Request: Something bittersweet. Try to include horses, swift-flowing water and birdsong.

Summary: " ...And Beleg and Túrin were companions in every peril, and walked far and wide in the wild woods together." Six vignettes of Beleg and Túrin, on the marches of Doriath and beyond.

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They are calling, calling, Away, come away!
    And we know not whence they call;
For the song is in our hearts, we hear it night and day,
    As the deep tides rise and fall:
O, Death will never find us in the heart of the wood
    While the hours and the years ride by!
We have heard it, we have heard it, but we have
    not understood
We must wander on together, you and I.

-Alfred Noyes, In the Heart of the Woods

All shall be well,
But not for me
But not for me.
- Current 93, In the Heart of the Wood and What I found There

~ ~ ) * (~ ~

I.

Though the trill of the flute and the makeshift drumming of hands rose warmly to the rafters, the ears of the Elves on the marches of Doriath were ever alert to the sounds of movement or mischief. Thus, none of them so much as flinched when the door was thrown wide and the shadow of an unlooked for visitor spilled across the floor, a gust of cold air blustering in behind him like a reproach, but merely looked up in their leisure with mild curiosity.

Mablung called out a greeting and waved the newcomer in. "Any time tonight will do, boy," he chuckled, "but breath of Manwë, shut the cursed door!"

Túrin did as he was bidden, but his look of displeasure told of a deed done grudgingly. His plate and mail glinted in the firelight, turning him to a beacon against the Elves' dull leather and wool. The queue that sprung from the nape of his neck was as severe as his expression, and his shoulders, mantled tonight in the grey cloak Thingol had given him to mark the day of his birth, stiffened under the burden of sword, shield, and traveling pack. From beneath his arm, Glaurung's fell countenance atop the Helm of Hador cast a blank gaze of contempt over their revels.

"I am come too late, perhaps," he said tautly. "All the Orcs and dark creatures have been slain and you have made your war on Morgoth, else you would not be lazing about in mirth and merriment."

The piping stopped, and hands ceased their playful patter, but the echo of the music lingered just above their heads. Its ringing presence rendered the ensuing silence all the more damning. On his bunk, Beleg--who had presently been coasting on the verge of sleep -- kneaded his forehead as if beset by a sharp and sudden pain.

Mablung's brow arced like a bowstring, and those who best knew him tensed, knowing well the calm that presaged their captain's storm.

"Biting words from one who has not seen the marches since his childhood, when he wandered lost, half-naked and hungry, delivered here by Cuthalion's lucky intervention. If we take a measure of mirth and merriment here, it is a measure we have earned in sweat and blood."

Dagnir set aside his flute and lifted a leather flask in Túrin's direction. "Come now," he called out amiably, "set down your load and have some wine. This is no night for a dour face."

"No," Túrin replied, adding a perfunctory "thank you" to blunt the edge of his refusal only slightly.

Mablung's jaw twitched. "You accepted our hospitality readily enough in the hour of your desperation, son of Húrin."

No one had noticed Beleg slipping down from his bunk until he materialized in the space between the adversaries.

"Dagnir! Another song!" his voice snapped like a lash. "And someone toss a flask to Galchen. He looks parched." As he spoke, he pried the pack from Túrin's unyielding back. "Come, friend, you carry quite a hindrance, and it is late. Let us find you a bunk."

"I am not tired," Túrin protested, but he followed Beleg to the end of the lodge, his complaint lost beneath the renewed strains of piping and song.

"A fine entrance you have made," he quietly scolded, tossing Beleg's pack up to one of the empty berths. He clucked his tongue, prompting Túrin to scowl. "A wiser man would not have alienated captain and comrades before even doffing his cloak. I take it Thingol has sent you?"

"No, Thingol did not send me," Túrin grunted. "He refused my request for a war party, thus I came here of my own accord." He tugged off his cloak with a flourish and threw it carelessly over the rest of his belongings. "There is naught else I can do as one man alone."

Beleg grabbed his shoulder and wrenched him around, trapping him in a warning gaze. "And is what I and my fellows do here so little, then? Do you find our efforts menial?" Túrin had wit enough to blanch at this, but Beleg gave no quarter. "There is much one man might do alone, Túrin, but a man has the command of his tongue and his temper to do it, and the wisdom and patience to know when to stay his hand. Seventeen summers you have seen, son of Húrin, but it is your form alone that is a man's. You show a boy's defiance still."

"And I suppose an Elf will be the one to show me what it is to be a Man?" Túrin scoffed.

Beleg laughed aloud, impervious to Túrin's grousing as a hound to the milk-teeth of a pup. "Yes, and I am just the one. Your first lesson shall be this: sleep. Or failing that, take some wine and show a more civil face. For myself, I choose sleep and a fresh start at dawn."

"Morgoth does not sleep."

"Nay," Beleg returned, "I should think he fears sleep as a mortal enemy, and dares not let his foul eye falter for a moment." He toed off his boots, uncinched his belt from his waist, and swung effortlessly into his bunk. "But I, on the other hand, have a conscience that is tolerably clean, and I do not fear the respite of dreams."

When Túrin did not move, Beleg tossed him a blanket which he made no move to catch. "Sleep, Túrin. You have amends to make in the morning, and the words will not stick so in your throat when you are rested."

Presently, the wood frame shuddered, and the ropes that strung the adjacent bunk groaned under Túrin's weight as he heaved himself aloft.

"You speak to me like a child. I am grown now, Cuthalion, with a Man's strength and a Man's pride."

Beleg, with his face turned to the wall, sighed and pulled the blanket higher. "Good night, friend. Sleep well." His voice was dulled against the stones. Túrin did not speak again.

Yet despite his admonitions, sleep was now lost to Beleg. He lay silent and wakeful long into the night, until Dagnir's songs had ceased and Mablung had banked the fire in the hearth. Hearing, at last, the heavy sighs of Túrin's slumbering breath, he sat up silently and turned, and until first light he kept watch over the rhythmic rise and fall of Túrin's chest, wondering when the awkward child that he had so conscientiously shepherded had become a comely, if sullen, stranger.

II.

"Beleg!"

Túrin's voice sounded over the fracas, a clarion cry amidst the grunts and roars and metallic clatterings of combat. The incursions had become more frequent of late, and more brazen; dark creatures harried the marches and sought ever to find a weak spot in Melian's inviolable shield. Five days they had been engaged in this most recent skirmish, bouts of disastrous violence followed by portentous lulls that fortokened savagery renewed.

Túrin had been forgiven his audacity, repented it, even, and henceforth had proven his mettle by deed rather than word, fighting with indefatigable fervor. Two years now he had dwelt with Thingol's march-wardens, winning acclaim far beyond his years. Ever was Beleg the stalwart and fell-handed at his side, in rest as in battle, the only one who surpassed him yet in skill and valor. Though now, as Mablung and his men drove the horde north, Beleg had been engaged by a rogue, and the vicious collision of their blades sang a tocsin in Túrin's ears.

He fought his way toward them, hewing the foemen in his path, black blood marking his trail like a vile river. He heard a shout of pain--Beleg's-- and then his own joined it as a bolt pierced his thigh. Someone's hands were soon upon him, and he felt himself pulled out of the fray. He could not see what had become of Beleg.

Yet they were reunited soon enough when the fighting had finished, and Túrin saw that Beleg had taken a wound to his breast. He tried to sit up, but his leg burned fiercely straight down through to his toes.

"The sword is not your best weapon," he hissed, forcing his lips to grin over gritted teeth. "You should have left the blade-work to me."

Beleg smiled wanly. "Impudent pup. I taught you all you know of swords." He stopped speaking for a moment, beads of sweat rising across his ashen brow. "But you seem more in need of remedial lessons in archery, the first of which is to stay on the fletched end of the arrow!"

A retort formed on Túrin's lips and died there as his stomach roiled. The bolt had been withdrawn, but some poison lingered in the wound. The sky lurched and spun above his head.

Beleg carefully rose from his cot and moved to him. "Here. Lie back."

"You should not move about so soon," Túrin half-heartedly objected.

"Never mind that."

Beleg came to him, and with hands that held more skill and wisdom than any other Túrin had ever known, pressed down against his thigh. His touch was gentle as a lover's, and where his palm met Túrin's flesh, a soothing coolness spread. The blighting sap was drawn out of him, and even the breath in his lungs felt cleansed for Beleg's touch. He was loath to relinquish that proffered tenderness and sense of well-being when at last the healing hands retreated. He sighed, and Beleg reached down to him and brushed the hair out of his eyes and drew his fingers down his cheek. His expression was inscrutable.

"I feared for you, you know," Túrin told him.

Beleg's face softened. "You should not have. My fate wills not that I shall drink the draught of death from foes."

"Aye, the Eldar have little concern for death. Nor do I fear it; the Edain are born for it."

"Yet you should not rush to meet it, else it find you sooner than you would wish. You have much left to do, son of Húrin."

Túrin saw then that the wound to Beleg's breast had reopened. "You tend to me at your own peril, it seems." He raised his hand to touch the bandage now glistening red, and brought his bloody fingers to his thigh. "There. Now we have blended in battle the blood of our wounds."

Beleg's smile faltered at this, but Túrin had already turned his head the other way.

III.

The Orcs had been routed, save for a small band of the wounded and the craven who scattered and fled. Snow had begun to fall, and by sunset on the morrow it would lie in thick drifts, swaddling the woods in white. Now the march-wardens rejoiced, for Morgoth's creatures did not strike so hard in the cold season, and when they came, fewer in number, they were easily spotted, easily tracked, and weakened by hunger.

Beleg's voice keened long and low over his blade, a song of sharpening that honed the edge to razor sharpness. Túrin watched him, his eyes following the slow passage of hands over steel. He envied this skill, but it was Elven magic, a song no human tongue could sound. He had only his whetstone and the bits of swarf that burrowed beneath his fingernails.

When Beleg finished, he looked up and smiled. "Yule is coming."

"Another excuse for the men to slink off into the darkness and rut like beasts." Túrin's mouth turned down in a slight scowl.

Beleg appraised him cautiously, then set himself to oiling his scabbard. "So you are a Man, indeed: though raised among the Elves, you spurn their customs. What is it to you if your brothers-in-arms seek respite with one another? Our days are long here and our pleasures few, and they are discrete in their dealings." He could feel the narrowing focus of Túrin's grey eyes upon his back as surely as if they had been dagger-points biting deep and sharp into his skin.

"I have not known you to indulge in such undignified dealings;" the Man challenged.

Save for the quick twitch of one eye, Beleg's face remained impassive. He could not say if Túrin had taken note of it or not.

* * *

Above the tall pines and the denuded arms of oak, ash, and alder, the night sky stretched dark, infinite and cold. Yet it was warm and inviting inside the lodge, and save for the few sentries remaining outside Melian's Girdle after drawing the short lots from Mablung's fist, all of the march-wardens but one had gathered within. Túrin made himself conspicuous by his absence.

Wine and mead flowed freely, the last of autumn's apples were brought out from the stores, and Beleg had taken down a fine stag and gralloched it for the men to roast. The guardians of Doriath were well-fed and happy, and primed for a bit of mischief. When he did not have his flute pressed to his lips, Dagnir cast roguish looks at Beleg, and when he did play, his eyes followed Beleg through the length and breadth of the room. Beleg considered the possibilities. Perhaps a night spent engaged in rough pursuits might draw his mind away from the path it had followed so often of late, a path that plagued his nights with infernal regularity, but did not bear close scrutiny come dawn.

The night wore on, though Beleg's heart was not in the festivities. He found himself alternately wondering where Túrin had hidden himself, and to what end, and chastising himself for his concern; Túrin, after all, was a Man-- in form, and in fact now, and he took pains to remind everyone of this, Beleg in particular. Beleg knew such concern would have annoyed him.

Dagnir's overtures became less oblique, and Beleg found himself not assenting so much as acquiescing. But Dagnir was no fool. As he ushered Beleg out the door and into a quiet copse out of earshot of the lodge, he slung his arm companionably around Beleg's shoulders.

"Likely he set himself to checking the snares and making certain the sentries are on their guard. You know how he makes himself scarce when there is aught afoot but battle."

He leaned back against a tree and let his head fall backward, provocatively baring the pillar of his throat. "Come, Strongbow, have at it," he growled. "I am drawn tight as your Belthronding this eve."

Beleg met the challenge and thrust his hand between Dagnir's legs, finding him already half-hard and eager for sport. He kneaded him through his breeches, saw his hips rising to ride the friction, and beneath his palm he could feel Dagnir's erection become engorged and demanding. His own body had just begun to stir, though not as ardently as Dagnir's; his thoughts were elsewhere, and he had never been of much use when mind and body were not united. There was a hollow futility to these joinings, he thought, which was why he so rarely sought company of this manner. His body was well accustomed to heeding the demands of his mind, and hungers could be sublimated when the will was strong enough. Dagnir showed no such reluctance to indulge in mere physicality. He reached for Beleg and made a disgruntled noise at finding his partner so disengaged.

With some effort, Beleg reeled in his mind and permitted himself to take some pleasure at Dagnir's touches, but the spider-silk traceries of fugitive thought spun far and free, and the spark wrought by his comrade's hands was not enough to kindle him. There was something drawing him, calling to him, and he knew not what.

The air seemed to be in motion around him, and Beleg became aware of a presence neither benevolent nor malign: a watcher; eyes in the woods espying their revels. Dagnir grasped his wrist and jerked it, reminding him of the task at hand. He had already abandoned his attempts at reciprocation; Beleg's distraction had rendered the effort fruitless. Beleg did not mind; it was not the first time he had found himself in such straits, and not likely to be the last. His senses moved unfettered in the darkness in search of the interloper. He was close. When he scented the familiar strains of leather, of iron and sweat, intuition became certainty: Túrin.

The brittle snap of a twig reverberated in the quiet of the forest, and both Beleg and Dagnir swiveled their heads. There was nothing to be seen, only ice-capped evergreens and the aureate glow of the fire in the windows of the lodge beyond them. Túrin was far too keen a tracker for that; he might have spirited himself away in total silence, unseen by any, and unnoticed by all but Beleg, who was ever attuned to him; he had given himself away on purpose.

When Beleg turned back, Dagnir was watching him, a small smile of mingled compassion and disappointment playing on his face. "That was Túrin, I suppose." Beleg's silence was confirmation enough. "You wish to go to him," he said.

Beleg blew out a breath and it spooled out of his mouth, a spiraling column of smoke. "I do, yes. I must."

Dagnir nodded and let him go.

* * *

He found Túrin easily enough; he had not gone far. Beleg made no secret of himself, as if he should abjure his skill in stealth, humble himself with the creaking of snow beneath his boot-soles, to expiate Túrin's discomfort.

Túrin wheeled around sharply. "I find I spoke too soon when I named you immune from base indignities."

The shadows made evil shapes across his face, and in them, Beleg caught something of the darkness that harbored at the edges of Túrin's soul seeking ever to blight his hopes. An answering sorrow blossomed in his own heart.

"Túrin ..."

"Let me be, Cuthalion."

Beleg stepped back, but resisted the urge to incline his head. He had done nothing requiring forgiveness, had done nothing to court shame or censure. He would not be cowed by a youth who had barely crossed the cusp of manhood and who held the customs of Men superior to his own. "As you wish," he said, his head held erect, and he said no other words to Túrin that evening, but turned back toward the lodge, leaving him alone in the lightless wood.

* * *

For days, Túrin's sullen mien lingered low like a fog and he held himself aloof as he had when first he had come to the marches. Beleg could have throttled him for it, but the heat of his own anger was not long to burn itself out. He had neither the time nor the inclination to repine, for there were plans to be sprung. He took Mablung aside and apprised him of his intentions.

"Will you take Túrin?" Mablung asked. "He will be happier in your company than alone with us."

Beleg's face betrayed nothing. Clearly Mablung had not been made privy to the cause of Túrin 's current temper; the knights of the march were nothing if not circumspect, even with each other. He could scarcely imagine Túrin welcoming an extended sojourn with one whose proclivities he so clearly reviled, yet he knew he could not, would not, simply abandon the youth in his choler without a word.

He approached Túrin at twilight; the play of failing blue and purple light against the snow seemed a more amenable setting for reparations than the harsh glare of day.

"I will be venturing west to scout out the strongholds of Morgoth's men. There are times when stealth and cunning will serve in better stead than numbers."

Túrin frowned. "I see. How long will you be gone?"

Beleg's shoulders rose noncommittally. "Until my errand is complete. Through the winter, likely, and perhaps beyond." Watching the furrow between the man's brow deepen, he extended a figurative hand. "Would you care to accompany me? Two can still move in silence, and it has been long since we have roved alone together. Not since you were still a boy."

The soft sibilance of an indrawn breath was as much an assent as Túrin's small, cautious smile. His ire, it seemed, departed as swiftly as it commenced. Ah, the maddening and mercurial temperament of Men!

"You know," Túrin avowed, not looking Beleg in the eye, "there is no place in the world that I would not follow you."

As I would follow you, Beleg thought, turning his face to the West where the last strokes of daylight were sinking below the horizon. Yet there are some places that a Man cannot follow an Elf, and some places where an Elf may not follow a Man.

Then he chided himself for for the maudlin wanderings of his mind, and offered Túrin a smile encompassing all the truths he could not speak.

IV.

They rode west, departing at dawn, and by the time the sun had ventured halfway through its daily journey, they had reached a wider road Thingol's men had often used to move supplies. It sloped gently upward over the fells and to the north.

"What say you," Túrin grinned, patting his horse on the rump. A boyishness returned to his face that Beleg had despaired of ever seeing again, though even in youth it had appeared but sparingly. "Shall we give them a chance to stretch their legs?"

Beleg could hardly deny him such a simple request. The unanticipated levity, so strange in Túrin and ever fleeting, gladdened him greatly. He took up the slack in his reins. "At your signal."

Túrin immediately set his heels to his horse's sides and sent him hurtling up the road, leaving Beleg easily three lengths behind him. But as the road curved northward, Túrin heard the drumming of hoofbeats approaching, and in a trice, Beleg had overtaken him, his great grey mount thundering forward.

I have seen the wind in fleshly form, Túrin thought with awe. Beleg's horse was but an extension of his body, a living manifestation of beauty and prowess. His expression, fleetingly as Túrin had seen it, was focused and determined, yet untroubled by tension. Túrin had seen him thus in battle, composed even as the foe swarmed thick around him: a perfection of form and purpose annealed by mastery of skill. In the face of such a vision, Túrin hardly had the heart to spur his horse further. He watched Beleg fly out of sight beyond the curve of the road, breathless with the potency of his vision.

They met again where the road rose to a peak. Through the trees, they could hear the distant rushing of the river Mindeb hurrying on to join Sirion and see far into Dimbar beyond.

"Here let us make our camp," Beleg directed, but his voice was soft, and his eyes lingered on the distant plain.

* * *

In their corner of the primordial forest, they might have thought the land utterly forgotten, or as yet undiscovered, by all save Melian whose powerful magic gave them refuge and the safety of sleep after long days spent stealthily seeking the enemy's lairs.

Túrin oft spoke as if they were lords of this place, hinting at aspirations that left Beleg with an unaccountable feeling of foreboding. Foreboding became a physical frisson, like crossing a grave, when Túrin referred to their little domain as their 'land of Helm and Bow.' Something in the name struck Beleg ill, but Túrin took such simple pride in it that Beleg did not dwell overmuch on his presentiment.

Yet though Túrin was happy in those days, the restlessness which had ever defined him could not be kept at bay. He sought something, but he knew not what, and his mind wrestled ever with thoughts of his destiny. He longed for greatness, though he never admitted such aloud, and he carried in his heart a seed of resentment toward Thingol which Beleg found unaccountable, and troubling.

"He has shown you all the love and kindness that a father could bestow," Beleg reminded him.

"I had a father who was valiant and wise; I had no need of another."

Beleg shrugged, and Túrin saw that his ageless eyes had taken on the lambent light that told the Elf's thoughts had strayed into the ancient past, to a time beyond the reckoning of even the oldest house of Men.

"I would not know," he spoke softly, "I have no father but the forest."

Túrin waited for Beleg's mind to return before he sought the thread of their conversation out of the warp and weft of the archer's eerie woolgathering. "I am indebted to Thingol for his care, but it was not my wish, nor my doing, to find myself in anyone's debt; a debt demands repayment."

Beleg cared little for Túrin 's tone. "Thingol begrudges you nothing, nor has he made any demand on you, save that you comport yourself with honor."

"He did not find me worthy to lead a force against our foe," Túrin grunted and nudging the ground with his foot.

Ah, thought Beleg. The absurd pride of Men once again rears its petulant head. "Thingol is a king first and foremost; he must consider the good of all of his people. Whether you wish to hear it or no, the wisdom of Thingol and Melian will ever be greater than your own."

"And the deeds of another Mortal will ever be held in higher esteem. Melian herself told me that my destiny lay lower than Beren One-Hand. Yet how can I prove otherwise when my deeds are hampered by lack of support?"

Beleg touched Túrin's chin and raised the Man's head to regard him. "Greatness is not only measured in deed, Túrin. It matters little if a man's actions are sung in ages yet to come by strangers if those who knew him in life remember him without kindness at his passing. One may find the weight of memory greater by far than the sum of deeds."

He stood then, and offered his hand to Túrin, bidding him rise. "And there is more to the woods than the slaying of Orcs, or have you forgotten all that I have taught you?"

He drew Túrin away, and they walked in silence for a time until they reached a shallow tributary, cold and clear with a crust of ice lining its banks, that came down from the mountains and trickled east through the Forest of Neldoreth to join the Esgalduin. It trilled over the rocks in a remote whisper. He forced his fingers past the rimy shell and felt the frigid water passing between them, then dipped further and drew his cupped hand forth, raising it for Túrin to drink.

"It is sweet," he said.

With the stream singing behind them, Beleg told Túrin of his awakening by the shores of Cuivienen, and the sound of the waters there. It was a story Túrin had heard many times before, but of which he never tired. "All water has its voice," Beleg intoned, "All water has its story." Túrin, anticipating the words, mouthed them silently at his side.

"The Sirion sings of homecoming, of returning over the sea; the Esgalduin of love for the trees."

"Tell me, Beleg," Túrin asked, "what does our little water sing? Does it extol the great deeds of the Strongbow and the son of Húrin?"

But Beleg had heard great sorrow in the song of their stream. He smiled mildly, his unfocused eyes following the water's course. "It sings its own song."

That night, as every night, they bundled tight together against the cold, though Beleg was long inured to it. Túrin soon found he could only reach sleep when Beleg's solid form and generous warmth was pressed against his back.

V.

With spring came renewed life in the land, but also renewed activity from their foes. Less time was spent in the camp, and more days were passed stalking in silence. The guarded peace of winter had gone the way of the snows. Gone, too, was Túrin's levity, and returned was the shadow that had ever followed at his hind. Beleg grew troubled at his darkening mood, but attempts to ameliorate it were met with sullen irritation.

"You cannot understand," Túrin snapped one evening after they had crossed back into the safety of Melian's wards.

Beleg, his patience finally pushed beyond endurance, returned a volley. "Nay, I cannot, and I weary of trying." He turned and made to walk away from their fire to cool a temper he was unaccustomed to losing.

But Túrin pounced as he turned, and jerked Beleg backward until their bodies were flush together. There was no mistaking the quickened breath or the hardness against his flank. Sweet Eru, the young buck was in rut.

"Now do you understand?" Túrin hissed, releasing him with a shove.

Beleg turned to face him. "What would you have me do, Túrin?"

"What you would have done to Dagnir," Túrin spat. The fire cast his face in a cruel light.

Beleg schooled his face to stone, and slowly hoisted a brow, careful not to show how far he had been pushed off balance. "You led me to believe that what I did with Dagnir offended your Mannish sensibilities, yet now you have the gall to demand it of me? Were you not so dear to me, I would extract the penalty of your insolence from your hide. Have a care."

Túrin howled. "I suppose you can afford to be chary with your favors, you who, it would seem, has lovers to pluck in every copse and corner! Well, what of me? Who do I have? Who would warm my bed or give me ease, one who is merely of the Edain among the Eldar, below notice or contempt!"

"A baseless accusation from one who has ever held himself apart! Perhaps you would not find yourself so lonely if you did not return every kindness with scorn!"

Túrin fumed silently, his eyes glinting like knife-blades.

"The ways of the Elves are not the ways of Men," Beleg warned. "Few of your kind would rise to the things that kindle me and mine, and I do not believe you are one of those few, Túrin. I see in your eyes a longing for round breasts and slick folds and the sweet sighs of a doe, not for the hardness and vigor of a stag."

"And I hear only a weak justification for withholding from me what you would give freely to any other in our band. Is my need for relief so much lesser in your eyes?"

Beleg looked away, his spirit wracked. "You do not know what you ask."

But Túrin was relentless and blind in his goading. He stepped close to Beleg, too close, and his voice was pitched low. "You are disingenuous, Strongbow. I may be a stripling to you yet, but I am not witless; I have seen the look upon your face in moments unguarded, and I have seen how your eyes watch me with desire. Do you deny it? Nay, you cannot, because Beleg Cuthalion does not lie."

Beleg's face darkened with humiliation and the coldness of a betrayal launched from an unexpected quarter. But his ire had at last been fully stoked, and would not be quelled before the wound to his pride was redressed. He grabbed Túrin by the throat and jerked him off the ground. An instant later, Túrin's body slammed against the trunk of the oak which had in other, gentler nights sheltered them together.

"Nay, I do not lie, nor do I suffer churls! You betray my kindness because you lack the sense to take yourself in hand and work off your appetites. Do you even know what it is that you ask?" Though Túrin was the taller of them, and his body the brawnier, anger and experience made Beleg thrawn and fierce. His fingers tightened around Túrin's neck, and he saw that lust had given way to dread. Túrin had not expected this outcome, not in the least. That only served to make Beleg more furious. "Do you even know, rash boy, what it is that men do together in the dark of night? You play this game at your peril, young one, for I could master you in ways you cannot imagine." He felt the undulation of Túrin's throat beneath his hand when he swallowed, could hear the rabbiting beat of his heart. Beleg had rattled him. Just as well.

"Do you think you would like it on your knees? Would the son of Húrin be so eager to play sheath to Beleg's sword? I bear the epessë Strongbow for more than just my battle-prowess, child. But you have too much pride, I think, to spread yourself for me, to take what I would give." He felt Túrin's erection at half-mast against his hip, roused but uncertain. Beleg himself was too wroth to be riled, and in any case, he had long been his body's master, and it would not have betrayed him now, even under duress. For that, at least, he was grateful. Any crumb of pride he could salvage was a welcome feast.

His anger was poison in a wound, and he felt weaker for it, dishonorable. Just as it had flared, it was now vanquished by shame and sorrow. He opened his hand and Túrin slumped bonelessly to the ground, rubbing his throat and looking at him with eyes no longer like knife-blades, but like those of a whipped cur, wounded and watery with pain and confusion.

Beleg clenched and unclenched his fists, turned to fetch Belthronding from where it stood against a tree, picked up his cloak and his arrows and turned away.

"I must go. Do not seek me."

"Beleg, wait!" Túrin cried, his voice harsh from the force of Beleg's hand, "Would you leave me? Would you leave our land of Helm and Bow?"

The laugh that followed was bitter and mournful. "This is not the Land of Helm and Bow, it is Thingol's Doriath. Do not make of this more than it is, Túrin: a moment of respite from our cares; an illusion fading even as we speak." He closed his eyes. "I will return... But for now..." He could not finish. "If you grow desperate for companionship, you know the way back to the lodge."

He turned away and vanished into the dark.

* * *

Two days passed, and two nights, and Túrin slept little, so great was the loneliness that had subsumed him since Beleg had exiled himself from their camp. And so, despite Beleg's order, Túrin sought him, though the woods seemed to have claimed him whole. He moved with painstaking steps, his eyes and ears straining for any trace of Beleg's presence. When at last he found the trail, it was less through his skill than from the fact that, after some miles, Beleg had taken fewer measures to disguise his passage. This gave Túrin some small measure of hope for his welcome, for if the Strongbow wished to remain hidden, there was none, save perhaps Melian with her magic, who could find him.

Beleg had returned to the tributary they had found, but far further south than he and Túrin had ever gone together. He sat now at its edge, seemingly in rapt contemplation of the water, his back to Túrin. He did not look up until Túrin was nearly beside him, and when he did, his grey eyes were anguished, and more ancient than Túrin had ever seen them.

"I have naught left to teach you if you can sneak upon me unawares."

Túrin's heart sank. Long had he dreamed of the day when he might hear Beleg name his skill surpassing, but he had envisioned it as a moment of pride, of joy to them both. Not like this, with harsh words and mistrust between them.

"Nay, surely there is much yet that you might teach me: of tenderness, of patience... of compassion." He raised his palms in appeal. It was the closest thing to contrition Beleg had ever seen from him.

"It is not tenderness that you seek, I think," Beleg frowned. "And patience? Oh, child, I have sought to instill that since the day you came into my care. Man has one nature, Elves another: we for whom time has no sting can afford a resolution of will. I do not think that the capacity for patience is within you, Túrin, not in any way that I can teach."

Túrin swallowed, turning his head aside to hide the tremor of his chin; Beleg discerned it, nonetheless. "And compassion? Is that not within me either?"

"It is," Beleg answered after a thoughtful pause, though his tone bore no gentleness. "But I think too often you mistake it for weakness, and bury it deep."

"Then there remains much I must learn. Beleg...please..."

Even now, Beleg thought, even with me, words of atonement choke him.

But to Beleg's surprise, Túrin came toward him, and sank to his knees, his head humbly bowed. "Forgive me my rashness. It would be an honor to know your loving, Beleg Strongbow."

Beleg's heart seized within his chest. He reached before him and curled his fingers in Túrin's hair, no longer stiffly plaited, but wild and tangled, like a true son of the forest. Oh, to draw that dark head near! "You are first in my heart, Túrin, and ever have been..."

"...But even so, you cannot love me, save in the manner of a friend," Túrin finished for him, pulling away from Beleg's touch, but trying to restrain the bitterness in his tone. "You would be naught but brother-in-arms to the black-haired boy from the beaten people."

Beleg's head rose, and on his face was painted plain the truth of his devotion. "Túrin, most beloved, my heart is nigh to breaking for love of you! My body, too, resonates to yours. You have ever been fair, lad, but when you appeared to me in the first flower of your manhood, it was as if I looked upon a stranger. Taller even than I, and broad of shoulder; your legs are long and quick...Túrin , I have gazed upon Belthronding and thought upon how the curve of your mouth mirrors its arc, and I have reckoned it would prove just as deadly were I to feel it against my skin. Dishonesty is beyond me, you say? Then know this: I have looked at you with eyes of desire. But you are not for me, son of Húrin, and this I know."

"If you love me, and you find me fair, cannot that be enough?"

"My heart is yours; through all the ages of the world, none other shall berth there. But you are a mortal Man for woman made, and your hope lies down another path...Once I had you, once I had known your body, I could not bear to release you, yet you would not be kept, not even by me. Your resentment would turn to hatred, and the loss of your love would slay me as sure as a blade to the heart."

"I would not abuse you so," Túrin objected.

But Beleg pressed on. "In time I know that you will--that you must-- depart Doriath to seek your vengeance, and your destiny, alone."

"But there is no cause for us to separate! When I go, you could come as my companion, and together we could wage our war against Morgoth, side by side! Together we shall go to Hithlum and avenge my kin, and all the dark host shall tremble at the mention of the Dragon Helm and the Black Bow!"

Again, a feeling of foreboding touched Beleg with its fingers of ice. The far-sightedness of the Elves, he reflected, was not always a gift.

"But you are not a lover of men, no matter how abiding the devotion you bear me. I can countenance no half-measures, Túrin, nor should I be asked to."

Túrin regarded him ruefully but he could not deny the truth of his words.

Yet at the last, Beleg relented. "If you would know my loving as well as my love, then take what I will give you now, and know that what I withhold, I withhold because I must for my own sake, and for yours."

Beleg's hands were warm on his cheeks. The pads of his fingers were rough and scarred, but for all that they touched him tenderly. His eyes were bright and fey, and he did not close them until their faces were close together. When Beleg's lips moved against his, they, too were warm, and when they parted, his mouth was warmer still. On his tongue, he brought the sweet water of the stream; in his breath was the wind and all the ancient songs no Mortal tongue would ever sing. He tasted of the forest that birthed him: juniper and birch sap and wild fruits Túrin could not name. Túrin felt that he had been given, for that strange, stretching moment, an understanding of the ageless nature of the Firstborn, and the scope of Beleg's love for him, which eclipsed the reach of time.

And Beleg, in his turn, felt the fire in Túrin's kiss, the desperate ardor of Man, whose flame burned hot and bright and all too brief, and knew his judgment wise even as it sundered his heart. For behind the sweetness on Túrin's tongue lay the bitter taste of the soil that would one day claim him, of the faint and inevitable promise of decay present from his first breath, of the shadow that would be his unmaking.

And so they drank well and deeply of each other, a first kiss that was a last, most perfect kiss, and as the sky wheeled blackly above them, the forest was utterly still and not even the birds dared sing, for the song of Beleg and Túrin was the greater melody.

When it was finished, there was gentle silence between them, for no words were needed, and no words could suffice.

VI.

Beleg had the feeling of falling, of plummeting through some infinite abyss beyond the abstract strictures of place and time, before he was thrust roughly back into the present, and the massive hand that had lain across his brow with the gentlest of touches withdrew, leaving coldness in its passage.

"Have you seen what you wished to see?"

He nodded.

"Respite is yours now, and time for contemplation. Your guerdon, a surcease of sorrow. In time, these visions will diminish. In time, you will go forth and fare free, unburdened by memory."

"And if I would keep them?" Beleg asked, the earnest angles of his face reflected in the plumbless depths of Námo's eyes.

Námo looked down with bemusement and pity. "You would keep the memories of the fallen Man who requited not your love, and in the hour of his salvation slew you?"

He requited it as he was able, Beleg thought, and though he did not speak the words aloud, Námo heard them and acceded with the slow incline of his head.

"So be it. But know your sojourn here will be prolonged; none depart here who carry within their hearts despair."

Beleg returned a gentle smile. "I told him once that the weight of memory might be greater than the sum of deeds; thus, I would keep my memories, all of them. Despair, too, is dear to me, for it is Túrin's mantle, indivisible from the one whom I have loved."

Something akin to sympathy graced the countenance of Námo at Beleg's words. "You speak with much compassion. Your passage is keenly felt, and Doriath will want sorely for its lost champion ere long. A valiant light has been extinguished, and with it, the hope of many, for you would have gone on to greater deeds of valor yet."

He sighed, a susurrus of the oncoming night, his voice the call of a dream. "Sleep now, Strongbow. The road you have traveled has been long and hard, and you have come into my keeping. Sleep, and find your weariness assuaged, even if your memories you keep."

And Beleg found that he was weary, weary beyond all bearing. He closed his eyes and slept at last the deep and dreamless sleep of the faithful, and of the valorous for whom no sacrifice, however great, gives cause to regret; and Námo held vigil over him as the ages of the world passed, wondering at this child of the Eldar who had embraced his doom, all for love of a child of the Edain who was by his own doom mastered.

~ Finis ~

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Author's Note: Belthronding is Beleg's famous bow. Nowhere in canon does it say irrefutably that Beleg was one of the original Elves to awaken at Cuivienen, but both Christopher Tolkien and lines from The Lays of Beleriand, including Beleg's own statement "the forest is my father," support this idea. Keen-eyed readers will also note that I have referenced or paraphrased lines from The Lays of Beleriand, The Silmarillion, and The Children of Húrin.