Time's Arrow by Russandol

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Chapter IV

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

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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.

 

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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...