Mirkwood Manor

by

Lacadiva@aol.com

Rating: PG/PG13 for violence in upcoming chapters.

Synopsis: AU - Legolas never made it to the undying lands, and has lived several thousand years. He leads a lonely, contemplative and sadly boring existence in modern day America. He hires an archivist and student of ancient history to organize and preserve his "collection" of books, maps and writings of Middle Earth, but a threat from someone from her violent past - and his! - brings danger and adventure back into the warrior Elf's life. I'm brand-spanking new to LOTR fanfic, so I know I have many facts wrong; I just hope I can tell a decent, entertaining story with Mirkwood Manor. Please review. Hannonle.

Disclaimer: I own nothing and make nothing for this.

Preview:

"Legolas...can you hear me, mellon nin?"

He could hear, yes, but could not at the moment speak, so severe was his agony. He felt hands hurriedly tending his injuries, pulling away his clothing, applying pressure to gushing wounds. The smell of simmering herbs and spilled blood let him know that he was in a house of healing. But these healers were not Elves, for they spoke in the harsh language of Men.

"Aragorn," he managed through clenched teeth, and nearly cried out as someone pulled a deeply embedded arrowhead from his left thigh. He opened his eyes and saw the blurry rush of the healers fighting to staunch the bleeding. He began to tremble as all warmth left his body in a sudden rush.

Strong hands took hold of his left hand and held fast.

Legolas coughed harshly, and blood filled his mouth and spilled down his chin.

Tears fell from Aragorn's eyes.

"Whatever grace I have, whatever strength I have, let it pass to thee..."

Chapter 1

The house was very old and covered in ivy and shadow. It stood far from the street, up a path that wound through lush gardens still thick with flowers and foliage - despite the lateness of the year - and trees older than the house itself. Turning leaves rained down continuously on the unusually green lawn, slowly overwhelming it in a blanket of gold, rust and blood red. Never had Charlita seen colors so vibrant. And were the flowers not so fragrant, or the way, even in the fading light of an early fall sunset, less beautiful, she would have sworn this was the precursor to painful albeit clichéd death in a bad Technicolor horror movie.

She held out a hand to catch a falling leaf - a sign of good luck, she decided when she was a little girl. Perhaps this will be the job she's been searching for. Maybe this employer will be a little less eccentric than her last, and perhaps will tolerate her busy schedule. By the look of the place, he would no doubt balk at her hourly rate even though he could obviously afford it. The rich were funny that way.

She took a deep breath, straightened her clothing one more time, and tucked a thin dark dreadlock into the colorful scar wrapped around her head, and made her way up the stone steps to the huge front door.

She reached for the rusting iron doorknocker that was as big as her head, and quite heavy. She gave it a good effort, lifting and bringing it down in three hard raps, and heard it reverberate against the ornate door. She took a moment to break away from concentrating on being a good interview subject to admire the workmanship that went into the door, the wood and iron work, the small, hand-painted window glass. All of it seemed very early European, perhaps fifteen hundred years old or more. Artisans would have to have been flown in to refurbish and recreate such a majestic home. Just as she was reaching out to touch the doorknocker again, she heard a latch disengage. She quickly snapped into "hire me" mode and forced a smile. Charlita hated being such a phony, but she desperately needed the job.

The door opened just wide enough for whoever was inside to peer out without being seen accept in silhouette.

"Yes? What do you want?"

The voice was male, and sounded quite tired, thought not particularly old and far from weak, she surmised. Accented, but she could not quite discern what region of England or perhaps Ireland. She took a deep breath, hoping that her duties would not also include taking care of the old crone. She was explicit in her letter of introduction that she sought archival work, would accept translation assignments, but did not wish to add caretaker, nurse and housekeeper to her responsibilities. She hoped he would bother to read it.

"I'm looking for a Mr. Greenleaf."

Silence.

"I'm responding to your ad in the university paper. You need an archivist. I'm here regarding the position."

"Ah."

That was it, all he said. The door remained in its position, but Charlita was not sure if the old guy was still there or not. So she reached out and pushed the door. It was heavy, and creaked, a deep, almost mournful sound that sent a shiver through her.

She stepped inside. It was even more breathtaking. Spacious, parsimoniously furnished, but with antiques that she swore only carbon dating could identify the year in which each was crafted. She expected gloom, mustiness, and dust motes floating in and out of her vision. But the air had a certain lightness to it, and the darkness was simply natural - there currently were no electric lights on, thought fixtures were in place. There was a tremendous chandelier that hung in the middle of the great hall, its crystals dangling like frosty, delicate tears threatening to rain down upon her head.

There was a wide, winding staircase. And plants everywhere. An incredible variety of plants. Nothing particularly exotic, but all were lush and meticulously maintained. Obviously loved. That was the only way she could describe it.

"I wonder," she whispered under her breath, "what the rest of the place looks like?"

"Perhaps I'll show you," came that voice. It seemed to come from every direction at once. "Depending on the outcome of the interview."

Charlita gasped and turned about, and found a man standing in the shadows. He lit a match and placed it to a candle's wick. She strained to get a good look at his face as amber light allowed her to see some aspect of it - chiseled features, eyes that caught a hint of the candlelight and seemed to absorb and reflect it. Long, platinum-white hair that fell down his back and cascaded over his strong straight shoulders.

"You scared me," she confessed, not meaning to, and instantly thrust out a hand as a show of good will and trust.

"I'm Charlita Huffington. I'm here about the archivist position. The ad in the university press said to apply in person."

"You seem a bit old for a college student."

"I'm a returning student. I was married for a few years. I decided to go back to school and pursue my Ph.D. in history and ancient civilizations."

"I see."

A long silence. She felt as if she was being evaluated, sized up, scrutinized. Was she too old? When did 29 get to be old? Was she too ethnic? She'd been growing the dreads since her ex-husband became her ex, over three years now, as rebellion, as protest, as claiming and embracing the African part of her triune heritage with enthusiasm. She was quite proud of every little twist. She found herself growing impatient and rather angry. She'd been on the receiving end of a preconceived notion far too many times. Had he already made up his mind about her?

"Look, Mr. Greenleaf - "

"Shall we continue this in the library?"

She forgot what she was going to say. She caught a glimpse of his face again and was equally chilled and warmed by what she saw. A thin breeze caused the flame of the candle to flicker and dance, and she saw those odd eyes of his seem to do the same. In the half-light she could see no sign of lines or wrinkles. No gray beard. Not even the smell of mustiness she'd expected from a man living alone in such a huge place. Instead, she smelled sandalwood and hints of sweet moss and wheat, elderberry and rosemary, and ...

"Miss Huffington?"

"Yes?" she said, snapping out of her reverie.

"The library?"

"Yes. After you," she said.

* * *

He poured her a second cup of tea. She admired his masculine grace and elegance, his genuine hospitality. Despite her earlier fears, she found herself thinking of this Mr. Greenleaf as more of a perfect host, rather than a potential employer. She found herself telling him almost everything about herself - her work at the university, her love of ancient cultures, her fascination with weapons and literature of the distant past. She told him about her thesis, and that depending on whether or not she got the job, most of the material she would be archiving for Mr. Greenleaf, with his permission, of course, would probably find its way into her paper. She told him of her ultimate dream to create a place - not a stuffy museum - but a different place where people could view and experience ancient artifacts from all over the world. Where they could actually handle some of the more stable objects, or even use them to get a taste of what life might have been like.

"Imagine," she said with a wide, engaging smile, "what it would be like to sit down to a an authentic dinner prepared with kitchen wares and utensils from over five thousand years ago? Or combing your hair with an implement over ten thousand years old?"

"I can imagine," Mr. Greenleaf said, unable to stop his own smile from creeping upon his face.

"Perhaps it's a bit farfetched and outlandish..."

"I think it is a very noble idea."

"Well," she said, landing back on earth, "if it happens, it's a long way off. I still have my thesis to write, I still have a son to raise and student loans to pay back. Which brings us back to the position."

"Yes," he said rising somewhat stiffly. "Come with me, please."

He led her down a long corridor to a locked door. He wore the key on a thin, leather braided rope around his neck, tucked down into his shirt. He opened the door and turned on a light. It was very soft, very dim. He stepped back and allowed Charlita to enter.

Her mouth involuntarily opened, and though she wished to speak, she could barely make a sound. Her eyes traveled the entire room. Every surface, every shelf, from floor to ceiling was filled with old papers, scrolls, giant leather bound books. Yellowing, crumbling, ink fading. All so very beautiful to her eyes.

Again she tried to speak, but only a soft sigh escaped her lips. She held out her arms, knowing she should not touch a thing, but so desperately wanting to.

"This," she finally was able to squeak out, "this is incredible. May I?"

Mr. Greenleaf nodded, and she reverently touched a map with curled, crumbling edges. It made her shudder.

"How does one come into possession of such incredible artifacts?" she asked breathlessly. "It's so much."

"There was more," he said, "but much has been lost to me over time. Still, it is rather daunting, this task. The last applicant took one look at the room and quite nearly fainted. Needless to say, he declined to accept the position."

"He didn't understand," she said in a whisper.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Huffington?"

She was startled - he should not have been able to hear her. She realized how ridiculous she sounded, how crazy.

"He didn't understand what a treasure all of this is. Voices from the past. It goes beyond history. It's unraveling the thoughts and feelings and hearts and deeds of everyone who came before us. How can you understand where you are or where you're going, if you don't know where you came from? I'm sorry. You must think I'm whack."

His gray/blue eyes regarded her curiously.

"Whack. Nuts, you know, psycho, wacko, out of my mind. I'm not. Not really."

Greenleaf merely considered her words and nodded.

"I need someone," he said, picking up a heavy leather bound book and blowing dust from it, "who is expert in preservation, and can create a usable archive for me. A library of sorts."

He held the book close for a moment, almost as if to hug it, then placed it gently back from whence it came.

"That happens to be my specialty. If you look on my resume you'll see my work for the Smithsonian and the Museum of African Art in Washington, DC, the Museum of Modern Art in New York City, the Whitney, and -"

"I don't need to read your resume."

She felt the stab of failure in her heart. How had she lost this job so quickly? Was she too enthusiastic? Not enthusiastic enough?

"Your passion for your work is quite clear. And refreshing."

"I got the job?" she asked, a little too incredulously.

"You'll start immediately. Take as long as you need to organize this room any way you wish. The only thing I require is that you agree not to remove anything from this house, or divulge any information you might glean from the various writings in my collection. I'm afraid I must insist upon that."

So much for her thesis, she thought. But it would be worth it, just to spend an hour in this room.

"Please understand," he said, his own eyes wistfully traveling the room, "this collection is very dear to me. Each work is as if a close friend had put pen to page. This is all I have left of them, and of a very special time."

He spoke with such a conviction, such a deep sadness, those last few words, that Charlita felt tears burning the corners of her eyes.

He continued, his voice almost in a hush.

"Your hours can be quite flexible. It is essential that you work quietly and that your comings and goings do not interrupt or disturb mine. You are free to use other parts of the house as well, though my library is off limits unless I am present and feel obliged to extend an invitation. You may avail yourself of any food and drink you desire while under my employ, and you may use the gardens to rejuvenate, unless of course you find me there in some meditative repose. I ask that you allow me my solitude and take advantage of the garden once I am returned to the house."

"Fine," she said, speechless at his gaze. As if he were strangely telepathic, he broke eye contact with her. "And what about my salary requirement?" she asked.

"I have no problem with what you ask."

Again a stab of disbelief, a nagging feeling in the back of her mind.

"Forgive me if I come across as suspicious, but this is just a little too...perfect."

"In what way, Miss Huffington?"

Charlita reached out and touched a curled piece of brown paper with just her fingertip. The page was deliciously ancient, and left a thin film of dust on her finger. She deeply desired to reach out and touch another one, smell the oldness, read the pages, decipher the ancient script.

"I don't know. I guess...I'm used to things being tougher."

"Then you should be both glad and grateful."

"I am!" she said in her defense. "Look, I'd love the job. But I have a few demands...uh, requests of my own."

"Ask," Mr. Greenleaf said, taking a step closer.

"Well...number one...I'm a professional."

"Go on."

"I'm here to archive your collection, not to substitute as a housekeeper or errand runner. I don't pick up dry cleaning and I don't cook. You wouldn't want me to, anyway. I'm a terrible cook."

"Very well. No errand running and no housekeeping or cooking. Is there more?"

"Yes," she said, taking a deep breath. "No staying late to help out at parties. No answering your phones. No rides. Unless you need to go to the doctor's or something. Although, you don't look like you need to go very often. I mean...you're not as old as I thought you were going to be. You don't appear to be old at all."

"I assure you Miss Huffington," he said with a touch of a smile, "I'm much older than I appear."

"Whatever. And most importantly, no..."

"No...?"

"It's not like I'm saying you'd ...people can be...I've worked for men...who think that just because...the point is, I'm divorced, but not desperate."

Greenleaf paused to consider her words, and find meaning in them. When it dawned on him, he smiled and nodded.

"I am quite satisfied to live quietly alone. Your honor will be safe under this roof."

Her honor? She smiled, blushed.

"Good," she said, relieved. "Then we have an agreement?"

"I believe we do. Welcome to Mirkwood Manor, Miss Huffington."

Chapter 2

Only one word could describe Charlita's first week on the job. Bliss. No ringing phones. No boss breathing down her neck, demanding her time. No interruptions whatsoever. Just her in a room filled with history and mystery.

The first day she merely placed a chair in the middle of the room and sat there, looking about, taking it all in. She sat that way for over an hour. Next, she pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves and began gently lifting the pages and carefully placing them about the room in some sort of order. All pages that appeared to be maps - and there were quite a lot of them! - went to one corner of the room. All that appeared to be letters to another corner. And all that appeared to be addendums to huge volumes of history books, consumed yet another corner.

The maps fascinated her most. She could not yet read the fading script, nor had she figured out what country was described in those ancient hills and waterways and shires. But she had much in the way of resources, and knew that with time, and a little help from colleagues and professors, she would find a way to decipher them.

As for her employer, she rarely knew he was around. She would arrive every morning at 8:45 and leave by 5:30 pm. The first day, he opened the door for her, and promptly disappeared. The next day, upon her arrival, she'd found the door unlocked, and a large key sitting on a table in the foyer. She would have to have a long talk with Mr. Greenleaf about home security.

One afternoon, while taking a break, she wandered into the kitchen. She couldn't figure out what was strange about the room, until hunger had inspired her to seek out the refrigerator. There was no refrigerator. She assumed his old one was on the fritz, or perhaps he'd bought another that would be delivered later. But by week's end, no delivery persons had shown up, and by week two, there was still no refrigerator. She'd have to ask him about that, too.

It was also strange how very quiet Mr. Greenleaf was. Sometimes she'd turn around and find him in the room, hovering nearby. She hadn't heard a footstep or creaking of wood floors. She knew they creaked - every time she took a step the wood groaned and cried under her slight weight. How had he - obviously taller and heavier that she - managed to be so quiet? She wasn't quite sure how to ask him about that, but in her head, she regarded him as the "stealthy bugger."

Another thing she noticed. In the light of day, Greenleaf tended to look...well, younger. Healthier. When there was sunlight, and he'd make one of his ultra-quiet, unannounced and very brief appearances, she would look him in the face and see that, despite the thick white hair, he didn't appear to be very old at all. But when she'd see him at night, sitting in his library as she'd pass by, on her way out the door, she'd noticed how very old he moved. It wasn't physical, in his bones, but emotional, and though not etched in his face with lines and wrinkles, it was there in the sadness of his expression. It was as if he were in mourning, suffering from the sudden loss of those who meant everything to him. Sometimes it hurt her heart to look at him.

Charlita did not wish to interfere in his life by asking or trying to make him feel better. A man should be able to live anyway he pleased. But it seemed such a waste to have someone like Mr. Greenleaf spend his life sitting in an old library remembering sad times when he could be enjoying his life.

Maybe someday she'd have a talk to him about this, too.

* * *

The evening was cold, and the wind had picked up considerably. Winter was fast approaching, and Legolas knew the first snow of the season was not far away. He made a fire, and sat before it, on the floor, knees to his chest and arms wrapped around his legs. He closed his eyes and remembered.

Suddenly he was sitting in sweet high grass at twilight. A cool lake bubbled nearby. A campfire burned several steps away. A fragrant meal warmed on a spit above the embers. And the promise - and threat - of action and adventure in the form of Orc hordes lay just beyond a mountainous ridge.

He could hear Aragorn telling some old tale he'd told a million times before by the fire, but Legolas could never hear his stories enough.

He could hear Gimli bragging about how bravely and flamboyantly he'd slaughtered a dozen unsuspecting Uruk-hai, tales of how his ax had served him well.

Night would descend, and then Aragorn would begin to hum a song, just under his breath. Something inspired by love, or a lament for a fallen friend. And Legolas would begin to sing, his voice both haunting and heartening. All this by a warm fire shared between friends and allies, brothers in arms.

Legolas snapped out of his memory, and found his eyes were wet with tears, his heart heavy with remembrance. He'd seen well over ten thousand years - why were these the only times his mind wandered back to over and over again? He'd seen the world change, reinventing and redefining itself so many times. He'd seen face of war change: from swords and arrows to flintlocks, to cannons, to bazookas and grenades, to heat seeking missiles and computer technology that assured mutual destruction. He'd seen the advancement of science: from flat earth theory to solar power to space technology. He'd seen the world go from traditional values to modern ideas and slam back to traditionalism again. He'd seen dictators and madmen come to power and die to be replaced by thousands of others over his long life. Yet no time like his time in Middle Earth stirred his heart and memory so. There were not many things in this strange world, save a warm hearth, that reminded him of times long since past.

Ten thousand years ago.

How had he lived so long, outside of the boundaries of the undying lands? Why did he remain?

He pulled his hair down over his ears, a thing that had now become an unconscious habit. Best not to be noticed by the humans. He grew tired of explaining his elvish features as an unfortunate birth defect just to keep the humans from becoming overly curious or acting on their ignorance and fear. It was hard enough to keep up appearances of being of a certain age before it was time to move on again.

There was but one thing he could do to relieve the heaviness in his soul. He began to sing. It was a song of loss and bravery with mournful minor notes that instantly brought him back to the brink of tears. This was the song that told the tale of the King of Gondor, Aragorn, his battle to save Middle Earth, and his love for the beautiful Elf Arwen, who had given up eternity for him, and become his wife.

* * *

She pulled off her wire rimmed glasses and her cotton gloves, yawned and stretched. She was exhausted and yet exhilarated all at once. Charlita had combed through nearly a quarter of the Stealthy Bugger's collection, far more than she had anticipated by this time. Quite an accomplishment. She had not yet found any reference books to help break the code of the language in which all these documents appeared, but she had found some symbols that looked oddly familiar, which would hopefully lead her down the proper code-breaking path eventually.

She checked her watch and was nearly shocked - it was well past nine o'clock. Darkness had descended hours ago, and she'd probably missed the last bus. She'd have to cab it tonight.

She reached for her cell phone (Mr. Greenleaf did not have a phone in the house. She'd have to talk to him about that, she mused) to call her son. He'd be staying with his best friend all week to allow her a chance to catch up on her thesis. She hated it when Tristan was away, and could not bring herself to go home. She'd planned to put in a few extra hours, but had not realized how quickly time had gotten away from her.

"Hey, Tristan."

"Mom, I told you, call me T.K."

"Alright, T.K. How's everything?"

"Cool. We had pizza and we're playing video games."

"Did you do your homework?"

"Yes," he said, impatiently.

"Don't be up all night, okay?"

"Mom, it's Friday!"

"I know, but -"

"I gotta go."

"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow. Love you."

"Yeah. Bye."

"Bye Tri...T.K."

How had he grown up so quickly? One minute she was bouncing him on her knee, reveling in his crooked smile and garbled first words, impressed by his deep stare from dark intelligent eyes and how everything was mommy. If she fed him, he had to feed her, insisting upon pushing a Cheerio between her lips and giggle madly when she made a show of eating it. If she tickled him, he had to tickle her, wiggling his strong and tiny fingers under her chin until she laughed raucously. If she was sad, he'd sit quietly in her arms and let her be. Now at nearly ten years old, Tristan, a.k.a. T.K. didn't seem to have much use for mommy anymore. In many ways she applauded his independence - he would be fine if some tragedy caused her to be prematurely taken away from him. In other ways, it broke her heart - where had her baby gone? She prayed that his desire to be separate from her would be temporary, and that someday he would understand how wide and deep her love ran for her only child, and that he would appreciate it and return it twofold.

She quickly dialed her favorite taxicab company and ordered her ride. The kindly dispatch person apologized that it would be more than thirty minutes before her cab arrived, reminding her how busy Friday nights could be. She considered trying to get a bit more work done while she waited, but exhaustion had begun to overwhelm her. Her neck and shoulder muscles ached and burned from bad posture, and her legs were slightly stiff from sitting too long. It was all she could do to stand and collect her few belongings.

She turned off the lights, locked the room, then walked as quietly down the hall as she could. She cursed the squeaking wood floors that announced her every step, and hoped that she was not disturbing the Stealthy Bugger.

She was not aware of his nightly routine, as she was usually gone long before this hour. She was not sure if he was an early to bed, early to rise kind of man, or if he was a night owl, hanging out in his library reading mysteries or technical magazines. She wondered if his tastes ever ran to the more male-oriented magazines, but for some reason she could not see him indulging in that kind of thing. It seemed wrong somehow. She imagined he would read The Art of War, or perhaps Russian literature. Maybe Dickens or Victor Hugo, or Chaucer.

And then she heard it. It was a sound that both warmed her heart and chilled her soul. His voice was like nothing she had ever heard, not in her entire life. The language was strange and beautiful. She stopped and listened, letting the complicated but soothing melody take wing in her imagination. She stepped closer, wanting desperately to hear more, and more clearly. Another step and she was right at the library door. She peered in and saw Mr. Greenleaf. He was sitting on the floor, lost in his song, eyes closed, head slightly raised, making those incredible sounds.

And suddenly, to her chagrin, he was finished. She stood there, trembling, her own eyes squeezed shut and brimming with tears, a hand on her chest, wondering what had just come over her. When she opened her eyes, she found Mr. Greenleaf standing before her.

She nearly fell back, startled, embarrassed, caught. She could barely read her employer's expressions. She was sure there was anger, but there was something else, something she could not fathom or discern.

"I'm sorry," she said, voice quivering. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop. I was just leaving and I heard you...singing."

Mr. Greenleaf said nothing, only stared at her.

"I've never heard such .... I'm sorry."

"You leave at five thirty."

"I wanted to work a little later tonight. My son is away. I don't like being home when he's away. So I stayed. I'm sorry. You don't have to pay me the overtime."

"Money is not my concern. My privacy is."

"I understand."

"Do you?"

She'd never heard such sternness in his voice before. She wanted very much to stand up for herself, to tell him he cannot talk to her that way. But she could not find the words.

"I do," she said finally. "It won't happen again. My cab should be here soon. I'll wait outside."

"Nonsense," he said as she reached for the door, " the evening is quite cool. Stay inside. Your driver will alert you upon his arrival."

"Okay, you're sending me mixed messages here. You're telling me I shouldn't be here and now you want me to stay till the cab comes. I'm confused."

"Better you be confused than cold. Come into the library. There's a fire."

* * *

Ten minutes into her wait, and there she sat in a deep red leather chair. Mr. Greenleaf stood by the fire. She watched the light dance in his eyes.

"What were you singing?" she finally asked, not really expecting much of an answer.

"A song I learned many years ago."

"What language was it?"

"A dead one."

She wanted to let it lie, but her curiosity was too much to bear.

"Whatever you were singing, it gave me chills."

"I'm sorry."

"No! It's a good thing. Definitely a good thing. You should record it." She instantly felt ridiculous. Despite the long white hair, he was hardly the rock star type.

"Record it?"

"Yeah, you know, put in on CD. I'm sorry, it's a ridiculous idea."

"CD. Yes. I'm mildly familiar with it. Compact disk. Digitized recorded music. Would you purchase it?"

"Yes."

"And listen to it?"

"I'd wear it out."

"Why?"

"Because it's beautiful. It stirred my heart. It's the kind of thing you want to hear again and again."

He smiled. "You'd be the only one."

"You don't know that. Once it got a bit of airplay...."

"Airplay?"

"The radio. You know."

"I'm afraid I don't have one. I did, many years ago, but I didn't like much of what was coming out of it."

Charlita nodded. "Yeah, music isn't what it used to be. I'm into old school."

"Old school?"

"You know, Motown. Seventies rock."

"Unfamiliar to me."

"Oh, come on. You've heard the Supremes, the Temptations. Smokey Robinson?"

"Are they Seventies rock?"

"No," she cried. "Where the heck have you been?"

"If you are considered an aficionado of 'old school', I'm afraid my 'school' is far older than yours."

"What...Fifties? Fourties? Benny Goodman? Older than that?"

"Keep going."

"A fifteenth century madrigal?"

"Closer."

She tilted her head so that she could see better the smile that was playing at his lips.

"I'm afraid I don't understand much of modern music," Mr. Greenleaf confessed. "It's all about falling in love...or rather lust...and then falling quite quickly out of it. Love songs are of great importance to every culture, but they've become quite superficial and not particularly romantic these days. I've heard songs long, long ago that are so deeply stirring that you cannot bear to move a full minute after the song has ended. Songs that so deeply penetrate your heart and soul that it becomes a part of you. Songs that compel you to dare climb a mountain, fight a fear, or to take into your arms the one you love and declare you devotion no matter what consequence is borne of it. Songs that let you know that when you cry, you do not cry alone."

His voice trailed off, lost in some memory Charlita wished she had privy to. What a memory it must have been.

He caught himself and turned away from the mesmerizing fire and gave her a weak smile. "I get carried away," he said in apology.

"Feel free to go farther."

"You know, there was one modern tune that remained with me for a brief spell. I did not much like the music, but the words were quite compelling."

"Do you remember how it went?" Charlita asked.

"Some of it," he confessed, and ran a hand through his hair, trying to conjure up the words. "I believe I'm paraphrasing, but it went something like this. 'Do not push me, because I stand upon to the edge. I am trying not to lose my head."

Charlita's eyes narrowed as she pried the lyric from her memory. When finally she remembered, she laughed so hard she nearly fell from her chair.

Greenleaf looked a touch embarrassed.

"Oh, my gosh," she said, reclaiming her wits, calming the raucous laughter that had claimed her. "Oh my GOSH, that's a rap song."

"Rap? Yes. Perhaps."

"I believe the rest is...It's like a jungle sometimes, it makes me wonder how I keep from going under."

"That's the song!"

"You do not look like the rapper type."

"Perhaps not. But you have to admit, the sentiment displayed in that particular rhyme is quite indicative of the times. One needn't be a "rapper" to appreciate it. And I'd appreciate it if you'd forget about my sorrowful attempt to "rap."

Before she could answer, she heard a horn blaring outside.

"That's my cab."

"Ah," he said quickly and came to her side, a gentleman waiting to escort her to the door. "I bid you good night, Miss Huffington."

"I enjoyed chatting with you, Mr. Greenleaf."

"So did I," he said. His surprise at this was not completely masked.

Charlita smiled. "Have a good weekend."

"Weekend? Oh, yes, it is the weekend already, isn't it? Then I shall see you Monday."

He waited at the door until the taxi pulled off. He stepped back inside, closed the door, and nearly shuddered at the sudden chill. A heaviness descended upon him, weighing him down, one that was usually omnipresent but strangely forgotten for the short time while in the presence of his employee. He knew what it was immediately and fought not let his heart be overcome by it.

Loneliness.

Chapter 3

"I'm not a baby. I can stay home alone."

"No, Tristan. I don't want you home alone.

"T.K.!"

"Whatever!"

Charlita raced around the kitchen, preparing breakfast, looking at her watch every few minutes and becoming more anxious as time progressed. School was closed for teacher meetings, and Charlita had received the requisite letter informing her as such, but she'd promptly forgot it. She had not arranged for a babysitter, and was loathed to even use the word babysitter in front of her son, or he'd go off on another tirade.

"Get your jacket," she said. "You're going to work with me."

"Ma!"

"Don't 'ma' me! Get your coat, let's go, I'm late."

Tristan ripped his coat off the plastic hanger, sending it spinning around the wood pole and crashing to the closet floor. A sharp look from Charlita, and he huffed and picked it up and put it back.

"You have to promise me," she said, putting her own coat on, "that you won't get me in trouble. Just keep quiet, and for goodness sake don't touch ANYTHING. I'm still new on this job, and my boss is a little ... eccentric."

"Like that last old geezer?"

"He was nice."

"He stank like old food in the trash can."

"Stop it. Mr. Greenleaf isn't old, and he doesn't stink."

"He probably likes little boys. Freak."

"What! What do you know about that?"

"I hear stuff, I'm not dumb."

Charlita didn't know whether to discipline him or sit down and have along, heart to heart talk with him. Unfortunately, she had time for neither.

"We're going to talk about this tonight, young man," she said, grabbing her son's wool cap and pulling it over his head and over his ears. She knew how sensitive Tristan was about his ears. The slight points that brought him so much grief were barely perceptible to her, but he claimed that the other kids noticed, making him the brunt of many jokes. She dared not tell him that the ears he hated so where inherited from his father.

Any mention of Valgur would send Tristan into paroxysms of questions about a man she'd fought heaven and earth the keep away from them. Her last meeting with him had been nothing like the first one. The first being sweet, innocent, with a veiled smattering of the sensual. This lead to a strange, Svengali-like relationship, and ultimately a short-lived marriage. Her last meeting was violent and terrifying, and almost cost her life. The scar from the knife wound still itched and pulled every now and then, reminding her of his infinite cruelty. She shuddered at the thought of Valgur, beautiful but evil - unusually tall, broad, long black hair cascading down his back, bright, hairless face and mysterious blue eyes, and the ears, tapering to thin points. Such an unusual man, who claimed to be from another time - and she had believed it! How could she have been so stupid? He promised to unlock so many dark secrets for her, but instead brought her to the brink of death.

"Mom?"

She snapped back to the present, and found the beautiful face of her son. There was worry in his eyes. He knew what she was thinking about.

"He's not coming back."

"Who, baby?"

"My father. And if he does, I'll take care of him."

Spoken like a true man of the house. Charlita hugged her son gratefully.

"Let's go," she said.

Tristan grabbed a handful of X-Men comic books off the coffee table before following his mother out the door.

* * *

She'd been working non-stop for about two hours, and for that time, Tristan had been satisfied to sit in a Chippendale chair in a corner and flip through his comic books. It was only a matter of time, however, before he would get anxious and want to roam and explore.

"Ma, can I go to the bathroom?"

"Sure," she said, head buried in a map.

"Where is it?"

"Down the hall, fourth door on your right. And don't go exploring. You go right straight to the bathroom and come right back. I don't want Mr. Greenleaf to find your wandering around his house."

Tristan left, feeling a world of pre-teen angst and parental disrespect pressing down on his narrow shoulders. Why couldn't life be more exciting than going to school and hanging out at his mother's weird boss's house?

Fourth door on the right. Why not see what was behind the other three doors?

Tristan opened the first door he came to. Not much going on there. A room full of plants.

He opened a second door. More plants.

He opened the third. Not a plant, but a very tall man with very long white hair. His expression was somewhere caught between anger and curiosity. And his face was so pale that he seemed as if he was glowing.

"Who are you?"

"MA!!!"

Tristan took off down the hall back to the archive room. He ran smack into his mother who was standing there terrified upon hearing her child scream for her.

"What is it?"

Mr. Greenleaf appeared at the door, and Tristan merely pointed. Charlita put a protective arm around her son, pulling him close.

"Mr. Greenleaf, this is my son, Tristan."

"I startled you," Greenleaf said. " I'm sorry."

"It's me who should be sorry," Charlita said. "I should have told you, my son's school is closed today. I neglected to arrange for a baby -"

"Ma!"

"Sorry...arrange for supervision....He was looking for the bathroom. I promise, he'll remain with me, and I won't let him wander around your house."

"I would appreciate that," Greenleaf said, eyes on the boy, smiling slightly. "It's a very large house, and I wouldn't want the boy to be lost."

"Why're you staring at me?" Tristan said defiantly at Mr. Greenleaf.

"Forgive me. There has never been a child in this house. Not since I purchased in many years ago. Would you like to see the rest of the place?

"I told you he was a freak," Tristan whispered to his Mother, who gave him a warning nudge.

"Do not fear me. I mean you no harm."

Charlita gave her son another little nudge. Something about her employer told her that her son would be almost safer with him than with her. Almost.

"Go ahead," she encouraged Tristan.

"What up with his hair?" Tristan whispered to his mother.

"I think he looks like he could be one of the X-men, don't you?"

This got Tristan's interest. He took a step toward Greenleaf and gave his mother one more look. She nodded, and he allowed himself to be ushered out of the door by the man who looked like a tall, willowy mutant superhero.

* * *

They ended up in the gardens. The calming, centering nature of the woodland realm in miniature instantly gave ease to Legolas' heart and mind. The calming effect on young Tristan was not lost on Legolas either. He watched as the boy seemed to take in all that was around him, breathe in deeply the air as if it were sweeter and more plentiful here.

Tristan reached out to touch a thick thorn of a rose bush, but instantly recoiled and looked to Legolas to see if he had done something wrong.

"Touch carefully," Legolas warned gently, then nodded in approval of the child's curiosity.

Tristan touched the thorn.

"Ow!" He quickly yanked his hand away and looked at his finger. No blood, no wound. Tristan shoved his hands into his pocket to prevent further injury or embarrassment.

"Why'd you let me do that?"

"The thorn hurt you?"

"Yeah."

"Then you have learned a very valuable lesson. You shall never do that again."

"You could have told me."

"Would you have listened? Now you know for yourself. Walk with me."

They continued to traverse the gardens, coming to a stop by an oak tree. There was still some shade, the last of its leaves clinging to wintering branches. They sat a few feet from each other. Legolas reached out to touch the grass, and noticed that Tristan did the same.

"You approve of this place?" Legolas asked.

"It's okay."

"Yes. It is 'okay.' It is the only place I know where I can be thoroughly at ease. I'm not comfortable with the pace of your world. Everyone racing about in metal boxes on wheels."

"You mean cars?"

"Of course I mean cars. I know what they are called. I speak metaphorically."

"Speak metaphorically with somebody else," Tristan shot back

"You have much anger inside of you."

"I'm not angry."

"What would you call it then?"

"Why do you care?"

Legoals found himself staring at the boy again. Tristan gave him a suspicious look.

"I recognize something in you, Tristan," Legolas said. "I care because I see in you what I found in myself many, many years ago."

"What?"

"You feel different. Set apart. Isolated. Not like your friends. Not so different that anyone could tell. Just something...slightly off. You're afraid that if they recognized it, they might persecute you for it. Or worse, abandon you."

Tristan shrugged his shoulders, pulling at the thick grass.

"My friends make fun of me sometimes," he confessed in a voice tinged with shame and regret.

"Then, are they truly your friends?"

Tristan merely shrugged.

"A friend is someone who would easily lay down his own life for you. And you for him. Can you say that about your friends?"

"Can you?"

Legolas looked up to the sky. The sun's brilliance made him squint.

"My friends are gone now."

"You mean dead?"

"Yes."

"That sucks. I mean, I'm sorry."

Legolas smiled.

"And they did lay their lives down for me. Many times."

"What if they had a good reason to make fun of you?"

"What would you consider a good reason?"

"My name, for one," he spat, then with even more distaste, "Tristan."

"What would you prefer?"

"T.K."

"And what does T.K. signify?"

Again, the boy shrugged.

"Tristan is a very noble name," said Legolas, "an ancient name, that belonged to a great knight warrior."

"Warrior?"

Legolas nodded. The boy let slip a smile.

"I know of no warrior with the name, T.K. You said your name was one reason for which you are persecuted. What is your other reason?"

Tristan shrugged again, and stared at the ground. Then he reached up and slowly removed his hat.

Legolas' blue-gray eyes widened. His lips parted as if he wanted to speak, but the word could not find their way to his mouth. And when they did come out, they were in the dead language of the Elves.

* * *

Tristan saw the look of shock on Mr. Greenleaf's face, and instantly felt overcome by shame and embarrassment. What was he thinking? For a moment, he had believed that he could trust Mr. Greenleaf, that he was the only person who would understand him, not regard him as a freak.

He was about to run, about to put as much ground between Greenleaf and himself as he could. Nevermind how angry his mother would be later, or the punishment he would receive for running off, disappearing. He imagined in that split second that freedom from the trauma caused by his defective ears could only be achieved by running away, losing himself in the streets, going where no one knew him or cared about him. He saw himself racing down the streets, dodging cars, insults being hurled by the hateful masses....

Until Mr. Greenleaf pulled back his long, platinum hair, revealing his own pointed ears.

Tristan's mouth fell open, and stayed until Mr. Greenleaf himself encouraged him to close it with a finger to the boy's chin.

Greenleaf then smiled and said, "I shall honor your secret, if you will honor mine."

* * *

Two hours had passed, and Charlita was beginning to worry. Mr. Greenleaf and Tristan

had been gone for quite a spell. Just as she had reached the point of stopping her work to go find them, Tristan came running back, happily grinning and racing straight for his comic books.

"Tris...I mean, T.K., where did you go with Mr Greenleaf ?"

"Just outside. We walked around the garden. It's kinda nice."

"That's all?"

"We talked some. He's cool."

"He is?"

Tristan opened a comic and settled down to read it, but his mother's silence commanded his attention. He raced over to her and planted a kiss on her cheek.

"What was that for?"

"Nothing. Thanks for bringing me here."

Again, Charlita was speechless.

"Mr. Greenleaf said I can come and visit him anytime I want. Can I?"

"Can we talk about this at home tonight?"

"Sure."

Charlita was baffled again by her son's suddenly lack of brooding. He seemed genuinely happy. At ease. She watched as he wandered back over to his comics and sat on the floor.

"Oh, ma...?"

"Yeah?"

"You can call me Tristan."

That did it. Tomorrow, she would talk to Mr. Greenleaf.

* * *

She knew something was wrong the moment she stepped up to the door. She shifted the weight of the heavy grocery bag in her arms and looked down at Tristan. He was carrying his own bag, and looking up at her quite curiously. She thought for a moment they should run, but if the hairs rising on the back of her neck, or the sick knot of fear forming in her gut turned out to be for nothing, should would have felt ridiculous for frightening her son. So she dug quickly in to her shouldering bag and pulled out a five dollar bill and handed it to her son.

"I forgot ice cream."

"No you didn't. You said I couldn't have any because I didn't clean my room."

"I changed my mind. Go get some now."

"Ma?"

"NOW!"

She snatched the bag from Tristan. Then took a deep breath, realizing he could see her fear. She formed an uneasy, unconvincing smile.

"Chocolate," she said. Tristan headed back down the hall to the elevator, looking over his shoulder curiously at his mother.

Charlita slid the key into the lock with a trembling hand. Once the door was open, she stepped into the dark room, leaving the door open behind her in case she had to run out. She quickly put down the grocery bags and reached for the light switch. Before she could touch it, a strong, leather covered hand clamped around her mouth, and an arm that felt made of steel grabbed her about the waist. She tried to scream, fought to scream, flailing her arms wildly, but her assailant only laughed, enjoying her struggle.

She recognized the laugh and ceased to move. She knew it would be to no avail.

And then she found herself flying across the room and slamming into a wall. She turned. The lights came on.

"Val! What do you want?"

Valgur turned his back for only a moment, throwing long, blue-black hair over his shoulder and revealing pale pointed elven ears before closing the door and locking it.

Eyes that were cold and empty and as dark as his hair bore into Charlita's. "I came to see how my lovely wife was doing, and to say hello to my son."

Chapter 4

Charlita pushed herself from the wall and tried to stand on legs that had become rubbery with fear.

"I'm not your wife anymore. You signed the papers."

"In my heart, you will always be mine."

"Get out."

Quick as a flash he was across the room. He grabbed her by her throat and slammed her back against the wall.

"That's no way to greet someone whose just returned from three years in prison. Horrible place, prison. I'll have to tell you about it someday. A life sentence for someone like me is a frightening thought. So I found a way out. Back to the bosom of my family."

"Leave us alone, Val. I don't want you here. Your son doesn't want you here. Just go away and leave us alone!"

"Now you listen to me carefully, Charlita," Valgur said, tightening his grasp about her throat, enjoying the choking sounds the woman made. "You don't tell me what to do, where to go, or when. I tell YOU. You do as I say, and I let you live. You cross me, even mildly disappoint me, and I teach you the true meaning of suffering. Are we achieving an understanding here?"

Charlita nodded as best she could.

Valgur smiled and let her fall to the floor.

"Good! Now, where is my son?"

Charlita rub her sore throat and fought to get back her breath. She knew she'd be horribly bruised in the morning.

"At a friend's for the weekend."

"Pity. He must be rather tall by now."

"What do you want?"

"As I said, I want to bask in the bosom of my family. And I need a bit of money."

"Call next time. I'll send you a check."

"And miss an opportunity to see your lovely face? Nonsense."

Charlita used the wall to keep her balance, pulling herself back up to her feet. She moved to the sofa and reached for her purse. Valgur was there before her hand could touch the strap, yanking the purse from her grasp.

Valgur emptied the entire contents on the floor and kicked away what he did not want, until he found Charlita's small wallet. He quickly opened it and extracted all the paper money, tossed the wallet back to the floor and commenced counting.

"Is this all you have on hand?"

"I keep the twenties and fifties in a safe behind the Monet. Of course that's all the money I have."

"Out of work again, are we?"

"I have a son to raise! Rent and bills to pay! Not to mention the debts you left behind that I'm still paying off."

"You blame me for everything. Tell me, Charlita, what happened to us?"

"You happened to us. You convinced me to steal for you. You lied to me and you used me. You even tried to use our son. You made me think you were something special, but the only thing special about you is how despicable you are."

"Do you know what your problem is, Charlita dear? You're ungrateful. I went to prison for us. I never implicated you in our little scam."

"YOUR little scam. You never implicated me because you couldn't prove my complicity."

"You didn't exactly come screaming a confession to the police."

"Because I am innocent!"

"You arranged the introduction. Just because you didn't pull the trigger doesn't make you innocent. And I can still make a case for your involvement in the old man's murder. All it would require is one phone call to our conviction-happy District Attorney -"

"You'd be back behind bars and finishing that life sentence before you hang up the phone."

"Perhaps. But you'd lose the one thing that gives your life any meaning and purpose - your son. And I would live forever reveling in your pain."

Charlita shuttered. Tristan was her greatest joy, and the only weapon Valgur had against her.

"Live forever," she spat. "No one lives forever."

"Still don't believe what I told you?"

"About being nine thousand years old? Please."

This was his one sore spot. The one thing Charlita knew she could use to rattle him, to at least buy her time to get out the door or somehow warn Tristan to run. Something he called his elven pride.

"Every story I told you was true!" he demanded. now on the defensive. "About the first age. And later, the age of Man. Where part of that heritage of yours, springs forth, the ancient ways still lingering in your blood. You believed me then. Why do you refuse to believe me now?"

"I was young and foolish, an eighteen year old with an over active imagination and stupid romantic notions that superceded common sense."

"But you did love the stories. Even now, I can see the longing in your eyes. You deeply desire to hear more. About the race of elves."

Go hard for the pride, she told her self. If she can't kill him, she could at least wound his pride.

"Elves ... Santa's little helpers."

"WE WERE WARRIORS!" he screamed, "Assassins. Artisans. Philosophers. Healers. Kings. A higher, more beautiful race there has never been on this planet. Nor shall there ever be again."

"Stealing money from your ex-wife's purse. How the mighty races of elves have fallen."

Valgur reared back and struck Charlita. She flew across the floor and hit the wall. She was dazed, unable to stand, unable to focus her eyes, unable to distinguish whether the words coming from Valgur's mouth were real or imagined.

"I am what I am because of the race of man, and what they've turned this world into. A chaotic, roiling cauldron of sickness and depravity, greed and lust, filth and despair. I am exactly what you have forced me to become."

"Nobody's forcing you..." she began, but the pain in her mouth, the throb of her bleeding split lip, made her shudder and stop.

"The elves should never have given up this world. Should never have gone on to the undying lands. They should've listened to me. We should have stayed. We should have slit the throats of every weak willed man, annihilated his entire worthless race. We were a race of conquerors. We could have so easily obliterated your kind, wiped the memory of your futile existence from history, and laid claim to this world."

"You're crazy," she managed. "need help."

Valgur took a deep breath and calmed himself. He hated losing control this way. It interfered with his ability to scheme.

"What I need is money. More than you've provided here. You've applied for work again, haven't you? Archival work? I saw the newspaper on your coffee table, the ad circled several times in red. Tell me, did we get the job? Are we gainfully employed?"

Charlita said nothing.

Valgur grab her by the chin and squeezed. The pressure he exerted frightened her. She imagined her jaw crumbling under his force. No man should be this strong!

She nodded as best she could.

"Good," said Valgur, and released her. "I imagine he's some old geezer, with lots of old money tucked away in dusty, old places?"

"I'm not going to allow you to steal from him."

"You forget, darling. You're talking to ME. Besides, what will happen to Tristan if don't help me?"

"You leave my son alone."

"If you're dead, he won't be alone. He'll have me."

"Do what you want to me, but stay away from Tristan."

Valgur wandered to the window and looked out and down.

"There he is now."

Charlita hoped his was bluffing, but feared it was true.

"He has grown. Quite handsome, too. Tell me, does he still have his daddy's ears? Or have you taken him to some physician and had him 'fixed?'"

Charlita felt as if a heavy stone had been placed upon her chest. Her breathing had all but ceased.

"Please, Valgur...

"Oh, now it's please. I tell you what. You tell me what I need to know quickly, and I'll be gone before Tristan returns home. Refuse me..."

Valgur pulled a butterfly knife from his pocket and flipped it around several times. Charlita nearly screamed. He pressed the sharp point against her throat.

"...and I'll go looking for him when I'm done with you."

"Please, Val...I'll tell you anything you want."

"I know you will, darling. That's why I'm here. Now, tell me everything you know about your new employer. Starting with his name."

"Greenleaf. His name is Mr. Greenleaf."

Chapter 5

He lay gravely wounded, his blood soaking his tunic, and seeping into the ground. How many arrows had found his body? Three that he could see. Maybe more, considering the rain of enemy arrows flying over trees and finding their targets in the bodies of the men who lay dead upon the battlefield, men who guarded the King's entourage.

The pain was intense, excruciating. Still he reached, straining to take hold of one of his knives. His fingers gripped the handle, and though his strength was waning, he would force his way to his feet and fight again.

They had been ambushed and surrounded. Legolas had killed perhaps a dozen of the ones who stood against the King of Gondor and wished him dead for reasons not made clear. Men who spoke against the King and had turned their words into deadly action. For years Aragorn had ruled the kingdom of men and his people had been content. But now a few malcontents, seditionists who claimed to be patriots, had stirred the embers of war in the hearts of the like-minded, and though they were few, they were vicious and surprisingly well organized. Where they lacked in number they made up in blood lust and treachery.

They had attacked his party, this band of seditionists. Legolas surmised that there had to be someone on the inside, someone close to King Aragorn, someone trusted and well informed, in order to have known where they would be at this time. This sojourn to Rivendell was to have been a secret. A respect paid to the last of the Elves, to honor those who had sailed off to the Undying Lands and to bid goodbye to the last to leave. Among them should have been Legolas. This, Legolas had believed, would be the last time he was to see his dearest friend, brother-in-arms, and king of men.

Now Legolas lay bleeding, perhaps even dying. He called to the Valar, and upon every ounce of strength remaining in him and yanked an arrow forcefully from his left shoulder. He suppressed the urge to cry out, then pulled himself to his feet. Four men came rushing toward him. He dispatched of each quickly with a few mere strokes of the blade. He looked for Aragon, and found him, fighting off three at once. Even at Aragon's advanced age, his hair nearly all white, his face seasoned with deep lines, he fought as he always did, with strength and spirited abandon.

And when the seditionists had all been dispatched or subdued as prisoners, Legolas allowed himself to give in to the pain and weakness from blood loss. He collapsed, hitting the ground hard. His eyes were open yet he saw nothing. His lungs were barely filling with air. He thought he heard voices, someone calling his name over and over.

"Aragorn, why do you say my name with such sadness?"

* * *

Charlita was never good with hiding things, or keeping secrets from her son. Tristan could read hidden emotion the way most people read road signs - a single glance that gave way to immediate and unquestionable understanding and action. So even with her back turned, he knew something was wrong when he returned from the store.

"Mom?"

"I'm okay," she said quickly, keeping her back to her son.

Tristan gave the room a quick and thorough look. He dropped the bag and ran from the apartment.

"Tristan, come back!"

He did not.

He searched the halls, behind the fire doors, the room with the trash chute, the laundry room, looking for him.

"Where are you!" he shouted.

Charlita stepped into the hall and watched as her little boy shed his innocence and took on the role of protector.

"He's gone," Charlita called out, "He won't be back."

She hoped he believed her.

Tristan stopped by the elevator and looked at his mom. There was still blood on her lip, now drying, barely covering the swelling. Her eyes were red from tears and her shoulders were hunched with great tension.

"Where did he go?" Tristan cried. "Where did my father go?"

"I don't know. I promise you he won't be back."

"I hope he does come back. I want him to come back."

"Why?" she asked, already afraid she knew the answer. Before he could say another word, she held out her arms to her son. He quickly stepped up to her and wrapped his around her. It was then the boy returned, her innocent child. Hot tears quickly spilled down his cheeks, and she felt him shudder with anger, fear and grief. She could not quell the anger in his heart, but she could soothe the sadness and soon allay his fear. She pulled him away and knelt down to look into his not quite blue, not quite brown eyes.

"If he comes back..." she began.

Tristan pulled away from her.

"If he comes back, I'll kill him for what he's done to you."

"No!" she begged. "Don't talk like that. No talk of killing. You're too young to talk that way."

"But I'm not too young to die."

The realization struck as a knife in her heart. Would Valgur go that far?

"No," she begged again. "I want you far away from him. I don't want him anywhere near you. I'm going to send you away -"

Tristan pushed away from her, the hurt on his face so deep that it nearly shattered her resolve.

"You can't send me away. I won't leave you! You can't make me go."

"Yes, I can. I'm your mother."

Tristan's hurt became anger. She'd seen him blow up like this before. It was a burning, like she's seen in his father's eyes.

"You think I can't take care of you!" Tristan shouted, then backed away and began running.

"Tristan!"

He kept running, down the hallway, through the fire door and down the stairs. She could hear every footfall, reverberating on each metal step, becoming fainter as he grew nearer the ground floor. She wanted so much to run after him, but knew she'd never catch him. Her beaten, aching body would never be able to keep up. She silently prayed he would run around the block a few times to disperse his anger, and come home, sweaty, repentant and hungry. And she also prayed that wherever Valgur was, he would not use this opportunity to grab her son and employ him as a pawn in some sick, twisted scheme.

* * *

The side street was darker than the main drag. Heavy hanging trees obscured and blocked what little light there was from street lamps. And unlike the main drag there were not very many people out walking. As a matter of fact, looking over this shoulder and straining to see before him, he could find no one other than himself out on this chilly night.

He pulled his hat down over his ears and zipped his down jacket all the way up, despite how he hated the way the zipper rub against his chin until the skin became raw. The growing cold was worse.

He hoped he had gotten off at the right bus stop. No one was around whom he could ask for directions. But he soon found the winding path that lead to the house he had only been to once. He walked the path, smelling the richness of the foliage surrounding him, feeling a sense of calm easing the racing thoughts in his head.

Tristan stood before the door and reached up on his toes to grab hold of the heavy doorknocker. He slammed it down three times, then stood back, waiting.

Waiting. No one answered.

He slammed the doorknocker again. This time he heard movement inside, or rather, felt there was movement inside. The door opened.

Legolas stood staring down at the boy with a confused look.

"You said I could visit you anytime. This is anytime."

* * *

Legolas built a fire in the library, and invited Tristan to sit in his favorite red, soft leather couch near the hearth to warm himself.

"So tell me," Legolas began, "what prompts this visit? And is it sanctioned by your mother?"

Tristan shrugged, his typical response. Legolas stood with his back to the roaring fire, his visage taking on the flames' golden glow. Tristan sat back, frightened, but only for a moment.

"How do you do that?" Tristan asked.

"Do what?"

"Glow."

"It is part of what I am."

"What are you?"

"First things first, Tristan. You did not come here without reason. And I will not accept another shrug for an answer."

Tristan nearly shrugged but caught himself.

"You're like my father, but you're not."

"Can you elucidate?"

"Why do you use such big words?"

"I'm sorry," Legolas said. "To elucidate means -"

"I know what it means, it means to spell it out, explain."

"I underestimate you. Forgive me. Please, continue."

Tristan took a moment to collect his young thoughts, and looked Legolas in the eyes.

"He looks like you. The same ears. The same funny way of talking."

"So, you believe your father and I are of the same...heritage."

"I don't know. I've only seen him a couple of times when I was a little kid. Mom never let me talk to him. Which is good, because I don't really want to. He's mean. He hits my mom."

"Is that why you're here? Did your father hurt your mother tonight?"

Tristan saw the look of concern upon Legolas' face, and wondered for a moment if he should be telling his family business to a man nearly a stranger.

Legolas recognized the boy's troubled look, and knelt down to reassure him.

"Tristan, please know that whatever you tell me I will hold in the strictest confidence. It stays within these walls, and I will not dare speak of it without your permission."

"Promise?" Tristan asked for further reassurance.

"Promise. Tell me this. Your father, does he hit you as well?"

"No. But mom's afraid he'll take me from her."

"She loves you very much."

"I know that."

"Why do you come to me with this?"

"I don't know. I just needed somebody to talk to."

"Then I am honored that you chose me. However, I think it would be wise to consult the local authorities on this matter."

"The police?" Tristan asked then sneered. "They won't do anything."

"Perhaps you should reconsider," said Legolas, "rather than wait for something worse to happen. Tell me, what is your father's name?"

"It's a funny name. Valgur. I don't know his last name. Mom said he didn't really have one."

"No, he wouldn't."

Legolas turned away so the boy would not see the subtle change of expression on his face.

* * *

Legolas stared at the sleeping Tristan, who was sprawled out on the large leather couch, his face on the thick yet supple armrest. Gentle snores issued from his partially opened mouth. His body rose and fell with rhythmic breathing. Legolas reached down and removed the boy's hat, marveling at the idea and sight of this half-elfling in his presence, then covered him with a soft woolen blanket the color of damp moss.

He noticed his hands were shaking. It was but a slight tremor, unnoticeable to the human eye but quite disturbing to an Elf. The news that Valgur lived had driven Legolas to the point of distraction. His anger for the dark-haired Elf ran deep, not only because of what Valgur had wrought against Legolas, but against so many innocents, and against his closest friend. More than a few Elves had danced dangerously upon the line between good and evil. Indeed, some had fallen victim to the beguiling nature of evil. Many, fueled by greed and influenced by Men, sought power and thus turned and fed on death and destruction. Those Elves were forever banished from the Realm, or executed, or denied a place with their kind in the Grey Havens.

No Elf, in Legolas' memory, had a heart as sinister and unrepentant as Valgur's. Were it not for Valgur, Legolas would be living life transformed among the Elves, and not hiding among the race of modern man.

He stood before the fireplace and tried to trace his memories back to Valgur, to his betrayal, to his banishment, to the last battle between them. As the memories began to unfold, there came a trilling sound, irritating and insistent, breaking his dark reverie. Legolas looked around the room confused by the interruption. What was causing this? Then he realized what he heard was simply Tristan's cell phone.

Legolas picked up Tristan's discarded jacket from the floor and checked the pockets. His hands found something made of cool metal and plastic. He pulled the ringing phone from the pocket and looked it over, trying to figure out how to work this particular model.

"Hello?" Legolas spoke softly, hoping not to wake Tristan. The phone continued to trill. He held the phone up, shook it, and then flipped it over. "Hello?" he tried again. It continued to make that irritating noise. He shook it again, and the phone flipped open. The trilling ceased. He heard a voice issue from it. A familiar voice. He held the phone to his ear.

"Tristan are you there?" came the voice from inside the phone. "Say something. Tristan, where are you?"

"Hello," said Legolas.

"Who is this?" Her voice was no longer agitated but frightened. "Where's my son?"

"He is here. He's fine. Quite fine."

"Who IS THIS?"

"Miss Huffington?"

"Mr. Greenleaf! Oh, my gosh...is he there? He shouldn't have bothered you. I'm so sorry."

"Apology accepted, thought it is unnecessary."

"I can be there in fifteen minutes to pick him up."

"Nonsense. He's quite comfortable and sleeping soundly. Whatever agitation drove him from home seems now to have run its course. Why not let him remain and take him home tomorrow."

"I don't want to cause any trouble."

"It's no trouble at all."

"Did he...talk to you about what was bothering him?"

He heard the embarrassment in her voice, the fear, but knew not what he could do to reassure her. He hated lying, but knew that full disclosure at this time may not be prudent. He wanted the boy to know that he would under all circumstances keep his word. Tristan's fears and concerns must remain in confidence.

"Actually, he said very little."

There, not too great a lie. Though in his heart he knew that the size of the lie did not make it any less a lie. But he could not bring himself to betray Tristan. Perhaps Miss Huffington would fully disclose all that had transpired with a little prompting.

"Perhaps you could...elucidate."

"We had a fight," she said. "He can be very stubborn."

"A trait inherited from his father, perhaps?"

Silence. Like the forest before a storm, before the winds would come and turn the leaves backwards to warn of the approaching squall.

"Are you sure it's all right for Tristan to be there? I can come get him..."

"He is perfectly safe with me," Legolas assured her. "We'll both see you in the morning. You are coming to work, aren't you?"

"Yes," she said quickly. "I owe you a great debt, Mr. Greenleaf."

"We shall talk more tomorrow."

He did not mean to make is sound so much like a threat. He heard the line disengage, and Legolas closed the cell phone and placed it on the floor near the couch where Tristan slept.

He moved near the fire and stood, determined that he would stay here the entire night, standing watch over Tristan. And whether Tristan would desire it or not, he now had a protector and benefactor in Legolas. For if indeed the child was the product of Valgur's seed, Legolas was sure the boy was in some danger. Legolas also knew that he would soon face Valgur in battle once again. Perhaps, this time, it would be the last.

* * *

It was shortly after midnight, and Valgur was bored. He loved walking the streets at night. He loved the silence. He loved the fear he could instill, when he'd pick someone to follow. Particularly a female. The females of this species were so easily terrified. It no longer offered a challenge, but it did bring him some dark amusement.

The woman he picked tonight was not on foot, but sitting doubled parked in a car that Valgur deeply coveted. A black Mustang convertible. Amazing sounding engine, like a spider queen prior to mating. Or killing. Such power, insufficiently used by the pretty young female that sat behind the wheel talking animatedly on her cell phone. Valgur watched her from just across the street, biding his time, planning his move.

While he waited, he considered his visit to his lovely ex-wife, Charlita. He was sorry when the divorce papers were given him to sign by his court-appointed attorney, while he was serving his first year behind bars. Not sorry that Charlita wished to divorce him, but that she had grown wise to his manipulations, immune to his lies, and weary of his mistreatment. Now he'd have to find a new female. They were so easy, these women. Lavish them with attention, promise them love, threaten them with mystery and the unknown, and they were his to bend or break at will. Play the suffering, misunderstood, loveless soul, and they would leap to be the one to end the suffering, and provide the love and understanding, even if they must sell their own souls to do it. Valgur loved modern human women. So lost and jaded by their independence that they barely recognized when they had been enslaved.

Better than human females when it came to manipulation, thought Valgur, were aged human males. The older and more physically incapacitated, the better. Anytime he found someone in need, there was room for great and skillful manipulation. Play upon the loneliness, the need for others to care for their needs, and Valgur had only to wait until their passing to take without fit or fight whatever he wished. There was sometimes the messy detail of family, who can be quite greedy when it came to an estate, but often these old men had no one, or no one interested enough to give of themselves or their time. So upon their "sad and untimely" demise, Valgur would be there to take what money or possessions he could before the legal authorities would step in and claim whatever was left for the survivors or the state. And he was often instrumental in helping the old men get to their next life, or whatever they believed in. A pillow over the face, and accidental over- or under dose of prescribed medication, or an accidental fall down a wide and winding staircase. So many ways to get what one needs. He wondered what this Mr. Greenleaf would be like, and what method would be most efficient in hurrying him to his afterlife. Charlita did not seem to have much to say about him (and he was inclined to believe her). She said that Greenleaf's fortune seemed to lie inexplicably in old books and papers. He would ask her to steal for him a sample of his so-called fortune so that he could determine its worth and potential wealth. Perhaps it would fetch him a little "getting around" money until he could find the next unwitting benefactor. Right now, his attention was drawn back to the young woman eagerly leaping out of her Mustang.

She was proving to be most cooperative. She headed to the brightly lit ATM to make a late night withdrawal. Valgur loved ATMs. Quite an amazing invention, he believed. That one could simply pass a thin plastic card into the mechanism, punch in a few numbers on a key pad, and be given great amounts of cash for such simple effort both amazed and amused him. Having no card of his own, he often liberated cards from such unsuspecting individuals as the driver of the Mustang convertible. He simply appeared, seemingly out of nowhere - surprise being the key advantage - and then took from them what they had just taken themselves. But not tonight. Valgur like everything he saw. Not just the car, or the cash. The woman was equally worth having. Young, pale, pretty despite her thinness and round ears. Long legs, barely covered in a tiny skirt. Preoccupied by her own beauty and easily distracted by the simplest things. Valgur decided tonight he would have it all.

"Hello," he said, as she was about to climb back into her car. "Could you help me please? I seem to have run out of gas."

"That is so tired and overused," she said, eyes rolling up to the night sky.

"You don't believe me?" he asked, the hurt showing on his face, which had an immediate affect on the young woman's expression.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"Perhaps a lift to my car, or better yet, to a nearby hotel. I'm new in town."

"Where are you from?"

"Far, far away."

She like this. She smiled.

"I like your accent. Are you English?"

"Not exactly. I like your accent too."

Her smile widened.

He took the next shot. "And you have a beautiful smile. Angelic in nature. I know I will be in safe hands."

"Yeah, this place can be dangerous if you don't know your way around. What's your name?"

"Valgur. And yours?"

"Marisol."

"How elegant, how beautiful. An ancient name."

"Really? Does it mean anything?"

"I'm afraid the translation to your tongue would not do it justice. However, your smile does."

She giggled. She was almost there.

Valgur wrapped his long strong arms around himself and faked a shiver.

"Are you cold?" she asked, taking the cue.

"A little. I've been walking for hours now, trying to find someone kind enough to help a stranger in a strange land."

"Good luck," she said.

"Yes. Although I have to admit I understand their hesitation. This world can be a very violent and ugly one at times. So unlike...."

"Unlike what?"

"Where I come from. A land of great peace and uncommon beauty. Ancient, magnificent. Forgive me, I've grown very nostalgic since my arrival, and I have no friends here. I'm quite alone."

"No friends? That sucks."

"Yes," he said mournfully, letting his blue/black eyes drift as if caught in memory, while his blue/black hair floated in the evening breeze, giving only a hint of his exotic elvish ears.

Marisol could not stop looking at him.

Closer, he thought. Almost there.

"It was lovely speaking with you, Marisol. I shall remember your kindness forever."

Valgur turned and began to walk away.

"Wait!" Marisol called out, watching him leave. She got behind the wheel, gunned the engine and drove up to Valgur.

"I can give you a ride."

"It isn't necessary," Valgur said, tempering his tone, drawing the pity from her heart like poison from a wound. "I can walk. But I do deeply appreciate the offer."

"No, get in. Nobody should be alone out here at night. Please."

Ensnared.

Valgur smiled. He knew that was his greatest weapon in the disarming of a woman's common sense. And her heart. He climbed in, throwing his hair back, freely letting his pointed ears show.

"The women of your time are so giving."

"What do you mean, of my time?"

"Did I say time? I meant, of your country."

"Right," Marisol said. She saw him shiver again.

"I'll put the top up and turn on the heat."

"I'd like that," Valgur said. He let his body go limp, as if he was about to pass out, letting the full weight of his body lean against hers for just a second. He knew he was overdoing it, but he loved this game far too much to stop now.

"Hey! You okay?"

"Yes, forgive me. It's the first time I've sat down in hours. I'm quite weary. And I have eaten since...I believe I've lost track."

"You're going to make yourself sick."

"Then I am lucky to have found an angel of mercy to take care of me, if only for an hour."

"Sit back, we'll get you something to eat. Do you have any money?"

"A little. All I have is yours."

"Foreign guys are so sweet."

"Any kindness I have to offer," Valgur said, reaching out to touch her hand with his long tapered fingers, "is merely a reflection of you."

She looked down as she entwined her fingers with his, and gasped. She could have sworn that his hand was glowing.

"Tell me about my name," Marisol said as she began to drive away.

Chapter 6

"Legolas...can you hear me, mellon nin?"

He could hear, yes, but could not at the moment speak, so severe was his agony. He felt hands hurriedly tending his injuries, pulling away his clothing, applying pressure to gushing wounds. The smell of simmering herbs and spilled blood let him know that he was in a house of healing. But these healers were not Elves, for they spoke in the harsh language of Men.

"Aragorn," he managed through clenched teeth, and nearly cried out as someone pulled a deeply embedded arrowhead from his left thigh. He opened his eyes and saw the blurry rush of the healers fighting to staunch the bleeding. He began to tremble as all warmth left his body in a sudden rush.

Strong hands took hold of his left hand and held fast.

Legolas coughed harshly, and blood filled his mouth and spilled down his chin.

Tears fell from Aragorn's eyes.

"Whatever grace I have, whatever strength I have, let it pass to thee..."

"I do not fear death," Legolas whispered, his voice trembling.

"I know, mellon nin. But it is my prayer that you do not die, and that you do not miss the final ship to the undying lands. Live for this, if not for me."

"I cannot leave...not when your life... your kingdom... hang in the balance."

"It is the concern of Men, Legolas. It need not be your concern."

Legolas paused to take offense at this, but then cried out, the offense all but forgotten. His body seized in a fit of agony when cleansing herbs where placed upon his severest wound. Aragorn cringed - he'd never heard his friend scream in such a manner before. He held Legolas' trembling shoulders down, and gave the healers a warning look. They obediently continued their work with a more careful touch.

"I am your friend," Legolas panted, "and... your servant. My life is...yours."

"Then do as I command you. Live. You will be on your feet in short order, and I will see you to Rivendell, even if I must carry you there myself."

"Nay. My place is at your side. Let the argument end here, and let the last ship sale on, for only death will release me from my oath to serve you."

* * *

"Awake and arise."

Tristan stirred and wiped his eyes with his fists.

"Hi," he said groggily.

"Good morning."

"Is my mom here?"

"Not yet, but she will be arriving soon."

"What time is it?" Tristan asked, stiffly pulling himself into a sitting position.

"One quarter after the hour of five."

"Why'd you wake me up so early?"

"It is my ritual to stroll the gardens at first light. Would you join me?"

Tristan pulled himself from the couch and stretched.

"Where's my hat?" he asked, touching his ears, feeling exposed and insecure.

"You need not hide who you are with me," Legolas said, pulling his hair back and proudly revealing his own ears. "Be proud of who you are. Come."

* * *

They walked the gardens slowly and for what had to be close to an hour, in mutual, solemn silence. They watched as the sun rose and settled upon them, bringing the promise of unusual but welcomed warmth to the day. When they arrived the place where Tristan first revealed his true heritage to Legolas, they sat. This would hence become their place of friendship and meeting.

Legolas noticed young Tristan shudder.

"Fear not," Legolas said.

"I'm not afraid."

"Good. I know you have many questions, about me, about yourself. Perhaps about your father. I wish to answer as much as I can in the time we have left."

"Does that mean I can't come back?"

"Of course not," Legolas said, touching the boy's shoulder with a reassuring hand.

"Baren bar lin."

"What?"

"That means my home is your home. You may visit as often as you wish, and whatever we cannot finish today, we shall finish another day. You have my word."

Comfort came quickly to Tristan, who merely stared at Legolas at first, then smile.

"First question?" asked Legolas.

"Can you do that glow thing again?"

"I can. And so can you, though you are probably not yet aware of it."

Legolas allowed his true nature to shine. Tristan smiled.

"That is so cool."

It was Legolas' turn to smile now.

"Next question?"

"Is your name really Mr. Greenleaf?"

"It is merely a loose translation of my true name."

"Which is?"

"Legolas."

"Legolas," he said, then repeated it, letting the foreign sound of it roll around until he became used to it.

"Legolas...I like it. So...what are you? And am I like you?"

"We are part of a ancient race of being known as Elf."

"Elf? Like, elf? Nuh-uhn! Elves are little guys with green shorts and funny voices, like in children's books! You don't look like that. And I don't either!"

"Nor did any Elf I ever met. Children's literature has done much to malign and degrade the image of the Elf, to my sincere irritation. Reduced us to harmless, ignoble caricatures. But the Elves of my time, whose blood you share, were mighty warriors, noble kings, artisans and philosophers. They were beautiful creatures, lithe and elegant, strong and brave, with a profound love for nature and all its glory that ran deep in our souls. Our very strength came from nature - the trees, the grass, the soil, the water and the rock, from the air and the elements. It would be arrogant to say that we were among the most beautiful in all creation, yet, it would not be far from true. For thousands and thousands of years, we lived, fought, hunted, and some even died, in a world that no longer exists."

"What do you mean, some died? Everybody dies."

"And many did. On the field of battle. Or worse, fell victim to a broken heart. All others now reside in a place that is unattainable, called the Grey Havens, or the Undying Lands. You see, the Elf is immortal."

"You don't die?"

"Not as humans do, from illness, or age. We can die, as I said, from a wound, or a wounded heart. But otherwise, yes, we live for a very, very long time."

"How old are you?"

"It's difficult to calculate by your standards of measuring time, but if I were to estimate, I would say...nine thousand, one hundred and four years. Thereabout."

Tristan's mouth fell open. As before, Legolas prompted him to close it with a finger to his chin. Only this time, his mouth fell open again.

Legolas laughed.

"So, you'll never die?"

"I may. I may not. I will not know until the moment arrives."

"And what about me?" Tristan asked, a little afraid to hear the answer. "Will I live as long as you?"

"You may. Your human half makes you vulnerable to all the maladies that befall humans. Your Elf half, however, could provide you with unusual strength and longevity. You have yet to be tested. Come," Legolas prompted Tristan as he stood, "no more questions."

"Why?"

"Let your senses tell you."

Tristan looked confused at first, but then stood and closed his eyes, his face showing his hard concentration. Suddenly his eyes opened wide and he smiled.

"My mom's here!"

Tristan took off in a shot ahead of Legolas, racing back into the halls of Mirkwood Manor.

"Na-den pedim ad, Tristan," Legolas whispered. "Until we speak again."

* * *

Tristan opened the heavy main door for his mother and leaped into her arms. Charlita was so grateful she did not wish to let him go. Eventually she did, and gave her son a good long look.

"Are you okay?"

He nodded enthusiastically.

"Do you have any idea how angry you made me? Or how frightened I was? Don't you ever do that to me again! Go running off, no phone call, no nothing. Do you understand me, Tristan?"

"Yes, he said, sheepishly.

"And bothering Mr. Greenleaf...you know, he could fire me for this."

"He won't. He told me baren bar lin!"

"What does that mean?"

"It means it's okay."

"It's not okay as far as I'm concerned. Understand?"

Tristan nodded, wanting to move on from the subject.

"You still mad at me?" Charlita asked, this being her turn to ask sheepishly.

"Not anymore. You mad at me?"

"No," she said, "not anymore." She gave him another hug.

Tristan touched her mother's still swollen lip with the tip of his finger.

"Does that hurt?"

"Not much. Where's Mr. Greenleaf?"

"In the garden."

"Good," she said, looking around, not wishing to be seen by him.

"And where's your hat?"

Automatically the boy's hands shot up to cover his ears. And then he thought better of it, and dropped his hands, proudly letting his ears show.

"I don't need it here."

"So, Mr. Greenleaf knows?"

"Yes. He said I should be proud of who I am."

"Haven't I always told you that myself?"

"Yeah, he but says it cooler."

"Right," she said, shaking her head. She handed him one of two duffle bags she had brought with her.

"There's fresh clothing, your toothbrush, and your school books. I want you to go get cleaned up. I'll put you in a cab to school."

"Cool!"

"You're not the one paying for it. Now get going."

Tristan took hold of the bag and ran up the wide steps, taking two at a time. Charlita smiled at how agile and swift her son was. She had always marveled at how he was never as clumsy as other boys his age. It went beyond athletic. It was more like physically elegant. Not exactly words one should generally use to describe one's son, but nothing else seemed to fit the bill.

Once he had disappeared, Charlita took stock of her surroundings, looking carefully around the foyer, listening for signs of her employer. Remembering his stealth, she knew it would do her little good as he could appear seemingly out of nowhere.

She moved as quietly as she could down the hall to the archive room. The door was closed - good! He would not be inside. She entered, turned on the light, and closed the door softly behind her. She would have to move quickly, not because time was of the essence, but because if she did not act now, in the moment, she knew she would soon lose all nerve.

Valgur had demanded that she bring him some sample of her employer's collection - something he could use to determine its value. It took all that she could muster to simply choose a piece - an intricately detailed map with dried brown edges - and gingerly roll it up and slip it into her bag. She knew it would be a mistake to put Valgur off. Better to show him and hope he would find no value in it, and pray he leave her alone due to lack of interest. But she hated betraying her employer this way. She recalled, when first they met, the way he implied how precious his collection was to him. Were he to find out she was stealing from him, even if it was to protect him, and to save herself and her son from Valgur's wrath, she was certain that she would be summarily dismissed and her reputation despoiled. Yet to deny Valgur was to invite great pain. This was a lesson she had no intention of learning once again.

* * *

"Wakey wakey..."

Marisol prodded Valgur with a finger. She didn't really want him to wake up. She enjoyed lying there and watching him.

Where had he come from, this oddly beautiful creature, this otherworldly man whose charm was enticing and yet also a bit creepy? Marisol had always been attracted bad boys - destructive, incorrigible, unrepentantly selfish men whose objective was only to satisfy the craving of the immediate, the now. It suited her tastes because that too was her only objective. In truth, the worse they were, the harder she fell for them. But more times that not, she found herself left behind, abandoned, forgotten. She made no excuses, nor did she harbor some deep desire to change one day. She was perfectly happy to continue as she always had, haphazardly escaping ruin and death for the thrill and mystery bad boys offered.

She was chilled by his strange beauty - it both attracted and frightened her, making her stomach flutter, making her head light as heralding a fainting spell. His skin was so pale that it almost seemed to glow. His eyes - what color were they? - mesmerized her. Even with bed head he was beautiful - every thick, blue-black strand of hair was perfect even as it was out of place.

Valgur stirred and opened his eyes. Sleeping was not usually not so often essential, not for an Elf. However Valgur had adopted many bad human habits such as drinking in excess and other acts of debauchery, often suffering their ill effects as badly as humans did. He required some downtime to recuperate and regenerate.

Valgur sat up quickly, shaking out the cobwebs in his brain and then getting immediately out of bed. He grabbed his clothes and began dressing, no thought or word of greeting to Marisol.

"I thought we could go get breakfast," Marisol said, determined to be acknowledged.

Valgur continued to dress, not even looking Marisol's way.

"Hey..."

Nothing.

She reached for one of her spike heeled shoes on the floor and threw it at Valgur. Valgur turned quickly and caught the shoe without effort. His eyes burned into hers.

Marisol cringed.

"I don't like being ignored," she said, "not after what we did last night."

"Last night," he said, buttoning his shirt, "is over. A new day has dawned. And I must now take my leave."

"Will you call me?"

Valgur didn't answer.

Marisol slid out of bed, using the sheet to cover herself.

"Look, last night you were all, 'please help me, I'm a poor lost lamb' and this morning you're all acting like a...like a jerk! And all that stuff you said, about being from an ancient race, about being a warrior and all that crap, you almost had me believing you."

"Actually it was all true. I used it to get you into bed. In retrospect, however, I should have simply settled for taking your money."

Marisol picked up her other shoe and moved to throw it.

"Do that, and you shall regret it."

She believed him, and let the shoe fall from her hand.

"I need a one last favor," Valgur said.

"Die."

"Not anytime soon, love. I need your car keys."

"Kiss my - "

Valgur was across the room and had the woman's head in a vice grip before she could say another word. She squirmed, tried to scream, but could not.

"Perhaps you did not hear me. I NEED YOUR CAR KEYS. Now please, tell me where they are."

Marisol pointed a shaky hand to the dresser by the door.

"Lovely," Valgur said.

He pulled her close, his smooth cheek brushing against hers.

"I wish I could say I had a good time, but among my many faults, flaws and bad habits, lying to a woman is not one of them. You're a spoilt, self-centered, arrogant little pig of a girl, good for one toss and not a particularly good one. The women of your time are so unschooled in the ways of love. So selfish, so awkward, and not to mention boorishly loud. As I will never have back the time I wasted with you, I demand payment in the form of your little black automobile. Fair enough?"

He forced her head up and down in a farcical agreement.

"Good! Now the time has come to say goodbye."

Despite the pressure of Valgur squeezing her face, she uttered a common and descriptive curse. The expletive made him smile.

And then he twisted her head quickly until he heard her neck snap, and felt the full weight of her body go limp.

Valgur let her body drop to the floor, then headed for the door, grabbing the keys from the dresser.

He blew Marisol's dead body a kiss, smiled, and left.

* * *

"Miss Huffington?"

She jumped and barely suppressed a shout at the sound of her name, at the sound of his voice. All day she had managed to avoid contact with her employer. And now, just as she was about to leave, she had hesitated, pulling from her bag the map she had determined she would sneak out of the manor. Wondering if she should return it to its place, and risk Valgur's volatile temper, or keep it and leave, hoping her employer would not be the wiser. If only she had not hesitated, felt the weight of guilt for what she was about to do, she would have been long gone by the time Mr. Greenleaf had appeared. She looked down at her hands. The edges of the old map had practically turned to dust, coating her fingers. She quickly blew the residue away.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come in."

She did not turn around to face him, but slipped the map back into her bag and pretended to keep busy about her work, hoping to discourage a conversation.

"I meant not to startle you," Legolas spoke as he continued into the room. "My apology. I've come to look in on your progress. How goes the work?"

"It goes well," she said, keeping her back to him, not wanting him to see her face. The bruising had darkened as the day grew older, as it usually did before eventually improving and fading.

"Perhaps you will show me?"

"I was just about to leave," she said, praying he would not keep her. "Perhaps tomorrow, or better, next week, when the system is online and ..."

"Turn around."

She froze where she stood.

"What?"

"Turn around. Please."

"Why?"

"Because, it is difficult to carry on a conversation with your back."

There was not much she could do but follow his wishes. She had an excuse in place - plausible denial - but knew deep down that he would not easily accept it or agree to be fooled. She swallowed loudly, then turned slowly, eyes on the floor. When she faced him, her eyes rolled up to meet his.

She heard his breath catch in his throat, saw how his lips parted and eyes widened in deep distress as concern dawned on his face.

"I know it looks terrible," she said, forcing a smile, "but it looks worse than it actually is, I assure you."

"Then you will not mind sharing with me how your injuries came to be."

"It's very silly, and very embarrassing. I feel stupid telling you, really," she said.

"But I opened the door...the door to my apartment...my front door...last night. And I forgot to close it. So I turned, and ran into it. Right into the door. So stupid. Busted my lip good. And the side of my face. Tiniest cut. Nothing really."

Just as she thought, he would not easily buy into her lie. Not that she was particularly convincing. Be she would hold fast to her story, and not let him sway her toward a confession.

"Indeed? Hm. You have a very dangerous door," he said.

She nodded, awkwardly avoiding his intense gaze.

"And how did your door managed to bruise your neck?"

Her heart leaped with fear of discovery. A hand shot to her throat to hide the obvious bruises, a necklace of red and purplish finger marks. She had been so careful to wear a scarf on the way in to work to hide the injury, but had taken it off a few hours earlier as the warmth of the day crept into the archive. She had meant to put it on again, but had forgotten.

"I will ask you only once what has happened," he said, "and I will not coerce an answer from you. If you say I should mind my own business, I shall. But if you choose to answer, I demand the truth."

"I've told you the truth."

"Who did this to you?" he insisted.

"You said you would not coerce me."

"Charlita," he said, using her given name for the very first time since their introduction, "do not let stubborn pride be your undoing."

Charlita turned away, covering her face with her hands. She fought not to cry, not to let her emotions get the best of her. But she failed.

"I could tell you," she whispered, "but what would be the point? This is the consequence for a mistake made long ago. And there is little you or anyone else can do about it."

Legolas took a step closer.

"Sometime, help is available in the least likeliest of places."

She thought about it - how easy it would have been to blurt out everything she had been carrying for so long, purge her system of the evil infection that was Valgur. But knowing his capabilities when it came to violence, she feared for the safety of the man that stood before her.

"Miss Huffington," Legolas said, returning to a more formal tone, "if you fear for my safety, I can assure you, your fear is unfounded. Your tormentor poses little threat to me."

"How do you do that? Read my mind like that?"

"It is your face I read, a face which reveals the very core of your heart. For good or ill, you can hide little from anyone. Not even what lies hidden in your bag."

"What?"

Legolas held out his hand for the bag she clutched. She opened it, and removed the stolen map.

"I'm so sorry," she said in a whisper, "truly sorry."

She placed the map in his hands. Tears spilled down her cheek.

He stared at it, not quite sure how to proceed, or what was appropriate to say. Anger began to burn within him, but the need to understand her motives outweighed the need to seek retribution.

Charlita took a deep breath, and raced for the door.

"Where are going?"

"Home," she said. "I assume I am fired."

More of a statement than a question.

"You assume too much. I insist you remain at least until you have adequately explain yourself."

She stopped short of reaching for the door then turned back to Mr. Greenleaf.

"I can't. You won't understand. I can't explain further. Do not ask me. It's all so complicated, so out of control, that ..."

Charlita nearly choked, indeed, nearly fainted, as Legolas pulled back his thick platinum hair, revealing his perfect, pointed ears. He glowed, ever so slightly, making Charlita gasp. She fell back against the door, her legs gone weak, threatening to give out from under her.

"Stay," he implored, "for it appears we both have much explaining to do."

Chapter 7

His strength was returning slowly. He was far from fully restored. The injuries were massive, and he had come very close to giving in to shadow. There was no greater pity than when an immortal creature such as an elf, who might otherwise live until the earth itself gasped its last breath, succumbed to death by gruesome chance.

Legolas pulled his tunic on gingerly, careful not to aggravate the wounds that were wrapped tightly and still healing. His tunic hung loser on him than before, the loss of body mass an indication of the toll taken on his suffering body. Over his tunic came his armor. Legolas hugged one arm closely to his body, still feeling a weakness in the limb, as he reached with the other for his quiver. It seemed heavier than he remembered, but he knew full well that once he returned to the heat of battle this, as well as his aching body, would be of little concern to him. He was determined to face his enemy again. He had a desperate score to settle.

"Master Elf," one of several Healers spoke before Legolas could drag himself completely out the door, "it is unwise for you to be moving about. Your wounds require more time."

"An elf needs little time for recuperation," he said with wavering conviction.

"True, under normal circumstances. But you have suffered more than most, Master Elf."

Legolas knew this was true. And he felt it. But he also knew he had little choice. Time was crucial, for if he did not act swiftly his prey would depart to places unknown and justice for the vile attack against Aragorn, the King of Gondor, his life-long friend would never be served.

"My suffering is of little consequence," he said, willing his old strength to return. He slung his quiver across his shoulder, biting back the urge to groan as pain radiated through every fevered muscle. He felt his body shudder, but he fought to hide this from the Healer.

"King Aragorn will be greatly displeased. He would never allow this," the Healer humbly rebuked Legolas.

"He shall come to accept it. Have them fetch my horse, and make ready for my departure."

* * *

"Is it not considered rude in your culture to stare?"

Charlita could not tear her eyes away from him. She could barely speak, or hardly breathe. Her mind was flooded with rushing images of dense green forests and leaves shining with dew, moss-covered mountains and streams with the purest water flowing swiftly over pearlescent stones. Her heart skipped as she imagined the sound of swords clashing, her body shook at the thought of horses' hooves thundering across the plain, racing to the horizon. Where did these images come from?

She backed away from him, fear suddenly making her whole body tremble. She kept backing away until she made impact with a wall.

"Stay away," she said in a nervous whisper.

"Do not fear me," Legolas said, reaching out a glowing hand.

"NO! Don't touch me!"

"I am not Valgur."

"But you are like him."

"We are both elfkind, true, but I am not in manner like him. I would hope you knew that by now."

Somewhere in her heart and her mind, she did. Still, she raised a hand, demonstrating her intense desire for distance.

"I need a moment," she said. "Let me think for a moment."

She felt her legs weakening, her knees buckling. The room suddenly became a gray fog. She felt her body begin to slide toward the floor. Strong, sure arms took hold of her, pulling her back from the brink, and urging her to a chair to sit. She did not fight him.

Her hands found his arms and held tight. The muscles were like stone. The strength she felt was both tremendous and alarming.

"I'm okay," she said, willing him away from her.

"You swooned. Be still until the faintness passes."

"No, I'm okay," Charlita insisted, letting go of his arms and pulling away from him.

"Does Tristan know about you?"

"Yes."

"He kept it from me."

"That is my fault," Legolas confessed, "I asked him to keep it secret for a time. Forgive the deception."

"No wonder he came here. No wonder he trusts you. It's true. All true. About the ages. About Middle Earth. About the elves."

Legolas nodded once.

"The maps, the books," she said, head still spinning, "they're from then."

"Yes," said Legolas, "as am I."

"This is too incredible."

"Stay here," Legolas insisted, "and I will fetch water for you."

She watched him as he left. She considered standing and running, getting out of there as fast as she could and getting as far away as possible. But the room was still undulating and she was slowly losing her apprehension. Now she wanted answers.

Legolas returned as he promised with a small glass half filled with water. She took it, murmuring a thank you and took a sip from it. She'd always wondered why, when people fainted, they were offered water. Now she knew. It gave one a focus, and allowed one time to collect their thoughts.

"How many more of your kind are there?" she asked.

Legolas' eyes, which were once bright, seemed to dull at the thought of this. Sadness claimed his expression.

"No more, I believe it is safe to say. All that remain stands before you. And Valgur, of course."

"How do you know about Valgur?"

"Tristan spoke of him. He left out many details. Perhaps you could provide more."

"How much did he tell you?"

"Enough to know that you are in great danger, so long as you have dealings with him. You were stealing from me at his behest, were you not?"

Charlita's head dipped slightly to hide her renewed shame.

"What does Valgur know about me?"

"Nothing. I told him you were an eccentric old man...."

Her voice trailed off, as her eyes began to examine Legolas' unlined face.

She asked in a fearful whisper, "How old are you?"

"As old as he," Legolas confessed. "Nay, older, if memory serves."

"This is insane."

"But nonetheless true. Please, Miss Huffington. I would have you tell me everything you know of Valgur, and all you suspect."

"And what will you tell me in return?"

"In time, all the truth there is. For now, some small ignorance of the truth will serve to keep you alive."

* * *

She told him everything. How she and Valgur had met. Their short-lived marriage. The schemes and scams perpetrated on the innocent and unsuspecting. The violence that tainted their relationship and destroyed her trust in virtually everyone. The fear of losing her son. The fear she carries still at the mere thought of Valgur. And how his resurfacing had torn her orderly world apart.

And now, he wanted to know what might be worth stealing from the elderly Mr. Greenleaf. Charlita was surprised to see her employer smile a bit at hearing this part of the tale.

"So little changes over time," Legolas said, "even after several millennia. Avarice, deceit, betrayal."

Legolas unrolled the map that Charlita was going to take to Valgur and gave it a long look.

"This will not do," he said, and tossed the map gently back to the table. He picked up a different map. He smiled.

"Give him this one instead."

"Why?"

"See if he remembers it. It is a place forever etched in my memory. I am willing to gamble that it will be the same for Valgur. He will doubtlessly ask you many questions. Do not answer him. Instead, tell him to seek his own answers. Insist that he come and see for himself."

"You want him to come here?"

"If he wishes to come, yes, let him. Let the map be the lure. Let him come and I will rid you and your son of Valgur forever."

"Wait," Charlita said, leaping to her feet, her heart racing now. "You're not going to kill him are you?"

Legolas did not answer.

"I won't be a party to this. I won't be an accessory to murder. Even if it is Valgur."

"You still love him?"

"No!" Charlita insisted, a little too harshly. Had he hit a nerve?

"You do wish to be rid of him, do you not?"

"Yes. Can't you just scare him off, make him go away?"

"The Valgur I remember would never respond to mere scare tactics. Charlita, do you trust me?"

"How can I trust you? I don't even know if Greenleaf is your real name."

"Call me by my true name, but only when you are here. Anonymity is crucial to my existence. Without it, I am lost. My name is Legolas. Now, will you trust me?"

This time she nodded.

"Then this is what you must do."

* * *

She did exactly as Legolas explained. She arranged for Tristan to be returned from school to Mirkwood Manor. Once he was secure, she would venture home long enough to leave the map given her by Legolas in an envelope taped to her front door. She would return to the safety of the Manor, and await Valgur's undoubtedly frantic call on her cell phone. She would not yet reveal their whereabouts, until Legolas had time to devise a more intricate plan. For now, they would settle for seeing Valgur become ensnared by curiosity and fear.

She sat in stillness and silence, absorbed in the calm that settled upon Mirkwood Manor. Would that her own home could feel this tranquil, especially in the midst of life's many intrusions and mishaps. She felt unusually safe within the walls, knowing that just out in the garden were Legolas, her employer and benefactor, and her son. She imagined they had much to discuss, considering their common ancestry.

Beside her on the soft cushion was her cell phone. She was to answer it only if Legolas was in the room, so that he could monitor her responses and thereby choose a plan of action based on the conversation.

It was still fifteen minutes until the eighth hour, and her calm was beginning to give way to restlessness. She stood and moved to the glass doors that lead to the garden. The path was milky white from a close and generous moonlight. She stepped outside and felt the chill air surround her. She wrapped her arms around herself and began to quietly, slowly follow the path, hoping to see somewhere in the dark her son, and that he was fine in the presence of the elf who had now become her boy's mentor.

She heard not only voices, but the sound of hard metal clanging together. She picked up her pace to follow the sounds, then stepped behind high leafy hedges to spy on - or rather, observe - her son and the former Mr. Greenleaf.

Despite the cold, Legolas wore no shirt or jacket. In Legolas' hands were two long knives - white handled, gleaming, sharp. He stepped, struck out, stepped back, struck an imaginary foe behind him, turned and blocked an imaginary blow and struck again. She watched this display of grace and ferocity, elegance and deadly force with wonder and excitement. His muscles rippled and dance with each move, and his long white hair took to the air with every turn of his head. His face showed a determination and discipline she had never witnessed before. And then he stopped.

Despite the quickness of his deadly routine, he was neither winded nor was he sweaty. He flipped the blades deftly, with a cockiness common to every male she'd ever met. He then offered the blades to Tristan.

"No!" Charlita called out before she could stop herself.

Tristan and Legolas turned at the sound of her voice. Charlita came out of hiding.

"What are you teaching my child?"

"I'm not a child!" Tristan cried in his defense.

"I'm teaching him," Legolas said, "how to defend himself."

"Not with those things," she said, pointing to the long blades.

"Mom!"

"Don't "mom" me! You could hurt yourself with those things. I won't allow it."

"As you wish," Legolas said, and moved the blades from Tristan's reach.

"No, Legolas!"

"She is your mother, and I must respect her wishes as they pertain to you."

"No!" Tristan cried, turning angrily to his mother. "When are you going to learn to trust me?"

Charlita had no answer. It was the fear of every mother. The fear that her child was no longer a child. The realization that she could no longer adequately protect him. She could put her foot down, deny him this opportunity to find out how strong he could be, make him feel small and inconsequential. Or she could take a risk, let him try. Somehow she knew that Legolas would allow no real harm to come to him.

"Will you protect him?" she asked, needing to be sure.

"With my very life," Legolas promised.

"All right," she acquiesced. "Just don't do anything stupid. As if this isn't stupid enough."

"Cool!" Tristan said, and reached for the knives.

"Not yet," Legolas warned. "Calm yourself first. These are dangerous weapons, the chosen weapon of elven assassins. They are lethal, sharper than you can imagine. Do not let your zeal to use them be your undoing."

Tristan nodded and took a deep, calming breath. His face became unstressed, his body still and sure as he reached for the blades Legolas offered.

Charlita heard her breath catch in the back of her throat as her son took hold of the knives. She watched as Tristan held them out in a defensive stance, one high, one low, as Legolas instructed. She marveled as her son followed Legolas's every instruction, duplicating the exact routine she had witnessed Legolas performing. The blades seemed quite natural in her half-elven son's hands, more natural than a baseball bat or a video game control. She was amazed and proud. And a little frightened.

The moment was broken by soft chimes from far away, inside the house.

"My cell phone," Charlita said, dread in her voice. "Valgur."

"Inside," Legolas said, taking the knives from Tristan and ushering them back to the Manor.

* * *

"Try to sound natural," Legolas said, as he slipped into a button down shirt. He hovered just behind Charlita where she sat on the sofa, and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"I am here," he said, hoping to boost the woman's courage rather than inhibit her performance.

Charlita nodded and pressed the talk button on the cell.

"Hello?"

"WHERE ARE YOU?"

Charlita nodded to Legolas, just to confirm that the caller was indeed Valgur.

"I had to leave. Bit of an emergency. Did you get the envelope?"

"I did. I need to see you. Where are you?"

"I'm not coming home tonight. I'm staying with a friend."

"Listen to me, Charlita, and listen well. You are to leave wherever you are and come home now. I need to see you. I need to talk to you about this Mr. Greenleaf person."

"What do you need to know?"

"Where did he get this map?"

"I don't know. I'm just archive the stuff for him. I can ask him, but he's pretty closed-mouth about his precious maps and books. I can't even understand the language, and I have a BA in ancient languages. Do you know what it says?"

Charlita looked up at Legolas. He nodded and gave her a thin smile.

"Nevermind," Valgur snapped. "I need to know where he got this, and if there are any more. I also need to know everything you can tell me about him."

"Why? Do you think he may be an old acquaintance?"

There was a brief silence. Charlita looked to Legolas for strength to continue.

"Listen, you little twit," Valgur said in a low, angry voice, "if I find out you're playing me..."

"Playing you? Val, I don't understand. What is the significance of that old map?"

"JUST DO AS I SAY! And tell me where I can find this Greenleaf. I want to know where he lives, what he does. EVERYTHING!"

"The connection breaking up, can you hear me now?"

"Don't play with me, Charlita."

"I'm sorry, my phone's dying. The battery's almost spent. What did you say?"

"If you don't tell me what I want, you'll be the one that's dying, darling Charlita. And that is a promise I will enjoy keeping. And don't think for a moment I'll spare Tristan just because he's my little whelp. I'll make you watch him die first. Now, bring me more maps. Bring me whatever you can fit into that cheap bag of yours and bring them home tomorrow. And no leaving anything pinned to the door. I want to see you in the flesh, as it were. Understand me?"

"Yes, I understand. I'll see you tomorrow."

With that the line went dead.

Charlita looked up at Legolas with eyes that could not hide her fear.

"He wants more maps. He wants to know everything about you. He says he'll kill me if I don't do as he says."

"He's not very original, is he?"

"He also said," she began, unable to stop the single tear from rolling down her cheek, "that he'll kill Tristan, that he'll make me watch him die."

Legolas felt the dread radiating from her. He knew nothing else mattered more to her than the life of her son. He knew not what he could do to set her mind at rest. He only knew that he could not fail. Not fail her, Tristan, or himself.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Mr. Green...Legolas," she said, now as if she were reading his mind.

Legolas moved to the double doors that lead to the garden and looked up into the darkness. The moon was higher, farther away than earlier.

"The moon is veiled," Legolas whispered, though loud enough for Charlita to hear. "A shadow grows close. Darkness draws near."

"That's not very reassuring," Charlita said.

"Fear not. Where there is darkness, there will always be light. Eventually. You'll be safe here. Come. Let me show you to your room."

* * *

Valgur was incensed. He threw the phone against the wall, and then systematically began to destroy Charlita's apartment. What he could not break, he used to break other things. What he could not tear apart, he merely stomped upon, ruining with the dirt from his boots. When his anger was spent, as well as his suddenly violent burst of energy, he again turned to the map, which now lay upon a heap of broken vases and picture frames on the floor.

He picked it up gingerly, knowing that the aged parchment could easily crumble to dust. Not that this map could garner him one single piece of paper money. Nor would he sell it if an offer were upon the table. This map offered him a piece of his distant past.

Centuries, millennium had past, and still he remembered vividly the elf that stood against him at the shores of the land of Lhun. The proud, self-appointed guardian of the King of Gondor, who had hunted him down, accused him - rightly - of treachery, and, despite serious injury, challenged Valgur to a fight to the death. All while the last ships were pushing back, away from the shores. Knowing that he himself would remain among the vile race of men for the rest of his long days made him fight against this self-righteous, blindly heroic kinsman all the harder. He worked quickly to dispatch the elven assassin, only to collapse from a wound that pierced his heart and should have killed him outright. He bled into the sand, watching his immortal life slipping away. His only joy was knowing that he had heaped equal pain and suffering upon his foe. He watch his blood mingle with his enemy, and knew that even as he was dying, so too, was the blond elf, Legolas.

But fate had taken a strange turn in Valgur's favor. Valgur did not die. He dragged himself away from the battlefield, and fell into deep unconsciousness in the middle of a narrow road not far from Brandywine. He awoke from many days of coma and found himself under the gentle care and ministrations of a young and human widow whose name he had forgotten, but whose heart had suffered long under the yoke of loneliness. His story - lies - fell upon desperate ears eager for adventure, and soon he'd learned many a lesson about the frailty of the human heart.

As for his foe, could only assume that death had found him and claimed him.

But now, he knew the truth. Now, clenched in his trembling hands was proof positive that his enemy, like him, was very much alive.

"Mr. Greenleaf, indeed," Valgur snorted, and raced out of the apartment.

Valgur would finally get what he had merely dreamed of all his long life.

To mete out his final revenge against the Prince of Mirkwood.

Chapter 8

He rode for days, unsure if he were even traveling in the right direction, following clues, witness accounts and sometimes only Elven intuition, hoping to find his sworn enemy.

Valgur.

His wounds were slow in healing, aggravated by his activity.