Lay My Curses Out to Rest by ohboromir

---

Lay My Curses Out to Rest

---

Something had been watching them.

Andróg hated this camp. Staying in one place so long was dangerous when you were a wanted man – and in these woods there were worse things than Men lurking, who cared not if a man was honest or wicked. Andróg crouched on a fallen tree, leaning on his bow, scanning the treeline. It was like he could feel the eyes on him, from all sides. A whole pack of spies? Orc scouts? Wolves? No – they were the only predators out here. What the hell was it?

“You think the Captain’s on his way back yet?”

Ulrad’s stupid voice snapped him out of his thoughts and Andróg scowled, scratching at the stubble on his cheek. “The Captain’s probably dead. I don’t know why you all insist on staying here.”

“Not all of us are as faithless as you.” He could hear Ulrad rolling his eyes. “He’ll be back before the next new moon. Algund’s put money on it.”

Seven days. They couldn’t stay here for seven days. They were easy enough prey for orcs as it was, without Neithan’s luck and sword on their side. Despite his claims, he hoped the Captain wasn’t dead. No one else could lead them like he did. The thought of moving on without him was unsettling, a cold, sharp feeling in the bottom of his chest that he didn’t want to name. “Algund’s an old fool. Four days and then we leave. I swear there’s something out there.”

“Paranoid bastard.”

“Arsehole.” He hissed at Ulrad’s retreating bulk. The watch tonight would be long and cold and hopefully dull. The thought of the warmth and dry of his tent swam to the front of his mind, but he crushed it down. He refused to give up his watch. If no one believed that something was out there, then he had to keep watch for them.

The evening descended slowly, the air filled with the cackling of his small fire and the snores of sleeping men. Above it, he strained to hear anything else – the sound of his Captain returning, of an impending attack, or just creatures rustling in the undergrowth. Nothing. Perhaps I am paranoid.

That was when he saw it.

The creature emerged from the treeline, appearing from the shadows as if it had materialised from nothing. It had the shape of a man, but taller, broader than any man he had ever seen, except perhaps Neithan. Worse still, it was armed – Andróg counted a blade and bow, Eru knew what else it had on it.

It stepped over the boundary into the camp and Andróg raised the alarm. But he had not been the only one waiting in the darkness. The pack descended on the creature in a frenzy.

To the creature’s credit, it put up a good fight, but it had not expected to be attacked and so greatly outnumbered, it didn’t even matter. With its hands and feet bound, the men dragged it towards the fire to get a proper look, ignoring the cursing and protests.

The dim fire light illuminated the scowling face of an elf, clad in brown and grey – a sharp jaw and strong nose, with eyes like the steel of a blade and dark hair falling out of the braid. What was an elf doing out here, watching them? A thousand possibilities raced through his mind, none of them good. At best, he was a lone thief, outlaw just like them. At worst – and infinitely more likely – he was a spy of the Elves sent to murder them in their beds.

“Who the fuck are you?

*

His first mistake had been approaching the camp. He shouldn’t be here – if Túrin was here he would have shown himself and stopped this. The second mistake was pride; he’d thought he could take them all if it came to a fight.

This was not Doriath. They were not thrilled to see an elven face; if anything, it made their anger worse. All those days of watching, waiting, were wasted. Couldn’t they just let him go?

Who the fuck are you?

“It’s none of your business,” he retorted, sharp. The man’s leer was evidently meant to make him squirm, but Beleg held his head high, burning with rage and pride. “Who the fuck are you?”

The man ignored him, giving a command to the others in a language Beleg knew only fragments off – they were speaking Taliska out here? It gave him a touch of hope – maybe they had met Túrin, even if he had not stayed with them.

Hope that was quickly crushed as they dragged him towards the largest tree in the camp – a grim, towering, gnarled tree, ragged bark digging into his back as they lashed him to it. He tested the strength of the rope with an experimental tug, dismayed to find it held firm. A crowd of wolf men had gathered, hungry eyes that ate right into his soul. A deep foreboding crept over him as he realised how alone he was. There was no one coming to help him. Mablung would not spring from the bushes. Túrin would not storm out of the night. He had only himself to get out of this, only himself to blame for it.

When I get out of this, I will kill them. Indignant rage, torn pride, bubbled inside him and he faced his captors with a set jaw

He locked eyes with their leader, steel grey meeting oak brown. He studied his face, committing it to his mind, a symbol of the anger and fear inside him, keeping it locked away. Any show of emotion would only excite these barbarians.

*

“It’s none of your business,” Andróg repeated mockingly, as he gave the orders to the others. “You are not in a place to be haughty, spy.”

With the elf bound, the pack formed a half circle about him, the most senior men at the front. Algund, grey haired and grim, bright-haired Ulrad, the crow-faced Balchon. Others hung back, unsure, nervous. Elves were treacherous, tricky creatures. Who knew what magic this one wielded?

Behind them, the men went through the weapons taken from the elf. A mighty sword, well made, hunting knives, arrows, and the most magnificent bow Andróg had ever seen. Taller than him and almost as heavy. “Distribute them to others. Keep the sword for the Captain.” He ordered in Taliska, “The bow is mine.”

He turned back to the prisoner.

“Why are you here? Do not lie - you have come to cut our throats and rob us blind. Who sent you?”

“I don’t have to tell you.”

And people said the elves were wise. This one was clearly a fool – even Andróg knew when he was beaten. He said nothing, staring into the elf’s face.

“If you had anything worth taking, I would have taken it,” the elf scoffed, “I am searching for someone. He would not be found among beasts like you.”

His fist connected with the elf’s face with a sharp crack and the elf swore, spitting blood and shards of teeth back at the men.

“I am Beleg of Doriath. I am no spy.”

Andróg turned to the other men and there was a hurried discussion between them that quickly concluded that Doriath could have sent a man to kill them, but it was more likely the elf was a liar.

“Very well.” Andróg announced, slow and deliberate, a bright spark of cruelty in his eyes. “If our guest does not wish to speak, that is his choice. Leave him there. I am sure there are ways for us to persuade him.”

The rest of the pack spread back out, most of the men returning to their beds to get some sleep before the screaming started, while a few others – the most bloodthirsty of them – gathered around the prisoner.

Andróg almost pitied him. It would be a long night for the elf.

The dawn came with a fresh shower of rain, but it did not deter the outlaws from their task. The crowd had grown and shrunk over the night, but the elf was never left alone, always someone ready to taunt him, while their brothers-in-arms cheered them on.

By the time Andróg returned, the elf was in a state. His hair, once neatly bound, had come loose, tangled from his thrashing against the bark. His nose had very clearly been broken, the dried blood caking his lower face. Someone else had taken great amusement in hitting him, judging by the bruises on his face – and who knew what marks had been left under his clothes. His eyes were closed now, head slumped forward, but Andróg saw his ears twitched as he approached. Still awake.

“Has he spoken?”

“Not a word,” A sly grin formed on Balchon’s face, as he showed Andróg the knife in his hands. He shivered at the sight of it. The blade was wicked sharp, made for skinning animals, and he knew Balchon liked to coat his knives in all sorts of vile things.

He gave him a curt nod and grabbed the elf by the hair, pulling his head back.

“You’re going to wish you were feeling chatty now, elf. Come on. Tell us, why are you here?”

Silence. Stupid.

Balchon’s face was terrifyingly gleeful as he pressed the knife into the curve of one pointed ear. The elf gasped sharply, eyes darting wildly between the two men. A thin line of blood seeped slowly downwards as Balchon carved a pattern into the shell of the elf’s ear. To his credit, the elf did not cry out, but Andróg could feel every muscle tense, and could see the pain in those eyes. He tugged his hair again, forcing the elf to look at him.

“Why are you here?”

“I…” The elf’s voice wavered and it sent Andróg’s blood pumping. They could do anything they wanted to him. So much for Elven glory. “I am seeking Túrin of Dor-lómin.”

Dor-lómin. The word struck him like ice. Home. He would never see it again. That, he had accepted. It was harder to think of it in Easterling hands, driven to ruin. Anyone out of that hell-hole was better off dead.

“Never heard of him.” The crushing disappointment in the elf’s eyes was sweet as honey and Andróg laughed. “Some noble bastard wouldn’t last long out here. You’d have been better off looking for a corpse.”

“I made a mistake.” The elf admitted through gritted teeth, “Please, let me go. I want nothing from you. “

Andróg scoffed. “What? So, you can run off and bring your warriors down on us? Though if they are all like you, we should not be worried.” He let go of the hair and the elf slumped forward again, despair shrouded around him like a cloak. Balchon, knife freshly sharpened, took the elf’s left hand, bending back a finger until he heard it break and the elf yelp. He laughed.

“Are you done with him, Andróg? I got some ideas I want to try.”

“Leave him alive for now. That’s all.”

Before he turned away, though he kicked into the elf’s chest, hard, the gasping wickedly satisfying.

“Fucking Elvish bastard.”

The privacy of his tent was welcome, now, empty save for him and the bow. Usually he would have to share, but in the Captain’s absence, he was the most senior outlaw, and the prize of one of their few single tents went to him. More than ever he was grateful for it, feeling hot despite the chill in the air. He took the bow in his hands, examining it with the tenderness of a lover, hands smoothing over the smooth wood. Never in all his years had he seen anything like it, the curve perfect, the string expertly strung, tense under his fingers.

He pulled the strong back to test the bow and grunted with effort, struggling to pull it back far enough. The damn thing was too heavy – how did that elf use it? Probably some kind of Elvish magic – or a curse.

Irritated, he threw it back down onto his bedroll. When its master was dead, then it would bend for him.

The next three days passed in the same way. The camp was usually woken by the elf’s cries or Balchon’s grim laughter. There was no reason to torment him any longer, other than the sheer enjoyment of it. Their prisoner had neither food, nor water, nor even a moment’s rest. But they could not keep him indefinitely. Despite Algund’s predictions, Neithan had not yet returned, most likely lying dead in a field, and the air in the camp was thick with tension, anxiety making each man restless. How long were they going to stay here?

“We leave tomorrow.” Andróg suggested, the senior outlaws gather around their fire. In the background, the elf was talking in his wretched language – complaining, begging, cursing, none of them could tell - until his current tormentor threatened to take his tongue if he didn’t shut his mouth.

There was a mumbling among the men.

“What are we gonna do with him?”

Ulrad spoke up. “There’s only one punishment fit for a spy.” He gestured to the fire. “And then we kill him if it doesn’t finish him off.”

Andróg’s eyes lit up. “A man after my own heart, Ulrad. Find some metal. The rest of you stoke the fire.”

“Andróg,” Algund’s grey, bushy brows furrowed deeply, clearly uncomfortable with the course they had taken. “I do not think this is a good idea. We should wait for Neithan.”

“Neithan left me in charge, not you. If it bothers you so much, care for the elf yourself.”

It was dark by the time the fire was ready, the iron they had placed in the middle white-hot. Ulrad, his hands wrapped in layers of leather, lifted it out of the fire as the whole pack circled the tree, even Algund. Andróg took the brand into his own leather-bound hands, as another man held the elf still by hair.

When he saw the brand, the elf descended into a panic, eyes blown wide, pleas for mercy flowing like water from his lips. But no one moved to help him, to stop Andróg. The elf shut his eyes and turned his face away.

Andróg raised the brand and brought it down against the elf’s throat.

Or he would have done, had a booming voice not echoed out across the camp. In shock, Andróg dropped the brand, sizzling on the damp grass.

“What the hell are you thinking, are you trying to get – “

Neithan broke into the circle, the crowd parting in deathly silence. Neithan’s eyes had landed on the elf and his tirade ended. He shoved Andróg out of the way to kneel at the elf’s side – the elf babbled to him in that strange language, breaking down into sobs as Neithan cut him free.

Terror gripped Andróg’s heart as he sunk into the shadows.

Eru, this is it. He is going to kill me. Valar have mercy.

But it was not Andróg’s name on Neithan’s mind when he finally re-emerged from the tent, where he had been tending to an elf. The elf, who had certainly known their names, had not named Andróg as the leader of his torment – it was Balchon who faced the brunt of Neithan’s wrath. Balchon would not see the sun rise in the morning.

Andróg did not rest easy until the elf was gone. Returned, with that cursed bow, back to his home, having failed to pry Neithan from their pack.

But Neithan had changed, too. He had had his head filled with ideas of grandeur, and the outlaw pack was no more. Now they would be heroes, men who defended the settlements of Man from Orcish incursion. No more raiding caravans and homesteads – no riches, no glory, no women.

They would all suffer for this.

But at least the elf was gone.

If only that had been true.

*

If Beleg had had his way, this would not be necessary. Laden with goods from Doriath, sword and harp and helm, he trudged through the woods towards the red-topped hill. Túrin had left for him markers in the forest, well disguised, that only Beleg’s experienced eye could interpret. If you seek me again.

In truth, he had thought he would not. All thoughts of Túrin were mingled with his agony and shame, the memory of his captors still fresh in his mind. The wounds had yet to fade – his nose had healed neatly, his bruises mostly mellowed, but his ears were scarred, would never be the same, his fingers still where bones still healed. But it was the wound in his heart that pained him most, that tormented him every night, that made him see danger in every stranger, in every unwatched corner, every unguarded meal. Paranoia seeped into his bones, as though even his own shadow would now betray him. And yet now he was returning to the men who had made him this way. Men who had made him ashamed of himself, every time he woke in the night in terror. Perhaps he was a bigger fool than he’d thought.

Love would lead me, not wisdom.

Mablung had begged him to stay. Another month, at least, my friend. You are not ready. But Beleg did not want to wait. What if Túrin passed beyond his reach again? What if he was sick, or injured? What if he believed that Beleg would never come for him again? Now, as he approached the entrance of the Hill, he was starting to think Mablung had been right. His palms were slick with sweat, his heart pounding against his chest. There would be guards on watch. Would they remember him? It had been months and most of them had only seen him drenched in his own grime.

He need not have worried.

It was Túrin who greeted him at the border, with a firm embrace and the offer to take some of his things – a gesture to the others that the elf was untouchable, favoured, safe. It eased the anxiety in his gut, if only for now. The weight of Anglachel at his hip was a more permanent comfort.

He did not miss the dwarf’s glare as he stepped inside Amon Rûdh. Why they had chosen to stay with the damn creature, Beleg did not understand – but it was the dwarf’s home, and he would keep his tongue civil, at least until the dwarf provoked him. Perhaps some allowance could be made for the grief over his sons.

Sat around the table, Beleg soon found his anxiety returning. As their second captain – a rank he probably had not earned – he took his place at Túrin’s left. Beside him, though, was Túrin’s third. Andróg.

The gruff face sent panic spiralling in Beleg’s gut, even as he fought to keep his face calm. Do not give him what he wants, this is just another test.

“Andróg.”

“Elf.”

Túrin passed a mug of beer into his hands and introduced him to the men, though of course they already knew him. Too well. The hall soon filled with talk and laughter; Beleg left out of the conversation. It was almost nice to watch, to see them all so familiar with each other.

A gaze burned into the back of his head and he turned.

The Dwarf. Ugh. The wretched Mim was watching him, his eyes hot with malice. A shudder passed through Beleg. “Damn dwarf. Can’t he leave me alone?”

“I know how you feel.” Andróg spoke up, bitter. “The bastard made me break my bow. Cursed me, too.”

Beleg laughed. “I hope I shall be here to see you suffer. A dwarf-curse is no laughing matter.”

Perhaps it would not be so bad here.

*

He did not have to wait long.

Beleg had not seen it happen, but the moans of the wounded man had caught his attention as the sounds of battle faded. Andróg, pierced in the abdomen by an arrow, had been dragged back inside the hill, to a small chamber.

Túrin’s anxious frown sparked shame in Beleg. He felt no pity for Andróg. He had been warned against wielding a bow – the dwarf curse was undeniable – and frankly, he deserved all the suffering he got. But Túrin would not allow Beleg to watch him die. He is too good a man.

“Save him, Beleg. For me.”

“I will try.” But he refused to promise. Calling for water and a light, he peeled back the ruins of Andróg’s tunic to examine the wound, taking no particular care to be gentle. Why should he? He had said he would try to save him, not that he would be kind about it.

Fear rolled off Andróg in waves as he clung to Túrin, writhing away from the elf, and chattering about curses and sorcery. Beleg said nothing. Someone had removed the arrow from the wound and made a bloody mess of it, so he first cleaned it as best he could. It did not appear to be poisoned, but Beleg knew orc poisons Wells, and an antidote could be given later if he was mistaken. “

“Neithan. I will need more bandages than this. Fetch them. I will stitch the wound.”

Andróg whined, grappling to stop Túrin from leaving. As he feared being alone with Beleg. I will show him fear.

“Elvish bastard,” Andróg hissed, backing away from Beleg’s hands. But he could not go far. Beleg stitched the wound in heavy silence, taking delight each groan and whimper. He had medicine for the pain – herbs that could be chewed or brewed into tea – but he would not offer it. Let the man suffer.

Beleg grinned wickedly, looming over his patient. “You have gotten yourself into quite a bit of trouble, my friend,” There was bitter venom in his voice, “You cannot hide from me forever. Do you think I would not seek revenge? You ruined me. Why should I stop your suffering?”

He flashed the knife in front of Andróg’s eyes, revelling in the fear and panic he saw reflected in them. If he could make him feel one ounce of the terror, he’d felt those nights, it would be worth Túrin’s wrath. Andróg yelped, cursing him.

“You wouldn’t dare! The Captain… The Captain will…You’ll be sorry!”

Beleg pressed the knife against Andróg’s side, holding the cold metal against him for a long moment.

Then, in one swift movement, he cut the thread.

Túrin returned a moment later, eyeing the pair of them suspiciously. The room was tense, as Andróg looked pleadingly at his captain again. But Túrin simply handed the bandages over.

“I need to go and check on the others.”

Before Andróg could say a word, Túrin was gone again. This time Beleg was quiet, wrapping the bandages easily and settling the man back down on his sick bed. There was no blanket, but Beleg unpinned his cloak and draped it over Andróg.

“Stop it.” The man’s rasping voice broke the silence, one hand catching Beleg’s as he tucked the cloak around him.

Beleg raised an eyebrow. “Stop what?” Andróg’s touch burned. Beleg’s heart raced, a feeling he could not recognise pumping into his veins. Fear? But he knew Andróg couldn’t hurt him like this. Why am I so afraid of touching him?

“Being nice. You weren’t nice before. It was better.”

If Andróg hated it, then he was going to keep it up.

“You’re supposed to hate me, elf.”

“I do not.” It was the raw truth. He hated everything about him; but he could not hate him. Andróg loved Túrin, cared for him, guarded him. Perhaps that was why. He wrenched his hand free and straightened up.

“Rest well, Andróg.”

*

It took him weeks to recover. Andróg did not remember much from that night. Pain, terror, the elf’s cold eyes, the hot touch of his hand. It plagued him through his recovery, his days troubled by the elf’s frequent visits, to inspect the wound, and his nights by dreams of those steel eyes and calloused hands. As if the elf had bewitched him, cast some Elvish curse on him to go with the dwarven one.

Admittedly, Beleg had some redeeming factors. For a start, he hated that dwarf. The two of them had much many hours grumbling over the dwarf’s latest misdemeanour. It was a good way to pass some time, one of the few topics that never led to an argument between them, and it felt good to hear the elf laugh. Oh, that laugh.

Fuck, he deserved this. He’d been a right arse to the elf – no, that was understating it. He’d been barbaric. But it hadn’t just been him. The others had not called very hard for him to stop. So why was the elf so obsessed with him? Everywhere he turned, it seemed like Beleg was there, watching, or worse, upstaging him.

He was a better swordsman, a better archer, a better arm-wrestler. Every competition, every friendly game between the men ended with Andróg coming just behind Beleg. Did he do it on purpose, just to spite him? Was this his new trick, instead of violence?

There was one game the elf had not won yet.

The latest orc pack they had eradicated had taken to raiding caravans, and since they had no way of knowing where the goods had been headed, the barrels of beer had been free for the taking. With Neithan and Algund out on watch, Andróg was free to organise a drinking game without risking either of them beating him. Túrin always drank like he was drowning and Algund had a stomach of iron – the elf, however, was surely unused to Mannish beer and that would be his undoing.

“So, what are the rules?” Something in the elf’s innocent smile made him want to reconsider. But everyone had already agreed to play and Andróg did not want to lose face in front of the men. Instead, he passed the elf a tankard and sat opposite him in the circle.

“Drinking ‘til you throw up. Last one standing wins. Simple.”

“Ah.” The elf nodded, looking into his mug. Was that disappointment in his eyes? What had he been expecting?

“Right. Everyone got a drink? Ulrad, start with a story.”

The next three hours passed in a blur. Andvír was first out, as usual, retching over himself and wandering off to pass out in some corner. One by one, each man quit, until there were just three of them – Ulrad, Andróg and the elf. His own head was spinning, his stomach unsettled, and his newly filled tankard seemed like the most unappealing thing in the world. Much more appealing was the elf, relaxed and free. Beleg lounged back on one elbow, his shirt riding up to expose an inch or two skin, his clear laughter ringing over the hall like a bell.

How dare Ulrad make him laugh.

He locked eyes with Beleg as he raised his mug. The elf mimicked him, and they drank together, draining the whole mug in one go. Andróg was left gasping. Beleg pulled his mug away from his lips slowly and Andróg could see a drop of beer on those perfect lips.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

He couldn’t do this anymore.

Andróg threw his empty mug down and stormed from the hall into the corridor, walking until he found a quiet niche. He pressed his forehead against the cold stone, breathing deeply.

“Are you quite alright?”

Beleg’s soft voice could have shattered him. Andróg steeled himself and turned.

“You were winning. Why did you leave?”

“I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“Since when did you care so much about me?” Andróg hissed, anger covering for shame. How could such simple words have such an effect on him? Damn you, damn you, damn you.

“I don’t know.” Beleg seemed to want to say more, but something was holding him back. Andróg had no such reservations.

“What have you done to me, elf? Why can’t you just leave me alone? I can’t undo what we did to you – Eru, I wish we had not done it if this torment is the price. Get out my head! Get out!”

The next thing he knew was his back hitting stone and Beleg’s lips on his. He tasted of beer; his lips softer than any woman Andróg had ever kissed. But he was not gentle – Beleg pinned him against the wall as he devoured him, hungry, as if he could answer every question Andróg had with just this kiss. Andróg suddenly felt sober, his hands twisting into Beleg’s hair to hold him into place. You won’t get away from me.

When the kiss ended, they were both breathless, staring into each other’s faces. They needed no more words. One kiss followed another, rough hands tearing clothes from each other. Beleg could hold him easily against the wall, a knee between his legs. This was no place for gentle, loving caresses. They both wanted violence, sought the domination of each other, of themselves, a cathartic release that even the battlefield could not match.

“Not here.” Andróg hissed, his bitten lip bloody. It was clear where this was going; he could feel how heated he had got the elf, almost hear his heart racing. Was it wrong, then, if they both wanted it?

“Mm. My room. Neithan will not be back. Andróg?”

“Yes?”

“I didn’t quit the game. Ulrad passed out. I won.”

“Fuck you.”

*

He dragged Andróg to his bed, wasting no time in divesting him of his shirt and letting the man climb on top of him. The fresh stubble on his face felt like heaven against Beleg’s cheek and for a brief moment he allowed himself to entertain the idea that the man had shaved it just so, just for him. His next few dreams were definitely going to involve that beard. If only Elves could grow them.

Andróg’s hands were as rough as his face as he tore the tunic from Beleg. Damn it. He only had a few good ones. He opened his mouth to complain, only to be engulfed in another kiss, Andróg’s teeth sinking deliciously into his lower lip. Eru. How could this feel so good? He had not even touched himself since setting eyes on Andróg. All dreams of him – and Valar, there had been many – were chased away with cold water and fresh air.

Neither of them were going to pretend this was some tender, loving embrace of lovers long parted. There was a need in them both, to see where this would go, fan the fire that smoked between them.

Maybe it would go away after. Maybe one night was all they needed. A release of energy.

Andróg tugged at the waist of Beleg’s trousers. The man was a heavy weight over him, solid, almost overpowering. It bought back memories Beleg had struggled for months to banish. No, no, do not think of that. Think of how good he feels over you. How good he will feel inside you.

Batting his hands away, Beleg unlaced his own trousers, arching his hips up into the man’s groin, delighting in the ragged moan that left his lips. The thrill of power. In his dreams, Andróg had always been beneath him, below him. He had dreamt of enacting a violent revenge, repeating each and every suffering at the man’s hands. This was much better. He could punish Andróg without the man ever knowing it.

Trousers removed, he felt Andróg lean forward, a calloused hand curling around his cock. It felt good. But the sight was better. At his angle, him half reclining on bed, he could pretend Andróg was on his knees before him. Powerless. Yes. Who is the strong one now?

In a moment of rare brilliance, Andróg’s hot mouth encased Beleg’s cock and it was all he could manage not to spill right there. Rather, he twisted his hands in Andróg’s hair, holding the man down until he started to go red in the face.

Andróg drew back and hissed at him, cursing him even as he swallowed his cock again. Aptly warned with the graze of teeth against his delicate flesh, Beleg dug his nails into his own palms, leaving pink crescents on his skin.

Andróg seemed to know just how to touch him, his beard rubbing against Beleg’s thighs, leaving red marks and bite marks on the tender skin, bringing him right to the edge.

Then he stopped.

“You got any salve?”

“Fuck, uh… In my kit. The red tin.” Andróg climbed off him to retrieve it and without warning Beleg felt all the heat in his body leave. Nausea threatened to overcome him. He couldn’t do this. Oh, dear Valar, he couldn’t do this. How was he supposed to do this? Let the man who had tortured him fuck him?

Andróg must have seen the fear in his eyes. He looked puzzled for a moment. “You a virgin, elf? I’ll be gentle.”

No. Gentle was the last thing he wanted. Beleg stood, eyes locked on the naked man before him, and snatched the salve from his hands.

“No. Get on the bed. Let me do it.”

Andróg’s cock twitched and he obeyed in an instant. Beleg wasn’t sure what he was expecting him to do, but it was evidently not this.

With one leg up on the bed, Beleg coated his fingers in the smooth salve, then reached down and pressed two of them into himself, groaning. Andróg moaned with him, pumping his own cock in time with the movements of Beleg’s hand. This was much better – Beleg lost himself in the comfort of his own hand, the security of it, but did not let himself close his eyes. Instead, he watched Andróg, relishing in the way those greedy brown eyes raked over his body, his scars, everything. Worship me.

When he was ready, he grabbed Andróg’s wrists, holding them up behind his head. The man looked so vulnerable like this. Beleg was stronger than him. If he had wanted to, he could throw him to floor and tell him to get out and there was nothing Andróg could do about it. Leave him wanting and yearning and unfulfilled. What a punishment that would be. But why should he? Was it not a better punishment to use the man for his own needs?

When he heard no objection, and positioning himself carefully, he lowered himself onto the man’s cock, his gasp mingling with Andróg’s whine.

He set a racing pace, a desperate rocking of his hips, not caring how sore he would be in the morning. He could deal with that then. Andróg’s hands burned bruises into his hips, pulling him closer, closer.

But it was Beleg who was in charge, Beleg who set the tone. Andróg’s head fell back as he came, hot and hard inside Beleg, the bliss on his face enough to send Beleg following him down into ecstasy. His seed spurted across his own hand and Andróg’s chest. If I could only mark him like he did to me.

Exhaustion swept over him and he collapsed beside Andróg, the man’s arm coming to rest over his chest. There must have been a strange look on his face, because the man frowned and leaned in to kiss him.

“Go to sleep, elf. We can talk in the morning. You look fucking exhausted.”

This time, Beleg was happy to obey his command.

*

The morning dawned far too soon for Beleg’s liking. His head pounded, but not from drink – Andróg had been a fool to believe weak Mannish beer would be enough to get him properly drunk. Instead, it was his own actions that made him feel sick. Andróg. The man he wanted to hate most in the world. He’d kissed him. Andróg had kissed him back.

He moved to sit up, recognising an aching in his thighs and between his legs.

Eru. He’d let Andróg fuck him.

What was wrong with him? Why could he not hate the man? Why did he not regret his lapse in judgement, push the man from his bed, pretend this had never happened? What if Andróg used it as leverage over him?

There is no shame in desire. But there was now. How could he desire Andróg, of all men? He could have Túrin, or Algund, or Andvír, or any member of the Gaurwaith that he wanted. Why the man who had haunted his days and nights?

Perhaps that was why. He could not deny how good it had felt to have Andróg under him, to see him at his mercy, even if it were not the vengeance, he thought he’d burned for.

What now?

“Andróg? Are you awake?”

“Beleg.” His name sent fresh chills down his spine. He heard so rarely from Andróg’s lips, as if the man purposely avoided calling him by his name. But he had last night. “What is it? You want me gone, right?”

“… I don’t. Well. Yes. Before Neithan comes back. I do not want to have that conversation with him.”

“Are,” Andróg hesitated. “Are we doing this again sometime?”

“Do you want to?” Do I?

“Yes.” At least Andróg was a straight-forward man. Beleg rolled over to look at him.

“Good. There is nothing else to talk about.” Nothing else they were ready to talk about. “Now get out. I need a bath.”

Weeks stretched into months. He and Andróg continued their dance. Some nights they would stay up in the hall talking into the small hours, discussions Beleg had never thought he would have with any Man but Túrin. Other times they would hardly speak a word to each other for weeks.

At first, he thought they would fight less. He could not have been more wrong; each fight was worse than the last, all scathing words and bitter accusations. But they were always followed – the next day, the next week, whenever their tempers had cooled a little – by the best sex of Beleg’s life. They were not always rough, but always self-serving, seeking to push the other as far as he would go, as if making the other balk was the goal of the game.

He didn’t mind it. If pressed, he would say he enjoyed it. But like Amon Rûdh, it could not last.

Beleg stared at the cold sky, bound to their ground by Mîm ’s cruel device. Instead of panic, instead of fear, there was only grief. Túrin. Andróg. The Gaurwaith. All gone, lost to the smoke. Lost to the dwarf’s bitterness. If he hated me so, why bring them down too?

In the darkness he heard Mîm laugh as he advanced, and he could only hope he was preparing to end his misery.

That blow never came. His bounds were released. Beleg opened his eyes to Andróg’s bloody face. There was a dart in the man’s throat, but he raised a hand weakly, grasping at Beleg’s tunic. His meaning was clear – I have repaid that debt.

He held him as the man shuddered, his breath bubbling with blood, the light in eyes ebbing away. Beleg could not even sob. All he could do was lean down and kiss him, for the first time tender, loving. A kiss full of grief, regret. In another world, perhaps they could have been different men. Perhaps they could be happy. They would have been happy if they had never met. You have ruined me, Andróg of Dor-Lómin.

Andróg’s blood smeared his face and shirt as he laid the dead lay on the earth, folding his hands over the hilt of his broken sword, his bow tucked under his arm. If only he had time to build a cairn for him. For all of them. But Túrin was waiting. Every second could his friend’s last. For the Gaurwaith, he had to save their Captain.

“When I return, I will give you the burial you deserve.”

In the end, neither of them had a proper grave.