Note: This is my first "Silmarillion" story as of yet, but I see many more coming if I don't completely bomb on this first try. This is a gap filler I hope will give you more insight and a feel into what might have taken place when Túrin came to the marches of Doriath after the lack of word from Morwen.
-Friendship Born of Trial-
By Bill the Pony
_ _ _
A faint breath of wind caught the loose tendrils of dark hair hanging free of carefully woven braids. Keen eyes of the color of earth bore no deceit and his high brow was untouched by age. At his side he held a great bow of black yew-wood and on his back he bore a leather quiver of carefully crafted arrows each fletched with feathers of crimson. Beleg Cúthalion, he was called, chief of the marchwardens of Doriath and a warrior of great skill and cunning. The sky was gray above him, foreboding of the blood that was to be spilt this morn. Blood of the spawn of Morgoth and the blood of the Firstborn was to be mingled together as the wretched price for freedom. It was a price that Beleg Strongbow was willing to pay in full; glad he would be to spill his own so that others of his kin and brothers in arms might be spared.
But at this time, the loss of life was not what was foremost on Beleg's mind~, for~ one could not go into any battle with the dread of death; one could only stand, fight and face what tragedy and triumph came. On this day, this hour before the storm, Beleg's hope was high. Indeed it seemed in his mind that there were no storm clouds and that the Anar shone bright and unveiled. He had seen the Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin worn again on the head of one of the Third House. Beleg had cast eyes again on Túrin - son of the valiant Elf-friend Húrin the Steadfast and the fair Lady Morwen - and had seen a fell light of grief that flamed the fires of vengeance.
"It is strange fate that we meet again here on the marches of Doriath, Túrin, son of Húrin," Beleg said, stepping forward to meet the Adan. The man had grown from the last time Beleg had laid eyes on him in a brief return to the walls of the Doriath during a sabbatical from his patrol of the borders. The son of Húrin had seen him from the ramparts, at the time hardly tall enough for his shoulders to be seen over the cap stones. His face had not bore such worry then either. Both taller and fairer now, Túrin bore proudly the dark hair and gray eyes of his mother's kin.
Túrin returned the greeting, clasping the Elf's forearm in a strong grip, a grim smile – but a smile none the less – at long last laced his tight set lips. He could not deny that part of his chilled and fearful heart warmed at the mere sight of Beleg. Though their time together had been limited to short conversations, Túrin had found a brother in Beleg Strongbow, one he had yet to find in any of the other Eldar kind.
"Strange, and yet not so strange I suppose," Beleg mused, a smile lightening his strong features. "I always knew that the son of a warrior could not sit idle for long in stone halls where the air is thick. Tell me, what is it that finally prompted you to return to the wild?"
Túrin's posture tensed, his hand falling back to his side. Túrin's gray eyes darkened to a stormier shade. Beleg saw at once the change in his comrade's demeanor, Beleg regretted any words he had uttered that would draw such a reaction "It has been nigh on three months since last I had tidings from my mother and sister." He turned his face from Cúthalion's powerful Elven gaze. "I cannot keep my heart from worry. My hands will not clasp empty air when they could wield a tool that could perhaps rid this land of some of the villainy that plagues it, and if need be, I will lay vengeance on my foes if they have caused anymore grief upon my mother and sister."
Beleg pondered this news, the light of the Sun slipping from his mind. For a while he stood in silence before he bade Túrin to walk with him from the knoll. Amongst the trees, moving like wraiths, Elves flitted from branch to branch, from shadow to shadow, preparing for the coming clash of sides. A tired breeze brushed the treetops while somewhere yonder a flock of birds took flight as darkness grew near.
"You are a man of passion, Túrin, it is a trait that runs in your blood by nature." Beleg weighed his words carefully. "But you must not let your passion drive you to grief. The Lady of Dor-lómin is strong of heart, drawing conclusions about her fate will only worsen what doubts you have. Do not look to the 'morrow until the tasks of today are finished. Her fate was never in your control."
Túrin's frown relaxed, taking ease in the company of his comrade. A hand came to rest on the Dragon-helm resting in the crook of his arm. "Then what would you have me do, friend? We think alike, but you have seen more years in this wide world than I and your counsel would be gladly received."
Beleg laughed, stroking the smooth yew-wood of his bow idly with his thumb. "I fear that I was trained as a bowman, not a counselor! But I would give you what words I have and pray that they will not lead you astray." He turned aside for a moment, greeting with a quiet word the dapple-grey that waited patiently at the edge of the trees. The horse tucked his broad head and whickered softly in a friendly greeting. Beleg leaped lightly to the horse's strong back.
Another horse of average build and fiery red coat joined them, led by an Elf in a russet cloak. Túrin gave a silent nod to the Elf before taking the reins and following in the manner of Beleg. "Fincaran has grown since last I lay eyes on him," commented Beleg. "And mellowed by all appearances. The last word of him I heard was wreathed with damning words."
Túrin's noticeably grimaced, remembering all too clearly the aches and pains stubbornly suffered while trying to calm and temper the wild spirit of the horse who now bore him gladly. Those had been glad days, full of light and absent of the worry he carried now. Morwen had never failed to send word in return to his oft-penned letters. Each letter from her hand would be worn soft by the time the Sun sank and light fled from the slowly changing land. In the dim light of his room it would be laid to rest in a modest box of smooth wood, atop the other carefully folded letters. Never had she let her son go without word from the remainder of his family, until now.
"Perhaps I spoke too soon of my aid, Túrin," Beleg said remorsefully, seeing the tension return to the Adan. "It seems that even in my weak attempts to lighten your heart I only burden it more with memory."
"Do not think that is it any fault of yours!" Túrin interjected adamantly. "I am a foolish youth to so easily be drawn to remorse. But please, give me what counsel you have so I may be wiser for it."
Beleg rested a bent forearm on the hilt of his sword, the other twisting a lock of his horse's iron gray mane between two fingers. "These marches grow plagued with the foul steps of the enemy with each passing day. My Elves fight bravely, but our numbers do not grow with the same speed as the enemies." Unbeknownst to him, his hand clenched on the hilt of his sword. "Our battles grow fiercer; more good Elves are lost to the tending of the healers and when at last they return to the marches, more are sent back in their place."
As a leader, one of Beleg's greatest fears was the imminent and unavoidable loss of trusted friends and fellow Elves. Through his years he had seen much death, of mortal, and immortal, women and children slaughtered, warriors cut down like grass. As long as evil endured, lives would be lost. Lives would have to be lost in order for the light of life to shine amongst the rise and receding of darkness. Evil was like the tide of the sea, waves that if not watched or braced against, could rush to a great fury and pull all into the nothingness of the deep. Beleg had long ago accepted that triumph could not come to be unless loss cast a shadow before it.
Beleg frowned, relaxing his white knuckled grip on the wrapped hilt of his long sword. "As for advice, perhaps it is my weak heart that wonders if you would not do well in the open air for a time and stand beside me in our battles as companions. Please though, do not take my meaning in a way that I do not intend, I do not welcome you simply because you would make a strong ally, as I believe you will – or would – be. My intentions are not so shallow as that." Beleg fought for words, cursing his lack of ability to express himself clearly. To his own ears, his advice sounded more as a request or a proposal for some form of treaty. That was far from what he intended.
Túrin held up a hand, foregoing any further explanation, he in fact looked much relieved. "Say no more, Beleg, I hear and understand. Indeed, I must admit those were words I hoped to hear. In all honesty, that was my purpose when I set out from Thingol's hall with sword and helm." Túrin nodded appreciatively, "It does me good to hear my own thoughts come from your lips. I fear that of late my head has not been so level."
The Elf of Doriath smiled, his heart lifting from where it had sunk into uncertainty when his eyes were greeted with the look of relief on Túrin's face. He only hoped that he gave counsel worthy of heeding. Beleg leaned from his mount, offering his arm as a sign of their goodwill towards each other. "Then you will join us here in our battles?"
Túrin met Beleg halfway, gripping the Elf's forearm in a strong hold that told of a confidence in each other. "Aye, your enemies are mine also and the Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin will ride into any battle with your Elves. I feel this friendship between us is nothing but predestined. I hope I prove as good a friend to you as a warrior."
"In that I have no doubt," Beleg said with assurance. The heart of Túrin meant well, and Beleg felt a kindred spirit flare between them. He released his hand from Túrin's arm only when the other's grip lessened. "Your company is well received and I look forward to many days of laughter, if that is what Eru wills."
His look turned suddenly troubled as the image of a storm and the sword, Anglachel stained red with blood plagued his mind for a mere breath. Then it was gone. "And even in the troubled days that may come to us by His will, will be an honor to me." Beleg murmured, more to himself than to Túrin.
Túrin had seen this look pass over Beleg's face, but could not bring himself to ask the cause of it.
Beleg shook himself, the light of mirth returning to the Elf's eyes. "Then come with me now, Túrin, friend of mine, and let us look over the condition of this company as two captains." A wry smile laced Beleg's lips, trying to banish the image of death from his mind with a light heart. "We would not want the enemy to come and catch us with our heads in the clouds and our eyes looking into the future while they ravage the present. These foes we battle are cunning, but I do not see defeat coming this day, nor likely is it to visit tomorrow."
Túrin clapped his hand on Beleg's strong shoulder. "Two captains we may be, but two friends we will be longer. But yes, let us go then." With a lighter heart and a clearer mind, the two companions rode forth into the shadows of the trees to prepare for the future with the hope that came with a friendship forged by trust.
End