#the tunic that was Gwindor's final offering was his brother Gelmir's😭

[theworldisquietheretooquiet]

Nobody knows my lover is buried underground

AO3 1802 words

I wrote this for @dorcuartholweek! It is angsty, canon compliant, and about grief.

"Where is the hope he instilled in you?” He gestures wildly at the plaque. “Has it gone in so few years, from one that lasted fourteen in the pits of the Iron Hell?”

Túrin and Gwindor are united in their grief for Beleg, but not in much else.

It is a year exactly since Beleg’s death and Túrin and Gwindor stand in a back room of Nargothrond. It is one of the rare places in the city where sunlight creeps in past stone. Filtering through a window in the high ceiling, the golden rays of late summer illuminate the plaque and Túrin breathes out softly.

Carved into the stone tablet is his name.

BELEG CÚTHALION

The light dances across his hand as Túrin reaches out and traces the runes.

“To honour his memory, I thought we could come here, each year, on the day. Place gifts or speak words or stand in silence; it matters not how we spend the time. Yet I would like to spend it thinking of him.” Gwindor’s voice is quiet and Túrin can feel his gaze on the back of his head.

He closes his eyes and even then, the golden light finds a way in. It was so dark when Beleg died, and it has not gone away since. That terrible blackness of confusion and grief is there every time he sleeps. Or blinks. He is always there, in many ways; on the slopes of Tar-Nu-Fuin, with his lover’s blood on his hands. He can never truly leave.

He opens his eyes when he hears the soft clink of metal on stone. Gwindor steps back from where he has placed a small dagger on the floor before the wall bearing the plaque.

“Beleg gave that to me as I followed him through peril, back towards the dreaded place from which I fled. Never did I think I would return one step in that direction, yet his words gave to me the courage and hope I had lost.”

Túrin stares at it. The he leaves without a word.

It does not take him long to find the scrap of leather, but he spends more time than he is truly conscious of looking at it in his hands, one foot over the threshold of his room.

Gwindor is still waiting calmly when he returns.

It seems strangely small next to the dagger, on the floor.

Beleg had had many such strands of leather for binding and braiding his hair. This one had dropped to the floor of the Echad and Túrin had picked it up, intending to give it back to him. It was still in his pocket when the orcs took him.

The light shines on the objects and Túrin’s throat is very tight.

It has been two years since Beleg’s death. He showed Gwindor the wood carving a few days ago, as they confirmed they would come to the room again this year.

The Elf had not understood what the carved symbol signified, and Túrin had struggled to explain it to him, growing frustrated as he could not remember his mother’s words. He had first seen the horizontal line with a circle centred below on a rock by Nen Lalaith. His sister was burned, not buried, to avoid contagion, but his Aunt Rían had told him that the marker must still be placed somewhere. ‘To protect the dead on their journey from this world and to give us strength in our grief.’

He waits for Gwindor to put down a small bag of dried hyacinth petals, their faded purple colour still just recognisable.

He rests the small wood carving on the floor beside it. It was done in secret, as he deeply did not wish to explain its purpose and even less its meaning to any more Elves.

He moves his right hand from shoulder to shoulder, drawing it across his collarbone, then makes a fist over his heart, mirroring the lines etched into the wood.

Morwen’s voice echoes in his ears: ‘Andreth told me we began to do this gesture as soon as we crossed Ered Luin. It is a sign to remind us of the strength of our people and what we overcame. The line is the mountains, the darkness we escaped from once and will do again; the fist, the heart and power of our folk.’

Beleg was no Man, and his soul needs no protection. It is in the dominion of the Valar themselves now if their stories are true.

But as Túrin stands there, focusing on keeping his breathing even, he stares at the symbol until it burns into his eyes, and he tells himself he comes from a people who are masters of grief. He will survive this feeling. He will.

Túrin touches his left shoulder, draws his hand across to the right, and makes a fist over his heart.

It has been three years since Beleg’s death. The room smells lightly of the lavender cakes Gwindor has brought, and Túrin breathes in deeply. This year he has no offering, yet his body and mind are weary. Long has he laboured, ever since the weather turned and he realised what he had to say.

As he speaks the words aloud and they fill the small room, it is clear his craft is lacking. They are unpolished, and his voice is hoarse, unsure, stammering in a way it has not done so since he was a small child.

But he says them.

“I love you. I love you, Beleg. Thank you for saving me. Not just – thank you for all the times you saved me, body and soul. Perhaps it would have been a better ending if you had not done so, that final time. If we had died together, or if you had outlived me as you always should have. You do not deserve to be a midpoint in my story. You are – you are the centre of it, Beleg. I hope you knew that.

I love you. And I am sorry. I am – so very sorry.” 

It has been four years since Beleg’s death. Túrin had not been entirely sure Gwindor would come and indeed he does not enter the room until the hour is late. He has not been present at council meetings since all voices but his called for war.

When Túrin places down an arrow that had passed clean through an orc’s skull, he glances at Gwindor and sees his eyes are shadowed, his mouth set in a grim line as he looks at it.

He makes no offering but speaks. “Be healed in the Halls of Waiting and receive Nienna’s pity. May you tell the Valar of our suffering and let them hear you and relent.”

Túrin scoffs.

It has been five years since Beleg’s death. Gwindor is already there when Túrin arrives, a necklace of small green stones resting on the floor. The Elf is standing, looking at the plaque.

“That is a fair gift, my friend.”

Gwindor makes no answer, and his expression is cold.

Túrin sighs and bends down, reaching into his bag to bring out the cloth.

The fine threads catch the light as he sets the embroidery down. Finduilas’ work is intricate beyond words, the leaves she has wrought shimmer every shade of green imaginable.

He smiles. It brings to his mind now as it had when she had given it to him, how Doriath’s tree canopy would look from below, as he and Beleg lay on the soft grass.

“Does she know this is how you make use of her skill?”

Túrin’s face darkens, but the anger passes swiftly, pity settling in as he sees the pain in Gwindor’s eyes.

“She would take great joy in creating a piece for you, I am sure. Why, you should ask her to, such beauty will help escape the sadness in which you still tarry.”

Gwindor only shakes his head. “I will ask her for nought, it would not be fair.”

Túrin watches him leave and frowns.

It has been six years since Beleg’s death. The room is very dark when Túrin arrives, his Mannish eyes must squint to find Gwindor’s shadow.

He had not been sure if he would come at all. His days are endlessly busy now, with strategy meetings, accounts of supplies, and war-making. He has brought no offering; the blood which has coated Gurthang repeatedly this year seems sometimes the only gift that would truly honour the dead.

And if these recent reports are true, if the final battle is soon to be at hand – well, no greater deed could there be done in Beleg’s name.

Túrin looks down at the tunic Gwindor has placed before the plaque. Its colour is hard to distinguish in the low light, but it is a far larger size than would fit the Elf beside him, even in what Túrin imagines was his great stature before his capture.

They both stand there, utterly silent for many long minutes, and Túrin is close to leaving, he has nothing left to say to his friend, no words he can conjure that will make a difference, when Gwindor speaks.

“I will fight. When the Elves of Nargothrond ride out for the last time, Gwindor, son of Guilin, will go.”

The words are hard and rough, and it takes a few moments for them to truly sink into Túrin’s mind. But as he understands, the grief and the wrath rise like a wave.

“Do not be so foolish. You have not the strength to wield arms. Do not – intentionally throw your life away because you are angry at me, because you grieve her. Where is the hope he instilled in you?” He gestures wildly at the plaque. “Has it gone in so few years, from one that lasted fourteen in the pits of the Iron Hell?”

When Gwindor laughs it is an ugly sound, and the awful blackness spills from it. He makes no other answer.

Túrin’s head begins to throb, and the words pass his lips without examination.

“You should not fight. You must not. Stay and protect the people, protect –

“There is nobody left to save.” Gwindor’s voice is ragged.

“They are all dead, Túrin. This is a city of corpses. Perhaps it always was. Have you not noticed the darkness, my friend? Our doom has found us, and we cannot see for how close it presses. It is over.”

Do not call me that name, he wants to cry, but he knows it will only make Gwindor laugh in that terrible way again.

“You should not speak so. While the maiden of Nargothrond still lives, this city will not fall.”

Gwindor’s breath catches, and he turns away.

“Of her, of her… I can only hope… Oh, Finduilas.” He begins to weep and leaves.

Túrin turns back towards the stone and presses his palm against Beleg’s name.

He does not let himself think about whether or not they will return next year.

He tries not to see the blood seeping from his hands and the way it pools in the carved letters.

If you want to see what I meant the symbol on the wood carving to look like, here's my very simple drawing of it!