Author’s note:

I had been toying with this idea for months, but have not had the time to develop it as well as I would like to. Yet I just want to put it in writing as soon as I could… so here it is.

This is a quickly written (probably very short) story intended for light reading, but it is also my modest tribute to (what I see to be) a recurrent and fascinating theme in Tolkien’s writings: the great friendship and love between an elven and a human companion.

Three such pairs of companions – whose stories are found in books such as The Silmarillion, The Lost Tales, and The Lord of the Rings – come to mind:

The elf Voronwё (the Faithful) and Tuor son of Huor,

The elf Beleg Cứthalion (Strongbow) and Túrin Turambar,

Legolas Thranduilion, elven prince of Mirkwood, and Aragorn, King of Gondor (a deep friendship only hinted at in the dialogue and appendices of The Lord of the Rings)

My story focuses on the latter two pairs. While I do take some liberties, what I write here stays largely true to book canon; and if there are mistakes, I welcome reminders.

Those of you who have read my earlier story For the Love of the Lord of the White Tree will find some parts familiar, while those who have not are most welcome to read that if you wish.   

Summary:

In a series of bedtime stories told by a father and grandfather, young ones learn that a strong friendship between an Elf and a Man may be found in different Ages.

CHAPTER 1: A TALE OF TWO FRIENDS

“Saes, Ada, a tale please!”

“Yes, yes, tell us a story, please!”

“Here, get off my pillow – ”

“Cease your pushing then. What story will it be?”

“Ada, tell him to sit still! Are you going to start now, Ada?”

Ada smiled amusedly at the two beautiful and boisterous elflings with slightly sleepy faces – his young child and a playmate who was spending the night – little elves who were still unabashed enough to ask for stories after dinner and at bedtime.   

He thought for a while. “I will tell you the tale of an elf from a kingdom of old, and of the sacrifices he made for the love of a friend. It is part of a history every elf should know. Would you like that?”

Two heads nodded eagerly in response. “Yes! Saes, yes.”

So, settling himself comfortably on the edge of the bed, the elven father proceeded to narrate the tale of Túrin Turambar and Beleg Strongbow to a pair of rapt listeners.

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“Grandfather, I like it when you tell us stories,” an excited voice proclaimed. Two pairs of bright eyes in angelic faces focused on an elderly man with a stern countenance, which softened as he smiled dotingly upon his two grandchildren.

"A story from long ago, please, Grandfather,” pleaded the elder of the two cousins, who promptly clasped her chubby hands together in anticipation. Her grandsire cupped her chin lovingly; she was always fond of tales from the First and Second Ages.

“Well,” the man said after some thought, “what about the story of two good friends who loved each other very much?”

“Yes, all right. What were their names?”

“One was called Túrin and the other was named Beleg,” came the reply. “They were very special friends.”

“What was so special about them?” the boy asked, cocking his head.

“Well, one was of the human race, as we are, and the other was one of the fair folk: an elf,” the grandfather answered without hesitation. “It is rare indeed to find such a close friendship between a Firstborn and a Man, and their tale is written in the history of the Elves.”

The girl’s eyes widened excitedly. “That is just like you and Legolas, Grandfather!”  

The words brought a warm smile to the face of the King of Gondor. “Aye, my little ones, just like Legolas and me.”       

And Aragorn proceeded to narrate the tale of Túrin Turambar and Beleg Strongbow to his pair of rapt listeners.

CHAPTER 2:  LOVE AND SACRIFICE  

As the elflings fought off sleep to listen to the tale, the elven father took a deep breath.

“It is a tragic tale that would be long in narrating, young ones,” he said, “and when you are older, you can read the full tale for yourselves, but I will tell you enough now for tonight.”

The elflings stopped jostling each other and nodded eagerly. They were willing to accept anything that gave them a reason to stay awake a little longer.

“Long ago, there was a mother and her children – a son and a daughter – who were of the Edain,”the elven father began.

“The Secondborn!” exclaimed his son’s playmate. “But I thought this would be a tale of an elf – ”

“It will be, as the tale progresses,” the older elf explained calmly, inwardly groaning at the impatience of the young. “Now, this lady and her children lived in Hithlum – ”

“Hithlum from the First Age?” his son asked.

“Aye, ion nin,” came the reply. “That same region.”

“I knew that,” the other elfling chimed in, and received a nudge in his ribs for it. Hiding an amused smile, the older elf quickly continued to discourage further squabbling.

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“The Lady of Dor-lớmin – Morwen was her name – had to care for her two children: Túrin, her son, and his little sister, whom he loved,” Aragorn said, looking from one attentive face to the other.  “They were oppressed by the Easterlings.”

“What is a…a pressed?” the boy interrupted.

Aragorn grinned. “They were treated cruelly,” he explained, ruffling the child’s hair.

“I knew that,” the little girl claimed, rolling her eyes at her cousin. But the look went unnoticed by the boy, who was too engrossed in forming his next question to notice it.

“Where was their father?”

  -------------<<>>-------------

“The children’s father had been captured by evil forces from Angband,” the elven father said, drawing gasps from the elflings, who were familiar enough with the name that had brought dread to every one of the Firstborn in the First Age, and aroused hatred in all who lived after.

“So the Lady had to care for her children alone,” the elf resumed his story. “But sorrow befell the Lady and her son, for her daughter died from an incurable ailment, and it greatly saddened them.”

The storyteller saw his son’s eyes soften at those words, and knew that the tender heart felt sympathy even for the plight of people who were no longer alive.

-------------<<>>-------------

“Yes, Túrin had already begun to face a number of sorrows from a young age,” Aragorn said softly. “He had lost his father, and the bad Easterlings wanted to harm him, so the Lady Morwen feared for the life of her son.”

The grandfather drew a deep breath and continued. “In some ways, he was much like me,” he stated, piquing the children’s interest, and before they could ask why, he explained: “I also lost my father – your great-grandsire – when I was just two years old, and some bad people were looking for me, too. So my mother feared for me as well, and because of that, she brought me to the elven refuge of Imladris.”

“Grandnaneth’s home!” the boy declared.

“Yes, that is quite right,” Aragorn confirmed, pleased that his grandson remembered. “My own naneth had to hide me in Imladris, just like Túrin’s mother had to find him a safe place too.”

-------------<<>>-------------

“There was little choice,” the elf said. “Lady Morwen sent her son to a hidden kingdom, seeking the protection of its king: Thingol Greymantle.”

“A hidden kingdom…” the elflings breathed in wonder, their eyes wide.

“Yes, a very special kingdom called Doriath,” the father said, nodding. “It was protected form the outside world by the magic of the Queen, who was a Maia. She cast a protective ring around the kingdom, and it was known as the Girdle of Melian. It kept that elven kingdom hidden and safe from harm for long years.”

-------------<<>>-------------

“The kingdom was a place of great splendor, full of beauty and strength and magic,” Aragorn told the enrapt children. “Just like your Grandnaneth’s father took care of me, Thingol welcomed Túrin into his fold with open arms. He was a good king, and he made sure Túrin was honored and respected there.”

“Were they all elves in that kingdom?” the little girl asked. “Elves like Legolas?”

“Yes, my little one,” the King replied, smiling. “It was a kingdom of elves. And among them there was one called Beleg Cúthalion – the Strongbow. He had great skills and strength, and he was the king’s marchwarden – like a captain,” he explained in response to the query in his grandson’s eyes, “and it was he who first led Túrin to the king.”

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“Thereafter, Beleg took care of Túrin, and the Man soon became the companion-in-arms of the elf,”  the elven father said. “Beleg shared much of his knowledge with Túrin. They eventually became very close friends.”

“An adan good friends with an edhel, Ada?” the storyteller’s son asked in surprise.

“Yes, ion nin,” his father answered, though with a slight grimace on his face. “It was not a very common relationship, for the elves of that kingdom did not receive many visitors, let alone one of the Edain. But strangely enough, Beleg grew to love the man greatly.”

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“And they were just as close as Legolas and I are,” Aragorn told his grandchildren.

The little ones nodded. They were very used to the elf prince’s frequent presence in the Citadel.

“Does he love you, Grandfather?”

The King raised his eyebrows. “Legolas?” he asked, and the little boy nodded.

The question took Aragorn aback for a moment. Looking at the young faces, he realized then that not everyone understood the depth of his friendship with the elven prince. He smiled at the children.

“He loves me more than I could ever tell you, my little ones,” the King said tenderly. “He is a very important part of my life.” He looked at the two pairs of eyes gazing at him and added, “Just like you are,” he declared and pinched their noses teasingly, drawing delighted giggles. The King cupped a little face in each of his hands and looked lovingly at his grandchildren. 

“One day, Sweetpea and Greenpea,” he addressed them by their nicknames, “you will understand what a blessing it is to have a wonderful companion like Legolas, just like Túrin was very fortunate to find a true friend in Beleg.”

-------------<<>>-------------

“Túrin could not foretell just what a big part that friendship would play in his life. But he found out later, in a tragic way,” the elven storyteller said sadly.

“What happened?” the elflings asked eagerly.

“It all began with another elf who was jealous of Túrin’s position in the court of Thingol,” the older elf answered. “I will not tell you the full story now, for it concerns the adan’s family – and that is another tale in itself – but it is enough for you to know that the jealous elf said a number of unpleasant things to Túrin, which ired the Man greatly.”

“Did they quarrel?”

The elf had to laugh at that innocent query. “Aye, ion nin,” he told his son. “They did indeed engage in a quarrel – a big one! – and it was as result of that quarrel that Túrin caused the death of that elf. In fury, he pursued he elf through the woods, and the elf fell into a chasm and died.”

The elflings gasped.

“To be fair to the adan – the annals tell us that he was not to blame,” the older elf clarified, “for it was the elf that had kindled the fire of anger in him, but it was a most unfortunate event that had far-reaching consequences.”

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“Túrin felt very angry and bitter, and he also feared the wrath of Thingol,” Aragorn said, “so he fled from the kingdom and became an outlaw.” 

“What is an - ?”

“He lived in the wilds and attacked people,” the grandfather explained, expecting the question, “and he often took their possessions – something we should never ever do.”

The children nodded so seriously that Aragorn had to quickly hide his chuckle as he continued his tale.

“Túrin then found some men and they banded with him, and they began to live a secret life. People both feared them and hated them, and so they lived like hunted animals.”

-------------<<>>-------------

“Poor Túrin,” the younger elfling remarked with a sad look on his face, his child’s mind thinking about how lonely and cold the man must have felt. “Did anyone look for him?” 

“Well, Lord Thingol mourned his departure and feared for him,” his father replied. “But it was Beleg who took it upon himself to seek the Man in the wilds and bring him home.”

“Oh, good!” the elfling said, a hopeful light in his eyes. “The adan was saved then.”

“Not quite, tithen pen,” his father said gently, sorry that he had to disappoint the little one. “When he was found, Túrin refused to return. Beleg persuaded him, but the man was too angry, too bitter over the way his life was turning out.”

The elfling’s face fell. “But did he not go home later?” he asked.

His companion nudged him then. “Stop interrupting!” he hissed, frowning.

The storyteller grinned, knowing how his kind-hearted son must be hurting even for a man from history.  

“Nay, ion nin, he did not wish to go home, and Beleg was greatly dismayed,” he answered, again regretful that he could not give the little one a more comforting answer. “But because the elf warrior loved the adan and feared for him, he made a decision that would affect the rest of his life. One day, after a successful battle with some enemies, Beleg… departed from the elf company. He disappeared, and no one could find him. You see, he had quietly left his home… his kin… and his king… to live with Túrin in the wilds.”

The storyteller’s little son was silent at that development in the tale, his mind racing, and his tender heart aching. Beleg left his home? The elf left his shelter from storms and beasts? The walls that marked the safe boundaries within which he could play and have archery lessons, and where he could eat and sing and dance? He left his friends who could protect him from orcs?

The elfling’s eyes were unblinking as he stared at his father, but in them were visions of imagined terrors beyond the safe world he knew. And sorrow too, that anyone should have to make that kind of decision.

-------------<<>>-------------

“Aye, Beleg knew what he was giving up… but he did it all the same,” Aragorn explained to his audience. “No more warm beds or hot baths, or comfortable rugs to sit on by a fire in winter. No pastries fresh from the kitchen, or whipped cream whenever he wanted it.”

“What about toys or games?” the little boy asked with a gasp.

The king chuckled, realizing how the misery of deprivation would be envisioned by his grandchildren.

“Nay, little one, no toys,” he replied, amused for a moment at the look of horror the children exchanged. “But Beleg was willing to bear the hardships, and he bore it with courage and goodwill. His reunion with Túrin was a joyous one, for the two friends loved each other. The elf’s presence was a blessing to Túrin and his men, for he was a strong fighter and a great healer, and he used both skills to aid the band of houseless companions.” 

-------------<<>>-------------

“Túrin was heartened indeed by the company of his elven friend, so that the Men  eventually ceased their plundering, except against those who served the Dark Lord Morgoth,” the elf continued to narrate. “Side by side the adan and the elf labored against the dark forces, and such was their strength and prowess that they struck fear into their foes even before they encountered them. And their fame grew. Everywhere, the servants of Angband spoke with terror and loathing of the Two Captains, foul and fair, till they became as legends whose names were whispered in the wilds.”

The two elflings were hushed. They would grow up one day, and they too would have to learn skills to defend their home against intruders and servants of the Darkness. This peace they lived in may not last forever, they were constantly told. But they each hoped that they would not have to leave their beloved homes to play their part.

The elven storyteller had also fallen silent for a while, reflecting upon the memory of the Two Captains. And when he spoke again, his voice was laced with soft sadness.

“I wonder whether the adan fully realized the sacrifice the Strongbow had made for his sake,” he said almost to himself, “for Beleg returned never to his home, yielding to his desire to stay and watch over the friend he loved above all others. He remained ever by Túrin’s side, and in doing so, he became a homeless wanderer himself.”

-------------<<>>-------------

“Such was the love of the Strongbow for his friend,” Aragorn said, impressing it upon the young listeners. Then his eyes misted over a little as he added: “And in his own way, Legolas made the same sacrifice for me, little ones.”

“He did? How? What did he do? Did he also leave his home? Did he get lost in the forest too?” came the flurry of questions.

“No, he did not get lost in any forest,” Aragorn replied, smiling. “The forest is his friend, and all elves are friends to the forest, but he did leave his home in the Greenwood. And… when many of his kin sailed away from Middle Earth for a wonderful place over the Sea, he did not leave with them; he stayed here. He…”

The king paused, not knowing how to explain the torment of denying the Sea-longing that he knew Legolas bore for his sake. Finally, he decided that he would not attempt to explain it to the young minds. Not yet.

“He… Legolas stayed on in Middle Earth,” he finished.

“Why, Grandfather?”

“Why?” Aragorn repeated. “To help me, little ones. Because I asked him to,” the king replied, his eyes taking on a faraway look. “It was before even your parents were born. Some very bad people had destroyed the fair woods of Ithilien – ”

“Where the elves live now?”

“Where Legolas and some of his kin live now,” the grandfather affirmed. “It had become dead and lifeless, and the animals and trees that dwelt there were not happy. But Legolas brought elves from their home in the Greenwood and spent years bringing the woods of Ithilien back to life, making it the beautiful place you now know. You like going there, do you not?”

Dark curls bobbed eagerly. Their parents had taken them there many times, and they had spent many hours in delightful play in all the different places their parents had frequented in their childhood.

Looking at their contented faces, Aragorn felt – as he done countless times before – a surge of gratitude towards the friend who had come south to make Ithilien his new home and bless Gondor not only with the restored beauty of its fairest woodlands, but also with the ethereal presence of elvenkind, ensuring that his children and children’s children were always reminded of their elvish heritage, and that his beloved Arwen was always comforted by the company of her elven kin.   

“I do not think I would leave Dada or Mama for anyone or anything,” said the little girl suddenly, her voice hushed and her eyes looking a little confused.

Aragorn raised his eyebrows in surprise for a moment. “I certainly hope not, Sweetpea,” he said, looking into the grey eyes of his eldest grandchild. “You are still a very little girl, and home with your Dada and Mama is right where you should be.”

The little Sweetpea heaved a sigh of relief, bringing a smile to her grandfather’s face.

“But things may change when you are much, much older, when you love someone enough to do it,” the king said honestly, cupping her chin. “But it will be your choice.”

“Then Legolas loved you enough to do it?” the child asked. “It was his choice?”

“Aye, Sweetpea, he did, and it was,” the king replied softly. “That is what good friends do for each other: they make sacrifices.”

“What is a sacrifice?” Sweetpea’s cousin piped up.

The little girl answered before her grandfather had a chance to. “Mama says it is when you give up something you like to make someone else happy.”

“Very good, Sweetpea,” Aragorn said, and the little girl blushed at the compliment. “We sometimes make sacrifices for the sake of others.”

Encouraged by the king’s approval, the girl continued to explain to her cousin: “And Legolas is a good friend to Grandfather, see? So he makes sacrifices for him.”

“Is he your Strongbow then, Grandfather?” the little boy questioned. “Like the elf Beleg?”

At that question, the king drew in a breath, recalling how the boy’s grandmother had said those same words to him more than thirty years ago. He had to swallow a lump in his throat before he could speak again. “Aye, Greenpea,” he answered firmly, caressing the boy’s hair. “You speak truly. He is my Strongbow.”

Greenpea thought for a while. “I want a friend like that when I grow up,” he decided aloud.

His grandfather laughed lightly at first, but grew more sober when he looked into the  wide grey eyes of the boy who might be king one day.

“I hope you will find one then,” he said reassuringly. “But right now, you already have many people who love you, and you have each other.” He looked at the two young cousins, and despite the tongue each child stuck out at the other, he knew that there was a great fondness between them.

“I once gave him my raspberry tart because he wanted another and Cook had no more,” the Sweetpea declared proudly, pointing a chubby finger at Greenpea. “Is that a sacrifice?”

Aragorn held back his laughter. “What do you think, Greenpea?” he asked his grandson.

The little boy considered the question, then pouted a little. “All right, I suppose it is,” he acknowledged grudgingly. “But I said thank you!” he added quickly, causing Aragorn to laugh aloud.

“So I am a good friend!” the little girl exclaimed proudly with wide eyes.

Aragorn looked fondly at her. “Yes, you were when you gave up your raspberry tart, little one,” he agreed. “It was a wonderful act, and when you grow up, you will find out about the other important things that make up a great friendship, Sweetpea.”

“What other things?” she asked with knitted eyebrows.

“Well… trust is one, and things like patience, and understanding, and loyalty,” Aragorn replied.

“What! Oooh, it is hard to be a good friend!” the children remarked in dismay, drawing a loud chuckle from their grandfather.

“Well, that is true!” Aragorn responded. “The truly good ones are hard to come by, and you must treasure them if you find them.”

Sweetpea pondered on the king’s words a moment and recalled the first of the ‘other important things’ he had named. “Do you trust Legolas then, Grandfather?”.

“I would trust him with my life, my family, and my kingdom,” Aragorn replied without hesitation. “And I could tell you stories about when that trust became absolutely essential – ”

“Tell us a story about that then, Grandfather!” Greenpea chimed in.

“Yes, please!” Sweetpea joined in – just before breaking into a huge yawn which she attempted to hide in vain.

Their grandfather laughed. “I will,” he promised.  “But it will have to wait for another evening, for there are two little Peas that need to go to sleep right now.” 

The children groaned in protest and pleaded with him, but Aragorn remained gently resolute. “I will come to see you again tomorrow evening if I can,” he assured them, pleased to see the children relent at that promise.

He nodded to the children’s nurse who had been sitting quietly in a corner of the room earlier, and as she approached the bed to tuck the children in, the King kissed each curly head lovingly and allowed two pairs of little arms to wrap around his neck as the royal grandchildren whispered sleepy goodnights.

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“Walk in sweet dreams, ion nin,” the elven father breathed into his son’s ear as the elfling’s eyes started to glaze over in the open-eyed sleep of the Firstborn. “Tomorrow is another day and another story.”

Leaving the elfling’s bedroom, the storyteller walked past several more doors and out into the cool evening air. He turned his face skyward and offered a song to the first stars of the night.

-------------<<>>-------------

Aragorn paused at the door to cast another look at his little ones, feeling an overpowering surge of emotions at the sight of them. Then he turned and traced a route down several hallways to join his family in the parlor.

As he walked, his mind wandered to the friend he had just been talking about in a bedtime tale. He smiled more brightly, and his step grew lighter.

It was going to be a good night.

CHAPTER 3:  TRUST

“Can we sit on my bed tonight, Grandfather?” pleaded a little boy as Aragorn prepared to settle down for another evening of storytelling.  

The king smiled at his grandson. “Of course, Greenpea,” he replied, and turned to the child’s cousin seated on her bed. “Come over here, sweetheart.”

The two children clambered onto one of the beds and leaned against the plump pillows with their legs in front of them, while Aragorn sat before them and cleared his throat.

“So,” he began, looking at the two expectant faces, “do you still wish to hear more about the two friends, Beleg and Túrin?”

“Yes, please, and a story about you and Legolas, too,” came the reply.

Aragorn smiled and wondered how long it would be before the two eagerly bobbing heads would be nodding to sleep tonight.

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The elven father shook his head amusedly at the two elflings wrestling on the rug of the bedroom floor. Keeping half-hidden behind the door, he listened to their playful banter. His son was now pinned to the floor by his older and stronger playmate.

“Tell me what she said, and I will let you up!” the elfling commanded the one he was sitting on. “Or you can stay down there all night.”

“Nay, I will not!” said the other, trying to sound annoyed, but giving in to peals of laughter as his friend tickled his stomach. “I – I cannot tell you, I have promised her – saes, daro! Stop it!” The elfling gave another squeal and tried to throw his friend off.

“I will stop – when – you tell me – what – she said – about me,” said the other young elf, punctuating his words with his efforts at keeping his friend pinned.

“I told you, I cannot! I gave – no, daro! – I gave her my word – saes, daro!”

Chuckling, the elf at the door decided that it was time to step in, which he did. As soon as the young ones saw him, they gave a whoop of delight, untangled themselves and scrambled on to the bed.

“Are you going to tell us more of the tale of Beleg and Túrin tonight, Ada?” the younger elfling asked breathlessly, rolling on to his stomach and propping up his chin on one elbow.

“I came in to wish you goodnight, little ones,” he said to the two elflings, “but you would have me tell you more about the two friends?”

“Yes, please,” came the more subdued request from his playmate, who had asked for and been given leave to spend two more nights.

“It seems like you may have your own interesting tale to recount,” the father rejoined teasingly, raising his eyebrows and looking from one elfling to the other. “Or rather, there is something you cannot tell…?”

At his words, a deep red colored the fair cheeks of his son’s playmate, who lowered his head. The older elf had no desire to intrude into the elflings’ affairs, but they were still very young, and he wished to be certain that they had not been arguing – however playfully – about a matter of import.

“Aye, Ada, Fae – ” his son began readily, but then seemed to remember his friend’s embarrassment and he hesitated. “One of our friends – um… an elleth… said something about him… something pleasant,” he threw his friend a glance, “but… she said I was not to tell him, so I cannot.” He turned to his playmate then and said with sincerity in his young voice: “It would be best if you asked her yourself because I promised secrecy. Ada says we cannot betray the trust someone has placed in us, is that not so, Ada?”

The older elf was taken by surprise, but his eyes soon beamed with pride as they gazed at his son.

“Aye, ion nin, aye, you speak truly,” he breathed, smiling at the elfling’s fair face and running his fingers through a few strands of the soft hair. Turning to his son’s embarrassed friend, he said kindly:  “Trust is critical between friends, tithen pen, and one day, you will be thankful that you have a friend with whom you can trust your greatest secrets.”

At the elfling’s continued silence, he slyly added: “Indeed, that is what Beleg was to Túrin: a friend he could trust completely.”         

The ruse worked, for the bowed head of the elfling lifted at the mention of the two names, and an expectant expression returned to the young face.

“Beleg would have been proud of you, ion nin,” the storyteller told his son, who blushed a little at the praise, “for he, too, would not break the confidence his friend had placed in him.”

“Why? What did he promise his friend?” the older elfling queried.

----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

“Beleg promised that he would never tell others where the band of men was hiding,” Aragorn told the two wide-eyed listeners.

He recalled parts of the tale that had been passed on by word of mouth:

Túrin and Beleg stood face to face, in sadness and within sight of the great height of Amon Rûdh.

“Glad was my heart to have had your company again, dear friend, but alas, here comes the parting of our ways,” Túrin said, grasping the shoulders of his elven friend. “It may be for a time, or it may be for all time, but that decision will no longer be mine to make. Seek for me on Amon Rûdh if you will; else this will be our last farewell.”

Beleg bowed his head in immense sorrow.

“Will you not regret your decision, son of Húrin?” Beleg begged. “For there are yet many who love you in the kingdom of Doriath, as I do.”

Túrin laughed a bitter laugh. “Though this land is no home to boast of, Beleg, it is mine, in sadness or in joy. I begrudge you not for returning to yours. Only one thing will I beg of you, mellon nin,” said the man.

“If it is mine to grant, Túrin, you have but to ask,” the elf replied sincerely.

“My survival – and those of the men who follow me – depends on secrecy,” the man said. “Were knowledge of our location to fall into unfriendly hands, we would be at the mercy of the Easterlings who have sought my death since my childhood.”

Beleg looked into the eyes of his friend he treasured and shook his head sadly.

“Little do you understand my love for you, mellon nin, if you thought you had to ask that of me,” he declared. “Yet, for your comfort, I will make aloud this vow: that none shall learn of your place of hiding from these lips. I would sooner lose my arm than lose your faith in me.”  

The man hung his head. “Forgive me, my friend,” he said in a shamed voice. “Fear and caution are my constant companions in the hostile wilds, till they sometimes overwhelm my better judgment. All I have left to me of the life I once held dear are your love and my trust in you, and I wish to take neither for granted.”

“The first will be yours for as long as I live,” the elf promised firmly. “As for your trust in me, it is for you to hold or release. But it shall not be breached on my part.”

Then the friends embraced and parted both in love and in sadness.

----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

“When Beleg returned to Doriath, he told his king about his encounter with Túrin,” the elven storyteller told his two captivated listeners, “but he found Túrin’s trust in him sorely tested. For, while most of the elves desired for Túrin to be safe, there were others who still held the adan responsible for the death of one of their kind, although their king had forgiven him. It was these others who wanted to bring Túrin back so that justice, by their reckoning, could be carried out.”

----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

“So they demanded that Beleg tell them where the man was hiding,” Aragorn said.

“Did he tell? Did the other elves go after Túrin?” asked Sweetpea, her eyes round as she stared at her grandfather.   

“No, Sweetpea, they were never able to get Beleg to yield. He never told them where his friend’s hideout was,” Aragorn replied.

----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

The elflings were quiet for a moment. Then the older of them – his eyes downcast again and his fingers drawing circles on the bed linen – asked hesitantly: “Were they – were they angry at Beleg for not telling them?”

The storyteller smiled knowingly, suspecting that the elfling was concerned with more than just the people in the tale.

“Some of them were, tithen pen,” he replied. “But Beleg never betrayed his friend. It was not easy for him, though, for some were unkind to him, and even some of his fellow warriors called him names.”

The storyteller recalled the account he had heard:  

“Traitor,” said an irate elf under his breath. His eyes were on the ground, but all the elves in the camp knew for whom the name was intended.  

The elvish ears of Beleg heard the bitterness even in the low tones, but he kept a resolute silence as he continued to tend the crackling fire before which the company of warriors sat.

“He killed one of our kin, Beleg,” said another elf. “Why do you protect him?”

“He was provoked; we would have done the same,” Beleg replied calmly. “We have argued over this before, and I will say no more on this matter.”

“You would be a traitor to our kind for his sake?” the other elf said accusingly.

Beleg sighed. “Nay, I am no traitor to our king or our kin,” he said patiently. “And neither will I betray the trust of one to whom I have sworn secrecy.”

“He is one of the Edain!” the first elf pointed out angrily. “You call him friend above us?”

“I do not name him friend above you,” Beleg argued with conviction. “I name him a friend as you are, and one whom I greatly love.”

“He is an adan!” the elf reiterated.   

Beleg was silent for a moment, but when he spoke, it was with a profound sadness.

“He bleeds as we do,” he said simply. Then he stood and walked away from his companions.

----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

“The next day, the Strongbow had disappeared from the camp,” said Aragorn to the two little listeners. “They wondered and looked for him, but he was nowhere to be found.”

“Where did he go?” Greenpea piped up.

“Shh,” Sweetpea hushed him, a little annoyed. “Do you not remember? Grandfather said last night he had left the elves.”

Aragorn grinned at Greenpea in sympathy. “Aye, Greenpea, that is what he did.”

----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

“He had departed on a journey to the place he would not disclose, to be with the friend he would not betray,” the elven father explained. “And though they heard stories of him and his deeds, never more did they see him.” 

The two elflings were again silent as the storyteller ceased speaking and let them reflect on the events that had been narrated.  

Then the older elfling turned to the younger one and said: “Amin hiraetha, mellon nin. I will not ask you again to tell me what the elleth said. It matters not.”

The elven father’s smile was as warm as the hugs the two elflings gave each other that night.   

----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

Sweetpea shook her grandfather’s arm to draw his attention. “Grandfather, did Legolas keep your secrets too?” she asked.

Aragorn looked at her in surprise. “Secrets?”

“Yes, you said last night that you would trust him with… everything, remember?” she said, waving her hand in the air. “Is it because he kept all your secrets too?”

The king smiled. “Yes, Sweetpea. He has known and kept many of my secrets – big and small,” he replied. “I can trust him to protect anything and anyone I care about. But…” Aragorn drew a breath, “trust between friends is not only about keeping secrets, sweetheart. It is about other things too.”

“What other things?” the little boy asked, flopping back on to his pillow. 

“Well… you know that when the Dark Lord tried to gain mastery over Middle-earth, we were all embroiled in battles?” Aragorn said, and the children nodded. Every child in Minas Tirith, from a very young age, had been told the tale of the Quest of the Ring and the Nine Walkers. Aragorn’s family was, in particular, more familiar with it than most as they were also acquainted with all the members of the Fellowship still remaining in Middle-earth.

“Legolas and I – and all the other people in the Fellowship, too – had to protect each other all the time when we fought,” Aragorn explained. “Legolas and I often fought back to back so that orcs and other enemies could not take us by surprise. And when we did that, we really had to trust each other so that we could focus on what was going on in front of us.”

Greenpea listened spellbound. Next time he played swordfight with his friends, he would do what his grandfather and Legolas did, he thought.

“And we can trust good friends to tell us the truth when no one else will,” Aragorn continued. Then he paused and chuckled. “I remember what happened one summer in Imladris many, many years ago, before I had met your grandnana. My adar was away, and Legolas was coming to Imladris for a long visit. During that time, my brothers – your granduncles Elrohir and Elladan – took it upon themselves to plan a big celebration for me. Do you remember them?”

Sweetpea nodded, but the younger Greenpea shook his head and frowned. Aragorn sighed. They really should visit more often, he thought.

“Well, you will see them again soon, I hope,” he told his grandson consolingly. “They used to play tricks on me when I was a boy, and that summer, they played another one. They said there would be a grand celebration of my Conception Day, to be held the day after Legolas arrived.”

“What is that? What is Conception Day?” asked two curious voices.

“The day someone is con – ” Aragorn began, intending to explain that elves celebrated their conception day rather than their day of birth, but not quite knowing how to explain to two innocent children exactly how one was conceived.

What does it mean - when someone is conceived? He imagined them asking.

When he or she first becomes a baby, he would answer.

How? They were certain to demand.

Aragorn gulped and made his decision.

“It is – a kind of birthday,” he said evasively, “but… different from the birthdays we celebrate.” He looked at the two pairs of questioning eyes and quickly added:  “When you are older, your Dadas and Mamas will explain it to you.”

Then before the young ones could ask anything to make him squirm, he quickly continued: “Well, I wanted to impress everyone at the celebration; I wanted to look good, since it would be my special day. So your granduncles told me the tailor would make me some new clothes from the finest materials Imladris had to offer. But little did I know that they had told the tailor to use a… um… a strange design… and even stranger colors… to make that outfit. They claimed that it was tradition for one of the House of Elrond to wear clothes of that style on the 20^th anniversary of his Conception Day; this was to be no ordinary celebration, they said.”

“What colors were the clothes?” Sweetpea asked. She had seen her grandfather don mainly whites and dark colors, nothing brighter than a rich deep red which he only used for some official events.  

Aragorn cleared his throat before responding.

“A bright orange tunic and leggings, and… ahem… and a green shirt beneath it… and a purple cloak,” he said reluctantly, feeling a little embarrassed even at the memory of the ensemble. The children’s nurse – whom Aragorn had forgotten was sitting quietly in her usual chair in a corner of the room – snickered before she could stop herself, and the king blushed a little. Even his little granddaughter expressed her mirth.

“Did you look like a pumpkin, Grandfather?” she asked through her giggles.  

Aragorn had to chuckle despite his embarrassment. “Very nearly, for they had made the leggings loose,” he replied candidly. “Your granduncles said that orange was a happy color, and green signified birth. The purple cloak was like a mantle, they said – like an evening sky.” Upon hearing more stifled laughter from the nurse, Aragorn quickly added: “But you see – I was the only one of the race of Man there, and all the elves were much, much older, so I had never seen anyone celebrate his or her 20^th Conception Day, and I did not know what they would wear! I believed your granduncles because I did not know better, and they can be very, very convincing.”

His explanation was made in a slightly plaintive voice – loud enough for the nurse to hear – but it did not stop his granddaughter from sniggering again.

“You must have looked funny!” she remarked. Even Greenpea – who did not really understand what was wrong with orange clothes – laughed because everyone else seemed to find the colors amusing.

Aragorn grinned good-naturedly. “Well, I thought I did look rather silly,” he admitted, “and I protested for days, but they assured me it was a custom and if I did not follow it, I would offend the elves. So I wore those clothes the whole morning and afternoon before the feast that night, like they told me to. All the elves who saw me said I looked fine, but I did not know that they had either been instructed by your granduncles to pretend along with them, or were too afraid to speak their minds. They must have been laughing at me all day!”   

Sweetpea was still flashing a toothy grin, but a puzzled look crossed her cousin’s face. “Where was Legolas?” he queried.

“Aaahh…” Aragorn let out a sigh, straightening himself. “Your granduncles had cunningly kept him busy on the archery ground all morning and afternoon that day,” he replied, “and he returned only a couple of hours before the feast.” The man released another sigh. “As soon as he returned and saw me, I thought he would praise my attire like everyone else had, and tell me how wonderful it was that I was observing tradition. But… ohhh…” the man moaned and ran a hand over his face at the recollection.

“What happened?” Sweetpea asked impatiently. “Did he say you looked nice?”

“Noooo,” Aragorn replied, moaning. “In fact, he said nothing at all at first.”

At the sight of his gaily attired friend, Legolas stopped in his tracks and stood rooted to the spot, his bow and all his arrows dropping to the floor with a clatter. His mouth hung open, and his blue eyes forgot how to blink.

Aragorn mistook the reaction for mute admiration and smirked.

Well, if I can impress the elven prince, I must really look fine, he thought.

“But I was hugely mistaken about what he thought,” the king confessed sheepishly to his grandchildren.

Legolas went red in the face, mumbled “Excuse me,” and turned away from Aragorn, making for the door through which he had entered. But before he could reach it, he doubled over. He clamped his hand over his mouth, and he began shaking noiselessly and so violently that Aragorn thought he was choking.

“Legolas, what is wrong?” Aragorn asked in alarm and moved to help his friend.

The elf held out one hand to keep the man away while his other hand remained against his mouth. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, and when he dropped weakly on to his knees, it alarmed Aragorn even further. The elf buried his face in both hands then, from the confines of which came strange, strangled sounds as of distress.

Aragorn ran to his side, then started shouting for the other elves to come. But Legolas grabbed his friend’s arm then and held it fast, refusing to release it till he himself had stopped shaking from his apparent fit and could look up at the man. When he lifted his face, Aragorn saw that the elven eyes and cheeks were very wet, but his lips seemed to be tightly clamped to hold back… what? Mirth?

Aragorn narrowed his brows. Was this elf laughing or crying? he wondered. He could see Legolas struggling painfully to keep a straight face, and composing himself before he spoke.

“And when he finally spoke,” Aragorn told the children, “he was the first – and only one – who told me the truth at last.”

“What did he say? What did he say?” Sweetpea demanded excitedly, almost jumping up and down on her seat on the bed.

Aragorn sighed heavily.

“‘You look hideous’ were his exact words,” Aragorn said, shaking his head at the memory while the children squealed with laughter and the nurse almost choked.

“I was… well, I was angry at first because I thought he was belittling my appearance,” Aragorn went on, “but he would not withdraw what he had said.”

“Estel, please – I would not put those clothes on an ass,” Legolas said firmly. “But it looks like they were trying to make you one.”

“By that time, other elves had surrounded us, and they burst out laughing – all of them. It was then that I knew I had been made a fool of by them,” Aragorn admitted. “I ran from the room, fuming, and I left your granduncles with… um… some angry words.”

Curses and oaths in Westron and Elvish that I had learnt, and several that my mind had suddenly created, to be exact, Aragorn said silently.

“But Legolas came after me and comforted me, and eventually, my anger went away,” he continued aloud. Aragorn smiled as he reflected. “I realized later that although he had found my attire atrocious, he had tried hard, really hard, not to laugh openly at me or humiliate me – and he berated my brothers for doing so. I was eternally grateful to him for telling me the truth. Ai, how silly I was!”

“Did you wear the clothes to the feast, Grandfather?” Greenpea asked in between his giggles.

“By the Valar, no, no, no!” Aragorn denied firmly. “I changed out of them before the evening festivities started. And after all that – ” the king groaned, “I found out that the celebration was not even as grand as they had made me believe. It was but a small one.”

“Oh… that was mean,” Greenpea said sympathetically, “Did you get a bigger celebration later?”

Aragorn smiled at his grandson. “Yes, little Pea,” he replied. “When my adar came home, we had a proper celebration, and I was given a decent set of clothes – no more pumpkin suits! Legolas attended it as well. This time, he was pleased with what I wore, and when he told me so, I could truly believe that I looked good.”

Aragorn paused and grabbed his grandchildren’s feet playfully, looking them in the eyes.

“So you see, little ones – I knew then that I could trust Legolas with my feelings. He would not willfully hurt me or shame me, and he would not allow others to do so either,” he said softly. “Through the years, I have also learnt how much I can trust him in all matters, big or small. Once he has made a promise, I can trust him to keep it.”

Aragorn suddenly chuckled lightly. “He once said to me: ‘I would rather mend a broken bone than a broken word’,” he recalled. “That is how good a friend he is.”

After pondering her grandfather’s words for a few moments, Sweetpea spoke.

“But, Grandfather…”  she began hesitantly, and Aragorn cocked his head, waiting for her to continue. “Does… does a broken word hurt more than a broken bone?”

Aragorn almost burst out laughing at that query, but caught himself when he saw the seriousness on his Sweetpea’s face. He thought for a few moments about how he should answer the question before he spoke.

“Well, sweetheart,” he said. “Breaking a word causes a different kind of hurt. And… yes, sometimes that hurt is harder to mend, because it may be a hurt from inside. That is why a good friend tries never to allow that kind of hurt to happen.”

“So, Grandfather,” Greenpea piped up excitedly. “You cannot break your word either?” 

Aragorn looked at him curiously. “No, I should never do that. But why do you ask?”

“Then will you give us your word to tell us another story about you and Legolas tomorrow?”

Aragorn laughed and tapped the little boy on his nose. “I have a meeting tomorrow evening that I have to preside over,” he said, “but I promise I will spend time with you again as soon as I can. Is that acceptable?” 

Eager nods came in response.

And so passed another pleasant evening between the royal grandchildren and their grandfather. As the king left their room, he recalled that Legolas had said he would be coming to the White City in a few days.

Aragorn had no doubt that the promise would be kept.

Note:

I may have been stretching my – and your – imagination in this chapter… but I just wanted some fun. :-D A small part of the tale of Beleg and Turin (in italics) is taken from Tolkien's The Silmarillion.

Hannon le to Alassiel for letting me know about elves celebrating their day of conception.

CHAPTER 4: PATIENCE AND RESPECT

“Oh, Ada – you are here – finally!” the elfing said to the tall elf entering his bedroom, uninhibitedly showing his excitement as he jumped on to his bed where his friend was already seated. “Now we can continue with more stories!”

His father raised an eyebrow. “And a good evening to you too, ion nin,” he said wryly, though he could not help being a little amused. “I am happy to see you too – both of you.”

The elfling’s playmate had the decency to look sheepish and return the greeting, but the younger elfling continued to speak in blissful ignorance.

“It has been ten nights, Ada!” the elfling added with puckered eyebrows and a barely concealed hint of annoyance in his tone. “The tale of Belen and Túrin is getting old by now!”

“Well, tithen pen, grown-up elves have tasks to take care of elsewhere, you realize,” his father reminded him, the note of amusement leaving his voice. “I had to be away, as you know. I informed you before I left, did I not?”

His son lowered his eyes to look at the bed linen instead of his father’s face. “Yes, Ada,” he admitted meekly.

“And I did say you could ask someone else for your bedtime story.”

“Yes, Ada,” the elfling repeated, his head still bowed. “But no one tells stories about the two friends as well as you do.”

At those words, the elven father checked the admonishment on the tip of his tongue, and looked mutely upon his son, not knowing whether to say something about the need to be patient – or to delight in the sincere compliment his son had paid him.

In the end, the elf decided to do both. He broke into a smile and sat on the bed next to his child.

“Hannon le for saying that, ion nin. It is wonderful to know your ada is good at something!” he jested, and started to  pick up his young child to place him on his lap.

But the elfling squirmed, gave a look of horror and looked sidelong at his playmate in embarrassment.  “Ada, not now!” he hissed, and his father laughed. The older elf settled for brushing the back of his hand along the smooth cheek of the child.

“Oh, so you have grown up in ten days, have you?” his father teased, earning a small glare from the elfling.

“The story, Ada, saes,” his child demanded, both to change the subject and because he felt he had waited too long. “Any story about them!”

“Ai, very well,” Adasighed resignedly. After a moment’s pause, he said: “But you could learn much from the patience of Beleg when he taught Túrin to use the bow and arrow.”

The two elflings exchanged a look of surprise.

“Túrin did not know how to use them?” the older elfling asked. Every elf he knew was already familiar with the weapons by the time they were his age, though the size of the bows they were given increased as they grew older.

“I am certain he did before he came to reside in Doriath, but the Edain are slower to attain certain skills than we are,” the elven father replied, thinking about some humans he knew. “And that is because they do not possess the same abilities the Edhel were born with. It would not be right to scorn them on that score.”

The two elflings nodded as they pondered the older elf’s statement.

“The adan would have been more at ease with the sword, and indeed Túrin was sometimes called Swordhelm by those who knew him well, although he was better known as Dragon-Helm, and he later named himself Dread-helm,” the elven father continued. “You must also remember that Beleg was the Strongbow – greatest in skill among all who lived in his day. He had much to teach his friend, and the bow he used was no ordinary bow either.”

-------------<<>>-------------

“Although the bows used by the elves of Mirkwood were not as long as those of the Lothlorien archers, they were larger and longer than any I had ever been given in Imladris,” Aragorn told his grandchildren who were once again listening to the king narrate his experiences with Legolas. He chuckled and recalled: “He had quite a time trying to teach me how to use his well. And it took some teaching!”

“He had to teach you?” Greenpea asked in surprise. “But I thought you knew everything.”

Aragorn smiled at the little boost his grandson had given his ego, but he had to tell him the truth. “I have seen and done much in my lifetime, Greenpea,” he said, “but, no, I do not know everything. No matter how long we live and how much we learn, there is always something new to learn, and we must be humble enough to acknowledge that. Why, even Legolas keeps learning, although he has lived for more than a thousand years – ”

“Yes, Dada told me his age,” Sweetpea interjected. “He is old!”

Aragorn could not help laughing. “Yes, sweetheart, he is old compared to humans, but he is still a young elf among his people. Still, there are things he knows and can do better than I can, and like I said, he taught me – very patiently – to shoot with his bow.”

“Why, Grandfather? Was it difficult?”

“Well, it was not that difficult to shoot with that bow,” Aragorn replied, “but when you are trying to use an arrow to split an arrow stuck in the center of a target, it becomes considerably more difficult.”

“What do you mean?”

Aragorn explained with his hands, how Legolas could shoot an arrow in to the center of a target and then shoot another one into the exact same spot so that the second arrow would split the first.

-------------<<>>-------------

“It is well nigh impossible without a great deal of practice – and a certain gift for it, as Beleg did,” said the elven father, “but when you persist in challenging yourself to do it, you find your aim improving tremendously.” 

The little elflings exchanged another look, and the elven father grinned. He could imagine what they were thinking: We must learn to split arrows with arrows.

-------------<<>>-------------

“Several elves of Imladris could do that, but none as consistently as Legolas,” Aragorn recalled.

“What is… consistently?” Greenpea asked in his usual unabashed manner.

“He could do it again and again in the same way,” his grandfather explained. “All the other elves at Imladris would often miss.  They were not as skilled as the archers of Mirkwood, including your granduncles.” He chuckled again, shaking his head at the memory of how he could never match the accuracy of the elves. “I was never able to hit the bull’s eye very often, let alone split arrows like that, and because of that, I was sometimes teased.”

-------------<<>>-------------

“You can imagine how the elves of Doriath may have been amused by the man’s slow progress,” the elven storyteller said to his two listeners, “but Beleg ignored the naysayers and kept guiding his adan friend.”

“You need to keep improving your aim so that you can protect yourself and others in your company,” the Strongbow told Túrin. “Your life and those of your companions may depend on a single arrow shot into a tiny target.”

So the Strongbow would spend many hours a day correcting his friend’s stance and arm movements, no matter how much some of the other elves scoffed at their efforts.

-------------<<>>-------------

“Yes, Legolas has always been as patient with me as Beleg was with his human friend,” Aragorn asserted. “Oh, he can get angry – furious in fact – at times, but it was never because he had to teach me something.”

“Did you ever teach him anything, Grandfather?” Sweetpea asked suddenly.

Aragorn considered her question for a moment.  

“Yes, I did, sweetheart,” he replied at length. “Have you ever seen the white knives Legolas carries?”

“I have!” Greenpea cried excitedly. “They look sharp.”

“And they are,” his grandfather agreed. “So they are not to be treated as toys by anyone, is that clear?’

Greenpea nodded. “But can Legolas use them?”

Aragorn smiled. “Yes, he can, because he is a grown-up, and he knows how to handle them,” he replied, “but he only uses them when he has to defend himself and those he protects. That is what he uses his weapons for, and he is very skilled with them. But he was never too comfortable wielding a longer, heavier sword – ”

“So you taught him!” Greenpea guessed, his eyes lighting up, glad that his grandfather was also skilled with some weapon.

“Yes, Greenpea, I did,” the king replied, smiling. “And he was ready to learn.”

“Were you also patient with him, then, Grandfather?” Greenpea wondered.

Aragorn laughed and ruffled his grandson’s hair. “I believe I did my best,” came the reply, “but you will have to ask him whether he agrees!”

“You are a great swordsman, and he was a great archer,” Sweetpea observed dreamily. “Like two heroes in my story books, Grandfather!”

-------------<<>>-------------

“Swordhelm and Strongbow,” said the younger elfling, a faraway look in his bright eyes. “Do you think they learned from each other, Ada?”

The elven father looked at his son with affection and pride before he replied quielty. “That they did, ion nin, for true friends find something in each other that they can learn, and learn from.”

-------------<<>>-------------

“Good friends always respect each other,” Aragorn said firmly to his two grandchildren, looking from one to the other. “They see strengths in the other person that others may not see, or choose to ignore.”

-------------<<>>-------------

“And I am delighted that you realize that, ion nin,” said the elven father generously.  

The elfling blushed and studied the bed linen again.

“You may have grown up a little in the ten days I have been gone, tithen pen,” his father said fondly. “Soon, you will be too old for me to pick up and swing around,” he jested, though a note of sadness could be heard in his voice.

The little elfling lifted his head and looked at his father’s wistful smile. Then he looked at his playmate for a moment – but only for a moment – before he turned back to his father and climbed onto his lap.

“I am not grown up yet, Ada,” he whispered, throwing his ada a mischievous smile. “You will have to wait patiently for that.”

-------------<<>>-------------

“When will I be old enough to use a bow and arrow, Grandfather?” Greenpea asked plaintively.

“And I?” Sweetpea chimed in.

Aragorn laughed and pulled them both to him, enveloping them in a warm hug.

“Not for some years yet, little Peas,” he answered fondly. “But when you are, I will make sure you get the most patient teacher of all.”

Sweetpea squirmed free and lifted her wide eyes to meet his. “Who is that? You or Legolas?”

Aragorn laughed again. “You will find out when the time comes!” he said with a broad grin and a wink.

And the chuckles of a king and his grandchildren played melodic notes on the music of the breeze that blew into the nursery bedroom that night. 

CHAPTER 5: FORGIVENESS, PART 1

Aragorn looked down upon the heads of his grandchildren as they sat on his lap looking at the colorful pictures in the book which told the tale of the Nine Walkers and the Quest of the Ring.

It was a tale that children all over the land of Gondor knew by the time they were five or six years of age. It was narrated by their parents, their nannies and their teachers. Sam had completed the account of it, adding to the notes Bilbo and Frodo had left, and Aragorn had commissioned it to be faithfully copied and distributed throughout his realm, so that the Fellowship of the Ring would always be honored, and so that Gondorians would always remember how dearly bought the freedom of Middle-earth had been.

A fuller version of the tale had also been produced in a book for children, which Sweetpea and Greenpea were poring over now for the first time. Aragorn had thought it a suitable peace-making gift after having missed bedtime storytelling with his grandchildren for more than two weeks. The bright smiles from the children when they received the book told him it had been a good choice; they immediately forgot about being annoyed with their grandfather, and had remained placated for the past fifteen minutes.

“Is this Gollum?” Greenpea asked, his pudgy finger pointing at the drawing of the creature.

“Aye, it is.” Aragorn said, nodding.

“Is this Legolas?”

“Mm-hmm, it is.”

“Is this where Legolas lived?”

“Yes, that is Mirk – ”

“Why is Legolas with Gollum?”

“Well – ”

“Were they friends?!”

“No – ”

“Were they fighting?”

“Uh… not quite – ”

“Did they live in the same woods?”

“No, no – ”  

“They why are they together?”

“Yes, Grandfather – why are they together here?”

When two pairs of mouths stopped firing questions, Aragorn found his own agape. And when two pairs of eyes stared up at him waiting for an answer, he broke into a chuckle before he explained how he and Gandalf had found Gollum and delivered him to the Mirkwood elves before the Quest, asking them to keep him under guard.

“Grandfather, what is happening here?” Sweetpea asked after turning the page. “Is this Gollum running away?”  

“Yes, he escaped the Wood-elves’ guard.”

“How did it happen?” The two children were looking up at him with round eyes again, and Aragorn gave each forehead a quick kiss before he answered.

“Well… Gollum’s guards had taken him out for some fresh air one day when there was a sudden orc attack, and when the elves were busy defending themselves, Gollum escaped unnoticed. It was likely to have been the cunning work of the Dark Lord. Some of the elven guards were slain or taken, and the wood-elves were understandably very upset about it.”

Greenpea pointed to the book again. “This is Legolas in another place – and… is this you, Grandfather? Look, Sweetpea! There’s Grandfather!”

“I know! This was the Council – at Imladris!” Sweetpea said excitedly.

Aragorn smiled and stroked his granddaughter’s dark curls. “Yes, sweetheart. That is the Council where we met to discuss what to do with the One Ring,” he confirmed. “That was also where Legolas informed everyone about Gollum’s escape.”

“Were you and Gandalf angry with him?” Sweetpea queried. 

The question took Aragorn aback. “What do you mean, Sweetpea?”

“You said you and Gandalf asked them to keep Gollum under guard, but they let him escape,” Sweetpea said. “So were you angry at the elves?”

Aragorn drew in a long breath and closed his eyes. His granddaughter’s question reminded him about a conversation that had taken place in a cave one night many years ago, when Eldarion had been but a boy of nine. There, while voicing his regret over some careless words he had thrown at his friend a few days earlier, he inadvertently found out – to his horror – that for ten years, the elf had remembered what the Ranger had said to him at the Council before the Quest, although the elf had not spoken of it till that night.

“I have never held anything against you,” Legolas assured him. “Not even your words at Imla – ” He stopped abruptly.

Aragorn furrowed his brows, puzzled. “What words?”

The elf did not answer, but looked away. Aragorn would not accept his mute response.

“What words, Legolas? What did you mean?” he demanded.

“They matter not, Estel.”

“Yes, they do. If you remember them, they must matter. Now, tell me: what words?”

“They are nothing.”

“Legolas, please…”

The elf sighed. A nightmare he sometimes had about what transpired at the Council played in his mind again, and his next words were uttered so softly that Aragorn could not be certain he had heard them: “The folk of Thranduil failed your trust.”

Aragorn was stupefied. “What?...When?”

“At the Council called by Lord Elrond. You said…” the elf paused again, but Aragorn grasped and raised his chin so that their eyes met.

“Saes, Legolas, tell me, please.” Aragorn’s voice was pleading now, disturbed by the shadows flitting across the elvish face, not sure if they were from the light of the feeble torches around them, or from a painful memory.

The elf released everything in a rush. “Gollum had escaped. From our hands. My patrol. When I broke the news at the Council, you said – you asked how the folk of Thranduil came to fail in their trust. I never forgot your words, Aragorn. I could understand your anger, and I do not hold it against you… but I have never forgotten your words.”

The Ranger was dumbfounded as his mind worked furiously to recollect the events of the Council and the verbal exchanges that had taken place. Men and elves and dwarves and hobbits and one irate Istari – they had all learnt of the existence of the One Ring and of the dire threat to Middle-earth, and they had all been faced with dismaying discoveries and hard decisions that brought little hope of salvation. It had been a trying time for all, not the least for him, whose destiny had propelled him into the heart of the peril, and on whose shoulders the future of Men and Middle-earth, in part, rested.

In the greater turmoil surrounding the fate of the free peoples of Middle-earth, the Ranger and the future king of Gondor had not realized what his words – impulsively uttered – had meant to one elf whose people had been charged with a creature they did not love, a creature that played a role they had no knowledge of, in a war they could not foresee. He remembered the words now: as blunt an accusation of failure as there could be.

And Legolas had borne that memory for ten years. Kept it in his elvish mind, yet remained unflinchingly loyal to the one who put it there. Such pain could not sully the noble heart of Legolas or overpower the love in it.

Aragorn felt humbled. His emotions caught in his throat when he studied the look of hurt on the fair face of his friend, though the elf tried to hide it behind downcast eyes. His mouth was dry when he tried to speak.

“Legolas,” he began and swallowed. “My words… they were rash, foolish words spoken in a moment of fear, for each piece of news and each tale told at the Council promised only certain danger and little hope for all of us, for all of Middle-earth.” He paused in brief reflection.

“My heart was in great distress, my mind in turmoil over a precarious future. Yet, that was no excuse for my thoughtless tongue. No, saes, let me finish…” he held up his hand when Legolas tried to interrupt, and continued. “The news you brought to us about Gollum – it was dismaying, although as things turned out, Gollum’s being alive was critical to the fate of the Quest, that you know. But no matter the outcome, you did not deserve the insult I dealt you. Not you, not the elves of Mirkwood, not the folk of Thranduil.” He looked deeply into the eyes of the elf before him. “Will you forgive me, Legolas?”

The look of sincere regret and pleading in the Ranger’s eyes plucked at the heart-strings of the gentle elf, who hoped his voice could capture the depth of his love and conviction as he replied:

“Estel, I have never held anything against you. Hear me and believe me.”

Aragorn tightened the hold on his friend’s hand and allowed a single tear to trace his cheek in the dark as he responded.

“I believe you, dear friend, and that is what brings me shame. Yet, in my shame, I have one more thing to ask of you: I beg you to cast aside the memory of my words that seems to have haunted you for that long. You have never failed me, Legolas, not even in the forests of Mirkwood. No fault could I lay on you for what happened. It was my weakness, not yours.”

The elf was silent as his friend bared his soul to him, but his eyes were fixed on the man, and he removed the Ranger’s tear with one slender finger.

“We have been through so much together, Legolas, through fire and snow and hurt and war and death. In all the years I have known you and through all the years of my struggles as the heir of Isildur, I have had no truer companion in elf or man. No one need remind me, for I know what lengths you would go to for me, and you know I would do the same for you. Let no foolish words hold sway over us or come between us.”

“They do not,” came the reassuring reply. “Im innas anna-nin cuil an beria lin,” Legolas said softly, looking directly into the eyes of his friend. “I would give my life to protect yours.”

“A im sui eithel,” Aragorn whispered his pledge in return, returning the steady gaze.

That night, the two friends slept peacefully, secure in the resolution of an uncertainty long kept hidden, and caressed by the solace of forgiveness given and received.

That night, the ten-year-old shadows of a Ranger’s words, and the dark nightmares that had accompanied them, vanished from an elf’s mind in the light of a renewed understanding shining brightly from the depths of two souls bound by love and loyalty.

Aragorn could not stop the moistness that had collected at the corners of his eyes at the memory of that conversation. How he wished he could retract what he had said at the Council…

“Grandfather?”

The grandfather opened his eyes to see a small hand tugging at the front of his shirt and two upturned faces with curiosity and puzzlement written all over them.

“Grandfather, were you asleep?” Greenpea asked, and Aragorn smiled despite himself.

“No,” he answered, closing his hand over the small one. “I was just – ”

“Are you crying, Grandfather?” Sweetpea’s fingers reached up to touch her grandfather’s cheek, and the king caught her hand and kissed it.

“I am not crying, sweetheart,” he replied, “but I was thinking about the question you asked me, and how I said some careless words to Legolas at the Council that… that hurt him.”

“Why? What did you say?” the little girl asked. “Were you and Gandalf angry at him?”

Aragorn sighed before he answered. “I was upset at first because we were worried about what Gollum would do, and I… I blamed the Mirkwood elves for failing our trust in them, but I should not have said that. They had not been told in full who Gollum was and why we had sent him there, and they could not foresee the orc attack. They did their best, and they lost good elves because of that ill-fated attack. I should not have caused him grief over it.”

The children kept quiet when their grandfather’s voice became hushed. They sensed that the man was still thinking about what transpired at the Council, so they turned back to the book, excitedly naming all the people they could recognise.

“There’s Grandnaneth! And look – here’s Grandfather and Legolas walking together,” Greenpea said to Sweetpea, pointing to the drawing.

“Yes, they’re leaving Imladris,” his cousin explained. “They’re starting on the Quest.”  

“Were you and Legolas friends again here, Grandfather?” the little boy asked, tugging on the king’s shirt again.

The king’s brows knitted. “Friends again?” he echoed, puzzled. “We never stopped being friends, Greenpea.”

“But you were upset with him, and you said you hurt him,” the child argued. “When Sweetpea and I fight, we don’t play together,” he said candidly, making his cousin roll her eyes and amusing his grandfather.

“But you remain cousins,” the king pointed out, “and you forgive each other and play together again. You mend things between you.”

“Did you and Legolas mend things then?” Greenpea asked.

“Well… no, not at the time,” the elderly man replied, confusing the children. “You see… Legolas did not need my forgiveness, for he had done nothing wrong. On my part, I did not realize then how careless my words had been. He told me nothing either, he just kept on being my friend and my companion. I did not find out how he felt till ten years later. Then…” Aragorn paused, “then he told me, and I was able to ask for his forgiveness.”

“Did he give it?” Sweetpea queried.

“Without hesitation,” Aragorn replied immediately. “He had not forgotten my words, but he had pushed the incident aside even before the Council was over, for he is such a friend. We did not talk about it till a long, long time after. I only wish I had known sooner,” Aragorn continued, almost to himself. “How I rue causing hurt to a friend I love so much...”

Seeing her grandfather become reflective again, Sweetpea snuggled closer to him and spoke consolingly: “Do not fret, Grandfather. He has forgiven you.”

Aragorn looked at the little girl lovingly and hugged her. “I know, sweetheart, I know.”

“And we forgive you, too,” Greenpea declared to his grandfather in his most magnanimous tone.

“Oh?” Aragorn asked, amused and genuinely curious. “And you forgive me for…?”

The little boy wore an expression that suggested how obvious the answer should have been. “Not coming to tell us stories for ages!” he clarified.

Aragorn laughed and gently pinched his grandson’s cheek.

“Well, I am glad I have your pardon then,” he said meekly, “and I am glad I have two kind-hearted, generous Peas in my arms.” Aragorn tickled the children, who squealed with laughter that warmed the grandfather’s heart as much as the thought of his friend did. 

It seemed strange to be thinking this after so many years, but he said it silently anyway:

Hannon le, Legolas. I do not know how or from where you learned to be so patient and forgiving towards me. But my life is richer because you are. Hannon le.

Note:   Part of this chapter comes from Chapter 24 of For the Love of the Lord of the White Tree.

CHAPTER 6: FORGIVENESS, PART 2    

The elven father leaned against the carved headboard of his son’s bed and kissed the crown of the silently weeping elfling in his arms, using one hand to rub his back soothingly. His other hand parted the elf-child’s hair – still moist from his evening bath – to study the small bruise on the fair skin between his left eye and his temple. It would be gone by tomorrow, and it hurt the feelings of the little elfling more than it did his skin; of that, his ada was certain.

“Who was at fault, ion nin?” the elf asked gently, tilting his head to peer at the face half-hidden in the folds of his father’s tunic.

At the question, small, slender hands clutched the tunic tighter and the face pushed itself further into the folds. 

“Tell me, tithen pen,” the father coaxed. “Who was at fault?”

“Both,” came the muffled reply.

His father smiled. At least his son was being honest. When the crying elfling had been brought home by his older brother, no one could say for certain what had happened except that he had been in a little scuff with his playmate, the same elfling who had often shared his bed and bedtime stories and many days and nights of laughter.

The father smiled again. His son was probably also hurting more from his squabble with his good friend than from the bruise.

“I called him Chestnut,” the elfling volunteered from within the folds of the tunic. “He did not like it.”

Ada suppressed an urge to chuckle and kept his voice as steady as he could when he posed his query: “Why did you call him that?”

“He is too fond of roasted chestnuts, and he eats the most!” the elfling replied candidly as part of his face reappeared. “We call him that all the time, but today, it made him angry.”

“Well then, perhaps it is time you ceased to tease him by that name,” his father suggested, catching the elfling’s chin and tilting it so that their eyes met.

Long lashes, wet with tears, lowered to hide the child’s eyes. “I will not call him that again,” he said remorsefully, “but… but he should not have… ”

And the elfling hid his face again, sobbing quietly and wetting his father’s tunic.

“He should not have… what? What did he do?” the father coaxed again, knowing that his son needed to talk about it. 

“Thruwerchshntheme!” the elfling cried sorrowfully, or as sorrowful as a muffled little voice swathed in cloth could sound.

His father’s brows knitted in confusion. “What?”

“Hethruwerchshntheme! Anitwezhebiwentoo!” the elfling said again, frustrated that his ada could not understand something he was expressing so loudly and clearly.

His father groaned and finally forced the elfling to release his face and lips from their confinement so that he could repeat what he had mumbled. Pushing the hair back from the smooth face, Ada asked gently: “I know not in what language you just spoke, ion nin, but can you say that again in Elvish, please?”

 Missing the teasing sarcasm, the elfling protested: “But I was speaking Elvish, Ada! I said: he – threw – a – chestnut – at – me – and – it – was – a – big – one – too! It hurt! See?”

The elfling pointed a slender finger at the very mild bruise on the fine, delicate skin on his head – most likely caused by the jagged edge of a huge chestnut shell – but what his father saw was a bigger dent in his son’s pride.

“Well, he must have been angry at you then, for you hurt him, too,” the older elf said gently, and watched his son lower his face. “I hope you did not fight with him after that?”

“No, Ada,” the elfling said meekly. “I wanted to throw a chestnut back at him, but…”

Ada waited, glad that his son had exercised restraint. “But…?” he prompted.

“But I had no more chestnuts,” the elfling admitted.

His father sucked in a breath and shook his head, not knowing whether to laugh or lament. “Oh, ion nin,” he sighed. “Would you have done it if there had been more chestnuts?”

The elfling kept his head bowed as he pondered the question.

“Maybe,” he said in a small voice, to his father’s disappointment. “But I would have regretted it,” the elfling added, and his father sighed in relief. “If he does not like the name, I should not use it. So I – I was partly to blame.”

The elven father hugged his son tightly then, proud of the elfling’s willingness to see things from his friend’s point of view. 

“Then you can both forgive each other, tithen pen,” he said. “What happened was but a small… um… error. There have been far more serious mistakes for which good friends have forgiven each other.”

The father had the elfling’s attention now, and the elf-child uncurled himself to his full length to lie against his father’s torso and thigh. “What mistakes, Ada?”

“Well… I have not yet told you how the tale of Beleg and Túrin ends,” his father replied. “But when the story has been told, you will know to what lengths of forgiveness good friends can go.”

The elfling listened in rapt attention as his father began.

As the fame of the Two Captains grew, Dor-cùathol – the Land of Bow and Helm – became known to the spies out of Angband, and Morgoth laughed, for he now knew where the Dragon-helm, son of Hùrin, had his stronghold. Before long, the dark forces had ringed Amon Rûdh and Bar-en-Danwedh where Tùrin lay in hiding.

In the waning of the year, orcs tricked a dwarf into revealing the location of Bar-en-Danwedh and stormed it at night, taking Tùrin and Beleg and their companions unawares. Some were slain as they slept, but many held their defence to the last, staining the stones with their blood where they fought till they, too, fell. Tùrin alone was captured when a net was thrown over him, and he was borne north by the orcs, towards the ShadowyMountains. Thus ended the band of men that Tùrin had gathered and lived with to fight the forces of Angband, with Beleg at his side. 

Beleg lay among the slain – but, as grievously injured as he was, he was not yet dead. When the dwarf found him alive, he tried to kill him out of a hatred he had long harbored towards the elf. But Beleg was the swifter, and he thwarted the dwarf’s stroke and sent him fleeing and wailing as he ran. The elf cast curses upon the fleeing figure, for he was furious and grief-stricken, thinking Tùrin slain.

Failing to find the body of his beloved friend, he used his great skills to heal himself so that he could go in pursuit, though he felt it would be a pursuit of little hope. With a great will, he followed the trail on which his friend had been taken, and was soon not far from where the captive was, for the orcs that had taken Tùrin had not the endurance of Beleg, nor the depth of his love that had kept him going without sleep or rest.

“It was on that trail that Beleg came across Gwindor,” the elven father said.

“Who was he?” the elfling asked quietly, his face still streaked with his drying tears.

“He was an elf,” came the reply, “although, when Beleg found him, he was but a bent and fearful shadow of the strong and noble elf he had been, for he had been taken prisoner in Angband and had escaped. But Beleg helped him regain his strength, and told him about his pursuit of the adan. To his surprise, Gwindor said he had seen the man being dragged into the dreadful woods of Taur-nu-Fuin – almost at the gates of Morgoth’s bastion – and the weakened elf tried to dissuade Beleg from following suit into a place where there would be little hope of rescue and great risk of meeting the same dire fate as his friend.”

“But… Beleg went on despite the warning?” the elfling guessed.

“Quite right, ion nin,” his father answered, smiling and stroking his child’s hair. “You are now able to tell how the noble Beleg would have acted. Indeed, the Strongbow would not abandon his friend even though he felt despair, and through his own courage, kindled hope in Gwindor’s heart as well. So the pair went on, pursuing the trail deeper into enemy territory. And as they traveled, Beleg spoke to Gwindor of his friend, so that it was from Gwindor that some parts of the beautiful but tragic tale of Beleg and Tùrin was later passed down to other elves.”

The elven father’s face took on a distant and sad expression at the recollection, but he was brought back to the present when his son voiced a question: “Why was it tragic, Ada? What happened after that?”

His father looked at him, wondering for a moment whether his son was still too young to learn of so awful an end to so great a friendship, but he decided that he would have to learn to live with death and sorrow throughout his long, immortal life, and it was better than he learn from this tale the preciousness of life when one still had it. Having decided thus, the elven father took a deep breath and continued.

Beleg and Gwindor eventually came upon a dell where the enemy had made camp, and Beleg’s heart was moved both with joy and pity when he saw Tùrin where he lay fettered. Knives had been cast at and around him, embedded in the wood of the tree to which he was now tied, and he was sleeping from great weariness. The orcs had set wolf-sentinels around their camp and began carousing. As a great storm came rolling in, the elves used the darkness and sound of thunder to cover their stealthy movements as they stole towards the prisoner, in great peril of being discovered. Beleg shot the sentinels one by one, and when they reached Tùrin, they cut him loose from the tree and bore his sleeping form away quietly from the camp.

But they only managed to get to a thicket of trees where they had to lay the man down, for he was still unconscious, and the storm was coming very near to them so that they needed shelter. Beleg’s joy and gratitude at having found his friend again knew no bounds, and with shaking hands, he drew his sword Anglachel to cut loose the fetters that still bounds Tùrin. 

Alas for the ill-fated friends, for great sorrow had been written on the sword. Beleg had learned of this even as he asked for the sword to be given to him before he left Doriath, and Queen Melian had warned him of some grievous consequence that the sword would bring, but he had taken the weapon nonetheless.

This day, Gwindor bore witness to the dreadful truth of Melian’s words: for, as Beleg was cutting the shackles from Tùrin’s feet, the accursed sword slipped and pricked the man’s foot. The sudden sharp pain brought Túrin back to awareness, and he sat up.

The dark and the cloud-covered sky – or perhaps fate – blinded Túrin that night, and in his state of fatigue and bleariness, he saw only the outline of someone looming above him – with a sword in his hand, a sword that had a moment ago brought injury to his foot. In desperation and blind panic, and with some reserve of strength he did not know he had, the man got up faster than his elf friend could have anticipated and grappled with the figure in the dark, thinking him one of his hated orc captors.

Fate also stopped Túrin’s ears that night, for the man’s cry of fear and the harsh wind drowned out Beleg’s desperate attempts to tell his friend who he was: he who had followed the man through fire and snow and near-death, he who would have been the last person in Arda to cause the Dragon-helm harm.

Not seeing and not hearing a Truth that would have lent longer years to one of the greatest friendships in the history of Elf and Man, Túrin wrested the sword of Death from the elf who could not have hurt the man even to save himself, and with one fatal stab, the man took the life of the friend who had come to save his. 

It had all happened too fast for Gwindor to do anything, and in horror now did he see the Strongbow fall. In the next instant, a terrible streak of lightning, coming too late, lit the stage on which Túrin son of Húrin stood, for him to witness – to his own heart-stopping and unbelieving horror – the scene of death that had just been played out, in which he had been the main actor, the untainted blood of a noble friend still fresh on his hands.

When Túrin beheld the ugly truth and realized the cruel error, he was first muted by utter shock and his limbs became useless as he sank to the ground. For long minutes ensuing, he became as one possessed and tore at his hair, for here he was kneeling before one who had given up his home and kin, left the safety of his kingdom, and changed the course of his whole life to remain at the side of his proud, stubborn friend – and here he lay dead, smitten by the hand of that friend, he whom he most loved. 

Turin prostrated himself before the still form, first laying his head on the chest that would rise and fall no more, then at the feet of the elf that had traversed so many journeys to find him, and having found him, to fight his battles with him. The distraught man then placed his tearful face against the brow of his friend, begging and pleading for forgiveness from lips that would no longer speak. Long moments passed before Turin let out one long, terrible cry of painful remorse and self-reproach into the wind and rain. And after that terrible cry, he fell dumb.

Gwindor watched this whole scene, cloaked in grief himself at the tragic turn of events, and now shivering with fear for this man whom Túrin had given his life to find and aid. Shaking himself out of a dazed stupor, Gwindor made himself move to calm and comfort the man, receiving only the cold, hard looks of a living corpse in return.

The elven father stopped his narration at this point, and both storyteller and listener sat in silence for some moments, feeling the pain of a remorseful adan across the centuries.   

“It was a mistake,” the elfling whispered, breaking the silence and jolting his father into awareness. “He did not mean it.”

“Aye, it was a terrible mistake,” his father agreed. “But it was the biggest one of his life, and it turned his heart to stone. He grew hard and bitter – mainly with himself – and it was a long time before Túrin could even mourn and let his tears out. It took… it took… well, Gwindor had to help him.”

“Túrin, I cannot pretend to know your pain” the elf said one day when he saw the man brooding silently again. “But I can tell you what Beleg told me, and what he would say to you at this moment.”

Still distraught, Túrin listened nevertheless as Gwindor told him that Beleg had spoken to him about his friendship with the man and about all that had happened since Túrin’s arrival in Doriath.

“It seemed strange to me that he should have taken to the wilds and lived among men and some dwarves solely for your sake, and I am not ashamed to say I did question the wisdom of his choices,” Gwindor said honestly, looking Túrin in the eye, “and I asked why he would still remain with you when your stubbornness and pride had cost him much that was precious to him.”

Túrin looked and felt even greater guilt at those words, and wondered why Gwindor chose to tell him this when he already hated himself, but before he could make any protest, the elf continued. 

“These were his words of response to me, adan: ‘I would do anything for him – gladly yield my life, and even if that should be the cost, I would still absolve him of blame, for he is a good man who has been met with an unkind fate, and I love him.’ ”

Clearly could Túrin envision such words from his dead friend, for, even if they had not been uttered, the elf’s every action bore testimony to what Gwindor claimed he had said.

“That is how I know, son of Húrin, that he would forgive you even for this… this sad deed…for it was unwittingly done,” the elf continued softly. “His was the truest of friendships – his a love that knew no bounds. And you insult him greatly if you think he is not capable of such forgiveness; you do him an injustice if you think he would not have understood.”

The elf saw at last some small change come over the dark, stony countenance of the man before him as they sat by a lake. It was as the slow but sure thawing of bitter cold ice under a brightening sky, and the eyes that had been glass orbs now softened, flecked with dim, moving points of light.

“Free yourself of this shackle of grief, son of Húrin, even as he died trying to free you of the shackles that bound your feet,” Gwindor urged kindly. Pointing to the lake, he continued: “It is said that the water of Ivrin’s lake is kept pure by Ulmo himself, he who is Lord of Waters. Drink of it, adan, and after that, remember Beleg, and do deeds in his name, for by doing so, you bring honor to his sacrifice.”

At the elf’s coaxing, Túrin drank from the lake, and as he did so, he felt the melting and draining away of layers of remorse that he had carried since the discovery of his cruel mistake. And the son of Húrin suddenly broke down then, loosing the tears held back by the madness of his grief and weeping freely. Heedless of peril, he sang aloud the Song of the Great Bow that he made by the shores of the lake, in honor of Beleg Cúthalion, truest of friends.

“The Strongbow probably looked upon Turin from the Halls of Mandos after his death – and whispered his forgiveness to his friend, if only Turin had taken the time to listen and feel,” the storyteller finished.

The elfling was stunned into silence at the tragic end of the tale. Moved by the tenderness in his young heart, his eyes shone with fresh tears – now of pity and sorrow – which trailed down his fair cheeks when he blinked. His father wiped them off gently and held him close.

“So you see, my sweet child,” the elf said, “calling a friend a name and getting hit by a chestnut – are the smallest of hurts when you think about what Beleg and Túrin went through. How much easier it should be for you and your friend to overlook the things you have done wrong and to forgive each other, tithen pen. That is what true friendship is about.”

-------------<<>>-------------

That is what true friendship is about…

“Grandfather?” a small voice called.

And it lives in any age…

“Grandfather!”  Louder now, and Aragorn realized with a start that he had been quietly reflecting on the tale of Beleg and Túrin. He looked down at the curious eyes of his granddaughter and grandson.

“I was thinking about Beleg and Túrin,” he said, smiling apologetically. “You see, Túrin also made a very grave mistake which Beleg forgave him for.”

“What mistake? What did he do?”

Aragorn studied the young, innocent faces awaiting his answer, and decided that it was perhaps not the right time to tell them of the tragic slaying of the elf, so he said carefully: “When you are older, you can read about it, but for now, it is enough to know that when Túrin was captured by orcs, Beleg looked for him and came to help him, for he would not abandon his friend. But Túrin… he… er… hurt Beleg very badly. It was an accident… a sad mistake. I believe, though, that Beleg forgave him.”  

“Because true friends forgive each other’s mistakes,” Greenpea supplied, and Aragorn looked at him with pleasure and pride.

“Yes, Greenpea, they do,” the grandfather affirmed. “The knowledge of Beleg’s forgiveness brought some measure of peace to Túrin.”

Then a smile reached his eyes as he added:  “I know Legolas’ forgiveness gave me mine.”

-------------<<>>-------------

Peace was what the elven father saw on his son’s face at the close of the tale, even though the ends of the elfling’s lashes were still glistening. The child looked into his ada’s eyes.

“I will seek him tomorrow to tell him I am sorry,” he said in a small voice. “And I will forgive him for hitting me with the chestnut.”

Ada smiled in gladness. His little son was learning much from the bedtime stories.

The elfling lay his head down on his father’s chest again and breathed slowly, a sign that he was growing sleepy. “Ada…” he said quietly and paused.

“Yes, ion nin?” Ada queried softly, stroking his child’s hair.

“I just wish his aim had not been so good,” the elfling lamented through a yawn. Then he fell asleep to the sound of quiet laughter rumbling in his father’s chest. 

ENDINGS AND BEGINNINGS

(If you have not yet read the previous two chapters, 5 and 6, on Forgiveness, I invite you to do so before you continue, or some parts will not make sense.)

---------<<>>---------

The elven father started at the gentle touch at his elbow, and after blinking a few times, found himself staring into the eyes of his son’s caretaker. He realized then that he had fallen asleep himself, still sitting against the wooden headboard of his son’s bed, with the elfling still in his arms.

He smiled at the caretaker and shook his head to indicate that he would put the child to bed himself. As the caretaker left the room, he sat up slowly and loosened the hold the elfling had on his waist so that he could place the young one on the bed without waking him.

To his regret, the movement did wake the elfling, whose eyes came into focus. But he allowed his ada to lower him onto his pillow and adjust the blankets. His father smiled at him, thinking that the elfling would drift back into elven sleep immediately, but was surprised when the young one suddenly asked:

“Ada, Beleg was from Doriath?”

The elfling’s fine eyebrows seemed to be knitted in deep thought, amusing his father no end. What was he thinking about now? Had he been dreaming?

“Yes, ion nin,” Ada replied softly. “The elf kingdom of Doriath, where Thingol was king.”

Instead of falling asleep again, the beautiful elfling opened his eyes wider. “Is that not where Daerada once dwelt?”

The elven father groaned; was the little one going to stay awake?

“Aye, tithen pen,” he replied patiently, hoping the answer would satisfy him and send him back into reverie. “Your grandsire dwelt there for a time.”

His hopes were dashed, for the eyes went even wider. “Then Daerada knew him?”

Ada sighed resignedly, prepared to entertain his son’s questions a little while longer.

“Of course he knew the king – ”

“Nay, Ada, not the king,” the elfling corrected him. “Beleg.”

Ada smiled. “Ah, I see. Beleg. Well, your grandsire was still a young elf then, but yes, he had been acquainted with him. That is how I first learnt of the tale myself – from your daerada.”

The elfling lapsed into silence again, and his father wondered what else was running through the mind of his offspring now.

“Were the elves angry at the human, at Túrin?” the elfling asked again suddenly.

The father’s eyes clouded with memories. “I think many elves who mourned Beleg’s death grew wary of Men after that,” he recalled. “And so should we all. Let that be a lesson to us who live in this Age.”

The little elfling lapsed into silence yet again, and his ada was about to tell him to go to sleep when the next question came.

“But you said Beleg loved the Man, Ada?”

“Yes, he did,” Ada replied patiently.

“And Beleg was a great elf?”

Ada was becoming curious, but answered nonetheless. “Yes, he was.”

“Was he a fool?”

“Of course not!” Ada exclaimed, not certain that he liked where the elfling’s thoughts were headed. “Why?”

“Because if Beleg was not a fool, and he loved the adan so much that he left his home to follow him… then the adan could not have been unworthy. He made mistakes, but perhaps… perhaps there was much good in him.”

Ada’s brows furrowed. “It still pays to be cautious where humans are concerned,” he said carefully. “We do not want to form such close friendships with them or trust them too much. Who knows what might happen?”

The elfling was not convinced. “The Strongbow knew what he was doing.” With a determined lift of his chin, the elfling declared, “I would also be willing to be friends with a Man when I grow up. I will also find a good human friend, like Beleg did.”

Ada grumped in annoyance. “Now is not the time to be making decisions, young one. You do not yet know what your life will be like, or how Men will be involved, or whether you will indeed meet one. And you have many years yet before you ‘grow up’, remember? You are but a little elfling for now, ion nin, and it is time for this little elfling to go to sleep.”

The elf child’s mouth opened to begin a protest, but at the firm look from his ada, he reluctantly acquiesced and snuggled  under  the covers, letting his ada pull them up to his chin.  

The elven father studied the fair face of his little son for a while, waiting for the bright eyes to glaze over as the elfling entered the elven dreamscape. His heart filled with pride. His little son would be a leader one day, and he was already showing so much sensitivity and thoughtfulness.

He sighed. Perhaps what the elfling had said about Men was true. Perhaps the sundering of Elves and Men would be reversed in this Age; perhaps not. And perhaps there would always be a Beleg and Tùrin in any Age. Who knew? He only knew that his son was already demonstrating wisdom for one so young. He had no doubt that those who would serve his son would grow to love him.

A smile graced the face of King Thranduil as he stood looking at the elfling a moment longer, then gently planted kisses on the child’s forehead and long golden hair that was so like his own.

“Sleep well, ion nin. Tomorrow is a new day.”  

But Legolas, youngest prince of Mirkwood, was already asleep.

In his dreams, he was making a promise to his friend that he would stop calling him Chestnut. And this friend smiled and stopped throwing chestnuts with such good aim when Legolas used his proper name: Hamille.

Then his dream shifted, and Legolas saw a day when he would become good friends with a human: a dark-haired human standing under a white tree.

Only the Valar knew then just how real that dream would become.

------------<<>>--------------

More than a millennium later, a tall figure stood at the door of a bedroom where a grandfather stood between two little beds, looking lovingly upon their occupants tucked under warm blankets.

“Are they asleep?” came a soft voice at the door.

The grandfather turned around and smiled, wondering how long the figure had been waiting there.

“All but,” he replied, turning back to the two children who were losing their battle with their heavy eyelids. Their heads were already sinking into their pillows, their dark hair framing innocent faces with flushed cheeks and soft lips.

Aragorn bent down to kiss each head softly and whispered: “Sleep well, little ones,” receiving only blissful silence in response. After his customary nod to the nurse, he walked quietly to the door, grinning at the elf waiting there.

“I am getting too old for this, Legolas,” he quipped, shaking his head.

The youthful-looking elf laughed lightly, glancing at the streaks of grey running through the dark hair of his regal companion.

“Never, my friend,” he said affectionately, placing a hand on the shoulder of the king and looking steadily into the grey eyes.  “Some hearts never grow old, and some things live on through the Ages.”

Aragorn returned the elven gaze and nodded, a wistful smile signaling his agreement.

As they left the room and made their way to the gardens where they had arranged to meet Arwen and the rest of the royal family for supper, Legolas enquired: “Are we still leaving for the Glass Pool tomorrow?”

Aragorn nodded eagerly, feeling younger and lighter at once. “Most certainly, mellon nin,” he replied determinedly. “I am still not too old for that.”

The chuckles of Man and Elf rippled through the air and warmed both hearts as their steps led them along the hallway, just as they had led them down many paths – both smooth and rough – on which they had walked together. 

But where they walked, dear readers, is another tale. This storyteller bids you goodnight and pleasant dreams. 

All reviews are much appreciated. After more than two decades, I still respond to all reviews posted and will continue to do so as long as I can. 

Note:   

The significance of the Glass Pool and Legolas’ friendship with the elf Hamille becomes clear in my other story For the Love of the Lord of the White Tree.

I have read accounts that Legolas’ grandfather, Oropher, was once in Doriath, from whence he fled East to found the realm of Mirkwood and rule over the Silvan elves there. Perhaps that is not what everyone believes, but it is what I choose to do, and thus runs my tale.  :-)  It is based on this assumption that I imagine Oropher having recounted to Thranduil some of the details of the tale of Beleg and Turin not found in the Silmarillion.

Hannon le to the readers who took the time to leave me reviews - I appreciate it.

Till my next tale – which should be coming soon – Namárië.