Time's Arrow by Russandol

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Chapter III

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

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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.

 

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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); Araw (S) the Lord of Forests, other names for the Vala Oromë