Written in the Starlight by Rhapsody

Glancing over his shoulder then looking up at the sky, the warden sighed. This silence almost howls. He would rather be running between the trees further northward; instead, he had been sitting against one for a long time and watching as his unexpected companion ate. Greedily, with both hands, the crouched figure before him stuffed the waybread into his mouth like a child hungry for sweets. Despite the urge that screamed in the warden’s mind, a friendly smile spread across his face.

“No hurry, my friend,” he muttered, mostly to himself. The other one choked, coughing into his fist. “We have time, no hurry.” What a lie, he mused, feeling uneasy. Resting both forearms on his bent knees, he watched. “Still have time.” A sigh escaped him and trailed off in the silence of the forest. He told himself to wait patiently. Patience was a virtue, no matter how much time this miserable creature before him would require to recover. Tending to his wounds earlier, the warden had fought back the curse that tried to roll from his lips, unusually for him, yet just fitting. Pondering whether he should leave the stranger then and continue his pursuit, he sent a silent prayer to the Valar. If he tarried... Chills went down his back.

“Water...? Would you give me some water?” the stranger asked in a hoarse voice.

The warden’s reply was immediate. He reached behind his back, pulling the string over his head with a smile. Then, swiftly moving forward, he knelt beside the crouched stranger, handing him a large water skin.

“Thank you,” the stranger said between swallows, drying his mouth with the back of his hand. Finally, he let out a quiet sigh. “Thank you for everything.”

“You are welcome...” The warden nodded and paused with a questioning look.

“Gwindor, son of Guilin,” the stranger supplied with a small bow, pressing his shaky hand to his chest.

“You are welcome, son of Guilin,” his rescuer added. “I am called Beleg... Cúthalion.”

“How...” Gwindor started, but Beleg stopped his words by gesturing and returned to his seat.

“There is no need, my friend. I do not seek any favor in return.” Beleg laughed quietly, leaning against the tree, watching with silent satisfaction as Gwindor shook his head. “How are you faring now?”

Gwindor uttered a bitter laugh. An attempt to get up seemed to be unsuccessful. Beleg offered him a hand.

“I should be thankful I still have two legs, two arms, and... No, I will not complain. Forgive me. I am assuming this is a miracle.” Gwindor winced despite his assurance he would not convey his concerns.

“Indeed. Can you walk?”

“I shall do my utmost.” He stood up on precarious legs, fighting the need to sit down. His knees failed him. “Where are you heading to, Beleg?”

Beleg supported Gwindor, thinking what to answer. “Northward,” came his curt reply.

“No...”

“Aye.”

“North...”

“Aye.”

“Northward?”

Beleg cast him an impatient look from underneath his drawn brows. “As I said.”

“But why, pray tell? Can you not see the peril that awaits you there, baring its fangs like the beasts this dreadful forest is full of?” Gwindor couldn’t believe his own ears. Heavily, he fell back, forcing Beleg’s arm to tighten about his weak shoulders.

“Listen to me, Beleg, and be warned. I saw a large host of these creatures of filth and evil wandering north, with wolves...” He paused, coughing.

“I know.” Beleg helped Gwindor to sit down and knelt beside him. “I’m following their tracks. Out of Amon Rûdh I’ve been chasing them, almost breathlessly, without a proper rest or meal.”

“There was a man with them, kept in chains. Very tall he was,” said Gwindor, “as tall as are the men from the misty hills of Hithlum.”

“That is also known to me,” Beleg added. “He is the reason for my errand here in this cursed place. I must...”

“Are you seeking your ultimate end? Beware. You know not what dwells there, lurking in the shadow...” Frowning, Gwindor cut off his words with a renewed force, as if he wasn’t exhausted beyond belief. A strange sound echoed in his speech, however. Beleg didn’t like it; he remained still, and only his noble forehead betrayed a slight annoyance in the pattern of his eyebrows. He let out a deep breath then stood up, scanning the surroundings.

Clenching his fist, Gwindor looked at Beleg and said slowly. “You must not go there!”

“You must rest.” Beleg ignored the warning.

“This is madness!” Gwindor shook his head with disbelief. “You may be the mightiest of the mighty in this land, yet you will not withstand. Hear my words.”

“I did seek him thus far alone, and nothing you say or do now will make me change my mind, son of Guilin,” Beleg suggested. “Regain your strength.”

“This man...” The faint query could be heard, though Gwindor barely opened his mouth, “who is he that you would risk your life, though you certainly would not save his?”

“My brother in arms.”

The statement remained unanswered for a long while. Gwindor felt tears burning under his now closed eyelids. Brother. “Heed my words, Beleg Cúthalion. I was taken captive and dragged like a piece of wolf’s corpse on chains, fettered, into the heart of the evil land. I was out there. I know not what will happen to your bro... companion, yet I feel he will most likely meet his death. The sooner the better.” Brother. He sighed deeply, looking Beleg straight in the eye. “For I would never return there willingly, I am begging you now. Turn back, while you still draw breath.”

“You reached the bottom and you had the courage and strength to resurface,” Beleg replied, “but your words cannot influence me.”

“But this anguish you are...” Gwindor started, but, seeing Beleg’s raised hand, he bit his tongue in the middle of the sentence. Looking away from the warden’s face, he draped his coat around his shoulders, feeling, all of a sudden, a chill creeping along his spine.

“Who would I be if I left him behind after all we have gone through together?” Beleg inquired, putting a quiver on his back. Gwindor blinked in disbelief. It seemed that Cúthalion would leave him alone in this terrible place, which only the wolves claimed as home. Wolves, or those cursed creatures... “Unworthy of his trust, his friendship. Do not make me feel guiltier than I do already.”

“Why are you feeling guilty?” Gwindor’s voice sounded tired.

“Because I wasn’t strong enough to prevent his captivity,” came Beleg’s response. The warden retrieved his large bow and placed it on his shoulder so the bowstring crossed his chest. He reached out for Gwindor. “Dare to go with me?”

In spite of the exhaustion and fear, Gwindor realized he wanted to accompany Beleg. The thought of sitting here, alone against the dead tree, frightened him more. Yet he didn’t utter a word, only set his jaw firmly and stood up. His legs were steadier now, so he attempted to smile, but his lips curved in a grimace that resembled more a bitter smirk than a smile of approval. Beleg, pondering what to do, reached behind his back and took a dagger.

“Here, take it.” He handed Gwindor the weapon. “You cannot go unarmed.”

“Thank you,” Gwindor nodded.

“You are welcome, son of Guilin. Let us not tarry further.”

A gruff exhalation escaped Gwindor’s mouth, making Beleg smile to himself. He walked between the tree trunks, glancing back over his shoulder at Gwindor, as if he wanted to be sure he followed. Gwindor fought back the urge to groan; he could barely keep up with Beleg’s steps, yet he told himself he wouldn’t say anything. Instead, he kept repeating ‘Keep moving’ in his mind over and over, looking around with caution. The thicket of trees soon became lighter. The day slowly waned, yet the route of the orcs was clearly visible, as if the host had marched this way only a moment ago. Their path displayed many tracks. Gwindor thought it looked like bruises dug in the ground; the outlines of feet, the broken twigs and branches, and the shreds of clothing led them without any doubts.

Lost in thought, he focused on Beleg’s shoulders and walked, faster step by step, until finally he closed the distance. Beleg nodded lightly, and Gwindor responded with a faint smile.

Their senses told them they were close. The enemy hid in the dark, away from their sight, but the noise and smell betrayed them. Their keen ears located a host of orcs and their sentinels. Beleg and Gwindor looked at each other and nodded. Under the cover of darkness, they finally found what they were looking for.

The dark enveloped them. Only the trees were blacker in the dim surroundings. Creeping shadows lurked behind the trunks; the creaking sound of the branches echoed in their ears almost like a distant howling. At that instant, Gwindor thought he heard a scream, which turned into ominous laughter. His mind flashed back to the darkest days he had ever witnessed. The scream increased and Gwindor stopped, leaning heavily against the nearest tree. Beleg looked at him with concern, but he put a finger on his mouth, ordering him to remain silent. From then onward, they communicated with gestures. Like ghosts, they stayed hidden until the night engulfed the forest. Gwindor sighed. He felt ashamed of his uselessness. His once mighty body had become weak and old, almost like the mortal flesh of men. Though Beleg had healed him and given him waybread, his strength had not yet returned. He worried it would never return. Past pain, past suffering, hope rekindled, as well as anger.

Yes, anger was his best friend now, and Gwindor pondered if any other feeling could awaken him from the slumber in which he had dwelt. If it were not for Beleg’s determination and his stubbornness, a subtle accusation that emerged between the words he had spoken, Gwindor would have been crouching in the roots of the tree up until now, bewildered and frightened. He still possessed enough bravery to stand up, and this particular thought pleased him. He felt pride. His weak hand gripped the hilt of the dagger; the slender blade glimmered in the murk with a hopeful light.

I did seek him thus far alone and nothing you say or do now will make me change my mind, son of Guilin. Gwindor recalled Beleg’s words in his mind. “Not alone anymore,” he whispered.

Beleg heard this barely audible voice and turned to Gwindor. His eyes sparkled. A silent understanding reflected in his pupils, and Gwindor returned the smile Beleg had given him.

After what felt like eternity, the sounds in the forest and in the dell before them died. The time grew near, and nature seemed to come to aid the two hunters. As if reading Beleg’s mind and his call for assistance, a storm brewed in the western side of the sky. Lightning flashed through the darkness, veiling the trees. Thunder clamored over the Forest under Nightshade; closer and closer, their blusterous dispute fell over the woods and the sandy slope that separated the last line of trees from the orcs’ encampment.

Beleg’s eyes focused on the distant mountains and their tined peaks. They appeared so near in the flashes. So ill boding did their closeness become all of a sudden that Beleg frowned. A slight ripple of uncertainty bore into his mind, yet he pushed it back into the darkest corner. It wasn’t the time for any dubious feelings, he told himself.

“The time has come,” Beleg muttered in Gwindor’s direction. His voice trailed off as the first raindrops fell on his face. Beleg looked up at the sky and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

Gwindor tightened his grip on the knife he had been given, and, seeing Beleg take an arrow from his quiver, he caught his breath. The warden chose his first victim. The sound of black yew wood straining would announce death for Morgoth’s servants no matter where they were. Gwindor smiled to himself, silently thanking the Valar. His revenge lay in the hands of the archer. Too long had he waited for this precious moment, wondering if he would ever see the sun again. The slaves of Angband were forbidden to greet the sun and beloved stars, doomed to crawl in the mud. The shadow would never leave his face; like a scar, it would remind him of what he had suffered, he was certain. A new fire now warmed his heart. He had tried to convince Beleg to abandon his quest, saying he would face the greatest peril of all; now, the remainder of that thought made him shrug his shoulders with dismay.

The rain swished in the branches; its huge drops whipped them as if all the forces of nature were focusing on the dark forest. The sky hung above the trees, with a heavy canopy of clouds that boiled with the anger of lightning and the fury of thunder.

Beleg pulled back the bowstring. The arrowhead glittered in the dark as it was released. Gwindor’s eyes tried to follow the arrow. A muffled thud confirmed the shot had been aimed true. Beleg smiled with satisfaction and retrieved another one from his quiver.

“Fear not, my friend. They will not abuse the next day with their presence,” he whispered, watching Gwindor’s tensed figure.

“That is the most comforting news I have heard recently.” Gwindor allowed himself to smile devilishly. Beleg nodded in agreement as he tucked another arrow on the bowstring. A familiar sound rustled in his ear when he pulled the bowstring slightly backwards. His eyes stopped on the body of the next sentinel. The bowstring brushed his cheek as he pulled it taut and let the arrow loose just as the beast turned his head into the direction of the two hunters, facing its approaching death. The bowstring whizzed. The arrow pierced the wolf’s head.

Gwindor fought back the urge to utter an approving whistle.

“Fast killing,” Beleg sighed, “I hope the rest will go just as easily.”

“We cannot underestimate the enemy, even if there are only the brainless creatures before us. They feel the proximity of their master. They are strong with his strength, and his profane thoughts wander in the air of these woods. I can feel it, and it makes my blood as cold as ice,” Gwindor said, following the next arrow with his eyes.

One by one, Beleg shot the wolf-sentinels and motioned for Gwindor to follow him carefully toward the camp. They came out onto the slope and slowly descended, watching every step so as not to make a false one. Beleg put the bow back on his shoulder and led the way down the hill, his feet making no sound on the sandy ground. His eyes noticed no movement in the encampment. The orcs lay asleep, unaware of the rain and the two figures that were sneaking into their temporary dwelling.

The storm became frantic, as if the Valar themselves wanted to aid the two lone hunters, and released thunder that ripped the air with rage. From time to time, lightning tore the sky and lit it with flames as bright as if it was the highest point of the day, not the darkest time during the night.

“Túrin,” Beleg whispered, seeing the tortured form of his friend. Gwindor caught his breath.

The man was tied to a tree, fettered hand and foot. His weary head hung in unconsciousness; tangled hair covered his shoulders and chest. His breath hissed in his lungs, and both of the rescuers grieved to see him wounded and spent from the excruciation the orcs had inflicted upon him. There were knives embedded in the tree trunk around the tied body. Beleg clenched his fist. Gwindor looked around cautiously and cut Túrin’s bonds with his dagger. The tormented figure weighed heavily in his arms.

“We must carry him back to the forest above the dell,” said Beleg in a low voice. Gwindor only nodded. “Then, we must tend to his wounds and check whether he will be able to walk. If only he would awaken,” the warden added.

“Hurry then!” Gwindor made a few steps back, looking around, casting a murderous glance at the sleeping orcs. “The farther we go away from this place, the happier my heart will be.”

“So will mine, my friend,” Beleg confirmed.

Although fear raised the hair on Gwindor’s neck, he didn’t allow himself to show he was frightened. However, the warden seemed to be unafraid. He lifted the man’s arms carefully and, always watchful, silently left the camp, with Gwindor holding Túrin’s body under the knees. The two shadows crept back between the tree trunks in the wood above the dell. Their steps were silenced by the roar of the thunder arguing with the rain as to which of them could be more disastrous. Beleg and Gwindor laid the third one on the ground and rested for a while, trying to calm their labored breathing.

Beleg made sure no one was following them. Túrin didn’t wake up or even stir in his exhaustion. Happy beyond reasoning now that he had finally found and rescued his friend, Beleg put aside the bow and unsheathed his sword. Noticing the black blade with surprise, Gwindor sat nearby and watched the warden, resting his elbows on his knees. The sound of thunder blasted in his ears as if the storm was raving inside his head. He felt sore, and, most of all, he feared that the orcs would awaken and see their prisoner had disappeared. Though he admired Beleg’s strength and archery skills, he still couldn’t help being afraid of staying so close to the enemy. Doubts overcame him again. He wished now they had gone back and found the way to... to... wherever.

Beleg had no time for such reflections. Túrin’s wounds needed to be tended. Severely bruised wrists and ankles told him that the man might have been fettered for a long time. Every step would probably be painful, and Beleg knew their way back would be long and heavy. Túrin’s face was covered with blood and bruises, clearly showing that his nose had been broken. His soaked clothing hung in shreds from the constant whipping. The warden examined his ribs and legs, finding, much to his contentment, they were untouched.

“A tough man you are, son of Húrin, and stubborn. You have always been so, and now I am most happy to admit it,” he muttered. “I will try to cut his chains,” Beleg whispered, turning to Gwindor. “I fear though I will have to carry him further. He is as weak as an infant. Prepare for departure.”

The other hunter only sighed and shrugged his shoulders. How could they carry this motionless body when he himself was tired and needed to rest? He shook his head in disbelief and stood up while Beleg managed to cut the bond on Túrin’s hands with his sword. The chain clattered on the ground. Túrin’s breath became ragged, his shoulders shaking lightly.

Beleg brushed tangled strands of hair from his wet forehead, and, whispering a few soothing words, he began to carefully cut the bond that held Túrin’s feet. The blade ground against the chain, making Gwindor wince.

“Beleg, the orcs... The storm can wake them,” Gwindor warned him, wiping his face with his sleeve. The rain blurred his eyes; water dripped from his hair and sank into the fabric of his clothing.

Beleg didn’t listen to him. The blade slipped on the chain and stabbed Túrin’s foot.

“Fas…” Gwindor fell silent.

Suddenly, lightning ripped the sky, and Túrin opened his eyes. Beleg felt an iron grip on his forearm and, with a flicker of fear in his eyes, looked down at the hand of his friend.

“Faster!” Gwindor shouted, catching a movement out of the corner of his eye. His dagger flew through the air, aimed straight at the throat of an approaching orc.

Túrin woke with a loud cry. Terror returned upon seeing the shadow holding a naked blade above him. In a flash, he grasped the enemy’s hand, and, gathering the remnants of his strength, he tore away the sword from him. Kicking him in the chest, he jumped to his feet, gripping the hilt of the sword in two hands, and swung the blade to slash the abdomen of his attacker. The moment his arms made an arc in the air, an orc’s arrow pierced his shoulder.

“Orcs!” Gwindor shouted in despair.

Beleg rose from the ground in one swift motion.

Túrin dropped down to his knees, grasping his wounded shoulder. The sword fell to the ground. He yanked the arrow out and blood flowed down his arm. Shaking his head in complete disbelief he looked at the figure standing before him.

“Beleg Cúthalion?” Túrin asked, his voice weak and trembling.

“No time for talking, my friend. We have a task to accomplish,” Beleg answered, preparing his bow.

In the meantime, Gwindor tried desperately to find any useful weapon as the orcs came closer with a sinister giggle, despite Beleg’s arrows flying through the air. Finally, he grabbed a large piece of wood, just in time to answer the stab of an orc’s sword aimed at his head.

Túrin suddenly realized that his hands and feet were unbound; the chain and fetters lay beside him on the bare ground. He spotted the discarded blade. In an instant, he picked it up and closed the distance between him and Gwindor, coming to aid as another orc assailed him. The sword whistled, and a stream of dark blood gushed from the orc’s side. The beast shrieked and fell forward, tumbling Gwindor down. He groaned, crushed by the wood and the orc’s carcass.

“Fall back!” Beleg shouted. “Túrin, fall back!”

“Aye, captain!” Túrin called back.

The rain swished in the air. A wall of water fell on the fighters as Túrin helped free Gwindor from the confines of the orc’s body. Beleg ran out of arrows. Casting a quick look around, he readied his bow as if it was a sword and hit an approaching orc in the head.

“Another down!” he hissed, swinging the bow straight against the legs of the next attacker.

“Beleg!” Túrin’s voice could be heard behind his back. Beleg turned as his own sword floated in the air, thrown by Túrin, who grasped an orc’s blade. Beleg caught the sword, nodding. The next moment, in fluent motion, the black weapon fell down on the neck of the orc. Its head flew back, making an arc in the rain.

“Run!” Beleg commanded in a hoarse voice, noticing that the orcs’ assault remitted.

“Run!” Túrin repeated, pushing Gwindor back deeper between the trees. Gwindor staggered; his lungs labored. His bruised chest ached, yet he didn’t stop.

With the sword in one hand and the bow in the other, Beleg secured their retreat, stepping backward, every motion of his feet accompanied by a cautious look at the pile of bodies they had left behind. He saw no movement, however. The skirmish was over.

“Túrin, don’t stop!” Beleg ordered, calling over his shoulder. “Keep running! We are not safe yet!”

The increasing rain muffled his command. Huge drops sank into his coat and dripped down his face, but Beleg didn’t notice them. The thought of wandering with two others in the Forest under Nightshade kept him attentive. They were far from safety, although the remaining enemies had retreated, frightened by the storm, the violent rain, and the wrath of the three warriors. He had to find shelter and tend to the other’s wounds, as he himself was uninjured. A sigh escaped him when he finally decided to turn his back on the mountains of Thangorodrim. A mild smile curved his lips as he thought that he achieved his goal, but the battle was far from over. Túrin was free, yet they all still risked their lives lingering here. Arrows! he suddenly thought. Nay, no time for retrieving any.

They took their previous route into the depths of the forest; Túrin and Gwindor kept running and supporting each other. Beleg followed them quickly, preventing a sudden attack from behind. His heart leapt into his throat with rejoicing, but his eyes stayed wary.

One unsteady step and Gwindor lost his footing, collapsing heavily with a loud groan. Túrin jerked on his arm, urging him to get up.

“Beleg, we cannot go any further,” he said with concern. “Let us find shelter.”

“Very well,” he agreed, looking around. Recognizing their location, he motioned for the others to follow him as he turned between two large dead trees.

“We shall stay here for the rest of the night. At dawn we shall continue,” he suggested. “Take the first watch.”

“Beleg,” Túrin started in a low voice. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome, brother,” he answered.

Gwindor watched, bewildered, as the warden hugged the man they had saved. Recollecting his own words, he felt ashamed for the second time that night. He hadn’t believed they would rescue Túrin. Yet, apparently, Beleg was right in saying nothing could have stopped him. Now, it was high time to rest, and the next day, to find the way back home. He yawned and stretched his aching limbs, wincing.

“I will go back to retrieve as many arrows as I can. We will need them,” Beleg added.

Túrin agreed with a nod.

“I will leave you my sword. Here,” Beleg told him as he unsheathed the black blade. Túrin wanted to object at first; then he took the sword and smiled.

“Let us hope I will not have to use any weapon. Be well; I shall return soon. Then we will take the route to the pass of Anach.”

Once again, Túrin nodded in agreement. Feeling overwhelmed that he was free, he couldn’t find any suitable words. He watched Beleg disappear between the tree trunks in the direction they had come from earlier. Sighing, he sat comfortably against the trunk, scanning the nearest bushes. His eyes slid from one branch to another, trying to notice every movement despite his weariness and the murk that enveloped the forest.

“The pass of Anach,” he muttered. “Well, then where? Amon Rûdh? Menegroth?”

Túrin felt a ripple of anger as he remembered his slain comrades left there on the hilltop. There was no reason to go there, except for vengeance, probably. The thought of Mîm’s cut throat clattered in his head, so Túrin decided to tell Beleg to return to the dwarf’s dwelling.

Absentmindedly, he reached out to grasp the hilt of the sword that lay on his bent legs. Weighing the weapon in his hand, Túrin took a closer look at the matte blade, dreadful, with no gloss, as if all the blood it had shed stained with a firm, irremovable coat. His days, however, wouldn’t be as dark as he had imagined earlier. Once more, Beleg Cúthalion had proved he was the one that cared.

The vehement rain finally waned; the air was humid and heavy, despite its chill. Túrin shuddered and draped his arms around his torso. He was cold, and it pleased him because that meant he was alive.

A storm is looming, Maglor mused and turned northward, where the clouds were packed together on the horizon. The shades of green that had always marked the circle of Melian seemed darker than before. Something was bound to happen; a dark feeling swept over him when the Fëanorian fixed his eyes on the Forests of Doriath.

“What ill fate lies on this realm?” he wondered aloud.

“Maglor, why are you not at the fire?” His brother approached him from behind. In the far distance, a pack of wolves howled and the eerie silence returned, but it left them both unaffected. Wolves were something they had grown used to while holding their lands up north, and most often they announced that the dark troops were moving again.

“Something is looming, Curufin. I cannot tell what it is.” Maglor turned to face his younger brother, whose eyes mirrored his discontentment. “How are the others?”

“I cannot rest, not after Maedhros’ sudden outburst. There is only one option left,” Curufin said with a forlorn sigh. “I should, maybe we should, if it was not for...”

“Caranthir could not have known. This betrayal went unseen. But Ulfang and his sons can no longer betray us, and do not forget the faithfulness and sacrifices of Bór’s men.” Maglor tried to hide his irritation and mustered a friendly smile. “We survived, Curufin. We all did. Morgoth knows this. We cannot dwell in the past too long.”

“Maedhros has made an art of not talking to Caranthir,” Curufin answered softly. “Neither does Caranthir want to discuss it, but sometimes I fear that this treachery of Men will rip us apart, even years after the battle.”

“Only fell words and dishonesty toward each other shall part us, Curufin. Are we not his sons? Did we not all vow to him that we would succeed? Maedhros will speak again, but you have to understand that losing his lands and stronghold was a severe blow. This should have been his masterpiece and yet it fell to pieces.”

Silence fell between them for a moment. “Bëor’s men have shielded us for now,” Maglor continued. “These past years, we have wandered around long enough to let our wounds heal. And here in Estolad there is a certain peace. But you and I know that tempers cannot be contained for long if we force our brethren into a pattern that does not fit them. Remember, little brother.” The bard’s eyes shone fiercely for a moment. “Not all is lost.”

“Why are we here then?” Curufin’s onyx eyes remained locked on his brother. “Why did the two of you want to return north? Why do you not admit that you want to reclaim our Silmaril from the Sindarin king?” The last words were laden with a hidden threat, a threat Maglor knew all too well.

“You have followed us blindly into battle, Curufin. Do not question us now. Go and see that Celegorm stops complaining before it gives those wolves the idea to come here for a meal.”

Maglor waited for Curufin to leave and hoped that his words would calm his three most fiery brothers. Talking about the Oath and the remaining Silmaril would satisfy them for now, while he and his brother Maedhros tried to stage a campaign to regain their lands, if not the power that belonged to them. Maybe they could achieve this if a new alliance could be forged between the remaining Edain lords and elven houses. In his own bitter wording, Caranthir had again vowed to no longer trust the Edain. Amrod and Amras still believed in their ties with the House of Bëor, and their faith seemed unaffected. It was Celegorm’s brooding that concerned Maglor the most. It was unlike him to be this silent, but Maglor knew that his younger brother was quite content to remain this close to Doriath.

Maglor chuckled, hearing Curufin in the distance telling Celegorm to be quiet, and felt compelled to return to his brothers, but still, something coming from Dorthonion begged for his attention. Both Celegorm and Curufin might know a pass in those mountains to reconquer their home, but then, Maglor mused, maybe trying to forge an alliance with Thingol and Melian would seem a wise strategic move. About this, he concluded, he should consult Maedhros first, because who would treat with them right now, this close to the Sindar?

~*~

“No!” Disbelief was the mask that graced Mablung’s face.

“Yes! I am absolutely certain. The singer has not left, and one of his brothers joined him. He was still there when I left to report this,” the solemn march warden continued. “We doubled the watch there with your leave. It seemed the best thing to do.”

After so many years, they had returned, such blissful years when the King Thingol grew less restless, Mablung thought. Although the Queen Melian seemed to know more, she never spoke about it unless she deemed it to be the right moment. The dour consequences of the Nirnaeth had left deep scars in every kingdom, and many thought that the sons of Fëanor would never be seen again, given the losses they suffered. Never underestimate a Noldo, Mablung thought. “Show me.”

Mablung followed the warden to the eastern side of Doriath. Once they had approached the riverbank, both knelt down, shielded by the thicket. There, Mablung saw Maglor standing, his arms loosely folded across his chest, dressed in grey and a tattered dark blue cape. His sword was hanging on his belt. The sword, Mablung knew, was praised in legends and battlefield stories. The intense gaze of this most tempered Fëanorian concerned him greatly. Silently, he cursed the absence of Beleg, who had left Mablung to take over all the tasks of defending these lands. But now, with this obvious threat at the doorstep, Mablung cursed Beleg’s decision to find the stubborn Edain outlaw, the offspring of Húrin. Suddenly, another of Thingol’s archenemies joined his brother. The brothers stood there talking quietly, as if the realm they were observing was already theirs to govern.

“Triple the watch; follow them if they move from this side of the riverbank. I want to have a full account if more of the brothers surface. And I would be very interested if you catch them arguing.” The warden bowed, and Mablung took his leave, his heart heavy to report this to his lord and lady. More than ever, Mablung felt the need to have Beleg by his side, especially with this doom looming.

~* ~

Maedhros looked at the sky after a resounding crack of thunder echoed through the river vale. Just like Maglor, he sometimes found it hard to be amongst his own brothers after his failure during the fifth battle against Morgoth. Years of planning and forging bonds, and whenever he caught the stare of Caranthir, who most often quickly averted his eyes, the memory of the treason surfaced. He knew his outburst earlier today had been unfair, realizing that there was naught he could have done. It was Curufin’s sudden departure from the campfire that surprised him the most. Maglor had been restless the whole day, but he was used to his brother’s sudden need for silence. Curufin, on the other hand, always sought his brothers’ presence, preferably Celegorm’s, whose face seemed to be etched with sourness of late. What was hidden in his speech that made Curufin walk away from the campfire? Was it something he had said that had ignited his driving need to fulfill the Oath? Maedhros recited his words in his head but could not find any motive. Celegorm huddled in his cloak and muttered about the sudden change of weather, after which Curufin relented and spoke about his wish to be in the arms of a generous elleth. Amrod and Amras had left the small camp after Maglor walked away; they had just returned with some hares.

They had wandered for nearly twelve years, but with the bitter taste of defeat, Maedhros’ life’s work seemed like yesterday. It surprised him that Maglor had not rebuked his harsh words aimed at Caranthir. Sometimes, his brother seemed an enigma to him. They all missed a place they could call home, regarding which he had let them all down. Just as the downpour started, Maglor returned and gestured toward him. This did not go unnoticed by the others, who quickly rose as well.

“What say you, Maglor? Do you deem it to be the right time to send word to Thingol?” Celegorm immediately started but caught the icy glare of the elder.

“We have sworn more than to reclaim the Silmarils, Celegorm,” Maglor replied. “But another thought came to me.”

“You wish to venture north of here, do you not?” Maedhros stepped forward. He had seen this look on Maglor’s face before. It was the same defiant look as when Maglor had been forced to give up his lands after Glaurung had scorched them and left many of Maglor’s people dead.

“We have sworn to father that we would reclaim them!” Celegorm snarled, clenching his fists.

“We also swore to lay siege to Morgoth!” Maglor retorted fiercely. “Do not make me remind you of this!”

After an afternoon of silence, it was Caranthir who spoke, his voice cynical as he tossed twigs into the fire. “Then, Kano, what is your grand plan?”

Before Maglor could answer, Maedhros replied. “To reclaim our stronghold, is it not? To regain a firm control of our position and besiege Morgoth once more.” A fire burned strongly within him, rekindled by the smile of Maglor. “Ah! Revenge, and to reclaim our own home again.” With his fist clenched, Maedhros continued, “Two Silmarils are worth more than the one that is in Greycloak’s hands. Do you not wish to regain them all Turko? Are you not thirsty to reclaim what was ours and show the might of the sons of Fëanor once again?”

“How?” Celegorm snarled. “What allies are left? Doriath would be an easy target. Curufin and I know its weaknesses well. Nay! I would say Thingol should be punished for his audacity.”

Curufin looked back and forth, trying to weigh what appealed more to him. Ah, yes, revenge on Thingol and his kin would be bittersweet. But what would happen after that? They would still have no home to return to. But another siege of Angband… If they succeeded… “I would say,” he answered carefully, “that we should trust our brothers once more. With the might of those two jewels, they might return the remaining one more eagerly. Think of it, brother. Utter victory would be ours and our position restored.”

“Aye,” Caranthir said. “Aye, I will go with you. My limbs have grown weary because of the waiting.” The Ambarussa nodded their approval of Caranthir’s words.

“The pass of Anglon; we need to regain control over it. We might not be able to regain control at once, but we can at least see how firm Morgoth’s hold is,” Maedhros concluded.

“We will prepare the horses.” Amrod smiled, eager to have a purpose again.

“Maedhros, a word with you please,” Maglor said and walked away from the fire.

Maedhros felt irritation starting to surface inside him as he followed his younger brother to the river. It was absolutely not to his liking that Maglor had slowly taken over command of the family since their flight, but then, Maedhros admitted, he had failed to give support to his brothers, fully consumed by his own failures. Yet it was a side of Maglor he had not seen often, only when his brother excelled in his skills and felt forced to show them openly. Stopping for a while, Maedhros stared at his brother’s back, as if all had become clear to him at that very moment. Most saw him as a simple bard, present during battles for the morale of the men, but Maglor had always been more than that. Suddenly, Maedhros recalled Maglor defending his position on the Angfaulith, issuing orders and making sure his banner would remain in everyone’s sight. Never before had he seen his brother like that, commanding all attention to him before his murderous glance fell on Uldor. At that definitive hour, Maedhros lost his weapons and it was his brother who offered him a short reprieve. It was also his own brother who had subtly placed him back into his position, regrouping the Noldorin and Dwarven armies, while Bór and his sons naturally followed Maglor’s command and slew Ulfang’s sons to claim revenge for the broken trust.

The simple bard indeed. Maedhros smiled with the faith his brother rekindled, and he resumed his walk. He found Maglor facing north, his hand resting comfortably on the hilt of his sword.

“We need to reclaim Himlad,” Maglor started straight away, and his eyes fell upon his brother. “I know we take a gamble with Curufin and Celegorm this close to Doriath, but we are not certain how the Himring fares under his command.”

“So, you are saying that the fortress is lost to us?” Maedhros asked with curiosity.

“We need the shelter from the mountains, and we will create a buffer between the enemy and Doriath. Thingol is a fool if he does not allow us to settle there again. The lands are well known to our brothers, so that works to our advantage as well.” Maglor suddenly clasped his brother’s arm. “Yes, his behavior worries me also. But if we wander, he might take initiative on his own, reasoning that being one of seven weakens him, while, deep down, he knows it isn’t so. I have seen him like this before, and it was hard enough for me to control his temper back then.”

Maedhros nodded, knowing exactly what his brother was talking about. Many criticized Maglor for not saving his brother from the walls of Thangodrim, but little did they know about the power struggle within his own house at that very moment. Celegorm felt that the command of the house should have come to him, being the more adept and strategic leader, but Maglor held his position, enlisting Fingon’s aid in secret. Never after that they argued about it, but Maedhros knew the price his brother had paid for this was costly.

“Good!” Maglor spoke suddenly. “Thingol will soon know we are here; see.” He pointed to the other side of the river. “I think they have doubled the guard at the very least. It should keep him occupied for a while. If we ride fast, we can reach Himlad late this afternoon, and I want to see how adept the march wardens are if we ride along the Northern border.”

Chuckling in response, Maedhros added, “You are sometimes too wicked: first making the king uneasy and then offering a treaty.”

Maglor smiled at his brother. “There is always a price attached to having our family jewel in your keeping. We can’t kidnap his daughter this time, which is a pity. A marriage might temper his mood.”

A generous laugh escaped Maedhros lips, and both felt their lifelong bond renewed with the trust they had in each other for so many yens. Maglor clapped his brother on the back, and both joined the twins to prepare their own horses for departure.

~*~

“They are gone.” This simple statement interrupted Mablung’s work.

“That is impossible!” Mablung just gathered all the reports from his captains before he sought out the king to tell him about this sudden turn of events.

“They are truly gone. Maybe a half a day ago. The traces lead northward,” the now nervous warden responded, clenching his fists behind his back.

“How is it that no one noticed their departure?” A task so simple, and now they had disappeared out of sight. When he woke up this morning, Mablung had felt that it would be an awkward day.

“We know that the singer talked to the eldest, but there was no argument between them. What’s more,” the warden added, “there was no sign of any enmity between them, and we concluded that they knew they were being watched. Maybe they gave up, Sire, and left these lands.”

“Then, my friend, you have never seen a true Noldo in your life,” Mablung replied sarcastically and started to unroll a map of the kingdom and the surrounding lands on the table. Sighing deeply, Mablung started to figure out all the possible routes they could have taken. “Now, where could you have possibly gone off to?”

~*~

Following Curufin’s and Maedhros’ lead, Maglor rode silently next to Celegorm, patiently waiting for his brother to start questioning traveling to the lands he had once so proudly ruled. Often, Maglor wanted to be the one to start the discussion, but Celegorm bore a smile on his face that made it hard for Maglor to determine exactly what his brother was thinking.

Celegorm answered with a glance and knew that, with just one simple word, he could either start a fight or confirm to Maglor that he actually agreed to the plans explained before they had departed. To him, it always seemed that Maglor could read him like no one else and yet never truly let him know how much he knew. Masks were Maglor’s specialty. Celegorm saw the brother he had once known during the peaceful years in Aman, leaving him to wonder at how well his brother could hide his emotions where he could not. The group’s formation changed when the twins took over the lead, and Curufin reined in his horse to wedge himself between the two of them. Maedhros and Caranthir said nothing, keeping their thoughts to themselves. Maglor knew both needed the time to find common ground again, joining them while both clung onto their remarkable stubbornness.

“So when are you going to finally admit we are not riding north to reclaim Himring, as Maedhros believes?” Curufin spoke nonchalantly, causing Celegorm to chuckle. Maglor remained silent for a while, and Curufin answered for him. “I hope this plan of yours works, Maglor. I do not feel like being beaten twice in such a short time.”

“As I told you, we need allies, Curufin.” The curious glare of Celegorm did not escape his attention. “He might have severed us from our kin this time, but the bonds are still there,” Maglor answered, as the three did not follow the pace the twins set, creating a space between the others to discuss the matter peacefully.

“And where do you think we can find those allies? Orodreth? Turgon? Círdan?” Celegorm shot Maglor a cynical look.

“How about Melian and Thingol?” Maglor answered simply, causing the other two to burst into laughter. Once the sound had drifted away on the wind, both noted that Maglor kept his face straight in deep earnest.

“Ah yes! Thingol will welcome us with open arms; Orodreth will organize a big welcome back feast for us!” Celegorm shook his head. “What were you to Maedhros on Himring, Maglor? His court jester?”

Maglor halted his horse in clear offence. The clouds burst open once again, and ice-cold rain poured down on them. “You might see me as a simple singer little brother, but I warn you, do not make the same mistake again. I know you see us as simple pieces on a chess board, while you think you can play your own game, but even this can turn against you.” Maglor paused. “The two of you have made forming alliances a hard task for us, and I strongly suggest you do not get in our way this time.”

Staring at the back of his elder brother, Curufin nudged his horse to follow and glanced at Celegorm. “It might be very interesting to see how this plan will unfold. Our house has already fallen from grace, so how much worse can it possibly get?” Celegorm shook his head and wondered if all that his elder brothers wanted to reforge could not be simply achieved by one single assault on Doriath. But then, he realized, they needed more men at arms to invade Doriath, for it was not a simple thing to do.

~*~

“Orcs.” Amras left his horse in his brother’s care to study the ground. “The tracks are just about a day old, heading west. They are traveling in organized groups.” Rising to his full height again, he continued to study the tracks. “They came from the pass of Anglon. I think they will reach Nan Dungortheb by sunrise.”

“How many of them?” Maedhros asked and noted the three remaining brothers joining their small band.

“I would say about thirty.”

“I can’t really imagine that Thingol would feel safe now, knowing that we are this close to his realm and that there is a host of orcs paying a visit as well,” Maglor quietly concluded.

“We could, of course, as a courtesy, take care of this group.” Maedhros searched for Caranthir’s eyes, offering him this silent challenge.

“We could. It has been a while since my blade cut an orc’s head off.”

The remaining five stared at them both, trying to conceal their smirks. “If the two of you would be so kind as to leave some more for the rest of us, I think we can indeed do the old king a favor.” Curufin’s dark eyes sparkled at the thought of being engaged in battle.

“Of course, we leave none alive.” Caranthir unsheathed his sword and studied it closely to spot any dents before sheathing it again. “So, you will have to hurry to keep up with us if you want to share this utmost pleasure.” No words or further gestures were needed to emphasize the fragile bond that had kept them together for so many years and that felt restored with the prospect of meeting steel upon steel.

~*~

With her elbows placed on the windowsill, Melian sat in a comfortable wooden chair, her head resting on her entwined hands. Her gaze was fixed upon the stone stairs that led from the upper garden of the royal palace of Menegroth to the gate, which was hidden from her sight behind the wall. She watched as two sentinels paced the marble sidewalk, her eyes following their every step. The two warriors, unaware that the queen watched them, talked quietly, laughing from time to time. Melian sighed. As the day began to wane, an unsettling feeling overcame her. She lifted her eyes to the sky, which seemed to hang just above the battlements. A storm would soon come; she knew it. She had foreseen and heard the clamor of thunder for days, and it only increased her misgiving.

“My Lady?”

Melian turned toward the door to see the king standing there. Thingol smiled at his wife and reached out, walking over to the chair. She took his hand, squeezing the fingers lightly. Thingol bent his head and placed a soft kiss on the back of her hand.

“My Lord?” she asked. “Is the council finished?”

“Yes, my Lady,” he answered, wrapping one arm around her waist, pulling her gently to him. She smiled again and leaned against his body, her head nestling into the richly decorated fabric of his robe. “At last,” the king murmured into her hair, kissing the top of her head.

“My Lord.” Melian pulled back. “You are too generous.”

Thingol chuckled softly. “No, I missed my wife.”

Melian gave him a heedful look. Freeing herself from his embrace, she turned to the window once more, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the rim of the neckline of her gown. A small sigh escaped her lips.

“You are perturbed, my Lady.” Thingol took her by the shoulders and stood in front of her.

“So are you, my Lord.” She pointed to the two sentinels, who had begun the next round of their patrol.

The king looked out of the window. “Mablung has not returned. But, my Lady,” he kissed her hand again, “let us not disturb this evening further with our troubles. Let us enjoy it.” Thingol led her back to the middle of the room. He retrieved a soft woolen coat that lay on a stool beside a small table and draped it over her shoulders.

“It will be raining soon, my Lord.” She pretended she didn’t want to leave her bedchamber.

His fingertips brushed her hair and neck as he asked, “Are we afraid of the rain? Let us go to the garden. May the freshness of the air ease our troubled minds.”

“Very well, my Lord.” She let out a quiet laugh. Thingol offered her his arm.

The hallway glimmered with thousands of candles, which cast a soft light on the walls. The flames seemed to dance and rejoice in their reflection in the polished stones. The distant echo of steps was the only sound in the corridor. Thingol and Melian walked slowly down the hall to a broad stairway that turned into a large alley and led straight to the central part of the palace. The sentinels that the king and queen passed by stood motionlessly at their posts. As they strode through the gates and stepped onto the small bridge, a gentle breeze caressed their faces. Dusk had barely fallen, and the air was filled with a multitude of scents. It seemed that everything around was preparing to sleep peacefully; even the birds’ songs in the gardens were muffled and quieter that usual. Thingol gazed at his wife while her sight wandered between the trees and the high hedges of the lower garden.

She is so beautiful. He smiled to himself, his hand stroking her forearm.

Melian dropped her eyes, watching his fingers, and then looked at his smiling face. “You have not changed, my Lord.”

“Why should I?”

“Everything has. Even the air is not the same,” she answered, her words flowing in the space of the garden and sinking into the pool quietly shimmering nearby.

Thingol knew the distant, mysterious look on her face; the strange light that ignited her eyes; and the subtle tone of her voice, as if she was singing. Ever so wise and thoughtful, she usually had an eager listener in him. It wasn’t different this time; however, the king didn’t wish to discuss the certain matter he supposed she wanted to. But he didn’t suspect that she had an entirely different plan.

“You shouldn’t have given him that dreadful blade, my Lord,” Melian said in a soft voice.

“My Lady?” His surprise was displayed in the tone of his words.

“You shouldn’t have let him take that sword.” She stopped walking.

“He would have taken it despite my wishes,” he replied. “You know this as well as I do.”

As the first drops of rain fell on the grass and the stony paths in the garden, the royal couple made their way to the summerhouse. Melian sat on the bench, while Thingol stood watching the rain, his hands clasped behind his back. They remained in silence for a long moment before the king spoke. “It concerns me greatly that he hasn’t come back yet.”

“It is not all that troubles you, though.”

“No, my Queen.” He gave her a quick, apologetic look.

“You do not need to apologize, my Lord.” Melian smiled and stood up. Stepping beside him and resting both hands on his shoulders, she gently kneaded his tired muscles.

Thingol uttered a gasp of pain and pleasure.

“I might melt standing here, my beloved, if you continue,” he chuckled, looking over his shoulder.

She leaned forward and whispered into his ear, “This is my aim, my love.”

Suddenly, her fingers stopped, and the king felt her tension. “What is it, Melian?”

“The storm is brewing in the west.” She shivered. “His destiny will soon be decided.”

“What do you see?” the king insisted.

“The dark... Have no fear though, my King. Fate is blind, and so is justice, yet...”

Hasty footsteps and the clear sound of hooves banging on the stony roads distracted them both. Melian turned toward the main bridge that led from the gate to the palace. As she focused her sight on the farther end of the bridge, a group of sentinels came into view, running straight for the palace. Their obvious hurry made Melian shudder. Thingol looked at her then took several steps toward the exit. Stopping on the first step of a small stairway, he saw Mablung talk to the sentinels, then gestured to the three wardens, who quickly obeyed his order and dismounted. A sentinel came to stand beside the wardens’ horses and held the reins. Thingol drew his brows together. Melian put one hand on his shoulder as she lifted her gaze to his face.

“Unexpected visitors, my Lord,” she whispered.

“Aye.” He nodded.

“It seems, though we had wished for a peaceful evening, it will be no longer,” Melian supplied.

“Yes, my Queen. Shall we?”

With no more words, he offered her his arm, and they descended down the stairway to the garden, making their way back to the palace. As soon as they reached a narrow, smaller bridge, the sentinels noticed them and gave Mablung a sign. The captain bade them farewell with a short bow. Just as he turned toward the royal couple, Thingol realized that the captain was angry and perturbed. His eyes shadowed by his drawn brows, his face bore a look that betrayed a great concern. The king stopped and accepted the greeting as Mablung came out onto the bridge and knelt on one knee with his hand over his heart. Thingol felt Melian’s fingers squeeze his forearm.

“You may stand up, Captain,” the king suggested with a small gesture of his hand.

Mablung straightened, yet his face didn’t change as he spoke. “My Lord; my Lady.”

“Mablung, we expect you are here to share unfortunate news.”

“Yes, Your Highnesses,” Mablung confirmed.

“Speak plainly, Captain.” Thingol looked over Mablung’s shoulder at the sentinels and wardens that awaited the captain on the main bridge.

“Thank you. I received the word from the latest shift of our wardens. A large host of orcs wandered along the girdle in the woods of Neldoreth. Their scouts sought the border to make a swift entrance,” Mablung related. “A skirmish occurred. Our wardens managed to slay one group, but the other escaped, heading further northward.”

“Is this all what concerns you so much, Mablung?” the king asked.

“No, my Lord.”

“Say on,” Thingol insisted.

“No sign of Beleg,” Melian broke in with a long sigh.

“No, my Queen,” Mablung confirmed, dropping his gaze to the ground for a moment; then he straightened and reported, “Your Highnesses, I am here to bring other news. Our scouts informed me that the sons of... Fëanor were seen not very far from Doriath’s eastern marches.”

“The Fëanorians?” Thingol couldn’t believe his ears. “Again, they are threatening my realm!”

Melian put her hand on his shoulder with all the gentleness she was capable of offering him at that moment. It seemed that the evening would be interrupted more that she had imagined. She knew the king would summon another council to analyze what they had just been told. As always, the heirs of the proud Noldo would be announced as public enemies of the people of the Hidden Kingdom. The jewel and its doom again would disturb an already delicate peace in the realm of the Sindar.

Beleg didn’t even manage to walk two hundred steps before he felt his chest tighten, forcing him to stop. He would have been dead by now, slain at the hand of the man Beleg had considered the dearest of friends. He would have been lying amongst the slaughtered orcs. How ironic, he thought, resting his palm on the trunk of the nearest tree. Leaning heavily upon his outstretched arm, he dropped his head and let himself have a moment of uncertainty, frowning. He couldn’t count how many times he had prepared himself to face death before. Life on the border couldn’t be called safe, not by any means. And yet he had never had such reflections. This time, as he remembered his own weapon raised against him and Túrin’s hand led by fury and terror, he felt fear grasp his throat.

His bow fell to the ground as Beleg covered his eyes with his hand. A moment later, he straightened, silently rebuking himself for letting such an offending thought linger in his mind. He was alive; Túrin was free; the three of them had managed to escape without serious harm. There would be time to reflect upon the peril he had faced later.

Yet, when the warden picked up his bow and examined the bowstring, he realized he couldn’t stop thinking about how he might have been buried in a shallow grave or forgotten like a stone lying in the dust on the road. Great Valar! Help me to fulfill my promise. Do not let me dwell in despair. Do not let my pain consume me.

“No time for weakness, Cúthalion,” Beleg told himself, gritting his teeth, despite the vile vision that he still saw in his mind. “Be strong.”

As if granting Beleg’s request, the vicious forest drew his full attention. The wind blew more strongly, carrying the creaking sound of musty branches and the smell of rotting undergrowth. Beleg looked around and decided to continue on his route back to the place of the skirmish. The sooner he got back his arrows, the sooner he could return to the camp. Then he, Gwindor, and Túrin could abandon this dreadful place.

A deep breath raised his chest, and Beleg felt much stronger and better. Above all else, he would love to see the marvelous stone walls of Menegroth and announce their return to the high king of the Sindar. However, for now, this thought would be his lone comfort. Until they reached Doriath, he should stay cautious, and he should do his utmost to lead the three of them back home.

Just before dawn, though Beleg doubted the sun would grant them its warmth and light this day, the warden reached the place where they had left the orcs’ carcasses to rot. He saw no movement, except for a sudden flutter in the bushes to the left. Three birds sprang up with a start from between the twigs. Beleg watched them fly away and sighed. Wincing from the odor of the corpses, he started to pull the arrows out, one by one, and place them in the quiver on his back. His eyes cast a series of furtive glances as he paced around the pile of bodies. The last arrow found its way into the quiver, and the warden looked around again. Noticing the orc killed by Gwindor, he debated whether he should take his dagger back. After all, they had not many weapons: his bow, his sword, and nothing more. Making up his mind, he fought back a hint of distaste and jerked the dagger from the orc’s throat, cleaning the blade by wiping it against the grass.

“Well done,” Beleg muttered and sheathed the dagger.

A quiet, yet clearly heard, growl behind him made Beleg turn to the right and tuck an arrow on the bowstring in one fluent motion. Two sets of yellow, glowing eyes watched him intently from the thicket behind the pile of corpses.

Wolves! Beleg pulled the bowstring backward.

The growl repeated, yet the beasts stayed hidden, not risking getting any closer to the hunter.

Slowly, Beleg walked in a circle around the orcs’ corpses, his eyes locked on the bushes and the two wolves lurking there. His steps were silent and deliberate; the muscles of his arms strained and quivered lightly. The arrowhead was aimed straight at the tangle of leaves and twigs, yet Beleg didn’t release the arrow. One single drop of the orc’s dark blood hung from the arrowhead and finally fell to the ground; at the same moment, one of the wolves set its head forward, showing yellowed fangs.

“Fool!” Beleg seethed. “You should have stayed there!”

The wolf growled louder and lowered its grey snout, its ears laid flat on the back of its head. The animal took three steps forward and stopped, still snarling.

“Fresh blood? Tempting, is it not?” The warden issued the quiet query while stepping to the side, the yellow eyes following his every movement.

A growl answered him.

“One more step and you will not eat anything more!”

What am I doing? Talking to the wolf as if I had lost my reasoning!

Weirdly enough, Beleg noticed the wolf backing off. In that moment, he decided to retreat, and though he didn’t turn his back to the wolves, he started to move backwards ever so slowly and silently, the arrow still ready to defend his life. Finally, he increased the distance and made sure the wolves didn’t actually intend to attack him. Perhaps I interrupted their morning meal, he sneered, taking his previous path and disappearing into the chilly fog. The two companions awaited him, and Beleg had no intention of dwelling here longer. The day hadn’t yet started, and they had a long and heavy road ahead of them.

Making his way back, Beleg considered every possible path they could choose. They would cross the mountains through the pass of Anach. It would be wise of them to follow the river then, to the place where Mindeb vanished in the depths of the woods of Neldoreth. There, they would be almost home, he thought, and felt a desperate need to hurry. With that, Beleg put the bow on his back and ran.

~*~

Meanwhile, Túrin strolled back and forth, observing the surroundings and fighting an overcoming sleepiness. Gwindor was crouched between the roots of a dead tree; his steady breathing and the calm look on his face clearly showed that he rested peacefully. Túrin sighed and started to circle the trees, as he had done countless times before during his watch. He found himself a bit envious, but he dared not ignore Beleg’s order. The third companion must have been very exhausted, Túrin pondered, and made a mental note to ask him later what caused this weariness. He wondered who the stranger was, though he could recognize the noble blood of a firstborn child of Ilúvatar in him. However, his appearance betrayed the many torments and pain he must have suffered. Túrin stopped abruptly in front of Gwindor. The eyes of the elf focused on the man, and a small smile greeted Túrin.

“I believe you have had a most welcome and deserved rest,” Túrin stated.

A nod was the answer. “Has Beleg returned yet?” Gwindor asked after a series of yawns and grimaces of annoyance. His limbs still ached; the stiff muscles and bruised chest didn’t make breathing any easier.

“No,” Túrin replied and reached to help Gwindor stand up. “I imagine he will be back soon.”

“Very well, Túrin. There is nothing more for us but to wait.”

Túrin cast a curious glance at him as Gwindor looked him over from head to toe.

“Gwindor son of Guilin at your service.” The elf answered the unspoken question with a short bow. “A wandering elf, a thrall escaped, whom Beleg met yesterday and healed the tortured spirit of with a new hope. I once was a lord of Nargothrond, until I went to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and was enslaved in Angband.”

The man smiled and bowed as well, but hearing the name of the evil land of Morgoth, he tensed and asked, “Then have you seen Húrin son of Galdor, the warrior of Dor-lomin?”

“No,” Gwindor sighed, watching the dark sky, where only the grey clouds were brighter as they wandered northward. “I have not seen him.”

Túrin set his jaw and turned his head with a grimace of pain.

Gwindor rearranged his worn-out clothing and dusted off the remnants of grass and dirt, still gazing at Túrin and pondering what to say.

“Yet, I believe,” he straightened and looked around, “rumor of him runs through Angband that he still defies Morgoth, and Morgoth has laid a curse upon him in turn and all his kin.”

“That,” Túrin set the black sword down, its point stuck into the ground, and rested his crossed forearms on the hilt, “I believe.”

“That is a very strange blade.” Gwindor pointed to the sword. “And unlike any that I have ever seen.”

Túrin noticed a note of judgment in his voice. An odd feeling chilled his spine. Gwindor didn’t trust him. Sighing, he picked up the weapon and went back to pacing around the two trees.

Gwindor didn’t surprise him with his mistrust, but, nonetheless, the accusation he had felt stung him in an instant. After all, he dared to aim a sword with one purpose: to kill his assailant. He realized now how close he had been to accomplishing this grievous task, and fear raised the hair on his neck. The orc’s arrow, that was what had saved Beleg. The orc’s arrow had caused him to drop the sword.

Túrin shook his head in disbelief. Suddenly, his freedom and renewed friendship seemed so unreal. As dawn broke, his heavy steps made a clear path around the trees. Gwindor stood nearby and watched the bushes. Túrin noticed the elf’s hand clasped behind his back, his fingers nervously entangled. He seemed to impatiently await Beleg.

Túrin felt an unbearable urge to justify his deed. He walked over to Gwindor and said distinctly, “If, by a slight change of fate, I had committed the most dreadful insanity of drawing Cúthalion’s blood, believe me or not, I would have carried this mournful burden for the rest of my life and would never have dwelt in peace. Never,” he repeated, looking Gwindor straight in the eye. “I would never have smiled, and the shadow of this crime, this sin, would never have left my face.”

Gwindor drew his brows together.

Túrin looked to the left and winced. Taking Gwindor by the arm, he said, in a low firm voice, “Know this. I would have remained in grief and mourned the only friend I have ever had. I would have died with his name on my lips when merciful death came to take me. Must I swear on this dull blade?”

“I know.” Gwindor exhaled. He sensed that the man had spoken the truth.

Túrin turned his back to him.

“I dare not judge you,” the elf added. “Terror makes us both its victims. Many days will pass before, at last, we can look at our past without remorse and that creeping guilt that is now tearing our spirits.”

“Wise words, my friends,” said Beleg as he revealed himself from behind the bushes. “Yet, I assume the farther we go away from the graveyard of this dark forest, the lighter our steps and hearts will be.”

Gwindor noticed the warden’s triumphant smile.

“Let us prepare. We will have many days for talking and reflection upon our return to Doriath.” Beleg motioned for Túrin to come closer.

Gwindor’s heart leaped with joyful relief. Túrin frowned.

“Is there something wrong, my friend?” Beleg asked quietly.

“I do not wish to go there.” Túrin averted his eyes from Beleg’s face.

“Why, pray tell? Is it not the place you can always call your home?” Beleg was taken aback but didn’t betray his slight ripple of annoyance with any gesture. His stubbornness always amazes me. He would go back to seek his revenge. He would want to see the dwarf’s head rolled off his neck. Of this I am sure. He hasn’t learned anything. Beleg sighed. He has not changed.

“Wherever you intend to go, my impatient friend, our route is now clear before us. When we pass the Anach, you can go any place you wish.” Beleg paused, seeing Túrin drop his eyes. “For, of all the things in this world, I now desire the most to return to Menegroth and to kneel before our king and queen, announcing this happy news that you are alive. My path is not a secret. Whatever you have in mind, I would give you my blessing. But be warned, you must recover first. Then you will be free to go where your anger leads you.” That said, Beleg gestured for Gwindor to follow him.

“Túrin, we are leaving,” Gwindor muttered and shrugged as he passed by. “Accept Beleg’s advice, for it is sensible, and do not feel offended. I have faith he has chosen wisely, and I will follow him even if my heart tells me to take the straightest road to Nargothrond, for I would love to see my beloved... home.”

Do not think that I would like to stay here. I am not a fool, Túrin wanted to shoot back at him, yet he bit his tongue. He set out, watching the two elves walk silently between the trees. Of course, Beleg was right, and Túrin realized how tough a road lay before them. However, he couldn’t help having the feeling he could choose the route through Dimbar and the woods of Brethil, straight to Amon Rûdh. Then, he could return to the Hidden Kingdom.

As they turned southwest and began the perilous journey from the Forest under Nightshade, Beleg’s mind drifted again to their fight with the orcs. An unsettling thought still disturbed him. Gazing back over his shoulder from time to time, as if to make sure Túrin followed, Beleg sent a silent prayer of thanksgiving and request to the Father of Arda. They still risked their lives wandering in the woods that lay at the foot of Thangorodrim.

Túrin’s stubbornness annoyed him; as usual he had to admit. Despite Beleg’s fatherly attachment and a strong bond of friendship, Túrin was the one individual that could drive him to anger, almost to boiling point within one moment. Many times, he had despaired of Túrin’s reasonless decisions, including the one concerning his departure from the realm of Thingol. Beleg had learned to grit his teeth, knowing there was no way for Túrin to understand the king had forgiven him. This man, Beleg looked back at Túrin, could distribute his stubbornness among a company of wardens, giving everyone his share, and he would still possess enough to be their leader.

Túrin noticed Beleg’s glance and gave him a mild smile.

You said once you would love to be one of our king’s warriors, so you could seek your revenge upon those minions of Morgoth that had tormented your family, Beleg mused, focusing on the scarcely visible path covered with leaves and broken twigs. A chance has come, my brother. Do not miss it now, when it is within your grasp. I have foretold the dwarf that he will not flee, that the wrath of the heirs of Hador will reach him. That, I do believe, will happen, yet you must learn to be patient.

Gwindor was also lost in thought. He longed to return home, but, unlike Túrin, he would willingly follow Beleg to Doriath first to pay his respects to the king of the Sindar and assure him of his everlasting gratitude to Beleg for saving his life, even though it had seemed to be hopeless at the moment they had met. Then, if chances would occur, he would love to finally see Nargothrond and to kneel before Orodreth. Many years had passed since the last time he saw his homeland. Many things had changed, though one thing in particular hadn’t. My beloved...

“Gwindor!” Beleg urged him on. “Do not stay behind. We do not wish to split up, do we?”

“Yes, of course,” Gwindor called back and quickened his steps.

The path climbed up on the hills. Though the three travelers still walked through the woodlands, they noticed the ground was more stony and raw. The pass of Anach was not so distant. They had only a few days ahead of them ere they would reach the mountains.

~*~

Time passed slowly, every single moment resembling the previous and the next, so the three wanderers didn’t care to count them or pay attention to how many days they traveled in the wild land before they came onto the pass of Anach, facing south. The road was heavy and their tired feet marked by many scratches and bruises. Beleg led the others without hesitation, setting the fast pace as if an invisible enemy chased them. He still felt the dreadful breathing of the evil forest they had left behind their backs; like poison, it occupied his thoughts, so he marched almost without stopping. The land became grey, and the landscape seemed identical wherever he turned his gaze. But he knew their path well.

Beleg could sense his companions’ dubious thoughts. The look on their faces betrayed them and made his task even harder. Gwindor grew weaker. His wounds were healed only provisionally; Beleg silently promised to tend to them once they found proper shelter and stopped for a well-deserved rest. Túrin seemed stronger, even though he had suffered terrible pain and torture at the hands of the orcs. His mind, however, seemed more reckless than Beleg could have ever imagined. Túrin’s stubbornness surfaced more quickly than Beleg had initially expected. This only made him set his jaw more tightly and speed up, so that he almost ran, leaving the two far behind him.

“Here we are!” Beleg sighed, once again glancing over his shoulder at Túrin and Gwindor. They tried desperately to catch up with him as they saw him stop and gaze at the distant land before him. A faint smile curved Beleg’s lips. His eyes lifted to the sky as he silently thanked the Valar for leading his steps up here. Now, the remaining route seemed easier. He felt sure they needed to go back to Doriath, even if Túrin disliked this idea. Gwindor, however, did not object.

Suddenly, Beleg felt a wave of triumph wash over him. He had succeeded. That was all that mattered.

“The ascent to this pass tastes sweeter than many victories,” he mused aloud, uttering a stifled chuckle as he noticed the hidden, involuntary impishness of his statement. His companions didn’t hear him, aware only of their labored breathing as they carefully climbed up the stony ground. “There will be the time for this later, Cúthalion.”

“Is this what I think it is?” Gwindor gasped, coming to stand beside Beleg.

“Yes, my friend, the pass of Anach,” he replied solemnly. “Our home lies there.” Beleg’s hand pointed to the foggy, distant line of the horizon.

Gwindor smiled, nodding. “This view makes me very happy.” He looked around. “I feel as if the weight of a stone dropped from my heart and my feet can take on a lighter pace.”

Beleg put his hand on Gwindor’s shoulder. “And if I promise you a large glass of wine and a comfortable seat near the fireplace, what will you say?”

Gwindor’s eyes twinkled. “Say no more, because you might see me run down this dangerous slope in such a hurry you will find it difficult to catch up.” He laughed, in spite of his weariness.

Beleg laughed heartily, thinking he would indeed find it hard to catch up with Gwindor’s steps if he continued to describe every possible convenience that could cross his mind now. Instead, he tried to focus on the surroundings, searching for anything that could threaten their way down the pass. Túrin joined them and they slowly descended, watching their feet.

~*~

“How many days...” Gwindor started, but bit his tongue in the middle of the sentence. “Do not answer,” he told Beleg, “I do not wish to make you lie.”

"The truth is, son of Guilin, I do not know,” Beleg sighed in response, measuring the distance to the nearest trees. “It depends on your strength, Túrin’s stubbornness, and my inerrability, and it also depends on what might disturb our return. If we are blessed in having a peaceful and safe way back to Doriath...”

Just as his words trailed off, the sound of hooves, clashing swords, and battle cries ripped the air.

“So much for a peaceful walk home,” Túrin snorted angrily, making Beleg scowl at him.

“I did not promise you a red carpet underneath your feet,” he shot back at him before realizing, all of a sudden, he was being unfair. “Let us stay hidden.”

“No,” Túrin objected, shaking his head. “What are we waiting for? Let us draw more of the orcs’ hateful blood.”

Beleg had already considered the possibility of being engaged in another skirmish and decided against it. After all, there were only the three of them, tired and not very well armed. He took a closer look at his bow, removing it from his shoulder and retrieving an arrow from the quiver.

“I say let us stay hidden as long as possible. We do not know how many of the enemies are heading toward the pass. We can be easily outnumbered and defeated. Is this what you seek, brother?” he asked in a stern voice, preparing his bow while his eyes peering round the stones and bushes.

“All I wish is to seek and destroy them,“ Túrin hissed.

Gwindor gaped at him, astounded. “We should not risk our lives for a trivial purpose,” he added.

Túrin turned to him, having a curse ready to roll off his tongue, but Gwindor suddenly straightened in an offensive posture, as if he wanted to say he would not accept Túrin’s denial.

“Fine!” Túrin’s shoulders sagged. “We will hide in the bushes like a mouse trying to escape a hawk. But what more can we do now?”

With these words, Túrin ran down the slope, followed by Gwindor and Beleg. They reached the nearest line of bushes and disappeared into the thicket, crouching down between the entwined branches and leafless twigs. Beleg put a finger on his lips, commanding the others to remain silent. Gwindor nodded, mouthing “Give me the dagger,” and Beleg reached behind his back, handing him the weapon. Túrin fixed his gaze upon the stony path as the sound of a ragged breathing drew closer to them. Grabbing a large stone, Túrin poked his head out of the branches that covered him, and Beleg whispered, “Get down!”

“One of them approaches! It’s really fast!” Túrin whispered back. “By the Valar! It’s not an orc.”

“I know,” Beleg muttered.

As the approaching enemy got so close that the three hidden travelers could see him, Beleg swiftly tucked the arrow he held on the bowstring and drew it, rising to his full height at the same time. The arrowhead pointed straight at the face, an inch from the nose of the mysterious figure, who, Beleg presumed, was trying to escape from something or someone. A pair of dark eyes flashing with anger and fear fell upon Beleg’s face, and, just in time, he halted the hand that held the bowstring. The elf stopped abruptly, glaring at Beleg and trying to recover his breathing. The next moment, Beleg bent forward and grabbed the completely stunned incomer’s sleeve, dragging him into the thicket.

“Shhh,” Beleg warned the elf, seeing him desperately want to say something. “Orcs?”

The newcomer nodded fervently.

“Many?”

Another nod confirmed his supposition.

Beleg cursed under his breath. The sound of steps and the orcs’ shrieks grew louder, so he made up his mind. Rising again, he sent all of his arrows, one by one, aiming true each time he released the bowstring. Túrin pushed the twigs aside curiously, just to see the orcs’ corpses lying on the path.

The remaining orcs turned to flee, shrieking with rage and horror. Túrin jumped out of the thicket and grasped two of the fallen orcs’ swords. He handed one to the newcomer, grabbing the hilt of the other one in two hands. Beleg nodded. The stranger looked at them questioningly; then a small smile twitched the corners of his mouth. Gwindor lifted his eyes to the sky.

“Now!” Beleg shouted, unsheathing his black sword. Spotting the blade, the newcomer’s face paled.

~*~

The sound of orcs following their prey reached Caranthir’s ears. Urging his horse forward with a vice-like grip in his knees, the elf unsheathed his sword in one fluent motion while his other hand found a small axe that would aid him after the long wait. Maedhros appeared next to him, the red plume of his helmet graciously mingled with his red tresses; his face bore a look of determination to kill the first orc himself. But Caranthir demanded the first kill, his anger consuming him fully. The humiliation he thought long forgotten became the fuel to his sword arm. His horse shrieked when he relentlessly hit its hindquarter with the blunt side of his sword. The impact of the blows surged through its fine-toned muscles. Caranthir’s blade decapitated the first orc he encountered, the power of his strike meeting another. Slowly, he allowed the darkness to take over, commanding his brothers not to get in his way. A fire burned in him, making him lose touch with his surroundings. All he could feel was his blade fluently cutting through meat, and all he could see were the bodies falling in front of him as if he was harvesting a field of grain. Vaguely, he tasted the enemies’ blood on his lips, but he managed, even with blurred eyesight, to hew them down efficiently.

Darkness reaped darkness. Maedhros watched his brother fully engage himself in battle, paying no heed to the dangers coming from all sides. But, almost naturally, both Curufin and Celegorm covered his flanks, making sure their brother would not be surprised. Years of training, fighting, and blindly depending on their brotherly bond made them work together fluently. Yet Maedhros knew there was no time for idle thoughts. He felt sure this was something that would remain with him for a long time, finally replacing the cowardly retreat from Angfaulith in his mind. When he found Amrod next to him, he watched his remaining two brothers ride a circle around the big group, driving the orcs together as a herd, slaying their enemies where they found fierce protest.

All had an intense look etched on their faces, with Caranthir in the very middle of the slaughter. With renewed fervor, all seven engaged in battle, leaving the hapless orcs no chance to defend themselves, paying for the years of pent-up wrath that now surfaced in an activity all knew how to do best in unison.

Moments later, when the seven closed the circle, it was Caranthir who threw his head back, howling a battle cry that caused his brothers to pause and rest on their swords. All knew that their brother would slowly return to his senses, and his mighty body would soon mirror exhaustion. For now, his rage was undoubtedly far from subsiding.

~*~

With a furious cry, Túrin overtook Beleg, drawing his sword against the back of the fleeing orc. Its dark blood gushed as the beast fell, crossing Beleg’s path, but he deftly jumped up in time to slay another. Behind them, Gwindor ran as fast as he could, his dagger shining in his left hand. Then he bent down to reach the discarded weapon of the dead orc. Thus armed, he resumed the chase with the dark-haired stranger by his side. As they caught up on the rest of the host, the blows of their swords and the rage that kept urging them on brought down four orcs.

“Túrin! To the left!” Beleg shouted, answering a powerful stab of an orc’s blade with a force that swiped the beast to the ground, already dead. Túrin shot a murderous glance at the attacker, retreating imperceptibly, his hand moving in a full circle. The sword he held made a smooth line along the orc’s chest. Another one threw a dagger, which was soon blocked in midair by the stranger’s weapon flying straight and clashing when steel met steel. Túrin turned to give the dark-haired elf a nod of gratitude. The other just smiled, continuing his deadly procedure.

The four warriors ran down the slope, closer to the cliff, driving the remnants of the orcs’ party to the edge. The orcs either nosedived off, tumbling down the stony walls, or managed to turn onto the narrow path that led to the grassy fields below the mountains. Beleg halted as his gaze fell upon the distant land at the foot of the mountains. It seemed that another battle had just taken place there. Several horsemen rode back and forth along the valley, their horses galloping so that their masters could defeat the orcs, who ran around shrieking. With Gwindor by his side, Beleg made his way down in haste, intending to force their attackers further, just in front of the riders. Túrin and the dark-haired elf followed them, and the four soon came into the view of one of the horsemen.

One of the knights turned his horse. The animal reared on its hind legs; the hooves clashed in the air as the rider urged it into a full gallop at once. With his sword raised, the warrior and the horse barreled through the field, closing the distance to the few remaining orcs and their four assailants. The knight made swift work of slaying the creatures; then he halted the horse.

Beleg lowered his sword, motioning for the others to do the same, as the rider approached them followed by the rest of the horsemen. The seven warriors surrounded the four, the horses trotting relentlessly in a circle around them. Beleg eyed the riders, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword, which he had just dug into the ground. He knew who the seven riders were; he had seen them before, and now he wondered what could possibly be the worse: to face the Fëanorians or to find themselves encountering another group of Morgoth’s servants. Yet, his face betrayed no emotion as he stood proudly with his three companions by his side.

The warrior who had spotted Beleg first let his horse stop in front of the four walkers. With his brows drawn, he glared at Beleg. Then the realization came to him, and a fateful smile blossomed on his noble face. The two identical horsemen joined him, reining in their horses to stand on either side.

Túrin gaped at the knights open-mouthed. Then, he tapped Beleg on the shoulder, asking quietly, “Morgoth’s chains! Who are they?”

The dark-haired elf, who had remained silent up until now, avoiding the gaze of the seven and dropping his eyes, replied in a meaningful voice, “The sons of Fëanor.”

Gwindor gulped loudly and sighed.

“You know who we are!” the warrior in front of them barked out before commanding, “Give us your names!”

“Celegorm!” another ordered. “Back off!”

Beleg looked at the face of Maglor, nodding lightly.

Glaring askance at the seven warriors, Túrin felt his knees getting weak. Disgusted and afraid that his infirmity would be discovered, he looked away at the line of the distant forest, at the same moment drawing a malevolent look from Caranthir. When Túrin glanced back at the son of Fëanor, he noticed his triumphant smirk of distaste. Shrugging, Túrin fought back a sudden urge to sit on the ground. He decided to pretend he wasn’t becoming more and more exhausted and unsettled with every passing moment. Dropping his eyes, Túrin chewed a curse and waited, his chest heaving as he tried to calm his breathing and the furious beating of his heart.

Beleg risked a brief look at Túrin, fearing more the possibility of an angry outburst than anything else. Noticing the weariness mirrored in Túrin’s posture, he let out an almost inaudible sigh and then turned his eyes to Gwindor, who stood on his other side. To his relief, Beleg saw Gwindor’s proud gaze, unequivocal evidence of his lordly manners and readiness to meet whatever might transpire next.

“Beleg Cúthalion is my name.” Beleg’s sonorous voice resonated clearly above the field. “I am the chief of the wardens to King Thingol of the Hidden Kingdom.” Fixing his eyes on the face of Maglor, Beleg raised one brow and waited. Then he sensed someone’s movement behind his back, but he didn’t turn his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Gwindor stepping aside and the dark-haired elf silently moving to stand between them.

Silence fell, from time to time interrupted by the impatient snorting of the Fëanorians’ horses.

Maglor reined his steed to take the lead, motioning for Celegorm and the twins to stay where they were. Bending forward, he leaned his forearm against the horse’s neck while the other hand he rested on his thigh.

“Beleg?” Maglor repeated. “I have heard that name before.”

Beleg looked proudly at the Noldo, who was holding his gaze without blinking. In a flash, images and memories flowed through his mind, chaotic visions of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad appearing vividly in his remembrance. Pushing the disturbing thoughts away, he wondered what errand had brought the seven brothers so close to the perilous Ered Gorgoroth but decided against asking right now. The moment was tense enough. After all, he might find out soon anyway, and a frontless query could cause more troubles knowing the temper of some of the Fëanorians. Not to mention there were seven of them, seven bloodthirsty, lethally armed riders who had just routed a band of orcs.

“Who are your companions?” Maglor asked calmly, sliding his eyes back and forth between the walkers, as if to read their minds. “Cúthalion, why are you so far off from the realm you are supposed to be protecting?”

Beleg didn’t have the chance to answer before Gwindor bowed lightly, saying, “Gwindor of Nargothrond.”

“You are known to me, Gwindor son of Guilin.” Maglor nodded, sweeping his gaze over the figure of Túrin. “But who is this Adan?”

Maedhros pondered interfering in the conversation between his brother and the walkers but decided against it. His hour of diplomacy would come; for now, the role of an observer suited him more.

Curufin urged his horse to move forward. Caranthir’s eyes followed his movement as his younger brother caught up with Maglor and then rose a bit and leaned to whisper something into his ear. Maglor’s face took on a more serious look. Caranthir decided to break in.

“Before we make any further introductions, I suggest we leave this field. We can be clearly seen here, and the last thing I need right now is to be assaulted by another party of filthy orcs,” he announced, never averting his eyes from Túrin’s face. “Let us go.”

With no more words, Caranthir turned his horse and set a slow gait while showing the others he really meant to get out of the open field. Celegorm only frowned. He observed the activities with growing agitation because the man still had not replied to his brother’s request to make himself known. Amras, while nodding to his twin, gestured toward Túrin upon seeing his reluctance. Then, after receiving no response, he moved his horse closer to him and held out his hand. Túrin smiled faintly, accepting Amras’ assistance and then settling himself behind his back. “My name is Neithan.” He introduced himself to the red-haired elf out of courtesy, drawing a meaningful glare from Beleg. Celegorm scowled at the young man when he rode by to join his brother Curufin, who smiled at the other, as yet unnamed, stranger.

I imagine we should listen to your brother,” said Beleg, at the same time sheathing his sword and stepping closer to Maglor, who give him a small nod of approval.

“Aye,” Maglor answered, extending his hand so that Beleg could mount his horse.

Without hesitation, Beleg grasped Maglor’s hand, but the motion with which he fluently placed himself behind Maglor’s back didn’t require any help. Maglor brushed the horse’s sides with his heels, and the steed obediently followed Caranthir’s and Amras’. Amrod neared his mount to Maglor’s, followed by Maedhros with Gwindor sitting behind him. Finally, Curufin, still struggling with his restive stallion, which kept rearing on its hind legs while snorting angrily, motioned for the dark-haired walker to mount. The stranger only nodded, avoiding Curufin’s apparently interrogative look. As he managed to settle behind Curufin and the horse obeyed to follow the rest of the party, trotting relentlessly and sweeping its long tail, Curufin glanced back over his shoulder and met the straightforward gaze of the dark eyes, which the Fëanorian considered arrogant.

“You look strangely familiar,” Curufin muttered under his breath.

Celegorm leaned over and the stranger turned his face toward him. Their eyes met, and suddenly he recognized the young elf. “He looks familiar because he is family, Curufin.” Quickly, Celegorm opened his breast pocket and handed Curufin’s charge a piece of lembas. Then he retrieved a water skin. “Are you not far away from home, son of Aredhel Ar-Feniel?”

A feeling of joy swept through him when Maeglin recognized him and replied, “Not any further than you are Celegorm Fëanorion.”

"Are you certain you can hold on?” Curufin tried to see the face of Maeglin, who was seemingly struggling with keeping his seat while eating. “That’s just typical of you, Turko. Can’t we wait until Caranthir finds a safer place?”

Celegorm’s smile said it all, and with care he steered his horse close to Curufin’s stallion to give Maeglin the support he needed. After a while, he quietly started to question Maeglin about what he was doing in this area but received incoherent answers.

It was Amrod who reminded Celegorm to watch the rearguard of the group on behalf of Maedhros, who was making up his mind what to do in this unexpected situation. The only thing he could hope for was that he wouldn’t have to force Beleg at sword point, for he thought Cúthalion’s role would be of strategic importance.

~*~

The days had passed more quickly than Beleg could have imagined. Although he tried to instigate conversations with the Fëanorians from time to time in order to find their goals out, he received vague answers. His concerns became aggravated to the level of disturbing uneasiness when he noticed that Maglor and Maedhros had changed direction. Now they were heading eastward to the riverbank of Esgalduin. That meant Beleg had to abandon the idea of following Mindeb.

The group waded through Esgalduin, taking a shallow route. After providing the necessary inspection, Amrod and Amras found a suitable place between the branches of the river on the edge of the lands named Dor Dínen and left the company to hunt for their late evening meal. It was Caranthir who made a campfire and prepared the camp, while Curufin and Celegorm saw to the wounds of their newfound companions, leaving Beleg and Gwindor alone with Maedhros and Maglor to discuss what had happened earlier.

Many thoughts and concerns passed through Beleg’s mind while he closely observed the remaining Fëanorians. In the distance, he vaguely heard the murmur of the river and the hooting of a night owl. Before he knew it, Maedhros pressed a water skin into his hands. “It’s miruvor,” the red-haired elf simply stated.

“After yéni of defending the northern lands,” Maglor started before Beleg could ask, “we have been wandering around for twelve years since our defeat.”

“Why have you returned?” Beleg queried and took a swig of the offered liquor before he passed the skin to Gwindor.

“Why not?” Maedhros boldly answered. “We kept the peace for so long. Why should we not attempt to restore it once again? Do not fault all seven for the mistakes made by two out of love.” His eyes briefly lingered on Curufin and Celegorm, who were quietly talking to Maeglin.

“What they did only infuriated our king. Did you think we would welcome kinslayers with open arms?” Gwindor suddenly intervened.

Maglor was the last to receive the skin and watched his twin brothers return with their prey. Caranthir, who was obviously hungry, instructed them to gather more wood, herbs, and water for the evening meal and then turned his back on the group to skin the hares.

“We protected you and guaranteed peace, taking the harshest positions in the north of this continent in effort to stand against Morgoth. We fought, we battled, and in the end we lost all, with the result that your realm has remained, despite its dwindled prosperity, while we have nothing left,” Maedhros answered. “Have you forgotten who formed the last alliance against him?”

Gwindor shivered from pain; of course he remembered the prices paid in wartime. The torture and mistreatment of his brother were etched on his soul forever.

“The price of peace is worth it, Gwindor. Think of this: think of a truce forged between us and one of the last elven realms. Let us gather one more time under the banners of our kind. Let the foresight of peacefulness in our realms, our hearts, and our souls begin the healing,” Maglor insisted with passion.

“I will ask again, why are you here?” Beleg asked straightforwardly. “No sons of Fëanor would form any treaty with an elf of Doriath. Is it the cursed jewel?”

Maedhros and Maglor exchanged a glance. “It would be foolish of me to deny that our main desire is still to regain the Silmaril,” Maedhros admitted. “But even if we could reclaim this one, there would still be two out of our reach. We need all the Eldar reunited to win the fight against Morgoth.”

“Consider this Beleg,” Maglor continued. “Now we have our brothers constrained and motivated at the thought of revenge; vengeance aimed at him! But we cannot guarantee how long this will last. Do not underestimate our drive to regain all three jewels. It would be destructive enough to leave every kingdom in our path in ruin.”

Gwindor covered his eyes with his hand at the memory of the moment when he had witnessed the carnage of Alqualondë. Once Fingolfin had discovered the betrayal of Fëanor, he had rallied his father and his house, together with the other houses, to follow Finwë’s eldest son to Middle Earth. Aye, Gwindor knew the fierce motivation of Fëanor’s offspring well enough.

“Once was more than enough, Maedhros,” Gwindor replied hoarsely, his fist clenched.

“So what purpose in this folly of yours have you planned for me?” Beleg asked sternly.

“We only request an audience with your king, Beleg,” Maglor said. “Let us face him and plead for our cause.”

Maedhros wanted to reply with a harsh rebuke but was silenced by Maglor’s glare. “State your conditions, if you must, to guarantee the safety of your people.”

“You have obviously gone out of your reasoning, Fëanorion, if you assumed I would allow you to enter the Hidden Kingdom,” Beleg seethed with a warning hiss, trying unsuccessfully to calm down. “If you think... No! You surely must be jesting!”

“Our quest is most certainly not a jest,” Maedhros shot back at him, offended and appalled by the thought that Maglor was considering pleading their cause with Thingol.

“Do not underestimate the blood thirst of the Fëanorians, Beleg,” Gwindor interrupted suddenly, almost overtaken by emotions. “They will murder for it. I have seen it with my own eyes.”

“You overestimate my wisdom, Maglor.” Beleg frowned. “Apparently, you try to blind me with your kind words. What is it that you are expecting from me? For now, I can only warn you that no warden will let you set foot beyond the borders of my land. Moreover, how do you plan to get through the girdle?”

“All I see is your blindness regarding the doom that awaits Melian’s lands, Beleg,” Maglor replied impertinently. “I know what is driving my brothers, for I share the same fire if not the same ambition. Oath-keepers we are, and if we were to swear an oath to you not to harm Thingol’s people during our stay, then, aye, you have my promise.”

“I must think about it in peace.” Beleg looked away, cursing his fate for allowing him to save Túrin and survive the perils of Taur-nu-Fuin only to force him to make such grievous decisions. “Yet be warned! No weapon will you draw against any of my kinsmen, even if they draw theirs against you. If by the slightest chance I take part in this craziness, I will make sure your every step is carefully watched. You have my word, Maglor son of Fëanor.”

“And that is all we need. You have my word, Beleg Cúthalion. No arms shall we carry and no violence shall come to your realm as long as you guide us to your king,” Maglor promised solemnly, gaining an approving nod from his brother and hearing Gwindor sigh with relief. How to deliver this news to the rest of his brothers was a different matter. Maedhros had given his approval of this agreement; the rest would follow him. In the background, Maglor heard Caranthir announcing that the meal was ready. “Maybe you can find the rest you need over a good meal and music afterward, Beleg,” Maglor kindly offered.

“And a quiet place in front of a blazing fire,” Gwindor added.

Maglor smiled in return. “I will fetch my harp then, since my brother Caranthir has seen to the meal and the fire.”

“The simple pleasures of life,” Maedhros muttered watching his brother walk away. “Shall we?” He motioned for the two elves to join the others around the fire.

~*~

The day was slowly waning. Melian awaited her husband while sitting in her favorite, comfortable chair beside the window. The calm look on her face didn’t comply with the stream of unsettling thoughts that flooded her mind. She could tell that even the very air in the royal palace seemed to be agitated by the latest, disturbing news. “The sons of Fëanor,” she sighed, resting her forehead on her entwined hands and placing her elbows on the windowsill for support. How many times before she had sat like that, waiting for Thingol’s arrival, she couldn’t fathom. The window overlooked the gardens and part of the palace, and Melian could see the western side of the sky. But now, even the awareness that she gazed westward didn’t bring relief.

The word Mablung had brought to Menegroth had caused Thingol’s dark thoughts and wrath to emerge. Melian knew the king wouldn’t listen to her advice upon this matter, but she had decided that she should do her utmost to try to change his stubborn mind, for Doriath’s sake. She had prepared herself to face his rage and vehement refusal, knowing well enough that even a brief mention of the Silmaril might release an avalanche. Thingol had become possessed by the power of the jewel; jealousy had consumed him to the point where he didn’t like to discuss the subject, even with her.

What was it about the power of this jewel that meant even the wisest couldn’t resist it, she mused bitterly while watching the branches of the trees in the upper garden hang dolefully.

As the sky became dark and only a few faint glimmers of passing sunlight remained, rouging the blackened expanse, Melian grew tired of waiting for her husband. Apparently, he would refuse her his presence tonight, and she would like to know the reason. Although she could clearly sense that Thingol might want to have solitude, she made up her mind to seek him out. Counsel or no counsel, she was his wife, and a Maia after all, she thought stubbornly. Standing up from the chair, she reached for her scarf, wrapped it neatly around her shoulders, and silently left her chambers, heading to the king’s study.

Her bare feet made no sound while Melian strode down the corridor. The marble floor resembled the surface of water, she thought, much to her surprise. Though she had gotten accustomed to life in the caves of Menegroth, their coolness and seeming lifelessness had always made her long for the sight of trees and grass. Melian’s chambers were situated in the upper level of the caves, at her clear wish, and now she descended down the stone halls to the lowest cave, lit plentifully by torches and candles.

Approaching the door to the study, Melian stopped abruptly. Setting the words she would address to her husband in order in her mind, she knocked lightly at the wooden surface and entered without waiting for a response.

“No, Melian,” the king said sternly, without a glance at her as he stood in front of the fireplace. She only shrugged.

“You have not been coming to my chamber after the counsel as you used to do, my Lord,” Melian replied by way of excuse, but her eyes remained fixed on Thingol’s figure. She clasped her hands, bringing them to the level of her waist. “I wondered why.”

“You could be hardly surprised, my Lady,” Thingol muttered while watching the blocks of wood in the hearth. His shoulders made a slight move, as if he wanted to shrug or give his wife another gesture of dismissal, but she came to stand beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. He still didn’t turn to her.

“Elwe,” she whispered.

“Melian?”

“Look at me, please.”

The king’s look softened. His pupils moved to cast a single glance at the queen.

“I said, ‘look’ not pretend to,” she admonished him good-naturedly, skimming the fabric of his robe. The king smiled.

“You are irresistible, my Lady.” Thingol shook his head lightly.

“That’s better,” she laughed softly. “Now, you will speak, and I will listen.”

“I thought you would be the one to speak.”

“You said, ‘no’ upon my arrival here, so I assumed you would like to tell me what had transpired during the counsel. I fancy you will not listen to what I may wish to tell you, my Lord, and I merely want to respect your wishes,” Melian assured him.

“Very well,” he sighed, while gesturing toward the corner of his study, where a couch and a small round table made of metal were located. “Let us rest.” Taking Melian by the hand, he led her over to the couch and settled himself beside her as she sat down gracefully on the edge of the soft cushioned furniture, clasping her hands on her lap.

“You seem unsettled,” Thingol suggested, while pouring two glasses of a fragrant wine, one of which he handed to the queen.

“I might say the same about you,” she answered.

“Well, we have come to acquiescence upon that matter.” Thingol slowly sipped the wine while watching his wife intently, wondering how she would approach the particular subject of their conversation, which he knew she would mention sooner or later. Melian held the glass in two hands, and her thumbs slowly moved along the rim.

“Let them come here,” she said simply after a long silence. “Let them state their reasons.”

“Melian.” Thingol stood up, drawing her disapproving glance. “Their reasons have not changed. They crave my property. I shall not allow them to spread their hateful words here, in my land!”

“I am not advising you to give them the Silmaril, my Lord.” Melian’s musical voice resounded in Thingol’s ears with a firm and serious tone. “I am merely telling you to listen to them. They want to regain the jewel; of this I am sure in fact. They will come here with or without our consent. But, please,” she reached for Thingol to show him she wished he would sit beside her, “bear in mind, the people of our realm would live a happier life if we managed to constitute a truce between us and the Fëanorians.”

“They are the enemy. Do not forget about that,” Thingol replied, turning his face away.

“The true enemy dwells far in the North,” Melian stated. “You must remember that.”

Thingol pursed his lips. The queen held his gaze without a word for a long moment in a silent wrestling of wills.

“Do you really believe that anything good might happen if I allow the...” Thingol paused, as if the next words stung him on the tongue, “...sons of Fëanor to come here?”

“Well,” she whispered while touching his face lovingly and letting her fingers linger along the line of his jaw. Soon, she noticed the tension that had stiffened his muscles waning under her gentle caress, “we know they are alone, with no soldiers. We know they are extremely dangerous, but,” she neared her face to his and raised her eyes to look into his, “if they are carefully guarded... If you order their steps to be constantly watched... The wardens would be escorting them here and back to the borders under a triple guard.”

“Did you plan all this before coming here?” Thingol asked upon catching her fingers and bringing them to his lips to plant a soft kiss on the back of her hand.

“No,” Melian laughed under her breath as her fingers swept along Thingol’s lips, “you have inspired me, my Lord.”

“Ah, am I a good source of inspiration?” Thingol asked, chuckling and suddenly feeling a strong urge to abandon the discussion, which was only darkening his already concerned mind.

“You have always been so, my Lord.” She leaned forward and brushed his lips with the tip of her nose. “Let me talk to them if you do not wish to. Let me investigate their purposes. You are aware that I am the calmer one in this royal couple, my King; even the most temperamental Noldor in all Arda can hardly drive me to fury. Besides, am I not a goddess?”

“Of diplomacy, yes, my dearest, and of tempting your husband to the point where he can hold his glass of wine no longer,” Thingol murmured before kissing Melian’s lips as he bent his head.

“And what is it you would like to hold, my Lord?” she teased him mirthfully, happy that the king’s heavy mood had disappeared.

“Let me consider it.” Thingol took Melian’s glass. “Because I may not be entirely sure.”

With that, Thingol set the glasses back onto the table and turned slightly so he sat face to face with Melian. She tilted her head to the left, smiling at him and knowing deep in her heart that he hadn’t agreed with her entirely, but he might really consider her words. If the border guards kept the uninvited guests under their constant, cautious supervision, who knew, maybe there would be a slight chance to turn the tide? However, she was certain that any treaty negotiations would be difficult beyond imagination. She could see the brighter side of this outcome, but only one possessive word from any of the Fëanorians, and her husband’s heart would turn to stone again.

Melian didn’t trust Thingol’s fast consent, by any means. She suspected he had only agreed to humor her or to give his mind and body a most deserved and needed rest. After Mablung had departed back to the marches, the king had been spending his time seeking the advisory words of his counselors, and of course, as Melian might have expected, they were always confirming his suppositions, always telling him what he would like to listen to, without further considerations of what in truth would be better. Such was their blind respect for the king. There was one who might have stated his own opinion without hesitation, but he wasn’t present in Menegroth, and Melian feared he would never return.

~*~

Before dawn, hooves clashed on the road that led to the main gate of Menegroth. A single rider urged the horse forward as he saluted to the sentinels who guarded the gate. The stallion hurried up the road leading to the wardens’ outposts, immediately taking on a fast pace. The furious gallop resounded in the sentinels’ ears with a muffled noise, but soon everything became quiet; only a few birds announced the upcoming day with their merry songs. The horse would turn to the left, into a wide, sandy road between large trees. The rider would have a long way before him ere he would reach the northern marches, where he was supposed to see Mablung, the captain of the wardens.

As the forest grew thicker and the branches hung heavily above the road, the rider slowed the horse, but still the animal advanced quickly, as it was accustomed to moving in the woods. The rider kept checking to see if the piece of parchment with the king’s orders was in his breast pocket, as if to assure himself he wasn’t mistaken, silently wondering what had caused his sudden departure. But it wasn’t any of his business; he was only a deliverer of news.

However, the cautious eyes of the gate sentinels weren’t the only ones that had followed the steps of the horse. As the rider found himself on a small, grassy clearing at the foot of the hill and turned the horse to take the path near the line of trees, he drew the attention of someone hidden high in the branches. A pair of dark-grey, shining eyes fell on the figure of the messenger as he urged the stallion to a full gallop again. Bending forward above the horse’s neck, the rider stuck his heels into the animal’s sides and the stallion obeyed, moving faster.

As soon as they mingled with the thicket on the opposite line of the forest, the shadow in the branches leaned back against the tree trunk, resuming its comfortable position and muttering, “Bad news. Good news can always wait.” The long, black eyelashes blinked several times, while the hidden figure remained motionless, listening to the sounds of the awakening of the woods. For a long while, nothing disturbed the silence until a small bird flew nearby to sit on the branch above. The figure looked up with a smile.

“Good day to you, little one,” the whisper could be heard, and the bird tilted its head to glance curiously at the female who was sitting on the thick branch below. Then, with a trill, it responded to the greeting.

“Thank you,” the elleth laughed softly.

The bird spread its wings and flew up with a flutter, and a single grey feather floated down onto the leaves near the elleth’s seat, having become detached from its tail. Her slender fingers picked it up.

“Fare thee well,” she said in a soft voice while hiding the feather in her bosom. “I wish you would bring good news.”

~*~

Beleg felt torn. On one hand, he was glad that he and his companions were traveling along with the Fëanorians on horseback and fairly safely. They didn’t have to worry about their food supplies, and, most of all, they were as safe as they possibly could be, discounting the dangers the Fëanorians themselves represented. So far, nothing really disturbing had occurred, Beleg mused, while riding with Túrin on the horse Amrod had loaned them. But, on the other hand, Beleg shuddered with distaste at the very thought of allowing the Fëanorians to get within the boundaries of Thingol’s realm.

The company took the route eastward, following the river, and Beleg knew they were headed straight to Doriath. He still wasn’t sure what to tell Maglor. He hadn’t given the second son of Fëanor a clear answer. Deep in his heart, Beleg feared he would be considered a traitor if any of his kinsmen saw him lead the most dangerous and hated foes into the Hidden Kingdom. What should he do? He asked himself this countless times during the trip to the northern borders of Doriath. He became silent, rarely speaking to anyone, even to Gwindor, who he thought a good friend and wonderful companion to travel with.

Gwindor, of course, noticed Beleg’s inner struggle, and he didn’t inquire about the reasons, but his heart was heavy with sadness. He felt thankfulness toward the Doriath archer, and he would have liked to advise him to the best of his ability, but Gwindor decided not to interrupt Beleg’s solitude. Instead, he talked to Maeglin, because he was aware of the other elf’s evasiveness and his reluctant replies stirred Gwindor’s anxiety. There was something similar in his posture, Gwindor noted, and this realization caused an unpleasant, chilly shiver down his back. He saw the same haunted look on Maeglin’s face, and a somewhat familiar, fearful glimmer in his eyes. However, Gwindor decided against delving into this matter now; he made a mental note to investigate it later, once the party reached Doriath, as he supposed, or another safe place. If there were any in this world, he pondered, while glancing around from his seat behind Maedhros’ back.

“Where are we going?” Túrin asked quietly from behind Beleg, shifting impatiently on the horse’s back because he felt his muscles to be stiff and weary.

“Where you did not want to go,” Beleg muttered.

"Morgoth’s chains!” Túrin cursed. “No! To Doriath?”

“Apparently.” Beleg ended the discussion by urging the horse to a steady gallop. When they passed by Celegorm’s stallion, which carried Celegorm and Maeglin, Túrin scowled at Maeglin as if he wanted to say, ‘What are you staring at, stupid edhel?’ Maeglin rapped his forehead with a finger at Túrin’s silent, yet offensive attitude.

They arrived at the northern marches of Doriath in the early morning. The moment the group appeared within sight, the march-wardens raised the alarm. Tension spread around, and those guarding their posts hissed in hate and slung curses at the approaching horsemen; the others kept their gaze fixed on the enemies all time. They counted seven steeds, seven of their deadly foes, and four strangers. The confusion suddenly became almost palpable when one of the wardens recognized Beleg Cúthalion.

The senior guardian didn’t hesitate for a single second.

“Alarm the captain! Beleg is amongst them!” he ordered quietly.

The errand-warden ran with flashing speed, silently maneuvering between the twigs while his heart beat as if it wanted to jump out of his chest. Soon, he spotted Mablung, who was talking quietly with another warden. He halted and informed them about the discovery. Mablung hurried to the posts and stopped face to face with the chief of the shift.

“The day has come, Captain. We knew that sooner or later they would have the audacity to cross our borders.” The senior warden paused for a moment to turn his gaze to the group once more. More wardens arrived and nimbly spread along the path, bracing their bows.

The first rider halted. Whispers of shock were heard amongst the Sindar.

“Túrin! The outlaw has joined the kinslayers!”

“By the name of Valar, what are they planning?” Mablung seethed, as he ensconced himself between the twigs on the edge of the forest. With one gesture he silenced all the sounds. The wardens were ready to send their arrows, straining their bows after another small move of Mablung’s hand. When the Fëanorians’ horses hesitantly drew nearer, Mablung suddenly revealed himself.

“You will go no further!” he exclaimed, and in the next moment the set of arrowheads glimmered in the early morning sun.

Caranthir cursed quietly. The group came to a full stop. Curufin’s stallion started to rear as the tension of the moment peaked roughly, awaking Maeglin from his slumber. The three brothers without an extra rider prepared their bows rapidly. Maedhros and Maglor exchanged a tense glance.

“Celegorm hold your tongue!” Maglor warned his brother. Too much depended on this moment. In a serious tone, he ordered Beleg, “Lead the way to your king, chief of the march-wardens.”

“You know what we agreed upon,” Beleg answered cautiously.

We will hold to our promises, Cúthalion,” Maglor stated calmly. “Amrod, Amras, Celegorm… please lower your bows and gather all our arms.”

“Maglor, are you out of your mind!” Celegorm whirled his horse in anger.

With a fluent motion, Beleg dismounted, retrieving his bow and an arrow from the quiver at the same time. Taking a few steps backward he pulled the bowstring, ready to release the arrow, aiming at the sons of Fëanor while slightly turning from side to side.

"Do as I say! Gather our weapons and place them on the ground over there where our hosts can see them,” Maglor continued and silently pleaded for his order to work.

“Maglor!” The twins joined Celegorm in his protest.

“Do as you are told!” Maedhros voice boomed over the path. “We will enter the realm of the Sindar unarmed. Unless they are afraid of our words.”

“Well, well, I do not think I agreed upon anything with any of you,” Mablung shouted, once again moving his hand. “You will stay here, because I have no intention of letting you in. Do I make myself clear?”

One of the arrows whizzed a hairsbreadth from Caranthir’s helmet.

“It was a mere warning,” Mablung called out.

When Mablung’s words and Caranthir’s following, vehement curse had trailed off, behind the line of the wardens, who waited for the signal to shoot, the sound of hooves banging on the ground could be heard. A rider approached at a furious gallop. His horse was covered with foam and snorted heavily while moving swiftly straight to the border. As the horseman halted the stallion, which reared, whinnying, he jumped to the ground and ran over to Mablung. The captain would have to face another surprising arrival, but the news the messenger carried would quickly change his surprise into shock. Mablung slowly turned around and recognized the rider. The king’s messenger. What great timing!

The wardens kept their eyes locked on the group on the path while the thundering of hooves in the forest waned.

“What news from our lord?” Mablung asked when the messenger’s horse came to a sudden halt. Without a word, the elf handed Mablung the orders.

Mablung hardly believed his eyes. Then, shaking his head in utter disbelief, he nodded to the messenger, gesturing for one of the wardens to take care of the horse. Turning on his heels, he looked at the party while indicating the bare ground of the path and saying, “Gather your weapons over here. All of them, without cheating! You too, Beleg!” he ordered. “Follow me!”

“Tis unheard of,” Mablung announced quietly, seeing no one follow him. “I have received a clear order from the king. You are allowed to enter the Hidden Kingdom. You will go to Menegroth. However, you will be traveling unarmed and guarded. Your arms will be stored here until you leave our lands.”

With that, Mablung turned on his heels, left the posts, and headed to his quarters, still shaking his head and shuddering at the thought of letting the Fëanorians enter the realm he was supposed to be defending from every possible danger. It seemed as if he were inviting a pack of wolves into a cattle-pen. Spotting the king’s messenger waiting for his response, he called the errand-warden to bring a fresh horse and turned to the messenger.

“Go back to the king and tell him that the sons of Fëanor are here. They will be escorted to Menegroth. Tell him also that Beleg Cúthalion and Túrin son of Húrin have returned. Hurry, my friend, and may the Valar lead your steps.”

The messenger bowed and mounted the horse the warden had brought in the meantime. He stuck his heels into its sides and the steed darted forward at the speed of lightning.

Mablung waited for the company to gather on the edge of the road that led into the woods near his quarters. Cautiously observing every move of the unexpected guests, he nodded for the wardens to surround the group. Celegorm moved his horse closer to Maedhros’ and snarled, “Allies...?” Beleg heard him and felt anger boiling in his veins. He was about to shoot back a retort at Celegorm but saw Caranthir lean to the right as his horse trotted past Amrod’s and sneeringly address Túrin, “Neithan, you said, hmmm?”

In that moment, Beleg stopped believing this folly would ever bring about anything good. Hanging his head in utter shame, he silently followed the group as the horsemen reached the yard in front of Mablung’s quarters. The joy of returning home had vanished, leaving his thoughts darkened and his heart soured. Behind his back, the wardens piled up the Fëanorians’ weapons, which they had picked up from the path on the border.

“Valar, what have I done?” Beleg muttered, meeting Gwindor’s compassionate eyes.

“Fear not, my friend,” Gwindor comforted him quietly when he had dismounted and walked over to Beleg. Placing a hand on the warden’s shoulder, Gwindor continued, “Have faith, for we have survived many perils thanks to your guidance and wisdom.”

“For what purpose?” Beleg asked bitterly.

“To return home,” Gwindor replied, looking around curiously while the wardens took their positions and glared at the visitors.

“And to bring vipers along, Gwindor,” Beleg whispered, lowering his gaze and sighing.

“Too late for remorse, Beleg.” Gwindor shook his head and the grip of his fingers on Beleg’s shoulder grew stronger. “Do not let bitterness consume you.”

When the preparations were almost finished and five more horses snorted impatiently in the yard, Mablung neared Beleg, who still stood aside. Gwindor, Túrin, and Maeglin mounted the steeds they had been given, but Beleg didn’t move. Mablung stopped in front of him and handed him his bow, quiver, dagger, and the black sword.

“You are not an enemy, Cúthalion,” Mablung said with a smile, unaware of Curufin’s angry look. “Welcome home.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Beleg answered with a sigh, shooting a glare, a silent response, at Curufin past Mablung’s shoulder.

“Let us depart.” Mablung bowed and stepped backward. Having mounted, he glanced at Beleg, who decided to move at last and jumped onto the horse’s back. Mablung raised his hand and commanded, “Fooorwaaaaaaaaaaaard!”

~*~

The rustle of leaves awoke the elleth sitting high in the branches from her cautious reverie. Bringing her senses to alertness, she looked down at the clearing and the path that meandered near the line of trees. Since the day she had seen the messenger hurry from Menegroth to the wardens’ posts on the marches, she had sat on this branch, which offered a full view of the surroundings and, at the same time, provided shelter. An unsettling feeling had told her to stay alert as long as she could, but finally the need to rest, for a while at least, had overcome her. From her seat, she could see the clearing, and now she saw the king’s messenger riding back to Menegroth. The horse forced its way quickly onward, and the elleth leaned forward to take a closer look. Her actions startled a bird, which bounced up from the shrubbery screeching loudly and fluttering its wings.

The messenger’s horse reared on its hind legs, suddenly coming to a complete stop; then, in slow motion, ridiculously slow in comparison to its previous speed, the animal fell onto the grass, banging its left side against the path with a thudding noise. The elf managed to move his left leg up in an effort to avoid being crushed, but the impact of the crash threw him from the horse’s back. His body collided with the ground, and a painful cry ripped the air.

The elleth covered her mouth with her hand as if to stifle a shriek. Immediately, she climbed down the tree trunk and ran over to the horse, which was trying to get up and squealing from pain and fear. The elf was lying motionless, but the steed jumped up vehemently and rushed in a furious gallop back to where it had come from. Only the ever more distant clashing of hooves offered proof that there had been a horse here but a moment ago.

Quickly inspecting the lifeless form, the elleth soon discovered the cause of his unconsciousness. The elf had hit his head against a lone, large stone that stood out from the yellowed grass near the path.

“Poor thing,” she muttered while retrieving her water skin, working its string over her head. Then, she rolled up the sleeves of her tunic, took out a small dagger from its sheath, which was attached to her belt, and brushed her hair from her face and tied it in a thick knot at her nape. With the dagger, she cut a large piece of fabric from her skirt and then divided it into a couple of smaller strips. After wetting the cloth with water from her water skin, she pressed the provisional dressing to the wound on the elf’s head, carefully wiping the blood away. The messenger stirred and moaned from pain.

“Shhh, do not move,” the elleth whispered, tending to the wound and wrapping the strands of her skirt around the elf’s head.

“What happened?” he asked in a cracked voice. “Who are you?”

“You fell from your horse, Sir,” the elleth explained. “You hit your head and you’re wounded.”

“Yes...” he hissed as pain flashed through his head.

“And my name is Nellas,” she supplied quickly.

With a smile, she wiped her hands against her tunic and examined the messenger’s arms and legs in order to find out if there were any broken bones.

“There. My work is done.”

“Thank you, my Lady,” he whispered as his eyelids fell shut.

“Nellas, please.” She laughed softly, relieved that the elf wasn’t grievously injured.

“Daugion.” He moaned again.

“Very well, Daugion, though not entirely ‘well met’,” Nellas answered, tilting her head to the right and studying his face. “Your horse ran off. I am sorry.”

“Ai!” Daugion winced. “My mission!”

“You were heading to Menegroth, were you not?” Nellas asked, pulling back to stand up. She put her skirt in order, sheathed her dagger, and reached for the water skin. Glancing around, she looked for a more suitable place than the middle of the road to wait for their rescue.

Daugion didn’t know whether he should answer.

“I know you were,” Nellas prompted. “Can you please try to get up?”

“What are you doing here, Nellas?” Daugion inquired cautiously, observing her face as she bent forward to help him.

“I live in these woods,” she stated simply.

Daugion smiled while reaching out for Nellas. She put her arms around his waist and pulled him as he wrapped his about her shoulders. Her strength amazed him; in the next moment, he was standing precariously, supported by her arms as she held him tightly to her body.

“Well done, Daugion!” Nellas let out a soft laugh. “You will live.”

“Are you a healer?” he asked in wonder.

“No, but I needed to learn how to survive in the forest,” she replied.

“Why do you not live in Menegroth?”

“You are asking too many questions, Daugion,” Nellas admonished him in a soft voice.

“Yes. Forgive me.” Daugion gave her a short bow, almost dashing his forehead against hers.

“Be careful!” She laughed again. “Though, come to think of it, you may need another injury on the front side of your head, just for balance.”

Daugion would have blushed if his skin weren’t unhealthily pale.

“Oh, I am sorry.” Nellas hurried to explain. “I did not mean to embarrass you. Will you try to walk? I imagine we should get out of the road. Not that I am afraid of the fact that we make an interesting prospect right now by standing here and clutching one another.” She winked at Daugion, who attempted to chuckle but failed completely. “After all, we barely know each other, do we?”

“No.” Daugion winced and then smiled. His head throbbed mercilessly, and he suddenly felt a strong urge to sit down, no matter where, while the whole world began to dance around him.

“Very well, let us try,” Nellas said, changing her position. She moved to Daugion’s left side, wrapping her arm around his waist and drawing his arm along her shoulders. Her hand took a firm hold of his forearm.

“I need to go to Menegroth,” Daugion told her while they waddled from the path to the wayside cluster of trees. Nellas watched their steps, at the same time searching for a good place to rest.

“Of course you do,” she quipped. “But beware; it would take you two hundred days, maybe more, to get there at this velocity. Suppose I had a better idea.”

“Namely, what?”

“We are closer to the border than to Menegroth.”

“Yes.”

“You need to rest.”

“Yes.”

“I can see two solutions. Firstly, I could leave you here and seek for help, and be sure I would go straight to the wardens’ posts,” Nellas continued while they walked over to a tree with large, twisted and mossy roots. “Secondly, I would stay here with you and wait for the Valar to send us someone to take you to Menegroth. Now, what say you?”

Daugion’s forehead clouded over for a brief moment. He knew that the division of wardens was now escorting the sons of Fëanor to Menegroth. There was no need for Nellas to go to the posts because rescue was on its way, or at least Daugion thought so. He wasn’t sure how long they would be waiting for Mablung and his wardens to reach the clearing. If something unexpected happened, they might be sitting here for days.

“Will you stay with me?” he asked hesitantly.

“I will,” Nellas answered.

~*~

Beleg let his horse trot to catch up with Mablung’s, who led the party. After a while, when the horses stepped side by side and the two wardens rode wordlessly, Beleg turned to Mablung. He opened his mouth several times, trying to start a conversation, but his words kept failing him.

“Say, Beleg, what evil power possessed you?” Mablung asked finally.

Beleg frowned.

“Did you imagine what might have been if we had not received the order?”

Beleg said nothing; only his shoulders stiffened.

“Tis madness,” Mablung sighed.

“Aye,” Beleg confirmed.

“I would not have ever thought that you, especially you,” shaking his head, Mablung continued, “would lead the sons of Fëanor here. Never in my weirdest, most incredible dreams. Or should I say nightmares? Beleg, what happened to you?”

“I do not know,” Beleg answered.

“How so?” Mablung seethed.

“Mablung, I will not explain my reasons to you now,” Beleg stated, dropping his eyes as if to count every single strand of hair on the horse’s neck. “I was sure when we neared the borders that we would have to draw swords against one another...”

At that moment, Beleg’s words were interrupted by the sound of hooves rapidly approaching from the depths of the forest. The two leaders halted their steeds; Mablung raised his hand for the company to stop marching. Beleg’s fingers rested on the hilt of his sword.

An unbridled horse appeared on the path in front of the troops, its mane and tail flowing through the air like banners. Noticing the group and chivying aside, the animal tried to escape into the shrubbery.

“Catch the horse!” Mablung shouted.

The wardens rushed to surround the fleeing steed, which Mablung recognized as the one he had given to the king’s emissary.

The moment the elves had disappeared, Caranthir barked out, “Amras! Give me the rope!”

Amras worked the roll over his head and then tossed it to his older brother. Caranthir prodded his horse to move forward, tying a loop at the same time. His mount set out in pursuit, while Caranthir twisted the rope above his head.

“Out of my way!” Caranthir roared.

“Move, people!” Mablung ordered.

Caranthir’s horse closed the distance to the runaway. With a powerful strike of his arm, Caranthir sent the loop to land around the horse’s neck. The rope flew through the air, and in the next moment the fearful squealing of a frightened animal could be heard. In a furious attempt to free itself from the rope, the horse flung itself about, its eyes bloodied and full of horror. Caranthir held the rope and jumped onto the grass to wrestle with the captured beast.

“Easy now, fiery one!”

Caranthir braced his feet against the ground and used all his strength to keep the horse from running away, still speaking in a low voice. The animal reared, its hooves dancing wildly, while Caranthir tried to shorten the rope.

“No need to be afraid. Ease down!”

The horse tossed its head, circling Caranthir in a vehement trot and eyeing him hatefully, but his quiet, musical voice finally set it at ease. The animal stopped, pawing in the dust and snorting angrily.

“Good horse, very good horse,” Caranthir said, slowly walking closer.

At last, he patted the sweat-damped and foamed neck of the steed, which remained motionless, as if glad to have received the caress.

“There you go.” Caranthir chuckled.

A quiet neigh was the sole answer.

“Where did you lose your master?” Caranthir asked.

The horse swished its long tail, stepping beside the elf like a polite puppy.

“Yes, I know,” Caranthir said. “It was a foolish question.”

Handing the rope to Mablung, Caranthir gave him a triumphant smirk and whistled to call his own steed.

“Aline!” Mablung ordered, resuming the march.

Beleg nudged his horse to move beside Mablung’s, silently thankful for the quick action. While the company followed them, he heard the rest of the Fëanorians congratulate Caranthir. Biting his lip pensively, Beleg didn’t utter a word, even though Mablung kept glancing at him questioningly. After a moment of waiting patiently, Mablung called for one of the wardens and commanded him to find out what had happened to the messenger.

For a long time, they traveled along the river, going deeper and deeper into the woods, and Beleg’s heart lightened with each passing step. After all, he was back home, and the breathing of the ancient forest brought him joy and brightened his thoughts. The river snaked between the trees, leading them without hesitation, and Beleg began to think that maybe this difficult situation would turn out well. They would have to face the king, who, Beleg was sure, wouldn’t welcome them with open arms, but something must have happened to make Thingol change his mind and let them cross the border. Beleg saw the queen’s influence in this sudden turnabout. He had to admit he was surprised beyond belief. Thus pondering his current position, he looked at Mablung and smiled faintly.

“At least Túrin is alive and safe with us.”

“Aye, my friend,” Mablung said with a nod. “One day, very soon I can assure you, you will tell me about your trip.”

“With pleasure,” Beleg replied, scanning the line of trees as the company arrived at the edge of the clearing.

“Look!” Mablung rose on the horse’s back, spotting two figures on the ground.

“We’ve found what we were looking for...?” Beleg mused aloud, narrowing his eyes.

One of the figures stood up and waved at the company. The other remained sitting, and much to his surprise, Beleg recognized the king’s messenger with his head wrapped in some kind of dressing.

“What a misfortunate event!” Mablung stated by way of greeting. “Well met, Nellas.” He bowed and smiled at the elleth, who eyed the group suspiciously, trying to hide her surprise.

“Well met, Mablung of the Heavy Hand,” she muttered, curtsying.

Standing up with effort, Daugion broke in, “If it were not for Nellas’ help, I would have been lying here bathed in my own blood, so I am assuming that the day hasn’t been entirely misfortunate.”

“Ah.” Nellas blushed. “No trouble at all.” Then she saw Túrin and felt warmth running down her spine. Having glanced at the rest of the company, she dropped her eyes upon meeting Beleg’s gaze. He looked away, smiling lightly.

“You will be safe now,” Nellas told Daugion.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I can go back home,” she said simply, showing everyone that she had no intention of accompanying them.

In the meantime, Mablung had ordered that a spare horse be given to Daugion. Hearing Nellas’ reply, he waved his hand dismissively, objecting, “Nonsense, my Lady. You will go with us and tell His Majesty what happened.”

“Not again!” Nellas hissed, quietly shaking her head.

Her denial agitated the companions. Gwindor cast a look at Maeglin, who shrugged. Túrin dismounted. Celegorm urged his horse forward, nodding to Amrod to follow him.

“And why, pray tell, do you not wish to go with us, my beautiful?” Celegorm smiled charmingly, his eyes sparkling. Amrod reined his horse in a slow circle around Nellas. She looked at them, frowning. Mablung indicated the two Fëanorians with his head, and a few wardens moved closer to them, ready to prevent more problems.

“I would say tis nothing you should be concerned about, Sir,” Nellas answered.

Túrin cast a look at the rest of the wardens. They stood motionlessly, as if they saw and heard nothing. He shook his head and forced his way forward, leaving his horse where it had stopped. Passing by Celegorm’s steed, he slapped its hind quarters. The horse skipped aside with a start. Celegorm uttered a muffled curse.

Nellas suppressed laughter.

Túrin stood in front of her, bowing slightly. “Do you remember me?” he asked.

“Yes, I do, son of Húrin.” She giggled.

“Come with us, please,” Túrin implored, lowering his voice. Bending forward, he brought a finger to his temple and rotated his hand several times. “These men are mad,” he muttered, winking at Nellas. “Please, do not argue with them.”

“Mad?” she whispered confidentially, glancing past Túrin’s shoulder at Celegorm and then at Amrod. “Very well. I cannot fight with madness. I shall yield to your reasonable advice.”

“Come,” Túrin laughed extending his hand. “You will ride with me.”

Túrin led Nellas to where his horse waited and helped her mount. As they sat together, Nellas narrowed her eyes, looking at Beleg’s broad back, but the warden didn’t turn his head.

~*~

The halls of Menegroth seemed utterly deserted. Where normally the courtiers would be bursting with activity and chatter, most now quickly hurried along the hallways to tend to their chores. It is as if everyone knows who has entered the realm, Melian mused, knowing she still had time to convince Thingol of her intent. The hallway to the treasury chamber was long. It didn’t surprise her at all that Thingol would choose to be all alone. Melian took in the room and immediately recognized the presence of the jewel, which disturbed her greatly. She paused to recollect herself and wondered why this famed jewel should affect her and, even more deeply, her spouse.

“It would not tell you anything good, my Lord, even if you could cast a silent spell on it,” Melian said from the doorway. Upon entering the treasury cave, she had spotted Thingol sitting in the darkest corner and watching the Silmaril, which was lying on a velvety pillow in a small chest. When she had spoken the quiet words, Thingol closed the lid with a startled, vehement movement.

“What do you wish of me, my Lady?” Thingol asked, annoyed that his wife had caught him off guard.

“They are here, Thingol. They crossed the bridge over Esgalduin and are now heading to the main gates. It would be proper to greet them,” Melian replied, folding her arms across her chest and looking at Thingol anticipatively.

“Then go and greet them, my Queen,” Thingol said sharply, shrugging. “I will not humiliate myself by even looking at the sons of Fëanor. Send Mablung to my study when they arrive.”

“I am not your errand-boy,” she uttered firmly.

“Melian, please.”

“Very well.”

“Thank you.”

Melian exited the treasury, shaking her head lightly at the whole conversation. She hadn’t expected the king to agree to welcome the guests, but she was unsettled by the fact that she had found him in the treasury and especially by the manner in which he had guarded the Silmaril, as if Thingol assumed no one else would guarantee its safety. Such was the power of the jewel, and Melian feared it was slowly but surely consuming Thingol’s spirit and that it would succeed in overpowering him soon.

She hurried to the throne hall, ordering one of the sentinels to call for the captain of the palace guards. When he arrived, they quickly discussed the matter of welcoming the party. At last, Melian could sit and wait. Entwining her fingers on her lap, she fixed her eyes on the door.

The sounds of steps, clanging armor, and voices could soon be heard, and after a moment Mablung of the Heavy Hand appeared in the entrance. The queen greeted him with a warm smile. Behind his back, she noticed Nellas and Túrin son of Húrin, and her eyes sparkled with happiness. More of the travelers crowded into the throne hall, and to her enormous surprise, Melian saw Beleg, accompanied by two dark-haired elves. Nellas tried to stay as close to the door as possible, having curtsied, and tangled her fingers in front of her nervously. Finally, the seven Fëanorians entered the hall.

“Mablung,” Melian started when the captain walked over and knelt on one knee before her, “His Majesty wishes to see you.”

“Yes, my Lady,” Mablung answered, getting up and moving away.

“Son of Húrin,” Melian continued, gesturing for the young man to come closer, “my heart is lit with joy.”

Túrin dropped his eyes and knelt as well, saying nothing.

Melian put her hand on his head. “I believe my husband will be delighted to finally see you.” Then, her eyes stopped on the figures of Gwindor and Maeglin. “Welcome, my Lords, to Menegroth. Please, rest and enjoy your stay. The guards will show you your quarters.” She stood up and held out her hand. “Cúthalion,” she said softly. “Welcome home.”

Beleg felt something peculiar catching his throat when he stepped closer to the throne, then knelt, and took the queen’s hand to place a kiss on its back.

Melian smiled at him. “I am happy to see you.”

“My Lady.” Beleg’s voice betrayed his agitation.

“Beleg.” She motioned for him to get up and then looked at the rest of the company. “We will talk later. I imagine the king will be eager to know you have returned.”

The crowd in the hall grew smaller as the guards began to escort the guests to different parts of the palace. Nellas sneaked out of the throne hall thinking that her departure had gone unacknowledged by the queen. Melian only smiled briefly and then turned to the seven brothers, inclining her head lightly.

Proudly, Maedhros stood in front of his brothers. The king obviously hadn’t considered it proper to welcome the guests, just as Maedhros had expected. Carefully choosing his words, so that Maglor wouldn’t admonish him for rudeness later, Maedhros simply smiled at Melian.

“My Lady, Beleg Cúthalion promised us he would bring us here. Did the king choose you to be his emissary…?”

“…or is this kingdom truly ruled by a man who has no…”

“Turko!” Maglor and Maedhros silenced their younger brother with a deadly glare, and extended it to Curufin, whose eyes bore a sparkle of menace. Caranthir sighed at the twins, who tried to suppress their laughter. All knew too well what Celegorm had wanted to say.

“I can see that the House of Fëanor is still represented by many voices, which scatter the power in many directions. But let us refresh first.” Melian offered calmly. “We will provide you rooms and see to your basic needs.”

“This is more generosity than we could expect, my Lady.” Maedhros nodded and walked in the direction the guards indicated; his brothers followed suit. What he didn’t notice was that Maglor was singled out in an instant and escorted to another corridor.

“Maedhros,” Celegorm started.

“Not now, Celegorm.”

“Maedhros!” the Ambarussa repeated and attempted to turn around, but they were stopped by the two tall Sindar.

“Celegorm!” Maedhros sighed impatiently. “Why do you have to stir things up again?”

“Have you not noticed then?” Caranthir spoke for his brothers. “Maglor is not with us!”

“This has been a set up!” Curufin suddenly hissed. “He has been playing us all along. That night when I found him on the riverbank staring at Doriath forlornly. ‘Not all is lost,’ he said to me!”

“Are you telling us that he has handed us over to Thingol? But for what?” Celegorm bristled but found Maedhros’ palm on his chest, as if his oldest brother could quiet all thoughts with one single move.

“He will not betray us, Turko. Maglor has kept us together all this time, even when he should not have. Whatever this Grey Cloak is planning, he will not lure Maglor into his thrall, no matter what magic his spouse conjures.” Maedhros remained deadly calm and soon an awkward silence settled over the brothers. “I trust him with my life,” he firmly added.

Unwilling to direct any more thoughts toward such an outcome, Maedhros nodded to the guards and the small group walked down the corridor. He smiled on hearing Celegorm mutter his protests. I hope I am right to trust you on this, Kano, Maedhros mused while one of the guards indicated his room. The door was closed with a firm thud behind him. I have never questioned you so far, my brother. You had better not betray us.

~*~

The room assigned to Maglor was a spacious one. With a sigh, he dropped his scarce belongings on the desk that stood next to the door. Why have I been separated from my brothers? Knowing how it might be interpreted, he hoped that Maedhros would be able to assure their brothers that even Maglor himself hadn’t had control over this event. Two guards stood outside, making sure he couldn’t escape. Taking in the room, he sauntered over to the bed, which was placed near the opposite wall, and sat down, fighting the sleepiness that threatened to overwhelm him. In the left corner, he saw an object covered with a green, velvet cloth, and to the right he noted a door, which might lead to the bathroom. There was no maidservant, and Maglor understood why. Thingol would have faced a rebellion if he had forced his people to wait upon the seven brothers. The guards escorting him hadn’t uttered a single word on their way to the room, and their glares, filled with hatred, hadn’t gone unnoticed.

As if I had stepped into a warg’s den, Maglor thought and started to untangle his braids; one by one, the long tresses fell down on his shoulders. Once he had removed his boots, Maglor rose from the bed and walked to the bathroom. This part of the chambers was scarcely furnished, only the basic utensils for bathing and changing clothes, but it was good enough. On the wooden shelves, he spotted some small vials of ink, accompanied by leather bags. Maglor restrained his curiosity and moved toward the bathtub, filled with scented, hot water; towels and clean clothes had been placed on the chair next to it.

Carefully, he tested the temperature of water and was surprised that it wasn’t scalding, even though he had witnessed the revulsion of the Sindar. A contented sigh escaped his lips, and he began to undress. Once he had tossed his tunic onto the floor, a melodic voice distracted him.

“I deem everything is in order, Maglor?”

Turning around, Maglor faced Melian.

“My Lady.” Maglor’s face didn’t betray surprise. He inclined his head lightly. “Your visit honours me. May I ask why you have come here?”

Melian studied the tall and handsome elf. His long, raven hair tumbled like silk down onto his back and shoulders, which were broad with small scars. His fine-toned abdomen flowed gracefully into strong hips and thighs. For a moment, Melian could see Finwë in him, but she knew that his younger brother Curufin was the exact copy.

Melian was aware that Maglor had taken a central role in this obscure attempt at a truce, and deep in her heart she realized they would never get this close again. Would words be enough to reach him, or would it take more drastic measures?

“I have come to seek the true meaning of your intent,” Melian answered, perceiving that no words could mislead this Fëanorian. “For so many years we have ached for a minstrel to sing for us,” she continued. “Our losses were cruel.”

“I am not a minstrel, Milady, but a bard.”

For a long time, Maglor had wondered why Celegorm had succumbed to Lúthien, but now, as he stood face to face with her mother, he suddenly understood the power of enchantment.

“I desire to understand your needs.”

“My Lady, trust me, you do not want to understand my needs.”

“But how can I give righteous counsel to my spouse? I beseech you, Maglor. It is the understanding of their nature that I seek.”

“Then, my Lady, tell me how you will seek it.” Maglor’s hand cupped Melian’s chin and pulled her face to his. “I will not be easily fooled by idle words.”

Melian smiled and kissed him softly on the lips. She gasped when Maglor’s tongue sought for entrance to her mouth. Their lips parted in a seductive invitation. She stroked Maglor’s cheek and felt him shiver when she placed her other hand on his neck.

They parted and gazed into each other’s eyes. Maglor knew this was the right way. Her ancient eyes seemed to see more than any other person’s could. Slowly, he ran his fingers through her hair and nodded. He searched for the most cherished memory in his mind, the one she would need to see to understand why he and his brothers had been driven this far.

“How far will we dare to go, Melian?” Maglor’s eyes flicked down her body. Melian caught her breath.

Such arrogance, and yet so enticing, she thought.

“I warned you, you would never understand my needs.”

“Some things need to be done for a greater purpose,” Melian answered, placing her hands on his smooth chest and sliding them down to glide her fingers over his nipples. Stopping on the ties of his leggings, she asked, “Will you?”

Catching her palms, Maglor smiled and rested them on his shoulders. “There will be a price.”

Melian nodded. Their mouths fused again. She mingled her mind with his and opened her eyes in amazement. The memory he granted her brought her back to Valinor. She followed him along green hills to a house where a broad-shouldered elf tossed a red-haired elfling in the air while an identical child clung to his leg. Maglor showed her the younger versions of himself and his brothers, full of joy and energy. The light of Telperion shone brightly, and all Melian felt was the sheer happiness and peace of their hearts. Soon she followed Fëanor into a darkened room. Serenity overcame her, a peace she had never felt before completed by love, excitement, and utter devotion. Three jewels were revealed, and Melian thought she had never seen such pure beauty, so different from the one she had beheld in Thingol’s chest. Slowly, she withdrew from Maglor’s thoughts and broke off their frenzied kiss and the meeting of their fëar.

“The only question is,” Melian whispered, her breath brushing his cheek while their foreheads rested against one another, “what you seek no longer contains the purity it once had.”

“Our cause is dire. If it is tainted, then we must seek for the means to heal it.” Maglor kissed her hands in reverence and let go of her. With a sigh, he wetted a cloth and washed his face.

“Do you not ache for peace of mind?” Melian asked, feeling nothing but pity for his fate. “Could your brothers agree to have one of them live near the Silmaril, as if he were appointed as its guard? We might be able to rinse away the malice and corruption from this one, since my own peace is at stake here.”

“I will follow Maedhros wherever he goes. As long as he does not find peace, neither shall I,” Maglor answered and grabbed a ladle. “But, Milady, as you can see, the need to find allies is important to us. We need the Kingdom of Doriath at our side. I imagine we can agree on guardianship of the jewels, that is, if we defeat Morgoth and regain what is ours…”

And we will be healed, Melian thought.

“The Valar will never leave the jewels alone, Maglor. You know this.”

“You must promise us never to yield it to the Valar, Melian,” Maglor said heatedly.

Taken aback by his sudden anger, Melian was surprised by this token of trust in her. “If I agree and if I can persuade my lord to…”

“My Lady, I do believe that your magic will shield the jewel from evil. But the ownership is ours. It is our legacy. Together, we can create a greater one – of victory and forgiveness.” Lazily, he poured the water over his head using the ladle. With a smile, he unlaced and peeled his leggings off.

“Maglor, you dream too much. Such things cannot be. Your heart may be almost pure, but some of your brothers will have to go a long way before they ever redeem themselves.” Melian handed him a towel and watched him dry himself before he put on the fresh set of clothes.

“My Lady, it is difficult to say what is impossible, for the dreams of yesterday are the hopes of today and the realities of tomorrow,” Maglor replied.

“A true son of Fëanor.” Melian gave him the dark-blue robe.

“Grandson of Finwë. Remind your spouse, my Lady, of the sacrifice of Finwë’s kin; remind him who slew my grandsire; remind him who started all this.” The robe fitted Maglor like a second skin as it flowed gracefully over his body. He left the bathroom and fastened his belt.

“For a long time have I thought that the passion that rules the hearts of Fëanor’s sons would only bring folly. But now I realize that it may also bring wisdom,” Melian said softly and turned to the door. “Will you play for us this evening? You will find everything you need in this room, because it once belonged to Daeron.”

“Everything has a price, Melian,” Maglor warned her and suddenly realized what was standing in the corner of the room under the green velvet cloth.

“I will do whatever is in my power,” she promised him and slipped out into the hallway.