Chapter Text
The sun has not yet risen, though that seems to count for little in these parts, and the fog is beginning to pool in the hollows of the valley below him. Beleg wraps his cloak more securely around himself, tucking himself back into the trunk of the tree and pulling his legs up from where they were dangling over the branch. Winter has fled from most of Beleriand, but in Nan Dungortheb it never really seems to let go.
Sentry seems somewhat pointless when he can't even see the ground beneath his feet, but Beleg stays up in his tree anyway. His bow and quiver are within arms reach, both resting against a nearby branch. There's a bag of dried fruit in his lap that he slowly eats from to stay awake.
Eventually, there is the sound of quiet footsteps on grass from behind him, and a low whistle. Beleg glances down to see Mablung at the base of the tree.
This far out from the forward camp, they don't talk. Beleg signs to Mablung that it's been quiet for the past few hours, and hands over the remnants of his fruit as Mablung climbs up and takes up residence in the perch.
Beleg shoulders his bow, glances over his shoulder at the fog-filled valley, and starts the walk back to the camp.
Like everything else in this accursed valley, the camp appears out of the fog all at once. One minute he thinks he can just make out the edges of trees through the fog, and the next he can see the pennants on the tops of pikes that line the outer perimeter, and the tops of their tents. Beleg picks up his pace, an easy run that covers the last few hundred yards into the camp.
The sentry spots him at the last moment. "The eagle strikes," they call out in challenge, their voice dampened in the fog.
Beleg pushes his hood back and holds out his arms to the side. "And the iron falls," he calls back. "It's Beleg. All good here?"
"All quiet," the sentry replies, leaning on their spear. "How's the valley looking?"
Beleg shrugs. "As usual. Quiet tonight, but it didn't feel like an unnatural quiet, for whatever that means in this place. The fog has come in thick, though, so we might have to delay the next patrol."
The sentry nods. "Túrin is in the main tent."
Beleg nods his thanks, and heads past the sentry into the camp. Even in the fog that has settled over everything, their forward camp is small enough that it takes him only a few moments to find the main tent. There aren't enough of them here to have guards on the tents as well as on the perimeter, so Beleg just pushes the tent flap back and lets himself in.
Túrin looks up from where he's leant over the desk with a few others, studying a map. "Beleg," he says, his voice warm. "All is well?"
Beleg sets his bow and quiver down to the side. "It was quiet tonight," he says as he joins them, nodding a thanks to the grizzled sergeant who hands him a waterskin. It's a relief to finally be able to use some of the water within the valley itself, now that they've cleared enough of the western side for the waters to run clear. For the first six months they were having to transport water in from Ethel Sirion, which was a headache for everyone.
"The fog is thick, though," Beleg adds once he's drained the skin. "We might want to delay today's patrol."
The sergeant is already shaking his head. "If we delay it, we run the risk of still being out when it goes dark. The fog may be thick, marchwarden, but we have been out in worse weather before."
Túrin glances at his sergeant for a moment. "We'll stick to the original times, then," he says. "We went south yesterday, so today we'll take the northern route. We've done it before, so at least the fog won't be too much of an impediment. Acceptable, Duilin?"
“Yes, my lord,” Duilin just says.
"Beleg?" Túrin asks next. Beleg nods as well, and Túrin looks down at the map with a decisive nod. "Good. Then we have about five hours before then to make sure everyone going out on patrol is ready. Go inform your people, if there’s nothing else.”
Duilin beckons, and the rest of the people around the table follow him out. Beleg waits until they’re gone before he drops into a nearby seat. “Sorry if Duilin was short with you,” Túrin says as he does the same. “He’s not happy about being posted down here.”
Beleg shrugs. “It’s nothing. I thought this was where everyone wanted to be posted?”
“Not if you’re near to retiring, already lived through the Galad Lain and two years at Echad Methrin, and then have to come here to be under the command of a youngster who doesn’t know what he’s doing.” Túrin’s lips curve in the barest approximation of a wry smile. “At least, that is what I have heard. But what would I know? I’m just a youngster who doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
Beleg shakes his head. “He should have more trust in your father, at the very least. Húrin wouldn’t have given you command of this company if he didn’t think you would be able to handle it.” He snorts. “Fingon and Maedhros wouldn’t have either if they don’t trust you. And I’m only a marchwarden, but I think you’re doing a decent job so far.”
“Only decent?” Túrin asks, but there’s that little glint in his eyes that Beleg has learned by now to mean that he’s joking. “Thank you, Beleg. This would all be a lot harder if you weren’t here.”
Beleg can’t help but smile at that. “I assume I’ll be coming out on patrol with you, then?”
“Of course,” Túrin replies. “If it was quiet tonight for you, then hopefully it should be just as quiet on patrol, and we can have an easy few days before pushing any further east with the other companies.” He sighs, looking down at the map again. “We’re meeting with the others next week to discuss that. I should-”
“Get some sleep,” Beleg says firmly. “You look tired, and you’ll need it for the patrol later.” He huffs a laugh at Túrin’s expression. “Go on. It’s quiet right now. It’ll all survive for a few hours without you.”
0-o-0-o-0
The fog is thick. Túrin holds back a curse as he misjudges what little of the ground he can see and stumbles, catching himself just before he hits the ground. In the privacy of his own head he can admit that there seems little point patrolling in such fog, but his father had emphasised the importance of a continuous presence when Túrin was given this command of the forward camp. It's the daily patrols that keep the loose boundary they've established intact, pushing forwards into Nan Dungortheb from the west. They've been doing daily patrols for the two months Túrin has had this command, and he's not going to let some fog stop them this time.
They start moving up out of the shallow valley they are in, crossing a stream over a few planks that Túrin had ordered brought out as soon as they had found this route. This far into Nan Dungortheb, it is not worth stepping into any of the streams through this valley, no matter how shallow.
Climbing up a low hill and out of the worst of the fog, Túrin can see a dense copse of trees at the top of the rise. He purses his lips and whistles to the front scout, holding up a clenched fist. The scout nods, and sinks down to one knee.
Behind him, the order ripples back through the patrol. Túrin takes a knee and pulls out the copy of the map that he has brought with him.
It has taken months of hard work to produce these maps. The Doriathrim have been invaluable in this, according to Lord Maedhros, able to judge and map ground with a speed surpassing even Lord Caranthir's cartographers. Túrin supposes that spending so much time in the trees does give someone a good head for judging vertical distance, but he is fairly sure Beleg wouldn't find that amusing if he pointed it out.
The maps they have now for Nan Dungortheb are a mix of Noldorin, Sindarin and his own people's techniques, nothing like the maps he has at home or the ones he used during his rotation outside Angband. Those were all clean inked lines and neat notations with a key in every corner, mapping out the twisting halls and rooms of Angband on thick vellum. The one in his hand now is thin, and covered in different colours and shades; faint grey lines denoting hills and valleys, dashed lines for the tracks they have been slowly building and thicker lines still for rivers, drawn in charcoal and endlessly adjusted and added to as they uncover more and more of the valley. When he had first started here it had taken him long minutes to decipher any of them, and even now he has to focus in the low light before he can read it.
There are the barest sounds of footsteps, and then a hand on his shoulder as Beleg crouches down beside him. "We want to start heading west soon," Túrin says, tracing the path they are following along the parchment. "We're approaching this high point, yes? We'll cross this hill on the eastern side and then turn west, keeping out of the low ground on the other side and the worst of the fog, and begin the loop back to the forward camp."
Beleg nods. "Sounds good to me."
It takes less than a minute to move forwards and brief the front scout on where they’re going, and then they’re moving again. Beleg drops back to his place in the patrol. In the privacy of his own head, Túrin briefly wishes that Beleg would stay beside him as they patrol, but he knows how it would look to the rest of the men, Duilin especially. Most of the men are pleased to have the marchwardens with them, even if it’s just Beleg and Mablung at the moment whilst they wait for the next company to arrive, but Túrin knows how inexperienced it would make him look if he relied on Beleg for everything.
Not that he does, but just having his dear friend beside him on a patrol can be construed as something entirely different, when he is the son of Húrin and the next lord of Dor-Lómin.
Túrin sighs, and keeps walking up the hill. The copse of trees are growing closer and closer, and against the pale morning light the black trunks are even more stark, tendrils of fog still clinging to them in places and defying the weak morning sun.
This entire valley feels as if it is holding its breath. The weather turns on a dime, of course, but even in the sideways rain and wind it feels as if the valley is just waiting to pounce. Waiting for them to let down their guard, to become complacent, before it strikes.
Túrin quickens his pace. It is all too easy to imagine being attacked out here, isolated and alone. There is a horn at his hip that will call for aid, but that only works if he can bring it to his lips, and if there are people close enough to hear.
The morning light is weak, and so far the fog has barely burned away. They reach the crest of the hill and halt for a few moments to rest beside the thin copse. Túrin consults his map again. He can just make out another ridgeline to the east that isn't on the map, but from here the distance isn't easy to judge. He's debating adding it to the map anyway when Beleg appears next to him and sits down on the wet grass with a sigh.
"How far away do you think that ridge is?" Túrin asks, pointing out east as he digs out a waterskin and offers it out to Beleg.
Beleg shakes his head at the offer. "Maybe half a league?" he estimates. "We'll be pushing out to it soon enough, might as well sketch it on."
Túrin hums. "If we can spare a few minutes here, then I will."
"It's your patrol." Beleg kicks his legs out and leans up against Túrin for balance, his longbow resting in his lap. He checks it over as Túrin starts to sketch. "Remind me to restring this when we get back to the main camp. I'll need your help in cutting my hair for it."
Túrin shakes his head. "My hands are no good at delicate work. I don't want to cut off too much of your hair."
"I trust you," Beleg just replies easily. "Anyway, it will last for now."
The string of the bow is so pale on his fingers. Túrin recognises it, of course. The bow is Beleg's stalwart companion and rarely away from his side, and Túrin has spent many a campfire watching him carefully tend to the wood and wishing he was careful enough to lend a hand. The string is Beleg's own hair, endlessly bright still even after so long woven into string and put to service.
Beleg leans a little more heavily against Túrin. "We should-"
If he finishes his sentence, Túrin doesn't hear it. His words are drowned out entirely by the howl that pierces through the fog and deep into his bones.
"Wolves!"
Beleg is on his feet, arrow nocked in his bow before Túrin can blink. Around them the soldiers resting are surging to their feet, hands going to weapons as another howl pierces the air. Túrin scrambles to his feet, drawing his sword with the quiet ring of steel in the smothering fog.
"Where?"
"From the south," one soldier calls over his shoulder. Another howl pierces the fog.
"South-east," Beleg corrects at Túrin's shoulder. He hesitates, and then in one swift movement shoulders his bow, grabs a branch over his head and swings himself effortlessly up into the tree. "Moving across the ridge to the southeast. Not coming directly for us."
"Not yet," Túrin says under his breath. He gestures for the soldiers around him to hold.
"What do we do, my lord?" Duilin asks. "We can't stay here. We're far too exposed."
"Run into that fog and we'll get lost within minutes," someone else counters. "We should defend ourselves here. We have the high ground and an obvious advantage over them."
"And what if there are more than we can handle?" someone else hisses in the fog. "We have one Elven archer amongst all of us. Beleg can't take on thirty wolves, not in this fog."
"Túrin," Duilin is calling, his voice low in the smothering fog. "What do we do?"
Túrin's hand is sweaty where he is gripping his sword. He can hear his heart thundering in his chest.
"We go down into the fog," he hears himself say. "Into the valley. We can't expect to hold out on this hill. The fog will muffle our sound and scent from the wolves, and we push northeast in the fog and then turn back to camp." He takes a breath. "Let's move. Stay close."
Beleg drops soundless from the tree and onto the ground. "You have the best eyes," Túrin says to him. "Go in front."
Beleg clasps his shoulder, and then disappears into the fog.
They start moving. Túrin's eyes are fixed on the shadowed figure of Beleg in front of him as he moves through the fog, hunting knife out and poised in his hand. Túrin's sword is tight in his grip, his heart racing at every step where Beleg disappears into the fog for a brief moment before Túrin can catch up with him.
They hit the bottom of the valley, the grass wet and slippery beneath their feet. "Follow the line of the hill," Túrin whispers ahead to Beleg. "Keep pushing north where we can."
It's an hour of thankless bogs and marsh grasses underfoot as they keep moving, the howls on the wind driving their every pace. Finally, the howls grow more and more distant, and then disappear from the lingering fog altogether.
Túrin breathes a sigh of relief. He looks around at the fog, trying to judge best as he can where they are, and the best way back to the camp.
When he turns back to look ahead of him, Beleg is nowhere to be seen.
His heart is thundering in his ears.
"Beleg!"
He cannot raise his voice too loud. Even in the fog, sound can carry. They cannot be attacked as they are now, strung out and isolated. Túrin stumbles forwards, searching in vain for the footprints that he knows Beleg will not have left behind.
"Beleg!"
He hears the chink of metal against metal from somewhere nearby. Túrin whirls around, sword outstretched. "Beleg?"
He swears he can hear the sound of feet out somewhere beyond his sight. Far in the distance, a lone wolf howls.
There are orc bands in the mountains. How far north have they pushed? How far have they gone off the path that he thought they were on?
A shadow moves past him. Túrin hears heavy chainmail that none of them wear, but the shadow is gone by the time he is ready, sword outstretched.
He stumbles forwards. He can hear movement, heavy movement that cannot be Beleg or the others. Túrin's heart is racing, pounding in his chest as he readies himself.
A shape appears out of the fog. He can see the silhouette of a weapon.
Túrin braces himself, and swings.
"It's me!"
Beleg's voice echoes through the fog and cuts through the thundering in Túrin's chest. At the last moment he manages to duck, the sword swinging harmlessly past him, and then closes the distance between the two of them in a rush. "It's me, it's Beleg," he says, ducking inside Túrin's reach.
Túrin nearly collapses to his knees with the relief and guilt that curdles in his stomach. "Thank Varda," he breathes, clutching at Beleg's arm. What he had thought to be a weapon raised is just Beleg's bow, sticking up over his shoulder. "I could have-"
"You didn't, you didn't touch me," Beleg says quickly. He grasps Túrin's arm in turn. "We need to turn south and keep moving. I can't be sure, but I think there are-"
Beleg is cut off by a sickening thunk. He gasps, lurching forwards into Túrin. He catches him immediately as Beleg's weight is suddenly in his arms. "Beleg!" Túrin cries out.
The shaft of a black arrow is protruding from his friend's shoulder.
Beleg is making a horrible sound against his shoulder, gasping wetly for air. His hand clutches at Túrin's arm, trying to keep himself standing.
Another arrow flies overhead, cutting through the fog. Túrin can hear the chattering of orcs. The rest of his soldiers are somewhere behind him, possibly strung out and scattered.
Beleg's face is pressed into his shoulder. In between gasps of breath, he is trying to say Túrin's name.
"I'm so sorry," Túrin breathes. "This is going to hurt."
He picks Beleg up and throws him over his shoulders, and turns around and starts running.
Beleg is making choked-off sounds across his back, every step likely agony, but Túrin cannot listen to them. He hits the low hill he had just stumbled down and digs in, pushing himself up the slope. With every spare breath he has, he calls out for his soldiers.
"Túrin!"
Duilin appears out of the fog. "We got separated, so I halted the rest of the men. I was about to send out a party to find you and-" His voice cuts off as he sees Beleg, slumped over Túrin's shoulders. Within a moment, his sword is out and ready. "What happened?"
"Orc arrows," Túrin gasps. "They might be on our tail. Prepare a defence."
Duilin's face hardens. "Get him inside the perimeter." He whistles, and shapes in the fog start moving and coalescing into the troops Túrin had lost.
He shoulders past those moving into position on the lower part of the hill and keeps moving. His legs are burning, but he doesn't stop until he's made it to a scraggle of low bushes, twisted and warped and entirely bare of leaves. They won't provide much protection, but it's better than nothing.
Beleg groans when Túrin sets him down, as careful as possible. "Next time," he gets out, eyes squeezed shut as Túrin starts pressing padding in around the arrow shaft on the back of his shoulder, "run smoother."
Túrin can't find it within himself to laugh. "You're going to be fine," he says, his hands slick with blood. "It didn't go in too far. We'll get you back to camp and fix everything."
Beleg huffs a laugh, though it turns into a groan halfway through as the movement jostles the wound. "Of course."
"Túrin! You're needed!"
Túrin presses his hand to Beleg's uninjured shoulder. Already the ends of Beleg's silver hair are matted with blood, but if he tries to pull it out of the way with his stained hands, it'll only become bloodier. "I'll be back," he says. "I'll send someone to stay with you."
"Go," Beleg says, waving one hand with a grimace. "I'll be fine."
Túrin takes off into the fog.
It is all too evident, as they hear the sound of orc feet tramping towards them and the war cries through the fog, that this is not a foe they can outright beat. Túrin crouches behind the perimeter his soldiers have established and tries to breathe through the thundering of his heart.
What would his father do here? What decision would he make?
What should he do?
"Túrin!" Duilin hisses. "We need to move. We cannot stay here!"
They'll be so vulnerable if they turn and run. All of these soldiers are formidable fighters. Is there a chance they could withstand?
Túrin's fingers skim over the horn at his side. A call for aid. And the best way to reveal their position to the enemy. He glances behind him. He can just make out Beleg's shape in the fog, another crouched over him as they work to staunch the bleeding.
Even for the Eldar, wounds left untreated can be fatal.
"Let's move," Túrin says breathlessly. "Fastest route back to the camp."
Duilin nods, and turns to the soldiers around them. "Prepare to move!"
It takes them hours. Stumbling through the fog, across endless hills and valleys, guessing at the best route back to a promise of safety. Túrin aches to take Beleg and carry him himself through the unbending withdrawal to the camp, reassure himself that his friend still breathes, is still awake and talking, assuage a small part of his guilt with the aching weight of Beleg across his shoulders, but his friend is being carried much further ahead in the group in the safest position possible, and Túrin has positioned himself at the back. If they are to be attacked, if the orcs chasing them are fast enough, they will be attacked from the rear, and therefore that is where Túrin must be.
The orcs are nipping at their heels when the perimeter of the forward camp finally emerges from the fog. Túrin, exhaustion sending him staggering, is finally able to reach for the horn at his belt and call for help.
The soldiers on guard stream out of the front gate and hurry them inside. "We have one injured," Túrin gasps as he pushes the last of the patrol through the gates and helps heave them shut behind them. The wood creaks under its own weight, but the heavy oak bars fall into place and he can breathe a little easier. "Get archers up on every high point. Start preparing to defend this camp."
People hasten to their positions. More are running to him, asking where to position themselves, whether to dampen the fires or lay on more fuel, the numbers expected and where they are coming from and what weapons they carry. Túrin endures it for as long as he can before he pushes past them and heads where he has wanted to be all this time.
Beleg is laid out on his front on the cot bed when Túrin enters, a healer bent over him as they finish cutting his bloodstained shirt away. The arm of his injured shoulder is dangling down towards the floor, a thin rivulet of blood trickling down towards his lax fingers, but his other arm is pillowing his head. Beleg glances over at Túrin with a wince.
"It looks worse than it is?"
Túrin drops to his knees beside the cot. "My friend," he says quietly. He means to say more, but he is entirely lost for words.
A droplet of blood winds its way down between Beleg's fingers to drop to the rush mat beneath Túrin's knees. It disappears, soaking into the ground, only for another to follow it.
Beleg raises his head with a wince. "Túrin," he says softly. "I'll be fine. I'm in good hands here. Right, Eithril?"
Eithril hums, and doesn't look up from the delicate task of removing shreds of clothing from around the arrow shaft. "Of course," she says. "I've trained for decades with Haerel. This is barely a scratch, marchwarden."
"It feels a little more than that," Beleg remarks. He winces again as she tugs at a scrap of cloth, fresh blood spilling down his arm as it's removed. “Túrin. Go. You need to defend this camp, and I’m the safest I can be, here.”
“I’ll put a guard on the door,” Túrin promises. “You’ll be safe.”
Beleg grasps at his hand. “Go.”
Túrin makes himself get up and walk away.
Mablung finds him within moments of stepping outside. “Beleg?” he asks. “Where is he?”
“He- orc arrow to the shoulder,” Túrin gets out. “In the fog. He- he should be fine. Eithril is with him already.”
Mablung just gives him a dark look, and pushes past Túrin to get inside the tent. For a moment, Túrin thinks of following him, of letting Mablung yell at him once he has seen the mess that has been made of Beleg, that Túrin allowed to happen. Of kneeling down on the bloodsoaked rushes and letting Mablung voice his anger, let Beleg turn away from him in disgust. Maybe it’ll dig the weight on his shoulders in deep enough for it to be enough.
He has so much to do. The orcs are coming, and the camp must be defended.
Túrin turns away from the tent, and his friend, and gets to work.