Fellowship & Fairydust

Morfang glanced up and about. He still held the Elven girl down on the woodland floor. He might have to take her hostage to buy his freedom.

Deciding that no one was coming anytime soon, he turned back to her. “I’m going to remove my hand and ask you some questions. If you scream, I’ll cut your throat.”

She nodded her head, agreeing to his terms. Keeping the knife close to her neck as a reminder, he slowly removed his hand from her mouth.

“Where am I?”

“Mirkwood Forest,” she answered stably. The girl’s voice was calm but she stank of fear. For a woman, she was gutsy. “Just a small way from the house of my father, Thranduil, the king of these parts,” she concluded.

“Thranduil?”

“Yes, Thranduil is my father.”

“Then Legolas Thranduilion is your brother.”

“Yes,” the girl said, “I am—”

“I did not ask for your name.” Morfang could tell she was young for an Elf and hardly considered an adult. The girl bit her lip. Then again, he barely passed as an adult himself. Barely.

Morfang looked up and around again. Still, no one came. He forced her onto her feet and removed the dagger from her throat. She rubbed it, but before she had a chance to attempt escape, he pressed his dagger against her back. She tensed again. “Walk,” he demanded, forcing her in the direction he wanted to go in, which was away from the Elf King’s home.

Keeping this girl could be dangerous, but it was better than nothing. With his precious sister in Morfang’s hands, Morfang doubted Legolas would be able to do anything but obey his demands. All he wanted was amnesty from the elves and safe passage through the woods.

She walked steadily at Morfang’s pace with proud posture and her head held high. She shivered from time to time, but did not complain of chill or begin to blubber.

“May I speak?” she asked.

“No,” Morfang growled, pressing the knife harder against her. She inhaled and exhaled and kept walking.  

The sun climbed almost to midday when Morfang picked up the sound of hoofbeats and shouting.

The girl must have heard them also; she looked behind her and blinked. She gasped and looked away from Morfang. “Tell me what you want. I will allow it to happen. My brother is coming and I assure you of this: he does not keep promises made to Orcs.”

“He will have to if he values your life,” Morfang snapped. “Keep moving.”

The girl didn’t stop walking. “If you want safe passage, you’ll be given it, but once you’re out–”

“That is not your concern,” Morfang growled, grabbing her arm to stop her movements and pressing the dagger harder until it began to cut through the dress. She hissed, but did not cry out even when a speck of blood began to stain her white gown. “Now stay quiet unless your want to lose your tongue.”

A horse’s whiney broke the silence. Morfang cursed in the Black Tongue and removed his dagger from the girl’s back. He wrapped his arm around her and pressed the dagger against her neck. The girl’s breathing became faster and shallower.

Morfang scanned the forest. There were archers posted everywhere and aiming at him, ready for a signal from their commander. There were riders surrounding them with their arrows. Unlike the archers posted above, they did not take aim, but circled around Morfang and his captive, stone-faced and dark.

An Elf-man robed in fresh clothes approached them. Morfang recognized the circlet on his head. He pressed the dagger closer to the girl’s neck.

“Not one sound,” he hissed in her ear. She bit her lip and a tear escaped her eye. He turned to the company’s leader. “At long last, we meet in person, Legolas of the Woodland Realm.”

“Why are you here, Orc? Do you know who you hold captive?”

“I’m here by accident. Orc Hunters chased me down. I barely escaped with my life. As for your second question: yes, I do know who this girl is.”

“You’d do well to release her now. If you do, I can assure you your death will be painless. It’s a better offer than what the Hunters will offer.”

“Indeed it is,” Morfang said, grinning nastily up at the prince. “However, your sister is in my care until I leave this forest. It won’t be long now, so let us on our way and I assure you no harm will come to her.”

“Safe passage through Mirkwood is what you want?”

“Once I’m out, I will release the little princess and be on my way. It’s a fair bargain.”

“I do not make bargains with Orcs,” the prince snarled through grit teeth.

“You have no choice if you value your sister’s life.” To make his point, Morfang gently nicked the girl’s skin. She did not cry out, but still hissed in a breath and her fear doubled.

But the affect did not go in his favor. “Fire!” Legolas shouted, his face dark with rage.

Morfang swore and shoved the girl away.

He unsheathed his sword and slammed it against the arrows flying at him. One pierced his shoulder. Another, his wounded leg. A third grazed his arm.

While the archers reloaded, he took the time to hoist the girl onto his uninjured shoulder, holding her with one arm and his sword in the other. He cut into the steeds of two riders, making a path for himself.

Morfang raced through the forest as fast as he could with the girl and his injuries. After a while the attacks stopped. He tripped over another root and fell into a pond with the girl.

They both sputtered and came out, soaking wet and choking.

Morfang’s injuries stung. He cursed and trudged to shore, stopping only to tear out the arrows and snap them in half, making them unusable. He lay down on shore, closing his eyes and gasping for breath. After a moment he opened them again.

The girl came up next to him and he watched her movements. Her dress was made of thicker material than he thought. The adult Elf-women usually wore something flimsier, so they rarely ever wore white unless they had something to put over it. She wore white, but no overdress.

Though wet, her gown did not reveal anything indecent. What sort of gown was it? He had half a mind to inquire, but hadn’t the breath to bother.

Even so, the dress clung to her barely-there curves. She was very young for an Elf—younger than he thought. Perhaps she was 1200 or 1300. Perhaps a little older. Well, he wasn’t going to ask. Her wounds weren’t life threatening nor were they deep. She coughed a little and he closed his eyes again.

“I told you it wouldn’t work,” she snapped.

“Shut up,” Morfang growled, clenching his fists. He heard ripping and opened his eyes again. He looked at her. She had repositioned herself so she could bandage him. Morfang jumped away. “I don’t need or want your pity.”

The girl frowned. “It’s not pity. If I was an iota like my brother, I’d use this opportunity to run away and let the archers find you. But I’m nothing like him.”

“You should be more like him,” Morfang said, stepping away from her when she tried to approach him.  “Should you really be binding your kidnapper’s wounds?”

“You’ll die if I don’t.”

“You don’t think it’s for the better.”

The girl bit her lip. “I wouldn’t say it’s for the better, but it won’t solve anything. I’m certain of that much. You kidnapped me, you entered my life, and I feel obligated that I should tend the wounds of my enemies.”

“Even if it’s a slap in your brother’s face?”

She nodded. “I love my brother dearly, but I don’t agree with Legolas’ way of dealing with things sometimes. Now will you let me bind your wounds or not?”

Morfang sat under the tree, and the girl rushed over to him. She took his arm and wrapped the first strip around his shoulder so tightly, he wondered if she’d accidently cut off circulation. After that, she turned to his grazed leg and bound that. Finally, she bound his other arm.

She leaned next to him against the tree trunk. “You could at least thank me.”

Morfang said nothing, but took a quick glance at her.

Her dress was torn half way up her shin from where she ripped the strips.

Her feet were small, dainty, and white. She wore no shoes. The earth was soft enough, but he knew that Elves did wear shoes for harsher ground. Her legs were just as white as her feet, and slender. Her hands were creamy and unblemished as they hugged her legs tighter to her. Her dress’s v-collar revealed her chilled skin.

Despite the cut he had inflicted, her neck was swanlike. Her face was oval shaped, her chin pointed. Her eyes were the same dark blue as her brother’s, and her hair was the same shade of yellow. In the sun, her hair curled into soft ringlets as it dried. Her round lips were cherry pink.

He didn’t mean to stare, but the girl was indeed becoming. He couldn’t say why that was. Orcs did not mate with Elves, though they were very similar. Orcs were Elves once, long ago…

Morfang mentally clobbered his skull and looked away from the princess.

It would do no good thinking of the Elven girl. She was his captive until he could escape this forest.  Until then, he was stuck here with her.

Besides, if her brother lost his temper and ordered his men to shoot Morfang just because he gently cut her neck a little—a little nick like that wouldn’t kill a cat!—then he didn’t want to imagine what sort of fate would await him if he violated the girl.

It was in his power to do, but would certainly not be a wise move.

Morfang stood and forced the girl onto her feet. He set out at such a brisk pace that she had to jog as he pulled her by her arm. Neither of them knew how long it took before they arrived at the other side of the wood, but by then, the sun began to set.

Morfang released her. “You’re free to go wherever you wish now, Princess of Mirkwood,” he said, walking away from the trees and into the glen.

“No! Wait! It’s a trap!” the girl shouted, rushing at him. She tackled Morfang to the ground and an arrow landed at his feet, imbedded into the ground.

<-Previous  Table of Contents  Next->