Well I could play with Tom, Dick and Harry
But for me you’re the only one
Who makes me me shiver, makes me tingle
And who brings my loving down
I played the love game before I met him
It’s a game I’ve always won
But now you set my soul on fire
And I really had my fun –LaVern Baker, “Soul On Fire”
If one views Devil’s Night from a height far removed from Motor City’s mean and mucky streets–say, from the vantage point of a window seat on a 747–Detroit seems like a garden of lights. One by one, buildings put to torch blaze like fiery roses. A discriminating viewer–like yourself, perhaps–notices that most of the blossoming flames are concentrated in the poor and working class parts of the city.
If closer to the ground–say, at the top of a skyscraper–you see a pattern to the urban chaos. The flashing lights and blaring sirens of police cars only come to those few fires erupting in the upscale part of downtown.
If you’re a fly on the wall in some of the homes as Devil’s Night rages through the city, you get an earful of what people really think about Devil’s Night.
“I feel bad for the people who lost their homes, but c’mon, they chose to live there.”
“There comes a time when you have to stop whining and pull yourself up by our bootstraps.”
“Betcha half of ‘em are doing it themselves for the insurance money.”
“At least now somebody can come in and fix that place up.”
“I say let ‘em all burn. City’s better off without those people.“
And if you’re a crow perched on a gravestone in a certain cemetery, you see Glen Albrecht, formerly of the Detroit PD, rest a bundle of flowers on two graves.
If Thranduil had ever entertained notions of pursuing teaching in any official capacity whatsoever, the forty-hour trip from Detroit to San Diego soundly disabuses him of such a ridiculous notion.
Elrond is by no means slow of wit. His powers of reasoning and comprehension and the breadth and depth of his knowledge is phenomenal even among the Elves. He would be in like company among the Isaac Newtons and Leonardo da Vincis of this world. Moreover, his thirst for knowledge runs deep.
But when Thranduil crosses into Iowa, he’s ready to tear his hair out.
It starts off well enough. He masters the alphabet within minutes. After an hour passes, he has a working vocabulary of roughly a hundred words, most of which come from repeating the English words for various objects Elrond points at or Thranduil translating words from Sindarin. Two hours later, he knows how to increase his own vocabulary by directly asking the meaning of words he hears or which words go with a certain meaning.
This leads to an interesting moment when, after some confusion about U.S. currency at a gas station, Elrond asks, “What does dumbfuck mean?”
He should have known this was too easy, for a defining trait of brilliant people like Elrond is that they ask many, many questions, and they have a preference for the ones that begin with “How?” and “Why?”
“There are no less than forty-five different sounds in this language, yet the alphabet only uses twenty-six letters. Why is this so?”
“How does the past tense of ‘go’ become ‘went’?”
“By what means does this vehicle move on its own?”
Thranduil stops at a Barnes and Noble in Des Moines to pick up a dictionary and a few nice, thick books for Elrond to read. This shuts him up for a few hours while he reads through them at a pace he’d say is unbelievable if not for the fact that he is sitting in the car seeing him do it. It’s not long before Elrond pipes up with more questions.
“Why does this realm not use the metric system?”
“How exactly does the radio work?”
“The authors of this book say that the male’s seed determines the sex of the child. How do they know this to be true?”
“How do airplanes avoid being struck by lightning?”
“What if the Door of Night is actually a black hole, and it is the gravitational pull of such an object that prevents Morgoth’s escape?”
He calls upon all the patience he can muster, which is not much, for he was once brand new to this world and utterly ignorant of its workings.
Thranduil will never say it aloud, but what grates is not the number or nature of the questions Elrond asks. They are simple, innocent questions any person would have. What bothers him most about it is how often Thranduil must say he doesn’t know, and Elrond has a way of asking simple, innocent questions that reminds others–and by others, this refers to Thranduil himself–how little they know and how little they care to know. The revelation that one is blissfully ignorant about things it would be beneficial to know is not a comforting one, to say the least.
“Do you think they have electricity in Aman?”
By Elbereth! If he’s this bad as an adult, he must have driven Elwing to distraction as a toddler. The first thing Thranduil will teach Elrond when they arrive in San Diego is the Mannish wonder named Google.
Halloween is something else in this neighborhood. The gray shroud that normally dulls colors is lifted for a time, and the beauty of the city, usually tucked within the walls of people’s homes, finally comes into view. Everybody gets into the spirit of spooky fun, the community’s middle finger to Devil’s Night. She wishes Elrond was here so she can show this side of Detroit to him. She scolds herself for dwelling on that empty feeling that’s settled inside her since he left. He was only here for two days, and she needs to get over it and get on with her life. He was just an attractive stranger who was passing by, no more and no less, and it’s no use getting hung up on him. He’s probably forgotten about her already.
Dressed as Red Riding Hood, Nichelle amuses herself by asking a few customers who come with kids which way it is to grandma’s house. She gives them extra candy if they say they don’t talk to strangers. Twinkie comes by in a Morticia Addams costume she made herself that would make Anjelica Huston nod in appreciation.
“Trick or treat,” she says, holding open a purse with a pumpkin sewn on it. It’s stuffed with sweets.
“Trick,” answers Nicole.
“Fuck that. Gimme my candy.”
Nichelle drops a handful of mixed candies into the purse.
“You’ll be at the demonstration tomorrow, right?” asks Twinkie.
“Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
The City Council, aside from being utterly corrupt, has way too much time on its hands. They’re trying to make it legal for landlords to refuse to lease to trans applicants seeking public housing. Twinkie’s been rightfully pissed about it for months. If it were’t for Section 8, she’d still be homeless. If that doesn’t work, Twinkie says the next step is for all the trans people in the city to camp out in front the mayor’s office. After all, it’s public property, and all the homeless and would-be homeless trans people have to stay somewhere if the city makes it legal to deny them housing.
“See ya tomorrow,” says Twinkie, and she leaves.
The stream of customers thins out, she puts on some music. She gets odd looks when the notes of a synthesizer comes from the speakers, but it’s her store, so she gets to pick the music. After they leave, she cuts loose in this relatively private moment of having the store to herself. She may or may not be thinking of Elrond as she belts out the chorus line. Don’t you want me, baby? Don’t you want me? Ohhh!
Then, as if summoned by the power of The Human League, the door chimes. Her heart leaps. She hopes it’s Elrond returning to tell her that he’s forgotten something and that this time he will fuck her brains out before he goes. Hey, a girl can dream. But when the door opens, it’s not Elrond come back to make all of her erotic fantasies come true. It’s not even Thranduil come to be a pain in the ass and make her laugh. It’s just few more customers.
In the weeks that follow Elrond’s departure, Nichelle tries to pretend that her days aren’t filled with wondering where he is and what his doing and that her nights aren’t haunted by the things she wants to do to him. She does her best to hide her disappointment that, when she closes up Thrifty Stylez, the back door isn’t open and that he doesn’t hide among the men’s jackets.
Twinkie notices that something’s off, and it strains Nichelle almost beyond her limits to maintain the illusion that she’s still the same no-nonsense, down-to-earth kind of girl who doesn’t keep a strand of Elrond’s hair in an empty Altoids box and most certainly doesn’t have the washcloth he used carefully preserved in the drawer at the bedside table, and she can, if she tries really hard, catch the faintest whiff of him. She has no idea how to tell Twinkie the truth, so she makes believe her world has not been turned upside down.
Then, the week before Christmas, she gets the letter.
Her heart skips several beats when she opens her mailbox and sees an envelope addressed to Lady Nichelle Washington in the kind of handwriting she imagines people only have in Jane Austen novels. She carefully opens the envelope and pulls out the neatly folded letter inside. The paper feels silky beneath her fingers. The ink itself looks almost painted on. This was a much higher quality than ballpoint pen on inkjet printer paper. It must have cost Elrond a fortune to put this together. Her eyes soften at the elegant penmanship and the straight, even lines. Elrond must have taken such time and care to write it. The last time someone gave her a handwritten letter was Darren Smith in seventh grade, whose letter only said, Go out with me? Check yes or no.
She reads…
Dearest Lady Nichelle,
I hope my correspondence finds you in good health and that you can forgive me for the tardiness of this missive. It has taken more time than I would like for my hand to acquire an acceptable level of proficiency.
I had planned to communicate with you by telephone, but my pronunciation of the words in your language is barely adequate, and I am reluctant to speak when I do not know if you will find my words pleasing to your ear. Furthermore, as kind as you have demonstrated yourself to be, you would never inform me of the errors I make in my speech nor tell me that I sound like a dolt.
If my diffidence has struck you as indifference, I apologize most sincerely, for few things would give me more pleasure than to speak with you, save perhaps to converse with you in person, and I am most keen to understand and be understood by you. If it is any consolation, in this matter, Thranduil has found much merriment at my expense.
It may hearten you to know that Thranduil and his wife Lady Tien have been incredibly generous and helpful for acclimating me to this land. Thranduil has called upon favors owed to him by his professional acquaintances to procure identification and a small measure of financial assistance. He has also been teaching me various skills, such as Google and driving, which are critical to surviving in this realm.
I am grateful to them both, and I intend to repay them as soon as I find gainful employment. In the meantime, I avail myself by assisting Lady Tien with various chores and errands. This leaves me with a great deal of time in which to read and study, which as you know are passions of mine.
It is my most fervent wish to return to healing as a vocation. Lady Tien informs me that there are options for those who wish to enter the medical field, and I shall examine those options to choose which works best for me. I take the Medical College Admissions Test in the spring, and my results will have a tremendous influence on what I shall do next.
I hope I do not bore you by regaling you with the mundanities of my life. It has been many years since I have looked to the future with gladness, and it feels natural to share this with you. However, I shall cease doing so if these matters do not interest you.
I promise that I shall contact you again in a more reasonable amount of time. Should you wish to contact me, please do not hesitate to do so. My mailing address is written on the envelope in which this letter was enclosed.
Yours truly
Elrond Peredhel
She hugs the letter close, inhaling the crisp scent of the stationery as if she could draw in the sweetness of Elrond’s words. For days, she reads the letter over and over again until she knows it by heart.
Elrond’s finger hovers over the number pad of the cellular phone. All he must do is press ten digits, and he can hear the loveliness that is Lady Nichelle’s voice.
He knows precisely what he shall say when Lady Nichelle answers her phone, for he has rehearsed for three hours this day. He shall greet her politely and extend his wishes for her good health. Then he shall inquire about events which have transpired since his departure and ask her opinion on matters of interest in this realm.
He pushes the first digit of Lady Nichelle’s telephone number. He knows it by heart because he has almost dialed it so many times. This time, he will not fail. This time, he will not hang up before the very first ring.
He dials the area code, his hand trembling much less than it did the first few dozen times he attempted this. He hurries to punch in the last seven digits and braces himself as he listens to the soft buzz of her phone ringing. What will she say when she answers? Will she be cross with him–or worse, have forgotten about him entirely?
His heart fills with gladness as the line is picked up then shatters into a thousand pieces when the woman who answers is not Lady Nichelle.
“Who this?” she asks.
“Um…greetings, uh, my lady. Have I dialed the correct number for Lady Nichelle?”
“Hold on. Yo, Nicki! Telephone! She coming.”
Elrond takes deep breaths and waits. He hopes his courage will last long enough to say more than hello and goodbye. He sighs. It is foolish for him to call her. She has her own life to attend to. She doesn’t need him disrupting it at every turn. What was he thinking?
You want to hear the sweet music of her speech. You want to hear the silvery tingle of her laughter, and you want to be the one who brings her such merriment. You want to hear her whisper how much she wants you and needs you as she lies beside you and caresses you between your thighs
“Hello?” asks Lady Nichelle. Hours of practice, and now Elrond’s tongue refuses to work at all.
“…”
“Who is this?”
“…”
“Is anyone there?”
Elrond’s mouth feels full of marbles. Say something to her. Speak, damn you!
“Lady Nichelle?” he stammers.
“Elrond? Hi! How are you?” she asks. There is excitement in her voice. Has she been as eager to speak to him as he to speak with her?
“I am fine,” he says and winces at how dull he must sound.
“Having fun in San Diego?”
“Y-yes. There is much learning and amusement to be had.”
She chuckles. The sound is warm and soft like fresh-baked bread.
“I got your letter,” she says.
“I hope its quality was up to standard. If I have made any errors, I would welcome your corrections.”
“No, no, you did great. It’s perfect.”
He sighs, relieved that he doesn’t sound completely ignorant when writing her language.
“Your English sounds amazing,” she says.
“Thank you. Yours does as well,” he says. She laughs. Why does she laugh? What must he say to make her do it again? But not today. He has taken up enough of her time as it is.
“I should not keep you from your work,” he says.
“No, no, it’s fine,” she says. “You should probably call more often. You know, to practice.”
“How often?” he asks. He tries not to get his hopes up, but he cannot help it. Something about her encourages the more optimistic and whimsical part of his nature.
“Everyday. I mean, if you can. If you want to.”
“Oh, yes, certainly,” he says, cringing at the eagerness in his voice, “That is, if you deem it wise.”
“Practice makes perfect, right?”
Something about the way she asks that question lights his body and mind on fire with the things he could practice to elicit her perfect gasps and moans. His trousers grew quite snug.
“I, uh, I gotta go,” she says, “This time tomorrow?”
“You have my word.”
“Talk to you then. Um, bye.”
“G-Goodbye.”
After they end the call, he rushes into the shower and touches himself as he imagines all the things he would do with Nichelle had he the courage to do act upon it.
As Elrond slips into the arms of sleep, they carry him…
to the soft, warm bed of Lady Nichelle. There, they surrender to the pleasure of one another, finding sweet, glorious release.
When his eyes open, he lies not beside Lady Nichelle, but Celebrían. He makes love to her, holding her close and whispering how much he misses her.
He rolls onto his back and looks up to find Lady Nichelle straddling him, her mouth open wide in rapture. He drives faster and harder into her soft, wet heat. She rolls her hips to match him thrust for thrust. He reaches for her. Soft, warm lips press against his.
His cry of ecstasy becomes one of horror and pain when he looks up and sees Celebrían. Not bright and vibrant as she was when he first saw her and loved her, but as she was when she was brought from the Redhorn Pass, ash-gray and emaciated, more a corpse than a living being. The loathing on her face makes his insides recoil. He tries to part from her, but she crushes his ribs with her legs, making it hard to breathe. She grows cold as death, and her walls clench him tighter than a vice. He tries to part from her, but she wraps her clammy limbs about him even more. He cannot breathe, cannot move. He wishes she would let him go, to kill him or set him free, but she doesn’t.
Upon awakening, he’s more exhausted than he was before he fell asleep. His cellular phone is ringing, bringing blessed relief from the dark turn of his dreams. The lit screen bathes the room in soft blue light. He answers, for he knows who it is without looking.
“Lady Nichelle?” he asks, cringing at how strained his voice sounds.
“Um, hi,” she says.
“Is there something amiss?”
“I…um…no, nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Warmth spreads through him. His heart skips. If someone were to take a photograph of him right now, his face would be red as an apple.
“I am happy to be of service,” he says. Nichelle laughs. Has he said something foolish?
“Have I said something completely ridiculous?”
He’s almost glad Gil-galad is not here to bear witness to this, for he would be laughing in his wineglass right alongside Thranduil. Elrond Half-elven, lord of Imladris, vice regent and herald of Ereinion Gil-galad, bearer of Vilya, son of Ëarendil, warrior and loremaster, is utterly flummoxed…by talking to a girl.
“No, I just– no one talks to me the way you do.”
“How do you mean?”
“Like I’m a lady.”
“Which you are.”
Her chuckle gently caresses his ear. It is a lovely sound.
“OK, um, I should hang up and let you finish, um, whatever you were doing.”
“Please don’t go,” he says, “Rest has been…elusive this night. I would have you talk to me if that is your wish.”
“About what?”
“Anything.”
She speaks of what she has been up to since his departure from Detroit, those everyday things that, little by little, draw people together. He finds himself paying attention not only to the words she speaks, but to the rise and fall of her voice as she shares details of her day-to-day life, the thoughts and feelings beneath them sparkling like gems. He listens to her talk until the first golden rays of dawn streak through his window.
As good as his word, Elrond calls her every day at precisely nineteen past seven every evening. At first, their chats are stumbling, awkward affairs with long pauses and uncomfortable silences as they both try to avoid broaching the topic of the undeniable…whatever it is between them. But over many days (weeks? months?), their conversations smooth into an easy flow, and it starts to feel as though she’s known him
(loved him)
all her life. They can talk from sundown to sunup about everything from the nature of other universes to what she plans to cook the next day. She’s not surprised that she hangs onto his every word, for he can make reading the phone book sound like the most interesting thing in the world. What she’s not quite ready for is how intently he listens to her. It’s almost unnerving how purposeful his silence is when she speaks, as though he is giving her every syllable the utmost attention.
Of all the things she expects to learn about him, though, she’s most taken aback by how funny he is. He has a wry, understated gallows humor that’s a shade darker than vantablack. It’s easy to miss because his delivery is so deadpan that it can make Wednesday Addams look damn near bubbly. But he has her in stitches. Every now and then, he has her laughing so hard she almost has to pee.
Once, Twinkie comes by the shop and catches the tail end of their conversation.
“Who that?” asks Twinkie.
“Nobody. He’s…just a friend,” she says.
“That big, goofy-ass grin on your face don’t say ‘just a friend’ to me.”
“We were just talking,” says Nichelle. Twinkie gives her a look that says she doesn’t buy that bullshit for a second.
“Didn’t you say you were through with men?”
“Well, technically–”
“You said you were sick and tired of men’s bullshit. You said ain’t nothing a man can do for you that’s worth it.”
“I did, but–”
“What you told me? ‘Twinkie, if I ever say I want to date a man for as long as I live, please knock me upside the damn head.’ Isn’t that what you said?”
“We’re not dating. We’re…friends.”
Twinkie arcs an eyebrow and lets it drop.
Night follows the Straight Road from the moment the ship leaves Middle-earth. The stars are incredibly bright, his father’s star brightest of all against as the ship sails into the cloudless sky. Bilbo and Frodo sleep soundly against the ship’s aft, their dreams for once not troubled with nightmares. Gandalf and Lady Galadriel are at the fore, their gazes fixed upon the horizon that will bring them home and to those from whom they have been parted.
It’s a strange feeling, not being needed anymore. Elrond does not know if he is relieved or ill at ease. There is a part of him that wonders what will become of Middle-earth and the line of Elessar, but the greater part of him, the part that endures beyond weariness and sorrow, yearns for the sight of her, her scent, her touch. It is this, not the Sea-longing that has taken so many of his people, that compels him West. His desire for her is so strong that he thinks he hears
(Celebrían’s)
(Nichelle’s)
her voice within the waves, singing softly.
Come-come-commala
Come to me my love-ah
Underneath the sky-o
And across the sea I go
Come-come-commala
Meet me in the valley-ah
Come find your sweetheart waiting
On top the Tower breath a-bating
Come-come-commala
Your lover in the Tower-ah
The words of the song snare his spirit, pulls him toward it. It arouses in him a desperate need to go to its source and bury himself inside it.
Elrond hears the song again, more robust this time, no longer merely a song but a cry of ecstasy. It grows louder, wilder, until it is shouting itself raw. He answers with a song of his own.
I come-come-commala
I commala-come-come
Come-come I commala
Commala I come-come
(Unbeknownst to the Elves and the Wizard, the two Hobbits are neither as unaware nor as asleep as their big friends assume.
“Uncle Bilbo,” says Frodo, “Is Lord Elrond alright? He seems very…odd.”
“Don’t worry yourself, lad. Elves are like that.”
“I mean…odder than usual for an Elf.”
“You don’t say?” asks Bilbo, opening one eye to check up–to spy, in other words–on Lord Elrond, who can be counted on to do the unexpected. He can fool those who know no better into thinking him like a Boffin, but make no mistake, he’s a Took of an Elf if Bilbo Baggins ever saw one.
“What is he saying?” asks Frodo. “‘Come-come-commala’ is no kind of Elvish I’ve ever heard before. It sounds somewhat…bawdy.”
Bilbo snorts.
“Don’t heed that high and mighty nonsense the Big Folk tell you. Wee Elves are made the same way wee Hobbits are.”
Frodo laughs for the first time in months.
“Uncle Bilbo, I’m surprised at you! Do you mean to tell me you lied when you said they sprung out of the ground like cabbages?”
“No, Frodo, that’s Dwarves.”
Frodo giggles, and Bilbo realizes how much he misses the sound. Wishing to prolong this simple, healing medicine, he bends to Frodo’s ear and lowers his voice, “You should have heard the things Erestor said about Lord Elrond and his missus. There is not a square inch in Rivendell that has not been blessed by their, er, union.”
“Uncle Bilbo, he’s standing right there!”
“Should’ve kept it quiet, then.”)
As the song works its enchantment upon him, he is seized by a kind of madness that makes him want to leap from the ship and swim through the night toward her, into her.
Here I come-come-commala…
Elrond awakens in darkness. For a moment, he thinks he has died and gone to whatever holding place this world has for the dead, forever parted from
(Celebrían)
(Nichelle)
his beloved. Sheer terror grips him and renders him mute until his eyes adjust to the lack of light, and he recognizes the inside of the guest bedroom in Thranduil’s house. The clock on the table next to the bed glows 3:19 AM in malevolent red. His heart is racing, his limbs restless. There will be no sleep for him tonight.
He rises from the bed, puts on just enough clothing to be decent, and steps into the moonless night. His mind swirls with images from his dream. Not for the first time, he wonders if his subconscious is a blessing or curse from his mortal heritage. Heedless of where he is going, he walks briskly along the path cutting into the wilderness at the edge of Thranduil’s property.
As Elrond passes into the sparse forest, rodents skitter across the ground as an owl floats down from the branches of a tree, talons outstretched, and snatches up one unfortunate mouse. He knows not why, but he senses something of great importance about witnessing it.
He keeps walking until his walk becomes a jog and his jog a full run. Faster and faster he runs, as though the tower itself were on his heels, pursuing relentlessly across time and space. He runs until there is no past and no future, no what may be or what could have been. He runs until he is only in and out, left and right.
Onward, onward, onward into the rising sun.
Thranduil is putting the finishing touches on his breakfast burrito when the front door opens and Elrond steps in wearing a sweat-soaked tank top and pajama pants. A coat of dust covers his bare feet.
“Where did you go?” he asks.
“Nowhere.”
Thranduil shrugs. If Elrond doesn’t wish to speak of it, Thranduil won’t press the matter.
“I have come to a decision,” says Elrond. Thranduil waits for him to get to the point.
“I am returning to Detroit.”
Thranduil nearly drops his burrito, but he recovers in a rather kingly fashion. “May I ask where the hell this came from?”
“For a variety of reasons, it is where I feel I must be.”
Thranduil wills his face into a mask of indifference. “And by ‘a variety of reasons,’ do you mean Nichelle?”
Elrond averts his eyes. So he was right when he thought he had observed something between the two of them. He resists the urge to rub it in. He will have ample opportunity to take the piss later.
“May I ask what has prompted such unexpected and, frankly, reckless behavior on your part?”
Elrond fidgets. He actually fidgets. Thranduil does his best to hide how much fun he’s having grilling Elrond Halfelven of all people like he’s a teenager announcing that he’s taking someone to the prom.
“Lady Nichelle is mortal.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“I do not have two thousand years to choose the right time and place.”
“Time and place for what?”
Elrond says nothing. He just stands there looking extremely uncomfortable. Elrond Halfelven, one of the wisest and most powerful Elves of the Thid Age (and likely the Second as well), who has borne the mightiest of the Three and faced armies of Orcs and Trolls sent to kill him without so much as flinching, is rendered utterly speechless by the prospect of telling a girl he likes her. Were it not for centuries of practice keeping a straight face, Thranduil would burst into laughter right then and there. To Elrond’s credit, he obviously knows how ridiculous he’s being.
“I see,” says Thranduil, “Well, then. I suppose you’re off to Detroit. Luckily for you, I have frequent flyer miles I need to use up by the end of the month. Unfortunately, I have an assignment two weeks from now, and I need to make arrangements to leave the country then, so I will be denied the joy of seeing the look on your face at thirty thousand feet.”
The look on Elrond’s face when Thranduil tells him that almost makes up for it.
Elrond listens intently to the airline hostess informing passengers of safety procedures, which none of the others seem to pay a lick of attention to. Why do they ignore this potentially life-saving information? If something goes wrong, how will they know what to do?
Elrond stares out the tiny window next to him. Thranduil said that he would either love or hate flying. Thus far, it is neither as wonderful or as terrible as Thranduil reported. Perhaps he was exaggerating.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are cleared for takeoff. Please fasten your seatbelt and make sure your seats and seat trays are in the upright position. We hope you enjoy your flight and thank you for choosing Southwest Airlines.”
With a forward jolt, the jet speeds ahead, turning the landscape outside the window into a colorful blur. The vessel lifts, and the airport and the shore shrink smaller and smaller until the jet parts the clouds whereupon thick carpet of white is all he can see of the ground. Though strapped to a chair, he is awed by the glorious freedom of floating among the clouds, high above the world and all its demands. For the first time, he sees the world as his father sees it, and he can finally understand, if not entirely forgive, why he was so rarely home.
“First thing you gotta know is I don’t wanna hear no loud music no time of day or night. That’s what they got earphones for. If you use something, put it back exactly where you found it. I can’t stand not knowing where my stuff at. Clean up after yourself. I might be blind but that don’t mean I can’t tell when you leave your mess all over the place. You can have company late as you want, but when the bus start running again they ass go home. I don’t want no more roommates. Rent due on the first of the month. Not the second, not the fifth, not the tenth. Trash man come on Tuesday. And that’s it. You got any questions?”
“No, madam. You have been very thorough,” says Agnes’ new roommate.
“Good. I don’t like spelling it out for people. How you say your name again? Elroy?”
“Elrond, madam.”
He sounds white, but his tone lacks that subtle condescension that white men have when they talk to her (talk at her, to be honest). Agnes still can’t place that accent of his. Sometimes she thinks it’s English; sometimes she thinks it’s Australian. There’s a lyrical quality to it that she can’t name, and she doesn’t know quite what to make of it.
When she asks him where he’s from, there is the slightest hesitation as he says, “Here and there.”
The accent isn’t the only thing that tells her there’s more to him than he’s letting on. Usually, she can tell someone’s in the house with her by the way the floorboards creak beneath their steps, but they are utterly silent when Elroy–no, Elrond–is there. She runs smack into him twice during the tour of the house. He’s tall and solid as a man should be, and his hands are firm but gentle when he steadies her and places her cane in her hand. Oooh, chile, if she were thirty years younger…
Dappled sunlight spills onto a woman and her book as a light breeze floats through the green of Belle Isle Park, carrying spring pollen that will create bright summer blossoms. Nichelle reclines against a tree pouring over her copy of The Dark Tower VI: Song of Susannah. Engrossed in the story of Roland Deschain and his ka-tet, she almost doesn’t notice that her phone is vibrating. She rarely gets a chance to read without interruption, so she has a mind to let it go to voicemail, but when she sees the name flashing on the screen, she plops the book face-down on the grass and picks up.
“Elrond!” she says, wincing at how much she sounds like a teenager squealing at the sight of some boy band.
“Er, hi,” she says, hoping she sounds more like a grown woman.
“Good afternoon,” he says, “Am I– is this the wrong time?”
“No, I’m off today. I was just catching up on some reading.”
“I see. Forgive me. I should call you later.”
“No, don’t. I– I’m glad you called. Um, what’s up?”
“I have returned to Detroit.”
Nichelle’s heart has never flipped before, but as soon as the words come out of Elrond’s mouth, she understands the feeling. She smiles so wide her face hurts.
“How long you in town?”
“For a time. If such is amenable to you.”
Nichelle smiles again. God, she loves how he talks. She wonders what it would sound like to hear him read Shakespeare’s sonnets. Her panties would probably melt from the unadulterated sexiness.
“Are you working this evening?”
“No, I’m off tonight.”
“Right. Of course. You just said that.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Wrong? No. I, uh, you see, um, Thranduil says that it is customary for, um, when a male wishes to, er, spend time with a lady, it is customary for him to suggest an activity. Is this correct?”
“Um, most of the time. It’s not a rule or anything. Anybody can ask anybody out. Why? Are you asking me out?”
“…”
What does he mean by–oh. Oh. She can’t believe it. Elrond’s asking her out on a date. Her mind reels as it sinks in. He’s asking me out! Elrond’s asking me out! Me! Say yes! Say yes no matter what it is! Say yes even if it’s counting grains of sand on the beach.
“Oh. Uh, what kind of thing do you have in mind?”
“Er, right. Are you familiar with the Charles H. Wright Museum of African American History?”
“I’ve been there once or twice.”
“The museum’s website indicates that it will be open to the public until seven o’clock this evening. I have also become aware that the museum has procured antiquities from West Africa. I intend to go, for it seems quite interesting and, um, educational. Would you care to accompany me?”
“Yes,” she whispers, surprised she can make a sound.
“Yes?” asks Elrond, his voice tinged with disbelief.
“Yeah, I wanna come. With you. I would enjoy that. What time?”
“Is it acceptable for me to be at your home at four o’clock? After we visit the museum, we can, perhaps, share a meal?”
“Yeah, four’s great. I’ll be ready.”
“Excellent. I should hang up now. I must prepare.”
“Right, yeah. I gotta get going too.”
“Until we meet.”
“OK, ‘til then.”
“Goodbye, Lady Nichelle.”
“Bye.”
She hangs up. If she feels any lighter, she’s going to start floating. She speed-dials Twinkie and gushes all about it.
“Whatever happened to Misandry 4 Lyfe?” asks Twinkie.
“I said ‘with rare exception.’ He’s the rare exception. I swear to God, Twinkie, he comes from the pages of a book.”
“Bitch, you so damn thirsty,” says Twinkie. Nichelle laughs because it’s true.
“I know you ain’t talking. Remember Mr. Hershey?”
Hershey was not the guy’s name. Twinkie called him that because he was dark-skinned and his abs were so ripped they look like a Hershey bar.
“Too bad he couldn’t fuck worth a damn,” quips Twinkie. “Ruined all my fantasies.”
It’s a good thing Nichelle only needs to get her brows done. Peaches’ salon is packed, and it’s only by the miracle of a last-minute cancellation that she gets squeezed in at one-thirty. She’s in and out by two, so she makes sure to give Peaches a good tip.
At the loft, she digs through her closet to find that cute shit she wore how many years ago on a date with that asshole. She lays it on the bed next to her options for undergarments (control-top granny panties or the frilly lace thing?). She rummages under her bed and fishes out those patent leather Mary Janes that make her look cute without killing her feet (She still puts a pair of flats in her purse, though). She feels accomplished when she sees that everything she picks comes right off the racks at Thrifty Stylez.
She pulls on her bra and panties and becomes a new woman when she steps into the short white dress with the blue trim. She only puts on light makeup to add a bit more color to her getup. The woman gazing back at her from the mirror is elegant, mysterious, sensual–more like her namesake than she’s ever felt.
She looks at herself and says, “I am so getting laid tonight.”
She’s ten minutes behind when she finally leaves the loft. The clear and sunny weather holds as if whoever’s in charge up in the sky has decided to be nice to her. She hopes their good mood lasts.
When she finally makes it to the museum, she’s fifteen minutes late. Elrond paces the museum’s courtyard as though he expected her not to come. Then he looks up and sees her, and his face lights up like Christmas. She walks toward him, delighting in the awestruck expression on his face as she nears him.
“You look…you shine like a star,” he says. He gently places his hand into the crook of his arm and doesn’t take his eyes off her for a second. Yep, definitely getting laid.
“Thank you,” he says.
“For what?”
“Everything. For being here. For your lovely dress. For…you know, I feel like a whole person again.”
“Oh. Uh, thanks. It’s been a while since someone asked me somewhere nice enough to wear it.”
“’Tis a pity that is so.”
Elrond in a museum is like a kid in a candy store. He looks at each exhibit from every angle, even reading the little placards next to each one, every so often saying, “Fascinating” in a way that would make Mr. Spock quirk an eyebrow.
He spends a lot of time among the West African art. He points out things about the craftsmanship that even people at the museum don’t notice: like how a particular wood carving creates texture while preserving the grain of the wood, accentuating its natural beauty rather than overpowering it; the mastery it requires to make such intricate patterns in ivory; the sophistication beneath the seeming simplicity of Benin metalworks.
“They are so like how Ada–I mean, Maglor–described the works of Nerdanel. I believe she would have greatly enjoyed seeing them.”
As they enter the section of the exhibit about slavery, she wants to turn tail and run. In no other place have they felt so different, so incomprehensibly alien to one another. Elrond’s ancestors were the greatest of Elves and Men, and he carries the blood of kings in his veins. Her ancestors, whoever they were, labored from birth to death as little more than livestock. He can probably trace his lineage as far back as the very first Elves while hers is lost to history and memory. Intellectually, she knows she has nothing to be ashamed of, but she cannot help worrying that he will think less of her.
He pauses at a pair of rusted manacles encased in glass.
“There is more malevolence in these than in a Morgul blade,” he whispers, “Many people have suffered in their grasp.”
He looks at the other objects in complete silence. Though his face is a blank mask, Nichelle senses disgust and horror as he passes by the slave collar, the branding iron, and the bit.
Elrond shakes his head, “Not even an Orc would be so cruel.”
When they leave the exhibits on slavery, he seems embarrassed.
“Forgive me. I should not have brought you this way,” he says, “It was not my intention to cause you pain or shame.”
“No, it’s fine. You had to find out sooner or later.”
“Nevertheless, it is you who bear the discomfort of it.”
“It’s OK; I’m used to it.”
“That you say as much is a testament to the resilience of your people. I do wish that circumstances had not made it necessary.”
They explore the museum until the intercom announces that the doors are about to close. As Elrond ushers her out the door, he seems thoughtful.
“The history of your people is extraordinary,” he says, “You have achieved so much in so little time despite such great adversity.”
Four hundred years, and white folks still can’t believe African Americans have a culture and a history worth studying, but it only takes Elrond an hour and a half to grasp that what Black folks have survived in this country is remarkable. Nichelle laughs at the irony of an immortal alien from an alternate Earth getting what people who are from here don’t.
“Have I said something ridiculous?” he asks.
“No, you said something very right. It’s the people from this world who cannot seem to say it.”
She chuckles at the puzzled look he give her. He opens his mouth to say something else, but apparently thinks better of it.
Instead, he says, “It is my understanding that you enjoy Italian cuisine.”
“Yes.”
“Good. There is a restaurant that has such fare not far from here.”
“Are you planning on spoiling me rotten, Elrond Halfelven?”
“Without a doubt, my lady.”
“I’d love to. Where’d you park?”
“I did not drive.”
“Don’t tell me you took the bus.”
“I did not take the bus either.”
“Then how’d you get here?”
“I walked.”
“You walked?”
“Of course. I own no vehicle.”
“You walked?”
“Yes.”
“From where?”
“From my current lodgings.”
“How long did it take you to get here?”
“Only an hour or so. I passed by the Italian restaurant on my way here less than ten minutes that way,” he says, pointing toward downtown.
Nichelle gawks at him. People in this city don’t even want to drive from one end of town to the other, and they’d complain about how far they parked, but Elrond walked. The way he just does it without saying a word to brag or complain reminds her of something Nana used to say.
Nana’s house always smells like fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. Even now, when arthritis makes it more and more difficult, she has a batch in the oven waiting for Nichelle whenever Ma brings her over to visit. Nana’s the only person in her family she’s told about her sexuality. Nana doesn’t judge, just nods in that way that says she’s known all along.
“Listen to me, Nicki,” says Nana as the cookies bake in the oven. “When you’re seeing somebody–it don’t matter if they’re a man or woman or whatever–if you wanna know if they’re a keeper, look at what they do. If they give you their last dollar or their last bite of food, that’s somebody you should try to hold on to. If they go outta their way for you and don’t complain about it, that’s the kinda one you wanna settle down with. I don’t care how much they say they love you and can’t live without you. If they ain’t sacrifice nothing for you, they ain’t in it for you; they just in it for what they get from you. So you be careful.”
Even now, years after Nana passes, she’s been right every time. She learns that lesson for sure when she gets stuck paying a year-long lease for an overpriced downtown apartment because Rachel broke up with her a month and a half after Nichelle signs her name on the dotted line.
“You may use your vehicle if you prefer,” says Elrond.
“No, um, walking is fine.”
They don’t hurry to the restaurant. They walk silently. It’s strange, yet at the same time amazing, that Nichelle feels no need to fill the silence with sound, for it’s comforting in the way that usually only happens when people have been together for many years. Nana and Papa had that, at least before Papa died. Come to think of it, Elrond does remind her a lot of Papa. He’s got Papa’s eyes that have seen so much but are still able to show so much kindness (but not weakness; Papa could be scary when he got mad, and that only happened when somebody tried to hurt his family).
Mario’s Trattoria is an upscale sort of place with a homey, old-world charm she’s come to associate with real Italian restaurants. The waiter, Nicolo, leads them to one of the few empty tables left. Water and a bread basket are promptly placed on their table. Their hands brush against each other as they both reach for the bread at the same time. Their eyes meet, and she gasps at what she sees in his: sheer, raw desire. Fortunately, the waiter comes to take their order before she can drag him to the restroom for a quickie.
While they wait for their food, she asks him about his plans while he’s in Detroit to take her mind off…his thing. Things. Take her mind off things.
“The first thing to attend to is to procure employment. Google says that there is a position at a local emergency room for…”
Nichelle doesn’t hear the rest of what he says, for she’s too busy watching the sensuous way his lips move and the subtle movements of his hands. Her mind drifts to how much she would enjoy his hands and his mouth upon her.
“…in five or six years, I should be more or less where I wish to be. Are you well, my lady?”
“Yes!” she says, a bit too forcefully. She softens her voice and continues, “I’m just hungry, that’s all.”
Their order comes: angel hair in tomato sauce for her, fettuccine alfredo for him. Elrond waits for her to put her fork into plate before spinning his fork into his. He eats his first forkful, eyebrows raising as he makes a small hum of satisfaction. He licks a dab of sauce from his lips, and Nichelle tries not to think about other things he can do with his tongue.
“Do they have pasta in Middle-earth?” she asks.
“Yes, but not of this sort,” he says, “The kind I am familiar with is steeped in broth with vegetables. It was very popular in Gondor during the Second Age. There is, I believe, a similar product common in supermarkets.”
“Ramen noodles?”
“Yes, that is what they are called.”
Despite Elrond eating like he graduated with top honors from finishing school, he makes short work of his fettuccine alfredo. He’s already cleared half his plate as she slides another forkful of angel hair into her mouth, imagining other long things filling her mouth. Elrond clears his throat and downs his glass of water in three gulps.
“You OK?” she asks.
“I am well,” he says, his eyes glued to his butter knife as he picks up a piece of bread and spreads butter across it.
After dinner, Elrond walks her back to her car, and opens the door for her.
“Want me to give you a lift home?” she asks. Elrond shakes his head.
“I…cannot,” he says.
Oh, great. This is the part where he goes I had a lovely time but I just don’t see me and you becoming anything more than friends.
“Please do not misunderstand. I would be delighted to have more time to spend in your company, but although your intentions are nothing but noble, I cannot say with certainty that mine would be entirely selfless, and I would never forgive myself if I take advantage of your kindness and generosity.”
She wants to say Go ahead; take advantage as much as you like. But does she want him to fuck her silly all night only to hate himself afterward?
“OK,” she says, “I understand.”
He smiles. He steps toward her with a look of calm resolve, and, for a moment, she thinks he’s going to kiss her. Instead, he takes her hand in his, brings it to his lips, shuts his eyes (He’s got lashes Elizabeth Taylor would envy) and kisses it. There’s a warmth and softness where his lips touched her hand. Nichelle doesn’t know why–Is it the hint of barely restrained lust beneath such a decorous gesture? Is it because she’s horny, and it’s been a while?–but it sends delicious tremors throughout her body.
Elrond gently ushers her into her car and shuts the door for her too. She waves at him, and he gives her a shy wave back. She puts the key into the ignition and starts the car. She turns to where he stood, punching the button to bring the window down, but he has already disappeared into the shadows of the parking lot. As she shifts the car into drive, she can still feel him watching over her.
Elrond watches the glowing tail light of Nichelle’s automobile as she exits the parking area and turns onto the street. Her vehicle disappears behind a large building, and he wonders if he erred by declining to join her. Her invitation was clear, that much he knows, for Lady Nichelle is no blushing maiden completely ignorant of the workings of the body, a fact for which he is immeasurably grateful. Celebrían had been a virgin when they had first shared a bed, and he had been so consumed with fear of hurting her that he had not been able to fully enjoy the experience. It had taken Celebrían becoming extremely blunt about the matter to make him aware that he had not been subjecting her to torture each time he made love to her, but he had not been truly convinced until a pair of bawling twins came out of her womb.
Perhaps he should have gone with Nichelle. At the very least, he would have had more time to slide his gaze along the curve of her neck and get lost in the depths of her dark eyes and the smooth, dewy glow of her skin…
He could kick himself for his misstep in the museum. If Elros were here, he would do the kicking for him, and with great zeal, which is no less than he deserves. What was he thinking, roaming the part of the museum that brings such terrible shame to her? So lost was he in his own curiosity that he failed to see she was uncomfortable. Why didn’t he reassure her that the shame of slavery belongs to the enslavers and not the enslaved? If Thranduil were here, he would tell Elrond that he is doing an excellent job of making the woman he’s courting embarrassed about her heritage.
He pauses at that thought. Are they courting now? Among the Eldar, this would be courting, but the customs of this world is as different from Middle-earth’s as night and day. Spending hours with a lady unchaperoned may be nothing more than a pleasant diversion here and not the declaration of intent that it would be among the Eldar. He must know the answer to this before his feelings for her grow stronger than they already are.
Too late, mocks a voice from within.
Throughout the spring, they spend most of their free time in each other’s company.
However, when Elrond finds a job–
”A job? How?”
“I walked into the building and asked if I could work.”
“You didn’t have to apply online or anything like that?”
“No. I spoke with the head nurse at the emergency room. I believe her exact words were, ‘Finally, someone who gets I don’t have time to check my e-mail all day.’”
“When do you start?”
“Monday night, though I shall be working a…what do you call it…a swing shift.”
their time together becomes less frequent and more precious. It is during this time that he meets Lady Andrea, or Twinkie, as she prefers to be called, who has been Lady Nichelle’s best friend since university. Lady Twinkie has a bold frankness that is both shocking and refreshing. With a grisly description of what will happen to his private parts should he hurt Nichelle, she demonstrates her fierce loyalty to her friend, and he knows not whether to be impressed or terrified by that. Possibly both.
Each time Elrond bids Lady Nichelle goodbye, he kisses her on the hand, for if he kisses her on the lips, the flames of lust will burn with such ardor that he will incinerate on the spot.
In mid-summer, as they watch the fireworks for the Fourth of July celebration, Elrond risks giving Lady Nichelle a peck on the cheek. They want more, so much more, but if they attempt it, they will rocket into the air and pop in a million sparks of light. Actually, that doesn’t sound so bad. From then on, they greet and say goodbye with a kiss upon the cheek. Although, in Nichelle’s case, it’s a kiss on the neck, for she is much shorter than Elrond, and she can only reach that high even when she stands on her toes. Nichelle notices that sometimes he bends or dips ever so slightly so that she can reach him, and when he does so, she may or may not linger just a tad.
They finally kiss on the lips as they walk along the patch of green near the riverfront. A sudden wind blows from the water, whipping Elrond’s hair so hard that the strip of leather holding it blows off, freeing the long, black strands. As Elrond brushes his hair out of his face, she sees him in a rare unguarded moment, and Nichelle is shocked at the naked desire she sees in storm-gray eyes the same color as the gathering clouds. Never has she seen him so wild, so much a force of nature, so like himself.
Somehow she winds up on the ground beneath him, clutching him in her arms as he plunges his tongue into her mouth, his thigh pressed between her legs. Then, they’re not in the park anymore, not even in Detroit anymore, but lying in the grass next to a stream. They’re both naked, her nipples pebbling beneath his gently grazing fingers and the chill of the autumn air. How she needs this! She turns him onto his back and delights in how his eyes are fixed on where they are to be joined. He reaches for her, so she brings his hand to her breast. She wants to make love to him, and she wants to give him a baby.
What? No! She doesn’t want to get pregnant. She’s nowhere near ready to get pregnant. She doesn’t want to have anybody’s baby. She shoves Elrond none too gently and sits up. The scene by the stream disappears, and she’s back to her real life again. For a second, she wonders if she has imagined the whole thing, but as Elrond zips up and buckles his belt, the grass stains on the knees of his white pants tell her she did not. He doesn’t say a word about it, not to ask her what happened, not to demand an answer for how suddenly she went from hot to cold, not to complain about mixed signals or whine about blue balls. He just helps her to her feet, puts his arm around her, and walks with her.
From that day on, she makes sure she has plenty of condoms in her purse.
In the weeks following their moment by the riverside (which, Elrond is amused to learn, is a crime in this world. A crime! As if the embarrassment of being caught would not be punishment enough), they make ample time in private to learn the secrets of each other’s bodies. He delights in watching her touch herself, and it stirs his loins to see her shudder with excitement as he applies what he learns when he touches her. She is initially ashamed of the musky tanginess between her legs, but repeated demonstrations of his eagerness to kiss and lick her there dispel her anxiety about the matter. Whomever is responsible for placing such notions in her mind, he knows not, but they must live a woefully bereft existence to be repulsed by her.
Aside from the practical issue of preventing pregnancy, the condoms Nichelle insists upon using have the unexpected benefit of prolonging the pleasure of being inside her. They often stay up half the night (or day, depending on each of their schedules) making love, or fucking, to use the lexicon of Nichelle’s mother tongue. Afterward, they may talk for a while, or simply touch and hold one another. Nichelle has an endearing, childlike fascination with his foreskin that prompts her to tug on it or pinch it between her fingers, tickling him as she brushes against his glans.
She is wondrously uninhibited about expressing her desire for him, with words and hands, lips and tongue, and her insatiable appetite demands the utmost of his skill and stamina. To want and be wanted with such ardor awakens a part of himself that he once thought had died when Celebrían sailed West. But, lo! It was not dead, merely sleeping behind the dam he erected there. Once released, the powerful current of his îr rushes forth and brings the water of life and renewal to what was once barren.
He is astonished by how right it feels to be with her, as though something missing has finally fallen into place.