Work Text:
Shit.
Oh bloody hell, Ada. Why do you do this to me – as if I didn’t know?
Because you don’t want to go, and you think – you know – that I am so relieved by your attitude to Gim that I don’t have the heart to say no.
But.
“Yes,” I say, slowly, “yes, I do have time off coming up – a long weekend – and I had thought about Scotland – it’s the time of year for it – but – I was thinking the island. Surfing. More fun for Gim, really.”
Ada raises an eyebrow,
“Correct me if I’m wrong, ion-nin – almost the first thing you told me was that he doesn't surf.”
I bite my lip.
He is right, of course. And he knows perfectly well – at least, I can’t believe he doesn't – what I mean.
It is more fun for Gim to sit on a beach – even if it is a windswept Scottish beach – and watch me surf in my skin-tight wetsuit, enjoy the high I will be on at the end of a day – than to tramp behind me over rain-drenched – or midge-infested – moors, through acres of wet and dripping – or close and humid – trees, while bloody Caradhil lectures me about all the failures of Ada and myself.
About our lack of care for his damn trees, and land, and – and the old ways – and all the bloody rest of it.
But how can I say that to Ada?
He doesn't want to hear how much Gim likes looking at me, thinking only of bed – and actually, I’m not sure I want to say it.
Nor does Ada want to discuss all the ways in which we fall short of Caradhil’s expectations.
Not least because much of it stems from the fact that he loathes the place, hates being reminded of the days he spent there with Naneth and Thalion.
As for the fact that I am not going to be producing an heir – Caradhil does not know that, nor is it any of his business.
But it is not something Ada and I have really talked about either. I have no idea, still, how he feels about that, whether it matters to him.
I don’t think I want to ask.
So I take the easier way out.
“Ada,” I say, “I can hardly spend my working life on ethical, environmental fund management – and then go swanning off to my ancestral shooting estate for a spot of light animal murder. It wouldn’t look good – and someone would know. They always do. Gossip is what it is, you know that – the City is not so big a place as one might think.”
He smiles, in that way that means I am out-manoeuvred.
“Ah, ion-nin, in that case – you will be even more eager to go. This being the wrong time of year for shooting – as you should know – besides, read the latest proposal from our dear ‘head of estate management’. He is – well – becoming stranger, I think. Still, I hand it over to you, as the ethical, environmentally concerned member of the family. Read this through,” and he throws me a bound report.
Oh bugger.
I flick through it.
Words catch my eye, and I slow, reading it fast, taking in the salient points, and then admiring the beauty of the presentation.
Caradhil appears to have joined the twenty-first century, at last.
Well.
Almost.
“Is he proposing what I think he is?” I ask, stupidly.
Ada raises that eyebrow again, and I continue.
“A reintroduction scheme. To rejuvenate the land, to minimise harmful consequences of the recent – recent, it’s been going on for the last seventy years? – depopulation,” I see Gim is looking confused, and interpret, “less elves – Silvans – a lot died in the Wars, and those that are born – too many move away, to the cities or to more remote enclaves.”
Gim nods, slowly, and I wonder what he is thinking, but then I look back at Ada’s face, his amused expression,
“He wants to – following the success of the projects with wild boar, osprey, and beavers – beavers? Ada – when were there last beavers in Scotland? – he wants – oh sweet Orome, he only wants sodding bears and wolves.”
Gim chokes.
“That’ll make him popular with the neighbours,” he says, and as I snort, even Ada has to bite his lip.
I shake my head though,
“There are no neighbours, not really. He probably has talked the adjoining landowners round, or will do, whisky in hand, if I know him. But – Ada – what do you think? We can’t do this – can we?”
Ada shrugs, and turns away,
“I leave it in your capable hands,” he says, and as I begin to protest, to say it is his land, his name, he gestures beautifully with one hand, “frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”
Of course we go to the estate.
Caradhil collects us from the airport – and I see him look at Gim, see his eyes take in our linked hands.
He says nothing, merely carries our bags to the waiting landrover, and only then,
“You’ll be more comfortable together in the back, I’m thinking, hir-neth-nin.”
As he drives, he puts on the music he always has, the music that once welcomed me at the beginning of each enforced stay when I was sent here to learn to shoot, to walk without maps or compass, to ride for hours without any of the protection I was used to – all the things that in Ada’s opinion make up a real elf, that were I the right sort of Sindar would anchor me to this land.
All the things in which both he and I have no interest, city-creatures as we are.
I think, from something one of the Silvans once let slip, Thalion was different, was perhaps one who would have chosen to make this his home, but I do not know. Ada does not speak of him, and who else is there to ask?
Caradhil, I suppose – but if Ada does not want to talk, who am I to force a confidence from an employee?
Besides, I was with Caradhil when Finrusc spoke out of turn, and I remember his anger, the way he silenced him with a look.
As we travel, Gim reaches out, takes my hand again, and rubs it gently, the way he does when I am fretting with my lip – so I suppose I must be.
Unfair to Gim, I think, he is probably far more freaked by all this than I, and I turn and smile.
“Love you,” I say, because – because I do, and I cannot stop myself.
He grins back,
“I, you,” he says, and then, quietly, “hir-neth-nin? What?”
Oh.
I shrug,
“Sindarin. My young lord – my lordling – something like that. Hard to give the sense of it. Caradhil always calls Ada ‘hir-nin’, so – he always called me that.”
Something in the way Caradhil’s neck holds still, tells me he heard that, and I am embarrassed to be caught speaking of him – but really, what did he think he was doing, using such a title?
“Gim doesn't speak Sindarin,” I explain to the back of his head, gazing at his braids, wondering if I am imagining the changes, trying frantically to remember what they might mean to a traditional Silvan, as he nods.
“I am sorry,” he says, stiffly, and then, “I am sorry, my lord.”
But that feels wrong.
“It doesn't matter,” I say, awkward and teenage once more, “I just – “ and then I am saved by the realisation as he moves his hand to change gear, “Caradhil – are you married now? Your ring – your braids?”
There is a hint of a smile on his face as he shakes his head,
“Not married, no. Vowed. Be three decades, soon enough.”
“I didn’t know,” I say, “I wish you joy – late though I am to do so.”
“Aye, well, no reason for you to know,” he says, and then, another small smile, private this time, “better late than never. My thanks for your wishes, hir-neth-nin,” and then he gestures at the window, “you’ll be looking for the monster maybe? Though you never did see him, as I recall.”
And I must show the Loch to Gim, and explain, and I am distracted, and lost in his teasing – as is no doubt the intention, I realise after.
The Hall is seemingly unchanged, and there is a moment when I wonder where they are expecting Gim to sleep – but it seems Ada has had words with someone, and all is well.
Or well enough.
“Fuck, but it’s cold,” he says, when once we are curled in bed together, and yes, he is cold, I had not thought, “bloody weird elves – do you not notice?”
I shrug, well, as much as one can when one is lying down, and has a heavily built dwarf draped over one,
“No, not really, not the way you do. There was a fire in the library – they served supper in front of it. There are furs here, what need for more?”
“What – fuck, ‘Las – did you not notice the sodding water is cold in the bathroom? And speaking of which – no shower? When the fuck was the last time you came here?”
Ah.
Again, I try to shrug.
“They are – resistant to much change,” I say, “this isn’t Scotland, the way you think of Scotland, just part of the same island; this is – Silvan land. Oh, we own it, Ada and I, but – it’s their land, their country. Not up to us to impose much on them. We don’t come often. I don’t think the house has changed much since Daerada’s time – and he died in the ‘20’s.”
“Fuck,” he says again, despairingly, and I remember this is his holiday too, his time away from work. Work which he enjoys, which is at last the work he has always wanted, but – is difficult, exhausting, even though it is still, apparently, exciting.
He doesn't say, but I think he finds it hard, sometimes, to feel so much older, so much more experienced, and yet still be treated the same as a student, newly away from parents.
Poor Gim. I am desperately proud of him, of how he is managing – but I have learnt not to say so.
I had hoped this would be a treat, a weekend of holiday, until Ada sprung this trip on us.
Still, one way I know to cheer my beloved.
“Fuck,” he says again, dejected.
“That’s a good idea,” I say, and wiggle close.
Next morning, I try and look at things through his eyes, my poor Gim, and yes, I suppose the water is cold, and the house is cold, and the breakfast is – well, it is cold meat, and fruit, and the drink – the drink offered is the Silvan mead, watered down enough for elves, but perhaps not for mortals, not so early in the day.
I know there is a good cellar, but I doubt Gim wants wine.
“Coffee?” he looks at me pathetically, and I wince.
“If they have any, it’ll be instant. And stale. And no sugar,” I think, and, “tea? They can probably find you some that isn’t too old. Does tea even go stale?”
He shakes his head, and mutters something, and – oh, another difference. Gim is rather fond of tea.
Preferably with milk and two sugars.
I think he spent too long as a plumber, but I don’t say it.
I have learnt such jokes are not appreciated.
I have finished, and Gim is still glaring miserably at his unsweetened tea, when Caradhil arrives.
He sweeps in, bows the knee perfunctorily, and I carefully don’t look at Gim, because we haven’t really discussed this – and if the money was enough of a hurdle, I don’t want to hear his opinion of Ada’s lordship in these lands.
“Hir-neth-nin,” oh, we are sticking with that, it seems, “if you are finally ready – there is much I need you to see before we can discuss the reintroductions, before you can sign off the forms. Will you walk out with me – “ he hesitates, and then brings himself to look at Gim, “if you prefer not to walk, my lord, there is no compulsion on you – this is a matter of the land.”
Gim moves his glare from the cup to Caradhil,
“If ‘Las is going, I will,” he says, and then transfers the baleful look to me, “or I shall see precious little of you this weekend, by the sound of it.”
I shrug, helpless.
Caradhil nods, slowly.
“Start with us and welcome,” he says, “and I will bring my – my assistant – if you cannot keep with us, he will accompany you an easier route.”
Oh fuck, Caradhil.
No diplomacy at all.
There is no way Gim will back down now.
So, off we set.
Caradhil is in his element – of course – talking, and talking.
At first, I think he is going to move on to the business for which we are here – but he does not. It is all incidental, details, anecdotes of what happened here, when, what grows, what doesn't, of the wildlife, the game, the livestock, who has moved away, or moved on, or married, or had elflings, or – and on, and on. As though I care.
Then I realise – after some hours of this – he thinks I do.
Or should.
He thinks – wants – me to act as some feudal lord.
That is not who I am.
No wonder Ada loathes coming here, I think. The weight of expectation, of need, not just the business side of the estate, but the emotional burden – we don’t want this. We don’t ask for it, we don’t ask for their devotion, their reverence, their loyalty – do not ask us for something we have not to give.
It occurs to me, somewhere around the fifth hour, to wonder whether Thalion really liked this, really did want this, or is that just a myth the Silvans here have invented for themselves?
I don’t suppose I will ever know.
The forests look – pretty much as they ever did, to me, but apparently I am missing a lot. There are too many deer, he tells me, the young trees are not flourishing as they should, the forests are not healthy. The economy has changed, there is not enough call for timber, the forests cannot be managed effectively.
There are too few elves – too many have left, gone to the cities, he almost spits, too few elflings are born – and I am tempted to ask what he himself has done about that, for no word does he speak of a child of his own – but I refrain.
After all, I don’t want that kind of discussion to become personal. It is not his business how I live my life – and so I suppose it is not mine how he does.
Too few elves, he repeats, not enough predators for the deer.
And when we cross a river – the salmon population also has exploded – and yes, I think, I read the report, I did understand it, you don’t actually have to show me the land and talk to me as though I were a fool. That is also due to lack of elves, although apparently – and this is news to me – it is largely the fault of Ada and myself. I am given to understand a lord has fishing rights, and should use them.
I don’t like bloody fishing, sitting or standing for hours with rod in hand, waiting for a catch.
Not for fish, anyway.
Stop it, ‘Las, you are supposed to be past all that. Monogamy, remember?
Anyway.
Gim becomes endearingly excited when we see squirrels.
It hadn’t occurred to me he would never have seen red squirrels before, outside story books, and news programmes.
He and Caradhil get almost friendly over them.
Caradhil is rather proud of his squirrel population, it seems.
His assistant – Aglarcu – smiles, and the gap in his teeth, the freckles – suddenly I realise that I know him from all those years ago.
“Aglarcu,” I say, embarrassed but smiling at the memory, “I remember you now – I am sorry – it has been so long. You used to always be around when I would come up in the holidays – you are not much older than me – we would kick a ball about, sometimes.”
Before I admitted to myself just how much I hate such things, when I was still trying to be everything I thought Thalion was, still trying to please Ada that way – not realising all I needed do was be an affectionate son.
Aglarcu flushes slightly with pleasure.
“Younger, a little,” he says, shy of correcting me, and then, “hir-neth-nin, no apology needed. I did not expect you to remember me at all.”
I think he would go on to say something else, but then Caradhil turns and makes a face which says clearly that we should be quieter and look at his bloody squirrels, so that is an end to talking. Aglarcu does not speak again the rest of the day, and it is only at the end, as they are leaving, that I notice the glint of gold on his hand.
Younger than me, and married. I wonder if they truly keep to the old ways here – if marriage is the only way to – .
Elbereth, but I am glad I am not a backwoods Silvan.
Another evening in front of the fire – which is rather nice actually – another night when Gim needs to be wrapped close for warmth – which is very nice indeed – another early morning, cold wash, and cold old-fashioned elven breakfast – which is not so nice.
And once more, Caradhil arrives early, this time offering to take us shooting – only clay pigeons, he apologises, it being the wrong season – and I haven’t the heart to say that I couldn’t bring myself to shoot anything else. It may be hypocritical of me – Gim thinks so – to eat meat, yet refuse to shoot – and it may be cowardly not to want to say it to Caradhil – but he is so pleased to see me, so eager that I should see the land in the way he wants me to – and I can’t help but remember the hours he spent teaching me to shoot, how patient he was, how pleased when I remembered something, when I did well. However.
“I’m not so bothered,” I say, “I’d rather we talked about this proposition of yours, to be honest. We fly home – back – tomorrow afternoon – I don’t want to hurry through it in the morning.”
I don’t let myself see the hurt in his eyes at my slip, my admission that this isn’t home – he must know, but he doesn't like to hear it – I don’t let myself see the slight slump of defeat as I say I am unbothered by shooting, just as I was uninterested in fishing, as I did not ask for news of any, as I did not even respond to his suggestion that he arrange to have horses stabled here for my visits.
The mere thought – yes, I would love to ride here again – but Gim – no. I don’t think I will ever persuade him onto horseback. And the thought brings a pang, a momentary reminder of a glorious day riding out from Elrond’s – and the remembrance of what happened – what nearly happened – in the stableyard turns my blood cold with guilt.
No, Caradhil, I do not wish for horses, for any of it.
Surely he must know this is not somewhere I wish to spend time?
However.
Gim, to my surprise, looks interested in the idea of shooting. I suppose he is living some kind of fantasy, of how the gentry lived in years gone by – I don’t know – maybe he just always rather wanted to play with guns. Things he and Ki have let slip, I don’t think that kind of game would have been encouraged, not with Ki’s uncle the way he is.
I shrug, relieved Ada had the sensitivity not to send me here during the real season. There is no harm in shooting clay pigeons, I suppose.
Caradhil, as Caradhil is, is endlessly patient with Gim, explaining, teaching, guiding.
Gim is hopeless, as I thought he would be. Somehow, he manages to miss every single one.
I don’t know how it is possible to be so incompetent.
I actually wonder if he should have his eyes tested – if all the closework, the details that he loves with his jewelling – is damaging them.
I don’t say it. I am learning tact in such matters.
When he finally gives in, and accepts he has no talent, Caradhil pats his arm,
“You have the action,” he says, “aiming, the speed of it – takes time, and practice, especially for mortals,” he shrugs, and looks at me, “imagine, hir-neth-nin, if I were to speed the firing, not only the pause between, but the speed they emerge – about – hard to say – more than double the normal. I think you might not do so well then,” he meets my eye, and there is much unspoken in his gaze as he adds, “especially after so long.”
Really?
My eyes narrow, I can feel the anger in me; feel it and contain it, use it, I tell myself; I am Thranduilion.
“Let us see,” I say, and take the gun.
He smiles, and I know I have reacted precisely as he expected.
However.
Every one a hit, and faster than even I hoped. I hand him the gun, and raise an eyebrow,
“Satisfied?” I ask.
He nods,
“Satisfied. Hir-nin would be proud, I’m thinking.”
And somehow, my anger is gone.
“He might,” I say, thinking – I doubt it, I doubt he would care, “but it wasn’t him that taught me. Hannon-le, Finbonaurion.”
Later, it occurs to me to wonder just how fast that trap and release system can go – and how well Caradhil scores. Now, though, I turn to Gim,
“I’m sorry, love,” I say, and ignore Caradhil’s flinch, “but I do need to talk to Caradhil – seriously – about this document. You can sit in, if you like, or – “
He shakes his head,
“Fuck, no, you get on. I’ve got drawings, designs to finish. I’ll go back in to the library, if that's not where you want to be – warm there. You get on with it, ‘Las. Come and find me when you’re done,” and he heads off.
Caradhil looks at me, and sighs.
“I wondered what hir-nin meant, when he said no elflings,” he says, and then – flushes. I have never seen him so confused, and I wonder why for a moment. Then I realise, he probably thinks he has been unpardonably forward.
“No, well,” I shrug in return, trying to show I am not bothered by the comment, “we could adopt, or surrogate, people do, but – it’s not for me. And Gim isn’t bothered.”
At least – I bloody hope not.
He hasn’t said.
Shit.
No. He’d’ve mentioned it. When he said about his parents wanting grandchildren – he would have said if that was him too.
I’m sure.
Almost.
Anyway.
“This – proposition,” I say, and Caradhil nods, both of us returning from our thoughts.
He and I sit together, out here, the air still smelling of cordite, and talk through his proposal, page by page; we discuss his desire to reintroduce wolves and bears.
It is impractical.
Not to say probably illegal – but I don’t say that, I know Caradhil has a fairly low opinion of the law, when it doesn't suit him.
“The osprey and the boar have done well,” he says, and I nod, because yes, they have, and they were good ideas.
“The beavers though,” I ask – I cannot but ask, “I know the osprey was a nationwide RSPB initiative, which we joined,” he likes me to say ‘we’, even though it is all him really, “and the boar were never fully extinct, but – the beavers? How did you get those past – whoever it is that checks these things?”
He looks down, and then blandly meets my eye,
“It must have been an oversight,” he says, “we had no idea they were there. By the time we realised, they were an established colony, there was nothing really could be done.”
Mm-hm.
Of course.
Pull the other braid, Caradhil, it has bells on, I think.
Still.
“No wolves,” I say, “and no bloody bears – what are you thinking? They are both dangerous. And not cute. Imagine the fuss when they start taking livestock – even on our land – let alone when they get out – and they will, you know it – they will predate on our neighbours’ flocks. Herds. Whatever.”
He shrugs, and I can see he is about to say – but our neighbours are mortals, Men, what do they know of anything – and I shake my head at him,
“It is not up for discussion, Caradhil. Ada – your lord – your sworn lord – made that very clear. No wolves, no bears. I don’t care how over-stocked the damn salmon river is. Encourage more bloody ospreys. Or fishing-tourism. Or just catch the damn things and sell them – give them away if you must – seasonal fucking gifts to all the elves on the estate. Freeze them. I don’t care. Just – no bears. And as for wolves – imagine – sooner or later – a child will go missing. One of ours, one of our neighbours. It doesn't matter. And the wolves will be blamed. It won’t matter whether it was them or not – they will be blamed, and hunted, and you – yes, you, Caradhil – will be in the position of having to see them exterminated.”
He sets his jaw.
“Or – you will be in the position of being not only fined, but sent to jail. There will be nothing I – or Ada – can do to prevent it,” he looks stubborn still, and I am suddenly inspired – I look pointedly at his hand, “and what then of your – your avowed one?”
His eyes slide from mine, finally defeated.
I have won.
Interesting.
I never suspected Caradhil to be such a fool for love.
Having won, I flick through the report again.
“This is beautifully presented and put together,” I say, wondering still who helped him, because the Caradhil I knew was not one to express himself on paper, still less with such style, “and – there is a footnote somewhere – I noticed – and it reflected something I had read elsewhere – yes, here. Lynx. They rarely take livestock – never people – unlikely to even injure a person – but they could control the deer population. I suppose, given time, they might learn to fish even, there are fishing cats in Asia. It wouldn’t be impossible, given the amount of salmon you say there is, for lynx to learn to exploit that resource, they are known to fish sometimes – and although it’s a long while since they were truly native, they are close enough to the Scottish wildcat that it doesn't seem a huge leap. The European one – reintroducing it’s something people have been talking about for years. I think – I might know someone involved in this – might be able to get us on the trial scheme. These projections you did for the other carnivores – can we run them again with the lynx details input?”
I did my homework, you see, Caradhil. I spoke to my contacts in the ministry, in the pressure groups, and I think this might work.
He nods slowly, and,
“Aglarcu it was did all that. You’ll be needing to speak to him,” he looks at the sun, “he’ll be over in the estate office – all his computing is there – you’ll know your way over, hir-neth-nin?”
He is upset.
Well.
I’m sorry, but – there it is.
Aglarcu is, I think, embarrassed,
“I didn’t mean to undermine his case – putting the lynx note in – I just – well. It seemed worth mentioning,” he says, and I hasten to reassure him.
“I would have found it anyway, once I started looking, but – no, I was impressed. Where did you – show me how you came up with these models?”
Honestly, when he shows me his work, I am amazed.
“You aren’t using a package?” I ask, and no, no he didn’t know there were such things – well, nor did I until recently – not for the forestry side, the estate management – certainly not for this predator reintroduction modelling.
He has generated all this himself.
Using Office.
It’s bloody good.
“Your degree -?” I ask, thinking it must be in something relevant, but he laughs,
“Hir-neth-nin, I didn’t go away to college. My parents wouldn’t stand for that. I’ve been in the estate office – well, started out just – helping Caradhil on the land – since I left school. You just – well, you work these things out when you need to, don’t you? Pick it up as you go along.”
“Show me,” I say, and we talk through the lynx, what inputs to change, what to modify, and I watch him at work.
His parents wouldn’t stand for it.
I think about Gim, and his father refusing him the opportunity of college, because of money, and I suppose it must be the same thing.
Well.
No.
That isn’t right.
I’m going to speak to Ada. We – he and I – we don’t want to live here, we don’t want to become – I don’t know, bloody medieval barons, watching over life and death of these elves – but – maybe we should be offering more grants, encouragement – opportunities.
He’s stuck up here, living with his parents I wouldn’t wonder, or, I suppose, with some elleth he grew up with, in some marriage that seemed sensible, that is approved by his parents and her parents, still in some bloody timewarp of “the way it’s always been”, when with this kind of mind, he could be – making serious money somewhere. Or – even if he wanted to do this – he should be better paid, should have had the chance to look about first.
Maybe we do have a bit of a duty.
Engrossed as we get, looking at figures, and playing with ideas – we pass on to other things soon enough, and I – I find I can really talk and listen to him – this is the way I like to work, numbers and forecasts, data, images – not bloody striding around in the rain – the time passes. He shows me the forestry, the estate management forecasts – and suddenly I find – I find it is fascinating. The logistics, the predictions, how much of what, where, guessing what people will want and where they will be. The different land-use, the choices.
I had no idea how much thinking goes into it all.
And Aglarcu – he has it all here, all at his fingertips. The deer, the trees, the fish, the sheep, the elves – the whole of the estate.
It occurs to me that actually – I would enjoy this.
Perhaps I should take more interest – I know Ada loathes it all, always has. I don’t know why, whether it simply reminds him too much of his father, his brothers, or whether it is the place itself. Or whether perhaps – perhaps Naneth and Thalion really did love it here, and so this Hall feels – huge and empty without them.
I don’t know, and I won’t be asking.
But maybe – maybe I should take on more of the responsibility for it.
Inwardly I sigh – as though I don’t have anything else to do. I have a full-time job to hold down, one which I love and find absorbing – and I have a lover, a full-time, live-in lover. Who I am, whisper the thought ‘Las, starting to truly believe might be forever, might be ready to actually – marry me.
But – I love Ada. If I can take some of the tiredness, the strain, from his face, maybe I should.
Absorbed in my thoughts, and in the conversation, I don’t notice time passing until I realise Caradhil has come in, and is stood watching.
I don’t know how long he has been there for, but when I look at my watch – and I see him wince that I do not live by the sun, but fucks sake, Caradhil, get real – it is gone five.
Gim has been alone almost all day.
Oh bugger.
Some holiday weekend he is having.
“Thanks, Aglarcu,” I say, and then to Caradhil, “he’s bloody good. Too good for here – I might have to poach him for my office,” I turn back to Aglarcu, “fancy that? A trip to London?”
To start with.
He looks at me, puzzled, slightly panicked, and then to Caradhil, and back to me,
“No. Not really, I – I went to Inverness once. But it was very – noisy.”
I laugh, and Caradhil, surprisingly, says,
“If hir-neth-nin says London, you’ll go to London, Aglarcu. And enjoy it. Do you good, I daresay.”
“We’ll see,” I say, and agree that yes, tomorrow, a walk, yes, how nice, yes, I daresay it would be good to get out on the moor before we go.
As I leave, I hear Aglarcu start,
“But you – you said – you said I didn’t have to go anywhere – I – Caradhil – you’d not – ?”
There is no helping some people, I think, and I hope his wife – avowed one – whatever they call it up here – has a bit more sense.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Been a bloody strange weekend.
Still.
Think I know a bit more about my elf now.
Now I’ve seen another side to my metro-sexual, high-maintenance, designer jeans, designer hair-products, more boots than anyone should own, glamorous, excessively rich and ever so slightly a bitch, darling.
Seen him eat virtually raw meat for breakfast, and wash it down with some gut-wrenchingly strong sweet alcohol.
Seen him wash in water you could chill beer-cans in, without flinching.
Seen him walk twenty miles without even breaking into a sweat, talking and laughing the whole way – and I know they could have gone further, faster, had it not been for me.
Seen him handle a gun – shoot clay pigeons like he meant it – each shot fast and deadly.
Seen him switch languages without even knowing he was doing it.
Seen him shut down a proposal that took the poor sod hours, weeks of work without a second glance.
Best of all – seen him down on his knees in the airport Gents – and while flying Business Class is still a revelation to me, his talents are well-known and appreciated.
Some surprises though.
Fuck, but – I knew he was older than he seems – but – how old exactly is he?
If Caradhil has been vowed three decades – and ‘Las hasn’t seen him in all that time – how old is my gorgeous ‘Las?
And – now – sitting on the plane, I find – my lovely ‘Las is a bit slow at times.
“I think Aglarcu should come down to London,” he says, “intern for a bit – something like that – I could really use his way with modelling systems – and I think I could talk him into doing some kind of degree – better himself. He’s worth more than that – far more – he should have got away from there, should have made something of himself and his life.”
I look at him blankly.
“I told him – and I told Caradhil,” he goes on, and I ask,
“What did Caradhil say?”
He shrugs,
“Not much he could say, not really, he must know there’s not much for Aglarcu there. He told him to stop being so silly, it would do him good – do you know, he’s not even been to Inverness more than once? Poor sod.”
I am silent, because – is it up to me to say it, if they didn’t?
But I watched them this morning, as they strode up the mountain, slow and easy, not hurrying, well, not by elf-standards, their paces matched.
Watched as they stood together looking out, spotted a – a deer herd, I think – and counted it, heard them using the old counting rhyme in a language I don’t know – yan, tyan, tethera – and heard them laugh together when the numbers came out the same, and where they should be. Saw their eyes meet, and thoughts pass between them, words not needed.
Watched them walk down – if you can call it walking – each of them sure-footed, not needing to look, somewhere between leaping and running, their hair in its matched braids flying, their hands not touching, but their bodies close, their conversation, or rather their bloody twittering elf-song, unending, unpausing.
Watched them say farewell – for only an hour or so – as Caradhil turned to drive us back to catch this plane, while Aglarcu headed off to – whatever he does – and no, it wasn’t an embrace, or a kiss, or anything that I recognise as sexual, but – the way they each stroked a finger over the other’s ear – that meant something to them.
And – fuck me, but I was jealous. Not of either of them – shit, there’s only one elf I have eyes for – but of their understanding, their closeness, their – confidence, reliance. Their ease with each other and their life.
I don’t suppose they have screaming, shouting arguments, which end with one slamming out, the other sitting morosely drinking. I don’t suppose they – either of them – feel this desperate fear, and need, and jealousy. They speak the same language, live the same life, born on the same land, everything about them perfectly matched.
Mind, I suppose they don’t get the bloody amazing make-up sex after.
Still.
Not much for Aglarcu there?
Yeah, right, ‘Las, like there’s not much for me in bloody London. Only the work I love, and you.
I don’t know if I should speak out.
Then I think – ‘Las doesn't have to act on it, but if I don’t tell him – they have some odd ways, elves. All that weird feudal stuff – they might not know they can say no to him, once he gets an idea.
“I think there’s plenty for Aglarcu there,” I say, and when he looks at me, “he’s made precisely what he wants to out of his life, I reckon. Shit, ‘Las, are you blind? Did you not see the way they looked at each other? Vowed thirty years, not married, Caradhil said. And you wondered why he’d no children for the land – that's why. He’s shagging Aglarcu. And Aglarcu adores him, wouldn’t change a thing. Offer him a spell down in London, if you like, but – make sure he knows he can say no.”
‘Las looks at me, horrified,
“But – Caradhil – Caradhil is an adult – he’s – I don’t know how old – he nearly fought in 1918 – he’s far too old – Aglarcu is my age – more or less – that’s – awful.”
Fucks sake.
I will never, I think, understand elves and age.
“You fancied that Glorfindel,” I say, and as he shakes his head vehemently, “yes you did, I know you did. And ok, so long as you didn’t act on it, I expect he is gorgeous. And a lot older than Caradhil.”
Older than your father, I think, but still, let’s not get into that one.
And I will try not to bloody think about how much you clearly did fancy him – and how guilty you feel.
Or why.
“Tell me about these lynx,” I say instead, and off he goes, enthusiastic as ever.
I don’t think I’ll mention the article I saw on Caradhil’s desk. Think like an elephant, it said. Break down trees to encourage wildlife.
Bring back elephants?
I wonder how long before he mentions that idea.