True Bow (Cuthenin)

Cuthenin (True-Bow)

by F.E.Morton

unbeta'd

italics = thoughts

(elvish translation)

Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's,
the words here are mine. No money earned.

Summary: A look at what might happen if Legolas was just known as a
messenger and not as Thranduil's son. The setting is just before the
Council of Elrond. Features Glorfindel/Legolas pairing.

---

Minui Peth: Mellon o Coth? (Part
One: Friend or Foe?)



"He knows."

"Aye. I expected as much. Once the hobbit made it over the ford, the
Dark Lord trained his attention on any others travelling to Rivendell.
His spies are everywhere. The Wraiths may be temporarily scattered but
innumerable are the lesser evils capable of thwarting us. There have
been several raids on neighbouring villages; the people flee to the
west for safety. Yet Orcs are
patrolling just outside our borders, attacking as soon as Anor (the
sun) retreats."

"Do what you can. Those drawn here must complete their journey. Alert
me of all visitors immediately."

"Aye. Ir telitha Elladan ar Elrohir?" (When are Elrohir and Elladan
expected?)

"Na Ithil Bant. Nae, si cûron." (At Full Moon. Alas, now it is
Cresent)

"Avgosto; incen gwanûn hebir gell an telien." (Do not worry; my
guess
is the twins are just enjoying the sport.)

"Útelien, Glorfindel," (It is hardly a game, Glorfindel.) the
Lord of Imladris admonished.

"Na tí no ten," (It is to them.) countered the saviour of
Eärendil
with a wry
smile.

The ancients conversed quietly on the balcony overlooking a peaceful
grove of chestnut trees, keeping their voices low for the benefit of
the recovering hobbit resting in the room behind them. Leaning on the
rail in weary malaise, Gandalf gave a short laugh and nodded, but his
mood was anything but jolly. The two elves looked in his direction and
he shrugged.

"I am glad they are out there. Glorfindel is right, the numbers of Orcs
are increasing and we need someone to discourage their boldness." His
grave words raised an indignant grunt from the Balrog Slayer.

"My warriors are not sitting around on their hands, Peniphant (Old
One)! We have strengthened our patrols accordingly and intercepted
several raids already. Show some faith in Imladris' forces."

"Of course, I meant no slight. It is just imperative for everyone so
appointed to reach this destination."

"Valar willing, they shall," intoned Elrond and returned to the sick
room to check on the patient.

Glorfindel joined the wizard at his gloomy watch, gazing down into the
peaceful grounds. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the
trees and cast flickering shadows on the lawn. The orchard was empty of
elves and the valley was silent, the tension of the Lord of the Hidden
Vale infecting everyone so that even the Bruinen's booming voice was
sombre and apprehensive. Glorfindel sighed and straightened up.

"I must prepare; it is an hour before annûn (sunset) and I wish
to be well away before dark." He gave the Istar a brief nod and strode
back inside, passing through the convalescing hobbit's chamber,
offering Elrond but a quick wave of his hand in salute, knowing his
comment had been heard.

The venerable soldier left the pleasing elegance of the Last Homely
House through the kitchens, stopping to gather the provisions prepared
for him and exchange a warm word of thanks with the able cooks before
crossing the broad expanse of the formal gardens to reach the more
utilitarian section of the Noldo Lord's compound. Glorfindel stepped up
his pace as he entered the barracks courtyard, noting with satisfaction
that his troops were busy preparing for the night's surveillance.

He was spotted and hailed and the noble captain returned the
salutation. No instruction was required of him for these were seasoned
warriors, hand-picked from among the best archers and swordsmen of
Imladris. Each knew what was expected and what awaited them in the
drear of the starless gloom, for all had seen more than an Age of life
and none had reached their sum of years unscathed by combat with the
enemy. A short whistle sounded and they mounted up, forming three
troops of twelve cavalry grouped in ranks of four. Without a word
spoken the patrols left the barracks, the thunderous rumble of the
horses' hooves providing the only accompaniment to their departure.

At the ford Glorfindel saluted the border guards and there his forces
divided, each troop taking a different sector of the terrain chosen by
lots. The Balrog Slayer's company had drawn the grim expanse of the
North Road, a desolate and little used thoroughfare connecting the
western lands of Eriador to the wild regions east of the Misty
Mountains. Yet this was one of the most likely areas to run into Orcs,
for the vile things had virtually made the road through the peaks
impassable. The Hithaeglir was replete with dens and caves packed with
the disgusting mutations and ever were they on watch for any traveller
foolish enough to attempt the pass. From these infested caverns poured
the influx of Sauron's minions into the gentler, more civilised lands
bordering Imladris. Glorfindel fully anticipated a skirmish at the very
least.

An hour past midnight, the elven warriors encountered a large troop of
the detestable vermin in a small wooded area just within the foothills
of the towering mountains, no more than five leagues from the Hidden
Vale. It was obvious the foul creatures had set up an ambush, using the
scattered outcroppings and the cover of the trees to hide their
presence. It was equally apparent that their plan had failed, for every
single one of the Orcs was dead. That they had tried to flee was clear
as well. What the Noldorin soldiers could not figure out, however, was
the nature of the opposing army. It was an intriguing puzzle, for no
tracks or signs of the warriors were evident, and if not for the finely
crafted elven arrows deeply penetrating each corpse, the Imladrians
would have suspected some sort of magic.

Glorfindel collected one of the feathered bolts and raised his brows as
an expression of surprise suffused his features. Though he had never
held one like it in his hands before, he could deduce the origin of the
archer by process of elimination. The design of the shafts and
fletching used in Lothlorien were known to him, as were those of
Imladris and Mithlond. The weapon was definitely not of human make and
there was only one other realm of elves in Arda. The attack had been
thwarted by Wood Elves from Thranduil's kingdom in Mirkwood. The
intrepid warrior fingered the deadly point as he counted the number of
bodies; fifty Orcs lay rotting under the moon.

"It would seem we have allies to the east after all," he said softly.
"Split into groups of four and seek this company of silvan elves, for I
would thank them for their service."

The remaining hours of Ithil's reign they searched, but no sign of the
woodland warriors could they discover. At last the faint light of
dawn's approach touched the sky and the soldiers resumed ranks and
headed home, no wiser regarding the identities of their unseen
benefactors.

When the Balrog Slayer's group reached the ford, the second company of
the night patrol was already gathered together. Many had dismounted and
rested on the grassy banks to enjoy the show, for the guards and the
warriors were arguing with, firing off questions, and making jokes at
the expense of a loan person within their midst. A solitary Wood Elf
stood beside his horse, ringed by the elite forces of Elrond's realm,
and stoically endured the interrogation, repeating the same answer no
matter how many different ways the Noldorin elves chose to ask him to
state his business.

"I am a messenger from Thranduil's Realm over the Mountains. I must
speak with Lord Elrond."

"Athedrainyn (BorderCrossers) are not granted audience with our Lord.
Hand over your dispatch and we shall see it delivered," one of the
Noldor demanded.

"I cannot, for I am charged to render the news personally."

"Why, is it memorised?" a warrior jibed and raised a few chuckles from
his peers.

"Excuse me?" the messenger was genuinely baffled by this query and that
elicited even more laughter. He gazed around at the encircling
soldiers, bewildered.

"I asked if you have the news memorised. Do you not understand Sindarin
well? Your accent is rather heavy," the golodh (deep-elf (Noldo))
expounded to further
tittering amusement among his fellows.

"I understand your speech but not your meaning. I am charged by my Lord
to give a complete reckoning of the situation; memorisation is not
necessary for I was involved in the events."

"Oh, that explains it then. I thought perhaps the message was committed
to memory due to your Lord's inability to write it down." With the
cutting point finally delivered the assembled troops erupted with
mirthful mockery and congratulated their captain on his fine joke.

The Wood Elf merely stood silent and still, features impassive, running
his fingers through the glossy white mane of the mare by his side,
waiting for them to resume their questioning.

The arrival of Glorfindel's company forestalled this, however. The
Balrog Slayer dismounted and the soldiers stifled their merriment,
parting to let him through to the unexpected visitor. Couriers from the
Woodland Realm seldom came to Imladris for the Mirkwood elves were
distrustful of the Noldorin folk across the mountains. He assessed the
archer as he approached, noting with a smirk that the Wood Elf was
doing the same to him.

What he saw was as he expected: the elf was
small in stature, slight in build, young in years, and fair of face. So
it was among the Athedrainyn, for speed was their sole defence and thus
only the lightest in weight were chosen for this career. Usually, their
fleet steeds were not fast enough to forestall the inevitable.
Thranduil's messengers seldom saw their five hundredth begetting day.

This one is not so far from his Coll o Gweth, (Coming of Age)
I would wager my finest mare. And the thought made Glorfindel's
face
turn grim in disapproval, for to his mind it was wrong to set one so
young upon the road to Mandos. Indeed, he could not recall ever meeting
or hearing of a stripling so green as this one venturing beyond the
cover of the trees.
He weighed the Wood Elf's worth anew. More expendable or more
trustworthy? he wondered.

In addition to lack of years, the archer was too pale, too thin, his
cloak was
wrapped around him as if he felt chilled, and he was absolutely filthy,
coated in mud and dirt and dried blood. If he had a sword the cape
obscured it but his bow was in his left hand and the quiver upon his
was empty.
His hair was probably the same flaxen shade as his mare's mane
underneath all the grime and he wore it braided back in battle style.
Glorfindel decided he was evaluating a very different calibre of
Mirkwood messenger than those he had encountered in Lorien.

"Mae Govannen (Well Met)," he said with a tight smile. "I am pleased
to welcome you to Imladris. Go now and alert your captain that your
company may
enter the Hidden Vale under the Blessings of the Star Kindler. Our Lord
will be eager to express gratitude for the service your warriors have
done for our home and her surrounding lands."

"I humbly thank you for such a gracious greeting, my Lord," said the
woodland warrior with a deep bow, hand over his heart. "Yet I have no
captain nor company to summon. My comrades were killed; I am the only
survivor of this mission."

That this was true was evident in the depth of sorrow betrayed by the
solitary archer's
voice and the Balrog Slayer stared into eyes shadowed in
misery and swimming with confusion and pain. Glorfindel comprehended
instantly that the youthful soldier had endured initiation to mortal
combat on this
journey and witnessed the slaying of friends and kin for the first
time.
The ancient warrior was saddened to behold this loss of
innocence and could not remove his gaze from the limitless azure orbs.
His brow wrinkled; something in that woeful stare bespoke a wisdom
beyond the dearth of years this youth had lived, and he puzzled over it.

"I grieve for your loss," he finally managed to murmur the polite
phrase as one of his lieutenants coughed to get his attention. "And yet
I am bewildered. There were no elves among the bodies. What has become
of your troop?"

Now it was the Wood Elf's forehead that creased in muddled frustration
as he
tried to comprehend the noble Lord's meaning. He wondered for a second
if this was not the prelude to another graceless slander but
immediately discarded the notion. This warrior was not like the others,
and even they would not find the death of his fellows something to
ridicule. Mayhap he truly did not understand their dialect after all.

"Forgive me, Lord, but your question presents a quandary. I did not
travel hence
among a company of warriors. I am one of four sent on an errand of
vital importance from Lord Thranduil. We were waylaid in the mountain
pass and there my friends perished."

"Four? Nay, that cannot be right," the words were said not so much with
disbelief as shocked denial.

"I assure you it is the truth. No more could be spared for this journey
though its priority is of the highest order. My people are beset by
divers enemies from the citadel of Dol Guldur and our warriors are
needed
to guard our borders."

"I mean not to call your verity into question; however, we came upon a
troop of Orcs amid the foothills, all of them
felled by arrows such as those used in the Woodland Realm. No elves
were
among the corpses, of this we made certain. Is it possible there is
another entourage from your lands, unknown to you?"

"Ah, I understand you now. Those Orcs. The ambush beneath the boxwood
trees and the stones." He paused and drew a weary breath. "That filth
was not the same offal that attacked my group in the mountains. Even
so, I consider they originated from the same source and killed
them with as much relish as if they had been the ones that stole my
friends' immortal lives." The messenger was clearly relieved to have
the misunderstanding cleared and smiled for the first time, albeit a
very grim and cheerless
smile.

"What nonsense!" One of the Imladrian border guards scoffed. "Are you
so lacking
in propriety that you dare speak falsely to the face of Glorfindel,
Lord of the
House of the Golden Flower?"

"I should thrash you for it, whelp, and teach you some manners!" a
second warrior chimed in.

"I do not lie! I demand you retract that slur at once or face my
blade!" the silvan archer cast back his cloak and unsheathed a long,
gory hunting knife as he assumed a defensive posture. He spared a
second's gawking at the tall, golden Vanya before him, yet would not
allow his awe over the presence of so renowned a legend stifle his
outrage over the Noldor's calumnies.

"Hold!" shouted Glorfindel, uplifting his palm toward the visitor. "Be
calm and lower your weapon; the apology you shall have at once." His
voice was low and measured but though his keen eyes sought the young
elf's the archer would not remove his rage-ravaged countenance from the
Noldo who
had insulted his honour. "Ithilgwath, (Moonshadow), beg pardon of our
guest immediately, for you have shamed the Lord of the Valley by such
inexcusable slander."

"My Lord?" the elven warrior stared in disbelief at his commander. "You
heard his words, did you not? He seeks to make a name for himself by
claiming the valorous deeds of others!"

"Vile son of kinslayers, defend yourself!" hissed the Wood Elf and
advanced immediately, fully prepared to avenge his sullied reputation
even if
it meant drawing the pompous soldier's blood.

Glorfindel repositioned himself between them as the rest of the Noldor
fell back and gave the trio a wide clearance, though two Imladrian
archers drew aim upon the interloper's heart. Then the former Lord of
Gondolin did something that quite surprised his troops. He took his
place beside the bedraggled Mirkwood messenger and drew sword,
confronting the mouthy guard with angry condemnation etched upon his
scowling visage.

"I will not countenance such low words from among elves that claim to
serve the Vale of the Last Homely House!" he thundered, so incensed he
could scarcely contain his desire to strip the offender of his
commission on the spot. "Rest assured the loyalty of those who would
disregard my orders will be thoroughly investigated. Choose now what
your demeanour shall be: gratitude for the elf who rid our lands of the
stink of Sauron's vermin or haughty disdain for a stranger far from his
own home and kin. No reason have we to doubt this elf or subject him to
ridicule, while every hint of evidence supports his account of the
night's work."

At these harsh words the warriors were troubled, for they had no wish
to stand against their noble captain. The archers lowered their bows
and abashedly approached, bowing low before the silvan and the
Balrog Slayer.

"Gohenna nin," (Forgive me) each murmured. "My Lord, we acted on
instinct when we
saw his knife glint in Anor's rays."

"Aye, yet you should not have been so hasty in your judgement,"
complained Glorfindel. He turned slightly to view his colleague and
could not suppress an amused grin at the blank expression of confused
amazement plastered over the archer's features. "What say you to their
apology, laegel gand?" (bold green-elf)

The silvan warrior relaxed somewhat, but only allowed his vision to
flicker for an instant in the speaker's direction, keeping his
attention centred on the one that had so baldly defamed him. He was
nonplussed, for this was unlike any reaction he had been told to expect
from the Noldor elves of Imladris. The disdain and the rude jokes,
these he had prepared his heart to endure, but such an outright insult
could only be perceived as an open challenge and invitation to
conflict. Yet, there was the matter of the dispatch with which he had
been entrusted and this personal injury must accept lesser notice. A
short sigh left his lungs and he gave a nod of equal
brevity.

"It is acceptable, yet these two are not the offenders. Be that as it
may, for the sake of their swift repentance and in hopes of a truce
between us, I will bear no
grudge upon this land or its people. Yet upon Ithilgwath," and here he
uplifted the mithril blade and pointed it straight at the warrior's
heart, "shall linger a burden that may be relieved only by answering my
challenge or rendering an oath of subservience."

"What is that you say?" sputtered the livid warrior. Ithilgwath sought
to
stride forth and meet the stinging rebuke at once but his fellows
grasped his arms and held him still. "Subservience to such as you, Wood
Elf? I would sooner kneel to a human!"

"You are dismissed, soldier," growled Glorfindel. "Return to the
barracks and await your summoning before Lord Elrond. You have made
your choice and now shall you earn its merits." So saying the mighty
Vanya sheathed his broadsword with evident wrath only just contained
and turned his back upon the disgraced elf. With another bow he
appealed to his humble guest.

"I offer my own regrets for this deplorable demonstration of prejudice
and bigotry. I had hoped for better from my troops, yet it seems even I
cannot be free of error, for I chose this lot myself and thus
ultimately must answer for their deeds, be they honourable or
despicable."

Ithilgwath glowered in defiant outrage and hastened to his stallion,
mounting up and splashing across the ford, two of his comrades at his
heels to mark his adherence to the captain's order. Amid the noisy
slosh of the horses' watery departure the remaining warriors mounted as
well, awaiting their leader's command to return to the city. Yet
stringent though they were in controlling it, not a few were evidently
displeased to have their comrade berated for the likes of so common a
being, by their estimation, that men of Gondor seemed noble by
comparison.

"I would not have you carry that burden, Lord, but the ways of the
silvans are mayhap divergent from the customs of the Noldor. In as much
as I may relieve it, consider that no grievance to Lord Elrond shall be
made against yourself nor any other among your folk. What stands
between Ithilgwath and me shall remain there until he chooses to meet
me in combat."

"Very well, I cannot gainsay your words for I doubt I would be as
gracious were our positions reversed," smiled the Balrog Slayer. "Will
you let us have your name for I would have your brave deeds on behalf
of
our fair country reported and commended to both our Lords."

"Gladly will I give my name, yet I cannot accept accolades, nor would
my Lord approve them, for acting as duty demands. Cuthenin,
Athedreinyn  an Thranduil, Aran o Gladgalen." (I am True-bow,
messenger for Thranduil, King of Greenwood.) So speaking the valiant
silvan archer bowed again before the mighty reborn elda.

"Suilad," called one of the mounted cavalry in genuine goodwill, for
not all were contemptuous of the visitor, especially in light of their
Lord's example. "Will you join us at table, Cuthenin, and tell us tales
of your homeland?"

"Hannaden," (My thanks) a meagre smile attended this acceptance for
really the Wood Elf had only the wished to get his chore completed and
be
gone from the foreign realm. His bow was required amid the trees where
every
night brought increasing boldness from the foul servants of the Wraiths
in Dol Guldur.

"Nay, I must interfere in those plans," said Glorfindel, shrewdly
reading the signs of aching fatigue that clung to the messenger as
thickly as the grime of his travails coated his slender frame. "We must
allow our guest to rest and refresh himself before taking his news to
Lord Elrond. Now, let us make for home and a hearty breakfast!"

Glorfindel vaulted onto his charger's back and noted the silvan lightly
spring upon the whithers of his mount. With a wave of his hand, the
captain ordered his troops away, falling into formation at the rear
alongside the woodland warrior, and the column galloped through the
shallow river's glinting spray.

TBC