The woods is hot, muggy, and teaming with mosquitoes. Túrin crouches in the blackberry brambles, watching the path. He doesn't dare move. A mosquito buzzes near his ear, but he doesn't swat it away. It settles on his cheek, and Túrin can already feel the itch coming on, but he doesn't budge. His focus is on the path, and on the figure slowly coming into view.

Beleg is lithe and not as tall as Túrin remembers. He's walking at a leisurely pace. His eyes gleam in the night like a nocturnal beast's. They rove from side to side.

Túrin lowers his gaze so as not to meet Beleg's. He keeps in the shadows, waiting for Beleg to approach. He's been waiting for this moment for years now. When Beleg was last here, Túrin was a child, and Beleg was easily able to sneak up on him and pin him down. Now Túrin is seventeen: tall, strong, thoroughly trained, and very crafty.

Beleg stops on the path in front of Túrin. 'Hey, Húrin's son. What you up to? Berry picking?'

Túrin scrambles to his feet, blood rushing to his cheeks.

'Oh, no pail,' Beleg says. 'A pity. I make a delicious blackberry wine. Oh, you weren't trying to sneak up on me now were you? Me, the king's own Cheif Marchwarden and -'

Túrin charges him. He knocks Beleg's down into a bed of pine needles. Beleg gasps, and Túrin straddles him.

'Ha!' Túrin says.

Beleg lies there a moment, a bit stunned. Túrin is a lot heavier than he remembers. He doesn't struggle though, merely looks Túrin in the eye. "Off."

'No, you don't scare me anymore,' Túrin says. 'I know I'm stronger than you.'

Beleg huffs. 'Don't be ridiculous. Now get off me before you irritate me further.'

'Make me.' Túrin's eyes gleam. He leans his face in closer to Beleg's.

Beleg's mouth opens and then closes again. The rising moon is shining on Túrin's face, and he's beautiful. His dark hair is as much of a rat's nest as ever, but his face is the chiseled work of an expert crafter, who decided to put in for eyes, two perfect sapphires. On top of that, Túrin is on top of them, and Beleg can feel the strength of Túrin's arms and legs as the boy holds him in place. He swallows and squirms.

'I aught to smack you,' he groans. He pushes at Túrin but cannot make him budge. Damn these mortals with their big bones and extensive muscle mass.

"You aught to come back more often," Túrin says. 'To keep track of my progress.'

'You aught not to progress without me,' Beleg says, still squirming. 'In any case, it's not fair because I just came back from a long, wearying trip, and you did not.'

'Hmmm,' Túrin says. 'So, we're just going to disregard your centuries of training as a possible advantage?'

Beleg kicks upward but to no avail. 'Just let go, Túrin.'

Túrin shakes his head. 'No, not until you admit I'm stronger than you.'

'Shut up.' Beleg wriggles but Túrin's grasp is firm: not pinching but strong

Túrin laughs. 'You can't do it, can you?'

Beleg groans again. 'I could it if I really, really wanted to, but I'm tired, and all I want right now is a hot meal and a hot bath, not some smirking adolescent.'

'You're cute from this angle,' Túrin says.

'I'm cute from all angles,' Beleg says, indignantly. 'Now let go of me, Húrin's son.'

Túrin rolls off him. 'Fine, be a boring old man.'

Beleg makes a face. 'I'm not old. Elves never age.'

'You sure?' Túrin says. 'Because I think your footwork is getting sloppy. You just teetered over when I tackled you.'

Beleg gets to his feet and brushes the dirt off his clothes. 'You're a brat, Túrin. Thingol must be spoiling you.'

'Probably,' Túrin says. 'But I'm sure you'll keep me in line now, mm?' He smiles side-wise at Beleg. 'I mean if you're up to the task that is.'

Beleg shakes his head. 'Are you challenging me, Túrin, son of Hurin?'

Túrin shrugs and smiles. 'Maybe.'

'Hmm, how unbecoming of you.' But he loops his arm with Túrin's. 'So, has anything happened in my absence?'

'Oh, lots of things,' Túrin says smugly. 'But maybe I won't tell you, not until you admit I'm stronger anyway.'

Beleg laughs. 'You think you're my only source for information? I know countless others who will tell me more and better stories. You should just be glad you have an audience.'

Túrin sighs. 'Fine, I'll tell you, but I'm going to pin you in front of Mablung if you don't admit I'm the stronger fighter.'

'We'll do a redo in the morning,' Beleg says, leading them through a row of pines and towards Menegroth. 'Now tell your tales.'

'Well,' Túrin says. 'Queen Melian got a new dog, and her name is Feather, and she's small and black and somewhat noisy, but she's very cute and sweet, and I like her.' He swings Beleg's arm. 'And the Lady Galadriel has taken up painting, but she won't show us any of her paintings! She says they're too personal. And everyone thinks that means she's terrible at it, but they won't say it to her face. And let's see what else? Well, two months ago, Oropher brought a beehive into the palace. He said he wanted to study the bees, and he had them in a sealed container, but they got out, and it caused a panic.'

Túrin smiles and goes silent. He reaches down and takes Beleg's hand, plays with the fingers. Beleg looks at their mingling fingers. 'Is that all?'

Túrin nods. 'Everything new of note. Nothing happens much around here.'

'Mmm, that's probably a good thing,' Beleg says. 'What have you been up to?'

'Oh, studying, training, I missed you.'

Beleg smiles. 'Well, I am an easy person to miss.'

Túrin laughs. 'You're so vain.'

'Comes with being one of the firstborn,' Beleg says. 'I know that I was no accident, that Ilúvatar carefully crafted me himself. You on the other hand are more like a dice throw. You should be glad you lucked out in the looks department.'

Túrin blinks. 'Is that really how Ilúvatar works?'

'No, no, no,' Beleg says, chuckling, 'I really can't claim to know how the all-father works. I was just being silly.' He squeezes Túrin's hand tight. 'And here I thought you had finally gained a sense of humor.'

Túrin blushes. 'No, I'm just drunk and happy to see you!'

'Hmm,' Beleg says. 'I'm happy to see you too, Húrin's son.'