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ArWen the Eternally Surprised
Author: Ria Time: 2007/11/22
Arwen encounters a strange monk and gains a little extra time.
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Beyond the Far Horizon
Submitter: Pecos Date: 2005/12/29 Views: 3235 Rate: 7.00/10
Chapter Eleven: Fate of the Brave
“I’d rather be a coward than brave because people hurt you when you are brave.” – E. M. Forster (1879-1970)

The M&I in MI6 stood for Military Intelligence, and in the heat of what would come to be called World War II, no one told MI6 what to do, and what not to do. Well, almost nobody.

Once the job was finally tackled it took less than three hours to establish that the person being held in the nearly-deserted Maudsley Hospital was not a German spy. The final interrogator came out of the room with a black eye and a lopsided, slightly manic grin. Hands were still thrown into the air over the question of just WHAT the heck he was, but ‘spy’ seemed like a very, very remote possibility, and frankly MI6 had considerably bigger fish to fry. Colin’s good mate ‘Peter’ had pulled the right strings, and when Colin got the call he rushed over to the hospital just as Legolas was preparing to kill his least favorite guard.

Colin succeeded in talking him out of that action by the simple expedient of opening the door and extending a hand. Legolas smoothed back what little hair he still had and walked from the room with all the grace of an Elven Prince in finest diplomatic form at a function that he intensely disliked. At the doorway to the street Legolas slipped his hand into Colin’s and met the policeman’s sincere brown eyes with a flood of thanks. The unexpected smile was dazzling in its purity.

“Will you come with me, lad?” Colin questioned. “I’m hoping that I’ve found a way to keep you out of more trouble. I think I have a place to take you.”

“Friend,” Legolas said softly.

They walked away from the building that would burn nearly to the ground that very night. The wing where they’d been holding the Elf would be completely destroyed, along with most of the notes and observations on the strange captive.

Aragorn crouched in the long grass at the verge of the paved roadway, softly singing an Elvish song about the golden leaves of Lorien. The fingers of one hand were gently stroking the Evenstar jewel at his throat, his other was splayed upon the fertile ground, reveling in a land that had never known the draining evil of Sauron or his minions.

Marvin chuckled and called some mild curse from where he was struggling to change the thick outer edge of one of the truck’s wheels. It seemed that something had gone wrong with it, and it needed attention, like a horse that had thrown a shoe. Aragorn had expressed a willingness to assist, but after he’d gotten distracted examining one of the ‘lug nuts’ entrusted to him and found that once twisted onto a finger it was loath to come off again, Marvin had declared his aid unnecessary.

A faint whinny from a nearby field caught Aragorn’s ear, and he rose to see several
horses grazing the spring grass a fair distance away. The Gondorian called to the animals, and they heard him, raising their heads as if startled, focusing on him at the edge of the hilly pasture. A tentative call of recognition, and then horses started ambling in his direction. The walk turned to a trot, then a lope, and then a race as the spirited ponies competed to reach him first. These compact animals were a new breed to his eyes, descendants of hardy wild stock, domesticated only in recent generations and still bearing the proud crest of their mustang heritage.

A glance at Marvin showed the man still engaged with his task, so Aragorn slipped through the cruel wires of the pasture border and moved amongst the horses, touching and speaking words of friendship and appreciation. A handsome dun gelding seemed particularly taken with Aragorn’s scent and posture, shoving him hard for attention and shifting to present his shoulder for scratching. The Man obliged, tracing gentle fingers over the delicate nostrils, rubbing a brow ridge and scraping his knuckles along the groove under the pony’s jaw. “Would you carry me, my strong, swift friend?” Aragorn asked the eager dun. A snort of recognition sealed a bargain spoken in ancient Elvish.

Grabbing a fist full of the rough black mane, Aragorn swung lightly onto the dun’s back, and the small herd spun as a unit to run across the rolling pasture, tails held high, proud heads tossing, snorts and whinnies and the thunder of hooves breaking the calm of a New Mexican afternoon. The horses chose a winding path, galloping with abandon, jostling amongst themselves while the Man rode low over the shoulders and neck of his mount, urging the dun to race the wind. Turning before the hated fence cutting across a low spot in the terrain, the horses circled back to a new direction, slowing for a bit to a gentle gallop, blowing great gusts from their flared nostrils. Aragorn raised his palms to the sky, giving thanks for the sun and the land and the surging power all around him.

He remembered a similar ride across the plains of Rohan -- so recently, and yet so long ago. He’d been scouting ahead of the exodus of Theoden's people, and his mount had been a brave stallion fit for a King’s stable. Legolas had been at his side, riding solo for once on a much lighter and swifter mare than the horse he usually shared with Gimli. The Elf rode in much the manner he did everything: with grace and style and deadly efficiency. The day had been warm, the grasses long and lush, and for just a few moments they had let the horses run, forgetting the horrible losses behind and not worrying about the terrifying future ahead. Man and Elf had locked eyes, smiling, living for just those few beats of the heart in a world without fear.

Scanning the horizon as if he expected to see Wargs and Orcs and all manner of evil preparing for fight, Aragorn instead saw Marvin standing alongside the stalled truck, staring at him across a distance more vast than just the physical space between them. Yet again, like so many other times, the Ranger let duty lead a heart that would travel in a different direction. He shifted his weight on the dun’s back and the horse turned, the herd turning with them, and their hooves beat the ground at a run back to the edge of the pasture where the road ran alongside. Aragorn slid from the mustang’s back and thanked him with hurried blessings in a tongue that had never been spoken in this place before, and in all likelihood never would be again.

Marvin didn’t say anything as Aragorn beat the dust from between his thighs, but the man’s eyes held many questions.

The clamor and chaos of Liverpool Street Station was almost too much for Legolas, but his trust in Colin seemed just enough to keep him from bolting. Lt. Farrell had given a hooded coat to the Elf, and the blue eyes peered warily out from its frail protection at a world he could only barely comprehend. Their train pulled out right on time, God bless the British Rail system even during these darkest of days, and they steamed toward Essex.

Colin had thought to bring food and drink with them for the trip, and Legolas picked at the offerings gingerly despite his obvious starvation, trying to look everywhere at once as if he thought that they were deep in enemy territory.

“I guess we are, from your way of looking at things,” Colin muttered. He took a bite of the cheese sandwich and then pressed it into the Elf’s hands and raised it to his lips. “Look, I know you don’t like it, but just eat the fucking thing already!”

A smile flirted at the corner of the thin lips, and Legolas ate. He drank the Danish beer too, and then polished off all of the cake. The city fell away around them as they stopped occasionally to take on more passengers, and then the countryside started to show beyond the dirty windows of the crowded train. More stops, and the crowd started to disperse, the Elf’s violet eyes were now glued to the scene outside. Maybe he’d thought that London was the entire world, that there was nothing more than concrete and bitumen and buildings to the horizon.

Epping Forest was one of the wildest places Colin Farrell could think of in the south of England. The trees had stood for much longer than the short span of man, and the ground itself was ancient beyond reckoning. This was where the Iceni Tribe had tried to withstand the invading Romans, and it was the kind of place that even modern Londoners respected as a source of strength, character and beauty.

They entered the woods not far from the road as evening fell, Colin carrying the rucksack he’d brought in hopes that he could spend a night under the stars without undue trauma. He turned to Legolas and found tears coursing down the Elf’s cheeks, his face glowing with a light that could only be called ethereal. In a flash the Elf was gone, into the trees without a trace, and Colin felt like he’d finally released a captive animal back into the wild.

The policeman hiked into the primeval forest as far as he could with the dying light, and finally found a spot to make his small camp. He was trusting that Legolas could easily find him, and trusting further that the Elf would want to do so.

It was full dark and the stars were glittering brightly as Colin sat with his back to the massive bole of a tree, hugging his knees in the cold and wishing he could chance a fire. The coat which had been so heavy on the train was far too thin for the countryside in late December. It was very odd to war-jangled nerves to be surrounded by so much nothing. The sound of the wind in the bare treetops was slowly overlaid with something that no man in England had ever heard before: Elvish singing -- a clear, pure voice more beautiful than anything Colin could even imagine. And then Legolas was there with him, wrapping warm arms around his shivering body and enfolding him in an embrace that felt even more natural than the forest.
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