. I need to see you. I need to talk to you about this Mr. Greenleaf person."
"What do you need to know?"
"Where did he get this map?"
"I don't know. I'm just archive the stuff for him. I can ask him, but he's pretty closed-mouth about his precious maps and books. I can't even understand the language, and I have a BA in ancient languages. Do you know what it says?"
Charlita looked up at Legolas. He nodded and gave her a thin smile.
"Nevermind," Valgur snapped. "I need to know where he got this, and if there are any more. I also need to know everything you can tell me about him."
"Why? Do you think he may be an old acquaintance?"
There was a brief silence. Charlita looked to Legolas for strength to continue.
"Listen, you little twit," Valgur said in a low, angry voice, "if I find out you're playing me..."
"Playing you? Val, I don't understand. What is the significance of that old map?"
"JUST DO AS I SAY! And tell me where I can find this Greenleaf. I want to know where he lives, what he does. EVERYTHING!"
"The connection breaking up, can you hear me now?"
"Don't play with me, Charlita."
"I'm sorry, my phone's dying. The battery's almost spent. What did you say?"
"If you don't tell me what I want, you'll be the one that's dying, darling Charlita. And that is a promise I will enjoy keeping. And don't think for a moment I'll spare Tristan just because he's my little whelp. I'll make you watch him die first. Now, bring me more maps. Bring me whatever you can fit into that cheap bag of yours and bring them home tomorrow. And no leaving anything pinned to the door. I want to see you in the flesh, as it were. Understand me?"
"Yes, I understand. I'll see you tomorrow."
With that the line went dead.
Charlita looked up at Legolas with eyes that could not hide her fear.
"He wants more maps. He wants to know everything about you. He says he'll kill me if I don't do as he says."
"He's not very original, is he?"
"He also said," she began, unable to stop the single tear from rolling down her cheek, "that he'll kill Tristan, that he'll make me watch him die."
Legolas felt the dread radiating from her. He knew nothing else mattered more to her than the life of her son. He knew not what he could do to set her mind at rest. He only knew that he could not fail. Not fail her, Tristan, or himself.
"I hope you know what you're doing, Mr. Green...Legolas," she said, now as if she were reading his mind.
Legolas moved to the double doors that lead to the garden and looked up into the darkness. The moon was higher, farther away than earlier.
"The moon is veiled," Legolas whispered, though loud enough for Charlita to hear. "A shadow grows close. Darkness draws near."
"That's not very reassuring," Charlita said.
"Fear not. Where there is darkness, there will always be light. Eventually. You'll be safe here. Come. Let me show you to your room."
Valgur was incensed. He threw the phone against the wall, and then systematically began to destroy Charlita's apartment. What he could not break, he used to break other things. What he could not tear apart, he merely stomped upon, ruining with the dirt from his boots. When his anger was spent, as well as his suddenly violent burst of energy, he again turned to the map, which now lay upon a heap of broken vases and picture frames on the floor.
He picked it up gingerly, knowing that the aged parchment could easily crumble to dust. Not that this map could garner him one single piece of paper money. Nor would he sell it if an offer were upon the table. This map offered him a piece of his distant past.
Centuries, millennium had past, and still he remembered vividly the elf that stood against him at the shores of the land of Lhun. The proud, self- appointed guardian of the King of Gondor, who had hunted him down, accused him – rightly – of treachery, and, despite serious injury, challenged Valgur to a fight to the death. All while the last ships were pushing back, away from the shores. Knowing that he himself would remain among the vile race of men for the rest of his long days made him fight against this self-righteous, blindly heroic kinsman all the harder. He worked quickly to dispatch the elven assassin, only to collapse from a wound that pierced his heart and should have killed him outright. He bled into the sand, watching his immortal life slipping away. His only joy was knowing that he had heaped equal pain and suffering upon his foe. He watch his blood mingle with his enemy, and knew that even as he was dying, so too, was the blond elf, Legolas.
But fate had taken a strange turn in Valgur's favor. Valgur did not die. He dragged himself away from the battlefield, and fell into deep unconsciousness in the middle of a narrow road not far from Brandywine. He awoke from many days of coma and found himself under the gentle care and ministrations of a young and human widow whose name he had forgotten, but whose heart had suffered long under the yoke of loneliness. His story – lies – fell upon desperate ears eager for adventure, and soon he'd learned many a lesson about the frailty of the human heart.
As for his foe, could only assume that death had found him and claimed him.
But now, he knew the truth. Now, clenched in his trembling hands was proof positive that his enemy, like him, was very much alive.
"Mr. Greenleaf, indeed," Valgur snorted, and raced out of the apartment.
Valgur would finally get what he had merely dreamed of all his long life.
To mete out his final revenge against the Prince of Mirkwood.
End chapter 7
Comments welcome. Share chocolate.