COTTONCROW'S CRY – Chapter nine
Ooooooooooooo
In such a silent night, where not even the crickets found joy in singing, Legolas had no doubts about whose tongue those sharp words belonged to. Gimli had returned to the village, in search of him.
The elf sighed, knowing that his hopes of rescue could not rest on his friend' shoulders alone. Cunning and resourceful as Gimli was, he could only do so much and, at this point, the dwarf had an entire village between him and his goals.
The wood-elf sighed and went back to the task that had kept him busy most of the afternoon. Untying his hands.
His arms' position forced Legolas to strain his fingers to reach the ropes, juggling and contorting himself to undo the knots bidding him.
Though no guards had been left to watch over him, the fact that he was standing in the center of the main square meant that he was rarely alone. Too often had Legolas to stop and wait, which made the task of freeing himself slower and even more arduous.
Legolas relaxed his fingers once more, trying to ease the cramps in his forearms. He had to get those ropes untied until dawn, before all were up and about and hope to go unnoticed by most.
For half a day, he had stood like a spectator in a bizarre play, watching the comings and goings of those around him.
The villagers had tried to go back to their usual tasks, but on such an unusual day, most discovered that they could not.
The same faces passed by him several times a day, sometimes moved by curiosity, others by contempt or even hate. Some just went by to throw a harsh word or something more in to his face.
Legolas was like a displayed target, where they could vent their frustration and fear over all that had been going on. And, like target practices, he was unthreatening to them.
Most had not the nerve to get near enough, or even pass by the square while he was there, afraid of the creature that had habited their childhood nightmares. A wraith from the times of their ancestors that had materialized to haunt their waking hours.
Others were that not only neared him, but were bold enough to touch him. Extended fingers gingerly pointed forward until they touched his chest or arms, as if not well too sure about his consistence. For some, Legolas could see, the fact the he was made of solid matter come as a surprising discovery.
At first he tried to speak to them, capture their attention; call their hearts to reason. But they would not talk back, at least not with the words that Legolas was hopping to hear.
The children seemed to be the only ones truly unafraid of him, uncorrupted in their innocence. But Legolas knew that would not take long to change, washed away by the generations of prejudice.
In a place where all were doomed by their teachings and ways to act and react in a predetermined form, Legolas was learning to despise the inhabitants of Cottoncrow.
At some point during the day, the village's fool had come to seat by him, in silence, watching. He was a man of perhaps Aragorn's age, with the signs of time already marking his face. His eyes, however, were those of a child, innocent and eager. Eager of learning, of attention, of talking and being listened to. And yet, he remained silent, just looking.
Legolas looked back, at first with anger, because, fool or not, the man was one of them. Soon the elf realized that he was doing exactly the same thing that he condemned the villagers of doing, and he understood how easy it was to be trapped in those ill feelings. Legolas tried to forget that the fool had been raised in Cottoncrow and forced himself to see him as just a man.
Only then was Legolas able to see the sorrow and sadness in the man's eyes. He didn't talk, but he had no need for words. In his unique form of communication, the man as saying all the right things. He was saying he was sorry for what was happening, he was apologizing for how the others acted. He was saying that he wanted to help.
In a village of fools, the village's fool was the only one that understood, and Legolas thanked him for that.
The man eventually rose and moved forward, one hand reaching to touch the rope around Legolas' right wrist. He could see the elf's tries to get the knot undone and smiled. The smile turned wicked, like a boy's, who is about to do something he shouldn't, and grabbed both ends of the rope.
Legolas' hopes of release flourished under the man's actions, until the sound of footsteps came and squashed all plans. The man didn't take long to hear it too and, with the frightened look of a wild beast that has smelt the hunter, scattered away.
A group of five, all too old to be called children, but still too young to be thought of as men yet, were making their way towards Legolas. The smell of liquor in their breaths reached him before they did.
"What did I tell ya?" One of them said, the words coming out slightly blurred.
"Aye, you was right," another agreed, laughing and tumbling over his own feet.
"Less just get this over with and be gone," said the one carrying a bucket. The splash of water could be heard inside, as it wobbled from side to side with the boy's unsteady strides. "Shyt! We forgots to bring a cup!"
"Damn the cup! Just leave the bucket there! He can drink from it if he wants to!"
"But Samuel told us to give him water!" A shorter boy, who looked even younger than the others, said in a whinny tone of voice. Were he not so drunk, one might have thought that he was about to cry. He giggled instead.
"We could use me shoe for a cup," he said, holding the holes-filled leather in his hands.
"Just leave it there and let us go… I need another drink!"
Legolas had remained silent as the youths discussed among each other. He was glad that Samuel hadn't had a total disregard over life' small necessities. It was true that elves could fair well enough with little food or sleep for longer than humans, but water was a different matter. Already could Legolas feel his body protesting over the lack of any drink for too many days. It had gone beyond thirst. He had to have some water.
"If you were to free one of my hands, I could drink it myself," Legolas offered when he saw that the boys were reaching no wise decision.
Five pairs of startled eyes turned to him, most of them showing the unfocused state of their minds.
"Cover yer ears!" One of the boys shouted, doing exactly that. "He'll put a spell on us!"
On the back, a boy that hadn't said a word yet, stepped forward, a small knife shinning in his hand. He seemed sober than the others.
"He can't put a spell on all of us at the same time," he said, playing with the blade. "And if he tries, we cuts him!"
Legolas stood on his guard. There wasn't much he could do, bound as he was, but there was an edge to that boy's voice that told him to be prepared.
The other boys seemed to relax, with that one standing guard over them.
"I know," the younger one said, pushing the bucket until it stood in front of the prisoner. "Now he can bend and drink his full!" He said, beaming with pride for having reach a reasonable solution on his own.
The fact that the rope binding the prisoner to the stone prevented him from reaching the bucket anyway was the only flaw in his plan, one that the boy failed to see.
The others nodded in agreement, seeing that as the best course of action. Legolas didn't. He was one of the princes of Mirkwood, one of the Nine Walkers, one of the Three Hunters. He would not be forced to drink water like a dog by a group of drunken youths. His thirst would be parched, but on the expense of his self-respect.
"Drink!" One of them blared impatiently, spitting on the ground. Unfortunately, his drinking affected his aim, and it hit the bucket instead. "Drink!" He yelled again, taking no notice of the filth now swirling around in the water.
As Legolas refused to bend, the boys tried to force him down, two pushing on his shoulders. But their combined strength wasn't enough to force him to move even an inch. Someone grabbed a hand full of the elf's hair, pulling it down. Legolas hissed but still didn't move. Instead, he twisted his shoulders and pushed sideways, shaking the two boys off of him like they were nothing but a pair of flees.
The boys' pride ended more wounded than their bottoms. How could they prove themselves men of worth, if they couldn't even get this creature to drink?
When most were ready to force their fists in to the elf's face, the boy with the knife stepped forward, stopping his enraged friends. The rest of the boys, even drunk, obeyed him instinctively, like they had done on so many other occasions. They had seen the glint in the boy's eyes, and they knew he was up to no good deed when he neared the elf with a predator's look on his face.
"My friend there," the boy hissed in to Legolas pointy ear, twisting a hand around his hair "was telling me how much you looked like a woman."
Legolas tried to wrestle free once more, but stopped when he saw the spark of a blade nearing his eyes.
"I hadn't believed him. But now…" the boy went on, twirling the blond locks between his fingers. "Tell me, with your looks and long hair, softer than me mother's… how many times was you mistaken for a whore?" He said with a provocative smile.
The anger that poured out of Legolas was not a visible thing, but still the boy could feel it, hitting him like an ice fist.
"Maybe he's the dwarf's whore!" Another said, between drunken giggles.
"Hold him still," the one with the knife asked, seeing a chance for a bit of amusement. "I have an idea."
A knowing look passed between the five boys and the remaining four struggled to hold the prisoner still.
"We are going to help you, elf," the boy said, playing with the knife in his hand. "We'll make sure that you aint mistaken for a whore any more."
Legolas' eyes were round with dread when he realized what the boy intended to do. He tried to shake the boys off of him again, but they were ready for his moves this time around. One had sat on top of his bound legs, arms around the elf's chest, while the others took charge of preventing him from moving his arms or head.
A hand grabbed the larger braid that hung from the back of the elf's head, and put the knife to work.
Legolas struggled to keep them away, pushing, twisting, turning and growling like a caged animal. But the only thing he managed to achieve with his efforts was to make the knife slip from its path on occasions, and cut in to his scalp.
The knife's blade wasn't very sharp, and the boy was finding it harder than what he had imagined, to cut the locks away. He pulled and sawed and cursed every time the elf moved. The boy was sweating when he stepped aside, to admire his finished handy work.
The elf was furious, his eyes blazing blue fire amidst a face red with anger. His once long hair, along with his warrior braids, laid on the ground, leaving him with a jaw-length butchered haircut, along with a head that was smarting from the miss-cuts and pulls. The boys looked pleased.
"That's a lot better now," the boy concluded, grabbing one of the braids from the floor. "I'm keeping this… for luck."
The others giggled in reply, collecting some locks for themselves as well.
"Hey! What's you lot doing there?" An older voice called out.
The boys looked at each another, lost.
"Watering the prisoner," one remembered to say, hiding the braid in his hand behind his back.
"Aye," other agreed with haste. "Samuel told us to."
"Alright then… be quick about it and go home to your fathers!" The man ordered, going back in to the shadows. The boys were fast in scattering away.
Alone, in the dark village square, Legolas could feel the sting of tears in his eyes. At some point, someone had kicked the bucket of water and now its content soaked the dirt at his feet, mixing earth, water and the remains of his hair in the same soup.
Unlike the numerous jests that Gimli always made, elves had no greater care for their hair than what they had with the rest of their bodies, cleaning both perhaps more often than what the dwarf thought reasonable.
But amongst the elven community, shortened hair on an adult was a sign of punishment.
Elves who were banished from their realms had their hair cut short, so that other elves could tell them apart. It was not lightly that an elf was banished in such a way, a punishment reserved for the worst deeds, of the likes of murder or rape. For the hideousness of those crimes, it wasn't very common to see a shorthaired elf.
Elves aged very slowly, so slowly that they seemed untouched by time to mortal eyes. Much in the same way, slow was the growth of their hair. It usually took many generations of Men for that to happen, the same amount of time that took for an outcast elf to be accepted back, if ever. For Ages damned to walk Middle-Earth alone, despised by all other elves.
Legolas knew that his feelings made no sense. He was no outcast. His hair had been cut as a childish revenge, but still he could feel the social weight of its lost. He couldn't help but to feel sundered from the elven midst, branded as a murderer, for this was how he would be seen henceforth. A tear escaped his eyes, rolling alone and unnoticed.
Right and wrong were twins he could no longer tell apart. Anger was an emotion that had taken on new vests, redder than before, of a colour so deep that not even the veil of confusion could soften.
There had always been a sense of wrongness about the all situation that, being absurd as it was, made it almost laughable. To fall in to such a trap of misunderstanding, disbeliefs, ill wills and desperate needs that made no sense!
Legolas had thought that the fate turning event of his existence in Middle-Earth, the deed that would mark him for eternity, had been his part in the destruction of the One Ring. Never had he thought that the Valar had reserved such a joke of doom for him. Such a cruel joke.
He couldn't even determine the target of his anger. The youths, who really didn't know better and had been raised by their fathers and a society that had deemed all elves as evil creatures and untrusting beings? Or was his anger towards Samuel, with his lies and deception that led this people in to believing impossibilities and folklore? Or maybe it was towards the entire village, cursed as it was, cornered in a forsaken place where no help would arrive. Brief lives being shortened even further by an unpunished killer…
Maybe his anger was only for himself.
He could now see how foolish he had been. His senses had been dulled in to an idle state by the end of the war. Too much horror witnessed in the lands of Mordor had dented his perceptions of good and evil, misunderstanding and carefully laid plans.
Had his mind betrayed him so, believing that Orcs and spiders and other evil creatures were the only enemies he would ever face? Had he been thinking with the brains of an elfling, forgetting the flaws that grace all, even good Men, Elves and Dwarves?
All rational beings possessed deep in their core a beast, waiting to be released. Consciousness and moral values were its keepers, two guardians that never rested and could only be beaten by n unforgiving reality that pushed them beyond their limits. When beaten the guardians, the beast was unleashed, and no reason or moral could hold it back.
These weren't evil men and women; Legolas could see it in their eyes. But they were capable of evil deeds; their actions had the potential and ability of being as cruel as the cruelest of Orcs.
And of his actions? Were they above reprove? He had been a fool as well, of that he had no doubts. And he had been so on a number of occasions, whenever he could have taken his leave of this place. A fool lead in to disaster by his own emotions. What sort of warrior could he call himself?
Legolas shook his head, trying to get rid of his thoughts as if they were drops of water on his shoulder. The fresh air felt cold against his wet cheek and only then did he acknowledge the tears that had kept falling from his eyes. It was a good kind of cold.
For all the mistakes he had made, for all the wrongness he had suffered, he refused to stay idle and wait for rescue like a frightened child. Legolas redoubled his efforts and his fingers started to work faster.
Ooooooooooooo
If two young hobbits had managed to break in to the lands of Mordor, then certainly a hard seasoned dwarf warrior could break in to a village of farmers and fishermen.
Much to his shame and anger, Gimli was coming to the conclusion that no, he couldn't.
For any number of times he had tried to make his way from the outskirts to enter Cottoncrow, Gimli had been spotted and stopped.
Those who lived there knew every small street and dark ally that led in to the forest or the old road, and that knowledge gave them all the leverage they needed to keep the dwarf at bay, as Gimli was learning at his own expense.
Eventually, Gimli gave up. He cursed and kicked the rocks in his path, but nothing relieved him of the weight of his failure. Frustrated and deeply concerned, the dwarf returned to the only friendly place he knew around there, Alumna's home.
She was waiting for him outside.
"I knew you would return," she said as a way of greeting.
"The child?"
"Safe in her mother's arms," she reassured him, getting inside to escape the chill of the evening. Gimli followed her. "She will keep the baby hidden, until people forget. She asked me to thank you."
The dwarf nodded, accepting the warm tea she offered.
"Her husband is dead."
Gimli looked up, questioning her with his eyes. The smoke that rose from the hot drink made them look old and tired.
"Took his own life," she explained, in the dull tone of voice often used by those too familiar with death. "I've heard news about your friend as well."
"What have you heard?" Gimli asked, forgetting the tea.
"That he is friend with an elf-witch. And that he carried a letter with him, for the king of the dark forest, telling of ways to take rule of these lands," she resumed, worrying about the reddish color that was taking hold of Gimli's face. "Samuel wants his head taken off tomorrow, at sunset."
"I will kill him!" Gimli exploded, rising to his feet, rising to his feet and ready to put his words in to action.
Alumna stopped him.
"Samuel must be handled carefully, master dwarf," she advised. "Do not let your heart take command of your actions."
The dwarf slumped back in to his seat, exhausted. Right as she was, he could not bring himself to accept that all was lost. He looked up at her.
"You don't seem as easily fooled by his lies as the others," he realized.
The woman was silent for a moment, sipping her tea.
"I know what Samuel is capable of," she said in a distant voice, lost in her own past. As soon as it had arrived, the memories were forced away and she looked at the dwarf once more, "Although, I must admit that, from what I've been told, it was a truly convincing performance… your friend even had a magic cloak!"
Gimli laughed.
"It ain't magic," he dismissed the idea as nonsense. "It's just special," he said, unclasping his and taking the warm cloak from his shoulders.
Alumna's eyes lightened up like a starry night.
"You have one too?"
"Aye," Gimli nodded, bringing the garment closer to the light. "It was a gift to us all… see?" He asked, moving the fabric around, "It changes color, depending on where you place it."
And, with growing awe, she could see. The piece of cloth in the dwarf's hands changed from a dark gray, inside her home, to a light green, when outside.
"Wonderful," she whispered, carefully touching it with reverence.
"And the letter?" She eventually asked, watching as Gimli placed the cloak back on his shoulders.
The dwarf scratched his beard and then looked at his own bag, the only thing that the guards had allowed him to keep. From inside, he took a sealed parchment, much similar to the one that Legolas had carried.
"Tis a diplomatic letter," he explained, "to Thorin III, lord of Erebor, the Lonely mountain, from the king of Gondor."
Alumna nodded, looking at the sealed paper.
"So, you and the elf are messengers for the king," she assumed.
Gimli laughed again, imagining himself and Legolas in that task.
"Nay, we were just doing a favor to the lad," he said with a smile, remembering with pride the sight of his friend on his crowning day.
The woman frowned. Had he called the king of Gondor of 'lad'?
"Lad?"
The smile disappeared hastily. Gimli rose from his seat and started to pace, escaping the woman's questioning eyes. Even with his back turned, he could feel her gaze burning a hole between his shoulder blades. He pulled his belt up, adjusting his trousers and passed a hand through his beard, thinking.
This woman had trusted him and had helped him without having even learned his name. In a place where all seemed to be against him and Legolas, she had been the only one that had turned her back to pre-conceived ideas and had extended a caring hand. And yet, despite it all, Gimli felt reluctant to share the all truth with her.
To keep his and Legolas' tale from her would shatter the feeble trust they had constructed so far. To tell her everything that had happen, and how they had come to be there under those circumstances, would be baring himself in way that Gimli was not comfortable with.
Alumna was patiently waiting for him to make up his mind, knowing it was something important. Her eyes leveled with his and she knew he had reached a decision. He would trust her.
00000000000000000000000000
Legolas let out a sight of relief as his bonds finally broke free. He brought his hands front, rubbing the numbness and pain away from his wrists before freeing his legs. It wouldn't be long for the sun to rise behind the purple horizon, and he knew he had no time to waste.
Keen elven eyes searched the yard carefully and, finding it empty of witnesses, Legolas got up, feeling his knees complain at the change of position.
The elf took the darkest street out of the central square and ran as silent as a cloud through a clean sky. A well, dug deep in to the earth, stood not too far from his path, hidden by the shadows of the nearest houses.
Legolas' mouth was tormented by a thirst as he had never experienced before, some lingering effect from the drug used to put him to sleep, he suspected. His heart, ever wise, warned him against risking his freedom foolishly.
The lure of fresh water placed Legolas at a crossroad of impossible choices.
The need to make haste out of the village grew with each breath he took, but, at the same time, Legolas feared that his body would betray him soon if he kept water from it much longer.
Knowing how close that betrayal was, Legolas moved swiftly to the well, gently dropping the corded bucket until hearing a distant splash of water. The sound alone made his need for the liquid even stronger. Eagerly, he brought it up. Legolas' hands dipped in to the fresh water and, cupping them, he drank what tasted better than the sweetest of wines.
As the water reached his stomach, the illusion was shattered. Legolas felt the bile rising up his throat and realized that this water was a foiled as the one Gimli had offered him before.
Fighting the terrible taste in his mouth, the elf turned and followed one of the streets that he hoped to lead out of Cottoncrow.
Legolas regretted having to leave his weapons behind. His knifes, a gift he had received at ceremony of his passing from elfling to warrior, a present from his father, and one of the rare occasions when the king had praised his son's qualities and showed how proud of Legolas he was. Since then, Legolas had never parted from them. Until now.
And his bow, a weapon he knew impossible to replace, for those made by the Galadhrim were the finest of all of Middle-Earth, and no Galadhrim was now left to craft him another. A terrible lost, but one he could not help.
But, alas, time was against him and he had no other choice but to leave everything behind and be gone before it was too late. He had lingered too much as it was.
His stomach turned once more, a strange and unfamiliar sensation for an elf that had never experienced sickness before. Legolas clenched one arm around his midriff, alarmed by the fact that he could hear his innards twisting and moaning. He was forced to stop when the painful cramps became too much to endure, feeling like his body was rebelling against him.
Supporting his trembling body with one hand on the nearest wall in the ally he found himself in, Legolas emptied his stomach; his eyes clenched against the disturbing feeling of his body rejecting the water that he tried to keep inside. When the eaves finally stopped, the elf let his head drop against the wall, feeling exhausted and soiled in a way as he never felt before. He passed a hand through his lips, breathing deeply, waiting for his body to allow movement again.
The senses that had been distracted by what had just happened returned as his strength did. Only then did he hear the faint cries of distress that seemed to come from the wall itself.
Distant words soon began to take shape until he realized that it was a woman's voice, muffled by other male voices.
Legolas closed his eyes, willing his body to move away, ordering his mind to ignore the despair and tears he could hear in those cries, begging for help. He took two steps back, ready to make them the first of his escape path, but found himself unable of taking a third step.
Legolas realized that he would be denying himself if he walked away. To turn his back on those cries and leave them unanswered, without ever knowing what was the cause behind them, would haunt him forever.
Knowing that he was heedlessly forfeiting his freedom, Legolas searched for a door and entered the house.
Oooooo
The first sunrays tumbled from the east, soft light that did little more than to announce the coming of a new day. A rooster sang in some distant yard, soon followed by others, in a competition of greetings to the day' star.
The door cranked and moaned like an old lady as Legolas opened it, but the sound went unnoticed by the male voices that drowned all else.
The house was barely lit, a single oil lamp burning on top of a table in the first floor, casting more shadows than light in the place.
Large pieces of wood, roughly cut or not cut at all, were pilled in most of the corners, and carpenter's tools laid scattered here and there. On top of the only visible table, beside the lamp, more tools and a half finished chair. In the center of the room, a hearth had been dug, opening in to the large chimney on the roof.
The unprotected flame flickered again as Legolas closed the door. Had he been a man, his steps would've been nosy, as he walked over the splinters that littered the all floor. At the top of the stairs, the elf could see at least three youngsters, their backs turned to him. Although their faces were hidden from view, their laughter alone was enough for Legolas to recognize them as the same group that had tormented him earlier. Of the owner of the cries for help, he could see no trace, but he guessed her to be hidden in the shadows of above.
"I beg of ya, sirs," the woman's voice sounded again, between sobs, "have mercy on me!"
The sound of more laughter and tearing of clothes was her only answer.
"Have mercy on me!" A deeper voice mocked her tone, whining the words and trying to sound like she had. The mocker and rest laughed even harder at his tries.
Legolas grabbed a piece of wood, about the size of hand, and tossed it at the group.
"Ai!" A boy with curly hair screamed as the wood hit the back of his head. Turning back, the boy looked down, one hand gingery touching the point where his scalp had started to bleed. A man, half hidden by the dark, was standing alone down bellow, another piece of wood in his hands, ready to toss.
"Look out!" The boy warned the others.
The flying wood hit another of them in the arm, even crouching as they all were.
"Who's there?" They asked the darkness.
Legolas remained in silence. The woman's cries had soften in to quiet sobs, letting him know that he had succeeded in drawing their attention away from her.
"Tis only one," the first boy told them, blood treading though his neck.
The others nodded. The liquor heated their blood and the drug-like power of lust cursed through their veins, making them reckless and fearless. Without further concerns about knowing their enemy, the group of boys descended the stairs, ready to teach a lesson to the stranger that had dared to spoil their fun. Another projectile flew, hitting one of them straight in the forehead. The boy lost his balance and came tumbling down the steps, resting at the bottom in a heap of broken limbs and dust, unmoving.
Four more reached the end of the stairs on their own, stunned by the loss of one of their members. Legolas could see that the all group was there.
The warrior took a step forward, nearing the light so that the rest of the boys could see him. It took them but a moment to realize who he was, but when they did, any intention of attacking fled their hearts. Even the boy who had been so brave with his knife before, coward now, behind the others, feared that the elf had come to extract his revenge and his life had reached its end.
"Tis the elf!" One stuttered, taking a step back in fright. The others looked as scared as that one sounded. Drunk as they were, that strange being, free of his bonds and towering over them with such rage and anger in his face, was enough to make them soil their own breeches.
Above them all, supported by the stair's banister, the woman had recovered courage enough to rise and look down at what was happening. The panic that had taken over her ever since the moment when the group of youngsters had captured, morphed in to breath-freezing fear, the kind that feels like a giant hand curled around ones' chest, crushing lungs and mind.
All the tales she had ever heard about elves and other scary creatures came back to play havoc with her thoughts and feeble emotions at that moment. She couldn't breathe, her heart thundered wildly against her chest and all that she could hear was the angry voices bellow and the whoosh sound the room made as it started to turn and spin around her. The flickering flame above the table fooled her eyes, and all that the woman could see were monsters and beasts, threatening, mocking and hurting her. With a soundless whimper, she let darkness claim her and fell down on the floor, senseless.
The young men, facing the elf, had not seen her, nor did they remember her now, as they stared at their opponent.
Legolas, however, had. The rumpled clothes and hair, the bruises forming on her face and the torn shreds of what had been her shirt burned his eyes. There was no denying of what those boys had been doing, and that reality, the hideousness of such act made Legolas tremble with barely contained rage. What sort of rational being could ever turn against his own kindred in such an animalist way?
He moved forward, on to the terrorized boys, prepared to make them regret deeply all of their actions on that night.
An orange sunlight burst bright in to the dark house, coming through the shattered windows and the door, suddenly kicked opened by a group of guards.
The boys, who had been exchanging desperate looks amongst each other, seized that opportunity and broke in to a run, escaping through a back door. In their haste, one of them ran in to the table, sending everything on it clashing to the floor.
The moment the oil lamp touched the ground, its flame escaped like sand through open fingers, consuming all the wooden litter and straws on the floor.
The stunned guards could barely react to so many events happening at the same time. Half ran to try and catch the boys, while the rest, seeing the fallen body of another boy in the fire's path, raced to take him out. None were able to stop the elf when he jumped off the ground, grabbed on to the chimney's opening and swung over to the top floor, disappearing from view.
Coughing the smoke out of their chest, the men carried the unconscious boy out and laid him on the ground. The early traders, on their way to the market, had seen the smoke rising from the street and had raced there to see what was wrong. A cue of improvised buckets of water had already been formed and those available fought hard to tame the raging fire.
Legolas knew that the guards, unaware of the woman's presence above, would do nothing to rescue her. Taking advantage of their confusing and the building smoke he jumped to reach her. On the top floor, a cot covered with dirty rags and an opened trunk, from which a few shirts and breeches hung half in, half out; were enough to crowd the space. There, it seemed, the carpenter who owned the house lived, but of him there was no trace.
She was a small woman, barely out of her childhood years, and she had yet to awake, something for which Legolas felt thankful. He had seen the fear that his sight had caused on her. Had she been conscious, he could only imagine how hard it would be to take her out before the all house burned around them. Kneeling down, he grabbed her arms and threw her over his shoulders, grabbing her legs in front. It wasn't the most comfortable position for her, but it left him with a free arm.
When Legolas finally reached the stairs, the fire was already making its way up, eating everything in its path. He backed way, coughing the acid hot air that assaulted his throat. His eyes searched for another way out in despair, but all he could see was black smoke. The loud voices of the men and women shouting orders and fervently fighting the flames could be heard outside. But Legolas knew they were fighting a lost battle. That house was doomed to burn and they with it if he didn't found a safe path soon.
A faint breeze disturbed the smoke near the ceiling above his head and Legolas looked up, thanking the Valar for their aid. The thatched ceiling, neglected by the house's owner, had seen better days, and a large gap had opened over the years. The hole, made larger by the heat and hot smoke, didn't took much to gave away and allow Legolas to pass over to the roof.
Outside, the fresh air greeted the elf like a long missed friend, easing his breathing and cleaning the tears from his eyes. With a cat-like agility and lightness, Legolas found his way down, easing the sleeping woman on the earth in a place far from the crowd's eyes but where he knew she was sure to be found.
Coughing out the remaining smoke from inside him, Legolas turned to make his long delayed escape at last.
But fortune had turned her back on him.
The elf had not taken more than two steps when a large group of guards surrounded him. It took some effort from their part to recognize that shorthaired person, with smoke smeared face and singed clothes and eyebrows, as the same elf of three days ago. They moved with caution, their swords trusted forward, ready to taste the stranger's flesh at the slightest suspicious movement. Fearful of getting too near, the men still advanced, shoulder-to-shoulder, none brave enough to take the lead.
Legolas looked to all sides, in search of a way out. He could not afford to get caught once again, for that would mean his end. With the guards closing in on both ends of the narrow street, Legolas looked at the only available path that he had left. One the guards could not follow.
The roofs of the two buildings almost touched one another, framing a small piece of blue sky. Jumping like no men ever could, Legolas reached for the sky, grabbing the edge of the left building. Legolas could almost taste his freedom when the first volley of arrows flew in the air, seconds after the harsh sound of the crossbow wires snapping in the hands of their shooters.
Legolas' fast reflexes saved his left hand, as one of the wooden bolts dug sharply in to the same place where his fingers had been a breath before. But reflexes alone could only do so much.
A crossbow arrow is much shorter than those fired by a long bow or even those of hunting bows, twelve inches of wood and a sharp metal tip. Although its range is not as wide as that of the long bows' arrows, the crossbow bolts are heavier on impact, propelled by a mechanical devise that is able of placing much more strength in to the throw than any bowman ever could.
Even if Legolas, a bowman himself, knew nothing about crossbow bolts, he would have learnt fast and hard, as one dug deeply in to the right side of his waist.
The force of the impact and the pain that radiated from it were enough to cost Legolas his balance. He managed to twist in the midst of his fall and land on his feet. Still, the ground hit him fiercely and Legolas could feel the short arrow jolting inside him, a vibrating movement that started in the bolt's black feathers and ended inside his flesh, leaving him noxious and weak.
The guards were upon him in seconds, holding him to the ground, twisting his arms back to tie his hands with a rope. The last thing Legolas saw, before the handle of a sword collided with the side of head, was the roof of the burning house collapsing to the ground with the sound of a dry thunder.
ooooooooooooooo
Please review! Pretty please?