Wild Monster

by Matthew Harrington

  Elsenord was ladling out water to her cup. "You feeling okay, sister?"

  She sat up slowly. "Weird dreams," she told him and rubbed her eyes. "Whispers and a deep haze to the East. When I close my eyes, I can see it."

  "You should get up, little one." Elsenord handed her the cup he'd filled. "Time to get up and be dangerous."

  "Is something wrong?"

  "I can't guess at that," Elsenord straightened, "The elves have been hurrying around, speaking elf languages. They have no time for explaining to us."

  She tossed back her drink and set her boots on the floor. "Where's the King?" Lusis was already across the room, washing her face and hands in one of the several bowls for the purpose. She swept her wetted hair back into a tail and hurried out through the open door and into a downpour. "Tell me he didn't take Lord Elrond out in this."

  The King, in full armour, came in from the brief little porch. He shook his colourless hair before he stepped in, pulled it over his shoulder, and wrung it mercilessly. "Come." He looked past Lusis and noted of the other Rangers, "The rain is on time. We must depart."

  Lusis was ready, with all her armament strapped to her. She went out on the porch and jolted with surprise. There was a boat below her. Everything that had been forest floor just hours ago, was now flooded with water that had to be close to six or eight feet deep. Glorfindel stood in the boat below her. He extended a pale hand, "Do you need help aboard, Miss-"

  She swung out from the newel post of the porch and dropped to the deck of the boat before him. Lusis turned from her crouch to look into the covered section at the back of the golden boat. Elrond sat on a raised bench, wrapped in wool. The little cabin had a brazier supported on an X of gold-coloured chain. She rose up and asked Elrond, "Are you warm enough, my Lord?"

  He blinked his deep grey eyes at her. "I am very well," he inclined his head. "Thank you."

  Rangers came aboard. Oiled leather bags of supplies where passed to the boat. A moment later, the Elvenking dropped down at the bow. He set one hand on the golden-wood stag's head at the prow, and looked up past its white antlers into the rain. "Glorfindel."

  The elf gave a massive heave on the pole he held. Thranduil went to the opposite pole and the boat glided forward through the rising water. They headed away from the Forest River. Lusis had no idea where they were going.

  "This is where the river floods in spring and in autumn, before the snow." The King told her as he tweaked the course of the boat. "It freezes solid in winter – beautiful. It has been flooding for many weeks. And so, the Little Forest courses along to the Celduin – the River Running – from this place." He turned from Lusis and the great muscles in his shoulders and arms bulged as he caught the force of the boat's current-ward wandering along the pole he held, and kept them from snagging in a cairn of stones.

  It was silent as the King expertly maneuvered the boat around the rocky face of a rise on their immediate right. Glorfindel countered with his work. He kept up the steady pressure that would snag the bow and pull them into the flow of this smaller river. When they cleared the stone rise, the Elfking gave tremendous heaves against the forest floor below them. His wet clothes clung to the definition along his arms.

  "Less," Glorfindel said quietly. "Ease up – Elfking – now less." He set into work as the King let up.

  The Elvenking had lessened his efforts considerably, slowly, he stopped facilitating any motion whatsoever. He stepped back and let the boat feel the current. His gaze caught Lusis Buckmaster, lurking close by him, and he glanced at her. "Cover up from the rain, Yellow Istari. Take to the benches and warm. This little river is fast-flowing and ephemeral. A tumult. I cannot manage it and you at once."

  "I'm nearby if you need help," she told him, and she withdrew under the awning, just past the midsection of the boat, it was warm and hospitable there. Elsenord drew the thin curtain across, and the King and Glorfindel became shadow shapes on oiled fabric. With two braziers at work, it was dry, warm, and hospitable inside.

  She glanced at Elrond and found him leaning on the high back of the bench built into the stern. His eyes were nearly shut, but she knew he stared at the book open in his lap. She knew it because she did, by now, recognize the estranged gaze of elven sleep. More and more, she did the same thing herself. Like her strangely bi-coloured hair, she was changing.

  Icar nudged her. He picked up her hair and set a blanket over her shoulders. "Try to dry off."

  She slumped against the wall of the little cabin and missed it when Remee tucked his own cloak in to pillow her head. He sat down with Icar and Elsenord on the deck. "Let's not be useless, boys," he rubbed an eye. "Let's check the bag, ladle in some water, and get a pot of soup going."

  "He's right," Steed had been studying the closest of the braziers. "They… I think they move up and down on the chains. The shape of them makes for a shelf we could try to boil something on."

  "Like a tisane," Redd stretched himself and jabbed a thumb at the rainy forward deck. "Anyone ever think they'd sit in the back of a warm boat while a King's manpower got them where they were going to?"

  Aric frowned and chucked the knife he'd been sharpening into the bench beside him. "Fires already – fine. I'll cut up some vegetables. Damned elves. The thing they're best at is making a man feel guilty as Doom."

  "One of you should help Steed with the braziers before he sets the boat on fire." Icar grinned up at Elsenord, indicated Aric, and mouthed, "Well done."

  "I suppose you sort of impel him toward his better nature?" Remee chuckled quietly. "I'll help the part-elf lad. I noticed he's prone to getting into mischief when The Other Awnson is involved." And Remee Buckmaster glanced aside at sour-faced Aric, pillaging his way through a bag of root vegetables.

  Lusis was unaware of anything but the pull of the water, the fires of Glorfindel and the King before her, the low burn of Lord Elrond behind her, and her own grape seed of star as it grew in her chest, for the air around them had begun to weigh down with a dark oppression, and her soul flickered back and forth above the Mirkwood ship and employed the Imperishable Flame inside of her, and that of the powerful elves, to push back the darkness that sought to subdue the Lord of Rivendell.

  For his part, the Elflord opened his storm-cloud eyes. Something had changed.

  For the first time in hours, in the downpour, he felt well.

  He was able to breathe freely.

  Calenar knew how overwhelmed these Silvan village boys could be when traveling to the city for the first time. Life was so different from what they were accustomed to, and these three, by the looks of them, were no different save for one, surprising thing; one of them was a Sinda …

  Calenar himself was a Sinda, and if there was one thing he could always be sure about, it was recognizing another of his race, and this Legolas, was Sinda, however much it seemed to rile the youth.

  Youth, he repeated to himself as he walked towards his commanding officer's quarters. He was barely out of swaddling cloths and yet – and yet he had been the leader of the three, or so it had seemed to Calenar when he had met them on the road. The others protected him, gravitated towards him and the warrior realized he was intrigued with the boy.

  A bastard with no father to call his own, the boy's face was simply extraordinary. He would be popular with the lasses – and with the lads he added with a sardonic smile. It would not be easy for this – Legolas – for Turion would soon beat him into shape, and a few of the novice warriors too, he wagered. But then he supposed the boy would be used to that for his own upbringing would have been conflictive.

  Poor boy, he chuckled as he shook his head to clear his thoughts, for he was now before Lieutenant Turion's door, and there was a report to give.

  He chuckled once more before turning the handle and entering, for Calenar had never before been mistaken for a nuthatch!

  There were other recruits in the building now, and even as he dried himself off, they continued to arrive until the noise in the common room had built c
onsiderably, even unto the point of being troublesome – too many Silvans in a confined space, realized Legolas.

  "Well, how do I look?" asked Ram en Ondo as he held his arms out to the side, showing his friends his new uniform.

  Legolas snorted and Idhrenohtar smirked merrily. "These fabrics were not designed for Walls of Stone, my friend. The sleeves are too short and the breeches too tight!" exclaimed the Wise Warrior, before Hwindohtar continued. "Aye, and look at this," he laughed – the buttons on this tunic are straining so hard they will surely pop open no sooner you sneeze!" he giggled.

  "Oh, oh, and what's this!" said Idhrenohtar as he lifted the back of his friend's tunic, revealing his taut backside. "One fart and you will be the laughing stock of the barracks!" he exclaimed, setting Legolas off into a wheeze of laughter, worsened as he watched Ram en Ondo dance out of the way, batting Idhrenohtar's hands from the hem of his tunic. Unfortunately, the time for briefing was upon them, and their superior officer appeared in the open doorway.

  "You! Shut your mouths and get to the briefing – you're late!"

  Duly chastised, the three friends now stood in their new uniforms, together with the other recruits, most of them Silvan, noticed Legolas, as Idhrenohtar had predicted they would be.

  They had been briefed as to their activities and duties for the next month, and Legolas suddenly found himself in awe of the drastic turn his life had taken, of all the wonderful things he would now learn. This was the just the start of the path he knew was his to walk – he would be a captain!

  The Sinda that had caught them fooling around was introduced as their drill officer Dirhal, and Calenar, the warrior that had met them in the woods, would show them the basics of hand-to-hand combat. Finally, Faunon, the only Silvan on the training team, would introduce them to the art of tracking.

  However, there had been no mention of the bow or blades. When they had asked, Lieutenant Turion had explained that that would take place in the city. First, they would learn survival technique, elementary first aid, military hierarchy, weapons care and tracking, and once they had become physically stronger, only then, would they begin to learn the martial arts.

  Resigned, they began what would be their routine for the next four weeks. Get up, breakfast, drill technique and protocol, a run in the forest. After lunch they would study military structure and hierarchy, and then logistics. In the evenings, they would track and learn field care. It was exhausting and by the end of the first week their muscles ached ferociously, and Ram 'en was provided with a new set of clothing to accommodate his ever growing bulk, which had triggered a round of light-hearted mockery which the Wall of Stone took with a rueful smile, earning for himself the respect of their fellow recruits.

  Idhrenohtar had taken to voicing his thoughts after the evening meal, drawing them all into introspective conversations that had helped them all to understand themselves a little better, to share their hopes and wishes, their worries and anxieties, the absence of their families – he too, had earned their respect as a wise elf and a good companion.

  As for Legolas, his corner of the room had turned a myriad of green. Light green plants, dark green vines and wild flowers sprouted here and there, invaded his bed and had even stuck to the walls. He was a child of nature, they said, a true Silvan in spite of his looks, and some had even speculated he could speak to the trees, something most had laughed at good-naturedly. He was naïve and yet strangely noble, generous with his time and his actions and for this, Legolas too, was well-loved.

  At the end of the second week, Hwindo, Ram'en and Idhreno, as they were now called freely, were as popular as they were good, and had struck up a fine relationship with their fellow recruits. As the friends they were, they would always be found together and soon enough, they had been baptized as 'The Company', for they were inseparable, unconditional in their defense the one for the other, and noble in their words and aspirations.

  Two of the longest weeks of his life had, paradoxically, flown by, and now, Legolas sat upon his bed and brooded over his current source of discontent. His tutors had convinced themselves that Legolas disliked the Sinda. For this they mocked him by calling him 'the silvan'. It was not the name that Legolas disliked, but the sneer that accompanied it and after so many days enduring it stoically, he recognized he was reaching his limit.

  It was not true, he scowled to himself. He had never intended to give that impression and now he was stuck with it. He had to find a way to redeem himself, he thought, but how?

  Amareth had always instilled upon him the wisdom of being forthright. Speak your mind, leave nothing unsaid, she would say. Yes – the answer was as simple as it was wise, he thought. He would speak to Lieutenant Turion and explain what was on his mind.

  Plucking up his courage, he stood, straightened his tunic and walked briskly to his commanding officer's quarters. With a deep breath, he knocked vigorously upon the wooden door, and strode forwards until he stood before Turion's table. Standing to attention, he fixed his eyes to the side as he waited to be addressed.

  "What is it, Silvan?" asked Turion as he looked down at the papers set before him on his desk.

  "I wish to speak with you on a personal matter, Sir."

  "Well," he said, looking up expectantly.

  "I wanted to clear up what seems to be a – misunderstanding."

  Turion scowled and stood, before approaching Legolas, his eyes slanting as they analyzed the young warrior before him.

  "A misunderstanding…" said the Sinda drolly. "And what – misunderstanding – do you speak of – Silvan," he said again. He was mocking, taunting.

  "That I dislike the Sindar, Sir. It is what you think and it is a misunderstanding."

  Silence.

  "Is it…?" said Turion, as if speaking to a child.

  "Yes, Sir. Upon my arrival here, I was unfortunate in my choice of words and I do not blame you for thinking the way you do."

  "You do not blame me…"

  If Legolas had been older, more experienced, he would have realized the danger and stopped. As it was, he was too involved in his words, too eager to relieve himself of the burden to realize the dangerous tone Turion had used.

  "I just wanted to tell you I hold nothing against the Sindar… and I have no reason to…,"

  "To what!?" yelled Turion suddenly, making Legolas flinch and his eyes turn round and wide, shocked at the sudden turn in the commander's mood.

  "No reason to hate the Sindar? Was your father not Sindarin? He who begot you and left you alone in the world as a worthless bastard – fartherless, nameless – you have no reason to hate the Sindar? I would say you have one, very good reason, boy!"

  Legolas tried desperately to control his emotions, and to his credit his face did not feel too hot, and his breath did not seem too fast. He was, however, lost for words. No one had ever spoken to him like that – he was, quite simply – at a loss.

  "Nothing to say now, Silvan?"

  "No, Sir," said Legolas quietly, feeling disappointed in himself once more for his poor judgement. He was even more horrified when Turion's tirade did not stop but continue, the elf moving too close to his face so that his hot breath brushed against his cheek, in stark contrast to the cutting words that rolled so easily from Turion's mouth …

  "You think you are in control. You think I cannot tell what lies beneath your veil. You are wrong and I do not think you are accustomed to that. You call yourself Silvan because you hate that other side of yourself – the side your very body proclaims is true. You try to hide the child who grew without a father, the child who was mocked and scorned…"

  Legolas closed his eyes to steady himself, and only then did Turion stop his cruel words.

  There was blessed silence then and Legolas gave thanks for it, he could not trust himself it seemed. He had made a fool of himself once more and he wanted to cry in frustration.

  Hence he was surprised when Turion spoke softly to him then, albeit the elf was still too close to him for comfort.
<
br />   "You will learn to know yourself, Legolas. You will understand yourself better if you stop trying to justify yourself. It must not have been easy," he continued, as if to himself now, "it will have made you strong for you see, Silvan," he paused for effect, hardship makes you strong – you, are strong, however much you do not understand that now."

  He moved away then, back to his desk and his sarcastic ways. "You are on kitchen duty for the next week. Once you have finished, you will report here for instructions."

  Wisely, Legolas said no more, for he had much to think on and little self-pride left. "Yes, Sir," he said simply, saluting his commanding officer, and swiveling on his heels. Turion's words stopped him on his way to the door.

  "Legolas. Put away the suffering child, place no more importance on your heritage. Become the warrior you were born to be."

  Legolas' eyes had grown wide, albeit Turion could not see them. He had endured a mighty upbraiding and then, with a subtle turn, had been given hope for his future as a successful warrior in His Majesty's armed militia. He felt chastised, humbled, and yet – strangely hopeful, in spite of his ensuing punishment.

  Later that evening, Turion had mused for hours over the – conversation – he had had with the Silvan. Oh he knew he had been pushing him for days now, testing the boy's limits until he had finally cracked, and yet Turion had not expected him to simply address the subject with such candor – the boy's decision to seek him out had been correct, however much he failed to see that at present. Nay, it had been this – this veiled hatred he sold as simple pride for his people. Turion did not buy it, indeed it was a lie the boy had invented, and then come to believe himself, a defense mechanism not even Legolas had managed to recognize for what it was.

  It would do Legolas good, to think on the cruel words Turion had thrown at him. They would harden him for it would not be the last time the boy would endure such harsh treatment. If Legolas could, indeed, recognize the hatred and the grief that lurked beneath his own beauty, he could transcend that part of himself, the part that held him back and when that happened – there would be no barriers – no limits to what this one could achieve.