Such Great Deeds by Himring

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Chapter 3: Eithel Sirion (II)

Beleg encounters the contingent from Nargothrond, including Gwindor.
One night, his intervention is called for.

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They were quartered near the contingent from Nargothrond. Clearly, in the eyes of the people of Hithlum they had things in common: outsiders, latecomers, and, late as they were, still not as numerous as hoped or needed. They eyed each other with cautious sympathy, the Iathrim and those of Nargothrond.

It should have been more than cautious sympathy, Beleg reflected. Doriath had been a good friend to Nargothrond during its building, after all. But, at the start of the Dagor Bragollach, their friendship had cooled somewhat, although neither side had openly acknowledged it. And, as for Beleg himself, his closest friends in Nargothrond had died together with Finrod in the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth: Edrahil and cheerful, knowledgeable Enedrion, who had gone out of his way to make Beleg welcome whenever he visited the place.

Enedrion’s cousin Forgam was among that group from Nargothrond; they had exchanged a few hushed words about the deceased. But Gwindor himself, who seemed to be the appointed leader of the Nargothrond faction, Beleg hardly knew at all nor did he immediately warm to him, now. The man seemed restless, driven, striding about the corridors at a great pace as if he needed to arrive at some destination, quickly, when, for the most part, all they had to do at present was wait for their call to action, as patiently as they could.

Gwindor’s restlessness irritated Beleg, who was having trouble exercising that same patience himself. Gwindor, at least, had the task of watching out for his little troop of Noldor and keeping them in order. Beleg had approached Berion, captain of Fingon’s guard, about assisting with archery training. Berion had promised to consider the best approach and obtain permission from those higher up but he seemed to be taking an unconscionably long time about it.

He ought to have asked Hurin instead, except that the subject had not been uppermost in Beleg’s mind during their encounter—or he could have directly asked Fingon, the king himself. But Fingon, at any rate, was very busy indeed and Beleg had had no chance to speak to him in private; their one attempt to do so had been interrupted straight away. Beleg disliked making any kind of request in front of an audience, no matter how beneficial to both sides, but he would do so the next time the opportunity arose.

These thoughts were in his mind as he descended from the fortress into the town that night on the flimsy pretext of investigating an inn that had been recommended for its strong dwarf ale. Mablung had sensibly gone to bed, but Beleg, itching with temporary inaction and confinement in closed spaces, felt the need to stretch his legs. It was easier to do at night. The streets were almost empty and he advanced without any need to break his stride.

But wasn’t that Berion coming towards him, the man he’d just been thinking of, Fingon’s captain? Judging by his gait, he was not in a mood to discuss archery, however, and the expression on his face, when it came into view more clearly, confirmed it.

‘Berion! Is anything the matter?’

‘Lord Beleg!’

The agitated Noldo stopped. It seemed his first impulse had been to rush on past, giving Beleg a polite brush-off, but something had just occurred to him to change his mind.

‘Lord Beleg, you are a friend of Lord Gwindor’s, aren’t you?’

‘Yes’, said Beleg. It might not be true, precisely, but if Gwindor had managed to get himself into trouble tonight down here, Beleg was quite willing to help get him out of it.

‘Has anything happened to Gwindor?’

‘Not so much happened… Not yet, at least. The owner of the Variegated Thistle sent to me—we know each other—she sent to let me know that Lord Gwindor was drinking heavily in her establishment and he seemed to be in a dangerous mood. I’ve had encounters with Lord Gwindor—I did not trust myself to be able to handle those circumstances, so I was hurrying up to the castle, to fetch some of his friends from Nargothrond… But it will take me some time to find them…’

The oddly-named Variegated Thistle had already been Beleg’s nominal destination, for it was the place that served dwarven ale—the ale that Gwindor apparently had been having too much of.

‘A good plan and I think you should stick to it,’ said Beleg. ‘Ask for Forgam, if you can find him; he knows Gwindor well. Meanwhile I’ll go on to the Thistle and see what I can do.’

‘Thank you, Lord Beleg’, said Berion gratefully and launched himself up the path again.

***

Beleg had expected the Variegated Thistle to be rather noisy, in any case, and, after what Berion had said, he thought there might be a great deal of drunken shouting as well, so he began listening for Gwindor’s voice as he turned the corner into Thistle Lane. Instead, the place was quiet—too quiet, he realized as soon as he had opened the door.

The customers seemed to be huddling together at their tables. They briefly glanced up at Beleg as he entered; then they went back to their low-voiced mutterings and the anxious sideways looks they were casting towards the table in the back and its solitary guest. As Beleg went and asked the innkeeper beside her cask for a tankard of dwarven ale, two groups of guests sitting close to the door simultaneously came to a decision, got up and left.

The innkeeper was evidently unhappy, but putting a brave face on it. She smiled cordially at Beleg, greeted him as a new customer, and poured the brown ale with generosity and a satisfyingly professional air. Beleg thanked her politely and strode over to Gwindor’s table, tankard in hand. Behind his back, he heard the innkeeper make a swiftly suppressed sound of alarm or protest.

Gwindor sat silent, with his back to the wall, his elbows on the table. Before and around him, a worryingly large number of empty tankards were arranged in a neat half circle, like one of the parapets on the towers of Eithel Sirion, a fortification against the rest of the world. The latest of the tankards stood a little to the side, three quarters empty. Beleg, accustomed to Gwindor’s restlessness and the irritation it had been causing him, was struck by how uncharacteristically still Gwindor was sitting. However, what was worrying the innkeeper and her guests so much was certainly the expression on Gwindor’s face. To call it a sombre mien would have been a massive understatement.

Beleg, reaching the table, nodded at Gwindor in greeting. That elicited no reaction at all, so Beleg pulled out a chair, sat down opposite Gwindor and waited. The remaining people in the tavern collectively held their breath but, for a very long few moments, nothing happened.

At the other tables, conversation started up again, a little more confident, now that that the feared explosion had not occurred. Beleg himself, continuing to gaze into Gwindor’s rigid face and unseeing eyes, was not similarly heartened. He took a sip of ale and settled in for the wait, wondering whether he should risk trying to get through to Gwindor, here in this public place, before witnesses, and maybe persuading him to leave, or whether he should be grateful for Gwindor’s unmoving silence and content himself with keeping an eye on him until Berion arrived with Forgam. The latter seemed the wiser course.

‘Son of a bitch,’ said Gwindor unexpectedly, startling him.

Beleg was puzzled. Gwindor could hardly mean him, he thought. Not only would the insult have been particularly ill-chosen, in Beleg’s case, but he was fairly sure that Gwindor was not even really aware of his presence.

‘Son of a bitch,’ repeated Gwindor, reached for his tankard and drained it.

‘How he despised us,’ he said heavily. ‘How dare he despise us like that? That speech… That smile… What does he think he’s got that we haven’t? He hasn’t got all that much to be proud of, himself, has he?’

He glared thunderously over the table, his left fist clenching.

‘He’d deserve it but… Why should I let anything that son of a bitch says or does stop me from doing the things I must?’

Suddenly, he seemed to recognize Beleg or at least catch on to the fact that somebody else was sitting there, across from him.

‘I’d have let him win, wouldn’t I, if I’d stayed away because of him? Let him drag me down? I’m not like him!’ he appealed to Beleg.

‘That’s right,’ said Beleg in the most soothing voice he could manage. He was beginning to guess what this was about.

‘I am not,’ said Gwindor, enunciating very clearly, ‘disloyal to the memory of Finrod or his House.’

‘Of course you aren’t,’ said Beleg.

Gwindor gave him a despairing look, then tried to take another swig of ale and discovered that his tankard was now empty. Beleg felt the situation might be about to go critical and was relieved to hear the door open. Hoping for reinforcements, he took his eyes off Gwindor for a moment to check. Yes, it was Berion and Forgam who were coming in, as he had hoped—and with them, to Beleg’s astonishment, was Fingon.

***

Fingon swept towards them, leaving the other two in his wake.

‘Gwindor!’ he said.

The sound of his voice made everyone in the room sit up straight—including, after a moment’s delay, Gwindor himself.

‘What are you doing there, Gwindor?’ said Fingon.

He placed his hand on Gwindor’s shoulder and leant over him, speaking more gently.

‘What are you doing to yourself? I don’t think my cousin Finduilas would be happy to see you in such a state.’

Gwindor’s face changed.

‘Faelivrin’, he said in a choked voice. His passionate anger seemed to go out of him.

Fingon squeezed his shoulder.

‘Come on, Gwindor,’ he said. ‘You’ve had enough. Let Forgam take you back to quarters and sleep it off. Tomorrow will be another day.’

Gwindor tried to get up. As the tension in him evaporated, the effect of the amounts of alcohol he had consumed really seemed to hit. He swayed on his feet. Fingon grabbed him and steadied him. Gwindor looked into his face.

‘Fin… Fingon,’ he stammered. ‘I will fight for you. I will.’ He went on, with increasing urgency, clutching at Fingon’s arm: ‘I’ll slay your enemies for you, Fingon. Just point me in the right direction…’

‘Yes, I know, Gwindor,’ said Fingon, holding him upright. ‘I know. But not tonight—what you need tonight is sleep: a bit of fresh night air, a short walk up to the castle and then sleep, a good long rest.’

Forgam came forward, reaching out. With care, they transferred Gwindor’s weight from Fingon to Forgam. Gwindor leaned heavily against his friend from Nargothrond.

‘Will you two be all right now, on your own?’ asked Fingon, softly. ‘I would go along but I’m not sure that would help to keep him calm, considering…. But Berion could...’

‘We’ll be all right,’ said Forgam, who seemed to be fighting off tears.

They went. Gwindor’s head was bowed now, his face invisible as he shuffled along on Forgam’s arm.

‘Thank you for fetching me, Berion,’ said Fingon.

Berion nodded awkwardly.

‘I’ll have an eye on them for part of the way, as I’m going back to my duties,’ he said, ‘just in case Forgam was being too optimistic…’

He left, too.

Fingon sighed. He regarded the half circle of tankards on the table and gave a slight shudder.

‘I suppose that should serve as a warning to us all,’ he said to Beleg. ‘Nevertheless, after that, I feel I could use a drink.’

He eyed Beleg’s tankard.

‘You appear to have got one already. May I join you?’

Beleg had not had a chance before to have a closer look at him. Silvery lace blossomed delicately on the collar of Fingon’s tunic and the cuffs of his sleeves, his linked belt was decorated with intricate cloisonné enamel and a circlet gleamed in his hair. Even by Noldorin standards, he seemed overdressed for his surroundings—Berion must have caught him just as he came away from some lengthy court function. Fingon’s eyes were shadowed, as if with tiredness.

‘Of course,’ said Beleg. He might have said: I would be honoured, but something stopped him, despite the circlet or because of it.

Fingon nodded. He went to fetch his own drink, while Beleg inched Gwindor’s empty tankards aside towards the end of the table. At the other tables in the inn, conversation resumed. No doubt the guests found much to discuss in what had just passed before their eyes.

Fingon sat down and took a cautious sip of the ale. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Pretty lethal in larger quantities, though, I imagine.’

They sat quietly for a moment. Then Beleg began: ‘Gwindor…’

‘There were three of them,’ began Fingon simultaneously and Beleg fell silent, listening. ‘Gwindor, Gelmir, his brother, and their father Guilin— and they were close. Guilin’s wife, Yavien, had died in a flash flood, helping to evacuate a farmer’s family one spring when Sirion overran its banks—just one of those things, a natural disaster, an accident, nothing to do with Morgoth—and Guilin had been left to bring up his sons alone. I knew them then, before the Siege was broken; I met all three of them repeatedly during my visits to Orodreth in Tol Sirion. Even then, Gwindor and Finduilas were on good terms, although their official betrothal happened later.

Then came the Battle of Sudden Flame. Guilin fell soon after Angrod did—on the eastern shore of Sirion, as he tried to gather the remnants of the troops of the House of Finarfin and organize the retreat towards Tol Sirion. Finrod, coming up with reinforcements, incurred disastrous losses at Serech—although, thanks to Barahir, he escaped with his life, many of his most battle-experienced people fell there. Nevertheless, after that, Tol Sirion held out for two whole years against Morgoth—two whole years, even though they were increasingly exposed on their eastern flank where Gorthaur was busy turning Dorthonion into a place of horror and madness, even though I, being beleaguered myself northwards and eastwards, was able to send little help and Nargothrond not much more than that. Gelmir was lost in a sortie—missing, presumed dead—but Gwindor fought on at Orodreth’s side, quickly gaining a reputation for himself for outstanding skill and courage. However, the strength of the garrison of Tol Sirion dwindled and Gorthaur, being done, for the most part, with the conquest of Dorthonion, came upon them in a great onslaught. In that assault, Tol Sirion fell and even fewer might have escaped downriver to Nargothrond without the aid of Celegorm and Curufin. I have heard a rumour that Curufin himself saved Gwindor’s life in that retreat. No doubt that debt chafes, now, after Finrod’s death, especially if the rumour is true…’

As he spoke, Fingon’s eyes had been lost in memory; now they focussed on Beleg again.

‘I guess you know much of this already,’ he said.

‘Some of it, yes,’ said Beleg.

He remembered the early days of the Dagor Bragollach—how he had hastened towards the Teiglin, gathering his march wardens in readiness and collecting all intelligence he could, and sent message after message to Menegroth, while he gradually came to realize that no matter how bad the news he sent, Elu was not going to permit the march wardens to set foot beyond Doriath’s borders. And so he had waited and gone on gathering intelligence while the North went up in flames and in the Sirion valley, not so far away, Noldor and Sindar, too, had died. In a way, it had been a relief when the forces of Morgoth had ventured into Brethil and were finally within his reach. He and Mablung had inflicted significant losses on them, saved the Haladin from being overrun and barred Morgoth’s way further south. It had been a victory, but an undiluted victory only to those who looked no farther than Brethil.

‘Some of it,’ said Beleg. ‘But maybe less than I should.’

 

‘I have considered,’ said Fingon softly to Beleg, ‘whether I should try to reorganize the contingent from Nargothrond—integrate them more closely with my own command structure, even disperse them completely among my own troops. There would be resistance to this, not only on their side. I do not think I have enough time to overcome it.

And I cannot press matters and risk them leaving in high dudgeon because they decide I have offered insult to Gwindor, their hero. Their numbers are small, but the blow to morale would be a disastrous. They have risked much in coming to our aid despite Orodreth’s own refusal and we are all conscious of it.

Besides, if I were to narrow my choice of commanders down to those who have had no harrowing experiences since the Siege broke, I would have few indeed to choose from. There is hardly anyone left among the Noldor who has not lost anyone dear to them. We are none of us now as we were when we first met, you and I.’

He smiled, alluding to their meeting at the Mereth Aderthad, as if at a fond distant memory. Beleg impulsively reached out across the table, not quite touching Fingon’s hand.

He said: ‘What Mablung said, before the assembly in the throne room—about taking part in great deeds…However it sounded to you, I would have you know that Mablung and I are well aware that this is a serious matter—that you are fighting for your lives.’

‘Oh, but we are going to win!’ said Fingon quickly.

‘Of course we are,’ said Beleg even more quickly.

They looked at each other in silence for a moment.

‘I am Sinda,’ Beleg said. ‘I do not write letters.’

Fingon looked startled. Then he nodded, slowly.

‘There are some things even we Noldor do not easily put into writing,’ he said. But his voice held a questioning note.

‘I wish you will consider me a friend,’ Beleg said.

I am sorry. Your father died. You yourself were in great danger of your life and I did not lift a finger. And, unlike others, I do not have the excuse of being shocked and disgusted at the revelation that you were a kinslayer, for I was not shocked, not truly. I had guessed you carried a secret, although I did not know what it was.

It had been more a feeling of profound embarrassment than of shock, Beleg recalled, as the rumours of the Kinslaying began to reach him and gradually the explanation for that underlying distress he had detected in Fingon at the Mereth Aderthad fell into place—as if he had been made an unwilling witness to Fingon’s shame. In those days, if he could have found a practical reason to go to Barad Eithel—a reason that did not make it look as if he was charging off northwards just to confront Fingon about Olwe and Alqualonde—he would have gone and discreetly communicated that to Fingon that, as far as Beleg was concerned, he had not put himself beyond the pale. But no likely excuse had come his way. He had waited for an opportunity to arise, as if anyone was going to offer it to him on a plate—and ignored how, all the while, the borders of Doriath seemed to be tightening, tightening until there were no casual reasons to leave. And then, suddenly, the Siege was over and he had run out of time.

A friend, he had said. But what kind of friend dragged his heels until it was almost too late?

Fingon gave him another of those bright Noldorin glances that seemed to make some of the younger Sindar so uncomfortable—but that Beleg had never felt to be the least arrogant or rude in Fingon.

‘Beleg!’ he said. ‘You’re here! Of course you are a friend!’

Beleg frowned a little at that logic.

‘We can do it properly if you wish,’ said Fingon. ‘Wait a bit—I’ll ask the innkeeper if she has any wine…’

And he had bounced to his feet before Beleg could open his mouth. In a moment he was back, carefully balancing two cheap scratched glasses filled to the brim with a clear yellowish liquid.

‘Here,’ he said, passing one to Beleg. He solemnly hooked his right elbow through Beleg’s and raised his glass to him. Beleg thought briefly of what Thingol would say if he could see him drinking friendship with the High King of the Noldor in a tavern. Then he drank unhesitatingly together with Fingon—and discovered there was a reason he’d never been told the place was famed for its wine.

Fingon pulled a slight grimace.

‘Oh dear,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry. We had better have stuck to the ale.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Beleg judiciously. ‘It’s very high-grade vinegar.’

Fingon laughed.

‘Shall we leave?’ he asked. ‘…unless you wish to stay?’

‘No, this place was merely going to be the excuse for a night-time walk,’ said Beleg, ‘at any rate, until I ran into Berion.’

‘Then let’s walk,’ said Fingon.

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Chapter End Notes

My back story for Gwindor is not compatible with some of the details included in The Children of Hurin.