A/N: And chapter 17- hello again! Sorry for the wait- I've been planning this story out, and I actually think that it might reach 40 chapters...help. I can't seem to stop ahaha.
Light trickles in weakly through the stained-glass windows as Legolas is lead through the chambers of the Master.
The guards had not hesitated to let him in when he'd proven his claim with his distinctly fey features, and while he is aware that a visit from an edhel is rare, he still is surprised at how quickly they let him enter the Master's halls.
But perhaps Halls is the wrong name, he thinks ruefully, for the place he enters is not so much like his own Realm and its sweeping design, but rather a shadowed, squat building. It is far less grand than he had expected of a nobleman, with the floor beneath him an old, creaking wood, and the sitting rooms to either side of the entrance hall cluttered with slow-rotting furniture. He is not permitted to enter much further than these rooms, and is directed to stand in one by the guards.
At first he lingers by the doorway, unable to hide the prickle of unease at the heavy layer of darkness that spreads across the chamber. From walking amongst a bright forest and having sunlight pour into his skin, the contrast of the Master's house and its gloom makes the elven blood within him protest.
But with the eyes of the guards upon him, he reluctantly enters the room. What surfaces available to sit on are covered either with a thick layer of dust or overflowing with scrolls of paper, and he feels as conspicuous standing in the dim room with his red cloak and fine clothing as the bloom of a rose amongst dark brambles.
"If you'd just wait here a moment, Master Elf." One of the guards- an older Man with a tuft of ginger hair on his chin, and a fae tinged with impatience- says with a nod to an unstable-looking chair. "I will fetch the Master's councillor, who will bring down the Master for your pleasure."
"Very good," Legolas nods in return, and tentatively takes a seat on the edge of the chair. A damp, heavy smell of stale air, rotting wood and the pungent odour of unwashed skin hangs in the air, and he has to resist the urge to crinkle his nose. None of his people would ever abide by such mess in their Halls, but of course he is amongst Men now and they are every inch a different race.
The second guard, with the wide eyes of a youth, coughs suddenly. Legolas turns to look at him, simultaneously feeling a rise of curiosity from the mortal fae. The Man has a tussle of brown curls that dangle to his chin, and soft eyes the shade of spring-water. Yet again, it is his impossibly bright spirit that draws Legolas' attention; it blazes from the wide eyes, twists underneath what skin he can see from the layers of armour he wears.
"Is...pardon me, Master Elf, for daring to ask, but I can imagine your- your home- it must be quite different from my town?" The youth looks nervous for even daring to speak to him, his fingers twisting together.
Legolas feels warmth rise up in him, loosening the nervous knot in his stomach. Few people have so far displayed a curiosity for him that goes beyond staring at him, and he is eager to interact with one who is openly interested.
"It is," he agrees, folding his hands into his lap. The Man's eyes follow the movement, and linger over the rich folds of fabric which he wears. With the unashamed boldness of curiosity, he glances upon Legolas' childish braids and the pointed tips of his ears.
It is still uncomfortable, having another stare at the markers of his race- he feels the same way a bug would feel under the eye of a curious person, scrutinised in every way. But then, he is a Man, he thinks, and he probably hasn't seen an edhel before. And haven't I been unashamed in studying him too?
"My people dwell mostly in a great Hall to the north of Eryn Galen, in a section of caves hewn from living rock, but some still live amongst the trees in talans."
Curiously, the Man's cheeks flush red when he sees that Legolas has noticed the path of his gaze. It is as though the fire of his spirit will not be contained just to itself. "I- that must be wonderful."
"Living amongst rock or trees?" Legolas asks. "For I imagine living in caves is similar to what it is like to live here, dark as it is." He cannot help tease, and waves his hand to the dark room around them.
Again the Man flushes, and it is accompanied by a prickle of indignation from their brilliant fae. "We grow short of light in autumn, and the Master uses most of the candles available to brighten his house."
"So it is like our Halls, then," Legolas says lightly, eager to strike a similarity between him and these strange people. "For we too use as much light as possible to illuminate our homes, both of anor and candles."
The clomp of heavy feet upon hollow stairs immediately has the guard straightening, and their conversation is ended as suddenly as the thump of a book being shut.
Legolas feels his stomach tighten with nerves as there is the wash of another intrusive mortal mind against his senses. It is not long before a Man rounds the corner of the room, dressed entirely in black and with shifting dark eyes that fall immediately on Legolas.
Well- not on him, but rather on the wealth he displays. Luxury can be seen through the fabric he carries about his shoulders, and the gold that is caught in the strands of his hair. In the brief heartbeat before the Man offers greeting, he looks as though he is mentally calculating his very worth, the promises of glory Legolas will bring to their town. This thought clenches at his stomach, and a great sense of unease washes over him.
The mortal attempts a smile, baring yellowed teeth. "Welcome, Messenger of Thranduil." His voice is slick, like the winding flash of an eel, the wriggle of cold skin before it sinks hooked teeth deep into its victim. "I am Alfrid, councillor to the great Master of Laketown, who will be receiving you this way."
One hand extends from beneath the heavy black coat, gesturing out of the room. "If you'd please accompany me."
"Of course," Legolas says, and tries to hide the shake in his voice as he rises from the chair. All warmth is gone from him, and his skin prickles against the cool air, warning him of this unwelcome presence. Never has he felt such a warning shaken into him simply from being in the presence of another, but it is clear that the fey blood which lays claim to his veins will not allow such an oversight in his judgement. But why should a Man cause such a response?
His step is careful as he follows after the councillor, watches the sweep of the black coat just above the worn floorboards. The Man- Alfrid- leads him down a shadowed hallway and then into a room which stands as the receiving chamber.
He knows this from the Man which sits behind a cluttered wooden desk upon a carven chair embossed with gold. Stained windows stretch all down the wall, eager to draw in as much light as possible and illuminate the large figure which sits before him.
While it remains without the imposing sense that the throne-room of his father carries, he can still feel the faint echo of power circulating the room, something that all leaders must keep with them.
Yet the Man who sits upon his chair does not carry power in his fingers, nor in the blink of his eyes. Where Legolas has faced down glacial eyes and a form as still as that of a panther about to strike, he now stands before a Man thick with fat and with watery blue eyes that squint down at him from his seat. A Man who is apparently the Master of Laketown.
Dressed in a purple overcoat and with unflatteringly combed strands of ginger hair that dangle to his shoulders, he has clearly been in the act of drinking wine. The hair which sprouts and droops from puffy lips is stained red, and there is the lingering smell of heady wine in the air.
"Master," the councillor says from beside Legolas, and ducks his head down into a bow. "I present a Messenger from the magnificent King of Elves."
"Ah!" Says the Master of Laketown, and then immediately burps into the ruff of his sleeve. The sound is watery and so unexpected that Legolas nearly chokes on a bubble of laughter which threatens to escape, and has to bite down on his lip to keep from smiling. No leader has ever burped in front of him!
Despite his disbelief, the Man carries on as though nothing has occurred and raises a bejewelled hand, beckoning for him to step closer. "Welcome, Messenger of our great friend and ally, the eminent King Thranduil!"
This is the grand Master of Laketown? Legolas hopes the doubt does not show on his face as he inclines his head.
"I am here," he says, and to his humiliation his voice is no longer steady, but chooses to give way beneath the weight of his words. Quickly, he clears it and continues, "on behalf of my King, Thranduil Staff-Wielder and Defender of Eryn Galen, to deliver a message relating to trade between our peoples."
Uncertainty pulls at his chest as the Master leans back and adjusts his massive girth against the table. Do I read the message now? Or do I wait for his command?
"Well," puffs the Master, "I am sure it has been a long and arduous journey you-" he burps again, the entirety of his frame leaping with the sound- "have taken, to be here with us. Long indeed has it been since we have had word from the illustrious Elvenking Thranduil!"
"Long indeed," interrupts the black-clad councillor, and steps up beside Legolas, not hiding the look of envy as he runs his eyes across his frame. "We wondered if you'd forgotten us, as your kind tend to do."
Seasons of lessons in trade and polite words with Badhron rush across his mind, and Legolas inclines his head tightly to the councillor. "My people do not forget those we hold close to us," he says, and with a thrill of daring he meets and holds the Man's envious gaze. "And your people have been irreplaceable in their ferrying our wine and wheat."
Many times he has been told that no edain can bear the weight of an elven gaze for long- even one as young as his- and he is proven correct when Alfrid quickly slides his eyes to the bulging figure of his Master. Triumph rushes up his skin.
"Well said," the Master says, burping again. "For we do hold your King and people close to us, and his will is ever our- command. Now tell me, Messenger of the sagacious Thranduil Elvenking, have you eaten?"
"Eaten?" Legolas echoes, unable to stop himself. Belathon had told him that he was to read the message first, and then feast- not the other way around!
"Yes," the councillor speaks up for his Master, disdain tinging his voice, "eaten. My Master would not want his most well-regarded guest to be hungry before delivering his message."
Panic enfolds him. What should he do? Does the Master mean to break his fast with him?
"No- I have not eaten," he says slowly, glancing to the Master for signs of upset. The Man simply gives him a smile. "But I am not hungry. I have been provided with some waybread, and-"
"Pish-posh, come now!" The Master interrupts, his smile disappearing as he waves a hand. "Whatever elf-bread you have been supplied with will- pale- in comparison to my hearty food. Let us break our fast with a plate of- of- Alfrid?" The Man looks to his councillor. "What can we offer our most esteemed guest?"
"Whatever you wish, Sire." The councillor gives his Master another bow, eyes flickering to Legolas. Disdain rises from his fae as the choking tendrils of a vine. "I will go down to the Cooks and see that they summon some food for you both."
"Yes, yes, thank you Alfrid." The Master waves a hand dismissively, and with another sour look to Legolas the councillor thuds off.
"Now then," the Master turns his smile down to Legolas, leaning forward in his seat with a creak of wood. "Come closer, my most splendid guest- let me hear this message you bring from the sublime Elvenking."
Surprise jolts Legolas- he had expected that the Master would want for his councillor to be with him. It is as though every assumption he has made of these Men are unravelling before his eyes. "Do you not wish to wait for your councillor, leader of Laketown?"
"I can read without Alfrid's aid, Messenger." The Master returns, a hint of irritation in his voice. "Come now, read it for me."
"V-Very well." Legolas fumbles for his satchel within the folds of fabric, opens the bag and draws the scroll to him.
His heart pounds in his ears, reminding him of his purpose. I cannot fail- I mustn't fail- I must remember what Hissaelon told me-
The clearing of the Master's throat pulls him from his frantic thoughts. He takes a breath, nods up at the Man, and begins to read the elegant scrawl.
"To the Master upon the Lake, I, Thranduil Elvenking, wish you and your people well in this cold season of autumn, and hope that such changes in the waters of your town finds you all with plentiful stocks of food. For many seasons your people have been an irreplaceable trading partner with my Realm, providing us always with wine that reflects your hard efforts."
"Ever is the Elvenking gracious to us!" The Master interrupts, his broad face twisting into a grin. "Please continue, Messenger of the sagacious King of Elves."
Legolas takes a breath, looks down at the following words. "However as the days grow longer, and the Shadow spreads across my Realm, my council and I find that your- your-"
The words on his tongue still as he reads further on- his heart begins to beat quickly against his skin, a pressure that grows as he looks down the elegant line of words.
The message doesn't make sense.
While the scrawl resembles his father's hand, the words within the message do not. Not at all. He takes another breath, one that shudders in his lungs. About him all is still, the call of Men to one another far away and distant, as though the town is waiting for his words. "Your supplies of wine and grain, which have once brought my people great pleasure, are- are no longer required…"
"What?" The Master reels back in his chair, the wooden legs groaning under the sudden shift of his weight. His bloated fingers scrabble to grasp the arms of his chair, as though needing support. "What does he mean- no longer required?"
The blood roars in Legolas' ears as he reads on silently. The words before him seem to blur in and out of focus, taunting him with their meaning. The simple roll of parchment he holds in his hands, once seeming so simple, now weighs more than he can bear.
If he continues to voice the message, he will be ruining all trade and friendship between the town upon the Lake and his own Realm. He will be allowing not only his people to go hungry through relying on what food they can source from their forest, but also removing all hopes for the Men of the Lake for a prosperous life.
Yet since Belathon had given him this message- one from his own father- how can he refuse it? His stomach writhes. How can Belathon want me to read this? He wanted me to bring more wealth to my people, not end all communications with our allies!
"Well- is that all?" The Master's voice is shrill, and the sharpness of his tone jolts Legolas.
"No, sir, there is more." He admits, and his entire rhaw is stiff as he continues with a message that do not make sense.
"With the growing threat of the Shadow across my Realm, a decision has been made to- to withdraw all links of trade from my partners, and I wish only that-"
"WHAT? Alfrid!" The Master rises from his seat, struggling with his great girth. His ruddy cheeks have deepened to crimson, and the table trembles as he smashes a fist down onto the wood. The sound makes Legolas flinch. "You- you-"
"What is the meaning of this?" all solicitude is gone as the councillor returns from kitchens holding two steaming plates of food. Immediately he dumps the platters on the crowded table and rushes to the large Man's side. "Do you mean to give the Master a heart attack?"
"Not at all," Legolas returns quickly. His voice quivers, fingers crumpling the parchment he holds. I have to do something- this is wrong- "And- and I believe there to be a mistake, for my King gave no indiction that-"
"Don't give us your petty excuses," the black-clad Man hisses before he can finish his sentence. "We know how you treat those you see as beneath you! Master- Master come now," he turns to the outraged figure above them, "whatever this- this Elf said- it does not matter-"
"It does matter when he wants to withdraw our trade agreement!" The Master sputters, and his face is twisted into a glower as he looks down at Legolas. "Look at the parchment, Alfrid! Here- give it to me!"
"Sir," Legolas moves to take a step back, "I do not think you understand-"
"He said give it!" Without hesitation, Alfrid snatches the roll of parchment from his grip and hands it over to the distraught Man.
Anger roars in Legolas as equally as shock. "That message is from my King!" He says lowly, "and I only wish to remind you-"
The Master gives a cry, beating one hand against his chest. "Oh! It is true- look, Alfrid! The Elvenking wishes to- to-"
"Dump us," Alfrid finishes, eyes narrowed. He appears to have not even heard Legolas' words, nor sees the shock that stiffens his rhaw. "What thanks we get, for all our years of service to that stuck-up King!"
Outrage darkens Legolas' vision. "My fa- you should not speak so of my King!" He catches himself, voice lowering with anger. How quickly these Men turn from slick praise to insults!
How quickly the day which started so full of promise has now turned into one that carries the ugly scent of defeat.
Beyond his anger, misery claws at his throat. How could I have thought that I could have helped my people? Instead of bringing them glory and freedom, I have singlehandedly ruined all trade with the Men, and have failed Belathon and the promise I made-
The Master lifts his gaze from the paper, and looks down at Legolas. Whatever he sees has his eyes widening. "Oh- no, Alfrid, you speak too hastily. We mustn't lower ourselves to insults, not when we stand before the Elvenking's Messenger."
"Some Messenger," Alfrid sneers, and his dark gaze flashes- "look at him, sire! Not very tall, is he, for an Elf! I'd say sire, if I didn't know any better, that he wasn't even fully grown. No true Messenger of the Elves stutters like he does!"
All the anger is sucked from his bones at the councillor's words, and Legolas freezes. The truth has been noticed- his facade has lasted an even shorter amount of time than he'd hoped, and he is like an animal caught in a trap, twisting, searching for a way out. Ivon, help me!
"Don't be ridiculous, Alfrid!" By some merciful wave of fate's hand, the Master only gives a loud snort of disbelief. "Though he has proven to be wily and disloyal, Thranduil would not send a child to do a Messenger's work on his behalf."
Those beady eyes look down at Legolas, the line of his mouth thinning with a look of displeasure. "Now-" he lifts a hand, gestures to him. "Leave us. I wish to speak alone with Alfrid."
"Sir?" He can hardly breathe the word, for the shock of his near-discovery leaves his throat tight and his feet planted to the wooden floor, as though still awaiting discovery. Hissaelon was right, he laments, I should have kept my mouth shut.
"You heard him!" Alfrid snaps, flashing yellow teeth. "Leave us! Guards!"
The door behind Legolas open with a groan, and there is the rattle of a guard's armor. "Sire?"
"Take this Messenger to one of the guest chambers, and see that he stays there until I want him back." The Master flaps a hand in his direction, the other clenched tight around the scroll.
"Very good, sire." The wood beneath his feet shakes as the guard steps up to Legolas. The flare of the unfamiliar fae against his mind is unwelcome, unwanted, and brings his feet to move from where they stand bolted upon the wooden slats. "If you'd accompany me, Messenger."
His chest numb with shock, Legolas does not offer either the Master nor councillor Alfrid a nod, and simply follows after the guard without a sound.
A/N: Phew, I hope that was ok! This chapter gave me a fair amount of grief, but I did enjoy writing Legolas' reaction to the two slimy Men. I am curious to see what you thought of them- am I doing the Master and Alfrid justice?
Sindarin: Edhel- elf
Ivon- Yavanna- a revered Valar
Fae- spirit
Rhaw- body