The Archer's Triangle by Tehta

---

Chapter 4

---

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.”