Truest of friends

Author's Note: I've often wondered on the subject of Beleg. Not much is truly known of him, so I've taken it upon myself to write those years before he became Chief of the marchwardens of Thingol, and a little after. I tried to make it as light as possible, all the dark tales and themes from the First Age can get a bit depressing at times, but I couldn't really, there's too much sadness in Beleg's life, not enough happiness.

All the characters are of course JRR Tolkien's except the fic itself.  Some credit to the Annals of Arda for extra information, on the subject of Dailir, and also HoME book III.

I'm not sure I got my Sindarin sentence right; if it's wrong, I'm sorry, please e-mail me with the correct translation.

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Phase I: Life before Turin

The call of the sea was strong. It tugged like a string at the hearts of the newlywed couple. Eglarest was to be their new home; the southern haven of the Falas, and that was where they wanted their firstborn to grow up. So it was that in this town the first cries of Beleg pierced the air. We are in the last Valian Years of the Trees; soon they will be but a faded memory to those who had lived under them, living only in thought, and the First Age will begin, where this tale takes place.

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An arrow soared through the air, in a perfect arc, and imbedded itself in the nearest tree. A silver haired elf turned and frowned in mock anger, though his silver grey eyes danced with laughter. An inch more and it would have scraped his cheek.

'Come out Beleg, I know you are hiding somewhere in the bushes.'

The foliage rustled, nothing more. Círdan could not but smile, the wrinkles around his eyes, as great rivers of knowledge, diverged and changed courses. Beleg, no more than ten years old at the time, and already a very promising archer. Círdan had told him than when he was full grown he would have made for him a special bow. Until then, the young elf had to make do with a small wooden one, given to him by his mother, as a premise for his destined skill.

'Beleg? Young tearaway!' He chuckled.

 As Círdan moved away towards the harbour to supervise the building of a new ship, Beleg came out of his safe hiding place, and giggled, beside himself with glee. Yet again he had managed to stay undercover and not be seen. The arrow was of course not strictly aimed at Círdan, just destined to frighten him. The shipwright was his favourite play target, as he never grew impatient with him, but remained smiling, somewhat disapproving, but all thoroughly in jest. After all, he thought to himself, I'm going to become the best archer there ever was, so I need as much practise as possible. He bared his teeth, like a fell beast, and emitted a low growl, but the few birds that lingered still in the pale twilight, enjoying the last warmth of the day, paid not the slightest bit of notice to the explorer, the daring warrior and archer extraordinaire that lay before them.

'Beleg!' A voice called him from afar, a singsong, carefree voice, sweet as bells, his mother's.

Instantly, the foul look on his face dissipated, and Beleg become his mother's young boy again. He was fairly short, but still had plenty of years to grow. Raven dark hair, slightly undulating, hung in unruly clumps. A blade of grass was enmeshed into it, sticking up in defiance. His scruffy tunic was grubby and discoloured.

'Coming!' He hollered back, and scampered out of sight in a cloud of dust.

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In the Year 455 of the First Age was the Dagor Bragollach, the Battle of Sudden Flame. This proved perilous in the life of Beleg. He was still young at the time, around 60 years old. His father, who felt strongly about various causes, be it in warfare or shipbuilding, went to battle, and in an act of love and passion, his mother followed suit, determined to show off her prowess.

 Both came never back to the Falas, but sit in Mandos, awaiting their beloved son, who came to them far sooner than they expected, or indeed wanted.

You may wonder, pray why did Beleg not go with his parents? But his father, knowing more of the threat in the North than him, disallowed his son to follow, placing him in the care of Círdan, as a mentor. Beleg resented this, and would have gone, but Círdan retained him.

'It is not yet your time. You are but young in the ways of the world.'

Círdan appeased Beleg, who was silenced, but after a few days he felt his parents had perished. He knew not how, but for many nights, haunting visions came to him, of blood red flames, Balrogs, orcs and the mighty Glaurung, the Worm of Angband. He had not met any of these fell creatures, but their names were heard often enough in these times through word of mouth, and Beleg sensed the fear they invoked. He shuddered thinking of his parents anguish, despair and terror, consumed alive by the mighty flames, or worse still, trapped by them and unable to fly to safety, choking and gasping their last breaths in Arda. A deep fire was kindled in his heart, and was never wholly extinguished. It crackled and blazed, and was fed by his hatred for the Enemy, the murderers of his parents, taken from him too soon.

Beleg went to see Círdan, begging his leave; he knew he could no longer stay in the Falas by the sea, with the deaths of his parents to avenge. He would go to Doriath, to serve King Thingol. The shipwright was expecting this, though not wanting it to come to pass. With much sadness he presented Beleg with a beautiful bow, Belthronding, made of black yew-wood.  It was hard horn pointed and stringed with bare sinews. It was strong, and so hard to bend that neither elf nor man could do so, save Beleg.

'For there is a magic in it Beleg, and you alone can wield it.'

With this gift came an arrow, Dailir, though it does not enter into this tale. Suffice to know it was never used by Beleg, though it remained with him at all times, and the beloved dart went unbroken until the night its owner perished at the hands of his friend.

'Your father ordered I make this for you, Beleg. I have respected his wishes. May it be your lucky charm, for I doubt very much he intended you to use it.'

With a twinkle in his eye Círdan handed the dart to Beleg. It was bound in silver cloth, so he unwrapped it and gazed upon the creation his father had dreamt up for him. It scintillated as it caught the dawn light, the rays of Anor bouncing off its polished smooth surface. Gently but cautiously he brushed his finger against it. It was warm to the touch, and in fact now that Beleg had started caressing it, he could not bare to put it down. He knew also how much love and craftsmanship and gone into its making. He would not let the dart out of his possession, for it was verily the only material link of love that remained between himself and his parents.

'Farewell Beleg. Aa' i'sul nora lanne'lle-May the wind fill your sails.' Círdan's voice broke the enchantment.

Beleg smiled sadly. 'You know I am eager to go, I cannot fain reluctance, but I will miss you the most. May we meet again in happier circumstances.'

Thus Círdan and Beleg parted, in close friendship, but never again did they lay eyes on each other.

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It was early spring of First Age 456 when Beleg set out alone, walking steadily northeastwards.  Flowers were beginning to bloom in earnest; the world was alight with sound and colour, hues of yellow, pink, purple, and the lush green of springy grass. Birds flew overheard, their raucous calls mingling with the other creatures of nature. Beleg's finely tuned ear could perceive insects buzzing and crawling on the newly green paths, small beasts hiding in bushes, as he had so often done in his childhood, and the soft low rushing of streams and rivers, gliding on their courses. With this simple, yet elemental rustic scene, a new hope bloomed in Beleg. He had left his old life behind, in the Falas, and though he would not forget his parents, who lived on in his memory only, and in Dailir, he was going forwards, taking control of his life. Doriath awaited him.

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Under Thingol, Beleg's life took a turn for the better. Not that his whole life had been misery, for his younger days had been happy and carefree, but since his parents had gone to the Dagor Bragollach, he had sunken into a dark and reflective mood. In Doriath Beleg was reunited with kin he did not know, but that his parents had often spoken of. Among them was Mablung, though far distant kin, and they were fast in friendship. Beleg joined himself to the Heavy Hand's company, and Belthronding did him proud, and won renown throughout the forest of Neldoreth, so much so that Beleg became chief of the marchwardens of Thingol, and won the name Cuthalion. Every time he slew a fell creature, he thought of his mother, she who had presaged his wonderful skill with the bow. He found that Belthronding sang to him as it spewed arrows to and fro, left and right, always on target. All save Dailir, who reminded him of his father, grave, dignified, smooth and well polished. Thus his parents were never far, either from mind or body.

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Now in the year 468, rumours of a northern war were first heard in Doriath. Mablung and Beleg alone desired leave to join it. Thingol was against it, for the Kinslayers had slayed his kin after all. But Beleg would not have no part in any great deeds against Morgoth, and finally with Mablung they went under the banners of Fingon, and marched to war. In the Fens of Serech he was stationed in 472, and mighty Belthronding had a new chance to shine, and hewed arrows at any Enemy that approached it. But alas for treachery, and the elves were not victorious. Luckily, Beleg survived and made the journey back to Menegroth.

He walked silently, and was just approaching the eaves of Doriath when he spotted two figures in the distance. No, he corrected himself, three figures, for one was sat, resting against a tree. Silently he came ever forward, but the three men, for he perceived that they were not of the Eldar, did not pay any heed, or did not hear him. The two standing he saw were aged. Valiant they looked perhaps, but great fatigue they bore.

Suddenly, with a cry a small figure dashed towards him, legs flailing, a stick in hand. Beleg hardly had time to draw his sword that the person was upon him. He laughed as he realised it was but a mere boy. He was dark of hair and complexion, and when both were upright he saw into his eyes. A deep sadness lurked in those pools of darkness, shadows of previous grievances. He was startled to see a certain savagery too, and a hint of aggression.

'Who are you and what do you search?' His little voice piped up.

Beleg raised an eyebrow. 'It is rather I who should be asking that very question, for these woods are my home.'

'We are going to the King of the elves in Menegroth. My father has been there.' He announced proudly.

'What business seek you with him?'

The boy's childish features turned cold, his little face seemed to have aged years, and he would say no more, like a fortress whose drawbridge was pulled up.

'Our business is our own.' This was one of the boy's companions.

'I have but good intentions. Speak your name, for I defend these woods against any unwanted strangers.'

'I am Gethron.' He said gruffly. 'And this is Grithnir. We seek Thingol urgently. He expects us. We must deliver Túrin, (and here he pointed at the boy) to him.'

Beleg could tell these men were speaking the truth, and he offered his help in leading them to Menegroth.

'We're not lost.' Túrin frowned.

Beleg could only laugh. Túrin much reminded him of himself as a child. He ruffled Túrin's hair.

'One day you shall make a great swordsman if this is anything to go by.'

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Any reviews gratefully accepted. There shall be Part II: Life after Turin following, sometime. Maybe.