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

“We can’t all be heroes because somebody has to sit on the curb and clap as they go by.” – Will Rogers (1879 – 1935)


Vivian Ivy Moore was five years old during the Blitz of the Christmas season in 1940. She’d missed most of the real excitement by being moved to the country where she was staying with either friends or relatives - she wasn’t sure which - in a village with hardly any streets and only one bakery. But Christmas had been fun, despite the deprivations, and she was glad to revel in the fact that she didn’t have to go to school like her older sister. Auntie Claire had gotten word that Uncle Iain was okay after some sort of problem in the War, and the New Year looked like it was going to shape up after all. She missed her Mum, of course, but there were visits on the weekend and promises that things would get better soon, and her young mind couldn’t hold much of an image of terror beyond having no jam for the bread.

It was crowded in the small country house. Viv had to share a narrow bed with Tessie and the baby, but the roof didn’t leak and there was always food to eat, even if some of it didn’t taste very good. There was time to play and chores that weren’t too hard, and Uncle Seamus had brought her a new dolly in a pink linen dress. Viv woke in the night from the fussing of the baby and heard voices as someone came in to soothe the infant. Lots of adults were talking, trying to keep their voices low. It sounded like Uncle Colin had arrived from London. Maybe he’d brought her a present too! She wanted to get up, but it was cold in the room and so warm under the blankets, and she couldn’t quite convince herself to climb out. She fell asleep again while trying to make up her mind.

Viv woke in the morning to find that one of the boys had been shoehorned into the bed in the place of the baby, and he was snoring. This was clearly unfair, and Viv found her dolly under the covers and lowered her tiny feet to the cold floor to go in search of someone to complain too. Two more boys were sleeping on the couch and she could hear Auntie Claire in the kitchen, talking. The door to the boy’s usual room was open and Viv ducked inside to see why the light was on. A man was alone in the bed, propped up against the pillows, his eyes open but looking at nothing. He blinked as soon as she squeezed through the door and his gaze turned to her. Viv smiled tentatively at the stranger, and he smiled back.

Legolas had always been fond of Elflings, though puzzled by them. He had rarely been in any place long enough to watch them grow like the saplings they were. Elves were young for such a short period of their lives, and it was rare for Elf couples to have children in these fading days. Men, however, seemed to breed like animals, and often to treat their young not much better than such. It must be the only way they could bear their short existences, to leave their seeds so thickly sown.

The fate of the young men at Helm’s Deep had bruised Legolas’ soul, watching them face near certain death with no understanding of what they were about to lose. It had caused the Elf visceral pain to see those children being outfitted for battle, and he had spoken harshly to Aragorn in his frustration…which he quickly came to regret. That hurt had been more grievous than the pain of battle, and Legolas rethought the whole scenario as he roused from waking dream to find a girl-child gazing innocently at him. He quickly smiled, and spoke softly. She came forward curiously, with trusting eyes, and took his outstretched hand.

Her soft young skin was cool, and Legolas raised the edge of the blanket Colin had covered him with, offering to share his warmth with the little person. She climbed up onto the pallet and knelt at his side, touching his hair and ears, babbling in a lyrical tone. Tiny fingers stroked his hair back from his brow, treating him not unlike the toy that the girl child clutched in a fist. He was still embarrassed that his hair had been so shamefully shorn, and had not yet been able to regrow, but she was clearly enchanted with it and he forced himself not to take offense at the closeness of the contact. The Elf moved over a bit, wincing as the wound in his thigh pulled, and settled the little girl in the crook of his arm.

“Would you like me to sing to you, little waif?” he asked. She seemed enchanted by the sound of his voice. He picked an inoffensive selection from the hundreds of songs he’d learned in his many years, and started singing softly. It was a humorous tune about the innumerable, plain, almost ugly little brown-feathered birds who always nested in the worst possible places and then scolded one another and everyone else ceaselessly. It was called the ‘Flighted Dwarves’ song in less than sophisticated company.

He had sung it nearly through when Colin appeared in the doorway, pausing to survey the situation before sweeping down to remove the child from the nest she’d made for herself at Legolas’ side. The woman named Claire arrived too, taking up the little girl with many fond words of warning. But as she was being carried away the little one waved at the Elf and he smiled at her, eyes twinkling.

The wars of Men had so many unintended victims.

Colin tended to the wound in Legolas’ thigh once again, seemingly surprised to find that the tissue had closed deep within the opening and new skin was already starting to grow. Legolas would have used herbs and strong potions to speed the recovery, had he Aragorn’s knowledge of and access to the plants of Middle-earth, but as it was he had to trust the Man Colin to do what could be done in this place and time. Colin spoke soothingly to him, so unlike the treatment he’d received from the hands of other Men in this strange place. Perhaps compassion was not a lost art amongst these people.

Legolas stroked his long, bow-hardened fingers through Colin’s, soft hair and felt warmth in his palm from the touch, warmth in his heart from the look of friendship in Colin’s dark eyes. It usually took the Elf a long time to get to know and trust someone, but he’d not had that luxury since arriving here, and he was disproportionately grateful to the comely Man. Colin leaned close, and it was easy to draw him the last bit of distance and press their lips together. This was a kiss of thanks from Legolas’s soul to the Man’s, yet it seemed to puzzle, and possibly even frighten the Man, and Colin pulled back suddenly – almost as if there was something wrong in the exchange.

Legolas ducked his head in shame at having misunderstood the boundaries of this people, and he whispered an apology, hoping not to compound the infraction. Colin spoke quickly and withdrew, leaving the Elf alone again, with time to dip into reverie. But his waking dreams were haunted with memories of recent events and the troubles of Middle-earth, where the Elf’s duty lay. He beheld Aragorn’s face, and he knew that he was serving no purpose in this strange and alien place. And yet...perhaps his purpose had just not been shown to him yet.

Aragorn was learning quickly under Becca’s tutorage, though he sometimes wondered if there could be any truth to the things his associates spoke of. Explosions of the air, rending of the stuff of the world, too small to see and yet more powerful than any force he could fathom. Flattening of cities, burning of bodies, extinctions so vast and instantaneous that even Sauron in his darkest heart of hearts could barely conceive...all these things seemed to have happened in this bright and sunny world. Something called the A-Bomb, though ‘A’ was also the first of their written characters, and it seemed brutal in the extreme to name the end of life for the start of the repository of wisdom and learning. These were a perverse people, in their own unique and mystifying way.

That Saruman had somehow had a hand in this endeavor surprised him least of all.

Legolas had healed remarkably quickly in Colin’s care, under the straining roof of his brother’s extended family. Colin was greatly relieved not only that he was recovering from the downed German pilot’s gunshot, but that the Elf's health on the whole seemed to be returning. Perhaps it was the presence of living, growing things even in the cold of winter. The English countryside seemed to revitalize the fey creature. Iain’s family asked many questions, but seemed content with partial answers -- thus the Elf was kept away from the world of war and held safe while he regained his strength and some of his former glory.

Claire was clearly in awe of their guest, and made it her personal mission to trade and barter far and wide for the freshest of fruits and vegetables, finding things that the Elf loved to eat. Honey and jams, hot scones and earthy spices were particular favorites, and the sparkle returned to Legolas’ eyes, the glimmer of gold to his hair. Colin came as often as he could, endearing the household even more with treats from the heart of war-ravaged but still resilient London. But Colin had been pursuing more than presents for the children and ways to escape to the countryside from his exhausting work and the press of the war. He had found what he hoped could be a way of finally bridging the gap between the Elf and those around him, no matter how much effort was made on either side.

Thus it was on an unseasonably warm March morning that Legolas was dressed in a hooded coat and they bade farewell to the Farrell family to take a train northwestward. Claire wished the Elf a fond farewell, and Legolas paused to rest his palm over her belly, longing tell her in what words he could that she would bear a male child. The Elf foresaw that this baby of Iain and Claire's would be strong and athletic, and that he would sire many children of his own, one of whom would be named Colin Farrell for a beloved uncle, and would be known and loved to many of the people of the world in his own time. He managed to impart at least the news of her pregnancy with the glowing warmth of his violet eyes, and she started with surprise. Claire and her RAF flyer husband had been unsure about bringing more children into the world during these dark days, but sometimes fate had other plans. Legolas’ touch somehow stilled her quick fears, and Claire knew that things would turn out well in the end for the Farrell family.

This train trip was more to Legolas’ liking than the last one, and he was eager to see more of the country. They arrived in the evening in a very large city of stone, seemingly an old place where people had dwelt for many years, filled with young men, intent on missions of their own. Forgoing a taxi for fear of the additional trauma it might cause the Elf, Colin walked the streets with a map in one hand, the sleeve of Legolas’ coat clutched in the other. The Elf’s face was lifted to the sky and his surroundings, and his ethereal beauty stopped many in their tracks and stare open-mouthed at the odd pair. Stopping a few times to correct his heading, Colin finally found the address he’d been looking for, and he stopped before the door of a large townhouse in a crowded part of the academic town.

Legolas smiled at him trustingly as he rapped firmly on the door. “I hope I’m doing the right thing ‘ere, lad,” Colin muttered.

The Elf answered in his own tongue, the lyrical words pouring like honey. He seemed to be commenting on the sickly plants in the window box when the door creaked open and a bookish man stood before them, prepared to ask their business. But words died in the man’s mouth as Legolas finished his commentary, adding a small snort of amusement and what could only be a bit of doggerel poetry. “You must be the gentleman who wrote to me from London,” the townhouse’s resident said, stumbling a bit. “Have him speak again, please!”

Legolas turned curious eyes on the man, and found a kindly twinkle in the weathered face. “Please, say something else! I have never heard this tongue before.”

Colin grinned. “May I present Legolas...Legolas, this is Professor Tolkien.”

“Gîl síla erin lû govaded mín,” the Elf said.

“Oh my God,” exclaimed the Oxford Professor of languages.

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