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Beleg’s chambers were plain and simple, and located in an unfashionable grotto in Menegroth, far from the royal residence and really, from anything else. He rarely spent much time there -- no one did, as far as he could tell, although servants would come from time to time to air the room and change the sheets, and put fresh flowers in the vase. Beleg was unwilling to play the courtier’s part, but his role as a marchwarden obliged him to come to Menegroth at times and plead his case -- that more money and more men should be sent to the frontier, not less. He had spent the whole day thus occupied, and once released, he had made his way to baths to scrub off the oiliness that seemed to pervade the court, chiefly emanating from Saeros, the upstart who had smirked and smiled (depending on if Thingol’s eye fell upon him) and had the temerity to suggest that the marchwarden program should cut, since Queen Melian’s Girdle protected Doriath far more than any marchwarden could. Mablung had given him a warning look and Beleg had stilled his tongue and let his partner skillfully and completely disassemble Saeros’ arguments, while Beleg had to be content merely to glower in support behind him. And after that -- the bath house! Beleg had not bothered to dress after coming back to his rooms. His hair was still wet and so was his skin. A light robe would suffice -- Mablung would spend the night with his wife and they would meet up again in the morning and leave the city, duty done. Beleg, who in the wild was daunted by nothing, sighed at the prospect of a long, long evening only with himself as company. He picked up a spray of white flowers from the vase and sniffed them dejectedly. As fragrant and lovely as they were, they paled into insignificance in comparison to their wild cousins. Soon enough, he would see them again. Beleg’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Almost without thinking, Beleg tucked the flower behind his ear and went to open it, wondering who could it be. Surely not Mablung, who had meticulously ticked off the days until he could see his wife and had planned to spend as much time with her as he could. Beleg would not be the one to step in the middle of their reunion. He opened the door cautiously, not sure what he would find. On the other side stood awkwardly was Túrin, the king’s foster son. Beleg had some difficulty recognizing him at first. Surely Beleg had only rescued him not so long ago? Was he not a child still? But this large Mannish figure at his door stood almost as tall as Beleg himself -- though that was not such a great feat, Beleg was shorter than most -- and almost as wide. Only his expression, half-sullen and half-hopeful was the same. He was beautiful, Beleg thought suddenly, but unfinished-looking. Were all mortals so?Túrin’s lack of ceremony was also unchanged. Abruptly, he said, “Will you allow me to go with you to the frontier? I have done enough training here in Menegroth and it is time for me to test my mettle against our enemies, I deem.” Túrin looked at him expectantly. Beleg shut his jaw and pulled the young Man into his room and shut the door behind him. “Are you mad? What does your foster father think of this?” Túrin frowned. “I haven't told him, but--” “Haven't told him, are you mad?” “I thought you would be happy to have me go. You spoke so passionately about the obligations of duty, the vital need to protect Doriath from evil --” Túrin looked at him beseechingly before casting his eyes downward. Beleg, remembering only belatedly his flimsy state of dress, wrapped his robe more tightly around himself. He felt embarrassed, though he could hardly think why -- height aside, Túrin was hardly more than a child, even by the estimation of his own kind (Beleg assumed.) “You know I did not speak at all,” Beleg said reproachfully, “save for the introduction.” “Oh Beleg, say not so! You were once a friend to me, will you abandon me now? I am unhappy here and want go somewhere I can be of use.” Túrin looked so miserable now that Beleg’s heart softened almost at once.“I--” Beleg hesitated and Túrin leaned against him, apparently unaware that he stood a little too close. “Please, Beleg, I beg of you,” he whispered, “If I stay, I might do something rash. You could restrain me.” “Restrain you?” Beleg felt faint. He doubted that he could truly restrain this wild creature, in the shape of Thingol’s foster-son, from doing anything he wished. But Túrin only nodded. “I came to you because I know you find Menegroth as suffocating as I do.” “Everyone knows that,” Beleg protested, “I say that whenever I come here.” “Will you not help them, then?” Somehow Túrin’s arm had looped around Beleg’s waist. He tugged impatiently at Beleg, as if by yanking, albeit gently, he could make Beleg feel his ardor as well. “Ah--” Beleg said, hesitating. Túrin merely looked at him. “Ah. All right,” Beleg said. “Go tomorrow to your parents and ask for their leave. If you wish it, I will go with you.” “Will you?” As quick as thought, Túrin enveloped him an a crushing hug. “Thank you!” “All right, all right --” Beleg managed to extract himself from Túrin's embrace. “Now go to your chambers, you have an important day tomorrow.” Túrin nodded, ducking his head down as if his sudden display of emotion now embarrassed him. He left quickly, with a muttered thanks. Beleg took a moment to compose himself. It did not work. He stared at the ceiling and wished he was looking up to a canopy of trees. Modernity was despicable. With his thoughts falling into more familiar lines, and thus feeling much more calm, Beleg cast about a pen and paper. He had to get the news to Mablung that they would not be leaving at the scheduled time. *The next morning, Beleg was somewhat surprised; he had expected to speak to Thingol about Túrin leaving Menegroth, but instead he and Túrin were conducted into a grove of trees whose branches seemed feathered, so thickly and numerous were the birds that flocked to them. The sound was deafening, and they had to step very carefully. Melian was in the middle of it all, a nightingale perched on her shoulders and some on her arms while one delicately balanced on her crown. She blinked and smiled at them, radiant and perfect. Beleg found himself smiling back, despite himself. “I have found,” she said with a chirrup of a voice, “that no matter how many Children I meet, I am always surprised with what each chooses to do with their life. Though I am a wife to one and mother to others --” here she nodded to Túrin, who looked a little dazed. “My Queen, we have come to ask,” Beleg ventured to say but she waved him off, her nightingales taking off into the sky, save the one that gripped, grimly determined, on the topmost jewel of her crown. “I can tell you that I forbid it, that it would be the best for the two of you never to come together, but it would be of no use. The Children never listen.” She shrugged, her bright expression wavering and replaced with one of ancient sorrow.Beleg and Túrin exchanged quick glances at each other. Beleg had half-a-mind to ask what Melian meant by that, but Túrin gave him a small shake of his head, in warning.But after a long, awkward silence, Melian seemed to gather herself up again and she nodded. “If it is your will, Túrin, you may become an marchwarden of Doriath, with Beleg to guide you. And you, Beleg, may decide to guide Túrin, as best as you are able.” “Of course!” Túrin said, grinning. He did not seem to dare embrace Melian, but he did take her offered hand and kiss it. But Beleg was more circumspect. It seemed that Melian’s words boded ill for him and Túrin. She shook her head with a sigh. “You know I cannot tell you outright, Strongbow.” “Little point in telling me that I will regret something and not tell me why,” Beleg grumbled as he turned to leave. Melian smiled and whispered something to her bird-friends that sounded suspiciously like old coot to Beleg. But he may have been wrong on that account. In any case, they were dismissed after that. *Two years after that meeting with Melian, on a rainy night in the Girdle, Beleg shifted in his bedroll and found himself pinned down by Túrin’s arm flung over him. Túrin himself was deeply asleep, but Beleg was wide awake. He was thinking of all that had brought them to this point. Well, at least he was warm. Beleg tucked Túrin back under his blanket and went back to sleep. *So, they went into the woods together. And Túrin, perhaps not surprisingly, had proved to be a brave and sturdy soul. He was well-cut out for this kind of life and Beleg was proud to serve with him. Often enough, they would spend hours together and exchange hardly a word or two between them, their conversations relying mostly on the rustling of leaves, and the light flapping of wings. Days and months would melt into this: and endless cycle of life and adventure, deep in the woods they both loved. Beleg was happier then than he ever been before. It was a bewildering thing indeed, to be made so happy by one person. How could it be? Beleg had lived so long and he had thought he had been happy for most of it. And that was true. And yet, his time with Túrin, seemed brighter than the time before it. Short, but ever so sweet. However, it was true that Túrin did not seem to share in the camaraderie the other marchwardens had with each other -- even the patient Mablung said that he sometimes found the company of son of Húrin hard to take. But no so with Beleg, though he was the first to admit that he himself was not the model of good congenial spirit. He had spent most of his long, long life alone, after all, in the forest that was both his mother and father. And he had never wished for better family. When Beleg did develop relationships with others, they were passionate and deep -- as with Mablung, as with Túrin -- Ah, Túrin! That bewildering, bedeviling fool of a Man! How Beleg loved him! That Beleg loved him was no mystery -- Beleg did not believe in hiding such things, and indeed he saw no reason to hide it. He loved all of his comrades, but had always held a special few closest to his heart. Of those, only Mablung still survived -- a marchwarden’s life was a dangerous one, and had little guarantees -- even then, Beleg had to admit, what he felt for Túrin defied explanation. He loved him best. Perhaps it was simply due to Túrin’s mortality. A marchwarden could die, but Túrin would die. His fate was set from the start. Beleg had seen many creatures live and die in his long, long life, but none of them had he loved like he loved Túrin. He feared that once Túrin met his end, he would too. For life did not seem bearable if it should be without him. *Later, Beleg saw how foolish his fears were. Túrin’s fate was had always been unique. When Beleg felt that black sword pierce into his belly, he felt nothing but regret. Túrin’s face was slack and grey, unaware of what he was doing. The realization would come later. They had no chance to say goodbye, no time to forgive, or assure each other of their love. But still, Beleg died loving Túrin and forgiving him. If only he would know! If only he would be comforted! *Afterwards, long after the legend, Beleg went into the woods and saw Túrin again. They greeted each other as they always did when meeting for the first time in a long time. Beleg had always thought the fate of Men were sundered from those of Elves, but yet again, Túrin’s fate was different. “How goes it, Túrin?” Túrin’s eyes were as strange as any rehoused Elf. They brightened when he saw Beleg. He reached out and clasped Beleg’s hands together for a moment before he let him go. “I am glad to see you again, Beleg.” His voice was slow and halting. He had obviously not spoken in a long time and he obviously found the experience strange. “I have heard you are destined to kill Morgoth. Is that true?” “So they say. I don’t know.” Beleg nodded. He had nothing else to say. He shifted his weight, his replacement bow -- how long had he had it, and yet it was still a replacement? -- heavy against his back. “Well, you’ll be needed, before long, I’m sure.” Túrin laughed. How strange the sound was! And sadly, unfamiliar to Beleg now, though he would have sworn it had been familiar, once. “Túrin!” He said, “Would you go -- I mean, to the woods, before it ends --” “The great Beleg, at a loss for words! This is rare.” “Brat, I’ll go without you, then.” “No! I’ve had enough of that. Stay with me awhile.” Of course, he could not say no. I have gone in the woods with you, and I love you very much -- he wanted to say that. But he kept his peace. He hoped Túrin knew by now, at least.