TRYING TO PUSH THE PAST AWAY
BOOK ONE
DISCLAIMER: I do not own „Lord Of The Rings". Whole recognizable belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien. Written only for fun, no money made.
WARNINGS: None for this chapter.
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Chapter 2: HELP THOSE YOU CAN
/*/
As soon as he exited the council hall, an Elven maiden had approached him. She was rather short, but indeed pretty, clad in a silvery dress, with her fair brown hair decorated with tiny pins in the shape of leaves which prevented her hair from falling in her eyes. Her little hands grabbed his elbow delicately, but with determination, while her warm eyes that were only curious and kind were studying his face. She courteously greeted him and asked his name.
"I will take you to Lord Erestor," she said smiling in a friendly way and started leading him through the corridor. The Elf standing in the doorway, working as a messenger, smiled at them and nodded his farewell. He too was dressed in silver. Legolas concluded that the 'household', as local slaves were called, wore those robes as a mark. He briefly wondered if he would be given such robes as well. It would be great to be clad in such soft fabric as this and give the borrowed, unfitting clothing back; yet Legolas could not help but feel uneasy. He had no idea if a slave of his kind would not be specially branded somehow. He would much prefer to be the same as others, but did not know if he was good enough for that.
His thoughts wandered confusedly; he was still alert, but not as panicky as before. His mind was slowly calming down, processing the news he had heard. He was not going back to Mirkwood. Repeating this sentence in his head, he focused on deep breaths, working to regain control over himself. No Mirkwood now. No Mirkwood.
He was not going back to the torment which would be even worse than the last weeks, due to accusation of failing his King. Whatever awaited him here, it would not be that slimy dungeon again. Strangely, the two warm hands holding his elbow gave him an ephemeral feeling that he was being taken care of and relatively safe, or at least not left alone. He grabbed that thought with all his will to make it his point of reference.
The young maiden was casting him a curious glance from time to time, easily maneuvering them through the corridors. Legolas had a problem walking as fast as her, since his ankle was throbbing painfully every time he put pressure on it, so she had to adjust her pace. He dared not to complain however, or show any pain. 'Did Lord Elrond see the limp, when I was walking out?' Legolas asked himself. The impression he had made was very important. The fact that he was staying here was a miracle in itself, but it surely wasn't too late to hand him back to the Mirkwood delegation.
Legolas only hoped he did nothing to offend the Lord, being the most afraid of the involuntary flinch when his Master attempted to take the collar off. Still, if that was an offence, he would surely make a comment about that…? Maybe that was also why he was introduced as a singer. Revealing his real purpose here in front of the whole Imladris nobles would be impolite and completely improper. They were disgusted with the slave without that anyway. Yet that only meant the Lord would be told later, in private. That thought hung above the Elf like a doom-cloud.
Trying to distract himself, Legolas admired the open rooms that he could see through the doorways. His confusion only heightened with every step he took, for as far as he could see, the realm of Imladris looked like a peaceful, bright valley - a total opposite of the dark forest of Mirkwood. There were windows everywhere. The architecture was totally different than the heavy, geometrical buildings made from huge blocks of stone; light terraces, long, spiral corridors, thin stairs, vertical lines of balustrades carved like trees' branches, mingling at the top of the arches. Far away roofs were blue or dark brown, sinking into greenery of the tree tops. There was sun on the light blue sky. Here one could actually see the sky.
Finally Legolas turned his attention to the Elves of this beautiful realm. They were clean, their hair was combed and braided or decorated. None appeared to carry marks of beatings or bruises. They were all busy, but appeared quite content in their occupations. Legolas only stared in wonder. One passing maiden actually smiled at him. Valar, had he ever seen a slave who was smiling during work?
But then again… Lord Elrond smiled at him too.
Whatever this could mean, for now Legolas wasn't dying. He dared a small sigh of relief and hurried behind the girl, who led him a few corridors down to the lowest floor in the west wing of the house. They entered the rooms easily recognized as belonging to the kitchens, where Lord Erestor, whom Legolas recognized from his voice, was directing the work of the Elves and giving quick orders.
"Erestor, Sir, here is the Elf from Mirkwood," the maiden said. Erestor turned around briskly to face the stranger.
"Oh I see… Welcome, young one," he said with a smile. "Lord Elrond has sent you here, has he?"
"Yes, my Lord," Legolas answered, eyes observing the floor.
"What is your name and who exactly are you?" asked Elrond's head of household, drying his hands with a towel.
"My name's Legolas," he replied quietly, "and I'm a slave given to Lord Elrond by King Lathronios."
"A slave?" Erestor repeated slowly. "And... what I am supposed to do with you, Legolas? There aren't any and won't be any slaves in Imladris."
There was a short silence from Legolas, who felt a sting of panic. Aren't any and won't be any slaves…? So what is going to happen with him? But he was told he would stay here…
"Master Elrond said he was putting me into your care, my Lord," he said finally just beyond a whisper. Erestor hesitated, assessing the pitiful creature, but then sighed and put the towel down on the table nearby.
"Of course I will take care of you, little one. Come," he said with a gentle smile. He placed his hand on Legolas's shoulder and led him out of the kitchens into another chamber where clothing and linens were kept. Here he handed him a silver tunic and a new pair of leggings along with some soft, white towels. And so he got the household clothes after all. Legolas eyed them somehow mournfully; preparations to make him one of the local slaves were both uncomfortable and a bit scary. It felt like all memory of the previous Legolas was to be erased now. This was a new start. Was this a start to a new torment?
"Tell me what your duties were in Mirkwood" Erestor asked him, when he stepped down from the small ladder and closed the cupboard above his head. His vigilant eyes rested on the new Elf.
"I…," Legolas hesitated for a second, not knowing how much he could tell the Lord. He swallowed and started again, settling for half-truths, even though he risked a harsh punishment. "I did whatever I was told. I can tidy rooms, wash and repair laundry, work with horses, do garden or field work, I was taught a little of carving and working in the woods. I was helping with the walls of the fortress. I can help in the kitchens also."
Erestor immediately sensed a catch in this stream of words. He said nothing and smiled though, letting him end the list. He briefly eyed Legolas' appearance and all visible injuries; surely the road had not been easy on him. Some wounds looked bad, like the bruised neck and a cut on his forehead. The youngling was tense and must have been scared out of his mind. Erestor decided to lighten the atmosphere a little.
"And there was a rumour that you can sing," he joked.
"I can sing, my Lord." came the quiet answer.
"Hear that Neremiel? He calls me a Lord," Erestor said laughing. "Do not call me that, I prefer just Erestor. And you're a singer, you say... So tell me where that bruise on your cheek came from. Did you sing out of tune?"
Legolas's stomach churned. He could not tell! He was here from fifteen minutes and it would be already revealed that he had been beaten for disobedience? What impression would it leave? But, then, to lie would be even worse…
"I… fell, Sir," came the shaky reply. "From the horse."
It was not entirely a lie, but Erestor coldly suspected more. Yet, he made no further comment about that, much to Legolas' relief.
"Neremiel, show him the way to the baths, our new friend would surely like to refresh after the journey. Then a proper meal is in order. As we have no room prepared yet, Legolas can rest in a sleeping area, with the guards coming from their shift. The road must have been exhausting. Will you take care of it for me?" The head of the household turned to the Elven girl near, and she curtsied.
"Certainly Sir," she said.
"I suppose we will see each other tomorrow. Rest well, Legolas. Truth be told, you don't look very good. Are you alright?" Erestor asked.
"Yes, Sir. I'm fine."
"Are you sure? Don't you want to visit the healing halls? That cut looks fresh."
"It's alright, Sir, I'm fine," Legolas shook his head a little too desperately, speaking to the floor, but it was nothing else Erestor suspected. He smiled sadly and sent Neremiel a knowing look.
"If you need any help, feel free to ask. Neremiel will help you, and I will do what I can. Until tomorrow, Legolas."
/*/
Legolas had never seen such beautiful baths before and certainly had never been allowed to use such. All of it was carved in a milk-white stone. It was not marble, as these were common baths for public use, situated in the lowest level of all in the East Wing, yet they were still exquisite. Five huge pools were modestly enclosed with wooden screens. Around the edges of washing basins the small trays with soap were placed, in an easy reach for everyone interested. The baths were empty at this time of the day, which Legolas was thankful for. He wouldn't have dared to strip otherwise; not only would the extent of his shameful injuries be revealed and they would think him a disobedient, troublesome gift with which they knew not what to do. He would have simply lacked the courage to undress in front of others.
Legolas was just about to step down into the pool, when he realized he couldn't do that. All the dried blood from his back and other grime would ruin the water and color it unmistakably red. How would he ever explain it? Glancing to the right, he saw wooden buckets near the wall. He took one and bailed some of the water, enough to wash with. He got a soft sponge from Neremiel when coming here, as well as some other utensils. Now he lathered the sponge generously and stepping into a hollow behind the other screen, he began scrubbing himself hard. He hated that he had not been allowed to bathe while they had been traveling and was glad to be finally clean. He was led to the hot spring when they reached Imladris border only because that tall warrior Elf ordered it. That bath was done in a hurry, and without any soap. On the following road he sweated much, for the heat was just unbearable. He yearned to be clean again.
He washed himself quickly with hard, almost painful movements of the sponge. Not exactly knowing why, he scrubbed fiercely, feeling strangely relieved with every wave of stinging pain of his torn skin. He recalled the offended noises of the royalty, hesitation of his new Master whether to accept him or not, strange mixture of feelings on Erestor's face when he said he was a slave. The first day showed to be a painful for him, and what was boiling up in him was a strong feeling of being worse: of being tainted, being despised. Images of his uncertain future appeared shadowy in front of his eyes, scaring, threatening and hurting.
Soap got into the few still unclosed wounds on his back and on his left thigh. It stung horribly, and even generous amount of water did not help much. The floor underneath him got a little red, the wounds started bleeding anew under his harsh treatment. His heart was beating wildly and serious dizziness settled in. Finally Legolas stopped and knelt on the cold floor, fighting the dizziness.
After a while he dared to rise again. He wrapped himself modestly in a towel from armpits to knees, bent over the edge of the small hollow and settled for washing his hair. This task was a troublesome one, for the dried blood and dirt simply would not disappear completely no matter how many times Legolas applied the soap. Finally, tired of the long lost fight, he rinsed it and got up. At least his hair wasn't filthy now, only matted and knotted, strangely un-Elven-like.
Glancing at the new clothes awaiting him on the stool nearby, Legolas thought briefly of Lord Elrond, so kind and sympathetic. He treated him unbelievably well. These were his possessions, which he offered to the unworthy slave. Instead of ordering to keep him in some kind of cell, he offered a smile and stroked his head. It was completely confusing and made no sense. What could that mean?… Maybe he was becoming too complacent? Maybe all that was only a trap set to be sprung on him later? Most probably. Legolas stiffened on the cold stones. What he was seeing could be only a pretty mask for strangers. He could not know what Elrond's true motives were. He could not imagine what he did to the slaves so they were afraid even to show their fright. No, he had to watch out, both his actions and his tongue – and maybe his thoughts as well.
Legolas sighed wearily. If he had a brief idea of escaping, his battered body rejected it immediately. He would not run far if he did at all. And that Elf, the head of household, told the girl to give him something to eat and prepare a bed. A bed… the picture made him realize exactly how fatigued he is. Wherever that bed would be and however it would look like, Legolas was past exhausted to care.
He dressed in the clothes he had been given. Buttoning the new tunic all the way up to his neck and sliding his hands down the luxurious fabric, the Elf sighed sadly. The Old Legolas had been cleansed, dressed and changed. He shed the robe of dirt and blood to be clad in a soft, silken one. That was, somehow, a comforting thought; yet Legolas was too tired to react anymore.
Tired and spent, he seated himself on a stool and took the brush he received. It was a simple, wooden brush, but for him it was a object of unthinkable luxury. He had never had a brush in his hand. His hair had never been braided before. If anything, it was only straightened with a rough comb carved from a piece of wood on a lonely night and gathered on his nape, for that way it wasn't disturbing during work. His long hair was a matted curtain made of knots, reaching more or less to half of his back. Fruitlessly he tried to comb the knots out and make them look presentable, similar in shape to those he had seen walking through the corridors of this palace. His hair would simply not cooperate. He abandoned the hurtful effort soon, just securing them behind with a leather thong and resigned he left the baths to wait outside for the Elf maiden to return, as she promised.
Neremiel came back to collect him soon and her soft steps quickened when she saw he was already waiting for her. She was talking merrily and sending him warm smiles all the time. Her cheerful behavior surprised Legolas and only heightened his confusion, but soothed his earlier failure with his hair.
"You must be very tired. I will show you to the sleeping area now. I brought some food there as well, so that you can have a meal, for I trust you have come too late to attend the midday meal, and the dinner is yet a few hours ahead. I shall not wake you, though, sleep well. If you wake up by yourself and feel like eating something, just come to the kitchens, Belithravien will be there for certain. Do you remember the way?"
"Yes, I think so… I beg your pardon, but I forgot your…" he started, but she laughed merrily, never letting him end the sentence.
"My name is Neremiel," she said, as always smiling kindly.
"Thank you, Neremiel. I can remember that."
"Do you need any help or maybe you have questions?" she asked, taking a turn to the left stairs. She stroked his shoulder in a soothing manner, glancing up at him.
"No, thank you... I'm just... disorientated," Legolas replied. He had millions of questions, but for now he could not form even one in a coherent sentence. As the girl confirmed he will be given leave to sleep now, he almost could not keep his eyes open anymore.
"Confusion is natural, Legolas," she began cautiously. "Don't be afraid. Lord Elrond is a very good Elf and Lord. He is old, wise and knows many things. He knows that you will feel like a stranger here. But he was kind to you, was he not?" the girl asked, taking hold of his elbow again, noticing his slow tempo.
"Yes, he was," Legolas replied. He listened to her words intently, trying to figure out an opinion. Finally one question seemed to make enough sense. "Neremiel, tell me… is Master Elrond high-tempered?"
"Erm… what do you mean by that?" Neremiel asked.
"I mean, does he beat you often? Is he quick in anger? Are his punishments severe?" Legolas explained as best as he could. Neremiel looked a little taken aback and she let go of his elbow, stopping.
"I have never heard about Lord Elrond using any violence or punishing somebody," she said slowly, but with fierce certainty. "He never beats anyone. Maybe he spanked the twins once or twice, but they surely deserved that; you would not find worse pranksters in whole Imladris. But Nanneth always says he is a good and patient father." Neremiel smiled.
Legolas could not believe his ears. Never to hit anyone, beside the twins…? What twins he did not know, but that wasn't important. To never mete out a punishment to a slave? No, that couldn't be true. Neremiel didn't look like a person scared to death who could hide the terrible truth about a wicked Master, she was… at ease. But that had to be a lie. It simply had to.
"I suppose you are unused to that," Neremiel said suddenly, extending a hand and pointing the blue bruise on his face. "Did they beat you often?"
"Normally," Legolas shrugged. She gave him a terrified look, yet resigned from further inquiry.
"Come. You must be sleepy." She patted his elbow and went further; Legolas smiled weakly at her and allowed her to lead him.
/*/
Elrond was standing in the balcony, gazing at the wide valley bathed in golden rays of sunlight. Warm, but no longer hot, Anor was lazily preparing to sleep, clad in all hues of deep orange; it painted the tree tops red, so they seemed like on fire. Shimmering veils of yellow and pink clouds were sent down to earth, messengers of time, telling all living beings that soon the soft darkness of the summer sky shall appear, allowing the creatures of Ilúvatar some well deserved rest. Enjoying the last touches of light upon his skin and fascinated with the sky, Elrond stayed on the balcony, leaning on the balustrade and watching his land with a protective, paternal gaze.
Glorfindel was lounging in Elrond's own armchair and sipping lazily from the glass of wine, staring at the horizon as well. He also watched with some amusement as his Lord shifted his weight from one leg to the other without speaking for a long, long while. He was surely thinking about something, his musings preoccupying his mind and stealing all the perception. But Elrond did not make a move nor a sound indicating that he wanted to share his thoughts, so nothing disturbed the convenient, friendly silence between the two and fragile serenity of the sunset.
Glorfindel sighed discreetly, glancing at the fine crystal in his hand and assessing the purest color of the wine in full light. One quick look at Elrond – the Elf was facing him now, worrying his lower lip, sliding his hands on a forged iron balustrade of the terrace in a gesture so smooth and gentle that it looked like a caress. His gaze was now fixed on the plain white stone floor. Returning to contemplating his drink, Glorfindel hid his smirk. He gave his friend two minutes.
Soon Elrond abandoned the railing and started to pace like a great cat in a cage, seemingly too deep in thought to notice what he was doing. Glorfindel broke before said two minutes ended. Curiosity consumed him.
"What is bothering you so much?" the Seneschal asked suddenly, wondering whether he could elicit a flinch from Elrond or not, but the Lord was far above that. He stopped his pacing and went into the chamber, reaching for his own wine.
"The letters from King Lathronios," he said slowly, still not looking at Glorfindel.
"I saw them. Jovial and unimportant, as always when he writes them himself. What did he write that upsets you so?" Glorfindel wanted to know.
"Oh, it is not about Mirkwood," Elrond furrowed his brow. "If we are to believe him, matters are better now in his kingdom and people are not suffering from hunger anymore. Somehow, I can hardly believe it, when the letter was spiky with pleasantries to such extent. His aim is to ask for further help."
"He is easy to look through. His father had more class than that." Glorfindel shot his friend an eye of scrutiny. "You of course intend to give him a hand, when he asks again? Don't you think it would be unwise? Our granaries are full, but they won't stay so for long if we continue to help Elven kingdoms. Excesses would wear away, and eventually so will your reputation. Lathronios is not a person of virtue. Imladris needs limitless trust to her Lord, it will become damaged should you continue to send them supplies and receive nothing back."
"Was he asking for the help of other kind, like army or gold, I would gladly refuse. But if I don't send the food, who do you think who would suffer? I cannot imagine Lathronios sacrificing his own table."
"The farmers will have enough…"
"If he won't snaffle up their grain claiming he needs to ascertain the survival of battle horses. Besides, farmers are only a part of Mirkwood's population. And who would be the first to deny provisions? The household, for example. The poorest, for they cannot resist. Townspeople. All of the slaves."
"Here we are… it's the boy that upsets you so." Glorfindel sat down normally and put his wine on a table. His intense, green gaze searched for Elrond's eyes above the connected tips of his fingers in front of his face.
Elrond didn't avoid his eyes this time.
"Yes, it is the boy that upsets me. Lathronios sends me a contingent who carries the letter. In his royal name he thanks me for help and wants me to know the size of improvement. But then he writes an ordinary equivocal line about the Elf we saw today morning." Elrond bridled up. "He sends me a slave in thanks. A slave, for Elbereth's sake! What is he thinking? How can I accept such a gift? This child is a person, not a thing that can be given to someone. Was he trying to offend me, do you think?"
"Offend you…?" Glorfindel hesitated. "If he really is that consumed by evil, he surely thought you would be glad to be given a plaything to use at your leisure. If not, he might have tried to provoke you. But then, what would be the purpose of offending you…? He needs you."
Elrond sighed heavily, drying his goblet.
"How can I change this?" Elrond asked, more himself than Glorfindel. The Seneschal raked a hand through his hair and stretched on the armchair again.
"Personally, I think you should keep the boy. He needs someone to take care of him and you can more than provide that. Free him and make sure he understands that he is free, but wait until the Mirkwood contingent leaves," the blond told him.
"I asked about the situation, not about the boy. I mean to take the elfling under my protection, he is in my keep now, it's obvious. Don't tell me the easy things, that I can figure out." Elrond snapped and leaned again, on his desk this time.
Glorfindel stood up, his smirk gone and his wine forgotten. He came closer to his Lord and led him out on the balcony, pointing the golden valley, which now looked like poured over with honey, small houses and roofs as if made of ginger cake and sweets, the river one golden stream of mead.
"You do what you can to help those you can, Elrond," Glorfindel told him with unexpected seriousness. "You can do nothing about slavery in Mirkwood. If you censor King Lathronios, you will only infuriate him more and cause suffering to innocents. You know his ego cannot bear criticism. The important thing is that slavery never happens here." He indicated the golden evening before them again.
Elrond looked at those wonders he has created long ago and stood on their guard hence. But he shook his head almost despite himself, deep in his heart depressed. Glorfindel laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"You are not a bad ruler because you cannot solve all problems," he said. "You just feel bad because helping others like this elfling is out of your reach and that makes you feel helpless."
"Thank you," Elrond said as he sighed and looked at his friend, watching as the usual smirk returned to Glorfindel's lips.
"So, who is he?" the blond asked Elrond.
"He says his name is Legolas," Elrond told him. "Son of no one."
"Pretty," Glorfindel continued. "Very nice lines."
"He is beaten, underfed and scared," Elrond said as he thought about his meeting with the elfling. "He won't look others in the eyes."
"And his talent?" Glorfindel asked, returning to watching the sunset. Strange silence again made him glance back at his liege.
"I'm not entirely sure." Elrond said slowly.
"Explain," Glorfindel said with cautiousness, afraid of his own suspicions. Elrond's grimace confirmed them.
"Oh come on. You were there. You heard those comments. You saw the letter. You have heard rumors about terrible things which are happening in Mirkwood. You have to suspect something, same as me." Elrond lowered his tone a little.
Glorfindel stared at the sky up above.
"You were given a slave." He said. "But what kind of a slave?..."
"Exactly."
The two Lords fell silent for a while. Finally Glorfindel shifted uncomfortably.
"Would Lathronios risk something like that? If the rumors about the terror, murders, tortures and prostitution are true, would he risk revealing the truth to you? Why did he send the boy here? I don't believe he wanted to show gratitude, it's not his style. Even if so, his idea is sick, as we agreed. Offence would be no gain."
"I don't know what to think about it. It is a marshy ground we are moving on. I think he had a purpose in sending the Elf here… He wanted to get rid of him." Elrond said, straightening.
"Why? Was he troublesome? A criminal?" Glorfindel suggested. Elrond grimaced.
"Recall him. That pitiful creature does not fit my scheme of a criminal."
"He looks rather like someone with an incurable and infectious disease sent here to decimate Imladris' population." Glorfindel muttered.
"Please, my friend. You are fantasizing." Elrond smiled lightly at the try to light the tension somehow.
"Why, we could become heroes again. You finding the cure, me killing the evil King." Glorfindel joked, happy to hear Elrond's amused snort. "We could become legend, my friend!"
"I see that one legend is enough for that weak head of yours," Elrond said, shaking his head. He stepped back into his room, waited for his friend to join him and closed the wooden balcony door.
"What about the boy?" Glorfindel sobered again.
"We need to find out his real purpose here," Elrond said, pouring himself a little more wine. "Maybe it's wise to talk with Gwaithtir. He was the one who stopped the contingent near the border, then sent further with an escort to the Palace. Maybe he had seen or heard something."
Glorfindel stared at the depths of his wine, trying to hide the impish gleam in his eyes and losing. Elrond squared his shoulders. And cleared his throat, the power of his status demanding to hear explanations in an instant.
"Gwaithtir shall be here in a minute, my liege." Glorfindel said with a small bow. Elrond responded with the same.
"As always a step further than I am, my Seneschal. I wonder how do you do it."
"I'm just being myself." Glorfindel turned around with grace, put the empty goblet on a silver tray and wandered to Elrond's private library, searching through the tomes casually, only to pick one book and return to the armchair.
"The Common Library is as always open, my friend. Why do you always chose something from my private bookshelf?" Elrond asked, feigning annoyance.
"Because the Library is few stories lower," Glorfindel said simply. "It's too far. Being always one step before you is tiring, you know."
Elrond smiled, looking at his oldest friend, and let him read in peace. His grey eyes slid over the room, calm and appreciative, assessing the perfect stillness and order of his chambers. It was his very own environment, most private part of whole valley, which was his home. He let only few in here, to assure safety and peace, but his rooms would be a boring place without Glorfindel. He was older than Lord of Imladris, yet always showed an attitude of someone very, very young. Many a time Elrond wondered at the source of this behavior. He supposed that being returned to life changed Glorfindel of Gondolin enough to be concerned with the living itself more than anything else. He loved laughter, good wine, dance and music, devoured books and discussed newest inventions with the talented Elves of Elrond's court. He preferred to be among the living as much as possible, so he used to spend the evenings in Elrond's chambers. The councils bored him, even if he was well informed and could easily maneuver in the world of politics. He would prefer to spend this time differently: actively, riding somewhere, training, or flirting with the maidens.
Elrond sighed. Glorfindel was his best friend, ever. He smiled softly, keeping his face securely turned towards the window so that the golden Elf didn't notice.
Exactly in that moment a sudden bang made Elrond jump: Glorfindel put the book none too gently on the table. He sat with his legs stretched and hands crossed on his chest, staring at his liege with inscrutable look on his face. He looked a bit like a teenager at the moment, disappointed with his lecture. Elrond raised his brows in question.
"It was boring," his Seneschal explained. "You read terribly boring books, my friend. I should lend you some of mine."
Elrond never managed to answer, for the soft knock in the door interrupted his thoughts. It was Erestor. As he came in, he ushered Gwaithtir to the room; the guard saluted and joined his heels in a military manner.
"It's good to see you, Erestor, Gwaithtir," Elrond spoke. "Please sit down, I have a need to speak with you."
They sat on the long couch near the wall. Elrond took the armchair on the left, while Glorfindel straightened and focused, turning to the guests and his Lord with full, unblemished attention.
"It's about Legolas, this boy I was given as a gift," Elrond started. "Gwaithtir, you saw him first, and around the contingent of Elves from his homeland, who surely felt more at ease out of my sight. Erestor, you spent some time with him as well. Both of you may advise me wisely as for his stay here. I want to hear your opinions. I shall not hide that this child's condition was quite a shock to me."
Gwaithtir moved restlessly. "I saw him this morning, my Lord. He was led by a companion, tall, brown haired Elf, probably a slave same as he. What you saw, my Lord, is not the whole truth, for he was in worse shape than that. All covered in dirt and dried blood, his clothes in rags. I gave him something of mine and talked the Elves from the contingent to allow the two clean themselves. I had not medicines which I could give them, however, but I was told he was not badly injured; only exhausted. He seemed a little… out of his mind to me. Unresponsive, staring at one point in front of him, sitting with his knees pressed to his chest. He never allowed me to touch him. He was too scared, I think."
"He was bloodied?" Elrond asked.
"I saw much dry blood on his clothes and on his flesh, but no fresh injuries. No bleedings, no broken bones, only… I think he was beaten much. He had bruises all over his hands, legs. Back. Marks on his neck. He was limping, if I recall correctly. That second Elf mentioned something about a stay in the dungeons. He wished his friend would see a healer, but told me no more. He was afraid too. Well, he had good reasons," Gwaithtir said gravely. "When they were dismounting, one of the Mirkwood warriors backhanded that blond child. He fell on the ground from the horse."
"The bruise on his face," Erestor sighed. "Now I understand. It looks morbid."
"I see…" Elrond murmured. "Erestor, I told him to find you this afternoon. Someone has led him to you, right?"
"Yes, Neremiel. He was frightened, with his eyes fixed on his shoes. I ordered him to take a bath, eat something and find some rest. Neremiel has led him to the common sleeping area, I think. He hasn't showed since; maybe he's just sleeping, he looked really drained… I hope he ate, at least," Erestor said, recalling the pitiful creature.
Elrond said nothing for a good while. His brow furrowed.
"I will need to see him. Erestor, where did you lodge him? Maybe he is awake by now. I'm afraid the extent of his injuries is greater than we supposed."
Erestor nodded. "He's in the common sleeping area, with the soldiers and servants staying on the night shift."
Elrond sighed. He shot Glorfindel a glance, then turned directly to Erestor. "I intend to keep the boy, my friend. Will you find him some work to do in the household?"
Erestor's eyes turned round.
"You will keep him? You will have him work with the household? It's a bad idea, Elrond."
"I shall free him from serfdom soon enough. But I need to take care of his health first to see to his mental state." His look rested on Gwaithtir for a moment, and the chief guard bent his head slightly, acknowledging the unspoken praise. "We know nothing of him, who is he, where he comes from, whether he has a family and where, why he has been sent here. This child must stay here, at least for some time; first – the contingent must leave and believe the gift was accepted not to alarm King Lathronios; second – this child needs protection and care. I am not leaving him alone."
"Surely he has family somewhere. Let them take care of him, it's a much better solution. What will you say to your council noblemen? You have seen how displeased they were. Besides, this Elf will not come to himself here. He needs someone trusted, someone who's sure not to hurt him, family, Elrond. Free him and let him rejoice the reunion." Erestor advised. "Finding him a work in the household will only ascertain him you are keeping him as a slave."
"We don't know if he has any family." Glorfindel's voice was grim. "We don't know if he has any idea of freedom. He could be kidnapped as a child, or be born in Mirkwood. He could have forgotten all he knew about normal life. In that case we will be his family from now on. And this will be hard to find out his place in this huge palace without an everyday routine he can stick to, without an environment he can make new friends in. He needs normality, so that he can learn he won't be abused anymore."
Erestor worried his lower lip, pondering Glorfindel's words. Finally he spoke. "I shall think where to put him. The boys in the stables could use a hand, but then… he is too fragile to that kind of work. His condition won't allow him to work that hard. Maybe when he gains some weight and rests properly… as for now he can help in the kitchens, there is always something to do."
"Very well," Elrond said. "Agreed. Thank you, Gwaithtir, for your detailed observations. They were precious. Now, you have just come from your watch, haven't you?" Elrond asked.
"Yes, my Lord. I came straight to you."
"So you can accompany us downstairs to the sleeping area, so that you can have your rest as well. If the Elf is sleeping, we won't wake him, but if he's not, I need to confirm the extent of abuse." Elrond said and rose. Erestor quickly gathered the plates and cups on the tray and took it with him, as the silent procession of Elves left the warm chambers.
The sun had set. The last sparkle of living light died at the border of the horizon to the unknown ways of journeying in the rule of night.
/*/
The dark room was not totally deserted at this time, for a few guards came here already, some settling for sleep, some enjoying a quiet talk in the faint light of the candle. The window was opened, the air playing with the flame; as the heat was finally gone, refreshing breeze was everything a tired Elf could use at the moment, in a warm night rich in chirping of grasshoppers.
Elrond's candelabra gave warm, but dim light. It was a good thing, for it didn't startle the sleeping form on the third bed counting from the door. Legolas was curled tightly in a foetal position and enfolded in a blanket, his thin back pressed to the wall, his face turned to the door. One of his hands was resting on his head, so that in case of being awoken by a hit, he wouldn't risk a concussion. His eyes were closed and his cheeks tearstained. It seemed like he had cried himself to sleep. And obviously, he was shivering; it was a small tremble, yet a tremble it was. It was becoming worse with every new wave of air coming from the window.
An empty plate was standing on the small stool near his bed, which prompted that he did eat something. His clothes were folded neatly and resting in the far corner of the bed, along with the borrowed ones. He had left everything in perfect order before he dared to rest. It had been a few hours ago, and yet he probably hasn't woken since. He must have been really exhausted.
"What's wrong…?" Gwaithtir asked. "Why is he trembling? Does he have a fever?"
Elrond bent over the bed and delicately touched one palm visible from under the covers.
"Elrond, if he wakes, he will panic," Glorfindel whispered. The healer knew that, but had a distinct feeling that Legolas would not have woken even at lifting him up. Dark circles under his eyes and unusual paleness of his face contrasted ugly.
"He is cold as ice," Elrond observed with shock. Erestor frowned; Gwaithtir came closer and squatted near the bedpost to have a better view.
"Elves do not feel cold," he stated the obvious, rocking on his heels nervously and seeking solution in his Lord's eyes. "Besides, it is the middle of summer, he cannot be cold. So what does that mean, my Lord?"
Elrond hesitated, uncertain what to do now. Feeling cold was something to be alarmed of. That meant only serious illness or grief which could even resolve in death. Seemingly Legolas' defenses were so damaged that he could no longer keep warmth in his body and help to fight off possible infections. That was really bad, for infections was something he could be in danger of. He was surely wounded, only it remained unknown to what extent. The shivering spoke volumes of his mental state also. Feeling cold meant surrender and resignation, grief too big to handle.
In short words, this Elf could be dying.
"My Lord?" Erestor interrupted the continuing silence.
"Bring me a thicker blanket, please," Elrond whispered, then put a hand to the pale forehead, feeling unmistakable beginnings of fever, which would torment the Elf long to the dawn hours unless he did something about it. Discretely taking off the ring from his left hand and putting it on his right hand forefinger, he closed his palm into a fist. Vilya felt cold and heavy. Elrond concentrated and banned the fever out of the prone body lying before him; it would suffice until the next morning. Then he would have to see Legolas and examine him thoroughly.
Erestor reappeared shortly. The blanket he brought was made of thick wool and was generously, thickly woven. It should keep the elfling warm, if really the cold was the source of trembling. Elrond covered the skinny child, praying that he wouldn't wake.
He didn't, to his dark satisfaction, nor to the covering, nor to any touches. How exhausted must he be, Elrond wondered, observing with small relief as the shiver died, some warmth creeping into the stiffened limbs, the fever evaporating.
"Erestor, see to him next morning. Maybe it is just exhaustion, maybe it's the journey, lack of food and brutal treatment. Observe him in the morning and as soon as the session ends in the council hall, bring him to my chambers, I must examine him. Now let's let him sleep. He must… he must rest." Elrond stood up slowly, still staring at the figure curled next to the wall.
"I shall stay," Gwaithtir whispered. "I shall take a bed next to him, so that I hear whatever happens. I will be watching over him."
Mute thanks in Elrond's eyes and a nod ascertained the guard that the poor Elf laying in the bed before them really needs to be watched this night.