Submitter: Pecos Date: 2005/12/29 Views: 3241 Rate: 7.00/10

“He who hesitates is not only lost, but miles from the next exit.” -- Unknown

Legolas sat crouched on the pallet where they obviously meant for him to sleep. He didn’t sleep anywhere in this place -- couldn’t, and wouldn’t. His waking dreams were far from him, and there was nothing of beauty on which to focus his mind if he were to try to rest. Furthermore, to go into trance would leave him vulnerable, if only for the time it would take to rouse, and he was unwilling to let himself be vulnerable either.

He slowly opened his palm once again and let his gaze stroke over the tiny treasures within. Seven dark crescents – the seeds from the apple which the comely Man had brought him. He’d consumed it to the stem and these seeds, and was now puzzling over how to get them back into the soil. One of the seeds was already starting to germinate, the flesh tearing open to reveal the pale promise of new life. Sighing, Legolas shifted, closing his hand over the seeds again. He had no reason to guard them in this strange place; no one was likely to take the seeds away from him, but he felt somehow responsible for them since he’d drawn sustenance from the flesh of the apple’s fruit.

Footsteps could be heard at the end of the hall and he quickly rose to his feet, wincing at the cramps of unused muscles. Voices carried from far away. He’d given up trying to understand what they were saying. He set his jaw, determined that if it was once again the fat Man with reddish hair he would not endure any more mistreatment. Four times now that man had come into his cell, speaking to him and venturing far too close, smiling with evil teeth, daring even to reach out and touch his hair. He’d barely escaped having his ear stroked the last time. Any further overtures like that were going to be met with violence, since the ugly man seemed oblivious to the idea of personal boundaries.

Voices carried from outside, and then the rattle of key and creak of the hinges. Legolas drew a deep breath and braced himself, physically and mentally. To his relief it was the comely Man who stepped through the door, talking to someone behind, and the door closed again, leaving them together. The comely Man smiled, and had the graciousness to stand where he was, letting Legolas take the initiative to move forward in greeting. The Elf did so, touching his breast and speaking a semi-formal greeting. The Man spoke in his own tongue, then patted his own chest, seeming to indicate something other than an imitation of Legolas’ manners.

“Colin.”

Legolas quirked a brow as the word was repeated. Wondering if he understood, he touched himself in a similar manner and said, “Prince Legolas Greenleaf, son of Thranduil, Lord of Mirkwood.” He didn’t want to bother with his entire title, as it would take most of the afternoon, and Legolas had never cared for the niceties of court.

“Colin,” the man repeated, humor lurking in his eyes.

“Is he laughing at me?’ Legolas asked himself. “Legolas,” he said again, cutting to the barest essential.

“Legolas,” said the strange Man, pointing to him.

“Colin,” the Elf replied, repeating the gesture. This time the smile was unmistakable. Legolas gestured with his outstretched hand, and when Colin turned up his palm, he let drop the apple seeds. “Please take those into the sunshine and air and let them find wholesome ground in which to live,” he told the Man, hoping that his gesture would be understood.

Looking at the seeds as if unaware of what they were, Colin’s brow creased. He seemed more likely to throw them into the rubbish heap than anything else, and then he looked directly into Legolas’ eyes and finally appeared to understand. He spoke in his strange tongue, nodding, and the seeds went into a pocket. Legolas let his own smile shine momentarily, and then stepped back to the pallet, hoping that he was within rights and manners to offer a seat.

Colin did settle on the edge of the bare shelf, giving Legolas a welcome opportunity to study the way he moved and the form of his body. Yes, this was a comely Man indeed. Nothing compared to Aragorn, of course, but a fine Man to be sure. He produced a hard surface of some sort which had been tucked beneath his arm and a small, sharp bit of wood with some dark substance at the tip. Making sure that Legolas was watching, he proceeded to draw some fine lines on the hard surface, and then passed both items into the Elf’s hands, speaking slowly – as if that would help.

Legolas sighed. How could there be a language that he didn’t know? He’d been schooled in dozens of dialects and tongues, and picked up more in his travels, and yet he still had no way of discerning meanings from this harsh speech. Trying not to let his frustration show, Legolas studied the offered tablet, and saw that the writing of this language was every bit as alien as the sound. The letters were broken into small bits, strange and ungainly shapes and of unappealing symmetry. He examined the writing tool for a moment, and found that it made a faint, but discernable line on the smooth surface.

Taking up the tool as he would a pen, Legolas started writing in Sindarin.

‘My name is Legolas of the Realm of Mirkwood, and I have no knowledge of how I have come to be in this place.” The Elvish script came quickly and easily, and his eyes flicked up to find Colin staring at the product of his efforts as if he were drawing something pornographic. So, the lack of understanding definitely went both ways.

Returning the surface to the comely Man, Legolas let his skin brush against the other’s, and there was a curious sensation of connection. Living tissue sensing other living tissue. Life force touching life force.

Puzzled Elf...puzzled Man.

Vince threw back his beer and laughed at a joke no one else had even heard.
”God-DAMN!” he roared, saluting his contemplative companion with the bottle. “Two hundred and eight dollars profit for one stinking load of heifers!”

“Heifers!” Aaron echoed, smiling around his own drink. No matter how much the guy put away, he never seemed to get drunk, which was something that darn near cheesed Vince off. But Vince was too flush to get angry about anything tonight. A simple three-day run to Oklahoma and back, and he was a rich man -- at least until his wife got into him for the rent money on their awful apartment in Ft. Worth. He’d be seeing her tomorrow...but for tonight, he was rich.

“Next load’ll be horses again, I promise. Goddamn cows. They’ll be steaks by morning.”

“Morning,” Aaron muttered, mulling over the word like it was something you could taste.

“Damn right,” Vince concurred, winking expansively at the strange man who’d become his partner. He was way too drunk to drive. Good thing Aaron was proving to be a quick study handling the truck. Now, if he could just get him to stop talking to it like it was a skittish colt when other trucks and car crowded them on the road. That, and maybe read the occasional road sign. “I gotta piss,” Vince grumbled, rising and taking several tries before finding the right way to the toilet.

He was peeing expansively when two men shouldered open the door and bumped him menacingly, demanding that he give up his money roll. Vince wasn’t about to hand over his windfall, and the fight was quick and energetic, if sloppy. A bad blow to the face knocked Vince’s head into the filthy wall and he saw stars as unfriendly hands groped his pockets. “No, dammit! NO, GODDAMN! You fuckers...!”

Grappling and grabbing for purchase, all three of them staggered out into the bar again, and suddenly Aaron was there with a dagger that looked like it could gut a pig with a single stroke. The robbers took off for the parking lot, yelling at each other, and Aaron Ghorn was right on their tails. Vince slapped a wad of bar napkins against his bleeding temple and tried to follow, cussing at the other truckers who stood in his way, watching like this was the scheduled entertainment for the evening.

One of his friends stopped him long enough to ascertain if he’d been hurt any more than just the scalp wound, and Vince had just made it to the door as Aaron came back from the parking lot. Voices rose even more and people fell back to make room for him to pass, and Vince quickly saw why. The stranger was now carrying an extremely long, clearly razor-sharp sword, holding it like a man who knew exactly what to do with it. Aaron handed Vince back his wad of cash and indicated that perhaps it was time for them to leave.

“Morning,” he said in that maddeningly calm voice of his. “Hit pavement.”

Yeah...yeah, that was probably a good idea.

URL: http://borderland.waking-vision.com/modules/article/view.article.php/c15/20

Trackback: http://borderland.waking-vision.com/modules/article/trackback.php/20