Iron of Death by ohboromir

---

Iron of Death

---

“Keep your hands to yourself, Cúthalion.”

“Charming as always, Eöl.” Beleg’s hand traced over one of the swords hanging on the wall of the forge, and then he turned and sat on the bench. He saw Eöl roll his eyes, and grinned. “Don’t look so miserable. I thought we were friends.”

“... I suppose we are.” He folded his arms, but his scowl lessened. “What brings you?”

“Can’t I visit my dearest friend when passing through Nan Elmoth?”

“I am not your dearest friend. And if you were a visitor, you would come to my door, not lurk in wait in my forge. Out with it - Elwë sent you, did he not?”

Beleg sighed. He detested being sent out on diplomatic missions. He was not an envoy; he did not like to dance around with words and pretty promises. It felt dishonest; he had been chosen to deliver this request (no, it was a command) because of his friendship with Eöl, but was it not a betrayal of trust?

He wished Mablung had agreed to come with him.

“Yes, the King sent me.” he answered, “He grows impatient; you were supposed to bring the sword to him half a season ago.”

Eöl’s scowl returned. “Always he demands. If my mother were here to see how Elwë treats her only son-”

“I knew your mother. She would tell you not to make promises you cannot keep.” Beleg’s tone sharpened, like a sword on the grindstone. He would not hear his King disrespected. “The king has granted you a lordship of a forest of your own - and this forest that is so dear to him! A single sword is not such a high price to pay for that.”

“No, it is not.” Eöl clearly did not agree. Beleg did not blame him. It was not just a single sword he had promised Thingol.

The comet-ore was so precious; Thingol knew it, that was why he had named it as his prize. The metal it made was sharper and stronger than anything the Doriathrim had; only the fine craftsmanship of the Dwarves they traded with even came close.

“It is not ready yet, Cúthalion. Return in a moon’s turn, and I will have it for you.”

Beleg stood. His gaze drifted over the forge; the finished weapons in their racks, the piles of ore and ingots; Eöl was not only a weaponsmith, and turned his hand to all kinds of metal work. Beleg had bought lovely jewellery off him before, for himself and as gifts for whoever he was courting that month.

But his best work was always in swords. Eöl’s swords were the finest in Beleriand, sharpest and deadliest and lightest in hand.

There was little need for such a blade in Beleg’s life - he hunted and he ranged, and so his knife and bow served him well enough. But if there came a time for war, it was Eöl’s swords he would want to wield. But he would not ask for one - Eöl would undoubtedly remember his involvement in this matter, and name some ridiculous price. Menegroth’s steel would be good enough.

“Very well. But if I return empty handed a second time, he will not be pleased. You made a promise, Eöl.”

Eöl shooed him out the door.

*

The second time, Beleg was not alone.

Eöl was not caught off guard this time, either. He was ready, the black sword wrapped in cloth on the table.

A sharp knock. A servant rose to answer it, but Eöl stayed them with a hand and unlocked the door himself. He would deal with Cúthalion himself.

Ah.

“Captain Mablung.”

“Smith.” He nodded, as stern as his knock. Eöl stepped aside to allow them inside. He preferred Mablung’s company. They had been boys together - so long ago it seemed like another life. They understood each other, both serious and quiet. Mablung always treated him fairly.

“I have the King’s sword.”

Mablung stood by the table, and drew back the cloth to look at the sword.

The iron was black as the sky, the hilt wrapped in dark leather. Eöl had worked hard on each final touch; even if he resented letting the sword go, he was not about to let the king have anything but his best work. More than that, the metal was so precious, so good to work with; it would be a shame to waste it.

Anguirel hung on his hip, a thin line of glittering darkness. It pined, radiating grief as if it knew it was about to part from its mate. Eöl ran his finger along the hilt, murmuring a soothing word. A pity to separate them; they were brothers, made a pair, they belonged together - but perhaps it was better that this one went out into the world. Eöl could not wield both and he had no son nor brother to give the second sword. A king’s hand was worthy to wield it.

“It’s beautiful.” Beleg’s breath caught in his throat as he leaned over Mablung, running his fingers over the metal. Beleg’s fingertips beaded with blood, and suddenly a dark mood came over Eöl. He was seized with the desire to take back the sword and turn them out of his house; it was hungry. It was alive, power reflecting in the candlelit metal. It was his.

Thingol did not deserve it. The sword would know it. Perhaps it would turn on him, wound him, kill him. A fine revenge for his greedy demand. His witch-queen might even send it back in grief.

But he could not change his mind now; he had built for himself and his house. He had established his independence and he would rather drive himself through with Anguirel than submit again to a king.

“Does it have a name?” Beleg wiped his bloody fingers on his trouser leg and tenderly re-wrapped the sword.

“I have called it Anglachel.”

“A fitting name.” Beleg gathered the sword bundle in his arms. “The King will be pleased, I am certain.”

Mablung smiled; “And he will be pleased to hear how pleasant a home you have built, in so little time.” He reached out and grasped Eöl’s hand firmly. “I look forward to being invited for dinner sometime soon, old friend. You spend far too much time on your work. I’ll bring the good wine.”

Eöl shook his hand, and the ghost of a smile danced over his face. The darkness passed. In all likelihood, Anglachel would lie on display in an armoury for the rest of time, used perhaps for ceremony, and nothing more. There was no darkness in the sword. It was his own paranoia and unwillingness to let go that was reflecting in the iron, not malice, not magic.

“I’ll hold you to that, Captain.”

*

Mablung did not knock.

It was not Nan Elmoth. It was not his friend’s house. It was only an obstacle in the path of his burning rage.

The door to the forge flew open at his shove, and Eöl bolted upright, from where he stooped over an anvil. His face was blank; shock, surprise - Mablung had not paid him a single visit until now.

Mablung’s strong fist gripped his shirt, almost enough to lift Eöl off the ground. Staring into his face, Mablung could hardly find the words. His rage made him shake.

What did he say? You killed him. You doomed him. You made that damned sword.

Why?

What did you do to it?

“He won’t come back. He won’t come back and it’s your fault. If you had never shown him that damned sword…”

Eöl’s face contorted in understanding. Mablung saw a hundred emotions in his dark eyes: grief, shame, anger.

“It is not my fault. You let him go off with the boy.” Eöl was still proud. Mablung threw him to the floor, and he collided with his work-stool so hard it broke beneath him. A trickle of blood dripped from his temple. Mablung did not care.

“No. It was the sword. Did you ever know his hands to be unsteady? And yet it slipped. It slipped…”

He swallowed a sob. Even in this new life, the grief was raw. Daily, he went to the doors of Námo’s halls and begged for news, and at last it had been given to him: Beleg refused to return.

He could not scream at Túrin. He could not throw Morgoth to the floor and make him revoke his dooms. He could not scold Beleg for his reckless loyalty.

Only Eöl remained here for him to blame - only Eöl and himself.

Eöl climbed back to his feet, wiping the blood from his face. Mablung shook with rage.

“Why did you not tell us? You must have known the sword was so cruel.”

Eöl was silent. Mablung lunged at him again, but Eöl darted out of the way.

“Answer me, Eöl! Answer me, if I was ever your friend! Now I wish that I were not!”

“Yes.”

It is hardly more than a whisper. Mablung reached for a hammer on the workbench, but Eöl did not stay silent.

“Yes,” he repeated, “I knew. I knew there was something wrong with it. I knew it had power and malice and resentment in it. But I did not know that Beleg would take it. It was made for Thingol! If there was any I wished for its malice to slay it was him!”

The hammer flew from Mablung’s hand. It crashed through the wall an inch from Eöl’s head, with such a force it remained wedged there.

“Come not to my house again, Mablung, if you do not learn to control yourself! I did not slay Beleg - you are the one who failed to restrain the boy in the first place. Perhaps you should have given sager advice.”

It was not anything Mablung had not said to himself. From Eöl’s lips it was like acid, cruel and sharp. He understood the fruitlessness of it all. That did not make it any easier.

“No.” he clenched his fist. “No, Eöl. If you had told us what evil lay in that sword… much may have been averted. Fear not. I will not come here again. Let our boyhood rot - you have never been my friend, you, who let evil into my home, who wished for it to slay my king, and let it slay Beleg. You knew. All those years you knew and never said. And even now, in this new life, you never mentioned it.”

He turned his back on Eöl.

In the doorway, he paused.

“I understand now. You are a vicious, jealous elf. Little wonder you brought such evil with you when you left Nan Elmoth.”

His voice was even, but cold.

“I wish you were there still. There, dead and drowned under the sea.”

“Wish whatever you want, Mablung. It won’t bring anyone back.” Eöl spat, wiping his bloody face. “Learn where to lay the blame - on your king’s greed. It was greed that brought Anglachel to Doriath. Greed killed Beleg, the boy and Thingol - it killed you. Go and throw your fits in Thingol’s face, not mine.”

Mablung slammed the door and returned to the forest alone.

---

Chapter End Notes

I invented so much Eöl lore for this. None of it made it into the fic. Why am I like this.

I apparently live in a world where Eöl was reborn and Beleg wasn't.

Alternative title for this fic was: Anglachel and it's consequences.

Now with aforementioned Eol lore: here!