Written in the Starlight by Rhapsody

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With Us or Against Us

Special thanks to our wonderful beta Lydia!

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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!”