CHAPTER 18
From the cramped receiving rooms, Legolas is taken to an equally small and poorly-lit guest room. It is filled with only a vanity, basin and bed to stand out against the peeling walls and the distinct odour of mothballs and the whiff of fish. When he perches on the edge of the bed- laden with a patchwork quilt and lumpy pillow- it gives an unhappy creak.
The guards do not bother with words- having most likely heard their Master's bellowing, both eye Legolas with varying amounts of suspicion- and are quick to shut the door behind him.
Legolas' stomach twists, tight enough to hurt. The walls and floorboards might as well be blank, for all he can see is the look of disdain and horror on the Master's face. I have failed the one thing I was meant to succeed in!
The thought is bitter against his tongue, but worse still is the fear of returning home to his father's Halls and receiving nothing but anger and outrage. Belathon will not even bother to look at me- and worse, I will have let down my entire Realm.
A whisper of cool air touches his face, stirs him from the ache in his chest. There is a window that has been left slightly ajar to allow in some of the sharp autumn breeze, and it promises the sort of relief that accompanies a high perch and solitude.
Freedom from the stifling room is all he can think of, his limbs trembling and heart pushing to escape. He does not dare risk misplacing his most prized possession, so with as much ease as he can find in a long cloak and satchel, he jumps up onto the sill and crouches on the balls of his feet.
The drop beneath the window is a steep one, ending only in the promise of icy waters- a slash of blue against the drained wooden paths below. However, being on the top floor of the Master's house, the overhang of the roof is close enough for him to brush his fingers against…..and- there!
There is purchase against the slick tiles, a crack in their worn wooden slats, and with a puff of air and flex of his legs, Legolas pushes off the sill and hauls himself up onto the outcrop of the roof, limbs trembling with the effort. For a heartbeat he dangles midair, the safety of the windowsill abandoned and his rhaw shuddering.
But Legolas recalls the times where he has climbed up trees and leapt from the safety of spell-sung stones, and with one final swing of his legs, he lifts himself up onto the roof, the breath sharp between his teeth and his heart pounding triumphantly.
The reward for his efforts is the entirety of the town stretching out before him, whether he looks left or right. He can track each barge as it travels through the paths of the town, and watch the Men as they go about their business. There is peace to be found in their movements, the way they find their paths no matter that the mist rolls out onto the houses and trickles down the town.
Beyond the town, the steep climb of the Lonely Mountain is cradled in the light of the sun, dimmed though she is by the grasp of clouds. Where the town does not contain the same majesty as his forest, Legolas realises there is beauty in the ripple of the lake and the light of anor slipping through the clouds.
And just as he'd hoped, the relative height of his perch allows him to be distracted from the failure of the talks, and the weight of humiliation in his chest. The harsh air brings a slow trickle of relief and carries with it the faint scent of his forest, far away though he is from its autumn-shaded leaves.
He takes a breath. Slowly, the panic that had been swallowing him whole begins to retreat, slinking out from him.
Though the message and its contents is disastrous, there surely must be a way for him to get through the talks. Belathon knew what he was doing when he gave me the message- he trusted me to be diplomatic, to find a solution to this strange proposal.
And even though he feels as though the talks hold the same impossibility as him having to traverse the Misty Mountains in a night, he has sworn to help his people. He must be strong- steel himself to what is to come.
I made a promise to them- to make them proud, to honour them, and I cannot falter now. Not even with a message as difficult as this.
To his surprise, Legolas finds a guard waiting for him when he returns to his cramped quarters. They stand by the open door, and warily watch as he slides down off the windowsill and drops with a thump to the floor.
"Messenger," the guard says, "your presence is requested at the Master's feast this night."
A feast? He has been dreading the guards storming in and ordering him to return to the Halls! Not….not for an announcement to attend a dinner in front of the entire town!
"Of course," Legolas agrees hastily, even though confusion clouds his mind, and unease stirs in his chest. Perhaps the Master will try and debate with him at the feast? While it is not the custom of his people to throw about political discussions when feasting, the Men of the Lake perhaps prefer such discussion.
There it will be the time where I must prove my worth in words, he thinks as the guard departs from his room. Like Hissaelon had warned him, he must try and uphold the underlying demands of the message. He mustn't give way to anything less than what his King asks…
Give way?
An idea stirs in him and steals the breath from his lungs.
He won't be giving way if he debates with the Master and somehow- accidentally- makes an agreement with the Master to escape the knot the message has tied them all in. He would simply be bartering for a way to keep both his people and the Men happy!
But battling with words can be dangerous, Lhosben's oft-given advice- cautions him. While you could find that where you mean one thing, they perceive many more.
It takes a moment for Legolas to swallow down his doubt. He never has been any good at winning arguments- the last few days prove asmuch. This task will take care, then, and a wisdom he does not have- but must play at having.
But above all else, he must restore what honour he can to both the Men of the Lake, and his people.
Eru Above, he thinks desperately, let me have the right words!
The rest of the day passes swiftly. Confined to his rooms, Legolas nibbles on a corner of lembas when his hunger grows too great to ignore, and clambers back onto the roof to watch the day hurry on. Though he is restricted in his movements, it is not like before- not like when he was nothing but an ornament for his Realm.
Here he is a guest, someone who has a purpose, and that thought eases the unhappiness that surges with the limited quarters.
The guards who stand fidgeting outside of his rooms do not seem to care that he leaves behind the small quarters for the fresh air and endless sky outside of his window. It makes his heart thrill to watch the town at work, as he would thrill to sit at the top of a tree and listen to the world move around him.
How fascinating Men are! Several times he spies the same menfolk striding back and forth from the docks to the market, carrying basket after basket of items, and the same women stand guard over their stalls and shops. Instead of following the journey of anor through the sky, the inhabitants of the town seem to race against her light, rushing to complete their day's work in what little time is left to them. Even the children heed the change in her light, obediently following their parents' calls to return indoors when the town begins to seep in shadows.
A familiar ache stirs in his heart as he spots several children tumbling into a worn, warmly-lit house. Their eager, piping voices drift up to reach his ears, and he listens as they repeat the day's adventures to the amusement of their weary, welcoming parents. He does not dare touch the dormant bonds in his fae, not when his head still rings with the faint echo of his father's power, but the ache deepens nonetheless.
Beneath him, the door to his room opens with a groan and the surprised voices of a guard reaches his ears. "Where's he gone now?"
Alarm makes his heart leap. The feast! Looking to the sky proves that he has allowed the day to slip through his mind with little care. Already anor is decorating her surroundings in splashes of pink and orange, encouraging her shadows to spread.
"Ai, you fool!" He hisses. Quickly, he slides down the tiles and swings back down onto the windowsill. The surprised face of a guard greets him when he perches on the old frame. "I am here."
"The- the Master asks that you join him in his feast." His guard is not a tall Man, but his fae gives the illusion of filling the room to bursting, and Legolas tries not to squint against the sudden waves of unease and wariness pushing against him. "You can leave your satchel and cloak behind."
"Of course," Legolas is careful to smile at the Man as he slips down to the floor and puts aside his cloak and bag. The sudden absence of weight from his hip and shoulders feels strange, and he hastily smooths down the crinkled lines of his tunic.
"I- I did not bring any finery with me," he admits as he follows the Man from his room. "Do you think this tunic is…is well-suited?"
They are the words of a child, and Legolas flushes immediately with regret. But all the guard does is spare him a single glance. "'Tis fine enough."
The walk to the feasting room is in silence, for the Man's stiff shoulders give a clear sign that conversation is not wanted. Legolas does not entirely mind, as nerves are beginning to flutter in his stomach.
Somehow I must negotiate for trade to continue between our peoples, but act as though I have been forced into such a position. The anxiety grows in strength until he feels as though an entire flock of ravens have taken up refuge in his stomach. I must stay calm, and speak well-
The guard halts before the open doors of a once-finely decorated room. It is the largest room he has seen in the town, with an arching ceiling and the wallpaper a faded green, trimmed with gold. A table stands in the centre, near-buckled under the weight of platters of food still hot from the kitchens.
And there is a distinct absence of people- only the Master sits at one end of the enormous table.
Legolas glances uncertainly to the guard. "Where are the rest of your people?"
The guard returns his gaze with a look of confusion. "The rest?"
Confused, Legolas gestures to the room and the food-laden table. Uncertainty makes his stomach drop. "Do you… do you not feast with all your people?"
The guard's answer is cut off by the Master rising, with some difficulty, from his full plate and plush chair. "Ah! Messenger Elf, do come in!"
Legolas has little choice but to obey. Whatever polite words of greeting he had prepared instead dry out against his tongue, caught in surprise at the revelation that a feast for Men equals to what he would think of as a private dinner.
His words will have to be far more careful than if he were surrounded by others. Men and their customs….
The Master does not seem to care at his silence, and waves for him to sit at the opposite end of the table. Dressed in purple, the Man has clearly made an attempt to appear more regal, for his beard and hair have been combed neatly back. The attempt is marred slightly when Legolas notices the grease already lining his lips.
"I am glad to see you here, Master Elf, and would like to extend my apologies for the morning's…events. I was, ah, surprised at your King's message, but no more! Tonight I am here to feast and honour my most sagacious guest."
At last Legolas reclaims his speech. "It is no matter, Master of Laketown. I- I should have offered you and your people explanations for the meaning behind my King's words-"
The Master raises a bejewelled hand, and Legolas instinctively falls silent. "Come now, Messenger, let us forget diplomacy and feast instead! Alfrid!"
At his call, there is the thud of reluctant feet and the councillor appears by the doorway. His dark gaze is unreadable. "Master?"
"Fetch this fine Messenger some wine, would you?" The Master asks smoothly, glancing to Legolas. "You are preferable to wine, are you not?"
"I-" Legolas nods slowly, stomach tightening. He can't refuse. "I am."
The heady drinks his father and brothers openly prefer have never been made available to him, and Faervel had always taken care to limit his consumption of even the watered-down stuff. His people are not exempt from the effects of such strong drink, how it can cloud even a well-hardened mind.
Now though, he senses that to be a gracious guest, he mustn't refuse. Even if he wants to.
"Well, of course you are!" The Master replies in a manner that is almost theatrical in its loudness, "you are one of King Thranduil's folk- and he has always been partial to our wine." He chuckles at this, smiling down at Legolas.
"That is true," Legolas summons a hollow smile. Through wine he managed to escape the Halls, and he does not like the thought of drinking it now. Not when he needs all the wits he can summon. "And my King's reliance on it should- will continue for many more seasons, if…if we can talk."
"Talk?" The Master pops a slab of meat into his mouth and wipes his grease-slick fingers on the breast of his tunic. "On- on what?"
"On the message I brought to you today," Legolas says, and nods politely to Alfrid's hand as a large goblet of wine is set down beside him. The powerful scent of the dorwinion reaches up to him, an inescapable reminder.
Maybe he could feign drinking? Take small sips?
"We feast tonight, Messenger," Alfrid sneers down at him. "Not talk politics. We have heard quite enough of what your message says."
"Peace, Alfrid," the large Man raises a hand to his councillor. "I wish to eat, not argue."
"Sir!" The wooden floor shudders under the rapid steps of heavy feet, and the doors groan as a guard stumbles through. His fae is practically sparking off him with the intensity of his alarm, and immediately scatters the tentative peace that had begun to grow. "Sir, there- there-"
"What are you doing?" Alfrid rounds on the guard in a whirl of black robes. "We are having an important meal here-"
"Dwarves-" gasps the guard, and every muscle in Legolas' body tenses at the word. "Dwarves have been found in the armoury."
Naugrim? So far south? Ivon Above- could it be?
"How many?" The words fall from his mouth before he can stop them. The chances of dwarrow appearing in the Men's town are so slim- and yet…..It can't be. Can it?
The guard's brow crinkles. "I- I don't know. Twelve? Thirteen?"
Ivon… Legolas' throat goes dry. The same number as in his father's prison.
"No matter how many there are!" The Master's eyes are wide with alarm. "What matters is what they are doing here! And in my armoury!"
"They wait outside, sir, with the patrol which heard them break into the armoury."
Break into the armoury? Legolas grips the edge of his chair, tries to still his flying thoughts. Why- how- could such a number of naugrim escape Ada's prison?
"Let me deal with this rabble," the rotund Man rises from his seat with a groan of wood. His cheeks are red- from fury or wine, Legolas cannot tell. "I won't be long, Messenger."
Dismay- horror- shock- all compete to claim his mind, stealing away his words. How could the naugrim have escaped from his father's Halls so easily? His own escape had been one of careful planning and a good deal of luck, and a second escape- that seems as rare as finding a Noldo amongst his father's court!
Could it be they were not the same dwarves he knew of?
"Sir-" he hurriedly rises from his seat, determined not to miss the scene, "do you not wish for me to accompany you?"
"No, no" the Master does not look at him, just dismissively waves a hand. "It is a matter for me alone. Come, Alfrid."
The dismissal has the same sting as though it had come from his father. Legolas watches as the Master and his councillor leave the room, his head spinning. The thought of staying in the empty room, surrounded by platters of uneaten food and an entire company of naugrim just outside- no!
What if they bring news of his father's Halls with them? He must go and see!
But you should stay put, the thought pulls at him before he can do anything more than stand up from his chair. Being a guest means he must do as his host says- Faervel has made that clear more than once when delegates from Rivendell or even fair Lothlorien visited the Greenwood. They could not simply choose where and when to visit- they had to wait for his father's permission.
"Ivon…." Legolas gives a frustrated sigh. Stay he must, if he is to be seen as respectful to his host.
And so he stays, and waits. In the quiet of the room, the muffled sounds of many voices drift up to him from just beyond the entry to the Master's Hall. There are shouts of dismay from the people and even the low rumble of those naugrim. Judging from the loud words of the Master and the agreeing roars of the people, it appears that the naugrim do not hold any sway over Laketown- and well they shouldn't!
They should not be trusted, if they managed to escape his father's prison and his Halls- a feat that, now that he thinks on it, has not been done before.
Abruptly, his fae seizes. What had happened during their escape? How had they managed to slip past the guards? Had they cast some sort of dwarven spell? Was that even possible?
A darker thought falls on him. Could things have turned violent?
For a moment he is tempted to touch the bonds within his fae, and feels the longing to reach out and speak tighten his chest. It has been a long while since Ada attempted to make contact. Perhaps he would not notice…..
Like one would pluck harp strings, Legolas summons up the intricate weaving of bonds, pulls along their fine strands in the hopes of slipping into another's view. His link with Aeglostor is a dull glow, permanently closed off. Annith- she burns against his fingers as the hot press of a brand. It is easy to share with her, for she leaves her bond open to all.
Legolas presses close, and-
Trees burst up in front of him, the air smelling of sweat and leather. A circle of sand and dust stretch underneath his feet. The training barracks- he is in the training barracks! An ellon, padded with protective gear, stands in front of him, sword raised warily. He too grips a blade in one hand, and twitches with the urge to strike- now!
Legolas flinches back, but not as his sister- as himself. Surprise lights up his mind in answer. A voice- her voice- pierces him like a hawk's talons. Laeslas?
Something in him moves at the name. Horror rises as he feels the unmistakable tugging of spells layered about him like the snare around a rabbit. They are woven tightly, masterfully, and a flash of insight strikes panic. His father has always been better with spell-work than diplomacy, and these ones are intent on pulling him home-
With great force that comes from the roar of panic, Legolas snaps back into himself, shuts off the bonds which have lit up like fire on greenbark.
"Ah!" He gasps, and digs his fingers into the carefully-worked table. "Fool!" The call of his father's spells is strong, and it feels as though every muscle in his body has locked up in response. Resist, he thinks desperately. You must resist!
His entire rhaw trembles, and for a moment he is sure that the spells lie around him still; waiting, tugging, urging-
Legolas scrabbles for purchase as though he were back on the roof, feels the cold slide of chains over his back, across his legs- tightening-
No! He cries, summoning as much force as he can. NO!
There is a snap- and Legolas falls back into himself. The Master's dinner-table wavers in front of him, and the smell of meat and fresh vegetables mix in a powerful aroma. He has never been so grateful for the sight of peeling wallpaper and platters of food.
Fool, he berates himself viciously. You are as thick and slow as honey! How could he have been so dull-minded as to think that Ada would not have set spell-work around his bonds? Again he'd been so close to being caught- and this time through his own hand!
And yet, for all his searching, he still does not know if any of his people were hurt in the escape of their captives. Forlorn, he looks down at where his hand rests against the table-top and watches his fingers tremble. No use searching now, when his father has-
A cheer rises, so close that he jumps. Many pairs of feet echo on the floorboards, and the doors to the room are abruptly flung open. Except it isn't the Master who fills the doorway with his bulk, but-
"An Elf!" A naugrim spits, his bearded face immediately creasing in loathing. A dozen more heads grumble and growl from behind him. "What is their kind doing here?"
Legolas stares in disbelief. Though all the hairy little creatures look similar, he knows that they are the same creatures who were jailed in his father's prison.
"This Elf is a Messenger from great King Thranduil, Master Dwarf." The Master's voice speaks from behind the cluster. "I will make sure he will do you and your people no harm while here, don't you worry."
"I dinnae think that that beardless twig can harm even our Burglar," another naugrim growls, his bushy eyebrows narrowing over hard eyes. "Look at him! He's no bigger than one'a Kili's arrows!"
A roar of laughter follows the dwarf's words, and Legolas grits back a wave of dislike. "You-"
"Oh, don't mind them, Master Elf." The smallest creature Legolas has ever seen emerges from the noisy group and fixes a thin smile up at him. "They're just hungry and wet."
"Speak for yourself, Bilbo!" Someone calls as the naugrim rush to the table and take their places, already reaching for the food-platters. They all give his seat a healthy berth. "An' leave that pointy-eared bastard to his own plate of greens."
Legolas hardly hears the insult- he's too busy trying to figure out what the bright-eyed, beardless little creature is. He is small, as small as the naugrim around him, but where they are of stone, he is rounder, and with strange pointed ears sticking out from behind copper curls.
"What are you?" He breathes, and then flushes. That sounded a lot ruder than he'd intended. "I- I mean, I've never met one of your kind before."
"A hobbit." The little fellow says, and extends a hand. "From the Shire. Bilbo Baggins, at your service. May I sit by you?"
Legolas cannot help it- he laughs as he shakes the proffered hand, and then gestures to the empty seat beside him. "Please. A hobbit? I've never-"
"Never heard of our kind?" The hobbit interrupts with a dry hum, settling happily on the cushioned chair. "Not surprised, honestly. Most of your folk haven't. Although- you have heard of a wizard by the name of Gandalf, haven't you?"
"Gandalf?" The name sparks faint recognition in him, and he rolls it on his tongue. "I- oh! Do you mean Mithrandir?" The grey-wandering pilgrim, the wizard with wisdom and mischief in equal measure. Legolas has not seen him since he was small, but Annith and Lhosben always speak fondly of the grey-cloaked wanderer.
"Ye-es, that'll be him." The hobbit- Bilbo- rocks on his bare toes. "He travelled with our company for a while. Right up to your forest's edge, actually."
"A company of naugrim, a hobbit and a wizard." Legolas states. A storm is growing in the back of his mind, blowing suspicious winds. And then sunlight breaks through the clouds and warms him. "That….that sounds like an adventure."
Bilbo tilts his shoulders. "A bloody long one, if you ask me- oh, sorry. I mean. Quite so."
Legolas laughs, and the sound is louder than he anticipated, rising above the grumblings of hungry naugrim and scraping of plates. Immediately he claps a hand over his mouth with a stifled "oh!"
"What- what amuses you so, Master Elf?" The Master calls from around a mouthful of food. The collection of dwarves seated by him glower at Legolas, their suspicion and dislike clear.
"My bad manners, Master of Laketown." The hobbit interjects before Legolas can scramble for an excuse. His lips twist into a wry grin. "I seem to have forgotten how to speak to civilised folk."
"Hey, who are you callin' uncivilised-like, Mister Bilbo?" One of the naugrim protests, though his guttural voice has no real anger in it. Another lobs a boiled potato at the hobbit, only to have it blocked by the head of a surprisingly swift spoon.
Legolas watches the exchange with wide eyes. Any formality, or propriety, that had been leading up to the dinner has vanished as quickly as summer rains.
"Excuse them, Master Elf." Bilbo shakes his head, though his lips are curled in an amused grin. He does not abandon the potato, but instead cuts it with a knife and butters the warm inside. "Would you like some?"
For some reason, the softness of his voice makes Legolas think of Faervel, and the own way she would slide food onto his plate. Where he would have once thought it child-like and an indication of his youth, now he thinks that she did it out of love. His fae flares with a thorn's tip of pain. She must be frantic with worry, or most likely, doubly furious at his treachery.
"No, thank you." He says politely, pulls a smile to his lips and squashing the thought. Thinking of her, and home, will not help him now.
"Buttered potato always made me feel better," Bilbo says casually, forking some into his mouth and groaning with delight. "Oh, this is lovely. A little overdone, but- hmm, the butter's so fresh. You really should try some, before my friends eat them all."
Legolas starts. "You call them friends?"
Some of the warmth in Bilbo's eyes fades. "Yes." He says, setting his fork down. "I do. We've been through all kinds of trouble together, and I can safely say that they are the truest friends I've ever had."
"Oh." Legolas says softly. Underneath the hobbit's soft exterior, he can read loyalty and strength, and shame replaces the icy blast of shock. "I- forgive me."
"I know how techy your kind are with theirs," Bilbo continues, his gaze measuring, as though he can read Legolas just as well, "and I cannot say my friends are without fault, but….but sometimes old grudges really should be put aside, so that something new can grow. Don't you think, Master Elf?"
"Legolas," he says, even though as a Messenger his name is his King's, and his word the word of his King. "I am Legolas."
The hobbit nods. "Legolas."
"A toast!" The Master cries, and the quiet which had settled between them is burst. The Man lifts his glass, and the table follows suit, glasses clinking. "To bounty!"
"To gold and riches!" Alfrid calls, and a roar rises from the naugrim.
Bilbo's gaze remains on him. Very well, Legolas thinks, and raises his own voice daringly. "To long friendships, and endless trade between my people and yours!"
That earns him a few sour-eyed glares from the dwarrow, but it is to Bilbo and the Master to whom Legolas looks. The hobbit's eyes are bright with approval, while the Man's grin widens.
"Let us drink, my friends, to….long-lasting friendships."
Simultaneously chastened and triumphant, Legolas takes a healthy gulp of dorwinion as soon as the Master tips his goblet back. The drink is as overwhelmingly potent as he'd expected, sending a blaze of heat down his chest to mingle with the night's journey and eventual- unbelieving- success.
Somehow, with a friend seated beside him, and an open town around him, Legolas feels almost content.
The toasting and feasting continues, until even Bilbo has to sit back with a satisfied groan, and Legolas cannot tell if it is the room which spins, or his head.
"Well!" Bilbo sighs from beside him. "This wine is very nice indeed. Quite rich."
"A little bitter," Legolas says, and tries to adjust in his seat. The goblet is not yet half-empty, and still his mind is like a pool disturbed, thoughts rippling over and over, his rhaw neither still nor moving. Before his very eyes the candles tilt and his fae leaps within his chest.
Oh…how his head spins!
You are weary, a voice suggests, sweet as honeysuckle. Is it his? Or someone else's? He….he cannot tell. You have travelled far, O Prince. Rest now.
Legolas sways- and the candles sway with him. The whole room leans to one side- tilting like the sides of a barge against the lapping water.
"Oh- are you quite alright, Legolas?" Someone pats his shoulder, the touch so light that he cannot feel their fae.
He tries to speak- but darkness rears in front of his eyes and clouds his every sense. There is no use struggling- there is neither spell nor call to fight, just a black nothingness that pulls him down, down, down.
A/N: THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO FAVOURITED THIS STORY- I AM SO SORRY TO KEEP YOU WAITING. Lets just say that my first year of university hit hard, however I can assure those of you who are following along this crazy ride that this story is by NO MEANS ABANDONED- the updates will just be fairly slow, I'm afraid, while I attempt to sort out uni life, home life and searching for a job.
xxxx