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

“If God lived on Earth, people would break his windows.” – Old Jewish Proverb


Ranger skills weren't needed to follow the sound of the air car...just fast feet and good ears. It didn't go very far from town, and came down to earth on a dusty strip of road. Aragorn cut across a few fields and started searching for the landed machine. He was able to follow the smell of strange smoke around a low building and discovered the thing squatting awkwardly on the verge of the road, its tail pointed toward the ramshackle building gaping open behind it. He approached less cautiously than he should have, as the thing was still making considerable noise and stink and was clearly resting uneasily. Eyes wide and heart in his throat, Aragorn felt drawn to creep closer. He had to see this mechanical creature up close -- touch it, and maybe learn its secrets.

Marvin Jefferson Jr. looked up from the cowling of his crop duster to see a strange man edging forward from the shelter of the hangar. He watched for a moment as the intent stranger continued soundlessly, his hand latched onto something in a duffle bag. Duffles usually meant another trooper home from the war, and this man certainly carried himself like a fellow who'd seen battle. But that didn't mean he should go sneaking around like that on a fine New Mexico morning.

Marvin got a firm grip on his wrench and stepped into the open. "Can I help you, sir?" he called out in a no-nonsense tone.

The guy took one look at him and went white as the proverbial sheet. One smooth, practiced movement and he'd freed the biggest, longest fucking sword in the world from its sheath in the duffle. The sword swung through the air with a sinister slashing sound, and the man was clearly braced to defend himself.

"Whoa, whoa there!" Jefferson gasped, hefting the heavy wrench and knowing that it was insufficient to defend him. What the hell had he gotten himself into now? This was New Mexico, dammit!

Aragorn felt the sweat trickle down his ribs as he shifted his weight for best advantage, testing his grip on Narsil and stunned to find that the creature facing him was holding his gaze with intelligent eyes. The creature had a metal weapon of some sort in his hand, and his stance was defensive -- yet he didn't seem inclined to attack. Then he spoke to Aragorn, and the Ranger forced himself to lean back, thwarting his instinct to attack first and then sort out the bodies.

This seemed to be a man before him...yet his skin was as black as any Uruk Hai! Aragorn had heard about black-skinned men from the far South, and knew that tribes of them had answered Sauron's Call and taken up arms against the good races of Middle-earth. Was this one of those tribes? Did they all have machines that flew? Was this the work of some evil enchantment?

"What in Hades is your problem, Mister?" Marvin demanded. He was confused more than frightened by this strange man with the big sword. You don't go through the six sides of hell that Marvin had survived just to be knocked down at your own airfield by some idiot rancher from the backcountry. The greasy-looking moron seemed to be listening to him, but failing to understand. Marvin took a chance and lowered his wrench, wishing he had his service revolver instead. Note to self, Jr. -- put a handgun in the duster for encounters with crazy-ass rednecks.

"I'm asking you, SIR, what is it you want, and why are you threatening me?" His words seemed to cause the man to relax even more, and the sword swung down into a less hostile pose, but this was clearly not going to be a pleasant chat.

"I am Aaron," the stranger said stiffly. "You am...goddamn...am...?"

"Is that a question?" Jefferson asked. "It sorta sounded like a question."

"You...dark. Night, dark...you?"

Suddenly Marvin got an idea what this was all about. "Are you tellin' me you've never seen a colored man fly a plane before? Oh, hell no! I don't believe this hick, backwater, redneck goddamn..."

"Goddamn," asserted the stranger, nodding. Aaron -- if he was bright enough to actually know his own name. "I am mistake." He put the sword clear down, sliding it back inside the duffle and setting that on the ground, raising his hands in a gesture of contrition. "Mistake. Me, mistake."

"Yeah, you're damn right you made a mistake," Marvin huffed, losing some of his fear and anger. "You don't scare a man like that. I could'a, well...I would have brained you with my 7/8ths socket wrench...and that thing cost me nearly three dollars!" He smiled despite himself. "My name is Marvin Jefferson...Junior. Did you say you're Aaron?"

"Aaron Ghorn. Yes."

Marvin nodded and moved closely enough to shake the man's hand. This was bound to be an interesting day.

“Colin.” He spoke the name as though he’d known it all his life. And his voice made it sound somehow beautiful and lyrical so that it flowed easily into the strange stream of words that cascaded from his lips following the name. He touched his hand lightly to his chest and tipped his head subtly as always, but this time he closed his eyes briefly with the gesture instead of keeping them locked on those of his newly-arrived visitor.

Lieutenant Farrell couldn’t think why this seemed significant but something in his detective’s nature made him take note of it. “The suits have agreed to let me take you out onto the grounds during our visit. It’s a fine autumn day and I’m sure the fresh air will do you good.” He knew that his words were mere gibberish to the stranger, but felt uneasy in the silence of the small room. Directly the door swung open to admit a sturdy, well-muscled man in a white shirt and trousers carrying a pair of chain manacles in one hand and a pipe wrapped in electrical tape in the other.

As Legolas backed away his entire countenance changed. He took a warrior stance, his feet planted firm and square, yet ready for quick nimble movements as his hands and fingers worked as though they were more accustomed to holding weapons but more than able to inflict considerable damage barehanded. The big man bulled forward arrogantly as though he had entered this battle before and been victorious on those occasions. Colin put a hand between them to intercede, and stated firmly, “Hey, it doesn’t have to be like this.”

“He doesn’t leave the room without them,” the attendant barked, “Hospital policy, understand?”

“Got it. I only meant it doesn’t have to be like this,” he restated gesturing at the club clutched in the man’s beefy fingers.

“Yea, right.” The man scoffed as he renewed his approach.

Refusing to give up, he turned his efforts to the elf. “Legolas,” he called, attempting to draw his attention. “Legolas, look at me…Colin.” He patted his chest and repeated, “Colin…trust me.” As an afterthought and knowing full well that the word had no meaning, he still added grudgingly, “Please,” as the warrior slightly relaxed his threatening pose. He continued to repeat, “Colin,” and gestured in hopes that he could convey his intention that Legolas should trust him and that no harm would befall him aside from the abject humiliation of being chained.

His attempts were only partially successful for when the attendant finally departed the pale, slender body was left with fresh bruises along his right side and a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. The attendant was limping heavily. Colin had the feeling that without his intervention there would have been at least one unconscious body on the floor – and he wasn’t sure it would be the Elf.

Elf...when had he decided that this was an Elf? It wasn’t too much of a leap for a boy raised with Gran’s tales of the little people and magical folk; for an imaginative lad running on the green hills and secret paths of Ireland, climbing over stone fences and listening to the sounds of the wind on the hillsides. He’d just been surprised that Elves turned out to be so tall, willowy, and damn good-looking, not to mention lost in the wilds of war-torn London during the Blitz. But enough of that....

Legolas stared at the detective, his face unreadable. Lieutenant Farrell wondered if this ordeal had shattered what miniscule amount of trust existed between them. His stomach tightened as he opened the door and gestured to the hallway of the nearly deserted institution, his other hand outstretched toward the wary Elf. “Please,” he stated simply.

He shuddered inside at the sound of the chain dragging slowly across the worn floor. He could never be called soft or squeamish, but something about this situation pulled at his gut, like the way a man will wince when he sees another get kicked in the balls. It’s just instinctual.

When they eventually reached the small courtyard everything about the Elf changed. He stretched out his arms as far as the chains would allow as though embracing the very air itself. He took on the guise of the warrior again briefly as he surveyed his surroundings, then, satisfied that there was, first, no ready access for escape and, secondly, that they were alone, he fell to his knees, prostrating himself upon the ground; breathing in the scent of the earth and growing things before rolling onto his back and gazing into the sky with damp eyes.

After a few moments Colin pulled an apple from his jacket pocket and stepped forward to hold it out into Legolas’ line of sight. The Elf sat up crossing his legs. He smiled and tapped the ground beside him. The detective couldn’t help but notice a perfectly good stone bench just right over there, but decided to humor the young man and so hiked up his coat tails and dropped unceremoniously to the dirt.

Legolas accepted the apple and nodding said, “Hannon le”

Colin took the opportunity to attempt another word of communication. He gestured for Legolas to return the apple to him and when he did held it to himself and said, “Thank you,” and then passed it back.

“Hannon le, Colin…Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he murmured, shifting uncomfortably on the hard ground. He brought out a bit of cheese and some bread as well, the best he could do in these days of shortages and rationing. They shared the small meal in companionable silence, though the small patch of ground seemed now to be home to every little brown bird in London. The twittering and snatches of song brightened the gloomy day.

After the apple was devoured Colin watched intently as Legolas rose to pace the small courtyard garden, pausing occasionally to take in the aspect of each particular site before carefully placing a seed into soil prepared by his bare hands. It sent a twinge of guilt for the memory of the seeds that the Elf had entrusted to him on their first jailhouse encounter. He suspected that they were still tucked into the vest pocket hung in his closet at home, unless of course he had already sent that particular suit to the cleaners. His ruminations were cut short by the attendant’s arrival and announcement that it was time for the patient to return to his room. ‘More like the prisoner to return to his cell’, the Lieutenant fumed, holding his tongue.

When he had been returned he allowed the attendant to approach and remove his bonds without so much as flinching, which left the big man puzzled and wary.

“Colin,” Legolas called out, causing the detective to stop at the door and turn. “Thank you.”

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