The Desire of His Heart by mouse  

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The Desire of His Heart

I. Prelude

When Túrin first saw the face lit by the torch in Ulrad’s hand, he thought he must have imagined it. How could it be Beleg in the camp, tied to a tree, with his head bowed and his whole body slumped against the ropes that bound him? But when Beleg lifted his head and saw Túrin, he smiled — thinly, fleetingly, with lips that cracked.

Then Túrin could see nothing but Beleg. He did not know which of the outlaws he pushed aside, which he threw to the ground, who moved out of his way or who spoke to him. Everything was black except Beleg. The closer Túrin got, the more apparent became Beleg’s condition: his dullness, his bruises, the darkness under his eyes. Túrin spoke stupidly as he cut the Elf free of his bonds — “Beleg, Beleg, how have you come hither? And why do you stand so?” — and Beleg fell into his arms.

What had they done to him? Why? How long? The questions stung Túrin like insects, but behind them all thrummed something else, something that filled him up and pressed on his heart, a painful joy that it was Beleg he clasped to him, the teacher and friend and companion in arms he had left without even a last farewell.

Túrin was disconcerted by the pleasure of holding Beleg’s weight, arms close around him, supporting his friend with the strength of his own body. He wanted to hold Beleg tighter. He wanted to lift him up. He wanted to lay him down.

Beleg found his feet, and righted himself with his arm braced against Túrin’s chest. “I thought you would never come,” he said, his voice faint and dry.

“I never thought you would come,” Túrin said, with hardly more voice than Beleg.

II.

Túrin did not expect, when he entered the clearing where he and Beleg were camped near the outlaws’ cave, to see Beleg clad in nothing but his red boots.

Following a sleepless night in the cave, where Túrin nearly suffocated under the tension between his men and Beleg, Túrin had spent the morning building them a lean-to shelter of pine boughs in the clearing. They would camp there for one night only since Beleg had decided to depart the next day, but Túrin was glad to have a task to occupy him after Beleg announced that decision. When Túrin left to find food, once the shelter was finished, Beleg had been sitting against a tree, re-fletching an arrow, fully clothed.

At the sight of his friend naked but for his boots, Túrin stopped, cradling his birch basket in one arm, unsure if he ought to turn around. The reason for Beleg’s nudity soon became apparent: his clothes were draped on branches everywhere the clearing caught beams of the late afternoon sunlight, dripping water. He must have washed them to prepare for his departure on the morrow.

“Ah, you found golden trumpets.” Beleg greeted Túrin with a smile, and looked with interest at the basket full of mushrooms. He stood holding Belthronding upright with one hand, while the fingers of his other hand worked beeswax into the bowstring.

“Yes. All for us. The others will not touch them for fear of being poisoned.”

Since Beleg did not seem concerned about modesty, Túrin walked forward and set his basket on a stump. It was not as though he had never seen Beleg unclothed before. But it had always been for the purpose of bathing in a stream or lake, not just standing in the sunlight with muscles shifting everywhere under his skin as he ran his fingers up and down his bowstring. Túrin found himself wondering if Beleg would oil the wood next.

“There are many signs by which to tell apart the poisonous ones,” Beleg commented, straightening up. He leaned Belthronding against a tree. “Did you not teach them?”

“I tried.” Túrin did not know where to rest his gaze. It felt rude not to look at his friend when they were speaking but his mental picture of Beleg rubbing oil over the limb of his bow had sent a startling rush of blood straight to Túrin’s groin. This had happened in Beleg’s company from time to time when Túrin was younger, but only when Beleg was telling a racy story, not in the middle of a normal conversation. What would Beleg think, if he noticed? Túrin stared at the ground and brooded on the downfall of the House of Hador until his arousal subsided.

“I doubt we can eat all these tonight, but I will gladly take some for my journey.” Beleg came and stood next to Túrin so he could pick through the basket, probably making sure Túrin hadn’t forgotten how to tell golden trumpets apart from their inedible lookalikes. Túrin’s eyes were drawn to the dark blue bruises and red rope-burns on Beleg’s midsection and wrists, and his gut twisted with sorrow and self-reproach.

Here was the reason Beleg was leaving tomorrow, instead of staying at his side. Could Túrin fault him if he had no wish to live among those who had bound him and tormented him for days? If Túrin had only returned sooner— if he had never left in the first place on that ill-fated Orc chase, merely to please the greed of a merciless band of—

“Are you hungry?”

“No.” Túrin’s voice came out strained with the anguish of his thoughts. Beleg stood in front of him with a mushroom in one hand, obviously taken aback by the vehemence of his response. “No,” Túrin said again after he cleared his throat. He turned away from Beleg, ducking into the entrance of their shelter. “I have another pair of trousers you might wear while yours are drying.”

When he reemerged holding his spare trousers, Beleg was waiting with hands on his hips and a thoughtful look on his face.

“Keep these, if you wish,” Túrin said as he handed Beleg the trousers. “They no longer fit me well.”

“You have changed, since I saw you last,” Beleg observed, his gaze falling down Túrin’s body. “A little taller, perhaps, but mainly… larger.” He sank onto the stump beside the basket, with the pants across his lap, and began to tug off one of his boots. “Are you distraught because I mentioned leaving?”

“I am not distraught,” Túrin said.

“Good,” said Beleg, kicking off his other boot.

“You did say you would stay, at my asking. It is unlike you to go back on your word.”

“I did not say I would obey your every whim, and you are refusing to compromise with me.”

There was no hint of ill humour in Beleg’s face or voice, which remained calm. Túrin knew Beleg had great patience, but also great firmness of will, and was seldom subject to any will other than his own, save for that of the King and Queen. There was little point in continuing to argue, nor was that how Túrin wished to spend their last hours together. But—

“I do not see what difference it makes if we fight the enemy here instead of in Dimbar,” he said.

“I do not see what difference it makes if you pass through the woods of Brethil instead of Doriath,” Beleg countered, standing up in his bare feet and shaking out the trousers. “You have the King’s pardon, and his love, without asking. If you truly believe it is you who should be giving pardon, why not show the same grace, and do so without being asked?”

Túrin thought it was unfair of Beleg to argue naked, with evidence of the mistreatment he had suffered on display to break Túrin’s heart. He reminded himself that his decision had nothing to do with Beleg, who had proven himself the truest of friends. It was because everyone else in Doriath had wronged him.

“Nothing you can say will change my mind about Doriath.”

“Yes, you have made it clear you will not listen to sense. But words are not my only means of persuasion.”

Beleg said it lightly, but Túrin was troubled. What other means of persuasion might Beleg attempt? Physical intimidation? Túrin was not sure the Elf could best him in a contest of strength, but the idea of such a contest upset him. He had never seen Beleg use force against his companions in arms, only against foes, and wild beasts. Had he sunk so low in Beleg’s eyes, because of the cruelty of his men? The thought wrung fresh guilt out from Túrin’s insides.

“You look distraught again,” Beleg said as he stepped into the trousers and drew them up over his hips. “What are you thinking? That I will throw you over my shoulder and carry you away? You are too heavy.”

“Not carry me, perhaps,” Túrin answered. “You might put me in bonds.”

Beleg’s gaze turned down while he tied the drawstring at his waistband. “I would never put you in bonds, Túrin,” he said, then glanced up. “Unless you wanted me to, of course.”

Túrin frowned as he tried to think of a scenario in which he would want Beleg to put him in bonds. Perhaps if he went mad, or was possessed by an evil spirit, and became a danger to his friends?

“That was not meant to make you frown.” Beleg was pulling his boots back on now, with a smile turning up one corner of his mouth. “I am teasing you. Some people enjoy wearing bonds during acts of pleasure.”

Túrin blinked, his mind setting off in a new direction. “Why? Is that not a hindrance to performing the acts?”

Beleg was the only person he felt comfortable asking such questions, because Túrin knew he would speak as freely about physical pleasures as he did about any other topic. Most Elves were close-mouthed about such matters, and the outlaws’ crude jokes confused Túrin and threatened to expose his ignorance, so it was not a subject Túrin himself would often raise. But it did prey on his mind at times. Especially when he first woke in the morning.

“Many acts are still possible when one partner is, say, deprived of the use of their hands,” Beleg replied. “As for why, some enjoy the feeling of being … overpowered. With someone you trust, whose desire is to please you, it is a very different experience from being overpowered by a foe.”

Could this be what Beleg meant when he said words were not his only means of persuasion? Would he try to overpower Túrin with acts of pleasure until he agreed to return to Doriath? Túrin did not quite understand how that would work but he felt another rush of arousal when he speculated. But Beleg had said he was teasing, about putting Túrin in bonds if he wanted. Perhaps he had only been teasing about having another means of persuasion, too.

“Do you enjoy the feeling of being overpowered?” Túrin asked, to fill the silence while his thoughts chased each other around. Beleg’s eyes darted to meet his in a startled way, and Túrin was stricken with dismay at his own words. “Forgive me,” he said quickly, stepping forward to take Beleg's hands in his. Túrin brought their clasped hands to his chest, making a conscious effort not to squeeze too hard, and searched his friend's eyes. “My words ever go awry, even as my deeds do. You deserve better of me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Beleg replied, easily enough that Túrin believed he meant it. “Not between the two of us, at least. And the answer is yes, sometimes. But that is not what I had in mind just now.”

Túrin saw that he no longer looked up to Beleg’s eyes. They were level with his now, and this evenness in their height made Beleg feel closer, somehow, when they stood facing one another. Or had Beleg moved closer to him, without Túrin noticing? Yes, he must have, because the backs of Túrin’s hands could feel how sun-warmed the skin of Beleg’s chest was, and a shift of Beleg’s stance brought their lower bodies into contact, and even the downfall of the House of Hador was not dire enough to prevent a stirring below Túrin’s waist that Beleg was unlikely to miss, given their closeness.

“Oy, Neithan,” Ulrad’s voice rang out behind Túrin. “Who covers Blodrin’s watch tonight?”

“You do,” replied Túrin at once, without turning around.

“Why should I take two watches? It’s not my fault that son of a troll broke his foot.”

Beleg’s eyes were still holding his, and when Túrin let go of his hands he put them on Túrin’s sides to stop him from moving away. Túrin tried to remember what Ulrad was talking to him about. “Just... tell him to keep his foot elevated.”

“What?”

“Blodrin. It will keep the swelling down.” Túrin was very aware that he was experiencing some swelling himself, and that Beleg’s hands were holding him in place, and that his and Beleg’s eyes were not the only thing about them that now lined up at the same level.

But Ulrad was still there. “Are you saying Blodrin has to keep watch with his foot elevated?”

“Yes,” said Túrin.

Beleg laughed. “I would like to see him manage that.”

“Why doesn’t the Elf take Blodrin’s watch?” Ulrad’s disagreeable voice continued. “He looks hale enough.”

“I am hale enough,” Beleg agreed with a shrug, taking his hands off Túrin’s waist. “If that is the case, then I will likely set out as soon as my watch is done.”

Ulrad was not very big, and Túrin thought that if he held him by one arm and his pant leg, he should be able to throw the man headlong into a tree. “Andvír can stand watch. He’s old enough.” Túrin made a small adjustment with his belt, then spun around to face Ulrad with one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Ulrad backed up. “Easy,” he said. “You leave my head where it is. I’ll relay the captain’s orders.” He smirked, touched his brow in a mock salute, and slunk off in the direction of the outlaws’ cave.

When Túrin faced Beleg again, he was putting a shirt on, which Túrin found disheartening, a feeling that worsened when Beleg took a few steps away from him to the edge of the clearing. Was the moment ruined? Or had Túrin been reading too much into it?

“Come with me,” Beleg said over his shoulder, before walking into the trees. When Túrin followed, Beleg was nowhere in sight, but this was a familiar game. He began to look for ground disturbed by footfalls, and listened for the occasional twitter of birds or scolding of a squirrel to announce Beleg’s passing. Beleg was not making himself especially difficult to follow, at least not for Túrin, to whom he had taught all his woodcraft. But Túrin had just noticed Beleg was taking him in a circle, back toward the camp, when he lost all signs of the Elf, and came to a halt.

“You led me on a merry chase with your excellent woodcraft, when I came to find you,” Beleg’s voice said behind him, and when Túrin turned around Beleg was already moving forward to back him against the trunk of a fir tree. “‘Alas! Too well did I teach this child of Men,’ I said to myself,” Beleg continued, while his hands found their place again on Túrin’s sides.

“I hate to cause you regret,” Túrin answered, hardly aware of what he was saying, his attention split between the rough wood at his back and the touch of Beleg’s hands.

“Nothing will cause me greater regret than our parting.”

Túrin’s hands lay on Beleg’s arms just above the elbow and felt the flex of muscle there as Beleg leaned in and lightly kissed his lips. Túrin felt tense, and alert, as if he were in danger, but all that his senses could attend to was Beleg: the slight roughness of chapped skin on his lips, smells of smoke and yarrow in his hair and faint beeswax from his fingers, the warm weight of his body leaning into Túrin’s and then easing away from him, leaving a throb of wanting in his wake so fierce that Túrin’s fingers tightened on his arms and almost pulled him forward.

Beleg leaned back enough to get his hand between their bodies, sliding it down and then up underneath the hem of Túrin’s shirt to lay his palm overtop of Túrin’s stiffening manhood, which stiffened further under the pressure. A ragged breath escaped Túrin.

“There’s no need to grip so hard,” Beleg said, with a smile. “I am not leaving yet.”

Túrin tried to relax his grip, which was not easy when he felt Beleg’s fingers begin to pull at the fastenings of his trousers. “I wish you would not leave at all,” he said. Beleg opened Túrin’s waistband with one hand and reached down with the other to draw out Túrin’s arousal, wrapping his fingers around as it twitched into his palm.

“Come with me,” Beleg said before he kissed Túrin again, another light kiss, accompanied by a light caress with his hand. This time when he leaned away Túrin did pull him back, pressing their mouths firmly together, inhaling the scent of Beleg’s cheek. He opened his mouth to take in that chapped lower lip and taste it with his tongue. Beleg’s hand closed more tightly on his manhood, while his other hand rose to Túrin’s jaw, pushing his fingertips into his beard. Túrin released Beleg’s upper arms and got a handle on his hips instead, pressing forward until he felt evidence of the other’s arousal. His mouth found Beleg’s lips were now parted and yielding, and when their tongues touched and Beleg’s hand began to glide up and down his shaft, Túrin felt lightheaded, lost, with a fast approaching crisis.

“Neithan!”

Beleg broke the kiss, tucking Túrin back into the waistband of his trousers before Túrin had even come to grips with the kiss ending. Túrin took his hands off Beleg and tugged the hem of his shirt into place just as Andróg stalked into view, giving each of them a cool, speculative look.

“Yes?” Túrin said, with a sternness that was probably not warranted.

Sternness did not faze Andróg. “I don’t object to Andvír taking a turn at the watch, but in the dead of night, by himself? Seems a lot for a boy of sixteen. Especially considering how we’ve worn out our time at this place. Might be anything creeping around the camp, waiting to catch us off guard.” The last remark was spoken with unfriendly eyes on Beleg.

Andróg was too big to throw but there was no doubt in Túrin’s mind that he could crush him in a contest of arms, and would, if the outlaw ruined Beleg’s mood. “I understand, and I agree. You must stand watch with your son.”

Andróg cocked an eyebrow but didn’t argue. “Someone has to cover my watch, then.”

Túrin wished he had not split the night guard into so many watches. Why did he care if these men got time to sleep? They spent most of the night playing dice or knife games anyway. “Algund. I will take his watch.” It was the last one, early in the morning. When Beleg would be leaving.

“Suit yourself.” Andróg lingered another moment, still eyeing Beleg, before finally turning to walk toward the camp with a slowness Túrin felt sure was intentional. He faced Beleg, who had his shoulder leaned against the tree and watched Andróg with an expression no friendlier than the man’s had been. The excitement was gone, and the closeness, but Túrin did not feel the anger at Andróg he expected, only a sense of loss. He clasped one of Beleg’s hands in his, but Beleg was slow to take his eyes from Andróg’s back to meet Túrin’s gaze.

“I know a place you will like,” Túrin said. “Will you follow me?”

“For now,” said Beleg. “Lead on.”

It was just another glade, but it was an exceptionally lovely one in summer, Túrin thought, with a carpet of pale forget-me-nots under ancient, gnarled oaks thick with moss. A fence of purple foxglove on one side added to the privacy. Túrin sometimes came here to be alone and think, mostly on all the ways he had been wronged, but sometimes on more pleasant memories, such as his life with Beleg in the wilds of Doriath. Although the pleasant memories could leave him just as sorrowful as the other ones.

But now Beleg was with him, greeting the mossy trees like they were old friends, which perhaps they were. Túrin unbuckled his sword belt and took it off, loosely wrapping the belt around his sheath before he laid it on the ground.

“I was beginning to wonder if you ever took that off,” Beleg remarked, leaving the trees to return to where Túrin stood in the centre of the glade.

“Only when I sleep,” Túrin admitted.

“You will get an awful swagger, wearing a heavy sword on the same side all the time,” Beleg said as he stood in front of Túrin. He ran a hand over Túrin’s right hip, and his other hand over the left, then leaned back to look at Túrin’s lower half in an appraising way. “I see it already.” As he straightened up his left hand slid down onto Túrin’s buttock and felt it quite thoroughly. He then did the same on the other buttock. “Your left side feels stronger, and your hips are not even.”

Túrin suspected that Beleg was flirting with him. But Beleg did take physical health and healing very seriously, so he didn’t want to assume. “Should I wear a scabbard on my back instead?”

“That would help. Just take care not to give yourself an accidental haircut when you draw your sword.”

“I probably need one,” Túrin said, feeling the back of his head.

“I do not agree,” replied Beleg with a smile. “Your wild hair matches well with your swagger, Neithan the outlaw.”

The return of Beleg’s good cheer, and the fact that his hands lingered on Túrin’s backside, made cautious excitement steal through Túrin. “I think you like my outlaw swagger,” he said.

Beleg withdrew his hands. “I must see it again to decide.”

Túrin got no more than two steps away before Beleg’s arm circled his waist from behind and held him fast, and his other hand gathered up Túrin’s hair and used it to pull his head back a little. Beleg kissed the side of his neck, and his cheek, and then closed his mouth around Túrin’s earlobe with a press of his teeth, and excitement was no longer stealing but rampaging through Túrin. He wanted to let Beleg keep doing what he was doing, but he also wanted to break free so he could turn around and touch Beleg, and the conflict between these desires seemed to only increase his arousal.

“I do like your swagger,” Beleg said, kissing his neck again. “And I like the way you have outgrown your trousers. This pair is also getting a bit tight on you.”

Túrin thought that was mainly due to the way Beleg was kissing him, but the thought passed unspoken because Beleg released him and drew up the hem of Túrin’s shirt. Heart quickening, Túrin lifted his arms to let Beleg take it off him, but then the Elf pulled a very fast and dirty stunt. He reached around to tug the shirt clear of Túrin’s face, but rather than pull it off his arms, he used the shirt to trap Túrin’s arms behind his back, then hooked one of Túrin’s ankles with his foot and pushed him off balance.

Túrin managed to land on his side and shoulder instead of his face. Before he could wrench his arms free of the shirt, Beleg pressed him onto his back and straddled his legs.

“That was very cheap,” Túrin said.

“Where are your battle reflexes?”

“No one kisses my neck at the start of a battle.”

“That’s fortunate, because you are easily overcome.”

Beleg had moved off him while speaking, lowering himself down to lay between Túrin’s legs with an elbow on either side of his hips. Túrin determined that in order to escape he would need to sit up and do a lot of undignified wriggling while fending off Beleg with his legs. But when he felt Beleg nuzzle his stomach and his waistband, he hesitated.

“You should work on your resistance to distractions,” Beleg said, shifting his weight onto one elbow so he could use his other hand to pull down the waist of Túrin’s trousers, which had never gotten properly laced again. Túrin’s manhood spilled out and strained eagerly toward Beleg, who took hold of it. “I ought to kiss you more often. Especially before a battle.”

The idea was both pleasing and worrying to Túrin, who could not imagine how a kiss from Beleg would ever not be distracting. He managed to prop up a little on his elbows, although it was very awkward, and he tried to say something in response, but all that came out when he opened his mouth was a soft “Beleg”.

That made Beleg smile. He dipped his head and his tongue glanced over the head of Túrin’s shaft, and Túrin hadn’t thought he could get any harder but somehow he did. Then Beleg took him all the way in his mouth, until his lips met his hand at the base, and pleasure engulfed Túrin’s every thought. He forgot to breathe as he watched Beleg’s lips slide back up his length and felt his tongue trace around the head before Túrin was fully enveloped again. The slippery heat of Beleg’s mouth, the depth to which he was buried in it, the sight of Beleg’s lips around his shaft, all of it was more glorious than anything Túrin had ever imagined. The next time Beleg’s mouth moved, his hand followed, a firm pressure in the wake of his tongue’s caress, and Túrin groped to find words.

“Beleg— I’m going to— come—”

“Back to Doriath?”

Túrin panted, his hips jerking and his manhood bobbing forlorn in the empty air that had abruptly taken the place of Beleg’s mouth. “What?”

Beleg sat up, looking at him with a quizzical expression, while he held the base of Túrin’s erection in a very tight grip with a very still hand. “What were you saying?”

While Túrin struggled to regain his senses, he also sat up, and felt something give in the fabric containing his arms. Probably the loose seam in the underarm he had never gotten around to mending. Túrin tore the sleeve when he got his arms free and shook the remainder of the shirt off him as he pitched forward onto his knees and hands and tumbled Beleg down onto his back beneath him.

Beleg looked startled, in the brief glimpse Túrin had of his face before he kissed him, but his mouth readily opened under Túrin’s. The movement of Beleg’s tongue against his, with the vivid memory of where that tongue had just been, was almost enough to undo Túrin. He fumbled at the drawstring in Beleg’s waistband, then dropped onto his side beside Beleg when he finally got into his pants and drew out the rigid shaft he found there.

“Be still,” he said when Beleg started to rise up onto his elbows. Beleg sank back down.

“Was that a command?” His fingers moved down Túrin’s chest to pull lightly at the hair on his belly. “I am not one of your outlaws.”

“You could be,” said Túrin, glancing between what he held in his hand and Beleg’s face, watching his lips part a little when Túrin stroked his length. It felt backwards to the motion he would use to stroke himself, and Túrin briefly thought of turning Beleg so he could reach from behind. But then he would give up seeing the flush in Beleg’s cheeks and the drowsy look of his eyes while he was caressed. With each pass of his hand, Túrin’s confidence grew. “You can even be captain, if you like.”

When Túrin leaned to kiss Beleg, his own arousal brushed against the hand he had wrapped around Beleg’s shaft. Túrin opened his hand to slide his manhood along Beleg’s hard length instead, enraptured by the smoothness of his skin, by the weight of Beleg's shaft in his palm, by the way Beleg moaned into his mouth. Túrin broke the kiss so he could look down, but in that moment Beleg clasped his buttocks and pulled him with a sudden force. Túrin caught himself overtop of Beleg, then he found Beleg's hands and pinned them, holding them down on either side of Beleg's head while he kissed him again. Their bodies rocked together. Their mouths parted.

“Stay with me,” Túrin said.

Beleg didn’t answer except to find Túrin’s gaze, his eyes dark and dazed, his breath catching and hips lifting when Túrin’s body met his. Túrin had never seen Beleg lost to pleasure before, at least not like this. He had seen him delighted by beauty, and music, and martial skill, had witnessed his joy in camaraderie, and in victory. But he had never seen him look so… helpless.

Except once.

“Neithan?”

Túrin was so intent on Beleg’s body and his own building pleasure that he didn’t understand why Beleg’s face looked so alert, and concerned.

“Neithan?”

The voice had gotten closer. Túrin recognized Algund’s voice, then remembered that he was Neithan. He looked up, and around, feeling Beleg sigh beneath him. They might not be seen, lying as they were, by someone passing nearby. Though someone who knew enough to look for Túrin in this part of the wood might well be coming straight to the glade.

“I will come back,” he said softly to Beleg.

Túrin laced up his pants with haste, then found his torn shirt and pulled it on. It was inside-out but he didn’t have the patience to right it. He picked up his sword belt, hesitated, then laid it down next to Beleg’s hand. He didn’t think he would go far or be away long, but there was no sense taking chances, and Beleg had left both his sword and bow at their camp.

“Algund?” Túrin called as he strode off into the trees, hoping to cut the man off before he got too near.

“Neithan.” When they came in sight of each other, Algund stared at Túrin’s clothes and hair.

Túrin pushed his hair back from his face and his hand came out with a few crushed forget-me-nots clinging to his fingers. He shook them off. “Are you wondering about the changes in the night watch? It is only to cover for Blodrin, and we are down a man because of the loss of Orleg.”

“No, not that. No problem there. It’s only that, ah, Ulrad and Andróg are taking bets that you will leave tomorrow with… your friend… when he goes. Saying we need to think of choosing a new captain.” Algund always had a slow, ponderous way of speaking, punctuated with pauses, and seemed especially awkward at the moment. “If that is so… I hope you will give some of us a chance to come with you. Those of us who might not see anyone else in this lot as worth following.”

“I would not slip away like a thief,” Túrin said, both touched and offended by Algund’s words. “When you took me for your captain, I took you for my men. We all must depart from this place tomorrow, but I will leave with you and the others.”

“As you say.” Algund seemed relieved, but took a longer pause. “And the Elf… will he need any… guidance, or protection? Tomorrow, that is, when he sets out. I offer myself as a guard, until he gets to the edge of the wood, if you think that is warranted.”

“Beleg Cúthalion can protect himself,” Túrin answered in his coldest voice. “The only reason you were able to take him captive is that he came to you as a friend, without weapons to hand, and thought that he spoke to men of reason, not wolves.”

“As you say,” Algund said again.

Túrin found the offer strange, and it was laughable to think of old Algund guarding someone of Beleg’s prowess. What lay behind this? Túrin gave the man a hard look. Was there some conspiracy among the outlaws to make an attempt on Beleg’s life? If so, was Algund a part of it, or trying to thwart it? But the man did not look duplicitous, only chagrined. Túrin realized Algund was trying to make some sort of amends, and he regretted his coldness.

“It is a worthy offer, Algund,” Túrin said. “But it is an offer you must make to Beleg, not to me.”

“I suppose so.” Algund backed off a few steps. “Thank you, captain.”

Túrin found Beleg waiting for him not far away, standing with his clothes put to rights and his face pensive. When Beleg handed Túrin his sword belt, Túrin knew their time in the glade was over.

“I think we must speak no more to each other today of coming or going or staying,” Beleg said, in a serious voice. “We are both decided, and there is nothing left to be said about it, except farewell.”

Túrin only nodded.

Rain fell that evening, a soft summer shower, but steady enough that Túrin took shelter in the lean-to of green boughs. Eventually Beleg joined him, laying down Belthronding and his new sword before he sat on his spread cloak.

“A strange sword,” Túrin said, pulling the blade half out of its sheath to examine it. The dark metal did not show detail very well in the dimness, so he slid it back. “Have you put it between us for a reason?”

“To preserve our virtue, you mean?” Beleg replied, sounding amused. “I doubt a sheathed sword offers much deterrence, especially to an enthusiast such as yourself.”

Túrin wasn’t sure if Beleg meant he was a sword enthusiast or an enthusiast about surrendering his virtue. He hoped the former, although in this instance the latter was also true. Túrin longed to close the distance that had somehow come between them, and to see Beleg lost in pleasure again. But he had never seduced someone before and had no idea how to go about it. He didn’t even know how to make Beleg laugh on purpose. It seemed to only happen unintentionally.

But he supposed weapons were a good foundation on which to re-establish their intimacy. “I have seldom seen you use a sword. Are you very skilled?”

“I can hold my own.”

“More skilled than I am?”

“I have not seen your swordwork recently enough to know for sure.”

“More skilled than Mablung?”

The friendly, unspoken, earnest competition in martial prowess between Beleg and Mablung went back for many centuries. Beleg gave the question considerable thought as he lay on his back, his head pillowed on one arm. “Mablung is stronger,” he said at last. “I am quicker.”

Túrin was fairly sure that he was now stronger than Mablung, so he could probably best either of the Elves. But the subject of martial skill reminded him of Algund’s awkward offer to guard Beleg on the morrow. “Did Algund speak to you?” he asked.

“No.”

Disappointment fell on Túrin. He thought the chance of Beleg deciding to stay with him might be improved if the damage done by the Gaurwaith could be mended in some way. But there seemed no hope of that happening now, in the few hours they had left. He reclined onto his side, reflecting that the sword made less of a barrier between him and Beleg than did Belthronding, the bow being a great deal longer. Túrin felt it absently with his hand.

“Do you have oil?”

“Oil?”

“For your bow. I could oil the wood for you.”

“Would you?” Beleg sat up to search in the pockets of his cloak underneath him, and came up with a small bottle of seed oil, which he passed to Túrin before laying back down, with his arm again behind his head. “You might want to remove your shirt, so oil does not get on it.”

Túrin didn’t think he would be that clumsy, but undressing would surely not hurt his goal of seduction.

“Perhaps your trousers as well,” Beleg added, while Túrin was pulling his shirt over his head. “It is very difficult to get oil stains out, after all.”

Túrin began to suspect Beleg knew what he was about, and was teasing him. He was unsure if this boded well or ill, but he could hardly back out now. He stripped down to his underdrawers and sat cross-legged with Belthronding across his lap, then hunted out his least dirty stocking to use for a rag. Beleg lay with his ankles crossed and a slight smile on his lips, watching as Túrin shook some oil out on the stocking and then started to rub it over the bow.

It did not feel as sensual as Túrin had imagined. Perhaps because of the limp old stocking he held. In his fantasy earlier, Beleg had been using his hand to spread the oil. He wondered if he could do that, or if it would be bad for the wood. He also wondered if he ought to be completely naked, or if that was too forward. It was so difficult to know what to do in this unfamiliar scenario, and he couldn’t ask Beleg. Or could he?

“Should I take these off as well?” he asked, glancing down at his lap and then at Beleg.

“That might be best,” said Beleg.

Túrin set the bow and rag down so he could slide off his drawers, then resettled, naked, with Belthronding in his lap. He picked up the oil bottle. “Can I use my hand to rub in the oil?”

“Not the usual practice, but go ahead.”

It was getting dark, and though Beleg’s eyes were bright Túrin had more trouble reading his facial expression. He also couldn’t see where he had put down the cork stopper for the oil bottle, but since Beleg saw well in the dark he assumed the Elf could find it later. Túrin ran his hand along the wooden limb of the bow across his lap, recalling the motion of his hand on Beleg earlier that day. The girth was similar, he decided as he wrapped his fingers around the wood and felt an immediate surge of arousal. Would Beleg let himself be touched like this, with an oily hand? The thought made Túrin’s manhood stiffen more. What if both of their bodies were oiled? Now he was fully erect. He was doing very well at getting himself excited, but that was not exactly the goal.

“Perhaps it is Belthronding’s virtue I should be worried about,” Beleg’s teasing voice said.

“Are you worried?” Túrin asked, stopping his hand. He didn’t think virtue was the issue. What had caused the change in Beleg at the glade? Algund’s interruption? But even Andróg’s hostility had not subdued Beleg for long. Was it something Túrin had said, or done? Remembering Beleg underneath him, yielding and responsive to his every touch, he felt sure that Beleg had been enjoying himself just as much as Túrin. Was that the change? Before that Beleg had mostly held Túrin at his mercy. “Are you worried about being overpowered?” he asked, thinking of their conversation earlier that day. It felt like long ago.

Beleg took a moment to answer, and when he spoke again the lightness was gone from his voice. “I might have underestimated the power of desire, when added to a very strong love.”

Did he mean his desire or Túrin’s? Why would powerful desire worry him? Túrin wondered if he had been too forceful, in the glade, after what Beleg had suffered from the Gaurwaith. “I would never hurt you, Beleg,” he said. “Not knowingly.”

“A great deal of harm might be done unknowingly. Do you not remember what I said to you about wounds made by no weapon?”

He did, but it still made little sense to him. “I remember you said you think Elves and Men should not meet or meddle,” Túrin replied, and the words grieved him afresh. “Do you regret our friendship?”

“No,” said Beleg. “And yes. I think you do not understand what lies before us, Túrin. How could you?” He sat up, and shifted to sit cross-legged, knee to knee with Túrin in the small, dark space that had grown muggy from the dampness outside and the heat of their bodies. Túrin lifted Belthronding and put it behind himself. The sword still lay between them, but it was under Beleg’s legs, so he left it.

“What lies before us is farewell,” Túrin said unhappily.

“Yes, that is exactly it, child of Men,” Beleg answered in an odd voice, but he took Túrin’s hands, resting their clasped hands over their knees, and Túrin’s heart leapt a little. He turned his hands to let Beleg’s lay in his palms, fretful of his own unwieldy strength and passions.

“Last night when I returned to the camp and saw… when I knew that it was you… it was the least happy and the most happy I have ever been at once.”

“I feel somewhat like that tonight,” Beleg said.

It seemed to Túrin that something in Beleg had relented, although he didn’t know what it meant, or how it had been accomplished. Did he dare to hope Beleg would yet let go of his resolve to return to Doriath, and yield to Túrin’s will? He had at first been willing to yield, by his own words. As a fond father who grants his son’s desire, he had said.

Túrin frowned.

“I think it is unfair to frown at me like that while you are naked with oil spilled on you,” Beleg said.

Túrin glanced down and found that he had tipped the corkless bottle of oil onto his lap, probably when he moved Belthronding. Fortunately it was only a small bottle. He let go of Beleg’s hands and tried to wipe up the oil that had spilled over his hip and leg.

“You missed most of it,” Beleg said.

“You know I cannot see in the dark,” Túrin replied.

“Do you want my help?”

“I suppose you might help. As a fond father.”

“As a what?”

“So you said to me this morning. ‘As a fond father grants his son’s desire’.” Túrin felt confused all of a sudden, and self-conscious of his nakedness and his dismal seduction attempt.

“Ah. Well, what do I know about paternal feeling? The forest is my father.”

“That is not helping, Beleg. You are only—”

Túrin stopped talking. Beleg was only spreading the oil around by caressing Túrin’s hip and thigh. Blood thundered through Túrin’s body and he didn’t dare to speak, or even breathe, lest he somehow undo this change in mood. What to do now? How did he keep them here, in a place of warmth and closeness and desire? Beleg had always been his teacher, he reasoned, in craft of wood and field, in weapons and medicines and lore. What would Beleg do?

He tilted forward to kiss Beleg, very lightly, on the lips. When he drew back, Beleg’s hands ran over his hips, so Túrin kissed him again, another light kiss, and this time Beleg caught his lower lip between his teeth for a moment.

“Your clothes will get stained,” Túrin said.

Beleg released him, and pulled his shirt over his head. He took off his boots, then lay down to remove his trousers. As soon as Beleg was lying before him naked, Túrin wanted to cover the Elf’s body with his, and then put everything in his mouth, but he contained himself and lay down beside Beleg, drawing close and then sliding his hand between their bodies. With his arousal caught between Túrin’s oily hand and his oily thigh, Beleg got very hard very quickly, while his own hands slipped over Túrin’s backside and the backs of his thighs.

“Túrin, I will be plain with you,” he said.

Túrin tried to focus on Beleg’s words, and not on Beleg’s hand caressing his buttocks. “Yes?”

“If one of your men comes around and wants to speak to you, I am not going to stop.”

“I understand.”

Túrin thought it unlikely he would notice even if all the Gaurwaith were outside saying his name. There was too much of Beleg to explore, so many ways to bring their bodies together. In some ways Beleg was his teacher again, but in other ways Túrin found the art of pleasuring to be instinctive, or at least that his instincts were pleasing to Beleg.

Every time Túrin touched his lips to some new place on Beleg’s skin — the hollow of his throat, the ridge of a scar on his navel, the dip beside his hipbone — Túrin would think, stay with me, but he didn’t say it aloud. He said it with his gentleness and his control, even when he was nearly mad with excitement at Beleg’s responsive gasps and movements, even when Beleg urged him on with eager words or hands, even when Beleg was not gentle with him and somehow that was more exciting than anything.

In the end it was Beleg who broke his own rule, when he had Túrin on the point of a piercing pleasure, breathless and helpless, and Beleg kissed his shoulder and said in a soft voice somewhere between command and plea, “Come with me.” Túrin thrust into Beleg’s hand and spent without a word, wracked by pleasure as Beleg filled him and moaned in his ear.

Afterward when they were still, arms and legs entangled, Túrin lay with his eyes open and listened to the slow, steady beat of Beleg’s heart, and the sound of his own heart breaking.

III.

“The next day Beleg set out, and Túrin went with him a bowshot from the camp, but said nothing. ‘Is it farewell, then, son of Húrin?’ said Beleg.

‘If you wish indeed to keep your word and stay beside me,’ answered Túrin, ‘then look for me on Amon Rûdh!’ Thus he spoke, being fey and unwitting of what lay before him. ‘Else, this is our last farewell.’

‘Maybe that is best,’ said Beleg, and went his way.”

(The Children of Húrin)

Chapter End Notes

1. “I do not see what difference it makes if you pass through the woods of Brethil instead of Doriath.” Technically Brethil is also part of Thingol's realm, isn't it? 

2. "The forest is my father." From The Lay of the Children of Húrin:

"I am the hunter Beleg | of the hidden people;
the forest is my father | and the fells my home."

3. Much gratitude to polu and tehta for thoughtful beta comments!

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