Time's Arrow by Russandol

Chapter I

Read Chapter I

“The Arrow Seen Before, Cometh Less Rudely.”

The Divine Comedy, Dante Alighieri

 

 

Chapter I

Autumn, Year 1 of the Fourth Age

Darkness pressed its weight upon Durthir’s bare skin, squeezing the air out of his chest. Its cool tendrils, soft like cobweb silk, crept over his face and tightened around his neck, choking him.

Dizziness made his head spin. His body swayed, sliding down with each slow swing into a chasm of hungry, clamouring shadows. First his shoulders dropped, then his feet followed, and thus he kept falling, lower and lower.

Nausea coiled in his gut, poised to strike. Durthir swallowed it down along with the loud pulse of fear, but they rose together, overwhelming, to clog his mouth and nostrils with the burning taste of bile. The darkness was laughing with malice, and its deadly jet glare pinned him down.

‘Kill him. You know you must.’ So soft were these words, so tempting and yet so cruel, forever echoing in his mind. As soft and cruel as the shapely lips that whispered them in his ear. The lips of the Dark Lord. ‘Kill him. You want to, do you not? Look at him...’

Durthir cried out.

Harsh claws tore at him amidst a din of angry voices. His heart raced as he fought, spurred by terror and despair. The Dark Lord’s minions had come to turn their master’s displeasure into searing pain once more. Durthir swore and shouted insults at the top of his voice, even though defiance never earned him aught but further misery. A futile smile almost reached his lips when a loud groan told him that one of his kicks had hit true.

‘Gorthaur’s prick, not again!’ someone yelled. ‘You, lad, bring a lamp and a coil of rope! C’mon folks! Let’s truss up this demon or he’ll murder us while we sleep.’

Durthir growled in frustration and rage when the hands that kept him prisoner stilled, tight like vices, impeding movement. Tensing his limbs, he counted two pairs of hands on each of his arms and four more pressing down on his thighs and pinioning his ankles.

Terrified, he dug his nails into the palms of his clenched hands, longing to plead for mercy before the first blow landed. All sane captives understood that, as a matter of honour, yielding to the enemy was only acceptable after at least some token resistance. No begging, no yielding, he chanted to himself. Not this time. He had already sold his honour cheap once, while he still was a warrior of Eryn Galen. 

A flare of warm white light forced the oppressive darkness to scuttle off beyond his sight. The light would not last long, he knew; it was always brief in the pits, merely the glaring herald of torment for those poor wretches who were being dragged away. Holding his breath, Durthir waited, but this time the brilliance did not die down.  In fact, he could not hear the harsh voices of his captors, or the clatter of their iron-shod boots echoing upon stone; neither could he smell the filthy dampness and chill of the dungeon. Sniffing, he was puzzled at the sweet scent of newly varnished wood, most pleasant against the cloying warmth of male sweat wrapped in humid, salty air.

With his heart stuck in his throat, he stopped struggling, anxious. Then he felt it, the rhythmic sway, heard the creaking planks and knew, without a doubt, that he was in a ship. A ship?

Slowly, he focused on the faces crowding over him, appearing as though out of a receding black mist. These were not snarling Orcs.

‘Praised be Elbereth. He can see us, he’s back!’ said the man pinning down his right shoulder and upper arm, whom Durthir recognised as a warrior from Lórien.

‘Are you sure?’ asked another man he knew, a potter from Imladris.

‘Certain. I’ve witnessed this madness far too many times.’

Durthir was drenched in sweat, his heart pounding like the hooves of a bolting horse. Tears stung his eyes and when he couldn’t wipe them away, chagrin heated his face. ‘Let me go,’ he said.

He twisted his face to one side to avoid looking into eyes that regarded him with both pity and mistrust. His cheek rubbed against the rough canvas covering his narrow cot. Not cold stone or damp, stinking straw; indeed this must be real.

‘Are you with us now?’ said the Galadhren warrior.

Durthir nodded. Slow with reluctance, the restraining hands released their grip. Everyone retreated back to their bunks or hammocks, their murmurs not soft enough.

‘Is it true he survived Dol Guldur?’

‘The Lady herself asked him to sail.’

‘Rumour says he was the Watcher.’

‘Twice. Half dead the second time round, he was.’

‘Roaming the woods, killing Orcs with teeth and nails only, drinking their blood like a mad beast...’

Durthir sighed and slid down onto the unnervingly moving floor. Placing one hand on the wooden partition for balance, he walked out of the small cabin and up the steep ladder onto the deck. Gratefully, he inhaled the cool breeze, not minding the drizzle that began to soak his face and hair. The taste of brine in his mouth made him touch his cheeks. Was it sea spray or his own tears?

Still wobbly, both from the nightmare and from his awkwardness on a ship, he steered his steps towards the barrel of drinking water. Carefully, he removed the lid and dipped in the ladle that hung from a piece of string attached to the rim. His hands trembled when he tilted it up to drink, but the water was clean and sweet, and seemed to wash away some of his anxiety.

‘Are you well?’ a voice said behind him as a hand landed on his shoulder.

Cursing at having lowered his guard, if only for an instant, Durthir spun on his heels with a growl on his lips. Even weaponless, he would have lunged, had he not realised in time that aboard the ship there were no foes. With a look of wariness in his eyes, the Falathren sailor took a hasty step backwards.

‘I’m sorry,’ muttered Durthir. ‘You gave me a scare.’

After giving a curt nod, the sailor trotted away. Durthir rested his hands on the rim of the oak barrel, and stared at his reflection. In the dead of night, the black mirror of water only showed his outline against the starry sky, and the fluttering of several loose strands of his shoulder-long chestnut hair, turned raven in the reflection. In the dim light, he was unable to see his nose, slightly knocked to one side by an Orc’s fist, or the thin white scar over his left eyebrow, the minute trace of a poisoned arrow wound that had taken him to death’s door. Squinting, he could see the glint of his eyes, which in daylight were the colour of light honey. Now there were no hues, only a dark, warped shape over a dark, warped background. Like his own existence.

Dark. Ever dark. Ever since... He gave a deep breath and pushed that memory away lest he should weep like a child.

And yet, not long ago, the Lady who shone like sunlight on rippling water had found him grieving amongst the ruins of what had once been his prison, the place where death in its cruellest guises had claimed kin, friends, and hope.

‘You have fought bravely, and now you are wounded,’ the Lady said. ‘Come with me. We shall sail together to find peace and healing across the Great Sea.’

‘I belong here,’ he said, knowing his words to be a lie.

As did she. Her white fingers, soft and warm as dove feathers, had reached out and gripped his callused, grime-encrusted hand. Her smile was like the gentlest caress and the brightness of the sun, wrapped together.

He had no choice but to follow her, or go mad.

 

~ o ~

 

Early Winter, Year 131 of the Fourth Age

A stream of faces glided through Legolas’ mind. Like most memories, they seemed faded, insubstantial, almost translucent, and were wreathed in a jumble of words echoing faintly from the edge of his consciousness. At times he murmured aloud, remembering. A man accepting his fate to be king: “Will you aid me or thwart me? Choose swiftly.” A soldier’s plea:  “I failed you, Legolas. Kill me!” Legolas squeezed his eyes closed and let the face of his lover flow away. It still hurt to imagine him broken and cold, dead in a dungeon. Then a dwarf standing up to the Lord of Imladris: “Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens.”

Smiles shifted into snarls of battle anger, grimaces of pain, or into the empty death masks of uncounted kinsmen, friends, comrades-in-arms, mortal and immortal, lost over the endless years of struggle against the shadow cast by Gorthaur. Another face, most fair but menacing in his sneer, and other words crept into his mind: “Run away, Mirkwood cur, before my Orcs rip you to shreds!” A last kiss...

Legolas shivered and hurried away from those memories, afraid that they might awake the loathed hunger that still haunted him.

Against all odds, Sauron had been vanquished. But Legolas’ mortal friends had been bound to face another enemy, patient and insidious, against which courage and weapons would never prevail. He could only watch as time robbed them, first of the strength of their prime and then of life itself.  Ai, even Aragorn, blessed with the gift of a long lifespan once granted by the Rodyn to his ancestors had succumbed. Even Gimli, who had until very recently seemed immutable, as though hewn out of the very stone his folk loved. Now he was gone, too. Gone where? What was the fate of the Gonhirrim? [1][2] 

A knock jolted Legolas out of his sleepless reverie.

With a sigh, he pulled his arms from under his head and rolled to lie on his side on the plump feather mattress, dragging the soft quilt over his head. If he did not answer, the unwelcome visitors would leave him in peace soon enough.

‘Legolas, answer the door!’ cried an imperious voice, as the rapping grew louder.

Legolas cursed under his breath. What did Elrond want now? Could he not stop fussing over him like a mother hen? Was it not bad enough that Lady Celebrían kept sending hordes of hopeful Golodhren maidens and pretty pages bearing baskets of fruit or plates of meat pastries, and jugs of wine and juice? True, when he had been too hungry, he had accepted their gifts... but never whatever else they had offered with more or less subtlety.

‘I know you are in there,’ said Elrond. ‘Do not even bother to pretend otherwise. So open the door.’

Grudgingly, Legolas sat up and padded barefoot on the thick, colourful woollen rugs out of his bedroom and across the large living area. A glance around the cosy, well-furnished little cottage reminded him of his gratitude to Elrond for his hospitality; the least he could do was to be civil to his host.

He undid the curly iron latch— an ornament rather than a security feature— and pulled the front door open.

‘Good afternoon, my lord,’ he said, giving a shallow bow. ‘Come in.’

‘Your “my lords” will not spare you,’ growled Elrond, walking in. His eyes were kind, despite his words. ‘You have barricaded yourself in this house for over a fortnight. Celebrían has grown concerned about your steady refusal of all our invitations to dinner, and today she has reached the end of her patience. I am here to threaten you with direness if you do not accept the offer to sit at our table tonight.’

‘What kind of direness?’ said Legolas, unable to stop himself from smiling.

‘You do not wish to find out, Thranduilion.’ Elrond winked and placed one hand over the back of a chair. ‘May I sit down?’

‘Please.’ Legolas leaned against the edge of the table, stretched his legs in front of him and crossed his ankles. Sunshine was pouring through the windows, and the tiled floor was warm. Swirling dust motes glittered in the bright pools of light over his toes. After taking a deep breath, Legolas looked up into Elrond’s worried eyes.

‘It hurts,’ he blurted, unwilling to wait for the question. ‘Gimli was a good friend. Ever since we sailed I have known that his days were numbered, but the shock is not lessened by the certainty. It was the same with...’ Too late, he bit his tongue.

Elrond nodded. His eyes were pained. ‘Yes, it must have been the same with Aragorn, and I have grieved for Arwen from the day I sailed. As I grieved for my brother. I still do.’

Legolas squirmed. Next to Elrond’s losses, speaking about his own seemed selfish and callous.

‘I have discovered, over the years, that idleness conspires with grief,’ said Elrond. ‘The pain never leaves, but a busy mind helps dull the edge a little, as does the company of friends, after you realise that sharing their joy is not disrespectful or forbidden. Sometimes it takes long to appreciate this truth but, believe me, I have had experience.’

Legolas stood and paced around the room. He stopped in front of the axe displayed on an oaken shelf over the fireplace. He curled both hands over the thick handle, smooth and polished from frequent use, and lifted the weapon carefully. It was very heavy, but the balance was such that it asked to be swung.

‘He spoke similar words,’ he said, running a finger softly across the razor-sharp edge of the blade, before placing the axe back on the shelf.

‘And yet you ignore his wise advice and mine, and wallow,’ said Elrond.

‘It is not just him,’ Legolas said, turning to face his visitor. ‘I miss his cheer and his company, that is true, but also... I just feel...’ He shrugged. ‘There is nothing for me here.’

‘You have found ways to entertain yourself before,’ replied Elrond. ‘Though I would advise you not to risk the disapproval of the Belain too often.’ He smiled. ‘I would have paid handsomely to witness your rampage around Valmar with a bunch of annoyed Maiar in pursuit. I have heard you were... magnificent.’ Legolas felt himself blushing. [3]

‘You know perfectly well what I mean, my lord,’ said Legolas, pacing again. ‘Why was I tormented with the sea-longing? To what purpose was I forced to come here?’ He stopped and turned to face Elrond. ‘Could I... do you believe I would be allowed to return to Ennor, if I petitioned the Belain?’

Elrond shook his head. ‘I very much doubt it.’

‘All my life I served my people and my realm. Now I have no one and nothing,’ said Legolas. ‘I do not belong here.’ He feared he must sound like a spoiled, whining child.

‘Oh, but you have, and you do.’ Elrond patted the chair next to his. ‘Sit down. Let me tell you why I came, as well as to drag you out to dine with us.’

Curious, Legolas obeyed at once.

‘Three days ago, Noldóran Arafinwë—or Finarfin, as we used to refer to him in Ennor—who happens to be Celebrían’s grandfather, invited me to a boar hunt. His company had been granted permission to hunt in Tauron’s Great Forest, which Ingwë declared out of bounds over two and a half ages ago, unless through special dispensation.’ [4]

Legolas could not help a frown. ‘Ridiculous!’ he spat.

‘I know, I know,’ said Elrond, putting up his hands to placate him. ‘We fought Sauron in Ennor only to be told in Valinor by our own rulers, not by the Belain, that we are not allowed to wander freely because there may be some creatures with claws and sharp teeth lurking in the woods.’

‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘as we were leaving, the mayor of a small nearby town called Vinyanwë told the Noldóran that they had apprehended a poacher. He had become a bit of an embarrassment to the mayor, apparently; Ingwë himself had enquired about what was being done to stop him hunting in Tauron’s domain. It took them three years to catch him, he was elusive as the wind. But one day the man went into the town to trade a few wares for tools and some... righteous citizen gave him away.’ Elrond fastened his slate eyes on Legolas. ‘This poacher is one of our warriors, returned after the War. In particular, he is one of yours.’

Legolas stood up, almost knocking the chair over in his haste.

‘From Eryn Galen?’ he cried. ‘Impossible. About a dozen score of my people live in Tol Eressëa, at best, and only a handful have ever dared sail on to Valinor; they settled far north, near Formenos.’ He shook his head. ‘Dead or alive, our folk prefer to linger in Ennor under the trees of our forest, to whatever end.’

‘Yet you are here.’

‘Not willingly. Had it not been for the cries of the gulls haunting me day and night, I would have stayed, like my father, to fade close to the lands I loved.’

‘Does Thranduil wish to fade?’ Elrond voice did not disguise his incredulity.

‘No, but I doubt he will ever sail.’

‘How about your grandfather? Do you think he answered Bannoth’s summons?’

Legolas shrugged. ‘Who knows? And if he did, he likely balks at the idea of being reborn to face those who spurred him to recklessness at Dagorlad.’

‘I was one of those men,’ said Elrond in a flat tone. ‘I truly do not remember anyone provoking him. We all mourned for him and his fallen companies.’

Legolas cursed himself for this second, thoughtless slip. ‘So who is this poacher, then?’ he asked, perhaps too hastily. ‘Do you know his name?’

‘He answers to Durthir,’ said Elrond, ‘but has refused to speak another word. The mayor is keen to cart him off to stand trial in Tirion or Valmar within the next few days, and be rid of him. I would have seen this Durthir, but it was growing late, and I was assured he was in good health. I thought you would want to intervene.’

‘How can I? I have no authority,’ retorted Legolas, in a sharper tone than he intended.

‘That is where you are wrong.’ Elrond gave a triumphant smile. ‘The Noldóran placed in my hands a signed and sealed writ commanding that Durthir be released to my custody. I will delegate this power onto you, if you wish.’

‘But this poacher is not a Golodh!’

‘I know, Legolas, but the complicated governance of these lands plays to our advantage in this matter. Because of his rank, Arafinwë’s command can only be disputed by one of his peers, and overruled by none but Ingwë himself.’

‘I understand that each of the old realms of Ennor was granted the right to name its own ruler. You said you would tell me more when the right time came.’ Legolas smiled, resigned. ‘That is now, is it not?’

Elrond gave a slight nod. ‘Provided we all accept Ingwë as High King, we can choose any prince, lord or chieftain, and either retain old ties of fealty or negotiate new ones. I answer directly to the Noldóran for now, until Gil-galad returns from Mandos.’ He chuckled. ‘He, in turn will give his alliance to Fingon, but only until his grandfather Fingolfin is reborn. It gets complicated and some feathers usually get ruffled every time a dead king returns.’

Legolas frowned. ‘So where do I fit within this tangle?’

Elrond stood up and placed a strong hand on Legolas’ shoulder, locking eyes with him. ‘In the absence of Oropher and Thranduil, your allegiance as prince of Eryn Galen would be given directly to Ingwë.’ His smile was bright. ‘If you ever stand forth to claim this honour from the High King, you will outrank me by far.’

‘Never!’ cried Legolas.

‘Believe it,’ said Elrond. ‘The same applies to Galadriel, lady of the Galadhrim of Lothlórien, to the annoyance of her brother Finrod, who must bend knee to his father.’

‘This is utter madness.’ Legolas sighed. ‘But honour or not, I shall tackle my duty, now that Gim-....’ He shook his head. ‘I will be grateful for your advice.’

‘Yours it is. I am your ally.’ Elrond’s lips twitched. ‘You will find the bureaucracy of Valmar to be a foe worthy of your courage, but I do not doubt you will prevail.’

Legolas smiled. ‘I thank you, my lord.’

Elrond strode to the door and placed his hand on the latch. ‘If you leave at sunrise tomorrow, you should arrive at Vinyanwë well before dusk. It is a pleasant ride.’

Legolas saluted, hand on chest, and bowed. He was itching to be on the road.

 

---

[1] Rodon, pl. Rodyn (Sindarin) god or divinity, equivalent to Quenya Vala

[2] Gonhirrim (Sindarin) masters of stone, a name the Elves gave to the Dwarves, without the derogatory connotation of Naugrim, which means “stunted”

[3] Balan, pl. Belain (Sindarin) god or divinity, equivalent to Quenya Vala

Elrond is referring to the episode narrated in Livinlävidä, another story featuring Legolas.

[4] (Aran) Tauron (S) the Lord of Forests, another name for the Vala Oromë

Chapter II

In which Durthir meets someone he feels he can trust, Galadriel shocks Elrond, and Legolas discovers that his father kept secrets from him.

Read Chapter II

 

Chapter II

 

When Durthir heard the locks tumble and the bolts slide he covered his eyes so as not to be blinded by the brightness that would follow. He curled into himself in the corner of the room, with his back to the wall, and waited.

The door screeched open. Two voices argued. Durthir could sense light tickling his eyelids, and he opened them cautiously behind his hands. Not too bright.

‘How dare you?’ said a deep voice, measured despite an obvious edge of anger. ‘I ordered you to leave him alone, or to bring him to me, not to throw him into a cold cellar. And why have you kept him in the dark?’

‘He was wild, hitting and biting, fighting us all the way down the stairs. Then he smashed the lamp, in an attempt to escape. We had no choice, Warden,’ said the second voice, nervous, indignant, but laced with fear. ‘Men like these should not be allowed to step onto these shores, they are a danger to our peaceful people.’

Durthir risked a look between his fingers. The man who had just spoken was the shorter of the two, his skin as pale as uncooked bread dough and dressed in blood-coloured robes. He wore a complicated arrangement of jewelled clips holding back his mousy blond hair and on his chest glittered an enamelled medallion suspended from a silver chain draped over his shoulders. Durthir remembered him well; after all, he was the official who had struck him shortly after being arrested several days ago, while two burly retainers held his arms tight enough to bruise. The man threatened him with the ire of the Rodyn but, just in case that was not enough, punished Durthir for flouting his authority for three years and then asked his servants to finish off the task, which they did with gusto. Durthir gingerly touched his broken lower lip with his tongue. Petty underlings were the worst; they vented on their victims their frustration and anger at losing face, without ever feeling the impulse to be seen as merciful.

Durthir’s gaze turned to the second man. Tall and slender, he was clad in a dark green tunic, charcoal trousers, and well-worn leather boots, oiled and supple. His long black hair was braided at the sides, away from his face and ears. He wore no badge of rank, no weapon but a long sheathed knife at his waist, and yet his stance exuded authority, quiet but indisputable, and bordering on danger because of the dark scowl on his face. But his eyes, black and keen, were kind when they turned to look at him, and they shone with a glint of starlight purer and more ancient than any other he had seen before. Durthir held his breath.

‘Men like these fought evil so that you did not have to,’ said the tall man. Anger thrummed in his quiet voice.

As he came closer, almost to tower over him, instinct made Durthir wrap his arms tighter over his legs, and push his head against his knees, bracing himself against more violence. A hand touched his shoulder, firm and soft at once, then it withdrew, and the tall man took two quiet steps back. ‘Will you come with me?’ he said in a soothing tone, akin to the one used with children and horses. ‘I will not harm you.’

He spoke the language of the Sindar as though it had once been his own, but it sounded... old, like that of verses in songs and lays. Durthir looked up to meet the eyes of the stranger, wondering whether trusting him was wise, and found himself taking the hand offered to him. The grip of the fingers was strong, and he felt the calluses on their tips. Archer’s fingers. A smile flickered on the tall man’s mouth as he pulled Durthir to his feet.  

‘What’s your name, my lord?’ asked Durthir.

‘Beleg.’

Durthir walked in front of Beleg, out of the cellar and up the stairs, without even sparing a single look at his captor. His few belongings were strewn along the corridor, and Beleg helped him gather them. Durthir wiped the worst of the dust and muddy footprints off his empty leather sack and dropped his things into it. His purse had split open, and the copper coins it had contained were scattered all over the dirt floor. Several teeth of his comb, carved from beechwood, had snapped off when trodden upon.

Beleg picked up a strung bow and a full quiver from the corner where they were carefully propped against the wall. Durthir’s spirits fell. Any chance of escape faded; his instinct warned him not to doubt Beleg’s ability with his weapon.

A crowd of onlookers had gathered outside the building, but nobody questioned or challenged them as they left.

The town was quiet, wrapped in the warm haze of late afternoon. The houses were set back from the tree-lined streets, nestled within large private gardens separated from their neighbours by box or beech hedges trimmed to an unnatural perfection. Not a single leaf or blade of grass was out of place. The grey stone dwellings were thatched with golden straw, clipped into decorative patterns unique to each house. Untouched by moss or rot, the straw looked as though the bundles had been newly pinned, combed and dressed only days before. Glazed earthenware pots brimming with flowering bushes flanked each doorstep.

Despite the modest simplicity of the telain he had once called home, Durthir would rather choose the poorest of them than the most lavish house in this town. Not that such a choice was even remotely feasible in his future. With a quiet sigh for the lost nights of freedom under the forest canopy, he gave a sidelong glance at his stern guard. Beleg seemed like a fair man, and had been displeased at finding him locked in the darkness. Wherever he was taking him, Durthir was hopeful about being allowed some light. A cage of stone was hard to bear, but in pitch blackness it became terrifying. 

A few clusters of townspeople stood by doorways along the streets, staring at Durthir, whispering; murmurs died and brows furrowed as he walked past. Those who instead looked at Beleg did so with wariness, and even with a hint of fear in their eyes.

Durthir pressed his lips together and fought the urge to flee, desperate to leave a town where people regarded him as some kind of vermin. Not even at the hands of the Dark Lord had contempt felt so painful. On the contrary, on several occasions during his long years as a captive in Dol Guldur, he had sensed a reluctant glimmer of respect from the Necromancer’s servants, who accepted as a worthy challenge his determination to endure their torment.

The street became a dirt path between low stone walls bordering orchards. Pears, cherries, peaches and apples, and other fruits Durthir did not recognise, almost ripe enough to be picked, pulled the branches down with their weight. Cicadas buzzed and treetops rustled in the warm breeze. How could this be winter? After almost a long-year in Valinor, Durthir had not grown used to the unending spring; he actually missed snow and the fiery hues of the forest in autumn.

They walked on past the town boundary into pasture fields, and headed for the dark line on the far hills that marked the edge of the woods.

Puzzled, Durthir dared another question. ‘Aren’t you taking me to Tirion, to stand trial?’

‘No.’

Through solitude, Durthir had learnt patience. Despite his growing curiosity about his companion, he joined him in his silence as they walked. He glanced at him from time to time, taking in his confident, easy stride, the width of his shoulders and the length of his arms and legs. Durthir’s gaze lingered, perhaps a little longer than curiosity required, on Beleg’s thick dark eyelashes, his parted lips, the bold outline of his jaw and the flare of his nostrils as he inhaled the sweet air of the meadow they were crossing.

He studied Beleg’s clothes and boots, crafted with care out of good cloth and leather, before admiring the great black yew longbow at his back and the exquisite workmanship of his green-fletched arrows. They were made from poplar shafts, their nocks reinforced with slivers of polished white horn, and crested with a gold and black design that weaved and knotted upon itself around the arrow. He itched to run his finger along the soft feather edges, to test the trueness of the shafts. It had been long since he had seen arrows as lovingly crafted as these.

Durthir barred painful memories again, as he did whenever he felt he might fall into the familiar well of regret that waited to swallow him. The past was over. It had been over for a long time.

Blinking hard, he focused his attention on the scene around him, and smiled in delight at what he saw. The path had disappeared, and now they were making their own way through tall grass. In the honey-coloured glow of the sinking sun, daisies, flax, cornflower and cowslip turned the slopes into a velvet tapestry embroidered with gold and studded with jewels. Nothing he had seen in Valinor, not even the fabled gardens of Lórien, was half as beautiful as this sight. He stopped briefly to touch the flowers, so different from those found in the shady glades of his native forest, then ran a few steps to catch up with Beleg, who had slowed down and turned to watch him. Durthir felt embarrassed, but the Warden said nothing, nodded and strode ahead.

Only when they were about to reach the eaves of the forest, and dusk had wreathed the world in purple shadows, did Durthir feel obliged to speak.

‘As much as I’d enjoy walking under those trees again, my lord, I’m not allowed to,’ he said.

‘You are free to roam these woods,’ replied Beleg.

‘How can you grant such a boon, when the law forbids and punishes trespassing?’ He pulled the strap of his pack away from where it was digging into his shoulder, and the leather grazed across a sore spot on his ribs. A gasp escaped his lips. As beatings went, the two he had received since his arrest had been light, but his body still ached in places.

When Beleg’s jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed, Durthir lowered his gaze in haste, his throat clogged by shame at his own weakness, at having failed to hide his pain. Once again, he was found unworthy. Durthir was loath to see contempt in Beleg’s eyes because, strangely, he had hoped... nay, what nonsense. Staring at the grass at his feet, he bit his bottom lip, on the side that was not broken. Why hope for respect or friendship in Valinor, when he had long forfeited them in Ennor?

Not for the first time, Durthir wished he had never come to these shores. With the Enemy defeated, since he lacked the nerve to gut himself, he should have hidden in a dark corner of his woods and starved himself to death. Why had he accepted the Lady’s offer, an alluring glimpse of impossible hope? The Maiar of Lórien had healed his flesh, fading the most painful scars and realigning a few bones in his hands that had never knitted straight. But there was no cure for the guilt that ever gnawed at his heart, not that he wished for or even deserved healing. Grief and solitude were in fact too light a penance for kinslaying.

Durthir was startled out of his thoughts when rough fingers hovered gently over his cheekbone, where a bruise had been throbbing all day, before they moved to touch his split lip. The tingling of the breeze-like caress flared through him all the way to his toes and to the root of his hair, like fire kindling dry leaves, making him shiver with pleasure. How long had it been since someone had touched him like that?

Very slowly, waiting for the flush to leave his face, Durthir raised his head and looked into Beleg’s eyes. Uncertain, he held his breath while Beleg’s hand traced the profile of his chin down to his throat before letting his arm drop back to his side.

‘I wish I had arrived earlier,’ said Beleg. ‘I have been watching you, and so has my lord. In his name I asked these people several months ago to leave you in peace, but they were clearly too bent on keeping to the letter of their own laws to heed the word of my lord.’

‘Who is he?’

Beleg gave a small smile. ‘I am honoured to be one of Araw’s wardens.’

‘I thank you, and Araw Tauron.’ Durthir bowed, in gratitude and awe.

‘You owe me nothing, but my lord will be pleased. The grief that clings to you is as visible as these fresh cuts on your face. No one has the right to deny you the soothing you find in his forest.’

Durthir shuddered. Beleg placed a heavy but reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Softly he said, ‘Come and share my roof tonight. You may tell me your story. Or you may not, as you wish.’

As much as Durthir longed for company, he knew better than to accept.

‘I... can’t. I have nightmares. In the dark I often forget where I am. I believe I’m back in...’ He shook his head. ‘I might... hurt you.’

Even as he spoke these words he realised how, even if survival had taught him to be a ruthless, dirty fighter, it was rather unlikely he could ever prevail over the tall man next to him. Nevertheless, he would rather not be unmanned by his night terrors in the warden’s presence.

‘Sometimes I have bad dreams too,’ said Beleg, his eyes fixed on Menelvagor high above the horizon. ‘In mine, a friend I love slays me.’ When Durthir froze in shock, he shrugged. ‘It was ages ago. Let us go now. Come.’

Shouldering his bag again, Durthir walked with Beleg into the woods.

 

~o~

 

Early Summer, Year 132 of the Fourth Age

Women’s muted voices and occasional laughter wafted from the open doorway. Lady Celebrían and her mother battled over a game of arantyalmë, an ancient variant of the popular arandelien of Eryn Galen, played on the same chequered board but with different pieces and rules. The match had started on the first evening of Lady Galadriel’s visit three days before. Advice from Elrond had been met with derision by both contenders who, in no uncertain terms, had told the lord and master of the house to keep quiet or go away. In mock outrage, Elrond left them to their game, and Legolas prudently followed his example. [1]

Now both men sat on a wide terrace sheltered by a canopy of vines, in Elrond’s house, a few leagues from Tirion. The sun was low on the horizon, casting long shadows in the amber light. Dozens of small brass lamps hung from the vine branches, like a swarm of golden glow worms. Birds twittered below in the garden, and the scent of honeysuckle and roses was heavy in the warm evening air.

‘So what has victory over Sauron actually earned me?’ queried Elrond with a dramatic sigh. ‘Certainly no respect as a strategist. At least not in this house.’

Legolas raised his cup to his lips, if only to hide his mirth. He took a sip of mulled wine and savoured both the warmth and the tingle of spices on his tongue.

‘Warriors are no longer needed or regarded, at least not in these lands,’ he replied, his smile gone. ‘Sometimes it is difficult to ignore the stigma we seem to carry by having fought Gorthaur in Ennor. I am shocked that some people even believe we are... tainted.’

‘The relationships between our many peoples, those who stayed and those who returned, have always been contentious. That is the reason why most of our folk remain in Tol Eressëa,’ said Elrond. He contemplated the wine in his cup. ‘And why we stick to our own clans, mostly.’ He pointed at the sprinkle of twinkling lights beyond the boundary of his garden, which Legolas knew marked the homesteads of families from Imladris. All of them still called Elrond their lord, and together they faced the challenge of living in a land which was not as welcoming as they had hoped. ‘Talking of which, how is your quest coming along?’

‘The easy part has been convincing my father’s people,’ said Legolas. ‘They have all jumped to accept my proposal.’

‘Your people,’ corrected Elrond.

‘My people feels strange.’

‘They will soon be, if you go ahead with your plan.’

‘That is where the difficult part begins,’ said Legolas. ‘Navigating the politics of the courts of Valmar and Tirion is boggling, as you predicted.’ Half a year on, I have little to show for my efforts.’ He snorted. ‘What did I expect? After all, I am but a humble archer.’

‘Bollocks,’ replied Elrond, slapping Legolas on the back. ‘Your father trained you well.’

‘Speaking of archers,’ Galadriel’s voice piped in, ‘are you entering the games of Valmar next summer, Legolas?’

Both men rose courteously to greet her. She sat at the small round table while Elrond drew a third chair from the edge of the terrace, opposite Legolas’ empty one. The two men took seats at either side of her.

‘Did you two ladies finish your endless match?’ asked Elrond, pouring a cup of mulled wine for her. ‘Where is my wife?’

‘Defeated and in a foul mood. She has gone for a ride to cool her temper. You would do well being... tactful and loving later.’

‘I am sure that can be arranged,’ replied Elrond, his eyes sparkling. He settled back in his seat. ‘But you mentioned the games?’

‘What games?’ asked Legolas.

‘Once every four yéni, the High King Ingwë sponsors a great contest in Valmar, honouring and thanking Ilúvatar for his gifts to the Eldar,’ said Galadriel. ‘The tradition was born on those ancient days of the youth of our race when our ancestors started the Great Journey westward.’ Her eyes lit her whole face, and excitement rang in her voice. She reached out across the table to touch the heads of her companions. ‘Look!’

The terrace seemed to tilt and shimmer, as though the world was about to melt. Images flickered in Legolas’ mind, piercing in their clarity, so that he found himself sitting under an indigo sky ablaze with starlight; a crowd of dancers with painted bodies leapt and twirled around a huge bonfire to the hypnotic beat of drums; children chased each other, laughing and singing; a mighty rider approached on a white horse with golden hooves, and the deep note of his horn echoed upon the hills; men and women crowned in oak leaves raced through the starlit forest, later falling entwined onto the soft moss, their sweaty skin lustrous like brushed velvet as they made love wrapped in silver shadows.

The visions slipped away, blurred by the glow of the overhead lamps. Legolas gasped in wonder, as though waking from a light sleep on the edge of consciousness. He saw Elrond do the same.

‘Did you...’ Legolas said.

Galadriel shook her head. ‘I had not been born yet, son of Thranduil, but a friend of mine lived these memories and shared them with me when I asked what it was like to wake to a new world.’ She drew a long breath. ‘The games were part of a large feast meant to promote the unity of the three hosts during the long-years of their westward journey, and to celebrate life, love, and the strength of their rhaw. In that same spirit we gathered by the Pools of Ivrin not long after we returned to Ennor, while we still clung to dreams of glory and victory over Morgoth.’

Neither Legolas nor Elrond dared break the silence that followed.

‘According to those who stayed after the Darkening, the tradition has survived unchanged in Valinor.’ Galadriel’s voice had recovered part of its earlier liveliness. ‘A full six days of races combined with archery, riding, and even wrestling and spear throwing.’

‘Nude races and nude wrestling, or so I have heard,’ pointed out Elrond. ‘A true feast of the senses, often followed by other private... festivities. Is that so?’

‘Indeed. Victors are greatly honoured, and free to request the favours of anyone they regard. In fact, they are expected to. Hordes of admirers mob them, vying to be chosen.’ She paused to drink a long sip from her cup; then she smiled radiantly. ‘I am entering a few races. Maybe the archery contest too.’

Elrond cast his eyes up and down his mother in law and turned scarlet. Legolas had to bite the inside of his mouth to stop himself from laughing. Galadriel was not so discreet; her clear laughter was merry, even mischievous.

‘Surely you are not shocked, Elrond?’ she said.

Elrond gulped his wine. ‘Certainly not, mother,’ he said dryly. ‘I will drink to your victory, pity your adversaries, and envy those who will gain your favour.’

Galadriel stared at him as though suspecting mockery. Finding none, she nodded and turned her attention back to Legolas.

‘Now, before I interrupted with all my reminiscing, you were speaking of your plans to build a home for your people here in Valinor.’ Like the first time he had met the lady of Lothlórien, Legolas felt uneasy under her intent scrutiny, sensing that somehow his mind was wide open to her probing.

‘Yes, my Lady. All is going well. At the moment I am negotiating the grant of some forested lands south of Formenos, about five days’ ride from Tirion. It is not a large area, just enough to accommodate our small community and live off the land, for the most part. We are calling it Eryn Annûn.’

Galadriel nodded. ‘How many of you will there be?’

‘Less than in Ithilien. About four score, including children, have already agreed. I am yet to speak to two families in Tol Eressëa whom I missed during my first visit. And there might be a few others yet. I have arranged to sail to Avallónë again in a week’s time.’

‘They will all follow you gladly,’ said Galadriel. ‘Tol Eressëa is lively, but rather crowded, and has no large forests. No place for the folk of Eryn Galen or Lothlórien.’

‘I say, Legolas, did you finally track down your poacher?’ enquired Elrond.

‘What poacher?’ asked Galadriel.

Elrond and Legolas narrated what little they knew.

‘I missed him by two hours,’ Legolas said. ‘A man who claimed to be one of Tauron’s wardens took him away.’ He recalled how his elation at the prospect of meeting one of his own had vanished, the same as the trail of his quarry. 

‘That must have been Beleg,’ said Galadriel. ‘According to Finrod, who keeps track of everyone leaving Bannoth, he serves Araw ever since he was reborn a few decades ago.’

‘Beleg? Beleg Cúthalion? The Beleg from Doriath of old?’ cried Legolas, jumping to his feet. ‘By Morgoth’s hairy crack!’

Galadriel raised her eyebrows. Feeling his cheeks and ears burn, Legolas mumbled an apology and sat down. He gulped the remaining contents of his cup in one go.

Elrond lost his battle to curb a smile. ‘Where better would he be, the hunter Beleg of the hidden people, whose father was the forest and the fells his home? My sons were afflicted in their youth by a similar case of hero worship for the wielder of Belthronding.’

Galadriel smiled with fondness. ‘We used to... know each other. In Menegroth. Many women and men in Doriath pined to be granted one of his rare smiles. A dance with him at the solstice festivals, or a stroll into the woods in his company after the party fires died were far more coveted than a commission from Thingol.’ 

Still smarting from embarrassment, Legolas continued his account, a bit hastily. ‘As though my disappointment at finding my poacher gone was not enough, I had to put up with an aggravated mayor who made it very clear that we savages from Ennor should not be allowed to breathe this side of the sea. He went into a tirade about how the Belain had allowed a nest of vipers to settle in their midst, how honest, hard-working folk were doomed to see their loved ones endangered by a mob of deranged good-for-nothing beggars who were not even willing to reform their ways. He even ranted about the ugliness of the poacher’s scars!’ Legolas was almost breathless, hands clenched, fortunately not over his earthenware cup. ‘I enquired what crimes, beyond trespassing in the woods, this man had committed, and the mayor mumbled some nonsense about their children being fearful at bedtime. No wonder, if their parents feed them such lies!’

‘So he has not thieved, or harmed anyone or anything?’ asked Galadriel.

‘No,’ said Legolas. ‘Durthir just kept living as he used to before he sailed. I wonder what made him take ship.’

Galadriel’s eyes pierced his. ‘His name is Durthir?’ Her expression softened, her eyes focused away from the present.

‘Not likely to be his true name,’ said Legolas. ‘Why do you ask, my lady? Do you know him?’

‘Indeed I do.’ She turned to Elrond. ‘Will you fill up our cups?’

‘At once,’ replied Elrond, pouring more wine. ‘Is the news so dire that you do not want us sober when we hear it? This is my fourth cup.’

‘You will be the judges,’ said Galadriel, watching Legolas with her wise eyes. ‘The story begins a long time ago, in the year when Olórin visited Thranduil’s halls and then slipped into Dol Guldur. You, Legolas, were a young warrior then.’

A few months after... Legolas winced. Did she know, or Elrond? Only his father and a handful of others, sworn to secrecy, had ever learnt the truth about an ill-fated mission near the Necromancer’s lair, and of the ambush that led to his captivity and his lover’s at the hands of the Enemy. No one knew—and no one would ever know—of how necessity had pressed him into submission, which in turn warped into infatuation for the compelling presence behind the shadow on Amon Lanc.

He clenched his jaw and nodded curtly. ‘I remember.’

‘One of your father’s men had escaped from Dol Guldur, bringing back priceless information about the layout of the fortress. When Olórin asked to speak to this warrior, he was told that he was no longer in the ranks, that the wretch had lost his wits after his ordeal and returned to live in the forest, away from Thranduil’s halls. Still, Olórin was able to slip into the tower all the way into the dungeons. Even more fortunately, he managed to leave unscathed with the key and map to Erebor.’

Legolas breathed out sharply, but the sudden knot in his chest did not fade. He had believed that pain to have died a long time ago, and now he was stunned by its rawness. His hand touched the front of his tunic, as though expecting to feel an actual wound, or a protruding arrow shaft.

Sorrow crept into Galadriel’s voice, and her keen gaze became sombre as she continued her tale. ‘When we pulled down Dol Guldur after the Ring was destroyed, our warriors found a filthy, unkempt man by the side of one of the unearthed pits. They almost ran him through, believing him a servant of the enemy. “You cannot slay me,” he told them, “because I died here long ago.” Thranduil recognised him as the escaped warrior. Others helped your father piece his story together, but how much was truth and how much guess, nobody knows.’

Legolas could not withhold a loud gasp. ‘He was... alive? After the war?’

‘Alive, yes, but a deep shadow was upon him.’ Galadriel’s brow knitted into a brief frown. ‘This was what we learnt. Shortly after his first escape, Durthir headed back towards Dol Guldur, intending to rescue a kinsman of his, enslaved by Gorthaur. When he was not seen again for many years, your folk feared he had been slain by the enemy. But after we expelled Sauron from Dol Guldur, not long before the Battle of the Five Armies, Durthir was found in the pits, grievously wounded by ninety years of captivity and torment.’

Legolas’ hands were clamped tight on his knees, not daring to move, or to speak.

‘As soon as he could walk unaided, he vanished into the forest. When the Nazgûl returned to reclaim their master’s fortress ten years later, he resumed his harassment of the enemy. As he would not speak his true name, the few people who still dwelled in the southern half of your realm named him Durthir, Dark Watcher. Most avoided him out of fear, because he lived alone and wild, like a beast. Rumours said that his bowstrings were made of spider silk or, at a pinch, from Orc sinew; his arrows were dyed with Orc blood and dipped in spider poison. Ever thirsty for vengeance, he killed his prisoners slowly, they said, and hacked their bodies into a hundred pieces. During the harshest winters, a few kind folk left food or warm clothes for him where they knew he would find them, guessing he was not evil, but most likely addled by grief.’

Legolas felt strangely detached, or maybe numb with shock. But his heart was pounding so loudly it ached. He was damned glad of having the width of Belegaer and half of Ennor between him and his king and father, because he would have throttled him on the spot otherwise. How had he dared lie to him?

‘What did my father do with... Durthir after the War?’ he said.

‘Nothing. Thranduil spoke to him, away from all ears. He told me that not even his direct command had persuaded the man to return North with his folk. Durthir had refused to set foot anywhere near his king’s halls again, claiming to be a threat to his own people. Your father did not know what to do, whether to carry him back by force or to leave him to his own devices. I offered the man a chance to heal here in Valinor, not expecting him to accept, but he agreed to sail. I arranged for him and others who had been seriously wounded in faer or rhaw to stay in the gardens of Lórien. I failed to heed how long he spent there, or whether he found the peace he so badly needed.’

Legolas was no longer listening. His chest hurt. Could it be true?

‘With your leave, my lord, my lady,’ he heard himself say, with a calm he did not feel.

Legolas rushed out of the room, ignoring the concerned calls behind him, and strode through the gardens. He broke into a run. For hours he ran blindly through meadows and woods, leaping over fences and streams painted in starlight, until his sides ached and his breath hitched in his throat.

Noruion, once his beloved, was alive. And he was in Valinor.

 

---

[1] arantyalmë (Quenya-derived term, originated in the “elfing” Yahoo Group) king-game. This translation is based on the original Persian name for chess (shash) which means king. Arandelien is the equivalent Sindarin term.

---

Chapter End Notes

The back story of Legolas and Noruion in Dol Guldur can be found in my LJ, as I'm currently editing the story here at the SWG. It's a public entry, and you can leave comments if you have an OpenID.

Chapter III

In which Durthir receives a gift, Legolas trespasses into the forest, and Beleg gives archery lessons.

Read Chapter III

 

Chapter III

 

Durthir chose one of the pieces of leather he had just cut to shape, and smoothed it over the workshop table under the window, where the light was brightest. He sat down on the stool and stared at his future new boot before measuring and gently scoring a line on the smooth side of the leather, parallel to the edge closest to him, where the stitches would go. Picking up a flat awl, he took great care to position its sharp tip on the correct spot, and pressed firmly to punch the first hole, then pulled the blade out. Pleased with the result, he proceeded along the line.

Something heavy knocked loudly against the wooden floor planks, only a couple of steps behind him. Instinctively, Durthir leapt up, knocking his stool over as he twisted his body to face the intruder, the awl raised as a weapon. His heart was beating in his throat.

Beleg took a step back. He held a very long bundle carefully wrapped in oilcloth, one end resting on the floor.

‘I am sorry I disturbed you.’ Calmly, he looked at the awl. ‘Pray, put that down before I get skewered for my carelessness—again.’ His mouth curved into a faint smile, but his eyes were troubled.

Durthir almost dropped the awl. With a trembling hand, he set it next to his other tools on the worktop.

‘I am the one who must apologise. Despite all these years in Valinor, I can’t help jumping at shadows that only exist in my mind.’

No more than a handful of people had ever been able to tread so quietly as to catch him unawares. The warden was one of them; there had once been another who had made it into a challenge and a game to startle him at every opportunity. Durthir stopped himself from sighing. He would not behave like a lovesick pup.

Beleg smiled again, this time brightly, and thrust the long parcel forward. ‘Look what I brought.’

‘Too thick to be a bow,’ said Durthir. ‘A stave?’

‘Not just a stave!’ exclaimed the warden. ‘A king amongst staves. Mallorn heart. The best wood in Arda, and a bowyer’s dream. Seasoned and ready to be tillered.’

Beleg’s enthusiasm was contagious. Smiling, Durthir took a step forward.

‘Have a look and dare to disagree,’ said Beleg, offering the package.

Durthir took it, stepped back, and crouched on the floor to undo the wrappings. Once the canvas was removed, there could indeed be no disagreement with Beleg’s assessment. The honey-coloured stave was free of twists, bends and knots and, where growth rings had been split through along the length of the wood, their alternating dark and light lines were straight and parallel. Durthir inspected its grain closely, from top to bottom, and found no cracks.

‘You are right, this is a beauty,’ he declared, his fingers caressing the golden piece of wood. ‘It will make a perfect bow.’ He frowned. ‘But I thought you favoured black yew.’

‘I do. This is for you.’

Durthir gasped, then shook his head and offered the piece of wood back to his host.

‘No, this is too precious. In Ennor, only the personal guard of the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien were given bows made of mallorn heart, as a token of rank. Or of trust. I am a nobody, and I’ve trodden beyond the edge of madness. None will trust me.’

‘You belittle yourself,’ chided Beleg, crossing his arms and ignoring the piece of wood. ‘I trust you. Even with an awl in your hand.’ He paused. Unable to refute the truth of these words, Durthir bit the inside of his cheek. ‘Mallorn heart is a rare treasure here too, but it is meant to be yours. I was asked to bring it to you.’

‘Asked by whom?’

‘By Finarfin, King of the Golodhrim, at the request of his daughter.’

Durthir frowned in puzzlement.

‘In Ennor she called herself Galadriel,’ added Beleg.

‘The Lady! You know her too?’

‘In Doriath. Long ago. Before Túrin arrived.’ Beleg turned away, walked to stand at the open door, and gazed out into the forest. His knuckles paled as he tightened his grip on the jambs.  ‘She married another man.’

In the painful silence that followed, Durthir found himself staring and looked down in haste. He slid his hand along the stave, slowly, first one way then the other, marvelling at its impossible perfection. ‘I don’t understand. Why does she want me to have this?’

‘She has asked for something in return.’

‘But I have nothing,’ said Durthir, standing up. ‘I live off your hunt and your trade.’

‘Both of us live off the generosity of Araw,’ replied Beleg. ‘There are no debts between us, friend.’ He placed a firm hand on Durthir’s left shoulder and looked him in the eye. ‘I am very glad for your company.’

Durthir’s throat tightened. He nodded, and raised his left arm to copy Beleg’s gesture, while saluting with his closed right hand above his heart.

So close, the warden smelled of clean sweat, wool and leather, and of woodsmoke and the scent of evergreens. His strong shoulder muscles were hard as rock under Durthir’s fingers, below the soft woollen tunic. Durthir inhaled deeply. Gritting his teeth, he willed away the fiery tingling in his groin. He would not let lust taint this moment.

‘I am honoured by your friendship,’ he said. ‘And by Tauron’s protection.’

Beleg dipped his head. ‘So there is no more to be said on the matter. And do not fret. What Galadriel asks from you is well within your power.’

‘Is it? How do you know?’

‘She wishes you to shoot at the games of Valmar, under her banner.’ Beleg chuckled. ‘She is snubbing her own Golodhren kin in favour of people whose hearts and lives were bound to Ennor. You shall make her proud.’

Durthir shrugged, apprehensive. ‘Me? I haven’t shot much of late. Only when it was a choice between killing and starving, before I was... before you met me.’

‘You are too modest. I followed you when you hunted, and watched. Once, you must have had a fine teacher.’

‘The best.’ Durthir recalled, with a bittersweet pang of longing, the ruthless banter, the fierce competition, and the memorable endings to some of his archery practice with his lover.

‘In that case, your body will remember,’ said Beleg. ‘Mine did, even after dying.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘Not just the way to bend a bow, but many other things too.’

Beleg leant forward until Durthir felt the warmth of his breath on his face. For one, two, three heartbeats, neither moved, then they both did at once. Their lips met in a kiss that tasted of wild berries. Durthir’s knees almost gave out from wonder and pleasure. Often during the past half year he had berated himself for daydreaming about this moment. He whimpered when Beleg’s mouth parted from his.

‘Tomorrow before dusk you shall have a bow to be proud of,’ said Beleg. ‘Then you will practise, practise, practise, until you dream of nothing but arrows hitting home.’ His hand roved down Durthir’s back and pulled him closer. Beleg’s erection dug into his hip, and his own dick, aching with need, strained against the laced-up front of his trousers.

‘But right now, my friend,’ Beleg said, ‘we have more pressing business to attend to, if you are willing.’

The hand on Durthir’s waist slid lower and grasped his backside; the other hand brushed against the tight laces, driving him wild. Then Durthir felt it close firmly around his balls through the fabric, and give a little tug upwards. Trembling, Durthir clawed his fingers into Beleg’s arms to hold himself steady. His breath hitched and his palms began to sweat, but no longer from desire. Echoes of harsh laughter, coarse insults and grunts of pleasure sprang unbidden into his mind, as did memories of sharp claws, teeth and whips; of useless struggle; of pain, blood, and humiliation. He shuddered, closing his eyes, and fought his nascent panic. His erection wilted fast.

Beleg’s hands abandoned their explorations and Durthir felt them caressing his temples. Rough fingertips trailed with great gentleness over his skin and into his hair, following its waves behind his ears, only to start the soothing motions back at his brow.

When Durthir forced his eyes open, there was neither pity nor demand in Beleg’s gaze. Only an invitation, still unanswered.

Was he willing?

Beyond hope, he was being offered a spark of joy despite his dark past, a chance to feel alive again, to share warmth and tenderness in the embrace of a friend.  

But he couldn’t— he couldn’t endure that pain again. Pain, and terror, and shame, dragging him ever deeper into blinding darkness... No!

He bit back a sob. ‘I—‘

‘I will not hurt you,’ said Beleg, very softly. ‘I promise. Only pleasure.’

Durthir forced himself to breathe more slowly, and to think past the panic. Oh, he wanted to accept, he wanted nothing else. But…

A thumb brushed a tear off his cheek. ‘Trust me.’

Beleg wanted him, and he wanted Beleg. And he trusted Beleg.

He took a deep breath. ‘I am willing,’ he murmured. Then, louder, ‘Yes, I am.’

They smiled before they kissed again, for a very long time.

 

~o ~

 

In the late morning sun, the straw roofs of Vinyanwë gleamed like gold leaf. Legolas wondered whether to enter the town and enquire about the likely location of Beleg’s dwelling, but in the end he decided against it. Better to avoid bringing undue attention upon Noruion or himself.

He scanned the land, tracing the web of faint paths across the meadows, and espied one that led uphill from the town, straight towards the forest. Without more accurate guidance, he nudged his mare forward and skirted the vegetable patches at the backs of the nearby houses until he came upon the track, a mere parting in the grass, which he followed at a brisk canter for about half a league. When he reached a stream that gurgled under the shade of a clump of silver birches, he dismounted and let his mare graze. With food and water aplenty, she would not stray.

After drinking from the clear water, Legolas resumed his journey, this time on foot. Less than another league further, he reached the boundary of Araw’s domain.

He walked with reverence under the eaves of the forest, awed by the giant, ancient trees. Like in Fangorn, he felt young and small, but here the trunks were not gnarled and twisted, or covered in curtains of moss and fungi, but shapely and majestic, with smooth, unblemished bark. Underneath their immense branches it was light, and the air was fragrant with the freshness of new growth and eternal spring. There was no heavy pall of decay in the air, no dark silence so solemn as to stir unease if disturbed by his steps. Birds chirped and trilled all around. Their joy and his own hopeful anticipation tempted him to burst into song.

He did not, though. Despite the peaceful appearance, training drummed into Legolas long ago made him cautious, so he walked quietly. Not only was he trespassing, this was one of the few places in Valinor where wild creatures still roamed freely. In his left hand he carried his strung bow; he kept his right close to the hilt of his knife.

Under the trees the track disappeared completely, and for a while he wandered aimlessly, though roughly heading for the heart of the forest. Thornless bramble bushes, oddly peppered with both white flowers and ripe blackberries, gave him the clue he so desperately needed to find his quarry. He picked a handful of fruits, and was savouring their tart sweetness when he realised that other branches had recently been plundered. A closer examination revealed no damage to the stems or leaves. The work of hands, without a doubt.

‘I found you,’ murmured Legolas, excited. He walked on slowly.

Progress was painful, searching ahead every few steps for more signs of missing berries, but he walked over a mile without losing the faint trail. When the bushes thinned out and disappeared, he was lucky to discern a few small pieces of dry mud over a flat boulder, several paces away. A boot had scraped the rock surface and dislodged the dirt attached to its sole. Legolas kept going straight, until he stood at the edge of a wide glade of towering mellyrn, so tall that a few young oaks grew underneath.

Myriads of sunbeams filtered through the canopy and fell like a glittering waterfall, seemingly barring his way. Slender streaks of light and shade swayed to and fro in rhythm with the breeze, tickling the oak boles and the pale ferns unfurling over moss, like the slim, long fingers of an ethereal creature whose touch could turn green to silver and diamonds.

Legolas stopped to admire this scene, recalling his first glimpse of Caras Galadhon and the days he spent in Lórien with the Fellowship, grieving Mithrandir’s fall into the abyss. Those quiet weeks had been the calm before the storm, and his only respite from the torment the Ring had unleashed the day he rode into Imladris.

Despite the brightness around him, Legolas was unable to stop the thread of his thoughts pulling him down into the darkest corner of his faer.

Of course the Ring had called to him, though he had feigned otherwise. It was his, after all. Through it, the Dark Lord had conjured in Legolas’ mind exquisite acts of passion and surrender, and tempted him with promises of hungry lips, of warm, strong flesh submitting to his will, of a mighty ruler eager to be ruled. Legolas had seen himself wielding power without bounds, able to command an army of servants to cleanse Taur-e-Ndaedelos and restore it to the Eryn Galen of old.

The vagaries induced by the closeness of the accursed Ring were far more vivid than his own memories of Dol Guldur. Often at night he found himself unable to sleep, aroused and racked by the urge to dismiss oaths of loyalty and vows of friendship and snatch the Ring from its bearer. Unlike his companions in the quest, he knew that not all its promises were empty. No pleasures had ever been sweeter than those he had sampled at Gorthaur’s hands many years before.

These dark cravings for his enemy had not wholly died with the Ring or with his leaving Ennor. Worse still, as soon as he had arrived in Valinor and the sea-longing had released its grasp, this secret shame had flared again.  

‘What sorcery did you bind me with, Sauron?’ Legolas whispered.

He stared upwards where the sun shone bright behind a field of golden leaves. When the warmth of a sunbeam reached out to caress his face, he closed his eyes and unclenched his hands. Cocooned by the radiant peace that lingered under the mellyrn, he breathed slowly and let his fears and troubles melt away, until he was only conscious of the changing pattern of light, pulsing red through his eyelids.  

Both his quarry and purpose had been long forgotten when the thump of an arrow hitting a target, faint but unmistakable, yanked him back into alertness. His eyes snapped open and he stood very still, an arrow already nocked to the string. A peal of laughter rang in the distance, beyond the far side of the glade and the maze of sunbeams. Silence. Another thud echoed, and more followed at regular intervals.

Full of renewed hope, he directed his steps towards the sound, moving across the forest as quietly as the breeze. If, as he expected, he had found Noruion, he would surprise him; it was a game they had both enjoyed in the old times.

Listening hard to direct his steps, Legolas reached a light upward slope ending in a mound of crumbled granite boulders. The stones blocked his view but he could hear the voices of two men, close and clear. He crept along the last part of the slope and risked a cautious look over the stone lip, keeping his head low against the rough granite.

At one end of a large clearing in the woods, two archers stood almost below him, their backs to the low ridge where he was perched. They were shooting at a slim wand: a stripped cedar branch about three or four fingers thick, planted vertically in the ground several dozen steps beyond them.  

Only four white-fletched arrows had landed on the grass around the target. About a dozen others had pierced the wand at different heights. A score of longer arrows with green-dyed vanes were clumped tightly on a piece of dark leather pinned half-way up the branch.  

Green fletchings in a forest? Legolas smiled, excited. Only an exceptional bowman—or an arrogant one willing to spend his days making arrows to replace the lost ones—would make such a choice.

Curious, he watched both archers. The taller one wore a back quiver, empty. His height unequivocally matched him to the longer, green-fletched arrows, even without the giveaway white vanes visible inside the second man’s quiver.

‘Try not to rush so much,’ the taller man said. ‘You will not burn your fingers by holding on to the string one moment longer, you know.’

A very familiar voice, perhaps raspier than Legolas remembered, answered. ‘Not sparing that moment often allowed me to see another day.’

‘This is not Ennor. You can enjoy each shot and make it perfect.’

Noruion growled something under his breath and shook his head. His hair, bound at his nape, rippled down his back. Last time Legolas had seen him fleeing Dol Guldur, his braids had been shorn, claimed as war trophies by the Necromancer’s minions. His blood quickened at the thought of running his fingers through those silky locks. Soon. Very soon.

Noruion nocked his last arrow, and began to draw. The second man, Beleg, no doubt, stood behind him and raised his palm to the height of his neck.

‘Keep pulling until you push my hand back with your elbow when you are at full draw, then let go,’ he commanded.

Noruion obeyed. The arrow flew in a flat arch over the grass and hit the wand squarely amidst the green-fletched shafts, in the centre of the leather mark. Legolas almost joined Noruion in his whoop of delight. Giving up his idea of catching his friend by surprise, he pushed himself up into a crouch, keen to walk down into the clearing, greet his friend and meet his childhood hero.

Beleg laughed. ‘You see?’ He wrapped both his arms around Noruion’s waist, from the back, and rested his head on his shoulder. ‘I can still teach an old dog some new tricks.’

Legolas blinked, twice, and was sure that his heart skipped a beat when Noruion chuckled and wriggled to turn within Beleg’s embrace. Legolas saw his face for the first time, thinner than he remembered; his nose was perhaps slightly askew, giving him a most handsome rakish look. Noruion shouldered his bow and placed his hands on Beleg’s upper arms. Wishing he could disbelieve his eyes, Legolas watched Noruion whisper words too soft to hear from his vantage point but easy to read from the movement of his lips—‘Kiss me.’

Beleg complied.

A shadow obscured Legolas’ sight while the kiss stretched seemingly forever and their hands began to rove under each other’s shirts, sure and possessive. Familiar.

Legolas’ eyes stung and a painful lump in his throat threatened to suffocate him. He crept away from the lip of the ridge, back down the slope, and then let his instinct guide him under the boughs of the great trees, no longer wondrous beings but mute accomplices in his injury.

Fleeing was impossible, though. He could never outrun despair, the foe that had just breached the gates and trodden, victorious, all over his life, both his present and future. No power in Arda would save him now from battling alone against the dark ghosts of his past.

 

---

[1] Rodon, pl. Rodyn (Sindarin) god or divinity, equivalent to Quenya Vala

[2] Gonhirrim (Sindarin) masters of stone, a name the Elves gave to the Dwarves, without the derogatory connotation of Naugrim, which means “stunted”

[3] Balan, pl. Belain (Sindarin) god or divinity, equivalent to Quenya Vala

Elrond is referring to the episode narrated in Livinlävidä, another story featuring Legolas.

[4] (Aran) Tauron (S); Araw (S) the Lord of Forests, other names for the Vala Oromë

 

Chapter IV

In which Durthir remembers, Legolas meets a stranger, and Elrond is waiting.

Read Chapter IV

 

Chapter IV

 

Abruptly, Beleg broke the kiss. ‘Someone is here, very close.’ He tilted his head, as though listening. A woodpecker rapped a log, not far away. Then a robin chirped. ‘Not a threat, just... a stranger. Gone, not long ago.’

‘I can’t hear anything,’ said Durthir. But even as he spoke, he heard a faint rustle of bushes, even though the breeze had died down. He frowned. ‘You are right. But it may be a deer.’

‘Not likely. Let us fetch our arrows and we shall have a look,’ said Beleg, ‘I do not sense a need for urgency.’

Soon they were following a trail that changed direction several times, until the pursuit led them to the eaves of the forest nearest to Vinyanwë. They found no traces of poachers, and no damage to the woods except for a few crushed ferns and broken twigs.

The meadows were quiet in the late afternoon, but a rider galloped away from a copse of silver birches, spurring his horse as though chased by the Enemy. Durthir squinted. With a jolt, he realised that the rider’s hair, flying like a banner behind him, was the same hue of gold as... He shook his head, berating himself, and forced himself to look towards the town. But his eyes disobeyed his will and moved back to track the rider until he was lost against the hazy edge between land and sky. He let out a deep breath.

Beleg was waiting, leaning against the closest tree. ‘Do you know him?’

Durthir did not answer immediately.

‘No. He just reminded me of someone I knew long ago.’ He reached out to grasp Beleg’s hand and squeezed it. ‘He was... my king’s son. I was told that after the war he settled in a place in the south, in a realm of mortals called Ithilien.’

They walked back in silence, each of them lost in his own thoughts.

 

~o ~

 

Late Spring, Year 133 of the Fourth Age

At full draw, Legolas hesitated. Not for long. Like a stone thrown in a mirror-like pond, the small disturbance rippled through the serene space that he built around himself during his ritual of perfect repetition; even before he let go of the string, he knew that the damage had been done. The arrow whizzed towards the distant target. Thunk. A hand span off the centre.

‘Morgoth’s bollocks, this is hopeless!’ he cried, all but throwing his precious mallorn bow to the ground.

‘What is?’

The voice startled him, and not only for its rich, deep timbre. Had Legolas known someone was watching, he would not have vented his frustration. Flustered with chagrin, he turned around and discovered that the voice belonged to an unknown Maia.

Maiar were seldom visible to the Eldar with the exception of Mithrandir, nay, Olórin, who regularly visited his old companions and friends. Gone was, however, the familiar travel-worn pilgrim he had once impersonated and, despite his kindness and good humour, his otherworldly appearance never failed to provoke in Legolas an uncomfortable sense of awe.

Like Olórin, this Maia was not fully incarnate, or at least, his raiment failed to disguise his nature. His shape radiated a visible aura of power, akin to light glowing through fine porcelain, but subtler, which made him look somewhat ethereal, though Olórin had slapped Legolas on the back enough times to prove that this perception was deceiving. The Maia’s stature was matched to Legolas’ own, and his face, framed by dark hair gathered into braids, was expressive and set into a true smile, so unlike the flawless but grave masks of other Ainur. Legolas was immediately drawn to his eyes, bright and ancient as the stars themselves, wise, and kind.

And yet, the presence of such a mighty being, however friendly in appearance, conjured a sting of fear. Had he done anything of late that could result in a summons by the Belain?

He gave a deep bow and focused on every syllable that left his lips, to keep his speech free from strain. ‘A star shines on the hour of our meeting, my lord. To what do I owe this honour?’

‘A star shines indeed, Legolas, son of Thranduil. Do not be troubled. My task here is merely to request that you walk back to the main house to join Lord Elrond and Lady Celebrían for dinner.’

Puzzled, Legolas stared at the Maia. ‘Forgive my curiosity, my lord, but how can Lord Elrond command one of your kindred to run his errands?’

The strange Maia seemed amused. ‘I am not a lord. And Elrond did not actually speak an order. When he grumbled about your absence, I offered to find you before departing.’

‘May I ask who you are, my l-?’

‘A good friend of both Lord Elrond and Mithrandir. My name is Eönwë.’

Legolas frowned. If he recalled his history lessons correctly, there had been a servant of Manwë named Eönwë who had dragged Morgoth to the Void and forced the sons of Eärendil to choose their fates. For this reason alone, that Eönwë would hardly be on friendly terms with Elrond. As further confirmation, this Eönwë did not wear the livery of Manwë, or even his colours or device. Legolas was curious but felt it was not proper to ask; the question might offend the Maia. Elrond might tell him later.

He unstrung his bow, shrugged the quiver off his shoulders and walked briskly towards the target to retrieve the arrows he had shot.

‘I was watching you,’ said the Maia, keeping abreast with him. ‘You wavered just before you released the string. What happened?’

‘My mind wandered.’ He did not wish to dwell on it.

The Maia, however, had other ideas, and no tact. ‘What thought came to you?’

‘An apple,’ blurted Legolas. He bit his lower lip and quickened his stride.

When they arrived at the packed straw target, he began to pull out the arrows from one side. Eönwë did the same from the other, and slid them into the quiver Legolas had propped against the leg of the wooden stand. His movements were precise and economical, those of someone familiar with the procedure.

‘Ah, yes, the apple,’ said Eönwë. ‘Set on your lover’s head. A chance to earn his freedom with a single arrow.’

Legolas froze with shock; his head snapped up from the target to lock his glance onto Eönwë’s silver eyes. The Maia blushed, as though from embarrassment. But that unusual reaction in one of the Ainur paled into insignificance next to the enormity of his words. How did Eönwë know about an event that only Noruion, his brother Handir, the Dark Lord, and Legolas himself could claim to have witnessed? All others, Orcs and Easterlings, who on that day watched that arrow fly would have died and turned to dust long ago.

Gothmog’s prick! It must have been Noruion. It had to be. What else had he tattled about those weeks of captivity in Dol Guldur? And to whom? Legolas’ knees almost gave out; he grasped the edge of the straw boss to steady himself.

‘Forgive my indiscretion.’ Eönwë’s voice rang with genuine concern. ‘I swear I will not betray your secret. But… why does this memory unsettle you so? You did not miss the mark. It was a shot worthy of song.’

‘A shot worthy of song.’ Sauron’s own praise, word for word. ‘How— He told you?’ Legolas’ voice broke up; his throat and chest hurt.

‘Yes. Mai—’ Eönwë paused. ‘Sauron told me. About the apple. And about you.’

Legolas took a deep breath, released his grip on the target, and yanked out the shaft that had gone astray, with such force that he almost fell backwards. He was shaking, not daring to ask in what circumstances, or why the Dark Lord had spoken the tale of his prisoner’s reckless gamble.

‘I would rather not speak of it,’ he forced through his clenched teeth. ‘Please.’ He tried a diversion. ‘I am entering the games of Valmar in a month. I would rather not dwell on episodes of my past, but on what I need to do to shoot at my best form.’

‘Whatever is haunting you about that apple, it does not wish to stay in your past.’ Eönwë’s eyes were kind. ‘Forgive me if you felt I was prying. That was never my intention.’

Legolas nodded, picked up his full quiver and began to walk towards the house, hidden from view beyond a large orchard. The Maia did not leave, but strolled at his side, at ease despite Legolas’ stubborn silence. Several times Eönwë slowed his pace to reach out and caress a blossoming almond tree branch on their left, or to run the tips of his fingers over the clipped beech bushes along the right border of the path. Beyond, a patchwork of fields spread all the way to the darkening horizon, hugging the curves of the earth like a chequered cloak against the mist that was beginning to hover close to the grass.

Eönwë seemed to admire every detail of the scene around him as intently as though the world was new or unfamiliar to his eyes, as though ordinary plants were rare objects of great value. The Maia picked up a pebble and threw it, seemingly pleased with himself when it hit a tree trunk.

Intrigued, Legolas thought about the Maiar he had known before Eönwë. The three Istari he had met could not have been more different from each other: Mithrandir, ever rallying the fleeing courage of all against the rising evil; Radagast, benign but bewitched by the creatures of Ennor; Saruman, warped by an ambition nurtured by the lies of… Sauron. Also a Maia, yet unlike any other. The Enemy, who had spoken about him to this mysterious Eönwë. ‘A shot worthy of song.’ Such praise should mean nothing, but Legolas felt disturbingly glad to hear that his once gaoler had spoken highly of him.

In person, Gorthaur had not been the monster Legolas expected. Cruel, yes, and manipulative too. Often loathsome. Despite hating him, Legolas sometimes recalled scenes and conversations from his days as Gorthaur’s captive, and puzzled over his enemy’s private sense of honour, so at odds with his thirst for world domination and his lack of empathy for the victims of his evil-doing. More rarely, Legolas reluctantly admitted to himself that he had respected—perhaps even admired, although he refused to use this word in relation to Gorthaur— the Dark Lord for his intelligence, his deep knowledge of most matters, and his mastery of arantyalmë, which made him into a most fascinating companion beyond the time they spent in his bed. 

He froze. What else had Sauron revealed to Eönwë? And maybe to others? The blaze of shame up his neck and face twined with the embers of lust heating his loins as he recalled once more the exquisite pleasure wrought by the Lord of Dol Guldur. How could Gorthaur’s spell keep him captive even now?

Perhaps Eönwë knew. ‘Can I ask you a question in turn?’ he said, still flustered.

‘Of course,’ replied Eönwë. ‘But I might decline to answer, in turn.’ He winked.

Legolas could not stop himself from smiling. ‘That is only fair.’ He paused. ‘We Eldar are bound to Arda. If our rhaw dies, we are summoned to Bannoth; if we refuse the call, we fade.’ Eönwë nodded, but said nothing. ‘What of your kin? What is your fate if you fall, like Mithrandir once did, in Moria?’

Eönwë chuckled. ‘From apples to the very nature of the Ainur and the Great Music. My question was far simpler! But the short reply to yours is that we Maiar cannot die within Eä, and are bound to it, like you are to Arda. We entered Eä to become part of it, and therefore must remain here until time ends. Does this answer address your concern?’

‘I am not sure.’ Legolas hesitated. This was a chance like no other; even if he disclosed a hint about his secret weakness, he had to take the plunge. ‘The Ring was destroyed, but you say Gorthaur must live. If that is so, can his sorcery endure undiminished?’

He was shocked at the pain that filled Eönwë’s eyes.

‘His sorcery is not what endures. Unlike Morgoth, who poured his evil into the very substance of the world, Sauron’s wrongdoing was achieved through twisting and even enslaving to his will the minds of others by guile, seduction, or threat, all of them amplified by the power of the Rings he created. Sometimes by brute force, though he preferred to leave the crudest methods to his minions. So even after the Ruling Ring was destroyed, the taint of his shadow remains in those survivors whose minds he wounded.’

Legolas stopped short and shivered, and not because of the cooling evening air. Eönwë’s eyes gleamed with understanding.

‘It may give you hope to know that a strong mind can shake off such a yoke,’ said the Maia, placing a hand on his shoulder and looking at him steadily, as though demanding an answer.

‘Yes, it does give me hope,’ muttered Legolas.

Eönwë nodded. ‘I am sworn to silence about...’ He laughed. A mirthless laughter. ‘About too many things. But be assured, Sauron is never to walk free in Arda again.’ Legolas wondered at the Maia’s pained voice. ‘Perhaps this knowledge can help soothe your affliction.’

All of a sudden, an idea leapt into Legolas’ mind. A crazy notion.

‘You— Did you—? You cared for him.’

Eönwë let out a long breath, slowly. ‘I did.’ After a long pause, more softly, he added, ‘He haunts me too.’

Legolas was stunned. He was also desperate to know more but Eönwë’s mien, now stern and sad, forbade more questions. They walked in silence until they stood a stone’s throw away from the vine-covered terrace.

‘Now that I have fulfilled my task to Elrond, I will leave you here,’ said Eönwë.

‘Thank you, my lord.’ Legolas saluted, hand to heart. ‘Will I see you again soon? The business that has brought me to Tirion is nearly concluded. I shall depart the day after tomorrow. Perhaps you will be at the games, too?’

‘It is unlikely. I don't run errands for Elrond very often.’ Despite a smile, something in his tone gave away an unlikely sense of longing. ‘So, before we part, tell me. How are your people faring in Eryn Annûn?’

‘Our first winter has been uneventful,’ said Legolas, marvelling at the fact that this stranger knew the name they had chosen for their new home. ‘All the telain we planned were built well in time, and the weather was mild. Our craftsmen are earning a good reputation at the local fairs, especially the wood turners and carvers, and our leather is prized for its suppleness; we have begun sowing; and the mallorn seed from Lórien that the Lady Galadriel gave us has grown into a sapling that already reaches my knee.’

‘It gladdens me to know your people thrive. Starting a new life as an alien in a strange place can be daunting.’ Eönwë’s eyes were grave and there was no hint of condescension in his voice; his seemed the words of someone who had known the loneliness of that particular hardship.

‘Who are you, who loved Sauron? And why do you care for me or my people?’ thought Legolas. But instead he said, ‘Lord Elrond has been our greatest ally, sometimes even supporting our cause against the interests of his own kinsmen or Lady Celebrían’s. Without his help, I doubt we would have succeeded.’

‘Indeed, Elrond has ever been true and generous to his friends,’ said Eönwë. His smile this time was one of great fondness.

Legolas nodded, startled and embarrassed when the Maia gave him a perfect courtly bow. ‘Farewell, Legolas. May your arrows fly true.’

‘Farewell, Eönwë. May the stars ever shine upon your path.’ He bowed in return.

Eönwë walked a few steps but then he turned to look at him.

‘If I may offer a piece of advice...’ The Maia waited, as though to give his companion the opportunity to refuse his counsel. Legolas did not. ‘Do not tilt your head against the bow.’

Legolas’ mouth twitched in amusement. ‘I shall do my best to remember. You are not the first one to remark on that bad habit.’

He tried to recall who had last done so, beyond his archery tutors during his youth. Ah, yes. It had been that fellow, Erestor, in Imladris. Legolas realised he had never found out what happened to the man, a formidable match with a bow, after Elrond sailed from Ennor.

Eönwë courteously dipped his head and walked away. In the dim light of dusk, Legolas was not sure if he imagined the Maia’s shape fading in mid-air.

He turned back towards the house. As he climbed the steps to the terrace, he met Elrond.

‘Celebrían and I had begun to give up on you, Legolas,’ said his host. ‘What causes your recurring reluctance to join us at our table?’

Legolas laughed. ‘Apologies, my lord, I lost track of how late it was, but your herald dutifully delivered his message and walked back with me to ensure I would not bolt.’

‘Ah, yes. I am glad Eönwë found you. What did you think of him?’

Legolas knit his brow, then smiled. ‘He intrigues me. I am certain that he has wielded a bow in the past because he displayed the giveaway trait of all true bowmen.’

‘What trait?’ Elrond looked slightly alarmed.

‘To speak unsolicited advice to another archer.’

Elrond laughed, then gave Legolas a hearty clap on the shoulder. ‘Come and join us. The roast is ready to be carved.’

Legolas’ stomach rumbled in response.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

The adventures of Legolas and Noruion in Dol Guldur are covered in another story of mine, "The apple of His Eye" (currently found only at my LJ). The story of the relationship between Eönwë and Sauron as well as the friendship between Eönwë and Elrond can be found in my story Chasing Mirages. 

You don't need to read either in order to enjoy this story, but of course I won't be the one to stop you if you choose to do so...

Chapter V

In which Durthir is ticklish, joins an ancient brotherhood, and makes (an almost naked) Legolas jealous.

Read Chapter V

 

Chapter V

 

Midsummer’s Eve, Year 133 of the Fourth Age

Durthir wriggled and laughed. ‘You are tickling me on purpose.’

‘Keep still, or you will smudge my work,’ growled Beleg. ‘And lift your arm higher.’ As soon as Durthir obeyed, the wet brush travelled from his back to his chest, following the contour of one of his ribs and then tracing a dark whorl closing around his right nipple.

Durthir looked down and saw the swirl take shape as Beleg filled its outline with more of the blue-green dye from the wooden bowl he held in his hand. Next, the warden began to draw a branch off the thicker curl. His brush stopped over the twin silvery paths of scarred skin, relics of a steel-tipped whip, faded but still slightly puckered.

Durthir froze. ‘I’m not sure this is a good idea. I...’

Beleg stood up and silenced him with a light kiss. ‘You are beautiful, son of the forest. Do not be ashamed.’

A tree took shape slowly, bold and dark against Durthir’s pale skin, its trunk growing out of his groin and its branches coiled all over his upper body, as though they had used his torso and arms as supports and guides. A weave of roots sprouted from his genitals, rippling down to cover his thighs, back over both hips to cup his buttocks and down his thighs to meet wavelets circling his knees, calves and shins down to his bare feet.

‘But this ink... these marks are surely a sign of some sort of ritual, or of a brotherhood I can’t even understand, let alone be part of.’

‘Trust me. You will understand. For now be quiet and let me finish.’

Beleg kept painting from his neck upwards. Durthir could only guess, but a spatter of small shapes on the right half of his face and throat, and what felt like a leafy branch up the left side and over his eye invoked an image of new growth reaching up towards the rain. Apprehension was growing within him as steadily as the dark tracery spread over his scarred skin, but he remained silent, if only to please his friend.

After a few last touches here and there, Beleg made him spin around where he stood. When he had turned a full circle, Durthir was met by a grinning artist.

‘Perfect. Make sure you do not touch anything higher than your breastbone for a while. The rest is dry. Now it is my turn.’

‘Your turn?’ Durthir said. ‘You’re entering the games, too?’

‘I only decided to do so last night, when you agreed to let me do this.’ Beleg waved at the bowl and brush. ‘I would like to share your first games. It will also be the first time for me... since returning from Bannoth, so I am curious.’

Durthir nodded. He had never considered victory as a feasible outcome of his bargain with the Lady of the Galadhrim, but had hoped to make Beleg proud. Now he was dismayed at the thought of measuring himself directly against his friend. But withdrawing was not an option, either. Not after all the patient effort that Beleg, gentle but firm, had invested in pushing him beyond what Durthir had thought possible, until he had begun to believe in himself again.

‘Will you wear the Lady’s colours too?’ he ventured.

‘Not unless she offers a boon of some kind.’ Beleg handed him the bowl containing the dye. Durthir took it with both hands and looked back at his friend, curious but not daring to pry. Beleg shrugged. ‘We were in love, but love was not enough for her, so she chose a prince. I left Menegroth with nothing to fill my days and nights but my warden’s duty.’ He dipped the brush in the paint. ‘I am a tad less selfless now.’

Durthir watched his friend trace most of the design on his own skin, everywhere he was able to reach with the brush; elsewhere Durthir drew the missing shapes with great care. Beleg became an oak, bark wrapped around his abdomen and lower back and a bole of strong branches growing up his muscled chest, upper back, shoulders and arms. Leaves came out of the corners of his mouth and framed his face. From the hips down, the design was almost identical to Durthir’s, with roots immersed into ripples of water to feed the tree.

They combed and braided each other’s hair over the ears, to keep it away from their bowstrings, and the rest into tight plaits at their backs.

When it was all done, they admired each other and laughed. All the mutual touching had caused a pleasant and obvious effect on both of them.

‘The ink will not wash off with sweat,’ said Beleg, ‘but it may smudge. We must do without until dusk.’

He produced two small pieces of leather and some lengths of thong, and proceeded to fit what proved to be a very brief loincloth over his erection, passing one of the cords between his legs, up to his waist and securing it at the back to the second thong that circled him around the hips.

He gave a fleeting smile. ‘Let me do yours.’

Before Durthir could object, Beleg was pressing a similar contraption to his cock, and holding it in place, with more rubbing and touching than was strictly necessary to adjust the thongs in place. A final tug to tighten the knot at the back almost made Durthir spill. He reached down to cup his straining balls.

Beleg slapped his hands away. ‘Later.’

‘You are a cruel man, warden,’ said Durthir.

In compensation, Beleg rewarded him with a long kiss, both taunt and promise, made more titillating by the fact that only their lips, their fingers, and the palms of their hands were touching.

‘Now you will get your answers,’ said Beleg, breathless, when their mouths parted. ‘Come.’

Leaving the room they had been allocated in a great stone building in the outskirts of Valmar, they moved like shadows along the dark, vaulted corridors and down a flight of stairs. They stepped out of the stone entrance archway into the courtyard at the back of the house, a maze of sculpted knee-high box hedges surrounding a round fountain. Durthir shivered a little, both excited and cold. The air of predawn was chilly, wind blowing in great gusts down the slopes behind the house, all the way from the highest peaks of the Pélori.

The courtyard was deserted. Only starlight prickled the dark sky; only the gurgling water and the rustle of the wind on treetops disturbed the silence of the night.

Beleg walked towards the fountain; his bare feet made no sound on the dewy grass. With every step, the stark shapes on his skin shifted over his muscles in the dim light. The power and grace bound in his stride reminded Durthir of a stag, or better yet, of a mountain lion. When Beleg turned to signal him to follow, his painted face made him look feral, even dangerous. Durthir hurried to join his friend, who stood by the wide stone lip of the fountain.

‘I am a man of Enel, awoken by the pool of Cuiviénen under the stars,’ spoke Beleg, pressing his hands together at chest height. His eyes were unfocused, fixed on something he alone could see. Without being asked, Durthir copied his gesture. ‘Eleven others and I were the taurê beroi[1], the warriors of the Great Forest, tasked by Enel to guard the Three Peoples against the Hunter and his beasts. Enel trusted us to Tauron, who taught us the ways of the forest, to feel its life under our feet and the touch of our hands, to see with its creatures’ eyes and listen with their ears. Whenever one of us fell, we chose a new companion. Now I alone remain this side of the sea, outside Bannoth. Will you join me?’

Durthir stood, struck with awe and unable to answer.

‘Do not doubt yourself, my friend,’ said Beleg. In the starlight his eyes seemed bottomless, while still affectionate. ‘You have given all to fight the Shadow. Tauron found you worthy and brought you to me, so that I could judge your merit. I have. You would do me great honour.’

Durthir could think of nothing he wished more than to agree. But he would not lie to his friend. ‘You would despise me if I told you...’ He tried to avert his gaze by lowering his head, but Beleg’s firm finger under his chin prevented him.

‘I have watched you in your sleep,’ said the warden. ‘I have been witness to your nightmares, and held you while you wept and whispered your terrors and secrets to the night. I have shared your pain. You did what was expected of a warrior, at such a great cost to yourself that it drove you mad. Not even Lórien could heal your guilt.’ Durthir winced. Beleg’s soft voice was merely telling a tale, without reproach or condemnation. ‘But all of that is in the past and you must let go of it, or shall never find peace, not even in Valinor.’ A gentle finger travelled down Durthir’s choked throat, stopped briefly in the hollow between his collarbones and raised goose bumps as it caressed his inked chest, stopping at last over his pounding heart. Durthir’s gaze scanned Beleg’s face, finding again its familiar features under the dye. ‘I have chosen you, and marked you with the symbols of forest and water in the hope that you will agree. These days my task is light, more about guarding the woodlands than the people, except for those fools who lose their way. Yet I must find companions, even in peace, by Araw’s will.’

After a pang of the old pain, Durthir’s heart swelled with hope and gratitude. ‘I am the one who is honoured.’

Beleg’s lips sketched a smile. With great reverence, he dipped cupped hands into the fountain and brought them out full, careful not to spill it. The water gleamed like a mirror of silver as he turned to face Durthir.

‘Speak your name,’ commanded Beleg solemnly. Before Durthir could answer, he added, ‘Your real name.’

The unused syllables felt strange as he voiced them, slowly. ‘Noruion, son of Duingael.’

Beleg offered his joined hands to Durthir, who cupped his own together and placed them underneath, guessing what was required of him.

‘Noruion, son of Duingael, will you guard the Three Peoples against the Hunter and the foes spawn from his shadow, with your blood and your life, as one with your taurê beroi brethren for as long as stars wheel in the sky?’

‘I will.’

The warden’s face split into a grin. ‘May you share in the might and wisdom of Tauron to aid you in our task.’

Beleg let the water spill slowly onto Noruion’s hands. Inevitably, despite all their care, a few drops fell to the stone slabs or splashed his wrists. Noruion felt water slide between his fingers, and looked at Beleg, alarmed.

‘No matter how hard we try, Noruion, sometimes we will fail in our task. However grievous our loss, guilt is not ours to bear, or it will defeat us.’

Noruion nodded lightly, aware that more drops were escaping from his slippery hands.

‘I know,’ he whispered.

‘You are never alone. I shall rely on you, as you shall on me.’ Beleg placed his hands under Noruion’s and took the water from him. Noruion was trembling when he finally lowered his wet hands.

He watched Beleg pour the water back into the fountain. Then they kissed like they had before, palm to palm, only this time water trickled down their forearms. Noruion savoured the kiss, wreathed by the whispers of the mountain breeze, no longer chilling in the warm haze of pride, friendship and need. Squirming, he inwardly cursed the tightness of the leather thongs.

Beleg ran his tongue under Noruion’s one last time and broke the kiss. ‘Now, Noruion, let us celebrate by enjoying the coming day. In the morrow, I will take you to meet Araw.’

 

~o~

 

A familiar voice spoke at Legolas’ back. ‘As victory today is likely beyond my grasp, given the company of so many fine bowmen, I am challenging myself to recognise my old friends from behind. Do not speak a word!’ With a smile on his lips, Legolas waited, frozen in his pose. ‘I would hazard a guess... I would say you are Legolas, but not from Gondolin. He did not have such a shapely arse.’

Laughing, Legolas pivoted on his toes to greet the speaker. The grass, though warmed by the sun, was still wet with dew under his bare feet.

‘My esteemed Lord of the Golden Flower, what a pleasure to see you again. I would reciprocate your kind greeting, had I but a chance to admire your rump in turn.’

‘Now I regret my choice of attire,’ said Glorfindel, with a mock sigh. He was wearing a very short kilt slit at the sides, in pleated white fabric hemmed with gold.

As protection against the sharp arrow heads and in accordance with the strict rules of the contest, Legolas had opted for a silk loincloth with three overlapping straps of thick tanned leather at the front. His only other adornments were a green ribbon tied over his left biceps above a leather guard on his forearm, and his archer glove on his right hand. His favourite quiver was buckled to his back, filled with a dozen arrows, as perfect as he had ever been able to make them, fletched with grey goose feathers.

Legolas’ gaze roved appraisingly over the alluring patterns made by the muscles in the chest and abdomen of his adversary. Were he to win, perhaps he should seek solace from his heartache... Before his thoughts could cause him a very obvious embarrassment, he diverted his attention to Glorfindel’s beautiful longbow. Its amber-coloured back, glowing from polish, was streaked with charcoal veins, likely retained with great care from the innermost bark layer.

‘Juniper wood?’ he asked. ‘Where did you get such a straight stave from?’

Glorfindel shrugged. ‘I trained a dozen saplings so that they grew straight. Then I waited for a score years, perhaps a bit more, and chose the most perfect one.’

They kept exchanging news and small talk as they walked towards the field where all the archers were to gather. Although they had met in Imladris before the Fellowship departed, Legolas had only come to know Glorfindel better while staying in the house of Elrond and Celebrían in Tirion. He was glad for a new friend who shared his love for Ennor.

Glorfindel squeezed Legolas’ shoulder. His hand felt warm on bare skin.

‘May Tauron guide your arrows, son of Thranduil.’

‘And yours, Glorfindel.’

When they abandoned the shade of the chestnut trees, the path led them through a fenced gap in the crowd lining the boundaries of the field, which was rimmed with fluttering banners of all colours. On Legolas’ right flowed the river, fast and foaming from its descent from the high mountain vale of its birth, and edged by tall reeds that swayed very gently—wind would not be a major hindrance to aiming on this day. Beyond its farther bank, Valmar’s towers and spires gleamed as though carved from slivers of Ithil. On his left, a herd of horses, oblivious of the crowd, grazed in a meadow edging on the far end of the field. Behind them, chestnuts and beech began to climb the lower skirts of the Pélori, soon giving way to fir. Steep rocky crags peeked from the verdant mountainside. Atop the closest one, at least a league away and high on the slope ahead of him, flew a huge gold flag with a white wing, the device of Ingwë, High King, flanked by two rows of smaller standards displaying the colours of all the realms of Aman. Legolas could just about discern his people’s dark green banner, its golden oak leaf flying proud. Further up, the trees ended below sheer precipices of granite powdered white from everlasting snow; the mountain’s impossibly high peaks were hidden behind a fluffy layer of clouds.

Looking ahead once more, Legolas matched his stride to Glorfindel’s as they walked towards a group of about fourscore archers standing in loose rows on the field, under the scrutiny of a sea of cheering spectators. He could just about follow snippets of several shouted conversations prompted by their arrival.

‘Look, look, that gold-haired one in white and gold is a man of the Perelda!’

‘Have you seen Findaráto’s sister yet? Nerwen? She won the long obstacle race yestereve, running like Nessa herself.’

‘You dolt! He is Laurefindil, the Valarauco-slayer who returned to Endórë! No way he bows to a halfbreed.’

‘You brought wine? Let us have a drink!’

‘She did not! What happened to that huge guy from Tirion?’

‘Huge as in tall or as in... his spear?’

‘Laurefindil? Who’s his companion in green?’

‘Let me show you huge later... Or just kneel here, will you?’ Scandalised shrieks and ribald laughter followed. Legolas almost snorted.

‘Cover your ears, my dear girl. You scoundrels, stop that filth or I will report you to the guard!’

‘Dunno, but is that a malinornë bow he carries? And whose green ribbon does he wear?’

‘These prudish Vanyar, are they born with a rolling pin up their arse?’

‘Forget the bow. Isn’t he handsome?’

‘They wish...’ More laughter.

Legolas felt the thrill of excitement speed his pulse. His palms were moist from sweat, and he rubbed them discreetly against the waistband of his loincloth. Squeezing his fingers over the well-worn leather grip of his bow, he breathed deeply, to let calm flood back to his limbs, slow his heart and empty his mind from the distracting voices.

He turned towards a large canvas pavilion, under which sat the High King Ingwë and Queen Líriyë on carven chairs. Very fair they were, their hair the colour of newly-cut straw, crowned with plain circlets of pale gold, their eyes wise and welcoming. Other kings and queens, lords and ladies crowded about them on both sides, but Legolas only recognised a few faces beyond Noldóran Arafinwë and his wife Eärwen, and his friends Elrond and Celebrían.

When Glorfindel and he bowed to salute and a gust of breeze kissed his bare behind, Legolas had to bite the inside of his mouth to stop himself from chuckling.

‘Behave!’ murmured Glorfindel between his teeth, as though reading his mind. Legolas winked.

After the King and Queen spoke words of greeting, Legolas and Glorfindel withdrew to the row of archers at the back of the group. Legolas looked around to survey his battlefield and size up his rivals. They were a motley assortment, despite their near nudity, but their choice of bows and arrows revealed a lot.

Of course he was wary enough not to underestimate anyone based on appearance alone, as he had done as a cocky youth. However, he could barely suppress a grimace at the sight of several silver bows studded with gems, and arrows fletched with glittering foil.

Several women were lined amongst the ranks of archers. They had been allowed to bind their breasts with cloth or leather. One of them, two rows ahead and to the left, was taller than many of the men, and her plaited hair was the colour of ripe wheat, woven with sunbeams. The White Lady of Lothlórien. Legolas felt himself blushing to the top of his ears while staring at her peach-like backside, embarrassed by the pleasant twitch of his cock. It had been a very long time since he had last lain with a woman—or with anyone, for that matter. Perhaps he should consider the possibility, if only to erase Noruion from his mind, but Elrond’s mother-in-law was firmly out of bounds, however desirable. Any arousal was likely to wilt of fright under her regal gaze, anyway.

With a great effort, he focused his attention on her bow, almost identical to his own. He realised he knew nothing about Lady Galadriel’s skills in archery, but he was certain she would be a formidable adversary. If nothing else, three ages in Ennor would have taught her to defend herself.

Legolas was still scanning the lines in front of him when an eerie silence fell over the crowd. Not a whisper could be heard. All eyes were on the entrance from where he and Glorfindel had arrived. Turning to look, he sucked in his breath.

Two men strode towards them, heads high and proud, bows in hand, full quivers at their backs: green fletches on the tallest man’s arrows and white vanes bound to the second archer’s. Had it not been for this coincidence, Legolas doubted he would have recognised his old lover under the patterns that obscured every corner of his skin. As he traced the inky swirls with his eyes, his mind flew to misty evenings in his youth spent huddled in blankets around bonfires lit under the oak trees, a stone throw away from his father’s halls. Wondrous tales were told by the eldest amongst the Tawarwaith, whose forefathers and mothers claimed to remember the terror of the Hunter, to warn reckless youths caution against the dangers of their darkening realm.

Legolas’ heart had raced with fear at legends of giant beasts that blocked starlight and stole away unwary folk, never to be seen as men again, and it had swelled with courage while singing in praise of the fey warriors who had ensorcelled the trees themselves to repel these dreadful foes.

Now, Legolas’ heart ached with longing.

He watched Noruion and Beleg bow before the High King and Queen. Then, to his surprise, a few people scattered in the crowd rose to their feet and saluted the two men, hand on chest, as did the monarchs, walking forward from their twin thrones and dipping their heads, first to Beleg, then to his beloved.

Desire flared anew, licking Legolas with flames stoked by jealousy as well as love. He was drawn to the fey warrior of legend but, most of all, he craved the man, made of flesh and blood. He wanted Noruion, his Noruion, whom he had mourned as dead only to find him giving himself to someone else.

Anger made his blood simmer. What right, what authority did Beleg wield to claim Noruion, a man of Eryn Lasgalen, as one of his own?

Legolas gritted his teeth. Not even Beleg Cúthalion would stand in his way.

 

---

[1] taurê beroi (based on the Primitive Quendian vocabulary found in the “Etymologies”) from taurê (great forest) and berô (valiant man, warrior)

Chapter VI

In which Noruion meets royalty and faces a prince, while Legolas seduces an ally to his cause.

Read Chapter VI

 

Chapter VI

 

Noruion walked onto the field at Beleg’s side, willing himself to ignore the prickling of his skin at a thousand curious gazes. The scene around him narrowed to a tunnel fringed by flowing banners and row upon row of wide-eyed people, blurred into a nearly shapeless mass that buzzed like a swarm of bees.

The whispers ceased. In the watchful silence, blood drummed at his temples and the itch to run away became almost unbearable.

A glance at Beleg’s painted skin boosted his courage. Pulling his shoulders back, he tilted up his chin a little, and poured renewed pride and purpose into his stride.

When the King and Queen greeted them with honour—not Beleg alone, but him, too—and with the joy reserved for friends and kinsmen, he was stunned.

‘They remember,’ said Beleg softly, as they withdrew to take their place amidst the other archers.

Noruion nodded and breathed deeply, still savouring his own sense of wonder. Had he been paying more attention to his surroundings, he might have had some warning before finding himself staring into the face of Legolas, son of the King of Eryn Lasgalen.

In a day that had already gifted him with so many surprises, Noruion remained strangely calm, though his heart climbed to his mouth and he had to lock his knees, turned to melting wax, lest he crumple to the ground. 

Last time he had seen Legolas, his prince and friend stood next to the Necromancer at the top of the sheer walls of Dol Guldur, waving at him from afar. Abandoning him to the clutches of the Dark Lord, Noruion had fled to freedom and safety, both earned by the skill of his lover with a bow. Now Legolas’ piercing green eyes watched him intently from two steps away. He was unsmiling, and breathing hard; his knuckles were white where they gripped his bow.

Nourion had forgotten how intense Legolas’ presence could be; well-worn memories had become wispy echoes, far removed from Legolas in the flesh, proud, tall and solid, and nude but for a few insignificant scraps of silk and leather. So close he only had to reach out to touch him. The sight and the thought took Noruion’s breath away.

Had they been alone, he might have attempted to embrace his old lover, even at the risk of a humiliating rejection. But here, with Beleg at his side and a watching crowd around them, he bowed before his prince and kept his head low, waiting to be acknowledged.

‘My lord,’ he murmured. His eyes were fixed on Legolas’ flat belly, mesmerised by the ladder-like muscles that descended to meet the narrow twist of silk across his hips and the leather-clad bulge he had teased and worshipped countless times. Blood rushed to his own groin at the importune recollection.

‘Fealty, Noruion? After what we went through?’

Noruion flinched at the bitterness in Legolas’ voice. Of course, his king’s son had nurtured his contempt at his betrayal for many years. ‘I failed you, my lord, and your father, but...’

Legolas’ fingers hovered over Noruion’s biceps along one of his scars, barely disguised under the dark patterns of branches and leaves.

‘If he could see us now, Gorthaur would laugh at this victory,’ he whispered. ‘Ever he boasted of how simple it was to sow doubt and stir resentment in order to weaken oaths and alliances. What lies did you heed while he held you in torment, that you forgot our...’

A fanfare of horns and silver trumpets followed by a deafening applause from the crowd swallowed the rest of Legolas’ words.

Noruion’s eyes stung at the rebuke, deserved or not. The tale of the Dark Lord’s victory and his own failure was indeed etched all over his body, even after the partial healing Lórien had granted. Hurt, he took a hasty step back. For a heartbeat, Legolas stood with his hand still in the air, as though frozen, then his fair face twisted in a fleeting grimace. At length he dropped his arm to his side and slammed a mask of princely composure in place.

‘Ingwion! Ingwion!’ the crowd roared. A tall man left his place at the side of the King and walked towards them. His hair was as golden and long as his father’s but it was twisted into rope-like braids. In his hand he carried a sealed roll of parchment. Noruion only heeded him with half of his mind. Still reeling, he had taken his place on the line, a few steps away from Legolas, but kept watching him. His lord was staring ahead, unmoving, and his jaw was clenched so hard, it must be painful.

‘Legolas... my lord, I am sorry,’ he whispered. Out of the corner of his eye, Noruion saw Beleg shift his stance and knit his brow.

A muscle in Legolas’ jaw tensed and his lips pursed tighter. In the past Noruion had seen Legolas wrestle his anger in silence often enough to learn the wisdom of staying at a safe distance. Yet, he tried once more.

‘My lord...’

Beleg grasped Noruion’s arm above the elbow. ‘I suggest you tackle your unfinished business at a later time.’ His eyes were appraising, like on the first day they met. ‘The race is about to start.’

With a sigh, Noruion looked at Prince Ingwion, or whoever the tall man was, and forced himself to listen to his deep voice.

‘... welcome you. Your first challenge today demands that you reach the great flag up on the ridge, where you must shoot a single arrow—you are only allowed to carry one with you— and hit the mark. Only the fastest sixteen to succeed in this task will claim a place in the head to head competition that will follow, back here, at noon. Now, during this head to head...’

Noruion glanced sideways, first at Beleg, who seemed calm and confident, and then, again, at Legolas, tauter than the string of his bow. In a different place and time, Noruion would have marvelled at the chances that had led them to stand side by side again, wielding precious bows of mallorn heart, without facing death or capture. But in the here and now, he felt bereft.   

Beleg nudged him with his elbow. ‘Did you hear that?’ He smiled at him. ‘You can do that in your sleep.’

Numb, Noruion nodded, even though Ingwion’s words had become part of the background noise, along with the murmurs of the crowd. He began to listen again, while risking another sidelong look at Legolas, who remained impassive.

‘... a horse may choose to bear you,’ Ingwion was saying, ‘but you must find a path to the ridge that will not requite their valuable gift with peril. Injury to a horse due to recklessness will be cause for...’

A golden-haired rider had spied on them that day in the forest. Hard as a slap, realisation hit Noruion, making his heart skip a beat. He gasped. Legolas knew that he and Beleg were...

Was it possible that Legolas still had feelings for him—that he was jealous? Noruion’s heart fluttered at this idea, finding a new meaning in Legolas’ words, but his mind promptly rejected it as foolhardy. In all likelihood, Legolas was outraged to discover that the King and Queen had honoured a traitorous coward, and that Beleg, the mighty Beleg Cúthalion, had been tricked into giving an unworthy man a place of trust at his side. A new pang of dismay chilled Noruion to the marrow. Would Legolas tell Beleg the truth about his past, the truth that Beleg’s generosity had waved aside?

‘You are paler than Ithil,’ whispered Beleg. ‘He is the rider... and your king’s son, is he not?’

‘Yes.’ Beleg was nothing, if not observant.

A long ovation marked the ending of the speech of Ingwë’s son and heir. Two fair-haired children received a heartfelt round of applause as they took positions next to a large frame from which a bronze bell was suspended. One of them walked away while holding the end of a long white ribbon, until it stretched taut between them.

A few of the archers began to approach this starting line. Before Noruion could stop him, Legolas was already striding away, not looking back. Noruion was tempted to run behind him and plead for forgiveness, but knew it was futile to speak to Thranduil’s son while he was in such temper.

‘Climb or ride?’ asked Beleg.

‘What do you mean?’ Noruion realised he did not know what he should be doing next.

‘I mean, would you rather ride or climb to that ridge?’

Puzzled, Noruion stared at him. ‘I thought we were rivals.’

‘Perhaps later, when you snap out of your trance.’ Beleg sounded concerned.

Noruion took a deep breath. ‘It’ll pass.’ He tapped his fingers on his own arm, where Legolas’ had touched him, then shook his head. ‘I was startled to find him here, that’s all.’

‘As you say.’

Noruion averted his gaze from his friend’s knowing eyes; a flood of heat rose up to the tips of his ears. ‘Aren’t we meant to ride?’ he blurted.

‘You were not listening.’ Beleg’s mouth curved into a smile that shifted the dark oak leaves painted on his face, then he lowered his voice. ‘We are meant to use our wits, skills and strength, however we choose, without impeding others. Most of our rivals, if not all, will go straight for the horses because the idea of a gift, and the advantage it implies, has been planted in their minds by Ingwion’s words. But the slopes are steep and thick with trees and bushes, so the path must be long and winding. Whoever designed this test will have weighed the odds of daring the climb against the safer but slower option of riding. It is a gamble.’ Beleg’s face split into a rare grin. ‘Would you rather have sore feet or a sore arse at the end?’

Chuckling, Noruion looked at the distant ridge. ‘It is a sheer cliff. Very tall, too.’ He studied the rock face, planning a possible route. ‘But the right hand side seems easier, over those crumbled boulders.’ He gazed back into Beleg’s expectant eyes. ‘I’d rather climb. I never was a great rider. Unlike L—’ He bit his tongue.

‘So climbing it is. Keep to the back at the starting line. Head for the horses, like everyone else, but let us meet a stone’s throw behind that great oak.’ Beleg pointed with his chin to an ancient tree at the edge of the forest.

They emptied their quivers into two woven baskets, as directed by a freckled young woman who wrote their names on tags to label their bundles of arrows. With great care, she picked one shaft out of each basket and handed it back to them.

‘May the breath of Súlimo give you speed,’ she said, with an appreciative glance at their painted bodies.

‘We would rather be given wings, fair lady, but we thank you for your good wishes,’ answered Beleg courteously. Noruion smiled, amused at her blushing face.

‘You will have to slap them away, you know,’ he teased his friend, as they followed the other archers, ‘whether you win or not.’

‘Perhaps.’ Beleg shrugged. ‘And what if you win, Noruion? Who will it be?’

‘You,’ said Noruion. As soon as the word flew from his mouth, he knew it did not speak his true desire. He froze in his stride.

Beleg placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘Do not fret, friend. This is a night for joy.’ He winked. ‘You may have more than one partner, if you wish.’

‘Can you?’ croaked Noruion.

‘Unless someone else claims them first.’

 

~o~

 

Standing just behind the white ribbon, Legolas itched to begin running on the moist grass. Despite his efforts, his thoughts kept wandering back to the awful scene with Noruion, even though they twisted the arrow in the wound.

Noruion’s formality had added insult to injury. Had Legolas earned nothing better from his friend, after shooting that damned apple to save his hide?

Willing to forgive such a cold greeting, he had tried to mend the misunderstanding. However, nothing could soften the blow of watching his old lover recoil from his touch. Why such revulsion? Surely it could be naught but disgust at his having lain with Sauron. Legolas had hoped Noruion would be able to understand, if not to pardon him. After all, both had walked away from Dol Guldur with their lives, against all odds.

When a careless rival dug a bow nock into his ribs to get a place in the front line of archers, Legolas glared at him with the same loathing he had once bestowed on the rotting carcass of the Witch-king’s fell beast. In haste, the man retreated back.

Digging his heels in the ground as more competitors crammed behind him, Legolas turned his head to look behind, in the hope of finding Noruion. He nodded to Glorfindel, a few rows back on his right, but neither his old lover nor his tall companion were in sight. A sharp nip of jealousy gnawed at his gut. He was not one to grovel, but he swore to himself he would do anything in his power to recover what he had once shared with Noruion, to persuade him to... To what? Why would Noruion give up anything for him?

Thundering cheers of excitement jolted Legolas out of his dark musings to find that Ingwion had returned to the field and stood by the bell, wielding a hammer with a round head covered in leather. The contest was about to start; it was time to banish all distractions from his mind. Once more Legolas checked his quiver straps, and tensed his muscles in readiness.

The deep clang of the bell made his flesh hum as he began sprinting towards the horses. A silver dun mare with a gleaming coat caught his eye, towards the left of the herd. She looked at him without any sign of fear, lowered her head to graze and again stared, while chewing a mouthful of grass. Once he reached the edge of the meadow, Legolas slowed down to a walk, still at a fair distance from the herd, ever vigilant and ready to block the way of anyone who dared approach his prey. When the mare next buried her head into the long grass, he changed direction and circled her until he stood a few steps from her left side, out of her direct sight.

‘Will you bear me this morning, my pretty?’ he whispered, stretching his arms slowly, until his left hand petted the mare’s silky neck. He was careful to keep his bare feet away from her hooves. ‘You are a sight to behold, made of pure mithril, are you not?’ She stood still and neighed. Legolas breathed out, relieved.

A few of his rivals were already mounted, so he risked grabbing a handful of grey mane at the withers and, leaping from the front, he vaulted onto her back, with great care to prevent the bow from hitting her body. Her coat was slippery under his skin. After a moment to find his seat and adjust his quiver, he patted the mare’s neck.

‘Thank you, beautiful. Now, let us race the wind!’

Legolas urged the mare into a canter and, as soon as he fell into the flow of her smooth gait, into a gallop, but slowed down again before reaching the edge of the forest. He spared a glance around him. Other riders followed on his steps, and on his right he thought he imagined a glimpse of two dark shapes disappearing in the shade under the trees. Frowning, Legolas dove into the woods. Only three horses were ahead, already labouring up the mossy slope. Legolas chose a gentler path bearing to the right, letting the mare trot her own way between the close tree trunks, then doubling back to the left to climb a bit higher.

He had a good chance to catch up with his three rivals, unless they opted to follow a longer path, as he had done. But for the moment they were intent on struggling straight up the slope. He almost laughed when one of the horses threw his rider and the man leapt to his feet with a curse, unable to stop his suffering mount from loping downhill, back to the tasty meadow grass. Only two to go.

Loud neighing lower down made him turn his head. At least a dozen more riders were already in pursuit, and about half of them were following in his steps, opting for the slower but safer path.

After taking a long breath, drinking in the scents of green growth and bark, Legolas set his jaw and nudged his mare onwards.

Victory would bring the reward he wanted most: first choice.

 

~o~

 

‘Jump! I will catch you.’

There was no alternative, except to go back down an equally perilous route. Noruion avoided staring down the vertical chasm at his feet, falling down almost all the way to the root of the ridge, and looked ahead instead. Beleg waited on a narrow ledge to his right, one hand reaching out to him, the other holding onto a crevice to keep his own balance. Both bows were safely at his feet, as were the quivers with their solitary arrows.

‘My arms and legs are shorter than yours and there’s no room to take a run up.’

The wind blew Noruion against the rock at his back, for which circumstance he was most grateful. At one point he had feared the downward draft that had blown dust into their faces for most of their climb would suck him off the cliff face to his death.

‘Stop thinking, and jump, as high and far as you can.’ Beleg gave a small smile of encouragement, but he was pale. He had almost fallen himself, barely able to grasp the ledge with his fingers. Noruion’s heart surely stopped for a few nerve-racking moments until his friend was able to command enough strength to pull up the weight of his whole body.

After a deep breath, Noruion leapt. His stomach seemed to sink to his gut as he began to fall, but Beleg’s strong hand grasped his wrist and half pulled, half lifted him up into an embrace on the tight foothold.

‘Manwë and his folk smile on you today,’ Beleg said. ‘The wind has changed again, but we are almost there.’

With arms and legs trembling from exhaustion, Noruion picked up his quiver and followed Beleg up another steep surface, painstakingly finding minute holds for his fingers and scraped toes, until he lay on his belly atop the highest boulder. All that remained between them and the massive white wing of Ingwë’s standard was a tumble of small rocks that a four year old child could climb. Noruion doubted he could, he was so tired and short of breath, but one last effort took him to stand next to Beleg on the wide strip of grassy land atop the ridge. Hands on thighs, panting the chilled mountain air, he scanned the wide scene at his feet and found the field and meadow from where they had started, a minute green patch, close to the white jewelled towers of Valmar. His throat tickled, and he coughed several times.

When he was fit enough to look around, he noticed Beleg and he were the first to arrive. Inside a small tent open at the front, two judges in dark blue tunics, a man and a woman, consulted a brass clock—a device he had thought magical when first shown to him in Lórien—and made notes in a leather-bound book. A third judge nodded in greeting and waved Noruion and Beleg forward. Behind a shooting line marked with black tar on the grass, sixteen round straw targets were precisely aligned fifty paces away. Each of the targets, around two handspans wide, was covered in red cloth or leather, with a smaller white circle in the centre, a hand width in diameter. Noruion’s heart leapt with joy; Beleg had been right, he could do it in his sleep. However, the flags flapped noisily against their poles; he would have to allow for the gusty wind.

‘No time to waste,’ urged Beleg, trotting to the shooting line. ‘I can hear horses coming.’ Noruion joined him, taking his place opposite the second target.

Right then, the rattle of many hooves echoed against the mountain slopes, and four riders burst through the trees almost at once. The streaming hair of the second one betrayed his identity even before Noruion could see his face. The rider slid off his horse while still in motion, and raced to the line.

Two more riders arrived, then three. Nervous, Noruion fumbled to pull the arrow from his quiver with his aching fingers and nock it to the string.

‘Do not rush,’ warned Beleg, doing the same next to him. ‘Take your time. Steady your heart, your hand, and your eye. It is an easy shot, but we only have one chance.’

Noruion closed his eyes and entered the familiar ritual to block everything from his mind except the thought of his arrow hitting its mark. One by one, he peeled away the ache of his limbs, his tiredness, the surrounding noise, his longing and self-doubt. The first three fingers of his right hand, encased in a well-worn leather glove, were slightly hooked over the taut string, ready to draw. He inhaled a lungful of snow-flavoured breeze, and breathed out slowly, while imagining the perfect path of the arrow, ending dead centre on the white circle.

Opening his eyes, he stared at his target and breathed twice, deeply, feeling the direction of the wind on his face. Then he drew his bow with a smooth move while keeping his aim, and let go. The arrow flew true, and with a loud thud hit about an inch higher than the mark, but well within the white. A second thud was Beleg’s, whose shaft quivered at the very centre of his own target.

Noruion grinned, pleased with himself.

Beleg smiled back. ‘Good shot.’

‘Yours was better,’ replied Noruion. ‘But I am not jealous.’

He remembered Legolas, and turned his head just in time to admire his lord’s fluid form and an arrow striking dead on the mark, like Beleg’s. If not for the wind, this shot would have been easier than the one that split the apple and saved his life. He shuddered.

Two other archers were so hasty that their shafts went wide. They stared, disconsolate, as other archers took over their targets and succeeded in their stead.

Noruion watched the Lady of Lothlórien score, while still at a canter on a dark chestnut, a good dozen steps behind all other archers. Her arrow was in the red, just a couple of fingers away from the white. With a smile of pleasure on her face, she was breathtakingly beautiful.

‘Did you see that?’ he cried, turning towards Beleg.

His friend was already striding towards the Lady. When he was only a few steps away from her horse, he bowed to her. Noruion saw him speak, though it was impossible to hear what he said. Whatever it was, it made her blush, and her laughter rang loud and merry as she nudged her horse, speeding back towards the trees.

A glance at Legolas showed him standing with his back to him. Noruion would have wagered the spurn was deliberate until he realised his lord was watching another golden-haired man who had followed the example of the Lady of Lórien to claim the last free target while still riding. His shot was less than a hand width from the outer edge. Without slowing down, he leaned down from his white horse to clap Legolas’s raised hand.

‘Still in the game!’ he cried, laughing.

Beleg touched Noruion on the shoulder. ‘Let us return.’

Noruion’s elation faded at the prospect of a descent down the cliff. ‘But surely not the way we came!’

‘We can walk down, or borrow a horse.’ The warden looked pensive, his eyes still fixed on the spot where the Lady had vanished back into the woods.

‘Is anything wrong? Are you hurt?’ asked Noruion.

Beleg shook his head slowly. ‘No. Only remembering.’

Noruion was curious, now certain that his lover was pining. ‘You just need to win,’ he said. ‘As do I.’

‘Then we must start by dragging ourselves down to the field.’ Beleg chirped at a silver dun mare that grazed near the line of trees. Still munching her grass, her ears twitched as she watched them approach. When they petted her, she gave a long, happy nicker, then waited patiently for them to mount double. Noruion clasped Beleg’s waist and rested his cheek on his back, snuggling as close to him as he could to relish the warmth of his skin. The scent of sweat blended with the sweetness of cedarwood soap reminded Noruion of their lovemaking; his cock stirred against the leather loincloth and he sighed in contentment. The brushing of the silky mare’s coat under him was pleasantly ticklish, but he doubted it would remain so for long.

The last Noruion saw before they trotted away and under the trees was a furious Legolas pointing at them; he just about heard him shouting a vile curse. Only then Noruion realised why the mare had looked familiar.

‘Oh Beleg!’ he said. Despite all, he could not stop himself from smiling.

 

Chapter VII

In which bows bend, arrows fly, and archers flirt.

Read Chapter VII

 

Chapter VII

 

Legolas let his twelfth arrow fly. The expectant silence was only broken by a thud as it struck in the innermost circle of the target, one hundred and twenty paces away. That satisfying sound followed by the wild cheering of the crowd declared him the winner of the latest head to head contest. Out of the sixteen archers that had qualified from the race, only four remained in the competition now.

‘I am sorry,’ he said to his defeated rival, as they walked back from collecting their arrows. ‘You shot well.’

‘Not well enough,’ answered Glorfindel, unstringing his bow. His mouth curled to one side in a rueful half smile. ‘My chances vanished as soon as I was paired against you.’

‘As mine will be if I am to meet Cúthalion,’ replied Legolas. ‘Though I would be a fool if I were to underestimate either of my other opponents.’

At that moment, a feeble ovation followed the exit of the grim-faced Golodh who, despite his silver bow, had been no match for the Lady of the Galadhrim, “Nerwen” to the excited crowd. Like Legolas, they were glad to see the back of him. Before shooting each and every arrow, the man had fastidiously adjusted the position of a small pin on his gleaming bow that undoubtedly served as a sight, before performing a complicated ceremony of feet positioning, shoulder rolling, and rhythmic breathing, only to draw, think better of it, come down, tweak some more and start the irritating procedure all over again. At one point there had been impatient whistles from a few frustrated spectators, promptly silenced by Ingwion’s officials.

Glorfindel looked along the grass sward by the shooting line. Legolas followed his friend’s gaze. Galadriel inspected the white vanes of one of her arrows. Further away, Beleg and Noruion talked quietly, heads close together. Their vanquished adversaries— an arrogant Vanya, decidedly sour after being trounced by Beleg, and Finrod Felagund, closely beaten by Noruion—had just departed from the field. Legolas recalled with a smile the stunned expression in Noruion’s face when he had found out the identity of his latest opponent, and his dazed elation at besting a hero returned from Bannoth, of whom the ancient lays were still sung in Valinor as they had been in the forest of his childhood.

Noruion had always been a fine archer, though more interested in speed than in form. Grudgingly, Legolas admired Beleg’s success at training his headstrong friend up to a level of excellence he had failed to reach—under his own instruction—in the past. Not once, in all their years together in Eryn Galen, had Noruion ever claimed victory against him in a shooting match. Today, Legolas thought fondly and with a frisson of thrill, he might.

As though aware of his lord’s musings, Noruion glanced in his direction. Legolas hastily turned his gaze back to Glorfindel, who watched him in silence.

‘Be at ease, friend,’ said Glorfindel. ‘No lives hang in the balance today.’

Legolas nodded and reached out with his right hand. They clasped arms, warrior-style.

‘However, my wager against Elrond was, and still is, on your victory,’ said Glorfindel. ‘His coin should serve to nurse my pride, sore after this drubbing. Otherwise, I shall be forced to seek retribution next time I meet you at the sparring arena.’

Legolas felt his lips stretch into a smile. ‘And I shall strive to avoid your wrathful revenge. Even without it, I bore your bruises for a week last time we crossed blades.’

They broke their grasp. Glorfindel slapped Legolas’ back in encouragement and walked away. After stopping before the royal pavilion to salute the King and Queen, he raised his bow skywards and bowed to the crowd, who wrapped him in a roar of loving admiration.

A moment later, Legolas sat on the grass and laid his bow upon his knees. The late afternoon sun warmed his skin but he felt cold inside. Breathing slowly, he ran his fingers along the curved sheen of his bow, peering at the wood grain, looking for cracks and finding none. Next he inspected his string. Of course it was neither frayed nor in need of more wax, but from childhood it had been drilled into him that a neglected bow could one day turn against its master, failing to shoot the arrow that would have kept him alive; in peacetime he still remained almost compulsive about checking its soundness at every opportunity.

Even more on this day when, belying Glorfindel’s parting words, his own life indeed hung on the balance. Or at least his future. Blood might not be spilled, but his arrows and those of his opponents were likely to steer his fate. He could hardly afford negligence, or mistakes born from a careless lapse in his concentration.

A shadow robbed him of sunlight; on the grass in front of him appeared a pair of slender feet and shapely ankles, their skin pale and smooth like fine marble. He looked up, startled, and gasped.

The Lady of the Galadhrim stood over him, bare but for a minute white pleated skirt and her archer glove and bracer. Her long legs, an athlete’s legs, led his eyes up to linger briefly at the kilt, onwards to her taut belly and further up to the twin swells of small breasts, no longer bound as they had been during the race. Neither childbirth nor age had robbed her well-toned body of grace, or of its due share of softness and alluring curves. A flush crept up Legolas’ face.

Clenching his jaw, he was about to leap to his feet but she forestalled him by sitting cross-legged next to him. She was close enough that he could savour the smell of her ivory skin—new sweat and the scent of mallorn flowers—and see every hair of the loose strands that curled around her ear when she pushed her golden plaits to the opposite side of her head.

Legolas’ pulse quickened, as did his groin. Bending all his willpower to crush the tug of desire, he forced himself to listen.

‘Commiserate with me, Legolas. According to the score table, I am to shoot against Beleg,’ she said.

‘I do not envy him the challenge, my lady,’ he replied. ‘The archers of Lothlórien have always been the finest in Ennor.’

‘Your father would cry treason if he heard those words coming out from your lips,’ chuckled Galadriel, ‘even if meant as a courtesy, or as reassurance.’

‘After what I have seen so far, I doubt you need any reassurance,’ said Legolas. ‘Who taught you?’

‘I learnt in Doriath, long ago.’ Legolas did not miss her sideways glance to where Beleg stood. Perhaps irrationally, his animosity against the Warden ratcheted up. The man seemed to be everywhere. ‘But I only took to the bow in earnest after the shadow began to grow on Amon Lanc.’

She lowered her voice. ‘Speaking of shadow, Legolas, a sombre mood clings to you today, dark as storm clouds gathered over Caradhras. What ails you?’

He shrugged, and forced himself to look at her. ‘Nothing of import, really.’

‘Is that so? And yet... you seem none too pleased about the presence of your fellow warrior from Eryn Galen. Your coldness towards my former charge concerns me; it was not long ago that you were most keen to know of his fate.’ Her tone was sharp as a razor.

‘The truth, my lady, is that I am indeed pleased to find Noruion hale, after believing during many years that he was dead. Having taught him how to shoot long ago, it fills me with pride to watch him best so many fine bowmen, and I do not discard defeat at his hands.’ Tired of parrying, Legolas decided to be blunt. ‘But I shall not deny that I am disappointed. Annoyed, even. Is it not your colours I see around my friend’s arm, when he was one of my father’s warriors? And has he not given his allegiance to Aran Tauron himself, if the paint he wears means what I believe?’

She studied his face, as though assessing how much truth was in his protest. He fought his impulse to squirm under her gaze, doing his best to remain impassive under her scrutiny.

At length she nodded, and placed her hand on his wrist, where it only rested briefly. Her fingertips brushed like feathers over his hand and onto the polished upper limb of his mallorn bow. ‘There is much pain you will not speak of, Legolas, and I shall not pry. But if you care for Noruion as I believe you do, do not begrudge him the happiness he has found in the company of others. When I saw him in Ennor, Sauron had all but broken your friend; Beleg has triumphed where the servants of Lórien failed.’

Legolas gave an angry nod, certain that another mention of Beleg’s virtues and achievements would make him sick. ‘Yes, my lady.’

However, it was the name of his foe that rent Legolas’ dreams of victory and conquest into rags. Victory had so far been his one and only hope to set to rights what his heart claimed was wrong. But now he saw he had been blind; victory would not cast a spell over Noruion and prompt him to abandon his newly-found duties and friends, nor would it wave Beleg to one side.

With a pang, Legolas acknowledged to himself that if he abused his rank or—maybe, hopefully—his reward as the acclaimed champion of the contest to coerce an unwilling Noruion to his bed, he would be stooping to Sauron’s level.

Suddenly Legolas wished he could be back with his people under the cool shade of the forest, their new home, far from fanfares, kings, queens, and mythical heroes.

At that time the bell clanged, marking the beginning of the next round. The banners rippled, slapping their silver poles. Galadriel, Lady of the Galadhrim rose to her feet with the grace of a swan unfurling its wings to fly. She had three dozen arrows to best her first teacher, Beleg Cúthalion, who had all but invented archery, if the legends were true. Legolas prayed that the Marchwardens of Lothlórien had been thorough in her training.

‘Good shooting, my lady,’ he said. ‘Mind the breeze, it is coming in gusts now.’

She laughed. ‘It will be my excuse.’

‘Grind him into dust,’ he murmured, once she was out of earshot.

 

~o~

 

Never expecting to last long as a competitor, Noruion had remained calm, if not cheerful. He basked in the sun, drank in the cool air of another day of freedom without hunger, and was warmed by the festive, friendly atmosphere of the crowd.

Whenever the memory of Legolas’ hurtful words threatened to resurface, he pushed it ruthlessly aside. His sanity might have survived because of this dubious ability to shutter his conscious mind away from harm, or so the healers at Lórien had told him with complicated words. Instead he focused on his pride at the honour Beleg had conferred on him, on the joy of calling him ‘friend’, and on the affection they shared.

After a first few nervous shots, his arrows had unerringly hit where he had meant them to. Spurred by this result and by Beleg’s praise, he had shot like he never had, and was amazed to find himself among the last four archers standing in the contest.  

The match between Beleg and Lady Galadriel had been nerve-wracking but wondrous to watch. Noruion had admired the perfection of their forms and the strength and beauty of their nude bodies. When she was at full draw, tilting from the waist before letting go of the string, her gold braids tumbling down her back, she was surely as fair as the queens of the Rodyn. As for Beleg... he was true to his name. Mighty he was, bending his bow without apparent effort, though the bunching muscles in his back and shoulders spoke otherwise, and his arrows sped to hit the mark as iron scrapings are unfailingly drawn to lodestone.

The Lady had bravely held her ground, and it was not until their last dozen arrows that Beleg sealed his victory. Noruion was glad for his friend, despite the look of bitter disappointment in the Lady’s face, quickly schooled into a graceful smile to congratulate her rival.

Now she walked towards him, with Beleg trailing only a couple of steps behind carrying her quiver. Legolas approached her; she stopped and they exchanged a few words. Lady Galadriel nodded a farewell and his lord saluted smartly, bowing hand on chest. To Beleg he gave a curt dip of his head.

‘My lady,’ Noruion said as she came close. ‘Well shot.’

‘It was indeed too close for comfort,’ grunted Beleg, his eyes were sparkling. ‘I must apply myself harder next time.’

‘Who shall remove that smug smile from his face?’ she cried, in mock outrage. Beleg winked at him.

‘As I wear your colours, my lady, the task falls on me,’ replied Noruion. ‘Although it’s no small challenge you give me, not even with your generous gift.’

‘A stave is meagre payment for having your bowmanship under my banner today, and it has proved to be a wise investment indeed.’ Noruion felt himself smiling when she chuckled. ‘In besting my beloved brother you already performed a deed to be sung across Valinor.’ She offered her hand and Noruion bowed to kiss it.

‘Will I be seeing you both at the feast tonight?’ she asked but her gaze was locked on Beleg.

‘Where else?’ he answered, now taking her hand in his own. Very slowly, he turned it and bent down to kiss the inside of her wrist.

The ground shook with the raucous cries, the clapping and the ear-piercing, ribald whistles of the crowd at his gesture, as unanimous approval of the first declaration of intent about the evening festivities.

‘Do not be presumptuous, Warden,’ she said, but did not pull away. ‘You have not won yet.’

‘Oh, but you have, my lady, and I pray you be gracious in your victory,’ he replied.

‘Grace may be granted to a gallant rival as balm to soothe the sting of defeat, my good warden,’ she said gravely, with a sidelong glance at where Legolas stood, yet again checking his bowstring. Beleg dropped her hand as quickly as though it had turned into an asp. She nodded to Noruion. ‘I trust you will keep doing me proud.’

Galadriel walked away to leave the field, bow raised in triumph over her head.

‘Mulish Golodhren sorceress.’ Those were the words Noruion thought Beleg spat under his breath, but he was not sure of having heard correctly; a deafening ovation was following the departure of the Lady of the Galadhrim. People threw flowers at her feet, as well as small gifts and rolls of parchment. She gathered them all with help from one of the field officials, who solicitously trailed behind her, arms full of the crowd’s tribute.

When she was gone, the bell rang again. Noruion took a deep breath. Not even in his wildest dreams had he imagined to be matched against his lord for a place to fight Beleg for victory.

‘Forget who he was. Or who he still is,’ said Beleg. He was no longer glaring. ‘Worry only about your arrows. Your next arrow.’ He squeezed his upper arm in encouragement and Noruion picked up his bow, propped next to Beleg’s against a long forked branch speared into the ground.

He approached Legolas, who waited a few steps shy of the shooting line. With some trepidation, Noruion reached out for the customary greeting to an opponent. Legolas did not hesitate, clasping his right hand—his fingers were cold, but not clammy with sweat—upon Noruion’s forearm. Noruion returned the squeeze while searching in Legolas’ eyes for a clue about his feelings. They revealed nothing.

Noruion was not discouraged. Legolas was fiercely competitive and whenever he was unhappy with his own performance during a tournament, he often fell into a foul, prickly mood, even with his brothers-in-arms. Even with his lover. But perhaps there would be an opportunity to talk undisturbed. Twelve times they would shoot three arrows each; twelve times they would walk one hundred and twenty paces to the target and one hundred and twenty paces back.

Ingwion joined them, two stern officials with notebooks in tow. A flick of a coin dictated the shooting order. Facing the crowd, he announced the result: ‘Legolas, Lord of Eryn Annûn will shoot first.’

Legolas’ bare feet made no sound as he walked to take his place at the shooting line, lithe, strong, and fair like no other man Noruion had ever met. Watching him, Noruion gripped his bow with both hands, to stop them from wandering to touch his leather-clad, hardening groin. He imagined the pleasure of placing his fingertips on the firm muscles of Legolas’ chest and let them travel down very slowly, like trickling honey, to the delicious hollow by his hip, above the green silk tie of the loincloth...

Realising he was gaping, Noruion lowered his gaze to the ground, and heard an arrow sliding out of Legolas’ quiver. He shut his eyes and waited, while his mind replayed every movement of the shooting ritual, even the minute pause before release. The arrow whizzed in the absolute silence and, unsurprisingly, hit the target with a sharp thud. The audience erupted into a cheerful ovation.

Noruion opened his eyes and looked up in time to see Legolas return to his side. They nodded to each other in acknowledgement, before Noruion walked forward and straddled the line. His fingers tingled and his hair stood on end, so he took a deep breath, emptying his lungs slowly, to calm himself. Then he nocked an arrow and looked at the target. He waited for the slight breeze to relent, before launching the very familiar sequence of drawing, adjusting his aim, and releasing the string. He knew the shot was good even before the arrow struck. The crowd’s reaction told him he was right in his assessment.

Twice more Legolas and he alternated to perform the same routine with almost exact outcomes; then it was time to walk to the targets, record the scores and retrieve their arrows. Noruion was pleased with himself.

‘You shoot better than I remember.’ Legolas’ voice at his side startled him. Their elbows touched, he was so near.

‘Thank you.’ Noruion kept walking, not daring to divert his gaze from the targets. ‘Last time I saw you with a bow in your hand… I hoped you’d make it swift.’ As soon as they were out, he wished the words back in his mouth.

A muscle in Legolas’ jaw twitched and he quickened his pace.

Ingwion and one of his officials were already waiting by the two identical wands set on the ground, eight feet tall, half a foot wide and about six feet apart.  A half a foot wide band on each, painted red, was wrapped around their middle point, roughly at chest level. Above and below it, horizontal lines measured the distance—and the decreasing score—to the mark. Concentric tar circles had been perfectly drawn on the ground from each of their bases, their edges sharp and stark against the tender grass.

Three arrows had hit each wand, in both cases one arrow was on the red, granting the highest score, a twelve, and two had struck at the next best score. Noruion’s white-fletched arrows were above the mark and Legolas’ grey goose-feathered shafts were below.  

‘A draw at thirty two,’ said Ingwion. He eyed the green ribbon around Legolas’ arm, then Noruion’s white one, and smiled. ‘Will this be a battle to the last arrow?’

Legolas glanced at Noruion. ‘It is likely, Your Highness.’

‘Long-standing rivalry, I see,’ said Ingwion.

Noruion retrieved his arrows, watching Legolas yank his off the target as though wishing to uproot the wooden beam along with them. They walked back in silence towards the shooting line. Near the stands, an official was placing huge number boards on a scoreboard, and the crowd applauded wildly when the tally came up.

The second end was little different from the first, except that Noruion was first to step up to the line. The excitement and the noise of the crowd grew with every shot; their roar made Noruion’s bones thrum and his blood sing. In the fourth end Legolas gained an advantage of two points with his last arrow, his twelfth of the match, as it just grazed the line bordering the red mark, granting him a twelve.

Despite this setback, Noruion did not lose heart. While in Ennor, he had never dreamt of matching Legolas head to head. Today, he might at last be his equal. True, after the perilous climb and the many hours of shooting his shoulders burnt with a dull ache, but he knew his rival was similarly tired. Watching Legolas as they walked towards the target once more, Noruion could detect the hints of fatigue: an occasional roll of his shoulders, a hand rubbing the back of his neck.

Most decent archers can shoot well when they are fresh; it is when they are exhausted that attention wanders and mistakes are made. Even the smallest distraction would be costly. Noruion silently swore that he would not be the one to slip.

 

~o~

 

Legolas wiped his sweaty hand on his waistband before adjusting his grip of the bow. Only then did he reach for an arrow, the last but one of the eleventh end, nocked it and placed his fingers above and below it on the string. He pulled very slightly at the familiar resistance. Focusing on the target, he breathed in and out and raised his bow, keeping his aim as he began to draw.

A loud crack next to his head, ominous like a clap of nearby thunder, jolted him out of his cherished routine. Shaken, he lowered the bow at once to discover that the smooth upper limb was split beyond repair. Fortunately, he had stopped before full draw, and the wood had not snapped.

‘Orc’s piss,’ he muttered.

The crowd erupted into heartfelt shouts of consternation.

When he prised his gaze away from the splintered wood, Noruion and Ingwion were at his side. ‘Are you hurt?’ asked both men, anxious looks on their faces.

‘No. I did not draw it fully. It is cracked badly, though.’ With a sigh he handed it to Noruion to inspect. ‘I was rather... attached to it.’

Had he not been the focus of so much attention, he would have wept like a little boy whose favourite toy is broken. This bow, Lady Galadriel’s parting gift in Lothlórien, had been precious. Not only for its exceptional quality and workmanship but because of all the hopes he had placed on it, even those that seemed as unattainable as the stars when he faced the hordes of Sauron at the Morannon at the side of his friends and brothers-in-arms. It had been an object of beauty and a trusted weapon, and even more, in his mind: an infallible talisman, and a mute, undemanding ally and companion. Now it was no better than a piece of firewood.

‘I’m sorry, Legolas,’ said Noruion.

‘You should not be,’ replied Legolas, forcing a smile. ‘The match is yours.’

Noruion frowned, then shook his head. ‘Not yet.’ With both hands he offered his own bow, almost a twin to the broken one.

‘No. I would not presume...’

‘It will be my pleasure.’ He gave a shy, lopsided smile. Legolas stared at the dimple that appeared briefly on his cheek. ‘Otherwise I’ll keep wondering if I would have bested you today. Aren’t you curious to find out?’

Touched at the gesture, Legolas saluted, fist to heart, and took the bow with great care. Noruion’s lips curved a little and his eyes lit up with joy. Legolas’ heart thumped painfully. No true archer would lend his bow to someone he did not trust, even less a bow as prized as this one. Legolas doubted he would have been generous enough to reciprocate, had their places been reversed.

The crowd applauded and cheered wildly.

Back at the shooting line, Legolas tested the bow gingerly, shaping his grip upon the leather where Noruion’s hands had already made an imprint. He gauged its pull, possibly a bit heavier than his own, the feel as its slender limbs bent when he drew slowly, before he finally nocked an arrow to the string. He shot, aiming only slightly lower than he would normally have. Noruion’s bow shot as true as his own ever had and the shaft struck the target halfway up between the ground and the mark. Legolas was pleased that he had not miscalculated too badly.

His hands touched Noruion’s as he handed the bow back to him. Noruion’s eyes widened before he hastily lowered his gaze and fumbled with the straps of his bracer. His shot, the last one of the penultimate end, was perfect. After scoring, Noruion was three points in the lead. In the old times, any such advantage on his part would have been extremely rare, and he would have burst into an excess of ribbing and gloating, always short-lived. Today he was quiet, but the smile on his face showed his pleasure.

Chapter VIII

In which Beleg is furious, and everyone else remembers the past

Read Chapter VIII

 

Chapter VIII

Last time Legolas remembered Noruion smiling, they had been bathing in a stream, just before they were attacked and captured by the minions of the Necromancer. Before he had become Sauron’s toy.

Legolas let out a long breath and dismissed the disturbing thought, but the next time he lifted Noruion’s bow to shoot, his whole focus bent on the distant wooden wand, an image flashed before his sight, overlaid against the peaceful backdrop of the green field and the wooded mountain slopes beyond. A scene that had often featured in his nightmares: Noruion slumped against a very similar target, held upright by the bonds that tied him to it. His right eye was pierced by a goose-fletched shaft. For a few loud heartbeats, the merry cheering from the crowd became the crude roar of his enemies.

Blinking the ghosts away, Legolas gritted his teeth and aimed. Before he let go of the string, he knew his arrow would go awry. His eyes were blurry, but the crowd’s gasp of consternation confirmed his instinct. The shot had hit the bottom of the wand. A five, or a six at most.

He stepped off the line, rubbing his hand over his face. Noruion all but leapt into his way, a concerned look on his face. ‘What happened there, Legolas?’

‘Nothing.’ He winced at his own voice, laden with denial and anger. Noruion flinched. Legolas gave a smile of apology. ‘I am tired. Let us just finish this.’

Noruion peered at him but kept quiet. He shot another good arrow, despite the increasingly strong breeze. When his turn came once more, Legolas’ hands were breaking out in sweat, trembling as he nocked, and a cacophony of strident memories kept fighting for mastery over his mind. At full draw he discovered he did not dare let the string slip off his fingers, as though keeping hold of it would keep him safe. Safe from failure. From missing his mark and watching Noruion die. From a silken voice speaking mock disappointment, and commanding his obedience.

A couple of heartbeats later, through sheer willpower to banish all thoughts, the onslaught abated. His heart was racing, his arm shook from the pull of the bow, and he knew he should not release, but nevertheless he did. His last shaft went wide, just missing the target. The orderly rows of spectators rustled amongst surprised whispers and dismayed, sympathetic cries. Legolas no longer cared about them or the contest.  

In fact, he was relieved it was all over. He stretched his sore back muscles, and ran a hand over the back of his neck.

‘Unlucky.’ Noruion’s hazel eyes were as kind as his assessment. Both knew that luck had little to do with an arrow’s path.

Legolas handed him the bow, dipping his head in gratitude once more. Noruion took it with a nod and braced it against his foot to unstring it, before propping it against the forked stand. At Ingwion’s signal, they both followed him and his two mute officials towards the wands, although Legolas already knew what the outcome would be. 

During the walk, he stared at the mountains. All he wished for was to be away, under the cool shade of the forest. He watched a large eagle gliding against the mighty snowed mountain flanks, far above. A surge of homesickness swept over him. Not for his new home in Eryn Annûn, but for his father’s realm, for the careless days of his childhood before the weight of responsibility and the danger encroaching on his people had cast their first shadows, while he still believed that becoming a warrior would make the world’s wrongs right.

When they stopped together by the wands, half of his mind was still elsewhere as Noruion spoke out his scores and the points were duly recorded; likewise, Legolas mumbled his own pitiful results to Ingwion and his men. Noruion picked his own arrows before collecting Legolas’ and offering them back.

‘Thank you,’ said Legolas, looking at his friend after dropping the three shafts into his quiver. His gaze traced the dark whorls and lines climbing up from chest to neck and face like a sapling reaching out to sunlight and rain. He met a worried frown. Guilty about spoiling his friend’s moment of triumph, he forced his lips into a smile. In other times, in other circumstances, they might have celebrated Noruion’s victory, he might have challenged him to a rematch, bantering over cups of wine and hot kisses, turning their lovemaking into another game. Not today. ‘Congratulations, you have shot well. I am pleased for you.’

‘Pleased?’ Noruion’s voice was urgent and loud, his face showing worry under all the paint. ‘You are shivering, and not from pleasure. Is it sunstroke?’

One of the mute officials must have heard this exchange, because he offered Legolas a full leather bottle, stopper already off. Legolas muttered his thanks, raised it with both hands and threw back his head to drink. Cool water trickling down his throat had seldom tasted sweeter.

‘Better?’ asked Noruion, taking the bottle from his hand. ‘You are very pale, Legolas. It is very hot under the sun. Maybe a moment of rest in the shade...’

‘I am well already.’

After walking on a few more steps, Noruion halted. ‘No, you’re not well. What’s wrong?’

Legolas felt too tired to pretend or lie. ‘I saw... you,’ he whispered, aware of their companions. ‘Bound to that damned pole, asking me to kill you. This time I missed the apple, and you died.’

Noruion did not answer. Ingwion and his assistants waited a few steps away. Legolas looked at the murmuring crowd, eager for the official results, though they would hardly come as a surprise, and began to retrace his steps towards the stands. Noruion kept up at his side. In the distance he watched Beleg leave his seat under a small canvas canopy near the royal pavilion and come striding towards them.

‘I often wished you had shot me, Legolas.’ Noruion’s voice was as soft as the breeze. ‘I failed you.’

Legolas stared at his former lover, stunned. ‘Failed? He tormented you to break me. I tried to bear what he... anything, to keep you safe, but sometimes...’ When his voice began to crack, he took a deep breath. ‘I swore to myself that if I missed, I would follow you to Bannoth.’

‘He wouldn’t have allowed you to die.’ Noruion hunched over suddenly and let out a shuddering sigh. ‘Handir...’

‘Your brother. What happened to him?’

Noruion’s grimace made Legolas dread the answer. His words were hardly audible.

‘I tried to rescue him. I failed him, too.’ His voice was toneless, his eyes were shut fast, but tears began to trickle down his cheeks. ‘Handir spurred the Necromancer to wrath, trying to protect me. Sauron’s sorcery kept him alive, bound to his rhaw... despite the... torture. The Necromancer taunted us both, said he would grant him the gift of death but only at my hands, and only if I... earned the right. My brother begged me with every breath and every look. I agreed at last. I did it... I... I strangled him...’ Noruion’s words were broken by a single sob, ‘... five days before the fiend fled from Dol Guldur and our people came through the gates.’ He hid his face in his hands.

‘Ai, Noruion! I...’ Legolas faltered, struck by his friend’s raw grief.  And by a crushing wave of remorse.

Handir’s fate might have been his own. Legolas had been loath to watch one of his realm’s proud warriors broken by years of torment and twisted into a pathetic thrall, and had despised Handir when he believed him a traitor. Seldom had he misjudged someone so badly. Handir’s warped devotion for Sauron had bought Legolas’ life and freedom.

He took a step forward to embrace Noruion when a bruising yank on his upper arm and a growl stopped him short.

‘What have you done to him?’ Beleg’s eyes were bristling with fury. A snarl turned the warden’s painted face into an almost wolf-like mask. Next to Legolas, his greater height added to his already powerful stance. ‘Is this how you repay his kindness?’

Angry, Legolas stared back. He was sick of Beleg’s overbearing presence. ‘This is none of your business. Noruion is my friend.’

‘Friend? That is not what he called you. “My king’s son,” he said.’ Beleg tightened the fingers that clamped Legolas above the elbow. Legolas gritted his teeth to stop himself from flinching.

‘Beleg, you don’t need to...’ protested Noruion.

‘Gentlemen...’ Ingwion raised a hand in admonition.

Beleg did not even glance at the prince, nor did he loosen his grasp. ‘Whatever you think you are to him, lord or friend, do you believe you can walk back into his life and shape it to your whims? He would let you, you know, because he... But I shall make sure you let him be.’

‘Beleg,...’ Noruion started again. ‘He hasn’t...’

‘I do not fear you or your threats, Warden,’ replied Legolas, almost shaking from rage. Ignoring the pain, he pulled his arm free from Beleg’s grip.

Ingwion insisted. ‘Gentlemen, cease this argument.’

Beleg crossed his arms over his chest and disregarded the command. ‘It would be wiser if you did,’ he said to Legolas.

This time, Ingwion’s commanding tone had an edge of annoyance. ‘Step back at once and listen to me.’

Somehow he pushed his way between them. Two stone-faced warriors, hands on sword hilts, had appeared out of nowhere to stand right behind their prince. A flutter of excited whispers rose from the crowd.

Legolas obeyed with reluctance, and so did Beleg. Noruion also took a step back, but then spun on his heels and walked away. Legolas was torn between chasing him and fighting his corner when he watched Galadriel intercepting his friend next to the public stand.

He turned his attention back to Ingwion.

‘What is the reason for this quarrel?’ queried the prince. When neither Beleg nor Legolas volunteered a response, he frowned. ‘Very well. Whatever your dispute, I want it out of my field. Regretfully, the same applies to you, Legolas.’

‘Your Highness, I apologise,’ answered Legolas, still watching Beleg out of the corner of his eye. ‘Indeed I shall be on my way at once. I have a long journey ahead.’ His temples were throbbing with a pain that seemed wrought by a red-hot needle piercing his head from side to side. ‘But I would request a last word with Noruion.’

‘I am afraid your conversation will need to wait until the end of the contest. We are already running late and the final match must start straight away.’ On cue, his two warriors shifted slightly on their feet, as though daring Legolas to disobey their lord’s command.

Jaw clenched, Legolas dipped his head, hand to chest, and strode away to pick up his shattered bow. As he made his way towards the royal pavilion, he saw that Galadriel, now wearing a long white gown and a stern expression on her face, was talking to Noruion. They were too far away to hear their voices. However, words were redundant as he watched his friend rip off the white ribbon from his arm and offer it to her, only to have the Lady pushing his hand back in refusal.

After sketching a hasty bow before the King, Queen, and their courtiers, ignoring smirks, frowns, Elrond’s look of concern, and Ingwë’s evaluating gaze, Legolas left the field through the gap in the stands from where he had entered with Glorfindel in the morning. Despite the lukewarm ovation punctuated by some unfriendly whistling, he held his head high. No doubt his popularity had sunk after what to the spectators must have seemed like a despicable outburst of resentment at being defeated.

Once alone and out of sight from the crowd, Legolas let his shoulders slump. A backwards glance showed him Noruion walking towards the shooting line with Beleg’s protective arm over his shoulders. He could no longer feel angry at such a gesture, not when it was he who had forsaken Handir and his brother. After fleeing Dol Guldur, he had been glad that his father ordered him to stay away from the Necromancer’s lair. But now, he thought he had been a fool to accept that ban. Or maybe he was just a coward.

Legolas walked fast upon the dirt road that traversed the woods south of Valmar. Soon it joined the main tree-lined avenue that cut through immense fields of wheat, still green and rippling lazily under the azure sky. Ahead, the golden roofs and pearly spires of the city glinted like jewels, and on his right, the mighty peaks of the Pelóri were dazzling in their whiteness. Bathed by the sunshine of Valinor, all the colours were too intense, all the edges too crisp. Legolas was grateful for the cool swathes of tree shade that striped the path in front of him, all the way to the city gates.

With a shiver, he strode past the turning that led to the Ring of Doom and the sad remains of the Trees. When he visited the site with Gimli a few years past, the huge blackened stumps and the despoiled soil around them, upon which not even a blade of grass grew, had filled him with a deep sense of loss. How terrible must it have been, he had asked Gimli, to have basked in the wondrous Light of the Trees, only to live through the Darkening? His friend had muttered something about buying a few good lamps, and the weight on Legolas’ heart had been lifted in the banter that followed. Ai, but he missed him!

Losing Noruion to Beleg cut even deeper. He was a fool to dream of rekindling their old friendship, let alone anything else. Noruion had found love and companionship with another; their encounter had only brought him a fresh reminder of grief and of a past that, in Beleg’s company, he was learning to accept and put behind. Legolas was not so fortunate.

Knowing that Noruion did not despise him only made it harder to give him up.  

Weary in rhaw and faer and beset by dark thoughts, Legolas hurried away along the deserted paved road. When he finally noticed that his fingers were sore from clenching the ruin of his mallorn bow, he stopped, grabbed it by one end and hurled it away as far as he could.

‘Damn you, Sauron! Damn you, damn you to the Void and beyond!’ he shouted, as the bow spun skywards and then fell into the green sea of wheat, disappearing from his sight.

Legolas wished he could so easily be rid of his heartache.

 

~o~

 

A gust of wind rose, strong and unexpected. It bent the path of the shaft that had just flown from the string and was about to deal victory and a most honourable defeat.

The crowd roared as the last arrow of the day hit, ending the fierce battle. Galadriel watched the two bowmen as they saluted each other courteously, smiles on both their faces, before they threw themselves into a crushing embrace and a celebratory kiss. As they walked towards the distant targets to record the last set of scores so that the tallies could be complete and the winner proclaimed, she considered what to do with the boon earned through her victory on the previous day.

Ai, Elbereth, she could do with a light-hearted romp, but there was far more at stake.

Guilt about Celeborn was not a concern. Ages of shared toil and seemingly hopeless battle had shaped their marriage into a league of minds and wills bent on protecting their world; their parting had not been the farewell of lovers but of friends, wishing each other peace and gladness and love, wherever they might be found.

Beleg was a different matter. She was indeed glad, even excited, by his bold courting in front of all eyes, although she had been somewhat irritated at his very public claim of ownership. She was shocked to find her heart fluttering at the mere thought of a night with him. Should she reciprocate his interest, when she suspected he hoped for more, as he once had done? And what did she want? Was she willing to explore what might have been, had it not been for her ambition, now sated?

A voice close behind startled her. ‘Why so wistful, sister? Still smarting from coming in fourth?’

Galadriel greeted her brother with a smile. Finrod sat next to her on the bench, still wearing almost nothing. He had once revealed to her that since his release from the chill of Mandos, he relished the warm kiss of sunlight on his bare skin. He threw his arm over her shoulder, and gave her a peck on the cheek.

‘You must be proud; I only clawed my way up to sixth place, after all.’ He laughed and looked at her with great fondness. ‘I wonder how the day might have ended, had I shot against you instead of having the misfortune of facing a dark horse wearing your colours. You always had a good instinct for wagers, sister.’ He squinted towards the targets. ‘What is keeping Ingwion so long? He will have a riot in his hands if he tarries announcing the final result much longer.’

‘Noruion is... was one my charges.’ She glanced at her brother. ‘The one I talked to you about. He was Sauron’s captive for many years and his faer was all but broken when I first met him after the war. It is a long tale, and I do not know all the details. Beleg has taken care of him after he left Lórien.’

‘Noruion said very little about himself while we were shooting, but hope burns bright within him, plain enough for everyone to see. I would say he has found peace at Beleg’s side.’ Finrod scratched his chin. ‘You know, I am confused now. Last week you mentioned you had recruited a wounded warrior into your rogue team. All along today I thought you meant the Sinda who left after the quarrel. He shields himself well, but once or twice I thought I recognised...’

‘Legolas?’ Galadriel recalled the gloomy mood of Thranduil’s son and the confrontation between him and Beleg, no doubt over Noruion.

‘Yes, that would be him. He reminded me of...’ He shook his head. ‘No. Today is not a day for dark tales.’

‘Tell me. I have sensed something amiss, too,’ urged Galadriel. ‘As I did long ago, when I foresaw he would be bound by the sea-longing.’

‘Very well.’ Finrod took a deep breath. ‘After Sauron stripped us of our disguise and threw us into his dungeon, he often had his minions drag Edrahil to him. Not always for questioning, like he did with the rest of us.’ Finrod looked away briefly, as though focusing his mind elsewhere. ‘Near the end, every time they brought him back, Edrahil would ask Beren and me to sing or to tell him a story; he said he could still hear Sauron’s voice whispering inside his head and feel his fingers touching him. Ashamed, Edrahil confessed that he wanted him.  Sometimes he ranted and even hurt himself, wishing to scratch off from under his skin what he thought was a taint. We had to fight him and pull at his chains to make him stop.’ Galadriel felt his shudder, and his arm tightening around her back. Finrod looked back at her, his eyes troubled. ‘I still marvel that we kept faith with each other.’

For a while, they were silent. Galadriel recalled Annatar’s patient seduction of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and how he had cast out a wealth of alluring baits around her, too: knowledge, undying bliss and fairness, promises of power. She shunned him at Ost-in-Edhil not because of foresight, as some believed later, but because she feared to succumb. Elrond had sensed the same veiled seduction in his presence.

Glad for Finrod’s embrace, she pressed her cheek against his shoulder. At length she spoke. ‘So, what of Legolas?’

‘I watched him meet Noruion. He reached out, and Noruion flinched. At that time, in Legolas’ eyes I saw Edrahil’s, and from his mind I perceived... it is impossible to describe, but I am sure I sensed a spark of the same self-loathing, of the desolation that haunted Edrahil, twined with the same darkness.’ He stared at her. ‘The barriers were slammed back up at once, and it was gone. But I did not imagine it.’

‘I trust your perceptiveness, Fin. I do.’ She frowned. ‘But you must be wrong. Thranduil’s son never fell into the clutches of...’

An absurd inkling took root in Galadriel’s mind. Despite incredulity and amazement, it flourished, unfurling into a certainty that could not be denied, fed by the recollection of events she had witnessed, from words that had been spoken and those that had been left unsaid. A truth that explained why Thranduil had been reluctant to elaborate on the details of Durthir’s ordeal, why Legolas was nowhere to be seen at the time the Necromancer was vanquished from Dol Guldur before the Battle of the Five Armies, or why he had reacted so strangely when he heard Noruion’s tale from her own lips and discovered he was alive. Now she also understood Noruion’s refusal to speak about what had caused his distress at the conclusion of his contest with Legolas.

‘I have been blind.’ She grasped Finrod’s hand. ‘And we allowed him to leave with such a burden weighing down his heart, today of all days? Poor, brave lad. We must find him!’

‘We will. Are you asking me to race after him naked?’

Galadriel swatted at her brother’s arm, then bit the inside of her lower lip, thinking. ‘You may have to. In his present mood, he must have packed and departed as fast as possible. He has at least an hour’s advantage.’

Finrod smiled. ‘Sister, have you so easily forgotten that a champion can use the King’s couriers to summon anyone tonight? Or were you planning to spend this eve in solitude?’

‘You are a fool, Fin, but so am I.’ Galadriel jumped to her feet. ‘I must speak to Ingwion. And I need Beleg.’ When her brother smirked, she lifted a menacing finger. ‘Do not dare say a word!’

 

---

Chapter End Notes

The tale of how Handir saved Legolas from Sauron can be found in The Apple of His Eye.

Chapter IX

In which it is Legolas' turn to be furious.

Read Chapter IX

 

Chapter IX

 

To Legolas, Lord of Eryn Annûn,

To honour the champions and celebrate our peoples’ peaceful unity in Aman, I request your presence at tonight’s festivities at your earliest convenience.

Blessed be the Valar.

Ingwion 

After reading the summons a second time, Legolas crumpled the fine parchment in his left hand. A curt reprimand and a clear command, rolled into a single sentence. However, it was not the content of the note that irked him most, but the mode of its delivery. Earliest convenience? He stared at the four armed riders in King Ingwë’s livery, blocking the road ahead. Two more soldiers stood at his back. Six men to deliver a party invitation. Legolas would have laughed at this excess, had he not been truly furious.

He considered turning down the prince’s command. The riders were young; they wore light leather breastplates and carried swords with gilded hilts and tasselled scabbards; their leader, who had produced the parchment from a pouch hanging from his saddle, wore several thick rings on his fingers, including a large signet on his right hand. Legolas wondered if these soldiers had seen duty beyond drills, parades, and ceremonial guard, and whether they had ever faced anyone more dangerous than a drunken brawler. If he waved his hunting knife at them and tried in earnest to push on northwards, how far would they go in order to arrest him?

Even if his chances of success might be worth the attempt, the risk was too great, and not only because someone was bound to be injured. To refuse a direct royal command, resist authority, and draw a weapon would be crass behaviour to add to his already tarnished record; his quarrel with Beleg was already likely to be the matter of gossip for months, even years. The future of Eryn Annûn depended heavily on the goodwill of Ingwë’s court to cement influential relationships and vital trade agreements for his people.

Grudgingly, Legolas allowed the soldiers to lead him back to Valmar. They crossed the city along white paved streets, utterly deserted, rode past the gates of the King’s House, and on through the wheat fields and into the woods that he had crossed on foot only a few hours before.

The sun was setting fast, streaking the sky with pink and golden hues as it grazed the horizon. In the long shadows of dusk, the glow of bonfires flickered between the trees, and the sound of laughter and music rose and fell at the whim of the breeze, which also brought fragrant whiffs of maplewood smoke. The previous evening Legolas had seen the bonfires being built and the tables laid for the banquet in a large glade.

Most of the soldiers flanking Legolas spared longing glances in the direction of the nearby party, but they all pressed on towards the thicker forest that carpeted the lower slopes of Taniquetil itself.

Legolas halted his horse. ‘Where are you taking me?’

The leader of the troop, pale and silver-haired, scowled at him. ‘Do not stop, we are almost there. I— you have already missed the award-giving ceremony and the banquet.’

Legolas did not move. ‘Why did we go past the glade?’

The officer waved his jewelled hand in dismissal. ‘That was the commoners’ feast. The King and his guests are elsewhere, as well as the champions.’ His voice had the impatient, condescending tone he probably reserved for ignorant peasants asking for directions on market day.

‘I see. You like playing at soldiers but are too high and mighty to join your men,’ replied Legolas without disguising his contempt.

The officer’s pale skin turn crimson, dyed into a dark orange hue by the amber light of sunset. Legolas hid his smirk better than the plain soldiers. One of them snorted, and covered his mouth with his hand. In other circumstances Legolas would have never berated a warrior in front of his men, but it had been a very long day. He was exhausted, hungry, annoyed, disappointed, guilt-ridden and love-stricken. In fact, he would rather accompany the soldiers, who were clearly impatient to complete their mission and be off duty. Getting drunk with a happy mob sounded like a far more desirable alternative than fawning to royalty. Why did Ingwion want him? He kicked his mount into a trot, and the soldiers hastened to take their positions around him.

Less than a mile further, they halted again. As soon as he dismounted, he was hurried down a long flight of stone steps set in the hillside, lit on both sides by torches attached to long poles. A servant wearing livery embroidered with the royal house’s white wing waited for them at the bottom of the stair, carrying a bright lamp. After an inaudible exchange with the leader of his escort, the servant led them to a cobbled path on the right. Down they went again into a deep dell, shadowed by large maples, their hanging coppery foliage dappled with bright blood-coloured patches wherever the last rays of sunlight still vanquished the engulfing shadows. As they descended, echoes of distant merrymaking faded, replaced by the sigh of rustling foliage above them. Legolas wished he could curl up to sleep on the long, springy grass under his feet.

At the end of the slope, two sentries with crossed spears allowed their entrance through an archway in a stone wall, garlanded with oak leaves and mallorn flowers. Beyond stretched a winding path, lit by glass lamps on silver stands, slithered away under the maple trees, into the heart of the dell.

As he stepped under the arch, a gust of breeze swirled around Legolas, dropping at his feet a solitary oak leaf. In the light of dusk upon the pale stone the leaf looked almost blue, the hue of the leaves painted on Beleg’s face.

‘Who was today’s champion?’ Legolas asked, dismayed. In his outrage, he had failed to ask.

Nobody answered him; his escort had vanished.

In the distance ahead he heard the ripple of a harp. Not a melody, but someone not too confident with that instrument practising simple plucked scales and chords. Curiosity overcame wariness. He followed the path until he faced an arrangement of hundreds of overlapping silk panels, twice his height, that hung from lines strung from tree to tree across his way, barring from his sight whatever lay beyond. The harp player behind the swaying screens must have heard his steps, because the music stopped.

Legolas went past the last pair of torches and swept aside the sheer silk hangings. He found himself at the edge of a small clearing, maybe forty steps across in size, shielded by banners all around and bathed in starlight. Once his eyes adapted to the dimness, he saw a pool in the centre, rimmed by flat stone slabs and fed by a small gurgling stream. Steam hovered over the surface, rising lazily into white and ghostly swirls. A low table next to the pool, artfully decorated with flowers, held a neat arrangement of soaps, combs, and rolled drying cloths. A second table was laden with trays of pastries, fruit, cheese, and bread, cut crystal bottles and goblets, as well as an earthenware jug and cups. At the sight of the food Legolas’ stomach rumbled, reminding him of its emptiness.

The breeze lifted the steam, revealing white and gold petals strewn on the rippled surface, and bringing to him the scent of water lilies and mallorn flowers.

‘So, they managed to track you. I had my doubts.’

Gritting his teeth, Legolas turned towards the voice. He did not immediately see the man who sat cross-legged by the edge of the water holding a small wooden harp on his lap. He was naked, and his body was covered in leaves painted in woad.

‘Where in Morgoth’s name is Ingwion?’ spat Legolas.

‘Prince Ingwion is likely attending to princely business,’ said Beleg, putting the harp to one side and rising to his feet, agile as a cat. ‘But I was expecting you.’

No, this could not be true. ‘To honour our champions...’ the note had said. ‘Why the fuck did you have me brought here?’ said Legolas. ‘I will not be your bed partner, and if you believe that royal writ gives you any rights, you can shove it up your arse.’

‘You, in my bed?’ Beleg chortled. ‘I see. You are delirious, as well as arrogant.’

Legolas took a step forward, clenching his fingers into a tight fist, ready to punch Beleg’s jeer off his face. ‘Then what in the Void do you want with me? And where is Noruion?’

Beleg raised an imperious hand. ‘I did not ask you to come. As to your second question...’ His unexpected smile was almost feral, his teeth’s whiteness standing out from his dark face. ‘Like you, I am merely answering a summons.’

‘What...?’ Confusion reigned, briefly. Legolas could not contain a gasp, a mix of joy and incredulity. ‘Noruion bested you? Beleg Cúthalion?’

‘Is it so hard to believe, son of Thranduil?’ Legolas looked toward the woman’s voice that had spoken.

Barefoot and clad in a white flowing gown, Galadriel stood by the edge of the clearing. Under a wreath of oak leaves, her unbound locks, bleached into strands of mithril by the stars’ light, tumbled down to her waist. Her eyes were grave, even assessing, under a slightly furrowed brow.  

Unnerved by her scrutiny, Legolas’ gaze moved to another figure standing by her side.  Noruion. He was still naked but for whorls of paint, a scrap of leather and an identical crown of oak leaves on his brow. He stared at Legolas, wide-eyed.

Beleg bent into a deep courtly bow to the newcomers. Despite his nudity, there was nothing ridiculous about his gesture. Still stunned, Legolas followed his example, glad for a moment to gather his jumbled thoughts. When he rose, Noruion was looking straight at him.

Legolas recognised the hunger in his friend’s eyes. Desire curled in his gut, and his mouth went dry. A fierce spark of hope leapt in his heart.

 

~o~

 

Noruion was too dazed to utter even the simplest of greetings.

Looking flushed from the ride and pinched from fatigue, Legolas bowed, both he and Beleg the picture of courtly deference towards him, traitor and murderer. The whole scene seemed utterly impossible. Absurd.

‘I didn’t expect you’d come,’ he said at last, his voice embarrassingly husky.

‘Ingwion’s invitation did not exactly allow for a refusal. But had I known...’ Legolas’ sudden smile caught him by surprise. It was not a polite gesture, but the fond smile of a friend. Relieved, Noruion let out a deep breath. ‘Many congratulations, Noruion. I wish I had stayed to witness your triumph. I must hear all about it, all the details.’

‘Thank you, my l— Legolas. I am not sure I believe it myself yet.’

‘I do,’ grumbled Beleg. ‘That last gust of wind...’

Lady Galadriel laughed. ‘Are you stooping so low as to justify your defeat with such pathetic excuses, Warden? The truth is that you lacked the required level of concentration.’

‘And I wonder whom I should blame for my distraction,’ replied Beleg, staring at her. Then he addressed Noruion, a grin on his painted face. ‘However, my friend, watching you be crowned champion made my own defeat into a triumph of a different kind.’ He reached out, offering his right arm. Noruion’s cheeks blazed as they clasped wrists. ‘What better prize can a master be granted, than to be surpassed by his pupil?’

‘Indeed I could have never chosen a better man to wear my colours,’ said Lady Galadriel, eyes glittering in the starlight.

Beleg scowled at her. ‘No need to twist the arrow in the wound, my lady,’ he said. ‘Although, if I recall your words correctly, a certain balm you possess may soothe the sting of defeat.’

‘Perhaps later,’ said the Lady, waving a graceful hand as though to dismiss something trivial. ‘Tell us, Noruion, what was it like to hear Ingwion call your name?’

‘Winning the contest was… it felt impossible,’ replied Noruion. Encouraged by nods and smiles from his three companions, he continued. ‘Incredible.’ He reached out to touch Beleg’s shoulder briefly. ‘This morning your victory was as certain for me as the rising of Anor in the east every day at dawn. Then…’ His eyes darted between Beleg and Legolas, both men so different, so beloved. ‘I had doubts as to who would prevail.’ His gaze fixed on Legolas. ‘If your bow hadn’t snapped…’

‘You allowed me a second chance, and yet I was not good enough to best you,’ said Legolas, bowing lightly.

‘The crowd went wild at the end,’ said the Lady. ‘You would have been proud, Legolas.’

‘I regret I was not there, Noruion,’ replied Legolas. ‘I would have cheered the loudest when you stepped forth to receive the victor’s wreath. Pray, tell me.’

Noruion reached up to his brow without thinking, and his fingers grazed the leathery oak leaves. Before today, he had only seen one man wearing a crown like this: Legolas' father, King of Eryn Galen. Now the glint of joy in Legolas’ eyes and his words of praise made Noruion feel happier and richer than the mightiest king in Arda. 

He nodded once, his cheeks blazing. ‘When the prince announced the final results, everyone hailed so loudly that the ground shook. I… I couldn’t hear my own thoughts. The King handed the wreath to the Queen, and she smiled and placed it on my head, but I can’t recall what they said to me. She had to ask me twice for my ribbon. Your ribbon, my Lady,’ he added, looking at Galadriel. ‘I kept expecting to wake up. It took me a while to believe it was all real.’ He took a long, deep breath, and let it out. ‘Then the feast, and the banquet… It used to be easier to fight orcs than to greet all of those important people who rushed to congratulate me.’ Silently he added, Oh, Legolas, if only you knew how much I missed you at my side...

‘Facing the adulation of half of Valinor naked but for a scrap of leather and some paint is no mean feat,’ said Lady Galadriel, her eyes fastened on Beleg. ‘Neither was it easier without the paint yestereve, if you must know.’

Beleg gave a small gasp; a muscle in his jaw bulged under the painted skin, and the lump in his throat bobbed up and down several times, as though he struggled to swallow. Noruion bit down a snort.  

‘Now, my friends, we toast,’ Galadriel said. ‘Would you do the honours and fill our cups, Warden?’ She tilted her head towards the tables. With a curt nod, Beleg strode away.

‘Who summoned him?’ muttered Legolas.

‘I did,’ said Noruion.

Legolas looked away, pressing his lips together.

Faced with his lord’s jealousy, Noruion regretted his earlier decision. Choosing Beleg as his partner had come naturally, once he finally accepted that Legolas had left for good. Now his regret was further spurred by the tingling pressure in his groin that had robbed him of his wits the moment he saw Legolas across the clearing.

Beleg returned with a plain earthenware jug in one hand and four small cups, like those used for strong spirits or medicine, cradled in the palm of his other hand. He offered one cup to each of his companions, and kept the fourth.

Noruion examined his cup. It was unglazed and unadorned except for patterns made of dimples etched in the clay, all around. Functional and with a simple kind of beauty but no doubt the work of an unskilled craftsman or a child. As he looked up, he saw the same puzzlement mirrored in Lady Galadriel’s eyes. Surely she favoured precious objects, but was too courteous to criticize Beleg’s choice of crockery, most bizarre when a set of delicate cut crystal goblets glinted on the table, neatly arranged by the trays of food.

‘I have never seen the like. Where did they come from?’ she asked.

‘From Cuiviénen,’ said Beleg, holding up his cup. ‘I was there when my people offered them as gifts to Araw, proud of what our minds and hands had learnt to do. He brought them back to Aman to show his kindred, who marvelled at the skills of the Eldar. I feel honoured that he allowed me to borrow these tonight.’

‘Lord Tauron did?’ said Noruion. With great care he nestled the cup in the hollow of his joined hands and studied it with more care, noticing that the inside was actually glazed, though the dark vitreous surface was irregular and covered in tiny marks. After a closer inspection in the dim light he guessed they must have been caused by air bubbles.

‘Yes, as well as this,’ said Beleg. He raised the jug for them to see. ‘This, my friends, is the most precious draught in Arda.’ Noruion saw Legolas’ eyebrows rise. ‘Limpë. Tauron used to bring it to us during the Journey, to help with the healing of our injuries and to renew our strength.’

‘What is it made of?’ asked Legolas.

‘There are many kinds of limpë, but Araw’s is distilled from the sap of the most ancient trees at the heart of the Great Forest, mixed with a drop each of the dew of Telperion and rain from Laurelin,’ said Beleg.

‘I was taught Ungoliant drank the vats dry,’ said Legolas as he took a step back, a frown on his face.

Noruion held his breath.

‘Believe or not, as you will,’ replied Beleg unfazed. ‘But my lord told me that when Yavanna realised the Trees would be no more and Fëanor chose to withhold his jewels, she searched high and low to gather what remained in small stores and containers all over Arda. As you can imagine, she uses this treasure sparingly now, almost a drop at a time where it is most needed.’

‘How can Araw making limpë be a necessity?’ queried Legolas.

Beleg stared at him. ‘In the old times, we rescued a few of those taken by the Hunter, or they escaped and were found before they became—, before it was too late. Tauron offered them limpë if their faer struggled to overcome the shadow. Sometimes it helped.’

Legolas looked down briefly before turning an accusing glare on Noruion. Noruion would have shaken his head in denial, but he was very aware of the sharp gaze of Lady Galadriel darting to and fro between him and Legolas.

At last she broke the tense silence. ‘As well as curing our ills and bringing renewed vigour to our immortal flesh, limpë is renowned for its virtue of taking away old desires and awakening new ones. What will these be when we drink the blood of the forest, Warden?’

Beleg’s lips twitched, almost into a smile. ‘The drought does nothing of the sort, though it may indeed show your true desires more clearly. Would you care to try, my lady, or shall I bring the wine instead?’

The Lady nodded. ‘I would try, gladly.’

The slight tilt of Beleg’s head as he turned to look at Noruion spoke a mute invitation to join them.

‘How about Legolas?’ asked Noruion.

‘Of course, if he so wishes,’ said Beleg. His eyes sparkled with mischief in the starlight. ‘I believe he and I have already established the limits of our involvement tonight, with or without limpë or royal writ.’

Confused, Noruion shifted his gaze to a scowling Legolas.

‘Yes, we have,’ said Legolas, dryly. ‘But I would be a fool to refuse the chance to partake of such a wondrous toast. However, I need to know something first. Who claimed my company tonight, if not Prince Ingwion?’

‘I did,’ said Galadriel. Legolas’ face darkened, but she gave him a warm smile. ‘I am glad to have you here, Legolas. You are amongst friends.’ Legolas glanced sidelong at Beleg, who did not refute or confirm the Lady’s assertion. ‘So, let us gather together,’ she commanded.

Noruion faced Legolas across the small circle. On his right, Galadriel faced Beleg, who stood on his left. ‘Pour your master’s brew, Warden, and speak the toast!’

Beleg filled their cups with a clear liquid. Looking in turn at his companions, Noruion raised his hand in time with the others to touch their cups in the centre of their circle. He found Legolas’ keen eyes and, after their gazes sparred for a fleeting few heartbeats, they broke contact to look at Beleg.

‘To life, to joy, and to love!’ said Beleg loudly. His voice echoed eerily against the trees that surrounded them. As though stirred by his words, the silk banners fluttered and flapped in the gusty breeze. Noruion had never met Araw, but Beleg suddenly seemed far more powerful than a man, almost as though the Lord of Forests himself were speaking through him. ‘May we learn to banish the weariness wrought by time. May we behold the wonders found under the stars with the delight of children, as we once did by the waters of life. May we rejoice in those who love us, and in the gifts that Ilúvatar give us, fëar and hröar.’ He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘To the end of our journey where we will come into the light!’ Then he dipped his head to Galadriel first, and then to Noruion. ‘To our champions!’

Moved by Beleg’s words, Noruion almost forgot to follow his example. Belatedly, he raised the cup to his lips and took a small sip.

This limpë was nothing like the disgusting syrupy liquid bearing the same name that he had been given in the gardens of Lórien. This draught was cold, almost icy, and it had very little taste, or so it seemed at first. But as he gulped it down, his tongue and nostrils tingled with the strong, lingering scents of moist loam and new spring leaves, and with the rich taste of mixed fruits, fresh and spicy, sweet and tart all at once, both familiar and alien.

Warmth trailed down his throat, and spread into his chest and belly, further into his groin and along his limbs to the tips of his fingers and toes. His scalp prickled, his bare skin crawled with goosebumps raised by the gentle kiss of the breeze, as though sparks were running all over his body. There was no pain or discomfort; in fact, after an initial wariness, the sensation was rather pleasant, not even spoiled by the leather thong straining to contain his rock-hard erection.   

All of a sudden, the ground seemed to tilt and he was no longer in a starlit clearing in a dell, but beating his heels and clapping his hands to the hypnotic pounding of drums and the chanting of many voices. His hands joined him to a woman on his right and a man on his left, the three of them part of a large circle that wheeled around a fierce bonfire. The sparks crackled loudly, and leapt high. Somehow he was not startled when he looked up and noticed that the stars spun as he danced, lighting the sky with curved silver paths as they moved. Sweat trickled down his spine, but he felt no fatigue; an exhilarating joy pulsed hot in his veins and awoke within him an urge to sing, to jump, to run, and to rut.

His head swirled and the scene wavered, and faded. Noruion longed to return to that place full of song and stars, unknown and yet utterly familiar, like a happy memory from his earliest childhood, blurry-edged but precious. He blinked, and was back with his companions. The three of them seemed equally dazed, inhaling deeply, eyes wide and wild, like deer about to bolt. Had they shared the same vision? Had they stepped, like him, into a scene from their people’s ancient past before the Shadow, or perhaps into the promise of a joyful future? It mattered not, not tonight. He laughed, before drinking the rest of the limpë, savouring its coolness and an increased awareness of his own rhaw, and of what was around him.

The shadows were less dark, the stars shone brighter, he could hear every leaf and blade of grass rustling in the breeze, see every curl of steam rising from the pool, and taste on his tongue the perfume of the petals strewn on its surface. He could sense every movement his companions made, every breath they drew, and his nostrils were filled with the exciting, rich scents from their rhaw: sweat, musk, dust, traces of soap, and the Lady’s mallorn flower perfume, faint but sweet. Their heartbeats thudded fast and strong, like his own, all of them entwined into a hypnotic pattern, like the drums of his vision. The tiny prickle of every single hair on his body standing made him shiver with pleasure.

He felt alive and alert like never before, not even at the edge of battle. His faer reached out to touch the fragile twitches of consciousness from sleeping birds nestled on branches, and from mice scuttling under the ferns; his ears picked up the slow beating of wings of an eagle flying overhead. A fox’s paws pattered away on the soft, leaf-covered ground.

Again, his eyes met Legolas’ across the circle, hoping he was sharing the same sense of wonder. But his friend was still caught inside his own dream, whatever it was.

‘Stay with him,’ said Galadriel. ‘Darkness followed you both across the sea. Leave it behind tonight, and rejoice.’

Noruion looked at her, then at Beleg, questioning.

‘You love him,’ said Beleg.

‘Yes. But I also…’ Noruion dropped his gaze. ‘You and I—‘

‘Shhh. I know,’ said Beleg. His voice was soft, free of anger. Noruion willed himself to look up at his friend. In Beleg’s eyes he saw kindness, and perhaps concern. ‘Love takes many guises. I would have gladly been your companion tonight, but fate—steered by a headstrong woman—has strived to bring Legolas back to you.’

Galadriel smiled. ‘Indeed it has, and now I trust you will take the helm.’

‘Me? How?’ asked Noruion.

‘You are fighting your hardest battle ever, against an enemy you carry within,’ said Beleg, placing a hand over Noruion’s heart. ‘It has not ended yet—it may never end, but your victory was assured when you began to believe in yourself again. Now you must guide Legolas out of the darkness, as I have guided you. Trust each other. You are strong, my brother, and so is he.’  

Noruion nodded, but he was not sure he understood fully. What darkness did Legolas carry?

Beleg gave him an encouraging squeeze on his shoulder and, taking the Lady’s hand, walked with her around the pool. They sat side by side on the stone ledge.

Noruion watched them kiss, slowly, for a long time. When they paused to breathe, they laughed. Beleg put his arm over her shoulders to draw her closer, and they kissed again, more ardently this time. Without parting, Galadriel began to release the ties of Beleg’s hair and to undo his braids, while Beleg ran the back of his hand slowly down her cheek.

Uncomfortable, Noruion looked at Legolas once more and found him blinking, coming out of his reverie. He stepped forward to seize his lord’s shoulders. ‘Are you well?’

When no answer came, Noruion’s rhaw refused to be reined in any longer. Whether fuelled by limpë or by a desire that had been building up all day, doubts, fears and rules were pushed away.

He kissed Legolas full on the lips.

Legolas did nothing. He did not step back, but neither did he return the kiss.

---

Chapter End Notes

The idea for the particular ingredients of the variety of limpë featuring in this story is my own, but limpë is Tolkien's invention, first appearing in the "Book of Lost Tales":

'Now this which we put into our cups is limpe, the drink of the Eldar both young and old, and drinking, our hearts keep youth and our mouths grow full of song, [...]'

'Nor do we so, for we have limpe,' said she, 'limpe that alone can cure, and a draught of it giveth a heart to fathom all music and song.'

Chapter X

In which Legolas finds the tables turned on him.

Read Chapter X

 

Chapter X

 

Noruion hesitated, and was about to break away when two strong arms crushed him into an embrace, more desperate than ardent. Legolas tilted his head and his lips parted. Noruion’s tongue was quick to explore, savouring the taste and touch of a dream that he had long despaired of coming true. He wriggled about to free his arms, and buried his fingers in Legolas’ hair, gently cradling his head. Legolas’ tiny moan of pleasure inside his mouth echoed through him like the thunder that follows a bolt of lightning. His cock strained against the tight leather loincloth.

In the end, they had to part to breathe. Legolas laughed, and pulled Noruion closer. His hands, strong and possessive, slid down the bare skin of Noruion’s back, very slowly. Noruion shivered with pleasure. A gasp escaped his lips when Legolas’ erection nudged his thigh through the fabric of his trousers. All remaining fears of rejection fled his mind.

‘Ever since I shot that damned apple I have wished for this,’ said Legolas.

Noruion’s pounding heart leapt to his throat, and his eyes prickled with unshed tears, but he managed to smile. ‘So have I,’ he whispered.

Legolas moved his head a little, to look sideways. When Noruion’s gaze followed, he saw the Lady sitting in a shallow part of the pool, water lapping at her bare breasts. Beleg knelt behind her, one hand around her waist and reaching up to her breast, the other under the water at her front, while he nuzzled her neck and she caressed his face. They seemed both oblivious to anything but each other.

‘It looks as though Lady Galadriel, who requested my services tonight, is otherwise occupied, and will remain so for a while,’ said Legolas. ‘But will Beleg beat me into a pulp if I dare do anything but touch you?’ Despite the jest, his eyes were wary.

Noruion smiled and shook his head. ‘You are safe.’

Legolas let out his breath. ‘In that case, my most honoured champion, what do you command?’

‘I can hardly command my prince, can I?’

‘I was brought under armed guard to honour you tonight.’ Legolas’ voice was teasing. ‘It seems I am at your mercy.  But I doubt you will find me unwilling.’

Very slowly, Noruion touched Legolas’ face, fingers trembling as they brushed his jaw.  The catch in his breath was almost a sob. ‘I can’t believe you are here. I keep fearing I’ll wake up.’

Legolas cupped Noruion’s hand with his own, and turned his head to nuzzle his palm. ‘If I am to be a dream, I shall not allow it to fall short of your desire.’

Noruion’s knees almost gave out. Then he snorted. ‘You are overdressed for my kind of dream,’ he said. Legolas immediately reached for his belt. Boldly, Noruion grasped his wrist. ‘No. Be still. I want to unwrap my prize.’  

Legolas dropped his hands to his sides. Noruion fumbled with the three small buckles that had to be undone, almost regretting his words when the damned prongs would not come free. Once the belt fell to the ground, he pulled the suede tunic over his friend’s head as Legolas raised his arms and wriggled out of it. The shirt underneath was not made of the fine silk a lord might wear, but of a homely cotton weave, cut in the same design Noruion remembered from Eryn Galen. As he loosened the laces down the front with shaky hands, he noticed a pattern of little oak leaves embroidered around the neck. When the fabric parted revealing a tempting sliver of Legolas’ chest underneath, Noruion paused in his task to slide his hands over the smooth skin. Legolas squirmed a little, perhaps ticklish, but kept still and closed his eyes, his lips curving into a smile under the gentle caress of Noruion’s fingers.

At that moment Ithil rose over the top of the trees, bathing Legolas in silver light. Noruion grasped the shirt and pulled it off, almost ripping it in his haste. The glow of moonlight turned Legolas’ bared skin into a landscape of pearl and shadow. Noruion’s fingers explored the contours of hard muscle at the shoulders, glided over silk-like skin along the collarbones, meeting at the hollow of his neck where the pulse drummed fast. They dwelled there a little, before tracing wavy paths down his chest, very slowly. Noruion was delighted to see his friend shiver, and to feel goose bumps rise on his skin.

He undid the buttons at the waist of Legolas’ trousers, and yanked the garment down. The loincloth followed, and Legolas’ cock jumped free. Then Noruion bent down to lick its whole length, upwards, and to twirl his tongue around the head. Ah, that taste… The oak wreath was getting in the way; he took it off and dropped it gently on the grass, to one side. He closed his mouth on the tip of Legolas’ cock and gave it a quick, teasing suck. Legolas’ hands cupped his bare head, and tried to push him down, but Noruion wriggled out of reach and grinned. In the past it had usually been Legolas who teased him into frenzy with prolonged foreplay, but this time, and despite his own blazing arousal, Noruion was keen to savour the dream, to draw out this night of wonder for as long as he could.

‘Stop torturing me,’ murmured Legolas, his voice hoarse. ‘Or in a blink you will find yourself lying on your back.’

‘A vain threat, and you know it,’ chuckled Noruion. He looked down at Legolas’ trousers, tangled below the knees.

Legolas lifted one foot, trying to pull them free, but they were caught by the boots he was still wearing. He shrugged with a little smile. ‘Right. I am stuck.’

‘Stay still.’ Noruion kissed those lovely lips, before crouching down to remove the hobbling boots and trousers.

When he stood up, the sight of Legolas waiting, desperately aroused, made him giddy with need. The cursed thong that held his leather loincloth was biting him between the cheeks. Tugging at the knots, it came free at once. Then, without a word of warning, he assaulted his lord and friend. His hands roved, his nails scratched, his lips kissed, his tongue licked, his teeth grazed and nipped. The moans of pleasure wrought by this onslaught were utterly delicious, an unneeded spur to persevere. Legolas kept squirming, but his arms remained at his sides, hands clenched.

Delighted by the response, Noruion doubled his efforts. Had their places been reversed, he would have lacked the willpower—or the inclination—to exert such self-control. How long would Legolas play this game before he took the lead, as he ever had in the past?

It took longer than expected, but when Noruion decided to suck his friend’s ear tips, he reaped victory at last.

‘Stop!’ cried Legolas, half weeping, half laughing. Noruion blew inside his ear. ‘Please!’ he begged again, shutting his eyes.

But Noruion was enjoying this teasing game too much. ‘Stop? You used to praise the merits of not rushing, and gave me little chance to disagree. Did you not often help me curb my impatience —your words, not mine—with a belt, a quiver strap, or even a fiendish bowstring knotted at my wrists?’

‘Is this… your revenge, then?’ panted Legolas, bent down a little, as though he had just run a race. ‘Turning the tables on me?’

Noruion did not answer. Instead he launched his boldest attack yet, kneeling in front of Legolas to take him in his mouth while he kneaded his balls in one hand, and ran two fingers of the other up between the cheeks. Legolas’ hips jerked forward. Noruion smiled around the hard cock in his mouth and applied himself to the task with even more gusto, but always cautious not to push his willing victim over the edge.

No, it was not revenge, but it was sweet nevertheless.

Legolas seemed ready to grant him undisputed rule over his body, yet another wonder in a day where every unattainable wish had become reality. All of Noruion’s blood rushed to his cock. Morgoth’s bollocks! Would he be allowed to…?

His desire for foreplay was suddenly over. He jumped to his feet. ‘Legolas,’ he stammered, ‘shall we…?’

His companion’s eyes were dark, unfocused, his breath fast and shallow. ‘Sweet Elbereth! Do anything you want, but finish me off.’

Noruion looked around. Beleg and the Lady were nowhere to be seen. In several strides he was standing by the table that held the towels and soap. After a hasty inspection, he chose a small glass bottle from the table and raised it against the moonlight, shaking it lightly. Then he unstoppered it and sniffed carefully. Oil, mixed with some flowery fragrance. It would have to do.

Rushing back to Legolas, he touched his wrist and showed him the bottle.  

Legolas smiled. ‘Shall we go under the trees?’

‘I’d rather…’ Noruion licked his lips. ‘I— I dislike darkness for… for this.’

Something flickered in Legolas’ eyes. ‘I understand,’ he said.

Then Noruion found himself falling. Legolas had tackled him and now pressed him hard into the grassy ground, covering him with his body and devouring him with his lips.

‘The Legolas I remember is back at last,’ laughed Noruion. ‘I was beginning to worry.’

Legolas stopped at once. ‘You were? Why?’ He was staring at him, alarmed.

‘You have been too…’ Noruion searched in his mind for the right word, one that would not be insulting. Tame? Meek? Not your usual overpowering, lordly self whom I loved to worship? He shook his head. ‘Not as pushy as I remembered you.’

‘I see.’ Smiling, Legolas rolled on the ground while pulling Noruion with him until their positions were reversed and Noruion straddled him. ‘I am sorry, I forgot. You are in command.’ Noruion pushed his lover’s hands to the ground. Was Thranduil’s son allowing himself to be pinned down without a fight?

Legolas wriggled up to rub against him. ‘You are enjoying this too much.’

‘Why shouldn’t I?’ whispered Noruion. ‘This must definitely be a dream. You never used to…’

The smile faded on Legolas’ face. ‘That was a long time ago.’ He took a deep breath. ‘But tonight…’ He tilted his hip, to grind his cock against Noruion, and his eyes glittered again. ‘Tonight is yours. As am I.’

Noruion bent down and kissed him on the mouth. At first he tightened his grip on Legolas’ hands, pushing against the resistance that raised the tendons in Legolas’ forearms every time their position shifted. But soon he let go and instead dug his fingers into the strands of pale gold strewn around Legolas like a crown. Once his arms were free, Legolas reached up to embrace him. Strong fingertips dug into his back and travelled along twin paths down both sides of his spine, awaking delicious tingles and shivers, until they found a ridge, the long, rope-like scar of a particularly vicious whip wound. The fingers stilled. Noruion winced, broke the kiss, and would have jumped up, had Legolas’ strong grip not prevented it. He forced himself to look at Legolas, dreading what he would see: lips twisted in distaste, a gaze full of pity, or both.

He saw neither.

‘Do they hurt you?’

‘No. But I—, they...’ Noruion shook his head.

Carefully, Legolas took one of Noruion’s hands and guided it to his lips. He kissed the wide scar circling his wrist, its outline visible under the dark twirls of paint. The loathed mark of shackles, that kept him chained to his past, to treason, and terror. Noruion held his breath.

‘There is no shame in what the enemy did to you. You fought them. You survived, despite their cruelty.’ A muscle shifted in Legolas’ jaw, his hands tightened his grip. ‘Sauron is gone. He could not break you.’

‘He did break me.’ Noruion tried to rise, but Legolas pulled him back down and cupped his head. Their mouths were close enough for Noruion to feel the warmth of Legolas’ breath on his lips.

‘You bested Beleg Cúthalion today. Tauron has named you one of his chosen. Kings and queens bow to you.’ Legolas embraced Noruion again, tightly. ‘I look at your scars and see nothing but the strength of a warrior.’ Legolas prised Noruion’s fist open and kissed the palm, then ran his fingers along the whorls of paint. ‘A fierce warrior, out of legend.’ He shifted, and his erection dug into Noruion’s hip. ‘I want you. I ache for you, my love.’ His eyes were expectant, inviting. Still hungry.

My love. At last, Noruion dared to believe. A pulse of renewed desire made him shudder. Dizzy with joy and lust, he sank into the embrace, pressed his lips against Legolas’ eager mouth, and his body to his lover’s. Legolas’ touch, hot as flame, set his skin on fire.

He could not have said how long they lay like that, reclaiming without hurry what once was familiar, revelling in the thrill of learning it all anew, as beloved now as it once was, and far more precious after having lost it, along with the hope to ever recover it.

Sometime later Legolas gripped his shoulders and drew back a little, breathless. ‘You are killing me,’ he said, his voice hoarse. Reaching blindly, he searched for something on the ground. ‘I found it!’ he cried in triumph, holding up the little glass bottle. ‘Now, if you would climb off me...’

Noruion rolled away. Legolas poured a trickle of oil on his palm and gave Noruion’s cock a few strokes to make it slick, then lay on his back on the grass and began to open himself with his fingers. Mesmerised, Noruion took himself in hand.

‘Stop,’ panted Legolas. ‘You must not come… yet.’

Noruion caressed Legolas along his inner thighs instead, relishing his soft gasps and whimpers. Soon enough Legolas went on all fours and looked over his shoulder. ‘Do it,’ he said. ‘I want you.’

Noruion knelt behind him. Bending over, he brushed his palm down Legolas’ erection and cupped his balls, tight and heavy in his hand. Legolas rocked back against him, shattering Noruion’s last twinges of apprehension. While peppering kisses on his lover’s back, he guided his shaft to the right place with a trembling hand, and began to push in slowly, afraid he would cause hurt.

Legolas had no such qualms. He thrust back, almost knocking Noruion off his knees. Noruion held onto Legolas’ hip to brace himself, and pushed in all the way. He stayed still, savouring the exquisite tightness.

‘Move!’ barked his lover. Ever the one in control, even now. Noruion chuckled and obeyed.

It did not take long. A few thrusts, a few strokes, and both of them found their release. Noruion collapsed on Legolas’ back, a rain of sparks flashing behind his closed eyes. He abandoned himself to the dizziness that took over his body, flooding his limbs with tremors down to the tips of his fingers and toes. Underneath, Legolas shook like a leaf, valiantly holding his weight, but in the end he collapsed to lie flat on the ground, Noruion sprawled on top of him.

When at length he could string his thoughts together, and the world reverted back to a dull silver sheen, Noruion kissed his lover’s nape. With his face buried in Legolas’ hair, he inhaled his warm scent. This was what happiness smelled like.

‘Thank you.’

‘You have it the wrong way round,’ murmured Legolas, his face still against the grass. He turned his head to one side and took a deep breath. Noruion kissed his cheek and tasted tears. Not his own.

‘Legolas?’ Shocked, he slid to the ground, and his friend turned to lie on his side, facing him. ‘Did I hurt you? I was worried. You have never—’ He bit his tongue, too late. Of course Legolas would have felt another man’s cock inside him. Or maybe not a man’s. Sauron’s.

‘No. You did not hurt me. It was perfect.’ If Legolas had noticed Noruion’s blunder, he did not show it. He wiped off the wet trails down his cheeks. ‘This is… nothing.’

Noruion frowned. ‘It has been a long day,’ he conceded. But he hoped it was not over yet. ‘Would you…?’ He opened his arms. Legolas smiled weakly and pressed his body to Noruion’s. He was trembling, and kept fidgeting, as though no position was comfortable on their soft grass bed.

‘Can’t you sleep?’ mumbled Noruion after a while, fighting to stay awake. ‘Is anything wrong?’

‘Everything is fine. I guess I am too excited. You sleep.’ Legolas kissed his brow, and Noruion sighed, sated and happy. The whisper of the maple leaves in the breeze and the gurgling water in the pool lulled him to exhausted slumber, entwined in an embrace with the man he loved.

 

 

‘No... Please, no!’

Noruion staggered into awareness at the sound of Legolas’ voice, and blinked under the bright moonlight.

His lover, lying next to him, was stirring in his sleep. The muscles in his arms and shoulders shifted and strained under the smooth skin. His back arched, his hands stayed clenched on their grassy bed, and his head was flung to one side, then the other, as though in pain.

‘Yes, please. More...’ Legolas sobbed.

Or perhaps not in pain. A glance confirmed his friend’s arousal. But Noruion knew it was no remembrance of their early love making. Legolas was speaking in the High-elven tongue.

Careful not to jolt Legolas out of sleep, Noruion drew him into his arms, cradling his head on his shoulder. Legolas’ cock dug into his thigh. His lover moved against him, rubbing himself for friction. Noruion took him in hand while kissing his brow, his eyes, and his parted lips. Legolas’ ragged breath tickled his nose and lips as he came, after a few firm strokes.

‘Do not hurt him,’ murmured Legolas, struggling to push him away. ‘My lord. Please. Mairon.’ He was still asleep.

Noruion’s heart did a painful flip in his chest. He tightened his arms gently, while kissing Legolas again. ‘Sleep, my love.’ Legolas gave a low whimper and nestled into the embrace, closer to him, tense as a drawn bow despite release.

An owl hooted softly and flapped away. Dawn was coming, betrayed also by the paleness beyond the canopy of maple branches that now began to glow like copper.

Noruion was tired. His shoulders burnt from drawing the bow, and he could feel every single scrape from the climb with Beleg. But all of that was forgotten as he embraced a fretful Legolas, inhaling the scent of his hair and letting it tickle his lips and chin.

‘I won’t let darkness have you,’ he whispered.

White sunbeams filtered through the tree trunks when Legolas started to fight Noruion’s cradling arms in earnest. Noruion held on while murmuring soothing words, but an elbow rammed into his belly forced him to let go.

‘Legolas, stop!’ he cried, winded. ‘You are safe.’

Legolas sat up, eyes wide and fists clenched.

  

~o~

 

The bindings were gone, but Legolas’ heart still thrashed like a trapped wild creature. Slowly, his gaze focused, and he saw trees—maples—above. Next to him, a man sat on his heels, naked, his skin covered in shapes traced in dark dye. The man leant down towards him. Behind the paint, Legolas recognised a familiar face. Not his face. Noruion’s.

Legolas sighed, relieved. The early sun warmed his skin. He took a deep breath.

‘Awake at last?’ Noruion was pressing both hands over a spot under his ribs. ‘I won’t try to kiss you otherwise.’ His smile was pained.

Remembering his struggle, a hot wave of shame crept up Legolas’ cheeks and ears. ‘Did I—? I am sorry. You should have awoken me.’

Noruion shrugged. ‘I thought it might pass.’

Legolas was not fooled. ‘Did I speak?’ Dread fell on him, cold and suffocating as the dream’s memories flooded him. He was spread-eagled on Mairon’s bed, helpless and wanton. Clever hands, a hot mouth… ‘Did I…? What else did I do? Tell me the truth!’

‘You… you thought you were with him. You asked him not to hurt someone. Me, perhaps. That’s all.’

Noruion held Legolas’ gaze, lips pressed tight, but Legolas well knew how his dreams of the Dark Lord inevitably ended.

Chagrin and anger raged through him. Leaping to his feet, he said, ‘I must get ready to leave.’

‘What?’ Noruion grasped his wrist. ‘Leave? No, you can’t. Please.’

Legolas steeled himself and said what must be spoken. ‘Whyever not? You do not need me, and surely you do not want someone at your side so twisted as to crave Gorthaur’s touch.’ His heart hammered in his throat. ‘I would be grateful if you kept my secret, if only for the sake of our friendship.’

He tried to shake his arm free, but Noruion did not let go. He was pale, his jaw clenched, and a dark glare in his eyes. Legolas had expected no less after such a confession; he was glad there was no knife or other weapon at hand.

‘Answer me one thing, the truth, and I will let you go,’ said Noruion. Legolas nodded. ‘Did you mean it, both when you said you saw strength in me despite my scars, and when you called me “my love”?’

‘Yes. Both times.’

The hand locked on his wrist released him and moved up to his shoulder, then caressed his cheek.

‘You said there was no shame in what the enemy did to me. You reminded me that Sauron is gone, and that I survived, despite all.’ Noruion let out a long breath. ‘Tell me how all of this is different for you.’

‘Of course it is completely different. Can you not understand? I was his lover. Willingly. Not at first, but then… I desired him, and I still do! I do not even know if I want to be rid of him. I do love you, as I have never loved anyone, but what can we have, you and I, when I am still in his thrall?’

‘We can have what we had last night, and much more.’ Legolas shook his head, but Noruion carried on, unfazed. ‘What you say he still does to you, what I’ve seen… That only means your scars are inside you. Either you believe your own words about strength and survival or you don’t. If you don’t… you might as well kill me, my lord, because you make me into a traitor who spilled his king’s secrets into the enemy’s ear to buy a chance to live.’

The “my lord” felt like a slap. Worse still, Noruion walked to the table by the pool and returned with a narrow carving knife. He placed the hilt on Legolas’ hand and knelt at his feet.

‘As a man of Eryn Galen, I seek justice. Speak judgement, my lord,’ he said, looking at the ground.

‘Stand up,’ snarled Legolas, disturbed by the ritual words.

‘Not until you do your duty, my lord. It is my right.’

Legolas flung the knife away, but Noruion did not move. With a sigh of defeat, Legolas crouched before his lover.

‘I believed the words I spoke. Of course I did. But there’s still a difference. You have overcome your darkness, while I…’ Noruion’s arms closed around him, warm and safe.

‘Then let me help you.’ Noruion’s fingers tilted Legolas’ chin up to make him look into his eyes. ‘I could ask Beleg to get you more of that limpë. It did the trick last night, didn’t it?’

Legolas laughed, even though the hard knot growing in his throat was threatening him with tears. ‘Now, finally an offer I cannot turn down.’ He chuckled, relieved. ‘But first I need a bath.’

‘The pool looks inviting,’ agreed Noruion, rubbing his thumb on his forearm. The paint didn’t smudge. ‘I’m going to need a good scrub.’ He looked down at himself. ‘Everywhere.’

‘You do know how to seduce a man. A hot bath it is then.’ Legolas stood, and tried to pull Noruion to his feet but his friend did not budge.

‘Your verdict, my lord,’ he insisted.

‘Morgoth’s prick, Noruion, you have already made your point.’

‘I spoke the request.’

Legolas sighed and stood. ‘Hear my judgement, then, man of Eryn Gal—.’ He started again. ‘Hear my judgement, man of Araw, and hear you all, people of Aman and Ennor, if you can hear me. As lord and prince of this man, I declare he is guiltless of treason to the realms I serve, and guiltless of kinslaying also. Not only is he a free man, but I name him a hero amongst the people of Eryn Annûn henceforth.’

Feeling Noruion startle at these last words, he grinned. ‘There. That should be all. Will you rise now?’

Noruion kissed his hand before standing. He seemed subdued. 

‘You called me a man of Araw. Was I wrong to pledge myself to him? I believed I was free to do so. I thought... I thought my oath to your father, and to you, was forsworn. But if I must...’

‘You are not forsworn. And neither are you released from my service, unless you wish it to be so.’ Noruion shook his head. ‘To serve Tauron is an honour; of course you have my leave, even if—.’

An idea caught Legolas’ imagination, and he let his thoughts follow its trail. If Beleg were to consider recruiting more Wardens, who better than Wood-elves to serve the Lord of Forests? Not only would the task bring a new sense of purpose to his people, it might grant Noruion—and Beleg himself—more freedom. The idea was worth exploring further. He sighed; he would have to swallow his pride and speak to Cúthalion. ‘When… when do you need to return to Beleg?’

‘I’m not sure. He had planned to visit Tauron today. I was to go with him.’ Noruion’s eyes glittered. ‘But the Lady may demand his full attention for a while longer. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after. At some point…’

‘I know. You have your duty, as I have mine. But we both will have the opportunity to walk away from those duties from time to time. When you do, will you come and visit me in Eryn Annûn?’ He put his hand up to halt an answer. ‘Before you say yes, know that I have very little to offer. I have been too busy to build my own talan. As my guest, I am afraid you would have to sleep on a grass mattress on the hard ground.’

‘You mean, like we just did?’ ventured Noruion. ‘That may not be such a hardship. I will gladly be your guest, as soon as I am able.’

‘Good.’ Legolas gave a sigh of relief. ‘I must often attend court in Tirion, so I will come and see you too.’

‘I have no hospitality to give, unless you’re willing to share Beleg’s roof,’ said Noruion. Legolas could not avoid a grimace that made his friend laugh. ‘Are you jealous?’

Legolas grunted, non-committally. ‘Let us have that bath, or do I have to keep repeating myself? As you wanted me as your judge this morn, I must declare you guilty of contempt.’

‘Contempt? What drivel is this, just to avoid giving an honest answer?’

Legolas threw up his hands in feigned outrage, and shook his head. ‘Drivel? Let me see.’ He schooled his face to sternness and started counting with his fingers. ‘One: You lied about my dream. Two: You held my wrist prisoner, refusing my command to let go. Three: You forced my hand with cunning trickery, using my own words against me. Four: You are procrastinating about the bath, defying my authority, asking impertinent questions, and using improper language to address me right now… What do you call all that?’

‘So we are back to your arrogant and lordly ways? No more “I am at your mercy,” then?’ Legolas had to bite the inside of his mouth not to laugh at Noruion’s mocking falsetto.

‘Perhaps since you bested me at archery…,’ he replied. ‘Who can refuse a champion? But now— are you joining me or not?’ He began to walk towards the pool.

‘Hmm, it depends.’ Noruion strode at his side. ‘What is the penalty for all these charges you’re slapping on me?’ After a pause he purred, ‘My lord.’

The morning was bright; sunshine had warmed the stone ledge of the pool under their bare feet, and made the water sparkle through the steam. Legolas took a deep breath and turned to stare at his friend and lover, considering his answer. It was such a joy to slip back for a while into their old banter, once the familiar prelude to more intimate games.

‘The Vanyar already believe us to be unruly savages,’ he said. ‘I must prove to them that I am a civilised Sindarin prince who will tolerate neither disrespect nor uncouth behaviour. I have no choice but to be strict, even for a first offence. Harsh, even.’

‘That bad?’ Noruion stared at Legolas wide-eyed, chewing his bottom lip as he sometimes used to do when he was worried. ‘In that case… this won’t matter.’ He shoved him forward, hard.

Legolas lost his balance and flopped into the pool with a huge splash. When he broke through the surface again, sputtering hot water and mortified at his own stupidity—last time he had fallen for such a simple trick he had been fifteen, at most—he saw Noruion doubled over with laughter, a safe two steps back from the edge.

‘You traitor!’ he roared. ‘Just wait till I catch you.’

‘I love you too,’ cried Noruion. With a grin on his face, he leapt into the pool, waded towards Legolas, and pecked him on the cheek before diving underwater. Legolas tried to tackle him but was not fast enough. Through the thick steam and the strewn petals he lost sight of his friend, until he resurfaced at the opposite end of the pool, a smile of triumph on his lips.

Noruion would pay. Oh yes, he would. Just like the old times.

No. Legolas corrected himself. Once a shaft flies, not even the mightiest archer is able to recall it to his bow. They had been granted a second arrow, yet to be shot. Together, they would make it fly true, through the shadows of their past and over the hurdles that life in the Blessed Realm was bound to throw in their way.

But right now, the future would have to wait a little longer.

Legolas swept his dripping hair off his face and glared at his prey. ‘No mercy,’ he said.

Noruion’s smile grew wider.

 

THE END