1904
The two boys huddled together, miserable in the train station. The hustle and bustle, leaving a small island of isolation, as people hurried past on their own journeys. Few spared them a second glance, seeing if they did, two small suitcases worn and obviously of poor quality. If they cared to look at the boys, the elder holding the younger tightly, they would have seen exceptional intelligence in the eyes of the elder. John, older than Hilary by two years, had excelled in his classes at King Edward's, but now that life was behind him.
Their mother had taken ill and died unexpectedly. Their father having died many years ago, they had been left to the tender mercies of an Aunt neither of them had ever seen. John had been pulled from King Edward's, told only that his mother was ill. Now less than a week later, her funeral over, he found himself taking care of his younger brother, when all he wanted was to be taken care of himself. `You'll need to be a man now, John.' one of the well wisher's had said to him after the funeral. How was one supposed to be a man, when he was still a boy? John wondered. Hilary sniffled, his cold worse than it had been that morning. John muttered something and dug in his pocket for a handkerchief. He wiped Hilary's nose, noticing as he did that someone was watching them. Hilary, only ten, seemed much younger, having been his mother's baby. Hil had the annoying habit of whining at most things, but he had been strangely quiet since they had been put on the train.
"Johnnie, I'm hungry." Hil said softly. John was too, but he didn't think that the small bit of money they had would be enough to feed them plus find lodgings if his Aunt didn't show soon.
"I know, Hil. Aunt Suffield should be here soon." he said pitching his voice so as not to attract too much attention. He had noticed a man watching them from the moment they had left the train. John might be young but he wasn't stupid. He knew that children were sometimes snatched from train stations. He had heard tales of horror, most fiction but some truth to them, in school of boys taken and put to work in the mines of Wales. Or even shipped off to the Dark Continent.
"Would you read to me, Johnnie?" Hil asked. John had been reading passages from Oliver Twist to Hil on the train, and smiling he pulled the much used copy from his pocket. He began to read softly. Uncomfortably he found the story of Oliver much to close to their own for his liking, but Hilary loved the story. So he read, keeping his voice light and cheerful.
He hadn't noticed the passing of time as he read, but the man watching the boys had marked the hours slowly slipping by. The longer they remained unclaimed by family the easier it would be for him to effect the grab. He thought the older one might be a bit of a problem, but he knew his work well enough to guess that if he could snatch the younger first, the older would follow without a struggle. He grinned to himself, they would bring a fair price on the market. Gauging his time, he slowly began to make his way to the children. He knew just when to make his move. The patrol wouldn't be around quite as frequently now that is was approaching supper, the station chief would be busy with his dailies, who would notice if the two just disappeared, more like people would think their family had come at last. He kept his eye on the station master, there the old bugger left his post at the window. Now.
John startled when someone clapped a hand on Hilary's shoulder. He was hauled to his feet by the disreputable fellow John had seen watching them earlier. John followed, dropping Oliver to the floor.
"Here now, lad, don't cause a ruckus." the man whispered. He pressed a knife to the underside of Hilary's jaw, moving it so that John could see it clearly. "Come along quietly and nuthing will happen."
John didn't know what to do. Hilary's wide and frightened eyes pleaded with him to do something. John looked wildy around for anyone to help but the station was deserted. Only shadows and the far off call of a street vendor could be heard.
"Don't make me say it twice, lad." the man jerked Hilary sharply, causing the knife point to dig a little deeper into Hilary's neck. John nodded and started to pick up the cases, "Move quick." the man ordered.
John did as he was bade, he walked beside the man out of the station. His heart pounding John hoped that he would see someone, anyone that would help them. He knew what was happening but was helpless against the full grown thug.
The man pushed open the station doors and motioned them into the street. He kept hold of Hilary, making sure that John could see the knife.
"Don't try anything funny, or I'll cut him." the man warned. Hilary made a frightened squeak and John knew then that they were trapped. There was nothing he do without endangering his brother.
"I won't." he said quietly. Fear and rage warred in his young heart as they walked down the street. He looked hopefully around, surely someone must see them. But there was no one. The further they got from the station the more John knew they were lost. His hopes were dashed even further when their captor pulled them down a side street. It was dark and dank, the fading sunlight unable to pierce the gloom. The man told him to drop their cases, and as John did so, he felt the full weight of his terror.
When help did come, it came quickly. One moment the man held the knife at Hilary's throat, the next he was laid at their feet, gasping, a long white handled knife sticking through his shoulder. He clutched at it and attempted to draw it from himself, but failing, collapsed back onto the pavement. A long, lean shadow detached itself from a building, and in the twilight, it flitted quickly to them. Hilary, frightened already, stifled a scream, and John, none too brave himself, gasped.
A tall man knelt beside their assailant and drawing the knife from it's place in his shoulder, passed the blade quickly over the man's throat, silencing him rather effectively. Their saviour stood, and moving quickly, gracefully, drew the boys away from the dying man. John didn't speak, he was too afraid. Hilary sobbing softly beside him, he could only look in wonder at the man standing with them. His face was shadowed, but John could see that it was lean, and he thought rather like a girl's.
"Come, your Aunt will be worried," the man spoke. John felt his voice slide over them, calming Hilary and himself with little effort. It was soft and cool, rather distant sounding. John glanced into the face above his and again found himself frightened briefly. The face was not that of a man's, there was something wrong, something that didn't sit well with what a man should look like. It was too perfect. But what chilled him the most were the man's eyes. Dark caverns of sadness, they called to the ache in John's heart. The man walked silently over to their cases, and gestured at them. "You will have to carry them."
It was then that John noticed that the man only had one hand. The other was there, only covered with a black glove. The stranger followed John's gaze and smiled coldly.
"An old injury. Come, your Aunt is waiting." He started with them toward the train station. A woman's loud strident voice came to the boys over their footsteps. It seemed that their Aunt had at last arrived. "Say nothing of this to your Aunt, she would not understand." the man whispered softly. John stared up at him in the failing light, something had caught his attention.
"Thank you, sir." John at last found his voice. The man looked into his eyes, smiling slightly.
"Do not thank me, young Tolkien. Not yet." With that soft caution, their companion melted into the shadows, leaving the boys outside the station. Hilary looked at John with questioning eyes. John shook his head and taking Hil's hand they entered. He didn't know who that man had been, but one thing he did know, he was no ordinary man. Ordinary men made noise, didn't have eyes ofsorrow and above all they didn't have points on their ears. He looked once more out into the gathering dark, but there was nothing there to be seen. He couldn't even make out the shape of the dead man they had let behind. Somehow he didn't think that any one would find that body. At least not anytime soon.
1916
John ducked his head as yet another mortar was fired in their direction. He could hear the screams of his fellow soldiers cutting through the din of battle. Nothing had prepared him for this. No words, no training could have ever told him that war was indeed hell. He had already lost several of his mates, most in the first day. Now as he waited for their orders, he knew that he would see more die. He closed his eyes and wished fervently to be back in England again, with Ethel his new bride, perhaps walking to the University....he opened his eyes as someone grabbed his shoulder. It was the First Sergeant, the man shouted the words John was loathe to hear. "We move in five."
John rolled over, his gun clutched tightly in sweaty hands. His throat was dry and he was scared. He didn't think he had ever been as scared as this before. Not when his father had died, not even that time at the train station when he and Hil had almost been kidnapped. He thought for a moment about their strange rescuer. He had thought alot about him since that time. Had wondered if perhaps he had imagined it, both he and Hil had often talked about Him....but neither could truly remember what he had looked like. Their memory had faded rather quickly, replaced by the Aunt's version of the truth. That they had wandered away and had stumbled upon a man being accosted by thieves.
It wasn't until later, after their Aunt Suffield had her breakdown, when she had begged him to take her place as the "Caretaker" whatever that was, that he had some idea of what had happened. He had promised the barmy old girl, putting her at ease. He had had no idea until several years later what he had promised. Aunt Suffield had passed on in seclusion in a rest home leaving all her possessions to him. Among them was a locked trunk. He had found the key, a strange silver key and upon opening the trunk had changed his perception of the world forever.
John felt the tap on his should that was the signal to move out. He gritted his teeth and with a tight grip on his gun, he leapt out of his trench. Then he was pounding his way across No Man's Land toward the Germans on the other side. To his left and right, his comrades also ran. His mind was confused by the blur of images and fear. He never saw that grenade that exploded almost at his feet, throwing him into the air.
John came to much later, his eyes covered by something cool and slightly wet. There was no sound, for a moment he panicked, then the pounding of his heart registered through the panic. He wasn'tdeaf or dead. If he was then his body wouldn't hurt quite so badly. He could feel every bone in it hurting as if broken. He could feel the weight of the blanket covering him, it's presence both warm and highly irritating. His skin felt like it too was on fire. He must have made a sound for he heard movement. Someone was approaching his bed.
"Be still." a chill, soft voice spoke next to him. John started in surprise. He Knew that voice. "You mustn't move too much. You have been gravely injured. I have healed what I can, but you mustn't move."
"I-" John's voice was cracked, his throat sore. "I know you." he managed to whisper.
"As I know you, young Tolkien." the voice held a hint of humor now.
"Who? Where?" John tried to ask but his throat felt worse.
"There will be time for answers later, young Tolkien." he felt the cool touch of a cup against his lips. He could smell something wonderful in it. It wasn't tea or coffee, but smelled of sweet flowers and spring. He sipped it slowly, the taste soothing his throat and bringing instant comfort.
"Good." John whispered. That was his last thought as sleep claimed him.
When John awoke next, he felt surprisingly better. Perhaps not surprising, he mused. He still had a covering of something over his eyes, but was grateful because he still had a devil of a headache. He couldn't tell if his companion was with him, but a soft question brought no response. Alone then, he decided. Testing, he put his hand to his brow. He felt along the edge of the bandage, half fearful of what he might find. His face felt the same, bruised but still in one piece. He felt along his body, tensing at the thought that he might be missing limbs, but everything appeared to be where he had left it.
"Good, you are awake." the voice came from somewhere off to his left. He hadn't heard anyone enter. A touch on his cheek startled him. There came again the cup to his lips but this time he smelled tea. He smiled gratefully and sipped the warm brew.
"How long have I been asleep?" he asked, hoping for an answer.
"A few mornings have passed." the voice said. "Can you eat?"John's stomach rumbled his response, which brought a soft chuckle. A pleasant sound John thought in amazement. His companion moved, John could hear the faint rustle of clothing, but beyond that not a sound. "My company will miss me."
"There are none left." the words hit him like a stone.
"All gone?" he whispered.
"In the folly of war, many lives are lost." there was a pause. "I grieve for their loss."
The sadness in the voice made John feel like his heart would break. He had never heard someone sound so desolate. There came the smell of something wonderful from somewhere, and his stomach rumbled again.
"My thanks, for saving my life." John said softly. "I should have died."
"I had a hard time finding you. I regret that I came almost too late." The chill in the voice made John shudder. He couldn't understand the change.
"Eat. It will give you strength." the warmth was gone. John took a bite of what was offered. The stranger fed him silently. John was awkward, not being able to see, and his pride suffered at having to be fed. The stranger didn't make a sound but wiped the stew from his chin and neck when he dribbled. John laid his head back, signaling that he had had enough.
"Sleep more, when you wake I will perhaps remove the bandage from your eyes. They should be healed enough for you to see." the closing of a door told him that he was alone.
John didn't feel like he needed to sleep. He felt he had slept too much already. His mind whirled crazily and he fought to try to make sense out of what little he remembered. He remembered the charge, the screaming mass of soldiers racing stupidly across open fields. He seemed to remember a loud whistle then the sensation of being thrown backwards. His next memory was one of pain, of being picked up by someone. He couldn't remember much after that. Strange impressions mostly, being on horseback, the smell of powder and blood, burning pain, then an end to the pain. His nose twitched as he remembered being held tightly, the pain being replaced by burning warmth. There was a weight on his chest that was uncomfortably hot....a hand, he could still feel it's outline imprinted on his skin. Then he could remember the scent of deep woods, a soft spring day....he shook his head confused. Obviously there had been some damage to his mind. He had never been in the deep woods, much less the woods that this olfactory hallucination sparked. He had never seen trees that tall or heard them whisper in welcome. Disgusted with himself, John slid back along the pillows and willed himself to sleep.
As he began to drift, he felt a brush of something touch his mind. A whispered welcome in a leafy voice, then he HEARD a lullaby sung softly by a willow tree and as he drifted even further into sleep, he knew he had come home.
His companion was true to his word, for when John awoke next, the bandages had been removed and he could see. Curiosity eating at him, he lifted his head and looked about him. He was hoping to at last see the face of his companion, but sadly he found himself alone. Still sore, he took stock of his surroundings. A small cottage perhaps, it appeared to have only one room. There was the fireplace with a kettle over the fire, from it he could smell a wonderful stew cooking. There was a small table in the center of the room. He didn't see any signs of another bed, but he could if he craned his neck, see where his companion had been sleeping. A bedroll, neatly folded was by the door. There was a pack slung over the chair that was pushed against the table. He recognized it as his own.
Slowly he sat up, taking stock as he did so. He was stiff, and still a little sore, but feeling much better. The movement sparked a tiny bit of head ache, but he massaged his temple lightly and it receded. He could see a bit of countryside through the cabin's only window, just a hint of trees and sunlight. Unable to tell where he was from that, he returned to the inspection of the cabin itself.
There was a chest of some strange and beautiful design against the wall next to the head of his bed. He thought he recognised the carving on it, Aunt Suffield's chest had be similarly decorated. His curiosity seriously aroused he moved slowly to kneel beside it. Hoping he would find it unlocked, he tested the lid. Locked. Whomever his companion was he was a careful sort. From where he knelt on the floor he could also see something under the bed that he had been laying on. Stretching carefully, he reached under the bed to pull his find into the light.
A quiver of arrows, dusty and long unused, and a bow, unstrung and equally dusty. He smothered a gasp of delight. He ran wondering fingers over the curve of the bow. It was beautiful, delicate green and adorned with silver design, it was obviously a weapon for someone of great skill. It measured a good five feet from tip to tip, a long bow, if he remembered his weaponry. There was no string for it, but he tested it anyhow, trying to bend the wood. It resisted even his greatest attempt. Whomever had drawn this had been a person of great strength. He put the bow carefully aside and drew forth one of the arrows. It's straight shaft a deep emerald color, he could tell it had been fletched by hand, and the tip was a metal of such that he had never seen before. He tested the point, to find it was still sharp. The fletching was made from golden feathers, carefully trimmed, he couldn't recognise their source. The quiver made from a carefully tanned hide, also was a thing of beauty. There was a well worn patina to the leather, also reinforcing his thought that these were well loved items. But why would they be hidden under a bed, of all places? These things only caused him to wonder more about his surroundings and carefully he replaced them. He didn't want to be found prying. Questions whirling in his mind, John carefully climbed back into his bed. If he was lucky he might be able to get some answers from him companion when he returned.
John waited for wait seemed eternity for his companion to return. His curiosity made greater with each passing hour. He couldn't tell time of day very well, his watch appeared to be broken, and what light came from the single window was dim at best. He passed the time remembering things his Aunt had told him, family stories if you would. He knew them all by heart for they had caught at his mind, keeping him a willing captive. And now, in this place, he could understand some of them.
At last the door opened and John turned his head carefully. He was disappointed however, his campanion carried a load of wood and his face was hidden by several logs. However, he knew the figure entering the cabin. The grace with which it moved, the long silhouette, these things he remembered from that train station so long ago. As his companion came further into the room, light from the window highlit the hair falling onto his shoulders. It was much longer than most men wore, falling brightly golden to his shoulders. It seemed too silky to be a man's and John was reminded of Ethel's hair. The stranger was dressed in loose clothing of a dark shade. John couldn't tell the exact color, it appeared to be a cross between black and green, but it made the fair hair even lighter in appearance.
But it was when the stranger knelt to lay the logs on the hearth that John saw what he was seeking. The hair parted for a instant, giving him the curve and slight point of an ear. John closed his eyes for a moment, mouth dry and heart pounding. IT was true then. All the stories, the Red Book, all of it. And the proof was kneeling not ten feet from him. He must have made a sound, because the Elf at the hearth startled slightly and turned to face him.
John felt his heart freeze when he got his first adult glimpse of the face he had dreamed of. Long and lean, with skin as fair as porcelain, it was a face most women would die to possess. He could see the eyes that he remembered, and if possible thought they were even more sad now than they had been. They were pools of sapphire, deeper and more aged than the face would let him believe.
"You are awake." the elf spoke. He hadn't moved from his place but was watching John. There was a confidence in the lean body and when at last he did move, the grace took John's breath away. He stood and moved around the table.
"I know you. Legolas. The Prince of Mirkwood." John found his voice at last. The elf froze. He looked at John for a moment and John thought he saw a hunger in those eyes, but it vanished almost instantly.
"Some have called me that." The elf spoke cautiously. He leaned against the table's edge and folded his arms. John noticed that he hid the useless hand and it was then he understood the bow's hiding place.
"We have called you Ghost." John said softly. Legolas inclined his head, he had heard the appellation before and it faintly amused him. "How?"
"I have no answer for that, young Tolkien. None that would satisfy and the one who would, has been gone for more time than you could understand." The elf dropped his gaze and turned abruptly.
John, suddenly eager, swung his legs off the side of the bed. He had to KNOW, had to ask a thousand questions that trembled on the tip of his tongue. Through all of his questions, the elf stood, face turned away, each question a whiplash of pain, the tensing of muscle and occasional flinch, visible if John would see. But in his eagerness he didn't see how his questions, innocent though they were, laid the soul of the elven prince bare.
Legolas endured the interrogation far longer than he thought he could. The eager young man reminded him of someone, but he couldn't remember the name. Too much time, too many memories. Perhaps it was this that led him to tell far more of his story to the young human. Perhaps it was just that for the first time in countless centuries, someone had spoken his name. He felt the loneliness of his existence swell up inside him and threaten what little sanity he had remaining. Unable to bear any more, he slammed his fist into the table, cracking it like an eggshell. The young man jumped and his voice ceased.
"Enough." Legolas growled through the pain. "Cease your prattle, human, you do not know what you ask of me." he heard the anger in his voice but didn't care. Indirectly this young human was the cause of his pain. He whirled to face the young Man, still sitting frozen on the edge of the bed. The anger and hatred he felt welled up in him and blazed from his eyes.
John swallowed convulsively. There was a deep hatred in those eyes now. It frightened him and he knew that he would be powerless against the elf, should he decide to act on that hatred. The elf stood, blinded by hatred for the longest time. John was unable to look away from the blazing sapphire eyes. Slowly the hatred died away, leaving only the sadness and hurt that he had seen earlier. The Prince, for he could think of him no other way, turned silently and before John could react he was gone.
"What happened to you?" he whispered to the closing door. He sat in thought for a moment then like a light being turned on, he remembered something that he had read in the Red Book. The memory made him ill. He knew what had happened and he knew why. He just didn't know how to end it.