A one-shot prequel to “Many Fruitless Victories” 

Disclaimer:  Characters are Tolkien’s. I derive no profit from this, except enjoyment, and maybe enlightening opinions from readers. 

Warning: Just ONE SINGLE footnote.

A/N A big hug to Redheredh.... 

A chance meeting.* 

*The title is taken from Unfinished Tales. “The Quest of Erebor,” when Gandalf ends his account of how he happened to meet Thorin in Bree saying, “A chance meeting, as we say in Middle-earth.” 

Rome, July 2^nd 2005 

The elf climbed the stone stairs hurriedly, jumping nimbly over every other step, his dark mane dancing upon his back, his leather-shod feet silently caressing the ancient flagstones. 

He stopped briefly when he reached the empty piazza. Arien speared the top of Quirinale Hill mercilessly in that hot summer day. The gentle breeze carried along the echoes of the noisy “Stop the Poverty” event that was taking place down there in the Foro, in the long, ruined stretch of grass that had once been the Circus Maximus and that still was the hugest venue in the world. 

He hadn’t paused there, though, to recover his even breath, or to admire the stunning views from the skilfully open side of the piazza, the Eternal City splayed under his feet. He bowed silently, as he always did, to the mighty marble statues upon their tall stand. The sight of the Dioscuri, the mortal-immortal twins of Roman mythology always comforted him in a strange way.  

That was what he liked about Rome, he thought, dwelling upon fond memories of two lively, petulant half-elven children he had fostered and had come to love as his own, as he crossed the square towards the entrance of the ancient Papal stables and guards’ barracks now turned into a modern conference centre. Many things were truly ancient there, even for elven standards. 

He nodded slightly to the armed guards before the entrance to the Presidential Residence and followed the signs that led to the Stables, in the opposite side of the square. 

Another flight of winding staircase led him to a wide, empty corridor with great, steely-framed windows that opened over the square. A lone table before a closed door was the only indication of a meeting being held there. The Elf turned his steps toward that place. 

“You are quite late, sir.” A beautiful, elegantly dressed young woman greeted him with friendly reconvention. He produced his identification and smiled at her. 

“Never too late to learn something, isn’t it?” he joked in his wonderful voice.  

The woman returned his smile with a charming wink as she proffered a plastic identification. “Hundred per cent recyclable,” she offered with a smug smirk at his frown. Obviously, he wasn’t the first to make the remark, the elf thought with tired satisfaction, and for once he refrained from offering a lesson about energy waste and ecological impact of even hundred per cent recyclable items. Leave that to Thranduil, he thought amusedly, and nodding courteously to the woman, he opened the door and entered the room where a strictly restricted technical meeting had been taking place since two hours before his arrival. 

Some heads turned towards him as the door opened in front of the first row of seats, and the elf cursed the careless architects in charge of the restoration of historical buildings.  

There were three speakers on a large table upon an empty stage, facing twenty or thirty rows of seats. He nodded politely, although he knew none of those who sought eye contact with him, and walked silently towards the end of the room, where he stood, despite the many empty places, leaning upon one of the stone columns that made part of the sixteenth-century original structure. 

The chairman, who was also the Food and Agricultural Organization’s –FAO- spokesman, was introducing the next speaker, a tall man in his early fifties with dark hair that was greying in the edges and blue, sparkling eyes in a bronzed face. He was the man the elf had come to listen to. The chairman and the woman by his left discourses’ he knew only too well, but it was the first time in fifteen years that the elder man abandoned his field job to attend a technical meeting. 

Before the lights had been turned out, and the video was running, the man started to talk in a slow, calming and beautifully intoned voice that only enhanced the haunting, doomsday images and devastatingly accurate figures that showed the apparently unavoidable ruin of many ecosystems around the world. From Lake Victoria in Tanzania, to Aral Sea in former Soviet Union, famine, despoilment, erosion and deforestation starred in the shocking documentary that dwelled coldly, but with kind compassion, upon a nightmarish world that was less than a six hour’s flight from Rome. 

Even for one hardened by long years of fighting ruthless environmental devastation as the elf, the pain was difficult to endure without some effort. A dense, stunned silence blanketed the room when the lights were turned on.   

However, the assault commenced almost immediately, as some of the assistants started to blame the lecturer for arising unnecessary panic.  

“I do not argue the figures that have been provided by the FAO,” the speaker calmly answered a heated question, “and it is only good news that we are progressing in poverty reduction. It is about time that we managed to succeed in that," he added softly, “for there is a huge tide, ladies and gentlemen, wider than last year’s tsunami, threatening to overwhelm and drown our safe, comfortable and ordered world for lack of better hope. The hordes of the despoiled shall one day overflow their prisons and knock at our doors to demand justice…”  

Typical of the edain, the elf thought in exasperation as the argument progressed. Give them an objective, cold, well-founded truth and sit back to watch them wander away in search of a more comfortable lie or half-truth. Morgoth did a good job, indeed, but their blindness and indifference must have been bred by Sauron himself, I bet.   

“The fact is,“ the lecturer was arguing patiently, “that we may defeat poverty, or cut it to half, as the millennium goal states, and yet find out that we have no land, soil, water and atmosphere to sustain the earth population, both human and not,” he insisted in his soothing, hopeful voice. “We need to change our paradigm, our way of living, for we are wasting away more than we can afford already…” 

“That discourse is outdated, Dr. Feldman,” a young woman cut in dismissively. “We can now produce environmentally friendly versions of almost everything, and doom soothsayers like yourself are old fashioned, if necessary, reminders of another age, I suppose, but we are undoubtedly marching forth, despite those who try to earn their position becoming the voice of doom...” she added scathingly.  

A surprised silence followed her harsh words and then the chairman pointed towards the end of the room. “ That gentleman over there.” 

“Malcom Lauren (1) for Greenwood Great,“ the Elf introduced himself briefly, standing tall and meeting the expectant glances with an easy -if somewhat haughty- smile as most heads in the room turned to identify the speaker.  

He expected it; his voice always had that effect, and he let the silence stretch a bit longer than necessary as everybody took in his tall, imposing frame.  

“I would like to reinforce Dr. Feldman’s remarks. We have just learnt that UN, as hopefully other international relief organizations after them, have just discovered the effectiveness of the small scale, bottom-line approach to community level development,” he said with a sarcastically approving smile, waving the FAO’s press release that lay upon every chair in the room. “Good for them and congratulations to those who have been restlessly shouting the need for this for some decades now. But we need more, gentlemen and gentlewomen,” he added with a playful smirk. “We do need to change our paradigm for this delicate balance to have a slight chance of recovery. And we cannot do that at our current pace. Manufacturing recyclable goods still has a cost and an impact, madam,“ he addressed the woman who had so impolitely harassed the speaker. “And unless we start paying for that cost, the imbalance shall only become wider.” 

He made a dramatic pause, then, but nobody dared interrupt him; the audience was enthralled by his powerful voice. “In this room there are about eighty something of the supposedly most environmentally friendly and concerned people in the world. How many of you, I wonder, have taken care of offsetting the ecological impact of your travelling here? And what can we say of those quarter million people jumping and screaming down there at the Circus Maximus? Did you bother to figure out how many solar panels, how many first aid hospitals, how many training courses could be paid for with just the money those people have spent since midday in plastic bottles of water to cool down from their humanitarian efforts?” 

“What have you done yourself?” the woman asked bluntly, offended but undaunted by his imposing attitude and his contemptuous words. 

“Well, my organization has discounted the carbon impact of my travelling here, as well as the general ecological impact of my sojourn, and the amount will allow us to buy spare pieces to repair a waste treatment system in a small hamlet in Kenya as means of compensation. I invite you all to visit Greenwood Great’s website and search the list of ecological projects in need of economic support. It won’t be too late when you’re back home to start offsetting...” he added with a wicked grin.  

“As for myself…” he continued, “well, my trousers have been hand made out of wool coming from an ecologically bred sheep I know by name and my shirt was woven from ecologically grown linen I personally planted. My sandals are of cow leather, and I don’t think that you are all that interested in learning about my underwear…" he added challengingly, flashing his most charming smile and rising his right hand to the waist of his trousers, as the audience erupted in amused laughter and scattered applauses.  

The woman, though, seemed unimpressed by his antics and clearly vexed by his approach. “So, your demagogic speech is aimed at promoting your organization, is that what this entire utopia is about, Mr. Lauren?” she asked contemptuously, looking around and searching for approval. 

“I fear this is the best utopia we can offer, yes,” he agreed, “at least until Gucci and Versace start producing truly ecologically-sound stiletti, madam,” he added mildly, collecting more laughter. 

“I think Mr. Lauren has just expressed exactly what I meant,” the speaker chimed in hastily. “And I congratulate his organization for their well oriented efforts. Producing ecologically is no longer enough, we need to reduce waste as well…” 

“So, you disapprove of events like today’s “Live 8 Aid” concert?” another voice asked from the opposite corner of the room.  

The speaker sighed with hardly disguised tiredness and lowered his head for a second to hide his disappointment. When he looked up, he searched briefly for that Mr. Lauren’s encouragement, but the dark haired stranger had disappeared silently. With a heavy sigh Dr. Feldman tried to put on a convincing smile and started explaining one more time. 

*** 

“I heard you threatened the audience with a striptease yesterday....” 

“And I got us an incredible amount of hits in our website, half of which, I am ready to wager, shall turn into new registered members…”  

Maglor’s mood was at its foulest and most bitter, Celeborn noted as he took an empty chair and sat by his friend's side in the small patio at their favourite trattoria in Piazza del Popolo. The waitress was already there with a long glass of their dark brown, home produced, caramel scented beer and a friendly smile.

“Shall I bring the menu or you’ll rather wait for your friends, Mr. Silvertree?”  

“We’ll wait, thanks, Claudia.” 

Celeborn sipped at the perfect crown with delight and drank a long draught before turning his piercing eyes to his friend. 

“I missed you at dinner, Maglor. I had to endure Daeron’s ranting, unabridged version, about modern music…”  

That elicited a snort from Maglor. He had surely spent the night roaming the empty streets of Rome, listening to long forgotten songs of ancient, wise stones who knew everything about yearning, and mingling his voice with that of the oldest milestones in Via Appia, alternatively mourning and raging at a time long past, Celeborn guessed.  

“You ever doubt, Celeborn?” the Noldo asked coarsely. ”Doubt that there’s ever a reason for our being here, doubt that Eärendil still cruises the skies, that Arien and Tilion still drive the sun and the moon home to Valinor every day and night, that anyone remembers that we are still here?” he kept on in a voice that bled with ages of anguish and despair.  

It happened from time to time, to all of them, but Maglor’s bouts of despondency were unpredictable and almost undecipherable to his friends. He would drown in bottomless despair for undetermined lengths of time until the most unexpected occurrence succeeded in bringing him out of his gloominess. He seemed to resent the burden of that long, hopeless fight more deeply than his friends. But then, he was an exile on first place, Celeborn considered mercifully. 

“Well, well, well, the sex-symbol of the environmental concern,“ a gleeful voice chimed in before Celeborn could answer. A happy Daeron sat at the table with a wide grin, fully disregarding Maglor’s feral grunt and Celeborn’s warning glance. “I’ve been thinking,“ he announced, spreading a number of brochures over the table and bowing with exaggerate flourishes and winks to the delighted waitress as she brought him his customary dry vermouth.  

“Ah! The flavour of Tuscan gorse! I swear this tastes better than anything, sweetheart, your family recipe should be praised in everlasting hymns!” 

“It is Roman gorse, as is the recipe and the family!“ the girl complained in faked anger. “I myself pick it up in the hills of Frascati! But I won’t object to the songs!” she added with a giggle, as she obviously knew of his talents.  

“So, you’ve been thinking…” Celeborn asked their voluble friend as the girl walked away, her clear laughter ringing in the patio.  

“Look, we could set up an on-line underwear shop, with Maglor’s face as logo…No, I’m speaking seriously, my friend,“ he added, undaunted by the unmistakable menace in Maglor’s body language, “we’ve got at least fifty mails asking about ecological underwear since yesterday…what happens to him?” Daeron questioned Celeborn, who raised his brows quizzically. “I told you, Celeborn, he always gets depressed in Rome. Are we going to have lunch or what? I’ll pay today, see, I’ve managed to collect a fair amount of euros…” 

“You’ve been juggling again, haven’t you?” Celeborn asked with a disapproving glare. 

“Why, yes, but it is an allowed practice today, Celeborn, and the guys were so bad at it, I couldn’t resist, at least I’ve managed to enjoy myself after yesterday’s suffering…Don’t know how the War of Wrath sounded, but it couldn’t be much worse than yesterday’s bad excuse for music…” 

“Look, there’s Thranduil, over there, where has he been?” Celeborn pointed at the tall, nimble elf that was elbowing his way among the crowds that flooded the decorated stone stairs leading down from the Pincio gardens into Piazza del Popolo, a favoured place for Roman and tourists alike for a leisurely stroll before Sunday meal.  

“Where? In Pincio gardens since very early this morning,” Daeron snorted, “trying to awaken the trees…”  

Maglor spewed a mouthful of beer and Celeborn calmly offered Daeron a napkin, raising his brows in silent question. 

“I’m glad to see that you’re actually awake, my friend,” Daeron grunted, wiping his face and shrugging towards Celeborn. “Don’t ask me, I know he’s intent on reawakening the trees, you know, he never truly accepted that the ents were gone for good…” 

Celeborn sighed with mock exasperation as their tall, blond friend cruised the crowded square looking no different from the hordes of north European tourists that pointed in awe at one of Rome’s most splendid sights. 

“I’ve seen two tall poplars running for their lives earlier this morning,” Daeron informed him very seriously as Thranduil nodded to his friends and sat at their table, “I thought I should tell you, my friend, congratulations!” 

“Vino dei Castelli, signor Greenwood!” The waitress’ clear voice cut Thranduil’s remark, and he leaned back to allow her place a cool jar of red wine and a plain glass before him. 

“Tante grazie, Claudia,” he said, looking her in the eye and nodding in appreciation.  Celeborn held back an amused smile as the girl obviously fought the urge to curtsy before him. Thranduil’s manners and his very demeanour prompted that kind of respect, no matter how worn out his attire might look.   

“I brought you the menu,“ the waitress added when she recovered from the plain awe that always threatened to overwhelm her in Thranduil’s presence, “but my mother says that she has fresh ravioli stuffed with ricotta and spinach…” 

“We won’t fight the mamma!"  Daeron claimed dramatically “Let’s us savour her ravioli and then die in bliss!”  

“Ravioli for four, then?” the girl asked her other guests, amused by Daeron’s antics, but not to the point of forgetting her duties. 

“So, how did it go?” Celeborn asked Thranduil once the girl left for the kitchen.  

The former king of Greenwood had poured himself a generous draught of the clear red, cool wine, and was drinking with open delight, although, Celeborn knew, he was, once again, mourning his cherished Dorwinion, the likes of which they had yet to find in those sinful times of boutique wineries. 

“I hate this city,” he sentenced with plain disdain, placing the glass on the table beside the jar and moving both under the shade provided by the green and white sunshade. “All those ruins, and scattered stones, everything smells of decay, here,“ he added with derision, “I cannot stand it. I bet even the trees would sulk, were they to actually awaken and start speaking…” 

“You know why there aren’t trees in the desert?” Maglor’s voice sounded low and deep as Aüle’s deepest forges, if he happened to have them, Celeborn thought distractedly, as the Noldo leaned forth to get closer to the unsuspecting Thranduil, who knew better, though, than to offer an answer. 

“Because they cannot hold their grip upon the sand. There’s no soil, no stone, where your beloved trees can fix themselves… and thus they die…” 

Thranduil shrugged slightly and moved to pour himself another glass of wine, but Maglor’s charred left hand shot up from under the table and caught the other’s wrist in a firm grip.  

“You speak lowly of what you’re too deaf to perceive, Moriquende,“ the Noldo spat out contemptuously, his voice a wild hiss, his dark eyes, Celeborn was sure, blazing behind the dark sunglasses.  

Thranduil didn’t move or said a word.  

“There were stones before there were trees, and the stones shall be here when there’s nothing else left to give us shelter…” he kept on hoarsely. “And if you delve deep enough, you can still hear the echoes of Iluvatar’s music resounding within the heart of Arda…your trees delve deep in them, live because of them, your trees eat stones, you fool, and sing of them, too!   

“Dad! Look! I found him! Mr. Lauren, he’s here! ” a high-pitched voice shouted in delight right behind the four elves. A small boy with curled reddish hair was pointing at Maglor and looking back to the entrance of the patio, where a tall, dark haired man and a red haired woman were unsuccessfully waving the child to return to them. 

“Dr. Feldman,” Maglor said then, releasing Thranduil’s wrist and standing up, a forced smile upon his face. Almost immediately, the child hung from his arm and took him before his parents, much to Maglor’s friend’s amazement. 

“Please, accept my apologies, Mr. Lauren,” Dr. Feldman was saying, “George was very impressed by your words yesterday and he’s been harassing me all morning because he wanted to learn the name of that sheep you mentioned...”  

Maglor’s amused laughter rang through the patio. 

“The sheep that provided the wool for my trousers?" The child nodded seriously, looking up expectantly. “Her name’s Lossë, child,“ Maglor said then, crouching until his face was level with the child's. 

“Lossë,” the child repeated thoughtfully. “Do you mind if I put that name to my sheep back home?” he asked seriously. That elicited another amused laughter from the elf. 

“On the contrary, she’ll be honoured... does she provide you with wool, too?”  

“He’s fostering a herd of sheep in the hamlet where we live,“ Dr. Feldman chimed in, as Maglor ruffled the child’s hair affectionately, “he might have wool to dress up the whole tribe, if we let him... Apologies again Mr. Lauren, for interrupting your meal, but I’m glad to have the chance to congratulate you again. I entered your website today, I found a list of projects at “Green Watchers”, I hope that was what you meant...” 

“Yes, Green Watchers is a sister site, and it is me who apologizes, Dr. Feldman, I couldn’t stay until the end, but your presentation was very powerful, and your truths so obvious for those who would listen… “ 

“If they only would,” the man sighed, “ anyway, it was very refreshing to hear your approach, and I’m most impressed by your organization’s activities. Oh, this is my wife, Susan,“  

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Lauren,“ the woman said with a deep smile, shaking his hand egaerly. “I cannot tell you how much we appreciated your words yesterday, it was a ray of hope in the middle of such discouraging meeting…” 

“Anyway, this I my card, please, do not hesitate to contact me if I can be of any assistance to you, your organization or your projects, there are never enough people like you, and it is good to know you’re out there…” Dr. Feldman chimed in again. 

“Look Dad, another basilisk!” the child was getting restless now that he’s curiosity had been satisfied and was pulling at his fathers’ shirt, pointing at the centre of the piazza. 

“Obelisk, George!" he smiled kindly and shook Maglor’s hand again. “You see, we’re collecting obelisks… and you were about to have lunch. Thanks again, Mr. Lauren, you can never guess what a difference your words made to me... Keep in touch! “ Dr. Feldman almost shouted, following his son to the crowded square.  

“He loves his job and he believes in what he’s fighting for,” Dr. Feldman’s wife told Maglor hurriedly, holding his hand between hers, an earnest look on her deep green eyes, “but at times the weight is too much to carry alone…Listening to your words yesterday helped him regain hope, Mr. Lauren... and enthusiasm, and I’m most deeply thankful to you for that! If there’s ever anything we can do to help your organization, please, call us…” 

“He’s not alone, Mrs. Feldman,“ Maglor sighed, returning the comforting pressure to her hand. “And he’ll never be…” 

She waved him goodbye and crossed the busy piazza to join her family, and Maglor watched them for a moment, trying to regain his self-control. 

“We could enlist him right now, poor man,” Daeron was saying as he returned to their table. “Sit, Maglor, you don’t want your ravioli to get cold! “ 

“We need him where he is now,” Celeborn sighed, not looking at Maglor. “He is needed where he is now. I’m sure he’ll be among the first to receive longevity treatment, and he’ll be able to make paramount contributions to earth science before joining us…” 

“And what if he refuses?” Daeron was excelling at his self-appointed role of official appeaser of the murderous Noldo, as he called himself in less strained occasions. 

“Then, we’ll have to pay him a visit and tell him a tale or two,” Celeborn added simply, savouring the exquisite pasta. 

“So,“ Maglor finally said with an apparently unconcerned voice, leaning forth and removing his sunglasses, “What about that ecological underwear on-line sale, Daeron, you never got to explain us what my percentage should be…” 

Celeborn smiled inwardly, drinking another long draught of beer, as Thranduil looked around wildly, completely baffled by the subject, and Daeron launched into an amusingly detailed account of his next project. 

Maglor’s eyes met his, and Celeborn nodded silently. The cloud had passed, fortunately, leaving behind the usual sadness and a new hope. They were making a difference indeed, and that was comforting in a way.  

They would make it to the bitter end, he knew, and that was drawing near, he could feel it in the air, in the hurried pace of things. Maglor was right, he thought, watching his friends ease away the last threads of bitterness and anger. The stones were the foundations and the soil was the key.  

“A stone and a tree, my lady,” he thought wistfully, “ a fitting imagery indeed!”  

The End

Notes:

(1) I had promised myself to dispense with footnotes, but just in case, Maglor’s mother name is Makalaurë, which, I believe, sounds reasonably and recognizably close to Malcolm Lauren… 

A//N I apologize for being infected by my own story. Last weekend I had to fly to Rome for a technical meeting, and at dinner, of course, the conversation turned to Live Aid 8 event, which had taken place the same day not far away from our meeting place, and other related issues. Later that same night, as we calmly walked the empty streets of Rome, the story hit. No elf-sighting to report in Rome, though! :-/