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.

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“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.

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“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.”

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“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.

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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.

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“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.”

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“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.   

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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.