Work Text:
The Ballad of Túrin and Beleg
In days of old a man was born
To blood-cursed family
The man could best all in a fight
No other skills had he.
An elf, one day, did cross his path
All charm, voice like a lark
A love sprung up between them both
A light amongst the dark.
Túrin, the man, was caught by orc
Fated to die alone
His love Beleg would not relent
And sought to bring him home.
Through strength of will and force of hand
Beleg did free his beau
The orc had rendered Túrin mad
Sight clouded thick with woe.
Túrin was tied up like a hog
Beleg cut loose the cord
But met his end at Túrin’s hand
Struck down by his own sword.
Confusion rendered Túrin numb
For he had stabbed an orc
And yet his love was dying now
Light fading out to dark.
He tried in vain to stop the blood
His skill was in the fight
The life of Beleg came to close
Despite all Túrin’s might.
Túrin did live many more years
Alone and seldom sweet.
T’was Beleg’s sword that brought his end
Sent him, at last, to sleep.
Estel can no longer remember who first called him Túrin, for he had been but a child when the comparison was made, thirty years earlier. It was an idle note, made lightly, but it stung, for though the songs spoke of Túrin as a great warrior, his very blood was accursed, and the man was foolhardy, stubborn and distempered. There was shared blood between them, for Túrin was a cousin of Elros, and it made Estel uneasy, to think he was so close to such an ill-fated being.
Twenty years after they began to call him Túrin, deep in the hazy forests around Dol Guldur, he saw a being that called to his very soul. The first meeting with Legolas drenched him in ice, for he had seen the paintings of Beleg Cúlathion with his own eyes, and did not need to see Legolas shoot a target one hundred paces off to know whose reincarnation stood before him. Legolas smiled at him, eyes alight, and the ranger's heart was lost on sight.
They are inseparable now; fëaiannen, joined souls, Elrond called it, when he first saw them together in the gardens of Imladris. Legolas travels with him to the far reaches of Middle Earth and back again, and is as suited to the wilds as Estel himself; they compliment each other, fill in the gaps to make a perfect whole. They are alone together often, but travel with his kin when occasion calls for it. The rangers are not fond of the elf, but tolerate him for their leader.
Estel and Legolas are never parted for long, though often Estel wishes he had the strength for it, that he could send the elf far from him without delay, for to remain together is to doom them both.
Alas, he cannot. Fëaiannen. A cursed word, he thinks.
Legolas did not grow up with stories of Beleg and Túrin, for the legend had long died out among Silvans, and the royal Sindars of Mirkwood did not linger over sad histories, for there was sadness enough in a war-torn land.
When he meets Estel and is brought with him to Imladris and beyond, the name Beleg is attributed to him by men and elves alike. At first it grates on him, that he is no longer seen as himself by so many, but he makes himself see it as folly, that so many fear for him over some sad fable.
He had once tried to jest with Estel about it, had called him Túrin in a lilting tone, but the man had been so upset by it that he had not repeated his mistake. “You must never joke of such things, for you will anger the fates.”
On another of their long treks, their path brings them to Imladris for the night, passing to the East with a group of twelve rangers. As they cross the bridge to the homes, Elrond looks at the pair of them with the same strange sadness he always bears when his gaze falls upon them. He is not the only elf who regards them strangely; Glorfindel will not speak with Legolas, not while he still travels with Estel, for he says that he has lived too long to spend his days watching history repeat itself.
It was Glorfindel that told his father of Estel. Thranduil had pledged to kill the ranger on sight, for there is nothing he would not do to save the life of his son, and so they avoid the halls of the Elvenking. It hurts him, to be so far from his homeland.
It would hurt more to be far from Estel.
In the Imladris halls that night, Legolas stands beneath the painting of Beleg, and does not see the resemblance.
At Estel's behest, he had read the history of Túrin, and understands in broad terms why the man has been compared with Turambar, for both carry the weight of their ancestors upon their backs. That is the only similarity that shows itself to him, for Túrin seems to him despairing; lost outside of battle; without hope. He is bitter where Estel is sweet; a bringer of death where Estel brings life.
The Beleg in the tales is unfamiliar to him also, for the elf is without flaws. He did not falter; never questioned his worth; never looked for the stars to see only darkness. Indeed, they say the only time the elf ever bled was at his death, for before such a time, he had never taken so much as a pinprick in five thousand years of battle.
The only similarities Legolas sees are that they can both string a bow and are both consumed by love for a man - hardly enough to call him Beleg Reincarnate.
Still, he would rather not tempt fate.
In deference to Estel, as well as his own secret superstitions, he tries not to catch the man off guard, lest he be stabbed by those clever hands. He prefers them clean of blood, so that he might hold the fingers in his mouth and lead the man to impure thoughts.
Estel finds him at the painting of Beleg Cúlathion, and encases him in strong arms. The man carries the scent of pipeweed, and Legolas never did think he could become so fond of such a smell. "His loyalty was his undoing," Estel muses, looking up at the portrait. Estel is painted in gold by the candles in the hall, and he looks as faultless as Beleg himself. "If I am ever taken by orc, I do not wish for you to be the one who journeys to bring me home."
“If you are captured by orc, no force known to man nor elf could keep me from the rescue party,” Legolas replies, light. “I will, however, keep my knives far from your hands,” he teases, tilting his head to kiss the man on the lips. They depart Imladris the next morning, and do not look back.
Life with the rangers is silent and cold.
In the quiet aftermath of yet another orcish confrontation, Estel, who the rangers call Strider, sets about helping what men he can. The rangers are untrained in the ways of healing, and quick to discard a man who appears beyond hope, but the training of Elrond makes Estel bold, makes him try even when hope is almost gone, and often, he wins the strange battle against death.
It is a battle he worries will never end.
“How many more need treatment?” Estel asks his second in command as he rinses his bloodied hands, wondering if they shall ever be fully cleansed. Several rangers are already bandaged; others bear no physical scars, but have the harsh echo of battle upon their shoulders, which they bear in silence.
“Three in the medical tent, Strider, plus perhaps one more,” Halbarad confirms, and Estel frowns at him. “Your elf was bleeding from the arm. Beleg’s taken himself off to tend to his own wounds.”
Estel sighs and nods, for he is used to such behaviour from Legolas. He sends Halbarad off with three kinsmen to patrol the woods, and then returns to the tent, ready to dirty his hands once more.
He patches up the remaining folk, his healing hands hard at work, and then departs for his tent, where he will no doubt find his love.
Sure enough, Legolas sits on one of the two beds in their tent, stitching closed his own arm. The cut is long and deep, and Estel frowns. “Did you rinse it out?”
“With salt water,” Legolas confirms, pulling the next stitch tight. He does not stop his work until Estel bats the hands away, taking over with needle and thread. “Ai, mabinmaen, save your strength for those that need it more.”
Mabinmaen. Clever hands. It is a name that heats him, for though Legolas had coined it in the medical tents, he had christened it in the bedroom, a common compliment when they were coupling together and his hands were plucking and touching and rubbing. “My hands belong to you, my love. Their strength is best spent upon their owner.”
When the wound is closed and Estel satisfied, he kisses Legolas deep and long, and they tumble to bed together, quiet in deference to the Rangers nearby. It is intense, as it always is between them, for they were not built for half-hearted embraces. Once they are both sated, Estel kisses his elf one final time and then moves to the other bed, across the room.
He never can trust himself to sleep beside Beleg reborn.
In the dead of night, a harsh scream erupts in the camp. The nightwatchman, Legolas thinks, as he springs from the bed, watching Estel do the same.
When they leave the tent, it is carnage, unrelenting. There are more orc than Legolas has ever seen, like a swarm of locusts; indeed, there are Uruk Hai amongst them, and they search as if possessed for some secret thing.
"Where is Túrin reincarnate?" The head Uruk has a young ranger aloft by the neck, and though the boy remains silent and loyal, his eyes give him away, for they flit to Estel, the strongest warrior amongst them, as if asking for help. The young ranger's lifeless body crumples to the floor as soon as the Uruk sees Estel, and the orc circle him, intent. "Morgoth himself bid we find you from beyond the grave; a great Uruk you shall make, Wildman."
Legolas fights his way forward, desperate, but there are too many, and soon one of the Uruk grabs him by the hair, sniffing at his cheek. "An elf amongst the rangers!" He gloats, and more orc bring forth chains. He cannot see Estel now; indeed, cannot see any living rangers left in the clearing. The majority of the orc depart, leaving only a few to bind him. They kick at him with their foul legs, and drag at his hair, and promise him tortures beyond belief, but none of it brings him fear; the fear instead comes from a part of his soul being ripped from him, as Estel is dragged to a fate worse than death.
He fights as hard as his limbs will allow, but the orc outnumber him so, and his hits begin to lose their force. He despairs, for he is near defeated, but then Halbarad is there, slashing down the orc that hold him in chains.
The small patrol group slaughter the remaining orc without remorse, though they do not escape unmarred. One man dies under an orcish heel, and Halbarad is cut across the back of the leg, sending him fighting on his knees until the last orc draws its final breath. The uninjured rangers help Legolas with his chains, and then he is free and desperate.
His body aches, and his mind is in tatters, but his hands are steady as he gathers arrows for his quiver, checking that they were ready for further battle. Estel's second in command hovers, limping on his damaged leg, and Legolas pays him no mind, for he is now fully occupied with what will come next.
“Perhaps it should not be you who tracks him. Let others bear the burden,” Halbarad suggests gently, and Legolas reminds himself that Estel would be angry if Legolas tore out the man's impertinent tongue.
"No one knows these woods as well as I."
"Beleg-"
"That is not my name." Legolas is sharp as a knife, and Halbarad nods.
"If Strider kills you, as he fears, then he will cut me down where I stand for allowing you to go to him."
"Ai, but he shall be alive to cut you down, will he not?" Legolas asks with a grim smile, and then he departs, no longer willing to delay.
The Uruk Hai's lair is fetid and sweaty, and the smell alone might make him retch if Estel still had the energy to do so. The orc and Uruk Hai had been unrelenting in their torture of him as they walked, kicking at him, dragging him along the floor by his hair, and biting at his skin as if he were meat.
They call him Túrin, and he comes to believe it, for surely only a being so cursed could fall to such a fate.
The torture renders him weak, and he cries out for his Beleg, even as he prays that the elf remains far away. He does not let himself consider that the elf might already be gone from this plane, for to consider such a thing would be to guarantee his own death.
The orc mock him for his weakness, and tell him that Morgoth laughs too, but he pays them no mind, and tries to focus on keeping his wits about him so that he will not destroy his elf, but the pain is immense and all-encompassing. Soon, he feels his essence begin to falter, for they cut at his skin, burn at his stomach, and threaten to geld him, and his mind escapes, flying far from the woods, to a soft bed with his elf beside him.
Legolas finds the camp in the dead of night, and walks between tree branches to access it, silent in the woods.
He wants to cut all the heinous orc down where they stand, their smug demeanour and horrible jesting at Estel's expense making anger bubble to a boil in his belly, but he cannot be rash, not when Estel is at stake, and so he moves silently around them, sneaking into the tent where he can hear Estel's pained breaths.
Estel is a sorry sight, tied like a hog with a thousand cuts and bruises across his skin. Legolas tries to wake him, but it is no use, for though there is a pulse the man is near catatonic.
He is a deadweight as Legolas carries him from the tent, silent. The instincts of Legolas tell him to fight, but his love bids him still. He cannot return to the trees, for Estel is too heavy for such things, and so he says an apology to the forest and takes a match from his pocket.
The tent burns quickly, its neighbours catching fire also, and in the melee, the elf disappears, a man across his shoulders. The orc behind him burn, screaming in vain for Morgoth to save them, and Legolas cannot feel remorse, though he knows his actions cowardly, for they may save Estel.
Legolas is as gentle as he can be as he carries Estel from the orcish lair, spiriting him towards an old bothy in the woods. The man lies without movement across his shoulders, still in a way that Estel has never been still, and worry eats at the chest of Legolas.
He does not take Estel into the hut just yet, for dawn is close and the ranger always loves to see the sky, and so he lies him down on the grass outside, and looks to the ropes that bind him.
They are intricate and tight, and Legolas comes to understand that they are interconnected - so that if one might struggle against the binding of the arms, the neck would tighten, forming a noose. It alarms him, and he sets about untying the forearms, but as soon as he touches the blistered wrist, it is as if Estel were being flayed again, and he kicks out, arms spreading wildly, eyes unfocussed but panicked.
As he thrashes, the cord coiled about his neck gets tighter, until the man can barely breathe, unseeing eyes open and desperate, and Legolas cries out for him to stop, but it is as if he is in a trance, and only struggles harder, his flailing bound hands tightening the noose about his neck.
The thrashing is weakening now, his breathing growing ragged, and Legolas grabs at Estel's hands, holds them in his own desperately, and hopes for forgiveness for what he must do, though he does not think Estel will ever grant it. He kisses the knuckles that he loves, and then releases them and draws his hunting knife. He does not think on it further, for there is nothing he would not do for this man, no lengths to which he would not go.
He is as careful as he can be, but still nicks the neck as he slides the sharp knife between skin and twine - a superficial wound which might sting, but will not ail Estel for long. The ropes about the neck of Estel slice away easily, releasing his hands also, and the man gulps desperately at the air. He is still thrashing, but the ropes are free now, and his hands come up, grabbing at Legolas.
The elf fights back, though he knows it is futile, that they have been on this path since the beginning, that he has been prepared to die for the man since the moment he first heard the tale of Beleg and Túrin. Estel overpowers him quickly, confusion making him desperate and rash, and though the stab of the knife is not unexpected, Legolas finds that it hurts more than he thought it would as it slices through his abdomen, knocking the breath from his lungs.
As soon as the knife is in, the strange spell on Estel clears, and he cries out, the mixed blood on his hands slippery and wet. “What have you done!” He asks, voice hoarse, and Legolas cannot tell if the question is directed inwards, or to Legolas, or to the scribes of destiny, who lead them to this fate.
Estel pulls the knife from his guts, tossing it aside, and Legolas turns his head to look at the blade, wonders if one day Estel will fall upon it himself, and the thought hurts more than the wound. The inevitability of Estel’s fall makes him ache, for he knows now that it will come to pass, as unrelenting as the sands of time. He is on the floor now, Estel crouched above him, desperate and lost.
The man cups his face with one hand, eyes wet with tears, and kisses him fiercely, as if to keep him from eternal sleep. When he pulls away, his face is hopeless, against all that he represents, and Legolas laments that such sadness should ever grace his brow, but he understands, for though they have fled relentlessly from their destiny, it has finally caught up with them. Foul curses leave the man's lips at the fate that has brought them here, the cruel beings would show him what happiness might be and then wrench it from his hands.
Legolas tries to remember if there were some words of comfort that Beleg had offered Túrin, at the end, but if there were, he cannot recall.
Estel’s other hand rests upon his arm, and Legolas comes to realise it presses upon his earlier wound, which sends a spark of new and welcome pain through him, a light in the darkness, for the pain brings with it clarity, like a shock of cold water through his limbs.
Beleg would never bear such a wound, and Túrin would not know how to bind it.
Legolas smiles, blood between his teeth, for he realises they have a hope that Túrin and Beleg could never have. “Mabinmaen,” he whispers, and Estel looks to him, desperate and lost. “Clever hands,” he repeats, and with a fumbling hand leads Estel’s fingers to his wound. The man’s hands can wield a sword like it is second nature; but their real strength lies in their healing touch, for Estel is above all soft and gentle, in a way Túrin was never allowed to be. Through heavy tears, Estel nods, for though it may be futile, he has never been devoid of hope.
It hurts, even more than when the knife first sliced his flesh, but Legolas allows it, for it is the only way either of them might heal. Estel whispers apologies against his forehead, even as he increases the unrelenting pressure upon his abdomen. It is too much pain for one body to bear, and Legolas is falling apart.
He is ready to sink under, to fall, but he looks to Estel, and thinks of hope.
The man's breath is shaky, but his hands are calm, as they always have been, and they weave the wound closed as if it were a tear in a light summer jacket. He puts herbs in the mouth of Legolas, kisses his bloodied lips, and whispers prayers to the same deities he had cursed minutes earlier.
It still hurts, but the pull of beyond is fading, and his ragged heart still beats in his chest.
Estel, still weakened, is as careful as he can be as he drags Legolas into the hut. He puts him on the cot, and intends to busy himself with food or cleaning, but the elf grabs his arms and will not let go, and he finds himself grow heavy, until he comes down to the bed too, curling around the elf. He lets his hand cover the bandage on the elf's belly, protective, and Legolas's arms encase him, cocooning him in warmth.
“You were tortured, beloved. Rest,” Legolas whispers, brushing his hair back and playing with its ends, curling them round his fingers. It is soothing and warm, like a hot bath, and Estel sinks into it, though guilt curdles in his stomach.
“You were stabbed, beloved. By me.”
“I was saved by you also,” Legolas replies, tilting his head towards his love, expectant. Elven eyes are moments from sleep, and it makes Estel weary too, ready to sink.
The lips of Legolas still carry the metallic tang of blood, but it is sweeter than honey, for the blood is warm and speaks of life. Estel cannot stop himself from smiling into the kiss, a grin of victory against the impossible, for it is as if they have defeated destiny itself.
It is Legolas who pulls away first, and rests his forehead against Estel's, warm. "I will always bring you home," he promises, sealing his words with another soft kiss.
"You will always be my home," Estel replies, and rolls his face down, tucks himself into Legolas tight. "Beleg," Estel whispers against his neck.
"Túrin," Legolas whispers back, warm. "We have cheated fate, my love."
Tomorrow they will journey to Imladris, and begin to recover. Estel will tell Legolas of his time in capture, and Legolas will wipe away his tears, and let Estel coddle him through his own ailment. The journey to recovery will be long, but they will make it there, together.
Tonight, they hold each other, and do not worry about tomorrow.
Legolas is at rest now, eyes unfocussed and chest rising. It is a marvel to see so close, for the first time, and it entices Estel, beckoning him to join.
He resists a little longer, watching the elven chest rise and fall as if to convince himself that Legolas was still real, but finally, Estel lets himself sink into sleep, with Legolas by his side, unencumbered by fate.