A/N: Hello! Here is chapter 16- this one was a bit of a tricky one to write- I fiddled a lot with scenes, deleted some, and added new ones. Hope it pays off!
The town upon the Lake is nothing like Legolas imagined it would be. Where he expects a well-designed, luxurious place that bustles with trade and colours, he is instead greeted with worn, closely designed houses, their textures faded and the wood groaning with rot.
There is little beauty to be found here, save for the misty waters and the sheets of ice which float upon the chilly waters. Anor's warmth is well hidden behind long-hanging clouds, yet the town's design still speak of days long past where their various spiralling towers and proud structures boasted a prosperous and happy people.
The barge-woman Ruthil says little on the journey to her town, except for a few mutters and curses when the barge threatens to run into what appear to be ruined structures. Legolas does not mind, for it is already distracting having her stand so close to him. In such limited space, her mortal fae prickles against his senses like the lick of flames, each and every emotion she carries racing up against him as lightening across his skin.
Where his family have always been careful with the sharing of emotions, well-aware of how overwhelming the rush and pull of their endless spirits can be against each other, there seems to be no restrictions nor caution within Men.
It is harder than he ever anticipated, trying to learn how to politely tune Ruthil out. What barriers he manages to raise are quickly flung aside as every facet of her thoughts seems to want to slam against him. He is buffeted about in the currents of her emotions as a tiny fledgling is in a great winter storm, unable to do nothing but rise and fall with her.
By the time their barge drifts past an overarching bridge and onto the heavy toll-gate of the town, Legolas finds himself shaken, drawn into himself. I suppose this is what the town of Men will be like, he attempts to strengthen his fae, draws on the memory of the forest and her Song, all of which stand in stark contrast to this watery world, and I must grow used to it.
Yet nerves bite at him even still, gnaw at his bones. He is far from his Halls of stone, from the forest he loves. There is no Hissaelon to speak for him here, to defend his words. He must do all that others have done for him, and the thought frightens him. I cannot turn back, not now. Yet I cannot risk failure for my people either.
"Halt!" A voice pipes from a lamp-lit building as they stop in front of the toll-gate. A man steps out, dressed in the same worn clothing as both Ruthil and the bargeman. He lifts a lamp, holding it up to view the individuals on the barge. "Goods inspection! Papers please."
"Mornin' Percy," Ruthil's voice is still rough, but marginally lighter than how she usually addresses him. With a groan of wood, she pulls on the rudder and brings the barge to a halt. The chunks of ice clink against the side of the barge.
The Man smiles, though his eyes soon flicker to Legolas' huddled form, and widen. There is a pulse of surprise from his fae, and then the slow creep of what he guesses is suspicion. "Ah, Ruthil. Good to see you. Anything to, ah, declare?"
With a pop of her joints, Ruthil stretches her arms and plods over and off her barge, landing with a thud on the wooden landing of the man's house. Legolas watches as her pale eyes sweep back to him dismissively. "Only that I carry a Messenger from the Woodland Realm."
"Well," the Man looks again to him, and this time his face pulls down into a frown. Even at the brief glance of their eyes, Legolas feels his heart pick up speed, already full of nerves. "I guess Alfrid can take them to the Master. But first- c'mon, let's sign your papers."
Without another look back to him, Ruthil follows the gate-keeper into the wooden house. Legolas waits, tucking his hands into the folds of his cloak. He has been careful to keep the satchel pressed against him for the entire journey, and even now he thumbs the soft material, ensures that neither it nor its contents have become damp.
The air contains a sharp bite, and while he is not affected by it, he shivers as anxiety runs down his spine and twists his stomach until his breath is sharp and shallow.
"From the Woodland Realm?" The gate-keeper's voice is sharp with concern. "We haven't heard from them for years!"
Though the two mortals stand inside the wooden house, Legolas can easily hear the hushed conversation between the gate-keeper and the barge-woman. It is rude to eavesdrop, he knows, but I should know what to expect if I'm going to see their Master.
"Yes, it's odd, I'll give you that." Ruthil admits. Her growling tones have dropped to a rasp. "But them fair folk don't come down from their woods for nothing. It'd be best to hear them out, I'd say."
"Alrighty then. If you think it best."
There is the rustling of paper, and the thud of what Legolas guesses is the stamp of approval on paper. "There you go."
"And what do I do with him?" Ruthil asks with a huff. "I don't want to take him to the Master- my bones ache for home."
"I'll send a boy for Alfrid. He can meet the Messenger at the town centre."
"Good. Oi, Elf!" Ruthil's bellow makes him jump in his seat. There is the clomp of boots and the red-haired woman marches out from the house and stands on the landing, hands on her hips. "You comin' or not?"
Caught off-guard, Legolas rises to his feet quickly, the bump of his satchel against him the only reassurance in a town that seems to move too quickly. "Now?"
"Yes, now! I don't have all day."
Carefully, Legolas pads off the barge and onto the wooden floor. It is almost a surprise to not have the ground beneath him rock or sway, and he takes a moment to steady his feet.
"Master Elf," the gate-keeper steps from the shelter of the house, nods at him, the wrinkled skin of his face folding into a wary expression. "We- Laketown-" he gestures clumsily to the town ahead of them, "are glad to have a Messenger from the Woodland Realm with us."
What does he say? Legolas, unsure, touches his racing heart and extends his hand towards the Man in the distinctly elven greeting. "Greetings, Man of Laketown. I am glad to be here on behalf of my King."
His words are smooth, perfect just as Messenger's should be. Yet Ruthil eyes his outstretched hand, and her eyes flicker with something close to outrage. Yet behind her eyes there is another shadow- one that lifts her brow and pulls at her mouth. As though she expects something of him. "You didn't give me so formal a greeting!"
Helpless, Legolas glances at her, and then at the Man. His eyebrows are high on his face as though startled. Did he not expect a gesture of greeting? Again, he feels as though he has crossed a line, stepped unwittingly into shadows where he knows nothing. Belathon- I wish you had taught me how to greet Men!
"I- did not mean to be so rude," he says quickly, trying to think of what to do. Though Ruthil is a simple barge-woman with a sharp tongue, he has always been taught to greet each and every of his people with respect. And he does not want to offend her and ruin the talks before they can begin. With slow movements of uncertainty, he repeats the gesture, making sure to meet the woman's widening eyes. "I greet you also, Ruthil Bargewoman."
Neither Men move, with Ruthil's face twisting as though she has just witnessed his father trip and fall flat on his face. A mix of despair and exasperation fills him- how has he overstepped now? Did he not greet her properly? Fool, I have done it again!
"We-ell," the Man says eventually, and his eyes look to the ground, the waters beside them. "I-I guess it's best if we let you two in."
"Yes," grateful for the intervention, Legolas nods. "That- that would be best."
The flash of copper curls indicates that the barge-woman agrees with them, and then she is striding back onto her barge, placing a hand on the rudder. Her face, for once, is as unreadable as the waters beside them. Yet as he follows her and takes his seat, the rush of her emotions against him are coloured with confusion, and the heavy weight of suspicion. Somehow through his attempt to be polite he has earned only her distrust, and he shifts in his seat, uncomfortable with the prickle of her gaze against his back.
"Raise the gate!" The gate-keeper shouts, and ahead there is the clank of armoured men on wooden platforms, and then the shudder of metal as the heavy toll-gate rises. Of course, being a mortal town they have no magic that keeps their gate closed, nor spells to open it, but it jars him- an unexpected reminder of the differences between their races.
Perhaps, he realises, they did not expect me to greet them in the elvish way. But how else would a Messenger greet them? I do not know any mortal customs, nor did Belathon tell me how.
These troubled thoughts are stilled as they travel through the town. It is overwhelming, the sudden surge of many mortal faes against him- each fly about him, speaking- shrieking- whispering of their troubles, their joys, their experiences. He does not dare to touch them, not when he already knows of their brightness, and so settles to looking at the buildings and people around him.
It is a world away from the carven Halls of his father. Gone is the filtered light, the elegant structures of wood and stone, the bubbling laughter and music of his people. This world, much like the Men themselves, is harsh and loud and- and completely fascinating.
Women peer out of their houses at the barge, some even waving down at Ruthil, while others chatter to one another with babes perched on their skirt-ladened hips. Men stride about the houses, haggle with one another, smile with their women-folk. Elders sit in the shade of their wooden houses, watching the barges go past them as they do the seasons.
And the children- where his people have but one or two elflings for the turn of many seasons, he is amazed to see how this town near bursts with manlings. They race about with the careless energy of youth, heedless of the icy waters only a footstep from their tiny, vulnerable bodies. Their faer to his awed eyes are the most brilliant of all, blazing with the light of their spirits as though the Star-Kindler herself has bent down and kissed a star into their skin.
His own spirit burns in his chest as it responds to the town. Where once it was content to wait out the seasons- the turn of his years, as he has heard Men refer to time- now it pulls at his very bones, tries to reach out and follow the twisting and turning of mortal time. All anxiety he has felt is lost amongst the pull of his spirit, eager to join in the rhythm of their lives.
And yet, he cannot follow them. He is made for the slow travel of earth, the ancient ageing of his people- unused is he to this race and crash of Men, their hasty paths and unseen fates. His fae is not for their twisting paths, their whittled lives; it is weighted with the bonds of his family. To try and break free of those bonds and follow after the town of Men, he is suddenly certain, would mean disaster.
The words of Hissaelon travel back to him."Beautiful their fëar are, and yet painful when we edhil find ourselves caught in their light."
I must not, he presses down on his chest and feels the leap of his spirit slowly sink back into its cage. I am of the Eldar. I cannot follow them.
Ruthil docks the barge by the marketplace, and even though anor is clouded and still weak in the sky, the trades-place is already bustling with Men. Several stop right in their tracks when they realise that there is an Elf within their town, and his skin shivers as the countless gazes of others land on him, travel and linger over the luxurious red cloak, soft leather boots and golden braids. A heady mix of fear and apprehension rises up in him, stiffening his limbs.
"Here is where you get off, Master Elf. The town centre is right through the marketplace- Alfrid will meet you there." The woman's mouth presses into a frown as she looks over him, the fine clothing he wears. "You'd best be off now."
Legolas shakes off the stiffness as best he can, standing on unsteady feet. His stomach twists with nerves as a ripple of surprise runs through the air as those who had not previous spotted him now do so. His ears twitch at the townspeople's hisses, their whispers and grumbles. "And- and what does Alfrid look like?"
Ruthil's gaze lightens until she looks almost amused. "Oh, you'll know that slimy piece of fish-spawn when you see him."
Completely unsure as to what to say to that, Legolas chooses to incline his head. Whoever this Alfrid is, it is clear that he is not a well-liked member of their town!
The woman nods brusquely in return, and taking his cue he steps from the barge and up and onto the wooden landing of the town.
Watching the town of Men is entirely different from being amongst them, he quickly realises. People do not care that they push into an Elf, and the spill of people about him is like the many currents of a river. All have their own purposes- men with white hair whose days should be spent in the shade of trees and resting, instead haul up fish-traps onto the paved stones, and women haggle for bread that Cook Maeasson would be appalled to serve.
It is overwhelming, to be pulled in a thousand directions, to have Men surrounding him and heedless that he stands alone and unsure of where to go. With only himself to guide his path, he finds his feet to be rooted on the stones, his chest aching as he recalls how once Faervel would have lead him around such a place without fuss.
No, he tells himself firmly, pushing down the ache of longing for his aunt, her familiar face. I am a Messenger now, not an elfling. I came here to trade, not to look back and miss my family.
But before he can take another step, the tugging he has felt ever since he has left the forest suddenly becomes a pull- and abruptly there is a great wave of emotions rolling over him- ones that do not belong to him.
Ada- the sweep of such a powerful mind is impossible to ignore, even though a lake and a forest lies between them. A roar of paralysing fear, breathless rage and countless other emotions strains the bond between them, and Legolas knows immediately that his trickery- his treachery- has been discovered.
But he cannot give in to this storm of emotions- not when the Master and his path awaits him.
Desperately he tries to pull away, draw himself out from the tumult of his father's grip. It is almost impossible- his father yanks at their bond until it becomes almost unbearable, searching for a way to pull him back to the Halls.
Legolas does not dare utter a sound, not when even the slightest of noises will reverberate down through their bond and possibly lead him to give way to the tightening grip. He instead thrashes as a catfish caught upon a line, resisting the reeling in of his mind, struggling furiously to keep his hard-won freedom-
Something slams into him, knocking him down to the hard touch of the warf. The slam of rough, wet wood against his hands and knees causes a snap to run up his mind as the heavy touch of his father is dislodged abruptly from the hold on his fae.
"Watch it!" Growls a clumping figure, a trap of fish hauled up on one shoulder. They don't pause to help him to his feet, but instead melt into the crowd as quickly as they appeared.
Legolas scrambles quickly to his feet, dodging the trample of heavy boots and disgruntled mutterings. His heart beats frantically against the inside of his ears as he checks the lump of his satchel, wipes his scraped hands on the fabric of his cloak. It is only through pure luck that he managed to-to-discourage- the painful grasp of his father's mind, and he is suddenly aware of how easily he can be distracted, how quickly a King's mind can fall upon him. Ivon that was close!
With a shudder he breathes in the cold air, feels it coil in his lungs. His entire body trembles, drained weak from the effort of holding back his father. This time there is no triumph to follow, but a slow ache that creeps up his chest and settles in his bones.
Trying to ignore the pungent odour of fish, he staggers on towards the marketplace. His legs wobble underneath him as he keeps to the side of the street, wishing to avoid the current of individuals who ebb and flow about him. Yet even despite his attempts, there is not one person who does not look at him.
Amongst such a hardened people, he is uncomfortably aware of his own differences- and somewhat grateful for the distraction it brings. Though their faer burn against his senses as a flame held against his skin, it is they who pause on the golden braids peeking from under the cowl of his cloak, they who linger over the the soft leather boots and finely woven tunic.
But rather than the admiration which Aeglostor once told him all mortals displayed upon meeting one of the Eldar, it is rather envy and longing that presses deep into their eyes. Hunger is swift to follow, and pulls at their mouths, drawing cruel marks across their faces.
Where earlier on the barge he had seen only joy and felt awe swell in his fae, now amidst them he instead finds a weary resignation, and tastes the slow rise of pity in his throat. Most put on smiles that do not reach their eyes, and rare are the people whose cheeks and arms are filled out with the indications of a constant supply of good food.
Yet their faer are still strong against his mind, full of a determined force that comes from seasons of living under such conditions. They are a hardy people, he tells himself when the crushing weight of pity slows his feet and shallows his breath, and will not want my pity.
Reaching the market-place, he finds that it is not well-named, for it barely consists of a few stalls tucked under the overhang of houses. All of the interwoven stands contain items that have none of the lustre of wealth; mostly it is clothing, or various assortments of dried fish-parts. It is a far cry from the luxurious silks of the King's Halls, the plentiful platters of food that his family once groaned over, but the stall-owners still watch over their meagre offerings with pride and bargain readily with their customers.
Yet he does not allow himself to linger in the wood-lined streets, nor peer at the trinkets and scraps of cloth on offer. Veering away from the stalls he continues on towards the town centre. While Men continue to openly stare, his mind is too full of turmoil to notice their glances.
Underneath his cloak, his fingers tremble against the satchel he clutches tight within his fingers. He is caught with fear- the fear of failure. His heart kicks in his chest at the thought of standing before the Master- the thought of trying to make conversation with a Man he does not know is daunting. It is what he has journeyed all the way to the town for, and yet- what if he fails?
What will he say to Belathon if he does not speak properly and persuade the Master? How can he possibly justify breaching his father's Halls if he returns empty-handed?
Or worse- what if the Master takes one look at him and sees that he is no more than an elfling dressed up in the clothes of another, and turns him away?
As he walks amongst the mud-lined street towards the town centre, Legolas forces himself to take a breath of the cool autumn air. He is of the Eldar- he should not quail before the idea of facing a Man, no matter how high his station! What is more, he has- through sheer luck- fended off the great mind of his father, and has faced down the elven-wise gaze of his own father when at his most furious.
How can any Man- even a Master- compare to standing before those cold eyes?
I must do as Hissaelon advised, he thinks as he reaches the centre, stepping aside for the people who pass him. I must act not as a Prince, but as a Messenger of the King whose word is my law. I cannot accept anything less than what the King asks. I must do all of this, if I am to be believed, and be successful.
He is surprised to find the square swept clean of all muck, oddly contrasting to the surroundings about it. And the house which branches forth is no less impressive for it being old wood, boasting a massive structure and many colour-stained windows. It stands amongst the faded houses and old structures as a brightly-coloured jay bird amongst brown-feathered wrens.
Ivon- he sends up a quick prayer to the Lady of the Forest, pleads for her favour as he steps up into the sweeping balcony of the house. His fae leaps in his chest, following after the anxious sweep of his mind. Let me speak well!
Up the broad flight of wooden stairs he goes, and stops before the guards posted there. By now he is sure that word has travelled of his arrival, for neither of the armoured Men move to stop him.
"I am here as a Messenger on behalf of King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm," Legolas says, and his voice is as steady as the smooth surface of a deep pond. Even so, a tremor run through his fingers as he reaches up and removes the hood of his cloak, exposing his golden hair, the pointed ears. "I seek words with the Master of your town."
A/N: Sindarin- Fae- spirit
Faer- spirits
Anor- the sun