Rivendell was a beautiful place. A part of Anya was tempted to just enjoy it, lounge around doing little beyond listening to gossip and devouring the wonderful cooking. Except that she knew that she wouldn't be permitted to just enjoy things like that forever. Every older society, everything without a concept of 'welfare funds' expected each person in a community to do something to entitle them to the continued resources that ensured their survival. Being the unexpected novel guest would eventually wear away,, leaving her with the need to do something. Before that happened, she wanted to have options. Decent ones.
Anya had been learning where things were located in and around Rivendell, learning who made what crafted goods or prepared foods, who were the entertainers and healers and trainers of skills with weapons and music and the various ways of guarding and protecting their home. She talked to the people that knew plants, matching plants that she knew to the names used here, some of them proving to be plants that she'd known under other names while other plants were entirely new to her. Various pleasant tests of her skills had shown that she was a decent but not exceptional rider of horses, skilled with a small boat, considered 'passable' with blades and bow, and 'not completely inept' in the woods. Her habit of going hunting with some of the younger elves and shooting at nothing but 'evil, foul natured bunnies' caused much amusement, though the bunnies near Rivendell made fabulous eating.
On the days that were rainy, which were not that uncommon, Anya found things to do inside. The first couple times, she'd talked with one of the elven healers about proper care of wounds. After a while, she'd found Lord Elrond's library. She was delighted to discover that she could read the current elven writing, though she could tell from looking at the older writings that the language had changed over time. She didn't know how much time. Some things were close enough that she could get the main ideas and some of the details but not everything, which would be fine for some sorts of writings, but not for others. Older materials were… well, at first she'd thought it was a completely different language. Only comparing the writings had let her figure out that it was and wasn't a different language – it wasn't the language of one of the other elven nations, it was old elven, as opposed to middle elven or modern elven.
She hadn't been surprised that the maps gave not the slightest hint of anything that looked familiar to any of the lands that she'd lived in. Though she had found Gondor and Arnor on the maps. She'd also found Rivendell, and the nearest other places, which she thought were human cities and villages, and a place listed as 'the Shire' that might be the 'over there' where the hobbits lived. Whatever hobbits were.
"I had heard that you came here during the rains," the voice of Lord Elrond came from behind Anya.
Anya turned to face the elven lord, a small smile on her face. "As lovely as Rivendell is, I'd rather not slip and injure myself in the rain, or catch a fever from wandering around in wet clothes."
He walked closer, his gaze taking in the opened scrolls on the table in front of her. A pair of histories and a map, one that showed the lands once held by Isildur. "There are few among the humans who read. My understanding is that such skills are seldom taught to the mortal women."
"You forget that I didn't spend my youth in these lands. You can't judge based on what things are normal here," Anya reminded him. She didn't want to admit that a woman being able to read would have been very bit as unusual in the places where she had been young, or for most of her existence. Explaining that, or when she'd learned, would lead right into the whole former justice demon aspect, and she still thought she'd be safer if nobody knew about that. "Of course, I can tell that the written language has shifted, and I can't read the older scrolls."
"The more I learn about you, the more unusual you seem to be," he shook his head, settling into the other chair at the table.
Anya shrugged, "Sometimes ordinary is boring, and boring rarely helps."
"I find myself doubting that you could ever be boring. Did something in particular prompt your choice of reading materials?"
There could be several reasons for the little smile on his face as he spoke to her. Anya let the possibilities cross her mind, as well as letting herself wonder which she'd prefer, and if they might not be so bad. The smile could mean that he was planning something for her future – possibly unwelcome, if she didn't like his plans. It could have been amusement – oh look, it's a literate woman. It might have been that he was pleasantly surprised by her ability to read. Perhaps he had a little fantasy running through his mind about pushing her up against one of the shelves – or backwards onto the table – and ravishing her body until they were both delightfully exhausted and covered with a fine sheen of sweat and pheromones. Or it could be something else entirely.
Deciding that it was best not to guess right now about why he was smiling, or to spend too much time with that daydream about being ravished in the library, Anya sighed. Gesturing towards the map, she offered "I've heard a couple people use the phrase 'when Gondor and Arnor reunite' when they were talking. Sometimes things like that are just a fancy way of saying never, but I was curious about the origin of the saying. Which led me here, to histories and maps."
"There is a good deal more to the matter than old history and maps," his words were quiet, and while he was facing the map, it didn't seem like he was really looking at it.
Anya wondered if he knew about the rest of it from personal memory, or stories passed from his ancestors. If the 'more' was a sad story about the descendants proving unable or unwilling to keep what their ancestors had gained, or if it was a tragic tale of loss and betrayal and death. If there had been illness, or poison or madness. She didn't ask, but did make a curious noise, the sort that wasn't quite a word, could be ignored if he didn't feel like talking, but if he did, if he wanted to explain, that sound could easily be taken as 'tell me more'.
"The matter involves very old, very dark history. Many lands and peoples suffered. It was the time of a great alliance between men and elves, a time that shall likely never be repeated. We united against a danger far more terrible than any simple matter of politics or borders, and faced terrible powers and odds. There were many who suffered, many who perished, and many who were denied the mercy of death. I pray that this world never faces such evil again," his words were barely more than a whisper.
Over a thousand years of watching suffering and pain in countless variations had taught Anya to recognize old pain when she heard it. Elrond had suffered because of those dark and terrible times. It wasn't a matter old family stories passed down through generations that lived far longer than humans – he had the haunted tone of someone who had been there, had experienced the fear and pain and misery of that war. Maybe not as the Lord of Rivendell, but he had been there. And he didn't like the memories of what he'd seen. As a general guideline, anything that lived that long tended to be very powerful.
"So, tell me a little about something completely different. Rather than those ugly times, tell me…" Anya paused, searching for something harmless to ask about while she rolled up the scrolls that had brought up those memories for Lord Elrond. "Tell me about that tree in the garden, the one with the pretty flowers. Or the reason that Aradeill keeps laughing every time someone offers Beramoith a berry tart."
As he began an amusing story about a younger Beramoith drinking too much wine and attempting to juggle, Anya decided that she'd have to find someone else to explain to her about this alliance of men and elves that had fought in some huge war. It was obviously a big event in history. The sort of event that changes the map, destroys empires and creates new nations from old. The sort of thing that breeds suffering and betrayal and vengeance… The sort of thing that it could be disastrous not to know about. But she'd ask someone else, someone that didn't get that haunted look.
The idea of making Elrond talk about something that held such painful memories felt wrong. Not just because he had all sorts of power in this situation. But it would feel… cruel. It felt a little like some of that moral fiber and compassion that Xander and his friends had talked about. How unsettling.
As she listened to him talk about Beramoith's amusingly unfortunate efforts at juggling, Anya could feel herself smiling. She could also feel herself developing an interest in Elrond that went far beyond the simple hormonal urge to push him down on the table – now free of delicate scrolls and maps – and have her passionate way with him. She was starting to get an emotional attachment… starting to get fuzzy feelings for him.
Oh, this could go very badly for her.
She wasn't certain if she wanted to know if he had a similar interest in her. If he had feelings and interests, even if only limited to passionate daydreams set in the library, across the lovely stone table, or under the waterfalls, or any of the dozens of places that Anya had set for smutty imaginings. She couldn't figure if it would be better if he felt no more than a passing curiosity about her and her past, or if he might have the same frustrating urges and longings and wistful considerations of a something more. What didn't help was the new certainty that in this world, elves lived a very, very long time, and were beings of great power. And she was… mostly human, mostly mortal.
End part 6.