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Beleg looked up from his supper as Gronnor came into the great hall of Bar-en-Danwedh. The man was swearing under his breath, and pale with fright. “Gods take this place!” he said, drawing his worn cloak around him and casting a dark look over his shoulder. “It's full of ghosts.”
Before anyone else could answer, Andróg laughed mockingly. “Are you frightened of the ghosts of petty-dwarves, Gronnor? Don’t be! I warrant they're as feeble in death as they are in life.”
Beleg frowned, knowing that Túrin would be displeased by such words. He cared for Mîm, strange as that affection seemed to Beleg. But Túrin was on sentry-duty, and Mîm and his son absent from the hall. It fell to Beleg to curtail Andróg, loath though he was to speak. He remembered too well the burning hatred in the petty-dwarf's eyes whenever Mîm looked at him.
He wished Túrin were here. Time had seemed inconsequential before, a month the same as a year, but now Beleg found himself marking minutes of separation from Túrin. He was an old fool, he thought ruefully, an old fool with a soft heart. Aloud, he said, “Andróg, this has been Mîm's home far longer than yours, and earned through birthright rather than bloodshed and ransom. For the love that you bear Neithan, speak more kindly of his friend the dwarf, or speak not at all.”
At this Andróg scowled and fell silent. He looked towards the entrance as though he feared that Túrin might appear to rebuke him further.
Assured that at least for the moment Andróg wouldn’t argue, Beleg turned to Gronnor. He spoke more kindly now. Gronnor had been one of the Gaurwaith he'd nursed from illness, and the man’s face was still thin and wan. “Hunger and the cold will play tricks upon the mind, Gronnor. Come and eat.”
“There are ghosts, I swear it! I saw one as I came here,” Gronnor said, though he accepted the stew that was passed to him and drank his beer with a sigh of relief.
The meal was meagre fare, for Beleg parcelled out the lembas with care and it was winter still, a winter that seemed determined to steal a few weeks from spring. Twice now the sun had warmed the top of Amon Rûdh, the air fresh with the promise of spring, only for Beleg to wake the next morning and find snow at the hidden door of Bar-en-Danwedh.
“What did you see?” asked one of the other men. A few of the Gaurwaith leaned forward. In most of their faces Beleg saw desire for a good tale rather than any concern that there was a ghost, but a few looked troubled.
Gronnor wiped his mouth with his sleeve, pleased by the attention. “I was coming from the armoury, for I broke my sword upon that cursed Orc's spine during our last fight. You remember, it was--”
“That's no way to start the tale, Gronnor!” said Andróg, laughing. His mirth had only a slight edge to it. “You won’t terrify anyone by talking of some sword you lost. Go on, you said you saw a ghost. Tell us of that!”
Gronnor frowned at the interruption. “I was only saying how I came to see the ghost.” He scowled as a few of the other Gaurwaith smirked, his pale eyebrows lowering. “Oh, damn you all! Very well. I was coming from the armoury, and as I walked it seemed to me that the air grew colder. I felt someone's breath on my neck, but when I turned there was no one.”
“And?” someone called when Gronnor fell silent once more.
Colour had returned to Gronnor's face as he'd drunk his beer. Now the colour began to ebb once more from his skin, leaving him sickly grey. He stared at nothing for a moment. He said slowly, “I turned back. Then I saw her. A woman, all in white. She didn't speak, but--” A shudder moved through him. Softly but with fierce sincerity he said, “How I hate this place!” and reached for his drink again.
For a long few seconds all was quiet, and Beleg saw unease on several faces. One or two men made a gesture to ward off evil.
Then Andróg laughed and the spell that Gronnor's tale had cast over the company was broken. “And how came a woman in white to these halls, Gronnor? I thought ghosts haunted the places they died. I've never heard it said that dwarves desire our women and would steal them away.” He laughed again. “And I have never heard it said that a woman could come to desire a dwarf!”
“That's true,” Algund said, nodding. He looked sideways at Gronnor and frowned. “Ghosts also appear to those who wronged them. Perhaps she was only your misdeeds come to haunt you.”
Gronnor flushed. “If that’s so, there are worse men here who've earned haunting!” he said hotly.
Many of the faces around him darkened. The mood would turn ugly in another moment. Would that Túrin were here to call this rabble to heel! Again Beleg found himself with an unwanted task-- to keep order while Túrin kept watch. Rising to his feet, he touched Gronnor’s shoulder to silence him and said, “Enough. As I said, hunger plays strange tricks on the mind.” He smiled, and after a second a few of the Gaurwaith smiled back, mollified by his calm certainty. “Besides, if there was a ghost, what harm could it do? Ghosts cannot touch us, only frighten us. There are worse things made of flesh and bone to be found in the world.”
“Was that meant to reassure us?” asked Andróg dryly. “I don't find your words a comfort.” He leaned back in his chair, looking at Beleg. The ever-present dislike was in his gaze, but now a new emotion touched his features. “I suppose you've seen many things far worse than ghosts in your time, elf,” he said, and Beleg understood the new sentiment to be curiosity tinged with resentment.
All around the hall the Gaurwaith looked at Beleg with growing interest.
“I have,” he said. He grimaced, remembering. “There are many foul creatures you Men shall never need fear, for we killed them long before your kind came over the mountains.”
“You have our thanks then,” Andróg said. Beleg ignored the sarcasm in his voice.
“Will you tell us of one?” The question came from Algund, and sounded sincere.
Here Beleg paused. Usually he would have said no, but he liked Algund, eldest of the Gaurwaith, for Algund had stayed Andróg's hand when Andróg would have killed him and oft spoke wisdom when the other outlaws were fools. He nodded. “I shall.” Then he laughed. “Though mark me, I am no storyteller! Nor will I sing a lay, for I have been told my voice is one of the least lovely in Doriath."
“So long as you begin it with the beast rather than some dull story of Orcs, it shall be a better tale than the last,” said Andróg, and smirked at Gronnor's glare. “Go on!”
Beleg thought a moment. Which tale would be best? “You have heard of Glaurung the dragon. But there were once other fell beasts with wings that would devour the unwary. Such was one I encountered once upon a time, when I had gone wandering in the woods alone, as has always been my wont.”
“You do not wander these woods alone,” was muttered, said so low and bitter that Beleg was uncertain if Andróg meant to be heard.
Beleg hesitated, his gaze lingering upon Andróg’s sneer. Such barbs had come more frequent of late, but if Andróg suspected-- Well. He had no proof. Beleg made certain of that. He ignored Andróg and went on. “I wandered with only Belthronding and a dagger I had fashioned. As I walked beneath the stars, it came.” He paused, remembering the sound of its wings as the beast had come upon him and how his heart had leaped in amazement and hot challenge.
“You all have seen bats before?" As a few of the Gaurwaith nodded, Beleg said, "But those likely were the size of your fist, some perhaps larger. This monster was shaped like one but enormous, so large that it would have towered a full head over even Neithan, and with a mouth better suited to a warg. It might have been Thuringwethil's foul offspring. Dark it was, its fur as black as night, so that it was nearly impossible to see in the air. And its claws!” He touched his shoulder, and for a second the pain felt as fresh as before, though it had been centuries since the beast's claws had sunk into his flesh. He grimaced. “Claws sharp enough to tear your heart from your chest in an instant.”
“How did you escape it?” Algund asked.
“I nearly didn't. The beast was upon me before I could draw my bow. It pinned me to the earth--” Again Beleg touched his shoulder. “--and lowered its face towards mine. Its breath was hot and foul. When it bent to tear out my throat, I seized my dagger and stabbed it. How it screamed! I don't think any of its prey had ever given it such a wound. If it had kept its head, it would have been able to kill me then, for I lost hold of the dagger and was defenceless. But the beast was mad with pain, and flung me away.”
He took a breath, recalling that moment. The moon had emerged from behind a cloud, and Beleg had seen the beast clearly, its slavering jaws and its claws stained with his blood. Had he hesitated, had all the arrows spilled from his quiver during the struggle, that would have been the end of him. Another elf would have later pledged his service to Thingol and Melian. Another march-warden would have later found Túrin and his companions lost and nearly dead in the woods. Or perhaps no one would have found them, and they would have died there.
The thought chilled him. Thank the Valar that had not been their fate!
An impatient murmur drew him back to the present. He cleared his throat and continued. “But now I drew Belthronding and found the only arrow left to me was Dailir. I would only have one chance. The beast threw itself into the air, perhaps hoping to hide in the dark, but the moonlight betrayed it, revealing its shape. Dailir flew true. After the beast had fallen and was still I found my dagger in the grass and hewed its head from its neck to ensure that it was dead.”
When he ended his tale, he looked up and found that Túrin stood in the doorway, watching him. The warmth in his grey eyes banished all of Beleg's grim thoughts. Beleg smiled, rising to his feet. “Neithan! We have been telling stories while you were on duty,” he said.
“So it seems,” said Túrin, drawing near. His hand settled upon Beleg's arm, the same spot where the beast had clawed Beleg all those years ago. His fingers were still cold from being outside, but his touch was gentler than usual, and longing heated Beleg's belly. “I haven't heard that tale before, nor seen such a beast.” At the last, Túrin's voice turned wistful, as though he was sorry that he hadn't been by Beleg's side to slay the foul thing together.
Affection warmed Beleg further. He laughed, uncaring that Andróg watched them with a dark look. “Did you think I had told you everything about myself? Nay, let me keep a few stories to surprise you with, my friend. And don't look so downcast that you haven't seen such a beast! The wardens killed the last of them some two hundred years ago. If you had seen one, it would mean that we failed, and I would be sorry for it.”
Smiling, Túrin released him and turned towards the Gaurwaith. “Andróg, Laydor, it is your turn for sentry-duty.” He coughed, grimacing and rubbing at his throat, and Beleg wordlessly offered up his glass. Túrin drank the beer and sighed. “Would that it were spring and not so cold!”
“Spring will be here soon enough. And with the warmer weather Gorthaur's allies will be abroad in greater number and force,” said Beleg.
Túrin smiled ruefully in acknowledgment. “As to that, I thought we should discuss a new watch schedule for the spring. Walk me to my quarters?”
“Be wary of watchers,” Andróg said, the warning snide. When Túrin frowned, bemused, Andróg smiled, though to Beleg it was clear that the smile didn't reach his eyes, which glittered with malicious humour. “I am speaking of Gronnor's ghost, of course. She might be some spy for the Enemy.”
Gronnor scowled. “I wish she would haunt you,” he said darkly, and Andróg laughed and leered, saying, “If only! Bar-en-Danwedh would be more bearable with a few women to entertain--”
“Andróg,” Túrin snapped, his tone so sharp that Andróg flinched and shrank back, his smirk faltering. Andróg bowed his head, as though expecting further rebuke, and his eyes were wary, but all Túrin said was, “The cold will be entertainment enough, I think. Go with Laydor.”
“As you wish, captain,” Andróg said. For the moment his ire was banked. There was something like an apology in the downward turn of his mouth.
Beleg kept his pleasure off his face as he watched Andróg go, though relief from Andróg's constant needling and lewd implications was a sweet thing indeed. Still, there were sweeter things to enjoy, and so once Andróg was gone, Beleg turned to Túrin. “Come, you should rest after your watch.”
“Do be careful of the ghost, captain,” Gronnor said earnestly.
Rare humour lightened Túrin's features. He grinned. “Should I be wary when I have Beleg, slayer of monsters, to stand guard for me?”
Beleg laughed. “You don’t need my services! Your fierce beard would scare her away first.” If they had been alone, he would have touched Túrin's beard, grown long and thick in his time amongst the outlaws. Instead he smiled and stepped past Túrin, letting their arms brush. He wasn't surprised when they saw no ghosts in the corridors of Bar-en-Danwedh, or when Túrin embraced him as soon as they were in his room.
Túrin pressed Beleg back against the cold wall, kissing Beleg urgently. His mouth was cool and a little sour from the beer, his beard prickling Beleg’s skin in a way that skirted the edge of pleasure. His prick rubbed against Beleg’s thigh, hot through the fabric.
Beleg pulled Túrin closer, laughing. This was still so new that every kiss and press of Túrin’s body against his felt like a revelation. He savoured it. He tangled his hands in Túrin's hair, keeping him near even as they paused for breath.
The humour lingered in Túrin’s face, smoothing away the grim lines. He grinned down at Beleg and said, “You don’t seem to mind my beard now.”
“A ruse, I assure you,” Beleg said, and touched his jaw where the skin felt a little raw. “One morning you will wake and find yourself clean-shaven.” He rubbed himself against Túrin's thigh, adding with a laugh, “But I have no wish to discuss your beard.”
“Nor do I,” said Túrin, and kissed him again. Together they fell upon the bed, Túrin's weight bearing Beleg down upon the furs. He straddled Beleg, his hands gripping Beleg's shoulders where the beast had sunk its claws, and Beleg laughed.
“Shall we play out my tale? But you are too fair to be a monster,” he said, stroking Túrin's arms and smiling. He drank in Túrin's beloved features: the freckles lightened almost to invisibility during the winter months; the small scar upon his cheek where he had badly cut himself shaving in his youth; the corner of his mouth that rose higher than the other when he smiled, giving him a faint air of bewildered happiness.
Before Túrin could answer, Beleg leaned up and kissed his throat, adding, “And I would always rather have Túrin in my bed.”
“You have me,” said Túrin, unexpectedly serious. His rough hand cupped Beleg's cheek. “For as long as you wish.”
Pain, bittersweet, smote Beleg's heart. He shook his head and turned a little, kissing Túrin's palm. He tried not to think of those hands weakened by age, too old to wield a blade, and failed. “Nay,” he said softly. “Nay, not so long as that, I assure you. But I will have as much time with you as I can, my friend.”
Túrin moved to speak, frowning, but Beleg didn't let him, instead kissing him to silence.
With great effort, Beleg shook off his sorrow. There was no use in grieving now. There would be time enough for that in the years to come. He forced his voice to lightness. “But come, I usurp your role as master of melancholy! You must find some way to cheer me, or soon I shall look as grim as you.”
Concern was slow to leave Túrin's expression, but after a long moment he smiled and Beleg smiled back. “We cannot have that,” Túrin said. He touched Beleg's cheek again. “How shall I hearten you?”
Beleg pretended to consider this. “I have a suggestion.” He used his strength to roll Túrin onto his back so that Túrin was trapped between his thighs.
Túrin looked up at him, the last of the worry easing from his face. “As wise in counsel as ever.”
"Of course," Beleg said, and banished all ill thoughts with another kiss.