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The fated battle at the end of the world had come to pass, wreaking havoc throughout the Undying Lands before Arda could be restored to her former glory. Túrin Turambar had become the champion of the Valar, slayer of the great Adversary, and the greatest hero known to Arda.
And yet, in spite of his title and all the grandiose gifts offered to him by the Valar, what Túrin wanted above all else was not the position of nigh-godhood that the Valar proposed, but a visit to an old friend.
Túrin had already reunited with Beleg in the great battle, where the two fought together, a long-awaited return of their legendary Bow and Helm – yet nearly all their talks had been related to the battle. Only brief moments of time allotted to them to regain the trust that they had shared before, when the two of them roamed Middle-earth as a pair.
Beleg’s new abode lied in a forest, much as his home in Middle-earth had. As Túrin made his way along a path through the woods, he found a house within a clearing. There was no sign dictating its resident, but Túrin knew who he would find. It was a cottage with two small floors, built in a familiar Doriathrim style mixed with unfamiliar elements of its new Valinorian homeland. Surrounding the cottage were meadows of millions of flowers, and a small waterfall that fed into a pool and a creek trailing along the edge of his home. It was a lovely, peaceful place to live, and it was exactly the type of place Túrin expected Beleg to reside in.
Túrin found Beleg by the spring, washing his hands in its cool waters. He looked peaceful, and Túrin almost considered turning around to avoid disturbing his peace.
“Túrin!” came Beleg’s voice, turning around to greet Túrin first. He quickly finished drying his hands before he ran to Túrin’s side. “Mae govannen, mellon nîn.”
Beleg was acting quite cheerful towards Túrin for someone who had died by his blade. In their first bittersweet reunion as they made their preparations for war, Beleg greeted Túrin as a friend who was more than eager to reunite with him. He had told Túrin about how he had forgiven him, how he believed that his true slayer was not Túrin, but the invisible hand of Morgoth.
“Mae govannen, Beleg,” said Túrin.
“What brings you here, my friend?” Beleg asked, giving Túrin an all-too-familiar curious look with his doe-like eyes.
“I just wished to see an old friend,” Túrin said, swallowing his lingering anxiety. “Now that the battle is behind us, I wanted to catch up with those who I haven’t seen in millenia.”
“I’m glad to see you,” said Beleg. “Pardon my lack of preparedness, I was not expecting guests today. Not that you should feel unwelcome here, of course. Consider my home yours.”
“It is a lovely home,” said Túrin. Túrin turned his gaze to Beleg’s house, and the ivy growing along its walls. These walls showed unmistakable signs of weathering, despite the longevity of its iconic elvish make, and Túrin wondered exactly how long Beleg had been here.
“Care for a tour?” said Beleg, making a gesture towards the back of his house, where Túrin caught a glance of the gardens beyond.
“I would love to,” said Túrin. Beleg offered his hand to Túrin, and Túrin, though hesitant at first, took it gladly.
One side of Beleg’s house bordered the forests, deep with ancient trees that appeared untouched by neither man nor elf. Were these trees here when I walked Middle-earth, Túrin wondered. The other side overlooked a hill carpeted in flowers. They were small and white, and their petals appeared to be nigh translucent with a pearly sheen faint and a pattern of swirls.
“You should see how these flowers look during the height of the day,” said Beleg. “It’s unlike anything I had seen before in Doriath. They appear plain in color at first glance, but the light brings out their iridescence, and they illuminate the fields as a living rainbow.”
Beleg eagerly took ahold of Túrin’s hand and tugged him along on his tour of his garden. Fruits and vegetables rarely seen in Doriath grew in abundance, as did plants that Túrin could not recognize, assuming that they did not abide upon the shores of Middle-earth. Túrin saw chickens pecking through Beleg’s gardens. One flew upward to land on the roof of its coop. Beleg always knew his way with birds, and Túrin was not surprised that flighted birds would remain with him rather than flying away when they had the ability.
As the pair continued to wander the gardens, they were joined by a butterfly fluttering around them. Beleg held out his finger like a perch, and the butterfly landed on it almost as if Beleg had trained it to do so. Túrin became transfixed by the pattern on its wings, clothed in a bright silver with gold accents.
“They call this species Manwë’s finger, for the Vanyar tell tales that its sighting brings fortune blessed by the Lord of the Skies himself.”
“Could’ve used one of those when Morgoth was cursing me,” Túrin said. After a second’s hesitation he added a quick, “Sorry”.
Beled sighed. “Let’s try to keep the past in the past. Anyway,” his voice began to perk up again. “Can I show you around the back?”
Beleg then spent the next hour or who-knows-how-long rambling on and on about his wonderful new findings in Valinor. He spoke of new fruits and vegetables and how they tasted to his Beleriand tongue, and how he prepared them in new exotic dishes mixed with a Doriathrim flair. He spoke of fauna, of the lovely insects with translucent wings who flocked to him as if he were one of their own, and of the deer who ran with him when he joined Lady Nessa on her journeys through his neck of the woods. They did not fear him, he told Túrin, and they would eat berries from his own hands. He spoke of the flora and their meanings in the language of flowers, both that of the Sindar and that of the tongues of Valinor, and how he arranged them in bilingual bouquets expressing poetry that he was always thrilled to explain in further detail.
All while he spoke, Túrin listened with few comments. Though the content of his unending ramble was new, this side of Beleg was familiar, and Túrin recalled all the times he would listen with eager ears. Frankly, Túrin retained little of the knowledge he would have gained from Beleg’s words on the various birds and beasts and blossoms, but gaining knowledge was never the point. When Beleg spoke about his passions with great enthusiasm, his face lit up like stars. When Túrin encouraged him to speak about one of his particularly favored areas of interests, Beleg would flash a bright smile–a smile that Túrin cherished more than anything else.
“Oh, but you must be hungry, listening to me babble on for so long,” said Beleg.
“It’s alright,” said Túrin. “I like hearing you speaking about your passions. It’s something I haven’t heard in eons after all, and I’ve grown to miss it.”
“Aye, but I can continue to speak inside the house, where you can listen with meats and breads, and wine or tea, whichever you fancy.”
Beleg led Túrin along a path where clovers sprouted through stones that led to the front of the house. Though the exterior of Beleg’s home was something that Túrin expected from the elf, he was somewhat unprepared for the interior. Túrin had never known Beleg to be particularly neat or organized, but his home was quite a bit more cluttered than Túrin could have anticipated.
“Here in Valinor, I have picked up several new skills and hobbies. The job of a marchwarden protecting the realm from orcs is nonexistent here, so I’ve taken up a couple of trades to pass the days. Animal rearing and training, beekeeping. I’ve done much of my own landscaping here too. I’ve also taken up carpentry–why, I carved that chair myself! My clothes too–notice the embroidery?”
Túrin noticed the design adorning Beleg’s sleeve. It was none other than the heraldic device of Dor Cúarthol, a recreation of the crest they had designed thousands of years prior. Its design bore the black bow Belthronding and imagery from his own dragon helm, and the two mingled with the blood red Seregon that had adorned their old home in Amon Rûdh.
“Your house feels very homely. Comfortable, and surrounded by a glade that feels very much like you.”
“It is a lovely place to live,” said Beleg. “But it’s missing something.”
“And what is that?” Túrin asked.
“Somebody to share it with,” said Beleg, his hand reaching out towards Túrin’s. Túrin had been anticipating a request like this, but hearing the words from Beleg’s mouth rather than merely his own thoughts brought a sense of unyielding euphoria. “Stay with me,” Beleg said. And the glint in his starkissed eyes granted everything that Túrin could have asked for since he was brought back to the circles of Arda.
“I could ask for nothing more.” Túrin took Beleg’s hand, and Beleg held him in a long-awaited embrace, the warmth of a new life together radiating from the elf. Túrin felt Beleg’s heart beating against his, and in his arms, he knew that he could call this place home.
As night fell they met each other in the bedroom, hands eager to rekindle a fire from millennia past. A terribly long period of separation could not extinguish the fire they still shared for each other. Túrin hesitated for a moment, not out of a cessation of his own embers, but out of worry that Beleg, in spite of his repeated reassurances, would leave him once more. Yet Beleg only encouraged him, and the fires appeared to burn ever brighter in his eyes.
“Meleth nîn,” Beleg said, “You have been keeping me waiting for eons, is ten thousand years not enough?”
Túrin’s hesitation then ceased, and he joined Beleg in an eager kiss. Stars, how they had missed sharing this fire between them. Beleg guided Túrin onto his bed, hands brushing through hair and trailing upwards along backs and between thighs as their lips joined a long-awaited dance. Túrin threw his shirt off with haste between touches and kisses. Then he took Beleg’s tunic and pulled it over his shoulders, more than eager to rejoin the beautiful body that lay beneath.
Then Túrin froze at the sight before him: a scar marked Beleg’s chest. It was a deep line of flames carved into the skin above his heart. Its source was unmistakable, a reminder of the grievous mistake of a man damned to slay those who he loved most dearly. It mattered not how many times Beleg could tell Túrin that he had forgiven him for his violence, Túrin could never lay aside the grisly memories of his own violence had taken Beleg’s life in the first place. Túrin began to blink quickly in an ineffective attempt to stay his tears.
Beleg placed his hand on Turin’s chest, careful to avoid touching the scar directly. He gave Túrin a sorrowed look that said, “We’re matching.” The scars that crossed their hearts came from the same blade and the same hand; together they bore a symbol of fate shared across sundered souls.
Beleg brought his hand to Túrin’s face, gently lifting Túrin’s chin up to meet his gaze. Tears streamed from his eyes, wavering with sorrows of ages past. Beleg brushed a tear from Túrin’s eye, and his hand lingered on his cheek where it found its gentle mark. “Come here, love,” he said as he pulled Túrin into a deep embrace.
Túrin rested his head on Beleg’s chest as the elf’s arms enveloped him, cloaking him with tender love. That beloved heartbeat sang a gentle melody, even beneath the scar, and it was a reminder that Arda had healed and their sorrows were no more, and that its bearer had a love for him that transcended both of their deaths.
“Have I acted too quickly, meleth nîn?” Beleg asked, his thumb drawing a thin line across Túrin’s cheek.
“No,” Túrin paused, taking a moment to breathe before he continued. “They are but my memories that hold me back. A part of my mind still lingers in the past, unable to believe that I could still be wanted, especially by you. It feels undeserving of your love and forgiveness, seeking punishment instead. Your words have proven it wrong, yet these thoughts still remain.”
“I still want you, there is no question about such,” Túrin continued. “Yet I need a moment to process everything first.”
Beleg held his forehead against Túrin’s, a gesture that had always brought comfort to Túrin when the two walked Middle-earth together. To them, it was a gesture that represented a shared empathy between them, and a patience to hold onto each other. “Let’s take things as slowly as we need to.”
Sunlight began to seep into the room where Túrin awoke, its warmth illuminating the two with a golden glow. Yet, this was not sunlight, but the golden glow of the reborn Laurelin, her light mingling with the silver of Telperion.
Beleg was still asleep, and as much as Túrin had wanted to lay in his arms for the rest of a lazy morning, he felt a calling towards this new light. Túrin moved Beleg’s arms from his own, careful to move slowly so as to avoid waking Beleg before he rose up out of bed. Túrin dressed himself in his pants that had been hastily shed onto the floor before walking towards the window.
Túrin pulled aside a corner of the curtains, and another ray of light joined the beams that had broken through the cracks between drapes. The sample of light was not enough for Túrin, so he pulled the curtains aside fully, and he found himself overwhelmed by the light that had shone upon him. He parted the glass door, and stepped into a warmth that enveloped his being. Gold and silver flooded the lands, and with it a sense of beauty and life unlike anything Túrin had seen before.
In the distance beyond the forests that lay between, Túrin could see the source of this light – two trees stood proudly upon a grand hill. Túrin heard tales about these trees when he walked Middle-earth as a mortal, but he could not imagine what these trees were like, and nothing prepared him for the sight that stood before him. Túrin did not know how long he had stood mesmerized by the treelight before another joined his side.
Beleg dressed himself in a simple robe as he stepped out onto the balcony next to Túrin. He did not introduce himself with words. There was only a comfortable silence as he joined Túrin in the wondrous sight of the mingling treelight. Silence was all they needed in that moment, for no words could fully capture the emotions they felt seeing this light together, a sight once thought impossible for either of their kindreds.
The sight of Valinor in all its splendor brought many thoughts that raced through Túrin’s mind, particularly thoughts of elves and men, of immortality and the deaths that brought them here. Though Túrin tried to abstain from lingering in the past, there was a question he needed to ask Beleg. Túrin broke the silence that lied between them: “How have you come to forgive and accept me?”
“I must tell you,” Beleg said, taking a breath. “When I first entered the halls of the dead, I felt nothing but frustration, a bitter rage, towards both you and myself. Alone in Mandos, I almost began to regret giving my heart to a mortal man. I felt like my choice to love you was a foolish one, and my heart grew angry. Then, that frustration gave way to loneliness. In this lonely sea I realized that, surpassing my feelings of anger, was a longing for what I had lost. I lived for nearly three thousand years before I met you, and brief as they were, I never felt more alive than I did in the years I spent by your side. I longed to rekindle those feelings here in the Undying Lands, land of peace and joy, but I found nothing that would heal this wound in my heart.
“After I left the halls and began a new life in Valinor, I met other elves who were separated from their loved ones by the cruel hand of death. Spouses, parents, brothers in arms, they all waited for the return of their companions with the same sense of longing I had come to know all too well. Eventually, the day would come for their friends to leave the halls and rejoin them in eternal bliss. Yet, I couldn’t help but watch their reunions with a pang of envy. That day would never come for me, and the bliss they shared with their beloved upon their reunion would never be granted to me. You were never granted a place in these lands, and I would never bear witness to your departure from the halls.”
Beleg took Túrin’s hands into his own, a small gesture that carried more weight than all their tender touches from the night before. Their fingers intertwined, fitting together as if they had been crafted to hold each other.
“For thousands of years,” Beleg continued, his thumb brushing along Túrin’s knuckles, “I was alone. I yearned for a reunion that I thought was never to come. To see you again, to have you here with me, it’s nothing short of a miracle. The chance to share this light with you is everything that we have fought for and ever wanted, and it has finally been fulfilled.”
Beleg brought Túrin’s chin upward to meet his eyes, and Túrin saw Beleg’s in a new light. Their earthy brown from a land illuminated only by starlight were colored by a new perspective here in the land of gods, one reflecting a deep amber hue. Túrin wondered how Beleg saw his own eyes under this new light, a son of man under light that the gods themselves never thought he would see. Had the Valar gifted the same light to the sons of the Secondborn?
"Beleg," Túrin said through parted lips. "All my life, I lived with a curse upon my name. I died without hope, and I never believed that joy would come to me—I never believed that I deserved it. This hope before me, your forgiveness, it overwhelms me."
"Morgoth is gone, meleth nîn, and darkness has come to pass. Your joy has come to you, let us start anew in this brave new world."
Túrin kissed Beleg beneath the glow of the Two Trees, and it seemed as if their light grew ever brighter as it surrounded their love. As they parted, Túrin rested his head on Beleg’s shoulder, their arms finding comfort around each other. Túrin did not fear losing Beleg, for his embrace was here to stay beyond the end of days.