Time's Arrow by Russandol

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Chapter VIII

In which Beleg is furious, and everyone else remembers the past

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Chapter VIII

Last time Legolas remembered Noruion smiling, they had been bathing in a stream, just before they were attacked and captured by the minions of the Necromancer. Before he had become Sauron’s toy.

Legolas let out a long breath and dismissed the disturbing thought, but the next time he lifted Noruion’s bow to shoot, his whole focus bent on the distant wooden wand, an image flashed before his sight, overlaid against the peaceful backdrop of the green field and the wooded mountain slopes beyond. A scene that had often featured in his nightmares: Noruion slumped against a very similar target, held upright by the bonds that tied him to it. His right eye was pierced by a goose-fletched shaft. For a few loud heartbeats, the merry cheering from the crowd became the crude roar of his enemies.

Blinking the ghosts away, Legolas gritted his teeth and aimed. Before he let go of the string, he knew his arrow would go awry. His eyes were blurry, but the crowd’s gasp of consternation confirmed his instinct. The shot had hit the bottom of the wand. A five, or a six at most.

He stepped off the line, rubbing his hand over his face. Noruion all but leapt into his way, a concerned look on his face. ‘What happened there, Legolas?’

‘Nothing.’ He winced at his own voice, laden with denial and anger. Noruion flinched. Legolas gave a smile of apology. ‘I am tired. Let us just finish this.’

Noruion peered at him but kept quiet. He shot another good arrow, despite the increasingly strong breeze. When his turn came once more, Legolas’ hands were breaking out in sweat, trembling as he nocked, and a cacophony of strident memories kept fighting for mastery over his mind. At full draw he discovered he did not dare let the string slip off his fingers, as though keeping hold of it would keep him safe. Safe from failure. From missing his mark and watching Noruion die. From a silken voice speaking mock disappointment, and commanding his obedience.

A couple of heartbeats later, through sheer willpower to banish all thoughts, the onslaught abated. His heart was racing, his arm shook from the pull of the bow, and he knew he should not release, but nevertheless he did. His last shaft went wide, just missing the target. The orderly rows of spectators rustled amongst surprised whispers and dismayed, sympathetic cries. Legolas no longer cared about them or the contest.  

In fact, he was relieved it was all over. He stretched his sore back muscles, and ran a hand over the back of his neck.

‘Unlucky.’ Noruion’s hazel eyes were as kind as his assessment. Both knew that luck had little to do with an arrow’s path.

Legolas handed him the bow, dipping his head in gratitude once more. Noruion took it with a nod and braced it against his foot to unstring it, before propping it against the forked stand. At Ingwion’s signal, they both followed him and his two mute officials towards the wands, although Legolas already knew what the outcome would be. 

During the walk, he stared at the mountains. All he wished for was to be away, under the cool shade of the forest. He watched a large eagle gliding against the mighty snowed mountain flanks, far above. A surge of homesickness swept over him. Not for his new home in Eryn Annûn, but for his father’s realm, for the careless days of his childhood before the weight of responsibility and the danger encroaching on his people had cast their first shadows, while he still believed that becoming a warrior would make the world’s wrongs right.

When they stopped together by the wands, half of his mind was still elsewhere as Noruion spoke out his scores and the points were duly recorded; likewise, Legolas mumbled his own pitiful results to Ingwion and his men. Noruion picked his own arrows before collecting Legolas’ and offering them back.

‘Thank you,’ said Legolas, looking at his friend after dropping the three shafts into his quiver. His gaze traced the dark whorls and lines climbing up from chest to neck and face like a sapling reaching out to sunlight and rain. He met a worried frown. Guilty about spoiling his friend’s moment of triumph, he forced his lips into a smile. In other times, in other circumstances, they might have celebrated Noruion’s victory, he might have challenged him to a rematch, bantering over cups of wine and hot kisses, turning their lovemaking into another game. Not today. ‘Congratulations, you have shot well. I am pleased for you.’

‘Pleased?’ Noruion’s voice was urgent and loud, his face showing worry under all the paint. ‘You are shivering, and not from pleasure. Is it sunstroke?’

One of the mute officials must have heard this exchange, because he offered Legolas a full leather bottle, stopper already off. Legolas muttered his thanks, raised it with both hands and threw back his head to drink. Cool water trickling down his throat had seldom tasted sweeter.

‘Better?’ asked Noruion, taking the bottle from his hand. ‘You are very pale, Legolas. It is very hot under the sun. Maybe a moment of rest in the shade...’

‘I am well already.’

After walking on a few more steps, Noruion halted. ‘No, you’re not well. What’s wrong?’

Legolas felt too tired to pretend or lie. ‘I saw... you,’ he whispered, aware of their companions. ‘Bound to that damned pole, asking me to kill you. This time I missed the apple, and you died.’

Noruion did not answer. Ingwion and his assistants waited a few steps away. Legolas looked at the murmuring crowd, eager for the official results, though they would hardly come as a surprise, and began to retrace his steps towards the stands. Noruion kept up at his side. In the distance he watched Beleg leave his seat under a small canvas canopy near the royal pavilion and come striding towards them.

‘I often wished you had shot me, Legolas.’ Noruion’s voice was as soft as the breeze. ‘I failed you.’

Legolas stared at his former lover, stunned. ‘Failed? He tormented you to break me. I tried to bear what he... anything, to keep you safe, but sometimes...’ When his voice began to crack, he took a deep breath. ‘I swore to myself that if I missed, I would follow you to Bannoth.’

‘He wouldn’t have allowed you to die.’ Noruion hunched over suddenly and let out a shuddering sigh. ‘Handir...’

‘Your brother. What happened to him?’

Noruion’s grimace made Legolas dread the answer. His words were hardly audible.

‘I tried to rescue him. I failed him, too.’ His voice was toneless, his eyes were shut fast, but tears began to trickle down his cheeks. ‘Handir spurred the Necromancer to wrath, trying to protect me. Sauron’s sorcery kept him alive, bound to his rhaw... despite the... torture. The Necromancer taunted us both, said he would grant him the gift of death but only at my hands, and only if I... earned the right. My brother begged me with every breath and every look. I agreed at last. I did it... I... I strangled him...’ Noruion’s words were broken by a single sob, ‘... five days before the fiend fled from Dol Guldur and our people came through the gates.’ He hid his face in his hands.

‘Ai, Noruion! I...’ Legolas faltered, struck by his friend’s raw grief.  And by a crushing wave of remorse.

Handir’s fate might have been his own. Legolas had been loath to watch one of his realm’s proud warriors broken by years of torment and twisted into a pathetic thrall, and had despised Handir when he believed him a traitor. Seldom had he misjudged someone so badly. Handir’s warped devotion for Sauron had bought Legolas’ life and freedom.

He took a step forward to embrace Noruion when a bruising yank on his upper arm and a growl stopped him short.

‘What have you done to him?’ Beleg’s eyes were bristling with fury. A snarl turned the warden’s painted face into an almost wolf-like mask. Next to Legolas, his greater height added to his already powerful stance. ‘Is this how you repay his kindness?’

Angry, Legolas stared back. He was sick of Beleg’s overbearing presence. ‘This is none of your business. Noruion is my friend.’

‘Friend? That is not what he called you. “My king’s son,” he said.’ Beleg tightened the fingers that clamped Legolas above the elbow. Legolas gritted his teeth to stop himself from flinching.

‘Beleg, you don’t need to...’ protested Noruion.

‘Gentlemen...’ Ingwion raised a hand in admonition.

Beleg did not even glance at the prince, nor did he loosen his grasp. ‘Whatever you think you are to him, lord or friend, do you believe you can walk back into his life and shape it to your whims? He would let you, you know, because he... But I shall make sure you let him be.’

‘Beleg,...’ Noruion started again. ‘He hasn’t...’

‘I do not fear you or your threats, Warden,’ replied Legolas, almost shaking from rage. Ignoring the pain, he pulled his arm free from Beleg’s grip.

Ingwion insisted. ‘Gentlemen, cease this argument.’

Beleg crossed his arms over his chest and disregarded the command. ‘It would be wiser if you did,’ he said to Legolas.

This time, Ingwion’s commanding tone had an edge of annoyance. ‘Step back at once and listen to me.’

Somehow he pushed his way between them. Two stone-faced warriors, hands on sword hilts, had appeared out of nowhere to stand right behind their prince. A flutter of excited whispers rose from the crowd.

Legolas obeyed with reluctance, and so did Beleg. Noruion also took a step back, but then spun on his heels and walked away. Legolas was torn between chasing him and fighting his corner when he watched Galadriel intercepting his friend next to the public stand.

He turned his attention back to Ingwion.

‘What is the reason for this quarrel?’ queried the prince. When neither Beleg nor Legolas volunteered a response, he frowned. ‘Very well. Whatever your dispute, I want it out of my field. Regretfully, the same applies to you, Legolas.’

‘Your Highness, I apologise,’ answered Legolas, still watching Beleg out of the corner of his eye. ‘Indeed I shall be on my way at once. I have a long journey ahead.’ His temples were throbbing with a pain that seemed wrought by a red-hot needle piercing his head from side to side. ‘But I would request a last word with Noruion.’

‘I am afraid your conversation will need to wait until the end of the contest. We are already running late and the final match must start straight away.’ On cue, his two warriors shifted slightly on their feet, as though daring Legolas to disobey their lord’s command.

Jaw clenched, Legolas dipped his head, hand to chest, and strode away to pick up his shattered bow. As he made his way towards the royal pavilion, he saw that Galadriel, now wearing a long white gown and a stern expression on her face, was talking to Noruion. They were too far away to hear their voices. However, words were redundant as he watched his friend rip off the white ribbon from his arm and offer it to her, only to have the Lady pushing his hand back in refusal.

After sketching a hasty bow before the King, Queen, and their courtiers, ignoring smirks, frowns, Elrond’s look of concern, and Ingwë’s evaluating gaze, Legolas left the field through the gap in the stands from where he had entered with Glorfindel in the morning. Despite the lukewarm ovation punctuated by some unfriendly whistling, he held his head high. No doubt his popularity had sunk after what to the spectators must have seemed like a despicable outburst of resentment at being defeated.

Once alone and out of sight from the crowd, Legolas let his shoulders slump. A backwards glance showed him Noruion walking towards the shooting line with Beleg’s protective arm over his shoulders. He could no longer feel angry at such a gesture, not when it was he who had forsaken Handir and his brother. After fleeing Dol Guldur, he had been glad that his father ordered him to stay away from the Necromancer’s lair. But now, he thought he had been a fool to accept that ban. Or maybe he was just a coward.

Legolas walked fast upon the dirt road that traversed the woods south of Valmar. Soon it joined the main tree-lined avenue that cut through immense fields of wheat, still green and rippling lazily under the azure sky. Ahead, the golden roofs and pearly spires of the city glinted like jewels, and on his right, the mighty peaks of the Pelóri were dazzling in their whiteness. Bathed by the sunshine of Valinor, all the colours were too intense, all the edges too crisp. Legolas was grateful for the cool swathes of tree shade that striped the path in front of him, all the way to the city gates.

With a shiver, he strode past the turning that led to the Ring of Doom and the sad remains of the Trees. When he visited the site with Gimli a few years past, the huge blackened stumps and the despoiled soil around them, upon which not even a blade of grass grew, had filled him with a deep sense of loss. How terrible must it have been, he had asked Gimli, to have basked in the wondrous Light of the Trees, only to live through the Darkening? His friend had muttered something about buying a few good lamps, and the weight on Legolas’ heart had been lifted in the banter that followed. Ai, but he missed him!

Losing Noruion to Beleg cut even deeper. He was a fool to dream of rekindling their old friendship, let alone anything else. Noruion had found love and companionship with another; their encounter had only brought him a fresh reminder of grief and of a past that, in Beleg’s company, he was learning to accept and put behind. Legolas was not so fortunate.

Knowing that Noruion did not despise him only made it harder to give him up.  

Weary in rhaw and faer and beset by dark thoughts, Legolas hurried away along the deserted paved road. When he finally noticed that his fingers were sore from clenching the ruin of his mallorn bow, he stopped, grabbed it by one end and hurled it away as far as he could.

‘Damn you, Sauron! Damn you, damn you to the Void and beyond!’ he shouted, as the bow spun skywards and then fell into the green sea of wheat, disappearing from his sight.

Legolas wished he could so easily be rid of his heartache.

 

~o~

 

A gust of wind rose, strong and unexpected. It bent the path of the shaft that had just flown from the string and was about to deal victory and a most honourable defeat.

The crowd roared as the last arrow of the day hit, ending the fierce battle. Galadriel watched the two bowmen as they saluted each other courteously, smiles on both their faces, before they threw themselves into a crushing embrace and a celebratory kiss. As they walked towards the distant targets to record the last set of scores so that the tallies could be complete and the winner proclaimed, she considered what to do with the boon earned through her victory on the previous day.

Ai, Elbereth, she could do with a light-hearted romp, but there was far more at stake.

Guilt about Celeborn was not a concern. Ages of shared toil and seemingly hopeless battle had shaped their marriage into a league of minds and wills bent on protecting their world; their parting had not been the farewell of lovers but of friends, wishing each other peace and gladness and love, wherever they might be found.

Beleg was a different matter. She was indeed glad, even excited, by his bold courting in front of all eyes, although she had been somewhat irritated at his very public claim of ownership. She was shocked to find her heart fluttering at the mere thought of a night with him. Should she reciprocate his interest, when she suspected he hoped for more, as he once had done? And what did she want? Was she willing to explore what might have been, had it not been for her ambition, now sated?

A voice close behind startled her. ‘Why so wistful, sister? Still smarting from coming in fourth?’

Galadriel greeted her brother with a smile. Finrod sat next to her on the bench, still wearing almost nothing. He had once revealed to her that since his release from the chill of Mandos, he relished the warm kiss of sunlight on his bare skin. He threw his arm over her shoulder, and gave her a peck on the cheek.

‘You must be proud; I only clawed my way up to sixth place, after all.’ He laughed and looked at her with great fondness. ‘I wonder how the day might have ended, had I shot against you instead of having the misfortune of facing a dark horse wearing your colours. You always had a good instinct for wagers, sister.’ He squinted towards the targets. ‘What is keeping Ingwion so long? He will have a riot in his hands if he tarries announcing the final result much longer.’

‘Noruion is... was one my charges.’ She glanced at her brother. ‘The one I talked to you about. He was Sauron’s captive for many years and his faer was all but broken when I first met him after the war. It is a long tale, and I do not know all the details. Beleg has taken care of him after he left Lórien.’

‘Noruion said very little about himself while we were shooting, but hope burns bright within him, plain enough for everyone to see. I would say he has found peace at Beleg’s side.’ Finrod scratched his chin. ‘You know, I am confused now. Last week you mentioned you had recruited a wounded warrior into your rogue team. All along today I thought you meant the Sinda who left after the quarrel. He shields himself well, but once or twice I thought I recognised...’

‘Legolas?’ Galadriel recalled the gloomy mood of Thranduil’s son and the confrontation between him and Beleg, no doubt over Noruion.

‘Yes, that would be him. He reminded me of...’ He shook his head. ‘No. Today is not a day for dark tales.’

‘Tell me. I have sensed something amiss, too,’ urged Galadriel. ‘As I did long ago, when I foresaw he would be bound by the sea-longing.’

‘Very well.’ Finrod took a deep breath. ‘After Sauron stripped us of our disguise and threw us into his dungeon, he often had his minions drag Edrahil to him. Not always for questioning, like he did with the rest of us.’ Finrod looked away briefly, as though focusing his mind elsewhere. ‘Near the end, every time they brought him back, Edrahil would ask Beren and me to sing or to tell him a story; he said he could still hear Sauron’s voice whispering inside his head and feel his fingers touching him. Ashamed, Edrahil confessed that he wanted him.  Sometimes he ranted and even hurt himself, wishing to scratch off from under his skin what he thought was a taint. We had to fight him and pull at his chains to make him stop.’ Galadriel felt his shudder, and his arm tightening around her back. Finrod looked back at her, his eyes troubled. ‘I still marvel that we kept faith with each other.’

For a while, they were silent. Galadriel recalled Annatar’s patient seduction of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and how he had cast out a wealth of alluring baits around her, too: knowledge, undying bliss and fairness, promises of power. She shunned him at Ost-in-Edhil not because of foresight, as some believed later, but because she feared to succumb. Elrond had sensed the same veiled seduction in his presence.

Glad for Finrod’s embrace, she pressed her cheek against his shoulder. At length she spoke. ‘So, what of Legolas?’

‘I watched him meet Noruion. He reached out, and Noruion flinched. At that time, in Legolas’ eyes I saw Edrahil’s, and from his mind I perceived... it is impossible to describe, but I am sure I sensed a spark of the same self-loathing, of the desolation that haunted Edrahil, twined with the same darkness.’ He stared at her. ‘The barriers were slammed back up at once, and it was gone. But I did not imagine it.’

‘I trust your perceptiveness, Fin. I do.’ She frowned. ‘But you must be wrong. Thranduil’s son never fell into the clutches of...’

An absurd inkling took root in Galadriel’s mind. Despite incredulity and amazement, it flourished, unfurling into a certainty that could not be denied, fed by the recollection of events she had witnessed, from words that had been spoken and those that had been left unsaid. A truth that explained why Thranduil had been reluctant to elaborate on the details of Durthir’s ordeal, why Legolas was nowhere to be seen at the time the Necromancer was vanquished from Dol Guldur before the Battle of the Five Armies, or why he had reacted so strangely when he heard Noruion’s tale from her own lips and discovered he was alive. Now she also understood Noruion’s refusal to speak about what had caused his distress at the conclusion of his contest with Legolas.

‘I have been blind.’ She grasped Finrod’s hand. ‘And we allowed him to leave with such a burden weighing down his heart, today of all days? Poor, brave lad. We must find him!’

‘We will. Are you asking me to race after him naked?’

Galadriel swatted at her brother’s arm, then bit the inside of her lower lip, thinking. ‘You may have to. In his present mood, he must have packed and departed as fast as possible. He has at least an hour’s advantage.’

Finrod smiled. ‘Sister, have you so easily forgotten that a champion can use the King’s couriers to summon anyone tonight? Or were you planning to spend this eve in solitude?’

‘You are a fool, Fin, but so am I.’ Galadriel jumped to her feet. ‘I must speak to Ingwion. And I need Beleg.’ When her brother smirked, she lifted a menacing finger. ‘Do not dare say a word!’

 

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Chapter End Notes

The tale of how Handir saved Legolas from Sauron can be found in The Apple of His Eye.