CHAPTER 39:  STRONGBOW

The King of Gondor stood in solitude on the balcony outside his private chambers, bathed in the dim moonlight, tall as a pillar and as grim as death. The guards below looked upon him in fear and awe this night, for he was as one of the great kings of old, forever enshrined in lifeless stone at the Argonath.

So stern and cold was his countenance that he seemed indeed to be carved out of rock but for the dark hair that lifted with each breath of wind and the steely eyes that roved the night sky. The grey eyes then lowered to slowly scan the countryside outside the city, as if the moon and stars would somehow show him what he was seeking.

But what he sought was out of sight, many leagues from the City.

What was in sight were the Pelennor Fields shrouded in the eerie glow of Ithil’s luminescence, reminding Aragorn of the Shadow men from the Paths of the Dead that had followed him onto the ships of the Black Fleet of Umbar. But now… the only ghosts were those of memories, and they hovered above the Fields, where thousands had battled and given their lives for the freedom of Gondor almost eleven years ago. There, he and Legolas had also fought side by side amidst grim armies with death as their rallying cry – to make sure that Gondor lived to see the prophesied return of her king.

Aragorn could see the fair face of Legolas in battle – hard with resolve, dangerous with anger, and pale with fear each time an orc sought to cut down the future king and prove the prophecy wrong. Time after time, the elf prince would end the orc’s life first, so that Elessar might live to be crowned. The dwarf, his Ranger kin, the Rohirrim of Eomer – so many risked and gave life and limb so that Gondor could receive her rightful ruler.

Those memories haunted Aragorn now.

So many memories. And so many of them shared with the Elf prince.

I thought there would be many more memories to make together, Legolas, he thought sadly. Happier ones, glorious ones.

In one month, Minas Tirith would be celebrating its tenth year of freedom from the threat of Sauron, and the tenth year of the reign of King Elessar Telcontar. The residents of the City were already making preparations for festivities. Delegations would be attending, heralding opportunities for the next decade of thriving trade for Gondor. The kingdom of Elessar was poised to witness a growth in stature and knowledge and wealth, and he would need even more greatly the wisdom of aides and the support of loyal friends. 

But all that would mean little to Aragorn if the friend that mattered most to him sailed.

And the possibility of it hung over the king like a dark cloud: a harbinger of joy for the one who would leave, and bitter sorrow for the one who would remain.

I thought we would see Gondor flourish together, Legolas. I thought I would have you at my side through my struggles. I thought I would have your companionship till I was old and grey and at the end of my life.

I did not think I would be so wrong, so soon.

The king swallowed the emotions welling up in his throat.

How do I say farewell to you now, my friend?

Angrily brushing a tear off his cheek, Aragorn let his eyes travel further, to rest on the moonlight glinting off the waters of the Anduin in the distance. He imagined those waters flowing south and westwards, towards the Sea, and his thoughts drifted with the current – slowly and languidly – yet all too swiftly reaching the dock where a ship, almost completed, lay anchored, awaiting the presence of an elf prince who would sail it away from Middle-earth… away from a king standing in cold silence on a balcony in the White City, away from a friend who loved him too much to beg him to stay.

Aragorn felt that his heart would shatter with the pain, and fought to hold on to the strength left within him.

Soft footsteps approaching from behind him broke the silence. “The night is nearly past, my love, and you have not slept,” said the Queen of Gondor as she touched his arm.

The response from her husband was frighteningly calm.

“Sleep will not be my companion tonight,” he said without emotion. “I wait for the rising of the sun.” He paused without removing his eyes from the river. “Yet it will not be the sun that shows me the truth.”

“Nay, it will not be,” Arwen agreed. “Only he can, and that will not be long hence.”

“Yet not fast enough,” Aragorn said. “Would that night were day, so that I could have departed sooner.”

“Dawn will be soon enough,” his wife countered. “He has not left. And even now my heart finds it hard to believe that he will sail. I know I cannot dismiss the possibility, but I do not yet bind myself to it.”

“He has built a ship, Arwen,” the King retorted in a voice that sounded dead, save for the slight tremor in it. “Can there be a clearer sign?”

“Estel – ”

“I mean to keep my resolve: I will not ask him to deny his desire to sail any longer. It is his right to seek Valinor. But I find myself unprepared to let go,” Aragorn confessed in a tortured voice. “Aaaah, Arwen…”

Aragorn’s face was still turned toward the night, but Arwen felt his agony and wept for him. She could only wrap her arms around her husband, resting her face against his back.

“I do not know how to bear the pain of parting with him,” Aragorn said, and his voice took on a bitter tone. “But that is nothing in the face of the greater torment: I cannot understand why he has built his ship in secret. I only know that by doing so, he has left me in a place darker than night.”

In the silence that followed, all was still, save their breaths misting in the cold night air. The quiet was finally broken by the rustle of Arwen’s robe as she moved to face her husband.

“How certain is Faramir of what is going on?” she queried, looking into his haunted eyes. The Steward had already left when Aragorn retired to their private chambers and broke the news to her.

“He is certain of what the elves told him, and the elves do not lie, not even to protect a secret,” Aragorn replied dully, reminding Arwen of the line she had used to describe elves to Faramir three weeks ago. She was next surprised when a small chuckle escaped the king’s throat despite his turmoil. “They would say nothing at first, but he gave them grief till they revealed enough to make him leave. But that is all they would say; they would volunteer nothing more.”

“Then I am not convinced that all is as it appears,” Arwen insisted. “There is still much of this tale that has yet to be told.”

Aragorn brushed a hand through his hair, unwittingly teasing a tender smile from Arwen at the sight of that unchangeable habit. “I know not what to think anymore, Arwen,” the king said. “But I intend to find out at the end of my ride this day. Now that Faramir has returned, I can leave the City with a lighter heart… if light my heart can be after this.”

The king shifted his position to place an arm around his wife and hold her close in the chilly morning. After being assured that she was warm enough, he breathed a sigh that carried volumes of unspoken sorrow and confusion in it before he spoke again.

“I have you and Eldarion, meleth, and another young one waiting to be born. My life has been blessed many times over,” Aragorn said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “And yet… my heart aches immeasurably at the thought of losing someone who is not even of my blood. He has been my friend and companion, but it hurts as if – as if I were losing one of you,” came the honest confession, softly made. “I feel as if part of me is being wrenched out.”

”Does that puzzle you, Estel?” Arwen asked, smiling. “It is no wonder to me. He is your Strongbow, and I have always seen it, though perhaps you did not.”

Aragorn started at her words, and a moment of silence passed as he tried to comprehend them. Failing to do so, he asked: “My what?” 

The elven eyes of the queen sparkled under knitted brows, even in the dying moonlight. “Have you forgotten your history, Estel?” she teased. “Or did Adar neglect to tell you the tale of Túrin Turambar and Beleg Strongbow?”

Feeling both curious and sheepish, Aragorn shook his head. “I may have been told it, I may even have read it, but I cannot recall.” His voice turned tender. “I must confess that since I met you, the tale of Beren and Lúthien was all that filled my mind, for after all, it is from that line that we are descended. But I would dearly like to hear the tale of which you speak.”  

“Well, it is a tragic tale that would be long in narrating, but I will tell you enough now for my purpose,” Arwen said, and Aragorn began to listen intently, forgetting awhile the source of his consternation that lay many leagues down the Anduin.

“Túrin was much like you, my love,” Arwen began, piquing his interest. “He and his mother, the Lady of Dor-lớmin, were of the Edain who dwelt in Hithlum, and were oppressed by the Easterlings. The Lady Morwen feared for the life of her son – much as your mother did, Estel – and so she sent her son to Doriath, seeking the protection of Thingol Greymantle.”

“Aye, I remember the tales of Doriath,” Aragorn said, a wistful note entering his voice. “The Girdle of Melian kept that elven kingdom hidden and safe from harm for long years.”

Arwen nodded. “Yes, it was a place of great splendor,” she said, “and Thingol was a worthy king. He welcomed Túrin into his fold with open arms and gave him honor. It was Thingol’s marchwarden, Beleg Cúthalion – the Strongbow – who first brought the Man to him, and Túrin soon became the companion-in-arms of Beleg.

“Thereafter, Beleg grew to love the man greatly, though he was of the Edain.” She tilted her head then and smiled at Aragorn. “In the same way that Legolas does you.”

Aragorn nodded slowly, beginning to see the parallels.

“But there was another elf who was jealous of Túrin’s position in the court of Thingol,” Arwen continued, “and during an unfortunate event, Túrin caused the death of that elf. He was not to blame, but he both feared the wrath of Thingol and looked upon his fate with bitterness. So he fled Doriath and became an outlaw.”  

Aragorn looked at his wife and nodded. “I begin to recollect the tale now,” he said, “how Túrin lived in the wilds for many a year, becoming both feared and hunted.”

“Aye, Estel, he did. And do you remember what happened after?” At the hesitation from the king, Arwen went on: “Thingol feared for Túrin, and Beleg took it upon himself to seek the Man in the wilds and bring him home. But when he was found, Túrin refused to return to Doriath – ”

“So Beleg left his home and king, did he not, and joined his friend in the wilds?” Aragorn asked as that part of the tale came back to mind. “And Túrin ceased his plundering – ?”

“Aye, save against the servants of the Dark Lord Morgoth,” Arwen affirmed. “Beleg returned not 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 used his great skills to aid him and his band of houseless companions. In doing so, he became homeless himself.”

Aragorn turned his eyes back to the river and spoke so quietly it was almost a whisper: “The Strongbow. He never left his friend.”

“No, Estel, he never did,” Arwen confirmed. “He gave up everything to be with the friend he loved.”

Aragorn fell silent again, and Arwen knew he was thinking about how Legolas had made a similar move for him.

“He has done no less in moving to Ithilien at your request, despite what Thranduil feels,” Arwen voiced the thought for him, and the king swung round to look at her again, in awe of how much she understood him.

“Three weeks ago, I was filled with trepidation myself at the thought of his leaving,” Arwen admitted. “Imladris is lost to us, Estel, but as long as Legolas remains here, we will still have an elven refuge. I thought about that, and I began to fear... I wondered if he would go…” Her voice shook a little, and Aragorn held her closer.

“But now,” she went on, her eyes shining, “when I think of the reason he came to Ithilien, when I see how much he loves you and what he has been willing to do for you, I see Túrin and Beleg alive in the Fourth Age,” she declared, “and I cannot see how he could leave you now!”

The king gazed at his wife in wonder and admiration, and he drew her into a tight embrace and wept into her hair, finding no words to utter. Arwen remained in his arms for long moments, letting him release the emotions he had held inside. But then she spoke again, for there was more that she wished to say.  

“Estel… do you remember how the tale ended?” she asked gently.

The king drew back and gazed at her again. When his face registered his struggle, Arwen prompted: “Túrin was captured and shackled by orcs, but Beleg tracked them down and found him. He shot Túrin’s foes and used his sword to cut the Man’s bonds. But alas! Evil was written on the sword that Beleg carried that day, for it slipped and pricked Túrin’s foot – ”

“Túrin thought it was his foe come to assail him,” Aragorn said, remembering. “It was dark… he could not see… and he grappled with Beleg… ” His voice trailed off as he recalled the tragic end: “He grasped the sword… and slew his friend.”

“Aye, Estel, Beleg was slain unwittingly by Túrin himself,” Arwen said, her own voice hushed. “He was the truest of friends, most loyal of companions, and he died at the hand of him whom he most loved.”

Aragorn could say nothing, subdued by the reminder of that tragedy, but Arwen had one more point to make.

“Darkness blinded one friend against the other that fateful night,” Arwen remarked sadly. “For, when nothing is clear, a man – or an elf – might smite even the heart that loves him the greatest.”

Lifting her eyes to look deeply into the king’s, she said meaningfully: “I pray it will not be so in this Age.”   

For the first time that night, the king’s face softened, and the ghost of a smile played on his lips. As he planted a soft kiss on the lips of his wife, his ears caught the sweet chirp of the day’s first starling. He lifted his head and cast his eyes east.

“The sun rises,” he said softly, and turned back to see the first glow of dawn in the bright eyes of Arwen Undòmiel.

“Yes, Estel, the sun rises,” she said, smiling. “Go.”

The tale of Túrin Turambar and Beleg Strongbow is found in J.R.R. Tolkien's The Silmarillion. 

Next chapter up in three days or less, I hope.