True Bow (Cuthenin)

Cuthenin [True-Bow]
by femorton
unbeta'd

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

thoughts
(elvish translations)

Tadui Peth: Dôr Minai a Brand (Unique and Lofty Place)

By the time the cavalry rode into the grounds of the Last Homely House, Anor was already an hour above the horizon and a chipper chorus of songbirds, finches, wrens, and sparrows filled the atmosphere with welcoming warbles and trilling calls of merry timbre. Above the open stretch of the Bruinen's ample flood-plain, the sky was positively vibrant with the stunning gleam of the newly arrived day and promised a high and cloudless dome of gentian blue. The woods and copses of hardwoods, orchards and groves of fruit trees, and indeed every shrub and blade of grass looked lush, cultivated, and well tended. The entire place seemed to be a garden. Cuthenin could not decide where to keep his gaze, for every way he turned presented a new vista of such pristine perfection that he was astounded.

He had ridden hard across the broad shallow valley of the Anduin and noted with amazement the strength of the sun's light, so potent that it made his back warm and the skin beneath his collar perspire. The novel experience of travelling openly without the cover of leaves and limbs had at first been daunting and then exhilarating. Yet even there the land had been wild; grasses so high they tickled his mare's belly as she ran; trees bent and gnarled from grappling with wind and weather, brambles and thickets of thorny vines encroaching over the little used path. He had glimpsed the humble abode of Aiwendil from afar, no more than a wisp of grey smoke from a thatch-roofed cottage, and had strained, but seen naught of, Beorn's fabled home amidst a cove of pine trees. There was nothing in his experience to prepare him for the utter majesty of the gracious realm of Elrond Half-elven.

Even the humblest of out-buildings presented a pleasing and graceful facade. The stables were elegant and ornately fashioned with a high peaked roof tiled in red clay, white-washed wooden walls, and many open windows. To know that the horses in Imladris had better quarters than most of the people in his homeland was an uncomfortable comparison to make. Indeed, Cuthenin had almost mistaken the stately building for the Lord's abode, until he rounded a curve by a fine high wind-brake of cedar trees. The Wood Elf could only stare in speechless awe. He had seen pictures in books of the glory of Aman and the dwellings of the Calaquendi in Tirion, and this residence might easily be one of those.

It had four tiers of rooms and so many balconies and porches, turrets and cupolas that it was just possible for every chamber to have a spectacular view of the sweeping expanse of the Hidden Vale. Everything was dazzling, white and spotless like polished alabaster, trimmed out in sculpted friezes and carved knot-work ornaments. There was statuary in the gardens and fountains by the courtyard, and the air was full of sweet music from fair voices and delectable scents from rare flowers.

Cuthenin realised that all the warriors had dismounted and led away their chargers and his mare stamped an impatient foot. No doubt she had been equally impressed and desirous of inspecting the uncommon domicile and sampling the fresh oats she could smell from the open barn. The archer slid off her back and gave her a quick and affectionate tug of the ears before letting her trot off to find an empty stall with a full manger.

And then he hesitated a bit, having no idea where he was to go or to whom he should report. The Noldor soldiers all seemed to have tasks to do and places to be and were hurrying to get them done and be gone. Some glanced his way curiously, a few nodded and smiled, but none of them seemed to feel it necessary to instruct him, probably assuming he knew the way. The legendary First Age warrior was no where to be seen and Cuthenin frowned. He would just have to find someone and ask, for surely there was a place in all this huge castle where visiting messengers were expected to await audience with the Lord of Imladris. He set off toward the mansion determinedly and had gone no more than four paces when he was hailed from a small side porch near the back of the building. It was Glorfindel.

"Cuthenin, this way, if you please," he smiled and motioned with his arm as he descended from the banistered veranda. Glorfindel met the Wood Elf in the yard and took careful hold of an elbow, guiding him away from the huge house as he did so. He gave the archer another cursory examination and tried to keep his tone light when next he spoke. "I have arranged a private abode for you, free of the agitation and clamour of the Last Homely House proper. The place is fairly crawling with folk from every part of the world, and one can scarcely take a step without tripping over a hobbit, bumping into a pair of dwarves, or nearly being trampled a throng of humans, either rowdy rangers or noble Lords from Gondor."

"Dwarves and humans! What are they all doing here? And what is a hobbit? Never have I heard of such a people."

"Hobbits are rather like miniature elvish humans, if humans were very small and much more elf-like. They are very cheerful and full of mischief and I think it is these people humans are referring to when talk of brownies starts up."

"Ah," nodded Cuthenin, trying to picture this in his thoughts and failing. He sighed. "Your hospitality is most beneficent, yet there is no need to make special arrangements for me. No doubt there is a regular area set aside for messengers from other realms?"

"True, but you see there is already a messenger here from Lorien and, expecting no others, we turned the rest of that space over to the rangers, for they do not get on well with their noble cousins from the White City. And the dwarves are quartered in the east wing while the humans from Gondor are in the north this time. Elrond's family occupy the west facing apartments, the hobbits are in the guest chambers of the southern portion, and the Healing wing comprises the remainder of the house not used for formal functions. I could not in good conscience put you up in a sick bed or the library!" Actually, Glorfindel was rather abashed to be directing the silvan away from the splendour of Elrond's house and had feared the warrior would be offended to be so excluded. He almost laughed in relief to hear that the messenger thought he was being afforded extra courtesy.

Cuthenin was troubled, for while it was beyond overwhelming for the valourous Vanya to be personally escorting him to his quarters, he really had no need of rooms, per se, for he would be ready to leave after only a short respite for himself and his horse. Long enough for him to get himself clean and presentable, tell his news, and receive a reply from the Elf Lord. No more, surely, than a few hours would be required for that.

"Forgive me, Lord Glorfindel…"

"Glorfindel will suffice; I do not have any holdings or people of my own here," the legend corrected kindly and with a friendly smile.

"As you wish. I was only going to suggest that this is all unnecessary. I have no plans to remain, for I am urgently needed back home. Please forgive me for being forward, but…"

"It is I who should ask pardon, Cuthenin. Elrond cannot meet with you today, for he, Mithrandir, and one of the rangers are currently in conference and unlikely to be free any time soon. And there is a patient in the Healing wards, one of the hobbits, in urgent need of close attendance. Elrond will allow no other to oversee the halfling's care. If you can but abide a few turns or Anor, there will be time for your report."

Cuthenin came to a halt and glanced first at the Balrog Slayer, then the ground under his feet, and finally turned to the north and gazed long into the impenetrable barricade of fair green leaves and brown bark that obscured all but the mist-wreathed peaks of the grim grey mountains. His whole being radiated a deep and malignant grief that threatened to overtake the staunch control he held over his countenance. The colour of his sky-hued eyes darkened to the cast of storm laden thunderclouds and gleamed with a sheen only unshed tears could create.

He blinked twice and turned back to his companion, struggling to maintain a dignified posture when he felt ready to scream. He must return and do honour to his fallen colleagues; it was unconscionable to leave them there exposed upon the broken path to the frigid elements and the merciless teeth of scavengers.

Or worse.

The grotesque image of Orcs feasting on his comrades' flesh, dismembering their bodies and desecrating their remains, forced itself within his weary mind and Cuthenin had to fight to keep from retching on the grass.

"I must go. I left my friends in the pass, and it cannot remain thus. It is not the way of my people to abandon the dead." He managed to get these sentences out without faltering and then clamped his jaws tight, swallowing back the rising swell of aching acidity working up through his oesophagus.

"Aye, it is not our way either, to leave the deceased, unless the circumstances are dire. Yours were, and I deem you escaped with your life and that just barely. I have seen many years and, though you conceal it well, the wounds you took in the struggle are not beyond my notice."

"Lord Glorfindel, I am already healed and…"

"Just Glorfindel, maethor eryndôr (woodland warrior). Peace, have I not already said I would not place you in the Healing Ward? I trust that if you needed a physician's help you would seek it. I only wish to emphasise that the option taken was the only one available to you, and your successful arrival here was hard won and dearly bought.

"You cannot help your friends now and it has been at least three days since the battle, has it not? Whatever remnant of them is left will not be recognisable should you return." Glorfindel spoke those words as gently as he could, but that did not prevent the stricken pallor that rendered the Wood Elf's face into a mask of raw pain and shocked despair.

"Nae! (Alas!)" Cuthenin shook his head and took a step back breaking from the warrior's hold. "There must be something…I need to see to them. There are customs, prayers to make, laments to sing and…"

"Cuthenin, come with me now. You and I will discuss this further once you have refreshed yourself and taken some nourishment," Glorfindel spoke softly but allowed his voice to assume an undertone of command, playing up the role of legendary elder no youth so green would dare defy. He took hold of the Wood Elf's arm and started forward again, relieved when the archer fell into step without opposition.

Now Glorfindel had intended to lead the silvan to his own house, for there was ample space and he hoped it was not too much discourtesy to be shunted out of the Lord's mansion if that meant sharing lodging with the second highest ranking citizen of the valley. Yet now he was uneasy, for the archer was young indeed and had undergone a harrowing initiation into the cruel realities of the darkening world beyond the safety of his own trees.

Not that Mirkwood is a peaceful haven, yet it is home for him and all that he knows. His people must have rites or customs to help him cope with this sort of shock while I cannot fathom what those might encompass. At the very least, familiar faces and the kinship of shared loss would provide comfort and an acceptable outlet for expressing the sorrow inundating his spirit. Imladris has none of these things; everything here is but a foreign oddity.

The people of the Woodland Realm could not be more different, though they were elf-kind, from those of Imladris. The silvan folk dwelt amid the tree tops, even as the Galadhrim of Lothlorien, but lacked the refinement and grandeur of Galadriel's folk. The Sindarin elves mixed in with the elusive Wood Elves were purported to occupy a large underground fortress of sorts. Nothing even vaguely resembling the ornate structures and carefully planned organisation of the Hidden Vale's abodes would be found in Mirkwood.

He has probably never been inside a proper house before.

The Vanya did not like the silence between them, for it was weighted with the corpses of three dead warriors. He glanced at the archer, concerned that he had said nothing for some time and walked beside him in numb acquiescence. He did not like the idea of the messenger withdrawing into the depths of gloom and guilt, beset by waking nightmares and recurring visions of the gruesome battle. As they paced closer to his home, Glorfindel became more convinced with every step that shutting the Wood Elf up inside a building of wood and stone, no matter how elegant and comfortable it might be, would be the wrong thing to do.

Thus, as he entered through the gate in the low-walled courtyard, he veered off into the grounds and slowed his pace. An idea came to him and he seized upon it, almost smiling for the sheer brilliance of the notion and changing course again. He guided the unresponsive silvan right out the rear postern and into a coolly shaded dell guarded by a small stand of oak trees. These hardwoods had graced this spot for certainly more years than the Wood Elf had yet lived.

In the heart of the little weald was a giant of a tree unlike any other in Imladris that he knew of, for it had been in the place untold numbers of centuries. Indeed, these were not like ordinary oaks and Celeborn had once come to see them, pronouncing them entirely unique to the Hidden Vale, for no other species of oak could live so long as these must have done to reach such amazing height and girth. In the largest, most ancient of the nearly immortal trees, Elrohir and Elladan had played as children and later Estel had spent many happy years climbing on its mighty limbs. Far up in the branches, but not too far for the safety of youngsters, was a sturdy wooden talan.

Glorfindel decided that it would be ideal for Cuthenin. The Wood Elf would be in the shelter of trees, something he would appreciate, and still be close enough for the Balrog Slayer to keep an eye on him. He halted beneath the oak and let go of the warrior's arm. Still no response revealed that the archer was even aware of his surroundings and the Balrog Slayer's brow furrowed in worry.

"Cuthenin. This is the place where you will stay."

At the speaking of his name, the silvan's head snapped sharply in Glorfindel's direction and a blankly bewildered stare traversed the Vanya's features. He gazed around him then at the trees and took a hesitant step on his own toward them.

"You will stay here and you will not be alone," Glorfindel repeated firmly and motioned upwards into the branches. The Wood Elf followed his hand and his eyes found the talan. He returned his sight to his host and gave a short nod. The next instant instinct took over and he dashed for the old oak, hoisting himself up high in the branches until he was nearly hidden from view, and Glorfindel exhaled a small disconcerted breath of both surprise and bemusement. He peered into the sun-sparkled leaves, but all he could make out was one booted foot dangling beneath the foliage.

"I will gather some things from my house, there within the walled garden," he called into the limbs and then turned away, neither expecting nor receiving a response.

It did not take very long for this minor task and Glorfindel returned laden with a pack and a large basket of necessities: bedding and water and toiletries. Yet when he climbed up to the talan he discovered the woodland warrior curled up on the floor, sound asleep amid the thick mulch of dried leaves and twigs that had collected on the old flet over the long years of neglect. Glorfindel had expected something of the kind would occur and was prepared to wait, feeling it was best to let the elf recover from the strain and exhaustion in his own time. He reached into the pack and pulled out a leather bound book, settled against the trunk, and started to read.

Nearly half the volume was perused before the silvan stirred and then it was just as Glorfindel had feared. One second the archer was lying still and limp as a wet rag and the next gave a hoarse shout and scrambled to his feet, bow at the ready in his left hand while his right reached in vain for an arrow from his empty quiver. The Vanya was by his side immediately, reaching carefully for the rigidly trembling, disoriented elf as he spoke.

"Peace, it was a dream. The danger is past and you are in Imladris. Do you hear me? Cuthenin, answer."

"I hear you," he croaked out and sank back to the floor, dropping the bow, heart pounding and chest heaving as the adrenalin coursed through him. "I left them!" he cried in disgust and buried his face in his hands.

"You left them, that is true, but they were dead, were they not?"

"Aye, they were dead." He sighed and lowered his hands, lifting his desolate countenance to the ancient warrior's. "But I should not have left them all the same."

"Why, so that you could die also? Would that change their fate or make their sacrifice more worthy?"

"What?"

"What are you doing here?"

"I am a messenger; I am charged to…"

"Nay, I did not ask what a messenger's duty is, Cuthenin. I wish to know why you were chosen to see it done."

The result of this question was not what Glorfindel had anticipated, for Cuthenin's whole body sagged and he dropped his head in shame. He was shaking visibly and the elder soldier quickly knelt beside him and laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. He waited, not wishing to press too hard, for he could see now there was more to the Wood Elf's burden than the gruesome deaths of his comrades in the mountain pass.

"I am here because I am responsible for the creature's escape. Two elves died because of my misjudgement. I was the one entrusted to oversee the cringing creeper and I am the one who allowed it to be taken from the cell. I was not even there when the attack occurred; I had left with the change of the watch."

"That is grave indeed." Glorfindel squeezed the archer's shoulder and sighed heavily, crossing his legs beneath his so he could sit next to the silvan. He scrutinised the dejected figure beside him closely and found nothing to alter his initial impression of the warrior: Cuthenin was young and inexperienced but not cowardly or lax in performance of his duty. Given his lack of years, it was likely this unfortunate incident must have taken place during the warrior's first assignment in command. It was no wonder the youth felt guilty for the lives forfeited. The loss of confidence in his own ability such an ill-fated event had evidently caused now threatened to ruin the Wood Elf's life before it had barely begun.

"Grave indeed," the Vanya repeated and shook his head sadly. "Tell me, how long is a standard watch in the heart of Mirkwood?"

"Three tours of Ithil and two of Anor. Why do you ask?"

"Just respond for now, archer. What is the reason for that period of time instead of another?"

"It is a delicate balance between vigilance and readiness. Shorter watches are not feasible given the small numbers in one company. Any longer without rest and warriors begin to grow fatigued. None would be able to endure the rigours of a lengthy patrol with lesser respite. The possibility of errors increases; we cannot afford such hazardous inattention."

"And did you leave your post before the appointed time? Did you fail to stand the full watch?"

"Nay!"

"Was it forbidden to remove the prisoner from the cell?"

"No, but it was a risk I should not have taken."

"Why did you decide to do this?"

"It was something Mithrandir said. He spoke of healing the creature of the ills the long enslavement by the Shadow had inflicted, of exposing the prisoner to wholesome air, clean water, and the company of elf-kind."

"From your responses, I judge the failure was unavoidable and your behaviour fitting to the standards of your King. You did not let others take the burden of your watch. Had you done so, then mayhap the lack of rest might have dulled the keen senses of those guarding the Gollum in your place. Nor did you ignore the words of a wise and learned wizard, thus demonstrating compassion to a being under your doom."

"I cannot see it that way. Had I refused the creature's request to leave the cell, no one would have died."

"You cannot know that for certainty, for the attack may have come all the same. Then maybe the prisoner would still be in the cell but more lives would have been lost."

"I cannot understand how the Orcs got so close without arousing the guards' notice. Had I been there…"

"But you were not there. Perhaps you believe your abilities are so superior to your fellows' that your mere presence could have forestalled the ambush."

"What did you say?" Cuthenin turned incredulous and angry eyes upon his host. "That is not true! I only meant…"

"Good!" Glorfindel cut him off. "Now then, this was your first taste of command and it is unfortunate you had to be taught so harsh a lesson on your initiation into leadership. Yet it is a cruel and inescapable fact: when those under your authority are placed in dangerous arenas, not all of them will survive. No matter how able you are, how brave you are, how noble and true of heart you remain, still some that you oversee will perish. You must face this, Cuthenin, and either come to accept it or be destroyed by it."

The Wood Elf stared in afflicted quandary at the noble elf, unable to formulate any sort of reply to such an unexpected lecture. Glorfindel's words lifted the burden of guilty shame and in its place laid upon Cuthenin's shoulders the heavy mantle of responsible authority. The messenger suddenly saw that his concept of being in charge was terribly skewed. He had believed his captaincy would enable him to protect his people from harm, preventing loss of life and aiding in driving the pestilence of Dol Guldur from his homeland. Now it was clear this was not the case and the archer realised how very small his role actually was in and of itself. Only in conjunction with the compliant and unified actions of all the elves under his command could any change hope to be accomplished. And this bewildered him.

"But then to what purpose do we choose some to lead and others to follow? Is it not better if all work together on the same goal equally, since we are none more able than the other to prevent these tragedies?" he asked quietly, assuming the twice-born warrior would know the thoughts preceding it. He was not mistaken.

"Not all have the strength to accept the responsibility of leadership. It is a weighty burden and one that will work upon your heart and mind, assailing you with self-doubts, grief, and remorse. Few can bear a strain so great, realising they must send friends and kinsmen into the teeth of death when they truly wish to shield these loved ones from any hardship. Yet I see this strength within you, Cuthenin, and judge that the trust emplaced upon you by the elders of your folk was not misguided."

Once more Cuthenin found himself unable to string together enough coherent thoughts to produce a fitting answer. Glorfindel spoke with wisdom bestowed by thousands of years of fighting the darkness, both as a leader and a warrior for his people and those of Eärendil. His endorsement of the messenger's worthiness was as rain upon seeds and within the younger elf's spirit the kernel of maturity germinated. The archer found his perspective altered, transformed from a sense of helpless futility into a grim and tenacious determination. He was overwhelmed with gratitude and at that moment desired nothing so much as to retain the ancient warrior's approbation. He smiled slightly and bowed his head in respectful appreciation.

"Hannaden," (my thanks) he said soberly and lifted a gleaming expression bursting with renewed pride and hope to the Vanya's serious countenance.

"Pedon pith thenid", (I speak true words) answered Glorfindel with equal gravity. They were silent for the passage of a few seconds and then he squeezed the Wood Elf's shoulder lightly and rose. "It is almost mid-day and you have yet to take any sustenance or cleanse yourself. I will show you to the baths and, if it is not against your customs, join you in sluicing the dust of a long series of night patrols from my person."

"It is not contrary to my peoples' ways to share bathing," replied Cuthenin evenly and stood also. In truth he was not so calm in his mind, for while communal baths were not uncommon among kin, close friends, or comrades in arms it was another thing altogether to wash one's body openly before strangers. Still he did not wish to appear timid and attempted a smile. "Lead the way, Glorfindel."

TBC

Reviews!

TJ: Thanks, I hope you like the next chapter, too.

Teri: So generous! Thank-you, I will try to update regularly.

Yanic: Your words are very encouraging, thanks! The question of whether or not Legolas was a prince is sort of what made me want to write a story where that is as much a debate for the elves as for some of the folks in fandom. I have read some rather heated discussions about this on some forums and groups! I suppose that is because while Tolkien very plainly states in Fellowship of the Ring that Legolas is Thranduil's son, he never does use the word prince. Conversely, he just as plainly refers to Thranduil as a king in the Hobbit. So in my story, Legolas' status is going to be one of the questions to be answered. This will make better sense after chapter three.

Crowdaughter: Thank you very much, I am glad you approve of how that initial confrontation played out. However, I apologise for being less than clear about Glorfindel's thoughts as he considers Cuthenin for the first time. He was initially lamenting how terrible it was that none of Thranduil's messengers seemed to last much more than half a millennium. Then he notes that Cuthenin is much younger, remarking to himself that he is not much more than the standard 'Coming of Age'. So, I did not mean to imply that the age of maturity is 500! I am sticking with Tolkien's concept of 50 years. As you can see, this is pointing to a very young age for Cuthenin indeed. That will be revealed in a later chapter.

Sesshyangel: Thank you! And an excellent point regarding the name. Clarification will come in chapter three regarding this.