CHAPTER THREE
After four days, I've given up hope that I'm getting out of here anytime soon. After a week? I wonder if there's even a search party.
It's not just that I'm stuck in a cold, damp room where the only thing I can do to pass my time is sleep or pace back and forth. I'm alone. Utterly alone. And a search party? Who am I kidding? My friends, my mom, they don't even know where I am. I could be dead to them.
But I'm not dead. This isn't hell, is it? Definitely not a fire and brimstone type of place. More like mold and stalactites.
I'm not that into philosophy, or whatever type shit Alighieri was on. I just want to go home. If not for the people holding me captive…
Either they were really committed to their roles as cultish cosplayers, or… or this was all for real. I'm not even sure what comes next after jail. What could I even stand trial for? Breathing? If I committed a crime, nobody seems to want to tell me what I did.
Not that I would understand them if they tried.
When Lariel stops by, she always brings food. And a book. This isn't a goddamn classroom, but I can't tell her to leave, and I'm not sure I want to. She's the only thing that keeps me company here. I don't know why she cares about me, or what her endgoal is, but she'll sit with me for a while, reading aloud, while I eat what I can only describe as gruel. The stuff you hear about in history class but never actually thought you'd have to experience, right? I shied away from the food at first, but before long, I got too hungry to ignore it. Then the food started to taste good, and I wondered if I've lost my mind.
I probably have.
The days are long and monotonous. When Lariel comes, it's a change from staring at a craggy stone wall or, worse yet, closing my eyes so I don't have to stare at anything. She begins to teach me her language – bit by bit, word by word – and calls it Sindarin. I'd never heard of it before – but I'm not going to argue with the woman who holds the keys to my cell.
Does that even exist, though? I find myself wondering whenever she leaves. Where even is this place? Why wouldn't it be more well-known? Am I dead? I keep asking myself if I am. I'm not, right?
The bruises and scratches from the rocks prove that I'm not dreaming, at least.
It would probably make more sense if I was.
And when Lariel isn't around, there's not much for me to do. My mind feels numb. There's a rock I use to scratch meaningless symbols onto the rock walls – sometimes names, sometimes faces, sometimes dick graffiti. Anything to pass the time.
Other times, I'll sleep, or sit curled in the rock niche, telling myself stories about the guards to whittle the hours away. One's going through a rocky marriage, the other's one-half of a set of twins that switch every day. Yes, I get weird looks from it; I'd probably get the same treatment if I kept silent.
And then there's Daelen.
If you asked anyone else, they would probably tell you he's handsome. Flawless skin, long and glossy red hair that's usually pulled away from his face, accentuating his cheekbones. I've become familiar with the animosity in his hazel eyes whenever he glares at me. His mouth seems permanently set in a straight line. I'm not even sure if he could smile.
Once I asked Lariel why he hated me so much.
She'd given me a sad look and reached through the bars to touch my shoulder. You are human, she tells me, and I barely understood. To the old ones like Daelen, you do not belong in the wild, Eledh places of the world.
Eledh…
I don't know what she meant by that. It was something she was a part of, something Daelen was a part of. Something the whole city seemed to live and breathe. I could sense it even from my hole underground.
The longer I stay here, the more I know Lariel's right. I'm an outsider. You're right, I'd told Lariel after that. I belong somewhere else. I didn't yet know the word for home. But I think she understood me anyway.
. .ㅤ THE ELVENKINGㅤ. .
Time feels fluid here, trickling by as slowly as the condensation drips from the rock-studded ceiling. I'm not sure if it's day or night. The guards change every four hours or so, and that's my only timepiece.
I'm sitting in a dry corner of my cell, gazing at my shins. I wonder how long my leg hair can possibly get. It's something I've been studying for a week now; my mustache is already pretty impressive. The bottom of my feet are filthy, but I've long since stopped asking when I could have a shower. My skin is greasy and sallow from lack of soap or light, and
At least they let me out to go to the bathroom.
At least. This is hell.
Heavy footsteps descend the earthen staircase and I look up just in time to see three guards approaching. Daelen is in front; two others are behind him, one I barely recognize, and the other I'm sure I've never seen before.
The redhead unlocks the cell door and I get to my feet wearily. "Sin manalár?" I ask. It was one of the first phrases I'd learned. What is happening? Or, when said with a bite to your tone, like I have now, what the fuck do you want?
Daelen clicks his tongue against his teeth in disapproval and tells me to turn around. I do so, facing the wall and presenting my back to him. Thank god he can't see the face I'm pulling.
My name's Daelen and I hate women! Neener, neener, neener.
God, I hate this guy so much.
He binds my wrists with a quick knot and I face him again. Though he seems a bit taken aback by my sweet smile, I'm completely undeterred. "De aphed?" I ask, prompting him to answer my question. Lariel wouldn't do me like this.
Daelen just doesn't want to talk to me. He looks towards the ceiling for a brief moment. I can practically see what he's thinking: get me out of here.
Yeah, me too, pal.
When he answers, I catch one word that I recognize: Eldatár.
Realization dawns on my grubby features, and I wonder if I should be afraid.
I'd heard the term thrown around by the guards before. It was always spoken with reverence, with quiet respect.
Before I can speak, Daelen grasps my bicep, leading me out of the cell. One of the guards standing there gives me a look. I stick out my tongue. A smile twitches at his lips, and he unclasps the cloak around his shoulders, throwing it over mine.
It smells reminiscent of pine needles and dirt. But it definitely smells better than me. From Daelen's expression, I'm pretty rank. I mumble a thank-you to the guard and snuggle into the warmth of the cloak.
The stairs I'm ascending are the same ones I came down a few weeks ago. I'm grateful to see the light from the torches, even if I'm not too happy about my close proximity to Daelen – or the weapons that the two men behind me are bearing. Seriously. Who even uses spears anymore?
The Eldatár – as far as I can figure – must be the leader of this freaky cult. With each climbing inch, I feel more and more sick to my stomach.
This has been a long time coming. Bile swells in my stomach from the nerves.
But I'd do anything to get out of the cell.
Indescribable happiness washes over me when I feel the sun bursting on my face. We'd finally emerged from the staircase corridor and into a bright hall. I ignore the chatter and stares of green- and gray-clad people as I take a step towards the beam of light streaming between two pillars.
Daelen pulls me back. I utter an affronted squeak, and give him a rude look. "Give me a minute," I snap at him in English.
The male doesn't listen. I knew he wouldn't understand. And I have to force myself to walk away from the sunlight.
Daelen's tone is enough to keep my feet moving. He's never liked me, but now his voice is as sharp as a knife as he heeds me to keep moving.
This guy… I really don't like this fucking guy.
The first time we stop is in front of a huge pair of ornate wooden doors. Four guards stand here, backs straight and chins jutting forward. None of them look at me. I'm not sure whether it's by choice or duty. The doors are pushed open with an ear-shattering creak. I would cover my ears if my hands weren't restrained.
The room I step into is breathtaking. A floor carved of green marble, imitating a forest pool, stretches before me. Light bounces off of it from a massive, arching skylight sixty or seventy feet above our heads. A staircase leads the eye from where we stand to a pedestal.
My lips part in shock.
They gave this guy a throne.
The Eldatár is sitting on, I shit you not, a throne that imitates tree limbs twisted together. When Daelen moves me forward, I pick out more details: the silvery fabric draping his lithe body. The way he lounges with one leg crossed over the other, his ringed fingers tapping against his cheek. Those gray eyes that seem to pierce directly into my soul.
I don't even have to be told to drop to my knees. My legs seem to give out. This, I know, is the man that holds my life in his hands. Even with my head bowed, I can feel his eyes on my neck.
I'm scared to breathe as I listen to Daelen speak. The man on the throne gives an answer.
I don't want to look up, so my eyes stay focused on his boots. After a few moments of baited breath, I realize that the room's gone quiet. The atmosphere presses down on me. My heart skips a beat; I glance to Daelen. He's the last person who would help me if I needed it, but it's a force of habit. I don't know what to do. He stares back at me, arms crossed. I search his face for any sign or hint of command and find nothing.
Oh.
Was I supposed to say something?
This is my karma for not listening. I gather the courage to speak. My voice cracks in the middle of my question. "Please. Repeat?"
God, they're going to think I'm so stupid. I feel like crying. From fear or frustration or both.
At least crying is better than shitting my pants, right?
Daelen reiterates the question, slowly and deliberately, as if speaking to a child. "Ammanech imi Eryn Lasgalen?" His irritation is more obvious now than ever.
Eryn Lasgalen – that's this place. Not the city, but the forest that surrounds it. Lariel had told me that. She thought the place was beautiful. I think it's a dumpster fire.
He asked me why I was here, and I don't know if they'll believe me. I shake my head. "I don't know." An easy, simple phrase. I shift on my knees. The rustle behind me tells me that the guards are reaching for their daggers, but Daelen stops them with a look. "Boom. Here." I shrug, my voice quiet as I continue.
The Eldatár leans forward slightly. I don't look him in the eyes, but my spirits soar at even just a little hint of interest. Because that means it's not the end of the road for me. Please, god, you'll let me live, right?
I need to see my mom again.
Daelen fires off several more questions. Navanech tomo? Ammanech ava-ephed Westron? Carissech Mithrandir?
The last one catches me off guard. I'd heard his name before, carelessly tossed around by the guards outside my cell. I still have no idea who he is – if he's a god, or some higher power than the Eldatár sitting before me, or what.
He seems important.
I waste no time.
"Yes," I blurt out, and for the first time since I'd met him, Daelen seems floored. He turns to the Eldatár, and they have a quiet conversation in voices too hushed for me to hear. When he turns back to me…
"We will see," he says, tight-lipped and unamused. "If this holds true for you."
The Eldatár flicks his wrist.
A guard steps up from behind, lifts the edge of the cloak, and slices the rope binding my hands together. I rub the sore skin, not yet understanding what's going on. I'm scared to stand, and my only option is to listen to Daelen's debate with the man on the throne. Hesitant and questioning on the former's part, steady and sure on the latter. It ends with the guard from before – the one who'd given me his cloak – grasping my shoulder, giving me silent permission to rise. I do so, nodding my head to him in thanks.
Daelen inclines his head to me. "Lariel will take you to i glûdhsam." Before I can ask him what he means, he's leading me towards the door, and once he's dumped me outside, he's gone.
Lariel's waiting there, though. She has a soft smile on her face when she sees me, and I can't help myself as a similar grin of relief spreads over my lips. She takes my hand, rubbing her thumb over my knuckles. "Ai, Leoma. Are you alright?" "
No," I say quietly, avoiding her gaze. I don't like the way they're filled with mirth, as if she's laughing at me for my tears. Her pale hand squeezes mine in response. "You will be soon. Come with me."
I don't want to follow, but I have little choice. As we walk, I realize that this corridor isn't familiar. And it's clear we aren't going back to the dungeons.
The hallway she leads me down angles upwards, and as we walk, the atmosphere seems to become brighter. It seems warmer and more welcoming, like the torchlight itself is dancing on the walls. I peek into a few of the rooms that we pass. One shows a group of armored individuals talking and laughing; there's beer and cards involved. Another reveals a small office, where a woman is observing maps. She looks up and smiles, inclining her head to Lariel.
Then Lariel turns another corner and pushes open a door. I take a step back as steam – very, very hot steam – billows in my face. I'd been cold for so long that goosebumps pop up on my skin and I shiver out of shock.
"Welcome to i glûdhsam," she says with a smile, ushering me inside. "You may use it whenever you wish."
It's a sauna, or maybe an indoor pool, or both. Then I see the women lounging in the pool of water, clad in towels or barely masked by steam, and I realize what this is: a bathhouse.
Bathhouse.
I try not to get choked up. I'm not used to the whole public showers thing, but I'd been in locker rooms before. I'm not going to be picky.
After a few awkward seconds of standing there, I rid myself of my filthy clothes. They're left in a sad pile at the edge of the pool. I slide into the water, biting down hard on my lip to keep from sighing with relief. It had been so long… so long since I'd felt this warm. I'd almost forgotten how good it feels. Compared to the cold and the filth of the dungeon… this had to be the garden of Eden.
The water envelopes me up to my shoulders, but I duck my head under, leaving myself fully submerged until I was sure the prickling goosebumps had entirely disappeared.
It takes me a few minutes to break from the reverie the heat has me in. I have a lot of work to do. There's a fine layer of dirt on my skin which I meticulously scrub off until every inch is flushed and clean. My hair… is an entirely different matter. Wet and thick, it hangs heavily around my shoulders. I can't use soap on it, and the bathhouse is entirely filled with white women. There definitely aren't going to be any specialty products here.
One of the girls must see me hunting for some shampoo, because she paddles over and presses a bottle into my hand. Normally I would be a little shocked if a naked woman gave me something, but I give her a quiet thank you. Uncorking the bottle, I conduct a quick sniff test. Smells like hibiscus – strong and acrid – and something I can't place. Once I massage it through my thick curls and rinse my hair clean, though, I'm pleased with how my hair feels. Fresh and damply tangled, thick, lustrous. Beautiful.
I discover that, once I've left the pool, Lariel laid out a fresh set of clothes for me: a tunic, pants, and leather boots. The soft fabric slithers over my skin, and I cinch the leather belt around my waist. It's thin but warm, and above all, clean. I don't even miss my booty shorts at all. Lariel's waiting outside. When I join her, she gives me a kind smile. Those seem to come as naturally to her as breathing. Though somewhat hesitant of her intentions, I return her smile, showing my thanks. "How do I look?"
"Clean," she responds, her laugh tinkling in the corridor. "Now, you must want sleep?"
In a real bed? With covers? I dare not hope. But I nod vigorously, and follow her once more down the hall.
The room she gives me is tiny. Really tiny, with a bed pushed into one corner, a small wardrobe against the wall at the end of the bed, and a window above a table beside the bed. She stays long enough to ask me if I'm comfortable here.
I think I say yes; I'm too busy kicking off my boots and grasping at the blanket covering the bed. She's gone before my head hits the pillow.
. .ㅤ THE ELVENKINGㅤ. .
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. In future chapters, I'll begin writing Sindarin in English as MC grows more fluent in the language. P.S. - if you like the story, please take the time to review! It helps keep me motivated to write.
TRANSLATIONS
Eldatár - "Elvenking."
Eledh - "Elven". NOTE: this is a mistranslation or misspelling, but one I'm going to roll with. The actual term for "Elven" is edhel, but in this story, I'm using Eledh in a cultural context (think Elven cities, Elven clothes) and edhel in a biological context (as a species).
Sin manalár? - "What is happening?" Sin means "now", or in reference to the present. Mana- is a prefix of happen, or "come to pass", while -lár is used in place of "what".
De aphed? - "Answer" or "Well?" De- is a prefix meaning 'you', and aphed means "answer" or "respond".
Ammanech imi Eryn Lasgalen? - "How did you come to be in Eryn Lasgalen?" Amman means "how/why" and -ech is a suffix meaning "you". Imi means "in". Eryn Lasgalen is the Sindarin name for Mirkwood, translating to "The Wood of Greenleaves".
Navanech tomo? - "Where did you come from?" Navan means "where/whither/to where" and -ech means "you". Between the time of writing the sentence and writing the translations here, I lost the translation of tomo, which may be a construct of two separate words. In this sentence, it means "come from".
Ammanech ava-ephed Westron? - "Why do you not speak the common tongue?" Amman means "how/why" and -ech means "you". Ava-ephed is a construct roughly translating to "do not speak"; ephed means "speak" or "to say out". Westron is the Common Tongue of Middle-Earth.
Carissech Mithrandir? - "Do you know Mithrandir?" Carrisech means "do you know", from the particles caris- ("know") and -ech ("you"). Mithrandir is the Sindarin name for Gandalf, translating to "Gray Wanderer".
I glûdhsam - "the washroom". I is used to indicate singularity. Glûdh- means "soap" or "cleanse". Sam is derived from the Quenya sambë, means "room/chamber".