Legolas felt goosebumps push up the hairs on his arms and legs, snake up his back, and climax at the back of his neck.
Before him stood a black cottage so small that it seemed a model, yet somehow its smoke stack rose high above and demanded attention. He had never seen anything like it before. It did not coincide with Elvish or Dwarvish design, nor did it resemble the culture of Rohan or Gondor. This cottage was made of black wood, with tiny windows with shutters and a stairway up to the front door. Vines grew up the walls and a miniature water wheel turned the small creek that ran past the side of the house. It might have been quite pleasant, were it not that the house was black and surrounded by brambles and mist and foreboding gray smoke which puffed out of the chimney stack, inevitably suggesting that, not only did someone live there but that they were home now.
Though confident that he had stumbled upon something quite extraordinary and meant to be kept secret, Legolas tried to tell himself that he had no reason to fear. Even were he not dead, he still had his weapons. Still, he felt conspicuous, as though his time was running out and that he was trespassing most unforgivably.
Just as the elf was about to stand, the door flew open, banging loudly on the outside of the house. But there was no one standing in its frame. The door had opened to receive – to receive him. There was no debating it now: his presence was known. He slowly stood, his legs shaking slightly. He slunk towards the cabin, quiet certain that all he truly cared to do was to run the opposite direction. But he could not. He was being beckoned and he couldn't help but give in to the faint glimmer of hope that the dweller of this cabin would know something that could help him find Estel. His throat was cold as his legs stirred up the mist that hung low on the ground and was strung amidst the skeletal bramble branches. He hesitantly stepped into the yellow light that fell from the door over the barren dirt. He looked up at the mullioned windows, hoping to find the form of the owner sitting inside. He wanted to know what he was dealing with. But he could see no one.
He stepped up the wood stairs, which creaked irritably and stuck his head inside the door to call, "Hello?" He received no reply. "Hello? I need your help . . . I'm coming inside." He called deep into the house, reasoning that the open door had been an invitation.
He bent down to go through the small door and found the ceiling inside much more accommodating. Straightening up and stepping further inside, he gazed around at the one-room home. He gasped and dropped back a few steps and fell to his knees with a stuttering cry. The low roof was covered in tangled, wicked-looking roots, which had herbs and deceased animals, and food drying from them. The walls, though wood, instead of mud, had little concaves in which candles burned, casting a low golden light over everything. A fire burned in the hearth, which had various cooking implements around it, and a caldron of soup bubbled within. Though the raised bed was not made of hard-packed earth, it did have a filthy quilt on it. There was a table near the fire which had seats carved out of stumps around it. Instead of mud, the mullioned windows looked out to the dark knotted forest beyond.
"Garrrrrrrraaaaaa!" Legolas screamed grasping his head. "H-How..? This is impossible!" And he shuddered and quaked, his eyes full of the image of a wood house version of Maeryn's mudhole home. It was identical, right down to the bowls that they had eaten soup out of, which now resided on their shelf by the fire.
"H-How can this be true? I'm dreaming. W-why would she live in this forest? Have I not travelled at all!" He screamed, his breath coming out in horrific tremors.
Is reaching Estel a hopeless impossibility? Is progress impossible? When will things begin making sense again!
The fire blazed happily, as though someone was home and dutifully stoking it. And all at once, the last element of Maeryn's home came flying in through the door. A raven that appeared to be Brom fluttered in the open door and landed on the table, munching on a struggling monarch butterfly. It swallowed and stared at the elf. Legolas felt scrutinized by the raven's piercing black eyes and began to squirm, wishing to be out of its vision.
Suddenly it began to squawk. It dawned on him that the door had opened to receive Brom, not him and as the bird cried, all the elf could think was that he was being ratted out. The bird's call intensified and Legolas quickly climbed to his feet, determined to escape the noise as soon as possible. The noise became a crescendo, growing louder and louder until suddenly all of the windows in the house blew open. In an instant, the room filled with thousands of ravens flying in through the windows and door. The squawking filled his head and was the loudest noise he had ever heard. Thousands of feathers slipped past his body, tickling his face, beaks nicking his skin, wings fluttering gusts of air all over him. A scream rose out of the elf as he found himself trapped inside a black mass that filled the house, a cyclone of birds, though the sound of it did not reach his own ears.
Then, all at once, the ravens began to leave. They flew out the windows, ten at a time. Legolas knew this as, though his eyes were clenched shut, the frequency with which he was pelted with a body became less and less. Finally he opened his eyes to find himself alone. Even Brom had gone. But before the elf had time to ponder the meaning of this bombardment, he heard a cracking noise, and the wood floor on which he stood jolted downward, sinking several feet, the moisture-less carcasses of ravens that had touched his bare skin sliding down, crowding his feet. Another snapping noise left the east wall at an odd angle to the rest of the house and the elf looked up to find a large crack spreading across the wall. The floor he was on had already fallen several feet into itself when he finally realized that the house was falling in.
That had been a warning! They knew!
Panic spread into his lungs and he coughed the dust that was falling off of everything as it began to crumble.
Get out! Get out of the house! He repeated over and over. But as he shook the fuzzy fear off of his mind, this became more and more difficult. He pulled himself out of the hole in the floor, leaving the dead birds to their deaths, and got to his feet on the remaining floor. The wall with the door cracked and began to descend into the north wall and pull the ceiling down with it. Boards, twisted roots and thatched roofing tumbled down into the hole that the Prince had just pulled himself out of. The floor fell out from under his feet and gravity pulled him once more into the house, his body crunching dried out bird bones. The north wall began to descend and though it should have ripped from the hearth, the hearth fell forward as well, the fire tipping out of its crude grate and onto the floor. The flames began to eat the wood greedily, spreading consistently around the remaining floor. Noticing the roofing collapsing, the elf curled into a foetal position as the wood fell upon him and flaming debris made its way into the hole from the table and bed.
Get out! Get out of the house!
The Prince could smell his cloak burning and he rolled on the slanted boards. He stood, trying to dodge falling wood and protect his head at the same time. He tried to get out of the hole once more, but he was now several feet down, standing in what would have been the root cellar and he could no longer step up. The broken flooring had formed a slide. He tried to run up it, but it was slick and he made little progress. The earth beneath the house seemed to be shaking as it self-destructed. Dust and dirt poured into his eyes and nostrils and he tried to run but he kept slipping backward into the hole.
Then the east wall gave way. Several tons of wood collapsed with a deafening blow and spread across the floor as though a floodgate had been released. The fire leapt forward and engulfed the new fuel. Smoke billowed under the boards and the fire ate at the wood, which became weak and was pulled down into the hole, burying Legolas.
For a moment, all the elf could hear was the sound of his own coughing. He had been knocked back into the hole and now lay curled on the cold dirt of the root cellar. Many pounds of debris and fire now lay upon him, separating him from safety. He couldn't move. He couldn't stop hacking. An old claustrophobia was creeping back in at the edges of his mind, threatening to take his lungs.
You've got to get out. A corpse can still burn! Stop coughing! He rolled onto his back and tried to push the wood off of himself. Come on!
"Raahh!" He screamed, straining every dead muscle and sinew in his body. He pushed the wood back with extraordinary difficulty, and stood, panting desperately, only to find himself chest-deep in burning wood. He looked around, frantic for a fireless exit. His only solution was out the window in the remaining wall, where the fire had not yet ventured.
He gathered up all of his strength and tried to leap from the hole to the remaining floor near the south wall. But as he did so, something caught at his neck. He was yanked rearward and fell on his back, grasping at his throat. His cloak was caught in the debris! A loud bang followed the fire's shattering of the glass in the front window. Legolas cried out in frustration as he tried in vain to remove his cloak. It wouldn't come off! The clasp was stuck, or perhaps his desperate hands were too clumsy for it.
He ducked, narrowly missing a flaming beam as it catapulted towards him. There was no time. He reached decisively to his sheath and pulled out the long knife. He stuck it roughly between his neck and the cape's fabric, grazing himself slightly and sliced. The old fabric cut away easily and he quickly replaced the blade in its hold.
He leapt out of the hole onto the scissored floorboards, which were now cut like teeth and scrambled up to the floor. He felt flame grabbing at his boots, and all at once, it surrounded him. The fire conveniently put itself between him and the window, reaching its arms high, deliberately blocking his exit.
He had one chance. It would work, or he would be cooked. He threw his body, shoulder blade first, out the solid glass window in a shower of shatterings and flew to the cool black ground, many feet bellow.
TBC