CHAPTER TWO
It's not a good morning. If I had to rank it on a scale of one to ten, this would definitely be… -11. Before I'm even fully awake, I'm painfully conscious of the dirt and moss pressed against my cheek. With any luck, I can keep my eyes closed and pretend it's the bathmat. The damp floor… that's just the pipes leaking.
I crack open a single, baggy eye. Instead of the bathroom, I see the forest – and a shoe. A black leather boot with silver buttons up the side.
Outdated, I think. By a few centuries.
I sit up quickly, my head nearly smacking against an outstretched bow. I jerk back just in time, squinting sleepily up at the person. No, people. There's a half-dozen, all in leaf-green armor – shin and shoulder guards, breastplates, helmets.
All with their bows drawn, arrows pointed at me.
Bows? My mind reels. Mouth open, gaping like a fish, I try to find something to say. Under the scrutinizing eyes of these white people, I can't.
The one in front of me – tall, unnaturally beautiful, dressed in a white surcoat with silver filigree, his shoulder-length hair pulled back in a half-ponytail – addresses me. Though I didn't know it at the time, he was asking me this: How have you passed into the Greenwood? What is your business here?
His voice is deep, almost velvety in its texture, and the language is like nothing I've ever heard of. Some mix of… Welsh, maybe – old English. His tone is cold – something that I ignore in favor of the sharp-looking daggers he has strapped at his waist.
My tongue suddenly feels too big and dry for my mouth. "I- I, um…" What do I even say? I'm not able to form words. The man in front of me, however, is. He tilts his head to the side, gray eyes studying me. He squats, elbows resting on his knees, face-to-face with me, and fires off another question.
I don't understand this one, either. And I'm too terrified and confused to be interrogated. Then I realize he's not speaking the same language as before. Some syllables seem harsh and guttural, others smooth and melodic. But whatever he's saying – it's nothing remotely close to English, or anything I recognize.
Almost in tears, I hold up my hands. "I don't understand. I-I'm sorry. I don't…"
He shakes his head, getting to his feet. One word to his entourage – brethren? Cronies? I'm not sure – and I make the decision to try to stand as well.
But then Ponytail pins me with a glare that could curdle milk, and I almost trip and fall on my ass. Gracelessly, I lower myself back to the ground, ducking my head so that I don't have to look in his eyes.
I can feel his gaze on me for a few more moments before he says something and motions to two of the guys behind him. They step forward, latching onto my biceps and dragging me to my feet.
Oh, my god. Oh, no. I start hyperventilating, trying desperately to suck air into my lungs. Panic causes my throat to close and my limbs to jerk as I try to twist my way free from their hands. For skinny people, they're surprisingly strong – and have no intention of letting me go.
Let me give you a scenario: you're confronted by a bunch of white guys in cult outfits. You're a mixed girl.
I think that paints the picture pretty well.
My wrists are tied behind my back with smooth rope. I struggle, testing its strength. No go. It's not like I've been doing strength training, either. But I still wiggle my hands, trying to loosen the bonds. Due to either my withered, unused muscles or some unnatural magic - Ha! As if - woven into the rope, it doesn't work.
I look up just as Ponytail beckons me forward. When I hesitate, the two flanking me give me a push. I trip, and because I'm not wearing shoes, I let out a whimper. My feet are screaming in pain, but I'm forced to continue.
It's not like I can say anything about it.
So there we are: marching through the forest layered with thick fog. My gaze bounces from our surroundings to the barely-there path we're walking on, and then to the pair of intricate swords strapped to Ponytail's back. I'm not sure if they're replicas or if he actually knows how to use them.
What if he does…?
I swallow another panic attack. Just barely. And tell myself to focus on the mud soaking into my socks. Nothing else.
It's going to be fine, Leo. You're fine. With any luck, they're taking you somewhere with showers – and food. I've already missed my breakfast, and the empty gurgling of my stomach isn't helping my fear at all.
Finally, Ponytail stops walking. I almost run into him, but one of the men beside me grasps my shoulder, holding me back. I bark an affronted noise at the sudden contact. A) I hadn't been expecting it, and b) don't fucking touch me, white boy. He merely pins me with a silent look and slowly removes his hand from my shoulder.
Good. I was about to bite him.
So I shake the feeling of his hand from my skin and look away.
Then up.
And further up.
I don't mean to gasp in awe. The sound leaves my throat automatically. The citadel that rises before me is truly something to gawk at, which is precisely what I'm doing.
A tree had fallen across a gorge, hewn to make a walkway, which would have been impressive if it had railings, but it doesn't, and I'm pretty sure that violates at least three health and safety codes. Beyond that? Two enormous pillars, carved to resemble birch trees, entwine their branches above a gate. It's the entrance to an enormous city built in the trees: towers spiraling through the sky, arched windows and doorways bearing entry to homes within. Stone is wedded to wood. The forest effortlessly molds itself against the city. If I hadn't been looking from the right angle, I might have overlooked it altogether.
What… the fuck?
There is nothing like this on earth, I know. I'm positive. This would've been in magazines, brochures. Even the ruins of it would've been a tourist destination. Once I swallow my dread, all I feel is fear, like a heavy stone in my empty stomach. I know, somehow, in my bones, that I'm somewhere unnatural.
Maybe even too far from home to find the way back.
I must have been still too long. Someone behind me pushes me forward. "I'm going, I'm going!" I snap over my shoulder. Can they really not understand me? Are they just really good LARP-ers?
I can't think about that now. One battle at a time, and right now, my fear of heights is the one contesting me. Crossing the bridge seems like a nightmare. The depth of the gorge below looms like an open, cavernous maw. And the splinters that I'm certain are destined for the soles of my feet… Jesus Christ, save me. I shuffle across with minimal damage, but I don't think my captors would have cared either way.
We cross beneath the birch gateway, then through enormous doors that lead further into the city. A corridor wide enough to be a roadway anywhere else, with other halls branching off deeper. I should be furious. Or apprehensive at the very least. But at least I'm in shelter, and out of the chilling wind. Once I'm inside, I notice the air is warm, enveloping me. There's a sweet, cozy smell. Cinnamon, maybe? Some other spice?
Ponytail distracts me as he barks an order and leaves. Most of his entourage disperse too – disappearing up stairwells, striding down corridors, going back outside – but two remain.
The girl speaks first. Her hair is a darker blonde than Ponytail's platinum, and her slanted eyes are green. She has a strongly boned face, like mine – not what most of the world would call pretty, but certainly striking. When she smiles at me, it lights up her features, and I can't help smiling back. An involuntary action, like I couldn't help doing it.
Then she puts her hand on my shoulder and my smile drops. I stare at her coldly, watching her lips move in an unfamiliar pattern.
"Lariel i eneth nín," she says, placing her other hand over her heart. When she repeats the phrase, slowly and gently, I realize she must be introducing herself. Shakily, I nod, and she beams at me.
Her companion barely lets me absorb my surroundings before he scoffs, crossing his arms over his broad, armored chest and speaking in hushed tones to Lariel. I'm not sure if I should look at him or the girl. The woman seems kind and gentle: warm, like a comforting embrace. He, on the other hand…
His eyes narrow at me. The expression alone is enough to bog down his handsome face. He looks disgusted. As a mixed kid, I take particular offense to that.
Lariel – the woman – speaks to me again. I can't understand her, but she looks apologetic, and it automatically makes me want to forgive her. But there's still that cold, horrid fear leaking into the pit of my stomach. "Wh-why? What are you doing?" I stammer, clutching at her hand when she reaches for me. I've had too many people grab me against my will today. Not her, too.
She shrugs. Maybe she doesn't know how to tell me, or maybe she doesn't think I need an explanation. Breaking free of my cold fingers, she wraps her own around my bicep in a surprisingly strong grip, and leads me down a corridor. Taken off guard by her sudden strength, I struggle to keep up with her. From the quiet footsteps behind me, her friend must be following. I try to ignore his dagger-like gaze glaring into my back and focus on something else.
Maybe, I tell myself as I stare at the dim walls hewn from stone, punctuated every several feet by a flickering torch, maybe she's taking me somewhere warm. Somewhere with food.
In my heart, I know that's not true.
"Where are we going?" I mumble, quieter than I meant it to be. Lariel throws me a surprised look. Whatever she says to me, I can't understand.
But I'm getting the idea.
The corridor slopes downward. The air becomes chillier and more stale. It smells like mold and moss, and the walls go from smooth stone to roughly carved, looking almost sharp to the touch.
Where in the fucking world am I? It should be illegal to still have dungeons. I'm still clinging to the idea that this is somewhere on Earth. Any other option would be impossible, right?
Right?
Dear god, I want to go home.
We reach a chamber, either side sectioned into cells with iron bars hung from ceiling to floor, barring escape.
I turn on Lariel. "What the fuck is this?" Her eyes widen in shock at my vicious tone, but all the fear is starting to melt away, replaced by vicious, desperate anger. She opens her mouth to reply, but I don't let her, jabbing my finger at her chest. "You think this is fucking funny? What fucking cult do you belong to? When I get out of here -"
The man behind her doesn't let me finish.
Suddenly I'm sitting on my ass in a cell, the bars separating me from the pair in front of me. Lariel's hand clings to the iron rod, her eyes lingering on me in sympathy. The redheaded man turns on his heel, saying something to her in that language I'm starting to hate. Then he's gone. Lariel doesn't move, her eyes fixed on mine.
I draw my knees up to my chest, dragging my eyes from her. I want to hate her. She's pitying me. Isn't she an accomplice? What gives her the right? Letting out a huff of frustration, I decide to keep my mouth shut. Antagonizing her will only make it worse for me.
From the soft movement of cloth, I can tell she's crouched down, and I risk another look. Her hand reaches through the bars towards me. Clutched in between her pale fingers is her cloak – sage-green cloth, its scent reminiscent of pine forests.
I'm too cold and tired to think better of it. I take the garment, wrapping it around my shoulders. It's warmer than I expected it to be. Though it doesn't seem to be woven from some heavy type of cloth, it feels a lot thicker and sturdier than it looks.
"Thank you." I duck my head to her. She nods, seeming to understand my words. After a few moments, it's her turn to speak.
"Man eneth lín?" She asks, and I stare at her with low-drawn and tired eyes. I don't understand. I don't want to. I'm tired of asking why to everything they say.
I'm so tired.
Her sudden movement startles me. Retracting her hand through the bars of the cell, she places it against her chest. "Lariel." Then she extends her palm to me once more. "Lín?"
Realization dawns on me. She's asking my name. I stare at her for a beat. Should I tell her, or not? What purpose would it serve her to know my name? I don't know why she would care. But I tell her anyway.
"Leoma. My name's Leoma."
Lariel's eyebrow quirks upward. She says something else, but it falls on deaf ears. Shrugging, I turn my gaze away. A rustle and a few footsteps tell me she's standing and leaving. I wait for a few minutes to be sure, and then I get to my feet, rushing the bars.
"HELP! Somebody, help me! Please! I need help!"
The only thing that answers is an echo and a roar of blood in my ears.
Why is this happening to me? What did I do to deserve this?
I don't get an answer to that, either.
Suddenly I feel drained. Sinking back into the niche cut into the wall, I pull the cloak around me. There's no way I can get comfortable here. I try using my knee as a pillow, leaning my cheek against it, wiggling my toes in the chilly air.
It only gives me a bad ache in the neck, but it can't really get worse from here.
Unless they kill you.
Bile rises in my throat and I lean over in case I have to vomit on the floor. But there's nothing in my stomach that could even come back up. I spit on the ground, trying to get the nausea out of my system. Once I've wiped the strings of drool from my mouth, I lean back, my head hitting the rock with a dull thump.
"Ow."
Immediately I miss my friends. Robin would be laughing and Des would have put a comforting hand on the back of my head. But I don't know how far away they are.
Or if I'll ever see them again.
God, I'll probably get an aneurysm if I think about it too much. I sigh, rubbing my forehead. It should be a Friday morning, and I should be eating Belgian waffles from Brad's street vendor, missing my ten-thirty lecture. I should be home, in the Georgia sunshine, worrying about my next exam instead of whether or not I'll survive.
Don't cry, Leoma. I scrub my eyes, telling myself over and over. You already cried last night. Let's try not to make it a habit.
"Leoma," calls a voice that's definitely not mine, and I sit up so quickly my forehead almost hits the stone wall in front of me. I wince, glancing around. It's Lariel, and she's holding a tray in her hands. Food? Should I be grateful? At least I'm getting food.
I pick my way over to the bars, accepting the tray that she slips under the door. Cheese and bread. "What is this?" I mumble to myself. "The fucking… Middle Ages? Do I look like a peasant to you?"
That doesn't stop me from inhaling it. The bread might have once been soft and airy; the goaty flavor of the cheese covers up the stale bites of bread. When I'm done, I stare at the tray blankly. I want more, and I know I won't get any. I'm so hungry. Maybe I should have savored it more, made it last longer.
Lariel makes a noise to attract my attention. I push the tray back towards her, not deigning to look up.
Then she says, "Leoma."
She's produced an apple from her pocket, and I look from the fruit to her eyes. Something glints within them in the dim light. Is she doing that fucking pity thing again?
My mouth waters, anxious to tuck something else in my belly. I make a swipe for the apple. She holds it just out of reach, that irritating smile still stuck on her face.
"Give it to me," I snap. She must understand what I'm saying, because she shakes her head.
"I gordof," she explains, gesturing to the apple. I'm not in the mood for games. "What? Just give it to me."
The woman points at it again. "I gordof. Se yávien – madech." She mimes taking a bite from the apple. I'm not amused. I know how to eat a fucking apple. She must see it in my expression, because she extends it towards me, repeating that word again. "I gordof."
Maybe it means eat. I obey immediately. Once the apple's in my hands, I practically inhale it. It's tart and sweet at the same time, plump and rosy and juicy. I'm only just aware of Lariel watching me, but I try not to think about her. The fresh fruit teases my senses, and for a second the dungeon doesn't seem so bad.
Then I'm finished and everything falls back into place. I wish I had more. If not to eat, then at least to forget about the cell again.
Lariel picks up the tray and gets to her feet. She's taller than I am, but she moves soundlessly, almost like a cat. She steps away, her green eyes resting on me until she finally turns and leaves.
My mouth goes dry. But I don't want her to come back. I'd rather be alone than with… these people. Whoever the hell they are.
"You're going to be fine, Leoma." My voice echoes in the cell. It only makes me feel more lonely. "You're going to get out of here, yeah? Just hang in there."
...If there was a prize for lying to yourself, I'd win it.
AUTHOR'S NOTE. The Sindarin used in this chapter is translated from elfdict dot com's dictionary, "Parf Edhellen". There may be some mistakes, but I've structured the sentences as best I can given the resources we have on Sindarin! I'll provide translations and explanations on why I used these in chapters where Sindarin, Westron, or any other Middle Earth language is prevalent. P.S. - please review!
TRANSLATIONS
Lariel i eneth nín. - "My name is Lariel."
Man eneth lín? - "What is your name?" NOTE: lín is possessive you.
I gordof. - "Apple." Cordof is the Sindarin translation of Pippin, or 'small red apple'. I gordof is used as singular apple.
Se yávien – madech. - "This fruit - you eat it." Mad- is the Sindarin prefix for 'eat' and -ech is the suffix for behavior (?), which makes a complete phrase.