Warrior's Bond
a @myslashyvalentine fic for @maglors-anion-gap
Three times brothers-in-arms, Beleg and Mablung, took comfort in each other. Or; the captains of Doriath have the solution to every problem: fuck.
(E, 4.6k, No warnings, Beleg/Mablung, Beleg/Mablung/Thingol, Beleg/Mablung/Túrin)
Under the beeches of Neldoreth, Y.T 1497
“You have been in a strange mood since we buried Denethor.”
Beleg stood on the very border of Doriath, one foot beyond the line of the Queen’s new enchantment. Mablung had known he would find him here. Beleg, for his wildness, was predictable to those who knew him best, and Mablung was foremost among that select few.
“Forgive me,” Beleg did not turn his head, but Mablung knew he rolled his eyes. “If funerals do not make me jovial.”
Mablung took his place beside him. Beleg turned his head away, but not fast enough that Mablung did not see his tears. Many years he had known Beleg, since his own boyhood, and many perils they had vanquished side by side. Both of them had foregone the trappings of a traditional life and devoted themselves to the martial cause. They were as close as though they had been born on the same shore, though Beleg had opened his eyes at Cuiviénen and Mablung had come squalling into the world beside the Anduin.
Never had he known Beleg — Beleg, who wore each emotion as clear on his face as the stars on the deepest night — to weep in silence. It was strange, and it unsettled Mablung. What comfort could be offered for a grief so unfamiliar?
“There is little enough that does not make you jovial, Beleg. What troubles you? Denethor can be mourned as easily among the others, but I find you here instead.”
Beleg turned to him. He had blinked away his tears and Mablung was comforted by the familiar sharpness that had returned to his gaze. It was less comforting to have it directed at him.
“You make a poor counsellor, Mablung. I have always thought so.”
Mablung winced. His memory turned back to the wild years, where he and Beleg had roamed far and free, and to the many young men they had brought up into warriors between them. Often, if a comrade fell, or if injury, or malady of heart or mind, had fallen upon them, the youths had come to their teachers for advice. The fortunate found Beleg first, and eagerly drank the wisdom that flowed from him, and found reassurance in his warmth. Those that found Mablung got stilted words and awkward silence before he gave in and offered the better comfort of his hands. That was almost always what they sought: it was what he would comfort Beleg best.
“I teach others to understand the value of silence. It might do you some good.”
Beleg laughed and the rich sound lifted Mablung’s heart. Whatever burdens they might carry now, Mablung could bear them, as long as Beleg’s laughter echoed among the trees.
“I mean it, Beleg. In silence there is peace, in listening, reassurance the world continues.”
“Is this how you have always aided others? By telling them to shut up? You are worse at this than I remember.”
“Let me offer something better, then.”
He kissed him. Beleg tasted faintly of wine and Mablung suspected the cellar keepers would find some of their good vintage missing. He pressed Beleg back against one of the silvery beech trees, plundering his mouth as he melted to his command. Beleg had always taken the most comfort in physicality; in sex, yes, but even in the grounding feel of earth or water beneath his feet, or in the embrace of a companion. Sometimes, Mablung thought him to be more of the world than any of them, as a part of the wilds as the trees around them.
Beleg whined as he deepened the kiss further, tangling his hands in his dark hair and holding his head in place. Beleg pressed forward and Mablung obligingly lodged his knee firmly between his legs. Beleg ground down needily against it. All the world around them narrowed, all grief and foreboding were forgotten in the indulgences of senses.
One large hand left Beleg’s hair to slip up his tunic, his calloused fingers running over firm muscle. Though he was not as broad as Mablung himself, Beleg held just as much strength - and weakness too, as Mablung found the softly raised skin of an old scar and danced his feather-light touch over it. Beleg gasped and twisted beneath him.
“You taunt me.” he was flushed as red as a holly berry, breathless and starry eyed as he pulled back. “Fiend.”
“Distraction is a form of comfort, no?” Mablung laughed and before Beleg could make some sharp reply, he kissed him again, stroking his thumb across the same sensitive spot and feeling Beleg squirm and gasped. He wondered if he could bring him to completion just like this - but that would be for another time, when he was feeling cruel.
“Well, what have we here?” Thingol’s velvety tone caught them both by surprise, and Mablung quickly pulled away, almost instinctively standing upright and proud. Beleg remained slouched and grinned.
As ever, his clever tongue was ready.
“Mablung was giving me his good counsel, my lord. I recommend it; it is a balm to all wounds.” Oh, so now he had changed his tune!
Thingol laughed and loosened the collar of his robe.
“I am in need of counsel myself, good captains, if you are willing to give it.”
Mablung raised an eyebrow. It was not the first time Thingol had joined their games. Mablung recalled a particular occasion where one of their fellows had been so awed by the thought of their king joining them, he had swooned. But he had been Elwë then, unwed and unattached to outsiders, as all the wardens of Doriath must be.
“Will the queen not mind our enjoyment of what is hers?” Beleg sounded wary, though his erection had not flagged. He had always been nervous about Melian, a healthy fear of magic and sorcery, of eyes unseen.
“She need not concern herself with what a king does among his men.” Thingol declared.
“Perhaps she ought to,” Mablung replied, “I have heard some women like that.”
Beleg shuddered. “Please, I do not want to think about divine eyes on me. It is enough that Elbereth watches all. Practice the silence you preach, Mablung.”
“By the stars,” Thingol had removed his robe fully now, half naked before them. “I forgot how the two of you prattle on together. Let me find a better use for Beleg’s mouth.”
Both of them laughed. All would be well.
Under the stars in Brethil, F.A 472
It had all gone so terribly, horribly wrong.
War had raised its head again on the plains of Beleriand, but this time, the alliances of Elves and Men had been ready. Beleg and Mablung could not stand aside. They had imagined themselves as heroes. The pride of the Iathrim, coming with their gleaming spears to the aid of the Noldor armies. Though they were not here under their people’s banners, they represented the might of Doriath, and their arrival among the host of Fingon had been met with joy (and a little, well-intentioned, teasing) as a sign that there was hope still for friendship with the people of Thingol. Beleg had flirted with a handsome soldier from Barad Eithel and promised him a warm welcome in Dimbar, once the battle was won.
That welcome would never come. Beleg had watched, frozen with shock, as a traitor’s axe had cleaved his skull in twain. Beleg had avenged him at once, his spear lost now between those treacherous ribs, but it had quickly become clear the battle was lost. Death and anguish was thick in the air, the smell of blood and gore he would never get out of his nose, and the wailing of the wounded had chilled him. I could not help them. If he had stayed to aid the injured, he would be laying among the corpses now.
Neither of them were faithless. They had fought on, Mablung cutting a path through the forces of Angband to reach where Beleg had found good vantage. Three dozen arrows he had begun with, and by then he was scavenging. Soon it became clear that arrows would be of little more use. Without his spear, he had resorted to hacking at his foes with his knife. It might still have turned ill for him, if Mablung had not made it to him then. Side by side, they had prepared to make a last stand there, still believing that the tide could be turned, that if they died now, it would mean something.
Then a cry had risen above the din of battle. The High King was dead. A wave of darkest despair swallowed the Noldor forces. The final shield wall broke. Beleg knew then that all was lost – brave he might be, but he would not throw his life away. His eyes met Mablung’s and in wordless agreement, they abandoned their stand and fled.
It had not been a simple escape, and Mablung had caught a blow to his shoulder that had Beleg desperate to tend to him. There was no time for that; they had climbed over the dead and dying to escape, fleeing south to the hills and woodlands they knew best, until at last they came to the relative sanctuary of Brethil in the thick of night. The woods were still and silent. Beleg strained his senses, but he could not be completely certain they had not been followed.
As much as he wanted to, he knew they should not press on to Doriath now. Adrenaline faded, leaving only bone-deep exhaustion and sorrow. It would be a slog back to the safety of the Girdle, and they risked becoming careless in their tiredness. Better to rest now and let any pursuers lose track of them. Then, he could see to it that Mablung’s wound was healing right. He had made no complaint thus far, but the pain would be harder to ignore once they were settled in for the night.
The only problem was where. In other circumstances, both of them would happily sleep under the stars or take the time to construct suitable shelter. Now, the stars seemed cold and distant, and the thought of building had all Beleg’s limbs feeling heavy – he would not allow Mablung to help with his arm injured, no matter how he might insist. Of all the men Beleg had made warriors, over his long years, Mablung was his favourite, and Beleg would not let him put himself out of action by aggravating a wound. Nor would any of their fellows in Dimbar appreciate it. They were fond of Mablung’s arm. His eyes scanned the forest around them – aha!
Always look to the trees. They had been Beleg’s guide since he had first opened his eyes upon the world and they did not fail him now. A hollow trunk, just big enough for them and their weapons to squeeze inside. He could pull the rest of the branches over the hole, and they would be completely concealed from prying eyes.
“Here.” He pointed it out to him and Mablung snorted.
“We won’t fit.”
“We will. Get in, put your back to the wall.”
As Mablung awkwardly clambered into the hole, Beleg arranged the bent branches outside to make a rudimentary door, and then passed Belthronding and Mablung’s axe through to him. Once Mablung had settled them safely in the corner, Beleg assessed the situation.
It was very cramped. Mablung had to sit cross-legged, and with the weapons in the corner there was no space for Beleg. Admitting that, though, meant finding somewhere else, and worse, letting Mablung know he had been wrong. There was only one thing for it.
He climbed in and set himself on Mablung’s lap, straddling his waist. He’d slept in much worse places — Mablung at least was warm and soft, even if he smelt of blood and sweat. Beleg twisted to close the shelter behind him and then grinned.
“Cosy, isn’t it?”
Mablung did not smile back. His eyes were clouded with grief. “Are you going to sleep like that?”
“I don’t expect to be doing much sleeping. Let me see your shoulder.”
Mablung did not argue and Beleg peeled away the torn fabric of his tunic and unclasped the strap of his pauldron to have a better look. Mablung pulled a face as he prodded at it; it had stopped bleeding now, most of the blood around the wound dry and old, and Beleg was relieved to see it was already starting to scab and heal. Not as terrible nor as deep as he had first feared. Some of their luck remained.
“You are a lucky bastard, you know that? I could have sworn I saw the blade go right through you.”
“You were quite busy.I am not surprised it fooled you.”
Mablung still looked dour. Beleg pondered how he might console him, putting aside his own despair if he must: his cheerfulness had wrought smiles from the most despondent friends before.
“You are not yourself, Mablung.”
Mablung looked incredulous. “Do you think so? It is ruined, Beleg. You saw it; death will come for all that we love. There is no hope.”
“That is not certain.” Beleg argued, though he felt hopeless himself. But he knew he must not let that out; when Thingol had appointed him captain, he made his duty to lead and serve, and hopelessness served none but Morgoth.
“I must remind you,” he pressed a tender kiss to the hollow of Mablung’s throat and was rewarded by the subtle tilting of his neck, offering more. “That we are alive. Whatever hell emerged from the gates of Angband,” he shifted forward, wrapping his legs together around Mablung and pressing their groin’s together. “We survived it, and we shall beat it back.”
Nothing got his blood racing like near-death. Beleg had long held it was the most euphoric of sensations, which perhaps explained some of his perceived recklessness. Beleg, for his part, considered everything he did entirely reasonable.
He tugged at the laces of Mablung’s breeches. It was awkward, but he curled his hand around his cock and stroked him. Despite his unimpressed expression, Mablung’s true feelings were clear in the rapid hardening of his cock against Beleg’s hand.
“We are hardly fit for it, Beleg.” Mablung offered only a token protest; had he truly been against it, he would not be struggling to undo Beleg’s beeches in turn with his good arm. “We are filthy.”
“If all you offer is criticism, be silent, or I shall take my hands elsewhere.” Beleg felt his patience wane. He leaned against Mablung’s firm chest, pushing his hand away to free himself from his breeches. He wished he had something to slick his hand.
“Ow. Careful.” His movements had disturbed Mablung’s wound and began to bleed again. Beleg’s mind lighted upon an idea.
He dipped his fingers in the blood - it was not much, far from enough, but the sight of it on his fingers made his aching cock weep. Mablung must have thought similarly, as his moan was not pained, and his thick cock throbbed against Beleg’s palm.
“I know you, Mablung. You keep yourself too high-strung. You will rest better if thoroughly relieved of tension.”
“You should have been a healer. They would come to you from far and wide if they knew your methods.”
Beleg laughed, though it turned to a gasp as he took them both in hand, stroking them as one. The blood mingled with their pre-seed and sweat and his hand was soon slick. In silence he brought them both pleasure. What need was there for words between them? They knew each other as the Moon knew the stars, constant companions in all matters. beleg rolled his hips upwards, fucking into his own hand and bringing a delicious friction to them.
Their blood was still alight from battle and it was not long before Mablung’s breathing grew laboured, his good hand clawing at the dirt beneath them. Beleg did not relent, but increased the pressure of his hand, squeezing Mablung and bringing his thumb to tease the head of his cock. Another groan, so quiet that Beleg felt it rather than heard it, and Mablung’s seed was coating his hand as he went limp beneath him.
Beleg followed swiftly, delighting in the sight of seed and blood mixing on his hand and their laps. In body and battle, they were one.
He wiped his hand on the ground. There could be a thorough cleaning in the morning; they would want to wash the battle-grime from them before they reached the Girdle, if only to avoid worrying their fellows.
He leaned forward and settled once more against Mablung’s strong chest. Mablung bent his head to speak in his ear.
“Thank you, Beleg.”
He smiled to himself and closed his eyes. Not all was lost, as long as they had each other. Nothing would come between them.
On the marches of Dimbar, F.A 482
Beleg was not known for subtlety of words and Mablung was reminded keenly of this, when he presented their newest marchwarden to him half-clothed, almost a year from the day he had joined them in Dimbar.
“He is one of us, Mablung. Let him join in the bonds of warriors before him. You will find his vigour unmatched.” Beleg offered no further argument - Mablung knew he considered it obvious, and his disagreement would fall on stubborn ears.
“I am not certain of this. He is young, Beleg.”
“No younger than you were, in the span of his people’s years.”
“I am no child.” Túrin interjected, with the same unyielding tone as his mentor. As if to prove it, he turned suddenly, and wrenched Beleg towards him. He captured his mouth in a kiss, fingers tangled in Beleg’s hair to hold him still.
The sight stirred in Mablung the memory of his own initiation to the life of a warrior.
He’d sought Beleg out deliberately.
He had been easier to find than Mablung expected. Between searching for Elwë, as they had called him then, and meeting with the other leaders of their people, Beleg was often gone for long stretches of time, always returning with tales and spoils of his hunts. On that day, though, it seemed he had sought adventure closer to home, sitting beneath a willow tree in quiet contemplation. Mablung could recall the image perfectly; to this day he remained fond of willows.
He had called him Cúthalion then. He remembered the admonishment: “Come now, Mablung, I have known you since you barely outstripped a sapling, and our blood has mingled over many foes. Among brothers, Beleg is my name.”
He had wanted him. He had wanted to be him. He had wanted to learn everything Beleg had to teach - whether it was of woodcraft or of the body. Brothers in battle they might have been already, but Mablung had wanted a bond that was surer than blood. He had stated his desire plainly.
“It is not something I give lightly, Mablung.” Mablung felt his desire surge, both in memory and in the present. He heard Beleg’s sharp gasp as Túrin bent him to his will, holding him in place as he kissed him. No, Beleg had not given in to him so lightly - he remembered wrestling with him on that riverbank, rolling in the mud. Thrice Beleg had bested him, and bid him go, and thrice Mablung had argued, until on the fourth turn, Mablung had pinned him to the earth, and declared himself victor. The memory inflamed his desire, as did the memory of what had come after: how he had taken his pleasure from his comrade’s body for the first time, and understood how it bonded men together.
Túrin had stripped Beleg’s tunic from him. Mablung raised an eyebrow. Beleg was not the type to give control of himself up easily; Mablung suspected this was not the first time, though, and Túrin had ever been one to seize what he wanted. Why should he be different in this? I had wondered why they had become so well paired, once Túrin came out here. They were never so well aligned on the training ground.
That made his mind up for him. Túrin’s place among the marchwardens was uncontested. He was sharp in mind and his blade was swift, and he was as mighty as any elf Mablung and Beleg had trained — and he would be a good deal mightier, once his experience increased. Why deny him the purest bond of brotherhood?
“Very well, Túrin. If Beleg declares your swordarm strong, I believe him, but it is strength of will, not only hand, that makes a man a soldier.”
Túrin parted from Beleg; even more so than Mablung he was not the smiling kind, but the proud glint in his eye was enough to know he was pleased. Mablung took the chance to admire him properly.
He was of a height with Beleg, but seemed much larger, having filled out into broad shoulders and thick muscle, with a stern glance that made him look much older than his years. Mablung’s eyes traced the path of dark hair from his chest below his belt, thickening and curling.
Breaking free of Túrin’s grasp, Beleg sank to his knees and freed Túrin’s hard cock from his trousers. Mablung felt his own throb enviously. Túrin had more hair than an elf between his legs, more of the same thick dark curls. As Mablung took himself in hand, he watched Beleg first press his face to Túrin’s crotch, tonguing at his balls and the root of his cock before he drew back to take it in his mouth to the hilt — the lack of surprise or comment from either of them, and Túrin’s calm confidence in the proceedings, confirmed to Mablung that either they had planned this more thoroughly than they let on or this was not Túrin’s first induction into manhood. They do say young Men are incorrigible and Beleg has never been able to deny him.
Beleg swallowed him with practiced ease, looking up at Túrin with an expression that would surely melt even Bauglir himself. Mablung and Túrin groaned in unison at the sight. Túrin cast his head back, steadying himself with one hand fisted in Túrin’s hair. Mablung could bear watching no longer; it was not his usual way of things, to move so swiftly and eagerly, but these were surely exceptional circumstances.
Mablung stepped behind Túrin, his arms slung around his waist to pull the young man against his chest. Túrin’s skin was blazing with lust, and Mablung sucked a bruise to his shoulder, brushing his face against the stubble on his jaw and throat. The sharp friction went straight to his cock. Oh, he could see why so many proclaimed the benefits of a beard.
“Son of Húrin,” he grunted, pressing himself against Túrin’s shapely arse. “Do you swear yourself to be a warden of Doriath? Do you swear to forgo all comforts of civilisation, and devote yourself to the sword?”
Túrin was not a man of many words at the best of times, and he struggled to speak now, his eyes wide and dark as Beleg pleasured him. But after a gasping breath, he found his voice. “I swear it.”
Mablung tapped Beleg on the cheek and he pulled himself from Túrin’s cock with an obscene sound. Mablung held out two fingers and Beleg dutifully sucked on them, thoroughly tending to each digit, until both of them were satisfied with their slickness. Mablung pressed them to Túrin’s hole in a silent question.
“The bonds forged in battle are deep, but a man fights best when he knows his comrades as he knows himself.” Túrin pushed back against him and Mablung wondered if this too was not new to him. A question for later. He pressed his fingers inside and Túrin groaned, a deep rumble of his chest. “To know a brother’s body is to know his strength and his weakness, to know his mind - to make you one in battle as you are in bed.”
“Mablung, is now the time for lessons? Fuck me already.”
Mablung would admit he was in no mood for patience either. He laughed and withdrew his fingers, replacing them with the head of his cock. As he sank himself inside Túrin’s tight heat, he moaned and pressed his forehead to his shoulder. Túrin made a guttural whine - Beleg had taken him in his mouth again.
A deep breath, the shift of Túrin’s hips in his hands and he was fully seated. For one moment, all was still in the forest.
Then Túrin swore and rocked his hips, torn between twin pleasures, and the spell was broken.
Mablung and Beleg worked in perfect rhythm here, just as they did in battle. The two were not so different. Mablung fucked Túrin with strong, purposeful thrusts, forcing him deeper into the warmth of Beleg’s clever mouth.
It could not last long. Mablung felt the tightening in his belly, the heat of lust overwhelming him, the pounding of his blood in his ears. He bent Túrin forward, bracing himself on the tree behind Beleg. He fucked him without care for gentleness or inexperience - or indeed for Beleg, who he heard gasping and around Túrin’s cock.
“See,” he said in Túrin’s ear, “how your strength overwhelms him?”
Túrin only groaned in response. Mablung shifted, and the new angle brought a strangled cry from Túrin, who tightened and stiffened around and beneath him as he spilled down Beleg’s throat. Ah well, we will build his stamina yet.
Beleg swallowed his seed with a blissful expression and as he withdrew from Túrin’s cock Mablung saw he had brought himself off by hand already, the sly bastard.
Now heedless of either of them, Mablung chased his own relief, relishing how Túrin greedily drew him in. He saw no reason now to hold himself back, and a few moments later he spilled inside Túrin with a grunt, eyes closed as he let the sweet relief wash over him. He released a deep breath, muscles relaxing as he slowly withdrew and stepped back to catch his breath - though he was not nearly as spent as Túrin, who seemed rather dazed.
Túrin had dropped to the floor with shaking legs, and slumped back on the grass, fully spent and content for the moment. Beleg cleaned his face with his discarded tunic, before stretching out beside his protégé and closing his eyes. One round would not exhaust him, but Beleg always liked to bask in his accomplishments.
Mablung was neither as easily tired nor as vain, and he ventured away to the stream to clean himself off. The bond of brothers in arms was not easily broken. A shadow passed over the clearing as Mablung looked back. Was it right, to induct into the hard and lonely life of a warrior, a man who would pass from it before others were even grown? There was much Túrin might miss — a spouse, children, peace. Was he too young to make that choice for himself?
Mablung had always feared mingling with Men would bring only grief and despair.
He thought of all he knew of him: as cold and stern as his mother, as fierce as his father. No, Túrin belonged among them. What faithless companions would they be, if they turned him away on what might never be? He was as much a warrior as any marchwarden, for all his youth and mortality. He could make his choices, and they would guide him if they could.
The clouds passed.
Mablung rejoined his companions.