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What will you do, after me? Túrin once asked, unspooling the measure of Beleg’s life. It stretched beyond him in either direction, starlit at both ends; his own mortal death would be ballad-worthy, so Túrin imagined.
Ah, Beleg scoffed. Cheerful, as always!
Túrin grinned, arrayed in youth.
Now in crashing madness, he hears laughter from the corpse’s lips, and Beleg half-winks at him through unseeing milk-film eyes. In monochrome, lit stark by bleached lightning: his black blade sheathed in body and bone.
I will weep, Beleg answered. And I will carry you with me, until the edge of the world.