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Turin was worryingly limp in his grasp, head rolling against Beleg’s chest with every step taken further away from his captors. He had been so close to being taken in truth.
Nausea rose in Beleg’s gut at the thought, churning and anxious.
Had he come hours later. Had he missed one shot in the darkness.
But he hadn’t. He hadn’t, and yet Turin was still in a dreadful state.
Dead yet? Whispered the black sword with surprising glee. Beleg gnashed his teeth, adjusting his hold.
No, and you better pray he doesn’t end up dead, for I may follow.
Some moments later he came to a stop in a beautiful clearing near the river, that he knew flowers would bloom on in a myriad of colors at day. For now, in the darkness lit by starlight, it just smelt of herbs, little fireflies dancing over the grass.
Gently, ever so gently Beleg deposited Turin on the ground. He was bound with thick canopy ropes still, for Beleg had not had the time to cut them before.
He reached to Anglachel, the sword gleefully warming up beneath his fingers. Yes, yes, come on, you know I’m sharp enough. It whispered, something foggy descending onto Beleg’s mind.
Wait.
He froze mid-motion, beating the haze back. Why was he trying to cut rope bindings with a sword?
What is this madness. What am I doing?!
He let go of the hilt like it burned him, sliding to his knees beside Turin. Anglachel howled in his mind, dissatisfied, but the sharp clarity of logic was enough to break the spell. He muttered thanks to the stars, retrieving his dagger.
Yes, this is more like it.
With as much care as he could he hewed the ropes away, mindful of Turin’s broken fingers and missing fingernails.
His blade did not slip, did not stray away from its course.