Time's Arrow by Russandol

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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.

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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.

 

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[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.

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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.