Time's Arrow by Russandol

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Chapter I

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“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.

 

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[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