Disclaimer: Everything of Lord of the Rings belongs to Tolkien. Everything of Escape Velocity: Nova belongs to Ambrosia Software and ATMOS. Nil'Tanar and Ryllaen are mine.
Unless specifically stated otherwise, everything spoken is in the native language of the speaker. Ie, the Elves speak Sindarin, Nil'Tanar speaks Polaran, and Ryllaen speaks Federation Basic.
Nothing else could have woken him, nothing else had the power to call him out of so deep a sleep than the tangible threat to his own life. Ryllaen rose into consciousness, breaking the surface of sleep, and the emotions of the battle swept over him. The Polaran, determined, despairing. The... creatures, minds such as he had never felt before, twisted and stunted, filled with rage and hate. He opened his eyes with difficulty, saw nothing but the Polaran's feet. After a moment he realised that the Polaran was standing over him. The Polaran was protecting him. Ryllaen was tempted to close his eyes again and trust to the Polaran's obvioius skill. But he had his orders, and they did not allow for laziness or acknowledge the pain of a mind flayed by hyperspace. He attempted to rise and ruefully discovered that, allowance or no, he was in no condition to move. Instead, he watched the Polaran fight. The grey cloak hung heavy at his back; Ryllaen distantly wondered what kind of people would indulge in so frivolous an item of clothing which had no place on a starship. It served only to increase the aura of mystery that shrouded the Polaris. The grey cloak swung around, brushing Ryllaen's face with cold dampness; the Polaran ducked and weaved around the blows of the creatures that so far had paid no attention to what he guarded. It came to Ryllaen, slowly, that the Polaran was losing, the blows that passed his defence becoming more severe by the moment. He saw the Polaran leave an opening in defence of a killing blow, saw another dart in from the side. Ryllaen mustered his will and spun the weaves into a lethal pattern around the creature. It died. All strength left the Vell-os' body, and the deep peaceful dark beckoned to him.
Ryllaen felt more than saw the arrivals of others. They were bright in his mind, clean and sharp. They drove the twisted ones away, then turned to the two aliens. Ryllaen almost cried out aloud at the intensity of their regard. They were... almost kin. Almost Vell-os, yet not. Their weaves were strong and focused, and well adept at avoiding detection, for he had not felt their approach. Yet they seemed controlled by instinct rather than by learned skill. They did not speak to his mind as a Vell-os would have, and he did not know if they could.
He wished to sleep. Only a sense of danger remaining kept him hovering just above the dark. They spoke, and their voices were clear and ringing, their words unkown to Ryllaen. But telepathy was not always a curse: he understood them well enough. He gathered what little strength he had left and conveyed their meaning to the Polaran who yet held to his defence despite his many wounds. The danger vanished, suddenly it seemed, and its disappearance freed him to slip into the gentle, painless rest he desired.
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Sleep, when it ended, ended of its own volition, his body having received the minimum rest it required to survive. Ryllaen opened his eyes. The first thing that met his gaze, across the separation of a campfire, was that of the Polaran. His wounds were clean and dressed, and his sheaths were empty at his sides.
Ryllaen's brow furrowed. He chased an elusive memory. "You are my prisoner," he said.
The Polaran glanced around the campsite, looking longest at the guards hovering nearby. He laughed. "If I am a prisoner, Vell-os, I am not yours." His voice was rich; the foreign words rolling off his tongue had an exotic sound that Ryllaen found he liked, though he could sense the derision they contained easily. "What is this planet you have landed us on? These people are neither Polaran, Federation nor Auroran. They do not speak a language I recognise."
He shrugged, ignoring the pain the movement sent running up his arm; he had forgotten the scratch the Polaran had given him on the Manta. "I don't know." He would have said more, but one of their captors approached. They both fell silent and looked at him.
He was like all of them: tall, slender with fair features more exotic than those of the Polaran, and with piercing eyes. He was clothed in the same garb as them all, in a style and colours that were unfamiliar to the aliens yet seemed suited to their wooded environment. His hands were empty, the weapons slung over his shoulder or safely resting in their sheaths. Ryllaen quickly ran through his surface thoughts. There was suspicion, wariness, and a great deal of curiosity, but none of the hostility he had feared to find. Tentatively stretching his probe deeper, Ryllaen touched the edges of a natural block. Cautious of discovery, he withdrew before his touch was felt.
"Who are you and what reason do you have for trespassing in our realm?" the native demanded sternly. The language was lyrical and as beautiful as the speaker, and as completely unrecognizable. "I do not know your words, strange Men." He looked at Ryllaen. "Yet you seem to understand mine."
The Polaran gazed at Ryllaen, silently demanding a translation. Given it, he stood slowly, careful of his bandaged wounds and the reaction of the onlookers. The guards' attention shifted; though they did not move, they watched with increased alertness. He bowed, the gesture shortened by necessity. "I am Nil'Tanar of the Nil'kemorya Polaris."
"I am Ryllaen, a Vell-os of the Federation. We... are lost. I do not know what realm this is." He offered a semi-bow that was a movement of the head alone.
Looking from one to the other, the native nodded slowly. "I am Legolas, of the Elven realm of Mirkwood. I know of neither Polaris nor Federation, yet you are courteous enough. Tell me," he looked sharply at Ryllaen, "how it is that I understand you."
Ryllaen grimaced, translated for the Polaran, then answered. "I am Vell-os, a telepath. We have that skill, to understand the sense behind the words and to allow others to understand us, no matter the language."
"You are a wizard." It was almost a question.
"Perhaps," he replied cautiously, not really comprehending the confusion of surface thoughts associated with the word.
"Legolas!" The cry arose from outside the campsite. Another Elf ran in; he shot a glance at the prisoners before delivering his report. "We followed the tracks. You guessed right: they extend a day's walk into the hills and stop where the blue flame fell. There are none others approaching or leaving the area in any direction."
"Vell-os?" Nil'Tanar spoke in a harsh whisper.
Ryllaen answered the demand without looking away from the Elves conversing nearby. "They found our crash site. It appears that we weren't just saved by good fortune - they were coming to see what the 'blue flame' was. They've decided we weren't in league with the... uh, 'orcs' - those creatures that attacked. They're trying to decide what we are. Seems they haven't seen anything like us before."
The Polaran laughed shortly. "No, I don't expect they have."
Looking around, Ryllaen could only agree. The inhabitants of this planet seemed primitive, though he sensed a depth to their minds behind the natural block they all seemed to possess. He doubted they had ever seen machine-woven cloth manufactured from synthetic materials before, or the metal of the Polaran's blades; he could see, off to the side, an Elf studying the knives closely, turning them over and over in his palms. And even in the Federation it was unusual to see a Vell-os, who were few in number; to see a Polaran at all was like seeing a myth come to life. Idly he wondered what the Elves made of them, who were so obviously different from both the Elves and each other.
The smell of roasting meat caught and held Ryllaen's attention. His mouth watered; looking across at Nil'Tanar, he could see the same reaction in the Polaran's expression. As one they stared longingly at another campfire where food was being prepared. Neither had eaten in days. It showed.
Legolas turned back to them. "You are trespassers. You will-" He stopped, seeing that they paid no heed to him. Following ther gazes, he smiled, an upward turn of the lips that was barely perceptible. "You are hungry. After you have eaten you will be taken to the king."
The palace was a welcome sight for the scouting party. It was not that the Men they had captured had given them trouble - indeed, they could barely walk and offered no resistance - but that they were strange, even to the most experienced Elf amongst them. The grey-cloaked one limped, using a sturdy stick for support; Legolas had allowed it, and had allowed them to walk with hands untied and unblindfolded, for they plainly could not move otherwise. He was dark-eyed and dark-haired, made darker in contrast to his pale skin, and moved like a warrior. Though he was young, if Legolas was any judge of the age of a Man, he was skilled; he had very few scars, and most of those were recent additions.
The other, pale as well, with hair longer and more unruly than any male Elf would have worn it, tired easily and slept so deeply it was hard to awaken him. It was he that made the Elves most uneasy. He was no warrior, that much was obvious, but they had seen him kill with condensed lightning that he seemed to shape out of the very air. He had a power the like of which they had not seen before. If Legolas had felt the slightest trace of evil in him, he would have been killed without hesitation.
The prisoners exchanged short words. The Elves listened intently, as they had to all such infrequent conversations. Though they could not understand the words they could hear the differences in speech distinctly enough to know that they spoke two wholly different languages; Legolas presumed they understood each other by the power of the Vell-os. The exchange was, as always, strained. They were not comrades, these two. Uneasy and unwilling allies, perhaps; no kindly feelings were lost between them. And yet they had both saved the life of the other.
The party passed through the gates into the caves of the palace. The Men said something, an argument or comment. Legolas halted abruptly outside the great doors to the throne room. This had to stop now. It had been acceptable in the forest, but not in the presence of his father, not when he suspected them capable of more. He turned to the Vell-os.
"You can hear and speak to me."
Ryllaen nodded, expression neutral.
"You can make it so that your companion can also hear and speak to me." That was a guess and a question.
He nodded again, warily.
"Then do so. And you will make it so that all within hearing can understand."
Ryllaen hesitated, then nodded slowly. "That is... more difficult. But I think I have the strength for it now."
Satisfied, Legolas motioned for the guards to open the great doors. He approached the throne, the prisoners and scout party trailing after him, and bowed. "My lord. Two Men within our borders. We found them fighting a raiding party: orcs and wolves."
Thranduil turned sharp eyes on the pair. "Who are you and for what reason do you trespass in my realm?"
The Polaran, who had glanced at his companion in surprise when they had entered the throne room, bowed with as much grace as his injuries allowed. "I am Nil'Tanar of the Nil'kemorya Polaris."
The Vell-os nodded, the gesture short but no less respectful. "I am Ryllaen, a Vell-os of the Federation."
Brow raised, Thranduil gazed at them. He had not missed any of the signs his son had picked up. "Where are these lands you speak of? They are not names of which I am familiar. Why have you come here?"
The Men looked at each other. It was obvious that they were waiting for the other to speak first, and equally obvious that neither was willing to yield. They glared at each other heatedly, their situation rapidly forgotten in the face of the escalating competition. After a long silence, Legolas and Thranduil exchanged amused glances. They knew how to wait, but their patience for such games was limited. The prince stepped forward, the movement slight and designed to draw attention.
Glancing at him, Ryllaen raised a brow at the Polaran. "Well? Are you going to answer?" He deliberately designed his tone to contain as much arrogant superiority as possible.
"Me?" Nil'Tanar looked annoyed. "I was not the one who-" He broke off the half-formed sentence, eyes straying to the listening Elves. "You brought us here, Vell-os. It wasn't my idea." Anger, there. No, they were not friends, these two.
Ryllaen's expression was a grim mask. "It wasn't mine either. If you hadn't held a knife to my throat I would not have been forced to jump with so little preparation."
Nil'Tanar laughed sharply. "So this is my fault? What did you expect me to do? Invading Polaris territory is not a good survival trait, Vell-os, and neither is attempting to take a Nil'kemorya captive."
"Attempt?" Ryllaen's smile was cutting. "It was easy."
The young warrior stilled completely, visibly fighting the urge to retaliate physically. When he spoke, his voice was brittle with fury and contempt. "Another second and you would have died yourself. You sacrificed two carriers for one Polaran warrior. I suppose that means nothing to you."
Ryllaen did not reply. His expression was harsh and unyielding. Yet under it... under it was hurt. Pain.
Thranduil frowned. This had taught him much, and left more questions. The sense of the words - for it was the sense conveyed by the power of the Vell-os and not the words themselves, which he could still hear in an undercurrent of strange syllables - were confusing, a depth vast and filled with unknown history. Ships and... stars? He leaned forward; the Men started as if they had momentarily forgotten where they stood. Judging from their unguarded words, Thranduil believed this to be the case, though he did not fully understand how the Vell-os could do so and still maintain the spell of understanding. "As you do not see fit to answer my questions, you will be held until such a time as you are more agreeable." He gestured; guards led them away, and most of the court also left at his silent command. Thranduil turned to his son.
"They are a mystery, Father," Legolas said quietly. He related the rest of his report.
"A mystery," Thranduil agreed. "A dangerous one. And yours to solve."
Legolas nodded; he expected no less, and would have been disappointed if his father had assigned the task elsewhere. It had, after all, been his idea to seek the source of the blue flame.