Work Text:
“One day as summer was wearing on he and Túrin were sitting in the Echad resting after a long affray and march. Túrin said then to Beleg: ‘Why are you sad, and thoughtful? Does not all go well, since you returned to me? Has not my purpose proved good?”
– The Children of Húrin, Ch. 8
The land below was bare, other than grass trampled into dirt, and rid of orcs and orc corpses. Inch by inch they had fought the ground through the bitter night, and inch by inch they had cleared it at the first light of dawn. Another mission accomplished, Túrin thought with relieved delight, sitting side by side with Beleg on the hilltop, food in their laps. Around them were the sounds of their companion-in-arms resting.
Triumphantly Túrin scanned the field they had won with sweat and blood and shoved another piece of breakfast into his mouth. He glanced at Beleg by his side, whose gaze wandered far away.
“Beleg, what's on your mind?” asked Túrin. Beleg had his hair in a bun and half of it had come loose; back then he had had it in braids and the tips had gotten muddy. Memories overlapped with reality, the scenery and Beleg’s face now and a year ago blurred and layered on top of the other. “Surely we have not burned only the fingertips?”
“No. More than that. Our enemies had fled in fear and defeat. A mighty kingdom now has our back.”
“Yet something troubles you.”
“Look there,” said Beleg, pointing in the direction where a dark spot interrupted the green horizon. Mountains loomed in the background, between which a river flowed from their east. “The orcs regroup quickly, while more come down from the Pass of Anach. As I have said, we leave tonight and shall gain the upper hand by swiftness. But our men are weary. It will not be an easy fight unless reinforcements come, but they will not for days.”
“Nonetheless, the men are courageous and willing, every one of them. We will lead them and stand our ground like we've always done.”
“I know it well,” said Beleg. “But even when we can and will give our all, how certain am I to bring everyone home?”
“If you can't, I will.” Túrin grumbled. They sat together, fanning away flies, resting on the mossy hilltop where no red seregon grew. As the sun rose over mountain peaks, little canopies of canvas scattered about the base of the small hill. The nearest collection of trees in which the company’s rearguard hid stood some distance away. This was not Amon Rûdh. Beyond the horizon in the shadowy north, past the Pass of Anach and Ered Gorgoroth, lay the dark forest of Taur-nu-Fuin, where fate had taken a strange turn.
Túrin snored under the canvas shade, barefoot and his shirt unbuttoned, his head pillowed on the folded marchwardens’ uniform he had just cleaned. Beside him, Beleg fletched the last few arrows from the once-massive pile of weapons to be repaired. Thud. Landed an elf who was on watch duty onto the grass.
“Are you hurt?”
“Not at all, captain, sir, the buckets come!”
He referred to water replenishment the sunbaked company in the middle of uninhabited Dimbar wholeheartedly welcomed. Sleepers sprang up. They all gathered around filling near-empty canteens and stripping each other of sticky tunics, elves and man alike with disregard of rank. Wringing a towel over his head, Túrin walked over behind Beleg.
Beleg, wiping his hair, hummed in acknowledgment.
The towel cleaned away sweat and dirt from the back of Beleg’s neck down to his shoulders, over shadows of scars older than Túrin and little cuts and bruises too small for bandages. It swiped away a mud speck underneath the right shoulder blade and brushed over the left, where Túrin’s hand hesitated at an area of the skin and Beleg’s muscle twitched.
“D-does it…pain you still?”
“Oh Túrin, of course not. You've asked the same question for months. Your touch becomes so light it itches.”
“Sorry…” Túrin trailed off. The cloth dabbed at an oval scar. It had somehow ragged edges and was fully healed, but it was strikingly, painfully fresh. In the dark he wrestled with the figure, pinned it down. And the sword pierced through the chest unhindered…
“I'm alive and well, am I not?”
“Yes, Beleg, you are alive and well.”
“Good. For the three-hundred-and-thirty-eighth time.” He reached back and guided Túrin’s hand until the job was done. “Come, let me comb your hair.”
The sky had donned a warm orange when they made final preparations. It was then someone with a large sack over their shoulder came running. To their pleasant surprise, it was the mailman, who had just arrived at the rear and upon learning they hadn't left, rushed to deliver it just in time.
They sat in circles reading letters from friends and loved ones. Túrin set his Dragon-helm aside and found a sweet letter dictated by Nellas, elegantly decorated with exotic leaves and flowers, for each she carefully spelled out its name. Another letter came alongside a bulky package. It came from Mablung, written in the most concise way possible, reminding Túrin to take care of himself and Beleg. “Autumn comes soon,” Mablung wrote. “Handmade sweater for you. Keep warm.”
“I may be a mortal but I'm not a kid!” Túrin exclaimed.
“You are of the race of Men, my friend,” answered Beleg absentmindedly, a letter in hand and a smile on his face.
“And what is it that you're so happy about?”
“It came most unexpectedly,” he waved the paper at him. “From the Men of Brethil, thanking us for the protection and riddance of orcs at their borders. And hear this, ‘A bountiful harvest we have this year. Without the peace you have granted us it would have been impossible. Therefore, most esteemed friend, when the time suits you best, we are honored to invite you and your warriors to our humble abode, and we shall provide ample food and beds to rest.’”
The elves had gathered about them. Beleg's eyes shone.
“Look at that fortress. We are taking it down, and it will not be easy. But no matter how hard it looks, how much it takes, we will beat them so hard they’ll never dare take another glance at our direction! We will wipe them clean off this earth! Tonight, we attack. With victory as our only goal! Then, we feast!"