We are provided horses, and there are a lot of things happening very quickly so we try to remain out of the way. Legolas has yet to speak to any of the men; he does not trust them very readily, not before and certainly not after the winter we have had. He prefers to observe… to better learn the men he must have dealings with. He will start to speak later perhaps, once he has made up his mind about them, and of course how else is he to maintain his air of mystery? He can hardly be the silent and unnerving presence that elves seem to enjoy being if he is nattering away right from the get-go.
I avoid his eye – he is staring at me – and I wonder exactly how many of my thoughts he is catching.
There are five of us when we leave, and we clatter along the roads on tall horses that are nothing like the horse I am used to. My own horse – currently stabled in Lasgalen and sorely missed – is small and red and bad tempered, and far closer to the ground. This creature is grey and huge and it is like trying to steer a barge, but I am far better with the beasts than I used to be. I remain aboard, I swear only occasionally, and we follow the men all the way down to the second ring of the city.
We descend into parts of the city where people live and trade, and we are stared at the whole of the way. Children play in the streets, men hawk their wares, women walk around in light spring dresses with their hair twisting in the wind. They stand and talk, they carry things from here to there, they live their lives and it is rare that men on horseback come through the streets now. Especially not dragging oddities like us behind them.
We ride past, we keep going, and the place that we eventually find ourselves in is not full of bustle. It is not full of laughing children or busy markets, and women do not stand around talking with babes upon their hips. This city is still not recovered entirely, it will take many years for the scars of centuries to fade, and there are places like this one where the sun seems just that bit more shaded, the wind keener.
The people who live here do not have money or things to trade, they live in damaged houses amongst the ghosts of war. Their children do not wear shoes and they peer fearfully through windows that have no shutters. There are few people on the streets – or at least, not now that we are here – and it feels cluttered and narrow, deserted and unloved. This is the second largest circle of the city, twisting and secretive and largely ignored until now, because this is where the lost people live.
This is where the taverns are dark and full of quick hands and quicker blades. This is where women with heavily painted faces wait on the corners for lonely men. This is where the desperate come to play cards and drink away their sadness and grief, and this is where they are so often found in the gutter the next morning, stripped of everything.
I think we have reached our destination because Captain Hob pulls us to a stop, but I have no idea how he can tell one street from another here. The men dismount, two of them vanish almost instantly into the alleys and twisting paths but Hob does not. There is a body lying curled in the corner between two buildings, and he approaches it carefully. Legolas is not too far behind him.
It is a man, I can see that straight away, but I cannot see his face. He is tucked into himself, as though sleeping, but there is a crusted and drying stain where his blood has soaked through his clothing and he is too still. A living man and a dead man look nothing alike, I have seen enough of them in my days to tell them apart.
"Does this happen often?" I ask as I approach. Hob is close to the man, crouched and peering closely. He touches his clothes, pulls his cloak back, and then moves him so that we can see him better. Flat, pale, sunken… certainly dead. He is very young.
"In the second circle, this far from the main road, aye," Hob murmurs, deep in thought. He stands and dusts himself off, turns, and startles to see Legolas standing so close. The elfling's eyes are fixed on the dead man, unblinking and as focussed as a hawk, and when he does not move or say anything Hob edges past him. "He is not from this part of the city, he is a young scribe if I had to guess. His hands are ink-stained, his boots were stitched by Master Essa on the third circle… the old man's eyes are starting to fail, and his stitching is not the straightest. They are good boots though."
I am impressed. This man knows this city well indeed, he is going to be very good at this. The other two men return to us and head straight to Hob, shaking their heads in disgust.
"No one has seen anything sir," the taller one says. He is younger, slight and willowy, but he has seen battle before, I can tell. "This whole section of the alley has become invisible, it seems."
"They would not speak if they had seen the whole thing in person," the other says, also crouching by the body. He is red haired, stocky and well built, his face is round and kind. "They are afraid of their shadows here."
"No," Hob muses, distracted. "They do not trust us, is all."
Legolas has also started to poke around the body, and Hob is watching him. His eyes are on the elfling but he speaks to me.
"A blade through the ribs," he says. "He has nothing of value on him – he was likely robbed and left here. Unfortunate, but it is unlikely we will find the culprit; not without any witnesses or anyone willing to speak on what happened."
"Gimli," Legolas calls to me softly from where he crouches. "Tirio."
I go to him, crouch at his side and try not to wrinkle my nose. I can smell it, this close… blood and the beginnings of spoiling flesh. If I can smell it then it must reek to him, but the elfling is nonplussed.
"What have you seen?" I ask, peering at the body.
"Not this," he murmurs, and cants his head slightly to one side. "We have company, listen."
He says 'listen' but I know what he means – it is not my ears I should be listening with. Legolas and I may not be linked the way that we were, but there is still a connection between us. If I concentrate, if I put real effort into it, I can still capture what we had last winter. Just a part of what it was, but it is still there.
I open myself up as far as I can, I reach toward our connection and for a moment I see it… for a moment I see this alley the way that he does. I shut out the distractions – his distractions, all of the sights and sounds and smells that he can pick up that I cannot – and I know that we are not alone. We have company.
I nod to show that I understand, and we both stand at the same time.
"Aphado den," he tells me, "os-'o adel din."
I know that he has slipped into his own tongue in case we are overheard, but I hope this will not become a habit. I understand the laegrim dialect better, since he uses it more often, and my own command of the more commonly spoken tongue is acceptable, but he believes I understand it better than I do. He tells me to follow, to circle behind our quarry, and then he is gone.
Legolas makes the transition from pavement to rooftop in a way that looks effortless: a spring and a pull and a step, his feet and hands finding places to grip that are all but invisible. Hob snorts, a sound very close to surprise, but also a little bit disapproving. I wonder whether it is elves in particular that he dislikes, or whether it is show-offs in general.
There is the sound of scuffling, soft boots scraping upon stone. Our watcher is running away, and so I follow.
I skirt the building that Legolas has just climbed and I go into another alley, circling around just as I have been told. Legolas whistles to me and I understand this far better; it is the hunting language of elves, and I learned it before I learned their tongue. The elves of Mirkwood can convey a lot in just a whistle, and it is far easier for those of us not willing to twist our tongues into knots with their ridiculous words, but it does not change the fact that he sounds like a bird when I sound like I am harassing a woman in the street.
He says to go left and so I go left, he tells me to cut through an alley and that is what I do. He runs above, I cut our quarry off, and it does not take us long to catch up with him. Our mysterious watcher comes sprinting out of the darkness between two buildings and slams straight into me.
He is tiny, which is well because he hits me rather hard. Instead of barrelling straight into me he bounces backward instead, lands into a puddle with a cry of dismay, and then I nearly have my face torn off by the biggest dog I have ever seen in my life. It bays at me in full voice, snarling and snapping, and stands over the boy – protecting him, although I am unsure what from. I do not even have a weapon, which I am starting to regret.
I feel a thrill of fear – every sensible person would be afraid of a furious dog as big as this one is – but I am not left alone for very long. Legolas is in the alley, a ghost emerging from the shadow, and he shouts out:
"Avo nago den! Do not! He is only protecting the boy!"
Legolas holds his hand up to someone behind me, and I turn to see Hob with a crossbow in his hand, pointed straight at the dog. He pauses, surprised, and it is just long enough. The lad sees what he is about to do and cries out as well, scrambling to his knees and throwing himself in front of the dog. Skinny legs drag upon the muddy cobbles, thin arms wrap around a bristling neck, and he puts himself in the path of a crossbow quarrel.
"Please!" he cries, his voice thin and young. "Please! Do not kill him, do not shoot my dog! We only wanted to see, we meant no harm at all!"
Hob scowls, sighs, and lowers his crossbow as the lad begins to cry.
"I am not going to shoot him," he mutters. "Stop crying."
Legolas crouches before the boy and I come closer, now that the dog has settled. It is a massive brute, with brindled fur and a whip thin tail, but now that it has calmed down there is a decidedly stupid look upon its face. This is not a vicious animal, this is a pet… a companion, a friend.
"What is your name, penneth?" Legolas asks. The elfling is not very good with children – he does not know how to speak to them or deal with them – but he is getting a bit more experience of late. The lad looks absolutely horrified to be addressed by an elf in such finery, and I wonder whether this response would have been any better had Legolas been dressed as a warrior.
"Sig, my lord," he mumbles finally. He has stopped crying, and there are tear tracks through the dirt on his face. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and I only catch Legolas' flinch because I know him so well. "This is Moss. He meant no harm, he is my friend."
"I am Legolas, and this is my friend Gimli. He meant no harm either."
I scowl, because I think I have just been introduced in the same way as the dog, but I wipe it clear as quickly as I can. The boy is looking at me, and I do not wish to frighten him again.
"Why were you in the alley, Sig?" I ask, coming near.
Hob turns and dismisses his two men – sending them back to the alley we have come from – but he remains with us. He stands a respectful distance away, because we are already intimidating the lad and he will not speak if he is afraid.
"I wanted to see," he admits. He has calmed completely now, since we have not hauled him away or shot his dog, and he stands although it makes little difference. He is tiny, thin and filthy. I think he is older than his stature suggests but I cannot tell through the dirt on his face.
"Where are your parents?" Hob asks.
"Dead, sir," is the reply. "Died when the city was attacked. There were orcs in this circle, you know; I saw them with my own eyes. Breda looks after me now… her and Edgar and Moss. Will you find whoever did this to Wynn?"
"You knew that man?" Hob asks, surprised, and the lad nods quickly.
"He is Edgar's brother, and he was my friend too, sir. They lived here together, but Wynn got an apprenticeship with a scribe up on the third circle, moved away. I stay at their house sometimes and he comes and sees us – teaches me letters, says all boys should know how to read and write."
I move away, Legolas remains close to the boy but I know he can hear me from there. I look at Hob, watch him carefully, because we are visitors here and I can see him thinking things over. The captain has been rather a surprise to me; he is far keener of mind and far more reasonable than I had expected.
"Boy," he calls over. "Can you take us to Edgar?"
~{O}~
Legolas has gone quiet again, which is exactly what I had expected, but the silence is more than adequately filled by Sig. Now that we have proven ourselves unlikely to hurt him or do anything unkind, he is chattering away as though he has not spoken to anyone in weeks. Perhaps he has not.
He leads us with certain steps that know this city well, ducking through alleys and doorways that lead nowhere except other alleys. We tread streets of broken cobbles, we climb over fallen walls and wade through waters where the drainage has collapsed.
Sig talks constantly the whole way, undeterred by the fact that we are not talking back to him, and he is shadowed by his huge hound with every step. Hob hands me a blade at one point, giving me a steady look that says I might need it, and he glances at the elfling as though asking a question. I shake my head; Legolas does not need one, and if I know him at all he has one hidden on his person in any case. These streets might be dangerous, but they are not dangerous enough for me to worry about my elf.
The house we are led to is small and ramshackle, barely more than a hut, but it is clear before we ever reach the door that there is no one at home. It is dark and silent, empty, and Hob hammers at the door for a long time before accepting what we all know to be true. There is no one here.
"He is likely out drinking," Sig tells us, wiping his nose again upon his sleeve. "He likes to drink."
It is barely midday, no matter how dim and oppressive it is here, and I wonder that a man might be drinking at this time of day. Then I look at where he lives – imagine his life might be like – and I do not wonder any longer.
"We could go in," I suggest with a shrug. I am quite sure that I could break this door into splinters in moments, and Legolas could get in through that window quite easily, but Hob shakes his head.
"If I am going to tell a man that his brother has been murdered," he says, "I will not do so after breaking into his home. We will set a guard, he will have to return eventually."
"I will keep watch for him," Sig offers. He shrugs one tiny shoulder, leans against the dog who stands solidly against the extra weight. Moss is panting and it makes him look as though he grins… he seems like rather a happy dog, now that he is not trying to eat me. "I have little else to do, and Wynn was my friend. He was kind to me."
Hob considers this, thinks about it for a long time.
"The men I was with," he says to the boy. "The tall one is Larke, the red-headed one is Ren. They will be in the Magister's office on the third, you know it?"
Sig nods enthusiastically, excited to be given such an important task, and his narrow face breaks into a wide grin.
"I will hide away, sir. None will see me. I will come when Edgar is home, I will not even speak to him! You can rely on me sir; I have keen eyes and I can stay awake for a long time."
Hob has a look about him then, and it is something resembling sadness and something almost like pity. The boy's enthusiasm is heart-breaking… I wonder if he has ever been trusted with anything so important before. I wonder who is in his life for him to be so eager to please, so desperate for our approval. The constable shakes it off though, and nods shortly.
"It is an important task boy, and you must take it very seriously."
"I will, sir," Sig straightens, and his face is very serious but very bright. "And sir… I think you should have white cloaks."
He grins hugely and dashes away to squirrel himself somewhere. I do not see where he goes, I barely even see him leave, but Hob watches him go with a strange look. Perhaps our solider recognises this boy… perhaps our constable was this boy. He shakes it off again and turns, heads back the way that we have come.
"We should return to the Rookery," he tells us. "There is little else to be found here this morning."
And we follow him, and none of us speak for a long time, but Legolas and I fall behind and the elfling gives me a look. He is bright and intense, focussed as he so rarely is of late.
Legolas' madness is all but gone, but it is still there in his shadow… it follows him, lingers around him like mist and dances on the edge of his consciousness. He sometimes forgets where he is, what he is doing, why we are here, but right now he is completely present. This is unpleasant business but it is good for him, and I am willing to put up with murder and this awful reminder that all is not well in Minas Tirith… that the city is not healed or completely right yet. I will come to know sad little orphan boys living in squalor, and I will traipse around dangerous streets. I will do all of this for the elfling because I have much to make up for, and this is what he needs right now.
I quirk my head at him, a question, because he has something to say and I would hear it. He waits a while, but eventually he speaks as I knew he would.
"I think you could have beaten the dog in a fair fight," he says to me quite seriously, and I groan. I shove him, and I quicken my steps until I am walking with Hob instead of the elf. Sometimes, I do not know why I bother with him.
~{O}~
"So," Aragorn addresses me as soon as we are back together again. "How has your day gone?"
We have – naturally – completely ignored our instructions from Master Gowry, and have come to locate Aragorn for lunch. Legolas can track down anyone when he sets his mind to it, and we have found both he and Arwen in a rather large receiving room. Lunch is laid out, although not for us, and Arwen squeals like a young girl when she sees Legolas. The two are embracing and babbling in their own tongue like children.
"Well," I tilt my head, helping myself to bread as soft and light as down. "I have been here less than a day and seen a dead man, been attacked by a dog… Legolas has fallen out with the household staff already. It has gone well enough."
Aragorn grins and takes me by the elbow, leads me to some chairs set before a huge fireplace, and we sit as the elves continue to catch up. Arwen is beautiful in blue – naturally – with dark hair cascading down about her shoulders. I am quite sure that I will be able to greet her properly at some point, but for now she is laughing at something Legolas has said and I might as well have evaporated. They are very old friends, and they have not seen one another for a long time. I am happy to wait.
I recount the events of the morning and more refreshments are added to the table as though by ghosts. I am very hungry, so I slip away to fill a plate, but I talk the whole of the way and Aragorn listens patiently.
I skip over the details of the majority of our morning, because it really did peak quite early. I spend little time on the endless parade of instantly forgettable faces – because the edain really do look alike to me – or the tour of the Rookery. I breeze past a painfully dull lesson on mannish laws that I am certain Legolas slept through – because he sleeps with his eyes open and it is sometimes difficult to tell – and I almost forget to mention the scintillating hour of my life that has been taken up with a complete inventory of their stores.
I give him the briefest of detail on all of this, because it is our trip to the second circle that is most interesting by far.
"That circle will be the death of me," he sighs once I am done with both my tale and my lunch. "They refuse aid, they accept no governance. I have sent endless people in with a view to locate their elders, but they are met with little more than silence. Someone is in charge down there, someone is keeping things running, but I do not know who it might be or how to speak to them. It is as though they are completely separate from the rest of the city."
"The Whitecloaks are better than I had expected," Legolas says. He and Arwen are done, and I stand to receive a fond embrace from her just as the elfling slumps into a chair, passing a huge apple backwards and forwards between scarred hands. Aragorn raises his eyes to the ceiling.
"They might be Greencloaks, Legolas…" he starts, but the elfling carries on.
"They are well disciplined, for edain, and they seem to know what they are doing."
He pours himself some tea, focusses on it very seriously and seems to lose interest in the conversation almost instantly. Aragorn clears his throat, and Legolas looks at him out of the side of his eye.
"So… have you any suggestions?" he asks patiently. I settle back, because I have my own suggestions but I am certain they are the same as the elfling's. He has greater experience, more knowledge of some things, and I will see what he has to say first.
"The council must not have so much say in their governance, Estel," he says honestly. "You should appoint a Magistrate of the Constabulary and be done with it; they are being held back and stifled. Your army was not run by committee, and neither should those who uphold your laws. You should have divisions, and you should have men who patrol in conjunction with the City Guard; the Whitecloaks will not gain trust and respect with your people if they are not seen. And you should speak to this Hob fellow; he is remarkably astute, for a man."
"You should visit the Rookery," I add. "I am not sure that they know what is expected of them, in truth. Oh, and they are not being paid yet… that will go a very long way in matters."
"The council have not yet decided on their wages," Aragorn tells me flatly.
"Well whatever you decide, you owe them three weeks of it. They all made sure we were quite aware of it, too. Men like that have families, my friend, and families need feeding."
"You are the king, Estel," Legolas says, and his tone is surprisingly cool. "You cannot blame the council for indecision – it is for you to ensure they do what they are there for, and it is for you to put measures in place if they do not."
I am shocked by the reprimand, I will admit, and I look to Aragorn expecting anger but I see only a flicker of shame. I am reminded then that Legolas was once this King's teacher: his protector, his mentor… occasionally his reader of bedtime stories. Sometimes I forget what a complicated history they have.
"Settle a figure with them," Aragorn instructs, recovering. "It will be paid by the end of this week. And Legolas… I do not wish to rule the way Thranduil has ruled; I do not have to. I am trying for something else."
"I know, Estel," Legolas softens his tone, but then his face brightens just a little bit and the moment passes. "Perhaps you should look more carefully at your council. What better time for a few retirements?"
He stands quickly, dusts off his hands and leans forward to kiss Arwen lightly on the cheek.
"I will meet you back on the sixth, Gimli," he tells me. He bows slightly toward Aragorn, but he gives us no time at all to ask where he is going in such a hurry. In fact, he leaves us all rather surprised by his sudden exit, but I am not surprised for long. I scowl deeply into my tea, Aragorn is still watching after him, and Arwen is watching me.
"You realise he is going to change his clothing," Aragorn sighs, and I snort – because he is not wrong – but it is not just that; Legolas has taken all he can… he cannot wear his mask for a moment longer. He needs an hour on his own in the air and I know it, I can feel it; he is starting to forget where he is and what he is meant to be doing. He is being deafened to distraction but he is learning to control it, and I must trust in that. I say nothing, but I think perhaps I do not need to.
"Gimli," Arwen murmurs softly, and Eru I had hoped to avoid this… I know that tone of hers. She is looking at me with that cursed elven heaviness as though she can read my thoughts, skewering me to the chair. I do not look up. I cannot meet her eyes, because I do not wish to speak to her. I do not even wish to think about this.
She leans across, rests a soft and elegant hand upon my own lumpish and clumsy one.
"Just say that he is well," she says softly, and I shake my head. I shake it harder than is probably necessary. I realise then that I am acting like a surly child and so I raise my gaze. She is worried; I am not the only person who cares for the elfling, and so I must be truthful and grant her the consideration she deserves.
"He is not," I tell her honestly. "But he makes a good pretence at it, and that is encouraging; when I left him in winter he could barely hold a conversation. Legolas endures. He will be well, my lady, and if he is not I shall badger him until he is – even if it is simply to keep me quiet."
She smiles, but it is a thin and worried thing. Arwen is a kind person, a strong person… she seems very soft and fragile but she is no such thing, and I like her very much. Legolas and the children of Elrond are siblings in all but blood, so I put my most certain face on. I smile and I turn my hand so that I grip hers.
"He has come through worse than this."
"You are a good friend Gimli," she tells me, but this time my smile turns stiff and false. It sits on my face like it is made of wood, and I do not know how I should look right now.
I am not a good friend at all… I am why he is like this.
I clear my throat suddenly, look around and see that Aragorn is watching me very closely. He has witnessed our exchange without a single word, has paid very close attention but has not said anything at all. He is shrewd, attentive, and he meets my accusatory glare without flinching.
He leans back, distancing himself, and I think he knows I am about to change the subject. He gives me leave, tells me that he knows what I do, but I am not sure that I needed his permission.
"Why on Arda did you send someone to set us a schedule?" I ask him. "How could you possibly have thought that would go well?"
And he is still and silent for a moment, but then he laughs. It is a huge laugh – free and without any guile – and the moment is broken as though it never happened at all.
"My only regret," he says, still grinning to himself, "is that I was not there to witness it."
TBC
A day early, as promised!
My usual thanks to everyone for the alerts, follows and especially the reviews! This fic seems to be getting a lot of love, which makes me very happy indeed :)
My original plan was to have these chapters WAY shorter... like, 3k at best, but I think I'm just going to have to accept that I'm not capable of it. It has left some of them ending in really weird places, I'm not going to force the issue if it's just not going to work, but I now must revise my number of banked chapters to one a bit lower. HOWEVER, the chapters you will get are the way they wanted to be written, rather than chopped to pieces, which is how they were.
Hope you like the chapter, I'd love to hear from you (did I mention how much I like reviews?) and I'm going to leave you with the subject of a conversation I am having with my housemate at the moment:
I have just informed her that it freaks me out if I ever leave my washing on the line overnight, to the point where I don't really want to touch the clothes the next day when I collect them. As though the dark makes ANY DIFFERENCE to anything whatsoever. The more we talk about it, the more aware I am of how irrational this is. Anyone else out there have anything that weirds them out that's as odd as this? Anyone at all? ...please?
Have a great weekend everyone :)
MyselfOnly