Rise Up With Fists by Agelast

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Chapter 3

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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.)