Time's Arrow by Russandol

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Chapter VI

In which Noruion meets royalty and faces a prince, while Legolas seduces an ally to his cause.

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Chapter VI

 

Noruion walked onto the field at Beleg’s side, willing himself to ignore the prickling of his skin at a thousand curious gazes. The scene around him narrowed to a tunnel fringed by flowing banners and row upon row of wide-eyed people, blurred into a nearly shapeless mass that buzzed like a swarm of bees.

The whispers ceased. In the watchful silence, blood drummed at his temples and the itch to run away became almost unbearable.

A glance at Beleg’s painted skin boosted his courage. Pulling his shoulders back, he tilted up his chin a little, and poured renewed pride and purpose into his stride.

When the King and Queen greeted them with honour—not Beleg alone, but him, too—and with the joy reserved for friends and kinsmen, he was stunned.

‘They remember,’ said Beleg softly, as they withdrew to take their place amidst the other archers.

Noruion nodded and breathed deeply, still savouring his own sense of wonder. Had he been paying more attention to his surroundings, he might have had some warning before finding himself staring into the face of Legolas, son of the King of Eryn Lasgalen.

In a day that had already gifted him with so many surprises, Noruion remained strangely calm, though his heart climbed to his mouth and he had to lock his knees, turned to melting wax, lest he crumple to the ground. 

Last time he had seen Legolas, his prince and friend stood next to the Necromancer at the top of the sheer walls of Dol Guldur, waving at him from afar. Abandoning him to the clutches of the Dark Lord, Noruion had fled to freedom and safety, both earned by the skill of his lover with a bow. Now Legolas’ piercing green eyes watched him intently from two steps away. He was unsmiling, and breathing hard; his knuckles were white where they gripped his bow.

Nourion had forgotten how intense Legolas’ presence could be; well-worn memories had become wispy echoes, far removed from Legolas in the flesh, proud, tall and solid, and nude but for a few insignificant scraps of silk and leather. So close he only had to reach out to touch him. The sight and the thought took Noruion’s breath away.

Had they been alone, he might have attempted to embrace his old lover, even at the risk of a humiliating rejection. But here, with Beleg at his side and a watching crowd around them, he bowed before his prince and kept his head low, waiting to be acknowledged.

‘My lord,’ he murmured. His eyes were fixed on Legolas’ flat belly, mesmerised by the ladder-like muscles that descended to meet the narrow twist of silk across his hips and the leather-clad bulge he had teased and worshipped countless times. Blood rushed to his own groin at the importune recollection.

‘Fealty, Noruion? After what we went through?’

Noruion flinched at the bitterness in Legolas’ voice. Of course, his king’s son had nurtured his contempt at his betrayal for many years. ‘I failed you, my lord, and your father, but...’

Legolas’ fingers hovered over Noruion’s biceps along one of his scars, barely disguised under the dark patterns of branches and leaves.

‘If he could see us now, Gorthaur would laugh at this victory,’ he whispered. ‘Ever he boasted of how simple it was to sow doubt and stir resentment in order to weaken oaths and alliances. What lies did you heed while he held you in torment, that you forgot our...’

A fanfare of horns and silver trumpets followed by a deafening applause from the crowd swallowed the rest of Legolas’ words.

Noruion’s eyes stung at the rebuke, deserved or not. The tale of the Dark Lord’s victory and his own failure was indeed etched all over his body, even after the partial healing Lórien had granted. Hurt, he took a hasty step back. For a heartbeat, Legolas stood with his hand still in the air, as though frozen, then his fair face twisted in a fleeting grimace. At length he dropped his arm to his side and slammed a mask of princely composure in place.

‘Ingwion! Ingwion!’ the crowd roared. A tall man left his place at the side of the King and walked towards them. His hair was as golden and long as his father’s but it was twisted into rope-like braids. In his hand he carried a sealed roll of parchment. Noruion only heeded him with half of his mind. Still reeling, he had taken his place on the line, a few steps away from Legolas, but kept watching him. His lord was staring ahead, unmoving, and his jaw was clenched so hard, it must be painful.

‘Legolas... my lord, I am sorry,’ he whispered. Out of the corner of his eye, Noruion saw Beleg shift his stance and knit his brow.

A muscle in Legolas’ jaw tensed and his lips pursed tighter. In the past Noruion had seen Legolas wrestle his anger in silence often enough to learn the wisdom of staying at a safe distance. Yet, he tried once more.

‘My lord...’

Beleg grasped Noruion’s arm above the elbow. ‘I suggest you tackle your unfinished business at a later time.’ His eyes were appraising, like on the first day they met. ‘The race is about to start.’

With a sigh, Noruion looked at Prince Ingwion, or whoever the tall man was, and forced himself to listen to his deep voice.

‘... welcome you. Your first challenge today demands that you reach the great flag up on the ridge, where you must shoot a single arrow—you are only allowed to carry one with you— and hit the mark. Only the fastest sixteen to succeed in this task will claim a place in the head to head competition that will follow, back here, at noon. Now, during this head to head...’

Noruion glanced sideways, first at Beleg, who seemed calm and confident, and then, again, at Legolas, tauter than the string of his bow. In a different place and time, Noruion would have marvelled at the chances that had led them to stand side by side again, wielding precious bows of mallorn heart, without facing death or capture. But in the here and now, he felt bereft.   

Beleg nudged him with his elbow. ‘Did you hear that?’ He smiled at him. ‘You can do that in your sleep.’

Numb, Noruion nodded, even though Ingwion’s words had become part of the background noise, along with the murmurs of the crowd. He began to listen again, while risking another sidelong look at Legolas, who remained impassive.

‘... a horse may choose to bear you,’ Ingwion was saying, ‘but you must find a path to the ridge that will not requite their valuable gift with peril. Injury to a horse due to recklessness will be cause for...’

A golden-haired rider had spied on them that day in the forest. Hard as a slap, realisation hit Noruion, making his heart skip a beat. He gasped. Legolas knew that he and Beleg were...

Was it possible that Legolas still had feelings for him—that he was jealous? Noruion’s heart fluttered at this idea, finding a new meaning in Legolas’ words, but his mind promptly rejected it as foolhardy. In all likelihood, Legolas was outraged to discover that the King and Queen had honoured a traitorous coward, and that Beleg, the mighty Beleg Cúthalion, had been tricked into giving an unworthy man a place of trust at his side. A new pang of dismay chilled Noruion to the marrow. Would Legolas tell Beleg the truth about his past, the truth that Beleg’s generosity had waved aside?

‘You are paler than Ithil,’ whispered Beleg. ‘He is the rider... and your king’s son, is he not?’

‘Yes.’ Beleg was nothing, if not observant.

A long ovation marked the ending of the speech of Ingwë’s son and heir. Two fair-haired children received a heartfelt round of applause as they took positions next to a large frame from which a bronze bell was suspended. One of them walked away while holding the end of a long white ribbon, until it stretched taut between them.

A few of the archers began to approach this starting line. Before Noruion could stop him, Legolas was already striding away, not looking back. Noruion was tempted to run behind him and plead for forgiveness, but knew it was futile to speak to Thranduil’s son while he was in such temper.

‘Climb or ride?’ asked Beleg.

‘What do you mean?’ Noruion realised he did not know what he should be doing next.

‘I mean, would you rather ride or climb to that ridge?’

Puzzled, Noruion stared at him. ‘I thought we were rivals.’

‘Perhaps later, when you snap out of your trance.’ Beleg sounded concerned.

Noruion took a deep breath. ‘It’ll pass.’ He tapped his fingers on his own arm, where Legolas’ had touched him, then shook his head. ‘I was startled to find him here, that’s all.’

‘As you say.’

Noruion averted his gaze from his friend’s knowing eyes; a flood of heat rose up to the tips of his ears. ‘Aren’t we meant to ride?’ he blurted.

‘You were not listening.’ Beleg’s mouth curved into a smile that shifted the dark oak leaves painted on his face, then he lowered his voice. ‘We are meant to use our wits, skills and strength, however we choose, without impeding others. Most of our rivals, if not all, will go straight for the horses because the idea of a gift, and the advantage it implies, has been planted in their minds by Ingwion’s words. But the slopes are steep and thick with trees and bushes, so the path must be long and winding. Whoever designed this test will have weighed the odds of daring the climb against the safer but slower option of riding. It is a gamble.’ Beleg’s face split into a rare grin. ‘Would you rather have sore feet or a sore arse at the end?’

Chuckling, Noruion looked at the distant ridge. ‘It is a sheer cliff. Very tall, too.’ He studied the rock face, planning a possible route. ‘But the right hand side seems easier, over those crumbled boulders.’ He gazed back into Beleg’s expectant eyes. ‘I’d rather climb. I never was a great rider. Unlike L—’ He bit his tongue.

‘So climbing it is. Keep to the back at the starting line. Head for the horses, like everyone else, but let us meet a stone’s throw behind that great oak.’ Beleg pointed with his chin to an ancient tree at the edge of the forest.

They emptied their quivers into two woven baskets, as directed by a freckled young woman who wrote their names on tags to label their bundles of arrows. With great care, she picked one shaft out of each basket and handed it back to them.

‘May the breath of Súlimo give you speed,’ she said, with an appreciative glance at their painted bodies.

‘We would rather be given wings, fair lady, but we thank you for your good wishes,’ answered Beleg courteously. Noruion smiled, amused at her blushing face.

‘You will have to slap them away, you know,’ he teased his friend, as they followed the other archers, ‘whether you win or not.’

‘Perhaps.’ Beleg shrugged. ‘And what if you win, Noruion? Who will it be?’

‘You,’ said Noruion. As soon as the word flew from his mouth, he knew it did not speak his true desire. He froze in his stride.

Beleg placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘Do not fret, friend. This is a night for joy.’ He winked. ‘You may have more than one partner, if you wish.’

‘Can you?’ croaked Noruion.

‘Unless someone else claims them first.’

 

~o~

 

Standing just behind the white ribbon, Legolas itched to begin running on the moist grass. Despite his efforts, his thoughts kept wandering back to the awful scene with Noruion, even though they twisted the arrow in the wound.

Noruion’s formality had added insult to injury. Had Legolas earned nothing better from his friend, after shooting that damned apple to save his hide?

Willing to forgive such a cold greeting, he had tried to mend the misunderstanding. However, nothing could soften the blow of watching his old lover recoil from his touch. Why such revulsion? Surely it could be naught but disgust at his having lain with Sauron. Legolas had hoped Noruion would be able to understand, if not to pardon him. After all, both had walked away from Dol Guldur with their lives, against all odds.

When a careless rival dug a bow nock into his ribs to get a place in the front line of archers, Legolas glared at him with the same loathing he had once bestowed on the rotting carcass of the Witch-king’s fell beast. In haste, the man retreated back.

Digging his heels in the ground as more competitors crammed behind him, Legolas turned his head to look behind, in the hope of finding Noruion. He nodded to Glorfindel, a few rows back on his right, but neither his old lover nor his tall companion were in sight. A sharp nip of jealousy gnawed at his gut. He was not one to grovel, but he swore to himself he would do anything in his power to recover what he had once shared with Noruion, to persuade him to... To what? Why would Noruion give up anything for him?

Thundering cheers of excitement jolted Legolas out of his dark musings to find that Ingwion had returned to the field and stood by the bell, wielding a hammer with a round head covered in leather. The contest was about to start; it was time to banish all distractions from his mind. Once more Legolas checked his quiver straps, and tensed his muscles in readiness.

The deep clang of the bell made his flesh hum as he began sprinting towards the horses. A silver dun mare with a gleaming coat caught his eye, towards the left of the herd. She looked at him without any sign of fear, lowered her head to graze and again stared, while chewing a mouthful of grass. Once he reached the edge of the meadow, Legolas slowed down to a walk, still at a fair distance from the herd, ever vigilant and ready to block the way of anyone who dared approach his prey. When the mare next buried her head into the long grass, he changed direction and circled her until he stood a few steps from her left side, out of her direct sight.

‘Will you bear me this morning, my pretty?’ he whispered, stretching his arms slowly, until his left hand petted the mare’s silky neck. He was careful to keep his bare feet away from her hooves. ‘You are a sight to behold, made of pure mithril, are you not?’ She stood still and neighed. Legolas breathed out, relieved.

A few of his rivals were already mounted, so he risked grabbing a handful of grey mane at the withers and, leaping from the front, he vaulted onto her back, with great care to prevent the bow from hitting her body. Her coat was slippery under his skin. After a moment to find his seat and adjust his quiver, he patted the mare’s neck.

‘Thank you, beautiful. Now, let us race the wind!’

Legolas urged the mare into a canter and, as soon as he fell into the flow of her smooth gait, into a gallop, but slowed down again before reaching the edge of the forest. He spared a glance around him. Other riders followed on his steps, and on his right he thought he imagined a glimpse of two dark shapes disappearing in the shade under the trees. Frowning, Legolas dove into the woods. Only three horses were ahead, already labouring up the mossy slope. Legolas chose a gentler path bearing to the right, letting the mare trot her own way between the close tree trunks, then doubling back to the left to climb a bit higher.

He had a good chance to catch up with his three rivals, unless they opted to follow a longer path, as he had done. But for the moment they were intent on struggling straight up the slope. He almost laughed when one of the horses threw his rider and the man leapt to his feet with a curse, unable to stop his suffering mount from loping downhill, back to the tasty meadow grass. Only two to go.

Loud neighing lower down made him turn his head. At least a dozen more riders were already in pursuit, and about half of them were following in his steps, opting for the slower but safer path.

After taking a long breath, drinking in the scents of green growth and bark, Legolas set his jaw and nudged his mare onwards.

Victory would bring the reward he wanted most: first choice.

 

~o~

 

‘Jump! I will catch you.’

There was no alternative, except to go back down an equally perilous route. Noruion avoided staring down the vertical chasm at his feet, falling down almost all the way to the root of the ridge, and looked ahead instead. Beleg waited on a narrow ledge to his right, one hand reaching out to him, the other holding onto a crevice to keep his own balance. Both bows were safely at his feet, as were the quivers with their solitary arrows.

‘My arms and legs are shorter than yours and there’s no room to take a run up.’

The wind blew Noruion against the rock at his back, for which circumstance he was most grateful. At one point he had feared the downward draft that had blown dust into their faces for most of their climb would suck him off the cliff face to his death.

‘Stop thinking, and jump, as high and far as you can.’ Beleg gave a small smile of encouragement, but he was pale. He had almost fallen himself, barely able to grasp the ledge with his fingers. Noruion’s heart surely stopped for a few nerve-racking moments until his friend was able to command enough strength to pull up the weight of his whole body.

After a deep breath, Noruion leapt. His stomach seemed to sink to his gut as he began to fall, but Beleg’s strong hand grasped his wrist and half pulled, half lifted him up into an embrace on the tight foothold.

‘Manwë and his folk smile on you today,’ Beleg said. ‘The wind has changed again, but we are almost there.’

With arms and legs trembling from exhaustion, Noruion picked up his quiver and followed Beleg up another steep surface, painstakingly finding minute holds for his fingers and scraped toes, until he lay on his belly atop the highest boulder. All that remained between them and the massive white wing of Ingwë’s standard was a tumble of small rocks that a four year old child could climb. Noruion doubted he could, he was so tired and short of breath, but one last effort took him to stand next to Beleg on the wide strip of grassy land atop the ridge. Hands on thighs, panting the chilled mountain air, he scanned the wide scene at his feet and found the field and meadow from where they had started, a minute green patch, close to the white jewelled towers of Valmar. His throat tickled, and he coughed several times.

When he was fit enough to look around, he noticed Beleg and he were the first to arrive. Inside a small tent open at the front, two judges in dark blue tunics, a man and a woman, consulted a brass clock—a device he had thought magical when first shown to him in Lórien—and made notes in a leather-bound book. A third judge nodded in greeting and waved Noruion and Beleg forward. Behind a shooting line marked with black tar on the grass, sixteen round straw targets were precisely aligned fifty paces away. Each of the targets, around two handspans wide, was covered in red cloth or leather, with a smaller white circle in the centre, a hand width in diameter. Noruion’s heart leapt with joy; Beleg had been right, he could do it in his sleep. However, the flags flapped noisily against their poles; he would have to allow for the gusty wind.

‘No time to waste,’ urged Beleg, trotting to the shooting line. ‘I can hear horses coming.’ Noruion joined him, taking his place opposite the second target.

Right then, the rattle of many hooves echoed against the mountain slopes, and four riders burst through the trees almost at once. The streaming hair of the second one betrayed his identity even before Noruion could see his face. The rider slid off his horse while still in motion, and raced to the line.

Two more riders arrived, then three. Nervous, Noruion fumbled to pull the arrow from his quiver with his aching fingers and nock it to the string.

‘Do not rush,’ warned Beleg, doing the same next to him. ‘Take your time. Steady your heart, your hand, and your eye. It is an easy shot, but we only have one chance.’

Noruion closed his eyes and entered the familiar ritual to block everything from his mind except the thought of his arrow hitting its mark. One by one, he peeled away the ache of his limbs, his tiredness, the surrounding noise, his longing and self-doubt. The first three fingers of his right hand, encased in a well-worn leather glove, were slightly hooked over the taut string, ready to draw. He inhaled a lungful of snow-flavoured breeze, and breathed out slowly, while imagining the perfect path of the arrow, ending dead centre on the white circle.

Opening his eyes, he stared at his target and breathed twice, deeply, feeling the direction of the wind on his face. Then he drew his bow with a smooth move while keeping his aim, and let go. The arrow flew true, and with a loud thud hit about an inch higher than the mark, but well within the white. A second thud was Beleg’s, whose shaft quivered at the very centre of his own target.

Noruion grinned, pleased with himself.

Beleg smiled back. ‘Good shot.’

‘Yours was better,’ replied Noruion. ‘But I am not jealous.’

He remembered Legolas, and turned his head just in time to admire his lord’s fluid form and an arrow striking dead on the mark, like Beleg’s. If not for the wind, this shot would have been easier than the one that split the apple and saved his life. He shuddered.

Two other archers were so hasty that their shafts went wide. They stared, disconsolate, as other archers took over their targets and succeeded in their stead.

Noruion watched the Lady of Lothlórien score, while still at a canter on a dark chestnut, a good dozen steps behind all other archers. Her arrow was in the red, just a couple of fingers away from the white. With a smile of pleasure on her face, she was breathtakingly beautiful.

‘Did you see that?’ he cried, turning towards Beleg.

His friend was already striding towards the Lady. When he was only a few steps away from her horse, he bowed to her. Noruion saw him speak, though it was impossible to hear what he said. Whatever it was, it made her blush, and her laughter rang loud and merry as she nudged her horse, speeding back towards the trees.

A glance at Legolas showed him standing with his back to him. Noruion would have wagered the spurn was deliberate until he realised his lord was watching another golden-haired man who had followed the example of the Lady of Lórien to claim the last free target while still riding. His shot was less than a hand width from the outer edge. Without slowing down, he leaned down from his white horse to clap Legolas’s raised hand.

‘Still in the game!’ he cried, laughing.

Beleg touched Noruion on the shoulder. ‘Let us return.’

Noruion’s elation faded at the prospect of a descent down the cliff. ‘But surely not the way we came!’

‘We can walk down, or borrow a horse.’ The warden looked pensive, his eyes still fixed on the spot where the Lady had vanished back into the woods.

‘Is anything wrong? Are you hurt?’ asked Noruion.

Beleg shook his head slowly. ‘No. Only remembering.’

Noruion was curious, now certain that his lover was pining. ‘You just need to win,’ he said. ‘As do I.’

‘Then we must start by dragging ourselves down to the field.’ Beleg chirped at a silver dun mare that grazed near the line of trees. Still munching her grass, her ears twitched as she watched them approach. When they petted her, she gave a long, happy nicker, then waited patiently for them to mount double. Noruion clasped Beleg’s waist and rested his cheek on his back, snuggling as close to him as he could to relish the warmth of his skin. The scent of sweat blended with the sweetness of cedarwood soap reminded Noruion of their lovemaking; his cock stirred against the leather loincloth and he sighed in contentment. The brushing of the silky mare’s coat under him was pleasantly ticklish, but he doubted it would remain so for long.

The last Noruion saw before they trotted away and under the trees was a furious Legolas pointing at them; he just about heard him shouting a vile curse. Only then Noruion realised why the mare had looked familiar.

‘Oh Beleg!’ he said. Despite all, he could not stop himself from smiling.