The Archer's Triangle by Tehta

It was only in the evening, as they rested after the hunt, that Beleg noticed Túrin's usually withdrawn mood. For all his taciturn, solitary ways, the boy had always enjoyed lounging by the campfire and discussing the day's adventures; now he sat silent, avoiding Beleg's eye, and tossed wood into the flames with unnecessary violence.

Beleg decided to track the problem to its source.

"Túrin, look at me."

Túrin looked up. Reflected light made his odd human eyes look almost like Elu's—only without Elu's wisdom, of course. “Yes?” he asked.

"Is something the matter?"

"No." Túrin snapped a branch in half. A surprisingly thick branch: the force this must have required reminded Beleg of Mablung’s youthful attempts to build up his already notable strength. Of course, Túrin's body was now reaching an adult man's capabilities; it seemed absurd, given his age, but then time worked differently for mortals.

"Why not tell me about it? Are we not friends?"

"Yes, but you are an Elf. You would not understand."

"Have you tried talking to your men, then?"

"Yes."

"What did they— Were they helpful?"

"No." Túrin broke another branch before adding, "They are too old."

The two men who had arrived with Túrin were, indeed, afflicted with many fascinating signs of age, such as crumpled skin and an alarming lack of teeth. Human teeth were odd things. Túrin's had fallen out at one point and replaced themselves. Perhaps he was due for another such tooth-molting? It had looked like a painful process.

"Is it your teeth?" Beleg asked.

"My what? No, of course not." Túrin drew up his legs and buried his face in his knees. "I knew you would not understand."

"I might," said Beleg, though skeptical himself. "Try me, Túrin."

"Very well," Túrin mumbled. "I am troubled because... because my body often feels beyond my control."

This sounded very possible. Lately, Túrin had been tripping and dropping things more frequently than usual. "Well, you have been growing quite rapidly. It is only to be expected that you might be a bit ungainly, until you get used to the new length of your limbs. Anyway, this happens to us Elves, too. I recall how—"

"I am not ungainly, and anyway that has nothing to do with it. Oh, I knew it was hopeless."

"No, it is my fault: I keep jumping to conclusions. But please, do try to explain. And if I do fail to grasp your meaning, if what troubles you truly is beyond the reach of an Elven mind, then you can take it to Melian, who is a Maia—and your adoptive mother, besides."

"No!" Túrin looked up, eyes flashing with flame and panic. "I couldn't! Not to her!"

That sounded as if he suspected that Melian would understand... and that he was ashamed of whatever the problem was. "Then tell me, at least."

“Fine.” Túrin sat back a bit, so that his face was further from the fire, slightly veiled in shadow. "I feel desires of the flesh," he said savagely. "They invade my dreams at night, and during the day I find myself... Well, I regret that it is winter, and everyone is wearing so much clothing. So I imagine people with their clothes off all the time, until I am unable to concentrate on anything else. My men tell me to be patient, that this will pass when I am older, but I can barely sleep or follow conversations and I think I am going mad. There. Can you understand that?" He glared at Beleg.

"Yes, of course I can. We Elves feel lust too, you know."

"Right. For your one true love. My men explained it to me."

"Well," said Beleg slowly, "I think you should take my word over theirs, seeing that I am an Elf, and they are not. And I tell you that I have felt lust, even though I do not have a true love." Speaking these words to Túrin filled him with anxiety, the way lying usually did.

Túrin scrutinized him, as if he had detected a flicker of doubt. "Weren't you in love with Lúthien, then?"

"Sorry?"

"People say that you do everything for hopeless love of Lúthien. Mablung, too, and Daeron."

"Well, Daeron does, obviously, but I do not. As for Mablung... I do not think so. He would have told me, surely. Because he and I... Well, she is very beautiful, of course, and yes, desirable to many, and the two of us used to discuss such things often, back when we were younger. I do admit that what you have described sounds much worse than what either of us experienced, but then you Men feel other things more, too, such as pain: this must be the same sort of thing. At any rate, I do understand the general principle.”

"So, what you are saying is that you used to feel lust, before you got so old. Just like my men." Túrin scowled. "I suppose you think I should be patient, too."

"Patience would help, of course, but I do still remember that all those feelings can be rather... distracting. Too distracting to be pushed away by an effort of will." They still were, sometimes, especially when a starlit, moonless night reminded Beleg of those earlier days, but he did not think Túrin needed to hear that.

"So how did you cope? Men my age are apparently allowed to chase after women, but you Elves do not seem to do much of that."

"We do, in our own way. Why do you think most people get married so early?"

"But I cannot do that! Not here: whom would I marry? Anyway, what about those who get married late, or not at all—like you?"

"Ah. Well, we talk to our friends, and..." It felt strange to be explaining something Beleg had always found so self-evident. But then, how could Túrin have learned of these things? Not from his peers—he had none—and not from Elu: Beleg suspected his King knew even less about human maturation than he himself did. "Sometimes, people do more than talk. They... explore these feelings with unwed companions of a similar age who feel likewise, as one might explore a new land. The custom started when we woke, and needed to explore both our bodies and our new home, and there is no shame in it: on the contrary, it strengthens friendships.” Beleg smiled to himself.

"I have no companions of a similar age." Túrin's eyes held a challenge. "I spend most of my time with my elders, such as you."

"There are ways to change that. Elves your own age are children, of course, but perhaps you could befriend a few of those novice hunters who often go on long trips together. They should welcome someone of your skill." And your beauty, Beleg added to himself. Man or not, Túrin was as fair as any.

Túrin frowned, thoughtful. "Saeros asked me to go hunting with him."

"Well, then. You should go."

"Perhaps I will."

Túrin picked up his broken branches, and tossed them, one by one, into the heart of the flames, without much force, but with perfect aim; and Beleg felt that strange dishonest unease once more. He looked away from Túrin and up into the sky, into the bright star-cluster of the Archer's Triangle, and remembered that these matters were not quite as simple as he had implied.

The windows of the hunting lodge, glowing softly against the darkness of the forest, guided Mablung through the last few minutes of his solitary patrol. The dim light suggested that the hunters were all asleep: that the lamps had been put out, leaving only the hearth. Sure enough, when Mablung reached the door, he heard no voices within.

The only voice came from up above. "Welcome back," said Beleg from the roof. On this moonless night, he was all but invisible to the eye. "Any news?"

Mablung hesitated only a moment before leaning his spear against the woodpile and clambering up to join him. "Nothing unexpected. Saw some stags fighting by the forest's edge, but no sign of foul creatures. How was your hunt?"

"It went well enough."

Mablung stretched out comfortably at Beleg's right. "Then why are you out here watching the constellations, instead of resting inside?"

"I am counting stars. Did you know that Túrin says he can see only two in the Archer's Triangle?"

"No, but I am not surprised. Remember, Beren said most mortals could see only one." Mablung looked up at the sky. On a dark but cloudless night like this one, he could count a respectable four. Beleg claimed to see seven, a number nobody else could verify; Mablung had thought him a braggart at first, before learning more of his open, honest heart.

"Mortals are so odd," said Beleg quietly. "So much like us, yet so unlike."

"What has Túrin done now?"

"Oh, he..." Beleg shifted a little. "He claims to have awakened to desire. The way he describes it, it sounds rather intense for someone so young... at least, for someone who does not know what desire's fulfillment might feel like."

His voice sounded strange: detached and dreamlike. It fell to Mablung to be more practical. "Perhaps he does know. He is impulsive, and has spent much time walking the woods with Nellas, perhaps they—"

"Surely not!" Beleg sat up on one elbow. "No, that is quite impossible: he did not even believe our kind could experience such emotions."

Mablung met his animated gaze. "And did you correct his misconception?"

"I told him to seek out his peers. Who knows, perhaps this might help him build a new friendship? Túrin needs more friends."

To Mablung's mind, Túrin certainly did need friends other than Beleg himself: but did he deserve them? Mablung exhaled, and decided not to voice this doubt, saying instead, "You think everyone needs more friends."

"Well, friendship is a fine thing."

"I do not dispute that. But some of us are satisfied with the friends we already have."

Beleg's response was to smile and lay a hand on Mablung's shoulder.

Chapter End Notes

0. Thanks to Eveiya for the beta!
1. This story started out as a speed-written exercise, eight years ago. When I reread it, I decided that it amused me so much that it would be a shame not to polish it for posting.
2. It's canonical that Túrin caused weird love triangles wherever he went.

"...and then, there was a fall-off in the production of walnut oil, which caused an increase in the consumption of other oils, such as linseed, and so a general oil shortage. And of course oils are a vitally important substance, used for such diverse purposes as cooking, hair care, weapon-care..."

The brief mention of weapons was the first remotely interesting thing Saeros had said all day. Why had Túrin ever agreed to this hunting trip? He supposed Saeros was attractive enough, in body, but then so was pretty much everyone else in Doriath, apart from Túrin's own men. At any rate, no matter what Beleg had supposed, Saeros did not seem in any way inclined to share his passably attractive body with Túrin. Instead he kept yammering on as if he were not walking through Melian's forest, but sitting at a tedious court meeting, so that Túrin could not even enjoy the beauty of nature in peace.

"...and such disastrous consequences should be avoided in the future, and of course the best way to do this would be to place some sensible person in charge of the walnut harvest. I am sure you agree: do you not?"

Surprised to be included in the monologue, and grateful that it seemed to be coming to an end, Túrin nodded. "Yes. That sounds like a fine idea."

"I am glad you think so, as I am hoping to mention the matter to the King—your foster-father—very soon. I have even given some thought to suitable candidates, and it has occurred to me that I have a young cousin who would do a splendid job. She has spent several years living in a rather large walnut tree and—"

"Another fine idea!" said Túrin, feeling the threat of another lengthy speech. "Truly, with ideas like that, I am not surprised that you have been named as one of the King's advisors."

"Thank you." Saeros accepted this cursory homage with a condescending smile. "And you are a Man of, um, intelligence yourself. I am most happy to have found your friendship."

This was more like it. Since the two of them were clearly not friends—acquaintances at best—'friendship' had to be a code word of some sort for the type of activities Beleg had described.

"Should we make camp soon?" Túrin asked.

"Oh, is the night approaching?" Saeros glanced around the treetops, as if looking for the sun.

"A few more hours yet. But I thought we could head east for a bit, until we hit that stream we crossed earlier. We would have fresh water there, and perhaps a clear spot for a fire. Anyway, judging by the tracks we have seen today, this area is free of large predators, and—"

"Yes, yes, that sounds perfect. Lead on."

Túrin looked over at Saeros, surprised by this unquestioning acceptance. His usual hunting companions tended to scrutinize all his proposals, and then to explain to him, with differing degrees of tact, what his Mortal senses and mind had missed. But then they were hunters, so it made sense that they would get obsessive about campsites, the way Saeros did about—what was it?—walnut production.

"While we walk," said Saeros, "tell me: have you any thoughts on our jewel trade with the Dwarves?"

Not just walnut production, apparently. "No."

"Good. I mean, why should you? You Men do not seem to care for fine jewels. However, you might care more if I explain how the poor decisions made by some of those responsible for it might negatively affect the sword-trade. You see, there is a long-standing agreement..."

Túrin did care a little, but not enough to pay attention to all those excessive words. He would have to ask Beleg to explain the situation to him in a sentence or less. Right after he asked him how one should respond to a codeword like 'friendship', and how to manage this sort of 'hunting trip' in general. Oh, why couldn't Beleg be here instead of Saeros? He was a much better companion, and far more than passably attractive, besides.

That thought was certainly deserving of further consideration. But for now, Saeros was here, and Beleg was not, so Túrin drove the idea from his mind as he led the way towards camp.

The usual business of setting up camp took as long as usual; indeed, longer, since Saeros' idea of appropriate camping behaviour was to stand around chattering about completely insignificant matters until given something to do, and then to talk on while doing it. But at least he seemed to accept Túrin's decision to arrange their sleeping-places right next to each other, saying only, "wouldn't that little heap over there make a more comfortable pillow?"

Túrin looked. "You mean that anthill? Not for me, but then I suppose you Elves are more hardy, and perhaps—"

"There is no need to resort to sarcasm." Saeros sounded quite hurt. "So maybe I missed the anthill, but some of us cannot afford to play around in the woods all day."

"Play around?" It was Túrin's turn to feel stung. "To protect the woods, you mean."

"Isn't that the Queen's job?"

"She protects Doriath from intruders, true, but still there is Orc-killing to be done just beyond the Girdle. Anyway, intruders are not the only danger: there are also predators, disease, forest fires... the hunters and marchwardens together manage the wood's resources." Túrin was proud of himself for overcoming his rising annoyance, and crafting an explanation sure to appeal to his companion: throughout his speeches, Saeros had seemed very interested in resources.

"All right, I suppose the hunters do harvest some of our necessities." Saeros waved a hand in a rather dismissive manner. "But let us not forget that woods other than ours seem to 'manage' themselves well enough. No, this whole forestry business feels to me like more of an excuse to sit around under trees. Not that I truly see the appeal, myself." He glanced around at the nearby trees with contempt, as if they were unwelcome and slovenly intruders.

What sort of an Elf was he, anyway? "Why are you here, then, if you disdain and dislike the woods so?"

"Why, to speak to you, of course." Saeros smiled faintly. "I should have thought what I said today would have made it clear, but if you require it, I can be plainer: I think a closer... acquaintance might benefit us both."

Shocked out of his annoyance by this blatant declaration, Túrin studied Saeros closely: his smile seemed a little forced—but given the embarrassing situation, this made some sense. What was more confusing was Saeros' claim that his speeches had been in any way suggestive. Or was he referring to his lecture on oil, which—so Túrin had heard—had certain intimate uses?

But never mind; the details were not important. Túrin tried to look as knowing as possible. "I daresay you are right."

"Of course I am. After all, these rough types you normally run around with cannot be of much use to you. Oh, I know the King is fond of his Orc-killing heroes, after a fashion, but their influence is clearly waning now that we have seen what heroism leads to. I do not mean just the recent defeats," he added quickly, "but also the King's personal situation. In particular, Lúthien's departure, which, although it is tied to what some might term a victory for the heroic approach to life, has hurt our rulers deeply, to the point that they look for... Well, I think the incident might have made them more willing to adopt you. Which is a good thing, in its way, naturally."

It amazed Túrin that someone could be simultaneously so boring and so offensive; he found himself stifling both a yawn and an urge to hit Saeros over the head with a piece of firewood for speaking so insultingly of his friends, of the King, of himself, and even the heroic ethos he held dear. He had to shut Saeros up: a few more words, and Túrin would be incapable of deepening their acquaintance on any level.

"Never mind the politics," he said. "I hope you will not mind me speaking plainly, as you have done: how do we begin?"

Saeros sent him a rather subtle glance. "What do you mean?"

"Well, since I have spent most of my time here hunting with full-grown warriors, I do not know much about these... friendship rituals of the younger Elves."

"Rituals?" Saeros' subtlety dissolved into confusion. "I know nothing of any rituals."

"Customs, then." Túrin tried to recall what Beleg had said. Shared fantasies of Lúthien had definitely been involved. "Are there any maidens you find particularly attractive?"

"What? I... I am too young for that sort of thing. At least, to my mind—I wish to be fully established in my career before I marry."

"Ah. Good." As a justification for groping one’s companions out in the woods, it sounded more prosaic than Beleg's tales of strengthening the bonds of friendship, but it would do. "What do we do then, compare techniques?"

"Techniques?"

"Yes, personal techniques." Túrin laid his hand on Saeros' shoulder and looked into his eyes with what he hoped was the right sort of intensity.

"Are you talking about swordplay? Because I do not—"

Túrin moved his hand to Saeros' hip.

"Ah Eru!" Saeros leapt backwards, stumbled on a root, and recovered a few paces away, both hands held out in front of his body. "Get away from me!" His panicked tone made it clear he was not merely suggesting they wait until after dinner.

"What is the problem?" Túrin asked. "Did you want to talk more, beforehand? Because I must confess, talking is not really my—"

"Talk... beforehand? No! You cannot really believe I would ever... Ah, Eru." Saeros put one hand to his lips, as if nauseated.

"What is your problem?" Túrin's voice, which had been holding steadily low for months now, squeaked on the final word. "First you make all those suggestive comments, about oil and a closer acquaintance, and now you act like I'm offering you rotten meat!"

"I was speaking of politics, idiot. And how should I act when you insult me so, you... you dumb, barbaric, mortal beast? I am one of the Firstborn—"

"You are a pathetic excuse for an Elf who cannot tell his ass from an anthill. I have been patient as a rock, listening to your endless blathering, simply because..." Recalling his reasons, and viewing Saeros' now hateful form, Túrin felt rather sickened himself. "Out of courtesy, which you so clearly lack. I have been trying to adapt to your customs, as Beleg advised me—"

"Ah, Beleg, of course. Beleg Why-Not-Go-Hunting-With-Beren Strongbow. I should have known he would be the one to suggest this perversion, with his sick, Mortal-loving mind. Well, most of us are not so open to bestiality!"

Túrin could think of only one response: stepping forward, he punched Saeros in the face, and watched him stumble back to sit on the ground, holding his bleeding nose as he gazed up with a mixture of fear and disgust.

"The King will hear of this," he said at last.

"Good," said Túrin. "Of course, when he asks me why I struck you, I will have to tell him what you said about Elves who dally with Men. I suspect he might consider this a topic of personal interest."

Saeros understood the threat at once: his eyes darkened.

"And now," Túrin continued, "I think I will leave you to get in touch with your tree-loving Elven roots."

He gathered his gear, keeping an eye on his newfound enemy, and slipped off into the forest. Its blissful silence was balm for his hurt pride, and even his disappointment. The northern lodge was only a day away; surely Beleg would be there still, and interested in hearing how his advice had turned out?

Beleg had just begun re-fletching the last of his recovered arrows when the birdsong coming from the tree at his back ceased. Someone was approaching the clearing. The ever-present sound of windblown branches had been joined by more regular noises: footsteps in the undergrowth, the muted clink of metal, the rustle of leaves as they resettled in the wake of a moving creature. Several of the hunters Beleg knew were as loud as this, but only one walked with such impatience. Beleg bent over his work and smiled to himself as he awaited the inevitable abrupt greeting.

"Beleg!"

"Greetings, Túrin." Beleg smoothed the flight and laid the finished arrow aside before looking up. "Spending the night at the lodge, are you?"

"I suppose so."

Beleg was not surprised: courtiers like Saeros, used to dwelling in caves, tended to prefer lodges to camping under the open sky. Still, there were complications. "But what about privacy? You know, Túrin, I can get out of your way easily enough, but I know of five or six other people staying here tonight. Perhaps I could try to organize a nighttime exercise? Maybe a contest, play on their competitive instincts..."

"Oh, do not bother."

The relief this statement brought Beleg caught him off guard. "What do you mean?" he asked, now noticing the tension in Túrin's broad shoulders, in the set of his lips. "Have you lost interest in Saeros' advances?"

Túrin smiled as if at a private jest. "I suppose one could say that."

"And what else could one say?"

"Well, for one..." Túrin took off his pack and dropped it on the ground, then crouched down beside it; beside Beleg. "One could say you gave me some bad advice." His closeness, and the uncertainty in his eyes, softened the blunt words.

"Because I suggested that you try someone so..." Beleg wanted to say 'ill-favoured,' perhaps even 'inferior to yourself,' since this inequality had struck him when he had imagined the two of them together. He settled on the more neutral, "Someone you do not find physically appealing?"

"No, because you suggested the whole idea, without considering that not all Elves are as accepting of Men as yourself."

"You are right. I did not think." Beleg felt ashamed. How could he have forgotten all the fuss some people had made over the whole Beren business? "In my defence, this has not been a problem—has it?—since the King adopted you—and anyway Saeros did ask you."

"I rather suspect he asked me precisely because the King has adopted me." Túrin winced, but before Beleg could offer comfort, he continued, "He wanted to talk *politics*."

"Ah." Beleg winced back. "My sympathies. But, then... He clearly wants to befriend you. Perhaps, in time—"

"No." Túrin's fist tightened around the straps of his pack. "He called it bestiality."

Such an insult would mean a great deal to one so quick to take offence and who, moreover, was just the sort to spend his journey to the lodge brooding. Though Beleg was of a different temper, he felt his anger stirring to meet Túrin's. But that would do neither of them much good; he concentrated on speaking in a soothing tone.

"He probably picked that up from his cousin Daeron, who used to say it about Beren. Still, I am surprised to hear anyone say it now that Beren has demonstrated so clearly the worth of Men. No doubt Saeros speaks out of a sense of family—"

"Saeros said you went hunting with Beren."

"Yes, I did. You know that: you must remember my tale of the Hunt of the Wolf?" The child Túrin had enjoyed that story greatly; perhaps more hunt-talk would distract him now. "I think it prompted you to start asking hunters to cut open the stomachs of their kills. I seem to recall that you said deer had the most intere—"

"Is that what Saeros meant, then, the Hunt of the Wolf? You did not... go hunting privately, as well?"

"No, he preferred—" Beleg noticed Túrin's raised eyebrows. "Wait. Was that supposed to be a suggestive question?"

"Maybe." Túrin lowered his brows. "You seem rather shocked by the idea."

"I am, a bit. You see, that would have been wrong. He was Lúthien's."

"Lúthien's?" Anger returned to Túrin's voice. "Her pet human, you mean? I thought you said— You Elves are all the same." He clutched his pack as if preparing to rise, and glared at Beleg: the pain Saeros' words had caused him was right there in his eyes.

"No, we are not." Beleg grabbed Túrin's elbows, to keep him in place. "I do not feel as Saeros did, I promise. All I meant is that, by the time I met Beren, he and Lúthien belonged to each other; loved each other in a way at least as strong as any formal marriage bond."

"The King did not believe so."

"He did not want to believe it. Not because he thought it would be bestiality—it would be strange for him to object to mixed unions on principle—but because he did not want to lose his daughter. He respects Men, as do I, and as does almost everyone else."

Túrin did not look convinced.

"Look, Túrin," said Beleg. "Has anyone other than Saeros ever been so rude to you?"

"No, I admit I have not heard many insults. But I have felt... I cannot explain it. Few here are as welcoming as you."

Beleg smiled. "Well, you know what they say. One true shot is worth a hundred near misses; so it is with friends. Of whom you have several, even apart from—"

"You should come hunting with me." This time, Túrin's eyebrows were not doing anything suggestive: they were drawn over eyes that were staring at Beleg with an alarming intensity that made his meaning quite clear.

A joke. Beleg needed a joke, something to diffuse the situation. Of course, many would be amused by the idea of someone of his age and dignity sporting with a youth, but to Beleg himself the image felt too real, too plausible, to laugh at. He focused on not leaning forward, and said, "I am too old."

"You do not seem so old to me." Túrin raised his hands and clasped Beleg's elbows, so that their arms were locked together. "Beleg, I do not know what to say, or do, here. I would try to... to seduce you, only... Well, that is the issue, isn't it? I have no idea how seduction works. So I appeal to you as a friend: please, at least tell me—show me—how I should proceed with others."

Put like that, it seemed like such a simple and reasonable request, but the way it made Beleg's blood pound in his ears, nearly drowning out thought, suggested that it had the potential to get complicated. However, Beleg reasoned, noticing the problem was a good sign: it meant that he was still rational. He decided to go with his instincts.

"All right," he said.

Túrin grinned—a surprise, for he rarely smiled. "Tomorrow?"

Beleg nodded, and wondered whether Mablung would be among those who might laugh.

Beleg pushed his way through the wet branches, careful to keep them from whipping back into Túrin's face: though the boy's reflexes were generally good, he seemed to have more than his share of bad luck where errant branches were concerned. Errant branches, and other unpleasant things, such as snapping bowstrings and prejudiced courtiers. He deserved far better, of course, which is why Beleg was determined to do things properly: to give Túrin the experience he had asked for.

"The sun is setting." Túrin's voice broke the slightly uncomfortable, if friendly, silence. "Is it much further?"

"No. If you listen carefully, you should already be able to hear the waterfall."

"I can’t hear any such thing."

Right. Beleg had forgotten that human hearing was almost as bad as human eyesight. One might expect them to compensate by developing a better sense of smell or taste, but their cooking skills suggested otherwise. As for touch, however... they were certainly sensitive to pain.

And almost certainly sensitive to pleasure.

"Beleg?"

Beleg tore himself away from his anthropological musings. "Yes?"

"So, how far is this alleged waterfall?"

"Well... Not far, but it might take us another hour to reach it. As you can see, the path is in poor condition these days."

"Oh, we're on a path, are we?"

Túrin’s question, though tinged with youthful sarcasm, was not unreasonable: the once familiar trail seemed almost entirely overgrown. Beleg had known that none of this season's active hunters were of the right age for youthful frivolity, but some of the firs they had to sidestep looked to be well into their second century. Had it really been that long?

“You have a point,” said Beleg. "But please, trust me. Even if the path is gone, I remember it well. Give it one more hour."

In the end it took only about half that time, for the firs petered out as they drew near the pool—which looked exactly as it did in Beleg’s memory, churning and silvery at the waterfall end, calm and blue at the other. True, the trees surrounding it were a bit taller than he remembered, but the moss and ferns lining the shore seemed as comfortable as ever.

Túrin shrugged off his pack. "Nice place. Peaceful. Now what?"

"Why don't you go shoot some fish or something while I set up camp?"

"Fish?" Túrin stared. "But you promised we would... and I am not even hungry."

"I am sure you will be later, though."

Túrin's eyes widened. "Oh, right." He strung his bow and departed without further argument.

Beleg, who had meant nothing by his comment but the obvious—they had been walking for hours—felt his face burn. He looked up to where the stars were starting to appear. Things had been simpler in the old days, back when the trees covered less of the sky. Probably because nobody had looked to him as an expert at something that, unlike tracking, or healing, or archery, seemed so far beyond his control. How he missed a steady friend's guidance—but that thought felt disloyal while Túrin fished nearby, so Beleg suppressed it, found the old fire-ring, and began clearing a safe space around it. The activity made him feel as if he were reliving a favourite recurring dream.

He was coaxing the flames to full life when Túrin reappeared.

"I caught eight. In case we get really hungry. What next?"

"We should probably clean them."

"Did so already."

This efficiency, too, was part of the old dream. Beleg smiled to himself. His agitation felt manageable now, like a strong but familiar river current. He stood up, and reached for the ties of his tunic.

"All right, then. Put your catch down, and we’ll bathe."

Beleg shed his clothes and waded into the pool until he was chest-deep in the water, the wet weight of his dampened braid pulling on the back of his head. Back on the bank, Túrin stood shirtless, back turned modestly towards the water as his hands worked to undo his belt-clasp. He seemed to have grown, both in height and in breadth, since the last time Beleg had looked, just last month at sword-practice. Even his legs, revealed as he stepped out of his breeches, were those of an adult man in good training. Was he as strong as this unboyish build suggested?

Beleg lifted his feet off the pool’s rocky bottom, stretched out his arms, and tread water. Small, chilly waves lapped at his neck as Túrin turned around, and there it was, the reason for Túrin’s modesty: more than a hand-span in length and pointing up at the sky as if it truly meant to reach it. Men were very mortal, of course, and had to breed quickly, so, it made sense that they would be quick to excitement. Still, foolishly, Beleg stared. He had never felt so wanted. He ducked his head, cooling his skin.

When he looked back up, Túrin was approaching the bank. Their eyes met; Beleg was not aware of any exchange of thoughts, but some form of communication seemed to take place, as speech became unnecessary. The distance between them dwindled. Waist-deep in the pool, they drew together: outstretched arms first, then bodies, then mouths. They pressed together blindly, skin slippery with water, the awkward variations in pressure exciting and frustrating all at once. Then, Beleg remembered he was the expert here. He freed one hand and placed it under Túrin's jaw, to guide him in the kiss, and slid the other hand down his stomach, to test whether his earlier estimates had been correct.

When he closed his fingers around Túrin’s member, Túrin’s fingers dug into his shoulder and his hips thrust forward to meet Beleg’s motion. His head thrown back, his eyes closed, he looked perfectly unselfconscious and beautiful in his abandon. It had been so long—too long—since Beleg had been so close to anyone in such a state; but of course it did not last. Soon, Túrin cried out, and stumbled forward, his head coming to rest against Beleg’s shoulder. Beleg buried his face in his dark hair and moved the hand onto himself. He did not take long, either.

Afterwards, they separated, and sank down into the water.

Túrin said, "Good idea, getting into this pool."

"Right. No mess."

"I meant rather that it makes things simple. I thought we would have to talk. You know, discuss a maiden, or something. Isn’t that what you said before?”

“I must admit there usually is more talking involved. Perhaps we know each other well enough to forego it?” No, that did not sound right. Beleg had known all his other companions equally well. “Perhaps it is more that you are hardly one for talking, and we had already reached an agreement.”

“So, with someone else, I might need to talk.”

“Yes.” Beleg felt a strange twinge. It took him a moment to recognize it as jealousy. “But if a discussion of personal fantasies does not come up naturally, I would suggest being rather straightforward.”

“You mean I should just ask people whether they think touching a Man constitutes bestiality?”

Beleg considered this. “I suppose such a question would help you establish general interest, yes. But there is more to talking than that: you might also want to find out what sort of activities the other person is willing, or eager, to participate in.”

“That makes sense.” Túrin’s gaze, always piercing, seemed to intensify. “So, what are you eager to do?”

“At the moment, I think I need to wait a few minutes.”

Túrin stretched and turned to watch the waterfall. “Talking about your preferred activities might help pass the time.”

“Perhaps. But I… I suppose I find it easier to talk about such things while I feel excited about them.”

“Really?” Túrin sounded surprised. “In that case, I suggest we have some food while you recover.”

“Good idea.”

They stepped out of the water, and the uncomfortable situation, and returned to the fire. It seemed larger and brighter than Beleg remembered, as if someone had piled on extra branches. He glanced around.

“Did you move the fish?” asked Túrin. “I am pretty sure I left them right here.”

“You did.” There it was, a faint trail leading away from the firepit.

“Where did they go, then? I can’t see any tracks. Were they stolen by a bird?”

Beleg sniffed the air. “A bird would not have cooked them.” His eyes traced the nearly invisible tracks past Túrin, past the flames, and towards the dark outline of a nearby tree. A shadowy shape stepped away from the trunk and into the firelight, and resolved itself into Mablung.

“I doubt the fish are done yet,” he said, “but if you want to check, they’re under that flat rock at the edge of the ashes.”

Fish tended to bake fast. So, he could not have been there very long, could he? Beleg glanced around, looking for his clothes, and picked up his breeches.

“How did you get here?” asked Túrin, his resentment all too obvious. “The path looked as if nobody used it anymore.”

“I took the river trail. I come here quite often; I have always liked this place.” Mablung’s tone had an odd edge to it. “You know, Beleg, there is no need to get dressed on my account.”

“I know.” Beleg attempted a conciliatory smile. “But, well, sparks.”

“Right. Well, go on, then: I will dig out the fish.”

Mablung ate slowly, each dry morsel a reminder that he had, for the first time in centuries, overcooked a fish. Another man’s catch, even; shameful. But then, when he had approached the lake, he had hardly expected to see... It had been so long since such sport had played any role in his life, or even in his dreams, that the discarded clothes had suggested to him merely a swim to the cavern behind the waterfall, nothing more.

He had been aware of the change, of course—aware that he was growing older, and more composed, and hopefully wiser—but he had neither doubted nor regretted it, until now; until this realization that he might, on the long journey towards serenity, have far outpaced his friend.

Could it be true? Mablung glanced over to his left.

Well, Beleg certainly did look untouched by time. But perhaps this was a delusion, an effect of the sort of long-term familiarity that prevents a man from seeing that the sapling he once planted is now a mature tree, overshadowing his hut? No, surely not. Beleg still was all he had been at Cuiviénen, with his idealism, his strength, and his warmth.

Deplorably, this warmth—and, indeed, most of his attention—was currently directed towards an object of dubious worth, over on his other side. When Mablung grudgingly followed Beleg’s gaze, he found Túrin staring right back at him. The Man’s dark glare did not waver; he gnawed on his own fish without looking, bite by careless bite.

The effect was disconcertingly barbaric. Mablung went back to watching Beleg watch Túrin for the remainder of their odd, silent meal.

“So, Beleg…” Túrin tossed the bony remains of his fish into the heart of the fire, making it sputter unattractively. “I expect you want to check the perimeter. I will go with you.”

Not again! Mablung would not allow— No, he had no right to prevent Beleg from doing as he pleased. He merely needed to speak to him first, and find out exactly what it was that pleased him here.

“What a coincidence,” he said. “I was about to suggest the exact same thing.”

Beleg looked bemused. “You were about to suggest doing the check yourself? Or together with Túrin?”

Well, why not? Beleg’s voice had sounded rather strained. He could probably do with a break from Túrin’s company.

“Together with Túrin, by all means,” said Mablung.

Túrin resumed his glaring, but only briefly. “Fine,” he said, after a moment.

And so they set off, Mablung leading. For a while, they walked in silence—or, at least, without speaking: Túrin’s footfalls were unmissable, sometimes reaching the volume of an acorn falling on moss. Mablung listened to them, and to the sounds of the forest, and considered what, if anything, he might be able to achieve during this excursion. He could not well speak as he wished, and say, “stay away from him”. Túrin would never listen; moreover, it would be extremely rude, and disrespectful of Beleg’s own apparent desires.

In the end, it was Túrin who spoke first, when the firelight was only a faint glow in the distance.

“Do you visit this area frequently, then?”

“Yes. At least once every year or two.”

“And do you usually come alone?”

Túrin’s voice, pitched low, was little more than a growl. He had never been one for courteous small-talk: what, then, was the purpose of these questions? Well, they seemed harmless enough.

“Alone,” said Mablung,  “or with a close friend or two.”

“I see.” Túrin’s voice dropped further. “To… deepen the friendships, I suppose?”

And what was that supposed to mean? Mablung’s close friendships were ancient, and of sufficient depth for his needs. Or were they? In the distance behind them, Beleg’s voice rang out, raised in song: an ancient tune about hunting by starlight.

Mablung paused.

To his credit, Túrin did not walk into him, the way most recruits tended to. He stepped around him instead, and headed off to the right, circling the fire in the direction of the pool, as if his suggestion of a perimeter check had been quite serious. Perhaps Mablung had misjudged his behaviour entirely; perhaps even that dark glare had been nothing more than a reaction to the ruined, overcooked fish. After all, he had always found people much harder to read than animal tracks.

They were halfway to the water when Túrin spoke again.

“So, then, Mablung,” he began, more pleasantly this time. “Do you believe that touching a Man constitutes bestiality?”

“Touching a Man?” What on Arda? Mablung had clearly been right to discount smalltalk. “As in, when a Creature of Morgoth—”

“No! As in, when one of you— Well, as in Beren and Lúthien.”

Understanding dawned, followed by shock. Mablung had never considered the physical aspects of Lúthien’s marriage; nor did he want to consider them now. He was about to ask about its relevance, when he realized that he had, so very recently, witnessed a far less abstract example of Man-touching.

“No,” he felt compelled to say quickly, for Beleg’s sake. “Of course not.”

“All right.” Túrin considered this for a beat or two. “So, what kind of activities do you yourself enjoy?”

“Activities?” Were they back to small-talk now, the worrisome topic dismissed? “Hunting, as you know, and Orc-slaying. And then, sometimes I like to try my hand at—”

“I meant activities you might enjoy with others. With peers—well, with close friends.”

“One can certainly hunt with friends, and as for Orc-slaying, it is actually preferable—”

“I spoke,” said Túrin, “of physical activ— That is, of intimate— Oh, I cannot find the right, polite words. I mean... Beren-Lúthien stuff. You know.”

Mablung did know, but… “That is a rather personal question.”

“Yes.”

There was a certain expectant quality to the ensuing silence.

“When I said it was ‘personal’”, said Mablung at last, “I meant that I have no wish to discuss the subject.”

“Why not?” Túrin stopped, and turned around to face him. “I mean, you did suggest that I come with you, and— Curse it, Beleg made it all sound so easy!”

That certainly seemed plausible, given what a supportive and generally ideal companion Beleg was, and yet… “What did Beleg tell you, exactly?”

“He told me to ask people questions about their favourite Beren-Lúthien-type activities. As a preliminary to participating in those activities, I mean.”

“And now you are asking me? Because you—” Apparently, Mablung could not have misread the situation more if he had tried. Except, perhaps… While Túrin seemed strange to him, surely Beleg was just as familiar, and almost as readable, as these woods; and there was no denying the warmth he had directed at the Man. “But look, what about Beleg?”

“What about him?”

“Will he not mind?”

“No!” Túrin shook his head, impatient. “I just told you: Beleg himself advised me to do this. He said it was normal behaviour.”

“He did?” Mablung stepped back, shaken—but not truly skeptical: whatever his other qualities, Túrin was no liar. Still, such purposeful, utilitarian advice sounded nothing like the Beleg he knew, and Túrin’s awkward behaviour did not resemble the easy, natural way they had once gone about similar matters.

But then, had the scene in the pool not been at least as much of a shock? Mablung had to wonder: did he truly know Beleg, at all? Even if they had once been close… He had worried about leaving his friend behind, but perhaps he was the one who had been outpaced; perhaps his so-called serenity was just a cover for stagnation.

“Well, then?” Túrin’s eyes held a challenge. “What do you say?”

No question, being outpaced went against Mablung’s nature. And whatever the situation was, here—What was Beleg about? Had he recommended Mablung personally? Was that flattering, or disturbing?—throwing himself into the fray might be the best way to understand it.

Besides, the Man was far from hideous, in spite of his boorish ways.

“Very well,” said Mablung. “If Beleg thinks this is normal.”

A smile flickered across Túrin’s face, like a rabbit making a hasty run between burrows. “The pool, then?” he asked. “It is a very practical location, I thought.”

He moved towards it, pulling off his shirt as he walked.

Mablung looked past him, at the water, at the glittering reflections of stars. He, too, had always enjoyed making use of such places. He undressed efficiently—faster than Túrin, he noticed—and dove into the pool, at the one spot where he knew it to be deep enough.

The water swept over his skin, a pleasant, cooling shock. He swam further in, and opened his eyes to find darkness all around him, in spite of the starlight. The last time he had bathed here, on a sunny summer’s day, bright splotches had played over the rocks. Now, the memory of that clear, peaceful moment felt unreal in the gloom. Mablung was reminded rather of earlier times, and even of other, more ancient lakes. He had felt anything but serene, back there; Túrin’s youthful plight suddenly seemed worthy of every sympathy.

He surfaced to find the boy standing next to him, looking even younger than he had expected: grimly earnest, and unsure to the point of confusion. What could one say to an expression like that without sounding condescending? And without admitting to one’s own uncertainty? Nothing of note, surely, so Mablung said only, “Come on, then,” and launched himself back into the cool, star-studded water, to dive under the waterfall.

The cave beyond seemed just as dark as he remembered, but less convenient, with its sloping walls and uneven floor. When Túrin finally rose up beside him, sputtering and disoriented, it seemed natural to reach out and put an arm around him, to help him balance and guide him to the best spot. And then, in the gloom, with skin sliding against skin, it was easy to dismiss any lingering doubt. After all, this was how such things should begin, with a friendly embrace, not with awkward words.

Beneath Mablung’s exploring fingers, Túrin’s body felt firm and well-muscled, surprisingly so: a match for his own strength, perhaps, or close enough. The thought felt familiar, as did the sense of rightness it provoked, even as Túrin copied his own motions, haltingly at first, but then with more confidence. Then, one of Túrin’s hands slid down his back and, taking a firm hold, turned him and drew him closer… and Mablung gasped, shocked both by the sensation, and by a sudden awareness of how much he had somehow managed to forget. For yes, he remembered knowing, once, that bodies had purpose beyond Orc hunting, beyond the pleasures of food or even heady liquor. When had he given up on these matters, and why? He wished to search his memory, to understand, and he would, but not now. Not when Túrin’s hand had moved again, so that it was now between them.

They swayed together. The feeling of another’s grasp was strange—and yet, not unfamiliar, for even the clumsiness was a rightful part of this, part of that earlier time when so much was new, when they were only just learning what was possible. Mablung felt it all again: the wonder, the excitement, the building, overwhelming importance of his physical body. And, somewhere behind that, an echo of those long-ago encounters where his soul had almost kept up. It was those memories—the images of other times, flashing across his memory—that sent him over the edge.

In the moment after, Túrin’s lips sought his, but Mablung moved away and, one hand holding onto the cave wall for balance, lowered himself onto the rocks. His mind had cleared quickly, phantoms of the past dispersing like fog, but he still felt sympathy. Not to mention a sense of obligation for that vivid return to some essential, though lost, part of himself.

He found that he remembered exactly what to do, and that it did not even feel all that strange to kneel there and take Túrin into his mouth. After all, not all his past companions had been familiar, and dear to him: some he had known less well than this Man.

---

A pleasant, relaxed feeling settled over Túrin as he climbed out of the water. Even though his limbs felt heavy and slow to respond to his wishes, this seemed right, somehow, instead of irritating, so that when Mablung caught up with him, he almost smiled. The companionable silence in which they dressed stretched as they walked back, becoming slightly awkward, but even then Túrin did not truly mind: he would just have to ask Beleg what one should talk about, after. So, his contentment held—at least, until they reached the campfire, where it abruptly disappeared.

For Beleg had vanished, just as completely.

At first, Túrin could only stare. Fortunately, his companion seemed similarly affected: after taking a few steps forward, Mablung paused, deep in thought.

“He banked the fire,” he said eventually.

“Yes,” said Túrin, “and all his gear is gone, but surely… Surely he would not have left on any but the most urgent errand, not until we returned. Do you suppose--” All the explanations that came to mind were bad. “Perhaps he was attacked by Orcs?”

“Oh, please! Beleg, surprised by Orcs?” Mablung was actually smiling. “Within the bounds of Melian’s Girdle, at that? More likely he just decided to…” His smile faded. “Give us some privacy.”

“You think he noticed our… detour?” Túrin gave this some thought, picturing himself in Beleg’s place easily enough. “Sitting alone by the fire while others cavort in the woods… I guess he would have felt left out.”

“Left out? But you yourself told me--” Mablung put a hand to his forehead, covering his eyes. “On the other hand, I did interrupt your tryst.”

“Yes, you did.” With suspicious serendipity. The hurtful theory that had arisen in Túrin’s mind upon Mablung’s arrival returned now, in force. “Say, why did you come here, anyway? Did Beleg ask you to do so?”

“No… He has never spoken to me of—Well, not about himself, not recen— Anyway, why would he invite me here?”

“Because you are clearly...” The politest human phrase, as used by Túrin’s men, would be ‘a person of easy virtue’. But in Sindarin, the best he could come up with was, “Amenable to all sorts of activities.”

“Am I? I do not think of myself as--” Mablung ran his hand over his hair, frowning. “And yet, I suppose I was, just now. But why does this cause you such distress, all of a sudden?”

Well, if he did not understand—if he could not see how his lusty nature made him a perfect delegate for a task Beleg himself clearly found barely tolerable—then Túrin was not going to enlighten him. “I am not distressed,” he said quickly. “Just curious as to why you showed up at that precise moment.”

“I was looking for some peace.”

“Are the woods not peaceful enough?”

“Not the woods near the lodge.” Mablung exhaled. “Not at this time, anyway. Not while whole area is filled with the unpeaceful sound of tirades on topics such as Noldorin trade agreements and mushroom-related nepotism.”

“Ah, Saeros!” So that was where the nitwit had stumbled off to. Túrin could not fault anyone for seeing to escape his noxious presence; Mablung’s behaviour might just have a valid explanation—even if Beleg’s did not. “So, could you track him?”

“Track him?” Mablung frowned, confused. “Of course, a blind kit could track Saeros, but why would—”

“Not Saeros, Beleg! Could you track Beleg?”

“Not if he does not want me to.” Mablung stepped past the fire and crouched down, his eyes sweeping over the ground. “Perhaps not unless he deliberately wants me to. I suspect that— But never mind that,” he said suddenly. “Yes, I can find him.”

Túrin tried to follow his gaze, but could see nothing apart from a dead beetle, some week-old deer tracks, and a slight variation in the thickness of the grass that suggested an ancient fire-pit. Nevertheless, he said, “Oh right, of course, I see it. Let us go.”

Mablung looked at him, a bit oddly. “You go ahead,” he said at last. “I think one of us should stay here, in case Beleg comes back.”

So that was his plan! Suspicion returned. “I will stay,” said Túrin. “It is my campfire, after all. You go.”

“All right, then.” Mablung retrieved the spear he had left leaning on a nearby tree. Then, he paused. “So, um… Until next we meet?”

“Yes,” said Túrin. A new idea had occurred to him: what if this departure of Mablung’s was exactly what Beleg had hoped for, when he chose to disappear? He was not underhanded by nature—suspecting him of elaborate schemes felt almost unworthy—but he was considerate, exceptionally so for one of such strength and renown, and not unsubtle, so…

Túrin decided he had better catch a few more fish, in case they later found themselves in need of sustenance. Or perhaps even a rabbit.