A Heavy Hand

Dear readers,

My name is Mablung, meaning heavy hand. My duty is to protect the forests of Doriath, where Queen Melian’s magic keeps us safe from any possible threat. Many believe our land is peaceful, but the quiet of the woods can be misleading. Outside of our walls, the darkness of Morgoth spreads.

The world has grown restless since the days when Men first came west. I remember when Húrin stood before Thingol, proud and fearless, his loyalty shining like a blade. From that family came Túrin, Húrin’s son—a boy who knew loss far too soon. We received him when he was sent to us for safety, an orphan of war. King Thingol welcomed him warmly, and I could see in the boy the same bravery his father had, though it was mixed with sadness. Beleg and I often watched him training—his determination was strong, even as a child.

Still, I have my doubts. The hearts of Men are quick to kindle and quick to burn out. There is great strength in him, but also danger. Túrin wants to prove himself, yet he struggles with anger he cannot explain. Beleg believes he will bring hope to our people, and perhaps he is right. I want to believe it too. But I have seen enough of the world to know that even the purest hearts can be bent by grief.

Life in Thingol’s court continues as usual, but we hear troubling news—raids near the borders and servants of Morgoth moving in the north. Thingol’s messengers talk of meetings and alliances, yet I can’t shake the feeling that a great danger is coming. The peace we hold feels thinner with each passing season. Still, I will keep watch. If darkness comes, let it find me ready.