Carmina Brethilia by Robinka

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A toast for the forest soldiers

(...) Halmir lord of the Haladin sent swift word to Thingol, for he had friendship with the Elves that guarded the borders of Doriath. Then Beleg Strongbow, chief of the marchwardens of Thingol, brought great strength of the Sindar armed with axes into Brethil; and issuing from the deeps of the forest Halmir and Beleg took an Orc-legion at unawares and destroyed it. Thereafter the black tide out of the North was stemmed (...).

[J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion, "Of the ruin of Beleriand and the fall of Fingolfin"]

 

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I lament Fortune's blows

 

"Nothing compares to your fingers, Cúthalion." Mablung winced as he pulled up his leggings and laced them back.

"Don't repeat that too loudly." Beleg discarded bloodied bandages by throwing them into the hearth. He rinsed his hands in a bowl of warm water and dried them with a clean cloth. "I have enough to deal with, mind you. Now," he patted Mablung's back, "I'll give you some ointment, and you'll be as good as new in a handful of days. Just don't stretch your... schedule, will you?"

"Aye, Captain!" Mablung groaned. "Thank you for stitching my arse. I have no need for another," he winked, "hole there."

Beleg laughed, shook his head, and stood up. He reached into his bag, rummaged through the contents and retrieved a small, round box, then set it on the table.

"Now," he pointed a finger at Mablung, "apply this two times a day. Or have someone else do it, your choice. Gently!"

Throwing the bag onto his shoulder, he gave Mablung a nod by way of good-bye and, seen to the door by Mablung's broad grin, he left his friend's lodging, to which Mablung himself referred as modest, but comfortable. As he stood on the threshold, Beleg again shook his head, chuckling, and went to his own temporary quarters at a slow pace.

Mablung was lucky, Beleg thought, he might have had a hole in his back, not a shallow wound just a two-hand distance below. Beleg smirked, but was relieved that it was indeed a scratch. Well, maybe not so, but still Mablung was nowhere near passing to the Halls – of which Beleg had a firm impression upon receiving the news of Mablung's wound. He suspected that his friend had exaggerated the severity of the injury deliberately. Mablung had made a great show of his distress upon his arrival, but despite the pretense, Beleg hadn't truly been irritated. After all he had been Mablung's brother-in-arms and friend for a longer time than the two of them cared to assess. He would have been upset if Mablung hadn't sent word and was seriously harmed.

Beleg sighed as he strode along the dimly lit corridor. In the distance, voices rang, announcing that he wouldn't have a peaceful evening.

"Damnation." He grunted. Quickening his pace upon hearing his name several times, he soon came into view of a group of his subordinates. Among them, he saw two of the palace guards and two Men, unfamiliar but possibly here in seek of help, he decided, noting their tired and dirty faces that bore such looks that Beleg could define as 'worn-out' – equally as their attire. Yes, they were exhausted, but they also looked about in haste as if anxious.

"Captain, there is an urgent matter to discuss, and the king needs your presence," one of the wardens confirmed what Beleg had already guessed.

"Aye," he only said and adjusted the bag that hung from his shoulder. There would be a plenty of evenings for relaxation in the future. For now, duty called, and Beleg – willing, but not overly happy – was going to answer.

 

Uneasy sits the king

 

Thingol sat at his huge desk covered with maps, scrolls and pieces of parchment. When Beleg had appeared in the doorway, announced by the manservant, the king beckoned to him without a word. Beleg entered and completed a bow, courteous, but not too deep. Well mannered didn't mean boot licking.

"Men out of Brethil brought word of an imminent danger swarming out of the North," Thingol muttered.

Beleg cocked his ears.

"Do you wish me to set out?"

A flash of Thingol's eyes from among the hanging strands of his silvery blond mane answered his question, and Beleg had no need for more confirmation.

The king straightened his back and sat deeper in his chair. Beleg nodded when invited to join him at the desk, across from Thingol. The monarch clapped his hands. Soon, the manservant brought what Beleg had craved for the entire afternoon – a carafe with ruby liquor, and placed two glasses on an uncovered area on the desktop. The king thanked him and gestured for Beleg to help himself to the wine.

"Advise me, Beleg," Thingol requested, when they looked at one another from above the rims of their respective spectacles. "Should I say yes, or should I say no?"

"It depends, your majesty," Beleg responded with a smirk, "to whom, and upon what burning matter you so desire my judgment."

"You old bastard!" Thingol admonished him with a theatrical gesture, then put his hand to his forehead, kneading it with his fingers.

"No time for jesting, though. I hear a hoard of orcs," Thingol pretended to spit on the floor, "heads toward our western borders, leaving but debris and carcasses. In Brethil, the folk of Haleth have found themselves in dire need of our help. What say you, hunter?"

"Tempting, my lord." Beleg absorbed the information in a flash and began planning his departure. "What force can you spare me?"

"Some nine hundred men, maybe more," Thingol replied, rubbing his hands together as he put the glass aside.

"And with my wardens, that would make a thousand men."

"Good, good. Leave none alive, Beleg, none of those mongrels of Mor-," the king coughed into his curled palm, "-goth."

"I shall do as you say, your majesty," Beleg agreed, his mind set on scheduling what should be done. "Mablung unfortunately is not going to accompany me, nor is he able to take up any duties for a few days, I'm afraid."

"How so?" Thingol sounded genuinely concerned. "What happened?"

"Minor injury, but he must stay at home." Abed preferably, lazy arse, Beleg added silently.

"I see." Thingol nodded. "I'll have someone wish him a quick recovery in my stead."

Beleg smiled. Most likely, that wish would be personified by a pretty maid with a flask of the finest vintage out of Ossiriand. Thingol was a connoisseur and knew how to trade, and how to flatter, Beleg inclined his head and closed his eyes. Mablung would be glad to receive the gift, if only the inanimate part of it, and he would forget about the literal pain in his arse. If Beleg could spare a bit of time before he led his troops to the woods of Brethil, he would check on Mablung again and make sure some of the delicacies from the royal kitchens were included in the king's 'recovery gift' as well. Some of the staff proved to be talented in pastry cooking and conjured such tidbits that thinking of them alone made one's mouth water.

"I shall depart as soon as I can," Beleg offered, not that Thingol needed his assurance, but he had to shake himself out of daydreaming about clever hands of a certain maiden who was one of the pastry chefs and whose lips were – as Beleg had often sampled – sweeter than ripe wild strawberries. That ought to wait until he came back... Sure as Melian's girdle. When he had his mind free from his current burden.

"Excellent." Thingol affirmed. "Good fortune, Cúthalion."

 

When a boy with a maiden

 

Mablung envied Beleg, as Beleg judged by his friend's furrowed brow and thinned lips, but a bottle of wine and a good chunk of roast venison with apples and cranberry sauce improved his mood enough to keep himself from snarling at Beleg when he had passed the news about his task.

After leaving his chamber, Beleg went to the kitchens to order provisions be prepared for his mission. There, he found Miniel as he could expect. She immediately guessed that something was brewing, before he could even open his mouth to say his greetings and Beleg, having estimated his needed food supplies, beckoned for her to go outside. She nodded, wiped her hands against her apron, took it off and hung it on a hook in the door, caring little for the meaningful smiles of the other women present.

"Where are you going this time?" Miniel asked quietly. "Worry me."

"Miniel." Beleg wanted his look to mean 'no moaning'. "Orc-harvest in Brethil."

"Soon?"

"Tonight."

She acknowledged by looking away, then straight into his eyes as she raised her head. Her eyes shone.

"I'll be waiting."

"I know."

She always did, Beleg thought. And she never complained, in truth. Those looks she sometimes sent him, those words she might have said, but always held her tongue on, weren't meant to stab. They came out of concern, longing to see him well and in one piece. Perhaps, out of love too, but neither of them had ever expressed that in words. Care, joy of being together, yes, but if Beleg was to give their relationship a deeper thought, he couldn't recall either of them mentioning love.

Miniel walked beside him, her face clouded, her hands fumbling with a loose end of her gown's lace. Beleg couldn't help taking her by the hand. She looked up and smiled in response.

"Will I get a kiss before I go?" he asked.

"It depends where," she teased, then became serious. "You know you always will."

Suddenly touched, Beleg lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss on the inside of her thumb. Miniel held her breath, then made them both halt their steps, stood on her tiptoes, and whispered, "Don't be gone long, Beleg," against his mouth, before she caught his lower lip between her teeth and sucked it lightly.

 

Come, come, do not let me die

 

The chilly air clung to the skin at dawn, and the weak sun couldn't chase away the cold. Beleg looked back over his shoulder, then pulled the hood of his mantle onto his forehead as he pushed through the thick brushwood, heading westward. His wardens followed in his wake, a group that he had chosen to accompany him to the Haladin's settlement, where he expected to find the elders of that folk, gather information and then determine their plan. Scouts had gone roaming, squads marched on to their appointed posts, and Beleg set his mind at ease for a while.

The trees murmured, bidding them welcome by spreading their branches and rustling their leaves joyfully. Their energy was warming, their soughing speech hopeful, and Beleg glanced up at the green-grey sky, smiling. He thanked the forest and strode as fast as he could, wading in the shrubbery. Then, he readjusted the bow and the quiver on his back.

He had already considered a few ways of how they – his wardens, Thingol's soldiers, and the Haladin – might play this game, should they be willing to fight. His own and Thingol's men, he was certain of their conviction, but what of the Haladin? Tough folk, they were, even if mortal and prone to swift death. Moreover, their guardianship of Brethil had seasoned these men into hardened warriors, yet they weren't as barbaric as some other mortal tribes. His own folk held them in high esteem, and even the Gelydh acknowledged them as capable, which was a rare thing for the folk, who doled out their respect grudgingly.

Beleg allowed himself to smile grimly. He thought about Mablung and the look on his face when they had shaken their hands in farewell. It was Mablung's luck, or his bad luck, that they wouldn't be fighting side by side this time. Surely, his friend would make up for it did a chance come. Beleg didn't feel sorry for leaving Mablung behind this time. His friend could always play chess with Miniel. Frankly, Beleg didn't care for the game, he had neither the patience nor mind for it. He was therefore no match for Miniel, at least in that specific area. Mablung on the other hand could sit all day long bent above the board and analyzing strategies. Only now, he couldn't sit, Beleg sneered, but then smacked himself mentally for that.

Shaking his head, he focused back on his surroundings. The wisps of fog that blanketed the undergrowth began rising, wrapping the squad of wardens in a chilling shawl. Beleg slowed his pace and listened to the pulse of the forest. Amid the breathing of the wildlife, he could recognize the alien sounds of a mortal settlement, like false notes in a once perfect score. Nonsense, he thought as he drove those oppressive thoughts away. He was here to aid these people, not to patronize them.

As soon as the wardens emerged into the clearing at the foot of Amon Obel, dogs began barking inside the palisade alerting everyone to their presence, and the gate guards gestured to one another, assessing the host's arrival. A hawk's shriek pierced the air; Beleg answered the signal, putting his hand to his mouth and whistling in a manner of a blackbird. The guard shrilled a 'hawkish' response and Beleg continued marching toward the lower gate.

He led his squad through the passage, along the bridge over the ditch where sharpened pales stood out, through the wooden gateway under the watchtower, straight onto the yard. A wide, stone roadway spiraled up the hill to the upper gate. Alongside, cottages and barns sat, smoke rose from fireplaces, and people – stopping in their chores – watched the wardens with caution. Children had no reluctance, as ever, and ran onto the yard after a moment of scare and surprise. They circled Beleg's men, walking along with them, sending gap-toothed smiles all over the Edhil and whispering to each other, "Fair Folk! The Fair Folk have come!" among giggles and punches. As they climbed up the hill and passed through the gateway, they came up onto another yard, smaller and tidier, with a well in the middle.

"Cúthalion!"

Beleg turned his attention away from the children that gathered around him to the largest household – there, in the doorway stood the man that had called him.

"Our request has been granted!" the man called out and stepped onto the yard. "Welcome!"

With his arms open, he walked over to Beleg, who smiled and grasped the man's shoulders.

"And look who's come with aid? Cúthalion himself!" the man exclaimed. "The orcs will shit themselves!"

"Halmir!" Beleg chuckled and drew the man into a firm hug. "I'm only a modest border guard."

"There, there!" Halmir gripped Beleg's arms. "Modest border guard my arse! Come! Please, my friends, be welcome and rest. There's fresh water in the well, there's last autumn's ale in the cellar and freshly baked bread in the kitchens. I'll make sure you have everything you need."

Beleg gestured for his squad to settle on the yard, near the well, its swoop soon creaked under the heaviness of the bucket. Halmir led Beleg into his hall, issuing commands to his household as they went, ordering servants to bring food and beer for the wardens. As they stepped inside, over the high threshold into the dim hearth hall, Beleg looked around and nodded his greetings to the few young men and women who raised their heads from their tasks as he walked past them. They watched him, the innocent curiosity of the children suddenly replaced by eyes huge as mill-wheels, lashes batting, and the licking of lips, which made Beleg smirk. They always did this, he thought, always undressed him with their eyes, him or other men and women of the Grey Folk. Sometimes there would be a performance: flexing of young muscles and shaking long hair about, a bait for him to pluck and play with. A privilege of adolescence, he mused. Soon they would find out how swift and illusive it was. Even more so, in their case, he sighed inaudibly, when he considered the short lives of these folk.

"Please, sit," Halmir said, inviting Beleg to a seat at the table. "Let us break our fast."

"Thank you." Beleg put his bow, quiver and mantle aside on the bench.

"How many of you have come?" Halmir asked.

"A thousand axes," Beleg answered. "And my bow." He patted the wooden, black curve of the weapon.

Halmir grinned. He then rubbed his hands together, pulled a plate with bread, smoked lard and pickled cucumber closer to him and tore a handful of the bread. A maid brought two large, damp tankards of wheat beer, not overly strong, Beleg noticed when he allowed himself a generous gulp, but promising refreshment to satiate the thirst. Beleg took out a lembas from the inside pocket in his leather vest. He broke it into two pieces and munched on a chunk.

"Beleg, you are offending me," Halmir remarked, pointing at the waybread, then at his own food. "I insist."

"All right, you old rat," Beleg said, chuckling. "I'll save the lembas for my way back to the marches." He put the pieces back into the cloth in which they had been wrapped, and hid it in the pocket. The maid came back with a plate for him, setting a jar of honey and another plate with cheese on the tabletop. She flashed a smile at Beleg and went away, hips swaying, her fair braid brushing against her behind. Beleg glanced at Halmir, whose eyes saw the girl to the doorway. Then the man turned back to his meal and Beleg.

"Ah, them lasses, firm as turnips," he mumbled, making Beleg's brow move up. "Don't mind me," Halmir added. "I'm an old rat indeed, but harmless."

"Not to the orcs, though."

"True, true, my friend. Help yourself." He gestured toward the food. Beleg thanked him before biting into a slice of bread, onto which he had spread the cheese. Goat cheese seasoned with marjoram and garlic, he thought, not bad.

"Your scouts," Beleg asked, "what did they find out?"

Halmir's mischievous demeanor changed and the merry twinkle Beleg had seen in his eyes just a moment before vanished as Halmir resumed the information gathered by his men. Beleg nodded as he ate slowly, venturing a question now and then. Halmir finished his meal and drained his tankard.

"My son and his men should be here shortly," Halmir said and suggested a refill of the ale. "Then we will decide what to do."

Beleg accepted both of Halmir's offers.

 

No straight path

 

When the warriors appeared subsequently in the doorway some time later, Beleg had finished eating and he swept his forearm over the tabletop to remove the crumbles of bread. He set the dishes aside and spread out the map that he took out of the inside pocket in his vest. Halmir invited his men to sit at the table and clapped his hands for the servants to bring more ale and take away the dishes. Soon, a few more people came in, among them Haldir, Halmir's son. He greeted Beleg with a hearty handshake. The other warriors, especially the young ones, seemed intimidated at first. Their reluctance faded when the discussion began and the ale started to flow in their veins, warming their faces. The prospect of wasting the orcs heated their blood too. Beleg smiled at their eagerness with approval. He looked around, noticing a few children that clustered together outside the small window, trying to take a peek inside the hall, curious as always. Nothing would drive them away now, he thought and turned to the gathered men.

"Our posts are aware of the imminent danger," Beleg said as his finger followed the line of the Hidden Kingdom's northern marches on the map. "Our northern marches are prepared, as ever. Then, we tripled the number of the marchwardens along Mindeb. Some of them will foray into Dimbar if need be. Now, we are here," he tapped the map where the hill of Amon Obel was drawn with red ink in the midst of sketched trees, "and the orcs, I hear, come down from the North along the river of Sirion, is that so?"

"That's what we know," Halmir's son, answered. "They take their time, of course, ravaging everything that moves as they go. Burning to the bare ground. They are slow."

A heavy silence fell, Beleg could only hear a few flies buzzing under the candles set on a crossbeam that hung from the roof.

"My men doubled the outposts in Nivrim as well. They will know of every move of the enemy, if the orcs come that far," Beleg assured the men sitting at the table, then he sat back and leaned against the backrest of the bench. "But let's not think about the worst possible outcome. Thingol's warriors have gone to hide deep in the woods along the river. They are waiting for our call. My squad is at your command, Halmir."

"Thank you, Cúthalion," the older man replied. "Before we reinforced the posts at the ford of the Teiglin, I ensured each and every hamlet in these woods was warned. Our folk have either stayed on their land, but hunkered down in hiding, or they have come here. There is enough room for refugees, and we are well stocked. Still there are plenty who refused, and I fear for them."

"They won't come, reluctant to leave behind everything they have even though that may cost them their lives," Haldir commented. "You know that, father."

Haldir tangled his fingers in his beard, the other men sat in silence. Halmir's face took on a grim but determined expression.

"Gentlemen, we simply have to rout the orcs, force them out of Brethil so they or their damned offspring will never come back from the North, or better yet, drown them all in the river," Halmir decreed. "We must make sure that there is no way for them to escape alive from here. Right, Beleg?"

"I agree," Beleg said. "My men's axes are sharp, waiting for the orcs' necks."

"Good."

Haldir beckoned a maid to fetch his sister-sons. She went away, hurrying outside Halmir's household, and Beleg looked back at his companions and would be brother-in-arms at the table. Among them, Halmir was the oldest, with his beard and hair almost grey, but lively and jovial as he sipped the ale and chewed on a piece of dried venison. Haldir, his son, was a man in his ripe years, sturdy and strong, his voice firm and commanding. His eyes bore gentleness though that Beleg could clearly see and knew that a kind heart hid beneath the thick wool of Haldir's garb. When the fair-haired youths came in, bowing before the gathering and glancing askance at Beleg, Haldir ruffled the younger's hair with a fatherly affection and patted the elder's arm.

"My boys, sit with us and open your ears," he said. "Things of great import are going to be discussed, and I wish you listen and learn."

The two boys nodded solemnly, but the light in their eyes was eager as they sat on the bench beside their uncle. Beleg crossed his arms over his chest. Although there were young women and men among his own troops, they were adults by any standards, mortal or Firstborn, and he wasn't too fond of the idea of sending children to war. The younger lad, Huor, was merely a child, though of course if anyone asked him, he would firmly state he was a grown man. The older, Húrin, yes, he was old enough to wield a sword, and he did successfully – as far as Beleg could recall. Still, war wasn't a walk in the woods in the spring. War was gutting, breaking, all manner of bloody work. War meant fright and terror, broken bodies and torn spirits – nothing to do for children and their innocence. On the other hand, should the orcs come upon the settlements, there would be no time for thinking twice. Kill or be killed – or worse. Hands and hearts couldn't flinch then, Beleg was well aware, no matter to whom they belonged, to the old or the young. He sighed, letting his head fall a little and his mind ramble on children and war. It never seemed a promising combination. Either mortal or Firstborn, children shouldn't be pushed into battle too soon, he thought. But, some parents decided otherwise regardless of the consequences.

Miniel's father, who had been Beleg's fellow warden, used to say that Beleriand wasn't a place for the weak. Either in spirit, or in flesh. Weaklings, Híthoron had said, were a burden, prone to pass to the Halls or beyond the circles of Arda in a blink of an eye. Therefore, his little twin daughters had undergone a training intended for the wardens even though they hadn't been too willing. He was right, in a way, but Beleg couldn't help having an impression that Híthoron had pushed the girls to their limits when they were too young. Beleg, who had earned his high rank long before the sun had first appeared on the firmament, couldn't agree with such methods, but he had no real say when it came to judging someone who was a parent. He had often calmed the more mouthy and rebellious Miniel and placated her sister, drying her relentless tears. Why children were drawn to him like moths to a flame, he couldn't tell, but having no progeny himself, he had often surprised other people with his way with the young.

Unfortunately, Híthoron had joined those underestimated weak sooner than he had ever expected – Beleg remembered that day as if it were yesterday. How Miniel's mother had railed and cursed, even the toughest warriors' ears had withered at her ferocity. But then, he had found out then whose sharp tongue Miniel had inherited.

Miniel, he thought and smiled.

"Our guest seems bored," Halmir called out. "There, Cúthalion, lack of sleep at home? Something we weren't told about, eh?" He winked roguishly.

Beleg laughed. Still, revealing his private life before the men wasn't something he would go for, after all it was his life. He clapped his hands on his thighs and straightened up, and then reached for his tankard.

"Friends, let me just say that I am an extremely busy Edhel." He looked around. "But I'm not sleepy. Just planning the best possible way for us to get rid of the orcs."

The men nodded while Beleg sipped the ale and listened to them exchange their concepts of how their joint forces should attack the orcs. They gesticulated and conducted their conversation louder and louder, until Halmir banged the table with his fist. Beleg smiled mildly, one corner of his mouth moved up.

"We need surprise as our assistance," Beleg stated. He noticed their surprise at his words and grinned. "My point is: we will let them enter Brethil, if they follow Sirion for a few miles downstream and then we will push them toward the river from their right, flanking them if they try to escape back north. That way, we will have enough time to regroup in the forest if they – as you pointed out, Haldir – were slow. But," Beleg drew a breath, "we mustn't underestimate them. They aren't mindless."

"They're but beasts!" some of the younger men shouted.

"Their speech might be foul, but they have brains that allow them to think, believe me."

"So what would you have us do?" Haldir queried as he silenced the hasty warriors.

"What if they press for the ford of the Teiglin?" Beleg asked.

"They know that the forest isn't their friend. If they are clever enough, they would turn to the right," Halmir supplied, nodding at Beleg.

Crying out, the most impatient of the men leaped up from their seats. "We shouldn't let them!" they exclaimed in unison.

"Therefore we must prevent them from doing so. We must hurry and surprise them as far north as we can," Beleg concluded. "I shall send word to my troops right away."

"Aye!" Voices resounded. "Aye, Cúthalion! Well said!"

"Let us not tarry further," Haldir added. "We set out immediately. Huor, Húrin," he turned to his nephews, "off you go! We are leaving!"

The men rushed out of the hall, leaving Halmir and Beleg to prepare specific orders for their troops. Soon, the call to muster up could be heard outside. Beleg nodded to Halmir, took his bow and left to join his wardens on the yard.

 

Everywhere the forest is in bloom

 

"It's a woman!" Huor whispered to his older brother, forgetting to keep his voice as quiet as possible. Everyone in a close proximity heard him, including the female warden in question. Beleg shook his head and decided to let that remark pass unanswered. The warden could reply with no assistance from him, but she was smarter than that, Beleg knew, and she only sent Huor a mildly irritated look, rolling her eyes when she glanced at Beleg, which made him chuckle. Poor boy, Beleg thought, a pair of breasts, full underneath a simple grey shirt, must have surprised him. His brother wasn't as astounded, though he observed Súllinn with the interest of a young buck. Súllinn noticed that, too, her lips made a small smile of appreciation that lasted less than a breath, and then her face became a mask of indifference. She was a warrior who didn't need to prove anything to anyone.

As they marched on, leaving the Haladin's settlement behind their backs, Beleg noticed that Huor furtively looked over his shoulder. Perhaps, the boy wasn't really prepared for this, regardless of his apparent eagerness, Beleg mused, and even his brother's presence might not lessen the fear of what was to come, intensified by the surroundings: between the giant trees, under their thick foliage, and behind mossy trunks, shadows lurked. Roots – twisted and slippery – made perfect traps for the unwary, and the sun could barely penetrate through the dense green canopy. Beleg inhaled deeply and pressed on, minding his steps, then looked around at his wardens and the Haladin.

Their faces were grim, eyes set on the trees. Or probably their focus was on the battle to come, Beleg wondered. Most likely, on both, he almost slapped his forehead at his stupid thoughts. On the other hand, what to think about to help push away the unpleasant thoughts of the impending confrontation? Beleg remembered delicious food, a fire roaring in the hearth on a rainy and cold evening, when one wouldn't poke their head outside for any reason; other people would recall mead glittering in a chalice; some of them would think of a beloved woman's limbs tightly pressed to one's body, slick from sweat and lust; yet another one would remember listening to the heartbeat of an unborn child. Pondering these distractions served well enough to forget about the upcoming gore, Beleg concluded and let his thoughts wander as he walked through the forest.

Some of his daily chores seemed tedious from time to time, but in the grand scheme he would never feel tired of them, with perhaps the exception of Daeron's insistence that he listen to a yet another unfinished canto, he chuckled under his breath. Beleg was an inept rhymer, everyone in Menegroth knew that. He didn't care for flowery speech, tra-la-la-leeing in front of an enchanted – truly or falsely – crowd, confabulating and mixing up facts with myths, poorly pulled off.

Miniel had snorted at him a little when he confessed his impatience with Daeron's supplications for critique, but then, she wasn't too fond of lyrical poetry either. When she didn't work in the kitchens, she usually spent her free time in the king's study or in the library sorting out scrolls and cataloging maps. She often had her fingers marked with ink, he smiled fondly, sometimes she had black spots on her sleeves or even or her face. She joked that those were a new kind of freckles – Ephediles scriptoris – which she had discovered and thus her name would be forever included in the annals of Beleriand. Beleg had agreed with her opinion, stating that her discovery was a reason to celebrate, which she wholeheartedly supported. Later, when they rested in each other's arms, Miniel remarked that he should visit the library more often.

"I will," Beleg had promised her. "These scrolls provide a comfortable bedding." And he had received a playful punch in his chest.

Miniel could always find an interesting read for him. Beleg turned his thoughts to the latest book he had read, authored by Finrod Felagund, that compared weaponry and warfare habits preferred by the Gelydh to the ones of the Naugrim and the Eglath. It was well-researched and presented accurate illustrations, thanks to Finrod having dwelt in Menegroth for a time so that he could observe the smiths and armorers. Wisely, the Golodh hadn't decreed whose traditions were better, a sound diplomatic tactic. It always depended on the circumstances, Beleg mused, walking on by the trees.

"Beleg?"

Beleg shook off his thoughts. "Yes, Súllinn?"

"A scout has arrived." She was grinning as if she won a prize, her hand clenched on the axe's handle, her brown eyes narrowed.

"Fetch him."

"Aye, Captain."

Beleg turned on his heels as he left his position in the advance party. The men continued to move forward at a steady pace while Beleg made his way back toward the rear of the company. One man outpaced the others, running up to Beleg as swift as a hare escaping the bloodhounds. Beleg greeted him with a short nod, and the scout rushed with his report.

"The orcs left the valley of Sirion," Brandor said. "Indeed, on their way southward, they head south-west, to the river of Teiglin."

"How many?" Beleg queried.

"Approximately several thousand of heads, five or six," Brandor answered. "As our scouts could roughly estimate the host."

"I see," Beleg nodded and kneaded his forehead as he and Brandor resumed walking side by side. "Some of them maraud around, seeking goods, slaves and victims for their vicious doings."

Beleg kept nodding as Brandor related the news. It turned out the orcs weren't as slow as Haldir had predicted. They seemed more disciplined as they entered the woods, in the area of the ford of Brithiach, didn't flood the land as they used to, only pressed south-west, setting fire in each settlement, hut, and cottage as they went.

"People of the Haladin tribes, those from small villages and hamlets deep in the forest, escaped eastward, deeper into the woods," Brandor continued, managing to keep his voice steady. "In the direction of the hill of Amon Obel generally, but some of them, blind in their hurry, even reaching Sirion, as the orcs swarm out of the North."

"I feared there might be as many of the orcs." Beleg looked at Brandor and sighed. "A hundred of them smell bad to me, but I've had this creeping feeling that we need to prepare for more. Well," he said, linking his hands on his back, "what you said seems a correct headcount to me. Not that it improves my mood."

"You may be right, Captain," Brandor admitted. "Perhaps we need captives to confirm our information?"

"We may not have enough time for that," Beleg answered. "On the other hand, taking a captive or two might serve us well."

"They may have sent scouts, too," Brandor suggested, "as they are now closer to the ford of Teiglin."

"All right, then. Take a few men and go, Brandor." Beleg nodded. "Good fortune."

The warden sped off into the forest. Looking over his shoulder, Beleg followed him with his gaze for a moment, until Brandor disappeared between the trunks, then he strode forward fast to catch up with the head of the company.

 

In bitterness and rage

 

Beleg didn't have to wait long for the opportunity to ask an orc a few questions. Brandor and three other scouts had encountered a small marauding party in a burned settlement that had consisted of four poor huts. The people who had dwelt there were slain. Later the wardens had found their bodies in a well, but they found one survivor, too. The orcs had abducted the young woman and her grandmother. The elderly mortal couldn't run as fast as her offenders would have liked for their cruel sport, so they had beheaded her, while they shrieked and laughed at her granddaughter's terror. The younger – a girl that had barely blossomed into womanhood, could only regret that the orcs hadn't slain her as quickly. When Brandor and the wardens had intervened, the orcs had finished raping her, all five of them as she had related, trembling and crying.

 

"Ate Gran's leg, them d-d-did," she whispered to Beleg.

She clutched her torn gown with both hands and didn't allow even Súllinn to wash her face, nor would she speak about the violence any longer. Súllinn gave her water and food and watched her for a time, and said she should take the girl aside to examine her injuries, that is, if the girl would let her. Beleg agreed and commenced the task of obtaining information from the two orcs Brandor had taken captive.

"They won't tell you anything," Súllinn added, pointing at the two creatures that knelt before them, disarmed and bound, but their eyes darting about, filled with hate and anger. "Good that Brandor found the girl, but these two are as useful as the last winter's snow."

"Súllinn, please," Beleg forced through his gritted teeth.

"Aye, Captain."

Then, he turned to the orcs.

"Where were you going?"

They answered with what sounded like the croaks of crows, Beleg couldn't say if it was laughter or actual speech, but he repeated his question. As he looked around, he could see that he drew the whole company's attention.

"Ain't tell ye nothin', elf!" The orc spat a gobbet of bloody saliva at Beleg's feet.

Beleg remained calm and studied the creature's face, its crimson eyes, full of menace, and bald skull, and every wrinkle on the orc's face seemed a mockery of the human race to him.

"You will live, if you do," Beleg answered.

"Fuck you!"

"Oh, I'm sure you'd be glad to do so," Beleg crouched in front of the creature and drew a knife from the scabbard attached to his belt, "wouldn't you now?"

The orc screeched when Beleg ran the knife close to the creature's face then pressed the blade further, cutting the black temple down to the bony cheek; the other one laughed maniacally at his fellow's expense.

"Yes, you would arse-fuck me, then rip me open and eat my heart," Beleg seethed. "If only I'd let you, you who are less worthy than a single hair from Bauglir's balls." He moved forward, grabbed the remnants of the orc's hair at the nape and pulled backward. "Speak, or I'll hang you by your own guts."

"No!"

"Speak!" Beleg pulled more forcefully.

"Down..." the orc mumbled when the point of the knife came close to his eye, "...down to flowing water, past witched woods."

"How many of you?"

"Don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Looooaaaaaaaaaaaaaadssssss!" the orc howled.

"Fine! Bloody stinker!" Beleg tossed the orc aside and strode away to keep himself from drawing the knife through the orc's throat. Brandor walked over and placed a hand on Beleg's shoulder while Beleg stopped abruptly and drew his fingers through his hair.

"Nothing?" Brandor asked.

"Not much," Beleg said. "Súllinn was damn right. Besides, Halmir's men already grind their teeth at seeing them here."

"What are you going to do?"

"Let them go."

"You can't, Beleg, you know it!" Brandor lowered his voice. "Have you forgotten what they did to that poor girl?"

"No, I haven't." Beleg didn't feel like arguing, but Brandor's accusing look and stinging words irked him. He shrugged the warden's hand from his shoulder. "Fetch Súllinn!"

"Aye," Brandor answered, flinching before he took a step. His hesitation clear, he moved away, and Beleg returned to the orcs.

"Get up!"

The orcs stared at him unmoving, until he kicked one of them in the ribs. They rose from their knees and stood shaking. Having sheathed his knife that now hung from the belt on his back, Beleg reached into the pocket in his vest and took out a pair of leather gloves, the fingertips of which were cut away. He put them on and saw Súllinn approach him, her face white, lips pursed, and brows drawn together.

"You need me, Captain?" she asked formally.

"Yes. And my bow."

"Aye."

Súllinn was close to rage, that much he could tell. She wasn't the sort who screamed, cried, pulled at her hair or threw objects about in anger. Instead, in the midst of wrath, she remained calm and spoke quietly, with only the twitching of the left corner of her mouth revealing the fury that seethed beneath the surface. When she appeared next to Beleg with Belthronding and another bow in her hands, a full quiver on her back, he saw that twitch, but he knew she could keep herself in firm check, as she usually did.

"How is she, the girl?" Beleg asked quietly when they forced the orcs to turn and made them go forward.

"Bites on her breasts, her left ear nearly bitten off, scratches on her belly and thighs, sprained ankle," Súllinn counted on her fingers, never averting her eyes from the orcs. "Bruises and minor cuts on her head and neck."

"Go on," Beleg issued in a gentle tone when she fell silent.

"She told me she was innocent before they did that to her," she said. "Didn't let me tend to her, though."

"She will, soon, probably."

"Somehow, I don't think so, Beleg."

 

Veiled in obscurity

 

"Beleg, we should finish them off," Súllinn said through her teeth, hissing when he shook his head in denial. She glared at the orcs for a moment, her brows furrowed, before looking back at him, and he noticed that her gaze became even more insistent.

"I'm not a butcher," he answered. "I'm not going to send arrows into their backs in front of my men and the Haladin."

Súllinn smacked her tongue with a disapproving tsk-tsk. Beleg glowered at her. It was a pose on his part, he thought, he would rather kill the orcs without further ado and throw their bodies into some hole in the forest, but he wouldn't do it. Not now, when Haldir's nephews were around watching him. Súllinn notched an arrow onto the bowstring and drew it.

"The men care little," she said as if reading his mind. "As for the boys, well, they need to grow up."

"Súllinn, stop trying my limits!"

"They seem to have shrunk of late," she commented and urged the orcs forward. "Go, you reeking sods! Move!"

There, he thought, Súllinn of course had to have the last word, and as usual she was right, or close to being so. Damn, he sucked in a hissing intake of air, making the woman glance at him. Now, she, too, knew that he thought she was right, and only his so-called moral standards wouldn't let him kill the orcs in public. He felt suspended between revenge and rightness while he gripped his fingers around the bow as he walked on, piercing the orcs' backs with his gaze, if not his arrows. For now, he thought surly.

"How is Miniel?" Súllinn asked suddenly. Beleg turned to her with his mouth open.

"W-w-what?"

"You heard me," she answered.

"But why Miniel?"

"I haven't seen her for a time. I have often wondered how she fares," Súllinn went on.

"The last I looked," Beleg began, then shook his head violently. "Wait, wait! What kind of question was that, Súllinn?"

She stopped, for a moment shorter than an exhalation lowered her bow and turned to him slightly. In the same instance, Beleg understood what was going on. She did it deliberately. The orcs smelled their chance – even if only a weak opportunity to save themselves while the two of them were arguing. The one closer to Súllinn turned back in a flash and flung himself forward, aiming at Súllinn's chest to throw the woman off her balance. The other, an eye's blink later, screeching, darted forward, advancing with only his rotten fangs as a weapon. Beleg stepped back and swung his bow against the creature's leg. When the orc collapsed, he dropped the bow, took a vice-like grip of the orc's head and twisted. The bones creaked as the neck went limp. The orc's body slumped to the ground. Beleg looked up at Súllinn.

"What the..." he barked, then cut short the reprimand that was about to roll off his tongue. After all, Súllinn's idea spared him from his predicament of releasing the captives. After all, again, the orcs weren't executed. Not precisely. Beleg turned his head several times, seeing the other orc with Súllinn's arrow's feathers sticking out of his mouth.

"There," she said as she tucked the bow under her arm and wiped her hands against her leggings. "Congratulations on the job well done."

"Don't expect me to thank you." Beleg grunted.

"Don't fret."

He was about to open his mouth and growl at the woman, a stinging reply that would show her place in the line, but in the end, he resigned himself to let her win this one; he waved his hand dismissively. It would do no good to argue with her. Beleg turned on his heels and walked away, leaving the carcasses for the wildlife to feast on. Worms for worms, he thought pushing through the thicket, with Súllinn in his wake. As he strode through the forest, his irritation dissipated, and when they reached the main forces of the joint troops, his mind was calm and clear again. Súllinn placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I hope you bear no grudge," she half asked, half stated.

"None at all, Súllinn," Beleg answered. "I wouldn't hear the end of Mablung's lecture if I did."

She pouted, in a totally-un-Súllinn-like manner, which made Beleg chuckle, but he knew he had hit the mark. Warg's eye, he thought, and turned his head to Súllinn. Her eyes narrowed instantly.

"Do you know something that I'm unaware of?" she inquired, her fingertips stroked the curve of her bow as she caught up with his steps.

"No."

"Beleg?"

"Yes?"

"Why don't I believe you?" she queried with merriment.

"How would I know?" he replied with a question. "Do I reside in your head."

"Allfather forbid!" Súllinn protested, shaking her head. "One person there is enough."

"Beleg! Súllinn!" Húrin shouted and ran to them.

They met halfway. The grave look on the young man's face boded ill.

"That poor girl..." he said, fisting both hands at his sides, "forced a knife into her own heart."

 

Were the world all mine

 

"You were right, Cúthalion," Halmir said as they sat side by side. "It was unlikely for them to keep banging on Doriath's gates since the girdle wouldn't let them in anyway. You were so right, they didn't want to wander aimlessly in the forest, having huts and wild bee-yards as their conquests. Instead, they seek the ford of the Teiglin."

Beleg was nodding, but he didn't really feel any better because of the fact that he was right.

"We are going to cut them off," he answered.

Halmir agreed with a grunt. His son remained silent, though his brows met and indicated that he was curious as to what Beleg was going to say. The three of them had placed themselves under the branches of a huge beech, having ordered their men to cease marching and the scouts – to continue wandering to find any useful source of information. That short break in their trek north-west served as a time for council before the battle. Although some of the Edhil and Edain roamed in the surroundings, Huor and Húrin sat down beside their uncle and chewed pieces of dried meat, while others lay or sat on the grass, talking quietly or singing. Súllinn came to sit next to Beleg and began sharpening her axe, even though, Beleg was sure, the weapon didn't need any maintenance at the moment. She drew her hair behind her ears, propped the axe against her bent leg and, whistling a soft tune, she slowly sharpened the broad blade.

"How many people have joined us, Haldir?" Beleg asked.

"Some seven to eight dozen, I believe," the man replied, never averting his eyes from Súllinn. Beleg glanced at her and almost shook his finger at her for providing a show in front of the men, distracting them, but he restrained himself.

"Very well," Beleg said, leaning back against the beech, "here is what I think we should do. We meet the orcs halfway to the Ford of Brithiach, where the road south runs through a ravine, enclosed between high slopes. We let them in," he looked into Halmir's approving eyes, "then Súllinn and half of the wardens will cut them off without making themselves seen. Does everyone follow me?"

"Aye!" the men called out. Even Húrin joined his voice to theirs; Huor only opened his mouth and nodded.

"Aye, Cúthalion," Súllinn replied, without a look up from her task, without ceasing her movements.

"Now, Halmir and the warriors of Thingol will take up the position along one side of the ravine." He gestured toward Halmir. "Haldir and your archers – you should gather those folk that have joined our forces recently – you will get the other side. The two of you will attack from the flanks once the ravine is closed and the tide of the orcs meander inside. Is that understood? You understand, too, boys?"

Haldir's nephews nodded vigorously. Both had flushed faces, and Beleg would bet they were eagerly looking forward to hearing their names mentioned now and their assigned tasks.

"Good."

"What about the way out of the ravine?" Haldir asked.

"Brandor and his squad of the wardens will make sure no one passes through," Beleg answered.

"Let us not tarry further," Halmir said as he rose. "We should be there on the morrow. As for you two," he turned to the youths, "you will go with the lady Súllinn, if she permits."

"The lady permits," Súllinn answered and showed her flawlessly white teeth in a grin that soon turned wicked as she put aside her axe. "And what about you, Cúthalion? What task does your plan leave for you?" she queried as she stood up and stretched her arms above her head.

Her hair, shaken loose, caught the rays of the sun and glimmered with copper light. Just like Miniel's, Beleg thought, though the other woman kept her hair short, uncommonly for the womenfolk of the Eglath. Miniel's hair reached her jaw line, and if her tresses grew longer, she would cut them. She usually wore them loose, plaiting tiny braids to keep the strands from her face only for special occasions. Beleg had heard the story of how her hair had once caught fire from the stove and burned down to the bare skin of her scalp, though he had never asked her to tell him the details of the accident. Everyone in Menegroth got accustomed to the short-haired woman, including him, even though Miniel's sister had tried to talk her out of that decision. Miniel was also stubborn. Just as Súllinn is, he thought, looking at the woman.

"I, my dear Súllinn," Beleg responded with a devilish smile, "will make the orcs run straight into our welcoming blades."

---

Chapter End Notes

All titles are borrowed or derived from the English translation of "Carmina Burana".

Translations:

Carmina Brethilia [Latin] – songs of Brethil
Ephediles scriptoris [Latin] – scribe's freckles
Golodh, Gelydh [Sindarin] – Noldo, Noldor
Edhel, Edhil [Sindarin] – elf, elves
Eglath [Sindarin] – the Forsaken People (here as a synonym of the Grey Elves).
Edain [Sindarin] – Men, allies of the Elves.

The book by Finrod Felagund that Beleg mentioned isn't my idea. It's borrowed from the story "Catharsis" by Inglor.