At the end of the path by ohboromir

At the end of the path

Beleg had once thought he was suited to battle. His heart was courageous, his feet steady and his arm tireless. He had dreamed of himself as a knight of great valour, a mighty hero, whose foes fled at the very sight of him. It was at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad he had learned that he was wrong. A skirmish in familiar land was one thing; he had found open war entirely another. There was only glory for the dead. Those who lived gained only horror and grief.

This lesson he had tried to impart on Túrin all his life, with what he would describe as middling success. Túrin's heart had still desired vengeance and renown.

But such was the nature of youth and of men.

Though Túrin was not a youth by the standard of men, not now. In the long years since Beleg’s spirit had fled to the Halls of Waiting, fate had hardened him.

Death had taken its toll; even now, as Túrin stood on the precipice of his long-awaited (and hard-earned!) victory, he seemed weary. Would it have been kinder to let him remain, in the Void, at Ilúvatar’s side, beyond Arda - wherever it was the souls of men rested?

Yet Beleg would not deny that he was glad to see him. Beleg could still see in the grief-lines and scars of his face the youthful charm that had first ensnared his heart. His heart swelled as Túrin took his hands. They felt as they always had - sword-worn but warm.

“Beleg.” His voice shook. Beleg had never known Túrin’s voice to shake. He squeezed his hands, revelling in the solid reality of his presence.

“Túrin, my Túrin.” he breathed, and then he could wait no longer - he leant down and captured Túrin’s lips in a kiss, a kiss that held all the promises that he could not put into words.

Should the world be destroyed now and never remade, should the remaking take them far apart, should Túrin return to the resting place of Men - in this moment he was real and Beleg had him, and not even the end of Arda could change that.