Time's Arrow by Russandol

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Chapter VII

In which bows bend, arrows fly, and archers flirt.

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Chapter VII

 

Legolas let his twelfth arrow fly. The expectant silence was only broken by a thud as it struck in the innermost circle of the target, one hundred and twenty paces away. That satisfying sound followed by the wild cheering of the crowd declared him the winner of the latest head to head contest. Out of the sixteen archers that had qualified from the race, only four remained in the competition now.

‘I am sorry,’ he said to his defeated rival, as they walked back from collecting their arrows. ‘You shot well.’

‘Not well enough,’ answered Glorfindel, unstringing his bow. His mouth curled to one side in a rueful half smile. ‘My chances vanished as soon as I was paired against you.’

‘As mine will be if I am to meet Cúthalion,’ replied Legolas. ‘Though I would be a fool if I were to underestimate either of my other opponents.’

At that moment, a feeble ovation followed the exit of the grim-faced Golodh who, despite his silver bow, had been no match for the Lady of the Galadhrim, “Nerwen” to the excited crowd. Like Legolas, they were glad to see the back of him. Before shooting each and every arrow, the man had fastidiously adjusted the position of a small pin on his gleaming bow that undoubtedly served as a sight, before performing a complicated ceremony of feet positioning, shoulder rolling, and rhythmic breathing, only to draw, think better of it, come down, tweak some more and start the irritating procedure all over again. At one point there had been impatient whistles from a few frustrated spectators, promptly silenced by Ingwion’s officials.

Glorfindel looked along the grass sward by the shooting line. Legolas followed his friend’s gaze. Galadriel inspected the white vanes of one of her arrows. Further away, Beleg and Noruion talked quietly, heads close together. Their vanquished adversaries— an arrogant Vanya, decidedly sour after being trounced by Beleg, and Finrod Felagund, closely beaten by Noruion—had just departed from the field. Legolas recalled with a smile the stunned expression in Noruion’s face when he had found out the identity of his latest opponent, and his dazed elation at besting a hero returned from Bannoth, of whom the ancient lays were still sung in Valinor as they had been in the forest of his childhood.

Noruion had always been a fine archer, though more interested in speed than in form. Grudgingly, Legolas admired Beleg’s success at training his headstrong friend up to a level of excellence he had failed to reach—under his own instruction—in the past. Not once, in all their years together in Eryn Galen, had Noruion ever claimed victory against him in a shooting match. Today, Legolas thought fondly and with a frisson of thrill, he might.

As though aware of his lord’s musings, Noruion glanced in his direction. Legolas hastily turned his gaze back to Glorfindel, who watched him in silence.

‘Be at ease, friend,’ said Glorfindel. ‘No lives hang in the balance today.’

Legolas nodded and reached out with his right hand. They clasped arms, warrior-style.

‘However, my wager against Elrond was, and still is, on your victory,’ said Glorfindel. ‘His coin should serve to nurse my pride, sore after this drubbing. Otherwise, I shall be forced to seek retribution next time I meet you at the sparring arena.’

Legolas felt his lips stretch into a smile. ‘And I shall strive to avoid your wrathful revenge. Even without it, I bore your bruises for a week last time we crossed blades.’

They broke their grasp. Glorfindel slapped Legolas’ back in encouragement and walked away. After stopping before the royal pavilion to salute the King and Queen, he raised his bow skywards and bowed to the crowd, who wrapped him in a roar of loving admiration.

A moment later, Legolas sat on the grass and laid his bow upon his knees. The late afternoon sun warmed his skin but he felt cold inside. Breathing slowly, he ran his fingers along the curved sheen of his bow, peering at the wood grain, looking for cracks and finding none. Next he inspected his string. Of course it was neither frayed nor in need of more wax, but from childhood it had been drilled into him that a neglected bow could one day turn against its master, failing to shoot the arrow that would have kept him alive; in peacetime he still remained almost compulsive about checking its soundness at every opportunity.

Even more on this day when, belying Glorfindel’s parting words, his own life indeed hung on the balance. Or at least his future. Blood might not be spilled, but his arrows and those of his opponents were likely to steer his fate. He could hardly afford negligence, or mistakes born from a careless lapse in his concentration.

A shadow robbed him of sunlight; on the grass in front of him appeared a pair of slender feet and shapely ankles, their skin pale and smooth like fine marble. He looked up, startled, and gasped.

The Lady of the Galadhrim stood over him, bare but for a minute white pleated skirt and her archer glove and bracer. Her long legs, an athlete’s legs, led his eyes up to linger briefly at the kilt, onwards to her taut belly and further up to the twin swells of small breasts, no longer bound as they had been during the race. Neither childbirth nor age had robbed her well-toned body of grace, or of its due share of softness and alluring curves. A flush crept up Legolas’ face.

Clenching his jaw, he was about to leap to his feet but she forestalled him by sitting cross-legged next to him. She was close enough that he could savour the smell of her ivory skin—new sweat and the scent of mallorn flowers—and see every hair of the loose strands that curled around her ear when she pushed her golden plaits to the opposite side of her head.

Legolas’ pulse quickened, as did his groin. Bending all his willpower to crush the tug of desire, he forced himself to listen.

‘Commiserate with me, Legolas. According to the score table, I am to shoot against Beleg,’ she said.

‘I do not envy him the challenge, my lady,’ he replied. ‘The archers of Lothlórien have always been the finest in Ennor.’

‘Your father would cry treason if he heard those words coming out from your lips,’ chuckled Galadriel, ‘even if meant as a courtesy, or as reassurance.’

‘After what I have seen so far, I doubt you need any reassurance,’ said Legolas. ‘Who taught you?’

‘I learnt in Doriath, long ago.’ Legolas did not miss her sideways glance to where Beleg stood. Perhaps irrationally, his animosity against the Warden ratcheted up. The man seemed to be everywhere. ‘But I only took to the bow in earnest after the shadow began to grow on Amon Lanc.’

She lowered her voice. ‘Speaking of shadow, Legolas, a sombre mood clings to you today, dark as storm clouds gathered over Caradhras. What ails you?’

He shrugged, and forced himself to look at her. ‘Nothing of import, really.’

‘Is that so? And yet... you seem none too pleased about the presence of your fellow warrior from Eryn Galen. Your coldness towards my former charge concerns me; it was not long ago that you were most keen to know of his fate.’ Her tone was sharp as a razor.

‘The truth, my lady, is that I am indeed pleased to find Noruion hale, after believing during many years that he was dead. Having taught him how to shoot long ago, it fills me with pride to watch him best so many fine bowmen, and I do not discard defeat at his hands.’ Tired of parrying, Legolas decided to be blunt. ‘But I shall not deny that I am disappointed. Annoyed, even. Is it not your colours I see around my friend’s arm, when he was one of my father’s warriors? And has he not given his allegiance to Aran Tauron himself, if the paint he wears means what I believe?’

She studied his face, as though assessing how much truth was in his protest. He fought his impulse to squirm under her gaze, doing his best to remain impassive under her scrutiny.

At length she nodded, and placed her hand on his wrist, where it only rested briefly. Her fingertips brushed like feathers over his hand and onto the polished upper limb of his mallorn bow. ‘There is much pain you will not speak of, Legolas, and I shall not pry. But if you care for Noruion as I believe you do, do not begrudge him the happiness he has found in the company of others. When I saw him in Ennor, Sauron had all but broken your friend; Beleg has triumphed where the servants of Lórien failed.’

Legolas gave an angry nod, certain that another mention of Beleg’s virtues and achievements would make him sick. ‘Yes, my lady.’

However, it was the name of his foe that rent Legolas’ dreams of victory and conquest into rags. Victory had so far been his one and only hope to set to rights what his heart claimed was wrong. But now he saw he had been blind; victory would not cast a spell over Noruion and prompt him to abandon his newly-found duties and friends, nor would it wave Beleg to one side.

With a pang, Legolas acknowledged to himself that if he abused his rank or—maybe, hopefully—his reward as the acclaimed champion of the contest to coerce an unwilling Noruion to his bed, he would be stooping to Sauron’s level.

Suddenly Legolas wished he could be back with his people under the cool shade of the forest, their new home, far from fanfares, kings, queens, and mythical heroes.

At that time the bell clanged, marking the beginning of the next round. The banners rippled, slapping their silver poles. Galadriel, Lady of the Galadhrim rose to her feet with the grace of a swan unfurling its wings to fly. She had three dozen arrows to best her first teacher, Beleg Cúthalion, who had all but invented archery, if the legends were true. Legolas prayed that the Marchwardens of Lothlórien had been thorough in her training.

‘Good shooting, my lady,’ he said. ‘Mind the breeze, it is coming in gusts now.’

She laughed. ‘It will be my excuse.’

‘Grind him into dust,’ he murmured, once she was out of earshot.

 

~o~

 

Never expecting to last long as a competitor, Noruion had remained calm, if not cheerful. He basked in the sun, drank in the cool air of another day of freedom without hunger, and was warmed by the festive, friendly atmosphere of the crowd.

Whenever the memory of Legolas’ hurtful words threatened to resurface, he pushed it ruthlessly aside. His sanity might have survived because of this dubious ability to shutter his conscious mind away from harm, or so the healers at Lórien had told him with complicated words. Instead he focused on his pride at the honour Beleg had conferred on him, on the joy of calling him ‘friend’, and on the affection they shared.

After a first few nervous shots, his arrows had unerringly hit where he had meant them to. Spurred by this result and by Beleg’s praise, he had shot like he never had, and was amazed to find himself among the last four archers standing in the contest.  

The match between Beleg and Lady Galadriel had been nerve-wracking but wondrous to watch. Noruion had admired the perfection of their forms and the strength and beauty of their nude bodies. When she was at full draw, tilting from the waist before letting go of the string, her gold braids tumbling down her back, she was surely as fair as the queens of the Rodyn. As for Beleg... he was true to his name. Mighty he was, bending his bow without apparent effort, though the bunching muscles in his back and shoulders spoke otherwise, and his arrows sped to hit the mark as iron scrapings are unfailingly drawn to lodestone.

The Lady had bravely held her ground, and it was not until their last dozen arrows that Beleg sealed his victory. Noruion was glad for his friend, despite the look of bitter disappointment in the Lady’s face, quickly schooled into a graceful smile to congratulate her rival.

Now she walked towards him, with Beleg trailing only a couple of steps behind carrying her quiver. Legolas approached her; she stopped and they exchanged a few words. Lady Galadriel nodded a farewell and his lord saluted smartly, bowing hand on chest. To Beleg he gave a curt dip of his head.

‘My lady,’ Noruion said as she came close. ‘Well shot.’

‘It was indeed too close for comfort,’ grunted Beleg, his eyes were sparkling. ‘I must apply myself harder next time.’

‘Who shall remove that smug smile from his face?’ she cried, in mock outrage. Beleg winked at him.

‘As I wear your colours, my lady, the task falls on me,’ replied Noruion. ‘Although it’s no small challenge you give me, not even with your generous gift.’

‘A stave is meagre payment for having your bowmanship under my banner today, and it has proved to be a wise investment indeed.’ Noruion felt himself smiling when she chuckled. ‘In besting my beloved brother you already performed a deed to be sung across Valinor.’ She offered her hand and Noruion bowed to kiss it.

‘Will I be seeing you both at the feast tonight?’ she asked but her gaze was locked on Beleg.

‘Where else?’ he answered, now taking her hand in his own. Very slowly, he turned it and bent down to kiss the inside of her wrist.

The ground shook with the raucous cries, the clapping and the ear-piercing, ribald whistles of the crowd at his gesture, as unanimous approval of the first declaration of intent about the evening festivities.

‘Do not be presumptuous, Warden,’ she said, but did not pull away. ‘You have not won yet.’

‘Oh, but you have, my lady, and I pray you be gracious in your victory,’ he replied.

‘Grace may be granted to a gallant rival as balm to soothe the sting of defeat, my good warden,’ she said gravely, with a sidelong glance at where Legolas stood, yet again checking his bowstring. Beleg dropped her hand as quickly as though it had turned into an asp. She nodded to Noruion. ‘I trust you will keep doing me proud.’

Galadriel walked away to leave the field, bow raised in triumph over her head.

‘Mulish Golodhren sorceress.’ Those were the words Noruion thought Beleg spat under his breath, but he was not sure of having heard correctly; a deafening ovation was following the departure of the Lady of the Galadhrim. People threw flowers at her feet, as well as small gifts and rolls of parchment. She gathered them all with help from one of the field officials, who solicitously trailed behind her, arms full of the crowd’s tribute.

When she was gone, the bell rang again. Noruion took a deep breath. Not even in his wildest dreams had he imagined to be matched against his lord for a place to fight Beleg for victory.

‘Forget who he was. Or who he still is,’ said Beleg. He was no longer glaring. ‘Worry only about your arrows. Your next arrow.’ He squeezed his upper arm in encouragement and Noruion picked up his bow, propped next to Beleg’s against a long forked branch speared into the ground.

He approached Legolas, who waited a few steps shy of the shooting line. With some trepidation, Noruion reached out for the customary greeting to an opponent. Legolas did not hesitate, clasping his right hand—his fingers were cold, but not clammy with sweat—upon Noruion’s forearm. Noruion returned the squeeze while searching in Legolas’ eyes for a clue about his feelings. They revealed nothing.

Noruion was not discouraged. Legolas was fiercely competitive and whenever he was unhappy with his own performance during a tournament, he often fell into a foul, prickly mood, even with his brothers-in-arms. Even with his lover. But perhaps there would be an opportunity to talk undisturbed. Twelve times they would shoot three arrows each; twelve times they would walk one hundred and twenty paces to the target and one hundred and twenty paces back.

Ingwion joined them, two stern officials with notebooks in tow. A flick of a coin dictated the shooting order. Facing the crowd, he announced the result: ‘Legolas, Lord of Eryn Annûn will shoot first.’

Legolas’ bare feet made no sound as he walked to take his place at the shooting line, lithe, strong, and fair like no other man Noruion had ever met. Watching him, Noruion gripped his bow with both hands, to stop them from wandering to touch his leather-clad, hardening groin. He imagined the pleasure of placing his fingertips on the firm muscles of Legolas’ chest and let them travel down very slowly, like trickling honey, to the delicious hollow by his hip, above the green silk tie of the loincloth...

Realising he was gaping, Noruion lowered his gaze to the ground, and heard an arrow sliding out of Legolas’ quiver. He shut his eyes and waited, while his mind replayed every movement of the shooting ritual, even the minute pause before release. The arrow whizzed in the absolute silence and, unsurprisingly, hit the target with a sharp thud. The audience erupted into a cheerful ovation.

Noruion opened his eyes and looked up in time to see Legolas return to his side. They nodded to each other in acknowledgement, before Noruion walked forward and straddled the line. His fingers tingled and his hair stood on end, so he took a deep breath, emptying his lungs slowly, to calm himself. Then he nocked an arrow and looked at the target. He waited for the slight breeze to relent, before launching the very familiar sequence of drawing, adjusting his aim, and releasing the string. He knew the shot was good even before the arrow struck. The crowd’s reaction told him he was right in his assessment.

Twice more Legolas and he alternated to perform the same routine with almost exact outcomes; then it was time to walk to the targets, record the scores and retrieve their arrows. Noruion was pleased with himself.

‘You shoot better than I remember.’ Legolas’ voice at his side startled him. Their elbows touched, he was so near.

‘Thank you.’ Noruion kept walking, not daring to divert his gaze from the targets. ‘Last time I saw you with a bow in your hand… I hoped you’d make it swift.’ As soon as they were out, he wished the words back in his mouth.

A muscle in Legolas’ jaw twitched and he quickened his pace.

Ingwion and one of his officials were already waiting by the two identical wands set on the ground, eight feet tall, half a foot wide and about six feet apart.  A half a foot wide band on each, painted red, was wrapped around their middle point, roughly at chest level. Above and below it, horizontal lines measured the distance—and the decreasing score—to the mark. Concentric tar circles had been perfectly drawn on the ground from each of their bases, their edges sharp and stark against the tender grass.

Three arrows had hit each wand, in both cases one arrow was on the red, granting the highest score, a twelve, and two had struck at the next best score. Noruion’s white-fletched arrows were above the mark and Legolas’ grey goose-feathered shafts were below.  

‘A draw at thirty two,’ said Ingwion. He eyed the green ribbon around Legolas’ arm, then Noruion’s white one, and smiled. ‘Will this be a battle to the last arrow?’

Legolas glanced at Noruion. ‘It is likely, Your Highness.’

‘Long-standing rivalry, I see,’ said Ingwion.

Noruion retrieved his arrows, watching Legolas yank his off the target as though wishing to uproot the wooden beam along with them. They walked back in silence towards the shooting line. Near the stands, an official was placing huge number boards on a scoreboard, and the crowd applauded wildly when the tally came up.

The second end was little different from the first, except that Noruion was first to step up to the line. The excitement and the noise of the crowd grew with every shot; their roar made Noruion’s bones thrum and his blood sing. In the fourth end Legolas gained an advantage of two points with his last arrow, his twelfth of the match, as it just grazed the line bordering the red mark, granting him a twelve.

Despite this setback, Noruion did not lose heart. While in Ennor, he had never dreamt of matching Legolas head to head. Today, he might at last be his equal. True, after the perilous climb and the many hours of shooting his shoulders burnt with a dull ache, but he knew his rival was similarly tired. Watching Legolas as they walked towards the target once more, Noruion could detect the hints of fatigue: an occasional roll of his shoulders, a hand rubbing the back of his neck.

Most decent archers can shoot well when they are fresh; it is when they are exhausted that attention wanders and mistakes are made. Even the smallest distraction would be costly. Noruion silently swore that he would not be the one to slip.

 

~o~

 

Legolas wiped his sweaty hand on his waistband before adjusting his grip of the bow. Only then did he reach for an arrow, the last but one of the eleventh end, nocked it and placed his fingers above and below it on the string. He pulled very slightly at the familiar resistance. Focusing on the target, he breathed in and out and raised his bow, keeping his aim as he began to draw.

A loud crack next to his head, ominous like a clap of nearby thunder, jolted him out of his cherished routine. Shaken, he lowered the bow at once to discover that the smooth upper limb was split beyond repair. Fortunately, he had stopped before full draw, and the wood had not snapped.

‘Orc’s piss,’ he muttered.

The crowd erupted into heartfelt shouts of consternation.

When he prised his gaze away from the splintered wood, Noruion and Ingwion were at his side. ‘Are you hurt?’ asked both men, anxious looks on their faces.

‘No. I did not draw it fully. It is cracked badly, though.’ With a sigh he handed it to Noruion to inspect. ‘I was rather... attached to it.’

Had he not been the focus of so much attention, he would have wept like a little boy whose favourite toy is broken. This bow, Lady Galadriel’s parting gift in Lothlórien, had been precious. Not only for its exceptional quality and workmanship but because of all the hopes he had placed on it, even those that seemed as unattainable as the stars when he faced the hordes of Sauron at the Morannon at the side of his friends and brothers-in-arms. It had been an object of beauty and a trusted weapon, and even more, in his mind: an infallible talisman, and a mute, undemanding ally and companion. Now it was no better than a piece of firewood.

‘I’m sorry, Legolas,’ said Noruion.

‘You should not be,’ replied Legolas, forcing a smile. ‘The match is yours.’

Noruion frowned, then shook his head. ‘Not yet.’ With both hands he offered his own bow, almost a twin to the broken one.

‘No. I would not presume...’

‘It will be my pleasure.’ He gave a shy, lopsided smile. Legolas stared at the dimple that appeared briefly on his cheek. ‘Otherwise I’ll keep wondering if I would have bested you today. Aren’t you curious to find out?’

Touched at the gesture, Legolas saluted, fist to heart, and took the bow with great care. Noruion’s lips curved a little and his eyes lit up with joy. Legolas’ heart thumped painfully. No true archer would lend his bow to someone he did not trust, even less a bow as prized as this one. Legolas doubted he would have been generous enough to reciprocate, had their places been reversed.

The crowd applauded and cheered wildly.

Back at the shooting line, Legolas tested the bow gingerly, shaping his grip upon the leather where Noruion’s hands had already made an imprint. He gauged its pull, possibly a bit heavier than his own, the feel as its slender limbs bent when he drew slowly, before he finally nocked an arrow to the string. He shot, aiming only slightly lower than he would normally have. Noruion’s bow shot as true as his own ever had and the shaft struck the target halfway up between the ground and the mark. Legolas was pleased that he had not miscalculated too badly.

His hands touched Noruion’s as he handed the bow back to him. Noruion’s eyes widened before he hastily lowered his gaze and fumbled with the straps of his bracer. His shot, the last one of the penultimate end, was perfect. After scoring, Noruion was three points in the lead. In the old times, any such advantage on his part would have been extremely rare, and he would have burst into an excess of ribbing and gloating, always short-lived. Today he was quiet, but the smile on his face showed his pleasure.