The Battle Cry

Sunday evenings was Fae night by unspoken agreement.  No city workers, no tourists.  Bob hung the tea towel on its rail.  He poured two white wines and a half of bitter and placed them on a tray.
 
“You’ve got the bar,” he told Dawn.
 
“I’m the boss?” she said.  “Great.  In that case, you’re fired.  You spend too much time on the wrong side of the counter.”
 
“No one has a sense of humour like you,” he replied, lifting the bar flap.  “That’s why no one laughs at your jokes.”
 
“Who’s joking?”
 
A couple of elves sat at a table.  One of them he recognised as the elf who had explained about Ted’s new name.
 
“Hi, guys,” he said, placing the tray on the table, grabbing a vacant chair from a neighbouring table and sitting down with them.  “I have a favour to ask.”
 
“No.”
 
“Listen.  Llen – Llen – “
 
“Llenowen.”
 
“Llenowen, right.  Listen, someone wrote something on my wall last night.  Something in elvish..”
 
“I saw the wet paint.  It wasn’t us.”
 
“No, no.  I didn’t think it was for a minute.  It’s just, I got the gist of it, but I would appreciate a proper translation.”  Bob offered his phone, the picture of the graffiti on the screen.  ”The next round’s on me.”
 
Llenowen stared at him impassively, not even bothering to look at the phone.
 
“Okay the next two – the next three rounds, okay?”
 
For a moment Bob thought he was going to have to leave the table, but then Llenowen took the phone.  He glanced it, pursed his lips and handed the phone back.
 
“It doesn’t translate well in human.”
 
“As close as you can get?”
 
“It’s from a song.  Galanodel was a lord who had an honour feud with a – “  Llenowen waved his hand.  “I don’t know the term.  A higher ranking lord.  War was the only recourse, but Galondel was outnumbered ten to one.  At the final battle he was trapped, most of his warriors gone, a cliff to his back, an army to his front.  The speech he gave to his liegemen filled their souls and strengthened their arms.  The battle afterwards was glorious.  Foolhardy, unwinnable, but glorious.  The song of it is famous throughout all elvish nations.”  He pointed at the phone.  “That was the battle cry they took up.”
 
“So it’s a battle cry.”
 
Llenowen winced.  “I knew you wouldn’t be able to understand.  Not just a battle cry.  It’s the battle cry, when everything is against you.  It’s a cry from the soul that says that even though all is lost, you will win or make it a bitter victory for your enemy.”
 
“Okay.  Thanks.”
 
“Well, that was most of it.  The last word means ‘human’.”
 
Bob chuckled.  “I’ve been called it enough times to know it doesn’t exactly mean human.”
 
Llenowen shrugged.  “We have lots of names for you.”
 
“I can imagine.”    Bob placed both hands on the table.  “Thanks.”
 
“It wasn’t us though.”
 
“No, no.  I shouldn’t think you’d be drinking here if it was.”
 
“No, I meant it wasn’t an elf.”
 
Bob sat back.  “It wasn’t?  Why not?”
 
Llenowen shook his head.  “Have you seen Elvish?”
 
Bob thought back to the statements he’d taken back in the day.  “Yes.”
 
“We write like we talk, like we sing, like we move.  Elvish script is art.  It is an expression of all we are, all we do.  It is a thing of beauty, even when it’s a threat or an insult.  That-”  He stabbed a finger at Bob’s phone.  “If that was written by an elf then he had two broken arms and one eye.  Look at it.  It’s an insult to elves anywhere.  A child wouldn’t be as clumsy as that.”
 
“You’re saying you were set up?”
 
“I’m saying it wasn’t an elf who wrote that.”
 
Bob pursed his lips and nodded as he assessed the new information.  “Okay.  Thanks.”  He stood and picked up his beer.  “I appreciate it.”
 
Llenowen’s companion leant over and muttered something in Llenowen’s ear.  Llenowen nodded.  “You’re welcome.”  The two rose, leaving their drinks on the table.
 
“Hey!” Bob said to their backs.  “Aren’t you going to cash in your free drinks?”  The elves made no reply and walked on, out of the pub.
 
Bob stared at the door for a moment, then returned to the business side of the bar.
 
“Whoa!” said Dawn, holding up her hand.  “You were fired by the new boss, remember?  Staff only this side of the counter.”
 
“You think the new boss is going to pay all the outstanding bills, then?”
 
Dawn swept her arm aside in invitation.  “Welcome back, boss.”
 
Some time later Bob turned from putting the price of a beer into the till and saw Peter climbing the bar stool.
 
“Hello, mate.  I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
 
“Didn’t expect to be, to be honest, but when the winds of fate blow, you can either hoist your sail or hunker down, right?”
 
“I guess.”
 
“I’ll have a bottle of Guinness.”  Peter took a ten pound note from his pocket and smoothed it out on the counter.
 
Bob took the bottle from the shelf and decanted it into a glass.  “You got a job already?”
 
“In a manner of speaking.”
 
“You’re not mugging schoolkids for their pocket money, right?”
 
Peter scowled.  “If that’s a joke about my height we’re going to fall out, you and me.”
 
Bob held up both his hands.  “Woah.  No offense meant, mate.  We’ve both said worse things when we were larking about, okay?”
 
Peter took the glass and gave Bob the note.  “Yeah, okay.  Sorry.  Just a bit sick of it all right now.  You lot and your ‘jokes’.  Just ‘cause you think it’s funny doesn’t mean it is.”
 
“We not joking now then?  Because I thought that’s all we had, you and me.”
 
“Oh, I don’t mean you, you know that.  I mean you.”  He waved his hand in Bob’s general direction.  “Your sort.”
 
“My people?  Okay.”
 
Peter scowled and took a draught of his stout.
 
“But things are looking up, right?”  Bob handed him his change.  “I mean, last night you had coppers to your name.”
 
“A bit of luck, I guess.  Not from your lot, though.  Sláinte.”  He tipped his glass at Bob and slid off the stool, moving over to a table by the window.
 
“A lover’s tiff?” asked Dawn.
 
“What?”
 
Dawn nodded at the leprechaun.  “Never known him not sit at the bar and pull your chain.”
 
“He’s probably seen the abuse you pour down on me and decided he can’t do better.”
 
“Oh, he hasn’t seen anything yet.  You wait till my last night here.  Then you’ll know abuse.”
 
Bob looked around the bar.  “You’ve not been abusive to the punters, though, right?”
 
“Me?  I’m the definition of friendly bonhomie.  Why?”
 
“Just a bit quiet, is all.”
 
Dawn followed his gaze.  “Maybe it’s an elvish holy day or something.”
 
Bob looked again.  She was right.  Various fae, but no elves.  “Maybe,” he said.