Disclaimer: Don't own it.
Faerlas: I warned that it could happen this way. :o))) Weak-willed, as I said. Much hugs to you, ser rili.:o))
Name1:o)) Do you think it's time for it to keep some diet?
Escape5:Hi! It's awfully nice to hear from you again. I'm glad that you like it – and thank you for spending your time and reviewing it – it was most encouraging. :o)
Chapter 6.
Stares and glances.
Hard colourless eyes slid up the high boots of Gwirith, felt all over her body and at last settled on her face.
"Does my fair lady want anything?" slowly and over-freely inquired a stout middle-aged man at the door of a ramshackle building, out of which came ceaseless din and drunken outcries.
Legolas felt his fingers clench over the staff, like over the neck of this untidy mortal, who dared address to Gwirith with such heavy and obscene intonation. But the girl definitely did without his protection, because she just smiled – proudly and arrogantly - and met the evaluating stare, the glint in her eyes displaying equally base challenge.
"Your fair lady wants to take refuge for several days," said she haughtily, "For our travel was a long one, and a longer road lies in front of us."
"I'm willing to serve you," bowed the man, never breaking the contest of looks between them, "If my service is well-rewarded… And … does my lord have anything special to demand?"
The elf had already opened his mouth to put the man in his proper place, when Gwirith, for all this time holding her arm linked with his, thrust her sharp nails into his shoulder. He bit his lip, having remembered that he was not to utter a single word, as elvish voices were hard to confuse with those of some other beings.
"My grandfather is tired and needs rest," calmly told Gwirith to the host of the dirty den, they were going to stay in, "As any man of his age…"
It couldn't elude Legolas how heavily she accented the word "man", and it seemed to him that she was too obvious in underlining his origin instead of concealing it. But the host remained perfectly calm and civil, especially as the girl drew out of nowhere a full hand of bright golden coins. Shuddering of sharp disgust Legolas imagined where they could come from. The easiness, with which Gwirith had earlier robbed the dead in Rivendell of their weapon, didn't speak in her favour as to the source of this money.
"For a man of your age you are well-preserved, milord, if you allow me to say this," muttered the man thoughtfully, fixing his eyes at the bare hand of the elf, which was holding the staff. The girl gave a scornful laugh and took out another helping of coins.
"Fresh air works wonders," explained she in the most serious tone, playing with the money, while the host was greedily watching her movements.
"As you say, my lavish lady, as you say," he bowed again, counting and recounting coins, which had appeared in his possession, "Two rooms, right?"
"No," she smiled with her upper lip only, so that her smirk looked like bared teeth, "One room and nobody to bother us."
The host, hunched-up in exaggerated servility, stepped back to let them into the low doorway. Gwirith gently pushed the elf forward, supporting his elbow. For the outsider they appeared what they pretended to be – an old man and his caring, respectful granddaughter. He felt a reassuring squeeze of her fingers, and bent even more, trying to limp so that his steps were not so long and even.
The somber hall was full of people, some already lying with their faces against their tables and snoring so diligently that the noise they were producing reminded of a roar of a distant battle. The others were slowly approaching the same state. The only woman in the room was standing at the bar – an old malign hag, having seen more than most and hating everything and everybody. Grudge was oozing out of the sharp wrinkles on her round face, and the movements of her rough tanned hands, which with a furious perseverance were drying a mug, betrayed deep-rooted, barely pent-up irritation. For a moment she halted, studying the visitors, but instantly returned to her monotonous work. Only the mean lines in the corners of her small and thin mouth deepened, as if she had seen something offensive for her. And Legolas couldn't say he didn't understand the reasons of her anger.
As Gwirith crossed the threshold, all the sounds except incessant snore ceased. Men turned their heads to follow her path with avid attention. Dozens of hungry stares plastered her silhouette like wet weeds. Like slime. The elf saw their lips part and get dry, as some furtively ran their tongues over them, never taking their eyes of his companion. He could hear every heavy breath of thirst and lust, flowing into the stuffy air of the hall. His spine strained, and he guardedly wrapped his fingers around the gripe of his dagger. He was almost sick of aversion at those craving stares… He could read the thoughts of each of the beasts in there – they all wanted to… He found no other word but "to taste" Gwirith, to swallow her…
However, there was one man, who didn't look at her. Instead of that he was insistently scrutinizing the elf. The shoulders of the curious one were covered with the same kind of a cloak, Legolas was hiding under, but unlike the elf, he showed his face proudly and boldly. He must have had a drop of the elvish blood, yet this dash was so insignificant that it resulted in nothing but seeming nobility of his features. His richly-lashed eye-lids drooped over two glittering black coals in a weary fashion, and thin aristocratic fingers were lightly tapping against the table… Elves always felt creatures of their kind. Legolas was almost sure, that however great number of generations passed from the moment one of the ancestors of this half-bred had entered into a marriage alliance with a firstling of Eru, it still wasn't great enough to obliterate the recognition instinct.
The stranger broke his examination and chuckled – Legolas didn't like this chuckle at all. It didn't bode well… But to his surprise, the annoying man just bowed his head to Gwirith as to an old acquaintance – and got a short nod in return.
The elf was observant enough to notice what impression this exchange produced on the others. Quickly – even, as it seemed to him, hurriedly - they lost every bit of their interest for the girl, and hid their faces in their mugs, talking too loudly and lively. The stranger chuckled again, with disdain not inferior to that Legolas used to hear in the voice of Gwirith.
"This way, milady," the host pointed at the rickety stairs, leading to something that was hard to call the first floor. It reminded more of a deserted attic, pitted with doors, each hiding a small cell-like room.
"I wish you good rest," mumbled their escort and excused himself. And only as the door closed behind him, Legolas managed to get rid of the feeling of having been watched after for all this time by two spots of tar on a pale face.
The room was not large enough even for him alone. A low bed, covered with a threadbare wolfskin, occupied the fair part of space. A single weak-sighted window drew a square of faint light on the wall opposite to it. Gwirith resolutely strolled forward and banged the shutters, causing a cloud of dust soar into the air.
"You may lie down," said she impassively, "I'll be back soon."
Legolas jerked up his head, as the girl moved back to the door.
"Where are you going?" asked he, surprise ringing in his voice.
"We need something to eat," explained Gwirith simply, "I'm hungry and I don't believe that you are not."
"You won't go there alone," quickly objected the elf. He couldn't let her go. Not after he had witnessed the clear expression of longings she had aroused in those wretched resemblances of men.
Gwirith raised her brows, and something looking like sincere amusement showed through her reserved countenance, soon changing into a smile – a true small smile. Not that she was smiling at him – but somehow he sensed that he had a certain relation with the thoughts that caused this catchlight of pleasure on her lips.
"Don't worry," reassured she softly, coming out of the room, "I can take care of myself."
The elf heard her descending the stairs, each step followed by a little creak of dry wood. No doubt, it would have been wiser of him if he had lain as she had advised him, but he stayed by the door, trying to discern her voice in the hubbub, wafted from the hall. His muscles were still tense with the sensation of keen danger. In vain was Legolas persuading himself that he could get down any moment, should his hearing be disturbed by a mere sound of her being in need of his help. Deep down he realized there was not much he could help her with. They were both trapped in here.
He pressed his ear against the door and froze so, counting seconds. A thousand of breaths later the same light feet ran up the stairs… He barely managed to dart back, jumping on the bed and assuming an indifferent air, as if there had been no anxious waiting and awe-inspiring suppositions, one darker than another.
"It's for you," Gwirith put a deep bowl with chunks of fried meat on the wolfskin beside him, "The host had a fit of generosity."
His mouth involuntary watered at the sight of food, and his empty stomach shrank, reminding him about almost three days of starvation, but he pushed the bowl away, closer to the girl.
"You don't expect I shall spoon-feed you, do you?" asked she, pushing it back.
"Aren't I worthy of your sharing a meal with me?" retorted his wounded pride before he had sealed his lips not to let it have its say. Gwirith narrowed her eyes. An evil smirk of hers made the elf wince, while she graciously stepped back and bowed down before him in a most respectful curtsey.
"On the contrary, your elven highness," murmured she silkily, "you are too worthy to dine with me. I prefer to share the modest company of the despicable mortals downstairs."
"Gwirith…"
But she was already behind the door again. Legolas banged an angry fist against the bed-cover, furious at her mockery. What was there so wrong about his words? Will she ever behave at least civilly? A stupid girl she was to have gone there, right into the jaws of the dragon. Be it then, if that was what she wanted. He cared only about her leading him out of this insane parody on Middle-Earth. There were no reasons for him to be so darn troubled about her well-being, leave alone her chastity which he doubted was still on her person.
Another peal of roar from the ground-floor scratched his heart, making him ashamed of what he had just thought. Indeed, this place seemed created to deprave.
Quite reluctantly Legolas drew a piece of meat out of the bowl, but his attempt to eat was unsuccessful. Plagued by rage and unrest, he didn't even notice the taste of what he was swallowing. He put the bowl aside and stood up to approach the door again. Male voices were laughing and cracking rough jokes. Not a single metallic note of Gwirith's distinguished itself on their background. The elf couldn't say if he should be soothed or alarmed by it. She didn't have any need of talking to those beasts, did she? He desperately hoped she knew was she was doing.
Minutes flew past, while his alarm was getting more and more intolerable. She could have already eaten an orc together with his outfit and weapon…
Having wavered for some more time, the elf decided that it was quite enough of him. He pulled the hood of the cloak over his face, bent his back habitually and stole out of the room. The small landing, from which the stairs were going down, was an ideal observation point to allow him watching the hall without being noticed. Gwirith was nowhere to be seen – something sharp turned over inside him at realizing it. For a second he almost ran down in search of her, but at the very moment caught his breath of relief, for she was there, sitting in the furthest corner over a steaming mug. Yet soon Legolas frowned, his joy turning into suspicion, because his companion shared the table with that elf-born stranger with cruel black pools instead of the eyes. The lips of Gwirith were moving, and the man seemed to be listening to her attentively, nodding each time she stopped to take a sip out of her cup. What struck Legolas was how close they were to each other… Her sleeve brushed against the shoulder of the stranger. The latter smiled a heavy smile, and slowly let his hand slip over hers, as he leaned in to whisper something in her ear, his thin contemptuous mouth overpassing it in favour of ghosting against the smooth skin dangerously close to the corner of her lips. Legolas gripped the hand-rail so violently that his knuckles became white. As though having felt his presence, Gwirith leisurely looked back…
She was pale as the marble statue, crowning the tomb of Arwen. It seemed that every drop of blood had dripped out of her body. Their gazes interlaced and he saw that her opened-wide eyes were smoldering with the dark, cross fire, but her face remained calm as ever, if not calmer. Her usual composure had always had a tint of concentration and inner strain, which it lacked this time, as if she had cast aside her troubles. Legolas was keen enough to comprehend that this change had occurred due to the black-eyed man beside her.
She gave the elf a hard look, in which he clearly read two words… Get out… No irritation she showed, no discontent by his violation of her advice. Just a tranquil direct order for him to burrow and keep away from her affairs.
Legolas took several steps back, with a feeling of fleeting away from the battlefield. The girl blinked – slowly, like a snake trying to keep its victim in the chains of its deadly glance. Her eyelashes touched with only their tips, never closing down the eyes. He hesitated, having ceased understanding what she wanted from him. It was as if she commanded him to run away after having ensnared him. As if she was waiting for him to obey and thus strangle himself with a lasso he felt tighten around his neck.
And then she just smirked – cruelly and crookedly – and unleashed him, turning away.
The elf didn't dare risk once more, particularly because his frozen vigil began to attract too much attention from the occupants of the hall. Shaking with uncontrollable anger, he retreated back to their room.
Whelp! Slip of a girl! He was tossing in four walls, his fists clenched, his teeth gritted. He had no idea why she was plunging him in such wrath. There was nothing insulting in her behaviour, nothing to cause the waves of rage, cutting through his whole body. Blindfolding him… Driving him insane.
Her austere face was still standing before his eyes. He still saw her glance, repelling and luring… In a harsh glimpse of a guess he realized the meaning of it – on some unexplainable ground she had concluded that she had power over him, and demonstrated it as soon as he endeavored to show disobedience. And what crushed him was that he had yielded, proving her right.
All of a sudden another image came to his mind, overshadowing the lingering echo of the girl's stare… The same hazelly glance, lucid with care and warmth… The same hand, gently slipping against his shoulder… The same lips, half-parted just a moment before he…
He dropped on the bed, running his fingers through his hair and closing his eyes tight to drive away the painful recollection. He had forbidden himself to remember it. He had chased away all the details, making himself look at it from the outside. And there she came to bring it all back. To revive the feeling of a lithe body in his arms and the taste of soft lips against his own… All the dreams, all the longings, all the nights of off-stage tears and regrets. All of that pain.
And all of that desire…
It was murderous to see the lips of the stranger so close to her longed-for mouth, seeming eager to erase the shadow of his first and last kiss. And though he knew that had Gwirith survived after his foul deed, he would have never had another chance to kiss her; though he felt that he had no right to be jealous even of his dead love, leave alone her living twin, there was nothing he could do with black desperation, not letting him breathe or think…
How dare she profane the one he had once been ready to die for…
How dare he accuse her - he, her murderer…
He was at bay. He was lost.
The door suddenly opened to let in silent and pallid Gwirith. For a second she was just looking at him, as though trying to recall who he was and what he was doing there. Then she blinked, the movements of her eye-lids hardly reminding of the laggard slash-like flap, which had pinned him down to the ground so few and so many minutes ago.
"What's the matter with you?" her voice was hoarse and strained, "Are you unwell?"
Later he failed to recollect how it had happened, but then before he knew it she was nailed against the door, with his fingers clutched around her white throat, and his wry face almost pressed against hers.
"Who was that?" seethed Legolas, with bitter satisfaction seeing her give a start. His left hand came up to her shoulder, and he shook her, so that she gasped for breath, "Who was he!"
"I don't know!" squeaked she faintly, "What has come over you?"
"Who was he?" repeated the elf stubbornly, "Answer!"
Gwirith managed to unclench his grasp with her both hands and darted away, but the elf caught her wrist, pulling her to his body again.
"I don't know his name," said she, despair written in the lines of her discoloured face, "He helps me sometimes – that is all!"
"In exchange for what?" spit out Legolas, being sure that he had guessed shrewdly. His head was spinning of disgust, heavily inlaid with disappointment.
Her brows came together, as she caught the meaning of his insinuation. It seemed to Legolas, that she was going to slap him, yet she just shrank back as if having casually touched a dirty puddle.
"Let me go," whispered she bitterly, "You are repulsive."
"As if you are not," smirked Legolas, not recognizing himself and not able to suppress this madness, "Sneaking around, robbing the graves, throwing yourself at the first comer."
"I'm not throwing myself at anyone!" snapped Gwirith with blazing fury. He uttered a short laugh:
"So you don't deny the other things?"
She turned away, rubbing her temples and breathing heavily.
"I'm not robbing the graves," said she more calmly than he could expect, judging by her looks, "I need to live somehow. The war had blotted out everything…A hundred of years, Legolas, by Eru!"
He flinched with unbelief, when her words sank into his brain. So the time in here coincided with the one, passing now somewhere in his home. And still the girl in front of him was scarcely older than his mourned-over Gwirith. How was it possible? How did a mortal being age not a day in a number of years, deadly to any of her kind?
"How old are you?" asked he slowly and dangerously. She swallowed, nervously biting her lips, her eyes pleading.
"How did you manage to last so much time?" whispered the elf distinctly, "Who are you?"
Gwirith lowered her gaze, something much like a sob escaping her throat…
"I'm an utter curse, Legolas," answered she in such a quiet voice that he barely made out her words, "And, believe me, if only I could die, I'd die."
Legolas was short of respond. There just wasn't anything to say – so great was the sadness and self-disdain in that statement. To conceal his improper confusion, he averted his eyes, letting them trace a thin ray of light, which was crawling up the bare wall. Something flew past the window, and the beam disappeared, having pitifully winked in the end.
"I don't even know where you are guiding me," muttered the elf less belligerently. He wasn't attacking anymore – he was rather begging, "How can I believe you?"
No answer came, and Legolas looked at the girl again only to forget everything and rush to her in horror, for she was sliding down the door, evidently fainting. Her hand was fluttering in front of her like a wounded bird in search of support, though there was nothing that could detain her fall. However quick the elf had been, he hadn't managed to get near her before she hit against the floor, and her eyes shut.