Hi! This is a short fanfic about Beren One-Handed, beloved of Luthien (because there are so many other Berens), during his time in Dorthonion after his father's death. If you haven't read the Silmarillion, or the first three cantos of the Lay of Leithian, (both by JRR Tolkien) or at least know Beren's story fairly well, you won't (entirely) get this. (If you haven't though go read them.) I own no rights to anything Tolkien, of course. I'm also planning on making this a series, which explains the title of the project, which you likely would have been confused by by the end of this. Warning: Mild violence? Probably mild, I guess? I think mild. Also orc death. No regrets there. Enjoy! Beren started awake at a bird’s call of warning. Rising quickly, and immediately fully alert, he glanced at the brilliant blue bird with a question in his eyes. /Where?/ The bird fluttered its wings a little north of the newly rising sun. He’d grown used to the beasts of the forest acting as watchmen for him, and this was by now no more than a typical day. He pulled himself further up into the tree he had been resting in to see if he could catch a glimpse of the orcs the bird’s call had warned him of, perhaps a banner or glint of armor through the trees. Nothing. He couldn’t hear anything but the normal sounds of the forest in the morning either. This suggested these orcs were more of the specially trained orcs, sent specifically to kill or capture him. But specially trained as they were, each group like this had scattered before his untraceable arrows. At least once a few of them had flown to the hearts of a few of their leaders. Beren looked to the bird again. He cocked an eyebrow in another question. The man would do this sometimes when it was the orcs hunting him, and not the other way round. This was, admittedly, rather rare. The forest animals had never failed him yet, though, and while every once in a while the orcs came close to his location without his consent, the animals always warned him that they were approaching. And in those few times he needed to ask, they would always give him an exact count of the approaching foes. He’d quickly learned their way of telling him. This time, the bird called nine times. Four caws in rapid succession, meaning there were four wargs*. Then three short calls, and two long ones, telling him there were twenty-three orcs. A small number indeed to be sent alone to the woods. But then, if they wanted to travel silently, a large host was not the best choice. Beren nodded grimly, and the bird flew off. This did confirm, though, that they were indeed after him. Such a small force would only be either trying to go quietly, or a scattered group of orcs from a battle. The latter option did not align with their stealth, so it could only be the first. The lone warrior drew his bow and retreated further into the leaves and branches of the tree, until he found a place where he had an good view of the forest floor, an easy –for him, at least– drop to the forest floor, and protection from the prying eyes of those below, if they happened to glance up. And then, he waited. A single orc passed under him, likely a scout for the larger host. It was moving silently and stealthily, making almost no noise. It would also have been quite hard to see to the casual observer, especially from the ground. Of course, there no longer /were/ any ‘casual observers’ left in Dorthonion, but perhaps the orc expected to catch Beren himself at unawares. Or perhaps it merely had a rather inflated opinion of its own powers of unseen movement. Either way, he let it pass, not wanting to lose the element of surprise against the greater host. But when the main body of orcs and wargs came into sight, he easily singled out the leaders and let fly an arrow. Before the first had hit, another three were on their ways. Each hit their target exactly, felling two wargs and the two main captains of the small band. Another six arrows were flying through the air before the orcs had even the time to realize what had just happened. Beren slung his bow over shoulder and dropped to the ground, drawing his sword as he fell, and landing like a cat. His sword Dagmor, slayer of the dark, flashed in the early morning light, blinding a few of the orcs as he cut them down. Most of the remaining thirteen had at least regained some sense of composure at this point, and drew their weapons, though still provided little resistance as his sword flashed in and out of their ranks, never drawing back without a new victim being felled. Dagmor cut easily through their light armor, and knocked aside their weapons like sticks. *I'm not entirely sure if this term is used in the Silmarillion, but there's certainly a difference between normal wolves and these evil wolves, so I'm just calling the evil ones wargs.
When there were no more than seven left, they finally started to fight back, though they still shrunk at the grim, unbridled fury in the son of Barahir’s eyes. He felt a burning sensation in his leg, and without turning to look, cut the inflictor down, the offending sword falling from the hand of the scout he had let pass. At that, three of the remaining five turned tail and fled. Their remaining two companions, though, proved a bit more difficult. One had gotten behind him, while the other stayed in front, and they now began to attack him in sync, making it rather difficult for him to parry both blows at once. Their strikes came swiftly enough, to, that if he lashed out at one of them, the other would likely kill him before he had time to withdraw his sword again. Then he stepped to the side when the orc behind him made a straight thrust. The orc had been expecting Beren to parry its blow, as he had each time before, and stumbled forward when its sword met nothing but open air. Then, Dagmor flashed into the orc’s back, and it knew no more. The remaining beast was barely able to take in the death of its comrade before it joined the other in its fate. The warrior wiped the orc-blood on Dagmor off on one of his fallen foe’s cloaks, and sheathed his sword. Shrugging his bow off his shoulders, Beren sent two arrows after those who had fled, cutting down a pair of the vile creatures before the three passed out of range of his bow. Though the servants of Morgoth were just on the edge of where he could hope to reach them, and nearly entirely concealed by the trees, as well as running hard, both arrows hit their mark, leaving only one of the foul beasts to tell his masters of what had occurred. Turning his grim countenance back to the other twenty-four fallen orcs, Beren looked on the destruction he had caused in such a short time. Twenty minutes ago, each of these things had been walking in the woods, hunting for him. Walking in the woods of his ancestors, the woods of his dead father, with no one to stop them but he himself. He realized no defender remained in Dorthonion but him. If he left, there would be no one to hold back the orcs. He was a lord with no people, hunted within his own lands. Beren looked down at the ring of his father on his finger. The ring that had once adorned the hand of Finrod Felagund himself. He remembered the reverence in his father’s face as the great elven king gifted his ring to Barahir. A fresh burst of rage and sorrow filled Beren at the memory of Barahir, and the fight in which he’d won this ring. He saw the orc in its camp, boasting of winning the ring from Beren’s father, and remembered seeing Barahir’s fallen body at the side of the lake, only one hand remaining, with carrion birds resting in the trees. And he knew that while the son of Barahir still walked in Dorthonion, all creatures of the dark would yet have a reason to fear these woods. Thousands of years later, a different man looked down at the same ring on his finger. Similar thoughts filled his mind as fallen orcs lay dead around him. And he knew that while the son of Arathorn still walked in Eriador, all creatures of the dark would yet have a reason to fear these woods. Thanks for reading! It was probably junk, but whatever, it was fun to write. More's coming, because I'm obsessed, but you don't need to pay attention to it if you don't want.
