The Labour of My Love by ohboromir

The Labour of My Love

The ground here is rough and sharp and his feet are bloody. He has walked for so long. Since Amon Rûdh he has walked, on the trail of the orc pack that held the dearest thing to him in all the world. But they are ever one step ahead of him, and he cannot catch them. In the forests of Dorthonion he lost track of them, but it does not matter. There is only place they would bring Túrin, dead or alive, and so now he has come to the gates of Angband themselves.

He is alone. He has only Belthronding, Anglachel lost in the dark woods of Dorthonion, Dailir broken in two. Only death could possibly await him inside those walls.

Death, and Túrin.

But Beleg cannot not turn back now, even as dread sinks further into his bones. As Lúthien had done so will he. He has no song and no magic, but his love for Túrin was as great as hers, and he will succeed.

Somewhere in the dark cells, he imagines his lover beaten and bloody. He imagines the cruel sting of torment at the hands of the horrors that lurk here. And his sweet Túrin is stubborn and proud. He will not hold his tongue for the sake of saving himself. Beleg despairs.

Somehow, he reaches the dark throne room alive. Is it good luck, or simply that he has some other, pre-ordained, doom? He doesn’t think the difference matters anymore.

The doors are five times as tall as the ones that guard Menegroth’s throne room, but they open without a touch and without the slightest sound. The hall is so dark even Beleg’s sharp eyes cannot see. But he takes a step. Another and another, until out of the darkness a shape rises.

“Thou hast reached us at last, hunter.”

His legs tremble. The voice is light with amusement, yet full of malice, the pure power in it threatened to overwhelm Beleg, as if Morgoth could command him to die with a single word. His doubts swim to the front of his mind: run, run now and live and leave Túrin to whatever awful fate awaits him.

No. No. He stands firm. It is better that he dies with a clear conscience. He turns his gaze up to see Morgoth’s face, but in the glittering glow of the remaining Silmarils, he can only see the void of his eyes.

“Hast thou misplaced thy voice?”

“I have come for the life of one whom I love. Túrin, son of Húrin.”

Morgoth laughs; Beleg thinks he can hear more laughter, shriller, and he wonders what else - who else - lurks in the darkness.

“Is that so?”

Beleg hears the challenge in the words: Morgoth thinks him a fool for coming here, for daring to make demands of a Vala. Beleg agrees with him. He is a fool, but he is a fool driven by love. This is the kind of quest that songs are made of - whether he succeeds or fails, his trying was testament to the strength of his love, and that was what would be remembered. He swallows the fear in his throat.

“I do not mean to deceive you - I am no enchantress like those who have come before me. I will make a trade.”

It is a fair trade he means to offer. A life for a life. The thought of his own death does not frighten him. He has lived many long ages. Túrin has so little time; Beleg will gladly trade his eternity so that Túrin might live to see his own years to their full height, whether they will number ten or fifty.

Morgoth is silent. There is the clanking of chains, a soft, pained groan and the grunt of someone lifting something heavy. The room explodes into red light, torches bursting to life at Morgoth’s desire.

“Túrin!” He wants to run to his side, but he is rooted to the spot. He does not know if it is fear or enchantment that holds him in place. But Turin is there, chained and unconscious. There is blood on his face. Beleg’s heart constricts. But he is alive. “Oh, Turin.”

All doubts cease. Beleg’s faith is renewed; as Lúthien has done, so will I. Though his heart is set, his mouth is still dry, tongue heavy as he reluctantly turns his gaze back to Morgoth. His words fight their way out.

“I have no jewel to offer; no dance or song to entertain or enchant you. But I will offer something else - myself, in his place. If it is a prisoner you want, surely one of the Firstborn is a sweeter prize than a mortal boy.”

Morgoth laughs again and the sound freezes Beleg’s blood. He tries to not choke on it.

“So quickly thou offer thyself. I might almost call you eager. Thou art no prize, Cúthalion, only a soldier playing at nobility.” Morgoth gloats. One hand, grey as ash, stretches out and curls a clawed finger under Túrin’s chin. Túrin groans, and a dribble of blood drips from his mouth. “But thou art amusing in thy arrogance. I will keep thee. Kneel.”

Relief floods him. He expected bartering, begging, pleading. He expected Morgoth to demand more, to ask for something terrible. He has hunted Túrin too long to give him up so easily.

But Beleg is not ungrateful. Perhaps Elbereth’s light shines on his luck.

So he kneels.

It is done. A deal is made and he cannot go back.

Morgoth raises his ashen hand, and chains drop from Túrin’s arms. The guard beside him lets him fall to the floor, and binds Beleg’s hands with the shackles instead. The metal is so cold.

“Give him a kiss, elf. It will be your last.”

Beleg cannot stand with the weight of the chains, but he crawls instead, gathering Túrin’s body in his arms. He is pale, bloody, and when he opens his eyes, he looks up at Beleg without recognition. Elbereth, what have they done to him?

“Túrin…” He leans down and brushes a dark curl from Túrin’s face. Then, tender as the dawn, he brushed a kiss against his lips.

Túrin dissipates in his arms. Morgoth’s haunting laughter echoes through the hall, then more laughter; the hall opens up to reveal the host of Angband’s generals, watching in glee as Beleg stares at his empty arms, his heart sinking. He should have known: it was all too easy.

“Enjoy thy new home, Cúthalion. Let us hope thy lover is not as rash as thee.”

In the deep woods of Dorthonion, an escaped thrall guides a weeping man through the shadows.