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Chapter Text

Lightning flashed, not a moment too soon: as Túrin brought down the blade he wrested from his foe, the illuminated sky revealed a face dearly loved, eyes stretched wide in horror. Túrin felt his grip slacken, and his sword-stroke went wide, slicing open the arm-flesh of his beloved rather than burying itself in Beleg's chest.

Beleg did not scream, only let out a hiss of pain, falling to the ground. In dread Túrin cast aside Anglachel, kneeling by his side and pressing his hands against the wound to staunch the flow of blood. He wept not, so deep in shock was he, and for a time he was deaf to the faint words whispered by the one he had very nearly slain.

"...worry not, meleth, I breathe still—please, Túrin, let me go, I can tend to this wound myself—Túrin, dearest, I love you, please—"

At last his murmured comforts broke through the stone-still walls of Túrin's mind, and he realized his bloodied hands trembled, doing more to irritate the wound than to close it.

"Beleg," he breathed, addressing him for the first time since the dreadful battle that had separated them, and despite the blood upon his hands and the shrieks of nearby orcs he fell upon his beloved and kissed him.

Beleg smiled into the kiss, reaching up with weak hands to cup Túrin's head; but behind them there came a frightened voice amidst the crashing thunder, and Túrin realized they were not alone.

"We must flee!" the stranger cried in the elven-tongue. "The orcs have awoken—they cry out in fear of the Powers in the West, but we cannot rest here, no matter how grievous your injuries—I will not return captive to Angband!"

Túrin scrambled for Anglachel, lifting it in defense of his beloved. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"Peace, Túrin," Beleg said, reaching out his uninjured arm to rest at Túrin's shoulder. "This is Gwindor son of Guilin, a lord of Nargothrond who fought valiantly in the Nírnaeth Arnœdiad and escaped from the depths of Angband."

"I am but a wandering elf," Gwindor dismissed, and with another flash of lightning Túrin beheld the grief and weariness in his eyes, the rags in which he was clothed, the gauntness of his face, the hastily-bandaged stump of his left arm. He lowered Beleg's sword: this was no one to fear, only another soul tormented by Morgoth; an ally, perhaps, if he could become again the lord and warrior Beleg remembered.

"Yet an elf you remain," Túrin rasped, "and never have I known a people more steadfast." With bitterness he recalled the men of whom he had until recently been captain, cruelly slain by orcs and the treachery of Mîm. But Beleg, faithful, beloved Beleg—he had lived, and sought after Túrin despite the hopelessness of his quest, and he had triumphed. And yet Túrin, faithless as befit a Man, had nearly slain he who loved him. Horror welled up once more in his breast, and it was only the solid grasp of Beleg's hand upon his shoulder—Beleg: living, breathing, there—that kept him from dissolving into shock once more.

"We must flee," Gwindor begged again, lifting his glowing lantern. "The orcs may yet pursue us!"

"Túrin," Beleg said gently. Túrin looked to him, and saw a shadow behind his eyes, a warning and a plea.

Túrin bowed his head, pressing another kiss to Beleg's lips. The moment was brief, and only the promise of many more to come gave him the strength to rise, lifting Beleg with him.

"My bow," Beleg said, looking about. "Where is Belthronding?"

"Here," said Gwindor, offering it to him. Beleg grasped it and gasped: it fell from his grip and back into Gwindor's hand.

"Oh," he said faintly. "I suppose I am injured."

Túrin was not known for his eloquence in apologies, but he grimaced and muttered, "I bear the guilt for that, and will atone for it."

Beleg let out a breathless laugh. "You live, and I am with you. That is atonement enough, meleth."

Gwindor looked between them, still clutching Belthronding. Túrin glared, daring him to speak ill. Anglachel was still stained with the blood of the elf he loved; he would wash it clean of Beleg's pain with that of another elf if it was needed.

But when Gwindor spoke, it was no comment on their indecency or the Doom that lay upon them, the Doom Túrin had so narrowly mastered that night. Instead he remarked: "If Beleg's arm is wounded, and he cannot walk without the support of another, we are left with only three hands between us, for I have only one."

Túrin grimaced. It was inexpedient, then, for him to be the one carrying Beleg, though he was loath to let his beloved fall into the arms of another. Gwindor glanced at him briefly, and Túrin grunted.

"Very well," he muttered. "I shall carry Belthronding, and Anglachel, and that lamp besides. Beleg...will you allow Gwindor to aid you?"

"I can walk on my own," Beleg said, trying to stand and nearly falling. "Oh—I am dizzy all of a sudden. Túrin, I've bled all over you. Ah...perhaps Gwindor should help me, yes, that would be wise..."

"Here," Gwindor said, reaching to tear a strip of Beleg's tunic and wrapping it around his wounded bicep. Reluctantly, Túrin let Gwindor replace him in supporting Beleg's weight, though his beloved gave his hand a quick squeeze before letting go.

Túrin undid Beleg's sword-belt, a blush rising to his cheeks as Beleg chuckled and murmured some joke about what such an action would have meant in the past, and wrapped it about his own waist. He sheathed Anglachel, unused to its greedy weight, and strapped Belthronding to his back as he had seen Beleg do so many times in the past. He felt odd outfitted with the weapons of his lover, but his own had been lost along with Amon Rûdh. Only the Dragon-helm had survived, and that in a diminished form: the orcs had ripped the mask from it, and hung it about his neck to weigh him down in shame and defeat.

Túrin found the helm's remains amid the brush where he had lain bound. Revulsion coiled in his stomach at the sight, and he found he could not bring himself to don it in this ruined state. Perhaps never again would he wear it—he had mastered the dreadful fate that followed him, it seemed, if only enough to allow Beleg to remain by his side, and the thought of regressing into the past disgusted him.

"Allow me to carry that," Gwindor said. "Handless it may be, but my left arm can support Beleg as well as my right."

"Be careful with it," Túrin warned, for he did not wish to lose it, either. Gwindor took it reverently, tucking it against his side.

"Where shall we flee?" Beleg asked when it seemed they were prepared enough to leave. The storm yet raged about them, but the orc-cries seemed father off. Túrin knew not how long they had driven him, nor where they were now, though he was heartened to be amid the trees once more.

"I..." Gwindor sighed. "I had hoped to visit the Pools of Ivrin, to rest and recover. It is many days' journey from here, but it is safe, and yet unspoiled by the cruelties of Morgoth, and it would do us all good to drink from those blessed waters."

"Lead on, then," Túrin said grimly. "We have nowhere else to go."

"Not nowhere," Beleg murmured, but he said naught more as Gwindor marked the way.

Autumn wilted into winter as Gwindor led them westward toward Eithel Ivrin. Túrin drew warmth and comfort from Beleg, even as his beloved weakened along their journey. His wound festered, and neither he nor Gwindor nor Túrin had the skill or tools to heal him. Beleg bore his pain with a smile, but each day he tired sooner, and fear pricked Túrin's heart. This injury was his fault, for all Beleg refused to blame him.

With a destination in mind, Gwindor seemed to regain his courage. He guided them with purpose across the River Sirion, and though he spoke little and slept apart he grew stronger as they drew nearer to the Mountains of Shadow where the springs he sought lay hidden.

At length they came to the Beautiful Mere and the joy that brightened Gwindor's eyes seemed to lift years of torments from his shoulders. Truly he was bent and aged unlike any elf Túrin had before seen, and it brought him hope to see Gwindor's countenance lightened.

"Túrin son of Húrin, Beleg Cúthalion, behold!" Gwindor cried. "On Ivrin's lake is endless laughter. She is fed from crystal fountains unfailing, and guarded from defilement by Ulmo, Lord of Waters, who wrought her beauty in ancient days. Drink, and be healed!"

Túrin doubted any waters, even ones blessed by Ulmo himself, could heal Beleg's wounds, but the lake was clear and beautiful unlike any he had seen before. He led his beloved to the spring's edge and helped him drink, and tears sprang to Beleg's eyes as he tasted the waters.

"Drink, Túrin," he urged, and Túrin did. The water was fresh and cold, and he gasped as it trickled down his throat: he awoke from a stupor he had not known he was under, and his heart lifted. He kissed Beleg, tasting the springwater upon his beloved's lips, and only the presence of Gwindor kneeling nearby kept him from undressing Beleg then and there.

Beleg laughed into their embrace, but winced when Túrin laid a hand on his shoulder. "Ah," he breathed. "I am still injured, meleth."

Túrin cleaned Beleg's wounds with the waters of Ivrin, and his pain was lessened. "I believe I may carry my bow again," he said, "though not my blade."

"It is a strange blade," Gwindor said, "unlike any that I have seen in Middle-earth. Even now its edges dull, and its metal is black and ugly. I like it not."

Túrin examined Anglachel, finding to his surprise that Gwindor's words were true: where once it had shone with a dark fire, sharp and greedy for orc-blood, it too seemed wearied by the troubles and betrayals of Amon Rûdh.

"Will you carry it for me, Túrin?" Beleg asked. "Even if I could, I do not know if I would wish to wield it again, when it so nearly ended my life."

Túrin flinched at the reminder, but he nodded. He could not deny Beleg anything, least of all this.

"We shall spend the night here, I deem," Gwindor said. "I have not slept truly in many moons, and this is as safe a place to rest as any outside the elven kingdoms."

At the mention of the elven kingdoms, Túrin grimaced. Beleg lifted his chin, looking him deep in the eyes, and Túrin knew before he spoke what he would ask.

"I will beg you but once more," Beleg said gently. "Return with me to Doriath. Thingol has pardoned you—we may return to how we were before—"

"I do not want to return to how we were before!" Túrin protested. "Before, when I wished after you, but feared to speak of my desires—before, when you were bound only to your king—before, when I was the only mortal among elves—nay, that is not the life I wish to lead!"

Beleg wrapped an arm around him even as Túrin tried to turn away. After a moment, he relaxed into the embrace, reaching up to hold Beleg's comforting arm. He could not lose Beleg, not after all they had endured together. Not after he had lost so much already.

"I would never leave you," Beleg murmured. "I meant only that we could be safe within the Girdle."

"And abandon the world outside it?" Túrin rested his cheek against Beleg's arm. "Let the Gaurwaith's deaths be in vain? There is good to be done elsewhere in Beleriand, and I live to do it."

"Túrin son of Húrin," Gwindor said suddenly. Túrin looked at him. "This is Húrin son of Galdor?"

"The warrior of Dor-lómin," Túrin agreed. He sat up suddenly, eyes blazing with fire. "You were a prisoner in Angband, were you not? Have you seen him there?"

"I have not seen him," said Gwindor. "But the rumor runs through Angband that he still defies Morgoth." He hesitated, and when Túrin's glare intensified, added, "The rumor says also that Morgoth has laid a curse upon him and all his kin."

Túrin laughed darkly. "That I do believe. And yet, have I not conquered fate, and saved Beleg from doom and death, even as he saved me? It is as I spoke: a curse may lie upon me, but I defy it and Morgoth both, and will not retreat from danger when I may assail it."

A shadow passed across Gwindor's face, but Beleg smiled.

"Then I will put aside my last thoughts of Doriath, and follow you whither you would go, meleth," Beleg said.

"And where will you go, Túrin son of Húrin?" Gwindor asked.

"Where I am needed," Túrin said, and thought of Dor-lómin, the land he once had called home. It was a distant memory to him, and though he longed to see his mother once more, to meet the sister he had never known, his heart felt heavy at the thought of return. And yet: he was so close now, separated from his family only by a mountain range. But a curse lay upon him and all his kin, and Túrin would not enter again into battle against it without time to prepare. Morwen and Niënor stood a better chance on their own than with him, should he slip back under the darkness of Morgoth.

Beleg shifted next to him, letting out another hiss of pain. Túrin glanced between him and Gwindor, and knew that a journey to Hithlum would be impossible with his beloved in such a state. His heart warned him against a return to Dor-lómin at this time, and he would not consider it without Beleg at his side.

"Where will you go, Gwindor son of Guilin?" Túrin challenged. "These waters cannot sustain you forever, and even an escaped thrall would not wish to lead a life of hiding."

"I return to Nargothrond of the House of Finarfin, where I was born and dwelt before my grief," Gwindor said, and a glimmer of longing lit within his eyes. After a moment's pause, he added, "You may come with me, if you wish it, to be healed and renewed."

"For Beleg's sake I thank you," Túrin said.

"Nargothrond!" Beleg exclaimed. "Never before have I visited those halls, though I have heard much of them. I would be honored to be your guest there, Lord Gwindor."

"I am not again a lord, not yet," Gwindor said grimly. "Be not too hasty in your hope."

They rested that night, and in the morning arose and journeyed southward along the banks of the River Narog. Beleg walked now unsupported, Belthronding strapped across his back, but Ivrin had given him only a respite from his injury, and Túrin sensed a shadow behind his mask of cheer.

Another day's travel brought them into lands Gwindor knew. He cast his gaze about for signs of his kin, and when the sun set without even the whisper of another elf, his mouth tightened into a grimace.

"If the king has drawn back patrols from these outer lands, that is an ill sign indeed," he said.

But at noontide the next day a cry came from the crest of a far-off hill, and Túrin beheld in wonder as seven elf warriors emerged from the tall grasses. In Doriath the marchwardens he hunted with had possessed such skill, but to hide so deeply in open terrain—with this he was impressed.

Beleg huffed appreciatively. "I would learn such subtle skill of these rangers, if they would allow," he murmured.

"Not readily do the scouts of Nargothrond give up their secrets," said Gwindor, "and yet I believe they would be honored to teach a warrior such as Beleg Cúthalion of Doriath."

The warriors advanced and circled them, bows nocked with arrows and swords drawn, suspicion writ clear across their faces. Gwindor raised his arms, and Beleg likewise; Túrin gripped the hilt of Anglachel, but did not draw the blade.

"Who trespasses in the lands of Orodreth the king?" demanded one warrior, a golden-haired lord with sharp and gleaming eyes.

"Gildor son of Inglor, do you not recognize me?" Gwindor said.

Gildor, who seemed to be the captain of the scouts, lowered his weapon, but did not signal his warriors to do likewise. "I see only a bent and weathered creature," he said shortly. "If you were an elf once, you have fallen far."

Gwindor laughed, a horrid, rasping sound; Túrin had not heard him do so before, and even now there was no mirth in it. "You speak the truth, Gildor, and yet you knew me, once. I am Gwindor son of Guilin, who once was a lord beside you at the king's table."

"Gwindor is dead," said another warrior, a dark-haired elf woman. "I watched as the orcs dragged him through the mud, his body broken."

"I survived, as did my brother until too late," Gwindor said. "Yet it may have been better had I perished, to be received so poorly by my own kin!"

Túrin snorted. "Do not tempt them," he growled.

"And who are your companions?" asked Gildor. "A bloodied, bandaged Sinda and a base-born Man?"

Túrin bit back a retort—he wanted no echo of his name to reach Nargothrond, not unless there was dire need, and yet the insult stung.

Beleg somehow smiled, even as he clutched his wounded arm. "Would you then cast us out, who seek aid in your hidden kingdom?" he inquired. "I am an elf, as you well see, and I swear upon my bow that this ellon is Gwindor son of Guilin, as he says. As for the Man among us: he is a valiant hunter in the woods, and I have endured many perils with him at my side, and I would not be parted from him."

"Your bow," said the elf-woman, her grey eyes widening. "Only one warrior bears such a weapon that I have seen: this is Belthronding, bow of Beleg Cúthalion of Doriath, who fought at the Nírnaeth!"

"And I am Beleg Cúthalion who stands before you even now," said he.

At last Gildor signaled his warriors to stand down, and he bowed to Beleg. "Much has been told of your prowess to those of us not fortunate enough to see your skill in action as Ornil has," he said. "If she vouches for you, and you for your companions, then so be it. We will take you to Nargothrond, and the king may decide your fate. And," he said with a glance to Gwindor, "perhaps others there may recognize a fallen lord better than I."

At this Gwindor paled, though he did not elaborate.

Gildor and his scouts bore them swiftly to the hidden stronghold on the backs of their horses which had been resting an hour's walk from the site of their capture. He did not bind them as prisoners, but with his apologies he did blindfold them as they neared the hills where Nargothrond lay hid.

"Until the king gives you leave, we may not let you see the paths hither," he said, "for our safety is based in secrecy, even to those who may be our allies."

Túrin snorted softly: secrecy had never aided him in the past. But he kept his peace and let his eyes be bound.

When at last Túrin could see again he marveled at the craftsmanship of the entrance gates of Nargothrond, for they were expertly wrought and encrusted with jewels that bespoke more wonders within. But soon more warriors were called to greet them, and many unfriendly faces peered at the newcomers laden with suspicion.

"Ornil rode ahead to inform the king of your arrival," said Gildor. "His Majesty will summon those who may better recognize the son of Guilin, if indeed you are he."

"Does my mother fare well?" asked Gwindor quietly. "And my father? To hear of Gelmir's true fate, and my supposed one, in such quick succession..."

"They both live, though they have been much grieved in recent years," said Gildor. "Neither hold any hope for their son's return...though despite its unlikelihood, the same cannot be said for—"

"Gwindor?" came a new voice, high and thin, and the gathering crowd parted to reveal an elf-woman of exceeding beauty, her hair a rich gold deeper than Gildor's own, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

Gwindor trembled, and only the steady hand of Beleg at his shoulder kept him upright as he beheld her face.

"Faelivrin," he rasped.

"Gwindor!" cried the elleth, and she rushed forward to embrace him. "I knew you lived, I knew it, my spirit could not mourn your passing as it ought!"

"Faelivrin," whispered Gwindor, and Túrin watched as the bitter years lifted from his companion and he clutched the woman close. "Finduilas. Meleth."

Beleg leaned against Túrin, turning to brush his lips briefly against his ragged beard. "I see now why he pried not into our closeness," he murmured. "It must have reminded him of his own beloved."

Túrin wrapped an arm around Beleg, holding him nearly as tight as Gwindor and this Faelivrin held one another, warmth flooding him to behold such a joyous reunion, and to stand with his beloved at his side.

"Gwindor son of Guilin," said another voice, and when Túrin beheld this elf in his splendour he knew he could be only the King of Nargothrond, "welcome home."

Chapter Text

King Orodreth stood tall and golden and full of light, his eyes shining like Thingol's with a distant, radiant gleam. Gwindor trembled before him, slipping out of his elleth's arms and into a kneel at the feet of his king, but as Túrin watched Orodreth lifted him up and embraced him.

"I named you family once, Gwindor," he said, "when you pledged yourself to my daughter. I hold you dear in my heart still, and I would not have you kneel, especially not in this state."

"Thank you, Sire," Gwindor murmured, tears budding in his eyes.

Orodreth released him, and the elleth—his daughter, Túrin realized—clung once more to Gwindor's uninjured arm, pressing herself against him like she never wished to part from his side. Túrin found himself leaning against Beleg in a similar manner, and only stepped away from his beloved when the king turned his shining gaze toward him.

"And who are these?" Orodreth asked. "A Sinda, I deem, though not of my queen's Mithrim folk; and a mortal man, the likes of whom these halls have not welcomed since Bëor the Old in Finrod's reign. Who are you to the King of Nargothrond?"

"I am Beleg Cúthalion, marchwarden of Doriath," said he, and bowed as best he could with his injured arm. "And this is—"

Túrin checked him before he finished, wishing not to be known as Húrin's son lest the sleeping curse be reawakened. "I am Turambar, a hunter in the woods," he rumbled.

"A valiant man, and my dear friend," Beleg added with a sidelong glance his way. Túrin did not smile, but he lowered his proud chin slightly, warmth blooming in his chest.

"It is Beleg who found me hiding from a company of orcs," said Gwindor, his voice more faint now than Túrin ever remembered. "And...Turambar who kept both of us, injured as we are, safe and cared for on our weary journey home."

"Of Beleg Cúthalion I have heard much tell," Orodreth said, "and I welcome you to my halls." His shining gaze rested upon Túrin, and after a considering pause, "And for your sake and Gwindor's, I welcome you also, Turambar. Nargothrond shall shelter you, as long as you wish to be sheltered."

"I thank you, Majesty," said Túrin with a stiff nod.

"Adar," said the princess, "they are hurt. Let me escort them to the halls of healing."

"Of course." Orodreth nodded. "In due time we shall welcome you properly, but first, receive your healing. Now," he said, turning to Gildor and his warriors, "come, give me your reports of the outer lands."

For all Túrin's injuries were small, he found himself fussed over near as much as Beleg and Gwindor when the healers saw him. He received balms for his bruises, tea for his weariness, and he was ordered to rest for two days. One healer, an elf-woman with eyes as bright as the king, sang to him an eerie tune that made his skin crawl, but when she finished he found he breathed easier and saw clearer.

Beleg's makeshift bandages were changed, his wound cleaned, and he was given a serenade of his own. His eyes fluttered as the song drew to a close, and he was asleep so suddenly that Túrin cried out, reaching for him, fearing the worst.

"He is fine," said the princess, who had named herself Finduilas. "He needs rest, more even than you, Turambar."

Túrin's new name sounded strange on her tongue, but he knew he would quickly grow accustomed to it as he had Neithan. He leaned back in his own sickbed, skin prickling, doubts still plaguing his mind. He knew of elvish Song and its healing properties, but never before had he witnessed such a thing; Beleg and the other marchwardens were no masters in that art, and from them he learned only practical methods of healing, enough to survive until someone better trained could arrive. He trusted in the healers' skill, but fear yet gripped his heart: he had come so very close to losing Beleg, and each moment he was deprived of his beloved's smile he worried it would never come again.

And yet love was not his alone to cradle. Gwindor's ruined arm was cleaned with great care, his scars and cuts tended to, soups and potions brewed for him, and though he was yet worn with care he gazed at Finduilas all the while with such reverence that Túrin's heart near broke, and she clutched his hand as if never to let it go. Here was one thought lost forever, returned to the side of his beloved, and their reunion, though imperfect, brought hope to Túrin near as much as Beleg's presence at his side did.

Gwindor also was lulled to sleep, and then the healers rested, telling Túrin and Finduilas their patients would lie in slumber until their spirits and bodies were realigned.

"They have been hurt in their souls as well as their flesh," said the chief healer, her voice solemn. "Lord Gwindor especially. They must find peace within themselves, as well as bodily relief, and your love will aid that process."

"Then I will remain by his side," said Túrin stubbornly.

The healer raised an eyebrow. "Good," she said, "for you are not to rise from this bed until your two days are ended. Perhaps then he shall be woken, for his wounds are not so deep as the lord's."

"I, also, will remain," said Finduilas softly, determination firm behind her gray-blue eyes. Túrin's heart was stirred with pity for her; she looked much like a woman of his own people, though she was an elven-maid.

"Your Highness," protested another healer, but the chief raised a hand.

"You have other duties, Princess," she reminded her.

Finduilas set her jaw. "He needs me. I have lost him once; I will not lose him again."

"Very well," said the chief healer, her voice even. "I will let your family know; I am sure that when your brother returns from his own scouting party he will wish to see you and the lord both."

"You have a brother?" Túrin asked when the healers gave them some privacy.

Finduilas nodded, a faint smile on her lips. "Yes," she said. "Rodnor he is named, though he calls himself Prince Gil-galad these days. He has grown into a fine young ellon, but to me he will always be my little brother."

"I have a sister," Túrin said, thinking first of Lalaith with a pang of grief, and then of Niënor with distant sorrow. "Though I was sundered from her before she was born and named Niënor for our mother's grief. She would be grown, I think, though I hope I would recognize her as my kin."

"What is it like, among the Edain?" Finduilas asked. "I knew some mortal folk when my father held Tol Sirion, before it was taken by Gorthaur, but I was much younger then. I know many griefs have befallen us all since the Tears, yet I hope some Men remain yet free."

"Not many," said Túrin grimly. "That I am no thrall is by the wisdom of my mother and the grace of Elu Thingol, as much as it is by the strength of my sword-arm. My people lie beyond the mountains, enthralled by Morgoth's traitor-men, and I was sent from them as a child to Doriath."

"But I judge you older than the Tears," guessed Finduilas. "Was there a happier time for you, in childhood? I know mortals age swiftly."

Túrin found himself endeared to her, sweet and golden as Lalaith had been, as he imagined Niënor to be. "In truth I had another sister," he said. "Lalaith, or so I named her; and of her you put me in mind. But she fell ill even before the Fifth Battle, and perished, for we mortal folk are not so strong against malady as your elvenkind. Lalaith was but a child, a yellow flower in the green grass of spring; and she lived she would now, maybe, have become dimmed with grief."

"That is a sad tale," Finduilas murmured. "But so are all tales, in this age of fear and grief."

"Yet now we may find some hope," Túrin said. "Am I not called Turambar, the Master of Fate? I have walked a long and dreadful path, but here I stand—well, here I lie, but stand I will again, and with my dearest companion at my side. And your Gwindor has returned to you also: is this not the start of some better story?"

"Perhaps," Finduilas said, and she laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Though I wish we needed not to endure such loss and grief before finding our way to joy. I lost more friends than my betrothed in that battle, and you have lost your sisters and your homeland both: would that it were not so!"

"I have no sister at my side," Túrin conceded, "but I find you a bright companion, Princess. Lalaith is gone, and Niënor beyond my reach—but you are queenly, and as a golden tree; I would I had a sister so fair!"

"You are kingly in your own right," said she, "even as the lords of my father's people; I would I had a brother so valiant."

"But you do," he said, remembering Gil-galad.

She laughed softly. "That is true," she agreed, "and yet I find a kinship in you also, Turambar. I hope we shall be friends."

"I hope this, also," he said, "though I am no king, nor even a lord." He would not claim to be the heir of Húrin, not here, not yet; he had not earned the right.

There was silence between them for a long while. Túrin lapsed into sleep; when he woke, Finduilas handed him a bowl of soup and a roll of bread brought by the healers.

"I admit my own supper was richer," she said, "but the healers say you are to be introduced to better food slowly, as not to turn your stomach."

Túrin did not begrudge the meal, for it was better than anything eaten upon the road, and he told her so. At this her gaze darkened, and strayed to where Beleg and Gwindor both slept.

"Thank you for helping him," she murmured. "I cannot think...it is a miracle he escaped from thralldom, and if he had been lost, alone, without your company and guidance—if he had been so near returned, and lost again...!"

"He helped me, and Beleg also," Túrin said. "He is a valiant elf, though I deem he finds himself less noble than he once was. You must help him find again his worth, Princess."

Finduilas traced a scar along Gwindor's arm, her touch feather-light. He did not even stir in his sleep.

"He is much changed," she murmured, "and yet I love him still. Is this what King Fingon thought of Maedhros, when he took him from the cliffs?"

Túrin started at the tale; stories of the Noldor were rare in Doriath, especially of Kinslayers like Maedhros Fëanorion, but even he knew the rumors of the love between those elven-princes. Yet to hear her speak of it without any hint of disapproval was a shock, and not only because they were Noldor.

"Perhaps you ought to ask," he said before he blurted out his own high regards for Beleg.

Finduilas' gaze turned sorrowful. "He is dead."

"But Maedhros is not," countered Túrin.

"As a child of Doriath you ought to know how grievously Nargothrond was wronged by the sons of Fëanor during Lúthien's quest," Finduilas said. "To reach out to their commander, who did nothing to stop his brothers from sending my uncle to his doom, who led the free-peoples into our doom at the Nírnaeth? It is unthinkable!"

"Perhaps it should be thought," Túrin countered. "Has he not also lost a hand to Morgoth, and suffered greatly? Kinslayer he may be, but he is a foe of the Enemy."

"No," said Finduilas, but she narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "Sleep again now, Turambar, and speak not of things you do not know."

She sang him no healing lullaby, but the words of an elf have a power all their own, and Túrin found himself slipping into dreams once more.

After two days Túrin was deemed healed, and it was then that Beleg woke, his eyes brighter than Túrin remembered them being since he left Doriath. It took all his restraint not to throw himself upon his lover in relief and joy, but Beleg was yet still bed-bound until the healers were certain of his full recovery.

Gwindor slept two days further still, and he was yet weary and frail. But Finduilas remained by his side, speaking to him softly of all that had passed in his absence, and Túrin's heart filled with pity for them both.

"It is not fit for you to confine yourself to my bedside," said Beleg when another day had passed. "Dearest Turambar—" and he did not even flinch over the name, for which Túrin was grateful— "these halls are great and wondrous, and of similar make to Menegroth where you were raised. Surely you wish to explore them!"

"Not without you," Túrin said, and Beleg shook his head.

"When I am well enough to see all of Nargothrond, I want it to be you who guides me," he said with a smile Túrin could still after all these years scarcely believe was meant for him alone. "Gwindor is company enough for me, and I for him. I expect you to know your way around well when you give me a tour!"

"I will keep him company also," assured Finduilas, but Gwindor interrupted her.

"Nay," he said, "take Turambar with you, Faelivrin, and show him the beauties of the caves. When I am...better, we all four of us may walk together, but for now Turambar is still a stranger to Nargothrond, and who better to acquaint him with our home than its princess?"

Under the dual ministrations of their beloveds, Túrin and Finduilas relented, and the princess took him on a tour of Nargothrond. She showed him maps of Orodreth's realm, diminished since the fall of Finrod Felagund and the Fifth Battle, and Túrin began to think on how better to defend their more vulnerable territories. She led him to the grand halls were feasts and balls were hosted; walked him through a gallery of statues depicting the kindreds of elves and men and dwarves alike; introduced him to her mother, Queen Amathluin, a Sinda of Mithrim who took Orodreth to spouse soon after the Noldor returned to Beleriand. From Finduilas and Amathluin Túrin learned much of the Noldor, who had been spoken of mostly with disdain in Doriath, and he grew in admiration for their great deeds and in pity for their griefs.

Nargothrond was a hidden kingdom, but not as well-concealed as rumored Gondolin or well-protected as girdled Doriath. Thus there were captains and warriors, of which Gildor was one and Finduilas' brother Gil-galad another; Túrin became acquainted with them and watched their sparring, and eagerness sparked within him to join their ranks in defense of this marvelous realm.

"Would that I had my weapons still," he lamented as he watched Ornil disarm her captain.

"We have weapons to lend you, and smiths to craft you more, should you desire," said Gil-galad.

Túrin thought upon the only relics of his time at Amon Rûdh: the mangled Dragon-helm and burnt-out Anglachel. Perhaps they could be reforged, made stronger, made better; though he wished not to wear the Dragon-helm openly lest his true name be made known.

"Do your smiths keep their secrets?" he asked, and Finduilas exchanged a look with her brother.

"There is one smith in this realm who keeps himself apart from any other," said Finduilas. "Celebrimbor he is named, once the son of Curufin Fëanorion before he forsook his father to follow mine. He will aid you and speak nothing of it to any other."

The Dragon-helm was Túrin's, yet Anglachel belonged rightly to Beleg. He returned to his lover's side and asked quietly of his thought on the matter, on how better the blade could be used against the Enemy.

Beleg was silent for a long while, but at last he spoke. "I am weary of war, yet I know it still waits for us," he murmured. "That blade I wielded when in need, but I trust it not any longer; it would have killed me had you not restrained it. I give it to your hands, meleth, should you wish it; I will take up Belthronding and join you among the ranks of the Nargothrondrim when I am able, and you shall carry Anglachel, reforged into a truer blade."

Celebrimbor was tall and grim-faced, but his bright eyes gleamed with excitement when Túrin presented his blade and helm. "A challenge," he said, running his hand along the dulled edge of Anglachel's blade. "This is mighty smith-work, of whose like I have never seen. Yes, I would be honored to reforge this sword anew. Where did you come by such a blade?"

"I was a guest for a time within the Girdle of Melian," Túrin said, not meeting the smith's piercing gaze. "It was given to my companion, Beleg, by Elu Thingol himself."

"Never before have I seen such metal," Celebrimbor murmured, turning to inspect it further. "Do you know the smith?"

"Beleg may," Túrin said. "I confess I do not."

"I would speak with him, if he is willing," said Celebrimbor. He hesitated. "Though I know the people of Doriath have little love for my kin."

"He will see you," Túrin assured. "His heart is open, and did he not march in the Union of Maedhros your father's brother?"

Celebrimbor nodded. Then he took up the wreck of the Dragon-helm and exclaimed, "And this! I confess I have seen this before, if I am not mistaken, though it has been damaged beyond its original form. This is the Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin, which the very uncle of mine you spake of gifted to his...to the High King before his fall, and he to the men of Hithlum." He looked sharply at Túrin. "And it is from Doriath you come, Turambar. How did you come to possess an heirloom of Hador's house?"

Túrin scowled, loath to tell this strange and lonesome elf of his true identity; but had he not chosen Celebrimbor as his smith for his own reticence?

"I would beg you not to speak of this to anyone in these halls," Túrin said, lowering his voice.

Celebrimbor shrugged. "There are not many who welcome the grandson of Fëanor, even after all I have done for Nargothrond." He said it without bitterness, and Túrin marveled at his acceptance of their ire. "Your secrets are safe with me, Turambar."

"In truth that is not my name," Túrin said softly. "I am rightly known as Túrin son of Húrin of the House of Hador, and this helm is my birthright. But a curse follows my father's line, and I have conquered it once; if I wear this helm and proclaim myself once more I fear it shall follow me to Nargothrond out of Doriath and Amon Rûdh. And yet I cannot let this heirloom lie twisted, and I would it be made anew, should a time come when my name shall bring me greater aid than doom."

For a time Celebrimbor was silent. "This also I will do," he said at last. "Though I would warn you that the curses of fathers are not so easily conquered."

Beleg was soon healed, and Gwindor after him, though his smile was still strained even with Finduilas at his side. For his part, Túrin's heart was lifted, and he fulfilled his promise to lead his beloved through the halls of Nargothrond.

The king hosted a feast to welcome Gwindor home, and his companions with him, and though many of his kin did not meet the eyes of the fallen lord, they greeted Beleg with awe and Túrin with curiosity. Finduilas renewed her betrothal to Gwindor before the eyes of all her father's court, and Túrin was seized with a sudden desire to plight his troth to Beleg; but he restrained himself with the knowledge that Beleg's very presence at his side was enough.

Túrin found himself embraced by an elf unfamiliar to him, and only when Gwindor offered him apology and pulled her away did he realize this was the mother of his friend. Tathrenil she named herself, and her husband Guilin was no less exuberant in his gratitude, though he refrained from any unexpected hugs. Beleg was greeted and thanked by Gwindor's parents as well, and received them with more grace than Túrin.

"Where have you been staying, my lords?" asked Tathrenil, and Beleg laughed off the title and assured her their lodgings near the halls of healing were adequate.

"That is no place for heroes such as yourselves!" exclaimed Guilin. "You must come live with us; even with our son returned we have a place for you both."

Túrin hesitated, not wishing to infringe upon their welcome, especially since he was reluctant to give up sharing a bed with Beleg. But Tathrenil caught his eye and leaned into whisper, "Fear not, Lord Turambar. We would not separate you from Lord Beleg; our spare bed is large enough for two."

Túrin was grateful that moment for Celebrimbor's approach. "Ah," he said, relieved to let Beleg handle the overwhelming gratitude of Gwindor's parents, "I am afraid I must take my leave for a moment—"

If Guilin's eyes darkened as he saw the Fëanorian approach, Túrin pretended not to notice, so eager he was to excuse himself. Túrin slipped away, beckoning Celebrimbor away, and relaxed only when Guilin and Tathrenil were out of hearing.

"I cannot say my welcome was ever so warm," Celebrimbor said drily, "even when my father and uncle were new-come to Nargothrond and Finrod was king. You ought to feel honored."

"I am, I am," Túrin grumbled; "perhaps too much. In Doriath I was a fosterling looked upon with pity or disdain—here they think I am some grand lord, the rescuer of a prince, when in truth it was Beleg who did the rescuing!"

"Are you not a grand lord, then, Túrin son of Húrin?" Celebrimbor asked, and Túrin shushed him. His head was spinning with drink and anxiety, or else he would not have been so bold, but Celebrimbor was amused and not offended, if his slight smile was enough to read him by.

"I do not come to festivities such as this," the smith said, "but I knew you would be here, and I wished to deliver your commission; the first half, at least."

He unclasped a great scabbard from his belt and offered his sword to Túrin, who blinked as he took the weapon. At first he did not understand, but when he drew the blade from its sheath he gasped: here was Anglachel, forged anew, slightly longer and thinner than it had been before, but no less sharp and gleaming. Indeed, the glimmering flames that had once shone along its edge had returned, and bits of star-matter glinted in the torchlight.

Túrin held the blade aloft, and a thrill of determination rushed through him. The crowd about them quieted, watching with wonder as he made a few experimental strokes with the deadly blade.

"Turambar!" cried Beleg, hastening to his side. "A mighty weapon indeed you have there!"

"You must be Beleg Cúthalion," said Celebrimbor, nodding to him. "Are you not this sword's original owner? You must tell me of what it is formed; even as I worked it, I could not tell, beyond being alloyed with iron."

"I am not its creator," Beleg said, "nor its first wielder. That claim lies with Eöl, the dark smith of Nan Elmoth, who crafted it from the metal of a fallen star. He has vanished from his forges without a trace, or else been consumed by the darkness of his dwelling; he gave his sword to my king in payment for isolation, and he is alone still, with its brother-blade, if he yet lives."

"A fallen star!" Celebrimbor exclaimed, his eyes shining even brighter. "Fascinating! I must look into this further—Nan Elmoth, you said? But the smith himself has disappeared?"

"Yes, and his craft along with him," Beleg said. "You must be a great smith, indeed, to reforge such work into a new blade for my dear Turambar."

"Ah," Celebrimbor said, flinching away as further eyes rested upon him. "I am but a guest in these halls, lesser than great heroes such as yourself and your...friend—"

"Cousin Celebrimbor," said another voice: Finduilas approached, her smile thin. "I would speak to you in private, if I may."

Celebrimbor glanced to Túrin. "May your friend Turambar accompany us?" he asked, with some relief as the crowd began to disperse. "I wish to discuss with him the second half of his commission."

Finduilas nodded tersely, and Túrin followed her and her cousin into a secluded corner of the feast hall.

"Princess, I—" Celebrimbor began, but Finduilas shook her head.

"You have done nothing wrong; indeed, it is good of you to aid the savior of my betrothed." She smiled, more earnestly this time. "You know I hold no ill will against you, cousin, though we have never been close. I wish only to inform you..." From her robes she drew a letter, and pressed it into his hands. "This is from your uncle."

Celebrimbor stilled. "I disowned him along with my father," he said, attempting to push it back into her hands, but she shook her head.

"Not Celegorm," she said, the name sour on her tongue. "No, I would not read any drivel sent by that dog." She glanced to Túrin, then back to Celebrimbor. "I...wrote to Maedhros."

"Whatever for?" Celebrimbor asked, amazed, absently fiddling with the letter's seal.

"I told you he could help," Túrin said, half-bowing to Finduilas.

Color rose in Finduilas' cheeks, though she kept her head held high. "He and my betrothed have...certain shared experiences. He was...kinder than I expected, and sent a poultice for scars and the mechanics for a brace along with his response. He also wrote to you, and...suggested you could help craft such a thing for Gwindor."

Celebrimbor let out a choked noise, and Túrin was astonished to see tears springing to his eyes. "Princess...I cannot—" He took a deep breath, bowing his head. "Yes. Yes, of course I will help you with this. I can craft him a false hand, also, should he wish it, I...I studied my father's work on Maedhros' prosthetic closely enough to replicate it." He looked up, biting his lip, and added softly, "Thank you, Finduilas. But...please, do not speak of this to anyone else; I am already disliked here, and if it became known that I was in contact with my father's kin—"

"I will not speak a word," Finduilas said firmly. "It is...difficult enough for me to ask a Fëanorian for aid. Not—not you, cousin, but..."

"If I have learned from my own trials," Túrin said, "it is that help comes in many unlikely forms. I know there is no love lost between the sons of Fëanor and the kings of Nargothrond, but in this, at least, you can find some good."

"Indeed," Finduilas said, turning to smile at him. "Who thought that a mortal man such as you, Turambar, would bring my beloved home to me!"

"Beleg saved me, and him also," Túrin began, but Finduilas dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

"You kept them both alive on the journey home," she said, "and already my father says you have asked to join our patrols. With your great black sword, surely you will do much for the defense of my home. You bring hope with you, Turambar, in every way!"

Turmabar's heart warmed, and he looked fondly upon her again, reminded once of more of the sisters he had lost. "I will do all I can to raise your hopes further," he vowed, tightening his grip on the sword. "This blade was known as Anglachel once, but now I name it Gurthang, the Iron of Death: for it will slay the Enemy's servants, and bring peace to these troubled lands!"

"Finduilas?" asked Gwindor, pushing his way through the crowd toward her, his eyes tired. "Finduilas, your mother is asking for you!"

Finduilas grasped Túrin's hands, and then Celebrimbor's, giving them each a kiss on the cheek in turn. "Thank you," she whispered. "I must go."

Celebrimbor watched her go, his hands trembling as he clutched the letter from his uncle. "Túrin," he said abruptly, turning to face him.

"Speak not that name," Túrin warned. "Here, I am Turambar."

"Turambar, then." Celebrimbor glanced down at the letter once more, then forced himself to meet Túrin's gaze. "I have repaired your helm as best I can, but its mask is missing. I thought to weld a dwarf-mask into it, but I wanted to ask you first."

Túrin nodded. "Whatever you must do to return it to its glory," he said. "It was of dwarf-make in origin; a dwarf-mask would suit it."

"We have many, from when the dwarves helped Felagund to delve these caves," Celebrimbor said. "You can have a more prosaic helm of similar make, if you wish to wear it to battle without declaring your name."

"I would like that," Túrin said, smiling with little warmth. "Gurthang and I will begin our training with the warriors of Nargothrond tomorrow, and soon enough we will join their ranks on the field also."

"Come by my forge in a week, and both will be ready for you," Celebrimbor said, resting a hand on his shoulder. "You are a good man, Turambar. But remember that you cannot escape your past entirely." He lifted the letter in his other hand. "My family is proof enough of that, it seems. Be careful you take the good from it, and guard against the evil."

He left, then, slipping away from the cheer of the feast, leaving Túrin alone with his warning. Túrin gripped Gurthang's hilt so hard his fist shook, and only when Beleg came to guide him to their new residence with Gwindor's parents did the foreboding cloud over his mind lift and merriment return.

Chapter Text

"Enough of this," Túrin said irritably, interrupting the loremaster's speech. The elf—so old he grew a silver beard, though his face was youthful as his apprentice's—cast a glare his way.

"Mormegil," he said in a thin voice dripping with disdain, calling him by the name he had earned in the past year as the captain of Nargothrond's defenses. "I am not yet finished."

Túrin waved a hand. "Master Torhir," he said, "I have looked at your maps, and I admit they are impressive. But we hardly need a verbal description of the lands about for them to prove useful, especially with several war-captains present at this council—we who brave the outside world, and have seen it ourselves."

"I have dwelt in these lands for longer than your mortal mind can comprehend." Torhir Ifant sniffed. "I know them better than any other; I mapped them myself—"

"And yet you did not know that the Narog has changed its course here and here, and that this island you have marked has been washed away," Túrin pointed out, stabbing his dagger in the aforementioned places. Torhir let out a squawk of horror, but across the table Túrin thought he saw Gildor smirk.

Torhir's apprentice, an ellon just shy of two centuries and a peer of Finduilas, coughed. "To be fair, Captain Mormegil, I surveyed that land just last month. Our newest maps have not yet been updated to reflect that change."

"Thank you, Erestor," Torhir snapped. "Very well, then, that concludes my advice on the eastern front; clearly his Majesty has wiser advisors in the youth than in I!"

"Torhir," Orodreth protested, his voice gentle, "Mormegil meant no offense."

That was not quite true, but Túrin said naught to the contrary, though Torhir sent a glare his way sharper than the dagger now embedded in the map. Slowly, Túrin removed his weapon and went back to idly turning it over in his fingers, staring coolly at the loremaster as he stalked out of the room, Erestor shooting him an apologetic glance as he rolled up the map and trailed after his master.

Orodreth sighed, pinching his nose for the briefest of moments before forcing a smile on his face and turning to his war-captains. "Very well," he said. "Our loremaster and cartographer has given his input on the state of our borders; now I would hear it from those who patrol them."

Gildor set his shoulders. "Sire, the orcs grow ever bolder, and our ambushes are narrower and narrower victories. I fear that we may have to forsake the Narog altogether, and retreat further westward."

"No," said Gil-galad, shaking his head. "The west is barren and desolate since the Falas fell. There is nothing there for us to fall back upon."

"Your stealth has preserved you," Túrin said boldly. "But the time for relying on secret arrows has ended."

The other captains turned to stare at him, and Túrin noticed a frown upon Gwindor's face. At his side, Beleg rested a hand on his thigh in silent warning, but Túrin would not be cowed.

"What do you mean, Turambar?" asked Finduilas, sitting in her brother's shadow.

Túrin sat up straight and proud. "In Doriath we defended a strong border. Beleg can attest to the impenetrable nature of Melian's Girdle. But Nargothrond is not Doriath: its defenses are weaker, its borders shifting. If you wish to keep your land safe, to keep your people safe, you must change tactics. You must go on the offensive."

This was met with a rumble of surprise from all, but Túrin saw interest alight in Orodreth's eyes. He carried on: "Use your strength—our strength—to attack the servants of the Enemy in open battle. Pursue them until they have fallen or been flushed from our lands, and in this way we may know peace!"

"Meleth," Beleg murmured, soft enough that no one else could hear, "you attempted this before, and Dor-Cúarthol fell. You were nearly lost; I was nearly lost."

Túrin ignored him. This was not Dor-Cúarthol: this was Nargothrond, and he had the might of an elven kingdom behind him, not the ragged group of wolf-men he had collected last time.

A discussion broke out amongst the captains, and Orodreth paid careful attention to each of his counselors as they spoke. Gil-galad was hesitant, but Gildor offered points in Túrin's favor; Finduilas seemed excited at the prospect, and kept shooting wide-eyed glances his way; Queen Amathluim remained silent, her face expressionless. Túrin interjected as often as he could, explaining his strategies and offering suggestions for attacks, places that if reclaimed could be used for farming and perhaps even trade. Beleg's voice was measured, at times supporting Túrin and at times finding some flaw in his plan, but even those queries were delivered thoughtfully, in a way Túrin could approach them and work to find solutions.

Throughout this Gwindor grew paler and paler, slumping back into his chair and closing his eyes. Túrin barely noticed: in this past year, as he and Beleg rose through the ranks of the Nagothrondrim soldiers, Gwindor had remained withdrawn, smiling only for his parents and Finduilas, rarely meeting Túrin's eyes for all they lived together under Guilin and Tathrenil's roof.

"Is it decided, then?" Túrin asked after an hour of debate. "Shall I lead a company of warriors to battle against the orcs more openly?"

It was then that Gwindor spoke. "Turambar," he rasped, "you are my friend, and I would not speak against you if I did not hold Nargothrond more dear. But this is foolishness."

Túrin snapped his head to glare at him, and only Beleg's warning cough kept him from immediately shouting. As it was, he ground his teeth and let Gwindor speak.

"I have been to Angband," Gwindor said, "and I have glimpsed the power of the Enemy. I was no important thrall, but I have some small inkling of his designs, and I say again this is foolish. In secrecy lies safety: open war will only bring destruction."

"Perhaps," Túrin snapped, "but in secrecy lies scarcity also! I have seen the eyes of hungry children in these halls, where none should go without—we may be well-fed, but are all the people of Nargothrond? If we can rid our lands of orcs, partake of the fruits they have to offer—"

"Petty victories will prove profitless at last," Gwindor interrupted, "for thus Morgoth learns where the boldest of his enemies are to be found, and gathers strength enough to destroy them!"

"Loath as I am to hide in the shadows, Gwindor speaks truly," Gil-galad said, nodding. "Do you not remember the Fifth Battle? He surely does, Mormegil."

"The Fifth Battle!" Túrin exclaimed, slamming his fist on the table. "Yes, I remember it! Do you think the Eldar are the only ones who suffered then, or do you forget that Húrin was lost, and Huor slain, and the Haladin slaughtered—"

"All the might of the Eldar and Edain united sufficed only to contain him, and to gain the peace of a siege," Gwindor said wearily. "You are too young to remember the Long Peace, Turambar, but I would return to those days if I could. They were long indeed, but only so long as Morgoth bided his time before he broke the leaguer; and never again can such a union be made. Only in secrecy lies hope of survival. Until the Valar come."

"The Valar!" cried Túrin, and he would have burst into a tirade against the Powers of the West, who he bitterly resented for their disdain of Men, but Beleg cleared his throat and he fell silent. If there was one person Túrin would listen to even in anger, it was his beloved, and he was certain Beleg would come to his aid.

"It is true that this secrecy is an imperfect defense," said Beleg. "Turambar spoke rightly when he said the Girdle of Melian is stronger than any border of Nargothrond. What strategy allows one realm to thrive may weaken another, and I fear that waiting for the Powers to come to our aid will mean needless suffering and death as Nargothrond dwindles."

Gwindor's face hardened into a scowl. "There is a prophecy among the Eldar that one day a messenger from Middle-earth will come through the shadows to Valinor, and Manwë will hear, and Mandos relent. Such a day will come, and in the meantime it is madness to attempt again the same strategy that brought such grief and woe to Eldar and Edain alike in the Nírnaeth Arnœdiad."

"A prophecy among the Noldor, perhaps," Beleg said mildly, though his eyes were sharp. "The Sindar have no such hopes, for out of the West has only ever come chaos. You Noldor are mighty and grand, and I begrudge you not your presence in Beleriand, but do not forget it was your Union that brought about the Tears. And I fought that field also, Gwindor, and do not regret it, for all we lost there."

Amathluin pursed her lips. "Beleg Cúthalion, perhaps the Iathrim of Doriath feel secure behind the Girdle, but do not forget that your Queen came from the West also, and it is by her power you are made safe. I, also, am of the Sindar—but I hail from Mithrim, where I met my husband in centuries past, and I dare say my people know more of Morgoth's dangers than yours."

"Enough," said Orodreth at last, raising a hand. "Turambar, you have given me cause for great thought. I will take further counsel with you, my captains, in this matter, but first I must consider all that has been spoken here today. This council is adjourned; I hope the words that passed between us damage no friendships." He nodded to Gwindor and Túrin, somewhat pointedly, Túrin thought, then rose, taking his queen by the arm and sweeping out of the room. Their son Gil-galad followed, and Gwindor also; but Finduilas lingered and spoke to Túrin afterward, her eyes shining with something like hope.

In time Túrin's advice won out, and Orodreth looked ever more favorably upon him. Within a year, the secrecy of Nargothrond was at last forsaken, and Túrin kept the forges of Celebrimbor his friend and the other smiths busy forging a great store of weapons. More elves than ever before took up arms, and though Gwindor was no longer the mighty warrior he once was, with Beleg's aid he trained in battle again and even accompanied Túrin's war parties from time to time.

The Nargothrondrim admired Túrin in a way he had never been in Doriath, and in the reflection of Beleg's eyes Túrin realized that not only had he become a mighty captain, but he had at last come into his full manhood. He was in truth the son of Morwen Eledhwen, and though it was not Beleg that named him Adanedhel, his beloved embraced the title in a teasing manner. Túrin's heart was warm and full whenever Beleg was at his side, or better yet, in his arms.

"Túrin Neithan Turambar Mormegil Adanedhel," Beleg murmured in his ear one night as they lay naked and sated beside one another in bed. "You hoard names like a dragon hoards jewels, meleth. I wonder what our foes call you on the battlefield: something dreadfully orcish, I would think, but suitably terrifying and impressive."

Túrin groaned and kissed him into silence. "You mock me," he mumbled, and beneath him Beleg laughed, a full-body sound that shook them both as they embraced.

"If I mock you it is only to remind you that you are, in the end, but one man," he teased. "Who needs so many names? To me you are simply Túrin, my love, my dearest, though I may not speak that name outside our bed."

Túrin held him close. "I like hearing you say my true name," he admitted, burying his face in Beleg's long silver hair, so delightfully silky and soft. "It reminds me who I am. Where I come from—not only Doriath, but Dor-lómin."

Such nights together were frequent, and as Túrin settled into his position as the Captain of Nargothrond he found that with Beleg's company and his renewed purpose as a commander his cheer grew, though he was naturally more grim than his beloved. In the midst of battle, he wore the gilded dwarf-mask Celebrimbor had found for him, not forgetting the restored Dragon-helm he kept hid in his rooms; he wielded also Gurthang, his great black sword, and remembered how near he had come to losing the one he held dearest to his heart, and took not Beleg's life and love for granted.

"A bridge," he panted to Orodreth as soon as he rode back from a narrow victory where Gildor's reinforcements had barely arrived in time to save him and his warriors. "We need a bridge, across the Narog from the Doors of Felagund, that our arms may pass swifter to battle—this was far too close a call." Indeed, Beleg had been injured once more, and Gwindor had ridden ahead with him to the halls of healing.

At the king's side, Amathluin frowned. "That would leave us exposed," she warned, but Orodreth nodded, his eyes gleaming.

"We shall have a bridge," he agreed. "I will set our architects to work; it will be finished as swiftly as possible."

Túrin grinned, pulling his king into an embrace. Normally he would not be so forward, but he was high off the excitement of victory and the anxiety of Beleg's injury, and after a moment's shock Orodreth reciprocated.

"Soon our lands will be safe enough for Finduilas' wedding!" Túrin exclaimed, thinking of how joyous she would be, and how Gwindor's smile might at last reach his eyes. At this even Amathluin laughed for joy—for there was honor in this work, and with Túrin's guidance much of Nargothrond's territory had been reclaimed.

That third summer in Nargothrond was full of triumph and glory, and even solemn Gwindor could find little fault in the newfound prosperity of his home kingdom. Indeed, with Beleg's influence, Túrin rekindled his friendship with Gwindor, and together with Finduilas the three of them were often in each other's company in the now-bustling underground city when the menfolk were not at war.

On one such occasion Finduilas drank herself silly, falling all over Gwindor's arms, and when he complained that she was hurting his stump she draped herself over Túrin instead.

Túrin chuckled uncomfortably, glancing apologetically to Gwindor, as Beleg looked on with amusement.

"Turambar," Finduilas slurred, "you will not push me away as my betrothed does, hmmm?"

"Faelivrin," Gwindor protested, "I would gladly have you in my arms, if you were perhaps a little less—wiggly."

Finduilas laughed, leaning a little too close to Túrin's face for anyone's comfort. "You are so pretty, Adanedhel," she breathed. "Though that is not your name in truth. Turambar, Turambar! Master of fate—but that is not your name either, is it?"

Túrin stilled, unsettled by her words. She leaned back, and that elven-brightness gleamed in her eyes for all she had not seen the Light of the West as her father had.

"We should take you home," Túrin said gruffly. "I will hold you along the way, if you so wish, though do not let Gwindor's discomfort pain you. He loves you dearly."

"As I love you!" Finduilas cried, giving him a kiss on the cheek that was far too close to his mouth. Túrin's heart stopped, and he looked helplessly upon Gwindor, whose face had turned stony, and Beleg, who now furrowed his brows.

"And you, Beleg," she added, beaming at him. "And of course my darling Gwindor—we are all the very best of friends, and dear to me like no other!" She sighed, leaning back against Túrin. "I do wish you would not be so secretive, Adanedhel," she murmured. "What is your right name, if not Turambar? It is not fit for you, for all you seek to master the fates of us all!"

"Turambar is the only name you need call me," he said firmly, "though the other epithets are suitable should you wish."

"Hmmm," Finduilas hummed. "I will give you my own epithet, then: I call you Thurin, the Secret, for dearly do I wish you to open your heart to me!"

Túrin shook, astonished by how near she came to his right name, and it was then that Beleg gently pried her away from him.

"Let's take you home," Beleg said firmly. "This is enough nonsense for tonight."

To Túrin's dismay, Gwindor grew cool toward him once more, and his heart was troubled. He confessed his concern to Beleg, who listened with a shadow behind his eyes.

"If Finduilas' heart has truly turned to you..." Beleg sighed, shaking his head. "I know not what to do. Gwindor is yet fragile in mind and spirit, and though his body has much recovered he is not the same ellon he once was. Finduilas is his light, and he already feels inadequate compared to you."

"I do not wish that!" Túrin exclaimed, his heart grieved at the thought. "He needs all solace, and a longer time for healing, and no new griefs to hurt him. We must keep fighting, and win that time for him—and I will speak to Finduilas, if I must."

"Be careful not to break her heart," Beleg warned. "It is already heavy each time we go out to battle. She fears for us all, you and Gwindor and myself, that one day we may ride out and not return."

But it was not Túrin who sought out Finduilas, for the very next evening she came crying to him as he sheathed his sword after a long day of training with his warriors. Alarmed, Túrin embraced her, his only thought to comfort, and only too late did he remember he had been planning to gently turn down her advances.

"Finduilas, what grieves you?" he asked, holding her close.

She took a shaky breath, and when her tears had ceased she cried out, "Gwindor has released me from our betrothal, and broken our promises, and names me faithless to him!"

Túrin's blood ran cold with horror, then hot with anger. "How dare he!" he growled. "Is it not plain that you love him? I will—" But he bit his tongue: he could not promise to avenge her honor, or treat her with the love and respect she deserved, because he was bound to Beleg, and she to Gwindor still in heart.

Finduilas sobbed, and Túrin took her aside into a secluded hall where they could have more privacy. He felt helpless and hopeless, and wished that Beleg were here, who always knew what right to say.

"Tell me what happened," Túrin said gently, though he released her and dared not touch her again.

Finduilas reached out to him, but he flinched away, and she drew back with hurt plain in her eyes. He cursed himself, but knew not what else to do, for he did not want to promise her what he could not give, even if in action only.

"He said that I avoided his gaze, and his touch," and at this Túrin started guiltily, for was he not doing the same? "That he would have no grief lie between us, and that he wished for my heart's happiness, though it was not with him, but with—" Her lip trembled.

"With...me?" Túrin asked, grimacing.

She turned her face away. "Yes."

His heart sunk, and he searched for the right words, but all he could find was: "Is...is it true?"

She buried her face in her hands. "Yes!" she cried. "And no! For I love him still, deeply and truly, but I love you also, though you return it not the way I might wish. And Beleg too do I love and admire, no less than you, and my heart is torn to pieces in all this!"

Túrin found he could barely speak. It was true he had no intention of loving her as he loved Beleg, because he loved Beleg first and always. But were Beleg not there—were Gwindor not in her life already—well, he did not know if he would feel the same were that the case. And yet Finduilas loved them all, and it tormented her, though love should bring joy and not grief.

He knew not how to say this, and looked upon her helplessly. It seemed she took his silence as rejection, for anger blazed suddenly in her eyes.

"Thurin Adanedhel," she snapped, "I love you beyond reason, and yet I should not, for you are an Adan and a liar both."

"What!" he exclaimed, bewildered and dismayed.

"Why did you hide your name from me?" she demanded. "Beleg knows it, and Gwindor knows it, and yet you would not tell me. Had I known who you were I should not have honored you less, but more, and better understood your heart!"

"What do you mean?" he whispered. "Whom do you make me?"

She drew herself up, every bit as queenly as her mother, and just as cold. "Túrin son of Húrin Thalion, captain of the North."

At this Túrin was wrathful, and fearing that in his anger he should hurt her more he fled back to the home of Guilin and Tathrenil, remembering too late that this was where Gwindor dwelt also. Indeed, when he arrived he saw Gwindor in close counsel with Beleg, their arms wrapped about one another, and he was stricken with a sudden rush of jealousy. If Finduilas could love him above Gwindor, could Beleg's heart also turn to another?

But Beleg leapt to his feet as Túrin strode in, and his fears were assuaged, for the concern in his eyes was so deep and true that he could not doubt his love.

"Túrin," he said in a low voice, "have you seen Finduilas? Gwindor—misspoke to her, earlier, and she fled from him weeping—"

"I have seen her, and spoken to her," Túrin said, astonished by the cold wrath in his own voice, "and she revealed to me your mistreatment." He said this last to Gwindor, who flinched at his words, pain writ clear across his face.

"Túrin," Beleg said, holding him back from Gwindor, "it is a misunderstanding. Gwindor loves her still, and would have her as well as—" he grimaced— "Where is she? We ought to speak of this together, all four of us."

"I..." Shame overcame him, stronger than his rage, and he bowed his head. "She spake my name—my true name—and called me a liar, and I fled from her..." But he shook himself and glared once more at Gwindor. "I have loved you, Gwindor, and yet you have done ill to me, friend, to betray my right name! Here I am Turambar, the master of my own fate, and yet you call my doom upon me, from which I would lie hid!"

At last Gwindor lifted his head and met Túrin's eyes. "The doom lies in yourself, not in your name," he rasped, "and you are a fool to think you have mastered it."

"Túrin, no," Beleg hissed, physically restraining him from attacking Gwindor. "Túrin—I love you, and Gwindor does also, as well as Finduilas! Please, restrain yourself—he meant no harm, and I believe we can find happiness for all of us together, if we but try—"

At that moment there came a knock on the door, and Tathrenil called, "Ion-nîn? The princess is here to see you..."

Gwindor paled, and Túrin froze, so thus it was Beleg who ushered Finduilas into the room, her eyes red from weeping and her hands trembling. When neither Túrin nor Gwindor said anything to her, he sighed and took Finduilas in his arms, holding her gently and stroking her hair. Another flash of jealousy ran through Túrin: had Beleg not done the same to him, in his griefs?

Túrin cleared his throat, but his words died on his tongue before he could speak them. He was torn in heart and mind, utterly despairing and confused, and he looked to Beleg helplessly, asking for his aid in this.

Beleg looked between them each, then down to Finduilas, weeping softly in his embrace. He sighed, then beckoned Gwindor and Túrin to come forth.

Slowly, Túrin obeyed; he could not deny his beloved, not even in this uncertain state. After a moment, Gwindor followed, though a breath of hesitancy remained with him.

"We have hurt one another," Beleg began, his voice quiet. "We are all friends. I hold each of you dear to my heart, in a way I never before thought possible. Túrin, my beloved—"

Túrin flinched to hear his name so spoken loud, but Gwindor and Finduilas both knew his true identity now. Beleg smiled at him, continuing, "I love you beyond wisdom; this I have known since I left to follow you out of Doriath my home. I love you still, and it is because of this love I bear for you that I tell you plainly now: I love Gwindor and Finduilas also, in much the same way, though those bonds have yet to be tested as ours has."

"Beleg," Túrin whispered, his heart breaking. "I—you promised me—" He could not find the words for how deep his betrayal ran. Beleg had taken him to bed, taken him as close to husband as they could under such circumstances, had claimed him for his own and let Túrin do the same. And now he would turn to another—to two others—

"This is no betrayal," Beleg said firmly, still gazing at Túrin with the same tenderness he held in his eyes the first time they had made love. "Túrin, meleth, dearest one...your heart is my own, and I see this same love for our friends in you. And they for us—is it not true?"

Now he looked between Gwindor, his aged face growing paler by the second, and Finduilas, who had ceased her crying and shied away from him. Túrin looked upon them and tears stung his eyes: yes, he loved them, of course he did! Finduilas was fair and queenly, and reminded him of his ancient home in a way no other could; she was gentle and kind and fiercely supportive of him and were he not already bound to Beleg he—he might have—he could, perhaps, have...

And Gwindor! Broken and bitter was he, but wise and brave also; he rode to war with them against his better judgement, more firm in friendship than he needed to be. He, also, was fair to look upon, for Túrin knew age and despair better than many of the Eldar, and in those ways Gwindor was like unto a mortal man, bearing his suffering nobly and with purpose, even if that purpose was different from Túrin's own. Had Beleg perished upon Anglachel that night, Túrin trusted Gwindor to have saved him, mourned with him, treated him with kindness; he was ever grateful Beleg was here with him still, but there was a goodness and quiet strength in Gwindor that Túrin could not ignore.

"I..." Túrin choked out. "I..."

"I love you," Finduilas cried, leaping from Beleg's side to grasp Túrin's arms. "I cannot hide it, Túrin Adanedhel: I love you and I want you, and it is true what Gwindor said, that I am faithless to him, for I would have you if you are willing, though it bring us all woe in the end!"

Gwindor bowed his head. "I released you already, Faelivrin," he whispered. "You wound me, and yet I have brought this upon myself—"

"Gwindor," Túrin said, grasping Finduilas hand, and then Gwindor's own. "Wait. I think..." Slowly it was coming together in his mind, and he saw Beleg sit back with a smile—and then suddenly he knew.

"Oh," he said, and it was so simple, really. How had he not seen it before?

"I love you, Gwindor," Finduilas said desperately. "I loved you first, and I love you still, and I would wed you before I bound myself to Túrin, but I cannot deny my heart is bursting from its seams. And Beleg! I cannot say I love you for your own sake, but for Túrin's I can and for Túrin's I will, for you are a dear friend and—and...and I love you all, so much I cannot contain it. One elleth is not made to hold this much love!"

"Oh," Túrin repeated, and he smiled, reflecting the light of Finduilas like the waters of Ivrin reflected the rising sun. "Yes, I—I see it now, Beleg. I love you—and I love Finduilas—and I love Gwindor. And...and the loving of one does not negate the loving of another."

The lines of Gwindor's face were furrowed deep, and he lamented, "Would that I understood you all! I feel as if my love is too meager, locked for too long inside my heart, and I have not enough to give for all the friends I do not deserve."

"Gwindor," Túrin demanded, "do you love Finduilas?"

"Yes." Gwindor did not hesitate, and he looked at her like she was his savior, the only thing that kept him standing in the midst of a wild storm. "Beyond reason, as I ever have."

"And do you love Beleg?" Túrin asked, his voice betraying only the slightest tremble.

Gwindor glanced his way, his mouth twisting into a grimace. "I—should not."

"But do you?" Beleg murmured, rising to cup Gwindor's face in his hands. He stood a head taller than Gwindor, bent with toil and torment, and Gwindor looked as if he might swoon into his arms.

Gwindor did not meet his eyes. "Yes," he whispered. "You have ever been a friend in my need, listening when no other would, and...when I lost Finduilas, today, I turned to you, and...I hoped...that if she took Túrin from you, that you might...with myself..."

"And do you love me?" Túrin asked, still holding both his hand and that of Finduilas, even as Beleg leaned to kiss Gwindor gently on the mouth.

Gwindor moaned into the kiss, his knees trembling, and Finduilas gasped. Túrin drew her nearer and wrapped her arms around Beleg as he and Gwindor kissed, and he himself twined his fingers in Gwindor's own and reached around to grasp the stump of his left hand, rubbing gently at the scarred flesh there.

Gwindor buckled under the weight of all this love, and Túrin felt as if his world had opened wide and the sun had risen, even deep underground as they were. Beleg broke from Gwindor, turning to kiss Túrin, and Túrin tasted Gwindor on his lips, and wanted more. Before he knew what was happening he had pulled away from his first lover and descended upon Gwindor, nipping at his neck.

"Well?" he whispered, lips ghosting over Gwindor's ear. "Do you?"

"Yes," Gwindor breathed, and understanding dawned upon him also, and Túrin smiled, pulling him into a kiss of his own. He felt Finduilas' hand on his hips, and Beleg leaning into her and him both, and then they were all four of them together, drowning in their new-discovered love, and Túrin wondered how they had ever been so ignorant of this as to let it cause them grief.

There would be more words between them, apologies for hurts and wrongs, promises of trust and healing; there would be much more speaking between them all, well into the night, as they realized this next step in their united affection. But for now, in this moment, all was lips and hands and beating hearts, and Túrin felt each of his lovers in turn, and all at once, and he surrendered to the ministrations of those he now could each call meleth.

Chapter Text

Five years had passed since Túrin's arrival, four since his ascension to Mormegil the War Captain, three since he and Beleg had welcomed Gwindor and Finduilas into their relationship, two since Túrin had somewhat reluctantly confessed his true identity to Orodreth the King, and only one since the completion of the bridge.

Now he examined two elvish trespassers with a critical eye. Gildor's patrol had greeted them as they passed into Nargothrond's reclaimed territory and brought them forth to speak to its lord, and yet now that they were before Captain Turambar Mormegil, the Adanedhel, once Túrin son of Húrin, they refused to deliver the message that led them hence!

These strange elves, one a Noldo and the other of mixed Sinda and Noldo heritage, named themselves Arminas and Gelmir. (It did not escape Túrin's notice that he shared a name with Gwindor's deceased brother.) They had traveled forth to deliver a message to the Lord of Nargothrond, and as the realm's secrecy had been set aside in favor of open war, they were not blindfolded upon their way to the underground halls as Túrin had been on his first approach, and their journey was swifter thanks to the bridge.

"It is to Orodreth, Angrod's son, that we would speak," said Gelmir firmly, and Túrin clenched his fist at their audacity. Nevertheless he was but Orodreth's chief counsellor in war, and not the king himself, so Orodreth was summoned and Túrin stepped aside to stand with Beleg, who squeezed his arm gently to comfort him.

"Lord," began Gelmir, bowing deeply to Orodreth as he had not to Túrin, "we were of your father Angrod's people, before the Bragollach, and since then we have wandered far from Dorthonion; but of late, after the Nírnaeth, we have dwelt among Círdan's following by the Mouths of Sirion."

Orodreth's lips tightened at the mention of his father, and Túrin wondered that he knew so little of his king's lineage, and thus his lover Finduilas' as well. He would have to inquire after Angrod and the Bragollach, for he knew only that his ancestor Hador had fought and perished in that battle alongside the High King of the Noldor at the time.

"On a day he called to us and bade us go to you," Gelmir continued; "for Ulmo himself, the Lord of Waters, had appeared to him and warned him of great peril that draws near to Nargothrond."

Túrin snorted quietly. "There is always peril drawing near," he muttered for only Beleg's ears to hear.

Orodreth was similarly unimpressed. "Why then do you come hither out of the North?" he demanded. "Or perhaps you have other errands also?"

Arminas stepped forward. "Yes, lord," he said, his voice clear and sharp. "Ever since the Nírnaeth, I have sought for the hidden kingdom of Turgon, and I have found it not; and in this search I fear now that I have delayed our errand hither overlong."

"In searching for one hidden kingdom, he has found another no longer hidden," murmured Beleg. "I wonder: without Captain Mormegil and his bridge, would he have found us at all?"

Túrin looked at him sharply, unsure what he meant, but he quickly turned his attention back to Arminas as he explained how messengers from Turgon to the coast implied he dwelt still in the North.

"Why do you seek Turgon?" asked Orodreth, echoing Túrin's own thoughts.

"Because it is said that his kingdom shall stand longest against Morgoth," Arminas said.

Orodreth scowled, and Túrin huffed. Beleg, at his side, crossed his arms: this was insult to Nargothrond and Doriath both!

"Then tarry not in Nargothrond, for here you will hear no news of Turgon," Orodreth said coolly. "I need none to teach me that Nargothrond stands in peril!"

Túrin nodded sharply, his hand resting on the hilt of Gurthang. As if they did not know how to defend their own kingdom!

Gelmir laid a gentle hand on Arminas' shoulder, smiling to Orodreth with an air of some stress. "Be not angered, lord, if we answer your questions with the truth," he placated. "And our wandering from the straight path hither has not been fruitless, for we have passed beyond the reach of your furthest scouts; we have traversed Dor-lómin and all the lands under the eaves of Ered Wethrin, and we have explored the Pass of Sirion spying out the ways of the Enemy."

At the name of his homeland Túrin drew himself up, insulted that they thought they knew it better than he. Much as Gelmir had to Arminas, Beleg laid a hand on Túrin's shoulder, a reminder to constrain his temper.

"There is a great gathering of orcs and evil creatures in those regions," Gelmir continued, "and a host is mustering about the ruins of Sauron's Isle."

Túrin held himself back no longer. "I know it," he snapped, for his own scouts had spied the Enemy's army days prior. "Your news is stale! If the message of Círdan was to any purpose, it should have come sooner!"

Arminas scowled at him, but Gelmir looked still to Orodreth. "At least, lord, you shall hear the message now," he said. "Hear then the words of the Lord of Waters! Thus he spoke to Círdan: The Evil of the North has defiled the springs of Sirion, and my power withdraws from the fingers of the flowing waters. But a worse thing is yet to come forth. Say therefore to the Lord of Nargothrond: Shut the doors of the fortress, and go not abroad. Cast the stones of your pride into the loud river, that the creeping evil may not find the gate."

He recited it with the precision the learned of the Eldar possessed, so confident and presumptive that Túrin's blood boiled. Orodreth quailed before Círdan's message, looking to Túrin for answer—and he was all too happy to provide for his king.

"What does Círdan know of our wars, who dwell nigh to the Enemy?" he cried. "Let the mariner look to his ships! But if in truth the Lord of Waters would send us counsel—" and Túrin did not believe he would, who had never aided them before— "let him speak more plainly! Otherwise to one trained in war it would seem better in our case to muster our strength, and go boldly to meet our foes, ere they come too nigh."

Gelmir bowed to Orodreth, still not acknowledging Túrin—but Arminas looked upon him with scorn, and it was only Beleg's cough behind him that restrained Túrin from snapping at him also.

"I have spoken as I was bidden, lord," Gelmir said smoothly, and turned away, beckoning for Arminas to follow.

But Arminas did not. He glared at Túrin, demanding, "Are you indeed of the House of Hador, as I have heard said?"

Túrin flinched. Finduilas and the king and some of the war council knew his true name, but he knew not that the rumor of his heritage had spread so far throughout Nargothrond, enough for this outsider to hear of it!

"Here I am named Turambar, the Black Sword of Nargothrond," he said, a warning in his voice. "You deal much, it seems, in guarded speech, friend Arminas. It is well that Turgon's secret is hid from you, or soon it would be heard in Angband. A man's name is his own, and should the son of Húrin learn that you have betrayed him when he would be hid, then—"

At this Beleg stepped forward, cutting Túrin off. "Whether he be of Hador's House or not is not your concern, friend Arminas." He glared at Túrin, who quailed: Beleg would have words for him in private about controlling his temper, he was sure, and Gwindor and Finduilas would only agree with him. Shame coiled in his belly, and he looked down; perhaps he had been too harsh.

"He shall not be betrayed by us, Turambar," Gelmir said, a note of weariness creeping into his tone as he, also, interceded for his friend. "Are we not in council behind closed doors, where speech may be plainer?"

"Not so plain," Túrin said stiffly. "Not when I know you not."

"Peace, then, and our apologies," Gelmir said with a pointed look to Arminas. "Arminas, I deem, questioned you only since it is known that Ulmo has great love for that House, and it is rumored that Húrin and Huor his brother came once into the Hidden Realm."

Túrin scoffed, for he had heard no such tale, and Húrin was known for his steadfastness and would not speak of such a secret even to his own son. He would have answered thusly, had Beleg not laughed and said for him: "Rumor indeed! Would Húrin Thalion let such a thing slip, even were it true? I judge not, for what little I know of him says he is of stalwart character."

"Gelmir mistakes me," Arminas snapped. "I asked because I doubted what here seems believed; for little indeed do you resemble the kin of Hador, whatever your name."

"And what do you know of them?" Túrin growled.

"Húrin I have seen," answered Arminas, "and his fathers before him. And in the wastes of Dor-lómin we met Tuor son of Huor, Húrin's brother, and he is like his fathers—as you are not."

Túrin stared, astonished to hear the name of a kinsman he knew not he had. "That may be, though of Tuor I have heard no word ere now," he said, glancing briefly to Beleg. "But a man may take after his mother and not his father and still be of his father's house!"

"I spoke not of the difference in appearance," said Arminas, "but others of Hador's House hold themselves with more...courtesy than you, Turambar Mormegil!"

"That is enough," Beleg said wearily, cutting Túrin off before he could retort. "We have heard your message, and will take it to our own council."

"I know you," Gelmir said suddenly. "Are you not a marchwaren of Doriath, who came hither to the Nírnaeth with Mablung?"

"I am Beleg Cúthalion," he agreed, "and in the defense of kingdoms such as this I am well experienced. I will not cast aside the warning of Ulmo so lightly—but neither will I discount the strength we have amassed here, and the merit of our bridge in war."

"For your time and concern I thank you," Orodreth said quietly, his countenance yet troubled, "and I welcome you in my halls for as long as you wish to dwell. But further discussion of this matter is best taken with those who know my kingdom as well as I."

It was as clear a dismissal as any, and Gelmir bowed once more, this time taking Arminas with him and away.

"The bridge must stand," Túrin insisted as soon as they were gone. "If we are to stand any chance against the Enemy—"

"I will call a war council for tomorrow morn," interrupted Orodreth. "Make your case then, when all may hear it, but remember: though I hold your wisdom in great esteem, Mormegil, yours is not the only voice to which I hearken."

Túrin nodded sharply. "Very well, Sire," he said through gritted teeth, and let Beleg take him back home where he could be scolded in private.

"That is a grave warning," said Amathluin after Orodreth had relayed the message before his council. "The Lord of Waters has always had the peoples of this land in his heart, and were it my decision I would hearken to his counsel."

"Again you wish to rely overmuch upon the Valar," Túrin said sharply. "What have they ever done for us?"

"It was through Ulmo that Felagund my uncle found and founded Nargothrond in the first place," Orodreth reminded him.

"Of all the Powers he has done the most for us Exiles," Gildor agreed.

"And those of us who remained in Beleriand," added Torhir.

Túrin scowled. "Very well; Ulmo is not as distant as his kin. But what does Círdan know of war, who lives at the sea where the Enemy dares not come?"

"Do not be so quick to judge the Falathrim cowards!" Gil-galad cried. "I lived among them for a time, as a youth, and learned much from them."

"And I was once of that people." Torhir sniffed. "We have much wisdom, and we are survivors."

"And yet," said his apprentice Erestor quietly, "Círdan is not lord of Nargothrond. That is Orodreth."

"We know our lands better than he," Finduilas said.

"And the news of the Enemy the messengers bore is old!" said Gildor. "I myself saw the armies at Tol-in-Gaurhoth long before they. A mighty force they are indeed, but we may prepare for them and win!"

"But not if we tear down the bridge!" Túrin exclaimed. "Has it not aided us in the past year? We have had this argument already, and boldness won out then as it shall now! Nargothrond cannot go back to being hid, now that it has been revealed!"

"It was a foolish idea then, and it still is now," Gwindor said. As Túrin looked at him in anger he only shrugged. There was love between them, yes, but not enough for perfect unity of thought. Gwindor was not the warrior Túrin was, and would never be again.

(I'm doing this for you, Túrin had shouted at him one night past as they argued again. That you might be healed, and safe, and not come with us to war!

You need not protect me! Gwindor had yelled back. I am not craven!

I never said you were! Túrin said. But I love you, Gwindor, and would not see you in more pain than you are already!

That argument had ended with Túrin surrendering to Gwindor's biting strength—but it did not resolve the issue, which only slept, and now, it seemed, awoke again.)

The discussion dragged on, Túrin the most passionate in his defense of his bridge, but tempers rose further. Beleg remained quiet throughout, only speaking up to correct misinformation, not offering his own opinion. He would stand by him in the end, Túrin knew; he always had and always would. But he knew Beleg needed time to come to his own decisions, though the end may seem clear to Túrin.

At last Orodreth declared, "We have spoken overlong! I have heard your thoughts, each of you, and I find myself torn. Turambar's counsel has not failed me thus far, but his voice is not the only I value, and I appreciate your input. Now I would hear from you each in summation, and take a vote, though my decision will be final: Ought we to take down the bridge and retreat into secrecy once more, or press forth in our offensive?"

Túrin spoke first. "You know my stance. The bridge must stand, and the only strength we can count upon is our own."

"And mine is clear also," Gwindor rasped. "Turambar is dear to me, as is known, but ever have I opposed this course of action."

"I would place my trust in Ulmo," said Amathluin.

"And I also," said Torhir.

Erestor cleared his throat. "I know I am yet young, and not as learned as the rest of you," he said shyly, "but I have seen how much we have prospered in these past years since Mormegil became captain. I do not believe the Enemy can destroy us, not if we are valiant."

"And yet Fingon the Valiant perished in the Nírnaeth," Gil-galad pointed out. "Bravery cannot always save us from evil. I am with Gwindor: the bridge must be removed, and Nargothrond re-hid. And yet I am not king, nor do I imagine I shall ever be; I will bow to my father's choice whatever it may be."

"Nor will I be queen," said Finduilas firmly, not looking Gwindor (yet her betrothed) in the eye. "I stand with Turambar, and I say also that the people of Nargothrond are with him. The bridge was not built overnight, and to tear it down after so many have labored on its construction will breed unrest as has not been seen since the Fëanorians dwelt in these halls."

"Many years have I fought for this land, and my father Inglor before me," said Gildor. "Only now have we had some success and hope. Take Ulmo's wisdom into account, sire, but do not dismiss our progress! I am with Turambar, my fellow captain."

After this there was silence, and Orodreth bowed his head, deep in thought. At last he spake: "I am yet torn, and so is my council. Four of you speak for the bridge; four of you speak against. Yet there is one who has not spoken. What say you, Beleg Cúthalion?"

Túrin smiled: if Beleg were the deciding vote, he knew he had won.

Beleg sighed. He did not look Túrin in the eye as he said quietly, "In Doriath we put our trust in Melian the Queen. The people of the Girdle do not hold Ulmo dear as do the Noldor, but we know the power of an Ainu, and the Lord of Waters is greater even than our Queen. I look upon our offensive and see hope as I never did in Doriath—and yet I look upon the bridge, and I see weakness easily exploited. I say not that we must return to secrecy, were it even possible...but as for the bridge, it is more danger than asset. Take it down, that this kingdom might be preserved."

"Beleg," Túrin whispered, astonished and betrayed. His beloved did not meet his eyes, but Gwindor and Finduilas both looked upon him in concern—Finduilas with pity, Gwindor with some measure of relief.

"Thank you, Beleg." Orodreth took a deep breath. "I agree with Turambar that we cannot go back to the way things once were. The Enemy knows our location, and his attack will come, as we know from the amassing army. We must meet them head-on and fight for victory—but we cannot leave our halls vulnerable. The bridge may bring our people to war, but we could march without it. Should we fail, I would rather my Queen hold these halls besieged than have orcs pillage and conquer within."

"Then the bridge will fall?" Túrin growled.

"Yes," Orodreth confirmed, though he did not meet Túrin's glare. "Celebrimbor has been devising blast-powders; I will commission him to aid in the demolition immediately."

Túrin rose, fists clenched. "This will lead only to ruin!" he cried.

"Túrin," Beleg said, and he flinched at his true name, though likely all knew it before.

"I am Turambar Mormegil!" he snapped. "The man you name is no captain of Nargothrond—and he is certainly no coward's companion!"

"Túrin!" Gwindor exclaimed. "This is no personal slight; we all care for you, and for our kingdom—"

"Túrin, please," Finduilas begged, but he would not listen.

"I am going to fight," he snapped. "I will take with me my blade and the helm of my House, since you all are determined to expose me and bring my curse upon me. So be it! But it shall fall upon me alone, not Nargothrond, though the Enemy destroy you without aid."

"Túrin!" Orodreth cried, but he was already fleeing from the council chamber and into the wild lands where orcs awaited his wrath.

Chapter Text

Túrin was only alone with his rage for a matter of hours, before a host of mounted riders appeared on the horizon. He had foolishly neglected to bring a horse of his own, and could not escape them. He braced himself for an argument with Gwindor or Beleg or Gil-galad on how unreasonable he was being, how he should return to Nargothrond and meekly accept the destruction of his hard-won bridge—but it was Gildor who rode to join him, his own face grim, several of his warriors with him, including Ornil.

They did not speak, only offered Túrin a horse of his own, and he realized that they were very nearly as upset as he was. He clasped arms with Gildor briefly but firmly, wordlessly thanking him for his friendship, for standing by him when his faithless lovers would not. (He was being unfair to them, he knew; Finduilas had supported him, and Beleg and Gwindor loved him in their own way even still—but he was too angry now to accept that, and shoved his guilt away.)

For three weeks Túrin and Gildor scouted the edges of the Nargothrond's territory, slaughtering any orcs they came across and doubtless staving off the larger attack planned by the Enemy. At times they heard distant roars, and the elves whispered fearfully of dragons, but Túrin had no patience for such nonsense. If dragons were to come, they would, and he would bring them down, but there was no use in cowering in darkness when there was no need.

"We should return," said Gwindor at last. His own anger had cooled, and he had reluctantly conceded that the king and his counselors did not make their decision to cast down the bridge lightly. But Túrin hated to hear those words and stalked off alone whenever they were spoken. At such times Gildor always sent a soldier to trail him, in case he came upon enemies unawares.

"No," Túrin snapped. "I do not wish to return until the last stone has been drug away from the ruins of the bridge. I will have no part in this, not even as a witness."

"Túrin," Gildor sighed, and Túrin growled.

"I am yet Turambar, though my name and helm may now be known," he insisted. "The captain of Nargothrond is a greater man than the cursed heir of a broken house."

"Only if you cast aside your birthright," Ornil murmured, so quiet it was easy for Túrin to ignore her.

"Destroying a bridge may not take as long as constructing it, but I doubt our ruin has yet been completed," Túrin seethed. "Go, if you must, Gildor, but I will not follow!"

He turned and stalked off into the wood, hand on Gurthang's hilt. They had well scoured this area of its evils, but he was of half a mind to attack anyone he came across, elf or orc notwithstanding. Woe be unto the soldier who followed him; he would not have mercy! He expected it would be Ornil this time, sent to calm him with her elven patience.

What he did not expect was to run into another mortal.

They were camped astonishingly close to the Pools of Ivrin, and in Túrin's blind rage he retraced the familiar paths to where Gwindor had once led him and Beleg. He stumbled into the clearing and his breath caught as he beheld the glittering springs, smelled the fresh air, felt a cool spray of water on his hot forehead...

The last rays of sunset glinted through the trees, and tears sprang unbidden to Túrin's eyes. He wished he could see Finduilas here, as Gwindor once had; she was surely even more beautiful in this glorious light, earning her name Faelivrin.

Túrin's anger melted away, and he fell to his knees, Gurthang slipping from his grip. Why was he so furious? It was foolish of him to put so much of his pride and self-worth into a bridge or a battle strategy. He was loved, respected, admired in Nargothrond: by the king, by his council, by the people, by his lovers.

And how did he repay their kindness? With childish anger and entitlement to a land that was not his own. Túrin had never felt as if he belonged anywhere: not Doriath, not Amon Rûdh, and not Nargothrond—he didn't think he would feel at home in Dor-lómin, either, if he ever returned. And yet while Nargothrond had become a haven for him, it was the land of Orodreth and his people first, and their king should have the final say in how best to defend his realm. It was unmeasurably selfish to act in the manner he had, and Túrin felt shame overcome him.

Hot tears ran down his cheeks, making tracks through the grime of several days. He knelt by the water's edge and washed his face, and the clear waters cleansed his spirit as much as his body.

Túrin remembered the last time he had been here, soon after he had very nearly lost Beleg. A pang of grief stabbed through his heart, and he let out a choked sob: he had been so grateful, then, for his beloved's survival, for Gwindor's aid, for the hope he somehow managed to maintain.

Beleg was the foundation of Túrin's love, his pity, his wisdom, however scant; Beleg understood what Túrin had not in regards to Nargothrond's defense, that one man's glory was not worth the ruin of an entire kingdom. Beleg had ever put Túrin before reason, and even in this act he did so, protecting Túrin from himself.

Beleg, first-beloved, wise and loyal! Gwindor, gentle even in bitterness, faithful guide! Finduilas, bright as sunshine, beacon of hope! Túrin had turned from them all, and he missed them now terribly. Why had it taken him so long to realize that all this love was too great and precious a thing to lose over a single bridge? Especially when he had come so close to losing Beleg already!

Túrin wept for some minutes more, crying into the spring, all his resentment bleeding out of him. At last he rose, feeling drained and sheepish but wiser than he had before.

"Mormegil?" came a soft voice: Ornil, as he had suspected. "Need you comfort in your grief?"

He shook his head, not turning to look at her. "Nay," he rasped. "I have been...beyond selfish, and Ivrin's lake is comfort enough for me." He wiped tears from his eyes. "Ornil, leave me. I will return to your captain shortly, but...I would like some time to be alone."

"Of course, Mormegil," Ornil murmured, her words growing quieter as she retreated. "We await your return."

For some time more he remained, standing still before the springs and letting the tranquil murmur of the streams soothe his aching spirit. At last he felt strong enough to turn back, ready to beg Gildor forgiveness for his poor manners and assent to beginning the journey back to Nargothrond. At least this trip had not been utterly fruitless, for he felt wiser now, and they had beaten back the Enemy to make the land safer. He would bring victory with him in his return, as much as he would apology.

But just as he made to depart Ivrin for Gildor's camp, the wind carried voices from the lower springs, speaking the elven-tongue. Túrin tensed, not recognizing them—they were not members of Gildor's company. He had little to fear from elves, a kindly people...unless, of course these were Kinslayers, but then why would the Fëanorians wish to harm a mortal Man...?

"...a great feast," came the lilting tone of an elf, "before we even left for the Hidden Kingdom. I was not yet born, then, but I have heard many tales of it: for it was there that my mother met my father. Ai, it is as beautiful as I imagined; nay, more! Were our errand to Turgon not so urgent I would wish to linger here awhile. As it is, this will be a safe place to spend the night. Winter is cruel, but Ivrin shall keep us safe."

Turgon! Túrin scowled at that name. Ever were the elves seeking Turgon and his realm, as if it were so much better than Nargothrond or Doriath! And Eithel Ivrin was nominally part of Nargothrond's territory; these elves were trespassing without even the decency to respect Orodreth's authority!

Yet he stayed his hand. It had been only minutes since he had decided to embrace humility and wisdom; it would not do to return to recklessness now.

"I marvel that this place is yet safe from the hand of Morgoth," said another voice, much deeper and rougher than the first. "This far north, and yet free from his power! It brings me hope. I wonder if the Blacksword and his forces have kept this place safe, or if—augh!"

"Careful!" cried the first elf, and there was the sound of someone falling over. Túrin stifled a snort of laughter; he had never known grown elves to be clumsy—but his amusement turned quickly to shock as he heard a muffled curse in his native tongue, Taliska.

At this he strode through the trees toward the voices, his curiosity overwhelming his better sense. Before him he beheld an odd sight: an elf, wide-eyed and auburn-haired, helping a mortal Man to his feet. Túrin gazed upon the Man in amazement, for his hair was golden as he remembered his own father's to be, with eyes just as blue and bright; though this Man was taller than Húrin, and looked more ragged than the impressive lord in Túrin's memory, worn down by tribulations. (Doubtless after all this time in captivity Húrin looked just as grim, but Túrin had only the faint recollections of childhood from which to draw an image of his father.)

"Who are you?" Túrin cried, speaking in Taliska.

The Man's mouth fell open. Túrin saw him and his elven companion tense as he approached, and he realized that he, clad in black armor and wearing the Dragon-helm, made an intimidating sight. Gurthang, stretched out long and biting from his right hand, did not help him appear any friendlier.

Slowly he sheathed his sword, and the elf relaxed slightly, though he scurried backward, hiding in the Man's shadow. Up close, Túrin saw with amazement a reflection of his own spirit in this Man's eyes, and a shiver ran through him. I wonder, he thought, if this is the one Gelmir and Arminas spoke of...

"Sorry," the Man said haltingly in Taliska. "I...not speak this tongue well."

A Man who knew enough Taliska to swear in it but not to introduce himself; a Man with Hador's golden hair and Túrin's own bright eyes; a Man in the company of an elf...! Túrin's head spun, and he felt the weight of his lineage crash down upon him.

"Who are you?" Túrin asked again, in Sindarin this time, speaking in softer tones.

"I am Tuor son of Huor, of the House of Hador," said he, and Túrin could not restrain a gasp, for Huor was his own father's brother, which made him—!

"Why do you wear that helmet?" Tuor demanded, his voice growing hard. "Have you stolen it from Hithlum's treasures? It belongs to my House!"

"As do I!" Túrin cried. "For I am Túrin son of Húrin, your own cousin!"

"The Blacksword!" whispered the elf. "Tuor, look upon his blade!"

"Yes," Túrin confirmed, drawing Gurthang once more, displaying its fine make. Celebrimbor had done an excellent job reforging Eöl's work, and despite the malice that yet hung about its edge Túrin was proud to wield such a beautiful weapon. "I am known also as Mormegil, Captain of Nargothrond; and also Turambar, Master of Fate; and—" he flashed the elf an arrogant grin— "some call me Adanedhel, for my elven beauty, though I am mortal still."

The elf rolled his eyes. "Perhaps if you shaved, and were yet a few inches taller," he teased. Tuor laughed, and Túrin laughed with him, still stunned and not only a little joyous at this unlikely turn of events.

"My elvish lovers would agree," he conceded. "One has been a marchwarden, another a soldier, but the princess will not stand for a wildman of the woods in her bed! When I return home to her I will be forced to bathe until my skin is raw and not a speck of dirt left on me!"

The elf blinked, caught off guard, but Tuor only laughed the more. Túrin, normally so grim, found himself feeling lighter than he had in days—weeks. Since before the council meeting, certainly.

"Then you have found fame and valor in Nargothrond," Tuor said eagerly. "I am searching for Gondolin, with Voronwë as my guide."

The elf, Voronwë, nodded. "We have a message from—"

"Ulmo?" Túrin guessed.

Tuor blinked. "Did he speak to you also, cousin?"

"Not to me," Túrin grumbled. "But he sent messengers. Gelmir and Arminas—"

"I met them also!" Tuor exclaimed. "They were—"

"—insufferable," Túrin muttered as Tuor finished with, "—fine fellows." Voronwë snorted.

"You must come with me to Nargothrond," Túrin declared. "I have been—well, I have been nearly as insufferable as our...honored guests, Ulmo's messengers, but I see now that it is unwise to refuse the guidance of the Powers. Orodreth the King would be honored to host you."

"We must press on," Voronwë said firmly. "Our errand is to Turgon, not Orodreth."

"It is the middle of winter," Túrin pointed out. "We shall not keep you hostage within our halls, but surely you could use food, rest, supplies before heading out into the wild once more. Gondolin is not exactly easy to find."

"I am from Gondolin, and would now return," Voronwë countered. "I know the way."

Something stirred within Túrin, a longing to see this city he had heard so much about. But then he remembered Beleg, and Gwindor, and Finduilas; how kind Gwindor's parents had been to him; Orodreth's appreciation and friendship; Celebrimbor's sharp mind and sharper tools; all the other people he had grown to love in his new home. For Nargothrond, as much as it was not the place he was from, had become a home to him in the way that Amon Rûdh and even Doriath had never been. Love kept him there, and foolhardiness had almost dragged him away. Now love, amid wisdom, would lead him back.

"Voronwë, let us go," Tuor said. "This is fate, or the guidance of the Valar—I have met my cousin, whom I never have known before, and he offers us a respite before our continued journey. This is exactly what we need—and surely Orodreth will benefit from our message, also! The Lord of the Waters has guided us this far, and here we are at this beautiful spring, another place of his power. We are meant to go to Nargothrond!"

Voronwë hesitated, but with both the pleading stare of Tuor and the reproachful glare of Túrin, he at last bowed his head. "We cannot tarry long," he warned.

"We will not hold you against your will," Túrin promised. "You may leave when you wish, but I do beg you to come."

"Very well," Voronwë sighed, and Tuor laughed for joy, giving first him an embrace and then Túrin.

It had been so very, very long since Túrin had been held in such a way by another Man. He had lovers and friends in Nargothrond, yes, but they were elves; among the Gaurwaith such displays of affection were rare, and never reserved for their reclusive leader; he had been the only mortal in Doriath. But Tuor hugged him like the brother he never had, and in a way he was: son of his father's brother, his kinsman.

Túrin was not one to place much faith in the Powers, and he still held some measure of disdain for Ulmo, no matter his newfound wisdom, but...he smiled as he held his cousin close, remembering Tuor's belief. Perhaps this was meant to be; perhaps this was Fate. And was he not Turambar, Master of Fate, who had overcome the curse upon his kin? He had saved Beleg, and he now embraced his long-lost cousin...and for the first time in a long time he hoped to see his mother again, and his sister for the first time, and perhaps even in some distant future his father, whose curse he vowed to break in full.

To say the people of Nargothrond were astonished by Túrin's return with his mortal cousin and an elf of Gondolin would be an understatement. The rumor of his true identity, Túrin son of Húrin, quickly became common wisdom where it had not already been known, and he found even more awe and respect heaped upon him. Before the bridge, he may have let this get to his head, but now he was so eager for some privacy with his lovers that he all but fled into his rooms and locked himself inside, promising Tuor that he would see him at supper. For now, Orodreth could entertain him and Voronwë.

Túrin breathed a sigh of relief when he was finally home—and then immediately realized that he was filthy. He had spoken in jest, earlier, when he said Finduilas alone cared about how he smelt; he also had a care for his appearance and his own stench, and though he was tired he dragged himself to the bath and began the arduous process of washing away nearly a month's worth of sweat and grime.

Just as he was finishing, there came a knock at the door. Túrin grunted, and in stepped Gwindor, looking more hale and happy than ever. Túrin half-wondered if he and Finduilas had set a wedding date now that the bridge had been torn down and Nargothrond's safety "ensured." (He still thought the bridge the wisest option, even if he no longer convinced himself that it was of more value than his loves. And as for marriage: their strange, four-way relationship was not publicly known, and though they all held each other dear the original couples still found the most joy in each other, with no hard feelings between any of them.)

"Túrin," Gwindor rasped. "It's good to see you back."

Túrin stretched lazily in the dirty bathwater. "Care to join me?" he teased.

Gwindor snorted. "Absolutely not. Though I appreciate you bathing before crawling into bed."

"I considered getting your sheets all filthy," Túrin said, "but I rather thought Finduilas would disapprove."

"You'd be surprised." Gwindor smirked. "Some days she'll jump me when I'm still covered in blood from the battlefield. I think she finds it alluring."

Túrin flushed at the image in his mind: now that was a sight he'd like to see. And be on the receiving end of. He'd have to lure her into it sometime.

"Get out, then, if that's what you want," Gwindor said, and Túrin splashed him indignantly.

"I haven't the time," he said reluctantly. "I—need to find Beleg, and talk to him. And then I must dine with my cousin and the king."

"Yes, your cousin!" Gwindor chuckled. "What an unexpected development. Is he cursed by Morgoth, also?"

"Seems to be blessed by Ulmo," Túrin grumbled, stepping out of the bath and toweling off. Gwindor absently combed through his hair, stealing a few whiskery kisses every now and then, which made Túrin blush. It was true that he was not very elflike while unshaven, but far from finding that strange, it seemed to be as alluring to Gwindor as bloodstains were to Finduilas. "I wish I could switch fates with him; he would likely hold up better against my curse than I..."

"Don't say that," Gwindor murmured, leaning close to kiss his neck. "I would rather have you. And you are a poor Master of Fate if you keep speaking like that!"

"Was it not you who told me that my doom lies in myself, not in my name?" Túrin asked, elbowing him away as he tried to nip at his shoulder. "Mnnn, Gwindor—I really must find Beleg. I need to—to apologize."

Gwindor let him slip away. "Go," he said firmly.

Túrin dressed quickly, Gwindor's heavy gaze watching him all the while. He hesitated before leaving, glancing back to his lover.

"He's been at the training grounds practically since you left," Gwindor said softly. "You returned so suddenly, I doubt he had the chance to come and greet you before you came here. He misses you terribly—he would sleep with us, but only sleep. I'm afraid you would've broken his heart if you stayed away much longer."

"He's always chased after me," Túrin whispered.

"He would have this time, too, if Orodreth had not commanded him to stay, and had Finduilas and I not begged him to give you the space you needed," Gwindor murmured. "He would do anything for you, Túrin."

"I know," he rasped. "I don't deserve him."

"And I don't deserve any of you—and yet I have you all." Gwindor spread his arms, his one palm open placatingly as Túrin took a deep breath to scold him about not valuing himself enough. "Aha. You don't like it when I do it; do you think I like it when you do it?"

Túrin scowled, caught in the trap. "Alright," he said stiffly. He went to go, but paused once more at the door. "Gwindor?"

"Yes?"

"Why are you... I thought I would have to apologize to you, too."

Gwindor tilted his head. "We have had this argument before, you and I. Many times. We fight, but the anger cools, and we remain dear to one another. We both want what is best for Nargothrond, even if we do not agree on the method. I was no more upset with you than I was any other time I spoke against the bridge. But with Beleg..."

"He had never taken the other side before," Túrin muttered, his eyes downcast in shame. "And—forgive me, Gwindor—but he has ever been dearest to my heart."

"There is nothing to forgive," Gwindor said firmly. "As you and Beleg hold each other close, so do Finduilas and I, even if we share in a greater love together. We have known this since the beginning. And you did nothing to slight me, save running off alone, but with Gildor sent after you and your return now...all will be well, Túrin."

"What if he is furious with me?" Túrin fretted. "What if—"

"He is worried about you," Gwindor said. "Not angry. If he was angry, that was weeks ago. Go to him, you fool, and apologize. He deserves that. But he will forgive you, if he has not already done so. He loves you more than is wise, I think."

"He said as much, following me from Doriath," Túrin admitted. "But it is with him that I learn wisdom, and without him that I realize its absence."

"Gwindor?" called Finduilas from the other room. "Are you here? I heard voices! Did you know our Turambar has returned, and brought with him a cousin—oh! Hello, Túrin!"

"Finduilas," he greeted her, and kissed her. "I was just leaving to find Beleg."

She smiled into the kiss, then pushed him away. "Go," she said firmly. "I apologize that Gwindor is keeping you."

Gwindor began to protest, but fell silent when she wrapped herself in his arms instead of Túrin's, a besotted look on his face that warmed Túrin's heart.

"He was helping me find my courage," Túrin said, smiling at both of them one last time. "Thank you. I love you."

"We love you too," Finduilas murmured, and it was with those words ringing in his ears that Túrin set out to find Beleg.

Chapter Text

Beleg was not at the training grounds, but one of his warriors pointed Túrin to the baths. He lingered outside, waiting for Beleg to be finished, wondering why he did not bathe at home. He was answered when his lover finally emerged, Gil-galad at his side. The prince spoke animatedly, and Beleg nodded politely, but he seemed distracted, glancing about—and then he saw Túrin, and he froze.

"Excuse me," he murmured to Gil-galad, who took one look at Túrin, grimaced, and walked away, giving Beleg a perfunctory pat on the back.

"Beleg—" he began, but his beloved shook his head.

"Not here," he said quietly. "Walk with me?"

"Anywhere," Túrin promised, and something deep and unreadable flashed in Beleg's eyes.

Beleg led him up a winding hallway with a steady incline, ending on a high ledge just outside the caverns that overlooked the Narog. Túrin shivered as he stepped outside, the faint evening breeze caressing his arms in a pale imitation of how he wished Beleg would touch him. But his lover stood apart from him, staring out into the dark water below, at the pile of rubble where the bridge once stood. Orodreth's laborers had been swift and efficient in their deconstruction of Túrin's great work.

"Beleg," he tried again, but Beleg raised a hand, not yet meeting his eyes.

"Listen," Beleg said quietly. "Do you hear the river?"

Túrin listened. "Yes," he whispered, unsure of what Beleg wanted him to hear.

"It laughs, now. It didn't before. I—it was hard to tell, at first, but when the bridge was there...Ulmo's power was fading. Now it has returned."

Ulmo! Always everyone spoke of Ulmo with such reverence! Túrin bit back a retort, not wishing to reignite the same argument that had driven them apart.

And yet...

This was not Nen Lalaith, where Urwen once had played. But Túrin did hear the river's laughter, and it brought a peace to his heart he had not known since childhood.

"I was wrong," he rasped. "I was wrong to be so wroth with you. I...do not recant my counsel before the king, nor do I believe it was my bridge that brought a doom upon Nargothrond. But it is done, and my heart aches with missing you. I should never have let my wisdom come between us."

At this Beleg smiled, finally looking him in the eyes with such fondness Túrin thought he could melt away from the warmth. "Túrin," he said affectionately, "it is not wisdom that drove you away. It is wisdom, ever growing within you, that brought you back to me."

"Oh, Beleg," Túrin whispered, and Beleg took him in his arms and kissed him, and all was right in the world once more.

Though Túrin wished to know his cousin better, Tuor's heart was set on reaching Gondolin, and Voronwë was firm in leading him there. They stayed in Nargothrond only two days, during which they took counsel with Orodreth and his advisors. Túrin, ashamed of his actions at the last council, felt unworthy to attend, but he came as invited and sat at Tuor's side.

Ulmo's message to Turgon was even more dire than the one delivered to Orodreth. Túrin shivered as he heard such powerful words flowing from his cousin's lips, and for the first time he believed in the Vala's influence. Perhaps it was a good thing, after all, that Orodreth had listened to his counsel and taken down the bridge, though Túrin would be hard-pressed to admit that.

Túrin was subdued at this meeting as he had never been in the past, not wanting to repeat the previous incident. Even as Gwindor, Amathluin, Torhir, and now Voronwë advised Orodreth to retreat further into secrecy—and even to plan for evacuation, if necessary!—he kept quiet. He was grateful the other captains (Beleg, Gildor, even Gil-galad) spoke up in favor of continued valor and defense, and surprised that Tuor stood with them.

At last Tuor and Voronwë departed Nargothrond, Túrin giving his cousin one last fierce embrace and a promise to see him again, however unlikely such a thing might be. Orodreth sent along with them his own message to Turgon, his kinsman and fellow king.

"If your king would aid us in our fight against the Enemy," Túrin began as Voronwë and Tuor lingered at the gates, "we would welcome his allyship."

Voronwë scoffed, but Tuor nodded thoughtfully.

"The Lord of Waters spoke of war to come," he mused. "Perhaps if all the free-peoples in our hidden kingdoms united once more, under a banner less cursed than that bearing a Fëanorian star..."

"That is for the king to decide," Voronwë interrupted. "And ever he has been reluctant to wage open war."

"Then we Edain of Hador's House must show him the meaning of urgency," Túrin said, and Tuor grinned.

"I hope that I may meet as pretty a princess as you have found yourself here!" Tuor teased, bowing one last time to Finduilas as he kissed her hand. "I already have a guide of my own—" here he nodded first to Gwindor, who rolled his eyes, and then to Voronwë, who blushed— "so to truly mirror your collection of lovers, dear cousin, I would need only add some guard or captain." He winked at Beleg. Beleg winked back.

Túrin laughed. "You will find your heart's desire, I am sure of it," he said. "After all, you are much less grim than I, and somehow I have fooled these three into my bed!"

"Túrin," Finduilas sighed, but he quieted her exasperation with a kiss.

At last Tuor departed, Voronwë at his side. Túrin watched as they disappeared over the horizon, crossing the river not by means of the fallen bridge but by the hidden ferry. Gwindor and Finduilas returned to the halls, but Beleg lingered with Túrin as the morning sun rose, the cold winter morning giving way to the first hints of spring.

"You will see him again," Beleg murmured.

"I hope so," Túrin said. "Perhaps, if we fight this war to its bitter end, we may see our homeland freed before our deaths. Or those of our children. Well—his children. I doubt I shall be having any; I would not wish to pass my curse along to them, and I imagine Finduilas would rather bear an elven child."

"She is a romantic," Beleg informed him, as if he did not already know. "She has been comparing you and her to Beren and Lúthien since your arrival, did you not know? She would be eager and willing to give you a peredhel child."

Túrin's stomach flipped at the prospect. "Ah, um," he mumbled, "well, I don't know—"

Beleg nipped at his ear, and Túrin flushed more than he had already. "Do not fret, meleth," he murmured. "It would be after the wedding, anyway, and they still have not set the date."

Winter turned to spring, and though the shadow of Angband crept ever closer, it did not overwhelm Nargothrond. Túrin grew more and more frustrated as he and the other captains were forced to give up more and more land to the Enemy, and he bitterly lamented the destruction of the bridge that had made victory a possibility. But even on those occasions where they fought orcs up to the banks of the river, Nargothrond itself was never breached, and though aid came not as swiftly as it might have, it did come, often with Gwindor leading the reserve forces.

Not every trespasser was malicious. Though the land grew more dangerous, still many wandering elves (and even a few mortal folk!) made their way to the riverbanks, and were taken into Nargothrond. These were those who could not pass through the Girdle of Melian, who could not discover the valley of Gondolin, who hated the Kinslaying Fëanorians to the east, who feared the sea where Círdan's havens hid. Finduilas welcomed them each warmly, and with young Erestor's help took over helping them adjust to their new home.

And then, one day, Túrin rode home, weary from another stalemate, and was immediately dragged from his horse into the king's chambers by a wild-eyed Gwindor.

"What? What is it?" he demanded, but Gwindor only shook his head, seemingly unable to describe it. Dread churned in his gut, and he braced himself for wretched news—but nothing could have prepared him for what he saw when he arrived.

"Mother?" he gasped, and nearly fell to his knees, for it was she: Morwen Eledhwen, proud and dark-haired, much aged from last he saw her as a child but with no less noble a bearing. She stared at him for a moment, then strode forward, reaching up to gently stroke his cheek.

"Túrin," she whispered. "My, how you have grown, my son."

"Mother," Túrin wept, unable to hold back the joy from this unlooked-for reunion, and he held her tightly in his arms.

"Mother, how did you come here?" he asked when he could at last bring himself to release her. "How did you know where I was? What happened in Dor-lómin, where is—where is my sister? Where is Niënor?"

"I am here," said a new voice, and Morwen turned him to face a young woman he somehow had missed upon his entrance.

When Túrin had first met Finduilas, he had likened her to the sister he never had known, and he saw now he had been right in the comparison. Niënor had the same firm presence Túrin remembered of their father, her hair golden and eyes bright. She beheld him in awe, and went to curtsy, but Túrin would have none of that.

"Sister," he murmured, and embraced her as he had his mother. After a moment of surprise, she reciprocated.

It was necessary then for introductions to be made: most importantly, of Niënor to Túrin, but also of both she and Morwen to Túrin's friends and lovers.

Much to Túrin's astonishment—though he was astonished by the whole situation—Mablung had accompanied them to Nargothrond, for they had traveled to Doriath not long after he had departed! Now Túrin wished he had allowed Beleg to convince him to return, but that lament was brief, for they were reunited now and had he done so he would never have met Gwindor and Finduilas.

Morwen relayed that even in Doriath they heard tell of the Blacksword of Nargothrond, who made safer the open lands between the caves and the forest. But it was not until rumor spread that Mormegil wore the Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin, as once had the mortal Captain of Dor-Cúarthol, that she realized he was her son, and determined (against Thingol's wisdom) to seek him out. Niënor had insisted on following, and Mablung was sent along as their escort.

Beleg was overjoyed not only to meet Túrin's family, but to reunite with his longtime friend. Niënor hung on Finduilas' every word, and Gwindor spoke of Húrin's valiance to Morwen; the king's chambers were abuzz with joyous conversation, and Túrin found he could weep for gratitude. Now he missed only his father, and his foster family in Doriath; but they lived within Arda Marred, and this was as close to perfect as he could imagine.

Orodreth rested a hand on Túrin's shoulder. "It is good to see you with your family, Túrin," he said softly. "I almost have hope for the future."

"We have mastered our dooms," Túrin said, never more sure of it than in that moment. "Look! Húrin's family was cursed, and yet here we stand united. They dwelt in Doriath, the realm I thought I forsook, and Mablung is here as their guide and Thingol's messenger. It was only some months ago when my cousin Tuor passed by seeking Gondolin, and he delivered a message also—the hidden kingdoms are coming together in common counsel, and if we are brave enough, we may strike down the Enemy and live in freedom!"

"What is this you speak of a cousin?" Morwen asked sharply.

Túrin told her all he knew of Tuor: his mother's death, which Morwen had already guessed after Rían's disappearance, his childhood among the elves, his enthrallment by the Incomers, his escape—

"Oh!" exclaimed Niënor. "I think I saw him, once, in the wood—a wild thing, but he left us stolen food, and I thought he had a familiar spirit."

"He said he aided his countrymen, when he could," Túrin said. "He may well have been the man you saw."

"I am glad to know that something of Huor and Rían survived," Morwen murmured. "They were dear to me, and I thought them lost, and Rían's child also. To hear he lives, and is blessed by Ulmo...it is almost as wondrous as seeing my son again."

Much more news was exchanged, and Orodreth invited Túrin's family to dine with his own, and Mablung also. It was decided that Morwen and Niënor would dwell henceforth in Nargothrond, and though Mablung tried to urge them all to return to the safety of the Girdle, they refused.

"Send Thingol my gratitude, and my love," Túrin said, "but I would not return when Beleg asked it of me, and I will not return now."

Mablung sighed wearily. "Very well," he conceded, giving Beleg a knowing glare. "I cannot resort to the same methods he can in winning you over, in any case."

Túrin choked on his food, but Beleg only laughed.

Orodreth promised to send a missive to Thingol along with Mablung, and Túrin, grown bold with wine, made a speech about alliances and battles and victory. Gwindor leaned into Finduilas with a frown, but Túrin saw the light in Orodreth's eyes shine ever brighter, and he hoped fervently that Tuor had arrived in Gondolin and delivered his own message to Turgon. If the three kingdoms could unite—!

"And will Húrin my husband be freed in this war of yours?" Morwen asked.

"Of course," Túrin boasted, "if he does not perish in the battle! But that is a risk we all must run—peace will not be won in cowardice, only in bravery."

"That is enough of this talk," Amathluin the Queen dismissed. "It has grown late. My ladies, let me escort you to your rooms."

"Túrin, will you come with us?" asked Niënor, her eyes hopeful.

"He lives with me," Gwindor said gently. "He and Beleg both, and Finduilas when she grows tired of the royal suite."

"You know you are always welcome to join me," Finduilas said primly. She smiled to Niënor. "That invitation stands for you as well, Lady Niënor. I would cherish your company and your friendship."

Niënor blushed, and Túrin wondered if Finduilas meant what she implied, and if Niënor understood it. He did not dwell on the thought for too long, letting Beleg distract him with a squeeze to his thigh.

Soon enough their festivities concluded, and each party slipped away. Niënor followed her mother, and Túrin bid them both goodnight; Mablung retreated to speak further with Orodreth. Túrin took his lovers in his arms and wept, overwhelmed with too many emotions for him to name.

"Shh, shh," Beleg said gently, kissing the tears from his cheeks. "All is well—have hope!"

"I do," Túrin whispered. "That is why I cannot hold back my tears! And I fear, also: what if this is all taken from me, so soon after I have found my family once more?"

"We will take care of you," Finduilas promised.

Gwindor wrapped an arm around him. "Come to bed with us, Túrin."

"Always," he rasped, and let them carry him away.

Túrin had never had the opportunity to bask in a mother's pride, but now that Morwen saw the man and captain he had become, he found himself glowing with each nod of approval. She was not the kind of woman to shower her children in praise, but it was clear she respected the work Túrin had done in defending Nargothrond. Besides, if he wanted a more generous source of appreciation, Niënor's eyes shone with admiration every time he mentioned one of his great deeds.

He walked them through the halls he had come to call home, introduced them to his friends and brothers-in-arms, let Morwen hold the Dragon-helm in her hands. Niënor was drawn more to his blade, and she held Gurthang with reverence.

"In Menegroth I learned to wield a sword," she said shyly. "Mother was not enthused, but I insisted. Mablung taught me." A blush rose to her cheeks. "He is an excellent teacher."

Túrin, who knew a thing or two about how excellent the marchwardens of Doriath were at teaching, only smiled. "You make a fine sight with my sword," he said. "You should join us on the training grounds sometime."

"Absolutely not," Morwen forbade sternly, but Túrin knew nothing would stop his sister from following up on that invitation.

When Morwen and Niënor had settled into their new homes, Mablung took his leave of Nargothrond. "It was an honor to serve you, my ladies," he told them with a deep bow. Morwen only nodded, but Niënor flung her arms around him, clinging to him tightly.

"I'll miss you," she whispered, and Túrin leaned against Beleg as he saw how tightly Mablung clung to her also.

"It seems I am not the only child of Húrin who admires their marchwarden tutor," he murmured to his beloved.

Beleg chuckled. "And yet he returns to his king where I followed you, meleth."

"You returned, also," Túrin reminded him. "But you came back to me. Perhaps he will come back to her."

And indeed he did, though far sooner than anyone expected.

Túrin took Niënor on his patrol that morning, promising Morwen it would be safe. She kept glancing at the horizon where Mablung had disappeared, as if hoping he would turn around—and yet, as the sun set and Túrin led his company back home, Niënor was astonished as any other to see a familiar figure reappear, making great haste toward Nargothrond.

"Mablung!" Niënor cried, and it was all Túrin could do to keep her from riding out to greet him (he had promised their mother to keep her safe, after all). When Mablung finally came within shouting distance, what he cried out made Túrin's blood run cold.

"Dragon!" he called. "An army of orcs approaches, led by the Golden Wyrm of Angband—they make for Nargothrond! Hurry, hurry—gather your forces, tell your king! War has come to us, and all too soon!"

Chapter Text

With Mablung's warning, the warriors of Nargothrond had enough time to prepare for battle. Grimly Orodreth donned his armor and took up his sword, as Túrin had not seen him do in all his years in Nargothrond. He half-feared the king, not known for his prowess in battle or his swift decision-making, would falter and fail, but there was no need to worry: he rode forth to war with his head held high and his shining eyes blazing even brighter.

Amathluin and Finduilas stayed behind, organizing and protecting the civilians and making preparations for evacuation if necessary. Finduilas took one of her brother's old spears and used it to direct the flow of foot traffic, and Túrin was never more proud of her than in that moment, her voice firm and leaving no room for argument.

Torhir Ifant and Erestor sped to their library to gather their most important texts; Celebrimbor opened the armory and outfitted any folk who were not part of the usual war companies but wished to fight now that the battle had come to them; Guilin kissed his wife farewell and stood at Finduilas' side, running errands for her when the need arose.

At first Morwen refused to be separated from Túrin once more, but she was growing old, and had never been a warrior. It took Finduilas' sharp command for her to back down—Túrin shot her a grateful smile—and even then she insisted on standing guard by the front gates. Niënor she banished to the crowd of prospective evacuees; she protested, but gave in quickly...perhaps a little too quickly, Túrin thought, but he did not have time to dwell on his sister's acquiescence, not while a dragon approached.

Though Orodreth nominally led the armies of Nargothrond to the plain of Tumhalad where the Enemy's forces gathered, his five captains each commanded their own companies, with Lady Tathrenil leading a sixth made up of folk like her who did not usually come to the field. Prince Gil-galad rode to his father's left, Túrin to his right; not far off were Gildor with his deputy Ornil, Beleg and his archers with Mablung joining him, and Gwindor's relief force. Usually he hung back, rushing in only when his aid was needed, but they all knew that if they lost this battle, there would be no coming back.

Morgoth had sent a vast host of orcs and goblins to assault them, but even the hordes of stinking, screaming monsters felt insignificant when Túrin first caught sight of the dragon. Glaurung the Golden he was named, but his scales gleamed silver in the moonlight. When he let out a breath of fire the world blazed for a moment as if it were day, and around him Túrin saw his warriors quail.

"Have courage!" he cried, raising Gurthang in the air. "Mighty that wyrm may be, but he is but one creature, and we shall slay him ere the morning dawns!"

"Mormegil," said Orodreth, "your company will take the dragon?"

"Yes," he said, and grinned at the thought of such a conquest.

"Good," said the King. "Beleg, back him up—Gildor, you take the left flank; I will take the right with Artanáro."

"And I, sire?" asked Gwindor.

"Hold the line with Tathrenil," Orodreth ordered. "Warriors of Nargothrond—to me!"

Túrin rushed forward, his soldiers right behind him. Beleg gave him a wide grin, his eyes gleaming with the same rush of wildness that thrummed through them both in every fight, and then Túrin's focus was pulled entirely to the massive creature that was Glaurung.

Glaurung roared as they approached, but Túrin pressed forward and his warriors marched with him. He signaled his archers to send a volley of arrows at the beast, noting that they bounced off his scales ineffectively—save the few that managed to hit his face. Those he snorted and blew away with a brief burst of fire, but he was distracted, if only for a moment. Túrin narrowed his eyes. Good, he could work with that.

He signaled for his archers to shoot again, again, again—anything to get the dragon off balance. Glaurung let out a horrible sound that was perhaps laughter and scorched the earth before them with his fire.

Around Túrin his warriors fell, those who did not perish instantly screaming as they baked alive in their armor. Horror gutted him for an instant—but he did not fall, the dwarven mask within the Dragon-helm protecting him from the worst of the flames, and the magic about the helm itself warding off Glaurung's evil. Now he realized with a start that his helm bore Glaurung's likeness, had undoubtedly been forged for this very purpose: and he knew in that instant that it was fate he should slay the dragon. He was Turambar, Master of Fate, and he would destroy Glaurung to save Nargothrond!

"Fall back!" he ordered those soldiers who had avoided the worst of the flames. "Keep shooting! Keep him distracted! If anyone can get to his legs, try to cut them out from under him—but don't kill yourselves doing it!"

"To me!" cried Beleg, taking over commanding the archers, and Túrin grinned beneath his helm, rushing forth to meet his foe.

Glaurung swung his head to face him, and looked him deeply in the eyes. For a moment Túrin faltered, the evil spell about the dragon lulling him into a stupor, but the Dragon-helm blazed with sudden fire, leaping from Gurthang's shining edges, and he quickly snapped out of the trance.

"Hail, son of Húrin—" growled the beast, but Túrin had no time for his foul words. He sprang forth and stabbed at Glaurung's eyes, and the dragon recoiled swiftly, rearing up on his hind legs.

"Valiant, for a treacherous Man!" snarled Glaurung, landing back on his feet with a thud. "And with that dreadful helmet at your command also. But you would be as valiant without it, no? Or it is your crutch, weakling, as the allies you betray and slay in turn have been your crutch in the past? Are you not strong enough on your own?"

He was speaking of Saeros, of Andróg, the rest of the Gaurwaith, of Beleg or nearly so— Rage blurred Túrin's vision for a moment, and he reached for the clasp of his helm, ready to face Glaurung as an equal without any enchanted armor—

Suddenly a blur of golden hair rushed past him, and a helmed warrior slammed a spear into Glaurung's neck. The dragon screamed, thick green blood oozing from the wound, and Túrin stared, dumbfounded, into his own mask, the one he had worn before donning the Dragon-helm once more.

"Who—?" he began, but then the soldier laughed, a wild, high-pitched sound—and though Túrin had met her only a week before, he knew that voice as well as he knew Beleg's.

"Niënor!" he cried. "What are you doing here?"

"Killing that thing," she shouted. "Don't take your helmet off, you idiot!"

He gaped at her for a moment, terrified (their mother would kill him for this, he realized with a shudder) but the dragon was not yet dead and there was no time to waste berating her for recklessness. Of course she would follow him to battle: she followed Morwen into danger, also, and would not hide when she could fight.

"You took my mask," he complained instead, and she scoffed.

"Consider it the beginning of a healthy sibling relationship," she teased. "I've heard stealing things is traditional between brothers and sisters."

"Don't steal my kill," he warned, but he smiled as he said it, and though she couldn't see it through his own mask he knew she could tell.

Together, they rushed the dragon again.

Though Túrin and Niënor fought the greatest foe, the vast host of Morgoth did not depend solely on Glaurung. The fighting stretched long into the night, the battlefield lit only by the moon and stars, and the ground grew slippery with the blood of elves and orcs.

Mablung fought at Beleg's side, tirelessly shooting arrow after arrow in defense of Túrin as he engaged Glaurung in combat. But soon their archers were occupied with nearer troubles as orcs closed in around them, and it turned to knifework. It was all they could do to keep on their feet, and though it pained Beleg to leave Túrin without aid he needed to focus on the immediate danger.

King Orodreth swept a path of blood and light through the orc army. He had never been much of a warrior, not compared to some of his kin, but he had crossed the Grinding Ice and seen his fair share of slaughter. An honor guard formed around him, protecting him as he blazed with the light of Aman. Orcs cowered from him, and in their fear they were slain by Gil-galad and his warriors.

But as the night wore on, the tides of the battle shifted, and the pre-established organization of Nargothrond's troops was swept away. Gil-galad was pulled from his father as if by a wayward current, and then it was Gwindor, previously in the rear, who fought by the side of his father-in-law-to-be.

Aside from Túrin's duel with Glaurung, the King's slow progress through the orcish army was the most obvious target for the Enemy. Soon Orodreth was entirely surrounded, his protectors picked off one by one, until only he and Gwindor stood tall, cutting down any who dared approach. The orcs were close, so close—but Gwindor, maimed and fearsome and terrible, looked enough like one of them that they paused before attacking, and Orodreth's dreadful light was painful for them to behold.

"To the King!" came a cry, and a small company surged toward them. Beleg wrenched himself out of the chaos to join them; Mablung rushed to Gil-galad's side as the prince engaged with a massive orc captain nearly three times his size.

Three duels waged at once: Gil-galad against the orc captain, Túrin and Niënor against the dragon, and a mass of goblins against Orodreth. The night grew old as they fought, exhaustion setting into all their bones, even Glaurung's, and as the first rays of sunlight crept over the horizon three duels came to their grand climaxes.

Gil-galad screamed, flooded with sudden vigor, and drove his spear deep into the gut of the orc captain. His enemy bellowed and would have dropped his massive warhammer on the prince's head, killing him even as he died, but suddenly there came an arrow in his throat: Mablung shot him from behind, and the orc fell backward with a gurgle. Gil-galad breathed heavily over his fallen foe, grinning at Mablung, and around them the captain's company trembled and turned to flee.

Niënor and Túrin ached, exhausted: they were mortal, without the endurance and fortitude of elven warriors, but it was their very moral spirits that kept them going in the face of such evils. Sunlight gleamed on the golden scales of their draconic foe, and for a moment Niënor despaired. How could they defeat an enemy this strong? How could they destroy a creature so wretchedly beautiful?

Túrin hacked at the wounds in Glaurung's neck, each stroke only enraging the dragon further, overcome with hatred. In his arms Gurthang sang for blood, biting deeper and deeper, its fire growing ever hotter with each rush of that horrid green liquid, but Glaurung was the Father of Dragons and no flame could harm him. Túrin had fought him all night, and could fight him all day, and then again and again, but he would not fall—he was too mighty—

Beleg cut a path through the orcs as he rushed to Orodreth and Gwindor's aid, but with the rising sun the King's light grew suddenly less bright in comparison, and he faltered for the briefest moment. Gwindor tried to fling himself between an oncoming blade, but he was too slow—

A runty goblin, barely rising to Gwindor's waist, leaped from the back of a taller orc and stabbed Orodreth in the throat.

The King fell, blood spurting from his windpipe, and his shining eyes gleamed one last time as his spirit left his body for the Halls of Mandos across the sea. Gwindor cried out with the loss—what would he tell Finduilas!—but he had no time to mourn for now he stood alone, and would perish as had his king, and then there would be no one to tell Finduilas—

An arrow soared through the air and the orc poised to kill him fell. Then came another arrow, singing in the sunlight, and then another, and another—

Beleg had come, and his archers with him. Gwindor bled from many wounds, and as Beleg rushed forward, he fainted into his lover's arms.

"I've got you," Beleg promised, hauling him onto his back. "Retreat! Retreat!" he cried, and hurried to relative safety as quickly as he could.

(In Nargothrond, as the sounds of not-so-distant battle echoed through the halls, Queen Amathluin keened and fell to her knees in the moment of her husband's death, feeling their marriage bond severed. Her daughter rushed to her side, clutching her with tears in her eyes, but Amathluin shook her head.

"He is gone," she rasped. "But the battle rages on. We—we must—ought we to flee?" She looked helplessly to Finduilas.

The princess took a deep breath. "They are yet a ways away," she whispered, containing her grief for the moment. "Let us hold while we can. After all," she added with a wry and humorless smile, "there is no bridge for them to cross. We will have time to escape, should it come to that.")

The King was dead; his army fell back, pushed into retreat. Gil-galad, not yet knowing of his father's fate, nonetheless took up his role in organizing those soldiers who could escape the battle. "Regroup," he ordered the captains nearest to him, but the Captain of Nargothrond, Turambar Mormegil, was engaged in his own battle and could not follow.

"You cannot kill me, Children of Húrin," rasped Glaurung, and Niënor shuddered to hear herself addressed also. "You are mortal, and you tire—I feel your exhaustion, and I draw strength from it! You are fated for evil and tragedy, it is woven into the Discord my Master sang at the beginning of Time—"

"We sing our own songs," Túrin growled; "we make our own fate!"

"Empty words," spat the dragon, and swatted him aside with one huge claw. "Your king is dead, your lover bleeding out, your sister—" he grasped Niënor in his paw and dangled her in the air— "at my mercy—you are losing, son of Húrin; you have already lost. Give up now and I may show you mercy, for you have proved your valiance today!"

Niënor screamed, but her cries were of rage, not fear. "We will never give up! We will avenge our father! We will destroy you, foul wyrm!"

But Túrin's limbs were heavy and the dragon's words sank deep into his skin. Orodreth, dead? His lover, dying? He knew not even which one: Beleg, whose death he averted so narrowly, whose life brought him such hope and joy? Or Gwindor, turned from despair to determination, from bitterness to hope, his life snuffed out even as he began it anew? Or Finduilas, supposedly safe in Nargothrond, unless the Enemy had breached the gates, unless she had followed Niënor's example and joined the battle, unless—

A horn sounded in the distance, and a sudden quiet fell over the battlefield. Everyone, even Glaurung, looked toward the noise, and the song was taken up again, and again, and again, until a cacophony of triumphant trumpets blared. Túrin's heart stopped: was this more foes? But no...those were elvish horns, he thought—only, what elves would march to their aid unasked for?

The horns grew louder, and then were drowned out by the sound of thousands of feet marching across the plain. Suddenly a massive army came into view, blue blanners flapping in the wind, emblazoned with intricate crests: a golden flower, a rainbow arch, an arrowhead, a silver fountain, a white tower; one was simply plain black, an aesthetic choice Túrin approved of; but higher than them all was the banner bearing the sun, the moon, and a scarlet heart, and beneath it a smaller flag with the emblem of a white swan's wing.

There came a mighty shout: "Aurë entuluva! Day shall come again!" And it was followed by another, likewise chanted first in Quenya and then Sindarin: "Gondolin comes to Nargothrond's aid!"

Even as they had at the Nírnaeth, an army of Gondolindrim appeared unlooked for. Only this time, Túrin knew with a surety, they would win, and he would do what his father had suffered for, fulfill the legacy of Húrin—and of Huor, for he saw his cousin Tuor marching at the front, bearing the banner with the wing, Voronwë at his right and a sharp-eyed elf at his left, wielding a sword that looked identical to Anglachel before Celebrimbor had taken it to his forge.

"What?" rumbled Glaurung. "This is—no—they cannot be here—!"

"Túrin, now!" cried Niënor, and she wrested herself free from the dragon's grip by stabbing his hand with a dagger. Túrin raised Gurthang, his blade thrumming with bloodlust, and leapt one final time toward his foe, driving his sword deep into his skull between his eyes.

The golden wyrm let out a horrible cry and fell to the ground. Túrin and Niënor tumbled away; Gurthang broke, the hilt still in his hands, but the blade buried in Glaurung's head.

"You...this is...not over..." gurgled Glaurung as he died, but the evil light in his eyes faded, and he slumped forward, defeated at last.

Niënor sobbed and threw her arms around Túrin. He held her numbly, Gurthang's hilt falling out of his grasp, and they would have sat there for hours as the Gondolindrim descended upon the orcs to slaughter the remnant that did not flee upon the dragon's demise...but suddenly Beleg was there, bloodstained and weary, but alive alive alive, murmuring comforts and praises into Túrin's ears, lifting him into his arms even as Mablung did the same for Niënor, carrying them from the battlefield.

"The—the battle," Túrin rasped in faint protest, but oh how he wanted to rest, for Beleg to care for him, for it to all be over...

"Our allies will end this," Beleg murmured, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Your fight is over. You slew the dragon, Túrin—not even Fingon the Valiant could do that!"

"Niënor helped," he muttered.

Beleg chuckled. "And she will be well rewarded also. Rest, meleth. I will care for you."

"The King," Túrin said, remembering. "And—and Gwindor—and Finduilas!"

"Orodreth is dead," Beleg said solemnly. "Gil-galad will be King of Nargothrond now. As for our lovers: Finduilas is safe, and Gwindor is wounded, but no worse than you, meleth. We will care for you both."

Túrin sighed, finding he had not the strength to argue. "Wait," he mumbled, "one more thing..."

"Yes, dear Túrin?"

He looked up through half-closed eyes, staring at the love of his life, feeling at once wiser and sillier than he ever had before.

"Kiss me?" he asked, and Beleg smiled.

"Of course," whispered his beloved, and did so.

It was a month before the dust settled entirely. Túrin and Gwindor healed, with Finduilas and Beleg at their sides: it was a parallel, almost, of the first time they had spent together in the halls of healing. Túrin joked that while it was only fair he be the injured one instead of Beleg, poor Gwindor had the misfortune of being laid up twice.

He joked more, now. The threat of doom and death had lifted off him: he had slain the dragon, proving once and for all that he was the Master of Fate. The curse upon Húrin's line had been utterly defeated, and even Húrin himself could not be bound for long, not with Morwen's plotting to rescue him as Fingon had once rescued Maedhros.

Túrin didn't truly think her plan would work, but he had true hope for the future. Nargothrond had been made safe for a little while longer, and with Gondolin as an ally who knew what great deeds could be done? The end of Morgoth's terrors was in sight, and Túrin almost believed that he could live to see it.

Morwen was furious with him and Niënor both for risking their lives against the dragon, but her relief and pride were greater, and she was with them in the halls of healing often. She spent much time also in counsel with Amathluin, devising what schemes Túrin did not know—but he worried they had to do with him and Finduilas. Their mothers were a formidable force.

Túrin would not wed Finduilas: that was Gwindor's right, for all they slept in the same bed. Indeed Finduilas asked once more when their marriage would arrive, and Gwindor, though he had put it off again and again, at last relented, naming a date for the coming spring. Túrin thought Finduilas would weep for joy, and he cast a conspiratorial look to Beleg.

His beloved smiled. "I didn't know you wanted to marry me, meleth."

"Well..." Túrin shrugged. "If they're already having a wedding..."

"I'll think about it," Beleg said, a sparkle in his eye. "But you shall have to give me a ring, first."

The army from Gondolin was only a portion of the Hidden Kingdom's forces. Though many of their warriors marched home at the close of the battle, some lords stayed: Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, Ecthelion of the Silver Fountain, Maeglin of the Mole, and of course Tuor of the Wing.

How Túrin's cousin had already founded his own noble house in the scant months since his arrival in Gondolin, he didn't know. Perhaps it was the infectious charm he carried with such ease. Túrin's own method of winning over kings was much more forceful and generally included a lot of orc-murdering; he wondered if Tuor had proved himself in that area, also. It was likely, given his prowess in what was now known as the Battle of Tumhalad.

The Lords of Gondolin stayed until Gil-galad's coronation. Lord Maeglin of the House of the Mole, nephew to King Turgon and the son of Eöl who forged Túrin's sword, signed a tentative treaty in his uncle's place, allying Gondolin and Nargothrond together. Túrin found Maeglin an enigma, at once alluring and yet haughty; he tried to approach him about his smith-father, showing him the remnant of Gurthang that had been pried out of Glaurung's head, but Maeglin was reluctant to discuss his heritage with a mortal Man.

With Celebrimbor, however, he spoke more freely. They had many things in common, Finduilas mused to him: living in the shadows of their fathers; smithwork; isolation. Túrin thought that was quite romantic, and mentioned it to Beleg, who rolled his eyes.

"In another life, perhaps your twin swords would draw you to him, not me," he teased.

Túrin pouted. "I would share!" But such talk was only that: talk, for Maeglin did not seem much inclined to be Túrin's friend, and even less so Tuor's.

Ecthelion and Glorfindel were like heroes out of legend, a married couple who balanced each other perfectly, shining Amanyar with bright eyes and brighter blades. No one was more impressed by them than young Erestor, who followed them around, badgering them for information about Gondolin under the pretense of research—but Túrin saw the admiration in his eyes, and the thoughtful amusement that passed between the two husband-lords. Erestor was in for more than he bargained for...or perhaps not. He was intelligent, and if he wanted to be seduced by them, he was doing an excellent job of achieving his goal.

Torhir Ifant was too absorbed in his own scholarly pursuits to worry about his apprentice's love life. A loremaster of Gondolin had accompanied the legions to record the event. His name was Pengolodh, and he immediately infuriated Torhir with an off-handed critique of his map of Tumladen. Their newfound rivalry was the gossip of Nargothrond's intellectuals; Túrin didn't much care, but Gwindor had picked up philosophy while he was laid up in bed, and had many opinions about Pengolodh's histories.

Many brave warriors of Nargothrond had perished in the Battle of Tumhalad. Orodreth was chief among them, but Gildor's deputy Ornil had fallen also, and Gwindor's mother Tathrenil. There were others, but Túrin had known and loved those three, and grieved their losses deeply.

Gildor found an unexpected friendship with Voronwë, Tuor's friend. Tuor himself was busy with his family, leaving Voronwë to his own devices, and when Túrin discovered that Voronwë had known Ornil before the foundation of Gondolin he introduced him to Gildor. They traded stories of their fallen friend, and were often seen in one another's company.

Mablung had intended to depart to Doriath even before the battle, though all of Nargothrond was grateful he turned back to warn of the Enemy's approach, but afterward he lingered. Beleg cherished his company, even if Túrin still found himself a bit intimidated by the other marchwarden, but it was clear to all that he stayed mostly to see Niënor regain her strength (she, too, had been injured fighting Glaurung). Niënor was livelier when he was there, and he looked at her with such fondness that it was obvious to both Túrin and Beleg that the Children of Húrin had stolen the heart of another Doriathrin marchwarden, even if neither of them quite realized it...yet.

(If Morwen had any objection, she did not voice it—though Túrin half-wondered if her frequent discussions with Amathluin had as much to do with setting Niënor up with Gil-galad as they did him with Finduilas. The whole situation was complicated and messy, but no one seemed unsatisfied at the moment, so Túrin hoped for the best.)

At last the remaining Gondolindrim bid Nargothrond farewell, returning to their not-so-hidden-kingdom with the promise to bring Turgon with them next time. Túrin, Gwindor, and Niënor were healed enough to see them off, and bid Tuor a fond farewell. This time Túrin believed it when Tuor promised he would see them again, and even grim Morwen smiled at her nephew's exuberant goodbye.

There was much yet to be done before true peace could be known in Beleriand: though Nargothrond stood and an alliance was being crafted (this time perhaps with the aid of Doriath; Finduilas hoped also to bring the Fëanorians into the fold, having grown to respect Maedhros for his advice to Gwindor, though he would not be leading this Union, whatever its name would be) Morgoth still reigned in terror, and Húrin was not yet free.

"You will see your father again," Beleg promised him. "You are with your mother, and your sister; you have met the cousin you did not know you had; you slew Glaurung; you have three lovers who stand with you in everything. You have me, Túrin, and you have all the wisdom you have earned these past few years. If anyone can free him, it is you."

Once Túrin would have protested darkly, cursing his doom, but he was not the same man he was in Doriath, or even Amon Rûdh. He was Túrin Turambar, Dagnir Glaurunga, the Mormegil of Nargothrond, Neithan of the Gaurwaith, the Adanedhel who won the hearts of three noble edhel. He was the son of Húrin Thalion and Morwen Eledhwen, the brother of bright Niënor, the cousin of Tuor Ulmondil, and he had mastered fate and beaten the curse of Morgoth. He would not be conquered so easily, not anymore.

"I cannot do it alone," he said instead of something gloomy.

Beleg smiled, and kissed him, holding him close. "I will be with you," he promised, "to the very end, meleth."

Túrin kissed him back, and looked to the grand future before them.