he’s not wrong. Túrin knows it, but much sooner would bite his own tongue off, than admit it. he may have escaped death when he turned his back on Doriath; escaped it some more when crossing blades with orcs time and time again, relentlessly hunting Morgoth’s servants wherever he went. and if none of that killed him, the seemingly everlasting, cruel WINTER on Amon Rûdh might yet Túrin is one of the few men who has not fallen ill with fever and cough, threatening to burst his lungs.
( Túrin, too, is the ONLY one ever so glad to see Beleg once again )
❝no need to sound so offensively surprised, my friend.❞ it’s a JEST, no more. accompanied by a hint of a smirk half hidden behind a gloved hand. glad he is too about the fire warming his frozen limbs, the quiet cracking of the flame distracting him from the occasional, suffering moan from one of the men slowly withering in makeshift beds. Beleg’s HEALING hands may yet save them all, still Túrin doubts they would trust the elf any more come spring.
A chuckle follows his friend’s words, a tilt of his head to the side as if the amusement of Túrin’s words were to entertain him. It was certain that Túrin being alive was indeed a miracle, with his so called luck, Beleg remained surprised ( but also relieved to see his best friend alive and well ). It had been a long, long time, since he had last seen him and now it was not as concerning as Beleg believed it would be.
Despite all the men, that were tended by the Elf which would allow them to live and resist the illness that would certainly kill them, he was quite content to be here with his best friend once more.
❝How can I not?❞ Beleg allowed a smile to grace his fair countenance, amusement evident in his words. ❝Of all the men that fell ill, you are the only one is not… as if the illness itself is avoiding you.❞ there was a mockery tone, yet, nothing that Túrin was not used to. Beleg had learned such behavior from himself but it was far from being harmful.