(WARNING: transmisogynistic slurs)
Why do I keep my mind
On you all the time?
And I don’t even know you (I don’t know you)
Why do I feel this way?
Thinking about you every day
And I don’t even know you (I don’t know you)
Take me in your arms
Thrill me with all of your charms
And I’ll take to the sky, oh, the natural high
Loving you more till the day I die
Take to the sky, oh, the natural high
Loving you more –Bloodstone, “Natural High”
Thranduil sits in his car parked across the police station. Wait and watch, said the uncanny force to his fae. He has waited and watched since the sun was at its zenith, painting the city a muted gray that’s as bright as it ever gets. Now, the sun creeps toward the west behind the skyscrapers and thick, slate-gray clouds, the sun creeps toward the west.
He flips through a copy of the Detroit City Voice, paying special attention to the crime section.
City Police Prepare For Devil’s Night. Rumors Say This Year’s Devil’s Night To Be Worst Since 1993.
The story about a John Doe tugs his intuition. As he reads, every word seems startlingly familiar.
Thrift Store John Doe Still Not Identified.
The John Doe who was arrested two nights ago has yet to be identified. Police speculate that with his lack of identification and seeming inability to speak English, he could be an undocumented immigrant.
John Doe remains in custody at the 13th Precinct.
Aside from being arrested, this describes the circumstances of his coming to this world with remarkable accuracy. A group of young men (boys, really)
found him naked as a hatchling in the English countryside a few years before the Great War. Robert, Edmund, and Peter fed him, clothed him, cut his hair, and taught him to speak and read English. They all died in the trenches, felled by bullets and barbed wire and mustard gas. The grief of their passing sent their mother Helen beyond the circles of the world shortly thereafter.
He still has nightmares about the gruesome ways men invented to kill each other in this world’s twentieth century. The memory of the things he saw at the liberation of Buchenwald still have the power to make him feel ill. He still dreams of napalm streaking fire across the dense, green jungle, burning all in its wake: women, children, birds, and beasts. He can’t even bear fireworks without getting flashbacks to Vietnam and the great serpents of the North.
The strange force pushes him from the grip of memory and urges him to watch a slightly pudgy man of average height with a mustache straight from the ‘70s. Though his face says he must be in his late forties or early fifties, his hair has gone almost entirely gray. He ascends the steps to the station. Thranduil gets out of the car and trots across the street to the station.
The inside of the station reeks of despair and simmering rage. It comes from the police as much as it does from those in handcuffs. Thranduil pushes that awareness to the back of his mind and quickly finds the man he saw enter the building. Keen Elvish sight picks up the name Ramirez engraved on a metal name tag. Ramirez watches his computer screen as his fingers fly across the keyboard. A scant forty years ago, typing was seen as a woman’s skill. Time, it seems, has a sense of irony.
Thranduil weaves through the bodies walking to and fro like wind as he mentally prepares what to say next.
“May I help you?” says Ramirez in the bored monotone of someone who has asked that question one too many times.
“Good afternoon, sir. I’m a correspondent from the Detroit City Voice. We ran a story about a John Doe a couple of days ago. I’m here to see if there are any updates you’d like to share.”
Ramirez looks at him, the suspicion writ clear on his face.
“John Doe was released this morning,” says Ramirez. “No one pressed charges.”
“Has anyone identified him?”
“Nope. He spoke some gibberish in the interrogation room, and some girl came to pick him up.
“Who picked him up?”
“Look, I wasn’t here. Ask Blake.”
Thranduil scans the precinct and catches the name tag reading “Blake” on a smooth-faced young man who seems barely out of his teens. Were it not for the round ears and stubble struggling to emerge from his smooth skin, he could be mistaken for an Elf. But the glaring thing about Blake that advertises that he’s still a rookie is the unrestrained enthusiasm for his job. He’s the only one here smiling.
“Officer Blake,” he says.
“May I help you, sir?” asks Blake, grinning wide and showing his white, even teeth. Thranduil wonders, briefly, if Blake smiles so much now because he once wore braces and is making up for the years he spent with chunks of metal in his mouth.
“I’m from the Detroit City Voice. I was just talking to Officer Ramirez, and he tells me that you were present when the John Doe was released earlier today.”
“Yeah, I was.”
“Do you mind telling me what you observed about John Doe? Anything that struck you as noteworthy or odd in any way?”
“Well,” says Blake, thinking, “He spoke some foreign language. Sounded like gibberish if you ask me, but the lady who picked him up seemed to understand it.”
“I see. Was there anything else?”
“No. Well–nevermind, it’s too crazy.”
“I assure you this is strictly off the record. I only ask because I want to know.”
“OK, while they were talking, the girl said some things to him that makes me think he believes he’s a fictional character.”
“You don’t say?”
Thranduil considers this for a moment. Strange language, fictional character, the strange dreams that haunted him in his reverie. What is the likelihood of this John Doe being like him, an Elf from Middle-earth en route to the Undying Lands who awakened in a new world?
“Do you know much about Lord of the Rings?”
“I’ve seen the films.”
That is a lie. Thranduil tried to see the films, but the actors’ resemblance to their characters was too uncanny to continue beyond the point where Legolas arrives in Rivendell. By some strange machination of fate, each actor was perfectly cast.
“John Doe thinks he’s Elrond.”
Thranduil laughs, but it isn’t for the reason Blake thinks.
“I know, right? That’s not something you hear everyday.”
“That’s putting it mildly. Who picked him up?”
“Um…I’m not sure I’m supposed to give out that information.”
“I’m just trying to follow up on the story. That’s all.”
Blake worries his lip for a good minute before he answers.
“Look, I can’t tell you who picked him up or give you an address, but I can tell you that he was arrested two nights ago at Thrifty Stylez–that’s Stylez with a ‘z.’ It’s not too far from here.”
“Thank you, Officer Blake,” says Thranduil, extending his hand. Blake shakes it firmly and gets back to work.
As soon as his back is turned, Thranduil punches the Thrifty Stylez into Google Maps and starts navigation.
Left to his own devices for the time being, Elrond searches the lady’s abode for something to occupy his mind while she is away. He quickly locates a bookshelf. The sheer number of books she has astonishes him. Lady Nichelle must be a loremaster of some kind in her world to have so many in her possession, for even the most learned in Middle-earth–save himself perhaps–own no more than five or ten volumes. He marvels at the variety of scripts contained within their pages, though the letters themselves are of a kind unknown to him. Some of the books are naught but images exquisitely rendered in line and color. On the front cover of one such tome there is depicted a rugged Man of noble bearing whose likeness is so like Estel’s that it startles him.
Exploring Lady Nichelle’s home further, he finds an arrangement of images, all of various sizes, depicting the lady herself as well as other people. Clear glass forms a protective cover over each image. The images themselves are, by a skill none other than Nerdanel may possess, rendered in such intricate detail that they seem almost alive.
He strides across Nichelle’s home and pauses when he sees his reflection in a flat rectangular mirror made of dark glass. Next to it on the table there is a device with many buttons upon it. Elrond picks it up and examines it, pushing a few of the buttons to see what it does. He flinches when the strange mirror comes to life. His mouth hangs open when he presses more buttons and sees more images, all of them in crisp, lifelike detail, as though he were part of the visions he sees. This mirror must be some sort of palantír.
He tries more buttons, and he ducks as a dragon roars and soars toward him, belching flames. He instinctively reaches for a sword that isn’t there. Again, he taps buttons, and flinches at the thunderous cracking sound of the odd weapons of the Men of this world. He taps the buttons some more, and the mirror shows Men in colorful tunics running along a huge green meadow and kicking a white ball back and forth across it.
There is so much to learn about this world. Perhaps this is why the Valar have sent him here: that he may glean what wisdom he may from this realm and enrich his people with new knowledge. Or, whispers a dark voice from within, You have been abandoned again. He shakes his head, banishing the turn of his thoughts. He cannot allow such thoughts to take root, not when his mind must be clear and sharp.
If Bilbo Baggins were here, he would think of all this as part of some great adventure. He can imagine Mr. Baggins calling the tale, “The Hobbit and the Elf-Lord” or something similar. Mithrandir would say something vague and metaphysical that places these strange events into some kind of cosmic perspective and, in its way, bestow wisdom and encouragement. Then he would light his pipe and puff, making shapes in the smoke and spreading the scent of tobacco everywhere despite however many times Elrond asks, both politely and not-so-politely, that he smoke outdoors. Lady Galadriel would remind him of what is best about him and, in so doing, give him the strength to go on despite the uncertainty of what lies ahead. Then she and Mithrandir would share a look, then a smile, and Elrond would tell them, mind-to-mind, to get a room.
Such things he shall tell them when he sees them again! Giddy with excitement, he laughs. He hasn’t felt so enchanted since he was a child. Everything here is new and strange and wonderful. An entire world is waiting to be discovered: new realms to travel, new peoples to encounter, new objects of power and beauty to behold. With so much to see and to do, he doesn’t notice as the weariness of the world lifts, and his strength and vigor of old returns to him.
Who knows how long he may dwell in this world? He must learn all he can without delay, and he shall commit to memory all that Lady Nichelle deems fit to impart upon him. Speaking of which, she is due to return at any moment, and he must make himself presentable for the meal she will prepare. He picks up the items she set aside for him for when he decided to bathe. Despite his disastrous lapse in judgment at their first meeting, she has shown, even in this simple gesture, great kindness to him. He owes her a debt of gratitude, and he shall repay her with more than thankful words.
He walks into the bathroom, twists the knob to turn on the water as Lady Nichelle instructed. Placing his hand under the steady stream, he flinches at how cold it is then recalls that turning the knob leftward adds heat. He does so, and the water becomes pleasingly warm. He peels off his borrowed garments and steps inside the…what was the word her mind supplied for it?…the shower. The heat and powerful spray feel like hundreds of fingers massaging his skin. Steam and water ease the tension he didn’t know he carried. He reaches for the bar of soap and gives himself a quick, vigorous wash. He plucks a tiny bottle of shampoo from the edge of the bathtub and squeezes some into his palm. It smells like honey and spices. He works his fingers into his scalp and sings the notes of a soothing song that Nichelle played on what she identifies as a radio. Once he is clean and rinsed, he puts the nozzles back in their original positions and steps out of the bath. He wrings the water from his hair and pats himself dry with the hand towel. Steam billows out the bathroom when he exits, wiping the last few droplets off his body.
The shower is amazing. Only minutes beneath the gushing water, and he feels as if he spent an hour in a hot spring. As enjoyable as the shower is, he doubts this is the reason why he is here. The pleasure of it is short-lived, for when he turns, he sees Nichelle standing at the door holding two bags and gawking at him. Just as Elrond is about to cover himself and apologize, her knees buckle, and she faints.
Nichelle lies naked on a bed of clouds. Elrond, gloriously nude, stands before her. This high up, the moonlight makes him seem to glow. Silently, he sinks to his knees. He drapes his sleek, hard physique over her and does exquisite things to her body.
My lady, he whispers between deep, ragged breaths. My lady. My lady. My lady.
“Lady Nichelle!”
Her eyes fly open and dart to and fro. Warmth and comfort surround her, and it’s now when she realizes that she’s being held in Elrond’s arms. He has his clothes on now (pity), but the scent of the shampoo he borrowed still lingers on his slightly damp hair. She should be squirming right now, but it feels so natural, so safe.
“What happened?”
“You swooned,” he says. Again, his words seem out of sync with his lips, like on one of those old school kung fu movies. Waitaminute–did he say “swoon”? Like those Victorian ladies who fainted in their petticoats? She giggles. Swoon, God!
“Did you hit your head?” he asks. She shakes her head.
“I have taken the liberty of dressing myself in the garments you brought,” he says, “They fit well and are most comfortable, though not in the style to which I am accustomed. I can remove them if it was not your wish for me to–”
The thought of seeing Elrond naked again sends her mind reeling with the possibilities, but her upbringing intervenes before she can get clever.
“It’s OK; you can wear them. It’s why I got ‘em. You look–”
Gorgeous. Delicious. Fucking amazing.
“You look good.”
“I do?” he asks, his eyes lighting up as a bashful smile spreads across his face. He brushes nonexistent lint from the blazer. The gesture is endearingly familiar. Nichelle glances around her. Something is missing from the bags she dropped.
“What happened to the food?” she asks.
“I placed it on what I assume is the dining table,” says Elrond. He lifts her to her feet.
“Shall we eat?” he asks. Nichelle growling tummy answers.
She hopes Elrond likes Chinese. She got them the super value meal that comes with three entrees, two appetizers, and a two-liter soda for twenty dollars. The mini-banquet laid before this consists of two egg rolls, hot and sour soup, steamed vegetables, General Tso’s chicken, Mongolian beef, and Sprite.
Elrond takes his first bite of the eggroll, eyebrows raising as he makes a small hum of satisfaction. He eats the soup with refined gusto. He’s initially awkward with chopsticks, but he picks it up right away after she shows him how to hold the sticks and pick up chunks of vegetables, meat, and rice.
“This is quite practical,” he remarks as he puts some of each dish on his plate, “It eliminates the need for additional cutlery save perhaps a spoon for soup. They seem much simpler to clean as well.”
Nichelle nods absently and tries not to watch Elrond eat lest she imagine him putting other warm, moist things into his mouth. She places a piece of Mongolian beef in her mouth and doesn’t entirely succeed at not thinking about her lips closing around another hot, fleshy thing. Elrond chokes on his piece of General Tso’s chicken.
“You OK?” she asks, gently resting her hand on his arm. Elrond nods and swallows the morsel. Maybe it’s her imagination, but he seems to be breathing harder.
He says, “I…uh…I am fine.”
When they finish eating, it’s time for her to get ready to go to work. Devil’s Night is tomorrow, and she has to make sure the place is still standing the day after. Before she leaves, she uses a stack of extra blankets to make a pallet on the floor for Elrond to sleep on. It’s not a bed, not even an air mattress, but it should do until she picks up something better.
She is relieved to finally leave the loft. She doesn’t think she has the willpower to be near Elrond for more a few of hours at a time. She fervently locks the door behind her as if to ward off her arousal. There’s no mistaking it; she was minutes shy of throwing herself at him. He would’ve turned her down with a polite thanks but no thanks or the cool dismissal of sorry I’m not into Black chicks, and she would’ve wished the ground to open up and swallow her whole.
But what if he said yes? asks the part of her mind that only wants to get it on.Wasn’t there the slightest bulge in those pants? Didn’t he walk just a tad stiffly? Mmmm, stiff.
She shakes her head. Her id is a damn lie. There’s nothing more to that than wishful thinking. She’s lonely and horny; that’s all. It’s just playing tricks on her mind.
As he watches the city get bathed in dirty orange light, Elrond curses himself for a fool. The vivid images projected from Lady Nichelles mind made her interest abundantly clear, but what did he do? What did he say? Nothing! He merely sat there and chewed like some witless lump of flesh. It served him right to choke.
Others who hold him in high esteem may attribute his reticence to fidelity to his wife, but this is only partially true. Admit it, you coward; you’re just afraid she will laugh in your face. Though he must say no to any advances she makes, he does wants to say yes so badly, for Lady Nichelle arouses urges he has not felt toward any since he first lay eyes on Celebrían. If Lady Nichelle were to catch him unawares, deep in the loneliness that has been his companion since Celebrían sailed West, he is not sure he will be able to resist, and there is no certainty about whether it will bode well or ill for him to take solace in Lady Nichelle’s arms.
It reminds him of something Elros once told him.
They stand on the shores of Númenor watching the ships come in with the tide.
“Do you know the difference between Elves and Men?” asks Elros.
“Men die,” he says. Elros laughs. Elrond knows not why he does so, for it is no jest.
“I do not believe so. I believe–will you please put down that dusty old scroll and talk to me?–that even if Men were endowed with a lifespan extending unto the end of Arda, there would be a tremendous difference between us and Elves.”
Elrond bristles at the way Elros says “us,” knowing it no longer refers to the two of them, brother with brother against the world of naysayers who call them lords and princes to their face and the fosterlings of Kinslayers behind their back.
“What, pray tell, is your revelation about the difference in nature between Men and Elves?”
“In the end, Elves regret the things they do. Men regret the things they don’t do.”
“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”
Thus follows the Athrabeth Elros Tar-Minyatur ah Elrond Peredhel, for Elrond argues that all things Men do emerge from their fear of death while Elros maintains that it is inherent in the race of Men.
But Elros was wrong. Elrond regrets much of what he did not do. He regrets the missed opportunities to communicate to those dearest to him how much they mean to him. He regrets he years he spent not forgiving the follies of others, allowing contempt and resentment to spread like weeds that choke the respect and affection that once thrived. He regrets his failure to protect those closest to him from harm, that for all his supposed wisdom, he was powerless to save them when they needed him most.
Elrond sighs. There is no clear course of action from here, for there is the potential for great sorrow no matter what he does or doesn’t do. Such, it seems, is his lot in life.
The city holds is breath in anticipation of what comes tomorrow night. Few save the occasional stray dog or cat walk the streets at this hour. Tomorrow night at this time, even they will have vanished into their hidey-holes while the city burns.
Nichelle glances at the clock on the wall. It’s nineteen after ten. She locks the back door first, as is her new habit, for she was extremely lucky that Elrond had come through there and not someone far less benevolent. When the back door is secure, she goes to the front door and hangs the sign announcing tomorrow’s hours.
WE CLOSE AT 7PM ON DEVIL’S NIGHT (OCTOBER 30).
With that out of the way, she picks up her dog-eared copy of The Dark Tower V: Wolves of the Calla and reads about Roland and his ka-tet saving a small town from cybernetic werewolves. Her imagination casts Elrond in the role of Roland. Picturing him in a cowboy hat and big cowboy boots with a six-shooter at his side is far less ridiculous than it would sound if she spoke it aloud. They both share a timeless, otherworldly quality that is hard to put into words.
At ten-forty, Twinkie calls the store to check on her.
“Coast is clear,” says Nichelle.
“Nobody left anything in lost and found?”
“Nah, it’s all good.”
Someone leaving something in lost and found is their new code phrase for something being wrong. If Nichelle says someone left something in lost and found, that’s Twinkie’s cue to hang up and call the cops.
“A’ight, then. You take care. Call me when you get home.”
At ten-forty-five on the dot, the door buzzes as a customer walks in. A tall, lean guy with short, spiky blond hair enters the store. Everything about him, from the tailored clothes to the well-shined shoes, says that he’s not the kind of customer Thrifty Stylez is used to getting. Yet something about him seems familiar in the same way that Elrond seemed familiar. Maybe she saw him on TV or something.
“May I help you?”
“Yes,” says Not A Thrifty Stylez Kind Of Guy, “I was wondering if I can talk to the person who closed a couple of nights ago.”
“Regarding?” she asks. There’s something too polished about his manner for him to simply be a random customer peeking in.
“I’m with the Detroit City Voice, and I’m following up on the John Doe story.”
“Look, I’m about to close, and I don’t want to do an interview.”
“No, no, it’s not an interview. I just need to share any updates on the story that you or someone else may have. I just have a couple of questions. Nothing about you personally just a fact-check for accuracy.”
“Alright.”
“Did you identify John Doe?”
“More or less.”
“Who is he?”
“I’m not the right person to ask about that.”
“Do you know where he is?”
Nichelle is about to answer when she sees something that makes her do a double take. For a flicker of an instant, half his face seems to melt, a gruesome half-mask of bone and tendon clutching a milky white eye set within it like a pearl. She must have flinched when she saw it because he touches his face as if to make sure it’s still there.
First Elrond has a huge boner, and now Two Face is walking into Thrifty Stylez. Yep, her mind is playing tricks on her.
“You saw that?” says the customer, dropping all pretense of being any kind of reporter. Nichelle eases back from the counter. If she makes a break for it, she can run to the back room and lock the door. There’s a phone in there, so she can call 911 in there too.
“No, please don’t run. I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Says the guy who started off by lying to me.”
“I know. Listen,” he says, keeping his hands visible on the counter, “if it makes you feel better, I’ll take a step back and not come any nearer to you or the counter. I just need you to hear me out. After I say what I have to say, I’ll go.”
“You have ten seconds.”
The guy rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on! At least give me thirty.”
“Nine.”
“My name is Thranduil. I’m looking for Elrond Halfelven.”
Of all the things Nichelle expects, that is not it. But there’s one thing…
“How do you speak English?”
“I’ve had a century to pick it up. Can we go somewhere to talk?”
“I ain’t going nowhere with you.”
“Fine, you pick the place and time, and I’ll be there, but I think you know we have much to talk about. Here,” he says, slowly reaching into his pocket and taking out his wallet. He opens it. Nichelle briefly glimpses what looks like a driver’s license and several credit cards. Thranduil pinches a card from inside the wallet and places it on the counter.
“When you’re ready, call this number. I’ll be in town for another couple of days.”
Thranduil leaves the store as quickly and quietly as he entered it. Nichelle has no idea what she’s gonna tell Twinkie about all this.
Twinkie puts up the last of the flyers. She and Nicki made hundreds of copies on bright paper and posted them all over the city. It’s hard out here for trans ladies any day of the year, but Devil’s Night takes more of a toll than usual. The police and so-called LGBT community don’t do shit at the best of times, but when Devil’s Night rolls around, there’s no way they’re gonna get off their asses and help.
ATTENTION TRANS SISTERS
DON’T GET CAUGHT OUT ON DEVIL’S NIGHT
IF YOU NEED A PLACE TO STAY, CALL 313-555-0012
It took a while to build a network of people willing to let a trans sister crash for a night, but hopefully the dozen or so hosts will be enough. Last year, some assholes tagged her car with transphobic slurs. Twinkie had sobbed as she scrubbed big red letters that said TRANNY and SHEMALE and KILL YOURSELF. She scrubbed until her hands were raw, but it didn’t budge. It was a pink smear by the time Nicki came by to visit. It didn’t come off until Nicki used a bottle of some brand of Brazilian car wax she got from Auto Zone. Even so, she was luckier than the trans ladies who woke up in the hospital or the morgue.
This year, if anybody tries to tag her car or start any kind of shit, she’ll tag them with her friend Mr. Aluminum Baseball Bat. Her phone comes to life with Peaches’ “I U She.”
“Hey, Nicki.”
“Hey, Twinkie.”
“What you do?”
“Why I gotta be doin’ wrong?”
“You got that, ‘I’ma say somethin’ and I know you ain’t gon’ like it’ tone in your voice.”
There’s a pause. Twinkie fills it with imagining Nicki worrying her lip in that cute, childlike way she does when she’s not sure what to say next.
“I need your advice,” says Nicki.
“That’s fifty dollars straight-up plus a hundred for the Not Gonna Listen Anyway fee.”
“I’m serious.”
“Hurry up; I ain’t got all day.”
“A’ight, um…let’s say that, hypothetically speaking, there’s been an undocumented immigrant staying at my place for a little while. And, hypothetically speaking, he’d been in police custody when I picked him up.”
“What the fuck you–”
“I know, I know. But here’s my question: what if, hypothetically speaking, this undocumented immigrant knows someone who may or may not be able to help. Should I meet with them? What would you do?”
“I don’t know what the hell to tell you. That’s beyond my area of expertise.”
“What would you do?”
“I wouldn’t be in that mess. Shit, girl, you on your own. All I can say is just don’t get caught out tonight.“
“A’ight. Thanks, Twink.”
“I told you ‘bout calling me that.”
Nicki laughs and hangs up. Twinkie doesn’t understand that girl sometimes.
A pregnant hush has settled over the city. There’s a muted quality to the usual urban sounds. Jackhammers pounding into pavement sound like they’re dozens of feet underground. Horns beep as though from far away. The traffic guards blow their whistles, but only a low trill comes out. It’s as though a huge blanket of silence has been spread over the city, and only the most determined sounds can emerge. This no blessedly quiet day in Detroit. Its the calm before the storm.
Thranduil sits at a table by the window in Pointy’s, a French-style cafe in the heart of downtown. The pristine interior with its spotless wine glasses and crisp white tablecloths are a jarring foil to the muck and grime outside. checks his watch. It’s 12:19PM. Nichelle and Elrond are almost twenty minutes late. Either that, or she’s not coming at all. The kingly pride he keeps tucked away bristles at this show of disregard. It is he who is supposed to keep them waiting, not the other way around. He orders a café au lait and is pleasantly surprised that it’s not as awful as Americanized Parisian coffee is. If they’re not here when he finishes his cup, he’s leaving.
He wakes up his phone and swipes the screen, fingers instinctively tapping the combination of digits to dial home.
“What do you want?”
“Hi, sweetheart. How’s everything at home?”
“I needed extra spending money, so I sold your bike.”
“Don’t touch my bike.”
“Just kidding. By the way, the children are fond of their new daddy. You shouldn’t come home. It will only confuse them.”
“They’re not my children anyway. They look nothing like me.”
“I really like my new husband. He’s tall and handsome and rich. He’s perfect.”
“And dumb as bricks, I assume.”
“Absolutely. Rich idiots make the best husbands.”
Thranduil laughs. Tien is the only one who can elicit such an unguarded response from him. He will miss this about her after she…leaves. His peripheral vision catches two figures, one tall and one short, and he recognizes the distinctly Elvish gait of the tall one. Nichelle walks quickly to keep pace with his long, even strides. He briefly notes to tease her about having Hobbit ancestry when he gets the chance.
“Hey, baby, I have to go.”
“OK, bye.”
Elrond is holding the door for Nichelle as he hangs up. When he enters, Thranduil loses a breath. Even in denim jeans and a casual three-quarter length jacket, his stature and bearing are unmistakable. Before his sense of decorum can catch up with him, he rushes toward Elrond and pulls him into a tight embrace, laughing and weeping like a child. It takes a few minutes for him to regain his composure.
“I believe you have met Lady Nichelle,” he says, gesturing to the woman who looks at him with clear, dark eyes that give him the distinct impression that she’s taking the measure of him. He would never admit it, but her gaze is unsettling in a way not unlike that of Lady Galadriel. They make their introductions and sit and Thranduil’s table. The waiter soon brings a tray of coffee cups, cream, and sugar.
It’s been over a century since he’s spoken the language of his people with another native speaker, but with Elrond there, it’s as though no time has passed at all. Elrond is most eager to know what became of his children after he boarded the ship to the West.
“By all accounts, your daughter and foster son were blissfully happy until Aragorn’s passing. She laid herself to rest in Cerin Amroth soon thereafter. As for your sons, they were still hunting Orcs with the Dúnedain even after the death of Aragorn.”
Elrond takes such grave tidings with the dignity and respect befitting a great lord of the Eldar, but Thranduil knows he will grieve them privately as he himself still does for Legolas. Even so, the devastation is written all over his face. He wishes he knew what words and gestures could console him, but he draws a blank at what response is appropriate for such unimaginable sadness. Thankfully, Nichelle puts a hand on Elrond’s back and offers no words, though the look on her face says all. Why had he not thought of that?
“I am fine,” he says, though both he and Nichelle know that he’s the furthest thing from fine as anyone can be.
Nichelle dissipates the awkwardness of this moment by asking him how he came to be in this world. It’s a welcome reprieve from dead and missing children.
“It seems the Valar have a twisted sense of humor,” he says, “I get on the ship and sail then off in the distance I see a tall structure standing in a vast expanse of red. I thought, ‘Well, that’s quick,’ but suddenly, instead of standing on the deck of the ship, I’m standing in the middle of a desert. I start walking and somehow I find myself amidst an endless field of the most exquisite roses the like of which I have never seen. At first, I thought I had come by some alternate road to the Garden of Lorien in Valinor, but I do not recall any depictions that included a tower that rose high above the clouds.”
Elrond makes a face as though he has realized something important. Thranduil pauses. “What?”
“Nothing,” says Elrond, “Please, continue.”
“There was something about the tower. I cannot recall any other detail save its great height. I cannot even recall if it was fear or wonder that made me run or whether I ran toward it or away from it. In any case, I woke up in a meadow in the English countryside as naked as the day i was born.”
Elrond listens without further comment as Thranduil tells the rest of the story. For the first time in a century, he speaks of his arrival in this world and how the twentieth century sounds like a machine gun. He tells the story of the Great War: the precise, mechanized destruction of MG08s cutting men apart like they were made of paper; barbed wire snagging on people and horses who crawled toward agonizing deaths; the terror of watching sickly yellow gas spread through the trenches and blood-curdling screams of those who were too slow in putting on their masks.
“Do you know what irony is, Lord Elrond? Not the concept, the reality. Irony is enlisting to serve in the British army and being assigned to the same regiment as none other than John Ronald Reuel Tolkien.”
“You knew Tolkien?” asked Nichelle.
“I was briefly acquainted with him. We hid in the same trench hoping the enemy didn’t have mustard gas. Aside from a vague sense that he would not die in the war, I had not the slightest idea what he would do in the future.”
“Would you have told him everything if you did?”
“I would certainly have corrected him about a few things.”
“I almost don’t want to know what you think about the movies,” says Nichelle.
“They’re more accurate than the books in some instances. Except for making all the Elves pale as sheets.”
Nichelle snorts in her coffee. If he times his funny moments more carefully, she will certainly do a spit-take. It’s one of the few moments of levity in his telling of his time here thus far.
Elrond seems shocked when Thranduil describes the even more terrible Second World War that arrived a mere twenty years later. Shock turns to disgust and horror when he gets to the part about the Holocaust and the emaciated corpses piled into mass graves reeking so badly that even hardened veterans become ill.
He understands Elrond’s confusion. The wholesale slaughter of entire peoples for the express purpose of utterly eradicating them is an incomprehensible concept in Middle-earth. Horror and confusion become open disbelief when Thranduil says that there are some today who deny it ever happened. Thranduil wasn’t there for Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but he gives an account of two cities instantly turned to ash, leaving behind a wasteland where nothing grew for decades.
When he speaks of Korea and Vietnam, Elrond simply shakes his head in dismay. Perhaps he has painted too grim a picture of this world, so he talks about the things that pique Elrond’s interest. He was right to speak of advances in science and medicine: antibiotics, vaccines, organ transplants, and better treatments for the withering disease known in this world as cancer. The look of incredulity on Elrond’s face when he talks about cloning and the moon landing is priceless. He can’t wait to tell him about the Mars project and the birth of artificial intelligence.
“How has the knowledge of arts and letters progressed?” asks Elrond.
“I do not believe this restaurant will remain open long enough for us to discuss it.”
There is something about the way Elrond behaves around Nichelle that makes Thranduil wonder what’s going on between those two. Elrond frequently glances at her, and each time he does so, there’s the barest hint of a smile. As Thranduil speaks, Elrond makes every effort to include her in their conversation, though how she understands their language is a mystery to unravel some other time. It’s possible that Elrond is simply being gracious and polite–too gracious and polite. When Nichelle visits the ladies’ washroom, Elrond’s eyes track her movements like a hound on a scent trail.
“You sly, old fox. You wasted no time at all.”
“What?”
“Oh, don’t play coy. How long did it take you and she to–”
“I refuse to dignify that with a response. She is my host, and I will not have you suggest lewd things about her.”
“Your host. I see.”
Elrond responds with strained calm. “Whatever you are imagining, that is not the situation here. I am her guest, and it is not my habit to seduce people who provide me with food, clothing, and shelter. Besides, we have only known each other two days. And…I am married.”
It takes a lot for Thranduil not to grin at finally finding the weak spot in the composure of the most unflappable individual in all of Middle-earth. It will take all his self-control to keep from poking at it.
“How long did it take for you to know you loved Celebrían?”
“Shut up.”
When Nichelle comes back from the ladies’ room, Elrond turns to her, and his eyes sparkle with the reflected light of the restaurant. He grins at her, and for a moment she wonders if–nah, maybe that’s just an Elf thing. Thranduil gives her a sidelong look that has a hint of conspiracy to it.
“I hope you gentlemen weren’t talking about anything improper while I was gone.”
Elrond immediately turns his head toward his cup of coffee and seems to take great interest in the shapes made by the steam coming off it.
“Lord Elrond has been regaling me with stories about the many ways he’s had his wicked way with you.”
“Said like someone who’s not getting any,” she quips before she remembers to watch her mouth. Elrond chuckles.
“For your information, I’m happily married to a lovely wife named Tien.”
“That poor woman. You do realize that the days of hitting us on the head and dragging us to your cave are over, right?”
“Practically yesterday for an Elf.”
They all laugh. The fading light outside says that it’s near dusk. The clock on the wall says it’s 5:19 PM. It will be dark in less than an hour and a half, and it will officially be Devil’s Night.
“Fuck, I gotta get outta here,” she says, digging into her purse for a few crumpled bills.
Thranduil restrains her with a light touch on her arm. “No, it’s my treat.”
“You ready?” she asks Elrond, but his response is a sheepish expression on his face.
“I am afraid I shall not join you,” he says. Nichelle’s heart sinks. Of course. What did she expect. He had to leave sooner or later. But did he have to go this soon?
“I do not wish it was so,” he quickly adds, “However, there is much that Thranduil and I need to discuss and a great deal I must know of this world that is easier learned from one who is also from Middle-earth. I know not how much time he and I will need, and I cannot further impose upon your hospitality.”
She wants to beg him to stay. She wants to hold him close and tell him that he can impose whenever and however long he wants to, but the words don’t come. God, she misses him already.
The only thing that comes out is her meek, “Oh.”
He takes her hand in both of his as gently as if he were handling glass. His hands are smooth and warm. The sensation of his thumb lightly brushing against her fingers makes her tingle all over. Do not fret, he says in that soft voice that speaks directly to her mind, this is not forever. She wants to ask how he can know that, but the moment is over before she has a chance to say anything.
The perfect gentleman, Elrond helps her into her coat and escorts her to the car. He opens the door for her. She steps into the car.
“Be careful.”
“I shall.”
“Call me when you can?”
“As soon as I learn how. You have my word.”
He shuts the door and stands fixed on the spot as she buckles up and keys the ignition. He still hasn’t moved when she pulls out her parking space and creeps toward the edge of the lot. The setting sun makes the details of his face hazy, but to Nichelle, his posture shows a subtle resignation. She puts her eyes on the road and turns onto the darkening street.