#dorcuarthol

It was summer and Menegroth sweltered. 

The hike up to the top of the hill had been more arduous than either of them had been expecting. Though they had packed lightly (for there were was little need of excess supplies within the safety of Melian’s enchantments), the last few hours of walking had felt like torture, and Túrin had dreamed of the shelter of the shady oak, the sweet nectar of the water stashed in their packs.

“I am not sure,” Túrin dumped his pack at the base of the tree and stood with his hands on hips, looking out over the forest. “That this view was worth it.”

“Nonsense.” For all his elvish fortitude, Beleg fared less well in the heat than him. Used to the temperate twilight of the world before the Sun, Túrin supposed he was not as well adapted to heat. A charming pinkish streak grew across his nose and cheeks. “It is beautiful — look, you can see almost as far as the Falls of Sirion from here.”

“Maybe you can.” Túrin could perhaps make out a vague smudge of blue in the far distance. “Come, let us get out of the sun.” He sat down and retrieved his flask, relishing the cool water that splashed down his chin. “We should rest here awhile.”

“That, I do agree with.” Beleg stood before him, and with typical methodical routine, began divesting himself of his clothes. In another circumstance, Túrin might have considered this a straightforward proposition (it would not be unusual), but the expression on Beleg’s face was decidedly unseductive.

“I need a nap.” Beleg, finally bare but for his braies, dropped down beside him, the soft grass at the base of the tree forming his pillow. A sheen of sweat covered the lean muscle of his back. Túrin let his gaze wander, unashamed. “If you do not mind?”

He shook his head. “Nay. I will take some rest myself. Sleep well.”

There was little need for the blessing. Beleg was asleep within minutes, as always — Túrin often wondered if this was a quality unique to Beleg or if all elven kind could surrender themselves to dreams at will.

Elvish sleep had always been fascinating to him and this was a rare chance to observe it — by the course of nature, it was usually Túrin who slept first and woke last, while his elvish comrades seemed entirely unwearied. 

Beleg lay perfectly still on the grass, on his back, arms loose by his sides. He never tossed or turned in sleep, but remained perfectly, utterly, still. As though he were made of stone. Peaceful.

Túrin reclined back against the tree, the sun warming his side. It dappled across Beleg’s bare skin. Could he feel the warmth, in the depth of his dreams? Túrin had always heard that a sleeping elf was oblivious to all sound and touch, but he had never dared test it. Once, as a child, he had come across Nellas napping beneath a birch tree. She had been so unresponsive to his call he had fled to Beleg in terror, fearing she was dead.

Now, Beleg was very much alive. Túrin’s eyes were well trained enough to see the subtle rise of his breathing and the light in his glazed eyes, but he imagined he could move Beleg around like a puppet and he would not even stir.

Sometimes, like now, he imagined what it would be like to do just that. Their coupling rarely allowed him the chance to slowly examine each part of Beleg, to discover and devour every inch of skin, hurried moments under trees and in cramped tents. As Beleg slept, he imagined himself doing just as he wished. Kissing him. Touching him, however he might wish to. His elf, a pliant doll in his arms. Túrin loosened his breeches. 

Valar above, it was hot.

He looked around. They were very much alone. It would not hurt.

Beleg would never need to know.

Túrin leaned in. He was looming over him now, his body casting a shade over Beleg’s motionless form. His unseeing gaze stared absently back at him. A shiver of arousal struck like lightning down Túrin’s spine. How helpless he was now — Beleg, who had always been a pillar of unyielding strength, vulnerable and unguarded. 

His hand ghosted over Beleg’s bare chest, his touch featherlight. Beneath his fingers he felt the firmness of muscle, sliding against skin slick with summer sweat. So easy would it be, to press himself to Beleg, to feel his prone form against his own. Did elven hearts slow in sleep? Would Beleg remain so still in his arms, if he chose to devour him? Like prey laid down for a wolf.

He was hard now, achingly so. He shoved aside his breeches and underwear, hissing in relief as his fingers curled around his cock and he rocked roughly into his fist. It was a relief, but not enough — he imagined the familiar feel of Beleg’s mouth on him, of his calloused fingertips, resisting the growing thought that had sprouted in the back of his mind.

Beleg was so beautiful like this, stretched out, relaxed. His lips were ever so slightly parted. Temptation burned in Túrin. It would be easy to press the head of his cock to those lips, to feel the softness of his barely-there breath. The thought made him groan, and he quickly covered his mouth. Beleg did not react.

The roots of desire wrapped around his mind. It would not hurt — Beleg was never reserved in his desires and had often woken Túrin to roll in the undergrowth. If anything, this was more considerate, letting him rest.

Daring, he inched forward a little more, and Beleg’s soft lips parted easily. He rocked his hips shallowly, teasing himself with the slightest sensation of the warmth of Beleg’s mouth. It was hardly anything, the head of his cock not even fully in his mouth, but seeing the way Beleg’s sleeping form molded to his movements made him throb. Daring not to go any deeper, he could not look away as he cautiously fucked Beleg’s mouth. One nervous thrust and then another, until he was fucking his mouth in a steady rhythm. Better than any daydream — almost better than when Beleg took him like this usually. Somehow more intimate, as if Beleg had trusted him with something precious.

Beleg sighed softly in his sleep, his breath warm, and Túrin drew back, squeezing the base of his cock. No matter how desperately he wanted to, if he spilled against Beleg’s lips he would surely be discovered. Taking a moment to rein himself in, he removed his sweat soaked tunic, and then reached and unwound Beleg’s braies. He was soft, still, but Túrin’s bold caresses soon brought him to hardness — amusing, then, that this seemed one of the few reactions his body was capable of in sleep. He wondered if elves were afflicted with sensuous dreams, or if Beleg’s mind was blissfully blank.

Thinking ahead for once, he folded his tunic, and covered his hand with it. Settling his bulk over Beleg’s hips, he could press their cocks together. Slick with pre-spend and sweat, they slid wondrously against his clothed hand. 

“Beleg...” he closed his eyes for a second, overwhelmed by the intensity of the sensation. But he could keep his eyes off Beleg for long. Even now, as he stroked them both in unison, Beleg did not so much as turn his head, his blank gaze staring up into Túrin’s face as the movement of Túrin’s hips pushed him back up against the tree.  

Their gaze met and that was enough. Pleasure coursed through him like venom, blinding him with its strength, so that for a brief moment he was as unseeing as Beleg. Throwing his free arm over his mouth to muffle his groan, Túrin spilled over his tunic, pressing Beleg into the dirt with one final firm thrust. 

Panting, he fell back onto his knees. His tunic was heavily stained, and he quickly wiped up the trickle of seed that had escaped. As soon as desire faded, it was replaced by guilt, all consuming. 

Beleg would spurn him. Thingol would cast him out. Shame he would bring upon his father and mother, and he should just cast himself into the river and be done with it.

The river. Beleg slept soundly still. If he was swift, he might be able to clean up himself — and his tunic — without Beleg ever knowing he was gone. 

Túrin leapt to his feet and fled to the water.

When he returned almost an hour later, Beleg was awake and clothed. Túrin studied his face for any sign of distress.

“There you are. Fancied doing some laundry?”

Beleg’s voice was as light and casual as ever, and inwardly, Túrin felt a premature bloom of relief. 

“Yes.” He looked down at his soaked tunic, “I needed to cool off.”

“You should have woken me. I could have used some cooling off myself.” Beleg stretched, his eyes glinting in the late afternoon sun. “Though I was having the most wondrous dream.”

He coughed, mouth suddenly dry. “Oh?”

Beleg’s gaze seemed to cut right through him. Túrin squirmed.

The ground here is rough and sharp and his feet are bloody. He has walked for so long. Since Amon Rûdh he has walked, on the trail of the Orc pack that held the dearest thing to him in all the world. But they are ever one step ahead of him, and he cannot catch them. In the forests of Dorthonion he lost track of them, but it does not matter. There is only place they would bring Túrin, dead or alive, and so now he has come to the gates of Angband themselves. 

He is alone. He has only Belthronding, Anglachel lost in the dark woods of Dorthonion, Dailir broken in two. Only death could possibly await him inside those walls. 

Death, and Túrin.

But Beleg cannot not turn back now, even as dread sinks further into his bones. As Lúthien had done so will he. He has no song and no magic, but his love for Túrin was as great as hers, and he will succeed.

Somewhere in the dark cells, he imagines his lover beaten and bloody. He imagines the cruel sting of torment at the hands of the horrors that lurk here. And his sweet Túrin is stubborn and proud. He will not hold his tongue for the sake of saving himself. Beleg despairs. 

Somehow, he reaches the dark throne room alive. Is it good luck, or simply that he has some other, pre-ordained, doom? He doesn’t think the difference matters anymore.

The doors are five times as tall as the ones that guard Menegroth’s throne room, but they open without a touch and without the slightest sound. The hall is so dark even Beleg’s sharp eyes cannot see. But he takes a step. Another and another, until out of the darkness a shape rises. 

“Thou hast reached us at last, hunter.”

His legs tremble. The voice is light with amusement, yet full of malice, the pure power in it threatened to overwhelm Beleg, as if Morgoth could command him to die with a single word. His doubts swim to the front of his mind: run, run now and live and leave Túrin to whatever awful fate awaits him.

No. No. He stands firm. It is better that he dies with a clear conscience. He turns his gaze up to see Morgoth’s face, but in the glittering glow of the remaining Silmarils, he can only see the void of his eyes. 

“Hast thou misplaced thy voice?”

“I have come for the life of one whom I love. Túrin, son of Húrin.”

Morgoth laughs; Beleg thinks he can hear more laughter, shriller, and he wonders what else - who else - lurks in the darkness. 

“Is that so?”

Beleg hears the challenge in the words: Morgoth thinks him a fool for coming here, for daring to make demands of a Vala. Beleg agrees with him. He is a fool, but he is a fool driven by love. This is the kind of quest that songs are made of - whether he succeeds or fails, his trying was testament to the strength of his love, and that was what would be remembered. He swallows the fear in his throat.

“I do not mean to deceive you - I am no enchantress like those who have come before me. I will make a trade.”

It is a fair trade he means to offer. A life for a life. The thought of his own death does not frighten him. He has lived many long ages. Túrin has so little time; Beleg will gladly trade his eternity so that Túrin might live to see his own years to their full height, whether they will number ten or fifty.

Morgoth is silent. There is the clanking of chains, a soft, pained groan and the grunt of someone lifting something heavy. The room explodes into red light, torches bursting to life at Morgoth’s desire.

“Túrin!” He wants to run to his side, but he is rooted to the spot. He does not know if it is fear or enchantment that holds him in place. But Turin is there, chained and unconscious. There is blood on his face. Beleg’s heart constricts. But he is alive. “Oh, Turin.”

All doubts cease. Beleg’s faith is renewed; as Lúthien has done, so will I. Though his heart is set, his mouth is still dry, tongue heavy as he reluctantly turns his gaze back to Morgoth. His words fight their way out.

“I have no jewel to offer; no dance or song to entertain or enchant you. But I will offer something else - myself, in his place. If it is a prisoner you want, surely one of the Firstborn is a sweeter prize than a mortal boy.”

Morgoth laughs again  and the sound freezes Beleg’s blood. He tries to not choke on it. 

“So quickly thou offer thyself. I might almost call you eager. Thou art no prize, Cúthalion, only a soldier playing at nobility.” Morgoth gloats. One hand, grey as ash, stretches out and curls a clawed finger under Túrin’s chin. Túrin groans, and a dribble of blood drips from his mouth. “But thou art amusing in thy arrogance. I will keep thee. Kneel.”

Relief floods him. He expected bartering, begging, pleading. He expected Morgoth to demand more, to ask for something terrible. He has hunted Túrin too long to give him up so easily.

But Beleg is not ungrateful. Perhaps Elbereth’s light shines on his luck.

So he kneels.

It is done. A deal is made and he cannot go back.

Morgoth raises his ashen hand, and chains drop from Túrin’s arms. The guard beside him lets him fall to the floor, and binds Beleg’s hands with the shackles instead. The metal is so cold. 

“Give him a kiss, elf. It will be your last.”

Beleg cannot stand with the weight of the chains, but he crawls instead, gathering Túrin’s body in his arms. He is pale, bloody, and when he opens his eyes, he looks up at Beleg without recognition. Elbereth, what have they done to him?

“Túrin…” He leans down and brushes a dark curl from Túrin’s face. Then, tender as the dawn, he brushed a kiss against his lips.

Túrin dissipates in his arms. Morgoth’s haunting laughter echoes through the hall, then more laughter; the hall opens up to reveal the host of Angband’s generals, watching in glee as Beleg stares at his empty arms, his heart sinking. He should have known: it was all too easy.

“Enjoy thy new home, Cúthalion. Let us hope thy lover is not as rash as thee.”