TITLE: Nothing Special, Chapter Three
PROMPT: #170: Letter (500 Words)
AUTHOR: Marethiel/ThinkingLady
RATING: PG-13 (for potentially disturbing images)
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em, drat it. I just take ‘em out to play. Many thanks to Professor Tolkien for creating these wonderful souls to populate my imagination.
NOTES: Sequel to Prompts #168: Special, #169: Careful
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The Elf slowly came back to awareness from his uncomfortable doze, though he would rather return to unconsciousness. Clamping his lips together to avoid a groan escaping, he stiffly drew himself up to a sitting position. His eye was all but swollen shut, sharp pains stabbing at the injury as he moved.
“Slowly, mellon nîn,” came the soft whisper from the Man beside him.
Grimacing, the Elf nodded silently and joined his companion leaning back against the stone wall. “How long?”
“Perhaps four hours. Dawn is nigh.” The Man shifted painfully, and ran a hand through his filthy hair, then grimaced after raising his arm. His odor must be horribly offensive to the Elf.
With his good eye, the Elf noticed the expression. “What troubles you?”
Slowly the Man turned to him, arching an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile haunting his lips.
The Elf chuckled painfully, pressing against his side: a broken rib, likely. “Foolish question ….”
The Man shrugged carefully. “I… I wish I could bathe,” he admitted, drawing in on himself.
The Elf stared at him, then struggled to keep his laughter silent.
Misunderstanding, the young Man blushed uncomfortably. “I know I must offend…”
“Eru, Estel!” gasped the Elf. “Here we sit, no water, no food, both of us beaten to a pulp, and you worry that you stink?!” Shaking his head, the Elf was breathless from the combination of somewhat hysterical laughter and strain. “Truly, Mortal, you are an enigma.”
After a few brief chuckles, silence fell between them. “Estel… I am grieved you have been brought low by my error in judgment.”
The young man didn’t discount the Elf’s statement; he’d known this conversation would come. He sighed. “Legolas… you had no way of knowing these beasts invaded so close to the court. Your father’s letter summoning you home sounded serious; were I you, I too would have made haste. Even Glorfindel did not sense danger.”
“Had I remained with the party none of this would have happened,” the Elf said bitterly. “You should not have to pay such a high price for my impatience.”
“And the price you pay? Is it naught to you?” the Man retorted.
“I have lived more than two thousand years; you, barely twenty. You have your whole life ahead of you, Estel. If I could give my life for yours, I would. It… grieves me, that–”
The Man held up a hand, angry now. “Legolas, enough! I am not dead yet, and neither are you,” he said fiercely. “There has got to be a way out of this. I refuse to give up, and neither should you!” he glared.
Despite their situation, the Elf marveled at the grim determination shining from the young, bruised and battered face. Estel… truly, Elrond named you well.
Estel painfully got to his feet. “If you must blame someone, Elf,” he grunted, slyly, “blame Thranduil and his Eru-forsaken letter!”
Legolas stared a moment, then a tired grin crossed his face.
Hope had returned.
** to be continued **