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Chapter Text

Doriath

“There is no shame in changing your minds,” Thingol said, with a grave dignity that was in no way lessened by the delicate violets and anemones Melian was tucking into the braided crown of his hair. The king and queen sat at ease on a mat of ferns beneath the sprawling arms of an oak, and though the knitted treetops held back all but a dim haze of the dawn light, song sparrows announced the day’s beginning. “In truth it would please me better if you did,” Thingol continued, “though I have given you leave to go, for I am loath to refuse the request of two who have served me so well and faithfully. Is each of you certain you wish to join in this assault on the Enemy?”

“Without a doubt, sire,” answered Beleg.

Mablung had a doubt or two, so he said only, “I would go, sire.”

“Go, then, with our blessing. Guard each other, and see that you return to Doriath, where you are needed.”

Mablung bowed his head and took a moment to sort out his feelings: pride that he had earned his king’s trust and gratitude; relief that Thingol took no offence at their going to war under another king; admiration for Beleg’s confidence and courage; and unease about his decision to go with Beleg to the battle.

He didn’t think the unease was born of foresight. The opposite, actually. It was his profound uncertainty how a direct assault on the Enemy could end. Even if they crushed his armies … if they broke down the doors of Angband and stormed every pit and cavern … eventually they must come to Morgoth, and what then? Could a Vala be destroyed? If not destroyed, contained? But where? How? For how long?

Mablung’s gaze was drawn to Melian’s as he rose from his knees. In the shadow of the deep wood her eyes glimmered brightly, but he could not read his fate in them any better than he could in the stars. He was left with the same disorientation he felt when he lay under an open sky on a clear night and began to perceive the vastness of Ilmen. Was that how the future appeared to Melian, he wondered, like a mesh of light and darkness expanding infinitely in all directions? How small he must be in all that expanse.

He stirred from his reverie when he heard Beleg speaking to him. They were passing through the forest of Neldoreth, somewhat slowly because Beleg wanted to say goodbye to all his favourite trees, which meant Mablung had to make several timing adjustments in his mental itinerary of their journey.

“I’m always glad of your company, Mablung, and there is no one I would sooner have by my side in battle,” Beleg said, before he tilted his head and looked sidelong at Mablung. “But I hope you don’t feel that you must go only because I am going.”

“It isn’t that. Or it isn’t only that,” Mablung amended, for he knew he would not have considered joining the Noldor host if Beleg had not announced his intention to do so. As Thingol’s chief captain, Mablung felt his duty was to uphold the king’s policies, generally speaking, not oppose them. But Beleg could not be restrained, and his friend’s eager determination to be a part of the coming battle had woken something in Mablung.

“We have spent so much of our lives defending ourselves, resisting invasions, guarding a fenced land while elsewhere evil might grow unchecked,” Mablung said. “I believe it will be … gratifying… to bring the fight to our Enemy for once. To show him that we do not accede to his rule anywhere.”

Beleg smiled and rapped his knuckles against the shield hung on Mablung’s back. “And so we shall. As we did before with our valiant friends from Brethil.”

The forest of Brethil was the first stop on their itinerary, after they crossed the Ford of Brithiach. The march-wardens of Doriath and Brethil had kept up a regular exchange of messages since the year they joined forces against an invasion of Orcs. When Beleg learned that the Folk of Haleth would fight alongside the Noldor and the men of Dor-lómin in the coming battle, he arranged that he and Mablung would meet the Halethrim at Amon Obel so they could travel together to Eithel Sirion.

“Does Halmir lead their warband?” Mablung asked.

“His sons, Haldir and Hundar, each lead a company. I am told Halmir died last winter.”

This was sad news to Mablung. Halmir had been a gruff, sharp-tongued man, but a stout fighter and a good leader. Mablung had liked him. “In battle?”

“No. The mortal death.”

Not even fifteen years had passed since they drove the Orcs out of Brethil together, and Halmir was as strong as an ox then, though he had the look of a weathered piece of leather. Mablung pondered this doom of the Second-born, the inexplicable and inexorable loss of their vigour even when the body was nourished. Then he thought of Lúthien, and of the winter that fell on Thingol at her death, when for a time he seemed to fail and wither like a mortal. How great was the distance between their fates, truly?

Beleg’s voice broke into his musings. “Do you notice all their names start with the same sound? Haleth. Haldan. Halmir. Haldir. Hundar.”

“I will not be surprised if they call us Heleg and Hablung,” Mablung commented.

“If they do, I will call them Baldir and Mundar.”

“The Noldor have a habit of repeating themselves too.”

“Indeed. Which Fin is high king now?”

“Fin the third, I think.”

“Ah, King Finfinfin.”

Mablung fought a smile. “Yes, that’s the one.”

He touched Beleg’s arm, and they both paused. Less than a bowshot ahead lay the carcass of a stag, devoured, its mighty antlers nearly all that remained to identify the animal besides the ribcage and bloodied scraps of pelt trampled into the dirt.

Beleg adjusted his bow and quiver, a pensive look on his face when he turned to face Mablung. “Mablung, my friend,” he said, laying his hands on Mablung’s shoulders. “In case one of us doesn’t make it through this battle, I want you to know that it has been an honour, and a joy, for me to teach you everything you know about the art of war.”

Mablung added “trip Beleg so he falls into the River Minder” to his mental itinerary. “Thank you, Beleg. I hope I will yet have the chance to repay you by teaching you how to pleasure a woman properly.”

Beleg smiled, but Mablung knew he had better watch his footing by the river as well.

Brethil

“It isn’t too late to change your mind, Hundad,” Hunleth said to her brother.

Hundar slanted a sharp look at her, which she ignored. Hundad’s gaze was not on them, because little Hardang, who was not yet two years old, held tightly onto one of his father’s hands as they walked across the garth of the Obel Halad, where new green grass sprouted around the paving stones like the hair around the Halad’s bald spot. But Hundar saw the shift in his son’s jaw at Hunleth’s words, the quick tightening of his mouth.

Though Hundar said as little as possible on the subject to either of his children, he was relieved by Hundad’s decision not to join the warriors who would fight beside King Fingon’s armies. Hundar had himself been widowed young, so it eased his mind to leave Hundad in Brethil with his wife and child, away from the war.

But he could not deny it eased his heart that Hunleth would come with him to Eithel Sirion. It was one less goodbye to say today. Besides, of the two it made more sense for her to fight. Hunleth had no family of her own, plus she was better at keeping her head and heeding orders in the midst of battle than Hundad was. Even if she did as she pleased the rest of the time.

Hundar reached out to his grandson. Hardang let go of his father and curled his hand around Hundar’s fingers instead, though the boy’s attention was on two dogs rough-housing over a bone nearby in the yard. “Handir will be glad to have you here with him,” Hundar said to his son. “Especially if things go badly for us.”

Hundad forced his scowl into a smile when Hardang looked at him and pointed to the dogs with a shriek of excitement. “His High and Mightiness of Hithlum ought to keep you in reserve, and let Elves do the fighting,” said Hundad, dropping his smile as soon as the boy looked away from him. “They’re the ones with magic powers and enchanted weapons, and if they die they just come back to life anyway.”

“I don’t think anyone will be left out of the fighting,” Hundar responded. He scooped up his grandson before Hardang could be knocked over by the two dogs wrestling each other into his path.

“Beleg and Mablung will be touched by the value you place on Elvish lives,” Hunleth remarked, twisting to glance over her shoulder.

“I’m talking about the Noldor, not Beleg and Mablung,” Hundad muttered, his eyes following her glance.

“If the Noldor all had magic powers they wouldn’t need our help.”

“We don’t need horses to pull our ploughs but we prefer not to do it ourselves,” Hundad shot back.

“We don’t ask the horses and they can’t choose to stay at home while all the other animals go to work,” was Hunleth’s reply.

Hundar wanted to enjoy this moment of holding his little grandson close, while sunlight splayed through the spruce trees and a robin whistled its cheerful marching song. So he had to ignore the bickering of his children. He knew he had goaded his sisters when they were all young, though he didn’t think he had ever been as hard on them as Hunleth was on Hundad. Sometimes Hundar wondered if he should have remarried after their mother died, for their sake.

Either way, he should not have let Hunleth spend so much time with her grandfather. Halmir had been hard on everyone, and Hunleth had acquired his taste for cutting remarks.

Hardang squirmed and stretched his hands toward Hundad. As he passed the boy into Hundad’s arms, Hundar studied his son’s face. This might be the last time they spoke to each other. Even if the battle went well, chances were that Hundar would not return from it. He was fifty-four years old — still strong and capable of fighting, but he knew he did not move as quickly as he used to, and tired more easily, and recovered more slowly.

Hundad was twenty-five, the same age Hundar had been when Hunleth was born. His son’s face looked sullen, but Hundar knew that he was fearful, and ashamed. Hundar wanted to tell him that it didn’t matter why he chose to stay behind. That what looked like courage in others was sometimes only a lack of imagination. That not everyone in a time of war could be a warrior, and he loved Hundad all the same.

But these were not sentiments a young man would heed. He would only shame Hundad more by saying so. Especially in front of Hunleth.

Hundar squeezed his son’s shoulder. “Guard Brethil well, till we return,” he said, trying to convey a calm assurance that he trusted Hundad to do so.

“Remember to feed my pigs,” said Hunleth, before she leaned in to kiss little Hardang’s cheek.

Nargothrond

“My heart is sore with dread at your going,” said Finduilas’s quiet voice behind his shoulder. “Please stay.”

Gwindor didn’t want to be short with her, but he had just endured a lengthy admonishment from Orodreth, his horse was tossing her head and sidling away from him, and the rest of his company had already mounted. “The last time you asked that of me,” he replied, half-turning to meet Finduilas’s eyes, “I stayed, and since then I have not had a moment’s ease from regret.”

Her gaze lowered, and Gwindor felt guilt twist his gut, once for blaming her and then again for heeding her in the first place. Whether he might have done more than die beside his king in Tol-in-Gaurhoth was unknown, but he ought to have taken the chance. He ought to have followed the son of Barahir into Angband, and searched every mine and dungeon for Gelmir. But Finduilas begged him not to go, and with every year that he passed in the safety of Nargothrond Gwindor’s anguish had grown.

Standing with his back to his horse, Gwindor picked up Finduilas’s hand. He touched his lips to her fingers, the familiar scent of her skin making him fight a moment of doubt. Then he took off his betrothal ring, put it in her palm and closed her fingers around it.

“I do not doubt your heart’s warning,” he said, and released her hand. “But whatever dread fate awaits me, I will meet it. I have no wish for you to be caught in it.”

Finduilas’s eyes remained downcast. “And you think this will spare me?” she asked, opening her fingers.

“What more can I do? Finduilas, I know Gelmir lives. I see him in my dreams. The dreams feel more real to me than my waking hours, when I am expected to sit calmly by and show interest in conversation and manners as if my brother were not in bitter torment at every moment. How much longer will you ask me to bear it?”

Gwindor knew he was overwrought, and unfair to Finduilas, who only spoke out of love for him. He needed to leave before he lost his composure entirely. “I am sorry,” he said, in as even a voice as he could manage. “But I must go. I pray you remember me kindly, and keep my ring, as you keep my love. I have returned yours only so you know I do not expect you to wait for me. You are free.”

She lifted her gaze at that, with a flinch. “Are any of us? I doubt it more each day.”

Gwindor did not have the will to argue with her, or to comfort her. He wanted to kiss her, but he thought he had no right to do so, now.

“Maybe not, so long as our Enemy sits upon a throne. Farewell, Faelivrin,” he said. It should have consoled him that, if fate parted them, she would still bear the name he had given her. But now looking at the sunlit beauty of her face seemed to only inflame instead of soothe the grief and wrath that had become inseparable within him.

Finduilas kissed his cheek. The fingers she touched fleetingly to his other cheek were cold. When Gwindor moved to hold her she had already withdrawn, standing with the hand that clasped his ring in a fist at her side, her face still and wan.

“Elbereth keep you safe, Gwindor,” she said. “I will watch for your return.”

Riding along the bank of the Narog, whose water seethed as violently as his thoughts did, Gwindor looked behind him only once. Finduilas stood by the Doors of Felagund, but she had covered her golden hair with a shawl of soft grey, and a cloud had crept over the morning sun, and the birds were silent. The foreboding that fell on Gwindor made him turn at once and urge his horse into a hard gallop.

Chapter Text

The small party of Elves at Eithel Ivrin were the first Noldor that Hundar had seen with his own eyes. He had heard accounts of these Elves-from-over-the-Sea, though: from Gloredhel, Haldir’s wife, who as a child watched King Fingon with his retinue ride through Dor-lómin; from the refugees who dwelt in Brethil after the Battle of Sudden Flame drove them out of Dorthonion; and from Hunleth, who attended a war council at Barad Eithel two years past.

“They are all giants, yet even in armour they sit their horses so beautifully they look as if they are floating,” said Gloredhel. “Do you know they ride without any reins or stirrups? It’s because they can speak to animals in their own tongues.”

“They have eyes that glow as bright as torches, and they wield swords longer than a man’s entire arm-span,” said Beldis of the house of Beor. “Their swords also glow. And they are marvelous minstrels, whose songs conjure visions before your eyes, as if it were a dream.”

“They seem to have their heads pretty far up their own arses,” said Hunleth. “There is hardly room for Húrin to get his in there too.”

Hundar could not say how beautifully these Noldor rode, because they had already dismounted to let their horses drink from the pools. Haldir elbowed him in the side of his arm, saying, “And you thought all Elves look the same.”

Fortunately Mablung and Beleg were not within earshot. The two Elves had gotten ahead of the Haladin companies, as they had done often during the march north up the Teiglin. Hundar did not actually think all Elves looked the same, though he might have said something dismissive once in response to his wife praising the beauty of the Sindar. It was just the sort of passing remark his brother would decide to hold over his head forever.

It was true that Hundar didn’t quite understand the fuss over Elvish beauty. Their faces might be free from marks of age and illness, as well as beards, but to him this made the Elves look like oversized children. At times they acted like children too, such as when they sang some baffling nonsense song then laughed so giddily Hundar would think they ought to go down for a nap. Other times they acted as distant and condescending as one might expect from creatures older than the sun. Elves were a puzzle — he left it at that.

But at least the march-wardens of Doriath dressed like sensible woodmen in shades of grey and brown, with light armour that left them the freedom of movement to wield their respective weapons: Mablung a spear and axe, and Beleg his impressive longbow. The Noldor at the pools of Ivrin might have been dressed for a festival with all the gold and gem ornaments flashing the sun’s low rays right into Hundar’s eyes.

They were heavily armed and armoured, though, Hundar saw as he squinted, and the Elf who walked forward to meet Mablung and Beleg had a rather grim, fierce countenance, despite the sunny gold-embroidered cloak billowing behind him. Hundar doubted he would hear this one singing any silly songs.

Hundar was more interested in getting a look at the waterfall before the sun went down than in becoming better acquainted with the Noldor. But from the way Mablung and the Elf in the fancy cloak turned to face him and Haldir as they approached, he supposed introductions were in order first. Though he noticed that Beleg was already stealing off toward the water.

“This is Gwindor son of Guilin, a lord of Nargothrond,” Mablung said, with a small gesture at the Noldo. “His party also travels to join King Fingon’s host.”

Gwindor's eyes were not as bright as torches but they were discomfiting nonetheless, and the sword sheathed on his back was in proportion to his body, meaning it was indeed very long. Though Haldir was accounted tall among the Haladin, the balding top of his head stood not much above Gwindor’s shoulder. It was too soon to know how far up his own arse Gwindor’s head was, however.

Mablung repeated his gesture in the other direction. “Haldir is chief of the Haladin in Brethil. Hundar is his brother.”

Gwindor seemed to wince, making Hundar wonder if the Elf had a wound, or a toothache. Or maybe someone’s crystal-studded helm had momentarily blinded him. “Greetings, Haldir, Hundar.” Gwindor gave each of them a sharp nod. “I am glad to know the warriors of the Edain will stand beside us. From what messages Nargothrond received from King Thingol, I thought he would permit none from his realm to go to war.”

“Just two renegades,” Haldir said, glancing from Mablung to Beleg, some distance away now. “As for us, we did not ask Thingol’s permission.”

“I understand,” Gwindor replied gravely. “Alas, we too go against the wishes of our king. Will you camp here overnight?”

“If Lord Gwindor permits.” Haldir bowed his head in mock deference. “And Thingol and Orodreth, as well, of course. Is there anyone else I should ask?”

Hundar thought Haldir’s sense of humour might be lost on Gwindor. “I believe this land was part of Turgon’s realm, before he vanished,” Gwindor said. His face turned toward Eithel Ivrin, but his gaze was low and brooding. “I suppose it belongs to no one now, save for the Lord of Waters. On my part, be welcome.” After another round of curt nods, he whirled around and strode away.

“Same to you,” said Haldir.

A sunset behind Eithel Ivrin would have been moving at any time, but under a looming threat of death the sight was almost as painful as it was enjoyable. Hundar stood beside his brother with an ache in his chest as he watched rainbows gleam in the falling water and tried to remember the last sunset he had watched with his wife. It was so long ago he could not recall.

He wanted to ask Haldir about Gloredhel, who had been ill for months now, but decided it might be kinder not to raise the subject. The one time Hundar suggested that Haldir might stay behind from this war to be with her, Haldir had only brushed him off. What more could he do? Haldir was the Halad. No one told him to go or not to go. In Hundar’s opinion few would have thought less of Haldir if he gave his son the command of his warriors. Instead Haldir had given Handir charge of Brethil, and said goodbye to all his family.

“Haldir. Hundar.”

Hundar turned to see Mablung standing at an aloof distance with his hands clasped behind him. The Serious One, Hundar had privately named the Sinda captain when they met years ago, to distinguish him from the Smiley One, Beleg. Haldir had called them Over Here and Over There, due to Beleg’s habit of wandering off alone to scout or snipe with his arrows while Mablung would ride herd on the warbands. No warbands had come from Doriath this time, though.

Hundar and Haldir moved apart, making room for Mablung to stand between them on the rocky outcrop that cut into the clear green water of the pool. “I wish to offer you my condolences for Halmir,” Mablung said. “I would be pleased to hear any songs or verses you composed in his honour, if such are permitted to be shared with someone not of your kin.”

Hundar looked at his brother. He didn’t think either of them had ever composed a song or poem in their lives, and their father’s death of old age would not be the occasion to inspire it. When Halmir died, what they had done was gotten very drunk together, lamented the many ways their father had made them miserable, cried, forgiven him, then thrown axes at targets until Gloredhel yelled at them to stop their foolishness before someone lost a foot.

“I’m sorry, but it’s not permitted,” Haldir said.

Mablung accepted this answer and turned to gaze at the waterfall. Hundar noted how little changed the march-warden was from the last time they had seen him. Possibly he wore a new hairstyle — Hundar did not recall the Sindarin fashions of fifteen years ago — but his face might have been carved from sandstone. The changes in Haldir, standing on Mablung’s other side, were striking in comparison. His beard was as grey as a badger’s pelt, he had lost teeth, and the deep lines by his eyes and mouth suggested the years had passed in more mirth than Hundar knew to be true.

Hundar was just as glad the sun was too low now for him to see much detail in his own reflection in the water. He wondered what Mablung thought of their aging. If the Elf even remembered them distinctly. Maybe all mortal men looked the same to him.

“I composed some verses after the battle in Brethil,” Mablung said, with the same courteous reserve in which he had first addressed them. “One is about Halmir. It’s not a proper eulogy, but I will recite if you wish to hear it.”

Haldir nodded assent at Mablung, though Hundar thought his brother looked a bit leery. Hundar gazed into the distance and steeled himself not to react to any Elvish tra-la-la-lally.

“Brave hearts, with me! Weak hearts, fall back!”
Then Halmir charged alone.
His shield soon broke, like thunder’s crack
While steel on steel did groan.
His foe he drove into the mud
Though standing twice his size.
A mask he wore of Orcish blood,
His axe between its eyes.

Alone, he stayed the rout.
He rallied those about to fly.
He spurred them with his shout:
“Today is a good day to die!”

The rush of the waterfall sounded unnaturally loud after Mablung fell silent. Hundar, taken off guard by the Elf’s spirited delivery, wrestled for composure. How strange that crusty old Halmir should be the subject to bare a depth of feeling in the aloof Sinda.

Haldir spoke first, with some tightness in his voice. “Well said.”

Hundar waited a moment longer to be sure he had control of his own voice, then cleared his throat. “My daughter would like that, I think. She was close to her grandfather.”

“I could write it down, if that would be helpful,” Mablung offered.

Hundar scratched his jaw. “No. Hunleth cannot read.”