Title: The Sons of Mortal Men
Prompt: 013. I will never hold you underneath for me, maybe only just enough so you can breathe
Author's Notes: They all belong to Tolkien. This was going to be much shorter, and I was originally going to put it at the end of Blood and Snow, but it didn't fit. It was only a drabble, but then it mutated.
Elves called men the Edain, but they were also called the Hildor (the Followers), the Fírimar (the Mortals) and the Engwar (the Sickly). While Hildor and Fírimar are fairly innocuous, I believe that Engwar would be a rude and quite offensive name, especially when applied to the Elf-friends, because it implied that Men were weaker than Elves and reminded them that they would eventually die. That's right, Elves can be racist too.
Unfinished Tales says of Saeros: 'He was of the Nandor…and they were no friends to the Edain since their passage through Ossiriand and settlement in Estolad. But Saeros dwelt mostly in Menegroth, and won the esteem of the king; and he was proud, dealing haughtily with those he deemed of lesser state and worth than himself…and he had no love for Men, and least of all any kinsman of Beren Erchamion. 'Is it not strange,' said he, 'that this land should be opened to yet another of this unhappy race? Did not the other do harm enough in Doriath? Therefore he looked askance on Túrin and on all that he did, saying what ill he could of it; but his words were cunning and his malice veiled.'
'What does engwar mean, Beleg?'
Beleg's hands slipped on the arrow he had been fletching as he turned to the boy who sat next to him. He now had a handful of glue, but that was the least of his worries. 'Where did you hear that word, Túrin?' he asked cautiously.
'In the hall,' said Túrin innocently. 'I was going to meet you, and I walked past a group of Elves and I heard someone say 'the Engwar are getting out of hand'.'
'Ah.' Beleg kept his face carefully blank as he tried to think of who would have said such a thing. One of the Nandor, probably Saeros, who would say it in public knowing full well that a sharp-eared and curious child like Túrin would hear… and who would gracefully deny it if Beleg mentioned it to Thingol. He found himself disliking the King's advisor even more.
Túrin was looking at him expectantly, waiting for an answer to the seemingly innocent question. 'It is a name my people gave to your people,' he said at last. 'It means the Sickly, or the Sick Ones.'
'Oh.' Túrin looked confused. 'Why would they call us that, Beleg? We're not sick. At least, I'm not.'
'No, you are not,' Beleg replied, 'but you know that Men die from disease, or war, or old age, and that Elves do not, don't you?' Seeing the boy nod, he continued. 'Some Elves do not understand this, and they reason that since all men die, they all must be sickly.'
'Does that mean that you think I'm sickly?' Túrin looked confused and upset, but the question was as piercing as the clear grey eyes that searched Beleg's face.
Yes, and no, thought Beleg, but you are so much more than that. Because men laughed and loved and sang and cried, and gave their lives in a war that they had no obligation to fight. They built great halls and fortresses and simple homes, and tilled their lands, and created things of beauty and skill for their use. They had sons and daughters, knowing all the while that they and their children and their children's children would die. They were like sparks in a fire, each burning brightly for a moment before fading into darkness. They had a beauty that those like Saeros, who saw only death in men, could never see… and by the Valar, he liked this mortal child.
He put his hand on Túrin's shoulder, realising too late that it was the one that held the glue. 'Túrin,' he saidly gently but firmly, 'you are of the Edain. Perhaps you are of the Hildor and the Fírimar, but you are not of the Engwar. Not to me. Do you understand?'
'Yes.' And the boy did not, but he was trying, and Beleg loved him for it. As he released his hand with some difficulty, Túrin noticed for the first time that he was sticky. 'There's glue on your hand, Beleg,' he remarked.
Beleg laughed suddenly, although he did not know whether it was from sadness or relief. 'And now there's glue on your shirt as well,' he replied. 'Come on, we'd better wash it off before it dries.' Let Saeros keep his words, he decided as the boy scrambled up to follow him. Beleg Cúthalion would not dismiss the sons of Men so easily.