The Bow

Thranduil’s eyes glittered like the dappled sunlight falling through the leaves onto the stream.  He watched each of his father’s movements with a keenness worthy of a bird of prey, and had that likeness as he stood, a pace behind King Oropher, with his stern and noble profile to the mottled light.  He committed every subtle action to memory, so that he might copy his father’s work when it was his turn.

The bow was of yew wood, cut from a black-barked tree at the heart of the forest.  Its shape, the product of hours of careful, patient scraping with a silver knife, curved as elegantly as the body of a beautiful elleth.  To Thranduil’s eye, at least.  He watched the slender shape appear from the rough wood and saw the shavings collect around Oropher’s boots, a sense of inestimable pride filling him like a deep, cool breath.  His father was not only the king, the most important elf in Greenwood.  He was also a craftsman.

Oropher worked in silence, gently whittling the length of yew, cocking his head to view its angles to the fullest extent.  He wore his hair tied severely back, plastered to his scalp, so that none fell about his face and distracted him.  His crown of gold-cast leaves was absent that day.  Beyond the sanctuary of his cavernous palace, thought Thranduil, Oropher was not a king.  He was simply a father.

Thranduil kept precisely still, something that came naturally to him at the best of times.  Here though he felt the need for utter silence and immobility.  It seemed wrong to disturb the moment.  It had taken long years to convince his father to offer this shared time, and Thranduil was determined to remember every second.  He felt honoured, knowing the reluctance Oropher showed, suspecting that his father had very little idea how to deal with a son, as opposed to a prince whose duties were mapped out in history and tradition. 

Moreover, Oropher was a swordsman.  Although the king himself had never mentioned it, Thranduil knew his father had fought proudly in the March of the Great Hosts, and found the opportunity to hone his skills with a blade.  He would have been happier, perhaps, teaching his son (since Thranduil insisted on spending time in his company) to wield a sword, or to care for the steel.  But since coming to Greenwood, his abilities as a huntsman also gained renown.  Thranduil had no interest in battle, yet the craft of the hunt held a strange fascination for him.

He saw something far more elegant in the deployment of a well-aimed arrow.  Something more refined than a large chunk of steel swiping through flesh, too often without aim or purpose other than a blind urge for survival.  The arrow required skill and a magic of its own if it were to fly true.  The arrow required a cool, collected mind and a steady hand, both virtues Thranduil confidently felt within himself.

Once he had his own bow, he was sure he could rival his father’s skill at the hunt.  A secret desire within him convinced Thranduil, that his father might even pay him some greater heed, if he could prove himself brave and useful.

The carving was complete, the shape already there, a ghost beginning to manifest into something both beautiful and terrifying.  Oropher straightened and held the shaft of pallid wood at arm’s length, inspecting the fluidity of its curves.  As he twisted his wrist and considered the bow’s appearance from every angle, the weapon took on the appearance of a writhing yet colourless serpent and Oropher controlled it fearlessly.

Thranduil concealed the exhilaration he felt, allowing only the shadow of a smile to form upon his lips.  Anything more obvious and his father might have ended their ‘moment’, afraid that their closeness could spark ‘weakness’ in his son.  A prince – who would one day be king – must remain stoic at all times when he is in public, Oropher taught him, for he never knew how many eyes were upon him, looking to seek comfort in his strength.  Even in the beech groves, where he thought himself completely alone, he could never be certain that he was not watched.

Oropher did not speak, but gathered up his tools and pack (which contained the bread and water that had sustained them throughout their ‘moment’) and let out a deep, loud sigh full of concentration rather than fatigue.  Thranduil already knew the theory behind the bow’s creation.  He knew they would now have to return to the palace, where the weapon would be painted in a mixture of soot and oil, not just to stain the maggoty whiteness from the wood, but also to prevent the wood becoming brittle once the string was pulled taught.  Then it would be strengthened further around the tips, where the string would be tied.  Arrows would have to be made and the string found and added.  The whole affair would take time, Thranduil knew.  A snatched instant here and there in his father’s life.  It was all he could ask.

Finally he had found something Oropher was willing to share with him.

Oropher turned and without saying a word, trudged through the ferns and bracken, heading into the colonnade of silver trunks towards the woodland path.  Thranduil did not move.  He watched his father go, the light brushing his shoulders and hair as he passed through the bright shafts the sun sent down through the canopy.

The light faded, as did Oropher.  Standing alone, Thranduil imagined he could still hear those subtle footsteps, soft as a breeze through the ferns’ soft leaves.  The beech grove, however, was now knotted with ivy and weeds, the nuts trodden into a mulch across the forest floor, the woods brooding in a dank green gleam.

King Thranduil stared expressionlessly at the spot where, centuries before, he had seen caught that rare glimpse of a crownless Oropher.  He recalled the details so acutely that he could picture his father’s every movements on that day.  Before the forest changed. 

Odd noises surrounded him now, where before there had been birdsong and the chuckling of distant streams.  The woods creaked and groaned, the trees sighing.  Spatters of footsteps beat against the sodden ground somewhere in the darkness.  Thranduil surveyed it all and allowed himself a slight sneer.  The rest of his disgust at the realm’s transformation stayed well hidden within him.

None of those quiet places existed now.  Except in Thranduil’s mind, where they lay preserved, more perfect than the most accurate painting.  Only as he paused now to remember those moments with his father, he realised how few there were.  He glanced around at the darkness, felt it oozing in around him, as was its habit, and sighed as his memories turned instead to the battlefield.  His father’s sword glinted in the sunlight, just before an orc scimitar cleaved his chest open and stifled the battle cry of Greenwood.

Thranduil had felt ready to die at that moment.  Only duty kept him from hurtling into the fray after his father, to embrace the sweet release of death by his side.  He remembered Oropher’s words too clearly.  The eyes of the people turned to their prince, and made him their king with a look.  So he had no choice but to swallow the screams that vaulted around inside his chest, to let them choke him, while his face remained a mask of calm.

By some miracle he had survived.  Why, he did not know.  If the One had some purpose set aside for him, Thranduil was not aware of it.  He ruled a grim and dismal forest, holding desperately to the memory of its former beauty while evil things overran it.  He performed no great deeds and remained within his halls whenever he could.  Any who knew him thought him cold, more so since he returned from Mordor.  None knew the reason. 

He had only one thing that shone through the murk of his life.  That was where his thoughts ought to turn.  If only to prevent another feeling the same emptiness Thranduil now suffered.

Thranduil reached to his shoulder and pulled a white-fledged arrow from his quiver.  There was nothing to shoot in the beech grove.  Nothing within sight at any rate.  Yet still he placed the arrow delicately and drew back the bowstring, listening as the yew wood gave a faint moan, audible only to Thranduil, who knew the weapon’s language.  If only Oropher had lived to see it complete, he thought as his eyes followed the line of the shaft towards its steel point.  But then, had he completed the bow while his father still lived, that would have been the end of their time together.  Oropher had allowed him that one moment in life.  Nothing more.

Perhaps, he thought, the darkness had always been present in the Greenwood.  Only waiting for a moment to manifest itself.

The bow was complete.  Thranduil took up the work the moment he returned from Mordor, using it as a ready excuse to escape the duties of kingship.  He made sure to work in his rooms, not in the openness of the forest.  In his rooms he could be certain of privacy, and allowed himself to weep if that was what his heart wished.  This yew wood was tearstained, he thought dryly.  Made supple by grief.

The darkness around him paled in comparison to the shadow in his heart, and Thranduil closed his eyes for a moment as he steeled himself.  The memory of those empty nights returned, and he felt the same coldness grip his body.  For years his dreams had been tortured with images of Oropher’s battered corpse, or of the orc hordes, or the black land.  He told no one.  Not even his wife.  Yet he wished he was able to speak of it.

He wished he could confess his reasons for coming to this grove, and for insisting that they spend this time in each other’s company.

His fingers throbbed with the strain of keeping the bowstring taught, but he did not let go.  What would he say, even if he could voice the pent up fears and grievances?  What use would it be?  He could scream until he was hoarse that he had wanted a father not a king to look up to, and that he wished he had more than an old black bow to remember Oropher by.  But that would not wash away the evil that had come to Greenwood.  It would not bring Oropher back to him. 

He loosed the arrow and it disappeared with a hiss into the dark.  Thranduil did not see where it struck.  There were some shadows that had to remain forever contained.  So long as he remained in control, that shadow would never dent his mask of calm. 

He heard the ferns part behind him, sighing as someone brushed past them.  Without turning, Thranduil allowed himself a smile. 

His time.

“Right,” he said loudly, concealing all trace of the dark memories he had relived.  “This is a good spot, or it was in its day.  Let me see the wood.”

His son passed the length of yew, holding it reverently out in front of his slim young body as though he feared it might bite him.  Legolas’ eyes darted quickly from the wood to his father and back again, with unconcealed excitement.

“All right,” Thranduil sighed, and drew his knife from his belt, ready to start carving,

“How long will it take?”  Legolas asked him.

Thranduil shrugged.  “As long as it takes.  A rushed weapon is unreliable.  To trust your life to this bow, you must know that every stage of its crafting was good.”

Legolas nodded, taking it all in.  His eyes grew wider with each passing second, Thranduil observed, and laughed.

“Don’t worry,” he said.  “Once it is finished, I’m sure we can find something else to do together.  You’ll need to learn how to use it, for one thing.”

“And you’ll teach me, Ada?”

Thranduil paused for a moment then looked at him over his shoulder.  His heart could never fully rid itself of the shadow, he knew, but he could ensure that the darkness never touched another.

“Of course,” he replied.  “Who else will?”