Feud

Chapter 5: Rhovan Cuil Erin Tawar Sír [Wild Life on the Forest River]
Part One

Dawn in the forest, realized through a quiet and watchful sense of expectation that somewhere on the invisible horizon Anor was rising again amid the passing remains of Isil's dark and starlit domain. Crimson were the low clouds huddled against the rim of the world, unseen under the canopy of the Greenwood, gathered as though to shield the shadows bound beneath its boughs.

A few beams of golden glory filtered down through the frosted and fractious air, insufficient to dry up the wisping mists arising from the earth, yet even this miniscule encouragement coaxed a sluggish response from the trees and the life they sheltered. The beeches' reactions were grudging and terse, brittley shifting branches garbed in chestnut-colored foliage, longing to return to the seasonal slumber that announced the demise of summer in the northlands. A red autumn broke upon the forest and claimed its brief ascendancy.

The stillness of the chilly air enhanced the distinction of individual diurnal voices breaching the silence left by the more muted sounds of the night creatures now secreted away in dens and perches and snug burrows. With nesting over and chicks fledged, the exodus of the migrating species depleted the avian population of the woods. Gone was the spring-borne urgency of clamoring for the attentions of a mate and warning off potential rivals. The accompanying disharmonic morning chorus now yielded to the specific leider of the year-round residents.

Sparrows, flitting and pipping through the small growth of shrubs and brambles, chirruped individual notes at their telltale pitch and frequency, allowing little glimpses of stripes in brown and gold and black as they gathered sustenance. The somber call of mourning doves drifted through the branches, the shadow-tinted birds unseen within the leaves. Determined rustling as four-toed grouse bustled through the leafy debris of the forest floor, going in clutches of ten or twelve, gave the impression of purposeful caution as first year chicks were herded along. Bobwhites and Whip-or-wills vied with each other for the most amusingly quizzical call, and a cardinal sent out but half its signature song as though expecting an answering throat to complete the stanza. A rapid scraping of bark on branch was the only response as a quoll slipped with fervent speed through the beeches, blatantly disregarding stealth for agile retreat from predation.

The trees creaked with disapproval, groaning like the bones of weary old men, under the passing weight of a sleek, black boa that leisurely pursued the hapless marsupial. A yellow reptilian tongue tasted the air, noting the place where its meal had left the trees, and the sinuous serpent slothfully uncoiled itself and slipped down to the ground. It was surprisingly rapid upon the land and secured its morning morsel with little effort, languorously returning to the canopy to digest it. The disturbance had momentarily overruled the waking forest fauna's prattle but quickly the small voices took up their dominance of the air streams again.

Higher in the canopy, a wedge-tailed eagle ducked and pivoted its head, appraising the boa carefully. Deciding that its size was too great for a single attack yet would surely provide well for the needs of the flock, it resolved to return with reinforcements later. It was too early for such effort and the boa was clearly settling down for the day.

The slightest lifting of the air ruffled the collar of feathers about regal the bird's neck, and in a gesture of awakening common to most life it stretched, raising its noble head skyward and extending its mighty wings. With a final shake it settled, and the breathless air carried two feathers down to rest, caught upon the minutely splintered texture of the bark upon a lower branch. The peculiarly soft sound of the raptor sharpening its beak against the smooth-barked trunk sent vibrations down through the tree and finally, reluctantly, Legolas awakened.

First upon his eyes and mind crystallized the image of the feathers trapped just above his head drifting slightly, not from wind stirring but from the movements of the bird from which they had just disengaged. As he watched them, one finally loosed itself from the gentle grasp of the ancient beech and floated, swaying and twisting as though progressing down some unperceived stairway in the intangible air, and came to rest in the palm he upstretched to receive it. His gaze traveled to the eagle, staring calmly down upon him.

"An le," [For you] the message was clear in the bright gleaming eye regarding him, and he smiled. "An le," echoed the tree and released the second feather into his hands.

His soul warmed in the joy of the gifts and he examined the feathers carefully, using gentle fingertips to realign the teeth of the individual fronds and make the barred and spotted pattern whole again. One he would use to adorn his new bow, the other he would work into his hair in grateful acknowledgement of this kinship the Greenwood offered him. He was no longer a resident within a Thranduil's community within the forest; rather he was indigenous to the forest itself. This was a profound difference he only realized in this moment. His heart seemed to swell as the burden of banishment lifted; he belonged, more completely and to something somehow so much more substantial than his former citizenship among the Wood Elves.

He breathed in deeply the scent of winter, acrid and tangy, that tinged the autumn air. Rising to his feet in an elegantly fluid motion that took him all the way up onto his toes, he mimicked the eagle's stretch, extending his arms out and tipping his head up as he squeezed shut his eyes. Still smiling and holding the feathers, he balanced there, listening to the voices of the morning. Searching for the gabbling chuckle of the little spring-fed brook hidden from his eyes, he found it and noted the sounds of animals refreshing themselves in and around it. He exhaled and came down onto his heels, satisfied that no large predators were about, and shivered slightly. Winter was hurrying this year, or he seemed to be feeling the cold more now, or perhaps both. He shook his head and carefully put the feathers into has pack, then rubbed his arms with his palms to warm them.

Reaching down to his small collection of belongings, he lifted up a leather fur-lined short tunic and slipped the soft garment over his bare skin. The hairs tingled with remembered life of the wolf from which it had been taken some eight winters ago and the distant energy wrapped itself warmly around him. He donned also a great cloak of the same fur over his simple attire of soft quoll-skin leggings and the tunic.

Hefting his pack, his small bow and quiver, and his hunting knife to his back, Legolas began gliding through the trees towards the singing brook where he would wash himself and fill his water skin for the day. At the edge of the small spring-generated bog he paused, intently listening to the calling of the frogs in the reeds. He found them to be the most alert of sentinels with regards to anything involving water, and he had come to recognize the various signals they used to communicate danger. They seemed only to be complaining about the lack of bugs and the approach of the Dark Days when they would go into the mud to sleep, and Legolas relaxed.

He stripped off his garments in the branches and left behind all but his knife as he dropped silently to the squishy ground. Not a single droplet of water left the pond's surface as he slid into the cold waist-deep liquid, catching his breath a little at the sudden jolt the temperature change gave to his body. He waded over to the lip of the small depression where the water tumbled gently over into the sandy shallow bed of the stream. Carefully laying the knife on a flat stone on the bank, he tossed up a handhold of water into his eyes to chase away the last remnants of sleep. Bathing quickly, he completed the daily toilet by dunking his head completely under the small cascade, thoroughly wetting his hair and massaging away any evidence of leaf or twig that might have found its way there since the previous morn.

That done, he exited the water and quickly grabbing his knife fled back up to the branches and wrapped the wolf-pelt cloak around him, fur side to skin, to chase away the renewed chill. With a sigh he began to tend his hair, absentmindedly fingering small sections and rolling them between his palms, from his scalp to the very tips. He did this until all of his hair was more or less neatly controlled in a thick series of twisted locks that fell to his shoulders. This would be the twelfth winter of his exile, and his hair had grown quickly. Too proud to cut it back yet needing some way to confine it, this had been the only method he could think of. He had to admit, this style, if so such a raggy and matted head of locks could be called, was certainly faster and easier to manage than the intricate braids of his warrior's rank. Dressed again in the soft and warm leather garments, he prepared for his daily routine, his solitary morning patrol.

He frowned, distracted as he thought about this day. A dozen years was a short amount of time to elf kind, yet he had become acutely aware of each moon's passing since the critical day he had lost his identity and been encumbered with this other, shameful one. Egol, edledhron, ar noss-dagnir, [Forsaken one, exiled elf, and kin-slayer] he thought bitterly, and remembered the battle again. A falling stone, a misspent arrow, and four lives lost.

This was the Edinor Ned Baudh [Anniversary Day of the Judgement] and the twelfth year held extra significance as a marker: one sixth of the sentence had past, apparently without any resolution for the lost warriors. He really had had no idea what to expect or what was expected of him. No one had bothered to suggest exactly what the Tess Leithadin [Tasks of Release] were or how he was to know if he was successful in completing them.

He distinctly remembered that the families had to make a formal declaration to the Council of Elders when they knew their loved one had entered Mandos' Halls. Legolas understood this knowledge would come to them in their dreamscapes, where this final communication between the lost ones and their kin would be heard, or rather felt. However, he was somewhat at a loss as to how he would know, or if the families would even make such a declaration to the Council if they did know.

It had occurred to him that they probably would much prefer it if he simply died in the attempt to complete these tasks, and then they would not need to be troubled about any of it any longer.

The first few years of internal exile had been horrible. Whenever he had been required to return to the city to work alongside Fearfaron; the elves had steadfastly refused to acknowledge him in any way, averting their gazes and changing direction to avoid crossing his path. He had thought this was a good thing at first, for he had feared to face their insults and slurs. As time passed, he found the ostracism far worse; it was as though he was something so horrible that his people could not even bear to admit to his existence. Fearfaron was visibly pained by every word and look he had to extend to Legolas, and usually dismissed him before even a full day's labor was done.

Of course, this may also have been due to the fact that Legolas was hopelessly uncoordinated when it came to the working of wood with tools. Many were the careworn and frustrated sighs the talon-builder breathed as he was forced to redo nearly every part of a given construction he assigned to the archer. Finally, he relegated Legolas to fetching and carrying and only the most basic of shaping with hand tools. He had been able to teach the former warrior how to select usable pieces from among the fallen limbs, logs, and branches within the vast forest and considered that an achievement. He now only required Legolas to submit himself for duty on a monthly basis, having told the fallen warrior he considered it more important for him to work on the completion of the task for his son's release.

Each day Legolas spent in the city also meant a night enduring the torment of Ailinyéro and his chastisement. He shuddered, considering how this, too, had evolved over the elapsed time. Ailinyéro's preferred method of punishment was scourging; specifically watching Legolas do the scourging himself while Ailinyéro shouted all manner of foul curses and insults. If Legolas did not put enough effort into the self-inflicted whippings, Ailinyéro would smear a handful of coarse salt into the fresh lashes on the elf's back and sides. Sometimes, he did so no matter how hard Legolas applied the five-tongued whip.

After a few months, the elf had begun pleasuring himself as he watched, and Legolas had vomited at this sick fascination with inflicting pain. That had elicited a severe beating with a piece of chain, and the episodes had become progressively more grotesque then. He shivered again, realizing he would not be able to forgo entering into the city on this day, and dreaded to think what his tormenter had planned for him that night.

Legolas mentally shook himself to dispel the disturbing images and reached into his pack, drawing out the feathers he had just received. Carefully he threaded one into a slim side-lock near his face so that it fell to the line of his jaw and lightly brushed against him there. The second he inserted into the leather binding at the top of his bow, attaching it to a strip of leather he loosened and retied so that the feather fluttered freely as he moved the bow, resettling it over his shoulder.

The gifts of Tawar [Great Forest] and Thôr [Eagle] were not lightly granted and he reclaimed the new definition bestowed upon him with a warm surge of pride. Around his bizarre schedule of humiliation he had formulated a plan for completing the Tess Leithadin. Now, the importance of what he was doing was deepened by the addition of a new sense of responsibility.

Swiftly he climbed up into the high canopy, swaying with the sylvan swells as he looked out from his perch over the green sea. The Tasks, he considered, could be more than a way to find a clean death for himself, as Malthen had counseled all those years ago. Somewhere, within the dozen idhrinn [years] past, he had become more interested in the Greenwood and its life, and more disgusted with the growing darkness and boldness of the foul and evil things that blanketed and smothered the vibrancy of its natural splendor.

In his old life he had fought, as had all the warriors, for the defense of the Woodland Realm, for his people, and for his father, leaving Tawar to fend for itself. The neglect showed. How had Tawar become merely the background over which his life was painted, rather than the masterpiece upon which his small existence was as a tiny brush-stroke? Tawar had been here so long, far longer than any of the eldalie had lived. Surely, Yavanna herself had planted them here and, thinking this, he was overwhelmed with the sense of what the trees had borne witness to over the Ages.

For the first time, Legolas felt a sense of affiliation with the elusive Vala who seemed so distant, watching coldly as the lands suffered under the black will of the one never named. The next instant the link dissolved to be replaced with anger. How could she abandon Tawar so easily? Legolas decided he would stand against the Darkness infecting the Greenwood and threatening all that depended on it. His life would be about more than completing a sentence. If he was to die completing these Tasks, then let it be for more than the three lost warriors or his own redemption.

He welcomed his new name and title: Tirn-en-Tawar. [The Watcher of the Great Wood]

Continued in part two.