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

“Moral victories don’t count.” – Savielly Grigorievitch Tartakower (1887-1956)

James Tavish had been through plenty of rough times in his life. He’d worked a factory job during the war, until they’d let him go in favor of someone’s dumb-ass kid who returned from Europe with a bum arm and a couple of stupid medals. He’d picked oranges in California, baking in the sun with a bunch of damned wetbacks who’d spend the day talking softly in Spanish about wives and kids back home. It seemed to James that maybe they should just swim back across the goddamned river and stay at home to raise the brats in Mexico instead of picking fruit and whispering. He’d done his share of hobo too, riding the rails and camping in the rough, watching for the company Bulls in the switching yards and stealing what he could get easily enough.

He had found some work in West Virginia shingling roofs on a swing gang, but they’d all had to leave town in a hurry when it unexpectedly started to rain and a lot of people were wondering why their living rooms were getting wet. That had been followed by a couple of months of out-and-out panhandling in whatever town or city he found himself, telling people how he’d been injured in Normandy and his girl had gone and married his brother while he was off saving the world from Nazis. Sometimes he wore a sling or managed a convincing limp. Now he was in this fucking bus depot, waiting for the eleven-twenty Greyhound to Chicago, with a bit less than thirteen dollars in his pocket, hemorrhoids fit to kill a man, and a suitably bad attitude.

It was clearly a godsend when the pretty one came in and took a seat on the wooden bench. James moved closer and studied his target with a keen eye. He moved closer yet, slicking back the Brill Crème in his hair and trying on a rusty smile.

He wasn’t a homo – not by a long shot – but Tavish didn’t mind getting his dick sucked: long as the fellow doing the sucking knew what he was doing and wouldn’t fucking try to stick around afterwards wanting something in return. This pretty blond thing looked like he knew a thing or two about sucking dick. Yes indeed. The long hair was weird...kind of exciting, actually. Maybe he was a Frenchie. Tavish could feel himself getting hard already just looking at the faggot.

“I would not do it, were I you,” someone said darkly, helping themselves to a seat too damn close to Tavish. He turned his head enough to give the stranger the once-over. Not a copper at least, that much was for sure.

He snorted derisively. “Mind your own business, Bub. I was just going to ask Blondie a question.”

He turned back to the object of his desire to find a fine brow cocked, an unreadable expression in the surprisingly bright eyes and a flush of color on those pretty cheeks. Cheeks that would be even prettier hollowed around the length of James’ rod.

“I do not welcome your attention, but will consider your question,” the pretty thing said. “Then I request that you leave my friend and myself alone.”

My, my, my. This was a snotty little Frenchie at that! He tried to think of a pick-up line that might bring about the mouth-fuck he was so seriously craving now, but he couldn’t think straight with this other fellow breathing down his neck like that. “I just want to know, are you a man or a woman? What with all that lovely hair and your nice smooth skin?”

“I am not a Man,” pretty thing said, smirking a bit. “But I am a male.”

“Male, huh? And I’ll bet you’re still real good with that mouth of yours.”

“That’s enough,” warned the guy at his side.

James felt for the straight-edge razor in his pocket, turning to sneer at the man’s face. “You stay out of this, Mister. I’m talking to the other ‘fellow’. We’re just gonna go over to the restroom and....” His words were cut short as the pretty thing moved, faster than a whirlwind, two fingers of one hand dug in somewhere around James’ spine and thumb pressed over the artery on his neck. He could hear his own pulse thudding in his ears as the unnatural bastard leaned close and whispered softer than a wetback trying not to attract the overseer.

“Let go of the weapon in your pocket, please.”

His fingers involuntarily tightened around the familiar blade. The thumb at his throat pressed marginally harder, and spots swam before his eyes. He dropped his straight-edge and tried to get his hands up. “Don’t kill me!” Tavish stammered.

“Do not further tempt me.” The pressure eased, and suddenly Pretty Thing was back in his original seat, examining his nails as if worried that something from James’ neck might have soiled him.

Tavish’s head swam for a moment, as his own fingers grappled for support on the edge of the bus station’s wooden bench.

“I told you not to do,” observed the other stranger. “Good thing he is not angry at you.”

Tavish got to somewhat shaky feet and decided that he would just catch tomorrow’s bus to Chicago. He didn’t think his hemorrhoids could stand up to the trip today. Nope...not a good day to travel at all. He slunk out of the station like a whipped dog.

The glorious, streamlined Santa Fe Super Chief roared across the plains of America at the almost unheard-of speed of 75 miles an hour. She bounded past groups of teenagers in Chevrolet and Oldsmobile behemoths as they raced the sleek diesel train from on the hot tar of Missouri and Kansas highways. Farmers paused in their fields to stare at the distant vision. Kids on bikes raced to put pennies on the track before the approaching song of the train’s lonesome whistle. Housewives on dirt farm roads and waiting motorists at unguarded crossings took a moment to admire the swift passage of the train, musing on the speed of progress in this new post-war world.

Somewhere near Dodge City, Kansas, Legolas pulled his gaze from the incredible panorama of passing scenery as Aragorn slid into the seat next to him. The Ranger didn’t spend much time in his seat, as a rule. He wandered up and down the swaying aisles of the train as if he were planning to walk to New Mexico. Legolas smiled sweetly at his companion and whispered in Elvish, “This country is almost too big even to imagine. Were we to walk it we would be longer than the road to Mordor.”

“And we’re only about half-way between Chicago and California,” Aragorn told him. “It is even more amazing to see from above. I’m sorry that you’re missing out on the experience of riding in the sky.”

“This is quite enough for me,” Legolas admitted. “No horse could ever run so fast or for near so long. Not even Shadowfax.”

“Don’t mention that to Gandalf when we get back.”

The Elf snorted, but turned back to the view. He wasn’t too sure he wanted to discuss ‘getting back’. The more he saw of this world the more he was starting to doubt the outcome of their situation. Aragorn sensed his mood, and thought the time was good to present Legolas with the treat he’d procured from a vendor of sorts in another car. “Here,” he said simply, passing over the paper wrapped object. “Don’t know if you had these in your Eng-Land.”

Legolas looked at the package. “Hershey’s,” he read aloud. “Is this the name of the thing, the place from whence it comes, or the person who had made it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe all three,” the Ranger told him. “Open it.”

A few quick moves from agile fingers, and Legolas sighed in appreciation. “Chocolate? Is this what it is? May I taste?”

“It’s yours,” Aragorn laughed. He’d been a bit surprised to learn about the Elf’s sweet tooth. Even tea and coffee were taken with nearly equal parts sugar, and any unguarded cubes in sugar bowls were very quick to disappear, even if they were just passing someone else’s table.

Sinking his teeth into the bar, Legolas moaned. “So smooth! This Hershey’s is a genius. I detect milk, and the cocoa component is very finely ground.” He took another huge bite, clearly forgetting his manners in the bliss of the moment. His eyes drifted shut. Aragorn should have seen it coming, but he was as surprised as the other passengers in their car when the Elf started to sing. The Ranger was laughing so hard by then that he couldn’t bring himself to consider shutting up the happy Prince.

The Super Chief shot on through the fading light of another day, past farms and towns and people who would never know what had moved in their midst.

Trains were always on time if you were late, and late if you were on time, Rebecca mused to herself, glancing at the station clock once again. She’d driven for hours to reach the line at Raton, all on the basis of rather cryptic phone call she’d gotten from a deskman at a Chicago hotel. But she knew that long-distance phone etiquette was a bit beyond Aaron’s – no, she had to remember to call him Aragorn – beyond even Aragorn’s considerable abilities. She still had a few doubts about his alleged identity, but she couldn’t deny that so far he seemed to have told her the truth.

“I guess it’s up to me to believe him until I learn otherwise,” she muttered, turning at the faint cry of a train’s whistle in the distance. Others on the platform turned too, so she hadn’t imagined it. Life had certainly been more interesting since she’d gotten to know him; that much was unquestionable. The telegram from England, from Professor Tolkien himself, had warned her to expect something new and different. So she’d let her class go early that afternoon and driven to meet the westbound train.

It seemed to arrive quite suddenly, looming incredibly large on the rails before sweeping into the station. The huge silver engine with the red nose and painted Indian face rumbled past stinking of diesel and oil, growling with power and looking like it didn’t want to stop. The long line of cars followed as the train slowed to a crawl, and then finally a halt, curious faces lining the windows. Doors were opened by smartly uniformed conductors and suddenly the platform was awash with people – some just out to stretch their legs and some hurrying to climb aboard, wrestling luggage and goodbyes.

Aragorn came up from behind. He swept her into a hug, lifting her easily off her feet and swung the schoolteacher in an arc, laughing maniacally. “Good to be seeing someone that I know first!” he exclaimed. He put her down at her insistence, and then turned to introduce her to his companion.

It’s one thing to be told that you’ll be meeting an Elf. It’s entirely a different thing to come face to face with one. Tall, thin as a whipcord, gorgeous blond hair tied in intricate knots over slightly pointed ears and with the most dazzling eyes she’d ever seen. He was stunning. Other people from the train were bidding him farewell, like a celebrity was being taken from their midst. A sweetly smiling brakeman paused to give the Elf a candy bar, blushing, and then Aragorn finally interrupted the commotion.

“Rebecca, this is my friend, Legolas.”

“Ai na vedui, Rebecca,” he said, touching her hand very lightly. “I am enormously pleased to make your acquaintance. You have been very kind and helpful to Aragorn, and I am in your debt.” His bow was courtly in the extreme.

Well now...this was a bit of delicious, she told herself. She must have stammered some sort of greeting, but time seemed to pass in a bit of a blur until they were in the car, getting ready to drive home, and the train’s whistle announced that it was resuming its own trip as well. Aragorn was in the seat next to her, after offering to drive several times, but she’d told him no and found that her own attention was on the being in the back seat. Legolas was examining the interior of the car intently, working the window and touching every surface with curious fingers.

They all talked on the drive back to Taos, though Aragorn was excitedly relaying details of his travels while Legolas mostly asked polite questions about things they were passing. He seemed to be a bit disassociated – distracted by the color of the soil, fascinated by fence posts, barns and hillsides. Aragorn was watching his friend more closely than she realized and as they came to a wide spot on a winding mountain road he asked if she could pull to the side for a few minutes. Becca found a place to park and Legolas was out of the car immediately, darting into the forest on light feet.

“He is...”Aragorn’s face scrunched as he tried to explain. “He needs talk to trees here. He does not know trees here.”

“Talk to the trees,” she repeated softly. “You mean actually talk?”

“Kind of talk. Elf talk. Hard to say.” Aragorn got out of the car as well, and Rebecca followed, trying to see Legolas beyond the edge of the forest. He’d disappeared like a phantom.

“I’m sorry I don’t know words,” the Ranger apologized, coming to put his arm around her companionably, as if they were on a date. “Thank you for coming to meet train. It is a long time drive.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” she admitted. A shiver seemed to pass through the pines, but there was no breeze to move the branches. A sweet smell of sap rose on the still air. Aragorn was grinning, humming to himself a little. He appeared to know which direction the Elf had gone, and could likely detect him on some level. “He really is an Elf,” Rebecca said, mostly to herself.

“Real Elf. More even. Prince of Woodland Realm, son of King.”

“The Elves have a King?”

“Kings no big deal,” he shrugged. “Kings just people. Just Elf people too. Elves very old.” He seemed to be amusing himself somehow with his train of thought.

“I sorta got that, though Legolas doesn’t look old.”

“He older than this country. Older than oldest tree this forest. He’s very old. No sap left in his roots. Twig dry.”

An insulting-sounding word carried to them from the trees. Aragorn laughed. He replied in Elvish, and Rebecca was enchanted to hear the speech flow so easily from his lips. More rude comments were exchanged.

“We’d better get going,” Rebecca reminded him. “I don’t like to drive too late. Too many deer on the road into Taos.”

“We have venison for supper,” Aragorn offered.

“No,” she snapped. “I’m not hunting with my car. Legolas? Are you, uh, done yet?”

The Elf immediately emerged from the trees, his hair messed with twigs and needles, a calmer, more radiant glow on his beautiful face.

“There are trees in Taos, honey,” she told him, speaking like she would to one of her students.

“Hannon le, mellon Rebecca.” He walked proudly to the car, sparing only a glance at Aragorn. “Filthy human,” he muttered under his breath. “Twig dry indeed.”

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