Time's Arrow by Russandol

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Chapter IX

In which it is Legolas' turn to be furious.

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Chapter IX

 

To Legolas, Lord of Eryn Annûn,

To honour the champions and celebrate our peoples’ peaceful unity in Aman, I request your presence at tonight’s festivities at your earliest convenience.

Blessed be the Valar.

Ingwion 

After reading the summons a second time, Legolas crumpled the fine parchment in his left hand. A curt reprimand and a clear command, rolled into a single sentence. However, it was not the content of the note that irked him most, but the mode of its delivery. Earliest convenience? He stared at the four armed riders in King Ingwë’s livery, blocking the road ahead. Two more soldiers stood at his back. Six men to deliver a party invitation. Legolas would have laughed at this excess, had he not been truly furious.

He considered turning down the prince’s command. The riders were young; they wore light leather breastplates and carried swords with gilded hilts and tasselled scabbards; their leader, who had produced the parchment from a pouch hanging from his saddle, wore several thick rings on his fingers, including a large signet on his right hand. Legolas wondered if these soldiers had seen duty beyond drills, parades, and ceremonial guard, and whether they had ever faced anyone more dangerous than a drunken brawler. If he waved his hunting knife at them and tried in earnest to push on northwards, how far would they go in order to arrest him?

Even if his chances of success might be worth the attempt, the risk was too great, and not only because someone was bound to be injured. To refuse a direct royal command, resist authority, and draw a weapon would be crass behaviour to add to his already tarnished record; his quarrel with Beleg was already likely to be the matter of gossip for months, even years. The future of Eryn Annûn depended heavily on the goodwill of Ingwë’s court to cement influential relationships and vital trade agreements for his people.

Grudgingly, Legolas allowed the soldiers to lead him back to Valmar. They crossed the city along white paved streets, utterly deserted, rode past the gates of the King’s House, and on through the wheat fields and into the woods that he had crossed on foot only a few hours before.

The sun was setting fast, streaking the sky with pink and golden hues as it grazed the horizon. In the long shadows of dusk, the glow of bonfires flickered between the trees, and the sound of laughter and music rose and fell at the whim of the breeze, which also brought fragrant whiffs of maplewood smoke. The previous evening Legolas had seen the bonfires being built and the tables laid for the banquet in a large glade.

Most of the soldiers flanking Legolas spared longing glances in the direction of the nearby party, but they all pressed on towards the thicker forest that carpeted the lower slopes of Taniquetil itself.

Legolas halted his horse. ‘Where are you taking me?’

The leader of the troop, pale and silver-haired, scowled at him. ‘Do not stop, we are almost there. I— you have already missed the award-giving ceremony and the banquet.’

Legolas did not move. ‘Why did we go past the glade?’

The officer waved his jewelled hand in dismissal. ‘That was the commoners’ feast. The King and his guests are elsewhere, as well as the champions.’ His voice had the impatient, condescending tone he probably reserved for ignorant peasants asking for directions on market day.

‘I see. You like playing at soldiers but are too high and mighty to join your men,’ replied Legolas without disguising his contempt.

The officer’s pale skin turn crimson, dyed into a dark orange hue by the amber light of sunset. Legolas hid his smirk better than the plain soldiers. One of them snorted, and covered his mouth with his hand. In other circumstances Legolas would have never berated a warrior in front of his men, but it had been a very long day. He was exhausted, hungry, annoyed, disappointed, guilt-ridden and love-stricken. In fact, he would rather accompany the soldiers, who were clearly impatient to complete their mission and be off duty. Getting drunk with a happy mob sounded like a far more desirable alternative than fawning to royalty. Why did Ingwion want him? He kicked his mount into a trot, and the soldiers hastened to take their positions around him.

Less than a mile further, they halted again. As soon as he dismounted, he was hurried down a long flight of stone steps set in the hillside, lit on both sides by torches attached to long poles. A servant wearing livery embroidered with the royal house’s white wing waited for them at the bottom of the stair, carrying a bright lamp. After an inaudible exchange with the leader of his escort, the servant led them to a cobbled path on the right. Down they went again into a deep dell, shadowed by large maples, their hanging coppery foliage dappled with bright blood-coloured patches wherever the last rays of sunlight still vanquished the engulfing shadows. As they descended, echoes of distant merrymaking faded, replaced by the sigh of rustling foliage above them. Legolas wished he could curl up to sleep on the long, springy grass under his feet.

At the end of the slope, two sentries with crossed spears allowed their entrance through an archway in a stone wall, garlanded with oak leaves and mallorn flowers. Beyond stretched a winding path, lit by glass lamps on silver stands, slithered away under the maple trees, into the heart of the dell.

As he stepped under the arch, a gust of breeze swirled around Legolas, dropping at his feet a solitary oak leaf. In the light of dusk upon the pale stone the leaf looked almost blue, the hue of the leaves painted on Beleg’s face.

‘Who was today’s champion?’ Legolas asked, dismayed. In his outrage, he had failed to ask.

Nobody answered him; his escort had vanished.

In the distance ahead he heard the ripple of a harp. Not a melody, but someone not too confident with that instrument practising simple plucked scales and chords. Curiosity overcame wariness. He followed the path until he faced an arrangement of hundreds of overlapping silk panels, twice his height, that hung from lines strung from tree to tree across his way, barring from his sight whatever lay beyond. The harp player behind the swaying screens must have heard his steps, because the music stopped.

Legolas went past the last pair of torches and swept aside the sheer silk hangings. He found himself at the edge of a small clearing, maybe forty steps across in size, shielded by banners all around and bathed in starlight. Once his eyes adapted to the dimness, he saw a pool in the centre, rimmed by flat stone slabs and fed by a small gurgling stream. Steam hovered over the surface, rising lazily into white and ghostly swirls. A low table next to the pool, artfully decorated with flowers, held a neat arrangement of soaps, combs, and rolled drying cloths. A second table was laden with trays of pastries, fruit, cheese, and bread, cut crystal bottles and goblets, as well as an earthenware jug and cups. At the sight of the food Legolas’ stomach rumbled, reminding him of its emptiness.

The breeze lifted the steam, revealing white and gold petals strewn on the rippled surface, and bringing to him the scent of water lilies and mallorn flowers.

‘So, they managed to track you. I had my doubts.’

Gritting his teeth, Legolas turned towards the voice. He did not immediately see the man who sat cross-legged by the edge of the water holding a small wooden harp on his lap. He was naked, and his body was covered in leaves painted in woad.

‘Where in Morgoth’s name is Ingwion?’ spat Legolas.

‘Prince Ingwion is likely attending to princely business,’ said Beleg, putting the harp to one side and rising to his feet, agile as a cat. ‘But I was expecting you.’

No, this could not be true. ‘To honour our champions...’ the note had said. ‘Why the fuck did you have me brought here?’ said Legolas. ‘I will not be your bed partner, and if you believe that royal writ gives you any rights, you can shove it up your arse.’

‘You, in my bed?’ Beleg chortled. ‘I see. You are delirious, as well as arrogant.’

Legolas took a step forward, clenching his fingers into a tight fist, ready to punch Beleg’s jeer off his face. ‘Then what in the Void do you want with me? And where is Noruion?’

Beleg raised an imperious hand. ‘I did not ask you to come. As to your second question...’ His unexpected smile was almost feral, his teeth’s whiteness standing out from his dark face. ‘Like you, I am merely answering a summons.’

‘What...?’ Confusion reigned, briefly. Legolas could not contain a gasp, a mix of joy and incredulity. ‘Noruion bested you? Beleg Cúthalion?’

‘Is it so hard to believe, son of Thranduil?’ Legolas looked toward the woman’s voice that had spoken.

Barefoot and clad in a white flowing gown, Galadriel stood by the edge of the clearing. Under a wreath of oak leaves, her unbound locks, bleached into strands of mithril by the stars’ light, tumbled down to her waist. Her eyes were grave, even assessing, under a slightly furrowed brow.  

Unnerved by her scrutiny, Legolas’ gaze moved to another figure standing by her side.  Noruion. He was still naked but for whorls of paint, a scrap of leather and an identical crown of oak leaves on his brow. He stared at Legolas, wide-eyed.

Beleg bent into a deep courtly bow to the newcomers. Despite his nudity, there was nothing ridiculous about his gesture. Still stunned, Legolas followed his example, glad for a moment to gather his jumbled thoughts. When he rose, Noruion was looking straight at him.

Legolas recognised the hunger in his friend’s eyes. Desire curled in his gut, and his mouth went dry. A fierce spark of hope leapt in his heart.

 

~o~

 

Noruion was too dazed to utter even the simplest of greetings.

Looking flushed from the ride and pinched from fatigue, Legolas bowed, both he and Beleg the picture of courtly deference towards him, traitor and murderer. The whole scene seemed utterly impossible. Absurd.

‘I didn’t expect you’d come,’ he said at last, his voice embarrassingly husky.

‘Ingwion’s invitation did not exactly allow for a refusal. But had I known...’ Legolas’ sudden smile caught him by surprise. It was not a polite gesture, but the fond smile of a friend. Relieved, Noruion let out a deep breath. ‘Many congratulations, Noruion. I wish I had stayed to witness your triumph. I must hear all about it, all the details.’

‘Thank you, my l— Legolas. I am not sure I believe it myself yet.’

‘I do,’ grumbled Beleg. ‘That last gust of wind...’

Lady Galadriel laughed. ‘Are you stooping so low as to justify your defeat with such pathetic excuses, Warden? The truth is that you lacked the required level of concentration.’

‘And I wonder whom I should blame for my distraction,’ replied Beleg, staring at her. Then he addressed Noruion, a grin on his painted face. ‘However, my friend, watching you be crowned champion made my own defeat into a triumph of a different kind.’ He reached out, offering his right arm. Noruion’s cheeks blazed as they clasped wrists. ‘What better prize can a master be granted, than to be surpassed by his pupil?’

‘Indeed I could have never chosen a better man to wear my colours,’ said Lady Galadriel, eyes glittering in the starlight.

Beleg scowled at her. ‘No need to twist the arrow in the wound, my lady,’ he said. ‘Although, if I recall your words correctly, a certain balm you possess may soothe the sting of defeat.’

‘Perhaps later,’ said the Lady, waving a graceful hand as though to dismiss something trivial. ‘Tell us, Noruion, what was it like to hear Ingwion call your name?’

‘Winning the contest was… it felt impossible,’ replied Noruion. Encouraged by nods and smiles from his three companions, he continued. ‘Incredible.’ He reached out to touch Beleg’s shoulder briefly. ‘This morning your victory was as certain for me as the rising of Anor in the east every day at dawn. Then…’ His eyes darted between Beleg and Legolas, both men so different, so beloved. ‘I had doubts as to who would prevail.’ His gaze fixed on Legolas. ‘If your bow hadn’t snapped…’

‘You allowed me a second chance, and yet I was not good enough to best you,’ said Legolas, bowing lightly.

‘The crowd went wild at the end,’ said the Lady. ‘You would have been proud, Legolas.’

‘I regret I was not there, Noruion,’ replied Legolas. ‘I would have cheered the loudest when you stepped forth to receive the victor’s wreath. Pray, tell me.’

Noruion reached up to his brow without thinking, and his fingers grazed the leathery oak leaves. Before today, he had only seen one man wearing a crown like this: Legolas' father, King of Eryn Galen. Now the glint of joy in Legolas’ eyes and his words of praise made Noruion feel happier and richer than the mightiest king in Arda. 

He nodded once, his cheeks blazing. ‘When the prince announced the final results, everyone hailed so loudly that the ground shook. I… I couldn’t hear my own thoughts. The King handed the wreath to the Queen, and she smiled and placed it on my head, but I can’t recall what they said to me. She had to ask me twice for my ribbon. Your ribbon, my Lady,’ he added, looking at Galadriel. ‘I kept expecting to wake up. It took me a while to believe it was all real.’ He took a long, deep breath, and let it out. ‘Then the feast, and the banquet… It used to be easier to fight orcs than to greet all of those important people who rushed to congratulate me.’ Silently he added, Oh, Legolas, if only you knew how much I missed you at my side...

‘Facing the adulation of half of Valinor naked but for a scrap of leather and some paint is no mean feat,’ said Lady Galadriel, her eyes fastened on Beleg. ‘Neither was it easier without the paint yestereve, if you must know.’

Beleg gave a small gasp; a muscle in his jaw bulged under the painted skin, and the lump in his throat bobbed up and down several times, as though he struggled to swallow. Noruion bit down a snort.  

‘Now, my friends, we toast,’ Galadriel said. ‘Would you do the honours and fill our cups, Warden?’ She tilted her head towards the tables. With a curt nod, Beleg strode away.

‘Who summoned him?’ muttered Legolas.

‘I did,’ said Noruion.

Legolas looked away, pressing his lips together.

Faced with his lord’s jealousy, Noruion regretted his earlier decision. Choosing Beleg as his partner had come naturally, once he finally accepted that Legolas had left for good. Now his regret was further spurred by the tingling pressure in his groin that had robbed him of his wits the moment he saw Legolas across the clearing.

Beleg returned with a plain earthenware jug in one hand and four small cups, like those used for strong spirits or medicine, cradled in the palm of his other hand. He offered one cup to each of his companions, and kept the fourth.

Noruion examined his cup. It was unglazed and unadorned except for patterns made of dimples etched in the clay, all around. Functional and with a simple kind of beauty but no doubt the work of an unskilled craftsman or a child. As he looked up, he saw the same puzzlement mirrored in Lady Galadriel’s eyes. Surely she favoured precious objects, but was too courteous to criticize Beleg’s choice of crockery, most bizarre when a set of delicate cut crystal goblets glinted on the table, neatly arranged by the trays of food.

‘I have never seen the like. Where did they come from?’ she asked.

‘From Cuiviénen,’ said Beleg, holding up his cup. ‘I was there when my people offered them as gifts to Araw, proud of what our minds and hands had learnt to do. He brought them back to Aman to show his kindred, who marvelled at the skills of the Eldar. I feel honoured that he allowed me to borrow these tonight.’

‘Lord Tauron did?’ said Noruion. With great care he nestled the cup in the hollow of his joined hands and studied it with more care, noticing that the inside was actually glazed, though the dark vitreous surface was irregular and covered in tiny marks. After a closer inspection in the dim light he guessed they must have been caused by air bubbles.

‘Yes, as well as this,’ said Beleg. He raised the jug for them to see. ‘This, my friends, is the most precious draught in Arda.’ Noruion saw Legolas’ eyebrows rise. ‘Limpë. Tauron used to bring it to us during the Journey, to help with the healing of our injuries and to renew our strength.’

‘What is it made of?’ asked Legolas.

‘There are many kinds of limpë, but Araw’s is distilled from the sap of the most ancient trees at the heart of the Great Forest, mixed with a drop each of the dew of Telperion and rain from Laurelin,’ said Beleg.

‘I was taught Ungoliant drank the vats dry,’ said Legolas as he took a step back, a frown on his face.

Noruion held his breath.

‘Believe or not, as you will,’ replied Beleg unfazed. ‘But my lord told me that when Yavanna realised the Trees would be no more and Fëanor chose to withhold his jewels, she searched high and low to gather what remained in small stores and containers all over Arda. As you can imagine, she uses this treasure sparingly now, almost a drop at a time where it is most needed.’

‘How can Araw making limpë be a necessity?’ queried Legolas.

Beleg stared at him. ‘In the old times, we rescued a few of those taken by the Hunter, or they escaped and were found before they became—, before it was too late. Tauron offered them limpë if their faer struggled to overcome the shadow. Sometimes it helped.’

Legolas looked down briefly before turning an accusing glare on Noruion. Noruion would have shaken his head in denial, but he was very aware of the sharp gaze of Lady Galadriel darting to and fro between him and Legolas.

At last she broke the tense silence. ‘As well as curing our ills and bringing renewed vigour to our immortal flesh, limpë is renowned for its virtue of taking away old desires and awakening new ones. What will these be when we drink the blood of the forest, Warden?’

Beleg’s lips twitched, almost into a smile. ‘The drought does nothing of the sort, though it may indeed show your true desires more clearly. Would you care to try, my lady, or shall I bring the wine instead?’

The Lady nodded. ‘I would try, gladly.’

The slight tilt of Beleg’s head as he turned to look at Noruion spoke a mute invitation to join them.

‘How about Legolas?’ asked Noruion.

‘Of course, if he so wishes,’ said Beleg. His eyes sparkled with mischief in the starlight. ‘I believe he and I have already established the limits of our involvement tonight, with or without limpë or royal writ.’

Confused, Noruion shifted his gaze to a scowling Legolas.

‘Yes, we have,’ said Legolas, dryly. ‘But I would be a fool to refuse the chance to partake of such a wondrous toast. However, I need to know something first. Who claimed my company tonight, if not Prince Ingwion?’

‘I did,’ said Galadriel. Legolas’ face darkened, but she gave him a warm smile. ‘I am glad to have you here, Legolas. You are amongst friends.’ Legolas glanced sidelong at Beleg, who did not refute or confirm the Lady’s assertion. ‘So, let us gather together,’ she commanded.

Noruion faced Legolas across the small circle. On his right, Galadriel faced Beleg, who stood on his left. ‘Pour your master’s brew, Warden, and speak the toast!’

Beleg filled their cups with a clear liquid. Looking in turn at his companions, Noruion raised his hand in time with the others to touch their cups in the centre of their circle. He found Legolas’ keen eyes and, after their gazes sparred for a fleeting few heartbeats, they broke contact to look at Beleg.

‘To life, to joy, and to love!’ said Beleg loudly. His voice echoed eerily against the trees that surrounded them. As though stirred by his words, the silk banners fluttered and flapped in the gusty breeze. Noruion had never met Araw, but Beleg suddenly seemed far more powerful than a man, almost as though the Lord of Forests himself were speaking through him. ‘May we learn to banish the weariness wrought by time. May we behold the wonders found under the stars with the delight of children, as we once did by the waters of life. May we rejoice in those who love us, and in the gifts that Ilúvatar give us, fëar and hröar.’ He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘To the end of our journey where we will come into the light!’ Then he dipped his head to Galadriel first, and then to Noruion. ‘To our champions!’

Moved by Beleg’s words, Noruion almost forgot to follow his example. Belatedly, he raised the cup to his lips and took a small sip.

This limpë was nothing like the disgusting syrupy liquid bearing the same name that he had been given in the gardens of Lórien. This draught was cold, almost icy, and it had very little taste, or so it seemed at first. But as he gulped it down, his tongue and nostrils tingled with the strong, lingering scents of moist loam and new spring leaves, and with the rich taste of mixed fruits, fresh and spicy, sweet and tart all at once, both familiar and alien.

Warmth trailed down his throat, and spread into his chest and belly, further into his groin and along his limbs to the tips of his fingers and toes. His scalp prickled, his bare skin crawled with goosebumps raised by the gentle kiss of the breeze, as though sparks were running all over his body. There was no pain or discomfort; in fact, after an initial wariness, the sensation was rather pleasant, not even spoiled by the leather thong straining to contain his rock-hard erection.   

All of a sudden, the ground seemed to tilt and he was no longer in a starlit clearing in a dell, but beating his heels and clapping his hands to the hypnotic pounding of drums and the chanting of many voices. His hands joined him to a woman on his right and a man on his left, the three of them part of a large circle that wheeled around a fierce bonfire. The sparks crackled loudly, and leapt high. Somehow he was not startled when he looked up and noticed that the stars spun as he danced, lighting the sky with curved silver paths as they moved. Sweat trickled down his spine, but he felt no fatigue; an exhilarating joy pulsed hot in his veins and awoke within him an urge to sing, to jump, to run, and to rut.

His head swirled and the scene wavered, and faded. Noruion longed to return to that place full of song and stars, unknown and yet utterly familiar, like a happy memory from his earliest childhood, blurry-edged but precious. He blinked, and was back with his companions. The three of them seemed equally dazed, inhaling deeply, eyes wide and wild, like deer about to bolt. Had they shared the same vision? Had they stepped, like him, into a scene from their people’s ancient past before the Shadow, or perhaps into the promise of a joyful future? It mattered not, not tonight. He laughed, before drinking the rest of the limpë, savouring its coolness and an increased awareness of his own rhaw, and of what was around him.

The shadows were less dark, the stars shone brighter, he could hear every leaf and blade of grass rustling in the breeze, see every curl of steam rising from the pool, and taste on his tongue the perfume of the petals strewn on its surface. He could sense every movement his companions made, every breath they drew, and his nostrils were filled with the exciting, rich scents from their rhaw: sweat, musk, dust, traces of soap, and the Lady’s mallorn flower perfume, faint but sweet. Their heartbeats thudded fast and strong, like his own, all of them entwined into a hypnotic pattern, like the drums of his vision. The tiny prickle of every single hair on his body standing made him shiver with pleasure.

He felt alive and alert like never before, not even at the edge of battle. His faer reached out to touch the fragile twitches of consciousness from sleeping birds nestled on branches, and from mice scuttling under the ferns; his ears picked up the slow beating of wings of an eagle flying overhead. A fox’s paws pattered away on the soft, leaf-covered ground.

Again, his eyes met Legolas’ across the circle, hoping he was sharing the same sense of wonder. But his friend was still caught inside his own dream, whatever it was.

‘Stay with him,’ said Galadriel. ‘Darkness followed you both across the sea. Leave it behind tonight, and rejoice.’

Noruion looked at her, then at Beleg, questioning.

‘You love him,’ said Beleg.

‘Yes. But I also…’ Noruion dropped his gaze. ‘You and I—‘

‘Shhh. I know,’ said Beleg. His voice was soft, free of anger. Noruion willed himself to look up at his friend. In Beleg’s eyes he saw kindness, and perhaps concern. ‘Love takes many guises. I would have gladly been your companion tonight, but fate—steered by a headstrong woman—has strived to bring Legolas back to you.’

Galadriel smiled. ‘Indeed it has, and now I trust you will take the helm.’

‘Me? How?’ asked Noruion.

‘You are fighting your hardest battle ever, against an enemy you carry within,’ said Beleg, placing a hand over Noruion’s heart. ‘It has not ended yet—it may never end, but your victory was assured when you began to believe in yourself again. Now you must guide Legolas out of the darkness, as I have guided you. Trust each other. You are strong, my brother, and so is he.’  

Noruion nodded, but he was not sure he understood fully. What darkness did Legolas carry?

Beleg gave him an encouraging squeeze on his shoulder and, taking the Lady’s hand, walked with her around the pool. They sat side by side on the stone ledge.

Noruion watched them kiss, slowly, for a long time. When they paused to breathe, they laughed. Beleg put his arm over her shoulders to draw her closer, and they kissed again, more ardently this time. Without parting, Galadriel began to release the ties of Beleg’s hair and to undo his braids, while Beleg ran the back of his hand slowly down her cheek.

Uncomfortable, Noruion looked at Legolas once more and found him blinking, coming out of his reverie. He stepped forward to seize his lord’s shoulders. ‘Are you well?’

When no answer came, Noruion’s rhaw refused to be reined in any longer. Whether fuelled by limpë or by a desire that had been building up all day, doubts, fears and rules were pushed away.

He kissed Legolas full on the lips.

Legolas did nothing. He did not step back, but neither did he return the kiss.

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Chapter End Notes

The idea for the particular ingredients of the variety of limpë featuring in this story is my own, but limpë is Tolkien's invention, first appearing in the "Book of Lost Tales":

'Now this which we put into our cups is limpe, the drink of the Eldar both young and old, and drinking, our hearts keep youth and our mouths grow full of song, [...]'

'Nor do we so, for we have limpe,' said she, 'limpe that alone can cure, and a draught of it giveth a heart to fathom all music and song.'