第 113 页

Oromë started to speak again, his voice sharp with concern, but Mablung had been turning around scanning the room, half convinced he’d find what he was looking for despite all evidence to the contrary.

“Where’s Beleg?” he demanded now, striding across the room. “He never goes anywhere without you, it’s why we’re here, isn’t it? So where is he? Are they keeping him somewhere else? Did you ditch him somewhere?” Oromë reached out and laid a hand on Mablung’s shoulder, and Mablung stilled, quieting only slightly.

“Mablung, he’s not here, Tulkas said it was just – ”

Mablung ignored him, still watching Túrin fixedly. “If we bail you out you can show us where he is, so don’t be an idiot, Turambar.”

Túrin made a noise that sounded at first like a laugh, until his voice broke on a rough sob. “No bail!” he cried again, his voice higher and out of control. “No bail, you have to leave me here, no, don’t you dare – ” This as Oromë stepped closer, and Túrin staggered back and grabbed ahold of the cell’s sink. “You can’t take me out of here!”

“You’re safe now,” said Oromë soothingly. “We won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“Hurt me? Hurt me! God, god, that’s a laugh, I wish you could hurt me, but that never seems to happen, no, instead – Instead – ”

“You don’t need to be a martyr, Túrin,” said Oromë. “We know you’ve been through a lot, but don’t refuse help just because you feel you don’t deserve it. That does no one any good in the long run.”

“I do no good,” muttered Túrin. “No good, no good….”

Mablung gave up on patience and pulled away from Oromë’s restraining hand. “Fine, whatever, be guilty. Be a martyr, stay in there forever, I don’t care, but tell us! Tell me! Where is Beleg?” He grabbed ahold of the bars, his eyes fixed on Túrin’s listing figure.

“He’s gone.” Túrin laughed again, and sobbed, and raised his stained hands. “He’s not coming back. I didn’t mean to!”

“What does that mean?” Mablung hung onto the bars like he could tug them apart if he tried hard enough, his knuckles white.

Oromë whispered, “Not coming – ?”

“Gone,” said Túrin, in the most matter of fact tone they’d yet heard from him. “Like it sounds.” He raised his hand to his throat and drew a shaky line across it as tears rolled down his cheeks, cutting tracks in what they now recognized as dried blood and dirt.

In the dead silence that followed as Oromë’s hands dropped to his sides and Mablung staggered like he’d been struck, Túrin’s voice rose again in an inhuman, agonized howl. “I didn’t mean to. But I killed him. I killed him.”

Chapter End Notes

1. Listen, I blame the source material.

Off in the red, dance dance with the dead

Chapter Summary

The sky is falling – symbolically for some, literally for others.

Chapter Notes

0. Posting this just a smidge early as the world's tiniest apology for the three week wait <3

1. The first section includes descriptions of violence and some bloodiness. The second section includes DIY and Curufin being suspiciously complimentary. Tonal whiplash is my middle name.

2. A/N: I have never read an actual police report.

Gwindor was painfully aware of how green he was.

His uniform was still uncomfortably starched, his boots squeaked when he walked, and his badge was so embarrassingly shiny it looked like he’d bought it at the dollar store. His brother sometimes joked that he looked like a kid stuffed into a cop costume for Halloween. “Fuck you, Gel,” he’d say, on his way out the door, as Gelmir chortled into his shredded wheat.

“Sorry, officer,” Gelmir would respond with insincere repentance from behind the cereal bowl, and then, apparently unable to resist, “Don’t tase me, bro!”

“That joke is almost ten years old,” Gwindor would yell back over his shoulder.

“And in that uniform, you look almost eleven.”

In addition to the requisite mockery, Gwindor was prepared for a steep learning curve. He was prepared for hard work and long nights and challenges at every turn. He was prepared to face the unexpected and outré; prepared for the nightmare stories of the grisly and grotesque they had absorbed with such eagerness at the Academy. He was beyond ready, he told himself – and then slightly disappointed when the first weeks of policing seemed so utterly mundane. Boring, even. Jaywalking citations and traffic stops and paperwork in disturbing quantities... Let something happen already.

When something finally did, he realized he was just as stupid as all of Gelmir’s teasing would suggest.

Learning curve, hell – for all his champing at the bit, it transpired that he was wholly unprepared for a wild-eyed and filthy young man bursting into the station at four in the morning and confessing to the murder of his best friend.

But Gwindor would eat his own badge before he would show it. He was going to sit calmly and take this madman’s – civilian’s statement as procedure dictated. Even though the alleged murderer had a thousand-yard stare that make Gwindor’s spine prickle, and even though his hands were still crusted with his victim’s blood – alleged victim’s blood, Gwindor amended diligently. No, Gwindor would take notes with a steady hand that did not waver when the alleged murderer described, in a low and rasping voice, the warm taste of his friend’s blood in his mouth. Instead he would ask, in a voice that did not waver or betray judgment, “And why were you tasting your friend’s blood?”

Red-rimmed grey eyes bored into him, nearly as disconcerting as the stained hands. “It was in his mouth.”

“So your mouth was – ”

“On his.” A rattling inhale came from across the table. “I was trying… I was trying to get him breathing again.” The grey eyes shut briefly. “He wasn’t moving. Not even his tongue. Not even when I – ” The eyes opened again but the voice ground down to almost nothing. “I had to spit it out after.”

“You spat out his…blood.” Gwindor felt a flicker of pride that his poker face held. “Okay. What then?”

“Then I pulled the knife from between his ribs.”

One of Gwindor’s shoulders twitched involuntarily and he tried to turn it into a casual rolling out of his arm.

The boy stared across the table, eyes unfocused. “I shouldn’t have. That’s when it started to whistle.”

“The – ”

“The wound.” The boy’s hands spasmed, and the handcuffs securing his wrists to the table rattled. “Air was rushing out of it, like, like a punctured tire. The knife had been sealing the hole in his lungs, I think, but I thought it might be a good sign, that there was air in his lungs.” The handcuffs rattled once more then stilled. “It wasn’t.”

Gwindor kept his eyes fixed on his notepad, after that.

When Tulkas asked for his report, Gwindor handed it over with a mixture of apprehension and pride, and then beat a hasty retreat. He had no desire to be close to the prisoner again, especially since he had begun to let out a low, throbbing moan that echoed horribly off the walls. As soon as his shift was over he went home, ignoring the curious questions his brother called after him, ignoring the repeated knocks on the bathroom door, and stood in the shower until the hot water ran out, scrubbing at his arms and hands as if they were as filthy as the suspect’s, even though they had barely touched.

He couldn’t get the memory of the horror of Túrin Turambar off his skin.

-

Background : Suspect [originally gave his name as Neithan; later confirmed as Túrin Turambar, file 499] states that since June 2015 he had been engaged with the Gaurwaith gang out of Brethil, the suburb northwest of Doriath. Turambar describes a shift in power taking place in subsequent months: frequent conflicts with the gang’s previous leader, and an increasing division of loyalty within the group. This leader – whom our intelligence on the Gaurwaith confirms as Forweg 'The Wolf' of Brethil, file 485 – was eventually ousted, and Turambar took over nominal control of the group in autumn 2015. However, due to the appearance of an acquaintance of his [Beleg Cúthalion, see file 489] suspicion once again fell upon Turambar’s trustworthiness, and his control over the other members of the Gaurwaith became increasingly tenuous. It seems that a common feeling was that Cúthalion was either a ‘narc’ or an interloper from a Sindarin gang, and Turambar’s trust in him cast doubts on both their loyalties.

Turambar references numerous incidents where violence against Cúthalion’s person was only averted due to his intervention, and Cúthalion was assaulted at least once in Turambar’s absence. After this, they were rarely out of each other’s company in the interest mutual protection, though Turambar’s fury after the attack on Cúthalion appeared to have had a subduing effect on the others. Later, after an incident in which Cúthalion was able to administer first aid to an injured gang member, he was treated with less open hostility, and it was this that led Turambar to believe that the two of them were in relatively safe standing.

Incident : On the day in question, Cúthalion departed on an errand, the nature of which Turambar does not specify. Shortly thereafter, members of a rival gang led a concerted attack on the so-called safe house in which Turambar, Cúthalion, and the other Gaurwaith had been residing. Turambar states that during this attack, other members of the Gaurwraith were suddenly and conspicuously absent, and the ease with which their rivals located the safe house led him to suspect a betrayal. Alone, he was cornered in a room in the house and beaten.

[Note: At the time of his statement, Turambar refused medical examination and treatment. After the arrival of Turambar’s contacts, Aldaron and Lungumá, and at the urging of the former, the suspect consented to medical examination and it was determined that he had injuries consistent with a beating, including two cracked ribs, a mild concussion, and a badly bruised patella.]

Turambar states that he fought back at first but after briefly losing consciousness, ‘curled up and let them at it.’ He further states he is not sure how much time elapsed, but when he woke, he was in a dark house, apparently alone, and handcuffed to a radiator. He either lost consciousness or fell asleep once or twice more following this realization, but when he woke a second time [unable to pinpoint exact time, as his watch was broken and his phone taken], he became aware of another person in the room bending over him with a sharp object. He identified this object as a knife from the way it glinted in the light of a passing car. Turambar then became convinced that one or another gang member had returned to ‘finish the job’ and he determined to ‘go down fighting.’ Seizing his assailant’s arm, he managed to wrench the knife from him and turn it against his presumed attacker. Turambar’s assault was apparently successful, as he reports feeling his ‘hand drenched in something hot’, and heard the other give a gasp or cry. When Turambar managed to sit up and orient himself, he realized that the figure before him was none other than his previously mentioned friend and associate, Beleg Cúthalion, with ‘a knife buried to the hilt under his ribs, and blood everywhere.’

[At this point while giving his statement, the suspect became agitated, and began to wrench at his handcuffs, saying ‘Oh god, oh god, so much blood, it was all over him, it was all over me, it wouldn’t stop.’ The officer taking his statement was first concerned he was trying to break free, and then that he was trying to hurt himself, but it became clear Turambar was trying to claw the dried blood off his hands. He was further restrained, but when he was offered the opportunity to clean up after samples and pictures were taken, he refused.]

When the suspect was able to continue, he said that he did not know how much time passed, but that he at once seized the victim and attempted mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, not knowing if the victim was breathing or not. After several breaths and a lack of response from the victim, he pulled the knife from the victim, which resulted in what appears to be a sucking chest wound [suspected punctured lung]. He was able to use the murder weapon to pick the handcuffs restraining him – the same task, he posits, that the victim was attempting when Turambar first awoke. He then attempted to administer first aid to the victim again, trying to staunch the bleeding and the wound, and once again applying CPR, though he had to keep stopping to spit out blood from the victim’s mouth.

It was at this time that his former allies, the Gaurwaith, reappeared. Turambar states that he clutched the body of his victim in a defensive attitude, holding Cúthalion to his chest. Apparently dismayed by the sight of the victim and the amount of blood – including the blood dripping from Turambar’s mouth – the new witnesses to the scene grew agitated, yelling and threatening the suspect, who had the murder weapon in hand and was using it in an attempt to ‘keep them away from Beleg.’ But after hearing repeated shouts of what the suspect recounts as, ‘He killed him! Jesus Christ, the psycho,’ along with less audible discussion along the lines of ‘If he killed his own friend what do you think he will do to us,’ the suspect finally fled, seeing several of the gang members reaching for weapons of their own.

Despite his consternation at abandoning the body of his friend, Turambar wandered the streets for an indeterminate amount of time, until he saw the lights of a police station [Dorthonion Precinct 216]. This is when he decided to turn himself in and came into the station around 4:03 am, where his statement was taken by Officer Gwindor Guilinion.

-

Tulkas sighed and rubbed at his forehead, the file spread out before him. Even though he’d already read it twice now, Oromë took the papers from Tulkas again and flipped though the notes on Túrin’s medical condition, a description of the knife and other evidence in custody, and a note to check all local hospitals and morgues for a possible John Doe.

“He’s not a John Doe,” said Mablung hoarsely, speaking for the first time in an hour. “He’s Beleg.”

“We know,” said Oromë quietly, setting down the papers and resting a hand on Mablung’s knee. “But if someone brought him in and he’s not conscious or with any identification on him, he’d probably be listed as a John Doe, it’s just how they’d process it. So in order to look for him, they’re going to be looking for all unidentified… patients.”

Mablung turned his face away and tightened his hands into fists. It had been hours now, but Túrin’s words still seemed to ring in the air around them.

I killed him. I killed him.

At first, Oromë had thought he would have to physically restrain Mablung from lunging at Túrin, even through the bars of the cell, but Mablung had stayed strangely still in the aftermath of Túrin’s confession. His arms hung loosely at his side, and it wasn’t until Oromë touched his shoulder that he moved, jerking back.

“It’s not true,” he said. “He’s lying.”

“Mablung – ”

“It can’t be true. That can’t be what happened. That is so stupid, that does not get to be how – Beleg doesn’t deserve such – He’s wrong.”