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Hemp is harsh against Beleg’s wrists, but harsher is the endless noise of camp. He has waited so long. Surely he has guessed right?
He sees the vision before him without blinking open his eyes—there is only blackness. Through his hearing he confirms that nothing yet has changed, save for the iron they heat over the fire, rich and metallic on the tongue. The dryness of his throat is only in the shallowness of his breath, the slowness of his hröa’s response—yet he clings to them, his skin and bone and blood, and grounds himself against the Earth.
A hand takes hold of Beleg’s chin. Some distant part of him notices that, like before, the fingers are thin and surprisingly supple for a woodman’s. Beleg does not bite, although he is not ashamed of the thought.
He chooses to be kind, although these Men will not be. How long has it been since a night when he watched the stars with open eyes?
He opens his eyes at the shout, loud and from the chest, an instinctual animal terror. He knows that voice.
He faces blackness, but it is not quite so dark. Túrin’s hands are bright in the dim light, knuckles bent to hold Beleg tight, and he rumbles against Beleg’s back with each breath like some overgrown wildcat.
Beleg’s stomach is full, and his throat is not too dry. The others sleep in piles here and there, and one of their youngest holds Beleg’s outstretched arm, but no one besides their leader wraps himself around Beleg in the night.
He faces the nothingness, but it is not quite so dark. Beleg nuzzles into the arm pillowing his head and drifts back to sleep.