Such Great Deeds by Himring

---

Chapter 4: Eithel Sirion III

Fingon and Beleg finally get around to having their private conversation.
It touches on many subjects, past and present.

Eventually, they return from their nocturnal walk to the castle.
It is a peaceful scene--nevertheless the stage is now all set for the Fifth Battle...

---

It made all the difference, walking through Barad Eithel with Fingon. Alone or in Mablung’s company, Beleg had been mainly conscious of sensations of crowding and confinement, cramped by the clustering of elven dwellings where, instinctively, he looked for trees and the tracks of deer.

Fingon made no particular attempt to convince him of the beauty of the place. They did not even discuss the town. All Fingon said was things like: ‘Shall we walk along here?’ or ‘This way?’ But he was so clearly at home—not merely moving along with the confidence of familiarity, but with a pervasive affection for Barad Eithel’s winding streets and windy corners—that Beleg could almost hear the stones talking to Fingon much as the trees talked to him.

It sharpened his own perceptions and even in the dark of the night he began to see how Barad Eithel reflected not only the Noldorin love of stone, but also their encounter with Hithlum and its inhabitants—this arch was purely Noldorin, but those whorls over there, although carved in stone, not wood, showed a distinct Mithrim influence. As far as Beleg could tell, they were gradually making their way to the nearest point of the outworks. On the left side of the road, in particular, the size of the houses was diminishing and the yards and patches of garden were becoming larger.

‘Tell me, Beleg,’ said Fingon, abruptly—and it became clear that he had not simply been basking in the peace of Barad Eithel at night but that his thoughts were continuing along the same lines as before—‘if we should be defeated—but of course we shall win!—will Doriath stand, on its own?’

‘Is that a real question you’re asking me,’ answered Beleg, rather dryly, ‘or merely a message you would like me to convey to Thingol?’

‘Hmm,’ said FIngon thoughtfully. ‘A real question, I think. It might have been a message. After all, Melian’s Girdle has never been tested against the fully assembled power of Morgoth—and I used to wonder...

However—I’ve been to Tol Sirion, Beleg, and seen what Luthien wrought there. I knew much of the building of Minas Tirith when Finrod first devised its walls—no mean achievement, although his works at Nargothrond later outshone it. It was a powerful fortress, Beleg, and no less powerful after Gorthaur beat its defences down with strength and subverted them, turning them against its builders—a place of terror. And Luthien reduced it to rubble in—how long? A couple of hours?

But only because Beren was imprisoned there! If not for him, the rest of Gorthaur’s victims would still be mouldering in his dungeons and his darkness would go on seeping into the soil. Do not misunderstand me—I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth! But I am driven to the conclusion that, apparently, I understand neither the powers of Queen Melian and her daughter nor their limitations… You would know much more of this, I imagine, than I.’

‘Not so much more,’ said Beleg. ‘I have felt Melian’s power all around me and Luthien’s, too. I have admired them, loved them, even—but that is not to say I have understood.’

And, as he spoke, his thoughts were drawn ineluctably to the Wolf, Carcharoth, who had so easily broken through the unbreachable Girdle, both inflamed and empowered by what he carried within him, and wreaked destruction such as Doriath had not seen since the first battle against Morgoth. And we invited him in. Elu did, when he asked for the Silmaril.

For all his skill as a hunter, Beleg had failed to protect successfully either Elu or his son-in-law when they confronted the Wolf and it was a bitter memory to him. Luthien had died as a consequence, along with Beren—she who had so effortlessly been at the centre of everything that there was no one who was not bereft at her loss. And all for a Silmaril! He remembered Mablung thrusting his hand into Carcharoth’s seared guts, when that grim hunt was over, and the sight of the jewel shining through his blood-stained fingers, dragging Mablung’s arm downwards by its sheer weight, even though it was not such a big thing at all—such a small stone for the fate of Doriath and all Beleriand to hang upon. Nevertheless it had lit up the woods on the banks of the Esgalduin with a light far brighter than the sun at noon.

And they had refused to hand it over, when it was demanded from them—not just Elu himself; most of the Iathrim had agreed. Perhaps they, like Elu, had clung to it as a token, as if any stone, however bright, could ever be an exchange for the loss of Luthien—or as if, because the Silmaril had enabled Carcharoth to reach and attack them, they would be safe if they held it themselves, even though Melian had warned them, not for the first time, that it was not so. Not easy to comprehend were the powers of Melian and neither were the gaps in her defence. But not to any Noldo—not even to Fingon—would Beleg willingly speak of the Silmaril or his fears concerning it.

‘You look troubled,’ said Fingon, touching his shoulder. ‘Do not distress yourself. It was a question I needed to ask, I guess, but perhaps I do not need to know the answer. After all, it will not, in the end, affect my decisions. There are too many of my people that could never find refuge behind the Girdle.’

They passed out through a postern by the city gate and walked on in silence through shadowy fields and pastures until they reached the outworks. There they climbed the steps to the top of the skirting wall.

 
Below their feet, Sirion flowed away, turning southwards. Although its source was above, in the citadel, here down at the outworks it was already swift and strong. Beleriand's great river--it served as an inexhaustible water supply for Barad Eithel, but the fortress had also been built to protect it where it was most vulnerable. Ulmo's voice and powers were in the living water, guiding and guarding elves and men. But if none guarded it in their turn from the Dark Lord, that guidance might well fail. Twice already, the enemy had been beaten back from the fortress, with much loss...

Fingon leant over the parapet, looking south.

'You know', he said, 'back then, in Tirion, I used to observe Grandfather and his councillors--my father among them, of course--their established policies, their rules of procedure, their way of running things. And I saw Grandfather make what seemed obvious mistakes: decisions that were unfair or led to a waste of time and effort that was predictable. At any rate, such they appeared to me. Watching how they went about it, I couldn't help but be convinced that, if they had only asked me, I could do better! I could fix things. Tirion would be a much better a place to live in, if only everyone listened to me! I was so very young.

And, of course, when I grew a little older and dared to make a tentative suggestion or two--and I was far bolder inside my own head, than I ever was in court, I assure you!--they told me. Respect your elders, boy, they said--We are the experienced ones. We know how things work around here! This is how things always have been!

Is it strange that I imagined at times how wonderful it would be to start anew? Away from the constraint of 'how things always have been'? Especially when I realized, without even delving too deep into historical research, that, although my elders seemed honestly to believe what they were saying, it was not even true that things had always been exactly like that, even from the founding of Tirion, let alone all the way from Cuivienen? How easy it would be to avoid falling into the same rut, if only I could start with a clean slate! I would learn from Grandfather's mistakes and avoid them all!'

Fingon laughed a little.

'So much overweening pride and such a fall... How very humbly I will have to apologize to Grandfather if I should ever have the chance to do so, won't I?'

Beleg remembered his travels in Hithlum during the Mereth Aderthad and considered what he had observed since his arrival in Barad Eithel, at court and elsewhere. Perfection he had neither expected nor looked for, but it seemed to him no little achievement to hold the fractious Noldor and the wayward Northern Sindar together in a war-torn land and win the loyalty of the proud Men of Dor-lomin. Also, if one thing had stood out, it was Fingon's willingness to take an interest and engage with people as he found them.

'Your Grandfather might be proud of you,' he suggested.

Fingon gave him an incredulous look.

'Finwe as I knew him might,' Beleg amended.

It was still difficult to imagine the Finwe he had known as King in Tirion. The details that had emerged over time didn't seem to fit, making that part of his life in Aman seem more alien rather than less so. Only the end, horrible as it was--Finwe sending the others away to confront the Dark Lord in his Darkness all by himself, at the gate of Formenos--that fitted.

Beleg wondered how much Finwe had told his children and grand-children about some of his more problematic decisions during the March. Hardly anything, it appeared. After all, there was no way you could lead the migration of a whole people all the way across a continent without breaking a few eggs or outright smashing them.

But there was a strange innocence about those who had grown up in Aman, even the kinslayers among them. All those that Beleg had talked to at any length seemed to have an underlying belief, unquestioned despite any adversities that they might encounter, that things were bound to be all right if they only tried hard enough; if things turned out less than perfect, it was because they had made mistakes. Aman must be a strange land indeed to encourage such beliefs; in Middle-earth as Beleg knew it things were bound to go wrong occasionally without anyone having been at fault at all.

'You had been going to tell me about Grandfather, hadn't you? About the march from Cuivienen?' said Fingon and sighed, evidently thinking, again, how far they had come from the time of their first encounter and the Mereth Aderthad.

As they began to descend from the top of the wall, Fingon stopped for a moment and looked east. His expression betrayed little, this time, but somehow Beleg did not doubt that he was looking toward Himring with an emotion quite as intense as the longing Beleg had seen on his face at the Mereth Aderthad when Fingon had watched the back of Maedhros’s head disappearing between the tents.

Then the strength of Fingon’s emotion had moved him, but now he found that it bothered and irritated him, as if he had acquired a stake in the matter.

In fact, it was none of his business, of course, but abruptly, he said: ‘Does he even try to deserve your affection, that Feanorion of yours?’

There was a fleeting impression, not of surprise, but extreme guardedness.

Then Fingon said: ‘Russandol—you don't know a great deal about him, do you, Beleg?’

Fingon had, up to that moment, been speaking fluently in the Sindarin of Hithlum, a Mithrim accent with a strong admixture of Falathren loan words, but just with that one word—or name—Russandol he suddenly sounded extremely Noldorin.

‘Hardly anything at all’, said Beleg.

This was not entirely true. As a Marchwarden, he had of course made it his job to find out everything about the Sons of Feanor that might be relevant to the defence of Doriath. He had studiously ignored the rest. It was bad enough, having to turn Feanorian refugees away from the northern borders and send them back into highly dangerous territory with no more than a packet of dried meat or fruit spared from his own provisions, if that—and occasionally having to pull dead bodies out of the swamps on the outskirts of Melian’s Girdle. He could not afford to consider the human side of the Sons of Feanor, although he grudgingly had to concede that they did seem to try to take care of their own, when they could.

‘What?’ he asked now. ‘He’s too high and mighty, your Maedhros, to need to stoop and try to deserve other people’s affection, is that it?’

‘Oh no, not at all,’ said Fingon, sounding genuinely amused. ‘Merely that, with Russandol, that’s entirely the wrong question to ask. But you know so little of him that I couldn’t possibly explain.’

That possibly sounded final; the subject was evidently closed. And maybe, Beleg mused, there was more to Maedhros, son of Feanor, than met the eye. But it still did not seem to be a safe place to keep one’s heart, not at all. However, Fingon was still smiling slightly, as he strode along beside him, and the atmosphere had lightened a little. Whatever things the High King of the Noldor might be feeling doubt about this night, it seemed his cousin was not one of them.

They were returning to the castle now. The streets inclined gently but steadily upward. They crossed a square with a fountain, of the more the utilitarian sort where the less well-to-do inhabitants might come in the day-time to draw water or wash clothes. It was of simple, but practical and pleasing design. A group of stone benches was provided for a rest or a chat between chores.

Fingon and Beleg did not sit down there, however, but went on. Fingon's mind seemed to have turned to practical matters.

'You must remind me to put you in touch with Pengyl,' he said.

'Pengyl?'

Berion had mentioned that name, Beleg remembered now, but had not explained and Beleg had failed to ask or to follow it up.

'Pengyl. You have not encountered her yet, have you? She is one of my captains and one our best archers, perhaps the best. She is from below Mount Taras, a Sinda by descent, but my sister trained her in our style of shooting, in Nevrast, and sent her to us at the time of the Dagor Aglareb. When my sister left for Gondolin, she stayed.

I would have expected her to find you before now, to talk archery and compare notes. She's not usually shy. But I guess she's been busy running too many errands and besides--' Fingon gave him a teasing glance--'perhaps that byname "Cuthalion" has had an effect on her...'

Beleg grunted, mildly embarrassed.

Fingon laughed. Then he grew serious again.

'Beleg, did I say how glad I am you came? Let me say it now. For my guess is that it was not made easy for you to obtain leave--although I'm not asking about that either...'

When Elu had finally given them permission, Beleg remembered--long after Haldir had marched from Brethil with the troops of Haladin, so there was no hope of catching up with them and joining them--Mablung had left quickly to gather his belongings and make preparations. But Beleg had remained, caught by the reproach in Elu's gaze.

'You agreed,' said Elu, when Mablung was out of hearing.

'I did, Elu,' said Beleg.

And it was true. He had agreed to the necessity of the Girdle and the policy that went with it, reluctantly but with conviction.

'But I did not foresee', he said, 'what it would do to us.'

I did not foresee what it would do to me, Elu, to be made to sit and watch and deny help, to guard a border against those in need as much as against the enemy and see the borderlands becoming deadlier to any living being by the day. And I did not foresee what it would do to you, Elu. The Girdle was only ever meant to be a compromise. Do you even remember that now? It does not demonstrate the extent of your power--it shows the limits of your strength. But you have grown too comfortable inside it, Elu. It has become too easy for you to blame those outside for not being within its protection. You have shut your ears and your heart to them, whether they have personally offended you or not.

Perhaps Elu had understood what he was saying. Even if he had, he would not yield now or change. He had felt a coldness in him as he left.

'I am glad I came,' he said and took a deep breath.

It was not so oppressive after all, this Noldorin city, quiet under the stars.

They quickened their pace, and taking the more direct route, they were soon climbing up to the citadel.

'I wonder how Forgam has been getting on with Gwindor,' said Fingon. 'Perhaps I should send Berion to ask or check myself? No, I think perhaps that had best be left until tomorrow. Later today that is,' he corrected himself, looking at the sky.

It was long past midnight and the dawn not so very far off. Fingon was looking tired again, even more tired than he had looked before, in the inn. But in the courtyard, at the parting of their ways, he halted, as if reluctant to say good night, searching for words, trying to prolong their conversation.

'You need rest,' said Beleg.

He himself was not weary; if anything, he felt refreshed and more alert than when he had started out.

'Yes,' admitted Fingon, his shoulders sagging a little.

'I will see you tomorrow... That is, today.'

He began to ascend the steps that led towards the royal apartments but, suddenly, he stopped and swung around toward Beleg.

'No, Beleg!' he cried out, but softly in order not to wake anybody. 'Who needs sleep anyway? Who knows when we might have another chance? Sit up with me, please, if you will, now and tell me about the march from Cuivienen, about Grandfather, what you did together and what you saw...'

---

Chapter End Notes

My OC Pengyl previously appeared as the (unnamed) narrator of my story 'The "Glory" in "Glorious".

Parts of this chapter were first written separately as a birthday ficlet for Oshun and a drabble for Tolkien Weekly.