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.|. Book of Days .|.
3. Pain * * * * * Elves, what a strange kin we are. With the wind in our hair and light upon our brows, stars shine in our eyes. Immortal we are, and beautiful as only the first children of Ilùvatar could be. Wise, wisest than any other; strong, pure and fair. Or so we’re told, for we do not dwell often on such kind of thoughts. Indeed, an Elf holds little fascination with others like him. But what I cannot deny, even now that I’m no more an Elf, is that we’re quick to sing and laugh as we’re with swords and bows. My brothers… thought I’ve seen them for little precious time, I know them deeply, like I could know only myself. And indeed they often wore smiles on their fair faces, and laughter spilled from their lips like music. But those smiles and those laughs, kind hearted as they were, often served only to remind Estel that, in all his merits, he was but a mere human. They may have hurt him, those laughs and those smiles, but he never let it show, knowing deep within himself that those he regarded as brothers would never intentionally hurt him. But they did. Never deliberately, never purposefully, but they still did all the same. Reminding him with their mirth of his humanity, as thought it was a burden, a punishment he was bound to carry on his sinless shoulders. Each time he failed to be as special as they were, their laughs would come, and like shards of broken glass seed themselves under his skin and spread pain from there. That cancerous pain, that constant remind, thought unplanned, made him blind to his own merits. Because he was indeed special, though not Elf. And this lack of his led to tragedies greater than any would ever expect. Had he seen the skill that was in him, the accuracy he was capable of, he would have been able to see. See what was happening to Legolas, and to him. He would have never believed, even for a moment, that all that happened was his fault. And thus, not deeming himself responsible, not blinded by his grief and guilt and regret, he wouldn’t have lost himself as he did. * * * * * Estel carefully notched the arrow on its string; slowly, with the ease born of years of practice. He stood aiming at the tired trunk of an old tree for longer than any Elf or any Human should, and all to be sure his shot would be true to its mark. But when he let the arrow go, it missed the target’s core, even if just of few inches, and disappointment rose to coat Estel’s mouth like the bitterest bile. Few feet behind him three Elves stood, his companions in this quest to discover and kill Orcs. Two of them laughed, while the third stood straight, his head tilted pensively. “After all this years it’s a marvel how he still can’t succeed in a skill as easy as archery.” One of the darker Elves, the oldest of the trio, chided. Beside him his twin stood, arms folded across his chest as it rippled with laughter. “Indeed. Estel, when are you going to show us a shot worth of this name?” “I tried.” The Man mumbled, and it was so low as thought meant only for himself to hear. But those behind him heard it all the same, and laughed. At least two of them did, for Legolas still stood gazing thoughtfully at Estel’s arrow. “Estel?” he shook himself at last, and called out for the Man in a low voice. Immediately Estel’s eyes were on him — squinted, as though the Man expected Legolas to laugh as well, and yet burning with the warm light of love. Legolas smiled at him, and his eyes flickered briefly to where the arrow stood embedded in the tree, beckoning Estel’s own eyes to follow them. “Your arrow hit the trunk but an inch from where Elladan placed the centre of the target. It’s an awesome result, if you were to ask me.” Some semblance of delight came to Estel’s eyes, but the hurt still lingered like a foul sore. Legolas could see it, even if the Man’s face was concealed almost completely to him, turned toward the target as he was. “Any Elf would have done better.” Elladan reminded, and Elrohir shrugged. “Very true.” He said. Legolas watched as Estel’s tentative smiled died on his lips; watched as the muscles on the angular cheek trembled in the effort of keeping back either tears or hoarse replies. Then the Elf turned to the twins; he was cross and vaguely hurt himself, but it all lied concealed behind a teasing grin. “Do I need to remind you Estel is human?” he tilted his head and regarded the twins sideways, watching them through his lashes. “And young in the reckoning of both his and our kin, too. He’s but twenty, and neither you two nor me was this good at this age.” At first Estel thought about denying it, but when he saw the look on Legolas’s face, determined and trusting and hurt, he decided to let the matter slide. He looked away, his eyes turning shuttered as he reflected yet again on his faults and merits. As his mind wandered he curled his fingers painfully around his bow self-consciously. He did so to merely give his hands something else to do other than drawing blood from his own palms as he clenched them; but for a second he did toy with the notion of breaking the bow in two and let the shards run through his hands, just to see what would hurt more – his flesh, or his hurt pride, his heart. After all, who would care if the worthless human got hurt? //You fool, Legolas would. He loves you. He believes in you.// He released the bow as some semblance of lucidity returned to his eyes, and Estel woke himself up from his reverie just in time to catch Legolas’s last words. “…so tell me now, if he’s so capable, what do you think he will do in a few years from now? Wonders, I assure you. Wonders.” Legolas stood, glaring at the twin sons of Elrond with his arms crossed against his chest. “Estel may be human, but he’s strong, and clever, and a light burns in him that many an Elf would envy him. I trust him with my life, and I know he will never breach my trust. My heart is his, and in him resides all my hope.” Those were the exact words he used to end his speech, his eyes now aflame with some strong emotion, and Estel felt the bow slid from his fingers and drop feather-light on the ground. The only thing he knew in that moment was that he would not let Legolas down. He would live his life to the fullest, and do always his best – for him. Only for him. Silence befell the clearing, heavy and oppressive, but it was broken easily when Elladan smiled, the sun blanching in comparison. “You speak true words, Legolas Thranduilionn*” The flaxen Prince acknowledged those words with a polite bow of his head even as the other Elf sauntered deeper into the forest, his own weapon at the ready. Elrohir went after his brother, swift and yet extremely collected, and he too was smiling. “But each praise your lips utter to our dear Estel, is born of love and thus lessens in truth. Estel, you’d better improve and soon, if you do not want your beloved to lose his face in front of the rest of his kin.” Legolas raised an eyebrow at the retreating Elves, the smile back on his lips as well. “The day will come when you’ll be glad to fight with Estel by your side.” He foretold them, but then twins heeded him not, and with swift feet disappeared through the trees. Only when nothing remained of them, not even the distant sound of their laughter, did Legolas turn to his love. He walked towards where the Man stood amazed, and wrapped his arms around Estel’s waist, leaning gingerly against him. “The twins mean you no ill, love. They merely jest, and you know it.” “It’s their own way to prompt me, I guess.” Estel conceded slowly, his displeasure fading some as he tucked the Elf’s lithe form in his arms. “But I wonder… I wonder if I’ll ever be as good as them.” “You’ll be thousand times better than them, love.” The Elf said softly, his warm breath wafting across Estel’s neck, having he tucked his head under the Man’s chin. “Soon enough they’ll be no match to you, and they’ll laugh with you, and not of you anymore.” Sighing, Estel pulled away, looking into Legolas’s eyes for an answer to his torment. He came up with the same one those eyes always gave him - they wanted him to believe. Believe in them, believe in Legolas, in their love, and in himself. And he needed to believe. Inhaling sharply through his nose, Estel managed to smile faintly after admiring one more moment the wondrous creature in his arms. “I don’t quite think you’re right,” he said, kissing the Elf’s forehead once. “But for you, I’ll try to believe.” Legolas nodded, expression warm. “Mára*. I know you’ll see the goodness in you one day, Estel. And I pray this day is close to be.” He said, cupping Estel’s cheek. He stood gazing in the Man’s eyes for some moments, telling him without words all the reassurances he needed hearing. Then he cocked his head to one side, a smug glint stealing suddenly into his eyes. “Or perhaps I should stop praying and just take you as my apprentice once more, seeing how lacking you still are.” Estel gave a little noise born of shock, but Legolas knew better than believing such pretence. So he placed one finger on the Man’s chin, pulling gently even as he hovered closer, and said, “I know you wouldn’t mind it, herven nín*.” It was in that moment that everything stopped. And even Estel found it hard to breath for a long moment. The appellative was new to both Legolas and he, having neither ever used it before. But Estel was no fool, and being the Man wise in Elven-lore, he was stunned by the immensity of such small words. “…Legolas?” He asked shakily. He seemed on the verge of shouting, struggling against unseen walls, but lacked the energy for anything exceeding that breathless whisper. The Elf let out a gentle chuckle, and tilting his head he smiled at his love in a way that made him look both wise and impish. “Have the long years you’ve spent living among Elves taught you nothing about our customs?” He chided gently, but did not wait for him to respond, knowing what the answer would be already. “When an Elf falls in love, rarely it isn’t for forever. And when we bond ourselves to the one we love, when we promise each other love and loyalty aloud, and with him become one-” His smile turned sweeter, and the Elf took a moment to wound his arms around the Man’s neck, pressing their bodies closer and their foreheads together. “-it is a rite equal to the wedding ceremonies of your own kin, love. A marriage done with no established ritual or witness, but not less true, being it born of mutual desire and consent and love.” Estel guided the Elf deeper into his embrace, and dipping his head he pressed his cheek to the top of Legolas’s head. “I knew.” He said softly. “But hearing you calling me like so…” he hesitated a moment, and then softly, he murmured: “Say it again… herven nín.” Legolas laughed again, his chest rippling against Estel’s own. “Herven nín…” “Again.” “Herven nín …” * * * * * Time drew close to the End of the Third Era, as in only sixty and eight years would Barad-dûr subside and would Sauron perish. Days filled of much and many marvels drew close, and indeed many unforgettable facts marked this one year, as if to better pinpoint it in the times to come. Legolas bonded himself to his beloved in a sacred pledge and I travelled back to Imladris, true; but the ever-growing menace in the East was not idle either. Sauron declared himself openly at last, and foul creatures gathered under the shadows of the Tower he was rebuilding. Ringwraiths, ruined souls slaved by the Ring’s will, reoccupied Dol Goldur once more, coming to dwell halfway between Lothlorien and Legolas’s own native woods. Bitter shadows, cold as winter and dark as countless nights, spread over Middle Earth. Sensing their Master’s voice, creatures from all Middle Earth began moving, whispering excitedly in their secluded nestles; and dispatching death and destruction was once again in their power and will, and no matter how good the Dunedaìn, Elves and Gondorian people fought, innocent blood was all too often spilled. It came to pass that a small host of those very foul creatures met the smaller company of warriors Legolas and Estel were part of. And, crazy with the excitement of their Master’s coming, they assaulted that company, crashing onto them like the dark waves of a stormed Ocean, and leaving them no chance of retreat. * * * * * Orcs swarmed like locusts in the small clearing, hissing and sounding like one thousand angry rattlesnakes. Estel stood in the very eye of the storm, his breathing jagged and sweat burning in his eyes. But great was his skill, and many Orcs fell under his sword. Though he’d been separated from Legolas and couldn’t ear his bow singing anymore, he could still tell the Elf was close by and letting his short knife taste some Orc-blood. Where the twins were he did not know, and though he confided in their ability, their absence worried him. Elladan and Elrohir hadn’t returned yet, and very well knowing both their hatred for Orcs and the hideous clamour those foul creatures were making, Estel was sure their delay was not their doing. They’d been probably attacked – or worst – by another group of Orcs. Brought back to the present circumstances by a particularly strong attack, he grimaced as he parried it. Though exhausted he swung his sword-arm out, and felt another Orc go down. As the fall of the foul creature gave him few seconds to rest, Estel found himself looking up in search of Legolas. He didn’t posses the Elven gift of vision or any particular ability in that sense, but he always felt it deep within him when something terrible was about to happen to those he loved. And his eyes narrowed as a sudden surge of fear for Legolas’s safety swept through him. Glancing about him Estel noticed with relief that but few more Orcs were left, and most of those were hindered by bleeding gashes. They were winning, he realized. Against the odds, they were winning. Yet, even as he rejoiced, a vision straight from a nightmare presented itself to his eyes. Legolas had broken through the Orcs lines up to where their chieftain stood wholly clad in black and dappled with blood. The foul creature was advancing menacingly on Legolas, wielding his short sword this way and that; and Estel couldn’t suppress the cry of distress that rose to his lips. He tried to scamper towards his love, summoning up every ounce of strength left in his tired limbs. But Orcs were suddenly on him, leaping at him from all sides at once. It was as if they were following an unspoken command, toying with Estel as their Chieftain enthralled himself with the Elf. Legolas did catch a glimpse of the danger Estel was in at the corner of his eye, but he could do nothing more than grit his teeth, focusing on finishing off as quick as possible the Orc-Chieftain. Orcs were wicked and violent, but they were stupid just as much – and Legolas knew that once their chieftain was down they would retreat for sure. Pressing his eyes shut against the sight of Estel, the Elf turned toward his opponent and saw that he advanced still on him - slowly and with ease, as though an admired wanting to ask the fair Prince for a dance. But that was no dance, and the Orc’s feeling for the Elf were more like loathing than love. But if indeed the Orc hated him, it was true that Legolas was not fond of him as well. He regarded the foul creature with burning fire, returning the look of fiery hate bestowed upon him. With the grace innate of his kin Legolas slowly outstretched his arm, fair even in the midst of such a perilous fight, and pointed his weapon directly at the Orc’s chest. The Orc snarled, running his black tongue over a row of sharp, yellow teeth, and advanced still, swaying his sword about. Then at last they were close enough to cross their weapons; and they did just so, each studying the other as though wanting him to do the first move. In actual fact, it’s not sure who initiated the fight, but within mere seconds nothing existed for the two duellists but the other. * * * * * The outcome of the battle was inevitable; Legolas exceeded the Orc in agility and power and skill, and even though the beast was wicked and did not duel by rules but following a blind desire for blood, it was obvious Legolas would easily prevail. Yet, as I said, the Orc was wicked, and when he saw his death come closer and closer, and by the hand of someone he hated, his cunning mind drove him to a last, desperate attempt to save himself. Pretending to be dead he laid still on the forest floor; and Legolas, too worried about Estel to care one moment more for his fallen adversary, swivelled around, and indeed Estel was in need of him. So worried he was for his human love that he noticed not when the Orc behind him came back to sudden life, leaped to his feet and with an ominous cry charged him. But even among the commotion Estel saw it; he saw it all. For he was clever, and talented just as Legolas said, and knowing instinctively where danger would lay he’d looked towards Legolas. It all unfolded before his eyes in slow motion.
Legolas turned around to face him,
long hair swirling around. There was a dark shadow looming behind him and
then hurtling down toward him – falling - falling as though for an embrace.
Something twinkled in the shadow’s bloody hands, cold and harsh. It was a
sword, picking up speed as it descended towards Legolas, who was still
unaware and had eyes only for Estel and the danger the Man himself was in. So Estel… …Estel shot an arrow. An arrow carved with the symbols of the house of Elrond. He shot it, and let it go toward its destiny as he turned around, attacked from behind from much more Orcs he alone could deal with.
* Thranduilionn (or Thranduliòn) = Sindarin for “Son of Thranduil” * Mára = Quenya for “good” *herven nín = Sindarin for “My husband”. Actually, I think Legolas spoke Quenya (I really don’t know…) and thus would have called Estel “vernonya” but… well, “herven nín” sounds way better… don’t you think so too? ^^;; *a phone rings insistently* … … … *click* *the answering machine turns on* Regards, dear readers. You’ve reached Nemesi’s current dome. Unfortunately, she’s momentarily unavailable, hidden somewhere in the Fields of Fire of Mordor, trying to stay alive after writing such a cliffhanger… if you want to leave her a review, a critique, an opinion on how you think the story will go on from here, or if you simply want to threaten her for leaving you hanging like THAT, please record a message after the ‘bip’. *BIIIIIP* |
