The Archer's Triangle by Tehta

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Chapter 5

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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.

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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.