Submitter: Pecos Date: 2005/12/29 Views: 3242 Rate: 7.00/10

“I went around the world last year and you want to know something? It hates each other.” -- Edward J. Mannix


Legolas didn’t stay in one place all the time. He knew patience, and he knew hope, but he also knew curiosity. As he gained control of the speech and writing of this place ‘England’ he ventured forth on short excursions of exploration. This clearly dismayed the Professor and Mrs., but he seemed unable to make them understand. He was not one to be coddled. This ancient Prince of Mirkwood was not a vulnerable prisoner, even though his appearance forced him to move more surreptitiously than a common traveler. He often felt like a spy, moving mostly at night and concealing himself in the fringes of civilization, but he was actually just observing the people and places of this alien land. He could take care of himself. This war was terrible - but war was nothing new.

How Éomer would laugh now, to remember Aragorn’s indignant refutation of “We are no spies!” to the horseman on the plains of the Rohirrim. It turned out that ‘the Elf’ was just that after all.

His explorations eventually extended to London, and he was glad to be able to meet Colin Farrell fairly in his own land, terrible and strange as it was. Colin’s face had split in amazement upon seeing the cloaked and hatted figure on his step, blond hair hidden from the light of the sun and keen gaze held so tightly under check. They spoke of many things, from families to the ravages of war. This current ‘Great War’ of the Axis versus ‘the West’ was something that Legolas could barely grasp. He gave up on understanding the details of wrongs and history, recognizing the machinations of politics for their own sake. There was a reason that this son of the Greenwood realm had left home for the life of a warrior – he had no taste for diplomacy.

In the end Legolas had gone to Colin in the night and had lain with him in his bed, entwining limbs, stroking skin, murmuring words in strange tongues. This was not a sharing of souls; this was not the intimacy of comfort. It was just a lost and solitary Elf seeking companionship in a strange place, and a Man who would touch grace beyond his comprehension, but not beyond his longing. Colin offered whatever would be taken, but in the end he could no longer deny that this ethereal beauty’s heart belonged somewhere that he couldn’t reach, and never would. Colin’s own heart suffered as well.

The war eventually ended, and England breathed a sigh of relief. The Elf continued to drift through the days, his circle of friends a small one; his soul growing smaller to fit.

Interior, the Oxford residence of a ‘great man’: Professor Tolkien chewed his pipe thoughtfully as he perused the last few days worth of correspondence. This was his favorite hour, with the rest of the family off to bed and the study once again his private domain, in which he could smoke and drink and scratch and fart and do whatever manly pursuit fitted the moment without any fear of censorious glances. Scattered pages of writing littered every surface – he was having a great deal of trouble writing a particular chapter of his monumental tale of good vs. evil...The Return of the King...even with the world’s most astonishing example of the existence of good residing in the guest house of his humble country estate. “Finish it as you wish it to be,” he had been instructed. “I know not the future, else I would not have taken the roads I’ve already trod.”

He used a pencil stub to remedy an itch in his ear and reached for the next letter, pausing to admire the colorful stamps – have to put those aside for the boy – where was that damned letter opener this time? Had it just a moment ago. He broke the seal using the pencil and withdrew a crisp bit of tightly folded paper.

“Dear Professor...great admirer...your new work...writing on behalf...curious coincidence...please....” He skimmed over the feminine handwriting quickly and started to slide it onto the fan mail pile, but the second sheet beckoned with sight of different penmanship, a bit sloppy, as if the author were young and inexperienced in the intricacies of pen and ink. The first impression was that it was gibberish. Elegant curves and slopes, tight curls and gobs of dripped ink, as if someone were trying to imitate a language without knowing it. He pushed his glasses up his nose and looked closer, leaning toward the pale glow of the Accountant’s lamp his wife had so proudly brought for the study from an antique shop in Kent. Useless damn lamp. He needed something brighter in here; his old eyes weren’t up to all this squinting.

The letters swam into focus and his heart skipped a few beats in his chest. He should know what this said. It was written in Qenya, the Elvish High Language! He could recognize most of it without really understanding – damn! How could someone have constructed sentences with only the few examples he’d ever bothered to include. Then he spotted the second paragraph, written in Sindarin! Incredible! This was a fan more serious than any he’d ever encountered before. The smile on his face faded as he read the elegant Sindarin passages. His jaw slowly fell open, the pipe hanging from his lip by sheer habit rather than use, forgotten.

Rebecca slammed the door of her Ford and ran to the hangar as she heard the crop duster’s engine roar. She was afraid they were taking off, but the plane was actually swinging around at the end of a taxi. The motor sputtered once and fell silent, the smothered noises of a glorious New Mexico morning coming back slowly into the void of sound. Someone was laughing, another voice cajoling loudly from the open cockpit as two men pulled goggles and bandanas free from handsome faces, joking easily.

“Aaron!” Rebecca shouted, hurrying across the crushed grass. She waved the letter like a talisman.

Keen blue eyes sought hers, and the lithe man dropped to the ground and hurried to meet her. “You trouble?” he asked.

“Women aren’t happy ‘less there IS trouble,” observed Marvin wryly, checking his battery settings before worrying about the empty tanks.

“A letter,” she gasped, surprised that she’d gotten out of breath from the sprint. “A letter, from England! Came in the morning post! Professor Tolkien responded!”

He took the precious envelope in his hand and stared at it for a long moment, feeling a part of his spirit quail. There was no way to know if this news was for good or ill. “Over here,” Becca urged, steering him toward the shade of the pair of pines at the edge of the airstrip. “Take a deep breath, then I’ll read it for you.” She reclaimed the envelope long enough to open it and slip the single page from inside, then let him have it back. Aaron’s dirty fingers had already stained the white paper.

Rebecca unfolded the paper eagerly, and then stopped. “This, uh...this isn’t in English!”

Aragorn snatched the page and his eyes widened. He knew that his translation skills weren’t up to the task, so he read the Sindarin quickly to himself, eyes devouring the familiar letters like a starving man:

‘My eternal thanks for contacting me. If you are indeed the person you purport to be then I apologize for not knowing how to address royalty. I would dismiss your claims as foolish fancy but for the fact that you write me that you have lost something very dear and precious, an eternal light, and you seek this child of the Eldar above all else. I know of a lost soul, glittering of eye, crowned with flaxen gold, and broken of heart. He is safe and well, but I will not tell him of this communication until I am assured that your intentions are pure. Give me his true name and I will do all in my power to reunite you with your companion. My hopeful regards and sincere astonishment at making your acquaintance, Lord Aragorn.’

“I’m not a Lord,” the Ranger snorted, feeling wonder roll over him slowly. There were some more letters at the bottom of the page, in a different language. “What is this part here?” he inquired of Rebecca.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what it says?” she huffed, then leaned over to look at the sheet he clutched so tightly. “Uh, it says to telegram him the name, and then he’ll wire enough money for you to travel to England immediately. What? He wants you to go to England! Aaron...what did you write him? What did he say? What name?”

Aragorn spoke Legolas’ full and proper Elvish name aloud, the elegant sounds rolling off his tongue musically into the morning air.

Somewhere on the other side of the world violet eyes snapped open, a slim body cradled in the crook of an old oak stiffening into new alertness.

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