Land of the King,

Chapter 21: Young and Defiant

Any man who must say 'I am the King' is no true king

It was soothing. Even as a child, the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below had never failed to calm his mind.

Yet for a long time now, the peace he had once felt, standing on the balcony and staring off into the horizon of the Sunset Sea, had been tainted.

In the span of seven years, Beleg's family had fallen apart. His grandfather had died, poisoned by one of his own sons. His uncles had been lost to him, one to execution, and the other to the cold Wall. Beleg had never been close to them, but he had still felt the loss keenly.

His father had been slain in battle, taken from him by a stray arrow at Goldengrove. His grandmother… Beleg's heart still hurt even now, to recall the way he had seen her jump, too late to stop her.

The sea had claimed her body, but her blood had stained the rocks nonetheless, for a time before the waves washed it away.

In some way, his grandmother's death had hurt more than all the others. For she alone had chosen to wilfully leave him. Broken from her grief, she had leapt out of that balcony and out of his life forever.

All Beleg had left was his mother, a kind and gentle soul, but she had not the temperament or ability to aid him in the ways he needed most.

Twenty years since he had been crowned king, yet Beleg had not ruled. The Council of the Sceptre had usurped his power, and the time was swift approaching that Beleg would have no power at all. He cursed his youth, for the treacherous lords had exploited it to claim governance in his name, saying he was too young and inexperienced to rule.

He wished he knew how to put them in their place, to remind the Purists and all their ilk of their place. It was the duty of the lords to serve their king, not command him. This hierarchy had to be maintained, lest chaos grip Arnor in its cold hands.

Yet how could Beleg prove himself? He had not fought in any of his grandfather's wars, or even in the War of the Three Brothers. His father had kept him with him, first at Fornost and then at Annúminas.

He needed an advisor, someone he could trust. In this pit of vipers that the capital had become, trust was a luxury. A scheme on the level of his plan to restore the power of the Crown and Sceptre would be hard to keep under wraps… without the right backing.

As Beleg paced up and down the room, thinking hard on how to enact his plan, his gaze was drawn slightly to a portrait hanging in the corner.

It was a large portrait, nearly as tall as Beleg himself. The frame was charcoal black, carved from ironwood with a gold trim. A luxurious frame, fitting for the individuals it surrounded, for in the portrait stood his grandparents and their three sons.

Beleg was not the most surprised to see it here. The rooms he now stood in had once belonged to his grandmother. It had been from the balcony of this very room that he had seen her throw herself off. Under his orders, the room had been kept preserved as his grandmother had left it for the past nineteen years, and he had often come here to get away from the intrigues of court.

That portrait was one of the few that had survived his father's purge. The late king Amlaith had burned almost all the portraits of his brother Ostoher, attempting to wipe out his memory for his accursed deed and betrayal.

The portrait had survived his wrath, under the pleading of his grandmother. 'I wish to remember him as the boy he was, not the man he became' she had said. 'I would rather not remember him at all,' his father had replied.

Yet despite his own hatred, his father had kept the portrait in his solar for the remainder of his reign, alongside one of King Earendur alone. His grandmother had had it moved to her own chambers after his father's death, and there it had remained.

Beleg moved closer to inspect the portrait, wiping of the dust that had gathered on its canvas. The portrait had to be almost a century old, the paint was fading in many places.

His uncle Ostoher looked to be a boy of perhaps seven or eight and was looking much embarrassed to be carried in his mother's arms. His father, Amlaith, stood beside his mother, his expression bored and side cast, looking as if he would rather not be there.

Yet Beleg's eyes were drawn not to the smiling face of his grandmother or his embarrassed uncle Ostoher in her arms, nor even to his father standing to her right. No, Beleg's eyes were lured to the right side of the portrait, to the pair that stood at his grandmother's left.

His grandfather Earendur looked every inch a king, dressed in a silver-gold doublet. He stood tall, proud, and imposing. Beside him, his uncle Cirion stood in a similar posture, looking more his father's son and heir than either of his two brothers.

Beleg's eyes lingered on Cirion longest. At the time the portrait was made, he could not have been any older than Beleg himself had been when he had taken the throne. A young man, scarcely come of age, yet with a bright and promising future ahead of him.

The more his eyes gazed upon his exiled uncle, the more his mind went wild with a risky idea. It would be very bad if his enemies on the Council found out, and it could all be for nothing, but he had to try.

Beleg left his grandmother's chambers with a fire in his heart, a purpose found. He could do it, he could restore the Sceptre's power, but first he had a letter to write.


My dear nephew, it does me much good to hear from you after all these years. I know we had never been close, but it makes me very happy to have received a letter at long last from my family. The last letter I had received had been from my mother before she died and that been full of too much grief and sorrow for me to feel any joy.

I was much aggrieved when I had heard of the death of your father, my late brother, Amlaith, and later of our mother's suicide. I cannot honestly say I was close to my brother, but at the end at least, I wished him no ill will.

I made many mistakes, the mistakes that have weakened Arnor and the Sceptre. It was because of my rebellion that the Reach could take back the southern territories and I have always felt an indescribable guilt that my actions had led to your father's death when he tried to reclaim what our own father had won.

A debt must be repaid. Your father spared my life, and now I have the chance to redeem my mistakes by giving you aid.

There is little I myself can personally do. I cannot accept any pardon for my service on the Wall to return to Arnor to aid you. I myself have sworn sacred oaths to Eru and it would set a dangerous precedent that would lead many to think that the judgements of the Royal Family are fickle and weak. That is not tolerable. Whatever happens, the legitimacy of the Royal House to rule must remain unquestionable.

However, though there may be little aid I can give you directly, you would find no surer ally than my old followers. Many of them resented your father for my exile, but with my own endorsement, they will rally to your side.

Seek out my old friend, Aratan of Minas Ithil. I have enclosed a letter to him and with any luck he will be persuaded to lend you his aid.

Beleg read through his uncle's letter for what must have been the third time. It had been his hope that his uncle would agree to return to Arnor, for surely with such an experienced prince as his Steward, the Council would have had no choice but to relinquish their power. Yet his uncle was correct, it would set a very bad precedent. Nevertheless, not all hope was lost.

His uncle had given him a great boon, a letter of support to Aratan of Minas Ithil. Many years ago, his father had restored Lord Celeborn of Minas Ithil to his rightful place as lord. However, true power remained in the hands of his son, and with the death of Lord Celeborn a year ago, Aratan was once again the Lord of Minas Ithil in both name and truth.

The power of Minas Ithil was nothing to scoff at. The fief of the Lord of Minas Ithil was rivalled only by Dol Amroth and Minas Anor and eclipsed only by the Royal fief itself. Furthermore, Minas Ithil held a great deal of influence in Arnor, especially in the southern region of Ithilien, the most fertile part of the kingdom.

If Beleg could gain the allegiance of Minas Ithil, it would go a long way to restoring his power over the kingdom as a whole.

Beleg however was no fool. Lord Aratan had given support to one would-be king in the past and had almost lost everything when his liege had surrendered. It may not be so easy for Beleg to gain his trust and loyalty.

There was little power that Beleg still had, yet in theory at least, if he summoned a lord before him, said lord was obligated to present themselves to him.

In practice however, his summons went unanswered more often than not. His summoning of Lord Aratan was thus a test as well. If he came, he proved that he knew how to give the Sceptre and his King proper respect and deference. If not, well, Beleg had no use for lords that would not obey his commands, irregardless if they had been his uncle's old friends or not.

Beleg was waiting in his solar when he had heard a knock on the door, exactly at the time he had summoned Lord Aratan.

"Come in."

His guard walked in, bowing before saying, "Lord Aratan has presented himself in the throne room according to your summons, Your Majesty."

Beleg smiled, "Excellent."

A few minutes later, Beleg was in the throne room alone with Lord Aratan, having dismissed all their guards.

"Lord Aratan, I am most pleased to see you. How was your journey?"

"Very good Your Majesty, I…"

And so their conversation went. They traded courtesies and compliments, questions on each other's wellbeing, and discussions on the policies proposed in the Council of the Sceptre to preserve the purity of Númenórean blood.

Yet even as their small talk continued, Beleg could sense Lord Aratan's growing impatience, so he soon brought the conversation to the elephant in the room.

"You must be wondering to yourself, Lord Aratan, why I summoned you. Rest assured that it was not merely for small talk but far more important matters of the state. Namely, the Council of the Sceptre and even more specifically, the Steward's overreaching grasp for power."

"I had suspected Your Majesty. It is indeed unsettling to many, including myself, that the Lord of Minas Anor has come to hold so much power over the kingdom."

"To that end, can I count on your support Lord Aratan, in putting Lord Tarannon in his place?"

"You would, Your Majesty, however the Purists are very powerful and Lord Tarannon is their unofficial leader. It would be very dangerous for Minas Ithil to support you alone."

Beleg smiled, "Come now, Lord Aratan. There is no need to be so modest. You know as well as I that if you join my side, all of Ithilien will follow as well."

Lord Aratan smirked, "That may be true Your Majesty, but as the matter stands, I have more cards in these negotiations. What are you willing to offer me?"

Beleg was quick to reply," The position of Steward for one. You have proven yourself a capable and righteous lord, and I can think of no one better for the position. Yet, if you would not heed my words alone, perhaps the words of an old friend would help persuade you," Beleg said as he handed Cirion's letter to Lord Aratan.

Aratan's eyes widened as he read the letter. When he finished, he tucked the letter away in a pocket in his doublet before bowing to Beleg.

"Hail Your Majesty, I will honour my oaths and do whatever you require of me."

Beleg smiled, satisfied. He knew exactly what was in the letter of course. He was not so honourable to not read it, he was quite touched by his uncle naming his 'Heir in spirit' and asking Aratan to do anything he needed.

"Thank you Lord Aratan. There is much work to be done."


Beleg stood before the Council of the Sceptre. He had suffered two blows recently, the suicide of his grandmother and the resignation of his Steward, the same one who had served both his father and grandfather before him.

The current meeting with the Council was for him to choose his new Steward. He had already informed the lord in question and he would now officially name him as such.

However, before Beleg could do anything, the room's doors burst open and in strode the Lord of Minas Anor, Tarannon Anárionel. He came with a full platoon of guards as well.

Beleg demanded what the lord was doing, to which the lord replied, "Why, taking my position as Steward, Your Majesty. I am honoured to serve you in such an esteemed role."

Beleg had not understood at the time that Lord Tarannon had been giving him a chance to save face. Outraged, he had replied, "What nonsense is this? I have already made my choice and it is certainly not you."

Lord Tarannon was wearing a blatantly fake regretful face, "Ah, well then I am here to 'convince' you otherwise, Your Majesty."

At that, Tarannon's guards unsheathed their blades. Blood boiling, Beleg called his guards, but was shocked when none came.

Turning to the lords of the Council, he demanded, "Will you not give me aid? I am your king! You would stand there and allow this cur to make threats to your liege?"

"It is no use Your Majesty. All of them have agreed with me. A young and untested king like you needs a strong and capable Steward to rule for you," Tarannon said, mockingly.

"How dare you! I am the King! I need none to rule in my stead, it is my duty and responsibility to govern this kingdom, and I'll not let a treacherous cur like you usurp me!"

Lord Tarannon dropped all pretence of respect then, "If you wish to be King, act like it. Let me give you your first lesson boy, one your late father clearly failed to impart. Any man who must say 'I am the King' is no true king. You are incapable of governing our people! Will you name me your Steward, so that I may help you in ruling?"

Beleg eyed Tarannon's guards. Their blades were drawn and they were inching closer. The lords of the Council showed no signs of coming to his aid and were looking askance at his reply.

"Very well then," he gritted out through clenched teeth.

Even now, the memory of his humiliation never failed to enrage Beleg. Tarannon had usurped his power by force and he and his cronies in the Purist Faction had proceeded to push through many laws. Most threateningly of all were laws passed to limit the power of the King and transfer it to the Steward and the Council of the Sceptre. Beleg had been forced to consent to these laws, well aware that refusal to do so could lead to his death.

Yet Tarannon had not been a good ruler. He had shown preferential treatment to his cronies and Purists, even going so far as to dig up the old wounds of the War of the Three Brothers to keep his enemies divided, turning Arnorian against Arnorian. Unofficial private wars and skirmishes, alongside a large bandit problem had plagued Arnor for the past two decades.

The sting of betrayal had hit hard. Ever since that day, Beleg had trusted no one, not even his mother had had his full confidence. He had kept all his cards close, preparing for the day in which he could put the smug Lord of Minas Anor in his place.

Some part of him though had been thankful to Tarannon however. He had taught him a valuable lesson. Simply declaring oneself a king did not make them a king in truth. Kings needed subjects, and to have subjects, they needed power. Power resided only where men thought it resided. Beleg would spend the next twenty years, training himself to be the best possible ruler he could be, gathering friends, allies, and connections.

And now the time was drawing near at last. With the aid of Lord Aratan, Beleg had been able to secretly amass more support in the Council, most notably Prince Celeb of Dol Amroth had joined him and that had been a great victory.

Many of them had been won over by his promises to keep the laws protecting Númenórean tradition and blood purity in place. Beleg personally cared not about those laws, and some part of him even supported them.

It had been much harder to convince them to return power to the King however. He had successfully argued that by tradition, the Kings ruled and the Council advised. If they truly believed in tradition, they would side with him against his would-be usurper, Tarannon.

All had agreed that Lord Tarannon had to be humbled, but as it was, none save Aratan were aware of his true intentions for him. Most thought he would strip him of his position of Steward and banish him back to Minas Anor, but Beleg would not be satisfied with that alone. The man had bared steel before and threatened his liege, there could be only one punishment for that.

The chance to carry out his plan came when Tarannon left the city to attend to matters in Minas Anor. Using Lord Aratan and Prince Celeb as proxies, Beleg had called an emergency council meeting.

As he stood waiting outside the council room, Beleg paced nervously. He thought on all his meetings with various lords, councillors, and generals, promising favours and giving bribes. He wanted, no, needed it to have all been for something.

Inside the council room, Prince Celeb stepped up to the dais in the centre of the room, addressing the council.

"What an auspicious day! Today, tradition has been upheld! We gather here today to welcome our king, the youngest in the history of Arnor, and restore to him in full the power that had been invested in him by Eru to govern us. All hail High King Beleg Elendillion, son of Amlaith!"

A round of thunderous applause filled the room, and Beleg strode in triumphant. Though on the outside he appeared confident and fit to rule, in his mind he was thanking Eru that his plan had succeeded, that all his work had not been in vain.

Stepping up to the dais to sit upon the throne before it, Beleg addressed the Council.

"Esteemed councillors and lords. I thank you all for your loyal service these past twenty years, but the time has come for me to take up my kingly responsibilities in full and I hope that all of you will continue to serve as capably as you did before. I take this moment not to glorify myself, but to honour my departed father and ancestors. In their honour, I declare that my reign as King shall usher in a new era, an era… of moral virtue, of dignity. The debauchery and chaos we have had to endure will now end. Arnor shall be again as she once was. A proud kingdom of virtuous women and honest men!"

Another round of thunderous applause filled the room. In Beleg's own mind, he thought the whole group a bunch of fickle backstabbing traitors.

Beleg's voice turned solemn, "I speak to you now, not as your king or ruler, but as a man betrayed. As my first act, I propose a motion. To declare Lord Tarannon a traitor…and enemy of the state."

The room became filled with murmurs as the lords and councillors began to speak rapidly to each other. Worried, Prince Celeb stepped up and went before Beleg at the dais quickly.

"Your Majesty, this is not what we agreed upon."

"It is not. Nevertheless, here we are."

"Tarannon still has many friends, you'll split the Council! The unity of the kingdom!" Celeb said, hoping to make the king see reason.

"Step away from my throne!" Beleg replied, disgusted.

Prince Celeb looked at him in horror, before obeying, moving back to his seat. The councillors, hearing the argument, had turned silent.

Beleg rose from his throne, "Any man who must say 'I am the king' is no true king. Those were the very words Lord Tarannon told me, nineteen years ago, when he forced me to make him Steward of the Realm at swordpoint.

Who will tell me that is not treason? Who will tell my armies, who love and honour their king as any true Arnorian should, that that is not treason?"

A unit of elite Arnorian soldiers entered the room, concerning many lords who were eerily reminded of the way Tarannon had seized power. The soldiers drew their blades and the steel ringed as it exited their sheaths.

"Who will speak against the motion?" Beleg asked, his voice barely more than a soft, violent whisper.

The year was 1182. King Beleg put the Council of the Sceptre in its place and crushed the weak rebellion of the traitorous Lord Tarannon of Minas Anor, whose neck soon met the kiss of Narsil.


Author's Note: Who got the reference?