A/N: Hello again! This chapter is a long one, but its pretty important as we get to meet our favourite Bargeman.
Hope you all enjoy!
Also, just a FYI- I have put the conversation between Legolas and Hissaelon in italics just so you can get the sense when they are speaking Sindarin, as to when they are speaking Westron with the Men. Up until they meet the Men, just assume that they are speaking Sindarin :)
"We are nearing the port of the bargemen now. Can you sense their fëar?"
From where he walks beside the Avari, Legolas glances at him in surprise. "Do Men have a fae?"
"All of Ilúvatar's creations do," Hissaelon answers after a pause. Legolas suspects it is one of surprise, and he flushes almost as red as his cloak. Though he has been well tutored, it is obvious that Badhron is no match for an Avari in matters of elven-kind.
"It would not do well that a Man had only a hröa, and no fëa to guide him," the Avari adds. "Second-born though they may be, but Ilúvatar's creation they remain. Now focus. Can you sense it?"
Breathing in, Legolas tentatively reaches out- and nearly leaps out of his skin. Before the touch of his mind, the spirit of Men burns against his senses as a flame, hot and unbearable even from a distance. "Hissaelon! They-they're so strong! Will they not burn themselves out?"
"Yes," says Hissaelon solemnly, though Legolas thinks he can see a sparkle of amusement in those ever-green eyes. "They carry the Doom of Men with them, so their fëar is as a sudden burst of energy, as brief as a butterfly's life amongst ancient trees. Beautiful their fëar are, and yet painful when we edhil find ourselves caught in their light."
How strange they are! Legolas cannot help but reach out again, feel the dance of their burning light against his mind. It is completely different from the fae of his people; where they are as constant as the flow of a river, rising and falling, tied to the world around them, the Men's faer leap and spark like embers leaping up from a fire. "But- they could slip out of their rhaw at any moment. Why-"
"Hush!" Hissaelon's voice lowers into a growl, and the tall figure pushes Legolas behind him and slides into a crouch, one hand flying to the set of daggers at his hip. The pale eyes travel to the river, where Legolas can hear the groan of wood and the rasping breath of someone pushing their way upstream. "Someone approaches, and at speed!"
"Is it not a Man?" Legolas asks in a hushed tone; already he can feel a painfully bright fae pushing against his mind and senses. Why does it draw such a reaction from his friend?
The Avari tilts his head, blinks slowly. His eyes are no longer fixed on the river; rather, they travel to the forest ahead of them, scan the trees and their waving limbs. "No, it is a shadow that crosses into the forest- and I do not know where."
But the unsteady bulk of a very full barge turning the bend of the river distracts them both. A tall figure in brown directs the barge through the spray of the water, and calls to them in the strange Westron tongue. "Ho there, elves!"
Slowly, yet with the careful movements that comes from seasons of experience, the Man nudges his barge towards the port, eases it to dock. Up close Legolas can see where the spray of the river has hit his clothing and darkens the tattered material. Yet while his coat is torn and with the ragged look of age, a smile still remains on his face.
Hissaelon inclines his head in a small nod, Legolas hastily following suit. "Welcome, Man of Laketown."
He is a curious creature- the first Man he has seen- with dark hair that falls to his shoulders, and yet is streaked with strands of grey. Bearing a tall, sturdy frame with ease, the Man does not carry his fae beneath his skin or behind his eyes, but instead seems to burn with it. Buried even as he is under the brown coat and ragged clothing, his spirit is almost impossibly bright, and pours out of every corner of his being.
What intrigues him most, however, is the fact that the Man has a massive long-bow strapped to his back, one that gleams and shows off fine-grained wood that has been polished to perfection. It is a bow that sings of its own nobility, and of a master who has cared for its fine wood for many seasons.
"Are you of King Thranduil's folk?" The Man calls, his face wavering between polite friendliness and an ingrained wariness.
No doubt he is observing the way Hissaelon has slid into a crouch in front of me, Legolas realises.
"We are," Hissaelon says after a beat, easing out of his crouch. Without warning the tall Elf steps aside to allow Legolas full view of the Man. "And I have with me a Messenger for your town."
The Man's dark eyes land on him. "Ah," he says, and his voice is rough, as though wood that has not yet been sanded down. "I greet you, Messenger of King Thranduil."
"Is that really a longbow?" Legolas breathes before he can stop himself.
Surprise darts across the Man's face, and Legolas feels the tip of his ears burn as he remembers that he is a Messenger for the King, and all will expect him to behave as such. "Oh," he tries again, finds his voice to be embarrassingly rough, "I mean, I greet you also, bargeman."
Some of the wariness on the Man's face fades as he offers Legolas a small smile. "You elves are fond of your bows, are you not? I shouldn't be surprised at such a question! Yes, Messenger, this is a longbow."
"It is a beautiful bow." Legolas says, feeling strangely exposed. He doesn't know what to expect- or what to say to this stranger.
But compliments always ease the way into a good conversation, Faervel whispers in the back of his mind.
The Man nods, but he can see the same surprise flicker across his weather-worn face. "That is high praise coming from one of the fair-folk; I thank you. It is a heirloom of my family."
It is Hissaelon who steps forward and speaks, and Legolas feels relief rush through him. "Would you take this Messenger to your town as soon as you are able? He has urgent news for your people."
Somehow, though he has only uttered a few sentences, Legolas feels as though he has tripped up in so many ways that a true Messenger never would. Who knew that acting as another could be so strange?
The Man grimaces at the Avari's words. "I would be able to, but not for a few more hours at least. I must first wait for the return of my barrels from your King."
Ada. Legolas stiffens. If his father hears of the bargeman conversing with two of his people by the river, he will surely guess it is him and send guards to track him down. His heart begins to beat loudly against his ears.
Hissaelon only rolls his weight to one foot as though the matter is of no inconvenience. "Well, does another barge approach, one that can see this Messenger to your people quickly?"
The bargeman pauses, and then nods. The sunlight shines over his dark head, the careful eyes which watch their movements almost as carefully as they do his. "Yes- I could get Ruthil to take you to the Master, if I take her barrels."
Legolas glances at his barge; it is already full with barrels of wine, and no doubt heavy. "Will the added barrels not be too much for you, Master Bargeman?"
Both the Man and Hissaelon pause, and again he is flooded with the distinct sensation that he has somehow overstepped a line. But what line, he does not know. Glancing at Hissaelon gives away nothing; the Avari is as still as an ancient tree. Has he offered the Man insult?
He looks to the Man, yet finds the lined face to be unusually still, the dark eyes shaded. He offers him no signs that he is offended, but there is something in his posture that makes Legolas' stomach twist.
"No," the bargeman says at last. His voice is quiet against the rush of the river. "No, I know this current well, Master Elf. But I thank you for your concern."
"You speak as a Prince, not a Messenger." Hissaelon says quietly in a voice that Legolas distinctly recognises from the occasions that Faervel has chided him. "What you say is what a concerned Prince would say, not a Messenger who thinks only of what he must say and what he must do. You will raise suspicions if you do not adjust."
"I do not know how to!" Legolas protests. "I only know how to be a Prince, not a Messenger."
"Then from now do not speak!" Hissaelon says, his voice sharpening. "Unless you want a sharper Mortal to realise that you play a facade with their trade, do not speak until you reach the town. And then, once before their Leader, speak only sparingly, and only from what your message says."
"Is all well?" The voice of the bargeman draws both to end their hurried conversation.
"Yes" says Hissaelon, his face and voice as smooth as the wood of a birch tree. "When does your other barge arrive?"
The Man glances behind him. "Soon, I would think. She was only just behind me."
"Then we shall wait." Hissaelon says simply, and gestures for Legolas to sit on the stones beside him.
As soon as he is seated, the Avari leans in and begins speaking rapidly. "Listen now, nethben. When you enter that town of Men, you are no longer a Prince. You are a simple Messenger from the Elvenking Thranduil, whose word is law. You must act as such. From what travels back to me by the trees and animals, all of your King's messengers do not accept, nor give quarter to, anything less than what their Message asks. You must do the same, if you are to be believed."
A shadow of fear bubbles up in his chest, and for the first time Legolas dares to reach out and grasp the warm skin of Hissaelon's wrist. It is smooth as polished wood under his fingers, yet muscles roll underneath, surprised at his touch.
"Can you not come with me? I only- I have never spoken before any person of power, and you will be out of reach of my father's anger…" He begs, even though his fae whispers that Hissaelon is as part of the forest as it is of him- and Legolas has chosen a path that is to be walked alone.
A shadow crosses the Avari's face, and gently, more gently than he thought possible, he lifts Legolas' trembling fingers from his wrist. "No, nethben. My journey ends here, by the river."
The thought of leaving behind his last connection to his family, his forest, makes something deep within his fae ache. "Then," he swallows past the ache, and manages a weak smile, "then I am glad you came this far with me."
Hissaelon blinks, and says nothing. His eyes, the same ever-green as the forest, travel to the silver waters in front of them and stay there.
"Here she is!" The bargeman calls, and Legolas looks up to see another vessel, slightly smaller but still laden down with barrels, making its way upstream to them. It is a mortal woman who takes control of this barge, and unlike their bargeman she carries no longbow, but rather a scowl that would put Aeglostor to shame. As the bargeman before them, her own fae shines against her skin and slams against his senses as the sudden exposure to sunlight, overwhelmingly bright to his mind.
"Oi, thanks for leaving me behind, Bard!" Her voice is as rough as unsanded wood, and loud. Puffing loudly, she guides her barge upstream to where they all wait. "You know I would have caught that current before you, if you hadn't of slipped off before I'd had my barge checked."
A faint smile crinkles the bargeman's face. "It is good to see you too, Ruthil. I have here a Messenger for the Master who needs immediate transportation in place of your barrels."
The woman- closer to them now, wears a similar ragged coat and clothing as the bargeman, only with bright red hair and a smattering of freckles- scowls up at Legolas and Hissaelon. "Which one? Tall, dark and mysterious, or short, blond and younger than my witch's hairs?"
The bargeman makes a sound that is suspiciously close to a chuckle. "The short one- Master…"
It is only when Hissaelon looks down at him that Legolas realises the bargeman is addressing him.
"Oh- Legolas! I am Legolas" He says hurriedly, trying not to trip over the syllables. It will be a miracle indeed if they do not guess my age by the time I reach the Lake!
The woman snorts. "Alright then, Master Legolas." Her voice does not quite catch the elven inflection of his name, and it makes him hide a smile into the corner of his cloak. "Let me just hand over these barrels to Bard and we'll be on our way to the Master."
"The Master?" His voice sounds young even to his ears. "Is that your King?"
"King?" The woman splutters, hacks, coughs and spits something dark into the water. "King? Aye, he'd wish he was one!"
"Well, he's got enough gold to be counted as one…" The Bargeman says, peering over to the other side of the river as though its Song calls him.
"No, he ain't our King!" The woman- Ruthil- growls over the Bargeman's low voice. "He's just our Master. The one with all his fat fingers in all the pie-holes in Laketown. Now, before you weed-eaters ask any more questions, would you please give me a minute to give my load to Bard the Noble."
"She doesn't seem very happy" Legolas comments quietly to Hissaelon. "And why did she call us weed-eaters? Don't they know that we eat as much meat as they do?"
The Avari glances down at him. "Most of the Second Born aren't very knowledgable or content, especially those that live on the lake."
Ruthil and the Bargeman grunt as they heave barrel after barrel first onto the dock, and then back onto the Bargeman's already laden vessel. The effort seems costly, for both pause to swipe at their foreheads with each barrel they wrestle onto the dock.
"Should- should we help them?" Legolas asks quietly. It is strange seeing two individuals struggling with a task that would, if he were in the Halls, require only one edhel, and pity worms in his stomach. Bright though their faer are, he is reminded again of the physical weaknesses of Men.
"Would a Messenger of King Thranduil offer to help a Man who knows what they are doing?" Hissaelon returns pointedly.
Legolas reluctantly notes that a Messenger of King Thranduil would not do such a thing, and nudges his toes into the cracks between the stones.
After much puffing and grunting, the two mortals finish their task, and stretch their limbs with groans before clambering over to their respective vessels.
"Let's go, twig!" Ruthil calls. "I don't have eternity unlike you lot!"
Even the warm rays of anor cannot stop Legolas' rhaw stiffening as though he is frozen over. His fae twists painfully in his chest, already resenting the parting from someone who has turned so quickly from stranger to friend.
Turning to Hissaelon, he finds the Avari already stretching out a hand in farewell. "Namarie, nethben." He says slowly. "May all the stars shine down on your head and guide you safely home."
"Hannon le, Hissaelon" Legolas says numbly. Gazing up into the green eyes that turn as pale as new leaves, he tries to smile. "And may the Valar greet you warmly when you at the end of Arda return to Mandos' Halls."
By the widening of his eyes, Legolas knows that he has correctly spoken the ancient farewell of an Avari edhel. But what is more surprising is having the ellon grasp him by the shoulders and hold him close, until all he can see are eyes darkened with a frightening intensity.
"There be in the town of Men a Man who is brave and noble and wise" the Avari says quickly. His voice is low, carrying the same hum of magic as when his people would call their magic and wield spells at their fingertips. The words beat against his chest. "He is the one worth following in the end. Remember this, Legolas Thranduilion!"
"Right, let's go!" The rough call of the woman shakes both Elves from their farewells. Legolas leans into the heavy weight of his friend's touch, reluctant to leave behind the ellon who has so quickly turned from stranger to friend. Yet I must, if I want to fulfil my promise to my people.
As though sensing his hesitation, Hissaelon releases him. "Go now, nethben."
Gingerly, Legolas turns and steps onto first the Bargeman's vessel, who watches him carefully, and then jumps over to Ruthil's barge. The vessel rocks unsteadily underneath his feet, and the wood creaks when he settles down on the seat provided.
The woman's watery green eyes glower at him, her face twisted in unease. "You ain't going to cry, are ye, Elf?"
Vehemently, Legolas shakes his head. He can feel Hissaelon's immense fae push against him, and a wave of strength carries between them, draws his shoulders to stiffen and his voice to steady. "I will not." No Messenger of King Thranduil thinks of crying when on their way to deliver a message.
"Good," she says roughly, grunting as she pushes the barge off the bank of the river and into deeper water. "I don't have time to deal with such hysterics. We have a lot of water to cross and at great speed if ye want to get to town before noon-high."
Ruthil's words eventually fall into silence as they make their way downstream, yet he cannot find it in him to speak. Only the splashing of the river and the distant call of birds breaks past the ache of parting inside of him.
By the time Legolas finds the strength to look back, Hissaelon has already melted into the fringe of trees, and he knows himself to be utterly alone.
A/N: And so the real journey begins... Legolas has no idea what's about to hit him.