Chapter Twelve: The Forest for the Brave
“Patriotism is the willingness to kill and be killed for trivial reasons.” -- Bertrand Russell (1872-1970)
“Food,” Aragorn said softly, turning his head to follow the intriguing trail of odors. They were on the street in Albuquerque, having finished picking up the supplies, and were now getting ready to head back to Taos.
Marvin paused, considering. He was one of the most cautious people Aragorn had ever met. No move was made without a least a few moments' consideration. But the smell of roasting meat and other tantalizing things drew Aragorn to the doorway of the building at this right, and someone leaving the establishment held the glass pane wide to allow him to pass through. Marvin called something behind him, but Aragorn was already inside and the sights meeting his eyes were enough to freeze him in his tracks. Long rows of shelves held all manner of goods, stretching almost out of sight in the distance, a warehouse of utterly mysterious and bizarre items, piled high and deep and glittering in the fake light.
It was more than the Ranger could cope with. He drew back, but then his attention was drawn to one side where a cluster of tables and a gleaming metal counter explained the allure of this place. He knew what this was -- this was where people ate. Grinning, Aragorn started forward, spotting a glass case filled with pies and sweets, seeing a man standing behind the bar grilling slices of meat and other things.
Marvin reached him then, and grasped his arm firmly. “No, we can’t eat here,” the man said firmly.
“Have money,” Aragorn explained patiently, feeling the coins in his small purse. Surely this place did not cost too much for what he’d acquired doing tasks wherever needed. For all its sparkle and glamour he suspected that this was a fairly humble establishment. He pulled forward to examine the slices of pies in curiously bright colors like red and yellow, mounds of white topping toasted just to brown. His mouth was watering shamelessly, as if he were waiting for some grand feast to start in the great hall in Imladris.
The man behind the counter had turned and was staring at them with cold eyes.
“Not here,” Marvin told him again, tugging now, a scowl on his own face. He said something else that Aragorn didn’t understand, and indicated that there were other places to go. But now Aragorn was even more set in his determination. He knew they had food, and he wanted to buy some. It seemed pretty simple to a humble Ranger of the North. He shook off the grip of his friend and perched on one of the smooth red stools at the gleaming counter.
“Hamburger,” Aragorn called, as if ordering a pint in the Prancing Pony on a dark and blustery night. It was a simple word. He was pretty sure he’d gotten it right. “Please?” he added, when the counterman seemed disinclined to move.
“I’m very sorry, gentlemen,” said a man who’d arrived noisily at Marvin’s side. He added several more words, one of which made Marvin’s nostrils widen in suppressed anger. Aragorn took a moment of his own to consider. ‘Colored’. He’d heard that one before.
Hopping off the stool in a smooth motion, Aragorn caught Marvin’s coat as his friend turned toward the door to leave. He was going to understand this one even if it took him all the patience he could wrest from his empty stomach. Facing the stranger, Aragorn sorted through his small vocabulary and tried to organize his thoughts.
“I am Aragorn. This man name Marvin,” he said firmly, indicating Jefferson with a tip of his head. “He is a good man.”
The stranger quickly agreed to that, speaking as if he lacked some conviction in his own motions, and the word ‘colored’ came again into his speech, along with apologetic tones and the word ‘Woolworths’, which sounded like the Dwarven term for a bad cough.
Aragorn shook his head in frustration, his temper overruling his normal tact. “Marvin Jefferson Junior colored man? Marvin hero. Marvin fight war, fly the planes, save fight. Save man, many man.” Damn! He just didn’t have the words he needed. If only he’d brought that picture from the truck...the one of Marvin and his soldiers. What was the word? “Tuskegee airplane.”
The man drew back, eyes narrowing, and Aragorn suddenly realized that the stiffness of his motions was caused by a leg that didn’t bend properly. “You were one of the Tuskegee Airmen?” he asked Marvin.
“I am,” Marvin said firmly, stiffening his spine, a firmness coming back into his worried eyes.
The strange man seemed to think for a moment, then offered his hand in the gesture of respect. “My unit was in France, Sir,” he said, voice dropping for several more words that Aragorn didn’t catch, then “...would be my honor to buy your lunch.” Pretty sure that meant food, Aragorn fought the smile that lurked in his cheek. The man spoke quickly to the cook, hardening his words when a question was asked, and then Marvin and Aragorn found themselves seated at the Woolworth’s counter.
“Hamburger!” Aragorn said again, wishing they could have just skipped all that weird stuff in between. What the hell was wrong with these people in this place called New Mexico America?
He had no idea how he’d managed to fall asleep, but he clearly had. Colin woke slowly, wondering about the dark and quiet all around, and more about the incredible presence at his back. Legolas was kneeling on the ground behind him, arms wrapped over his shoulders and crossing over his chest, holding Colin in an embrace of warmth and comfort, strong thighs parted to nestle the curve of Farrell’s bent back against the Elf’s stomach. Even in the chill air of the silent wood Colin was more comfortable here under rough coats and planted on the rude ground than he’d be back in his bed in London.
Legolas’ cheek was tipped against Colin’s head, nestled in the crook of his neck, fine chin touching his shoulder more lightly than it should and whisper-soft strands of hair touching the policeman’s face. He was sure that the Elf was asleep again, finally, like that rare time he’d slipped away in Colin’s presence. He wanted to just relish the presence of this otherworldly figure, but Colin’s war-shattered nerves proved unable to keep him from taking the blessed respite being offered. He slipped back into sleep without a struggle.
Trying hard to finish the last of his three slices of pie, Aragorn caught himself actually groaning. He was going to regret this later, he was pretty sure. Peach and cherry he’d recognized, but this new one was bitter and sweet at the same time, and he was going to eat every bite he could cram into his aching gut. “What is, please,” he asked, mouth full and knowing that his manners were not up to Marvin’s standards, but too stuffed to care.
“Lemon meringue,” Marvin repeated patiently, leaning back to shake the creases out of the papers he was reading. He had retrieved a copy of the pages after another customer had left them behind. “We do have to go back home today, you know, Aaron.”
“Soon,” the Ranger promised, licking the white foam off his upper lip. The Elves had to be told about this stuff. Elrond would LOVE it. He turned to ask what it was made of when a picture on the front of the paper in Marvin’s hand caught Aragorn’s eye. He ducked to bring his face closer, then pushed back against the crinkly surface to make it easier to see. It showed a group of men standing in a row, wearing dark suits and white coats and smiling outward blankly, one of them handing something small and square to a member of the group, exchanging handshakes.
Aragorn’s gut clenched, and his blood ran to ice in a heartbeat. He snatched the paper bodily from Marvin’s hands, barely hearing the angry complaint. He pressed his fingers to the picture, framing the familiar face looking out at him so innocently. “Where is this of?” he demanded when he could trust his voice to speak.
Marvin was obviously angry with him, but after a pause and a mutter he leaned over and read the words printed there. “Alamogordo, NM. Los Alamos A-bomb Science Team recognized for civic work with local college. Pictured in the Mayor’s office in...”
“Who is this?” Aragorn hissed, teeth clenched, stabbing at the image of the tall man in the middle of the group, salt and pepper hair brushed back off a high forehead, gazing down his beaked nose with a cool, imperious air.
“Move your fingers already,” Marvin complained. “Let me see...uh, George Kistiakowsky, Louis Slotkin, Saul Harumann -- guess that’s the one you’re pointing at. What? What’s wrong? You look like you’re ready to run him through with that sword of yours.”
“Saruman,” Aragorn whispered.
Colin hurried through the undergrowth, his heart in his throat. Even the cathedral-like arches of the trees overhead failed to ease his worried mind. It had been a week since he’d left Legolas alone in the forest, needing to go back to London, and knowing that Legolas needed the time to recover mentally and physically from his ordeal.
Legolas had assured him that he required nothing to stay there, that he would have sufficient food and shelter. He’d also assured Colin that he understood the man would be returning, and approximately when. The gratitude in the Elf’s beautiful violet eyes had been enough to help Colin keep from losing it when he’d departed, but each intervening day had come with new thoughts of what could go wrong and how unprepared Legolas would be to cope with situations beyond his understanding.
The bombings in London last night hadn’t been too bad, but the trains had been disrupted, and it was later than he’d hoped before he could make it back out to Epping with the supplies and companionship he was prepared to offer. They’d arranged a place to meet again, and Legolas had promised that he would know when Colin came, but it was such a big forest and...
Colin froze, thinking that he’d heard voices. He moved quickly, as if tracking game for the table, taking cover and creeping forward only when he could be sure of doing so quietly. There, he heard it again. A single voice now, speaking quickly and with a hint of anger.
...a German voice.
“Food,” Aragorn said softly, turning his head to follow the intriguing trail of odors. They were on the street in Albuquerque, having finished picking up the supplies, and were now getting ready to head back to Taos.
Marvin paused, considering. He was one of the most cautious people Aragorn had ever met. No move was made without a least a few moments' consideration. But the smell of roasting meat and other tantalizing things drew Aragorn to the doorway of the building at this right, and someone leaving the establishment held the glass pane wide to allow him to pass through. Marvin called something behind him, but Aragorn was already inside and the sights meeting his eyes were enough to freeze him in his tracks. Long rows of shelves held all manner of goods, stretching almost out of sight in the distance, a warehouse of utterly mysterious and bizarre items, piled high and deep and glittering in the fake light.
It was more than the Ranger could cope with. He drew back, but then his attention was drawn to one side where a cluster of tables and a gleaming metal counter explained the allure of this place. He knew what this was -- this was where people ate. Grinning, Aragorn started forward, spotting a glass case filled with pies and sweets, seeing a man standing behind the bar grilling slices of meat and other things.
Marvin reached him then, and grasped his arm firmly. “No, we can’t eat here,” the man said firmly.
“Have money,” Aragorn explained patiently, feeling the coins in his small purse. Surely this place did not cost too much for what he’d acquired doing tasks wherever needed. For all its sparkle and glamour he suspected that this was a fairly humble establishment. He pulled forward to examine the slices of pies in curiously bright colors like red and yellow, mounds of white topping toasted just to brown. His mouth was watering shamelessly, as if he were waiting for some grand feast to start in the great hall in Imladris.
The man behind the counter had turned and was staring at them with cold eyes.
“Not here,” Marvin told him again, tugging now, a scowl on his own face. He said something else that Aragorn didn’t understand, and indicated that there were other places to go. But now Aragorn was even more set in his determination. He knew they had food, and he wanted to buy some. It seemed pretty simple to a humble Ranger of the North. He shook off the grip of his friend and perched on one of the smooth red stools at the gleaming counter.
“Hamburger,” Aragorn called, as if ordering a pint in the Prancing Pony on a dark and blustery night. It was a simple word. He was pretty sure he’d gotten it right. “Please?” he added, when the counterman seemed disinclined to move.
“I’m very sorry, gentlemen,” said a man who’d arrived noisily at Marvin’s side. He added several more words, one of which made Marvin’s nostrils widen in suppressed anger. Aragorn took a moment of his own to consider. ‘Colored’. He’d heard that one before.
Hopping off the stool in a smooth motion, Aragorn caught Marvin’s coat as his friend turned toward the door to leave. He was going to understand this one even if it took him all the patience he could wrest from his empty stomach. Facing the stranger, Aragorn sorted through his small vocabulary and tried to organize his thoughts.
“I am Aragorn. This man name Marvin,” he said firmly, indicating Jefferson with a tip of his head. “He is a good man.”
The stranger quickly agreed to that, speaking as if he lacked some conviction in his own motions, and the word ‘colored’ came again into his speech, along with apologetic tones and the word ‘Woolworths’, which sounded like the Dwarven term for a bad cough.
Aragorn shook his head in frustration, his temper overruling his normal tact. “Marvin Jefferson Junior colored man? Marvin hero. Marvin fight war, fly the planes, save fight. Save man, many man.” Damn! He just didn’t have the words he needed. If only he’d brought that picture from the truck...the one of Marvin and his soldiers. What was the word? “Tuskegee airplane.”
The man drew back, eyes narrowing, and Aragorn suddenly realized that the stiffness of his motions was caused by a leg that didn’t bend properly. “You were one of the Tuskegee Airmen?” he asked Marvin.
“I am,” Marvin said firmly, stiffening his spine, a firmness coming back into his worried eyes.
The strange man seemed to think for a moment, then offered his hand in the gesture of respect. “My unit was in France, Sir,” he said, voice dropping for several more words that Aragorn didn’t catch, then “...would be my honor to buy your lunch.” Pretty sure that meant food, Aragorn fought the smile that lurked in his cheek. The man spoke quickly to the cook, hardening his words when a question was asked, and then Marvin and Aragorn found themselves seated at the Woolworth’s counter.
“Hamburger!” Aragorn said again, wishing they could have just skipped all that weird stuff in between. What the hell was wrong with these people in this place called New Mexico America?
He had no idea how he’d managed to fall asleep, but he clearly had. Colin woke slowly, wondering about the dark and quiet all around, and more about the incredible presence at his back. Legolas was kneeling on the ground behind him, arms wrapped over his shoulders and crossing over his chest, holding Colin in an embrace of warmth and comfort, strong thighs parted to nestle the curve of Farrell’s bent back against the Elf’s stomach. Even in the chill air of the silent wood Colin was more comfortable here under rough coats and planted on the rude ground than he’d be back in his bed in London.
Legolas’ cheek was tipped against Colin’s head, nestled in the crook of his neck, fine chin touching his shoulder more lightly than it should and whisper-soft strands of hair touching the policeman’s face. He was sure that the Elf was asleep again, finally, like that rare time he’d slipped away in Colin’s presence. He wanted to just relish the presence of this otherworldly figure, but Colin’s war-shattered nerves proved unable to keep him from taking the blessed respite being offered. He slipped back into sleep without a struggle.
Trying hard to finish the last of his three slices of pie, Aragorn caught himself actually groaning. He was going to regret this later, he was pretty sure. Peach and cherry he’d recognized, but this new one was bitter and sweet at the same time, and he was going to eat every bite he could cram into his aching gut. “What is, please,” he asked, mouth full and knowing that his manners were not up to Marvin’s standards, but too stuffed to care.
“Lemon meringue,” Marvin repeated patiently, leaning back to shake the creases out of the papers he was reading. He had retrieved a copy of the pages after another customer had left them behind. “We do have to go back home today, you know, Aaron.”
“Soon,” the Ranger promised, licking the white foam off his upper lip. The Elves had to be told about this stuff. Elrond would LOVE it. He turned to ask what it was made of when a picture on the front of the paper in Marvin’s hand caught Aragorn’s eye. He ducked to bring his face closer, then pushed back against the crinkly surface to make it easier to see. It showed a group of men standing in a row, wearing dark suits and white coats and smiling outward blankly, one of them handing something small and square to a member of the group, exchanging handshakes.
Aragorn’s gut clenched, and his blood ran to ice in a heartbeat. He snatched the paper bodily from Marvin’s hands, barely hearing the angry complaint. He pressed his fingers to the picture, framing the familiar face looking out at him so innocently. “Where is this of?” he demanded when he could trust his voice to speak.
Marvin was obviously angry with him, but after a pause and a mutter he leaned over and read the words printed there. “Alamogordo, NM. Los Alamos A-bomb Science Team recognized for civic work with local college. Pictured in the Mayor’s office in...”
“Who is this?” Aragorn hissed, teeth clenched, stabbing at the image of the tall man in the middle of the group, salt and pepper hair brushed back off a high forehead, gazing down his beaked nose with a cool, imperious air.
“Move your fingers already,” Marvin complained. “Let me see...uh, George Kistiakowsky, Louis Slotkin, Saul Harumann -- guess that’s the one you’re pointing at. What? What’s wrong? You look like you’re ready to run him through with that sword of yours.”
“Saruman,” Aragorn whispered.
Colin hurried through the undergrowth, his heart in his throat. Even the cathedral-like arches of the trees overhead failed to ease his worried mind. It had been a week since he’d left Legolas alone in the forest, needing to go back to London, and knowing that Legolas needed the time to recover mentally and physically from his ordeal.
Legolas had assured him that he required nothing to stay there, that he would have sufficient food and shelter. He’d also assured Colin that he understood the man would be returning, and approximately when. The gratitude in the Elf’s beautiful violet eyes had been enough to help Colin keep from losing it when he’d departed, but each intervening day had come with new thoughts of what could go wrong and how unprepared Legolas would be to cope with situations beyond his understanding.
The bombings in London last night hadn’t been too bad, but the trains had been disrupted, and it was later than he’d hoped before he could make it back out to Epping with the supplies and companionship he was prepared to offer. They’d arranged a place to meet again, and Legolas had promised that he would know when Colin came, but it was such a big forest and...
Colin froze, thinking that he’d heard voices. He moved quickly, as if tracking game for the table, taking cover and creeping forward only when he could be sure of doing so quietly. There, he heard it again. A single voice now, speaking quickly and with a hint of anger.
...a German voice.
Subtitles
- Chapter One: The Leap
- Chapter Two: Landing on your Feet
- Chapter Three: All the wild Things
- Chapter Four: Funny Paper Heroes
- Chapter Five: Caught
- Chapter Six: Blitz
- Chapter Seven: Hitting the Road
- Chapter Eight: Being Wrong
- Chapter Nine: Assumptions
- Chapter Ten: Coffee and Hot Cross Buns
- Chapter Eleven: Fate of the Brave
- Chapter Twelve: The Forest for the Brave
- Chapter Thirteen: Arrow in the Dark
- Chapter Fourteen: Little Brown Birds
- Chapter Fifteen: Popcorn and Prize-winning Pumpkins
- Chapter Sixteen: The Distance Breeched
- Chapter Seventeen: A Song to Light the Dark
- Chapter Eighteen: The Meaning of Fellowship
- Chapter Nineteen: Meanings Behind Words.
- Chapter Twenty: If Elves were meant to fly
- Chapter Twenty-one: Across the Western Sea
- Chapter Twenty-two: Atcheson Topeka and the Santa Fe
- Chapter Twenty-three: Strange Feathers
- Chapter Twenty-four: A Bitter Fruit
- Chapter Twenty-five: Looking for the Exit
- Chapter Twenty-six: Tainted
- Chapter Twenty-seven: The Killing Blow
- Chapter 28: Epilogue