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There is a strangeness to Beleg, even now, that makes Túrin wish to trace his blurry edges. They have become more notable over time, when Beleg does not consciously hold to a mortal form, and something about his calmness, his comfort, soothes Túrin’s burdened mind.
He is beautiful like this, Túrin finds, half-forgotten and half-found, amidst a band so close yet so far from his own. Túrin may still not know the specifics, but he knows this: that Beleg is lighter in his presence. That Beleg breathes deeply in Túrin’s presence, far from an animal on alert or a hunter stalking his prey. That he lets Túrin tend to him as he tends to Túrin, in wounds and in fears and in loves of every kind.
It is at times like these that Túrin traces the scars along his flanks and wonders how long his soul will have to travel to the halls of his ancestors. The halls of his gods? Túrin is never quite sure; even as a child, he had a strong instinct that some things are not spoken about. Not so far from the distant shadow of Men is the looming oath, is it now?
He wishes only for Beleg to fade completely and quickly, when the time comes. His companion is old—this, Túrin knows, for though it shows not in his face, it shows in his spirit when it goes soft about the edges and ever in his stories.
The saddest times in life, Túrin finds, as he sits and sniffles with the dregs of a spring cold, are not the ones when he is alone.
They are the times when he finds no answer from the ones who lie scattered about them, when Beleg is not there to drag him back to rest and to think for a moment until the world is less threatening overhead. There is no screen, there is no filter from the stillness thereafter. So Túrin counts the nights and makes sure to hold Beleg just a touch too tight.