Written in the Starlight by Rhapsody

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We Are Fools to Make War on Our Brothers in Arms

Special thanks to our wonderful beta's Lydia and Spaceweavil!

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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.