CHAPTER SIX.
"Ugh," I groan, and it's about the only sound I can force out of my deflated lungs. My sparring partner, Curunír, is crouched near me. I can feel his bemused stare, but I don't really want to pay attention to him right now. As soon as I show signs of life, he'll probably force me back into training. That's the thing with elves: they think everyone can swing a sword for three hours and like it.
I'd been in melee combat for exactly that long, right after I'd dragged myself from archery - and the morning run before that. Less than ten minutes ago, I'd decided to collapse in the middle of the training field and wait for death to take me. It didn't surprise Curunír - the swordsman I'm learning from - although as the seconds tick by, I can tell he's getting annoyed. Elves have a vibe. It's like pheromones - but instead of the sexy kind of fuck you, it's the asshole kind.
"Will you be sleeping there, too?" Curunír asks me, his voice droning from three feet away and still, somehow, too loud. I raise myself up on one elbow, cocking my eyebrow at him. "Why? You think that's a good idea?"
He wrinkles his nose and doesn't answer. Another thing about elves: there's no middle ground with their humor. Either it's nonexistent, or you get... Ettrian. And I don't even think Ettrian is trying to be funny half of the time... he's just like that.
Everyone needs a flaw!
I haul myself to my feet. My knees crack in protest, despite my tender age of twenty-three. I stagger a little, ignoring Curunír's extended hand. I'll be dead before I accept help from an elf.
No, that's not true. I'm way too self-preserving.
"Give me a minute," I tell him, holding up my hands in surrender. "I just want water. Then I'll be back."
The water fountain is pretty popular today. There's a hierarchy within the guard: the nobles - those that stand at the helm and order you around - and then the captains, then the senior members, and then the recruits. And then you have me. The token human. The pincushion.
The people here today? I don't recognize them, and I don't care to get to know them. Elves come helpfully color-coded. Those from around here tend to dress in greens and browns - natural, woodsy tones that seem to fade into the background. Today I see something new: dark blue, silver, white. Robes more refined and elegant, suited for courtrooms rather than training fields.
I don't want to stare too long, so I avert my gaze and reach for a dipper. The clean water slides down my throat, moistening my dry tongue. I smack it against the roof of my mouth in satisfaction. I'll say what I will about Felegoth, but god, the water sure is crisp.
"Ah, Leoma!"
Oh, no. Do I still have time to run away? I try to savor another dipperful of water, but there's only so much you can do when the prince is calling your name. Lasgalen, yes. He's here again today, and when I look over, he has his arm raised, hailing me towards him. I hesitate a minute too long and the mild blue-gray of his eyes begins to harden like steel: a clear warning to me.
With a sigh and dragging feet, I cross over to him and the circle of edhil around him. There are five in total, two blonde and three with dark heads of hair. A pair of them are obviously brothers, given how they're identical. "Yes, ernil nîn?" I tilt my torso forward in the barest minimum of a bow. It's good enough. I'm not doing anything more than the bare minimum for a white man.
"This is the hiril fíreb our guard boasts of," Lasgalen tells his friends. I don't think boast is the right word. With creeping horror, I realized it was meant in the way of possession, not pride. It was easy to forget that. I can see the sunshine now, I'm not stuck behind bars - but I'm not free.
I suddenly felt very sick. Racial bias had long been a part of my life. I was a young mixed girl in the South. I hadn't been lucky enough to avoid racism there. And I'd read the history books. What does that make me? They don't force me, really - I haven't had a weapon pointed at myself since day one - and nobody's ever made a comment on my skin color. Just my species.
One thing is certain: I'm not going to let myself play this game and lose. I won't be a victim.
But I still find myself bowing in the direction of the five other elves. "It's an honor to meet you. I am Leoma." I keep my voice level, but I'm afraid it comes off more monotone and disinterested than anything else, because Lasgalen shoots me a concerned look and then finishes cheerfully, "In the short time she has been training under our guard, she's advanced well in archery and language."
What is he trying to say? Now I'm confused. Everyone knows I'm not great at archery. He's... oh. He's trying to make us both look good. I'm not so sure it works. One of the dark-haired elves says, "Then perhaps she would be better suited to bookkeeping than patrol." He glances at his friends. "We all saw her on the field just now, yes?"
I step forward, proverbial hackles raised. I might not have been the best on the field, but for the past month, I'd worked too hard to be blindsided like that. Lasgalen puts a hand on my shoulder. It's not very comforting, but it succeeds in pulling me back. "My captains and I will be the judge of her ability," he replies, his voice none too curt. I might have thanked him, but we're not best friends, or friends at all for that matter. I still haven't decided yet if I like anyone here.
"Then, tell us," the blonde insists. "Where did you find her? What value does a human have to the Elvenking?"
Wouldn't I like to know, buddy.
"Nauthril, shut up."
That was one of the brothers - once again I'm assuming they're brothers, since they have the same face - and his tone carries more authority than I'd given him credit for. "Can you not hear yourself? You sound hedge-born. If you're going to speak to the Prince in such a manner, at least do it where nobody else can see him strike you."
That is the absolute hardest insult I'd ever heard in Sindarin, which is, by default, a very elegant and respectful language. I'm speechless for a few seconds, and I think Nauthril is, too. The dark-haired male steps towards me, extending his hand. "Forgive me. I am Elladan, son of Elrond Peredhel. Some elves cannot help but be curious of mortal folk, and they often forget they have ears, too."
Still speechless, I grasp Elladan's hand in greeting. His father's name - Elrond Peredhel - I know what that means. Half-elven. It doesn't slip past me that this man might have human blood in him. I'm not sure how that makes me feel. He doesn't seem any different from the other edhel I know, or am currently surrounded with. But something about his grip sends warmth into my bones. Assurance. Maybe even a sense of fellowship.
His brother reaches past him, grabbing my other hand enthusiastically. "And I am Elrohir. It's an honor to meet you, Leoma."
"Are you twins?" I ask curiously, and the pair share a look. They must have gotten that question a lot in the past several centuries.
"No relation," Elrohir replies as they step back, sliding his arm amicably around Elladan's shoulders. "I do not even think we look alike. Do you, Elladan?"
I glance at Lasgalen for help. He purses his lips in a thin line. "When you are done with your little jokes, we still have the matter of the hunt at hand."
That's my cue to leave. Hunt is a familiar word, and I don't really care to stick around to find out what the prey is. Unfortunately, when I turn, someone's hand snags the back of my tunic. I shriek, curse in English, and catch sight of a rather guilty-looking twin. Elrohir or Elladan, I couldn't tell you which.
"You are leaving?" He sticks out his lower lip in a poor imitation of a pout. "I thought you were rather the center of attention. Besides, what would your prince think?"
I didn't think I had to ask to be excused, but I roll my eyes and turn to Lasgalen. "I'll let you get back to... uh, the hunt. May I go?"
Bless his heart, Lasgalen gives me a terse nod. He's kept his arms crossed over his chest. Usually a pretty easygoing guy, I can tell his patience is wearing thin. Elladan and Elrohir seem a bit too... peppy for the shadowed, somber forest and the elves that dwell within.
That makes them okay in my book. But not enough for me to stick around. And I definitely don't want to be here when Lasgalen blows his top. I've never seen it in person, but the horror stories Ettrian gives me? It's enough to curdle milk.
I trudge back over to Curunír. He's tying his hair back, ready to get back in the thick of it. Handing me my wooden blade, he commands, "Stance one." I shift my weight on to bent knees, feeling more like a refrigerator than a person.
The leather grip of the pretend weapon feels clammy in my hand, but I parry a strike from the elf. It leaves me stumbling, my sword arm drooping like a limp noodle.
"On your guard," Curunír reminds me. His left arm is behind his back, like this is the easiest thing in the world for him. God, what a show off. I sweep my sword in a wide arc in front of me. Mistake one: losing my balance and falling on my ass. Mistake two: grabbing Curunír on the way down.
With a heavy grunt from the elf and a pathetic little shriek from me, we land on the ground in a tangle of limbs. My cheek is pressed into the dirt, and the heavy weight on my ribs must be Curunír, if the colorful swearing from the region between my shoulder blades and my tailbone is any indication.
"Maybe that's it for today..." he mumbles, almost to himself, picking himself up and dusting sand from his collar. . Of course he does. It's not like my company is sought after around here. But I couldn't be happier. My smile - probably an insult to the juxtaposition of Curunír's disgruntled frown - is offered along with my hand for him to shake.
"So, I'm free, then?" I ask, grasping his wrist and shaking it vigorously. It's an elvish gesture that means, good game. You've done well. In my case? Not so much. But Curunír, his grasp rather limp, doesn't seem to want to argue.
"Yes." He slides his wooden blade in the sheath tied at his belt and holds his other hand out for mine. I respond in kind, handing him the weapon, and turn around to leave.
"Wait, Leoma."
I look over my shoulder, flashing a toothy smile in the direction of my teacher. "Yeah?"
"You did well today." He's not looking at me - instead dusting off his hands, gathering the mock weapons we use to train with, fixing his hair. He's stingy with his compliments - actually, I can't remember the last thing he said something nice about me. Why, I'm practically giddy with excitement.
"If you say so, Curunír." My wide grin hasn't disappeared. I wipe a bead of sweat from my temple and offer him another bow. He only gives me a glance in return, and a nod that signifies I can leave, before I turn around - again - to leave.
I stuff my hands in the deep pockets of my trousers. Thank fuck for medieval pockets. They're roomy, creating a deep cocoon for my sweaty palms. Stable duty's next - which I look forward to, even though Haldôr will be there... and I'm not eager to get yelled at... again.
So I take my time, walking rather slowly along the familiar path, soaking up the miniscule amount of sun that makes it through the tree cover and letting my bones rest. But as soon as I'm close enough to smell the stables, I'm also close enough to hear the clamor inside. Many voices messily entwining Sindarin into something that I couldn't possibly understand. I hold back for a few minutes, and then brace myself to enter.
It's loud. There must be… over a dozen - twenty? - elves moving around the stable, tacking their chosen horses, chatting loudly with each other. I pick up the words the hunt and something about favorable winds and realize this is what Lasgalen had been talking about. Nobody bothered to tell me about it, though (cough, Haldôr is a bad boss, cough).
What am I even supposed to do? There's barely enough room to maneuver through the stable, with all of the horses and people blocking my way, and I'm starting to feel nervous, because only one thing is worse than the Greenwood elves - and that would be strange elves. The ones that I don't know. The ones dressed in silver and blue, like that asshole Nauthril from earlier.
"Stable hand!" Someone calls and I twitch, realizing they're hailing me. A tall, dark-haired elf hands me the reins of a stallion called Gwaedal. What the hell am I supposed to do with this? He gives me a strange look. My bad - I didn't mean to give him the stink eye, but I'm not his servant.
"It grows too loud here. Tie him up in the yard," he explains impatiently. "Can you hear, girl?"
I smile at him so hard I think I might pop a vein. "Yes, hîr nín."
The stallion follows, demure as a puppy, as I lead him outside, both of us thankful for the chance to escape. There are a number of posts in the grassy area outside of the stable, ornate wooden pillars with iron rings to tie reins to. I stop in front of one, and Gwaedal nickers softly, tossing his head.
"What's up?" I ask him, placing my hand under his mane and rubbing vigorously. "You didn't like it in there, huh? All those stinky Elves? I've got you now, bud. It's okay."
You know this by now. It's not that I hate them; it's just that the vast majority of them... have me on my last tender straw.
Gwaedal seems to agree with me. His fuzzy lips nudge my shoulder, searching for food. I've gained a reputation for bringing snacks, I see. "Goof." I mumble in english. "I'll have something for you when you come back from the hunt."
The hunt.
A chill shudders up my spine and I look back at the door of the stable, where Elves are still gathering within. Then at Gwaedal, who stares at me expectantly with docile eyes.
It takes two seconds for me to place my foot in the wooden stirrup and swing up on his broad back.
How long had it been since I'd been on horseback? Doesn't matter. It's not the kind of thing you forget. I lean forward, pressing my heels against his flank, and give a low whistle. The stallion springs into a brisk trot, then a canter, then a full gallop.
He knows the path well. Better than I do. One hand grips the pommel of the saddle in front of me, the reins clutched between it and my palm, the other hand wrapped in wiry tendrils of mane; but I don't have to lead him. He knows exactly where to go. The gates are already open - as they usually remain during the day, allowing the elves to come and go. I'd passed through them just that morning on the daily run.
This is different. This time, Gwaedal carries me past the trail entrance that curves back around towards the training grounds and into the unfamiliar forest beyond.
The stallion seemed to be excited that he was able to stretch his legs. As far as I knew, the horses in the stable were used for forest patrol, and that was rare. In any case, it takes a firm tug on the reins to bring Gwaedal to a halt. I don't know how far I am from the gates - probably not far enough.
But now the reality of my decision is catching up to me.
The first night I was here, the forest felt dark and claustrophobic, the very air of it heavy. Now doesn't seem much different. The branches overhead weave a thick cover, and I can barely see the path in front of me. Gwaedal shifts his weight with a soft, impatient huff. I think he's right - we shouldn't stop here. "On, boy." I command, nudging my heels against his sides. He starts again, this time at a slow walk, the only sounds that surround is being his hoofbeats and my shaky breaths.
And the wind whispering through the branches. It sounds like a quiet voice, a hiss on the air, and it smells like mold and foul things.
How could Felegoth be so warm and happy when it lurks at the center of such a terrible place? If I look closely enough, I can see the forest decaying around me. A dead tree here, mushrooms sprouting over its ashen branches; underbrush so thick you can barely step through it. The path only grows thinner and more twisted, and so do the trees, closing in around me.
Gwaedal is restless. I don't blame him. I would be too, if I wasn't consumed by the need to - get out get out get out.
What even am I doing? It's not like I can go home. I don't remember where I... fell through. Or whatever you call it. That was months ago - and the forest looks the same in every direction. I don't know what I'm hoping to find. A door in the middle of the forest, leading to my bathroom?
To be honest with you, I'm not even sure if I can remember what is left for me back home.
There would be a new tenant in my apartment, for sure. My name would be on missing persons' lists, but people would have stopped searching by now. Call it a fruitless attempt to get back, but why would I want to be stuck here? Surrounded by people who, at best, tolerate me and at worst show their hatred at face value?
The trees stop moving past and for a brief second, I'm confused.
"Gwaedal," I murmur, my voice so quiet it barely reaches my own ears. "Why'd you stop?"
His ears swivel, and I strain to hear what he does. A faint sound above us. Click-click-click-click.
Okay, what the fuck?
It gets louder, ever so slightly, a soft, rapid chittering like someone clacking acrylic nails together. Click-click-click-click.
I look up. Something gleams among the branches. Eyes? No. Can't be. What kind of thing has eight eyes?
Well, yeah, spiders, but spiders don't get that big.
Something roughly the size of a Doberman drops to the ground in front of me with a dull smack. Gwaedal rears. I say some choice words.
It's a mess of a situation, really.
Within seconds I'm on the ground, ass in the dirt, and Gwaedal, panicked, turns tail and bolts. I barely avoid being trampled, but that's the least of my worries.
Click-click-click-click. A spider as big as a dog advances, two spindly legs by its face waving in the air. I get to my feet, almost tripping over myself. "What the fuck are you?" I ask in disgust. I'm not above kicking wildlife; when it gets too close I thrust my leg out. It's a lot bigger than a football, though, and I only succeed in pissing it off. The creature shrieks - I didn't know spiders could do that - and, as I start to back up, skitters towards me.
Smack. A thud behind me announces the arrival of a second one, and I'm starting to regret not stealing weapons as well as a horse.
If you know me, you know that I'm not one to sit around and wait to die. I've made it this far. I'm not going to let some overgrown bugs take me down.
Just as one of the spiders springs forwards, propelling itself off of the dusty ground with pincers aimed at me, I dive to the side. My leg muscles contract in protest as I tuck and roll - or try to - into the brush, but this was a simple dodge that Curunír had been trying to instill in me for the last two weeks. I get to my feet, leaves in my hair, and I hear chittering behind me. Not wasting time, I jump over a fallen log and sprint through the dark forest.
God, I can't be too far from Felegoth. How far had Gwaedal carried me? I couldn't even follow the path, since I'm now running full-tilt away from it, thorns scratching at my skin as I tear through the woods like a crazy person. The forest seems to swallow me, and maybe it's because I'm only focused on right foot, left foot, breathe - but I can't hear the spiders anymore.
It might be five minutes, but be ten, but I burst back out onto a worn path, ignoring the warm blood oozing down my arm from a slide on my bicep that had ripped right through the fine green cloth of my uniform. Pausing for a moment - flinching at every little crunch and crackle of the leaves - I reach down to grab a moldy stick roughly the size of golf club.
Click-click-click-click. They hadn't given up the chase.
I step backwards, drawing a shaky breath. Is it the adrenaline? Somehow, I don't feel tired. Fear? That's another story. I'm feeling a lot of that right now.
Pale eyes reflect in the darkness and in a split second, a bulbous, hairy body bursts from the treeline. I screech, "Not today, fuckhead!" And swing with wanton abandon. I can almost hear my friend Robin's voice: Improvised stick weapon? Nice. Roll 1d4 bludgeoning damage.
The spider lets out a faint hiss with each wallop. What did Teddy Roosevelt say? Speak softly and carry a big stick. Well, I have one half of that down.
"Leave! Me! The fuck! Alone, you fat bastard!" I scream, smacking the stick across its head to punctuate each word. The stick, not being built for repeated blows, doesn't like that. It splinters, splits, and hangs limply from a couple pale wooden fibers.
Fuck. Well, fuck is an understatement. I'd forgotten all about the second spider, having been too preoccupied with the first. That is until I feel a prickle on the back of my neck, and turn to see my face reflected eightfold in the eyes of the monster.
I've never seen a spider mouth up close before. The shiny black fangs gleam and part, revealing a frothy, spitting mandible ready to suck up my liquefied insides.
"Ungol opo! Rochben, póna as-nalanta!"
The shout comes through the trees, but is loud enough that it reaches me through the pounding of blood in my ears. The spider in front of me draws back, spitting in fury, just as an arrow sprouts from its cephalothorax; it slumps in front of me. Two riders approach - I can see more behind them, but the path is only big enough for two abreast - and I might have been impressed if one of them wasn't aiming his next arrow at my chest.
"To the side, girl!" The other, a helmet obscuring his features, commands and I obey, tripping over one of the furry legs of the dead spider. The surviving one skitters down the path, and a horse breaks away from the rest of the riders to pursue it. The adrenaline pumping through me slacks off and I feel a wave of exhaustion pass over me, my knees buckling. Somehow I keep myself from crumpling. Maybe to save myself from the embarrassment?
"Move aside." The prince's voice is unmistakable as he guides his horse to the front, dismounting in front of me. Of all my luck - it had to be him. His jaw tightens as he looks me up and down, eyes lingering on my bloodied arm. Defeated, I hold out my wrists to him. It reminds me all too well of the first time I saw him - the morning I woke up here.
"Lower your bow, Urúvion, she is no threat." Lasgalen holds up his hand, signalling the archers to stand down. I'm not sure if I should feel relieved, and my arms are beginning to feel stiff from holding them out. "Ernil nîn, I-"
"I did not give you leave to speak."
His tone, so matter-of-fact it sounds like he's talking to a child, throws me off. I flush in embarrassment, cowed under the gaze of so many people, but especially his. When he motions for me to lower my hands, I do so, even when all I want is to hide my face.
The prince turns, mounting his white horse in a smooth move and speaking in a low tone to the guard next to him. I don't know what they said; if it's even about me. Then he barks an order and a dozen horses thunder past, leaving me shell-shocked and standing in the dirt.
Only one rider remains.
"You're a stupid girl." Ettrian isn't smiling. He holds out his hand for me to take, which I don't. Hot, angry tears well in my eyes as I stare up at him.
"You've never been hated, have you?" My voice chokes on the question.
The red-headed elf holds my gaze steadily, neither of us wavering. I swallow around the knot in my throat, hating the tears that bear evidence to the shame welling up inside me. Shame that I'd been caught, shame that - somehow - I'd disappointed someone other than myself.
"I don't hate you." Ettrian says. I want to believe him. "Let's go home, Leoma."
I pause - ever so briefly - then take his hand and let him pull me onto his horse.
. .ㅤ THE UNGOLㅤ. .
The ride back is... for lack of a better word, quiet. Ettrian is rarely quiet, so you can see why I wouldn't like that all too well. He sits behind me on the back of his horse, his arms encasing me as if he thinks I'm going to jump off and run into the woods.
When we finally return to Felegoth, I wonder if I'm going to be allowed to go anywhere without his escort. But after we dismount and I hang around awkwardly for a few minutes while he puts away his horse, he finally says, "You should see to your arm."
I'd almost forgotten the dull pain. The cut wasn't deep, the blood had dried, but it still hurt. I glance at it, uncomfortably. "Um... am I allowed?"
He closes the door to the stall, turning to look at me. "You're not a prisoner, Leoma. You can walk freely, wherever you choose."
"As long as it's within the city," I counter, my blood rising in anger. He approaches, his footsteps loud and heavy against the wooden floor of the stable. I back up a step, but all he does is take my arm in his hands, turning it over to look at the scabbing wound.
"After today, do you not understand why that was for your protection?" Ettrian's forehead creases as he frowns at me. "You know nothing of this world, Leoma."
"Maybe if you explained -!"
He gently pulls on my arm, leading me towards the door, and declines to respond to me beyond, "Follow me. I'll show you to the infirmary."
I'm angry again, and sullen, but I follow him, probably because the area around the shallow cut is turning red and tender and, ow, I'm not particularly known for a high pain tolerance. The infirmary is inside the citadel, but not too far from the gates or the training grounds; they'd likely seen their fair share of wounded riders or brawls in the midst of training. My arm is certainly the least of anyone's worries, including my own.
But, thankfully, the infirmary is empty, save for a woman in blue turning down sheets on one of the many beds. The windows are open, letting in warm light and the faint forest scent that smells, thankfully, less like mold and more like cedar.
She straightens when she sees us, dusting her hands on the sides of her dress. "Ettrian." Then she looks at me. "I do not know your name."
She'd probably have heard it sooner or later. How many people would be talking about me now? "Leoma," I respond, dipping my head in a habitual show of respect, and wait for her to introduce herself.
She doesn't, though; she takes my arm and peers at it, scoffing under her breath and saying something to Ettrian in rapid-fire Sindarin that I can't quite understand. Something about unnecessary and silly and I'm starting to dislike her. Ettrian rolls his eyes. "Leoma, this is Nestariel. She means well."
With a tight-lipped smile from her, I'm not reassured. Nonetheless, I let her clean the wound and wrap it in a cottony gauze. She doesn't question how I got it - which I'm glad for. I really don't want to explain that to anyone. Yeah, I stole a horse, got attacked by some absurdly large spiders, and nearly got killed in your hellscape you call woods. I love it here.
"There. You will live." Nestariel sits back, pleased with her work, and presses extra gauze into Ettrian's hand. Is it just me, or did her hand linger for a bit too long? "Now, I don't want to see you again unless you've lost a limb." Maybe that was a joke, but it didn't really sound like one.
"You're too kind, Nesta. Leoma - it's time to go."
I was already getting up, and I throw Ettrian a dirty look. He's treating me like a child, which is really rich for someone with a toddler's sense of humor.
When we leave the infirmary, he passes me the gauze. I take it, stuffing it in my pocket, and my mouth runs a bit faster than my brain does. "She likes you."
"What? No." Ettrian's ears are tinged red, a shade not far off from his hair. "She's a friend, nothing more."
"She could've given me the gauze," I point out. Maybe we aren't close enough for me to bring this up, or maybe I'm already on thin ice from the whole criminal act I recently committed, but his expression starts to get more closed off.
"You're imagining things." Ettrian turns down a corridor, one I hadn't been down in a very long time. Since the first time I'd seen the city, really. After the cells. A shiver runs down my spine. He better not be taking me back down there. "The prince will want to see you."
Not the cells, then. Just Lasgalen, which isn't much better. I balk, my feet starting to drag. "Really? He's back already?"
"I would imagine." The red-headed elf stops in front of an ornate door. The emblem of the guard is carved on the wood: a wide leaf-shaped shield over crossed lances. This is, no doubt, the office of the commander of the guard. Before I can say anything, Ettrian pushes open the door and immediately bows as he steps in. I do the same, though I'm more reluctant to raise my head. I don't want to see the prince's face.
Lasgalen stands in front of a table, on which his hand hovers over a map. Still dressed in hunting leathers and a smear of black blood across his cheekbone, it's obvious that he's only just returned. He glances over at us - at me - and lifts his hand, beckoning me forward with two fingers. "Leave us, hestir."
I'd never heard Ettrian referred to as anything other than his name. I look at him - pleadingly, for any sign of help - but all he does is meet my eyes and give a little nod. It doesn't leave me reassured. He closes the doors behind him and I stare at the floor, a knot forming in my throat.
Lasgalen is kind, everyone always said; they praised him for his sense of humor, his good nature, how different he was from his father, the ever-distant king of the Greenwood. He was the commander of the guard more than he was a prince. People wanted to follow him; I respect him for that. But the first time I ever saw his face was when he pointed an arrow at me, and I've never forgotten that.
"I'm -"
"You're sorry?" He cuts me off, not even giving me the dignity of looking at me when he speaks.
"I... yes. I'm sorry." I don't know what else to say.
"For which crime? Stealing a horse from our stables? Disrespecting the hospitality of our house? Or endangering the life of our ward?" His hand covers a swath of the forest, marking out an area with black pins.
"I never endangered anyone's life!" My fists curl into the edge of my tunic, my voice cracking slightly. I couldn't deny the other accusations, but I never hurt anyone.
"Your life." He says, and the knot in my throat seems to fall into my stomach. I try to speak, but he holds up a hand to silence me. "You are a mystery to me, Leoma, to all of us. But you are under the protection of the Woodland Realm, and here you shall stay."
"As a prisoner," I point out. I'm on the verge of tears.
He smiles, or maybe he doesn't; his eyes are deep and knowing and sad, and though his lips turn up a bit it's not really a smile. "Come." I approach slowly, and he beckons me to look at the map. It charts the entire Greenwood; but then he pulls it away, and underneath is an atlas, covering the whole table, of continents I've never seen before. My eyes struggle to decipher all of the names.
"Point to your home. I will arrange a full escort to take you there within the week."
He waits for me to do so. But I can't. I want to cry. "I.. I don't know. I don't know any of this. I'm not from here."
"A mystery," Lasgalen repeats. His finger rests on a smudge near a mountain range. "The Greenwood, here. Where we found you. You, a human girl who cannot speak any known language, a human girl dressed in clothes not from any kingdom of Ennor. You, who cannot hunt or fight, slipped past our borders, undetected by our guard, surviving the orcs and ungol with not a weapon on your body. Either you are an astoundingly good actress, or you are..." He pauses, trying to find the words. "Something else."
"I told you," I say, meeting his eyes. "I'm not from here."
He holds my gaze for an uncomfortably long time. "And I believe you, Leoma. But you do not know the ways of the Greenwood. You could have been killed today with your foolishness."
My foolishness? It wasn't exactly like I was expecting spiders. But my only excuse is, "I wasn't... I just wasn't thinking."
"Mm. Common among humans."
And that's why I hate Elves. "So everyone keeps saying, ernil nîn."
"I did not mean to offend, Leoma." His eyes, which had softened, grow serious again. "But I cannot allow you to treat the Greenwood as your playground, and your crime cannot go unpunished. You will be accompanied by a guard at all times. And I hold you responsible for the cleaning and maintenance of the training field, on top of your regular duties."
My shoulders become tense, as if anticipating the exhaustion that I'll be feeling by the end of the week. I bow my head. "Yes, sir. Am I free to go, sir?"
He nods and turns back to his desk. The last thing I see of him is him pulling the map of the forest closer, his fist balling against the table. Then the doors close behind me and I'm faced with an elf I've never seen before. "Are you going to follow me?"
He opens his mouth to speak. I shake my head. "I know the answer to that. I'm going to my room."
I stride down the corridor, a secondary set of footsteps never too far behind me. Don't let him see me shaking, I tell myself. Please, whatever god exists.
And I manage to hold it together until I make it to my room.
The poor elf standing outside my door has probably never heard anyone cry that loudly.
. .ㅤ THE UNGOLㅤ. .
AUTHOR'S NOTE. This chapter is quite long. I, for one, did not thoroughly enjoy the pacing. There are a lot of things that I wanted to happen, but didn't feel like they deserved their own chapter, or that I had the capability to write it. I hope you liked it nonetheless, and if you didn't, my bad. Also, I'm on tumblr at marsyeonu dot tumblr dot com, where I'm planning to post official art of the characters in this story. All translations are from eldamo dot org and elfdict dot com.
TRANSLATIONS
Ernil nîn - "my prince". From ernil (prince) and nîn (my).
Hiril fíreb - "human woman", derived from hiril (lady) and fíreb (mortal).
Hîr nín - "my lord". From hîr (lord) and nín (my).
Ungol opo! Rochben, póna as-nalanta! - "Spiders ahead! Riders, advance and attack!" Derived from ungol (spiders) and opo (before/ahead/in front of). Rochben is a construct of roch (horse) and pen (one/someone/somebody). Póna (forward/advance). As-nalanta is derived from nalanta (attack, to fall upon) and as (with/and) - nalantar would also work (nalanta + ar [and]).
Hestir - "captain". Yes, Ettrian has a title. Why hasn't it been mentioned before? He's not the type to throw his weight around like that. (The real reason is I just found the translation).