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.

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.

---

Tadui Peth: Na Liniath (Part Three: At the Pools)

Glorfindel and Cuthenin walked from the walled garden in silence just
as they had done upon entering it, yet this time the sombre gloom was
less weighty upon the silvan's shoulders. Each elf held onto one handle
of the wicker basket containing the necessities for bathing and their
pace was neither hurried nor sluggish as they journeyed away from the
Vanya's home. The younger elf observed with renewed enjoyment the
glamour and refinement of the landscaped grounds and gardens which the
pair traversed and noted their direction was once more away from the
bustling activity that surrounded the main house of Elrond Peredhil.
After a leisurely stroll of nearly half an hour's passing, the terrain
became more rocky and the sound of water cascading over a high cliff
met the archer's keen hearing. They did not follow the noise to its
source, however, for the pathway led deeper into the exposed stone
outcrops until at last a sheltered grotto came into view.

Here, the rock was smoothed and moulded by centuries of manipulative,
watery fingers working on the sharp contours of the rugged stone. The
sculpted terraces, natural shelves, and shallow steps bespoke the
changing levels
of the liquid over time and the rock was stained in a pleasing series
of rust and green and yellow coloured ribbons where the mineral-rich
water had long massaged it. There were three spring-fed pools steaming
into the temperate atmosphere, heated to a degree of warmth sure to
ease aches and loosen strained muscles. Long, ephemeral tendrils of
misty vapour peeled from the glassy surface of the baths and filled the
air with a veil of fog sufficient to provide a modicum of privacy for
those who might be timid of sharing ablutions. Not that this was likely
to be required here, for the naturally heated pools were empty but for
one elf.

Cuthenin stopped on the path, forcing Glorfindel's halt as well, and
smiled with an appreciative sigh. A hot spring was more than he had
dared to hope for and exactly what he needed; this he realised as soon
he perceived the peaceful grotto. There was not a single part of him
that did not either pain or burn from the lengthy, sleepless journey
and from the still mending tears in flesh and muscle. He was glad for
the lack of a crowd and credited the advanced hour of the day for the
relative solitude. He had several reasons to wish to deter gawkers
curious to see his naked form. The archer met
his host's questioning gaze with a nod and they resumed their pace.

The lone bather was soaking in the furthest spring from the walk-way,
reclining so that he was nearly submerged in the rejuvenating water,
and lifted his head as the interlopers approached. He did not bother to
hide his displeasure at their arrival, scowling and sighing in
aggravation as he sat up.

"Glorfindel," said the dark-haired ellon (male elf), making the word
short and clipped yet filled over-brimming with distaste.

"Erestor," the legendary Vanya curtly replied. He led the way to the
second pool and indicated for Cuthenin to set the basket down.

The Wood Elf glanced briefly at the bather their presence had so
disturbed and gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, meeting the other's
rather intense gaze through the steam. Being that this was Imladris and
observing the ellon's piercing onyx eyes and coal-black locks, he
surmised Erestor was of Noldorin descent. Cuthenin steeled himself for
more jibes and jokes. As before, he repressed any outward sign of the
grimly stoic mood that surrounded him as the unpleasant memory of
Ithilgwath's insults replayed in his mind. He followed Glorfindel's
example, helping unpack the basket, and realised a bit late that he did
not have anything clean to wear after the bath. He sighed almost
imperceptibly as they set soap and towels on the dry lip of sandstone
rimming the tepid pond.

While this mundane task was accomplished, the Wood Elf was acutely
aware
of the Noldo's close scrutiny. Cuthenin refused to return the
rude behaviour in kind, however, feeling it would be unwise to
encourage further conflict with the Imladrian elves. Undressing and
then bathing in front of this arrogant and disdainful ellon was not
something the archer looked forward to and his delight over the
impending soak vanished. He turned his back to the stranger and removed
his cloak, folding it neatly before sitting on
the rock to pull off his boots.

"Man ná sina?" (Who is this?) The Noldo spoke in a light, amused
tone to Glorfindel, his hand indicating the messenger as he did so. His
speech was in the High Tongue in order to prevent the guest from
comprehending his meaning, for he knew at once the visitor was silvan.
As did most of the Noldor, Erestor considered the Wood Elves too
ignorant to understand Quenya, a language reserved in these latter days
of the Third Age only for ancient lore and lofty rituals. Indeed, the
language of the Calaquendi was heard less in Middle-earth than the
human tongue of Westron.

"Athedrainyn o Thranduil." (Thranduil's messenger.) Glorfindel replied
succinctly and pointedly in Sindairn, taking a seat to remove his boots
also. He flicked an icy glare, minute in length but aeons long in its
infinite frigidity, toward the Noldo.

"Haryas essë?" (He has a name?) Erestor's voice contained the
unmistakable timbre of sardonic ridicule and even had it not the smirk
upending his graceful lips would have clearly indicated his scorn. He
continued in Quenya and smiled in overtly indulgent arrogance when the
silvan looked up.

"Aye." said Glorfindel flatly and stood, stripping off his tunic and
shirt.

Cuthenin glanced between the dark-haired and golden-haired elves
curiously, for it was evident these two were not exactly on friendly
terms, but kept his features blank of any expression that might
indicate he understood what they were saying. The fact that he was
well-educated was not something he was permitted to divulge, no matter
how much his pride might wish it. All the Athedrainyn were skilled in
the High Tongue. Greenwood's King was of the opinion that the
pretence of ignorance lent the silvans an advantage regarding
privileged information that might be exchanged in the formal language.

Besides, at least the two were concentrating on their obvious contest
of wills and he hoped that would deflect their attention from him as he
stripped down. He stood, took a calming breath, and removed his tunic
quickly, peering furtively in Glorfindel's direction to see if he was
watching. He was and Cuthenin froze, for the dried blood on his pale
green shirt mapped his injuries plainly. Here was the first reason he
would have prefered a solo swim in the river, for he did not wish to be
detained in Imladris due to the state of his health.

Glorfindel's brow wrinkled in concern; the locations and extent of
the brown stains indicated the archer's wounds were serious. He raised
eyes to Cuthenin and waited, for while he was not about to demand to
see the healing scars neither would he enter the bath before observing
the progress of the elf's recovery.

"Ela! Ohtar caurëa, nurtalë harwërya var
venessërya?" (Lo! A timid warrior, hiding his wounds or his
beauty?) sneered the dark elf.

Cuthenin allowed his gaze to spend a second's worth of time on the
mocking visage before unlacing his shirt and cautiously easing out of
it. He heard both elves' short exhalations of surprise but chose to
ignore them, carefully untying the makeshift bandages from his chest
and shoulder, revealing two newly closed gashes from sword and arrow
punctures. Nothing short of an attack of Orcs would turn away their
attention now, he realised, and shut his eyes as he hurriedly unlaced
his leggings, peeled them off as quickly as his hurting body allowed,
and slipped into the heated water.

Which was not fast enough to prevent his audience from more
exclamations of either surprise or appreciation or both.

"Harwër ar venessë yúyo." (Wounds and beauty both.)
said the one called Erestor quietly, blatantly ogling the upper portion
of the silvan's exposed body, which included everything from mid-thigh
and higher, for the pools were no longer deep as once they had been in
Ages past.

"Farëa, Erestor. Sina lumna, úalassëa." (Enough,
Erestor. This is serious, not amusing.) warned Glorfindel. He hastened
to finish undressing when a harsh hiss of pain accompanied the hot
water's contact with their visitor's injuries as he lowered himself to
the floor of the bath. The Vanya stepped into the pool and sat next to
Cuthenin, whose face was drawn into a weary portrait of severe
discomfort as he attempted to adjust to the stinging heat. Muted
splashing alerted Glorfindel that Erestor was on his feet and wading to
the side of his bath nearest the silvan and he spared the Noldo a stern
look when the elf re-seated himself just on the other side of the rock.

"You are not fully healed," cautioned the Balrog Slayer, returning his
eyes to the messenger. "These are not trivial wounds, Cuthenin. Will
you allow me to examine that tear at your side and the one in your
shoulder?"

 

"It is well, truly, but if you need to satisfy yourself I will not
impede you," replied Cuthenin with a sharp intake of breath, eyes
squeezed shut against the discomfort as brand new skin and nerves
protested the change in temperature. When he opened them again, he
found Glorfindel staring in a peculiar mixture of surprise and concern.
A look in the other's direction confirmed the Noldo's interest fixed on
him as well.

Cuthenin knew their amazement had more to do with the other marks his
bared skin revealed than the closed gashes. In the custom of his
people, his body was vividly decorated with images and symbols, some
arcane, some utilitarian, and others purely for their loveliness. Here
was the second reason he desired to remain covered in the presence of
strangers.

There
were potent signs and spells of protection covering his heart, the
runes forming a tri-part spiral that wound outward from his left
nipple, the deep indigo dye a sharp contrast against the node's dusky
pink hue and the fair apricot shade of the un-inked flesh. More such
writing adorned his forearms.

Upon his back across his shoulders an elaborate and detailed image of
an eagle soaring through a twilight sky spanned the archer's body and
defined his well-toned physique. Above the bird's head in the grey-blue
background of early night a scatter of bright white points
indicated the constellation Thôr (Vega). Thus had the stars been
arranged at the moment of his conception and thus the mightiest of
Yavanna's avians were appointed the Wood Elf's guardians. Only careful
inspection would alert the observer to the fact that the raptor's
outspread feathers were likewise comprised of ancient incantations and
prayers.

In three places on the Wood Elf's body, his left ankle, right hip, and
right biceps, was etched the sign of his name and the lineage of his
House. Here was the third reason he did not want such close inspection.
This was a necessary practice among warriors facing frequent war
with the demented savagery of Orcs, for the bodies of the fallen were
usually dismembered and desecrated. At times, only these marks made
identification of one victim from another possible. However, Cuthenin
had no desire to inform the Noldor of his station and parentage.

Finally, at the
very base of Cuthenin's spine was painted an indelible tracery of
delicate Morning Glories in palest lavender amid an artistic spray
of green vines and leaves.

The woodland warrior mentally braced himself for open laughter and
outright mockery, for such were the reactions reported by other
Athedrainyn returning from Lorien. Even among the Galadhrim these
sacred
customs had long ago died out and few remained living in Middle-earth
who had once adhered to the archaic beliefs. So much more then must the
lofty elves of Imladris find the practice risible.  

The Noldo did not disappoint him. The black haired elf gave a loud
snort
of a guffaw and shook his head as he propped his arms on the stone and
bent over the near-side
of his pool for a closer look at the colourful tattoos remaining above
the water line.

"Man verca, yára tainar nar sinar? Certar an varyalë on
nostalë?" (What wild, ancient signs are these? Runes for
protection or fertility?) Erestor laughed smugly as Glorfindel sent him
another threatening glare. "Lean forward; let me see your back," he
ordered the silvan in imperious Sindarin.

Cuthenin met his scornful stare coolly and shrugged. "As you wish." He
shifted to display the images that had so captivated the Noldo's
attention. He was not ashamed of the marks but their meaning was
personal and he had no intention of revealing to this sneering and
pompous Noldo the reasons for each one.

"Why an eagle? I would have thought a hare or a doe a more fitting
picture to paint upon Nandorin skin," Erestor snickered.

Glorfindel ignored his countryman's sarcastic ribbing and met the Wood
Elf's eyes with apologetic sympathy. He was pleased that Cuthenin
simply resumed his place without comment and lifted his arm away from
his right side to allow the Vanya's inspection.

The veteran fighter knew a poisoned wound when he saw one, for the
First-born rarely retained any sign of healed injuries unless some such
devilry was introduced to slow the body's natural defences. He
carefully prodded the tender skin, so bright a red that the blood
seemed ready to burst through the thin cover of new hide sealing it,
and did not miss the slight flinch his touch incited. He lifted sombre
eyes to Cuthenin and frowned as he straightened up.

The deep puncture in the shoulder was no better and looked as though
the flesh had spent some time being devoured by infection before the
warrior's body was able to fight off the toxin's effects. Slowly
Glorfindel lifted a hand to the messenger's neck and felt the rate of
his pulse. He gave a small grunt of satisfaction and raised both
Cuthenin's hands, overturning them to inspect his wrists, knowing there
would be tell-tale blue swelling there if the vile potion was still
troubling the elf. There was only a very slight discolouration
remaining yet he held the arms captive a few moments more.

From the base of his hands to the fold of the elbow, the archer's
forearms were inscribed in beautiful and delicate script, the letters
written in dark blue ink forming incantations and supplications derived
from an ancient race and tongue that made the Vanya's brows arch in
inquisitive regard. Few, he knew, would comprehend the meaning of these
powerful signs; only those elves remaining in Middle-earth who had come
of age before the rising of Anor and Ithil might recognise such marks.
Glorfindel hurriedly turned the woodland warrior's arms down again and
sent him a cautionary look, darting his eyes in the Noldo's direction
and back, for Erestor was one such elf. The faintest tip of the
silvan's head indicated he had been understood and the Balrog Slayer
smiled.

"I am satisfied, yet a period of rest would enhance your return to full
health," he said.

"Aye; I shall take your advice."

"So then you are called Cuthenin. Is that your true appellation,
True-Bow, or an affectation meant to impress your peers and suitors?"
Erestor quipped with another laugh, for he had not had difficulty
reading
the Sindarin inscription bearing the archer's name and lineage: Legolas
Thranduilion nail, Hîl od Oropher, Nost en Ferin. (Green-leaf,
third son of Thranduil, Heir of Oropher, of the House of the Beeches)

"Vá, Erestor," (Do not) warned Glorfindel in chilly tones. One's
name was not a thing to make light of and knowing this elf's bloodlines
heightened the possibility for an explosive retort, for the family's
propensity for temper was widely remarked. What remained unknown was
exactly where this one's limit was, and Glorfindel suspected the
youthful archer did not know himself.

"It is as true a name as any you possess," the silvan smiled coldly and
relaxed in the pool now that the Balrog Slayer's probing examination
was finished, stretching his legs out and revelling in the warmth
enveloping him almost up to his chin. He rested his head against the
rock rim and closed his eyes to add to the silent dismissal,
suppressing a smile when he heard an indignant exclamation fall from
the Noldo's lips.

"Calaviltë," (Lightless - A being that lacks inner-light;
equivalent to saying someone is not an elf. Slightly less offensive
than calling someone an Orc.) the Noldo remarked in pleasant tones of
lilting Quenya, smiling at Glorfindel.

"Istaviltë," (Witless) countered Glorfindel as he, too, extended
his tall, lanky frame into the soothing water next to Cuthenin,
inhaling the moisture laden air deeply. "Erestor is Lord Elrond's head
butler," he explained to the Wood Elf.

"Chief Advisor and second cousin," corrected Erestor in caustic tones.

"Mae Govannen," said Cuthenin with exaggerated jubilance and gifted the
scornful elf with his most dazzling smile, just restraining himself
from adding that his King had a fine butler also and the two would no
doubt get on famously should they ever meet. He was quite certain the
Noldo would understand he was thinking something along these lines and
preferred not to waste the energy required to voice the observation
aloud.

Erestor did not return the greeting, glowering fiercely at the lowly
silvan, not sure at all whether the ellon was dim-witted enough to mean
the hearty welcome or sharp-witted enough to put him in just this
quandary.

For a few moments all was quiet save for the gentle songs of wrens and
finches and the distant rush of the cataract far beyond their sight.
Glorfindel permitted himself to relax, Cuthenin took the soap and
lazily began washing away the grime of the battle, and Erestor decided
the timing was perfect for another round of snide remarks.

"Nályë faila lavë sina moriquendi mi nendi
nosséva," (You are generous to allow this dark-elf in the family
pools.) groused Erestor.

"Hautë, Erestor. Mirën sérë," (Stop, Erestor. I
want rest.) growled Glorfindel.

"Ve mirël," (As you wish.) murmured the Noldo. He watched until
his antagonist's eyelids dropped down to cover the noble warrior's
vibrant beryl orbs and let an extra second or two pass by in quietude.
When he was sure Glorfindel was convinced he had won the verbal contest
by forestalling it completely, Erestor returned to his needling
queries. "Varyëalyes, an man?" (You protect him, why?)

Glorfindel's eyes snapped open and he fixed them on the Noldo in
exasperated fury. However, the wily kinsman of Elrond was not about to
be daunted by so meagre a remonstrance as that.

"Hanyëan. Sina laiquendi hanu ná melindolya vinya." (I
understand. This male green-elf is your new lover.)

"Nay."

"Nás vanima, Glorfindel, anvanima! A nessa, annessa eceniën
aralyë." (He is beautiful, Glorfindel, exceedingly beautiful! And
young, the youngest I have seen with you.)

"Á Nuhtë lambalya." (Hold your tongue.) Glorfindel tensed
and spoke through clenched jaws, attempting to keep his volume moderate
rather than cause any unnecessary distress to the silvan archer. He had
no notion that his efforts were in vain, never suspecting the woodland
elf understood Quenya perfectly.

For his part, Cuthenin struggled mightily to keep his composure lest he
give away the knowledge he possessed of their High Speech. These
insults were aimed at the Vanya warrior, he realised, and that was all
that helped him maintain an outwardly calm demeanour. Cuthenin could
not believe he must endure further derogation after
being in Imladris so short a time. Fortunately, his agitation was taken
as mere irritation and curiosity to be excluded from the private
conversation and neither participant in the verbal sparring realised he
was aware of the subject matter.

"Nás nessa farëa harya vénë; wen an
laiquassë, sinar atta nati mani." (He is young enough to possess
virginity; young and inexperienced, these two things are good.)

"Excuse me!" Cuthenin blurted out suddenly, unable to stand any more.
"I will leave and allow you to continue this your discussion in peace.
It is not my intention to cause anyone the need to speak a foreign
tongue in their own country!" So saying he rose hastily and stepped
from the bath, grabbing up one of the towels from the basket and
wrapping it around his hips.

"Nay, do not go, Legolas," pleaded Erestor in mock remorse. "I have
enjoyed soaking long enough while you have just arrived after
single-handedly killing, what was the number, a hundred orcs?"

His words had the desired effect and the silvan elf glowered in rigid
defiance over the casual reference to Ithilgwath's accusations of
prevaracation. That the Noldo knew of it already indicated it was
probably common knowledge amid the rest of the Valley's citizens also.

"Erestor, enough," admonished Glorfindel.

"It was not an important topic
at any rate and one Glorfindel and I can resume at a later time, when
perhaps there will be more details to discuss with my colleague." The
Noldo continued as he
exited the pool and laid a hand on Cuthenin's shoulder to halt his
retreat. "Yet I have forgot to bring a towel; lend me yours and return
to the water." So saying he deftly divested the archer of the cloth and
allowed himself a long, lascivious look up and down the dripping,
flushed body as he casually dried himself.

"Erestor! You are behaving like a child," snapped Glorfindel, but could
not resist a less cursory inspection of the naked youth either.

Cuthenin shivered under the intensity of Erestor's devouring stare even
though his face quickly grew hot in embarrassment. He returned to the
pool with a loud splash so as to avoid the unpleasant scrutiny, ducking
his head completely under the water for a few seconds.

Erestor chuckled in a decidedly lecherous manner over the archer's
bashful discomfort and matched Glorfindel's livid glare with a merry
smile. He knotted the towel closed with a flourish and waved as he
turned away. "Wen an laiquassë, mellonen;  ná moica ve
mi racalyës." (Young and green, my friend, break him in gently.)

The two bathers refrained from speaking for several minutes as each
tried to recover some semblance of the peaceful accord they had
achieved prior to encountering the Noldo lord. Glorfindel sighed
wearily, mentally debating whether to inform the Wood Elf what Erestor
had said, for he worried that the advisor would spread this unseemly
rumour all over the valley and further discredit the warrior's
reputation.

"I am sorry for that; Erestor and I have a history. Not a pleasant one,
at least at the end of it. He never squanders an opportunity to make me
regret it wholly," he said.

"He is both crude and unkind, then," Cuthenin answered calmly. "And a
fool if he cannot find a means to make peace with a previous…friend. I
am thinking you are better as an ally than an enemy."

Glorfindel laughed at this rather blunt assessment of his status. "Aye,
so I think also! You are correct about Erestor; he cannot forgive. I
find myself asking your pardon once more for the poor behaviour of my
countrymen."

"Nay, you are not responsible for every elf in this realm, surely. Were
you to visit my home, no doubt a few silvans would behave with
similarly deplorable conduct."

"Because your former lovers are also unable to comprehend the benefit
your continued allegiance would bring them?" teased the Vanya and was
delighted by the tinge of rose that suddenly tinted the Wood Elf's ears.

"Nay, not so! I have not yet developed any histories of that sort," he
answered quietly.

"That is difficult to understand, for your are both fair and valiant,
your character withstands the tests of travails and affronts, and you
are an able warrior."

Cuthenin had no idea how to respond to that, for while he was aware
that some females found him attractive he did not find the opposite sex
appealing in that way. The romantic regard of male for male was
forbidden in the Woodland Realm. That he felt this kind of attraction
was a constant worry, for should he be found out the disgrace to his
family would be tremendous. Concealing his body's responses to certain
warriors had been especially trying during his adolescence, when his
rising hormones promoted embarrassing erections he could not
control.

That he felt this kind of attraction for the re-born elda he could not
deny and was beyond grateful that age had afforded him a limited degree
of control over the outward manifestations of desire. It had not
occured to him that the interest might be mutual. He had never been
approached thus by a male and had scrupulously avoided making any such
advances himself. Perhaps it is
merely Erestor's lude remarks that stirs the Balrog Slayer, for they
were lovers once. Cuthenin
did not know if Glorfindel was testing him or simply did not understand
the implications of what he was suggesting in less than subtle terms.

He chanced a swift look in the Vanya's direction and found himself
unable to resist an appreciative evaluation of the virile warrior's
glorious presence. The Balrog Slayer was every inch the ideal of
masculine beauty and grace, broadly muscled and lean, fair of features,
and crowned with hair of the richest golden colour the archer had ever
seen. Tha Vanya's eyes positively shown with the glory of Aman and the
wisdom of the Ages, and his soul was not hidden therein, revealing the
tempered strength of will forged in the fiery confrontation with death
and the lengthy interment in Námo's Halls. There was nothing
unappealing about Glorfindel of Gondolin.

Cuthenin was unaware of the small sigh that escaped his lungs as he
averted his eyes and resumed a more diligent scrubbing with the soap.

"You are gracious to make such allowances, but I feel compelled to tell
you the nature of his speech." Glorfindel realised, with no small
bewilderment, that hearing a flirty comment was an uncommon experience
for
the archer and wisely withdrew. He was content with the silvan's
response and slowed his pursuit now that he had
made his interest apparent and observed sufficient signals to warrant
nurturing it.

"He was speaking of me, perhaps, yet it was clear that you were the
target of his slanders."

"Aye." Glorfindel stared in surprise at the silvan's uncanny insight.
"It
is best for you to be prepared; he is likely to repeat his insinuations
to one or two elves known for their inability to exercise prudent
judgement. In a matter of hours, most of the valley will assume that
you and I are lovers."

Another moment of silence passed. Cuthenin considered his course
carefully and decided to take his own assessment of the Vanya
seriously: he preferred to encourage the Balrog Slayer's friendship,
for
thus far the noble elf had allowed no distinction to be made between
his station and that of his guest, a lowly messenger from a lesser
realm. He had judged Legolas worthy of respect long before he had any
means to learn the lineage of the archer's House. Being accepted in
this manner was highly prized in the young warrior's heart, and he made
his decision quickly to trust the re-born elf.

"Nar anessi arrúcima," (There are worse names to be called,)
offered Cuthenin, "hequa melindo Glorfindelwa Ondolindello." (than the
bed-mate of Glorfindel of Gondolin.)

The venerable Vanya's jaw gaped wide and his eyes expanded to
impossible dimensions such that Legolas had to struggle to maintain a
straight face, for he was not finished. Patiently he awaited his
companion's return to reason, watching from eyes veiled beneath golden
lashes.

"Polil quetë Quenya," (You can speak Quenya.) Glorfindel managed
to choke out after a few more seconds elapsed, colouring as he recalled
the things Erestor had said of Legolas.

"Aye, an hanyan Quenya yando." (Yes, and I understand Quenya also.)
iterated Cuthenin serenely, a slight smile threatening to ruin the
thrust of his joke. "Enquentën, nar anessi arrúcima." (As I
said, there are more terrible names to be given.)

"Man?" (What?) Glorfindel was too stunned to be following the archer's
words very closely or perhaps he would have anticipated the final
remark.

"Nyáraryë ilyaquen nanyë melindorya." (He could tell
everyone I am his lover.)

Legolas remained still, observing the Vanya's
response from his outwardly relaxed pose while inside he was suddenly
fearful that this was entirely too forward and he should not presume
upon his elder's sensibilities so brashly. But then a small quirk of
the Balrog Slayer's lips preceded a hearty laugh and Cuthenin's
patience was rewarded with a broad smile and shining eyes of sapphire
mirth.
He returned the expression gladly and exhaled the tension from his
lungs.

"Manë quentë," (Well said.) Glorfindel nodded and allowed
himself another slow, indulgent inspection of the fair warrior
beside him. "We shall have to devise a way to repay Erestor for his
mean-spirited gossiping."

"Nay, he is a bore," scowled Legolas, not willing to give the
sour-tempered seneschal the satisfaction of causing him enough distress
to require retaliation. "I care not for what he says of me unless he
names me a liar or a coward. I would ask, however, that you not reveal
my proficiency in the High Tongue to the general population, or to
Erestor in particular."

"Indeed, I shall guard your trust in me well. But do not underestimate
the Noldo, Cuthenin, he can be very vindictive when he so chooses. At
the very least, he has seen the insignia worked upon your arm and knows
your family name. He is Lord Elrond's kinsman and has the power to make
others believe you deliberately concealed who you are in order to spy
on our country and report on these perilous events."

"Ai! I cannot allow him to besmirch Hîren Adar's (my Lord
Father's) name thusly! Is he likely to reveal my status in Greenwood to
these gossips?" Now Legolas was truly aggitated, for he had already
caused his father enough heartache and had for so long hidden his
ilicit desires. Though he did not understand what the Vanya meant
about the dangerous situation of which he was supposedly gathering
knowlege, it was doubly damning to be accused of espionage.To have such
tales return to Thranduil's court would be disasterous.

"Nay, that can be prevented at least. I shall speak with Elrond
immediately and he will reign in his kinsman's venemous tongue. We must
decide how
to proceed henceforth. How shall I call you?"

Legolas thought on this only a moment, for it seemed perfectly clear to
him how it must be. He had come to relay a simple message, accept the
chastisement and censure of the wizard, and return to his own country
as quickly as possible. That Mithrandir was actually present was a boon
and now he hoped not to have to meet with the imposing Peredhil Lord at
all. There was no need to explain his heritage to anyone beyond
Glorfindel, but his name could no longer remain secret.

"You may refer to me as Cuthenin, but that shall be a privilege to
others. Let the rest of the people know me as Legolas, for I am not
displeased with that name, and it need not be accompanied by any other
designation indicating rank. I only sought to hide the connection to
spare my father and my people any shame my failure might bring upon
them. It is one thing for a green soldier to make such a detrimental
error in
judgement, but quite another for the King's youngest to do so. To the
Noldor I must remain merely another silvan messenger."

"Yet you have introduced yourself as Cuthenin to my warriors. Erestor's
words will contradict this; how shall that be negated without revealing
the reason you sought to hide your identity?"

"Nay, Cuthenin is also genuine, for thus was I named by my peers upon
reaching majority and most call me this in my homeland. It is for my
skill with the bow, obviously, and many elves have such names: those
given at birth and those taken upon realising the nature of one's gifts.

"We shall not dispute Erestor; he learned my mother-name only because
of the marks I bear. He can have his fun gossiping over that barbaric
practice and I shall expound its purpose to any that dare ask the
reason for it. There is nothing whatsoever amusing over the need for
such, and the Noldo will have revealed his vindictive heart by mocking
the dire conditions my people face."

"Indeed, you shall not have to explain anything, for I shall spread the
truth myself by informing my warriors of the situation as well as Lord
Elrond. Legolas Cuthenin you shall be, then."

"Hannaden, Glorfindel. (My thanks) I remain in your debt, for it is my
dearest wish to undo the disgrace upon my House my deeds have caused
rather than add to it."

The Wood Elf fell silent then, and Glorfindel saw the sorrow return to
his eyes and the defeat steal over his harried features. It was time to
deal with this mounting grief, and the Vanya believed he at last knew a
remedy for the silvan's suffering soul.

Yet expedience demanded that he counter Erestor's vengeful grudge first
and with reluctance Glorfindel left Cuthenin in the pools, dressing
swiftly and hastening to inform Elrond of his newest guest's
circumstances.

TBC   

REVIEWS!

TJ: Wow! You left me TWO reviews and I appreciate that so much! You are right about the controversy over Legolas' age, and I have read good cases for both a very old (in human terms) age and a rather young age closer to around 500-600 years. I will just have to beg everyone's indulgence on this story's depiction of the archer, there is NO defence for an age this young except I wished it so.

Yanic: Thank you! I am happy to answer any questions any time! I hope I can update more quickly for you soon. There are several chapters ready, it is just finding the time to get them up.

SilentOne: Thank you for following me over here! I did not know about the registered/nonregistered difference over at FF.Net. I have now corrected that and anonymous reviews are allowed there. I must thank you for such fine comments on my writing! I try to put down on paper (screen? LOL!) exactly what I visualize in my head, and am pleased to know it is working. I will try to catch up the chapters over here to match the other site also.

SesshyAngel: OOOH I cannot give that away yet! I do plan to make the nature of his relationship to Thranduil and the Wood Elves manner of dealing with such things an important part of the story. The differences between the two cultures must be fairly sharp, in my view, due to the lengthy isolation the Wood Elves have had from the other elves of Middle-earth. Your idea is an excellent one and you are right, it is seldom developed. I hope I can live up to your expectations! You must be a writer, too, to create such excellent plot devises! I know you have 'found' me over at FF.NET and thank you, in advance but also late, for those great reviews! As each of those chapters makes it here, I will of course respond in greater detail!

Crecy: Thank you for that compliment and I hope you enjoy the rest of the story!

wolenczak2004: Oh I checked your profile and I must admit it is exciting to know someone from another part of the world is reading my story! Thank you for your encouragement.

Coiling Death: Yes, I have found a way to make the translation stay separate from the rest of the text. FF.NET site is very finicky when it comes to what kind of characters are allowed. I had been using square brackets and it does not like those at all! Thank you for your support of Glorfindel's outlook. By now you probably know how young I have made this Legolas, but I do not wish to spoil it for those reading here.

Psycho Demon-Witch: Thank you for the encouragement! I will try to be consistent in updates.