Rise Up With Fists by Agelast

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Chapter 1

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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?”