Chapter Seventeen: A Song to Light the Dark
“The difference between genius and stupidity is that genius has its limits.” – unknown
Legolas’ birth had been a bit of a surprise to many in the halls of King Thranduil. Elves of the late Second Age didn’t generally have children. Not even the royal families felt much need to propagate. His older siblings had proven sufficient and capable of filling necessary posts, and the addition of another son was seen by more than a few as a bit indulgent – not that the King wasn’t allowed any indulgence he chose. Elves normally had a very long childhood, often filled with opportunities to grow, chances for making mistakes, honing skills and finding their strengths in a supportive environment. Changing conditions in Mirkwood had curtailed Legolas’ gradual maturation into a more regimented education, wherein he’d been expected to learn not only the obligations of royal lineage but also the skills of a warrior, as necessitated by the coming change of Age.
Torn from the support of his kind, the familiarity of his surroundings, and even the love of his companions, Legolas had taken on a protective persona of indifference to his condition. His communication with the Great Teacher had given him a small opportunity to reveal his true self to a generous soul, even if it was couched in the academic role, and his affection for Colin had given him a chance for some comfort from a sympathetic heart. But none of this came close to easing the aching loneliness of the only living Elf in a big and alien world. Yet his natural disposition still kept him from utter despair through the long years of waiting. He had no assurance that he would ever be able to escape his prison-without-bars...none but the spark of a friendship he trusted to transcend time and place.
No -- more than a friendship. Friendship was what he’d found with a few trustworthy Men in this land of Men. What he was trusting to was nothing less than Love.
Legolas was currently sprawled into a spot of sunshine in the dusty confines of Professor Tolkien’s library, reading an epic poem by a great scholar about the passions of Men long since dead. The household pets had joined him, eating the unwanted food which the housekeeper had once again brought, and settling around the Elf as close as possible. The cat was curled atop the small of his back, purring a constant thrum. One dog lay at the back of his legs, sighing occasionally as if some great task was being thrust upon it. The other dog was as close to his face as it could get, watching the Elf’s eyes as they flitted across the letters on the paper, one ear cocked, waiting impatiently for a chance to escape to the gardens, and possibly further afield.
He came to yet another passage about the travels of ships across great stretches of water, and Legolas paused to consider his own plight in light of this history. There was no sylvan shore across the western sea. There was only another country filled with Men and the makings of Men. Beyond that yet another sea, and more Men. The Undying Lands did not exist on this Earth. Their mythology contained only poorly described rewards granted after a virtuous life – an ethereal plane from which none could return. Even worse, they seemed to believe that the vast majority of humanity and anyone who did not follow various strict, and often conflicting, dogmas were bound for eternal torment and suffering. What a truly sad cosmology. How did they survive their own fatalistic philosophies? What hope could drive the souls of these lost people? He would have to meditate on the thought. But before that, he had to relieve the pressure of sadness in his own heart.
Apologizing briefly to the creatures, he rose to his knees and stretched lax muscles, taking a deep breath and clearing his thoughts. Settling back on his heels, finding his center, the Elf started to sing. It was a very long poem of his own people, a story learned in his youth, at the feet of a great minstrel in the echoing Halls of his father’s Kingdom. Every passage brought a flurry of images to his inner eye, sights of ancient times and remembered lives and passions. He sang lovingly, his elegant voice lifting the dark thoughts in his soul and letting memories light his heart where this Earth’s sun could not reach.
The housekeeper was upstairs, drinking a small sherry and listening to the radio, tired feet propped on a cushion. She clicked it off quickly, and leaned back in her favorite chair, tears suddenly filling her eyes as she once again heard the heavenly voice of an angel. Song filled the house. It was one of the perks of working for Professor Tolkien.
She wouldn’t quit this job for all the tea in China.
Aragorn was nearly shaking with rage. To have come all this way, through all the bizarre obstacles thrown in his path, just to be told that he could not complete his journey because of the insufficiency of bits of parchment...it was more than he could stand. Kingdoms could be lost with this kind of obstructionist attention to immaterial crap.
He narrowed his gaze at the man in the ‘Customs’ uniform, and pictured the graceful arc of his sword’s blade severing that empty head from its bloated body, like Lurtz’s final moment on Amon Hen. But even Lurtz had been an admirable representative of his kind – an Urk Hai of power and renown. This officious, pompous, bloated little toad was clearly at the top of his game making trouble for people on important missions he could not, and would not even begin to understand.
“I have to go to Oxford,” Aragorn said evenly, fighting the urge to raise his voice.
“Well you’re not going anywhere without the proper passport and papers, Sir,” the toad croaked, puffing himself up importantly. “What I wonder most is how you’ve gotten this far. They should have caught you at immigration. Don’t know what the Yanks were thinking even letting you on the ship without checking this story you’re telling.”
“Professor Tolkien wrote to me,” Aragorn explained. “I must go to him.”
“Whatever...Sir. I’m going to have to ask you to take a seat again while I speak to a few people.”
Aragorn eyed the exit, wondering how far he could get without weapons. He was almost positive that the resistance to his passage was largely ceremonial, despite all the bluster. But he could not be sure of what obstacles lay out of sight within the bowels of this building. There could be warriors he was unaware of, traps and means of fight. His best defense at the moment seemed to be patience. They’d have to take him back the way he’d already come if they were going to block his further progress, and at that time he would doubtless be able to escape, and hopefully evade capture long enough to make his way into the countryside of this England. It would delay him to his objective, but he would make it one way or another.
“Goddamn,” he muttered, thinking of the extraordinary efforts Marvin and Becca had already applied to get him this far. Marvin had even enlisted the assistance of his Tuskegee comrades in flying Aragorn to New York in airplanes to speed his passage. The nine days spent sailing the sea on a huge ship under windless thrust had been some of the longest of his life, and now his feet were on the soil of this land without being able to stride forth.
“And no more cursing, please,” the toad grumbled, glaring at him, pointing to the corner seat with a haughty air.
Aragorn imagined a Balrog getting its claws into this juicy morsel. He let his smirk show for only a moment before turning to the assigned place. Maybe a night in Barad-Dur, with a host and a half of horny Orcs for company.
Horny...and hungry. Yeah.
He sat down heavily, pausing to scratch his itchy scalp. He just couldn’t get used to having his hair cut so short, no to mention shaving the beard from his face, though it had certainly made it easier for him to pass as a resident of this time. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his thudding heart. This obstacle would eventually be overcome, as would the next and the next. He’d come so far already...so far towards his goal....
Something tickled in the corner of his mind, and as he allowed himself to relax he could finally hear it over the din of this hated room. Elvish. Singing, in Elvish. A song that he dimly remembered from his childhood at Rivendell – a tale about long ago and far away. Warmth flooded Aragorn’s heart, bringing peace to his soul. Was he just recalling a time of his youth, or was he hearing the song brought to light once again? It didn’t matter...nothing mattered but the song, and the familiar voice singing it. A voice full of passion and life and love.
“Legolas,” he whispered, lost in reverie.
The song was a long one, in the way that only an Elf could hope to remember. Time passed without count for the Ranger, the needs and complaints of his body going unnoticed. And then the hated voice of the toad interrupted his concentration.
“You, Aaron Groan, oi. On your feet. You’re to come with me.”
He rose stiffly, surprised to find that the sun in the high windows had gone, only the fake illumination of burning bulbs now filling the big space. He stared at the top of the little man’s head, hating every strand of hair as he obediently followed, wondering what new delay had been constructed and how long he was going to be able to hold to the promise of the Elvish song in his heart, fading even now into memory.
One hallway after another, and then a door. Men standing aside to let them pass, gazing at him with disinterest or suspicion, but never with a glimmer of offered assistance. The door was opened and he could see a small room within, a single table and two wooden chairs in the bright light, nothing else. This smelt strongly of a trap, and he froze on the threshold, mind snapping into defensive mode. The toad would go first, and where he went there would be no return. He started to turn when he realized that another man had arrived, winded, his eyes keen and intelligent and compassionate.
“That’ll be all, officer Atkinson,” the man said, his voice strangely lyrical, almost amused.
“Aye, but...there’s still the question of....”
“I said that will be ALL, Atkinson. This man is my concern now. You may GO.”
This caused such consternation in the toad that Aragorn stayed his hand for a moment, sizing up the new arrival in a potentially favorable light. Atkinson departed, with a great deal of muttering and complaint, commenting under his breath about his grievances.
“Please step inside for a moment,” the stranger asked, gesturing at the empty room. Despite his fighting instincts, Aragorn acceded, placing himself in an advantageous position and keeping an eye on the softly closed door. There was no evidence of a lock being engaged. The stranger held out both hands, palms up, to show that he bore no weapons, and then stepped close enough that Aragorn could smell his skin and clothes.
“My name is Colin Farrell, and I’ve come to take you to Professor Tolkien, Mister Aragorn. Or, it’s just Aragorn, isn’t it? Sorry, I don’t know quite the correct form. I’ve come to help bring you to Legolas.” He reached forward and gripped Aragorn’s shoulder in the manner of the Elves.
Tears burst from the corners of Aragorn’s eyes, and he returned the grip with trembling fingers.
Legolas’ birth had been a bit of a surprise to many in the halls of King Thranduil. Elves of the late Second Age didn’t generally have children. Not even the royal families felt much need to propagate. His older siblings had proven sufficient and capable of filling necessary posts, and the addition of another son was seen by more than a few as a bit indulgent – not that the King wasn’t allowed any indulgence he chose. Elves normally had a very long childhood, often filled with opportunities to grow, chances for making mistakes, honing skills and finding their strengths in a supportive environment. Changing conditions in Mirkwood had curtailed Legolas’ gradual maturation into a more regimented education, wherein he’d been expected to learn not only the obligations of royal lineage but also the skills of a warrior, as necessitated by the coming change of Age.
Torn from the support of his kind, the familiarity of his surroundings, and even the love of his companions, Legolas had taken on a protective persona of indifference to his condition. His communication with the Great Teacher had given him a small opportunity to reveal his true self to a generous soul, even if it was couched in the academic role, and his affection for Colin had given him a chance for some comfort from a sympathetic heart. But none of this came close to easing the aching loneliness of the only living Elf in a big and alien world. Yet his natural disposition still kept him from utter despair through the long years of waiting. He had no assurance that he would ever be able to escape his prison-without-bars...none but the spark of a friendship he trusted to transcend time and place.
No -- more than a friendship. Friendship was what he’d found with a few trustworthy Men in this land of Men. What he was trusting to was nothing less than Love.
Legolas was currently sprawled into a spot of sunshine in the dusty confines of Professor Tolkien’s library, reading an epic poem by a great scholar about the passions of Men long since dead. The household pets had joined him, eating the unwanted food which the housekeeper had once again brought, and settling around the Elf as close as possible. The cat was curled atop the small of his back, purring a constant thrum. One dog lay at the back of his legs, sighing occasionally as if some great task was being thrust upon it. The other dog was as close to his face as it could get, watching the Elf’s eyes as they flitted across the letters on the paper, one ear cocked, waiting impatiently for a chance to escape to the gardens, and possibly further afield.
He came to yet another passage about the travels of ships across great stretches of water, and Legolas paused to consider his own plight in light of this history. There was no sylvan shore across the western sea. There was only another country filled with Men and the makings of Men. Beyond that yet another sea, and more Men. The Undying Lands did not exist on this Earth. Their mythology contained only poorly described rewards granted after a virtuous life – an ethereal plane from which none could return. Even worse, they seemed to believe that the vast majority of humanity and anyone who did not follow various strict, and often conflicting, dogmas were bound for eternal torment and suffering. What a truly sad cosmology. How did they survive their own fatalistic philosophies? What hope could drive the souls of these lost people? He would have to meditate on the thought. But before that, he had to relieve the pressure of sadness in his own heart.
Apologizing briefly to the creatures, he rose to his knees and stretched lax muscles, taking a deep breath and clearing his thoughts. Settling back on his heels, finding his center, the Elf started to sing. It was a very long poem of his own people, a story learned in his youth, at the feet of a great minstrel in the echoing Halls of his father’s Kingdom. Every passage brought a flurry of images to his inner eye, sights of ancient times and remembered lives and passions. He sang lovingly, his elegant voice lifting the dark thoughts in his soul and letting memories light his heart where this Earth’s sun could not reach.
The housekeeper was upstairs, drinking a small sherry and listening to the radio, tired feet propped on a cushion. She clicked it off quickly, and leaned back in her favorite chair, tears suddenly filling her eyes as she once again heard the heavenly voice of an angel. Song filled the house. It was one of the perks of working for Professor Tolkien.
She wouldn’t quit this job for all the tea in China.
Aragorn was nearly shaking with rage. To have come all this way, through all the bizarre obstacles thrown in his path, just to be told that he could not complete his journey because of the insufficiency of bits of parchment...it was more than he could stand. Kingdoms could be lost with this kind of obstructionist attention to immaterial crap.
He narrowed his gaze at the man in the ‘Customs’ uniform, and pictured the graceful arc of his sword’s blade severing that empty head from its bloated body, like Lurtz’s final moment on Amon Hen. But even Lurtz had been an admirable representative of his kind – an Urk Hai of power and renown. This officious, pompous, bloated little toad was clearly at the top of his game making trouble for people on important missions he could not, and would not even begin to understand.
“I have to go to Oxford,” Aragorn said evenly, fighting the urge to raise his voice.
“Well you’re not going anywhere without the proper passport and papers, Sir,” the toad croaked, puffing himself up importantly. “What I wonder most is how you’ve gotten this far. They should have caught you at immigration. Don’t know what the Yanks were thinking even letting you on the ship without checking this story you’re telling.”
“Professor Tolkien wrote to me,” Aragorn explained. “I must go to him.”
“Whatever...Sir. I’m going to have to ask you to take a seat again while I speak to a few people.”
Aragorn eyed the exit, wondering how far he could get without weapons. He was almost positive that the resistance to his passage was largely ceremonial, despite all the bluster. But he could not be sure of what obstacles lay out of sight within the bowels of this building. There could be warriors he was unaware of, traps and means of fight. His best defense at the moment seemed to be patience. They’d have to take him back the way he’d already come if they were going to block his further progress, and at that time he would doubtless be able to escape, and hopefully evade capture long enough to make his way into the countryside of this England. It would delay him to his objective, but he would make it one way or another.
“Goddamn,” he muttered, thinking of the extraordinary efforts Marvin and Becca had already applied to get him this far. Marvin had even enlisted the assistance of his Tuskegee comrades in flying Aragorn to New York in airplanes to speed his passage. The nine days spent sailing the sea on a huge ship under windless thrust had been some of the longest of his life, and now his feet were on the soil of this land without being able to stride forth.
“And no more cursing, please,” the toad grumbled, glaring at him, pointing to the corner seat with a haughty air.
Aragorn imagined a Balrog getting its claws into this juicy morsel. He let his smirk show for only a moment before turning to the assigned place. Maybe a night in Barad-Dur, with a host and a half of horny Orcs for company.
Horny...and hungry. Yeah.
He sat down heavily, pausing to scratch his itchy scalp. He just couldn’t get used to having his hair cut so short, no to mention shaving the beard from his face, though it had certainly made it easier for him to pass as a resident of this time. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his thudding heart. This obstacle would eventually be overcome, as would the next and the next. He’d come so far already...so far towards his goal....
Something tickled in the corner of his mind, and as he allowed himself to relax he could finally hear it over the din of this hated room. Elvish. Singing, in Elvish. A song that he dimly remembered from his childhood at Rivendell – a tale about long ago and far away. Warmth flooded Aragorn’s heart, bringing peace to his soul. Was he just recalling a time of his youth, or was he hearing the song brought to light once again? It didn’t matter...nothing mattered but the song, and the familiar voice singing it. A voice full of passion and life and love.
“Legolas,” he whispered, lost in reverie.
The song was a long one, in the way that only an Elf could hope to remember. Time passed without count for the Ranger, the needs and complaints of his body going unnoticed. And then the hated voice of the toad interrupted his concentration.
“You, Aaron Groan, oi. On your feet. You’re to come with me.”
He rose stiffly, surprised to find that the sun in the high windows had gone, only the fake illumination of burning bulbs now filling the big space. He stared at the top of the little man’s head, hating every strand of hair as he obediently followed, wondering what new delay had been constructed and how long he was going to be able to hold to the promise of the Elvish song in his heart, fading even now into memory.
One hallway after another, and then a door. Men standing aside to let them pass, gazing at him with disinterest or suspicion, but never with a glimmer of offered assistance. The door was opened and he could see a small room within, a single table and two wooden chairs in the bright light, nothing else. This smelt strongly of a trap, and he froze on the threshold, mind snapping into defensive mode. The toad would go first, and where he went there would be no return. He started to turn when he realized that another man had arrived, winded, his eyes keen and intelligent and compassionate.
“That’ll be all, officer Atkinson,” the man said, his voice strangely lyrical, almost amused.
“Aye, but...there’s still the question of....”
“I said that will be ALL, Atkinson. This man is my concern now. You may GO.”
This caused such consternation in the toad that Aragorn stayed his hand for a moment, sizing up the new arrival in a potentially favorable light. Atkinson departed, with a great deal of muttering and complaint, commenting under his breath about his grievances.
“Please step inside for a moment,” the stranger asked, gesturing at the empty room. Despite his fighting instincts, Aragorn acceded, placing himself in an advantageous position and keeping an eye on the softly closed door. There was no evidence of a lock being engaged. The stranger held out both hands, palms up, to show that he bore no weapons, and then stepped close enough that Aragorn could smell his skin and clothes.
“My name is Colin Farrell, and I’ve come to take you to Professor Tolkien, Mister Aragorn. Or, it’s just Aragorn, isn’t it? Sorry, I don’t know quite the correct form. I’ve come to help bring you to Legolas.” He reached forward and gripped Aragorn’s shoulder in the manner of the Elves.
Tears burst from the corners of Aragorn’s eyes, and he returned the grip with trembling fingers.
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