Rise Up With Fists by Agelast

Three stooped figures emerged from the mist and Beleg tightened his bow, ready to shoot. But they were not Orcs, he realized, as one of them began to speak. True, the voice was high and querulous, but understandable nonetheless. The group was lost, it was clear at least. Beleg waited for them to come again, and sure enough, they did -- making a slow, wounded circle around the woods.

One of them cast himself on to wet ground and said that he could go on no more. The other seemed to agree and sat down as well. The third, Beleg noticed with a flicker of interest, though smaller than the others, short while they were bent with age, would not concede defeat. They would go on, the small one said, or perish.

Now, Beleg thought, I must make an appearance. He made sure to make his approach as noisily as he could, as not to alarm them, but even then, the small one had a sword pointed at Beleg’s belly.

Very young, he seemed to Beleg now, Beleg who had never any reason to be near children, but a child he surely was. His companions, however… Beleg eyed them curiously. He had never seen aged Men so close before.

The boy cleared his throat, perhaps he thought Beleg was paying an insufficient amount of attention to him. He brandished his little sword in Beleg’s direction, and there was no doubt that he had been taught how to use it.

Beleg caught his eye, and, not breaking their eye contact, he set Belthronding carefully down on the dew-drenched grass and held out his empty hands.

“I mean you no harm,” he said.

The boy, tense and afraid though he was, seemed to believe him. The breath seemed to got out from him. He lowered his sword and nodded.

He was proud and fierce, and reluctant to accept help on behalf of himself, though not for his two followers, who were aged and distressed, as was the lot of mortal Men. Beleg could only guess at the age of the boy. He seemed small for his age and darkly scowling, though his face and form showed evidence of future beauty in adulthood, if he should reach it.

Beleg, who had never been a child himself, dropped down to his knee to speak to him, for though he had only just met him, Beleg could guess that this proud boy did not like to look up to anyone. He was right. The boy’s eyes were wide and grey, much like Beleg’s own. And they widened further when he gazed down at Belthronding, its prodigious size, its strange make, recognition sparked within them.

“You are Cúthalion! I have heard of you.”

“Have you, little man?”

The boy scowled at that. “I am not so little!”

“Sir,” said one of the boy’s followers, a man whose back had been bent with age, and whose hands shook a little as he held out a cloak, a fine black cloak of carefully spun wool. The boy accepted it with a nod, and seemed to gather himself up. He looked up a Beleg, a challenge in his eyes.

“I am Túrin, son of Húrin Thalion and Morwen Eledhwen, who is kin to your king. I wish to be led to Menegroth, and thence to learn my fate.”

Beleg could see that Túrin had been practiced these lines for a long time. He nodded seriously, and said, “Certainly, Túrin, son of Húrin Thalion and Morwen Edhelwen! I shall lead you to Menegroth, if it be your wish.”

Túrin took a step forward, as if he wished to start immediately, but he was stayed Beleg’s hand on his shoulder.

“Do your followers wish to have something to eat? I only say this because I have extra food that I can share,” Beleg said, not missing how Túrin’s face seemed hollowed out, and the the terrible thinness of his young body.

Túrin considered this for a moment before he nodded gravely. “Yes, I think they would wish it. Thank you.”

Only after his followers had eaten and drunk did Túrin allow himself to nibble at Beleg’s waybread, and drink the water from Beleg’s water-skin.

It was not a long trek to Menegroth, not with Beleg leading them.

Beleg smiled when he heard Túrin’s gasp of shock when he saw the splendors of Thingol’s hall for the first time. He had no use for such opulence, but it pleased him to know that such a seemingly world-weary child had some wonder left in him.

Beleg stood aside as the people of the court gathered around Túrin. They exclaimed over him, and one unfortunate lady even had the temerity to try to pinch Túrin’s cheek.

“Why,” she said, wonderingly, “he looks almost like a human child!”

If looks could kill, the one Túrin gave her would have felled her right then. Beleg felt an entirely inappropriate urge to laugh. But instead, he nearly groaned, as he heard a familiar sound coming near them.

Saeros came battling through the crowd and eyed both Beleg and Túrin with heavy disfavor. He was a fussy little man who disdained any work that could be done out of doors; he thought he was better than all of that. Between himself and Beleg there was a long-standing state of mutual enmity.

“Why have you come out of your woods, Strongbow? What do you have there?,” he asked, his tone most insulting. “Some malformed dwarf, perhaps, that sought to rob us of our riches? A child-orc?”

Túrin, who had been listening closely, said loudly, “An orc?!”

“Neither, Councillor,” Beleg said cooly. “He is a mortal man, and kin to our king.”

“Kin to our king --?! Oh, I see,” Saeros said, his eyes narrowing.

Túrin was whisked off to have the dirt washed off of him and then he was presented to the king.

Thingol, whose actions and impulses Beleg could not even begin to understand, took a shine to boy almost immediately, and declared his intention to foster him immediately. All of the court was required to be in attendance for ceremony that was to take place that evening. Beleg cursed himself for not slipping away sooner. He disliked court-functions as much as he did orcs and had reluctantly shuffled in to listen to king’s pronouncement.

The queen sat next to her husband and listened to him as well. But then she turned too-bright, too-wise eyes to Beleg. He held her gaze for as long as he could, before dropping it to contemplate the mosaic pattern on the floor.

By then, Thingol had announced what would be Túrin’s future.

Beleg glanced up and caught the boy’s eye. Túrin did not look so young as he had done in the woods, nor as vulnerable. He stood straight and proud, unafraid though he was among a such strangers that could cow any adult, elf or man.

He is brave, Beleg thought with approval, and smiled. Túrin caught that smile and looked momentarily startled. Slowly, he smiled back, as if he was not used to doing so. It was a sweet expression, for all that. And Beleg felt a strange misgiving in his heart, but he could not understand whence it came.

***

It was high-summer in Doriath and the sun beat hard on his face. They had worked hard all morning and now collapsed on the long grass and breathed in air scented with a hundred flowers. Above his head waved the lacy white flowers of Queen Melian’s Petticoat, and beside him Túrin had a bone-cracking yawn.

He turned to Beleg and said, “Beleg, how old are you?”

A difficult question. Beleg had lived for -- he had lived forever, it felt like. He had gone this far without giving much thought to how old he was, or where he had come from. The simple fact of living in Beleriand, of surviving there, and thriving had been enough for him. He remembered a long, long night, where elves and beasts and had come and gone, as insubstantial as smoke.

He had seen the first sunrise and had marveled to see a world completely changed.

“Very old,” he replied at last.

Túrin groaned, to have his earnest question put so aside. So he tried again. “How old do you think I will be, when I die?”

“What a morbid question! What’s gotten into you now, Túrin?”

“Answer, please.”

“I am not an expert in Men, nor can I claim to know how long their lives last, other than to guess.”

“Guess, then.”

Beleg sighed, but Túrin regarded him brightly, in a good mood for all his questioning. It was rare enough for Beleg to soften up a little. He could venture a guess, at least. “Perhaps sixty more years, if you live well and do not get into too much trouble.”

With a snap of his fingers, Túrin said, “Then I have you for sixty years.”

“What is that? You have me?”

“Yes. Sixty years of being my friend, and then you shall go back to being yourself. It’s not that much time, is it? You can afford it, all you have is time.” Unspoken, but clear enough, Túrin said, you are so old that you cannot remember how old you are. Time stretched before you, forward and back.

You can afford it, while I cannot.

“I have more to do than just to be your friend,” Beleg said, grumbling.

“But nothing so important,” Túrin said, grinning.

“Arrogant cub! I swore an oath to Thingol to guard his kingdom well.” Beleg shifted and sighed. It seemed to him that the brilliance of this summer day had dimmed, somewhat. The sun had hidden itself away from the earth with a bank of clouds.

Túrin went on, oblivious. “I know all of that, but I also know more. I know that you are here to be my friend, and that is part of your fate.”

There was something in Túrin’s voice that made Beleg’s heart quail. Instead of admonishing the boy, as was his habit, Beleg reach over and ruffled his black hair, which felt soft and clean against his fingers, quite a change from how he had seen Túrin first.

“Yes,” Beleg said, “I am your friend. And after those sixty years, I will be left bereft.”

“Well, you will tell my sons what a great hero I was,” said Túrin comfortably.

“And are you sure they will believe me?”

“They will have to. Who could doubt you?”

Time grew short.

For the first time, Beleg found himself counting the seasons, the months, the weeks, the days, the hours, instead of being content to them slip past him in a stream of continuous days, when he was happy to do his duty, and expect nothing more.

He had been content, but now he was no longer so. Unhappiness, too, was a new emotion, a sharp edge that intruded into his thoughts, arrows that always found their mark.

And it was Túrin who was the source of Beleg’s unhappiness.

Beleg had never met a more maddening fellow, quick to be offended, keeping his grudges close to his heart, closer, even than his loves. He had grown, oh yes, he had grown up quickly, right before Beleg’s eyes. Or rather, Beleg had left him in the spring a shy and awkward boy and had come back in the fall to a sullen and strange man. Was that how mortality worked, to steal time, such as it was, and change the face of one he thought he had known so completely?

For Túrin had become very difficult to know. Sometimes he looked at Beleg as if he nursed a great grudge against him, though Beleg could not imagine what that could be.

Impatient, Beleg left Túrin to be a wounded soul, and turned back to his duties, which had not changed.

And it was his duties that forced Túrin back into Beleg’s orbit, when the young man presented himself to Beleg on stormy autumn day, at the edges of the Marches. He was mixed in with a with a group of new recruits; most were at their first century mark.

Túrin was seventeen.

***

“What in Badhron are you doing here?” Beleg hissed quietly at him, as the night cracked open and rain, cold and steady, poured itself onto their heads and soaked into their clothes. Túrin blinked and blew out a mouthful of rainwater, which just missed Beleg’s shoulder. He had expected, perhaps, a more cordial welcome.

A frown, by now a familiar expression on his face, settled on on his handsome and well-shaped features.

The brat, the least he could do was be a little less comely,Beleg thought sourly. Just as quickly, embarrassment washed over him and Beleg looked away for a moment, to get a hold of his emotions.

Túrin of course, did not notice his distress. “My foster-father felt it best that I should have some experience in the field, and I agreed with him,” he drawled, with a bored look that was as unconvincing as it could be. “After all, I cannot endlessly hack at some straw-stuffed dummy and think myself a great warrior.”

“No. Thingol does not think like that,” Beleg said bluntly, and Túrin blinked in surprise.

Then Túrin smiled, a flash of sweetness that was gone in an instant. “Perhaps I had a hand in convincing him -- a little.”

Beleg shook his head. He had work to do; he was not here to nurse Thingol’s fosterling. He said, his tone clipped, “Well, look after yourself. If you are killed, much goes to ruin.”

“I will,” Túrin said, though by that time, Beleg had already turned aside.

***

And Túrin did prove himself adept at keeping alive, and indeed, killing orcs. He gained the respect of those he served with, though not always their love. He kept himself apart, and took no part in what festivities and rituals they had, in the rough frontiers that was their home.

***

It was a dangerous, isolated kind of life, and whatever company was afforded to the men stationed on the marches was a welcome one. It in this spirit that Beleg welcomed Mablung to his perch high atop a tree, one hazy evening in late autumn. The weather was turning cold, but there was not yet snow upon the ground, and there were reports of an usually large band of orcs that had strayed -- or perhaps were commanded? -- into the woods. Beleg was there to relieve Mablung, who had not see the inside of his bedroll in many a long night. Beleg clasped his friend’s hand to his chest, gladly.

“Well met, Heavy Hand! I was beginning to forget the lines on your face.” Beleg sobered a little and continued on. “It has been too long.”

Mablung raised a weary brow and nodded. Beleg was not given to many words himself, but compared to Mablung, he was a veritable babbling brook.

“Have you seen much in the way of action here?” Beleg leaned heavily on the branch he stood on, testing its strength against his weight.

“Nothing,” Mablung said. Then, “But I dislike this stillness.”

“Indeed.” Beleg’s sharp eyes pierced through the gloom of the evening to catch a slight stir in the trees far ahead of them. He nudged Mablung, but his companion had sighted the disturbance as soon as he had, and they tensed, bows out, their arrows notched, ready for what would happen next.

What did happen next was that Túrin crashed through the woods, even more loudly than his usual wont. Beleg could not suppress a groan. He whispered, loud enough for Mablung to hear, “I thought I taught him better than that.” Mablung gave him a brief look, before Túrin ceased his ungainly progress in the clearing near their tree.

His voice was wavering and uncertain as he said, “Cúthalion?”

Both Beleg and Mablung were beside him in an instant. Beleg began to check the boy for injuries, and sure enough, there was a wet patch of blood on his side. Beleg gave a soft curse, and Mablung gestured to their left. Others were approaching, and by their noise, they were not of elvenkind.

They melted into the shadows of the trees as best they could, their weapons out.

“Túrin, what has happened?” Beleg was careful not to let his voice shake. To show more concern would only alarm the boy, he reasoned.

Túrin should his head and seemed to retreat into himself. “I thought I could --”

“You went patrolling by yourself when you knew --”

“Beleg, I did find them --”

“At what cost? You’re injured, you will not about able to fight!”

“And I can fight!”

Mablung’s voice, quiet and authoritative, cut through their arguments. “Good. Because they’re coming.”

And so they were. The group of orcs Túrin had found burst through into the clearing, stamping down grasses with their hobnailed boots, slashing at the trees. Mablung and Beleg’s arrows took care the first wave and the second, but soon they were surrounded, every side by knotted arms and scaly feet, faces that were the stuff of nightmares. Túrin rushed at them with his sword, stabbed and parried, until the blade turned black with orc’s blood. But still they came and came.

Mablung, Beleg and Túrin were soon separated, and for a while, Beleg was too absorbed by his own fight for survival to think too much about how Túrin was getting on. Mablung, he knew, could be trusted take care of himself.

He heard a shout, Túrin’s voice, and Beleg turned, convinced that the worst had happened.

An orc with a dented skull rushed at him, ax raised over its head. Beleg, with a brief apology to Belthronding, used his bow to make another dent in the creature’s skull. It went down with a groan, and a quick knife to the heart finished the job. And so it went on, until all the orcs were dead.

Beleg was desperate now, pulling the fallen bodies of the orcs away, looking for Túrin. But he found Túrin not there, but leaning against a tree, patch of red smeared across his chest, his face chalk-pale. Silently, Beleg caught him and held him, careful not to exacerbate his injuries as he slumped against his shoulder.

“We fight well together, don’t we?” Túrin’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” Beleg said, his heart in his throat. “We have many more to come.”

Túrin smiled.

***

Beleg came into healer’s hut to see Túrin awake and quizzing Sirveth, one of the apprentice healers assigned to the lodge. She said, impatiently, “We thought it was best to give you a healing draught as soon as we knew that your wound wasn’t poisoned. You’ve been sleeping for a day, no more.”

Túrin groaned. “It feels as though my side is on fire.” He eyed Sirveth suspiciously. “It’s not because of one of your concoctions, was it?”

Sirveth turned pink and said, rather haughtily, that the burning would subside shortly, and that he ought not move if he wanted to heal quicker.

“It was one of mine,” Beleg said. “I hope you have no objections?”

Sirveth turned to leave, and when she was behind Beleg, she stuck out her tongue at Túrin and then hurried away. Túrin’s own tongue stole half-way out before he realized how foolish he must look to Beleg, who, indeed, was giving him a politely inquiring look.

“She is a very able healer,” Beleg said, once Sirveth had left. “And has a dab hand with the bow.”

“Yes, I know. But some of her draughts are not exactly calibrated for the mortal palate,” Túrin said.

Beleg came and sat next to him, the straw mattress barely dipping down under his weight. He put a cool, dry hand on Túrin’s forehead. “I have made sure it was appropriate for you; the Woodsmen of Brethil use it quite often. I learned it when...” He trailed off, and looked at Túrin with concern. “Túrin, what’s wrong? You looked like you’ve swallowed a snake.”

“I -- nothing. Beleg, tell me what has happened in the last few days.”

And Beleg told him what he needed to know, all the while pulling Túrin back under the covers. He closed his eyes, and for a moment looked very tired.

“You must have something to eat,” Beleg said and Túrin moaned in protest, though his stomach growled, as if on cue.

And indeed, Túrin proved to be hungry. He crammed in a piece of bread into his mouth, and had hardly swallowed it before he snatched the bowl of soup from Beleg’s hands. He did not look up until there was nothing left to eat, and then he looked sadly at Beleg, and offered up his empty soup bowl to him.

Túrin said, earnestly, “May I have some more?”

The corners of Beleg’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Of course,” he said, taking the bowl. And on impulse, he ruffled Túrin’s thick, dark hair, over the young man’s protests. Túrin settled back into his bed, and glared at Beleg.

“You still treat me like a child,” he said.

Beleg’s smile slipped from his face, and was replaced by a more pensive expression.

“You are still a child, even by the accounting of your own people. I do not hold you by the standards of mine, for then you would be appallingly young.”

“There are Men who are my age -- younger, even -- who have wives, and children. Perhaps I --”

“Túrin,” Beleg said seriously, “are you trying to tell me that you have a secret family somewhere? What would your mother think?”

Túrin made a disgusted noise. “I don’t know why I must bear the brunt of your so-called humor. Mablung says you used to go for years without speaking to anyone at all. I suppose you tried your jokes on the trees then. Not that they answered back.”

Beleg laughed and shook his head. “You’d be surprised.”

***

Túrin stirred in his sleep and said, “Beleg.”

Beleg sat up from his chair next to Túrin’s bed, alert all at once. “What is it?”

“I want to stay here, and learn from you -- properly. Please don’t send me away. I do have my foster-father’s blessing in this.” Beleg rose and went over to the fire, which was now only a bank of hot coals. He added more logs to it, until it came roaring back to life. Then he turned his attention back to Túrin, who seemed to him to look more careworn now than he had in the first few days after his arrival from Menegroth.

That, no doubt, was mostly due to his injury, but Beleg thought, how quickly it starts! Once he was a child, and then in a blink of an eye, he is a youth, another and he is a man.

He is dying with every second that he breathes.

For the first time, Beleg could comprehend clearly Lúthien’s actions. She could not take away Beren’s mortality from him, for it was a part of him as much as was his body, his mind, his heart. Those were the things she loved. Instead, she had sought to share it, and perhaps lessen the bitterness of their inevitable parting.

Beleg could not do that; he had no Silmaril to bargain with, no song that could sway inexorable fate. This day, this moment, was the only time they had. He put a cautious hand on Túrin’s cheek and the young man closed his eyes, and appeared to fall asleep.

But as Beleg pulled away, Túrin said, “Do you ever think of it?”

Beleg was startled. Could Túrin read him that easily? “Think of what?”

“The battle.”

“Ah,” Beleg said. There was no need to clarify which battle, though he had been in many.

“Yes, I often do.” Now Beleg grew remote, pulled back into a memory that took up all his thought, his attention. The sounds, the sights, were too much, and he blinked, and looked back at Túrin, suddenly understanding.

“You wish speak of your father?”

Not Thingol, but Húrin, steadfast to the last, and long-lost.

Túrin nodded. “There are not many here who knew him.”

“But I did not know him,” Beleg said, gently.

“And I know that. But -- you saw -- his greatest hour,” Túrin said awkwardly, a dull blush clouding his fine features.

Mechanically, Beleg observed that Mablung too had had that honor.

Túrin nodded. “Mablung is very good, but you -- you are different and closer to my heart. As I am to yours. Or am I mistaken?”

“No,” Beleg said, after a long pause. “No, Túrin, you are not mistaken.”

I will lose him, through war or injury, or time. I will lose him and think of him still when his bones have crumbled into dust.

So be it.

Beleg straightened his spine and tried to conjure up the image of Húrin, and the brief days before the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. Days full of fervor, bright, hard optimism and a dreadful fear of failure, unspoken by all and felt by all -- that proved all too justified.

And the battle itself...

Túrin’s eyes brightened as Beleg described it, though he must have heard all the stories before. Neither of them faltered at the scenes of blood and violence that swam before them, conjured up by Beleg’s words. There was Húrin, alone, and with his brother slain before him. He was defiant to the end, and his voice echoed, phantom-like, in their little room.

Day shall come again!

Túrin’s face was wet with tears. He only said, “It will, it will.”

Beleg bowed his head. He could not speak.

Beleg had a difficult time persuading the gateman to let him in into the settlement, but once he had, the skies above had cracked open and dumped bucketfuls of rains over his sorry head. He sloshed in through the door of Larnach’s tavern, drops of water fell off his cloak and hood, and he shook himself like a dog on the mat at the front door.

He noticed, of course, how the noise around him had ceased as soon as he had pulled off his hood. The patrons were mostly men, old men, with worn features sharpened with suspicion. It was clear that they didn’t get many strangers around here, and those they did... well, their suspicions were well-founded.

It had been a long, cruel year since he had left Doriath with Thingol’s judgment still ringing in his ear, a year of fruitless search and dead-ends. It was only a passing remark that had brought him here, to this tiny backwoods tavern, whence issued reports of a man who bore a resemblance to Thingol’s missing foster-son. He longed to warm himself by the fire, but he waited patiently for someone to speak to him.

Soon, a gnarled-looking old man came shuffling in. He looked fragile, like he could break with a strong gust of wind, but his eyes were bright and shrewd. “A Elf in my tavern, I never thought I would see the day! It isn’t the kind of place you fine folk tend to patronize, I know.”

“I am not one of those fine folk,” Beleg said firmly.

The old man gave him a hard look before he shrugged. “Apparently not. Far too muddy for that. You the one looking for the Man that saved my girl a few weeks back?”

“Yes, that was me.”’

Lanarch nodded -- for who else could it be? -- and led Beleg over to the fire. The rain had made its way in through the chimney, and drops of water fell hissing into the flames. Beleg watched it for a moment, before turning his attentions back to the old man.

He asked politely of the Men he had known to have lived here, before the battle. Larnach shook his head in bewilderment and said that the names Beleg gave were of Men long buried. There was a silence, a long one, before Larnach got up, painfully, and called for his cane in a croaking, fretful voice.

When he got that, he turned back to Beleg and said, “It’ll be my daughter you’ll want to talk to.” And he turned to gesture a girl who had been sitting in back, mending a ripped sleeve with extraordinary concentration. Larnach went over to her and they spoke low, her dark head bent to catch his words.

Beleg sat, rubbing his fingers together. He wished now that he had something hot to drink, his meager meal he had had earlier now sat sour in his stomach.

Larnach’s daughter came and sat on the seat in front of him. She folded her arms together and said, “You’re gonna have to be quick.” She was slightly-built, but her forearms looked strong, capable. Her dark hair was pulled back severely and her skin looked sallow against the firelight. Her eyes were like her father’s, though instead of shrewdness, Beleg saw in them a kind of intense wariness, as if she was gauging the likelihood of him suddenly attacking her.

She looked to be Túrin’s age, or younger.

Beleg wasn’t good at reading mortal ages, despite all the time he’d spent with Túrin.

She took his scrutiny as judgement and flushed darkly. Her mouth twisted, like she was tasting something bitter, something poison. “What did he look like, the boy you’re looking for?”

Beleg described Túrin the best he could, Túrin at nineteen, dark and tall, handsome, lordly, though with sad eyes. Larnach’s daughter looked more and more displeased as Beleg went on, and a small crease appeared between her brows, a frown on her lips.

Knowing that he was losing what little sympathy she seemed to have for his task, Beleg rushed through the rest of his story, of how Túrin had been falsely accused, his voice impersonal, as if none of it interested him much. He was not used to disassembling, and did not do it well.

Larnach’s daughter listened to how Túrin’s bright future had blighted by the accusation, and by his running away. Her mouth twitched and turned downward. She said, “Yes, I’ve seen him.”

Beleg tensed, ready, he hoped, for anything, no matter how terrible, to hear how low Túrin had fallen.

She started again.“I was in the woods, outside the gate when they came. I couldn’t think, I knew that they would --” she swallowed, “they would hurt me, and I ran, but I was too far. I knew that I was going stumble somewhere and fall and they’d be on me in a second, and I couldn’t -- I couldn’t see where I was going--”

Her young face crumpled, as if she was back in that fearful place.

Beleg wanted to comfort her, but didn’t see how he could do it. Instead, he sat still and listened, his face grave.

“I fell, and one of them -- a big man, with white hair, old enough to be my grandfather, a pig -- he was on top of me and I thought, this is it, this how I die -- and then the pig just sighs and goes still. There was blood everywhere, he’s dead. I pushed him off and I looked up to see -- him. Your boy.”

She paused, considered. “He did not look like a lord then. He looked like a common murderer.”

“What did he do?” Beleg’s voice was like a ghost of its former self, dreading what would come after.

“He began to wipe his sword on the grass. He didn’t look at me, he never once looked at me. It was like I wasn’t even there, that he hadn’t killed someone because of me. He just looked at the dead man and he looked… surprised. Like he didn’t know men like that existed in the world.”

She gulped down, and it seemed to Beleg that her fear now turned to anger. “Then the weasel came, they were together, the pig and the weasel and he talked to your boy like he knew him, he said that they would take turns with me. I got up and I told him -- I wanted your boy to kill him too, the weasel.”

She choked out, “Why should a man like that live?”

There was nothing he could say.

Coldly, she continued on, “Your boy said then that if the weasel touched me, he’d kill him too. I told your boy to kill him, to kill the weasel, to do it now. I told him that my father would reward him nicely, bringing in two wolf-heads in.”

She looked down, a hint of color on her face. “And that it would be as fine a bride-price as any.”

“But he refused.”

“Yes, he refused. He said that now he was their leader now and I should not tarry there. I went, but I kept looking back, hoping he’d change his mind. But he didn’t.”

She looked up at Beleg for the first time since her story began.

Beleg swallowed harshly. He asked, “What’s your name?”

It was the wrong thing to say, but he did it anyway.

Larnach’s daughter almost snarled. “You have no right to ask.”

Beleg nodded and didn’t ask again. Instead, he rose and made to go. Her voice followed him as he went.

“If you find your boy, tell him that he deserves what’s coming to him. Every last bit of it.”

* * *

It was some time before Beleg came to again; he immediately wished he hadn’t. His bonds still held, and it had begun to rain again, moisture running down his back and mingling freely with the blood from his wounds. It was dark, and the air smelled strongly of dampness and the tang of old blood. Beleg closed his eyes again. His head felt muzzy and delicate, as if it would break off at any moment.

Stupid, stupid, he had been so stupid. Arrogant too, though there was no one here to accuse him of that. Not yet, anyway. Beleg had thought, he had assumed that because his skills were greater than theirs, his experience vaster, because he was smarter, older, more wary, he’d get away with spying on Túrin’s gang for a few more days, at least until Túrin himself returned.

Beleg had not considered what would happen if Túrin did not return. He would not consider what would happen if Túrin did not return now.

Someone approached him. Beleg blinked. Larnach’s daughter had been right in describing Andróg as a weasel. He was a pared-down figure of a man, with lank black hair and eyes the color of ice-water. His face was drawn and lined, and when he spoken, his accent was of Dor-lómin.

Of Túrin’s people.

“So you’ve woken at last,” Andróg said, in a pleasant, conversational tone. “I hope you aren’t feeling too uncomfortable...” He paused, hoping, perhaps, for a answering quip, but Beleg remained silent. But not for long.

“I know who you are. You’re the one who tried to rape that girl,” Beleg said coldly. “T-Neithan should have killed you as well.”

Andróg snorted. “I’m sorry, what part of being fucking outlaws did you miss? He didn’t understand it either, at first.”

“I don’t think he would’ve been that naive.”

“It’s true, he learned well enough what we did.” Andróg gave him a smile that promised nothing good. “Well. You know that he’s already a killer, that one. The only thing that matters now is who he chooses to kill.”

In the face of Beleg’s continued silence, the outlaw frowned slightly and then shrugged. Matter-of-factly, he said, “Of course, you won’t be around to see it. You must understand -- we don’t want our secrets getting out.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would.” Beleg spat, aiming at Andróg’s feet, but he missed and the outlaw laughed, cuffing him hard in the ear. Beleg blinked, a dull buzzing in his head. Andróg moved away, pacing a little around the tree that held Beleg securely.

Beleg could smell the sweat on the man’s skin, sharp and sour.

“Túrin, you said his name was Túrin, before,” Andróg said. “I have heard that name before. Well, well. How the mighty have fallen, and how low.”

Beleg closed his eyes for a moment. He hadn’t meant to do that. It was just that the absurd false name that Túrin had taken stuck in Beleg’s mouth, and some time, in between the third and fifth beatings, Túrin’s name had escaped from his lips. A cry for help and a curse, both.

Regret washed over Beleg, suddenly. He regretted so much of what had passed. Of finding Nellas, persuading her to go to Menegroth, to testify in Túrin’s favor, to go on this long and hopeless journey, to try to find what was already lost.

He blinked as he felt the ropes loosen -- the other outlaws had filed in when Andróg had been speaking, and they had cut the ropes that bound him to the tree and had began to drag him away. Why? For what purpose? He turned to catch Andróg’s eye, but the man had already turned away, satisfied with how things were going.

But. But he was stronger than they, even now, or so he had to convince himself, as he tore himself away and stumbled towards the woods. His legs felt weak and he was strangely burdened -- days tied to a tree would do that anyone, even an elf such as him. They followed him with a shout, but he was faster, yes, he was -- the rocks scratched at his bare feet, and he ran. The air smelled of burning now, there was a fire lit and from it came thick, acrid smoke.

He thought the smoke might help him, cover his way to the woods, but half-way across the clearing, they caught him again.

There was hunk of metal that had been heating in the fire, a brand, and this they pushed toward his face. He strained out of the way, scratching and biting, doing all that he could to get away from the hot brand when he heard a voice, raised to a shout.

He was freed and he staggered up, his legs still weak from kicking. The crowd around him parted, and there was --

“Túrin,” said Beleg, collapsing into his arms.

***

Túrin, that stupid boy. That stupid, stupid boy…

He never listened. Not when Beleg tried to teach him, and not now. Why couldn’t he understand anything Beleg was saying?

“Beleg,” Túrin said, “you have to rest. Drink this.” And he shoved a water bottle under Beleg’s nose and forced him to drink -- but stopped him before he was satisfied.

“Not so much,” Túrin cautioned. “You’ll just vomit it up again.”

Beleg was in a bed for the first time in a long time. Though it was not so much a bed as it was a pile of furs and blankets on the floor of the cave. Behind where Túrin was a cache of weapons. Among them, Beleg recognized Belthronding. He reached for it, but was stopped by Túrin’s hands on his forehead.

“Please, Beleg,” he said, “sleep. We have so much to talk about. They won’t harm you, I promise. I’ve -- I’ve spoken to them, and they’ve agreed that we will prey on Morgoth’s men, and no one else. All will be well, I promise.”

Beleg shook his head, doubtful. “Túrin, there is something I must tell you. It’s important. I’ve been looking for your for a year now and --”

“Sleep,” was all Túrin said, and reluctantly, Beleg obeyed.

***

Túrin looked older now -- there were lines on his face that there hadn’t been there before. He sat awkwardly next to Beleg’s bed, his back bent and his head drooping. Beleg’s eyes had cleared, and his throat was not as parched as it had been. Already, he felt his strength returning to him. A single lamp burned, giving off weak yellow light, only enough to give a vague impression of shadows.

Túrin stirred awake with sigh, Beleg was not surprised. He had always been a light sleeper. Beleg turned to him and they stared at each for some time. It had been years since they had patrolled together, on the borders of Doriath. Only Beleg had not changed since then.

Except. Túrin said quietly, “I cannot believe that you would leave Doriath to find me.”

Once, it would have been unthinkable, to leave Doriath. That had been before the Nírnaeth, before Túrin. Túrin had changed so many things. Now, Beleg wanted to reach for him, to comfort him as best he could, the desolate boy and the hurt man both, but instead, he slid over and patted the space beside him.

Túrin collapsed into the bedroll with a groan, his hair getting into his mouth as he rolled over to face Beleg. His breath smelled sour against Beleg’s face, but Beleg did not mind it. It was only Túrin, after all. Instead he put a cautious hand on Túrin’s face, feeling the roughness of his stubbled skin, in fascination.

“I would have you come back to Doriath with me,” he said softly, and Túrin shifted, impatient. “I will try to convince you in every way that I can,” he went on, and Túrin began to laugh. A croak of a laugh, for he was not a laughing man, and he seemed unused to it still.

There was a steady light in his eyes that had not been there before. His mouth settled into an amused line, tender and mild. “And how, Cúthalion, would you persuade me?”

“Like this,” Beleg said, and kissed him.

Túrin was breathing hard when Beleg pulled away, his eyes wide. Beleg continued on, as if unaware of his shock. “Thingol gave you a full pardon, and extends to you his forgiveness. He wishes you to return as soon as you can. See here, Túrin, they love you well.”

Túrin soon mastered himself and asked, quite calmly, “What made him change his mind? Mablung’s testimony couldn’t have swayed the king. He was never as --” His grey eyes met Beleg’s, and Beleg looked away.

Túrin continued on. “... never as partial to me as you were. As you are.”

“Mablung prefers truth above all else, and that is enough to recommend him,” said Beleg, looking back at him sternly.

“And what of you? Do you not love the truth as well, Beleg?”

“Yes,” Beleg said, sitting up. “Of course I do. That is why I found Nellas.”

“Nellas?” There was more than a hint of puzzlement in Túrin’s voice, which confused Beleg in turn.

“But surely you remember Nellas? she was your constant companions in childhood,” Beleg said, watching as the expression on Túrin’s face did not change.

Túrin shook his head slowly. No, he did not remember her. Doubtfully, he said that all of his childhood, save the years he had spent in his father’s house in Dor-lómin was a shadow upon his mind, insubstantial and elusive.

Beleg was more troubled by this revelation than he would say. Instead, he explained how it was that the elf-maid Nellas had witnessed Saeros’ attack on Túrin, and what had come from it. She had bravely come forth, on Beleg’s urging, to Menegroth, tell the king what she knew.

“And yet you do not remember her!” That was the astonishing thing.

Beleg wondered privately if it was not some aspect of the curse that was upon Túrin, to make memories of pain so much brighter than that of joy, however passing. And then, momentarily, he saw Túrin’s familiar, beloved face interposed with that of a relative stranger -- that of Larnach’s daughter.

He remembered her eyes, burning fury and untold grief. She would never forget. Strange! How strange mortal memory was!

Túrin laughed, with rust in his voice. “O Beleg, how far you are from me! I wish it were not so.”

Beleg blinked and said, “Nay, Túrin, I am as close to you as ever.”

(And he demonstrated to Túrin how this was so.)