Not By Wisdom But By Love by sallysavestheday

Not By Wisdom But By Love

Beleg has little experience with Men, on Doriath’s marches. The Haladin in Brethil flicker in and out of his awareness like fireflies – bright sparks only barely there before they are gone – and he has had no doings with the folk of Hador or Bëor. It is Mablung who is Thingol’s diplomat: fluent and suave, with the build and blade to convey more powerful intent when it is needed. Beleg leaves the journeying and the talking to him, happily. He himself prefers the quiet of the trees; the silent, rooted, lonely guard.

But here they are: the boy, and the two old men. They smell of long travel, and weariness, and fear. He has no idea at all what to do with them, or what to say.

The young one eyes him, wary and wild. He is a starless night, Beleg thinks: black of hair and brow and lash, with eyes as grey as clouds across the moon. And a mood to match, it seems: he snarls when touched.

That, at least, Beleg knows how to answer. He crouches, keeps his movements slow and gentle, holds out a cake of lembas on an open palm. He waits.

Túrin’s minders nudge him forward, but it is a long, taut moment before he breaks his angry pose and reaches, slowly, for the bread.

He eats neatly, rapidly, holding the lembas in one hand and catching every falling crumb with the other, then licking those last scraps from his palm with a quick, pink tongue. Beleg is unaccustomed to seeing such hunger; his heart pinches, watching the child.

He listens with only half an ear as Gethron speaks of Túrin’s lineage, begging for passage and a boon from Thingol. The boy is cold, surely, or overweary – his trembling is well-hidden, but not entirely obscured. Beleg has seen a thousand fawns and kits and fledglings shivering thus: he knows the signs of deep exhaustion and of creeping fear. It is a long march yet to Menegroth. The child needs warmth and sleep. He needs them now, and here.

Túrin lifts those stormy eyes to him again, their glance impossibly old and sad for one so small. He pants, softly, and sways forward; Beleg catches him before he falls. The child’s arms curl around his neck, clinging, surprisingly warm.

Well.

He is Thingol’s man by custom; the forest’s by nature. When a young thing runs awry of the world, he will do what he can to soothe it. Let the King berate him afterwards, if he will.

Beleg draws the three of them through the Girdle, into the trees. He carries Túrin, half-asleep, as Grithnir showers him with platitudes about guest-friendship and gratitude and the debt of the House of Húrin to Doriath for time eternal. The Man is a storehouse of proverbs and aphorisms, all chosen to convey his praise. Beleg lets them wash over him, listening for Túrin’s soft breath as he walks, sensing the steadying of his heart as he rocks gently into dreams.

The boy is warm in his arms; his hair and skin are sweet. Beleg hums, softly, carrying him, relishing the unexpected but not unwelcome weight.