A/N Beleg and Túrin in a time of peace. Or some semblance of it.
Night Over Amon-Rûdh
Lying beside Túrin, Beleg stared at his back and thought of Doriath, of the dark-haired boy who would lay his head against his shoulder, drifting into slumber on the soothing words of some old tale. It did not seem so very long ago.
A soft, low sound, then, loud in the silence of Bar-en-Danwedh; movement; and he found himself staring into his friend's face, wide-awake, eyes glittering in the dark.
And words. 'I am glad you are back, Beleg.' There was tenderness, there, such terrible tenderness, oh … and how close they were, how terribly warm Túrin was.
He wanted to reply, 'I am, too,' and in a way he did, for, hardly knowing his own intent, he leaned into that warm dark space between them and touched Túrin's lips with his own, silver-light, tasting the sweet bitterness of a mortal's breath. One brief moment. Túrin shifted, pressing his face into Beleg's shoulder. The memory-image grew suddenly brighter in Beleg's mind, and he did not know which self it was, the marchwarden or this Captain of Dor-Cuarthol, a strange fear stealing grace from his fingers, that drew Húrin's son closer, stroked the unruly hair just a little smoother, murmured, Sleep.
&&&
