Chapter Text
The camp is so much quieter now that the King has gone.
Many of his people still stay, scarlet banners still flying as Nienor weaves her way through the lines of tents and dodges soldiers and masons and logisticians of Caranthir’s that have apparently all but taken over coordinating food and supplies for everyone in the camp and the steady flow of refugees returning and occupying the tents now sprawling across the plains, but with King Maedhros and his vanguard gone, it somehow seems so much quieter.
Nienor adjusts the basket on her hip, making sure the cloths keeping the warmth in are still in place, and then turns down the line of tents where the wounded are.
The scent of athelas and boiled linens is so familiar to her by now. She breathes it in, and as she exhales tries to breathe out the knots of tension that cling to her shoulders. Her brother is alive. Beleg is alive. Glaurung is dead. She killed him herself.
It was close, but nobody fell off that cliff edge into the churning waters below. And she still has plenty of work to do.
Nienor reaches Beleg’s tent and eases back the flap to peer inside. There’s a fire burning in the brazier in the corner, and the flames flicker and dance at the cold air that winds its way in.
It’s not the oddest setup she’s ever seen for a healing tent, but it’s close. Beleg’s cot is where it’s been ever since they first set his unconscious form down onto it, but now there’s a second cot pushed up against it, in between Beleg’s and the wall so that the healers still have access to Beleg when they need it. And then there’s a third cot pushed up against the foot of both Beleg and Turin’s. Mablung is curled up on it right now, feet tucked up so they don’t hang over the edge, and her brother’s face is pressed into Beleg’s shoulder as he seemingly also sleeps, but Beleg is awake.
Beleg looks over as Nienor slips inside the tent. “Again?” he asks, his voice rasping in his throat. His fingers don’t stop where they’re carding gently through Túrin’s hair.
Nienor hums. “Afraid so,” she replies. “I know all these bandage changes may seem like a lot, but airing the wound out will help it heal faster.” She sets the basket down and starts unpacking it. “But there’s broth for you once we’re done. It even has a few pieces of chicken in it.”
“So exciting,” Beleg says with a wry smile. He gently nudges Túrin awake. “Túrin? Your sister is here to change my bandages.”
Túrin wakes slowly, but the moment he does he looks for Beleg. “Again?” he asks.
“You’ve been asleep for hours,” Beleg says as Túrin sits up and then begins fussing with the blankets around him. “You should eat something as well.”
“Once you’re settled,” Túrin says. He glances over to Nienor. “Is father-”
“He’s helping Finduilas with something, but he’ll be coming this evening to eat dinner with us,” Nienor says. She takes the kettle nestled in the brazier, wincing at the heat even through the thick padding she has wrapped around her hand, and pours hot water out into a pan. “Sit him up, brother, for me.”
It takes them nearly five minutes to get Beleg sitting up, heavily leant against Túrin’s shoulder. By the end of it Nienor can feel herself sweating, Beleg’s face is pale and Mablung is awake, having been accidentally kicked off the edge of his cot by Túrin as he tried to get in the right position. “There,” Nienor says as she unlaces the front of Beleg’s tunic and pushes it off his shoulders. “Tell me if this gets too much and I can give you something for the pain, but it’s best that you don’t become reliant on it.”
Mablung hands her scissors and bandages and holds the pan of water for her as she works. Beleg gets progressively pale as she eases the bandage away and washes the wound, clutching onto Túrin’s hand, but he makes it through without swearing or passing out, which is progress. “It’s looking good,” she says as she passes bandages around Beleg’s back. “No sign of infection. Take a few minutes to catch your breath, and then you can eat.”
She turns her back on them to clean up her supplies and reheat the broth. The pale pink water she throws away outside, dropping the soiled bandages into a brazier a few yards from the tent to burn.
When she comes back inside, Túrin’s face is pressed into Beleg’s neck. His shoulders are shaking. Mablung has one hand on Túrin’s ankle, gripping onto him tightly. “Shh, love,” Beleg is whispering into his hair as she enters. “I’m fine. I’m just fine. It’s all done now.”
“Stop thinking about what might have happened,” Mablung adds. His own face is drawn, and though he glances over at Nienor he doesn’t stop talking. “Glaurung is dead. You did your best, Túrin. You did everything you could.”
Túrin shakes his head.
“You saved his life, you know.”
The tent falls silent. “Look at me, brother,” Nienor says. “You saved Beleg’s life. Did you know that?”
Túrin looks up at her. His eyes are rimmed with red, his hair lank around his face. “I- I what?”
Nienor starts ladling out broth into a bowl. “When we found you, Beleg, there was a cloak pressed up against the wound across your stomach. Your cloak, brother. It staunched the wound enough that he was still alive when we got there, and then we were able to save him. So you saved his life.”
Túrin’s face crumples all at once. “I- I left you for dead ,” he gets out, hands flexing like he wants to grab onto Beleg and never let him go but knows it would only hurt him. “I- I thought- you were so pale and-”
“Press two fingers under Beleg’s jaw, brother,” Nienor says sharply.
“I- what?”
“Do it. Just below and forwards of his ear.”
Túrin’s hand is shaking as he reaches out, Beleg obligingly tilting his head slightly to one side. He presses two fingers beneath his jaw, Beleg’s skin so pale beneath his ruddy hands.
“Feel that?” Nienor asks. “Feel his heartbeat?” Túrin nods, and she hums. “He’s alive, and he’s going to stay that way,” she says firmly. “And now you know how to actually tell if someone is dead or not.”
Mablung snorts a laugh. “I’m sorry,” he gets out when Túrin stares aghast at him. “I’m sorry, I just- fuck, it’s been a long few weeks.” He covers his mouth with his hand. “Sorry.”
“You do have a healer for a sister and you forgot to check for a pulse,” Beleg points out, a grin curling his lips. He turns and kisses Túrin’s brow, and reaches up to take Túrin’s hands where it’s still pressed up against his pulse point. “Not your smartest.”
“It’s like you never listened when I talked at the dinner table,” Nienor says. She heads over to the bed. “Now, eat this and then you can go back to sleep. Do you need help?”
“I’ll do it,” Túrin says immediately.
“ You are going to go and wash, and change your clothes, and get someone else to rewrap your wrist,” Nienor says firmly. “Beleg needs clean things around him, and that includes you. Then you are going to go and find something to eat.”
“I’ll help Beleg,” Mablung says.
“You’re going to do exactly the same.” Nienor fixes both of them with a stern look, trying to channel her mother as best as she can. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the both of you not taking care of yourselves. You’ll do Beleg no good like this. Besides, Mablung you need to make sure that Túrin actually does what I just asked.”
Túrin tries to protest, but Nienor just stares at him until he sighs and starts getting up. She takes his place to keep Beleg sat upright, placing the bowl of broth securely in his lap.
“Thank you,” Beleg says quietly as Mablung leads Túrin out. “He’s never been good at…”
“Looking after himself?” Nienor asks as she helps steady Beleg’s hand on the spoon. “Not shouldering all the guilt and blame in the world?” She laughs. “No, he’s never been good at that.”
Beleg eats a few spoonfuls of broth before he speaks again. “I’m glad you were with him, you know,” he says. “You and Mablung, when he fought Glaurung. I would have- I wouldn’t have liked him being there all on his own.”
“I’m only sorry I didn’t get to him sooner,” Nienor says. She breathes out. “But it all worked out, didn’t it? Now, eat this, and then I’ll see about getting you some more chicken in it, and maybe even some bread and butter for tomorrow. The sooner you get better, the sooner we can all head home together.”
Beleg hums. “I’d like that,” he murmurs. “I’d really like that.”
0-o-0-o-0
Túrin doesn’t like admitting it, but he does feel better after letting Mablung dump a few buckets of warm water over his head and working some soap through his hair. “You should shave,” Mablung says as he brushes out his own hair with his fingers, wincing as they snag on the tangled mess that his curls have become. “You look scruffy.”
Túrin rubs at his stubble. It’s itchy, but in amongst everything he’s barely noticed it. “All of my shaving things are- were , I suppose, in Nargothrond. They’ve probably been burned to a crisp by now.”
King Maedhros’ people have gone through all of Nargothrond by now, two weeks after Glaurung first arrived, but they only did a cursory sweep for wounded and dead. It will take months to work out exactly what has been lost and what still remains, and Túrin almost feels like they should stay were it not for every beat of his heart telling him to take Beleg away from this place and home, to the rolling fields and orchards and the hall of their house where the fire never goes out and there’s always a dog stretched out in front of that great hearth.
Mablung hums. “That’s where the real work begins, I suppose,” he muses as he continues to card his fingers through his hair. “I’m surprised there’s enough to sustain all of Nargothrond already.”
“Maedhros had plans for this sort of scenario,” Túrin replies. He bends over, flipping his hair up to hang over his head, and reaches blindly for the water jug. “Him and Caranthir. I remember my father taking me to Barad Eithel for the discussions on them years ago, but I didn’t pay much attention.” His hand smacks against the water jug, nearly upending it.
“Here, let me help.” Mablung picks up the water jug. There’s a brief pause, and then Túrin is suddenly sputtering as the entire thing is upended over his head, desperately trying to scrub the soap out of his hair and keep the suds from his eyes as Mablung laughs above him. “Sorry, but I couldn’t resist it,” Mablung says as Túrin squeezes the water out of his hair. “It was too good an opportunity to pass up.”
If there was any water left in the jug, Túrin would upend it over Mablung’s head. Instead, he settles for glaring at him. “Thank you.”
Mablung smirks. “You’re welcome. Come on.”
Túrin turns to head back to Beleg’s tent, but Mablung abruptly grabs his arm. “Not that way,” he says. “Nienor told me to make sure you look after yourself, which includes eating. Beleg will be fine with her there for a few more minutes.” He gives Túrin a pointed look. “And you need to learn how to be away from him for a few minutes.”
Túrin reaches for a clean shirt. It’s his father, so will be too short on him in the sleeve, but it’ll have to do until he can find some of his own things or borrow someone else’s that fits better. “I don’t know what you mean.”
"You keep waking up in the night to check that Beleg is still breathing," Mablung says pointedly. "Don't think I haven't noticed."
"So?" Túrin snaps, sudden anger flaring in his chest and wrapping around his throat. "What else am I supposed to do? I thought him dead , Mablung, and now he isn't, but it was still so close, and he still can't stay awake for more than a few hours or get out of bed on his own, or- or..." He pulls away and reaches for his jacket. "I don't think I'll believe him well until I see him like he was- like it was before."
Túrin is expecting recrimination from Mablung, or words that are meant to be soothing but just slip past him. Instead, a hand grasps his shoulder. "That's fair," Mablung just says. "Come on, we need to find some food.”
Caranthir's people have laid out one great central tent for eating, the walls open and long trestle tables laid out for anyone to sit at. There are designated meal times, when the massive fires are lit and cooks put together spiced stews heavy with beans and rice and endless loaves of bread pulled out of the makeshift ovens, but even outside of them there are cooks working.
"Lord Túrin," one of them says as they approach, kneading bread on a wide table. "Marchwarden Mablung. Do you need something for Beleg?"
"Nienor brought broth for him," Mablung replies. "I know dinner isn't for a few hours, but I was hoping that you might have something leftover from lunch that we might be able to have?"
The cook hems and haws for a bit, but after a long glance at Túrin relents. "Don't be letting everyone know," they say as they pull out the leftover bread and some cheese and meats and start filling up a spare board. "But given everything, I'll allow it this time." They glance around. "I'll see if there's any dried fruits left as well. Give me a moment."
"Maybe don't shave," Mablung murmurs to Túrin as the cook ducks back into an adjoining tent. "I think they took pity on us because of how bad you look."
“Very funny.” Túrin rubs at his aching wrist where the bones are still knitting back together. “I will push you into the river if you’re not careful.”
Mablung laughs. It’s probably not as amusing as that, but still Túrin can’t help his answering smile.
It drops as Mablung takes the board and goes and sits down at one of the trestle tables. “We need to get back,” he says.
Mablung takes a slice of bread and starts buttering it. He points at the bench on the other side of the table. “Sit.”
“Mablung-”
“Sit. Eat. Learn to live without being at his side every second, because let me tell you, that causes problems. ” Mablung puts a slab of cheese on the bread thicker than the slice and shoves it in his mouth. “Eat. ‘S good.”
Túrin sighs, and reluctantly sits down opposite Mablung. “What do you mean?” he asks. “When you said that- that it will cause problems?”
Mablung holds up his hand until he swallows his mouthful. “You know that I’m a captain, of course,” he says as he gestures for Túrin to start eating. “I’ve seen people get hurt before, and I’ve seen the people close to them absolutely wreck themselves over it.” He reaches for some more cheese, stabbing a chunk with his knife. “I’m telling you now, Beleg is going to be fine, and you need to start believing in that. It won’t happen immediately, I know, but if you can’t-” He shakes his head. “I had these two marchwardens a century or so ago. They weren’t yet married, but we all knew it would be a matter of time. And then one of them got badly hurt on the borders one winter. It was a bad winter, a long one. We got back to our border camp and the other one, he refused to leave their side as they recovered.”
Mablung sighs. “I didn’t really see the harm in it. But then the winter stretched on, and he still didn’t leave and we were down a soldier when we couldn’t afford it. And then when the one who was injured, when they came back- he was so scared for them that he wouldn’t be separated from them on patrols, wouldn’t take separate assignments.” He rubs at his face, and suddenly Túrin sees just how tired he looks. “It ended when our patrol was attacked, and he was so focused on keeping his partner safe that someone else got killed.”
Túrin stares at him. “What happened to him?” he asks.
Mablung sighs again. “Beleg and I decided that we couldn’t trust him. We dismissed him from the ranks. The last I know of, they’re both living in one of the outer villages south of Menegroth.” He shakes his head. “I trust you more than I do him, of course, and I trust Beleg with everything. I know how good you are for him. But I know how easily something like this can go wrong.”
“I didn’t- I’m sorry,” Túrin gets out.
Mablung smiles slightly. “Thank you. You understand why I’m telling you this?”
He’s hardly been subtle. “I know,” Túrin replies. “I just- I thought him dead, Mablung. I really thought him dead, and I- I don’t know what to do with that now.”
Mablung hums. “I know,” he says, his voice softening. He pushes a slice of bread over to Túrin. “But you help nobody by not looking after yourself as well.”
Túrin sighs, and reaches for the bread and salted pork. “I know,” he murmurs. “I do. I just-” He huffs the barest of laughs. “I know enough about myself to know that I’m not too good at that.”
“Oh, I’m aware,” Mablung says wryly. He takes another bite of his bread and cheese. “And since we’re here and having these sorts of conversations, I might as well do this one now as well.” He points his half-eaten slice of bread at Túrin. “Don’t ever do something as stupid and foolhardy as that again.”
Túrin stares at him. “What?”
“You have a healer for a sister ,” Mablung says firmly. “And you didn’t know if Beleg was alive or not when you found him. And then- and then!” He waves his hands in emphasis, and then curses as he nearly loses his cheese. “You run off on your own, after a dragon , and I know I’m not smart, but I don’t have to be to know why you did that.”
“Why did I, then?” Túrin asks. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest.
“Because you thought Beleg was dead, and you wanted to avenge him,” Mablung says, his voice suddenly low. “And you didn’t exactly care if you died in the process.”
Túrin gulps in a breath. His hands are trembling slightly, he realises, and he presses them down onto the table in an attempt to keep them still. “I don’t- I didn’t-”
“Hey.” A hand suddenly covers his, Mablung’s skin dark against his own pale hand as he gently squeezes his hand. “I’m sorry, I’m going about this all wrong. I just- we were so close to everything going so horribly wrong, and I can’t- I can’t see that happen again. I don’t want to see Beleg, or you , hurt like that again.” He squeezes Túrin’s hand. “Do you understand?”
Túrin makes himself nod. He clears his throat. “If it helps,” he says slowly, “I know I- I know I got it wrong,” he says. “I keep seeing it in my head, over and over, wondering how I didn’t- how I didn’t know . How I thought he was- was…”
He didn’t think he had any more tears to cry. Apparently, he was wrong.
“Sorry,” he says, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry. I won’t- I won’t do it again, I promise.”
Mablung huffs a laugh. “I hope not,” he replies. “I’ve had enough fright for a century. Did you know how stubborn your sister is, by the way?”
Túrin can’t help smiling at that. “Oh, I do,” he says. “I’m not surprised you couldn’t get her to turn around. She seems sweet, but she is fierce when she wants to be, and once she has decided something her mind is set on it. She’s like our mother in that regard.”
Mablung groans. “So there’s two of you now,” he mutters. “Excellent. As if I don’t already have enough to do.”
“You don’t have to take this on yourself,” Túrin points out. “I’m not one of your soldiers.”
“You’re my best friend’s partner,” Mablung says, pointing his piece of bread at him. “Therefore, I do. It's too late for you now. Now eat, before Beleg and Nienor join forces against you and I get caught up in the collateral damage.”
The empty tent is a quiet haven as they eat, both of them falling silent. Túrin rips up the bread in his hands until Mablung gives him a pointed look, and then makes himself shove it in his mouth. He can smell fresh bread baking from the nearby ovens. A few cooks are moving around the tent, preparing the food for dinner, but beyond one of them dropping off a carafe of water and two cups, they leave the two of them alone.
“I should get back,” Túrin says eventually. “Nienor has other work to do, and she’s probably waiting for me.”
Mablung hums. “I have work to do as well,” he says. “I’ll probably be busy until late, so don’t worry about keeping any food for me when you eat. I’ll find something for myself.” He drains his water and gets to his feet, rubbing at his face. “I’ll try not to wake you when I come in.”
He looks exhausted. “You look exhausted,” Túrin says bluntly. “Why don’t you come back and rest for a bit first? Surely someone else can handle your work for a few hours.”
Mablung’s lips twist in a wry smile. “As tempting as it sounds, being the only representative of Doriath here capable of making decisions, no matter how unsanctioned my presence is by my own King, leaves me with a lot that only I can do.” He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, Túrin.”
“Mablung?”
Mablung pauses, and Túrin swallows around the lump in his throat. “Thank you,” he gets out.
Mablung’s expression softens. “You’re welcome,” he says quietly.
The quiet haven disappears the moment he leaves the tent, Mablung splitting off to head in the direction of the refugee tents on the eastern edge of the camp. Túrin heads back towards the centre, the bustle of mid-afternoon growing steadily around him. Caranthir’s people nod at him as he passes, but none of them try to stop and talk to him. Before, Túrin had been grateful. Now, there’s a lingering sense of unease at the space he’s been given.
He’s his father’s heir. With Maedhros gone, he’s probably the fifth or sixth most important person within this camp in terms of lineage. And he’s spent the past few days barely moving from a cot bed in a healer’s tent.
Nienor is still there when he slips back inside, sat in a chair next to Beleg’s bed as she rolls bandages. “He’s dozing,” she says quietly as Túrin sits down on the edge of Beleg’s bed. “Finished the broth, which is good. Everything is pointing in the right direction.”
Túrin rests his hand on Beleg’s leg, feeling the warmth beneath the blankets. “Thank you, sister,” he says quietly. “For everything. And I’m- I’m sorry.”
Nienor sets her bandages aside and leans over. Her lips are warm where they are pressed against Túrin’s brow. “I forgive you, brother,” she says softly. “I was so angry with you, you know, and whilst what you did was the most stupid, foolhardy thing I’ve ever seen you do, which is hard when it comes to you-”
“Nienor!”
“Shush, I’m not done lecturing you.” Nienor takes both of his hands. “It was a terrible, awful situation that you were in. One that I would not wish on anyone. And whilst what you did was beyond foolish, I don’t-” She sighs, looking at Túrin with worried eyes. “I don’t understand what it is like to think the person you love is dead,” she says softly. “I don’t know what that might do to a person-” She breaks off, huffing a laugh. “Well, I suppose I do know the fear of it. Why else did I follow you, all on my own? I was angry at you, because I love you, and I was so scared, and if what I was feeling is a fraction of what you felt…” She shakes her head. “I forgive you, brother. We all made it through in the end.”
Túrin has to shut his eyes against the stinging for a moment. “I don’t forgive you for not listening to me at the dinner table though,” Nienor says, her stern voice only just holding. “You should be paying attention to me as your sister.”
“I am endlessly sorry,” Túrin says, managing a watery smile. “I will endeavour to pay attention only to you, sister, from now on.”
“Well, I can share it with Beleg,” Nienor replies with a smile. She squeezes Túrin’s hands. “Truly, brother, how are you feeling? When I climbed down and found you on that cliff edge, I was- I was scared for you.”
Túrin looks down at Beleg’s sleeping figure, his silver hair soft across the pillow. “Better,” he says, and he finds himself meaning it. “I was-”
He doesn’t know how to describe it, the hollow pit in his chest that had grown and grown with every step he took, the gaping maw that in his utter exhaustion he was stumbling towards without any hope of being able to look away from it. He had just been so tired.
“Túrin?”
“I was tired,” he says. He doesn’t know how else to say it. “I was- I was so tired, Nienor. But I’m feeling better now, I am.” Every day feels a little easier, as Beleg stays awake longer, smiles more, as the realisation that they both made it settles in his chest and starts to fill in that hollow pit. “And I promise I’ll let someone know if it changes.”
Nienor presses another kiss to his brow. “Good,” she says firmly. “Now, I have other patients to see, but I’ll be back after dinner with some more broth for Beleg and to see if his bandages need changing again.” She stands up, collecting her supplies, and slips out of the tent.
Túrin lies back on his bed, staring up at the weave of the canvas tent above his head with a sigh. “You’re awake, aren’t you?” he asks.
When he turns his head, Beleg is looking back at him with a smile. “And miss your sister telling you off?” he asks. “I woke up just for the occasion.”
Túrin pulls a face at him, rolling onto his side and carefully settling himself against Beleg. Beleg wraps an arm around his shoulders, tugging him close. “Mablung told me off too,” he mutters into Beleg’s chest. “Earlier, when we were getting food.”
“You poor thing,” Beleg says through a smile. Túrin feels him press a kiss to the top of his head. “So maligned. Whatever shall we do?”
“You’re making fun of me,” Túrin mutters, twisting so he can look up at Beleg’s face. “That’s not fair.”
Beleg hums. “Well, if you had listened to your sister at the dinner table…”
“Beleg!”
Beleg laughs, even as the movement obviously pulls on his wound. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist it.” He holds his arm out. “Come here. You’re a furnace, and your sister is very insistent on me staying warm.”
“Well, if she ordered it,” Túrin replies. He tucks himself back into Beleg’s side. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”