A Part in Great Deeds by Hallbera

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A Part in Great Deeds

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Then Thingol fortified the marches of his realm, and went not to war, nor any out of Doriath save Mablung and Beleg, who were unwilling to have no part in these great deeds. To them Thingol gave leave to go, so long as they served not the sons of Fëanor; and they joined themselves to the host of Fingon. – J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion

 

 

The rain falls down in a quiet yet unstoppable way, seeping through the hair and the clothes of the Elf sitting on a limb of a great maple tree. Beleg does not mind; he merely settles in a more comfortable position and rests his back against the strong trunk. He checks that Belthronding is still securely wrapped in waxed and waterproof leather. The fall has come and the trees are gloriously coloured in shades of red and yellow in a final declaration of defiance before winter sets in. Already there are signs of it; the forest is withdrawing, wrapping into itself to save what little warmth remains from the summer.

 

Beleg closes his eyes and open his senses to his surroundings. The forest speaks to him with increasing reluctance now as so much of its energy is spent on preparing for the change of the seasons.  He has been sent by his King to survey the edges of his realm, to search for any signs of danger and to check for any weaknesses in the recent additions to the realm’s defence. He takes in deep breaths of the cool, fresh air, and as his quest is not urgent, allows himself to become lost in thought.

 

Some time ago, a word reached his home that a great army assembled, under the command of the eldest of the sons of Fëanor, to eradicate the forces of darkness once and for all. Beleg has been restless ever since hearing the news. He knows his King’s mind, yet he cannot abandon the thought of joining in.

 

Beleg is happy enough in Doriath, even though he has had to sacrifice more and more of his freedom to the growing darkness. There are times when he does not know which worries him more, the evil wrought by Morgoth, or that brought here by the Elves of Valinor. The irony of one enemy guarding the other does not escape him. Even so, one is greater, and Beleg has seen enough in his long years to know when it is time to put aside other grievances until the common threat is dealt with.

 

There are also times when he wonders why he, of all Elves, has consented to a life in a sealed realm, governed by a King in a palace built in caves. He would see the world without such boundaries, as he is sure it was meant to be. The Queen’s protection, despite its magic and power, has its limits. All of these are oddly disquieting thoughts, surfacing with a vague sense of guilt, not the least of which is the growing feeling that Thingol does not trust his lady Queen as much as he did before.

 

A dull sense of doom has set over the realm. Beleg can see it weighing on the mind of the King and casting its shadow over everything. People tread carefully, as if waiting for something to break out. Laughter is subdued, and words carefully measured before uttering. So much has changed in such a short time that the people are left in a state of uncertainty, and that does not suit Elven minds. Everything has happened too quickly, and too radically.

 

And so he knows that he must go. As the decision forms, Beleg opens his eyes and shifts a little. Beneath him, a group of deer is seeking shelter from the rain, shaking their heads as the water finds its way through the thick fur to the skin. They do not notice the Elf above them, and Beleg smiles as he watches a fawn trying to sidle under its mother’s belly to avoid getting any more wet. He is too big already, and the doe does not appreciate the attempt but gives the youth a butt with her head. They settle in under the boughs occasionally braving the weather to get a mouthful of grass.

 

Beleg lifts his legs on the branch, drawing his knees to his chest and curling up on himself for warmth and reassurance, and closes his eyes again.

 

***

 

The King is furious. His grey eyes are narrowed and shining with cold and unyielding light. Beleg has dropped to one knee before his lord, and beside him kneels Mablung, who shares Beleg’s desire to act instead of waiting. He is even more anxious to leave after witnessing so many of his friends and family been torn away by the ceaseless war against Morgoth’s forces.

 

Thingol’s hand shakes a little as he raises it to rub his chin. He does not look at his two chief marchwardens, but lets his gaze wander among the carved leaves and lifelike birds on the walls of his throne room. Little dots of light are reflected to his face from the myriad silver and glass shards used to adorn the smoke-blackened ceiling in an imitation of a star-lit sky. Beleg keeps his eyes on the King’s soft leather boots, embroidered with green silk and glass beads.

 

He has noticed how the King and the Queen no longer hold hands in court like they used to;  in the past, her hand resting lightly on his, fingers entwining together and holding fast. Now she keeps her hands on her lap, sitting motionless as a statue, not looking at anyone or anything as if she no longer were entirely a part of this world. She has been like this since Luthien’s departure, drawing into herself more and more. The carefully whispered rumour has it that they no longer share a bed, but that the King sleeps in his study. If he sleeps at all, that is.

 

The kingdom reflects its rulers’ grief and sorrow. To Beleg it feels as though the ground itself would shudder at the loss of love and light. And now, as he watches Thingol and Melian carefully avoid each other’s eyes for fear of seeing their sorrow magnified in them and becoming too much to bear, his resolve only gets stronger.

 

For them, he must go; for the love he bears for his King and Queen, and their realm. He is sworn to defend all of that which Thingol and Melian stand for, and he will not see them fall apart, and with them, their kingdom. He clings to this thought, shouting it in his mind, hoping that Thingol would hear him.

 

The entire court has fallen silent and is staring wide-eyed at the kneeling warriors.  Hands are covering mouths; eyes are darting between the enraged King and the insolent soldiers. All are eager to see the outcome of the situation, and even more eager to leave and tell the absent ones every detail, for surely the eccentric Cúthalion has now gone too far in his disobedience, dragging even his friend in the trouble. The King has been lenient in the past, respecting the ancient one’s undeniable skill and wisdom, but this he cannot overlook. There will be tales to tell for years to come of this confrontation.

 

The King, although easily given in to both joy and anger, has learned to control his emotions, at least in court. Lately, he has been slipping, the grief over the loss of his daughter being too strong to hide. Some of the more knowing are saying that the cursed jewel is having an effect on the King too, that by laying his hand on it he has drawn ill fate upon himself and by extent over the entire kingdom. They are usually shushed quickly and admonished for spreading dirty gossip, but truly, have the jewels ever brought anything but misery to those who possess them? Beleg has found himself spending increasing amounts of time on patrol, telling himself and others, too, that the new fortifications demand much of his personal attention.

 

“You would leave me and subject yourselves to the kinslayer?” Thingol’s voice is even and cold despite the obvious strength of emotion. “Tell me, have you despised my rule for long? Have you been thinking about abandoning me for how long?”

 

Beleg bows his head even lower. He has guessed that asking this particular favour would not be easy and would more than likely earn him his King’s wrath until the end of all times but he will not back down. “My Lord, we do not –“

 

“Then why do you wish to rebel against my rule?” The voice and the ire are rising, and the King’s hands are grapping the arms of his throne tightly. “I will not have my subjects grovel before that foul creature! Even his own kin refuse to help him! His own kin! Everything he and his accursed brothers lay their hands on turn into poison and rot! I will not risk losing my two best warriors to his folly. You will not go.”

 

Thingol rises abruptly and leaves before he loses control altogether. For a while there is an absolute and shocked silence, and then Melian sighs and rises slowly, coming to stand before Beleg and Mablung. Her long fingers touch Beleg’s cheek, and he raises his gaze to meet hers. The Queen’s face is devoid of emotion save for the perpetual sadness in her eyes, but nevertheless Beleg finds encouragement in her touch. She feels his hope, and understands his urge to go. Then she gathers the dark silks of her dress and follows her husband leaving a faint scent of wild flowers behind her.

 

Mablung, pale and shaken, gets on his feet slowly and extends his hand to Beleg. They leave in silence, followed by the eyes of the curious courtiers. Already whispers are starting and Beleg wants to get out before they become loud questions. Here he cannot breathe or think.

 

They reach the gates of Menegroth and head for the edge of the forest. A strong wind carries the promise of more rain and strips leaves from trees, making them dance and twirl in the air. Mablung is taking in deep breaths, face turned to the wind, and then he shakes his head and grins. “I could have told you that he would not take it well.”

 

Beleg laughs too, if a bit shakily, the tension leaving him, making him almost giddy. “It’s a good thing I did not take on that bet of yours, my friend. I would sorely miss my good dagger.”

 

Mablung grows serious. “Do you think he will come around? It is not lightly we ask this of him.” He runs his hand through his hair, pulling out a loose clasp as he comes across it and puts it in his pouch. He grimaces and goes through his hair again, this time removing all the binds and clasps of a formal coiffure. Mablung sighs with relief as he shakes his head. The wind catches his long hair and throws it in his face.

 

Beleg does not know what to say. He picks at the bark of a nearby birch and shrugs. The King might reconsider their plea once he has calmed down, or he might banish them to a permanent patrol duty for even raising the subject. “He must let us go. I cannot sit here and wait to be destroyed at Morgoth’s convenience.” Beleg’s anxiety is evident in his voice. Mablung folds his arms across his chest and nods quietly.

 

***

 

Beleg waits nervously, even though he is loath to admit it, behind an ornate oak door. He studies the patterns cut into the silver and mother-of-pearl decorated door, a gift from Lord Círdan given long ago. The wood is hardened by age and in places the pattern has smoothed away and the silver has become almost black. On the other side lie his doom and his hope.

 

A servant opens the door and bows. “His Majesty will see you now, my lords,” he says and lets them in. He bows again and leaves silently.

 

Thingol is occupied with his endless paperwork but looks up as the warriors enter. He does not say anything, but gestures towards the two chairs set in front of his desk. He keeps his face carefully noncommittal and regards his warriors solemnly.

 

“My question stands,” he finally says and twirls the white quill he was writing with in his large hands, not noticing the ink spots dripping on the documents below. “Why should I let you go? You are far too valuable to Doriath’s defence to throw away carelessly.”

 

Beleg shifts in his chair. He opens his mouth but Mablung is quicker.

 

“My King, we believe that we could be of more use to the realm by going. If the dark one is destroyed- “

 

“Many have tried to destroy him for centuries now, without much success.” Thingol’s voice is sharp and he throws the quill away splashing even more ink on the desk. “I daresay this attempt will not turn out to be any different, although I must admit to a hope of finally getting rid of the sons of Fëanor. They should never have come here.”

 

“But, my Lord, now we know that Morgoth is not invincible. Something must have weakened his power.” Beleg regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. He dares not to look at Thingol but focuses on the ink spots on the desk and the parchments. One has fallen on a row of letters, rendering a word unreadable. He finds himself suddenly hoping that it is not an important word, then frowns and forces his thoughts back to the present.

 

Thingol looks at him with narrowed eyes. Had it been any other of his people to raise the subject, the audience would have been over right there and then. As it is, only an imperceptible tightening of his mouth betrays his mood.

 

“You are right. And the price for such knowledge was dear indeed.” For a fleeting moment he looks careworn and almost about to crumple, but that is gone in an instant and he passes his hand over his eyes. “Yet my lady Queen wishes me to give in to your demands. She has yet again reminded me of all the sorrow which followed my refusal of Beren’s suit.”

 

He sighs and leans back. “Doriath has... I have lost so much in these past years that I cannot say if I would survive yet another blow. But it seems to me that no matter what I rule I will risk losing both of you.”

 

Beleg’s eyes widen as he reaches forward to put his hand on Thingol’s arm. “My King-,” he begins but shakes his head and starts again. “Elu. You know that we will never abandon you. We refused the call of the Belain for you; we have fought side by side with you since the beginning. We have built Doriath with you. You are our King, and our brother.” He looks in Thingol’s eyes, willing him to see his sincerity.

 

“I have known you for too long to doubt your loyalty, Beleg,” Thingol smiles wryly. “And in a way, I understand why you want to go. But I still remain unconvinced.”

 

Mablung coughs. He looks uncomfortable and has to take a deep breath before quietly saying, “The wolf got through the Girdle.” He fiddles with the cuff of his shirt sleeve, tracing the honeycomb pleating with his fingers. “We cannot afford to wait for the Enemy to get here. We must challenge him before he is strong enough to be on the move again. It has to be done now. He cannot be held at bay forever. Even if we were to perish, if Lord Maedhros is successful and Morgoth is destroyed or at least weakened significantly, it is a small sacrifice.” 

 

The words fall like stones in water, creating ripples and echoes which bounce back from the walls. Silence stretches on as they contemplate what has been said. Mablung is right. Morgoth’s wolf did tear through the impenetrable Girdle like it had been a mere cobweb in his way. Yet the Enemy has weaknesses previously unknown. Now is the right time to act. And act they must, or else face slow decay as the darkness eats away the world piece by piece.

 

“We cannot rely on the sons of Fëanor for our defence. Their oath blinds them. The day might come when their vigilance slips.” Mablung sounds resolute; he will have these words out, come what may. He does not need to say what would happen if Morgoth turns his full attention on Doriath.

 

Thingol fingers the parchments on his desk, rolling the corners in a way which must send his clerks into blackest pits of despair, and is silent for a long time. Mablung follows his every move with bated breath. Beleg tries to force himself to relax but is tense like a coiled spring. He has been in this room many times before, both in council with the King and just to have an idle chat with his friend. Now he notices details he must have overlooked before: the soot stains in the wall hangings, the insolent stare of the candle holder shaped like a dwarf and the one tiny mistake in proportions the builders of this room made when carving out tree trunks from stone. He is almost ready to burst when Thingol suddenly looks up from his abuse of paperwork.

 

“I shall think upon it. Now leave, both of you, I’m sure you have duties to attend to.”

 

They bow and depart, walking the long corridors away from the royal quarters. They part ways with few words, Mablung heading to the barracks to take out a patrol to the outer lines of defence and Beleg to his rooms to fetch his weapons and all the necessary items for an inspection round of the guard posts on the innermost circle of defence.

 

Once there, he sits on his bed for a while, burying his head in his hands and massaging his forehead. He has seldom felt so old and weary. He throws himself on his back, arms spread wide and legs dangling over the edge of the bed. He closes his eyes for a moment. He has made the right decision. Of that there is no doubt in his heart.

 

His fate is now beyond his control.

 

***

 

A day has passed since Beleg left the first of the guard posts. The soldiers are vaguely restless, some forgetting basic chores, others performing them to pointless perfection. They have all heard of Beleg’s request, and quite a few have come forwards to give him their full support. Wild tales are already circulating among the men, speculating the number of soldiers in Maedhros’ army, the strategies they will adopt, and all the new monsters they will have to face. No one believes for a moment that Morgoth would have been sitting idly on his throne all these years.

 

A number of the men would like to leave with Beleg and Mablung and are discussing the possibility that Thingol would have a change of heart and troops would be sent out to fight. The others spit on the ground in contempt as they leave the fireside, saying that the cursed Golodhrim will more than likely be ground to dust in their arrogance and only a fool would even think about marching with them to that certain doom, no offense meant, of course. Only a fool would doubt the valour and skill of any of the Lords of Doriath. But the Enemy can be fended off perfectly well without setting a foot outside the borders; has not the kingdom flourished and grown without any alien help?   

 

Beleg tells those eager to fight not to keep their hopes up. The communication between their ruler and the sons of Fëanor has not been friendly in the best of times, now it has reached a point of hostility where even the most seasoned diplomats have given up all attempts at smoothing out insults and demands as an utterly hopeless endeavour. It will be a small miracle if Beleg and Mablung are allowed to go. Even if one is made to stay behind, it will be a truly remarkable day.  

 

He has stopped to drink from a clear spring when a sound of footsteps reaches his ears and he rises to meet the approaching Elf. He is a messenger, still in his youth and out of breath. He bows low with a surprised look in his eyes, and coughs. He must have expected to meet Beleg only at the Northern post.

 

“My Lord, I bring a word from the King! He bids you to return as soon as possible. He says that he is not sure if it would have been better if you had asked to leave for Morgoth’s service, but if you swear not to bow to the Lord of Himring Hill, you can go to war!” The words come out in one big rush, almost mangling into one another. He nearly vibrates with excitement which makes Beleg suspect that the boy will be quite the hero among his companions once he returns to Menegroth. Probably even among the equally young maidens, too.

 

Beleg nods his head slowly. “I thank his majesty and shall return as quickly as I can.” He hopes his almost shocked relief is not too obvious. “And what of the Lord Mablung? Have you met him yet?”

 

“No, Lord. I have not met him, I mean. I have the same message for him too. You are both given leave to go. He is said to be not far from here, only some way on the path up North. He was delayed when one of his men was injured in sword practice before they were due to depart.” The youth’s eyes are bright and cheeks flushed red. Twigs and leaves have caught in his hair in his mad dash through the woods. He has clearly taken all the shortcuts he knows.

 

“I see. Good. You may return to Menegroth. I will deliver the message personally.”

 

The messenger bows again and bolts away, disappearing quickly amongst the trees. Once he is out of sight Beleg gasps for breath and leans against a tree for a while, waiting for his heart to stop pounding.

 

He starts to walk towards the path that he suspects Mablung and his men are following but soon gives in to his legs’ demands and starts running. He gains more and more speed, jumping over fallen trees and ditches, ducking beneath thick branches. He only slows down when the forest becomes too dense, not wanting to risk Belthronding getting damaged. He stops for a while to gather his thoughts, a grin spreading on his face. He lifts his arms and steps in a shaft of surprisingly warm sunlight, unhindered joy written in his every movement. Were it not for Mablung’s patrol being close by he would cry his elation to the sky.    

 

Finally he reaches the narrow path and starts to follow it. He comes across a patch of lingonberries, red and ripe for eating. He picks a handful and eats them as he goes on, enjoying the sour taste. He breaths in the smell of wet moss and dead leaves. The air already has a tang of winter in it; whenever the sun is blocked by the trees or a cloud it gets noticeably chilly. Beleg has always thought that the brisk air brings out more details, the light is sharper than in the height of the summer, the colours brighter and the sounds more clear. Now, when certainty has returned in his life, everything appears even more alluring.  

 

He rounds a small hill and steps from the shadow of the trees into a bright clearing. Mablung looks up, surprised, from the hare he is skinning for his patrol’s evening meal and raises his hand in greeting. He tilts his head and raises his eyebrows at Beleg’s widening smile. “Really?” he asks.

 

“We have orders to return to Menegroth. There is plenty to do before we set off.” Joy fills Beleg’s voice. Mablung lets loose a breath and wipes his forehead with a bloodied hand, then, realizing what he just did, uses his sleeve to rub his skin clean. He glances at the sun and joins in Beleg’s laughter.