A/N Thank you to all my readers! I know you're all anxious for the Legomance it's coming soon I promise!
Orophin was a skilled teacher and beyond patient when Dargan would whine, which he did often.
We were at the training fields for only a few minutes when Barasil made his appearance. He carried a basket of grapes and smiled when he saw me.
"I'm amazed by how quickly you are able to create such," he spoke slowly as he closed the distance between us, "Masterpieces." He finished gesturing to my outfit.
I flushed and shrugged turning back to the training field to watch Dargan, "I didn't have much else to do, you live forever right?" I asked him as I sat down on the ground.
He smirked sitting down next to me, "The Eldar are immortal." He placed the basket in between us and gestured toward the grapes.
I smiled my thanks as I reached for one, "How do you not get bored with so much time?"
He laughed a genuine laugh at that, "You are bored of the Golden Wood already?"
I threw a grape at him which he caught easily, "No! I'm just not used to the slow pace is all."
We nibbled on the grapes silently, we didn't need to speak, Dargan whining and complaining was enough entertainment. Dargan was also compassionate to Orophin so often when he would begin complaining or whining he would switch to Sindarin, making well sure that Orophin heard about his faults as a teacher.
"What is he saying now?" I whispered to Barasil, he had laid back and was no longer watching them, he had his hands folded under his head and his eyes were closed.
"He told Orophin he needs to learn archery because he has no plan on getting close enough to anyone for them to touch him because he does not like touching." His eyes were still closed, he looked utterly peaceful. I laid down beside him folding my hands under my head much like he had his.
"Why isn't he teaching him archery then?" I rolled onto my side to face him.
He cast me a small smile squinting his eyes open and meeting mine, "I'm afraid you seers lack the strength for a bow, Orophin is choosing the right course of action."
I scoffed, "We don't lack strength!" Perhaps Dargan did for the simple fact he never ate any protein or did anything at all but I didn't lack any.
"No?" He challenged propping himself up on his elbows.
Before he could react I rolled off of the ground and walked away, I was heading towards the armory I would grab a bow and use it. Though I have never used one before, I would show him.
He scrambled to his feet and followed after me, "Tinbân," He called after me.
I turned around, "What's that mean?" Barasil rarely spoke Sindarin to me.
He stood in front of me with an apologetic expression, "Forgive me, I did not mean to offend."
I allowed him to take another step toward me, "What's tinnbon? Tinwuban?" I tried pronouncing it again how I heard him speak it.
"Beautiful small stars."
I forgot to breathe. I gaped at him for several long moments before I was able to speak again. Here I was beautiful and revered; at home, I couldn't even get a second date.
"What is the word for strong in Sindarin?" I asked him not looking him in the eye.
"Polod" He replied as I snuck a glance to his face.
I pointed at myself, "Polod,"
He smirked but didn't reply. I don't need him to see my strength for it to be there; I am after all thousands of years in the past and have yet to kill over from disease.
I turned back around and began walking toward the armory once again ignoring him.
It wasn't until I walked into the armory and saw the rows of bows lining the walls that I paused.
Barasil followed behind me though I didn't hear him, he was light on his feet.
"The ones on the left are the ones that might be more suited for you; we use them to train the Elflings."
I turned around and glared at him. Was he trying to insult me? Saying my strength is that of a child! I am an adult woman I can lift patients off of the floor and back into their beds. I can carry a toddler under each arm onto the bus, I'm strong.
"I can assist you if you would like," he offered.
I huffed out a breath, "fine."
Barasil was right; the ones on the left were more suited for me. I reluctantly walked towards the bows on the left. They were smaller than the ones on the right and some had decorations added like ribbons and beads.
Barasil followed me, he stopped at a bow that was slightly bigger than the others and told me to give it a try. So I did, it felt light in my hands and I swore I could feel power within the wood.
He walked me back to the training field, now however there were quite a few Ellon and Elleth alike staring at the spectacle Dargan was making. It only fueled his anxiety and I could tell from the look in his eye he was dissociating. How would he change things? How would he do anything for this world when he couldn't even eat fruit? Let alone try to wear a different fabric.
The old me would have run to him, coddled him, shielded him from the prying eyes, and taken him home immediately. But Middle-Earth wasn't made for neurodivergents. So I chose to ignore him, when our eyes met and I saw the overwhelm and pleading in his I looked away. He did this to us both. If he wants to be a warrior he will need to get over himself.
Barasil placed his hand on the small of my back leading me with a bit of force away from the scene and towards a line of targets.
"A simple touch is lighting up the night sky," he commented with a sly grin gesturing to my red face.
He grabbed the bow from my hands. He showed me how to keep my arm steady while aiming and released his own arrow at a target across the field. It hit its mark perfectly.
A group of Ellons' approached and though I couldn't understand the language I could understand clearly they were heckling him.
He didn't let it bother him and turned to me placing the bow back into my hand grabbing a blunt training arrow placing it in my other hand. "Now you try," he instructed.
I closed one eye as I lined up my shot then slowly released my finger from the string. I've never shot a gun, but I imagine the recoil is similar, even for a small bow I was surprised by the force it pushed me back and the wind the snap created.
As soon as the arrow left its arc it flew straight to its intended destination; the center of the target.
I grin split open my face, "Again." He instructed, and I did the same motions but this time the arrow hit the ground a few feet from the target.
I frowned puffing out a hot breath. "Again," he drawled not giving me any instruction of any sort only handing me arrows.
I shot a dozen before he began critiquing me and adjusting my position and hold on the bow. My main problem was where I placed the arrow, I tried to copy him placing it where he placed his but that didn't work for me.
"Here," he wrapped his fingers around mine lowering the arrow on the bow, "Your wingspan is much smaller try shooting from this point."
I tried again, this time with better results as my arrow landed closer to the bullseye than before. The Elves that were nearby were making me increasingly nervous and I was glad I couldn't understand what they were saying about me. I felt a pang of guilt for my disregard for Dargan but ignored it.
We practiced until my biceps were raw and throbbing, "same time tomorrow?" Barasil asked and before I could think I replied, "Yes."
I am a masochist, an insane masochist. When I got back to the talan I was buzzing with accomplishment and pride, even though it was a children's training bow and I missed the target more than not I was still happy.
That was until I walked into the front door. Dargan was curled in the fetal position his back facing the door.
I cautiously approached, "Dargan," I whispered, but he didn't even flinch.
I let out a sigh and sat down next to him. For a few moments, we just sat there in silence, and then he finally spoke up, "I'm sorry."
I knew he wasn't talking about archery or training so I didn't respond right away trying to choose my words carefully.
"It's ok," I said finally after what seemed like an eternity of silence. It wasn't ok though, I was adjusting better than he was and I didn't even want to be here. I was tired of mothering him.
"This is harder than I thought," his voice was muffled as he bent his arm to cover his face.
"How cruel is it, Calico! I'm here, but I cannot function here. It was always a dream and now it's a nightmare."
I couldn't say anything; I just sat there with him. I wanted to be angry and tell him off, but all I felt was pity for him. After a long moment of silence I finally spoke, "Tell me how to help you."
"It will have to be by force." He said solemnly, his voice carrying a weight of despair so thick it seemed to weigh down the room itself. We both knew what this would do to our relationship.
"What do you mean by that?" I asked him cautiously; afraid of the answer I may receive.
He turned to me with a sad smile on his face and said, "You are going to have to be my strength; you're going to have to force me to adapt when I give up." He looked at me with a look of determination in his eyes that I had never seen before.
My heart felt heavy at the thought of having such a responsibility but at the same time, I felt honored that he was placing such trust in me.
Taking a deep breath I nodded my head in agreement and stood up from my seat, ready for whatever challenge lay ahead of us.
"Well then," I stated resolutely, "Let's start with something simple; how about a change of clothes? We can start with baby steps and go from there." Dargan smiled though it didn't reach his eyes, "No, thank you. My clothing is fine."
"Dar," I warned.
"Ok, maybe a small step."
The next weeks were spent pushing him out of his comfort zone and me out of mine. I knew his limits, I could see in his eyes when it was too much and would keep pushing. The Elves were different, anything he asked of them they would do, so when he would change his mind and say no thank you they would take him at his word. The first week was miserable, he hurled so many insults at me but I didn't relent.
"Calico! This is why Marcus never wanted to date you! You're so annoying and controlling and you don't listen!" He had said once when I refused to tell him where I hid his old shirt and forced him to wear the new one I had sewn. It was a finer fabric than what their tunics were generally made from; it was the closest thing I could find that felt anything close to his sacred polyester cotton blend.
I remember locking myself inside one of the bedrooms with my back to the door as I silently cried. Marcus was his older brother, who not only found me hideous but saw me more as a caretaker instead of anything else. Dargan's family was warm toward me, his mother became my own surrogate mother when mine passed away, and when we became roommates she treated me as a daughter. However, Marcus never saw me as anything other than his brother's caretaker, any friend of Dargan's he saw that way, he didn't understand how someone could be his friend and only that.
Marcus was a sore subject to both of us, both of us pining for different types of love from the man. He went off to college a few years ago and didn't as much as text Dargan on birthdays or holidays.
When Mabeth stopped by with his prepeeled breads I had asked her to no longer bring them and instead bring what a soldier would eat. His plate became a grotesque sight of vegetables I didn't even want to eat, gravy, hearty soups and broths, and a helping of meat when it was available.
He would often try to sneak around me and beg Mabeth for the bread, they'd have what looked like drug deals in the front room where he would hurriedly shove the fluff under his shirt quickly to hide it from me.
He couldn't hide it of course, but I never commented on it because he was pushing himself already so much and I felt guilty for making him so uncomfortable. I used to be his safe space, his person, and now I'm the aggressor.
I haven't attempted to force him to the bathing spring yet, but training has begun to go better for both of us. I wasn't even interested in combat, to be honest, I just wanted to prove I was strong. Every morning we would meet Orophin and Barasil at the training grounds, except when Orophin got sent off to the borders then it was just Barasil.
Barasil was far more interested in training me than he was with Dargan, though he thoroughly enjoyed the heckling and the frankness of his speech. Dargan improved the most with combat, his gait was a bit off and he was still clumsy in a lanky sort of way.
The worst part about training with Barasil and Dargan was they would often speak in Sindarin about me. I'd pull on my bowstring and hear one of them snicker and make some string of Elvish that would cause the other one to laugh.
Or, the worst instances were when I started training with hand to hand. Barasil didn't think I was quite strong enough for a sword.
So humiliatingly he would instruct me to attack him then easily sidestep any punch I threw. Dargan also got a kick out of it forgetting he was in uncomfortable clothing in an uncomfortable land and he'd smile widely while hurling his heckles at me in a language I didn't understand.
He recently started wearing armor and chainmail while training, he would twitch and his fingers would flex in clear discomfort but he forced himself to bear it.
Barasil was always a bit perplexed by it. "Why are you insistent on training young seer? Do you feel unsafe here in the Golden Wood?"
Dargan's answer was always vague and prophetic if not dramatic, foreshadowing his leaving but never giving details.
It hurt, the reality that soon he would leave me. We've discussed it many times, always me trying to convince him to stay here with me and we could live our lives among the Elves as honored guests and never fear or want for anything.
But that isn't why he came. So, in just a few days according to his calculations the Fellowship should reach Caras Galadhon, and they would stay here for a month. So I have less than a month with my best friend.
It's my job to prepare him, help him adapt, and get him ready for anything.
"I'll be back by the next spring." He had said in a way to comfort me.
"Dargan! It isn't even spring yet! It's January!"
"Yeah, I could come sooner but I don't want to miss Aragorn's coronation."
He was still obsessively stressed about any changes but anytime the subject got brought up I would quickly change it or if I caught him in one of his moods pacing I would redirect him.
"What if you don't come back, Dar?" I asked quietly after an exhausting meal.
Watching him force himself to eat what I couldn't stomach myself was exhausting for both of us. He'd look at me with pleading eyes then when my blank expression met his he'd choke back his gag and hold a defeated expression.
"I already told you I'm only staying till the coronation."
"No, what if you die Dar?" My voice cracked and I refused to look at him, not like it made much difference he also was not one for eye contact.
He shrugged. There was no plan for his possible demise nor was there one for mine. He assumed we were both like Tolkien. He was convinced Tolkien himself was a time traveler and believed the conspiracy of the 400 years lost.
The 400 years lost is a conspiracy that due to some event 400 years of time was erased and only phantoms and ghosts of it remained. A broken piece of pottery in an empty field, a soldier's helmet that matched no design or metalwork of any other, and several other random artifacts that held little weight.
The 400-year lost believers believe the world was far worse before Tolkien traveled, that he was chosen by the Valar and because of his accomplishment with Bilbo he was awarded the ability to travel to different timelines.
Not much of history was affected until he traveled to Middle-Earth for the 4th time.
This was when he helped defeat Sauron and the One Ring. When he returned home everything was different and foreign. No one had memory of the world before, it was as if it had always been that way.
Tolkien was able to travel and record history and remain unharmed, Dargan assumed that both of us also held that gift and power.
What Dargan forgets, however, is Tolkien's gradual obsession with Middle-Earth. And if his theory is correct about time-traveling, then it would make sense that the more time he spent in Middle-Earth the more he felt at home here and the less home felt like home.
How different was England when he wrote The Hobbit?
How different would the world become when Dargan wrote his own adventures down of his fixing of Tolkien's mistakes as he calls them? Would home no longer feel like home to us?