Time's Arrow by Russandol

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Chapter V

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

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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.

 

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