Poor Aim by StarSpray

---

Chapter 1

---

The woods beside the Esgalduin were filled with music. Most of the songbirds had already departed, flocking together and flying south to warmer climes for the winter, but Elven voices had come out to replace them, singing of autumn leaves and the freshness of the cool breezes and delicate morning frosts that dissolved with the first touch of pale sunlight.

Nellas had been born with the first frost, but she would have loved this time of year anyway. The chill in the mornings was invigorating, before the day warmed beyond the need for warm clothes. And the colors! The vibrant orange of the beech and the oak, the bright gold of the birch, the deep crimson of the maple… The shades were different every year, but always equally beautiful. Even the music of the Esgalduin was different in the autumn, subtly, as though already preparing for the ice of winter.

Her favorite place was a tree on the edge of a clearing near the river, not far from the entrance to Menegroth, where she could hear the comings and goings there, as well as the water and the goings on deeper in the forest.

Her contented peace that afternoon, however, was abruptly shattered when a spear shot through the branches scant inches from her head, narrowly missing a squirrel, which shot down the trunk with an angry chatter, to lodge in the trunk of the next tree over. Nellas shrieked and jerked back out of the way, arms flailing—and fell out of the tree. She landed roughly on the ground below, knocking her head against a root hard enough to make her see stars.

There had been laughter, but it stopped abruptly. “Nellas!” someone called. They sounded quite far away, from the other end of the clearing. With a groan, Nellas sat up, rubbing the back of her head. Her fingers did not come away bloody, which was something, she thought, but she’d have a lump the size of a goose egg, in addition to the rest of the bruises she could already feel.

“Nellas!” Her brother skidded to a halt in the leaves, nearly falling over himself as he reached her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said, blinking at him. He knelt to peer into her face. His own was unusually pale. “Who threw that?”

“Did it hit you?”

“Of course not,” she said, scowling at him. “If it had I’d still be screaming. And there would be blood.”

“Don’t snap at me, Nellas, I didn’t throw it,” Calemir snapped. “Come on, I’m taking you home.”

“Who did throw it?” Nellas asked again, allowing him to pull her up. She swayed, the forest spinning oddly for a moment, and her stomach threatening to rebel. Calemir hesitated before answering, glancing back at the knot of warriors—a mixture of march wardens and hunters and scouts, it looked like—at the far end of the clearing. There were no set targets—the spear-throwing was judged on distance rather than accuracy—but half a dozen other spears clustered in the ground some yards from where she and Calemir stood, like a stand of bare, branchless saplings.

“Beleg,” Calemir said after a short pause. Nellas narrowed her eyes at the group. “Come, Nellas,” Calemir sighed, rolling his eyes skyward, “you can tell him off later.”

“What was he doing throwing spears, anyway?” Nellas asked as they walked down the forest path. It was odd to pass through the forest on the ground—usually she took to the trees, racing through the branches like a squirrel, only the faintest rustle of leaves signaling her passage. “Did he break Belthronding?” Her father would not be happy, if that were the case; he had carved the great bow for Beleg, and often said it was this greatest work.

Calemir shook his head. “Of course not. But I don’t know, exactly, why they were out practicing today. Wine might have been involved.”

“Wine? It’s the middle of the afternoon!”

“It’s the middle of the autumn celebrations,” Calemir pointed out. “Which is probably why his aim was so astonishingly awful, as well.” He wrapped a strong arm around Nellas’ shoulders. “Do I want to know what sort of vengeance you’re planning to exact?”

“Probably not,” Nellas said, only because she wasn’t quite sure herself. Her head ached, and she already felt sore from the fall; there would be plenty of time to plot revenge later, she supposed.

Both their parents spent the rest of the afternoon fussing over Nellas, who was happy to curl up and doze by the fire with a mug of tea. Her head hurt, and she felt stiff, but the worst part was knowing the bruises wouldn’t fade by the next morning. She and her sister Hedil had been planning to run the relay race, and usually a fall from a tree wouldn’t stop Nellas from running anyway, but she’d hit her head harder than she’d thought, according to her mother, who flatly forbade her from doing anything but sitting—“On the ground, Nellas, with everyone else”—as a spectator, rather than a participant.

Nellas might have scaled a tree anyway, but Calemir stuck to her side like a bur, and she didn’t get a chance. “You know, most of us spend nearly all our time on the ground,” he said, sounding amused, when he caught her staring wistfully into the branches of a nearby oak as their parents spread a blanket on the grassy river bank.

“Do they?” Nellas replied. “That sounds terribly boring.”

Somewhere nearby Daeron and another musician visiting were engaged in some sort of competition, apparently in an attempt to decide who could play the most ear-splitting note possible. Nellas craned her neck until she found them, and then picked up a pebble to toss at Daeron. It hit him in the middle of the forehead—not hard, but it was enough to distract him. He ceased playing with a high-pitched squeak and looked around accusingly. Nellas ducked her head and bit a knuckle to stifle her giggles. Her mother gave her a faintly disapproving glance, but mostly everyone around them seemed relieved. Sometimes it was nice to be reminded that even Daeron suffered the occasional fit of imperfection, but the novelty wore off very quickly.

The races were not as fun to watch as to participate in, Nellas decided very early on. But it was satisfying to see her sister soundly beat one of the king’s Noldorin relations—either Angrod or Aegnor, she could never tell them apart. The Noldor liked to boast of superior physical prowess, thanks to having been born and raised in the Light of the Two Trees, but even a flamed-eyed Noldo was no match for a Nando in the forests of Beleriand.

There were other games and competitions, too, to celebrate and show off the prowess of every one of the king’s subjects and soldiers. Beleg won the archery competition, of course. The prize was a quiver of exquisite craftsmanship, inlaid with intricate designs of leaves and vines. “That’s not dwarf work, is it?” Nellas’ father wondered aloud as the king presented it to Beleg amid cheers and applause from the court.

“No, that’s Nemireth’s work,” said Calemir. “She showed it to me last week when we—” he broke off, the tips of his ears turning pink when Nellas and their parents raised their eyebrows at him. “I mean, when I went to—”

“All right, don’t hurt yourself,” said their father. “Just so long as you plan on introducing her to us before you get engaged.” Calemir spluttered a bit more, turning red as a sumac leaf, before spotting one of his friends nearby and making a quick escape.

His place on the blanket was soon filled by Beleg, looking extremely guilty. “Nellas,” he said, “I didn’t get a chance to come see you yesterday. You weren’t badly hurt, were you?”

“Just some bruises,” Nellas said.

“Oh. Good. I mean—it’s not good, obviously, but I’m glad you weren’t hurt worse. I’m very sorry, Nellas.”

He looked so guilty that Nellas didn’t have the heart to tell him off. “I’m all right, really,” she said. “Just be more careful next time, hm?”

“And for the love of Elbereth,” her mother added, “don’t drink wine while practicing spear throwing.”

“Of course,” Beleg promised. “I—ow!” He rubbed the back of his head. “What was—ow!” This time Nellas saw the projectile. It was an acorn. She picked it up off the blanket as a few more hit Beleg. “Nellas, I said I was sorry!”

“Well I’m not throwing them,” she said.

“No, but everyone knows the squirrels do your bidding!”

This gave Nellas pause. “Do they really?”

“Nellas!”

“I didn’t ask them to!” Nellas tried not to laugh—she really did—but the sight of Beleg Cúthalion brought low by a handful of very angry squirrels was too hard to resist. She laughed until her sides hurt and she couldn’t breathe, while he hunched his shoulders under the assault, glaring balefully at her, as though getting up to flee would only make it worse—which, to be fair, was entirely possible. Finally, Nellas got her breath back, and called out to the squirrels, “It’s all right! He’s very sorry, he won’t do it again!” One more nut—a walnut, this time—flew out of the bushes and hit the back of Beleg’s head, and then the assault ceased.

“How did the squirrels become so protective of you?” Beleg demanded after a moment, when it became clear no more nuts were going to be thrown.

“I don’t think that was because of me,” Nellas said. “There was a squirrel in the tree with me; you nearly skewered it.” Beleg grimaced. “It’s all right, I think they’ve had their fun. We’ll have to take the nuts back to them, though. They need them for the winter.”

Beleg grumbled, but helped Nellas gather up the acorns and walnuts. She had to carefully extract a few spiky chestnuts from his hair, and they packed them all into his new quiver, having nothing else to put them in. “Come on, I know the best place to put these,” Nellas said. “There’s a willow tree that’s nearly hollow, up the river a bit.”

As they made their way along the Esgalduin, they met Mablung coming the other way. “Good job today, Beleg,” he said cheerfully. “Is that the quiver you won?” He reached out before Beleg could protest to take it, presumably to examine the exquisite decorations, but paused once he had it in his hands. “Beleg,” he said slowly, “why is it filled with acorns?”

“Um,” Beleg said.

“Angry squirrels,” Nellas said, cheerfully. Mablung blinked, and then narrowed his eyes at her. “They don’t really think things through, though,” she added, ignoring the look. “So we’re taking them back to the forest so they won’t go hungry this winter.”

Mablung rolled his eyes as he handed the quiver back to Beleg. “Is this because of that spear-throwing mishap the other day?” he asked. “I told you not to drink with Daeron. That’s when he gets all his worst ideas.”

Beleg sighed as Mablung continued on his way. “Daeron wasn’t even there,” he said. Nellas snorted. “Mablung is right, though. Daeron gets terrible ideas when he’s drunk, but they’re all for songs, and it’s usually terribly amusing.” He paused. “Well, until he hits a certain point, then he starts crying about how beautiful Lúthien is.”

“He does that often enough sober,” Nellas said. Beleg shrugged, allowing the point. “Come on, the willow tree is up here. And if I were you, I’d leave little presents for them whenever you come by this way the next few months. At least until midwinter. By springtime they’ll have forgotten about it, though.” They poured the nuts into the hollow willow trunk, and Beleg slung the now-empty quiver over his shoulder before offering Nellas his arm. She looped hers through his elbow.

Music floated to them from downstream, ancient songs first performed at Cuiviénen; there would be dancing, too, and singing, long into the night, as they bid farewell to the summer and greeted the coming winter. Soon Beleg would return to the marches, and Calemir too, and the snows would come to blanket the world in soft white, and the Esgalduin would freeze solid enough to slip and slide across.

But for now the sun was bright and warm, and the forest was aflame with brilliant color. Nellas released Beleg’s arm and swung into the nearest tree. “Race you back!” she called over her shoulder, before leaping through the branches on light feet, so swift it felt like flying.