Chapter Twenty-four: A Bitter Fruit
“The school of hard knocks is an accelerated curriculum.” – Menander (342 – 292? BCE)
Saul Harumann was tired. Tired, disgusted, and annoyed. That was pretty much the status quo for the nuclear research scientist. He drove through Alamogordo, New Mexico, past row upon row of cookie-cutter tract houses on streets that ended in desert, and wondered if any of these idiots had a clue what sort of malevolent magic took place in the facilities a few scant miles away. The tiny dwellings fell away and the road that he was on continued into the arid wastes of empty land, black tar laid over sand and rock, like a dark will imposed on innocence. A coyote skulked into a nearby gully, and he briefly hoped they had taken the poison he’d put out that morning. The coyotes kept getting into his trash, and he was sick of it. He was sick of all of it.
He pulled into the drive of a lone bungalow, a ranch-style, single-level dwelling tucked into a low spot in the desert, surrounded by a few struggling trees and lots of cactus and yucca bushes. Gathering up his battered briefcase, the scientist climbed out of his car and wondered what he should assemble for dinner. He put the case down on the cement porch and fumbled with his keys for a moment. He was just reaching to put it in the lock when a whistle of air warned him a micro-second before the arrow pierced his jacket sleeve from elbow to wrist, embedding deeply into the weathered wood of the door and pinning his arm in place. He started to turn, but another arrow had already caught the fabric of his suit at the waist and he was trapped against the wood. One more arrow neatly parted his hair.
That last one was just a warning.
“Fucking Elves,” he muttered, astonished, looking at the shaft of the arrow protruding from the material of his coat sleeve. Someone stepped up behind him and started patting him down, searching his pockets as if they might find something harmful there. He turned his head far enough to be able to see the Elf drop lightly from the sickly Elm across the road, a hundred meters or so away. “You could have missed from there, you know,” he called, impressed with the level of calm he was able to impose on his voice.
“This ‘fucking Elf’ never misses,” said the man who was patting him down. Saul’s head whipped around and he found himself face to face with Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and the pretender to the Throne of Gondor. He was dressed like any average lower-class schmuck from the nearby town, and as the man bent to move away Saul’s briefcase the scientist did his best to hide his smirk.
“I see that you came after me.”
“No. I did not. I cared not where you went, as long as it was ultimately to the fiery arms of the Balrog. I came after someone to whom I owe my allegiance.” He jerked one, then another arrow free of the wood, letting Saul get his balance back and turn to face his attackers. The Elf trotted up soundlessly, his face a mask of calm intensity, an arrow drawn in the bow. At this distance that arrow could go clean through a man’s skull and halfway through the desert-dry wood of the door behind.
“Ah, I see...Legolas Thranduilion, Prince of the Realm of Mirkwood. You always were impetuous – for an Elf.”
Legolas’ eyes flared briefly, and he let the tip of his arrow rest on the skin between Harumann’s eyes. The bow squeaked with tension like a trapped rodent.
“Just say the word, Aragorn, and I will send him to that Balrog’s embrace,” the Elf offered. “Even a Wizard cannot make do without his head.”
“Not yet, friend,” Aragorn soothed, pushing the arrow aside causally. “We have words to exchange with this errant one. Put your bow down and let us step inside, out of this hot sun. I believe that Saruman has some explaining to do.”
Aragorn helped himself to a beer from the refrigerator, marveling once again at the wonders wherein a good drink was even better icy cold. He grabbed one for Legolas too, and knocked the caps off on the edge of the counter.
“I have an opener for those,” Saruman called lightly from the other room. “It’s in the draw—” his voice fell silent as Legolas nudged him with the tip of Aragorn’s dagger. The Wizard had been instructed not to speak unless he was answering questions. The two warriors from Middle-earth knew all too well how much trouble a Wizard could make with just the sound of his voice. He didn’t SEEM to have any of his powers here...but it was better to be safe.
Aragorn paused for a moment, then got one more bottle and popped the cap off of that as well. He handed the drink to the sweating Maia as he took his seat again. Legolas scowled a bit, but took his own beer and set it on the table untouched. He’d had many more years than Aragorn to review his grievances against this Wizard.
“Did his arrows cut your flesh?” Aragorn asked, glad that he could speak the Common Tongue again. Translating everything into English made his head feel like it was full of briars.
Saruman glanced down and unbuttoned the sleeve of his shirt, rolling it up to reveal a long scratch from elbow to wrist. His pale, lax, mottled old skin didn’t seem willing to bother with actually bleeding. “It’s nothing,” he announced. “However, that was my best coat.”
Legolas quirked a brow, letting them both know that he’d actually been in the mood for a nice neat hole between the shoulders. He used the edge of the Ranger’s knife to push Saruman’s sleeve back down over the unattractive forearm, and then flicked the button at the cuff off and across the room.
Aragorn drank more of the beer, hiding his smile at the irritated Elf. “Now, please tell us what you’ve been up to since arriving here, Saruman. We are very curious.”
And thus the story unfolded. The Wizard had arrived somewhere in Eastern Europe in 1929, and had made his way from place to place, lying and cheating enough to support himself until he had mastered the languages, educational systems, and politics. He had naturally gravitated to colleges and universities, and he correctly gauged the shift of world events in time to ally himself with what he thought would be the winning side well before the start of aggressions in the next great World War. He had bent his will to weapons development, and had been instrumental in the V1 rocket programs for Germany, as well as bomb manufacture.
This news angered Legolas even more, since he’d been in London for the worst of the Blitz, and had seen firsthand the loss of innocent lives at the other end of those thrilling rocket flights and bombing runs. Saruman continued his story, telling how even his obvious brilliance wasn’t enough to overcome the misplaced idealism and stupidity of those he was working for, and the war was eventually likely to be lost. He had thought that he would have to start over again with a new endeavor to achieve the knowledge and power he sought, but the opportunity had been handed to him on a silver platter when the Americans had captured him along with a lot of other scientists and offered them all the chance to come work on the secret fusion projects which were supposedly aimed toward peace.
This was even better, and Saruman had been there for the birth of the A-Bomb, reveling in a level of destruction he’d not even been able to imagine in Middle-earth. Those heady days had paled only after the bombs became bigger and bigger, more powerful and easier to construct. Most of his fellow scientists underwent various crises of faith and quit the program, some even going on to renounce their work. Saruman had hung in there, curious about how far this kind of destruction could be taken. He was working on the possibility of making very tiny hydrogen devices, although it no longer had the cachet it had at the end of the war. He was currently in Alamogordo as a participant in faster-than-sound jet plane propulsion tests at the White Sands Missile Base.
Legolas was frowning deeply at this. “Sound does not have a speed. It is not in its nature to move, only to be.”
Saruman sneered openly at the Elf. “Of course you would know. The Elves know everything, don’t they?”
Blue eyes flashed dark as Legolas’ pupils dilated. “I know evil when I see it.” The dagger held steady, but the urge to use it was barely contained.
Aragorn shook his head, wishing once again that he’d made this initial contact alone. “What do you know about returning us?” he questioned.
“It is impossible. I do not have the ability to open a portal from this place.”
Those few words sealed the Elf’s fate, and that of his companion. Sadness lurched in Legolas’ breast as he felt his hope for a return to Middle-earth fade. He turned his eyes away from Saruman’s knowing gaze, not wanting to expose the inner fears of his heart. He let the dagger slide into a non-defensive position as he contemplated the newly bleak future even while Aragorn continued questioning the Wizard, trying to find out what he was hiding from them. The words spoken blurred into a flow of meaningless sounds and Legolas thought that he could hear Elvish voices somewhere on the very edge of perception. He forced a breath into his lungs and suddenly rose, deciding that he would be more clear-headed outside.
It was dusk in the desert, and the barren wastes took on a new beauty in the slanted light. Night birds were awakening, bats taking wing. Insects buzzed and hummed, and flowers were opening their petals to grace the air with faint scents. This land was utterly alien to him, though not without a unique beauty. But the dry air bore no sound from trees and the emptiness burned his soul where the sun could never reach. Unwanted tears rolled down the Elf’s pale cheeks, and he knew that when Aragorn was finally gone he was doomed to fade away with despair in a world that held no place for magical creatures.
The night sky was speckled with stars, and ancient eyes gazed up the constellations, shimmering beneath the moisture gathered within. A breeze picked up, ruffling sand along the ground and carrying pollen from what few plants braved this land. He eventually heard sounds from the house and realized that he’d let his guard down too far and for too long. The Elf rose quickly and went back, finding that Aragorn had allowed Saruman to come outside, as he’d said he needed to get things out of his car. The door to the house stood open, light from inside fading quickly in the dark of the surrounding desert.
“I am sure there is more than we know,” Aragorn said softly, stepping forward to meet the returning Elf. “He makes lies like piss, and has schemes within schemes even without his powers.” His fingers traced a damp trail down Legolas’ cheek, and the Elf smiled despite himself.
“Hannon le,” he whispered, wishing he were strong enough not to disappoint his friend.
Saruman was bent over the open trunk of his car, wrestling with the heavy lid of a container within. “I need to take this into the house tonight,” he muttered, digging around. “We’ve got an important test on the McDonald Douglas engines tomorrow...so many monitors to hook up...have to correlate the data....” A piece of paper fluttered into the air, caught in the breeze and drifted away. “Damn!” Saruman snapped. Legolas instinctively darted after it, catching the paper before it could escape into the empty lands. He looked at the columns of figures written in type, numbers that meant absolutely nothing to the Elf, and never would.
Turning back, Legolas glanced up as he extended the paper, walking back to the car. A casual movement from the Wizard and a flick of the wrist, and a shimmering cloud of dust caught the wind and blew full into the Elf’s face. He stopped, blinking, and then sneezed mightily. Aragorn had seen the motion, and he was on the old man instantly, knocking the metal vial from his hand and slamming the Maia against the back of the car.
“What did you just do?” the Ranger demanded angrily.
Saruman laughed, the sound as dry and desiccated as desert wood.
“What was that?” Aragorn slapped the heel of his hand into Saruman’s jaw.
“Saes,” Legolas said, pausing to sneeze again. “Twas just dust, Aragorn.” He slapped at his clothing, dislodging glittering particles, which floated away in the breeze.
“Yes...” came the slick, oily voice they so remembered from the evil Wizard. “Just dust. No need to knock me about.” He straightened, and when he turned again to look at Legolas the light in his eyes told the Elf that this was not the case. Then he smiled.
Something terrible had just been done.
Saul Harumann was tired. Tired, disgusted, and annoyed. That was pretty much the status quo for the nuclear research scientist. He drove through Alamogordo, New Mexico, past row upon row of cookie-cutter tract houses on streets that ended in desert, and wondered if any of these idiots had a clue what sort of malevolent magic took place in the facilities a few scant miles away. The tiny dwellings fell away and the road that he was on continued into the arid wastes of empty land, black tar laid over sand and rock, like a dark will imposed on innocence. A coyote skulked into a nearby gully, and he briefly hoped they had taken the poison he’d put out that morning. The coyotes kept getting into his trash, and he was sick of it. He was sick of all of it.
He pulled into the drive of a lone bungalow, a ranch-style, single-level dwelling tucked into a low spot in the desert, surrounded by a few struggling trees and lots of cactus and yucca bushes. Gathering up his battered briefcase, the scientist climbed out of his car and wondered what he should assemble for dinner. He put the case down on the cement porch and fumbled with his keys for a moment. He was just reaching to put it in the lock when a whistle of air warned him a micro-second before the arrow pierced his jacket sleeve from elbow to wrist, embedding deeply into the weathered wood of the door and pinning his arm in place. He started to turn, but another arrow had already caught the fabric of his suit at the waist and he was trapped against the wood. One more arrow neatly parted his hair.
That last one was just a warning.
“Fucking Elves,” he muttered, astonished, looking at the shaft of the arrow protruding from the material of his coat sleeve. Someone stepped up behind him and started patting him down, searching his pockets as if they might find something harmful there. He turned his head far enough to be able to see the Elf drop lightly from the sickly Elm across the road, a hundred meters or so away. “You could have missed from there, you know,” he called, impressed with the level of calm he was able to impose on his voice.
“This ‘fucking Elf’ never misses,” said the man who was patting him down. Saul’s head whipped around and he found himself face to face with Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and the pretender to the Throne of Gondor. He was dressed like any average lower-class schmuck from the nearby town, and as the man bent to move away Saul’s briefcase the scientist did his best to hide his smirk.
“I see that you came after me.”
“No. I did not. I cared not where you went, as long as it was ultimately to the fiery arms of the Balrog. I came after someone to whom I owe my allegiance.” He jerked one, then another arrow free of the wood, letting Saul get his balance back and turn to face his attackers. The Elf trotted up soundlessly, his face a mask of calm intensity, an arrow drawn in the bow. At this distance that arrow could go clean through a man’s skull and halfway through the desert-dry wood of the door behind.
“Ah, I see...Legolas Thranduilion, Prince of the Realm of Mirkwood. You always were impetuous – for an Elf.”
Legolas’ eyes flared briefly, and he let the tip of his arrow rest on the skin between Harumann’s eyes. The bow squeaked with tension like a trapped rodent.
“Just say the word, Aragorn, and I will send him to that Balrog’s embrace,” the Elf offered. “Even a Wizard cannot make do without his head.”
“Not yet, friend,” Aragorn soothed, pushing the arrow aside causally. “We have words to exchange with this errant one. Put your bow down and let us step inside, out of this hot sun. I believe that Saruman has some explaining to do.”
Aragorn helped himself to a beer from the refrigerator, marveling once again at the wonders wherein a good drink was even better icy cold. He grabbed one for Legolas too, and knocked the caps off on the edge of the counter.
“I have an opener for those,” Saruman called lightly from the other room. “It’s in the draw—” his voice fell silent as Legolas nudged him with the tip of Aragorn’s dagger. The Wizard had been instructed not to speak unless he was answering questions. The two warriors from Middle-earth knew all too well how much trouble a Wizard could make with just the sound of his voice. He didn’t SEEM to have any of his powers here...but it was better to be safe.
Aragorn paused for a moment, then got one more bottle and popped the cap off of that as well. He handed the drink to the sweating Maia as he took his seat again. Legolas scowled a bit, but took his own beer and set it on the table untouched. He’d had many more years than Aragorn to review his grievances against this Wizard.
“Did his arrows cut your flesh?” Aragorn asked, glad that he could speak the Common Tongue again. Translating everything into English made his head feel like it was full of briars.
Saruman glanced down and unbuttoned the sleeve of his shirt, rolling it up to reveal a long scratch from elbow to wrist. His pale, lax, mottled old skin didn’t seem willing to bother with actually bleeding. “It’s nothing,” he announced. “However, that was my best coat.”
Legolas quirked a brow, letting them both know that he’d actually been in the mood for a nice neat hole between the shoulders. He used the edge of the Ranger’s knife to push Saruman’s sleeve back down over the unattractive forearm, and then flicked the button at the cuff off and across the room.
Aragorn drank more of the beer, hiding his smile at the irritated Elf. “Now, please tell us what you’ve been up to since arriving here, Saruman. We are very curious.”
And thus the story unfolded. The Wizard had arrived somewhere in Eastern Europe in 1929, and had made his way from place to place, lying and cheating enough to support himself until he had mastered the languages, educational systems, and politics. He had naturally gravitated to colleges and universities, and he correctly gauged the shift of world events in time to ally himself with what he thought would be the winning side well before the start of aggressions in the next great World War. He had bent his will to weapons development, and had been instrumental in the V1 rocket programs for Germany, as well as bomb manufacture.
This news angered Legolas even more, since he’d been in London for the worst of the Blitz, and had seen firsthand the loss of innocent lives at the other end of those thrilling rocket flights and bombing runs. Saruman continued his story, telling how even his obvious brilliance wasn’t enough to overcome the misplaced idealism and stupidity of those he was working for, and the war was eventually likely to be lost. He had thought that he would have to start over again with a new endeavor to achieve the knowledge and power he sought, but the opportunity had been handed to him on a silver platter when the Americans had captured him along with a lot of other scientists and offered them all the chance to come work on the secret fusion projects which were supposedly aimed toward peace.
This was even better, and Saruman had been there for the birth of the A-Bomb, reveling in a level of destruction he’d not even been able to imagine in Middle-earth. Those heady days had paled only after the bombs became bigger and bigger, more powerful and easier to construct. Most of his fellow scientists underwent various crises of faith and quit the program, some even going on to renounce their work. Saruman had hung in there, curious about how far this kind of destruction could be taken. He was working on the possibility of making very tiny hydrogen devices, although it no longer had the cachet it had at the end of the war. He was currently in Alamogordo as a participant in faster-than-sound jet plane propulsion tests at the White Sands Missile Base.
Legolas was frowning deeply at this. “Sound does not have a speed. It is not in its nature to move, only to be.”
Saruman sneered openly at the Elf. “Of course you would know. The Elves know everything, don’t they?”
Blue eyes flashed dark as Legolas’ pupils dilated. “I know evil when I see it.” The dagger held steady, but the urge to use it was barely contained.
Aragorn shook his head, wishing once again that he’d made this initial contact alone. “What do you know about returning us?” he questioned.
“It is impossible. I do not have the ability to open a portal from this place.”
Those few words sealed the Elf’s fate, and that of his companion. Sadness lurched in Legolas’ breast as he felt his hope for a return to Middle-earth fade. He turned his eyes away from Saruman’s knowing gaze, not wanting to expose the inner fears of his heart. He let the dagger slide into a non-defensive position as he contemplated the newly bleak future even while Aragorn continued questioning the Wizard, trying to find out what he was hiding from them. The words spoken blurred into a flow of meaningless sounds and Legolas thought that he could hear Elvish voices somewhere on the very edge of perception. He forced a breath into his lungs and suddenly rose, deciding that he would be more clear-headed outside.
It was dusk in the desert, and the barren wastes took on a new beauty in the slanted light. Night birds were awakening, bats taking wing. Insects buzzed and hummed, and flowers were opening their petals to grace the air with faint scents. This land was utterly alien to him, though not without a unique beauty. But the dry air bore no sound from trees and the emptiness burned his soul where the sun could never reach. Unwanted tears rolled down the Elf’s pale cheeks, and he knew that when Aragorn was finally gone he was doomed to fade away with despair in a world that held no place for magical creatures.
The night sky was speckled with stars, and ancient eyes gazed up the constellations, shimmering beneath the moisture gathered within. A breeze picked up, ruffling sand along the ground and carrying pollen from what few plants braved this land. He eventually heard sounds from the house and realized that he’d let his guard down too far and for too long. The Elf rose quickly and went back, finding that Aragorn had allowed Saruman to come outside, as he’d said he needed to get things out of his car. The door to the house stood open, light from inside fading quickly in the dark of the surrounding desert.
“I am sure there is more than we know,” Aragorn said softly, stepping forward to meet the returning Elf. “He makes lies like piss, and has schemes within schemes even without his powers.” His fingers traced a damp trail down Legolas’ cheek, and the Elf smiled despite himself.
“Hannon le,” he whispered, wishing he were strong enough not to disappoint his friend.
Saruman was bent over the open trunk of his car, wrestling with the heavy lid of a container within. “I need to take this into the house tonight,” he muttered, digging around. “We’ve got an important test on the McDonald Douglas engines tomorrow...so many monitors to hook up...have to correlate the data....” A piece of paper fluttered into the air, caught in the breeze and drifted away. “Damn!” Saruman snapped. Legolas instinctively darted after it, catching the paper before it could escape into the empty lands. He looked at the columns of figures written in type, numbers that meant absolutely nothing to the Elf, and never would.
Turning back, Legolas glanced up as he extended the paper, walking back to the car. A casual movement from the Wizard and a flick of the wrist, and a shimmering cloud of dust caught the wind and blew full into the Elf’s face. He stopped, blinking, and then sneezed mightily. Aragorn had seen the motion, and he was on the old man instantly, knocking the metal vial from his hand and slamming the Maia against the back of the car.
“What did you just do?” the Ranger demanded angrily.
Saruman laughed, the sound as dry and desiccated as desert wood.
“What was that?” Aragorn slapped the heel of his hand into Saruman’s jaw.
“Saes,” Legolas said, pausing to sneeze again. “Twas just dust, Aragorn.” He slapped at his clothing, dislodging glittering particles, which floated away in the breeze.
“Yes...” came the slick, oily voice they so remembered from the evil Wizard. “Just dust. No need to knock me about.” He straightened, and when he turned again to look at Legolas the light in his eyes told the Elf that this was not the case. Then he smiled.
Something terrible had just been done.
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