Brief Days by Agelast

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

I.

Time grew short.

The long stretches of childhood dissipated like morning mist, overtaken by the hurlyburly activity of adolescence. Túrin found himself spending more and more time in Beleg’s company, and always looking for excuses to spend even more time with him.

In the supreme arrogance of youth, he did not doubt that Beleg was as eager to spend time with Túrin as Túrin was to spend time with him. And it was true that Beleg did not seem at all averse to Túrin’s company, and he was always ready with a kind word, a friendly touch, and new and wondrous thing to show him.

Nellas, who had been once Túrin’s constant, albeit silent, companion for many years, disappeared into the woods one day, leaving no word about her whereabouts. Beleg did not seem disturbed by her abrupt departure. “She wishes for deeper solitude than these woods can afford. It is no reflection on you, Túrin, or the pleasure of your company.”

Túrin was dubious; the woods that surrounded Menegroth could hardly be described as bustling.

But in any case, Beleg had so much to teach him, and Túrin had so much to learn, his days were stuffed with learning, and it was the kind of things that he wished to know, not the wearying march of facts and figures that he was expected to learn in the school-room.

Beleg knew how to run so silently through the forest that no animal heard him, to loose an arrow straight into the heart of a beast from far, far away. He knew everything there was to know of the plants, the birds and the beasts that lived in Doriath. And more besides, for he had wandered far east and west, long before Thingol had come back to establish Doriath itself.

Túrin had always been aware, of course, of the special place Beleg held in Doriath. He was not merely Túrin’s instructor, or his friend, but a legend among his people. Many battles he had fought, some with no other army than himself. Very strong he was, and very fair. Túrin, as callow as he knew himself to be, though there was none in Doriath so fair as Beleg.

Well, yes, Melian the queen was surely far more beautiful, but her beauty was … Unearthly, and strange, in Túrin’s eyes, and her gaze, at times, nigh-unbearable.

Beleg, however, was of the earth, of the forest and stone. His skin was burned brown from many years laboring under the sun, and his hair seemed to have caught the cool gleam of starlight in their tresses from the long years without the sun or the moon. His face was sharp; all softness pared down to nothing, he was like a thing that had been carved and shaped by some gifted hand, not a creature who had been born and had grown into the world.

Túrin, who seemed do nothing but grow (his limbs ached with the act of growing, his voice cracked and broke, his skin grew raw and red, he sprouted hair where none had been before), and he could not help but envy such grace, such beauty, all effortless, all matter-of-factly presented.

Not, of course, that Beleg was vain. Indeed, he did not seem find such thing to be at all important. Unlike some at court, he wore no jewels or fine silks, and he did not carry himself in a way that demanded that he be admired. It seemed to Túrin that Beleg wore the same clothes over and over, though he did not grow rank in them, as Túrin often did in his.

But when his clothes, and he along with them, became too muddy to be allowed into Menegroth, he would take himself to the baths, and often Túrin would go with him. The rising steam, scented with something sweet and clean, clung to Túrin’s face and made his hair stick uncomfortably to his skin. Beleg, whose hair was always sensibly braided, would sigh and shake his head, his hands resting lightly on his narrow hips. “I prefer to wash in some stream or lake, but needs must, eh Túrin?”

Túrin nodded and tried not to blush. He edged away from Beleg’s admitted fine form, his eyes lowered. He sat on a bench and quickly covered his lap with his hands and said, rather indistinctly, that at least it was warmer here.

When he was sure Beleg’s attention was turned elsewhere, Túrin’s eyes were back on him, observing all he could. There were scars on Beleg’s body, an unimaginably long lifetime’s worth of it, of violence written onto his skin. Túrin wished that he had permission to touch them, if only for a moment. There was one particular one that skimmed down Beleg’s belly, and down to his thigh...

Túrin wondered how it should be if he could follow the path of this scar with his tongue. To have Beleg’s body, so warm and alive, beneath his. He gave a loud sigh, and was glad of a fresh waft of steam that washed over his stiffening body and reddening face.

 

 

* * *

Summer hummed its merry tune in the woods of Doriath, and green ran rampant underneath and overhead. Túrin, exhausted from the morning’s activities, laid under a shade-tree and watched Beleg practice. He watched the smooth line of Beleg’s shoulder and arm tense for a moment, a breath, before he loosed the arrow deep into the target’s heart.

Túrin’s head buzzed with unvoiced longings, with thoughts he had would never dare act upon. Distantly, he was aware that Morwen, his mother and the arbiter of all that was right and wrong in Túrin’s world, would disapprove of this … infatuation he had for Beleg, just as surely as she had of his father’s admitted love for those glittering Noldorin lords for whose wars Húrin had lost his life, and they, Dor-lómin.

Túrin had responsibilities, not only to Morwen, but to his sister, to his people. He sighed, and a wasp came buzzing near his ear. He held perfectly still as it dipped and scuttled up in the summer breeze, until it disappeared. The warm air was like silk against his face. His people, his heritage... Ah, but what chance did Túrin have for marriage and children? Whom could he marry -- whom, for that matter, could Níenor marry? There was no one suitable for them, no one left alive!

In the last years before he had been sent away, Morwen had acknowledged this, insofar as she talked less of continuance of their line and more of their immediate survival. And survival that seemed more and more in jeopardy all of the time.

Túrin had not heard from his mother and his sister for a very long time...

“No good can come of brooding under a tree on such a fine day as this,” Beleg said, his familiar voice cutting through the dark web of Túrin’s thoughts. Túrin looked up to see him there, leaning against Belthronding, his hand lightly stroking the black yew wood.

Túrin felt a curious tightening on the pit of his stomach, a feeling almost of despair. “I can brood anywhere at all,” he said, struggling to keep his tone light. Beleg said nothing, only offering his hand for Túrin to take and raise himself up.

After a moment of silence that was more awkward than any that had come before it, Túrin touched the handle of Belthronding reverently, and said, “I would like to try this.” Túrin’s own bow was much lighter, in both weight and color, and though he was a competent archer, he did not have the feel for the bow as he did for the sword.

Beleg looked thoughtful, and for a moment Túrin thought he might refuse. But instead, he smiled, like a ray of sunlight in a darkened forest. It was impossible to believe that Beleg was more ancient than the woods they were in, and perhaps than the ground they walked on, when he smiled like that. It was too alive, too warm.

He handed Belthronding to Túrin without another word.

At first, Túrin could hardly lift it. He huffed and he puffed, breathing through his nose and gripping it hard until he had dragged it to the small practice field where they worked, and to the starting line. It wobbled in his hand -- or perhaps it was his hand that wobbled -- and his view of the target jumped and was obscured. The string stayed loose and lifeless in his hand, and the arrow slid down slowly to the ground. There was nowhere else for it to go.

Beleg had followed behind him, curious as to what Túrin would do, and now he stepped forward. “May I?” he said, and Túrin nodded, expecting him to take back the bow in the light of his miserable failure, but he did not do so. Instead, he took another step so he was behind Túrin, and began to direct his limbs as to where they ought to go. It was as if Túrin had suddenly become a child -- a rank beginner! -- to be shown in that way.

But as he felt the firm heat of Beleg’s body against his, the way he molded against him, Túrin could not find the words to protest. Beleg took his hands and guided them to where they ought to go. Under his eye, Túrin’s hands were steady, and his stance firm. But still, Beleg murmured in quiet instructions into Turin’s ear, such things as anyone familiar with the bow would know.

He said them up to Túrin’s ear, for that past spring Túrin had shot up past Beleg, the size of his hands and feet promising even more growth ahead.

“Now,” Beleg said, his breath tickling against the nape of Túrin’s neck, “that is how you hold it.”

“Yes,” Túrin said, both his voice and arm steady. “I begin to see.”

Carefully, Beleg moved him through every step of the way, of notching the arrow, of getting the target within sight, off pulling the string firm across his chest. It did not seem so difficult now, though his palms had begun to sweat, and his breath grew short. Beleg did not seem to notice anything unusual about Túrin at all.

He touched Túrin’s hip, to correct his stance again.

“Let it go,” Beleg said, and Túrin did. His arrow flew far and buried itself deep into the target. It was very nearly a bull’s eye.

“You’ve done well,” Beleg said afterward, with another smile, tiny crinkles appearing in the corner of his eyes. Túrin blushed hot and stammered out his thanks. Belthronding was returned to its rightful owner, who took it easily, as if it weighed no more than a feather.

“Perhaps we can do sword practice next,” Túrin said, his cheeks still aflame. There, at least, he had a good chance of beating Beleg.

 

 

 

* * *

After Túrin had washed and settled into his bed, his mind wandered back to that afternoon, and dwelled especially on the memory of Beleg’s hands upon him, the feel of soft calluses on his skin, the way Beleg’s arms had flexed against his, covering him, entirely. The heat of Beleg’s body against his own lit a fire under Túrin’s own skin.

Biting his lip, Túrin slipped his hand under his waistband and took himself into hand.

It was no one’s business but his own if he said Beleg’s name, when he came.

 

II.

He did not like to think of Beleg as person who could be hurt.

Even now, his fingers lingered on the bruises his men had left on Beleg’s skin, the blood darkening the skin above it. It was five years, and a lifetime ago, when he had spent almost every waking hour wondering, wishing, hoping that his beloved friend would say such words that he had now, and remove, finally, the very last obstacle that lay between them.

"If I stayed beside you, love would lead me, not wisdom,” that was what Beleg had said, and Túrin’s heart had begun to race, wild with misplaced hope. Beleg had meant, no doubt, that this love was the dutiful love that existed between two boon companions, sexless and chaste, that nonetheless could make the difference between life and death.

Yes, surely, he had meant...

Beleg had fallen asleep after saying his piece, his eyes closed tight against the yellow lamplight of Túrin’s tent. He still trusts me enough to do that, Túrin thought, moving restlessly in his seat. Though he should not.

But the way Beleg had said it, roughly, as if it tore through him; love, like a wound that would not close, love, that was dangerous, perilous, love, that had nothing to do with wisdom. Love that did not sound chaste at all.

Beleg moved in his sleep, turned on his side. His eyes opened, dark wells of memory, with only so much light as to pull Túrin farther in, until there was nothing left but the dark.

Túrin got to his knees, at the sound of Beleg waking, and bent over him, uncertain as to what to do. They stared at each other, mutely, until Túrin took another breath.

“Beleg,” he said, his voice shaking. He dipped down lower, his hand gripping the bedroll.

Fuck wisdom, he wanted to say, but it was a coarse word, the first he had learned from the outlaws. He did not say it. Instead, he went down a little further still, and pressed his lips against Beleg’s, as gently as he could. There was an audible gasp, whether from Beleg’s lips, or from his own, he had no idea, for Beleg surged forward and pinned him down against the bedroll . Túrin, panting and already hard, looked up to Beleg, whose silver hair spilled over his face, his eyes curiously blank.

Beleg’s open hand was pressed against Túrin’s throat. “What do you want, Túrin?”

Túrin arched his back, wanting to be near to him. “You, I want you. I’ve always -- it was always you.” Beleg let him go, but did not move, otherwise.

“What makes you think that you can have me?”

There was a point of pressure in the back of Túrin’s neck, and it traveled down his back, and curled, snarling, to the tips of his toes before coming back again, and settling in the pit of his stomach. Beleg, he noticed vaguely, was quite naked, on top of him. Only Túrin was clothed, his tunic stuck to his skin with sweat, his breeches painfully close.

“What would make anyone think that? Untouched and untouchable, you are, the world leaves no mark upon you.”

Beleg’s lip was split, and scabbed over already. Túrin wanted to make it bleed again.

“You have learned nothing, then, in your time in Doriath,” Beleg spat out, fury clouding his face, and then sadness, and then nothing at all.

Túrin blinked, trying to understand what Beleg meant by that. Then he shook his head impatiently, and said, “You said you loved me.” He pushed himself up, his lips grazing Beleg’s cheek.

Beleg turned away. “I am very old and I am very foolish.”

“And you never say anything that you do not mean,” Túrin said, kissing Beleg’s cheek, his neck, his ear. He bit at the soft flesh of Beleg’s ear lobe, watched as Beleg shivered and sighed at his touches.

Túrin grew bolder, he ran his hands down the scar that cut from Beleg’s belly to his thigh. After a moment, his tongue followed. Beleg tasted like blood (his blood) and sweat (Túrin’s sweat). Túrin thought wildly that if he could just touch, if he could just taste, if he could just --

He sought out and began to stroke the rigid line of Beleg’s cock, and watched as Beleg writhed on top of him, no longer so controlled, perfection left by the wayside. Finally he stilled, when Túrin’s hand was covered in Beleg’s seed.

Túrin brought it to his mouth and licked at it. Beleg made a noise at the back of his throat and he seemed to crumple a little, as if remembering his hurts.

“Fuck me,” Túrin said, and watched as Beleg raised his head, his eyes dark and unfathomable. It was thing that he understood, at least.

They grappled for a moment, and then longer, until Túrin was not sure if they were fighting or truly, fucking. The clay bowl, full of ointment, he had set beside the bed, broke in their struggles, and then Beleg’s hand was slick against the small of Túrin’s back. Beleg’s fingers crooked inside of Túrin, as he hissed, impatient. He had waited for this for so long.

Beleg was not gentle when he sank into him. It hurt.

And it continued to hurt, until, like something loosing inside of Túrin, pleasure bloomed side by side pain, and then overtook it. Beleg jerked him off, roughly, and Túrin came, crouched and with his face pressed against the bedroll. Beleg came a few moment later, sliding out of Túrin with a murmur, a feeling that did not have a chance to become regret, as Turin pulled him down again, to mold Beleg’s body against his own.

Túrin kissed Beleg again, and tasted the blood on his lips.

That was immortality.

 

* * *

Some time later, Beleg got up and, with a wet rag, and began to clean Túrin up. Túrin protested against the coldness of the rag, and roused, he watched Beleg turned his attention to himself. He did it neatly and efficiently, no wasted movements.

Finally, Túrin broke the resounding silence.“You could have done that to me any time, back h -- back in Doriath. But you didn’t. Why?”

Beleg gave a dark chuckle. “Bed Thingol’s foster-son? It wouldn’t have been worth my life.”

Túrin sat back with a sigh. “Were you afraid that he would ask you for a second Silmaril from Morgoth’s crown?”

“A Silmaril? No. You were only a foster-son, after all.”

Túrin laughed, a strange noise, more of a croak than than anything else. He was not used to laughter, not any more. It was just as well, he had never been the laughing sort.

“Come here,” he said, and Beleg came. Túrin traced the edges of bruises on Beleg’s skin, pressed his lips against the worse of them. Beleg winced, but did not pull away. Instead, he put his arm around Túrin and pulled him closer.

Sleepily, Túrin said, his words getting tangled up in Beleg’s hair, “Stay with me. You can’t leave, not now. Not after this.”

Beleg was silent for a while, and just as Túrin was in the edge of sleep, he shook his head.

*

Túrin woke up, feeling warm and content, and pleasantly sore. The sunlight spilling into the open flap of the tent, lifting and scattering motes of dust into a dance. He got up and stretched, his back protesting. He dressed quickly, and he scratched at his chin and sighed.

Beleg’s supplies, Belthronding, his grey cloak, all of which had been dumped at the foot of his bedroll yesterday, were gone. Outside, a few outlaws were already up -- though they were not, as a group, the kind to appreciate early risings -- and Andróg was bent over the kettle, brewing something hot. He looked up and eyed Túrin with heavy disfavor.

“About time you woke, you’ve been abed almost half the day.” The sun had not yet reached it peak, high above them.

Túrin ignored his petty tone and looked around, expectantly. “Where is Beleg?”

“The prisoner?” Andróg said carelessly. “He left before dawn. And since your instructions were that he should come and go as he liked, he went and we did not stop him.”

For a moment, Túrin was still and quiet. Then he shook his head, a rueful smile on his lips. Andróg, who was expecting something more dramatic, went back to his task.

 

Túrin turned away, and walked to the edge of the camp. He took a deep breath.

“He will come back.”