To Rescue An Elf 7

To Rescue An Elf

Part 7

Posted: January 11, 2008
Title: To Rescue an Elf
Author: Inwë Sáralondë

Summary: Negotiations conclude.

*****

Once inside, the senior advisor immediately espied his quarry and headed directly to his table, assured by the fact that Lothvaen and the Geledhil were following close behind. Without preamble he seated himself and launched immediately into dialogue with burgher, who seemed unsurprised by Berendirith’s abrupt manner. Lothvaen sat himself down at the edge of the bench, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, yet listening avidly to the conversation that was happening between the man and Berendirith, while the two Geledhil sat at a nearby table and motioned for one of the servers to bring them some ale.

It did not take long for the negotiations to be concluded, with the burgher signing off on the agreement with a flourish. “There,” he said with a smile as he handed the parchment back to Berendirith. “I look forward to continued good relationships with the elves of Lothlórien. I take it you are staying the night?” Berendirith nodded a little unenthusiastically, to which the burgher beamed. “Excellent, excellent! I believe the rabbit pie is quite good.” The senior advisor, upon hearing this, screwed up his nose slightly. Oblivious, the burgher continued, “Now, I am afraid I must leave you gentlemen. I hope you have a safe journey home tomorrow.” With those parting words, the man left.

“Rabbit pie,” Berendirith said in disgust. “The pastry will undoubtedly be soggy and the gravy lacking in taste. I only hope there will be better things on the menu.”

“Actually,” Lothvaen said as he looked around him, “the rabbit pie looks quite good.”

Berendirith sniffed. “If you want to eat some of it, I shall not stop you. At least the ale is passable here, though I would not touch the wine. I swear they water it down.” The senior advisor then looked around the room himself before signalling for the server to come to the table. “Some ale, and bring us some of the rabbit pie.”

“Of course, sirs. I’ll bring it to you straight away,” she said, and then winked at Lothvaen, making the scribe blush.

To cover his embarrassment, Lothvaen turned to Berendirith. “I thought you were not going to have any of the pie,” he said.

Berendirith stared at the younger elf. “Have you seen the other food that is available here? Even less palatable, methinks, than the pie. I shall risk it. If the worst comes to the worst, I could always just have the bread – providing it is not crawling with weevils,” he said a little morosely.

In the meantime the senior advisor and scribe had been joined by the Geledhil. “I take it things have been concluded satisfactorily?” Caegaran asked.

Berendirith gave the Galadhel a look that could curdle milk. “Your observance and astuteness never ceases to astound me,” he said, not bothering to hide his displeasure. Caegaran merely shrugged and took another sip of his ale.

Lothvaen, meanwhile, had been staring out the window. Dusk had already fallen, and candles had been lit within the room. He continued to stare out until the server arrived with their food. Realising how hungry he was, he quickly began to eat. Even Berendirith, despite his earlier disapproval, seemed to relish the repast. “This is actually quite good,” the senior advisor admitted. “Rich, with just a little bit of spice. It seems the burgher was right.” He continued to eat, as did the two Geledhil, but Lothvaen put down his fork. The scribe all of a sudden felt the need for a little fresh air, and decided he would go and see his horse in the stables. He thought there would be no harm in doing that, and carefully got up from the table. Lothvaen did not want to particularly tell anyone he was going to step outside, especially Berendirith. The senior advisor was more than likely to grab him and drag him back down onto the bench.

The scribe thought briefly about the knife that Celeborn had given him, currently tucked away in his satchel in the room he was sharing with Berendirith. He had not been comfortable when Celeborn had given it to him, and the idea of possibly using it to stab someone with it, even if it were in self-defence, made the elf feel slightly ill. No, much better that it was in his satchel. And what could possibly happen? He was, after all, only going to the stables. Lothvaen got up silently, his eyes on his companions, before ducking behind some of the inn’s patrons. Weaving his way around the tables, Lothvaen slipped through the door outside.

His leaving did not quite go unnoticed, however. Caegaran watched as the scribe left, but made nothing of it. Yes, he had heard Berendirith’s constant exhortations in remaining together, yet as far as he was concerned Lothvaen could just as easily be going outside to relieve himself. After all, one did not need an audience to do that. So he remained quiet and continued to eat and drink, and very soon thought no more about it.

But it was not just Caegaran who noticed Lothvaen’s departure. The man who had observed the elves’ arrival earlier in the afternoon also had seen the scribe leave and, after a few moments, followed Lothvaen outside.

Lothvaen had reached the stables and went inside, locating his horse halfway down. With a smile he walked to her, and delighted in the fact that she seemed to recognise him, welcoming the scribe with a small whinny. Lothvaen took a quick look into her stall; all seemed clean and there was plenty of fresh hay. He began to stroke her nose.

“She’s a pretty little thing.” The voice seemed to come from nowhere, and made Lothvaen jump. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to startle you.” A young man approached the scribe, a smile on his face.

“That…that is all right,” Lothvaen stuttered. “I was just not expecting someone else to be here, that is all.”

“You come far?”

“From Lothlórien, though we return tomorrow,” Lothvaen replied.

“Ah. Not been there myself, but then I don’t think any human has. You elves keep pretty much to yourself.”

Lothvaen flushed slightly. “There is much danger about,” he murmured.

“Aye, true enough.” The man continued to look at Lothvaen, keeping a friendly smile on his face, but made sure he was not too close. “What’s your name?”

“Lothvaen.” The scribe continued to stroke his horse, feeling unthreatened by the man before him. He was unaware, however, of another man carefully creeping up behind him, rag in his hand. Any possible noise he made was covered as horses moved about in their stalls. As soon as he was close enough, he quickly covered Lothvaen’s face and nose with the rag, pressing tightly. The scribe grabbed at the arm of his assailant and tried to kick him, while his eyes pleaded to the man in front of him to do something, but he was soon overcome and fell limp into the arms his assailant. Lothvaen’s horse had shied away in alarm, her eyes wide.

“Got ‘im!” the assailant, Selred, said jubilantly.

“Quiet, you fool!” the other man, whose name was Eohric, hissed. “We need to get him out of here, and quickly, before his friends realise he has been away for too long.”

“Right.” With little effort, the dark-haired man hoisted Lothvaen over his shoulder.

“Stick to the shadows; that way we have less chance of being seen. Our horses are on the outskirts of town. Do you think you can carry him that far?”

“Aye. ‘e don’ weighs much; ‘e be a skinny thing.”

“’Skinny thing or no, he will fetch us a good price. So be careful!”

*****

The names Selred and Eohric were taken from this website:

http://www.ealdriht.org/names/Englishnames.htm

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