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“If I stayed, love would lead me, not wisdom.”
Beleg’s words lingered in Túrin’s mind, denying him peace and solitude. Túrin could convince Beleg to stay with the Gaurwaith for one night, an ineffective attempt to convince Beleg to stay with him, yet their parting proved itself inevitable.
Beleg parted from the Gaurwaith’s settlement mere moments prior, yet it sank in Túrin’s heart as if it had been ages. The two said their farewells with unmemorable words, and once Beleg turned his back towards his return to Doriath, Túrin felt that something was missing, though he could not determine exactly what it was. Though Túrin couldn’t place these unspoken words, he would never bear the thought of leaving his dearest friend without an attempt.
Damned fool, Túrin thought to himself. What the hell were you thinking, letting him get away without a further word?
Beleg came from Doriath in the north, and so that was where Túrin would head out. And yet, Beleg was one of the greatest marchwardens the Sindar had ever seen. He knew the woods inside and out, wandering these lands before Túrin’s grandfather’s grandfather. Túrin fought against the fear that his chance to speak with Beleg had passed as he ran through the woods. For a moment, Túrin thought that all hope had been lost.
“Túrin,” came an all-too-familiar voice, one whose warmth could cleanse Túrin’s mind of his hopelessness. The figure came out from behind a tree, his silver hair unmistakeable.
“Beleg,” was all Túrin could say before he ran to the elf.
“Are you coming to Doriath with me?” Beleg asked. His eyes were wide with a dark brown innocence, a light that made it harder for Túrin to tell him “no”.
“Alas, I cannot join you,” said Túrin. “But there’s something I needed to tell you before you left.”
“What is it, mellon nîn?” Beleg asked. He tilted his head slightly as if he were a curious deer who came face-to-face with a hunter.
“I must know,” said Túrin, powering through a small urge to leave his words unspoken. “You said that love would lead you if you stayed with me.”
“I did, my friend,” said Beleg. “I would love nothing more than to stay with you, for my heart longs to roam the forests of the realm with you once more. Yet, it is unsafe for me here, your new friends did not hesitate to tell me such. Besides, I am much needed back in Doriath, and you are still welcome to rejoin the Marchwardens.”
“I understand your departure, for I can never forgive your mistreatment at the hands of my comrades.” Túrin hesitated for a moment, not quite sure where next to take his words. “But there is something I must tell you before we part.”
Beleg gave him that same curious look as he waited for Túrin to continue. All at once, Túrin knew exactly what he had felt. He had a name for that unnameable sensation in his chest, that which had been slowly consuming him since he first joined Beleg's marches in Doriath.
Without a word, Túrin pulled Beleg into him, bringing the elf’s lips to his own. It was a desperate kiss, full of all the love and sorrow and frustration Túrin had been feeling, a kiss born of years of unspoken, pent-up emotions. Yet, it was messy; Túrin’s lips didn’t quite meet their target at the center of Beleg’s, and the hastiness brought his teeth to an uncomfortable crash.
Túrin pulled away from the kiss just as quickly as he had engaged it. Beleg made a face halfway between surprise and shock. Túrin felt a tiny pang of regret, but the regret could not outweigh his need to express the unending emotions that felt like they could burn a hole in his heart had he kept them locked up in there long enough.
“I’m sorry,” Túrin said. “But I couldn’t let you go without doing that once.”
Túrin turned his gaze, and when he met Beleg’s once again, he found that Beleg’s stunned face had turned to a warm smile. “Meleth nîn,” said Beleg, “Did you think that I did not know, or that these feelings belonged to you alone?”
Beleg’s words hit Túrin harder than anything Túrin could expect from the kiss. If Túrin engaged their kiss with a sword, Beleg returned the gesture with a thousand arrows, knocking Túrin from his feet and striking his heart. Túrin was not sure what exactly he had been expecting from this meeting, and he was not sure if this was better or worse than those expectations.
Beleg brought a hand to Túrin’s face. His fingers brushed through the short beard that adorned his chin–something that had not been there when Túrin walked among the Marchwardens, something that separated this new Túrin from the son of man he knew in Doriath. Túrin had changed, he noted, for he never knew Thingol’s fosterling to be quite this bold in expressing himself.
“May I return the favor, my friend?” Beleg said, tilting Túrin’s head ever so slightly upward to meet his gaze. His other hand found its way to Túrin’s, intertwining their fingers together.
Túrin gazed back at Beleg wordlessly, though his eyes said all that needed to be spoken. He gave Beleg’s hand a tiny squeeze, and then leaned in towards Beleg until their lips met in a much-awaited embrace.
It was a gentle kiss, full of understanding and comfort. If the first kiss carried unspoken words of insecrity and the frustration of unrequited love, Beleg’s kiss was sweet, bringing out the worldly love that the elf carried in his heart. For a moment, Beleg parted from Túrin, yet Túrin met his lips again, unwilling to part as if Beleg’s kiss was something as essential to his life as sunlight or water. Beleg gladly engaged in another kiss as eagerly as Túrin had.
Beleg finally broke their kiss with a sorrowful smile, and the look in his eyes told Túrin that their last embrace had come to pass.
“Farewell, dearest Adan.” Beleg slowly parted his hands from Túrin’s, the touch of his fingers still lingering upon Túrin’s. Then Beleg turned away from Túrin, as if another glance at him would change his mind, surrendering his will and forcing him to stay with Túrin.
Turn around, Túrin pleaded to himself. Turn around.
Eyes stared wide at the vast nothingness between Middle-earth and the heavens. They did not blink as rain fell in thick drops upon them, nor flinch as another flash of lightening shook the forest, when its thunder roared with dark malice.
The final words of Beleg Cúthalion would never be known to Túrin Turambar.
Túrin was frozen in place by shock. Torturous blades pricking his body. A haze of torment at the hands of dark servants. Bloodied wrists struggling to break free from their rope fetters. A waking in the dark of the night. Beleg. The glint of a blade. Beleg. A call to kill before death would take him first. Beleg. A fateful flash of lightning piercing the inky blackness. Beleg.
No gods cared to stay Túrin’s hand, only the bitter blade of Morgoth. No beads of tears welled in his eyes, for Lady Nienna would not bless his eyes with drops of mercy. The tears falling from his face were that of the rain that soaked Túrin’s matted hair, a cold mockery of the grace denied to him.
Túrin fell to his knees beside Beleg. He could scarcely discern a face in the blackness of night, but he knew all too well what laid before him. Shaking hands groped in the dark, landing on a bloodied chest. Túrin instinctively trailed his hands to Beleg’s heart; he could find that beloved heart blind, even if it were to never beat again on the shores of Middle-earth.
Túrin softly pressed his lips to Beleg’s. His lips were cold, unrecognizable from the honey-sweet kisses Túrin received from the elf in life. Túrin received no warmth from the kiss, for there was no spirit to grant Túrin the comfort he sought. Túrin had returned the kiss that had stolen his eternal fate with another in death, the only way he could think of giving his beloved a sign of his doomed love.
Perhaps it was their first kiss that convinced Beleg to eventually come back. If Túrin hadn’t foolishly pushed him into a kiss, perhaps Beleg would have remained in a secure life, still walking the forests as happily as he had before Túrin came along.
“Dearest Elda,” Túrin whispered, his lips ghosting above Beleg’s.
Drowned out in the haze of grief was the pain from a slit on Túrin’s foot, the awakening wound. The gash was not mortal, yet severe enough to stain Túrin’s legs with a deep red patch. Beleg must have mishandled his blade in his attempts to free Túrin. Túrin scarcely felt the sting of his own injured flesh through his shock. He wished he felt it. He wished such a simple wound would consume him. He wished he had been the one lying lifeless on the ground.
But the cruel hands of death would not grant him mercy on this night, and the survivor remained alone.