~Thranduil meet his first ever dwarf. The impression is not the best...~

oOo

Túrin, by Asia Marianelli

Land of Helm and Bow

"You look relaxed. Had a good swim?" Beleg's innocent question made Thranduil drop his gaze and bite the inside of his cheek to hide a smile.

"I did." He fetched his bowl and filled it with the thin vegetable soup Maeldir and the other scouts had prepared. Meat was scarce now despite the bounty of the season; nobody had time to hunt.

"So... what shall we do about Túrin?" he asked as he sat on a fallen log beside the captain.

"What can we do? The boy wants to stay with his horrible new friends." Beleg smiled mirthlessly. "He wanted me to join them, and was quite convincing about it too. I almost..." He broke off, and then sighed. "I love that boy so much; I would do almost anything for him. But that? To live with that motley crew of brigands... and to abandon my king. I could not do that, could I?"

Thranduil's chest tightened. He loved Túrin too. "What did Thingol say when you returned? It is his adopted son, after all."

"He was not happy with Túrin's decision, obviously, but he is just as powerless as I. We cannot very well drag the boy back to Doriath and lock him up. Thingol tried that with his daughter already, and see how well that went."

"True."

"However... Queen Melian gave me this." Beleg went to get his pack, a large and bulky satchel, and opened it to show row upon row of packages wrapped in silvery leaves, with Melian's flower emblem pressed into their wax seals.

Thranduil whistled silently. "Lembas... that must be the entire first summer batch."

"She told me to do what felt right. I think she wants me to go to him and protect him, but I have not made up my mind yet. With the critical situation up here and everything..." He sighed. "I don't know."

They were silent for a while, pondering. Then Thranduil got an idea. "Maybe we could join our forces together."

"What do you mean?"

"The border guard could relocate to Amon Rûdh. I remember the view was magnificent the only time I was up there; if we placed scouts on the top they would see the enemy when they crossed the Teiglin. Then we could place smaller units along the road, ready to ambush them. The orcs still fear Túrin – or at least his helmet. Maybe we could be more useful there than here in the marshes." And in addition the environment would be more pleasant without the dampness and mosquitoes.

"The plan has merit," said Beleg thoughtfully. "Whatever happened to his helmet?"

"He left it here, in our lodgings near the border. We could return it to him."

"We would have to get the king's permission."

"He listens to you. If you say it is a good plan he will agree to it." Thranduil felt a twinge of hope. Would he finally get to leave this horrible place?

"Dimbar would be lost, though, and if the orcs are feeling brave they might enter Brethil and bother the Men of Haleth."

"The Halathrim are a clever folk and have traps all over the place; the orcs dare not venture into their forest. At least they never did before we began to guard the marshes."

"True that." Beleg's face suddenly broke into a grin. "You know Tharan, I think this might actually be a good plan. We could make western Beleriand safe again and keep an eye on Túrin."

oOo

The relocation took a while to organise, and it was decided that the bulk of the march-wardens would stay the winter in Doriath and join the Outlaws when the lands thawed. Orcs seldom ventured out of Angband that season anway; with Morgoth's growing power, the winters were increasingly severe.

Thus, it was early spring when the elves of the border guard finally crossed the bridge to the Talath Dirnen, the Guarded Plain, setting out towards the hill of Amon Rûdh after a couple of months spent pleasantly in the comforts of Menegroth. The ground was still frosty and the trees naked, but buds were swelling and the air was full of birdsong.

When they got closer, Thranduil looked around with interest. The scarcely forested moorland seemed untouched and there was no trace of any humans. Where were the Outlaws hiding? All he could see was the tall hill looming ahead, bald and naked this early in the year.

Then suddenly Beleg emerged from behind a thornbush and came to meet them. He had come here several weeks earlier to prepare the Outlaws for their arrival, wishing to avoid a hostile reception like last time, and to plan with Túrin where to build their camps.

"We will camp here at the foot of the hill. Túrin does not want too many to know where he and the Outlaws hide." He lowered his voice. "It is inside the hill itself. Almost like Menegroth but not at all as pleasant. And there is a dwarf – but I should not speak more now, you will see."

While the others were occupied preparing their new lodgings, Beleg brought Thranduil around to the side and up a narrow path to a ledge, where some shrubs effectively hid a flat, rocky surface.

"Sharbhund," he murmured, and suddenly faint lines in the rock appeared, revealing a door. Pushing it open, they went inside into a low tunnel. It was almost completely dark, but further in Thranduil saw a dim light.

"What was that strange password? Mannish?"

"Dwarfish." Beleg's eyebrows drew together. "Before you meet Túrin and the Outlaws, I must warn you. These halls are owned by a dwarf named Mîm and his son, who apparently are the last of their kind hereabouts, and I do not trust them at all. The father has become friends with Túrin, or pretends so anyway – but he hates the other humans, that is clear, and even more so elves. He has tolerated me so far, albeit barely, and I expect he will try to get rid of us at first opportunity. You have to be careful. Very careful."

"I will," Thranduil assured him, curious about the owners of this place. He had never met a dwarf before.

"Another thing... do not call Túrin by name. He calls himself 'The Wronged', and none of his men knows who he really is or anything about his past."

"Noted."

They went through the dark passage, which was so low they had to walk almost bent double. After many twists and turns they came to a larger room, about the same size as Thranduil's sitting room back home but with a much lower ceiling. The rough stone walls were without colour and ornaments and from the ceiling hung many iron lamps in thin chains, dimly lighting up the place.

In the middle of the chamber, Túrin and twenty-odd humans sat around a long, crude table, busily oiling weapons and repairing armour. Túrin's elven sword and armour stood out; the others' equipment was simple and worn, made in many different styles. Just like their weapons, the Outlaws were a ragtag band of men, with some older, some young, some fair, some dark skinned. They had one thing in common though: their smell. Thranduil had never seen a more unwashed and unkempt company before. Orcs excepted.

At the arrival of the two elves, Túrin jumped to his feet and came to meet them. He looked older, with a longer beard and more worn features, and his face was too thin. Had he been starving?

"Tharan! Did you bring my helmet?"

Thranduil smiled. In some ways the boy was still the same. "I did." He put a linen bag onto the table which the young man eagerly opened, his companions gathering around him to see.

When Túrin picked up the helmet and put it on, there was a collective cheer.

"Awesome!"

"Terrifying! Orcs beware."

"Can I try it?"

All of them had spoken Sindarin with a Mannish accent.

"I am already your captain, and now I will also be your lord," said Túrin proudly. "I shall no longer be known as Neithan – The Wronged, but as Gorthol – the Dread Helm."

"Gorthol!" cried the men, some waving swords and axes, others banging their weapons on their shields.

A movement in the corner of his eye made Thranduil turn his head. An incredibly short and stocky person had appeared in a doorway in the far end of the room; his head nearly bald and his face covered in a large, grey beard. So this was what dwarves looked like.

The dwarf had been gazing at Túrin, but now he lifted his eyes to the newcomers. His bushy eyebrows instantly knitted together; his whole being emanating an almost palpable hostility. Like Beleg had said, it was obvious what the dwarf felt about elves. Without a word, the small figure turned on the spot and left.

This did not bode well. Not well at all.

Túrin meanwhile had positioned himself where all could see him. When wearing the helmet, his head touched the ceiling. "With my dragon helm and aided by my friends, I shall be invincible." His voice was strong and clear, echoing between the walls. "This area shall be known as the Land of Helm and Bow; a realm ruled by two great captains, with two great companies of warriors – the elves and the former Outlaws! I say former, for no longer shall you be outcasts and exiles, hated by your own people. I will make you great heroes."

The cheer became almost deafening.

When the men had calmed down and Túrin removed his helmet, Beleg took him to the side. "I never agreed to creating a realm with you," he said reproachfully, keeping his voice low. "My march-wardens are still under Thingol's rule."

"I know, I know." Túrin shrugged casually. "I just wanted to incite courage in my men. As far as they are concerned, the elves follow me. They do not need to know the truth."

"They will spread it, though. There will be rumors. If those reach Angband – and they will, Morgoth has many spies – we are doomed. We can resist small raider orc bands from here, but not full-scale war! The Dark Lord still has his balrogs and dragons."

"Don't worry, uncle Beleg. We will be safe, hidden inside the hill. I know what I am doing." Túrin had fallen back to his childhood name for him, perhaps involuntarily, or perhaps to play on his feelings.

"I hope you do."

"I have to do this, I have to avenge my adar! You know I always meant to strike back against Morgoth. This is my opportunity."

Beleg's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Though I do not like this, I promise to do my best to help you. You have my bow."

"And my swords," added Thranduil.

❈ ❦ ❈

A/N:

Sorry about the last two lines haha... I'm a hopeless quote thief. But with all the foreboding of this chapter I dare say we need a smile. :) In the next chapter hell breaks loose...

Note: I have taken some liberties with canon in this chapter. In the Silmarillion and the Children of Húrin, which tell Túrin's story, only Beleg went to join the Outlaws, more or less abandoning the march-wardens who subsequently lost Dimbar and the northern marshes to the orcs. Meanwhile, Beleg and Túrin's heroic deeds in what became known as 'The Land of Helm and Bow', attracted many humans and elves who joined them there.

In my version, Beleg is not so careless and actually brings his march-wardens with him from the beginning, which in my opinion makes more sense.

Image Credits: Túrin by Asia Marianelli, https://f-y-asia.tumblr.com/