"Slave number 16384. Adolescent female."
Rowan stood stock-still on the platform, staring straight ahead. The thick smoke in the room, accumulating from dozens of pipes, filled her lungs and burnt her eyes, but she didn't move.
"Arms out."
She raised her arms straight out to the sides, otherwise staying still. The men in the room studied the lean body before them, hard muscles hidden beneath skin barely tanned despite hours on end in the sun, long brown hair braided down her back.
"Price?"
"1200 nildas," came the answer from a shriveled old man beside the platform. A murmur went around the room, causing the man to feel he needed to explain. "It's an excellent worker," he advertised. "It can cook, clean, sew, harvest, build." He left out the stubbornness, the rebellions, the fact that it could read and write, the spirit. Truthfully, he was sort of sad to see it go --he rather enjoyed its spitfire. But everything must go.
A man from one of the corners of the room rose and walked slowly to the front, limping slightly, a gold-tipped cane his support system. He stopped in front of the platform and stared Rowan up and down.
His hand shot out and he grabbed her ankle, forcibly lifting her right foot off the platform. Rowan reacted only by shifting her weight so that she didn't fall.
The man smiled, a horribly charming look beneath his trimmed and greased appearance, then tossed a bag of coins to the man and said, "1500. Sold."
* * * * *
Rowan wiped the sweat off her forehead and gazed up momentarily at the vicious sun overhead. She was truly a beast, creating such horrible working conditions for all the slaves in Alrianto, and Rowan cursed her for ignoring their pleas.
It had been a long, hard summer. Rowan herself had only come to join the plantation-like community a week or two into it, but that still left plenty of work for her. One would think that during the off-season --that is, between planting and harvesting-- the slaves would be given a break, but this was not to be. Warian found work for them, whatever the weather, whatever their strengths or weaknesses, whatever the time of day.
Though she had been something of a novelty at her previous place of residency, here Rowan was treated like dirt by the other slaves. Usually people in such a condition banded together, providing each other with what strength and courage they had to share, looking past any difference in an attempt to help each other survive. This was the case with Warian's plantation, as well, except for Rowan.
Her first day at Warian's plantation --a large mansion surrounded by acres and acres of fields-- had been a rough one. She'd been tossed into her future home, a barrack right beside the livestock barns, evident by the smell, which she would be sharing with nineteen other people. There were five more barracks surrounding it, and more scattered in different places throughout Warian's land. The people in the barrack had looked up at her curiously as they always did with new arrivals, but this changed to distrust when she asked who their leader was.
"What do we need a leader for?" one old man returned, going back to some type of board game he was playing with a younger man.
Rowan had looked around the room, "To rebel, of course. To fight back."
"What do you mean, fight back?"
"You don't want to be slaves forever, do you?" she'd demanded.
"What else is there?" a woman inquired, rocking a small child on her lap. "Our family's are separated; we have no homes; we have no freedom. Here we are At least clothed and fed. No, there is nothing to fight for."
Rowan had glared at these strangers and argued, "There is always something to fight for."
From then on, she'd been an outsider. From day one she was treated as a untrustworthy stranger, even in the family of misfits. They would have nothing to do with her, didn't talk to her, didn't sit near her, and surely didn't work near her. Each watched her, though, waiting for her to mess up or rebel, almost taunting her to show some action on the words she had so carelessly thrown about. They knew the consequences of such terrible ideas. They remembered what had happened to the people like this fiery young girl.
It was early evening when Rowan's work was disturbed by an unfamiliar person to her, yet one that sent a shudder through the rest of the slaves. They ducked further away than usual as the man approached her.
"16384?" Rowan nodded shortly. "You're wanted in the main house. Follow me." Rowan didn't see what choice she had, nor why she shouldn't, really. Her curiosity was aroused, so she dropped the crude wooden tools in her hand she'd been using in a sorry attempt to break up a plot for farming, and followed.
He was a strange, squat man with chubby cheeks and a large mid-section. He was perhaps 3/4 of Rowan's height and waddled as he moved, his fat arms bouncing off his sides. Rowan was amused just walking beside him, seeing as they seemed in complete opposition of each other. Her thin, tall frame moved with an agility and grace that made him look even more primitive.
Rowan hadn't been in the main house since her arrival, and so gazed around curiously. Everything inside was magnificent. Bronze statues decorated the corridor they walked down; paintings glittered with insets of gold and silver, and rich tapestries hung on the walls. She didn't see anybody else as they walked along until the man stopped short of a large side-door.
He jerked his thumb forward, so she slowly opened the door and stepped inside.
It was a gigantic library, with large mounted bookcases from floor to ceiling. The floor was covered in a rich crimson rug, which matched the curtains and wall hangings. A large chandelier glittered from the ceiling, throwing small rainbows along the floor.
Warian sat alone in the room, reclining in a wooden chair beside a table scattered with various papers and books. His cane leaned against the table alongside a bowl of fruit and several rolled-up maps. Hearing her entrance, Warian looked away from the dramatic windows --insanely large for a time without glass, so that when it rained the servants ran to drape large cloths over the openings so as not to ruin the hundreds of books inside-- and studied the slave girl with a calm eye.
"Come here," he ordered, beckoning with his hand.
Rowan narrowed her eyes at the obviously dangerous man, but approached him nonetheless. Her feet made no sound on the plush rug, left no footprints, as she walked calmly towards him. She stopped several feet away.
"Closer," he instructed, continuing until she was standing only inches away. He reached a hand up and pulled her down with a firm grasp on her shoulder. With the same careful hand, he cupped her chin, staring intensely into her eyes. She stared back with the same focus.
Warian suddenly pushed her away and stood urgently up, grabbing his can for support and tapping it against the chair, "Sit." Rowan didn't. "I said sit."
"I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you," she responded coolly.
Warian shrugged, "Suit yourself." Confidently pacing around, he began talking, "You may wonder why I've called you in here. Only to ask how you've enjoyed my little home here."
Images flashed through Rowan's mind. Images of bloated stomachs paired with thin arms and legs. Images of the whipping post, where she herself had already been six times in only three weeks. Images of cruel-handed quartermasters and children forced into labor after their parents.
"Well?"
Rowan didn't follow his movement, but stayed staring straight ahead, and answered, "It's like death in life."
"Really? Well I’ll take that as a compliment," he grinned. "Particularly coming from you. I hear you've seen your share of slavery." Rowan stayed silent. "I do wonder about you, though," he continued on. Pointing to the papers on the table, he asked, "Do you know what those are?"
Rowan's eyes darted momentarily to the table, then back to the wall and shook her head.
"Those, my dear, are called STP's. Slave Tracking Papers. Every time someone is sold into slavery, born into slavery, or forced into slavery, a file is created on them, tracking them from the day they're born until the day they die." He shifted some papers on the desk, then picked up a file and tossed it towards her. "Read that."
Rowan shook her head, "Slaves are forbidden to read."
"So you do not know how?"
Rowan shook her head. At that confession, Warian picked the file back up, opened it, and showed her the front page.
"This is your file," he explained. Then holding up the next and last page, he asked, "Where's the rest of it?"
Rowan didn't move yet, but asked, "It's taken you three weeks to determine whether part of my file is missing or not?"
"No. It's taken me three weeks to track it down," he replied. "You are a difficult young woman to trace. And I still have several questions." He stopped in front of her, to gain face-to-face contact, and asked, "Who's protecting you and why?"
"Sir?"
"You said you can't read," he explained, pacing again. "Therefor you can't have known which file was yours, nor what the file said. So somebody had to have taken the papers for you. What are you hiding?"
Rowan had to force a look of confusion on her face, "Sir? I'm not hiding anything. A slave is not their own. What have I to hide?"
"I don't know, but I'm not a man to be tampered with, girl. Well, in most ways," he leered, standing before her again. His hand came up and Rowan thought to slap her, but instead her cupped her cheek in his hand and studied her face. "You're a beautiful thing, girl, and beautiful things shouldn't be wasted." He traced her jawbone with a finger, then trailed it down her neck and across her collarbone.
Rowan's eyes narrowed again and she spat, "I would rather waste away than be used by you."
Warian seemed slightly surprised at her venomous reply, but he quickly recovered and backed away, "It's no matter to me. I get what I want, girl. You'll learn that soon."
"If all you've called me in for is to threaten me, I'd best get back to work," she stated calmly.
Warian looked at her hard for a moment, then nodded, "You do that, then." That said, he turned from her and the table and disappeared through a door at the far end of the library, leaving her alone.
The papers on the table were a strong temptation --Rowan was dying to know what they said! But not now. Someone was watching. She could almost feel the hidden eyes on her, be they Warian’s or one of his slithering servant’s, she could hear their breathing, feel their watchful gaze. With a final sweeping glance, Rowan turned and left the library exactly as she had found it. The only person she came across in the corridor was a male servant who did nothing save give her a strange look as she ran her hand along the wall all the way out of the main house.
* * * * *
Later that night, after her meal of dried bread and some stale water, Rowan lay awake in her bunk, staring out the window at the starry black sky. Lights had been out for some time, and it was late enough that all the slaves were in bed except two --a woman and her teenage daughter who were helping out with some guests in the main house for the night. At least that's what they'd told everyone. After her brief meeting with Warian, though, Rowan had begun to wonder if slaves were the only things the lord dealt.
She closed her eyes and stared up at the ceiling, listening hard to the peaceful music of the barrack. By the sound of things, one would hardly guess it was a room full of over-worked, malnourished, beaten people. She could faintly make out seventeen distinct heartbeats, slowed by slumber. It was time.
Rowan moved as quietly as she could, recalling every skill she'd ever developed slinking around late at night. The dirt floor didn't rustle under her feat, and indeed the only sound of her leaving was a slight rustle of the curtain serving as a door as she slipped outside into the still night air.
The plantation had a whole different feel at night. Whereas during the day it was hot, busy, and wicked, the moon seemed to bring with her a blanket of peace dropped over the grounds. The sound of iron on rocks, people grunting with exertion, and the overall sigh of slaves was replaced by a calming serenade of crickets and other nighttime insects, and a cool breeze that decided to make its appearance at night instead of during the day, when it would have been highly appreciated.
Everything was still. Rowan's eyes darted suspiciously around the grounds as she slunk through the night, but her sensitive eyes didn't catch sight of any danger. In fact, she made it completely to the main house without seeing or hearing anything to raise an alarm.
The kitchen door was open and a strong firelight flicked out, casting a square of light on the grass outside. Rowan waited patiently outside the doorway, pressed against the wall, until the kitchen maid moved into another room. Not taking time for anything, she darted inside and rushed across the kitchen until she'd reached a smaller hallway, completely devoid of all light.
Though she'd not had the chance to explore the main house and figure out her way around, she understood that this hallway --the kitchen maids always complained that it was barely wide enough to carry a loaded platter through-- led to the dining room, which had a door to the main corridor.
Rowan hurried along the path, determined not to be seen or heard. At this time of night, the maids had no need to use the claustrophobic hallway, and surely avoided it, so that Rowan made it to the dining hall with no trouble. It, too, was empty, so that she was into the main corridor with absolutely no trouble.
Even with her excellent eyesight, the complete black prohibited her from seeing anything. So, with slow and cautious steps, Rowan placed her hand against the wall and began moving along the house. She'd memorized from earlier the number of bumps between the front of the house and the library, as well as where the dining hall fell in it. She knew where paintings were hung above tables, a little wider, and thus giving her warning. She knew where stray items had been left out, and she knew which boards squeaked even under her minimal pressure.
Due to her excellent memorization of the way earlier, Rowan made it into the library without any trouble at all. Not once did she come in contact with anyone, and she never sensed eyes on her as she had earlier during the day. The library was completely empty, and completely dark. There was no way for her to see anything but to create some sort of light. Luckily, the moon was shining clearly through the uncovered windows, providing enough light to read by.
Moving quickly, Rowan approached the table which was still in the same disarray as it had been earlier. She could barely make out words printed on the various scripts, but nonetheless was able to figure out which file was hers. Carrying it quickly to the window, she opened it and glanced over the pages inside.
The front page was a simple sheets of statistics: height, weight, birth date, place of birth, parents, etc. Most were left blank for Rowan, except for things that could be told by looking at her. The second was a list of the different slave-owners she'd belonged to. There were names of three different men listed, along with their commentary about Rowan: what kind of worker she was, any problems they’d had. Rowan smirked at the similarities --"disobedient" "rebellious" "hard worker, but stubborn," etc. Something made her look closer at the paper, though, not sure what she was seeing. There were big holes! Not literally in the paper, but sections of sentences were left out, just completely missing, as if the comments had been written without the words originally in. And several plantations she'd been on were missing all together. This confused Rowan, all though she knew what should be there: can read, can speak strange languages, can do strange things.
Warian was right: someone was protecting her. She'd tampered with her file before, but this was not of her doing. Someone else had gotten into the file and completely erased things to protect her. Rowan shook her head --not that she really cared; it was for her benefit, after all.
The file had nothing else in it, so she decided to search the table. Looking up at the moon hanging in the sky, she held her hand out, then closed her fist and walked back to the table. When she re-opened her hand, a small diamond of moonlight shone, giving off just enough light for her to see the table by.
Rowan placed the file back exactly where it had been, then began shifting papers around, looking at the various contents of the tables. There were some other slaves’ files, but nobody she knew. In fact, as she looked at the names, none of them even worked at the plantation anymore. She couldn't recall hearing talk about any Cimarron, Danke, Photelia, or Hartz.
"That would be why," she muttered to herself. On each of their info pages, the date of death blank was filled in. Each read, "Deceased." But only one of them, only Cimarron, had a cause of death filled in: killed in rebellion. "So there have been rebellions here." She was even more shocked to see that, just like in her file, there were blanks in the sheets. Rowan set the files back down.
The books on the table seemed random to her: one of Alriantan mythology, a record book of all the slaves the plantation had ever had, a book of ancient maps that were all marked "outdated," and some kind of journal. Rowan couldn't understand the language the journal was written in, nor did she recognize the name (At least she guessed the author's name was "Bill") or any of the places spoken about. A couple words were written in the tongue of men, and these she could pick out as she flipped through the pages: Bill, Driloib and Nalandin (two cities in Alrianto.) Other than that, though, she was completely in the dark.
She set the journal back on the table and unrolled one of the maps. It was another old map, once again labeled "outdated." All this labeling confused Rowan to no end. How could geographic maps become outdated? She could understand the maps of cities becoming outdated, since villages sometimes moved or were destroyed. But this wasn't labeled with cities, only mountains, rivers, and the like.
One scroll that she'd assumed was another map turned out to be something different when she'd unrolled it. It was all written in a foreign script to her --the same most of the diary had been in. She couldn't read it, which frustrated her. She'd learned to read a variety of languages, and At least a couple words in others, but she'd never seen these strange words before.
There proved to be nothing more of interest to Rowan on the table, and she decided that the entire journey had been a waste of time. All she'd accomplished was in frustrating and confusing herself, all at the risk of being caught out and about in the middle of the night.
She was getting ready to leave when a sound caught her attention. Warian. She could tell by the delayed tap of his cane as he strutted down the corridor, a sound that nobody except Rowan would be able to hear. She inhaled sharply, closed her hand, then sprinted to a dark corner of the room, shrinking into the shadows.
After a couple seconds, Warian appeared through the doorway and walked inside. He cast only a quick glance at the table before moving to a bookcase and quickly pulling a book off of the sixth shelf up. Rowan watched closely as he flipped through the pages. Finding something, the lord hurried to the window and used the moonlight to read something.
"Blast it all," he muttered. "I knew this would happen." That said, he slammed the book shut, tossed it onto the desk, and rushed out of the room. Rowan waited until she couldn't hear his footsteps anymore, then silently left the room, the main house, and didn't quit going until she was back in the barracks.
Just when she thought she'd made the whole excursion safely, she caught sight of a little boy, sitting up in his bunk. She didn't know his name, nor whose child he was, but she'd seen him around, working. He wasn't very big, maybe ten or eleven by Rowan's guess, yet he did an incredible amount of work around the place.
Rowan and him shared eye contact. At first she was afraid he would raise an alarm or something, but he just remained silent, watching her. Rowan raised a finger to her lips, instructions to keep quiet, then hurried and slipped back into her bunk. The boy watched her, then laid back down himself. Night continued.
* * * * * * * * * *
Legolas stood on the balcony overlooking a great valley. It was a truly beautiful view, with the sun rising in the distance, casting an orange glow over the green land, turning the scattered clouds above a peaceful shade of pink.
Even after only a couple days, he was getting used to the view, but he didn't think he could ever grow tired of it. Though he'd been raised in a murky forest, he couldn't help but appreciate the natural beauty surrounding the river valley among which was built the city of Kirsoden.
That made him think of the city, which was beautiful in itself. The architecture was amazing --dramatic ceilings and arches, tall spires raised to the sky, detailed sculptures throughout. It was built on the side of the valley, an interesting design; the buildings were on large platforms, dug into the side and sticking out, like mushrooms on the trunks of trees. Yet everything was sturdy, beautiful, and lavish. It reminded him a bit of Rivendell, except that everything was much larger, and even more open, to an extent. It was amazing work coming from humans, and old at the same time.
While eating dinner with the Royal Bureau, he'd learned some of the history of the city. It'd been built hundreds of years before, by a group of people that had disappeared soon afterwards. Nobody knew who they were, since they'd left no records behind except for a couple books written in a language that nobody could understand. Scholars from all over Alrianto had tried to decipher the language, since it contained the history of the entire kingdom, but nobody had succeeded.
Legolas couldn't imagine not knowing the history of his people. Sure, the beginning days had been passed down in Elvish lore until a written language had been created, so details might have been embellished or forgotten, but the basic ideas were At least there. And there were first-hand experiences from some of the oldest beings in Middle-Earth, the Ents, Galadriel of Lorien, and a friend of the halflings that lived in some forest near them. But the people of Alrianto had no idea --they didn't know if they'd emigrated from another kingdom, if they'd been created by Iluvator at the same time as the others, or even how their civilizations came to exist.
That was part of the reason he was here now. After the War of the Ring had ended, and the clean-up of Middle-Earth had begun, contact had been made between Alrianto and Middle-Earth. It had been hundreds of years since the two had met, despite their shared borders. Nobody remember why, exactly, but the two had split communication a long time before. For some reason of other, Middle Earth had not kept records of why, and Alrianto didn't know, either. So now, a delegation of people from Middle-Earth and people from Alrianto were meeting in Alrianto's capital to discuss re-opening the borders and welcome between them.
It was a giant event in everyone's history, since the rebinding of old ties would mean a whole world opened to the other.
Legolas had come along at the request of King Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen, while his older brother, and heir to the throne, kept things in order back in Eryn Lasgalen. They were two of the twenty-seven that had come. The group was comprised of representatives of all the different kingdoms, though not necessarily of the leaders. For instance, many of the kings had sent important officials in place for them, particularly those such as Elessar that were busy rebuilding kingdoms. For a new king to leave his kingdom at a time like this would have been unwise. So this incredibly diverse group of men, dwarves, and Elves (the hobbits had decided not to become involved in the affairs of the entire kingdom, instead placing their trust in the representatives' hands) had journey hard for weeks to reach the capital, across strange lands, meeting many strange people.
Legolas was disappointed when Gimli had declined the invitation to join the group. Part of the decision had been based on the fact that Gimli's father was old and had asked for some help running their mountain kingdom (this sort of confession was hard-pressed from a dwarven lord). The other part was that after spending so much time away from his home, what with the Fellowship, and then traveling around with Legolas, Gimli was probably pretty homesick. The majority of dwarves didn't wander too far from their homes, since dwarves were usually more concerned with their own going-ons than with the rest of the world.
Nonetheless, Legolas had gotten along just fine with the rest of the group, some of whom he'd known since childhood, and others which he'd met during his chaotic stays in Lothlorien, Rivendell, Gondor, and Rohan.
It had been a long trip, but now they'd finally arrived in Kirsoden. The majority of the past three days had been spent in meetings, but they'd been given plenty of time to explore the palace city. Legolas had liked what he saw --it was full of interesting people, new sights, and beautiful artwork. A truly historic city.
"You like it here," a voice stated from behind. Legolas turned to see Coonto, another elf that Legolas had come to know on the journey to Kirsoden. Coonto walked up to stand beside Legolas, looking out at the sunrise, also.
Legolas nodded, "Yes."
"Could you live here, then?"
"I don't think so," Legolas shook his head and chuckled. Though young himself, Coonto was still younger, and Legolas had grown used to his many questions. He used to be the same way, after all. Before... Legolas banished the memories from his mind, and continued, "It's beautiful here, and an honor to visit, but I could not make my home here."
Coonto nodded, "Do you find it as lonely as I?"
"Lonely?"
"Aye. There's no other Elves here. You've noticed that, haven't you?"
"I have, now that you mention it," Legolas agreed. "Though I'm not sure why not."
"I asked. Cantin, from the Royal Bureau, said that he'd never even heard of Elves before we arrived. Can you imagine: no Elves!" Coonto exclaimed, shock controlling his features.
Legolas gave a small smile, "There aren't Elves everywhere, Coonto. Rohan and Gondor are hard-pressed to present Elven residents."
"Yes, but these people have never even heard of Elves! Do you think they really have no Elves, or do they just not recognize them for what they are?" Coonto suggested. "But, then, wouldn't we have seen them?"
Legolas shrugged, "I don't know."
"Well, either way, I think it's exciting that this whole kingdom is such a mystery. I mean, can you imagine if you were the one to break the secret of those books? Why, I'd be a hero!" Legolas gave Coonto an amused glance, but said nothing. "Have you looked at them? It's quite an interesting collection, really. There's some kind of map, two books, and some strange papers. You ought to have a look, try your hand at deciphering."
"What makes you think I could?" Legolas asked.
Coonto shrugged, "I don't know. I think you're very wise." Yes, Coonto was very young.
"I'm no wiser than--"
"But you were part of the Fellowship!" Coonto insisted.
Legolas gave the same small smile, "Yes, I was." He said no more. After a couple minutes, Coonto wandered off, informing Legolas he was off to meet some young residents of the city before the day's meeting began.
Legolas hadn't been sure why exactly Coonto had been asked to come along. He wasn't a veteran of the war, he wasn't a steward or a prince or even of noble blood. As King Thranduil had explained it, though, Coonto was destined to marry some princess of a smaller Elven kingdom, of which he would soon rule, since the princess' father was leaving for Gray Havens. Coonto needed some lessons in maturity, so he'd been brought along.
Once the sun had completed her morning routine, Legolas left the balcony and wandered through the palace to the library. Though he wasn't aiming to solve anything, Coonto had aroused his curiosity to At least see the objects that were apparently so famous.
Only King Thranduil was in the library, standing over the table on which the strange things had been placed for the visitors' perusal.
Hearing his son enter, he looked up and greeted, "Good morning, Legolas."
"Good morning, my lord," Legolas replied joining him at the table. "I thought to see these," he explained, picking up the papers. They looked to have been torn from some type of book, though they were handwritten.
"Ah? Yes, they are rather interesting. It's a shame and a curiosity that no one has been able to translate them. Rather interesting, I think."
Legolas nodded, "Yes." He studied that page closely, though could not understand. It was written in a scrawling hand, that would barely be legible if it were even in a known language. But it wasn't, and Legolas didn't recognize any of the words. "It is strange to me."
King Thranduil agreed, "To me, as well, though the map is familiar." Legolas picked up said map and looked it over. "It is a map of Alrianto. The Royal Bureau says it's outdated, though."
"Hm," Legolas commented. Placing it back on the table he suggested, "Maybe the mystery will someday be revealed."
"Foreshadowing words, with any luck, young Legolas," Thranduil smiled. It made Legolas happy to see Thranduil smile, since it was not very often. Legolas had never remembered his father as an especially happy king, which apparently, from his conversation with Galadriel during his stay in Lorien, had something to do which experiences a long time previous. Thranduil had never spoken of it, though, and Legolas respected him enough to ask. Someday, though, he hoped to share in his father's burden.
* * * * *
During the break for lunch, Legolas sat at a table with several of his own group, as well as several of the representatives from Alrianto. The discussion had come up once again of who started the city so long ago, and this led to sharing opinions on where each of them would build their own royal city, if given the choice.
"I'd like to be hidden in caves," one of the Alriantan men, Rickon, offered. "I'd have all sorts of mysterious hiding places, so At least my people would have more excitement than trying to translate an old book."
Another Alriantan, Burke, argued, "No, I say a vast forest. Like these Elves we've heard so much about!" He sent a nod in Legolas and, beside him, Brilcor and Qualin. "I daresay forest-life must be interesting."
Qualin chuckled, "Indeed! Especially if you can understand the trees, aye Brilcor?"
"Aye," Brilcor agreed. "Interesting conversers, they are. And Elvish maidens are not to be left out of the picture. Most lovely, they are."
"What about you, Sir Greenleaf? You've remained awfully silent. Where would your royal city be?"
Legolas looked up from his food and answered easily, "On the shore."
"Yes, Legolas has a particular fondness for the ocean. An unhealthy fondness, I daresay," Brilcor teased.
"Is that so?" Burke inquired.
Legolas nodded, "Tis true enough. Alas, since I heard the gull's cry I've longed for it."
Rickon slammed his fist on, "Then you are in luck, Eron. For just on the far side of this valley lays an inlet, an extension to the ocean."
Legolas looked at him strangely, "Surely we have not traveled that far, or else I've lost track of our path. I did not notice us nearing the ocean."
"Nay, it's not the ocean," the third Alriantan man argued, called Nayper, argued. "It's not the ocean."
"It is!" Rickon rebutted. "Why, if you sailed straight out, you would come to the open sea. I know, because I've sailed it."
"But only as far as the Isle of Balarde. And it's still a mile further before you reach the end of the land."
Rickon nodded, "Aye, a mile further. Five miles in all, I'd guess. But when you jump in, it's ocean water you're bathing with."
Nayper agreed that it was ocean water, but he debated, "Yes, but if I were to carry a bowl of water here and dump it on your head, would you say you were bathing in the ocean, then?"
"No, of course not, but that's an entirely different matter--"
"On the other side of the valley, you said?" Legolas cut in.
Rickon grinned smartly at Nayper, then answered, "Aye. The far side of the valley. Cross that and there it is. It shouldn't take you the whole of an afternoon to get to it, and less to see it."
Legolas gave the same small smile, but his face took on a look of excitement that nobody had seen in some time. In his head, he made plans for the day after next, when everyone was taking a day off from meetings. As the third of the Royal Bureau had stated, "There's no use making peace between us if we're all too dead tired to enjoy it!"
Soon, then, Legolas smiled to himself. Soon I’ll catch a glimpse of the sea.
* * * * * * * * * *
AN: “Eron” is Hageren (a language spoken only by the nobles of Alrianto) for “friend.” Pronounced: AY-rahn. Literally, it means er-”close” (p)on-”person”. Hageren was created as a way for overlords in ancient times to talk with each other without the peasants figuring out what they were saying. Even once the stronger middle-class developed, bridging the incredible gap between the nobles and the peasants (though slaves are still the lowest class of their own), it remained part of tradition for nobles to speak it fluently, though many other people in Alrianto can at least understand it.
Main || Chapter Two