The Bargain

Even though I had thought about avoiding the library for the time being, I had decided against it. It didn't make any difference, after all, he knew where I worked. If he wanted to have me locked up, he could do that. Even for no reason at all - he was a goddamn elven prince, after all! And I? A refugee from another time with a questionable background. Perfect conditions.

This time, as I slipped through the side door into the library, I was so tense that I listened for every sound. But as usual, it was so quiet this early in the morning that I could hear the dust dancing through the air.

Still, I couldn't bring myself to focus on the script in Old Westron anymore, even though everything was on the table exactly as I had left it. Including the book in Quenya, which still seemed to be waiting for me like a promise. My gaze kept sliding to the leather bound cover until I finally let the script sink. The elf must have known it would tempt me. That was why he had left it there.

Before I reached for it, I made sure that no one was around. There was no way I was going to be caught by him looking at it. That was as good as admitting that his offer did intrigue me.

I had an idea of what he wanted in return, but I wasn't ready to give it to him: Of course, I was not the thief of the scripts he had spoken of, but I had an inkling of who might be. Baran's tendency to bet money had gotten him into trouble a time or two. And when I thought about it, it wasn't unusual for him to get involved in things that got him into even bigger trouble. It was a wonder he hadn't lost his job at the reputable library. It had been he who had given me the key, so I could not and would not betray him. Especially not to someone who was so far above us and could in theory buy up the entire library with his fortune if he wanted to. Even if Baran did questionable things - he had helped me and had not accused me of being a thief.

Careful not to damage the book, I turned the pages. It had indeed all been written in Quenya, giving me no chance to read it. I had thought about learning the Elvish languages, but had no one to teach me. In the Seventh Ring, everyone spoke Westron. And no more. I was lucky to have such a progressive boss as Girdis, who had allowed me, even encouraged me, not only to speak Westron, but to learn writing it. The Elvish languages were reserved for the education of the higher-ups. For us they hardly played any role.

Still, Legolas was right about one thing. I was unable to include a great number of sources in my search because they were written in languages I did not understand. The Elves in particular looked back on millennia more of continuous historiography than humans. The chance that they had written something down was many times more likely. So if I had the opportunity to have Elvish sources translated, then...

No.

I was no traitor.

And yet... maybe there was a way to convince the elf to translate the sources for me without turning Baran in to him? If I managed to find an alternative, then a whole new horizon would open up to me.

Just thinking about it made me angry. Legolas had accomplished what he had intended: to spread doubt. To bait me. Was I that predictable?

Following an impulse, I grabbed the book and pushed back the chair. Then I did something I never did before: Run to the upper floors of the library. I hadn't made my way this far yet, and the likelihood of running into other people was a lot higher here. But that was exactly what I intended, because I wanted to leave a message for the elf.

However, that was not necessary at all, because as I walked past one of the corridors, which contained scrolls about the history of Middle-earth in recent times, I saw his blond head. I stopped as if rooted to the spot. He had leaned forward and was running his finger over one of the rolls. I planted my right hand on my hip. "You!"

"I was wondering when you'd show up," he said without taking his eyes off the scroll. Yes, it was going exactly as he had planned. And he seemed to like that. I would have loved to put my fingers around his neck and tightened them.

"What do you want in return?", I got straight to the point. There was no need to pretend I was here for anything else. We both knew why I had come.

"You already know that."

"I'm not going to tell you why I'm researching the subject," I said.

"Then tell me who the thief is, if it isn't you." He turned his head, and I saw that I had been right. He was very pleased with himself and I hated it. "Why do you even want to help me if you're so convinced I'm a thief?", I shot back.

He seemed to have to think about that for a moment before replying, "If I may use your words, my reasons are my own business."

"Touché."

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing." I had to stop using words that no one here knew the meaning of. So far it hadn't fallen on my feet, but the elf was already suspicious.

A contemplative wrinkle formed on his forehead, but before he asked yet again, I said, "I can't tell you who the thief is."

"That's too bad." He folded his arms in front of his chest. "Am I correct in assuming that you are looking for people in the scrolls who are rumored to be from lands no one has ever heard of?"

His comprehension was quick. Too quick. But he had hit the nail on the head, so why should I deny it? "Yes."

He seemed about to follow up, but reconsidered. Instead, he waved me over. "Give me the book."

Hesitantly, I followed his request. As I held the book out to him, our fingers touched briefly, sending a shiver through my body. I withdrew my hand as if I had been burned.

Legolas opened the book and searched for a few moments until he seemed to have found the right passage. Then, without further announcement, he began to read: "And it came to be that our path crossed that of a human woman who lived in Rohan. She was still young, twenty years or less. Her accent was an unusual one. And when we asked her where she came from, she said: From a land beyond the West." He flipped the book closed. "I think this is what you were looking for, isn't it?"

Without realizing it, I had held my breath. "From when is the report?"

"It's from a chronicle written down about sixty years ago."

I tried to hide my disappointment, but couldn't. Sixty years. Then the woman was now about eighty. Not an unusual age in my time - but in Middle Earth? For people without elvish blood, that was almost biblical. No chance she was still alive.

"Thank you," I said in response. "But I'm afraid that doesn't help me."

The elf had watched my reaction, just as he had done in the tavern. While I had tried to mask my disappointment, he had drawn conclusions, "You're not just looking for reports, but for the people mentioned in the reports," he stated. Not a question. Just facts.

"Thank you for your help," was all I said, and I was about to turn away, but he held me back. His hand on my forearm felt warm even through the fabric. "I don't know why you are looking for these people, but if you help me, I will help you. I have access to much greater knowledge than this library could hold," he said forcefully.

"Haven't you been listening?", I asked, pulling my arm away. "I don't know who the thief is."

"And I know you are lying," he said.

It was time to leave. We were beginning to go in circles. So I just shook my head for a moment, then turned around. Back to my source in Old Westron. When I had already taken a few steps away, he added, "I don't understand why you don't trust me, but I have to accept it."

"At least one thing we agree on," I replied as I was walking.

"If the last script that was stolen turns up, I'll refrain from having the thief prosecuted. It is dealing with Eryn Lasgalen, the Greenwood."

I stopped, though without looking at him. My gaze was fixed on the stairs leading back to my workplace. Was he offering me the alternative I had been looking for? "I'm sure the thief will be happy to hear that." I hesitated, but then gave myself a push. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you."