Chapter Text
Beleg, you see, was a marchwarden. Therefore, he was not spoiled with constant silk-covered matresses and rich meals. Howewer, it being more than a day since the outlaws tied him to a tree, not believing Belegs words about his relations with their captain, Cúthalion was growing more and more tired, his feet burning with stagnation. Furthermore, they gave him no food or water, making it two days since he ate.
He could not believe that Túrin, the mighty, brave and righteous friend of his, would stand himself accompanied by such men, wolf-like in their ways and faces. Cruel they were to him, and, Beleg believed, they would have been more cruel, were it not for their fear of Túrin. They did not believe his words, still they feared he might be speaking the truth, and in that case their captain would be very angry if they were to kill him.
"I don't think the elf will speak. I don't even think he knows shit, probably just lying to save his ass," stated Andróg. The sight of the elf, standing proud and tall even after all the long hours, and his scornful gaze on them, was outrageous for the outlaw, pridefull even in his fall.
"As I said, my business is with your captain, my words are not for your ears. I shall speak when he is present," Beleg responded, calm as always, even when a shadow of doubt grew on his heart.
Túrin might be dead, and if these men were to think that, they would surely kill him.
"If you have something for our captain, it is also for us. Tell us, and we will give him your message and set you free," tried Andróg to bribe him with sweet promises.
"I doubt your words. You will not set me free unless your captain commands it. And he will."
The man growled, obviously angered by what he thought to be an arrogant and cocky answer.
"We can make you talk," snapped another outlaw. Beleg doubted that. It certainly would take more than their dirty knives and fists to break him. Alas, that did not mean it would not be an unpleasant experience. He remained quiet this time, for he wished not to anger them more.
"We will," decided Andróg, obviously a leading figure in the absence of their captain.
Luckily for Beleg, not everyone agreed.
„But what if Neithan comes back?“ one of them spoke up „If this man will prove to be his friend, and he will find him hurt? Remember what happened to Forweg?“
As he spoke, many men nodded, agreeing with his reasoning. As far as Beleg could judge, twas caused more by fear than by pureness of heart.
„You are a scaredy cat, Algund, you always were. And you are old. I doubt Neithan is alive - he and Orleg were killed by orcs,“ he said, turning to his companions to convince them. „This elf haunted us for very long. Why shouldn't we get some revenge? Get rid of his spying? I don't trust a word he's saying about his bussines with Neithan. Besides, we are not killing him - if we don't make him talk, he can still tell him himself.“
This reasoning seemed to convince others, which concerned Beleg a fair amount. They all stood up and formed half an uneven circle around the tree he was chained to, unorganized and shoving each other away, mumbling excitedly.
Andróg emerged from the line of outlaws, large knife in hand. He stared into Beleg's eyes with bloodlust, trying to intimidate him. He had enough bravery in him to maintain his gaze for a few measly seconds before looking away, ashamed and defeated.
Few could stand the eyes of Beleg Cúthalion on them for long. Túrin always could - trough the sheer force of stubborness. But then, the human child was always an enormous riddle for Beleg, being the one and only human he came to know. How could he judge whether his strange behavior was caused by his humanity or by, well, by simply being Túrin.
He held onto his memories with his dearest friend as Andróg's fist hit his stomach, and tried to replace cold and biting blades with the warmth of Túrin's rare smile.