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Beleg Cúthalion raises his gaze to the stars. A ribbon of light stretches across the sky's southern half, a shining path connecting the horizons. And next to it, as if about to stray from that path, twinkles the constellation Menelmacar. One star in his shoulder shines red, like a wound the Swordsman had taken in battle. But he stands upright and his belt and scabbard are jewelled.
In the ice-cold air, Beleg's breath rises up in a fine mist and clouds the stars for a brief moment, before they clear up again.
The first his eyes had ever seen, when he opened them at the shores of Cuiviénen, had been Menelmacar's stars. They had found their place in his memories ere he knew a name for them – even ere he himself had had a name.
But already in its very beginning, Elbereth Gilthoniel had painted the sign of the Swordsman into the heavens to herald Dagor Dagorath, the Last Battle.
Moon and sun have now passed and soon, Beleg will have seen both: The Eldars' first awakening under the starry sky and the end of all things in the same twilight. The duration of his life spans from one horizon of time to the other. Almost like a mirror image of the star-path in the sky – interrupted only at the zenith by the shadow of a storm cloud, whereas the real sky is clear. Compared to the span of his life he spent a brief time in the Halls of Mandos. Briefer yet were the days in which he had lived and fought, laughed and suffered by the side of Túrin, Húrin's son, but still: Like a lightning strike, abrupt and violent, they had left their mark and he can still trace the ragged lines of their memory in his fëa.
Beleg turns his gaze away from Menelmacar. Further up, almost above his head, shines Eärendil's light and it is the brightest of all the stars. Elbereth now had moved him from the edge of the horizon to the centre of the sky, so that Eärendil may hold vigil over Morgoth; so that and Elves and Men and Dwarves and all good creatures under the night sky may look up and rekindle their hope at all times. Beleg, who had ever loved starlight, but nonetheless painfully misses sun and moon, lets himself be filled with that hope for a moment – he is in dire need of it.
Then, he continues on his path.
The shards of the black sword are far heavier than their own weight. Wrapped in oiled cloth he carries them in a leather bag slung across his shoulder. In moments when the wind is still and his own thoughts are silent, Beleg can hear it whisper. It is the echo of a war chant, a song of blood and doom, that makes him shiver.
He could sometimes hear a voice, in those days when Dor-Cúarthol had been soaked with the blood of Orcs. But it had been weak, seldom had Beleg heard it and he had not given it much thought. He could not say what made it sing now.
It might be the deaths Túrin brought countless years ago, or the anticipation of new blood to be spilled in the coming Last Battle, for Túrin had named it Gurthang, Iron of Death.
But it had been called Anglachel when it was made, Iron of the Flaming Star. It may just be rejoicing in the darkness that its smith had admired, and in the sparkling of the stars above from which its blazing essence once had fallen.
Beleg treads through the alder forest with the careful steps of a hunter and neither on the marshland between small ponds and slow moving streams nor on the snow that did not melt on more solid ground does he make a sound. His bow is strung and he carries a hunting knife on his belt. His eyes are vigilantly set on the undergrowth; they miss no movement.
For a long time he has had no need for skills of this kind. But vile things have crawled over the ruins of the Walls of Night and peril lurks where before had lingered the peace of the Blessed Realm.
But finally, he arrives at his destination undisturbed and breaths a sigh of relief.
For a moment, the thought occurs to him that the one he is visiting, even though not completely vile, is at least a discomforting creature. It has not been easy to track down Eöl's dwelling, far off from any streets and settlements. But Beleg is patient, rarely he has not found a track and he has never lost one again.
Before him stands a stone-built house, blackberry bushes growing rampant up to the eaves. A broad chimney rises over the slate roof, and the rear part of the building seems to merge into the rocky slope behind it. Beleg guesses that the rock is criss-crossed with hidden tunnels and cellars in which Eöl hides his secrets.
Many ages ago, Beleg had visited Eöl's forge now and again, as no one had crafted better arrowheads. They had had in common that both preferred the silence and solitude of the forest's deep twilight to the loud and colourful feasts in Menegroth and to the taunts and half-truths hidden behind its smiling faces. Beyond that, Beleg did not feel any connection whatsoever to Eöl. The sorceries and curses he tempered his steel with did not have anything in common with the works of any other Elf, and from Melian's protective powers they differed as night does from day. Beleg had always entertained the thought that Eöl had not only learned those arts from the Dwarves with whom he was so connected, but from darker creatures as well.
After his re-embodiment in Valinor, Beleg has not even once felt either desire or need to pay Eöl a visit. But who else understands Gurthang's soul as well as its own smith? Does not fate demand that Eöl should rejoin the shards of the blade? ‘The dark heart of the smith still dwells in it.’ – Beleg had not forgotten Melian's words and they had proven true. But far darker yet is the heart of Morgoth which shall be pierced by the blade. It seems right to him that where light fails, the victor must be shaped by darkness, as must be his sword.
Beleg unstrings his bow and knocks on the heavy door made of oak planks. It is ajar only. After he is not bidden inside for some time, he opens the door and steps inside. He has not expected a warm welcome anyway, Eöl seldom had received visitors in his first life, and in his second, which has not lasted long by the Eldar's reckoning … Well, Beleg asks himself, has Eöl ever has hosted guests during this time? This thought even awakens a trace of pity for him.
The room is dark, the furnishings barely visible: A cold hearth; a plain table with a single stool. But in the back part of the house – and it is indeed larger than it seems from outside – a bright light shines through an open door frame, almost blinding after the long time that Beleg had wandered through the night. This seems odd to him, for would Eöl, who shies away from light, not delight at the everlasting darkness as only few do? His workshop in Nan Elmoth had been lit by dim candlelight and the fire of the forge at most. But now, it seems that every single candle and oil lamp is lit and their warm glow additionally mingles with the pale-blue light of one of those lamps the Noldor make.
Beleg rounds a rack on which half done arrows and boar spears are stored. An Elf leans over the workbench at the opposite wall, studying the notes spread across it amid tools and materials. His hair is not silvery-bright, but raven-black.
“I expected to meet Eöl here. Where can I find him?“ Beleg believes he is speaking with Eöl's son, Maeglin, whom he had seldom met.
The other raises his head, turns around slowly, and Beleg realizes he has erred:
Their paths had never crossed in Beleriand, although Beleg had encountered some of the sons of Fëanor before the battle that had later been named Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Then, he had still been full of admiration of their courage in defiance of Morgoth.
Many memories from his time in the Halls of Mandos are blurred, the years and centuries flow differently without a body's perception. But especially the earliest impressions are still vividly etched in his memory, more than a turmoil of indistinct emotions. As he had once wandered along the borders of Doriath, the magic of Melian's Girdle on one side and Morgoth's shadow on the other, he followed the tapestries in the endless halls and had come to know an emotion he had never before felt in Doriath: the complete helplessness of not being able to keep safe what he had sworn to protect with his life. In his despair, he had imagined it would have made a difference if he could have remained. But he had had only one life in Middle-earth, and that he had traded for Túrin's freedom. As if he were bound in chains, he could not do anything else but helplessly watch how Túrin's path led deeper into his Doom, how Thingol was slain, how the Girdle of Melian faded and his home was laid to ruins. And when finally Doriath had found new hope, like young trees taking root amongst the rubble, the Sons of Fëanor had dealt it the fatal blow.
Blood on the snow under the beeches of Neldoreth. Blood on the white marble in the Halls of Menegroth.
That had been the moment in which his fëa had turned away from the tapestries. Nothing had been left for him to keep his pointless watch over. But he had never forgotten the faces of those who finally brought Darkness into Doriath.
“I fear,” said Curufin, Fëanor's son, impassively, “something bad happened to Eöl.“
A sudden, blinding rage grips Beleg; the same emotion as if he were facing an Orc. He narrows his eyes to slits, lays his hand on the hilt of his knife.
Curufin raises an eyebrow. “Why the concern? I am unarmed,” he says and shows his empty hands, while his gaze unhastily sweeps over the hunting weapons decorating the walls of the smithy at the same time.
Beleg does not move, but every muscle is tense like a bowstring before it is loosed. His heart in his chest beats in an angry rhythm. His body is ready for a fight as his mind still searches for words. The chances of winning would be greater if he attacked first, but he is not a kinslayer. He will defend himself if he must and he has high trust in his skills, but rage will not lead him to be the first to strike.
“So at the end of all days, you have returned from Darkness to newly shed Elven blood?“
Belegs voice is like the deep growl of a wolf; Curufin's, on the contrary, sounds as if he was making pleasant conversation.
“Who said that it was me?“ he asks, head tilted to one side, and leans against the workbench in a posture that speaks of superiority. “Although I will not deny this: Eöl's fate is well-deserved, and I should have slain him, a long time ago.“
“Do you regret having brought one death fewer to Doriath's people? I'm telling you what I regret: That I could not be there that midwinter day to prove how fast I could have shot seven arrows through seven throats.“
As soon as Beleg's words are spat out, bitter as bile, his wrath ebbs to a throb low in his burning heart, mingling with grief and the longing for something irretrievably lost to countless years.
Curufin meets his gaze for the first time. Beleg thinks he perceives a reflection of Darkness in his eyes.
“Beleg Cúthalion, I presume? For me, personally, it wouldn't have made much of a difference to take a blade to the throat, or an arrow …” He shrugs. “But that is not the past which led both of us here. I have been waiting for you, or rather – not necessarily for you, but for the sword you carry.“
“It was my sword once,” says Beleg and feels the hilt of his hunting knife firmly in his hand. “What do you want?“
“I'm not seeking for a fight. I do have a few questions, and I'll offer you my help. Eöl has taken many a secret to his lonely grave. It wouldn't be easy for you to find someone else able to forge the iron of a fallen star. Most have never seen such ore and it will be unwilling to be shaped. I will find out how Eöl succeeded in it. Well, and if not, I do have good relations.“
Beleg glares at him. “And the renown of having reforged the blade to bring Morgoth's end shall belong to the House of Fëanor. Is that what Eöl died for? For that, you linger here, in the home of a dead Elf, making yourself suspect of his murder?“
Curufin's lip twist into a haughty smile. “No and no and no. By the way, neither was it murder nor did it have anything to do with the sword.“
Beleg is not inclined to believe him and he has no intention to hand Gurthang to him.
They look at each other silently for a while.
Then Curufin mockingly asks, “Where is Túrin Turambar whom the Valar have named the Deliverer of Arda?“
Beleg does not answer.
He would not be here if he knew.
First, the sword, for its shards have been placed in his hands. Afterwards, he will set out in the search. He has found Túrin every time, no matter how far he has had to go, no matter how much Túrin has tried to hide himself from the world. He will find him. He will take his hand and kiss his brow. And then, he will have to tell him what is to be his fate. It will break his heart as he does not dare to hope that Túrin will emerge from that battle unscathed.
“How are you sure he hasn't fallen into the Enemy's hands already? Or, if he cared so little about his own life, ended it already as soon as it began anew?“
Again, Beleg remains silent, but the muscles in his jaw clench.
“Ah,” Curufin continues, “you don't know.“
“Would not you yourself know best that the words which Mandos spoke are true?“ Beleg asks grimly, “And that Túrin will inevitably face Morgoth as has been prophesied?“
“Mandos' Doom upon the Noldor and his curse upon our house may have proven true. But now, the Valar are old and no longer can they keep the dark at bay. This truth, I witnessed as well. Who may tell, whether his Second Prophecy was more than wishful thinking? Did it speak of how the walls of his own halls came crashing down and that, as some say, those Eldar that will fall in the Last Battle will be lost forevermore? Of how the boundaries to that place where the fëar of mortal Men have ever gone were torn apart? Of how they swarm our lands like locusts? As far as I remember, one Man was promised to return, but where he is, none can tell … Now, I trust only one Vala to stay true to the original theme of his music.“ Curufin pauses for a moment. He has taken a pair of pliers from Eöl's workbench, opens and closes them in a steady rhythm as if he found it hard to keep his hands still: Clack-clack, clack-clack, clack-clack. “However, we will see the truth when the end draws near! – Allow me a different question: How did Gurthang find its way to you, when all the roads to Endórë and back have been long lost, separated from us by time and space? How did it come to Valinórë from those shores beyond reach?“
“The power the Ainur have left might be greater than you imagine,” replies Beleg.
“How?“ Curufin digs deeper, but Beleg does not owe him further explanation.
A shadow passes over Curufin's face.
Wrath or grief – the moment is over too quickly to tell with certainty.
“You're not the most talkative conversation partner, are you?“ he says then, as arrogantly as before, “Well, let's get down to business so we can leave this wretched place. I think, all work should be done within a month. You'll pick it up in Tirion. If I'd have to send a messenger to the middle of nowhere, it will take a week longer. And don't you dare to spread any rumours that my father would allow for any kind of old trinkets to be repaired in his smithy. This is an exception of course.“ He stretches out his hand. ”Give me the sword.“
Beleg shakes his head. “I am not one who spreads rumours. Be at ease. But neither do I plan to hand over Gurthang to you, nor Fëanor himself.“ He turns to leave. “I don't know who you deem yourself to be. A prince of the Noldor or a smith's errand boy? But I will tell you who you are to me and to those who still regard Doriath to be the home of their hearts: A thief and a murderer. Farewell!“
Curufin waits until he is at the door, on night's threshold. His voice is quiet, but nonetheless it touches Beleg's soul.
“Do you know what Húrin Thalion said to my father at his court when they spoke about the Prophecy? – 'You have more than enough sons of your own, let one of them do it. Leave my children in peace!' But it is not my fate to slay the Foe of the World, nor is it my brothers'. Moreover, I do not long for death.
“Yet some mockingly say we made common cause with Túrin anyway; that we had laid the groundwork for the ruin of Nargothrond and Túrin had sealed it. And he himself in turn had laid the foundation for the fall of Doriath that we completed. It may be that they're not fully mistaken. Tell me, Beleg, was it only we who brought Doom upon your people? Or did that occur before, when Húrin threw the treasure of Nargothrond at Thingol's feet? Or even earlier yet, when you yourself led his son across its border, still insurmountable at the time?“
Beleg pauses.
“What difference is there, between Túrin and me? Is not he himself a thief and a murderer? Did you not lead a gang of outlaws by his side yourself? Is not the very blade you carry soaked in your own blood and in that of so many others who crossed his path? Had not Túrin and me both been cursed by a Vala – and did we ever even have the chance to evade our Doom?“
Memories close to the heart do not fade for the Eldar, no matter how many centuries pass by. Beleg sees himself sorrounded by the men Túrin had gathered around him as clearly as if it had been yesterday. Their faces are reddened by the glow of the fire, by wine and by song. Beleg believes that they can be more than thieves and murderers. That there are valour and hope hidden behind their grim faces and harsh words. Innocent blood had stained their blades, but the blood of Morgoth's Orcs shall cleanse them.
He looks at Túrin. His bearing is proud and relentless as if he lead an army and not a gang of thieves, and his eyes reflect the fire in a way that makes Beleg think of the light in the eyes of the Noldorin lords of the North. Year after year, in their valour and vigilance they had withstood Morgoth, their High King Fingon in the west and in the east the seven Sons of Fëanor.
And though their great battle against the Black Foe may have ended in unnumbered tears, it must not have been fought in vain! As long as Morgoth's hand reaches for the world, strength must grow from defeat like a seed that starts to sprout after the long frost of winter.
Fifty men make up the Gaurwaith, fifty men whose past lies in shadow. There might be shadows as well in their future, but they will meet it with a new fire lit.
Beleg hears his own voice speak an unbreakable oath to Eru Ilúvatar on whose name to swear is sin. But his oath is born of hope and not of hate, and that must make a difference.
Fifty men draw their swords and the outlaws swear they will stand as one in love, a league of swords to withstand dread and danger and Doom itself.
Beleg turns around and steps back into the brightly lit smithy.
There is a thin smile on Curufin's lips. “Did you change your opinion? A wise decision. I give you my word that–”
Then, a light in one of the wall sconces goes out. A twirling ribbon of smoke rises to the ceiling. Curufin pauses, his smile freezing. He lights a new candle, before he resumes to speak, and to Beleg's mind springs the question of what the Everlasting Darkness may be to which Fëanor and his sons swore their Oath and that Beleg did not dare to call upon the Gaurwaith. Very dark, he thinks, yet not wholly eternal.
Vindictiveness is not an emotion that comes to him naturally. Not even for Doriath? – Maybe it should. Maybe, for Doriath. But the sentence has already been carried out and it is not upon Beleg to pass further judgement. He finally lets go of the hilt of his knife.
Curufin faces him again as if nothing had happened.
“I give you my word that no blade was ever made in whose steel more wrath against Morgoth was forged. No matter what armour he may don, it will drive right through. Túrin Turambar will fulfil his fate. I give you my word. Give me yours that you will find him and convince him to lead our armies in the Last Battle.“
Beleg lets the leather bag slide off his shoulder, the shards of Gurthang jangle inside.
“I will find him whether I give you my word for it or not. And no convincing would be necessary, if he just knew of his destiny. I'm sure of it.“
His last moment in Middle-earth flashes before him. Túrin's face is twisted by wrath and dread, eyes shining feverishly. Pain radiates from Beleg's core through his body, blazing hot by his heart, ice-cold at his fingertips.
‘I have searched for you for a long time,' he would like to say and reach for him, 'I'm glad to see you again.' But he cannot breathe, not speak, and his limbs are heavy, so very heavy, as if he was bound with chains of star-iron. Lightning flashes across the sky and in its light, Beleg sees a new horror in Túrin's eyes, a new pain. ‘I am sorry,‘ is his last thought before his fëa is torn from his body by the following thunderclap, and carried away by the storm.
The search for Túrin will be the harder part of his task. Afterwards, naught will keep him from marching against Morgoth on the front line where the Enemy is the only one he needs to look in the eyes. Beleg will be by his side as long as he can.
Curufin takes the leather bag, opens it on the workbench and examines the rusty, chipped shards of the blade.
“Well, that wasn't so difficult, was it?“ He says, “Thank you, I will not betray your trust.“
“One month,” Beleg answers, “until Túrin meets you at the feet of Fingolfin's monument on the Square of the High Kings in Tirion, and all eyes shall see him draw the black blade of Gurthang.“
Then, he leaves behind the forge, a weight lifted from him, and lets himself be guided into the night by starlight.
*
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*
Curufinwë watches Beleg Cúthalion for a while until the Sinda has disappeared among the trees. The reflection of his face in the window seems to be surrounded by Darkness. But on the snow patches between Eöl's house and the edge of the woods, the Light of Eärendil is reflected. Thoughtfully, he runs his thumb over one of the shards of Gurthang and even though it is blunt, the blade cuts into his skin. A drop of blood falls to the ground.
He can feel the oscillations of memory within the steel, and from them, a tune arises. Blood of its two masters, blood of innocents, blood of uncounted enemies. A long time in a dark tomb and a longer time in the dark between the stars, before the fall.
When the star-iron glows in the forge as on the day it was cast from the heavens, he will unravel the very essence of the song it sings, and in the sword's re-making he will find what it is that makes a star fall from the sky.