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Dramatis Personae (in order of appearance): Minstrel -Martin Shaw Lalaith (Urwen), younger sister of Túrin Morwen, wife of Húrin, mother of Túrin -Natascha McElhone, or Kate Winslet Húrin, Lord of the Men of Dor-lómin -Gabriel Byrne, appearing courtesy Man in the Iron Mask Sador Labadal, lame servant of the House of Húrin, friend of Túrin -Sir Ian Holm, from Chariots of Fire Morgoth, the Lord of Fetters, imprisons Húrin Beleg Cúthalion, march-warden of Thingol, the Strongbow, best friend of Túrin Elu Thingol, King of Doriath -Jeremy Irons Melian, Queen of Doriath, wife of Thingol -Emma Thompson Mablung, the Heavy-Handed, companion of Beleg, friend of Túrin -Johnny Depp, from Finding Neverland Nellas, elf of Doriath, who befriends Túrin Saeros, Elf of Doriath, councilor to King Thingol -Richard Armitage, from North and South Túrin Turambar, Neithan, Gorthol, Agarwaen, Adanedhel, Mormegil, Thurin; son of Húrin and Morwen -Hugh Jackman, from Kate and Leopold Gwindor, escaped thrall of Angband, saves Túrin in Taur-nu-Fuin -Callum Blue, from The Princess Diaries II Nienor Níniel, daughter of Húrin and Morwen, sister of Túrin -Jill Paice, from The Woman in White Orodreth, king of Nargothrond -Jude Law, from Gattaca, Cold Mountain Finduilas, daughter of Orodreth, engaged to Gwindor -Julie Depardieu, from Le Comte de Monte Cristo Celebrimbor, son of Curufin, smith in Nargothrond Voice of Glaurung -Martin Shaw Aerin, kinswoman of Húrin, wife of Brodda, helps Morwen and Nienor Brodda, Easterling who takes control of the land of Dor-lómin once Húrin is gone -John Rhys-Davies Dorlas, woodman of Brethil (the people of Brandir) Brandir, the lame lord of the people of Brethil, the Haladin; second cousin of Túrin -Ewan McGregor
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Iron Flame The Story of Túrin Turambar
From J.R.R. Tolkien’s Narn i Chîn Húrin and The Silmarillion __________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
PROLOGUE Minstrel: [voice over all:] Long ago, in the First Age of Middle-earth the Dark Lord Morgoth, the Black Foe, dwelt in the North, and his great fortress Angband was impregnable to the forces of the Elves, which dwelt all about his gates and down into Beleriand, the land all South of it. Fingon, High King of the Noldorin Elves, and Elu Thingol, King of all the Sindarin Elves, as well as the other cities and strongholds in Beleriand of Elves, Men, and Dwarves, fought ever against him. And Fingon, and his cousin Maedhros, another lord of the Elves, sought counsel together to decide what course they should take to counter the malice of Morgoth, for his power had spread all down the Northlands. [Scene: Two tall Elves sit together at a table at the end of a long hallway. The hall is beautifully made, and like a strong tall fortress. Its walls are made of marble, and upheld by carven marble pillars. The floor is made of many different hues of stone fit together, and on the walls are many images painted and carven in bright colours: the image of many people standing outside together, at a great feast, of a tall man with dark hair riding on his silver horse towards the dark gates of the Dark Lord’s fortress, a mural of the Sun and Moon and their courses around the Earth. The table is set on a shelf above the rest of the hall. Both men seated there are tall and very strong (obviously warriors). They are looking at a map (which you can see here). One, with long dark hair, with braids plated with gold, is sitting on the right, and points up to the North East of the map, speaking to the other.] Fingon: You see, Maedhros, if you and your brothers proceed up Lothlann, I and my troops, and the Men of Húrin’s lordship, may come from Dor-lómin in the West. [The other, a tall Elf with short hair the hue of reddish rust, nods, and extends his left arm to point at the map (his right arm is resting on the table, and one may see that he has no right hand.] Maedhros: Thus we will crush the forces of Morgoth as between the anvil and the hammer. And Húrin will come, you say, from Dor-lómin? Fingon: Indeed. Maedhros: The strength of Men may help us in the times. And I have the houses of Bór, and Ulfang, to aid me. [There is a knock on the door at the other end of the hallway. A servant enters and announces:] Servant: Lord Húrin, son of Galdor, my King. [A Man enters behind him, rather short and stocky, but this comes all from muscle. He has golden hair that comes down to just below his shoulders. He walks down the hall and the two Elves rise as he reaches the end of it. Húrin bows to his knees at the step but Fingon comes down to him.] Fingon: Nay, Húrin, you need not bow to me. Come. [He walks up the step and the three stand together around the table looking at the map.] We have been discussing our plan for the great battle that we shall wage against the Lord of Fetters. Maedhros: I feel we may have revealed our strength too soon, and thus we must prepare all the more for this stroke. Húrin: [nods] Even so, Lord. We must beware the guile of Morgoth, whose strength is always greater than it seems, and his purpose other than he reveals. [Scene fades.]
Act I – Dor-lómin
SCENE I [The words come up on the dark screen: Iron Flame The Story of Túrin Turambar From J.R.R. Tolkien’s Narn i Hîn Húrin and The Silmarillion Darkness fades to a bright green dell, with trees scattered about it. In the rear is a wooden house, with several windows facing the dell, and at the other side is a small streams that runs gurgling by. All around there are signs of wildlife: butterflies, birds chirping, crickets; there are servants walking about doing their different duties, and by the river there runs a small girl, perhaps three years old, of yellow hair. She is laughing as she plays in the water. Several feet away behind a tree sits a small boy, six to seven years old, watching her very carefully, but does not take part in her games. His eyes are sharp and pensive, and his hair is dark. After a moment, a female voice calls from the house:] Túrin! Lalaith! Come inside for supper! [Only then does the boy go over to the girl, and takes her hand, and they run into the house together.] [Scene change: inside the house, in the dining room, which has pieces of art and ornaments hung about, and seats and books on shelves on the side. In the center is a wooden table, where the boy, girl, and a woman sit. She is very tall, and slender, with long dark hair. It is very clear that this is the most beautiful of all mortal women. Then she speaks to them.] Morwen: [calmly:] Children, your father is returning home within the next week. [Lalaith, the girl, claps her hands and laughs joyfully. Túrin smiles happily.] Túrin: [excited:] Oh, mother, will the Elf King come to us too? Will he come back with Father? Morwen: Do not worry about those things, Túrin my son. You are a Man and not an Elf, and should not wish to be other than you are. [Later that evening, as the sun is setting, Túrin runs out from the house with something in his hand, towards the trees, where there is a workshop/shed under the shade of the boughs. He slowly creaks the door open and creeps in silently. A man, probably in his forties, is sitting in a chair, whittling a large piece of wood before him that looks suspiciously like a great chair for a hall. One of the man’s legs is shrunken and small, and has no foot; and a crutch lies by him on the floor.] Túrin: Labadal! Look what I found for you today! [The man smiles.] Sador: You were the only one ever to call me “Hopafoot,” but I do not take it ill, for I know you mean well. Come, what is it you have to show me? [Túrin comes forward and hands him a piece of shiny cloth, that looks like silk.] Where did you find this? Túrin: By the shed near the servants’ quarters. Sador: [hands it back to him slowly, with a smile:] You are kind, Túrin, and you should give with a free hand, but give only your own. Minstrel: In the autumn of that year there came an ill wind from the North under leaden skies. The Evil Breath it was called, for it was pestilent; and many sickened and died during the fall of that year in the northern lands, and they were for the most part the children or the rising youth in the houses of Men. [Scene: Túrin lies on his bed, wandering in a dark dream. He sees nothing in his sleep, but the Dark Fortress before him, and at last awakens, to find a nurse bending over him.] Nurse: Oh, bless him, he awakes at last! Túrin: [sleepily:] What happened? Nurse: You have been sick for many days, Túrin. Túrin: Where is Lalaith? I wish to see her. [The nurse stops her work for a moment, then hastily begins again.] Nurse: [softly, looking down:] Speak no more of Lalaith, son of Húrin; but of your sister Urwen you must ask tidings of your mother. Túrin: Will you ask my mother to come to me? Nurse: [softly:] Of course, dear. [Túrin lies in bed for a minute while the nurse leaves, and a moment later Morwen comes in the door, and sits beside him on the bed, stroking the hair away from his forehead.] Túrin: Mother, I am no longer sick and I wish to see Urwen; but why must I not say Lalaith any more? Morwen: [softly:] Because Urwen is dead, and Laughter is stilled in this house. But you live, son of Morwen; and so does the Enemy who has done this to us. [Túrin does not say anything, but rolls over in his bed and faces the wall. Morwen sits by him and strokes his hair for a few moments, then slowly gets up and goes out. Then Túrin buries his head in his pillow and begins to cry.] [Scene switch: Túrin is becoming better: he looks less pale, and can sit up. The Nurse stands by his bed and helps him up. He leans on her arm and she helps him out of his room into the main living room. Morwen and Húrin both sit there together, and Húrin has a harp on his knee. They are both speaking together quietly, and do not see Túrin as he is coming in through the door. He stops for a moment, and can hear a bit of their conversation:] Húrin: Fair as an Elf child was Lalaith, but briefer, alas! And so fairer, maybe, or dearer. [Then the nurse helps Túrin through the door, and both his parents look up at him. Morwen sits still and does not show any emotion, but Húrin gets up, setting his harp on the table, and comes towards Túrin with his arms open. He is close to tears:] My son! Heir of the House of Hador! How much better you look! Come, come here. [The Nurse lets go of him, and he comes over into Húrin’s embrace.] Túrin: [crying slightly:] Father! You are home! Húrin: Yes, my son. I will not leave you for any long period of time again. Do not fear. Come, sit with us. [Morwen smiles at him as Húrin helps him sit down at a chair by the table. Húrin picks up his harp again and begins to pluck at the strings, and tries to sing, although his tears hinder him:] Lalaith, my Laughter, as light as the spring, My daughter, my… my … [He breaks down and cannot sing any more.] I … can make no song about her. The sorrow is too deep. [Morwen looks at him sadly but does not speak. Húrin takes up his harp and breaks it on his knee. It snaps in half. Túrin looks surprised, and upset, but doesn’t speak.] All songs fail when I try to mourn her. [He stands up and goes over to the window, looking out towards the North, and the great mountains that lie many leagues away. He holds up his fist and shakes it at them, crying:] Marrer of Middle-earth, would that I might see thee face to face, and mar thee as my lord Fingolfin did! [Looking back at his son.] It is all right, Túrin. I am not angry. You live yet, my son, and so I cannot mourn overmuch. [It is evening. Túrin slips out of the house again, seeking the workshop in the woods. He finds Sador working in there again.] Sador: Ah! It is good to see that you are out of bed, Túrin! Are you feeling better? [Túrin does not answer right away, then he says:] Túrin: [slowly:] Labadal, was Lalaith really like an Elf-child, as my father said? I have never seen any Elves. And what did he mean, when he said that she was – briefer? Sador: [looks at him thoughtfully for a moment, then says slowly:] She was very like, for in their first youth the children and Men and Elves seem very alike. But the children of Men grow more swiftly, and their youth passes soon. Such is our fate. Túrin: [looks at him in confusion] What is fate, Labadal? Sador: [slowly:] As to the fate of Men, you must ask those wiser than Labadal. But we weary soon and die; and by mischance may meet death even sooner. But the Elves do not weary, and they do not die save by great hurt. It is not so with us. Túrin: [looks distressed] Then Lalaith will not come back? Where has she gone? Sador: [shakes his head sadly] She will not come back. But where she has gone no man knows; or I do not. Túrin: [trying to understand:] Has it always been like that? Or is it some evil curse of the Dark King? Like the Evil Breath that made Lalaith and me sick. Sador: I do not know. The fathers of our fathers may know, but they do not tell. They fled in fear from the Lord of the Dark, and their lives and even their names are forgotten. Túrin: [standing up straight and tall and sticking out his chest with pride] We are not afraid any more. Not all of us. My father is not afraid, and I won’t be; or at least, as my mother, I will be afraid and not show it. Sador: [looks sad; aside:] The child sees deeply; but grief is a hone to a hard mind. [looking up at Túrin:] Son of Húrin and Morwen, how it will be with your heart Labadal cannot guess; but seldom and to few will you show what it is. Túrin: [thoughtfully:] Well, maybe it’s better to not tell what I wish, if I cannot have it. But I wish , Labadal, that I were an Elf. Then Lalaith would come back, and I should be here, even if she were away for a long time. I will go as a soldier to an Elf-king one day soon, as you did, Labadal. As soon as I can. My father loves them, and he is not happy without them. He says that we have learned nearly all that we know from them, and have been made a nobler people. Sador: Perhaps he is right. I hope that that will prove true in the great battle that is to come. Túrin: What great battle? Sador: The battle that the great Elf-king Fingon is waging, and the other Elven-lords. Túrin: [proudly, but questioning:] And my father will go? Sador: I believe so. Túrin: [thoughtfully:] He said he would not leave me again for any long time. Sador: [smiles] I think you need not fear for that. The armies are great, and all the leaders have high hopes. Túrin: [certainly:] They will never overcome my father. He is the greatest warrior! [The camera now goes back to the house, and to Morwen and Húrin, who are sitting at the table together still, talking. Morwen is knitting something in her lap. Húrin is talking animatedly.] Húrin: I have great hopes, Morwen, for the battle that is to come. And I have a secret hope that even King Turgon will come, from the Hidden Kingdom, that none knows where it lies. Morwen: [looking at him under her eyelashes] Yet you know, or could guess, Húrin. Húrin: The name has never passed my lips. Morwen: No. [long pause] Húrin: [suddenly, as if a sudden thought:] When I am summoned, Morwen Eledhwen, I shall leave in your keeping our son, the heir of the House of Hador. The lives of Men are short, and in them are many ill chances, even in times of peace. Morwen: [seriously:] That has ever been so. But what do you mean? Húrin: [looks troubled:] I speak only in prudence; one who looks ever ahead must see that things will not remain as they were, whatever the outcome of the battle. This will be a great throw, and one side must fall lower than it now stands. If the Elven-kings fall, then the outcome will be evil for Men. But if things do go ill, I will not say, Do not fear! For your fear that which you should fear; but Do not wait! If I do not return, you must depart swiftly from this land. Morwen: [if troubled she does not show it:] Whither should I flee? Húrin: [pondering:] There is my mother’s people in the forest of Brethil. [pause] Morwen: You do not speak of Gondolin, the Hidden City of Turgon. [pause] Húrin: [sighs] The word is true that you have heard. I have been there. But I tell you truly: I do not know where it stands. Morwen: [persisting:] But you guess, and guess near, I think. Húrin: [reluctant:] Maybe. But unless King Turgon himself releases me from my oath, I could not tell that guess, even to you. [pause: a blocked gate that way. Morwen tries another route:] Morwen: Then if your kin are not hopeful, or your friends deny me, what of the Elven King Thingol of Doriath? His daughter’s husband is Beren, my kinsman. Surely he would not send us away? Húrin: Some shadow falls on my spirit when Doriath is named. Morwen: As on mine when you spoke of Brethil. [pause. Suddenly Húrin laughs and leaps up from his chair.] Húrin: [chuckling:] Here we are discussing dark things that come but of a dream! Things will not go so ill. But if they do, do not wait for me! [Scene switch: Túrin lying in bed in the dark of night, wakes up, and sees a shadow before his bed. Looking up, he sees by his bedside his mother and father standing over him, looking at him fondly, with a candle in their hands.] [Scene: a bright morning outside Húrin’s house, like in the beginning of scene one. A host of fifty men stand near the house on horses, and all clad in mail that shines like silver. All the men have light hair, and many of them have a shining golden hair. They wear helms and have long spears and a blue and silver crest on the shoulders of their cloaks. Húrin stands at the head of them, and Morwen and Túrin (looking slightly older, perhaps seven or eight) stand beside him. Húrin lifts up Túrin on his shoulders.] Húrin: [shouts out to his men:] Let the heir of the House of Hador see the light of your swords! [All fifty men draw their swords and hold them up above their heads, and they glitter piercingly, painfully bright in the sun light. Then all the men cry as one together:] All Men: Lacho calad! Drego Morn! Flame Light! Flee Night! [Then Húrin sets Túrin on the ground, and hands him something. It looks like a small knife set in a silver sheath with runes and pictures graven on it.] Túrin: [looks up at his father:] What is it, Father? Is this for me? Húrin: Yes, Túrin, it is your birthday present. [Túrin takes the knife out of its sheath and holds it up in wonder, watching it sparkle in the sun. Húrin kneels down to be level with him and hugs him (out of reach of the blade). With a smile:] You overtop me already, son of Morwen. In a day soon many will fear your blade. [Then he turns to Morwen, who stands by. She shows no emotion, but looks at her husband with piercing eyes.] Farewell, Lady of Dor-lómin; we ride now with greater hope than we have ever known before. I shall return soon! Morwen: [calmly:] I will guard what you leave in my keeping, and also the child that is to be. [Húrin again looks up at his men, and springs upon his horse.] Húrin: [crying to his men:] Come, Men. Away! Lacho calad! Drego morn! All men: [cry with him:] Lacho calad! Drego morn! [With that last cry they all turn away and ride north, their horses kicking up dust behind them. Morwen and Túrin stand together watching until they are out of sight.] [Scene change: Túrin runs outside and finds Sador where he is sitting outside of the shed. The chair that he is carving is in front of him] Túrin: [calls to him as he runs up:] Labadal! Labadal! Look what I have got today! Sador: [looks happy to see him] Hello, Túrin! What have you got here? Túrin: [excited:] It is my eighth birthday! The birthday of the heir of the House of Hador! And I have brought you a gift for the day. Look! A knife, just like one you need. It will cut anything you wish, as fine as a hair! [He holds the knife in its sheath towards the lame servant. Sador, in turn, looks troubled.] Sador: [troubled:] I cannot accept this, Túrin. It was a gift to you from your father. Túrin: [looks upset:] But you told me that I should give with a free hand, only of my own! [Sador sits thinking for a moment, and finally looks up at Túrin with a melancholy smile.] Sador: [softly:] You come from a generous house, Túrin son of Húrin. Thank you. [He takes the knife.] It would be a grievous thing for me to refuse. But I have done nothing to deserve such a gift, and I cannot hope to do better in the days that are left to me. Túrin: Yes you can, Labadal! You shall finish the great chair for my father’s Hall! Sador: [smiles:] Yes, I hope to do that. [Scene fades out.]
SCENE II
Minstrel: Many songs are sung and many tales told by the Elves of that Great Battle, which is called the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, for no song or tale can contain all its grief. There Fingon, High King of the Noldor, perished, and they beat him into the dust with their maces, and his banner, blue and silver, they trod into the mire of his blood. Yet still there was hope, for Turgon, the King of the Hidden City of Gondolin, came forth; but soon it was seen that all was lost, and when only the soldiers of Húrin and Turgon remained, Húrin spoke to Turgon at the Fen of Serech:
[Scene: a great plain, a pass between two ranges of mountains. There are many people all around, Orcs and wolves and trolls and Balrogs in the background, and loud noise. In the midst of this stand two figures: Húrin, and another, a very tall Elf, over a head taller than Húrin, who has dark hair, and looks very much like Fingon (from the prologue scene). Another tall Elf with dark hair stands beside him, his nephew. They are leaning on their swords, and are stained with blood and dirt, and look very sorrowful. Húrin speaks loudly to the Elven Lord above the noise:]
Húrin: [urgent:] Go now, lord, while there is time! For in you lives the last hope of Middle-earth, and while Gondolin stands Morgoth shall still know fear in his heart.
Turgon: [somber:] Not long now can Gondolin stand, and being discovered it must fall.
[Húrin’s brother, Huor, a tall, yellow haired man, who stands behind him, speaks:]
Huor: Yet if it stands but a little while, then hope will be born among Elves and Men. Though we part forever, and I shall not see your fair city again, yet from you and from me a new star shall arise. Farewell!
Turgon: [heavily, in sorrow:] Very well, I will go. Though I leave you and your Men alone with this –
[he indicates with his arm all the tumult around him.]
Húrin: Thus there is hope, Lord. Farewell!
Turgon: [sighs] Farewell!
Minstrel: Thus Turgon escaped and led his people back to the Hidden Kingdom. But Húrin and his men remained, and they were left to face all of Morgoth’s forces alone. These swarmed about them at the fen of Serech, and all the valiant men of Húrin were slain about him in a heap; and the Orcs hewed their heads and piled them as a mound of gold in the sunset. Then Húrin was left standing all alone.
[Show Húrin standing by himself, with an axe in his hands, hewing the Orcs and the huge trolls that swarm around him.]
It is sung that his axe smoked in the black blood of the troll guard until it withered. Each time that Húrin slew he cried:
Húrin: [at each stroke with his axe against the trolls:] Aurë entuluva! Aurë entuluva! Day shall come again! Day shall come again!
Minstrel: But at the last they took him alive, when he fell buried beneath their great numbers. Then they bound him and dragged him to Angband, the Dark Fortress, with mockery.
[Scene change: Húrin is led by Orcs down a long labyrinthine stair in complete darkness, except for the sconces on the stone walls that show red flames, as if lighting the walls with blood. He is covered with dirt and with black blood. He does not at all speak, but the Orcs that carry him are cackling hideously.]
Orc: [chuckling:] Oh, yes, we are taking you to the Dark One himself. He wishes to see you, indeed he does, Húrin son of Galdor!
[These last names are uttered with such scorn, hatred, and contempt that they are almost spit out. Húrin does not answer, but in his head we hear there echoing the words that he spoke before:]
Húrin: [echoing in his mind:] Marrer of Middle-earth, would that I might see thee face to face, and mar thee as my lord Fingolfin did!
[The next scene that comes up is Húrin lying in a large stone table, with metal bands around his legs and arms. His face is wrung with pain. Around him in the room are all sorts of hideous tools of torment hanging on the walls. A vast shape looms up in front of him. We cannot see the speaker’s face, but the voice is deep, deep and horrible.]
Morgoth: [angrily:] Do not lie to me, weak mortal. I know that you know where the Hidden City of Gondolin lies. And if you tell me, I will give you, as I promised, a leadership in all my realms.
Húrin: [speaking in pain:] Blind you are, Morgoth, Lord of Fetters, and blind shall ever be. You know not what rules the hearts of Men, and if you knew you could not give it. But a fool is he who accepts what Morgoth offers. You will take first the price and then withhold the promise; and I should get only death, if I told you what you ask.
Morgoth: [beings to laugh, a horrible, grating sound:] Death you may yet ask of me as a gift. Come with me.
[Next we see Húrin sitting in a large stone chair, chained to the seat by his wrists and ankles, at the top of great mountain peaks, and Morgoth is standing beside him, looking out over the landscape below. One can see for leagues upon leagues. Morgoth says darkly:]
Now, Húrin, think of your wife and son, and your other kin, for now they dwell in my realm, and they are at my mercy.
Húrin: You have no mercy. But you will not come to the secret of Turgon and the Hidden Kingdom through them. They do not know his secrets.
[At this Morgoth becomes very angry.]
Morgoth: [irate:] And yet I may come at you, and all your accursed house. And you shall be broken upon my will, though you all were made of steel.
[Then he takes a sword that lies by his feet, and putting it in front of Húrin’s face, bends it until it shatters. A shard of it cuts Húrin’s cheek, but he does not flinch. Then Morgoth stretches his arm out across the horizon.]
Behold! The shadow of my thought shall lie upon them wherever they go, and my hate shall pursue them to the ends of the world.
Húrin: [in a hard voice:] You speak in vain. You cannot see them, nor govern them from afar.
Morgoth: [angrily:] Little fool! I am the Elder King: the shadow of my purpose lies upon all the world, but upon those whom you love my thought shall weigh as a cloud of Doom, and it shall bring them down into darkness and despair. Wherever they go, evil shall arise. Whatever they speak, their words shall bring ill counsel. Whatsoever they do shall turn against them. They shall die without hope, and they shall curse you!
Húrin: [looks completely unfazed:] This last I will say to you, thrall Morgoth: You are not the Lord of Men, and shall not be, though all the World fall under your dominion. Beyond the World you shall not pursue those who refuse you.
Morgoth: [spitefully:] Beyond the World I shall not pursue them, for there there is Nothing. They shall go from darkness into Darkness.
Húrin: [steadfastly:] You lie.
Morgoth: You shall see that I do not lie. Sit there now, and look upon the lands where evil shall come upon all those that you have delivered to me. For you have dared to mock me, and have questioned the power of Melkor, master of the Fates of Arda. Therefore with my eyes you shall see, and with my ears you shall hear, and nothing shall be hidden from you.
[Scene fades out.]
SCENE III
[Words appear on the screen: several months later. Scene: the yard of Húrin and Morwen’s home. It is no longer beautiful, bright, and green, but filled with garbage. Evil, dirty men are lurking around. Trees are cut down and burned, all looks very somber and dismal. Inside the house, Túrin is sitting with his mother in the living room, and they are speaking together. It is now obvious that Morwen is pregnant.]
Túrin: [worried:] Who are these men, mother?
Morwen: I do not know, son. Yet I think that they are a tribe of the Easterlings, Men who fought for Morgoth.
Túrin: But why have they come here? And where is Father? When will he come back?
Morwen: I do not know why they have come here. No news has come back to any of our people of the tidings of the war. None knows what happened.
Túrin: My Aunt Aerin does not know?
Morwen: [shakes her head:] No. But even if she did, she is not permitted to speak her knowledge, for Brodda, the leader of the Easterling, took her as his wife.
Túrin: But when will Father come back, to cast out these ugly thieves? Why does he not come?
Morwen: I do not know, son. It may be that he was slain, or that he is held captive; or again it may be that he was driven far away, and cannot yet return to us through the foes that surround us.
[Túrin bends his head down, trying to hide his tears, and not doing a very good job of it. Grief and tears are laden in his voice as he speaks:]
Túrin: Then I think that he is dead, for no one could keep him from coming back to us, if he were alive.
Morwen: [softly:] I do not think that either of those things are true, my son.
[Scene switch: Morwen is sitting alone in her bedroom. Through the window comes the noise of loud talking and raucous laughter. She is silent, and as she sits and thinks, the words of Húrin come back to her mind, that we can hear:]
Húrin: Go swiftly! Do not wait!
[She gives a shuddering sigh, and wipes away a tear that lingers on her eyelid. She hears her own voice speaking words of the past:]
Morwen: [echoing:] Then if your kin are not hopeful, or your friends deny me, what of the Elven King Thingol of Doriath? His daughter’s husband is Beren, my kinsman. Surely he would not send us away?
[She wipes away her tears, looking again austere, and stands up, going into the living room, and looking around.]
Túrin?
[Túrin’s voice comes in through the window.]
Túrin: I’m here, mother!
[He comes in through the backdoor.]
Morwen: [rather sharply:] Where were you?
Túrin: Oh, on the back porch with Labadal.
[Morwen takes him by the arm and pulls him inside, shutting the door behind him]
Morwen: You must be very careful, Túrin, with these men about. Do not wander out of sight.
Túrin: [sensing her perturbation:] Very well, Mother. I will not. I’m sorry.
Morwen: Túrin, come sit down with me.
[She sits down at the table and motions to him to do the same. He does so. There is a rather long pause.]
Túrin: [at last:] What is it mother?
Morwen: [suddenly, as if she has come abruptly to a resolution:] Your father does not come, Túrin. So you must go, and go soon. It is as he would wish.
[Túrin looks very distressed.]
Túrin: [crying out:] Go? Where shall we go? Over the Mountains?
Morwen: Yes, over the Mountains, away south, to the kingdom of Doriath – that way there may lie some hope. But I did not say we, my son. You must go, but I must stay.
Túrin: [very upset:] But – but I cannot go alone! I will not leave you! Why should we not go together?
Morwen: [calmly:] I cannot go. But you will not go alone. I will send Gethron and Grithnir with you.
Túrin: [distressed:] Why not Labadal?
Morwen: Because Sador is lame, and it will be a hard road. And since you are my son and the days are hard, I will not speak softly: you might die on that road. The year is getting late. But if you stay, you will come to a worse end: to be a thrall. If you wish to be a man, when you come to a man’s age, you will do as I bid, bravely.
[Túrin looks increasing distressed the more she says.]
Túrin: [bursts out:] But shall I leave you only with Sador, and blind Ragnir, and the old women? I should stay in Father’s house, and defend it!
Morwen: [slightly softer:] You should stay, but you cannot. But you will return one day. Take heart! I will follow you, if things grow worse; if I can.
[At this last Túrin can hold back his tears no longer, and he begins to sob.]
Túrin: [through his tears:] But – but how will you find me, lost in the wild?
[He is still weeping when Morwen continues:]
Morwen: [trying to be hopeful, but firm:] If you wail, other things will find you first. But you are going to the halls of the Elf King Thingol, and if you come there, and remain there, I will find you, if I can. Would you not rather be a king’s guest than a thrall?
Túrin: [trying to dry his tears but unable to:] I do not know. I do not know what a thrall is.
Morwen: I am sending you away so you need not learn it.
[Then she holds him at shoulders length and looks him in the eyes, speaking softly:]
It is hard, Túrin, my son. Not hard for you only. It is heavy on me in evil days to judge what to do. But I do what I think is right; for why else should I part with the thing that is most dear to me?
[She folds him in her arms in a tight embrace, and though he is crying softly, she does not yet shed a tear.]
[Scene change: Túrin is walking from the house out to the back porch, where he finds Sador cutting firewood and gathering branches and bits of wood.]
Sador: [looks up and sees him:] Hello, Túrin! I am trying to gather some firewood, but we have not nearly enough. We cannot stray into the woods now, with these foul Easterlings about.
[He leans on his crutch and looks over to the corner of the porch where the chair that he had been making for Húrin sits.]
I am afraid it must go, for only bare needs can be served in these days.
Túrin: [speaks at last, in haste:] No, do not break it yet! Maybe he will come back, and then he will be happy to see what you have done for him while he was away!
[Sador goes toward the chair, then fingers the engravings on it and sighs.]
Sador: [sighs:] False hopes will not keep us warm this winter.
[turns away]
I wasted my time, though the hours seemed pleasant. I have no hope of using my skills for worthier tasks now.
Túrin: [suddenly:] Labadal, what is a thrall?
Sador: [slightly startled by the abrupt query] Well… a thrall is a man who once was a man but is treated like a beast, and made to work, kept alive only to toil, fed only to work more.
[Túrin is silent for a moment, then says slowly:]
Túrin: Now I understand things better.
Sador: [sadly:] I am sorry you have to understand such things so soon. But what do you now understand?
Túrin: [with tears filling his eyes] Why my mother is sending me away.
Sador: [aside:] Ah! But why so long delayed?
[to the boy, trying to sound cheerful:]
That does not seem news for tears to me! But you should be careful to whom you tell your mother’s counsels.
Túrin: [tearfully:] But I have always told things to you, Labadal! I do not want to leave you! I do not want to leave my mother!
Sador: [trying to cheer him:] But if you do not, soon there will be an end to the House of Hador for ever. Labadal does not want you to go, but Sador servant of Húrin will be happier when Húrin’s son is out of reach of the Easterlings. Well, well, it cannot be helped. But will you take your knife back before you go?
[From his belt he takes the knife that Túrin gave him and hopefully holds it out to him.]
Túrin: [backing away a step; proudly:] No! I am going to the Elves, to the King of Doriath, my mother says. Maybe I will get other knives there. But I shall not be able to send you any gifts, Labadal! I shall be far away and all alone!
[He breaks down and begins to weep again, and cannot stop. Sador tries to rally him.]
Sador: Hey now! Where is Húrin’s son? For I heard him say, not long ago: I will go as a soldier to an Elf-king one day, as soon as I can.
[At this Túrin stops crying, and wipes the back of his hand across his eyes.]
Túrin: Very well: if that is what the son of Húrin said, then I must hold to those words, and go.
[Scene fades. Scene change: Two older men stand at the porch of Húrin’s house with packs on their backs. Túrin stands by them, also with a pack, and Morwen is beside them. She reaches down and gives him a hug, and kisses his cheek. Túrin looks like he is trying to speak, but he does not say anything. One of the servants says to him softly:]
Gethron: Come, Túrin.
[They start walking away from the house, down through the trees and down the hill that leads up to the house. Morwen stands still in front of the door on the porch, watching them in silence, as tall and moveless as a pillar in a great hallway, her hand grasped about the door post. Her brown hair waves in the wind behind her. Túrin and the two servants continue on, over the hills, until they reach the top of the last hill, which is the last place that they can see the house.]
Gethron: Now look back, Túrin, and see the house of your father, ere we go.
[Túrin turns slowly back, and can see the house, as a wooden shape the size of a hand on the green hill away, and seeing it he cries out in great anguish:]
Túrin: Morwen, Morwen, when shall I see you again?
[Morwen, standing on the porch of the house, with her hand on the door post, can hear the echo of those words over the wooded hills. Hearing them she bites her quivering lip, as if in great anguish, and without moving anything else, she grips the door post so hard that her fingers are torn on the wood, and blood appears on them.]
Act II – Doriath
SCENE IV
Minstrel: The Elven kingdom of Thingol was a stone city, hewed from the caves in the mountains, and forests surrounded it. The Queen of Doriath was Melian, a mighty Power who protected the Realm by weaving a girdle of enchantment about it, so that none might enter it against her will, but were lost and wandered in the woods. Even so it happened to Túrin and the two servants. [Scene: Túrin lying on the ground, looking pale and tired. The two servants sit together, several feet away from him, speaking quietly together.] Gethron: [whispering:] We cannot go on like this, much longer. The poor boy is famished. We are completely out of food. Grithnir: But what more can we do? We have wandered in these accursed woods for nearly a fortnight. Shall we get up and wander more, wearing ourselves out until death comes, welcome or unwelcome? Gethron: [disturbed:] I know not. But the poor Lord Túrin cannot even walk any more. And I am tired from having to carry him on my back. Are there no berries or roots to gather that we may eat? Grithnir: [angry:] I do not know. Ah, I would that I could hunt, were I not so weary! We cannot fail the trust that the Lady Morwen put upon us! [long pause. They both are seemingly thinking. At last they lie down and look like they are resting. Slowly they close their eyes. After a moment, a faint sound like a horn blowing wafts over from a distance. Túrin slowly sits up, and looks away into the trees.] Túrin: [whispering:] What is that noise? And what is that over there? [He leans over and touches’ Gethron’s motionless form] Gethron! I see something over there! [Gethron sits up slowly and peers away through the trees where Túrin is pointing.] Gethron: What is it? I cannot see anything, Túrin. Túrin: [pointing:] Look! There – [He stops because a huge form suddenly comes out of the trees where he was pointing. They soon see that it is the figure of a huge man, very tall and strong, with long dark hair, held back from his very fair face, which expresses consternation and a bit of curiosity. He is wearing dark green and light brown clothing, as of that of a hunter or woodsman. He holds a long bow in his hand, made of a dark yew wood. It is so tall that is reaches from his feet almost up to his head. A quiver of arrows is on his back, but he does not have an arrow in his hand, and his pose does not look threatening. Grithnir sits up, and for several moments all three of them sit still, looking at the standing figure, who looks back at them with just as much curiosity. At last he starts walking over to them slowly, and speaks, with a slight accent, different from that of Túrin and everyone else in Act I:] Beleg: [speaking rather slowly:] I am Beleg, called the Strongbow, the March Warden of King Thingol. I dwell ever in the woods and I heard your cries. You look famished. Will you not take some of the food that I have? [He looks down at Túrin and smiles at him kindly. Túrin looks over at his companions questioningly.] Gethron: [softly, to Túrin:] I think it is all right, Túrin. This is a soldier of the Elven King. Beleg: [nods] All shall now be well. Once you tell me your names and your purpose, I may lead you to the King. [He comes and sits down beside them, and takes out a small pack that was on his back, and retrieves some small loaves of bread, and also a water bottle, that looks as if it is made of reeds, woven together. He hands the food to them, to Túrin first, and watches them in silence as they eat it ravenously. Then he passes the water bottle around to them.] Grithnir: [heartfelt:] Thank you, sir Strongbow. For nearly a fortnight we have wandered in these woods and could not find our way out. It seemed almost a maze that kept winding about to ensnare us. Beleg: [nods solemnly:] Your conjecture is very near the truth: our Queen, Melian, has woven an enchantment about the land so that none may enter against her will. [Túrin looks up at the tall man and speaks for the first time.] Túrin: [curiously:] How can she do that? Beleg: [smiles at him] She is not an Elf, but a Maia, of divine race, and she has powers above those of Elven-kind. [Something dawns on Túrin’s face, as if he has just realized something.] Túrin: [in wonder:] Are you an Elf? Beleg: [kindly:] Yes, lad, I am. Túrin: I have never seen an Elf before! Beleg: [facetious:] We are not overly interesting people. [Túrin looks down, in thought, and does not answer. Beleg turns to the two older servants:] Though I can tell that you all are not Elves. Come! Will you not tell me now your names and your purpose here, so that I may know better what to do next? Gethron: [slowly:] Indeed, we are of mortal kindred. I am Gethron, and this is my companion Grithnir. We travel with Túrin, the son of Húrin – [Here he motions to the boy] – and we come from his mother, the Lady Morwen of the land of Dor-lómin. She has sent us to King Thingol in the land of Doriath, to find harbour, if Thingol will allow it, of Túrin her son. Grithnir: [clarifying:] Húrin our Lord has not returned from the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, and Lady Morwen fears for the safety of her son. [Beleg looks over in sorrow and kindness at Túrin, who is sitting with his head down, staring at the grass, perhaps trying to hide his tears from the warrior.] Beleg: I would that I could tell you some news of him, for I was at that Battle as well. [Túrin looks up at him suddenly, and two tears glisten on his eyelids.] Túrin: [eager:] You were there? Did you see my father? Beleg: I did, for I fought under the banner of King Fingon. But we were separated during the battle, and I did not see him anymore. [Túrin looks down again at the grass in sorrow, but Beleg keeps looking at him, and at last says.] I will take you to King Thingol, Túrin. Tell me: what gift would you like from the King? Túrin: [looks up at him; proudly:] I would be one of his knights, to ride against Morgoth, and avenge my father. Beleg: [smiling] That may well be so. Perhaps you and I shall share many perils together. You, I, and my friend, Mablung, who is often on the marches with me. Come, I will lead you now to King Thingol’s halls.
SCENE V
[Scene: Beleg is leading Túrin and the two old servants through the woods. It is bright and clear, and the woods have a wholesome sense about them that the woods by Húrin’s house in Act I do not have. As they emerge through the trees, they see before them a bright, silver stream bubbling past, and a slender, grey stone bridge over it, and beyond that a hill, like a great hump of stone, rears up above ground, with a great gate in the center. As they cross over the bridge, they see at the other end, in front of the closed gate, four guards, clad in mail, with silver helms and spears; overall much more formally dressed than their woodland guide. When they see Beleg they nod to him, and the great stone doors open, by some unseen force, and swing towards them on invisible hinges.]
Beleg: [looks back at Túrin and the two men] Come, I will lead you to King Thingol’s seat.
[They follow him inside through a hallway, which goes down about fifty feet, then Beleg turns to the right, into the door of a wide, open room, and the mortals gasp in wonder at what they see. The room is like a great hallway, or a common room, with very high ceilings. It is upheld by huge pillars, that, although wrought of stone, are carven and painted so that they look like live trees, of various sorts (mostly beech). The bark looks so real that it almost seems as if one could cut it off with a knife. These pillars are complete with boughs, branching out, and leaves that sparkle as if sunshine were lighting upon them; for beautiful lanterns, made of silver and glass, are hanging on them, beaming a soft diaphanous golden light. These lamps also hang from the ceiling, when Túrin looks up in wonder. The ceiling is a wonder all to itself: there are images (perhaps painted, but they look so real it is hard to tell) of the moon and sun, and of the stars in their various constellations, and clouds and mists. They are so real that it feels as if one is looking up at the sky itself. Hearing a bird, Túrin looks over in surprise, and sees that real live nightingales are sitting on the branches of the tree-like pillars, singing away as if they really were outside. Beleg leads them down this long hall, as they gaze about them in wonder. On the floor on the sides of the hall are many fountains, of different sizes and shapes, mostly made of silver and white marble. They spill down into little streams that run out into the pans and are collected back again. Then Túrin looks around at the walls, which are just as marvelous as the ceiling, except here are painted many things that are less easy to recognize. There is one mural that takes up about thirty feet on one wall of a beautiful garden, made rather mysterious-looking by the mist that circles about it, but bright, with fountains in it, and flowers, and trees with a silver light pervading all. Another mural has two very tall trees in it, one entirely gold with light green leaves, the other all silver with dark green leaves. Light emanates from the Trees as if it were their being itself. Another image shows two people sitting on thrones, as if King and Queen. The King holds a blue scepter in his hand, and the Queen has a silver crown, as if it were made of starlight. The rest of the picture is dark, besides them, (for they seem to be the light in the picture) and the stars that glint behind their thrones in the background. Also, carven images of birds and of beasts are scattered throughout the hall, either on the pillars themselves, or lurking behind the fountains. Now Túrin begins to notice that there are many people in the hall, and that most of them have stopped what they are doing and are looking at him. There are no old people in this crowd – all appear to be young adults, slender and fair. They are clothed in beautiful raiment, of soft colours and textures. Most of them are dark haired, but some have a lighter hair colour. Beleg, looking down at Túrin, notices that he is peering carefully at every face, especially the female faces, that come near him.]
Beleg: [bends down and whispers to him:] What do you look for, son of Húrin?
Túrin: [blushes slightly, looking shy:] I … I once had a sister named Lalaith, and she was the fairest thing I have ever known. There are so many beautiful faces here, I thought I might … might see something like hers among them.
[He then hangs his head. Beleg smiles, but does not say anything, for now the end of the hall comes into view, and there is a dais about three or four steps high of white marble, set above the floor, which is made of the same material. The crowd parts as they pass, and Túrin looks up, and sees that not all of these have dark or yellow hair. A very tall figure sits on the throne, his hair a diaphanous, shining silver colour, and a thin silver circlet set about his head. Next to him in another throne sits a woman with dark hair, nearly as tall as the man, and she also wears a silver circlet about her head. They both are very beautiful, the woman especially, who wears a flowing grey and white dress that billows about her onto the dais. But there is something other-worldly about her beauty, as if it is too distant to grasp, but so present that it is almost overwhelming. As they approach the thrones, Túrin looks up into their faces, and when he sees the lady’s, he casts his head down, in wonder or embarrassment. Beleg stops before the thrones, and bows low to the King and Queen. The two servants behind him do the same, and Túrin awkwardly tries to follow their lead. The silver-haired King speaks, with a voice very deep, flowing and beautiful.]
Thingol: [to Beleg:] Welcome back, Beleg Strongbow, from the North marches.
Beleg: Thank you, my lord. But I have brought some few with me, who have journeyed far to speak with you.
Thingol: [nods] Yes, that is well. Come forward!
[Beleg stands to the side and motions to them to come forward. Gethron stands forward and speaks to the King.]
Gethron: King Thingol, many are the tales that have come down to us of the majesty and safety of your halls, and in this dark time my Mistress, the Lady Morwen of Dor-lómin has bid us, my companion and me, to find a way into Doriath, and there, if it might be, to find a haven and refuge for her son, Túrin, the son of Húrin, my master, lord of the House of Hador. He has not returned from the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, and we know not what has befallen him. Therefore, my Lady Morwen bid me to beg your grace, in that her son may live here in safety, for the foul Easterlings have control over our land. She could not come herself, for she is with child, and travel is hard.
Thingol: [motioning to Túrin] And this is the boy?
Gethron: Yes, Lord.
Thingol: [leans over and motions to Túrin; kindly:] Come here, Túrin.
[Túrin looks rather overwhelmed, but comes over slowly and walks up the dais, to stand before the King. To his surprise, and the surprise of all in the hall who stand and watch, Thingol stands up from his throne and picks up the boy, then sits back down again with Túrin on his lap. Then he speaks to Túrin as well as to everyone else there:]
Here, son of Húrin, shall your home be; and in all your life you shall be held as my own son, Man though you are. Wisdom shall be given unto you beyond the measure of mortal Men, and weapons of the Elves shall be set in your hands. Perhaps the time may come when you shall regain the lands of your father in Dor-lómin. But now, dwell here in love.
[Túrin is overwhelmed and looks like he doesn’t know what to say, but after a moment he says:]
Túrin: Th – thank you, Lord.
[For the first time, the Queen speaks, and her voice is soft like silver and melodious like the music of a stream.]
Melian: I suppose you would like news of your mother in Dor-lómin, Túrin?
[Túrin looks over at her, but looks down again from her face in wonder.]
Túrin: Y – yes, Lady. Very much.
Melian: [smiles] Then we shall send out messengers back to Morwen, and see if she will come back with them to this kingdom. For she will be safe here, and her child.
[Túrin’s face visibly lights up at this suggestion.]
Túrin: Oh – thank you, Lady!
[Thingol smiles, and looks down at the two old servants who stand before him.]
Thingol: I suppose you shall wish to return to your own land and your Lady?
Grithnir: Yes, Lord, if it please you.
Thingol: Very well. You shall go with my messengers, when I send them. They shall leave in a fortnight.
[looks down at the boy on his lap]
Now, Túrin, shall I have someone show you to the room that you will have?
[Túrin nods unsteadily, still too excited about the prospect of his mother coming to answer properly. Thingol lifts him gently off his lap, and is about to motion to a servant to come to him when Beleg says:]
Beleg: [intervening:] Lord, I am willing to help the boy become accustomed to this new place.
Thingol: Very well, Cúthalion. You may show him to his room.
[Túrin walks out beside Beleg, the two older servants following him out of the hall, while the people part the way for them, and look at them in wonder. Scene fades.]
SCENE VI [Scene: Húrin’s house in Dor-lómin. It is now lacking any of the beauty and richness it once had. The walls are bare, the cupboards are empty. There is little furniture left, but what is there is threadbare and worn. Morwen sits alone in her bedroom, rocking a small baby in her arms wrapped in white cloth, and singing to it softly. The baby has a small head of golden hair. Morwen then speaks to the baby softly:] Morwen: Nienor, I name you, my daughter, the daughter of Húrin: Mourning. [Just then there is a knock on the door. Morwen looks startled for a moment, then lays Nienor softly in the rickety wooden cradle by the bed, and goes to the door, standing behind it and speaking cautiously.] Who is it? Gethron: It is Gethron, my lady. I have returned with messengers from King Thingol in Doriath. [Then Morwen opens the door and comes out onto the porch, where Gethron and two Elves stand on the threshold.] Morwen: [cannot conceal her excitement:] Gethron, you have returned! And welcome, my lord. [bowing her head to the Elves. To Gethron:] But, where is Grithnir? And how was my son Túrin received? Gethron: Alas, Grithnir grew sick and died in Doriath ere we set forth. But the Lord Túrin is received in honor, and Thingol has taken him as his own son, to dwell there as long as he will. Morwen: [looks relieved:] Oh, my grief is lightened. [looking at the Elves] My lords, forgive me that I invite you not into my house. It is – not fit for the messengers of a great realm. [One of the Elven messengers now steps forward and speaks to her:] First Messenger: Lady Morwen, it is no matter. Our King and Queen have bidden us give you these gifts from them. [He and the second messenger hold out to her several items: there are fine silks, and also pieces of jewelry, of gold and silver. Her face turns slightly red as she accepts these gifts.] Morwen: [unsteady:] Thank you, my lords. But I have nothing fitting to offer in return.
Second Messenger: You need give us no gift in return. For our Queen bids you come back with us to Doriath, you and your child. [pause] Morwen: [steady; prideful:] Thank you, lords, but I will not come with you. [pause] Allow me to give you a gift ere you go. [She goes into the house, and a moment comes back, bearing in her hands a huge helmet, made of a thick metal. On the top is a graven picture of a dragon.] This is the dragon-helm of the House of Hador. Please take it. [Scene change: Beleg is standing just outside the city in front of the stone gate, and another tall woodsman/warrior stands beside him. His hair is long, but slightly lighter than Beleg’s, almost a deer-colour. They are speaking together quietly. Note: Mablung also has an accent similar to Beleg’s.] Beleg: Yes, Mablung, he is over there. [his companion responds:]
Mablung: How long has he been there? Beleg: An hour at least. Ever since we heard news that the messengers were coming back. I think he is waiting for them. Mablung: Do you fear some evil? Beleg: No, but the boy feels deeply, and I am worried, lest… [he stops.] Mablung: What? Beleg: Lest his mother not return with them. Mablung: Is she likely not to?
Beleg: [shrugs] I do not know. But she is very prideful, I deem. And Túrin, he is a silent, and sorrowful child. I have watched him much these past months. He takes to himself, and thinks deeply. [pause] Mablung: Has he any skills, or pleasures? Beleg: Pleasures I know not. Maybe his sorrow keeps him from any enjoyment. Skills … perhaps. I tried to show him the art of carving and shaping wood, but he does not know his own strength, and ruins it with a hasty stroke. Mablung: [approvingly:] Then he is strong. Maybe he has the skills of a warrior and woodsman. Beleg: [rather wishfully:] I hope so. [The camera moves over into the trees where Túrin sits crouched, about 100 feet from the gate, watching out over the hill through the trees. Two tall figures come over the brow of the hill: the two Elven messengers. Túrin watches as they come closer, peering, trying to see if anyone is behind them. When he perceives that no one else is with them, he gets up and flees, running away from the gates through the woods. Beleg sees him doing this and is about to go after him, when Mablung grabs his sleeve.] Mablung: Leave him by himself. Beleg: [protesting:] But – Mablung: [nodding his head in the direction of the trees:] Others will watch after him. [Beleg looks over to where Mablung is indicating, and seems to see something there. He nods, and does not follow.] [Túrin continues running through the woods. He is weeping harder and harder as he runs, and he puts up his hands to his face. At last he stumbles and falls, and lies there face down, crying bitterly into the grass. ] Túrin: [sobbing incoherently:] She didn’t come! She didn’t come! [As he is crying, he doesn’t notice that a slender white face is peering through the green leaves. Slowly the owner of the face slides gracefully through the trees: it is a svelte young elf woman, with dark hair pinned back from her face. Her clothing is light and aëry, of the same types of colours that one would find in a forest. Cautiously, she glides over soundlessly to where Túrin still lies crying, and sits down on the ground Indian-style next to him, silently. After a moment he looks up and notices she’s there. He gasps and quickly dries his tears, running the back of his hand across his eyes. Then he sits back, and looks at her. She still looks at him solemnly. Note: during these sequences Nellas’ theme (Elegy by Bill Douglas) is playing.] Túrin: Who are you? [She suddenly breaks into a huge smile.] Nellas: I am Nellas. And you are Túrin. [He nods wordlessly. She springs up with a sprightly laugh and takes his hand.] Come with me! [She starts off, but he resists her pull on his hand. She looks back at him.] Túrin: Where are we going? Nellas: [explaining patiently:] To my special glade. It’s where I always go to think and be alone. But I wish you to come with me. Will you come? [He cannot resist her smile. She takes his hand and he comes doggedly after her. They walk for a little while through the trees, until they come to a small open glade. Nellas sits down again on the ground, and pulls Túrin down beside her. He sits looking at her silently for a moment. Her face becomes less gay and she says more seriously:] Why do you sorrow, Túrin? [he does not answer] Loss of mother, sister, and friends is grievous, as I too would know. [he looks up at her] I lost my mother and father when I was very young. They were slain fighting Morgoth’s armies, and then I came here, when I was only thirty. [she sighs] But such it is in this world, Túrin, that sorrow must be, if there is to be love. It cannot be helped. Túrin, do you know what love is? Túrin: [sticks his chin out proudly] Yes. My father and mother love me, even though…she sent me away. And I love them. And Labadal. [She smiles at him, not asking about the last strange name.] Nellas: Then you cannot be too sad. For you cannot think that they stopped loving you once you came here? [Túrin shakes his head sadly. Curiously, softly she asks:] Have all been kind to you here? Túrin: [looks up suddenly:] Oh, yes, the King and Queen are so kind to me, and give me everything I need. [pause; Nellas waits patiently] There is one Elf here that I think does not like me very much. He – he is the King’s counsellor, I think. I – he is never rude to me, but … I think he does not like me. Nellas: [concerned:] Do you know his name? Túrin: [shakes his head] No. And … I … I wish I could know the Elven tongue. I do not even understand what people are saying here, unless they speak my language! [he looks down. Nellas smiles softly at him.] Nellas: [more gaily now:] That is easily amended. Come, I will teach you! [She springs up again, as lightly and gracefully as a deer, and takes his hand.] One of my favourite diversions when I am sad is to name all the plants around me with their rightful names. Now, this one – [pointing to a tree in the glade] What is this is your tongue? Túrin: [stands up with her] … Beech? Nellas: [nods] Precisely. But in our language we call it neldor, although properly it is called galbreth. Can you say those? Túrin: [enunciating:] Nel-dor… Gall-breath. Nellas: [matter-a-factly:] Very good. Now, this one? [points to another tree] Túrin: Oak. Nellas: Oak is dorn in our tongue. Túrin: [repeating:] Dorn. Nellas: [matter-a-factly:] No, no, you’ve put too much stress on the r. Focus instead on the o. It is a long o. Túrin: [tries again:] Doh-rn. Nellas: Very good. [The camera slowly pulls away but still focuses on them, still learning new words, and fades. Then there are a series of flash scenes of Túrin and Nellas together (in each one Túrin looks slightly older): Nellas springing up, pulling his hand, saying, “I will race you” and then speeding off into the trees, Túrin racing after her. Next, we see Túrin (about 10) walking alone through the trees, looking solemn and thoughtful. Nellas is crouched up in a tree bough above him. As he passes below her, she drops down to the grass on her bare feet without a sound, and playfully pulls at his hair. When he turns around to see what it is, she is gone. He turns away and then she slips out and appears in front of him, smiling and laughing. He smiles slowly. Next, we seen both of them walking in the woods together, talking.] Túrin: Nellas, what is fate? [She looks thoughtful for a moment.] Nellas: [frowns] Asking what fate is, is like asking what love is, Túrin. Túrin: [brow furrowed; slowly:] Love is when you do what you must for a person even when it is hard. Love is … when you sent someone away from you … so they will be safe. [He lowers his head to hide his tears.] Nellas: Yes. [nods her head vigorously] You do understand. Túrin, fate is like a song – the Song. The Song was made before the world began, and none may change it in despite of the One. Túrin: You mean we have no choice about what happens to us? Nellas: [shakes her head] No. But the One knows all things, and He is good. No matter what we do choose in our lives, it shall all come about for his glory and will – to the Song. [At Túrin’s confused look, she tries to explain:] You remember, the evening when we looked at the stars together, and I showed you all the constellations, and told you their names? [he nods] And the one we spoke of – the great warrior Menelvagor with his shining belt – the one that interested you the most? [he nods] That one, as I told you, was put there as a symbol and reminder of a great warrior that is to comes, and who, in the End, will deal Morgoth his death blow. [he nods again, with interest] I do not know who that warrior will be, but Eru knows, and it is in the Song – that is why Elbereth placed it there, as a reminder to us that this all is in the Song. [pause; Túrin looks up at her] Túrin: [eyes shining] I hope I become a warrior like that one day.[1] Nellas: [smiles sadly] I do not with for any bloodshed. [sighs] But it is necessary for the times. Many things are necessary in war. [She gives him a melancholy smile, then lifts up his chin so he looks at her.] You know, Túrin, I think you will be a great warrior one day – one renowned in song. [Next, wee see Túrin, about twelve or thirteen, sitting with Nellas in the “secret glade.” She is pointing around to different things, rapidly asking him:] Nellas: [pointing to the sky:] What is that? Túrin: Gell. Nellas: [pointing to the fish bubbling in the stream nearby] What is that? Túrin: Lîw. Nellas: [pointing to her own hand:] What is this? Túrin: Mab. Nellas: [pointing at him] What is this? [Túrin stops.] Túrin: [slowly:] … Túrin? Nellas: [meaningfully:] Mîr. [pause] Túrin: Jewel? [She nods. Pause.] Nellas: Túrin, we have spoken of trust, of faith, of the ways of Elves and Men; but we have not yet spoken of love. Túrin: I know of love. I love my father and mother, and my sister, Nienor. The messengers that just came back said she is growing beautiful. She is five now. Nellas: [nods] I know; but that is not the only kind of love, Túrin. There is the love of a child to his parents, of a brother to his sister … and of a husband to his wife. [pause] Túrin: I do not know about that kind of love. Nellas: [nods] I know. You will one day. But what I wish you to know is there is one type of love, which combines all of these three together: that is the strongest kind of love there is. That is the most important love in this world. But I cannot teach you that. For I can teach only what I know. [Túrin sits silently thinking for several moments while Nellas sits by, patient. Then Túrin looks up at her.] Túrin: [thoughtful:] Nellas, why do you never come to Menegroth? Nellas: I do not like to dwell beneath halls of stone. I prefer the woods, the clean airs, and the wide open spaces. Túrin: [slowly:] Then, I think I may not see you much any more. [at her questioning glance; explaining:] I am going to start lessons with Beleg. He has begun to teach me woodcraft, and archery, and swords, which are my favourite. Nellas: [looks troubled but tries to conceal it] Well… there will still be love between us, will there not, Túrin? Túrin: Yes, Nellas. For I think you do know that kind of love. You are the one who have taught it to me. [pause; she looks down, perhaps from her emotion. Scene fades.] [Scene change: Túrin walks from the woods across the bridge and into the gates. The soldiers standing there bow to him politely. Away across the bridge, Nellas is peering after him sadly, watching him disappear. Túrin enters the great hall and finds Beleg standing by a fountain with a painted cup in his hand, drinking water. There are some other people in the hall, one of them a rather severe-looking Elf who watches Túrin sharply.] Beleg: [seeing him:] Ah, Túrin! Hello! Túrin: Hello, Beleg. I am ready to begin my sword lessons. Beleg: [smiles] You love the sword, do you not? Come, we will go now. [He sets down his cup by the fountain and starts out of the hall. Túrin begins to follow him, but the Elf nearby who has been watching him stops him by touching his shoulder softly.] Saeros: [bowing his head obsequiously to him] My lord Túrin. Túrin: [stops and looks at him] Lord Saeros. Saeros: Pardon me, I know you are busy about the things of the kingdom, and have not time for we lesser people. [pause; with concealed contempt and sarcasm:] I hope you find all that you need here. You know we are only here to serve you. [Túrin does not answer. This seems to anger the belligerent elf. Sneering:] But no, as the “son” of the King, you will not even deign to speak to his counsellor. Although it is its own power and armies that keep you safe. [Túrin looks weary but still does not answer. With contempt:] I see you are too busy for me. Go now to your sword lesson, with the weapons that we have given you. But be careful what you do with them – a weapon in the hand of a mortal is a perilous thing. [He almost spits out the word mortal as if it were a malediction.] That this land is open to any of your unhappy race is unthinkable. Did not the other do harm enough in Doriath? Túrin: [bows his head to him politely:] My lord. [Then he goes quickly from the hall. As he goes Saeros looks after him lethally, murmuring to himself:] Saeros: Miserable ungrateful brat. [Beleg has stood by the door and waited for Túrin, then walks out with him as Túrin comes up.] Beleg: [speaking softly to him] What did Saeros wish to say to you? [Túrin shrugs] Beleg: I have noticed that he often will come up and try to speak with you, alone or among many. What does he say? Túrin: [weary:] I do not know what he wants from me. Whenever he speaks to me in front of others, the words always seem fair and thoughtful, but veiled beneath is malice and haughtiness. When he speaks to me alone he does not conceal it, but is openly hostile and contemptuous. I do not know what grievance he holds against me. Beleg: [thoughtful:] I do not know, either. Perhaps it is jealousy. Túrin: [looks up at him; curious:] Jealousy? Why would he be jealous of me? Beleg: You are given honour as the son of the King. He is the King’s counsellor, and perhaps wishes for more power, and the honour that you have. Túrin: [looks down again:] I cannot imagine why anyone would be jealous of my life. [Beleg looks at him sadly, but does not speak. They walk on together and enter the armories. Mablung is there already.] Mablung: Greetings, Túrin! You are come to begin your lessons? Túrin: Yes. I hope we will be able to work with swords today! [Mablung and Beleg share a chuckle.] Beleg: We will; after some other things.
SCENE VII
Minstrel: For several years often Beleg Strongbow came to Menegroth to seek Túrin, and led him far afield, teaching him woodcraft, archery, and the handling of swords. But Túrin did not win friendship easily, for he was not merry, and laughed seldom, and a shadow lay on his youth, for his heart and thought turned always to his mother and sister in the North. Of these he sometimes received tidings from the messengers that Thingol sent to Morwen, and she sent back words for her son. Thus Túrin heard that his sister Nienor grew in beauty, and that Morwen’s plight was eased. And Túrin grew in stature until he became tall among Men, and his strength and hardihood were renowned in the realm of Thingol. He learned much lore, hearing eagerly all the tales of the ancient days; and he became thoughtful, and sparing of speech.
[Scene: Túrin and Beleg are together in the armories, in stances of battle, practicing with their swords. Túrin, about seventeen, is now of nearly equal height with Beleg, and much more filled-out and muscular. They circle about each other for several minutes, each parrying with their swords to the other’s blows. Once they finish, they stand panting and lean on their swords for a moment.]
Beleg: [with a smile] You have improved greatly, Túrin. I can scarcely beat you now.
Túrin: Your own teaching is too good for your own reckoning.
[pause]
Beleg: But something has been bothering you. Will you not tell me what it is?
Túrin: [slowly:] My … my grief is renewed, for all tiding from my mother and sister have ceased.
[looks up at Beleg]
The last messengers never returned, and King Thingol will not send any more.
[Beleg looks concerned.]
I have a mind to speak to King Thingol about battle far afield.
Beleg: [brighter:] Then we could be companions on many a journey together. You, Mablung, and I.
[Scene change. Túrin walks through the trees, in his dark brown woodsman clothing, towards a great clearing. At the other end of this clearing is a massive beech tree, its bole split into three huge parts. At the foot of the tree are two thrones, seemingly cut out of the wood of the tree itself. Thingol and Melian sit there, Melian arrayed much as she was in Scene IV, Thingol clothed with a silver cloak with hems of dark blue and silver like starlight. Some maidens of Melian stand about them, a few playing harps. Melian and Thingol seem to be talking and merely enjoying the outdoors, not taking part in any business. Túrin walks towards them and stops before their seats, bowing politely. Thingol and Melian acknowledge him with a nod. Thingol looks at him with a touch of wonder.]
Thingol: Well, Túrin, how are you this day? You have grown much from the small boy that was my fosterling.
Túrin: I am well, lord. But I am concerned about my family, and I wish to make war upon the forces of Morgoth. If you will, lord, I wish for a sword, a shield, mail, and the dragon helm that years ago my mother sent, but I have been too young to wear ere now.
Thingol: [nods] That is well. I will grant you what you ask.
[motioning to the servants who stand by]
Bring the lord Túrin a sword, shield, mail, and the helm.
[two of the servants bow and depart; to Túrin:]
I will appoint you a place among my knights of the sword; for the sword will ever be your weapon. With them you may make trial of war upon the marches, if that is your desire.
Túrin: [looks slightly disappointed:] My heart urges me beyond the marches of Doriath; I long rather for assault upon the Enemy, than for defence of the borderlands.
Thingol: [there’s no debate here] Then you must go alone. The part of my people in the war with Angband I rule according to my wisdom, Túrin son of Húrin. I will not now send any force of arms out of Doriath, nor in any time that I can forsee.
Melian: Yet you are free to go as you will, son of Morwen. The Girdle of Melian does not hinder the going of those that passed in with our leave.
Thingol: Unless wise counsel will restrain you.
Túrin: [looks up at him] What is your counsel, lord?
Thingol: You seem a Man in stature, but nonetheless you have not come to the fullness of your manhood that shall be. When that times comes, then, maybe, you can remember your kin; but there is little hope that one Man alone can do more against the Dark Lord than to aid the Elf-lords in their defence, as long as that may last.
Túrin: [proudly, sticking out his chest:] Beren my kinsman did more.
[Thingol does not answer but looks annoyed.]
Melian: [correcting him:] Beren and Lúthien. But you are over-bold to speak so to the father of Lúthien. Your destiny is not so high, though it is bound with that of the Elven-folk, for good or for ill. Beware of yourself, lest it be ill.
[pause; Túrin does not answer]
[Just then the servants come back into the glade, bearing the sword, shield, mail, and helm, and present them to Túrin. He takes the helm as well as the sword, shield, and the mail, bows to the King and Queen, and departs. He does not notice that there is another nearby, watching through the trees; and as Túrin departs, Saeros looks after him in contempt and disgust.]
[Túrin walks out of the glade and finds Beleg standing nearby. He comes up to him.]
Túrin: The King has given me what I asked. Now we may go onto the marches together.
[Beleg pats his back amiably.]
Beleg: We shall depart in the morning.
[Now is a series of several minutes of flash scenes (during this time is played the theme of Túrin (Cursum Perficio by Enya). First, we see Túrin and Beleg leaving from the gates of the city, clad in their mail and with their swords (Beleg with his bow and arrows).Then their journeying through the woods together, with many other Elves. Túrin stops and puts on the Dragon helm of Dor-lómin, and Beleg takes out some arrows, and they proceed into the woods. They and the group of Elves are creeping silently through the trees, surrounding an orc band that sits carousing in the woods. They come upon them suddenly, surprising them. Beleg stands by a tree and picks off one orc after another, just standing there, fitting arrows into his bow so quickly that one can barely see him do it. About fifteen fall dead in the space of two minutes. Túrin meanwhile is by him, battling the orcs with his sword, and dominating all those that come across his path. The next scene that comes up is Túrin, looking a bit older, perhaps nineteen, marching with Beleg, holding his bow, in front of a troop of Elven woodland warriors, all wearing brown and green. Suddenly orcs come hurling out of the trees. Túrin, wearing the dragon-helm, lifts up his sword methodically, and begins to fight them (well, not really fight: slaughter would be a better definition) he and Beleg fighting side by side. None can withstand them.]
[Scene: outside a wooden lodge house of the Elves in the middle of the woods. It is a large room, one or two small tables, but little other furniture or ornamentation. Beleg and Túrin are sitting together nearby, resting beneath the trees by the fire in the evening light. Closer to the camera are sitting two elves, one of them appearing much younger than the other: less seasoned and experienced perhaps. He asks his older compatriot:]
Young Ranger: Who are our leaders, yonder? The Bow and the Helm?
Ranger: [eyebrow raised in surprise:] You do not know?
Younger Ranger: No. I am recently come to Doriath and do not know all about its ways.
Ranger: [realization:] Oh. You are one of the Sindar from the South?
Younger: I am of the Nandor of Ossiriand.
Ranger: [nods] Then, I excuse your ignorance. The Bow and the Helm, our great captains, are Master Beleg, the march warden of King Thingol, and the other, the Dragon helm, is the fosterson of the King.
Youngest Ranger: [with understanding:] Ah, I see. Now I understand. Of what tribe does he come? The Noldor? Or the Sindar?
[To the younger ranger’s dismay, his older compatriot laughs.]
Ranger: Nay, my youngling. He is no Elf. He is a
Younger Ranger: [dismayed and amazed:] A Man?
Ranger: Indeed.
Younger Ranger: And how old is he? He looks little older than I.
Ranger: [with slight puzzlement] He cannot be over twenty. Nay, I think he is just twenty.
Youngest Ranger: [even more amazed:] Twenty years?
[The ranger nods. The younger ranger continues in even more amazement:]
What great skill he has for someone so young! He far surpasses me, and I am nearly sixty!
Ranger: [with a smile] Ah! And you wonder why they call him the Dragon-helm? He does deeds of such daring that it is a marvel he is alive, for he has received many wounds, but from all of them he has recovered well. I deem it is some fate that lies on him, that he does not die from them. And do not forget Beleg Strongbow. He is the only one in this land who surpasses lord Túrin in arms. He can shoot a wolf’s eye on a dark night from a hundred yards off –
Younger Ranger: [interrupting him:] He is Túrin, you say?
Ranger: [nods] Yes, the son of Húrin.
Younger Ranger: Ah, now I understand!
Ranger: What?
Younger Ranger: When he wears that helm, he seems to me to be the warrior Húrin himself, or what I have heard of him, for I myself have never seen him.
Ranger: [nods] So others have said as well. For it is the helm of Húrin his father that he wears, the mighty warrior of Dor-lómin.
[Behind them, at the end of the guardhouse, Beleg and Túrin are sitting together, having another conversation. All of those around, Túrin and Beleg especially, are unkempt, rather dirty and tired-looking from battle:]
Túrin: I wish someday soon to return to the land of my childhood, where I rightfully am heir of the lord. I have not seen my mother for twelve years. And my sister, Nienor, I have never seen.
[he lowers his head]
Beleg: I hope that some day you can. But for my part, though I am selfish, I am glad that you remain here with us. Much strength have you added to us, and given heart to many who go to battle in fear and despair. [It is a moment before Túrin answers.]
Túrin: [looks up at him:] Often throughout my childhood here in Doriath, I have looked out to the mountains of the North, and cursed their pitiless rocks for the harm they have done to my kin. Yet even though I curse those mountains, somehow I feel that my Doom flows from them, and ever when I curse them, an even greater curse shall redound from them back onto me. And yet I would have it no other way, for the hatred of the Black Foe is the greatest gift that any could grant me. I would sooner have that than its laughter or approval.
Beleg: [troubled:] I pray that no such darkness shall come upon you, my friend. And if you stand in strength while the world endures, none such shall.
[Later: the fire has burned low in the darkness. Túrin is asleep on the ground, and all others around him seem to be resting. Beleg is sitting, leaning against a tree with his eyes closed. As Túrin sleeps, we can see his dreams: he is walking once again with Gethron and Grithnir, the old servants, in the woods near his old home. As they come to the brow of the hill, and can just see Húrin’s house the size of a human hand in the distance, Gethron says to him:]
Gethron: Now look back, Túrin, and see the house of your father, ere we go.
[Túrin turns slowly back, and sees the house, and seeing it he cries out in great anguish:]
Túrin: Morwen, Morwen, when shall I see you again?
[Then Túrin wakes abruptly, and sits up, panting and sweating. Beleg opens his eyes.]
Beleg: [concerned:] Túrin, are you all right?
[Túrin does not answer for a minute. Once he calms down, he answers:]
Túrin: I have not been to the city in nearly a year. I think I shall return there tomorrow: I need smithwork for the repair of my arms.
SCENE VIII
[Scene: Túrin walks into the great hall of Menegroth. He is rather dirty (it is obvious he has been living out in the middle of the woods for the past three years) – his hair is long, pulled back hastily from his face, without heed, and there are even several pieces of grass and brambles stuck in the ends, that he has probably failed to notice. His grey cloak, thrown over his mail, is soiled and the hems frayed, and his boots are muddy. He still wears his weapons about his waist. Thingol and Melian are not in the hall, and Túrin walks in looking very weary and thoughtful. There are several tables about the hall, and he sits down listlessly at the first one that he comes to, without noticing who else is sitting there. The seat across from his is empty, but in the other seats are various elders of the realm, dressed in very nice clothing, and Mablung is sitting right next to the seat where Túrin sits down. ]
Mablung: Welcome, Túrin! You have returned unexpectedly from the marches!
Túrin: [looking at him] Yes, I need repair for my arms.
[The other elders sitting at the table all greet him very kindly also as he sits down, welcoming him.]
Elder: [friendly:] It must be difficult, living on the marches, Lord Túrin. You must long for rest at times.
Túrin: Indeed, I do. That is one of the reasons I have returned.
Second Elder: We are glad to see you back, Lord Túrin. I can imagine how wearying it must be living all the time outdoors.
Túrin: Not for me, my lord. I enjoy the outdoor, woodland life, as I always have. And making trial upon the orcs with Beleg always brings new challenges and trials.
Third Elder: Indeed, Túrin, we have missed you here. Will you stay for long?
Túrin: [turning to him] I do not think for so long, lord. I have come to mend my arms, and rest a little, then I shall return where Beleg awaits me on the marches.
Second Elder: He is a wonderful teacher, is he not?
Túrin: [nods; heartfelt:] The very best in the realm.
[As all these are giving their felicitations to Túrin, another elder of the realm comes in the hall and walks toward the table. When he sees Túrin sitting there he stops for a moment, looking displeased, then walks up to the table smoothly and sits down at the table across from Túrin.]
Saeros: [smooth, and apparently kind; to Túrin:] Seldom does the march-warden favour us with his company; and I gladly yield my accustomed seat for the chance of speech with him.
Túrin: [nods to him] Lord Saeros.
Saeros: [hiddenly caustic, appearing friendly:] I agree with the speech of the others. One would hardly think anything of the job of the Elders of the Realm, with all the toil and work that the march-wardens have on the borders of the land. Do you not agree?
Túrin: [carefully:] All jobs have their own purpose and meaning, and are good in themselves for different purposes.
Saeros: [smooth:] Indeed. How fairly you speak of it! You have learned the Elven-tongue well since you were a young child. You speak almost as one of Elven-kind themselves!
[when Túrin does not respond:]
And how go things on the marches, with Master Beleg? For surely he has been your teacher for all these years? One of mortal kind could rarely ask for a better tutor in ways of the woodland.
Túrin: [unobtrusive:] Indeed, Beleg has the greatest skill of any I have met. With him I make trial upon the marches, and the orcs are for the most part driven back.
Saeros: [apparently praising:] And that is due all to the greatness of the Dragon-helm, I do not doubt …
[Túrin does not answer, but appears weary, and tries to look away. But Saeros pursues, with veiled contempt:]
Surely you will admit of your own strength as a warrior, lord Túrin?
[Túrin still does not answer, and looks around him. He hears and sees around him the light and laughter of the Elves in the hall, and he begins to think of other times and places: we see in his mind him and Beleg in the woods together, hunting with the bow and sword, sitting together in the Elves’ wooden, lodge house, and sitting together beside a fire at night. Then those thoughts fade to his home in Dor-lómin, and the day that he sat with his mother and father in the living room, and the time that he sat with Lalaith and Morwen at the dinner table.]
Túrin: [sighs and says in his thought:] Now indeed I know the bitterness of exile.
[While he is thinking these things he frowns, in sorrow at his memories. Then we are brought back to the present, and the laughter and light of the hall, and Saeros’ angry red face glaring at him from across the table.]
Saeros: [acid:] So you would frown at me, would you, whelp?
[He takes a golden comb out of his pocket, and throws in on the table in front of Túrin. Irate and caustic:]
Doubtless, Man of Dor-lómin, you came in haste to this table, and may be excused your ragged cloak; but you have no need to leave your head untended as a thicket of brambles. And perhaps if your ears were uncovered you would hear better what was said.
[Túrin says nothing, but turns and looks at Saeros, his eyes glinting and hard with a warning. Saeros does not notice it, and returns his gaze with scorn:]
If the Men of Dor-lómin are so wild and fell, of what sort are the women of that land? Do they run like deer clad only in their hair?
[Through Túrin’s mind runs pictures of Morwen from his childhood, standing by the table, with his father, and then the echo comes into his mind of the words from his youth:]
Túrin: [echoing in his mind:] Morwen, Morwen, when shall I see you again?
[Then rage fills Túrin’s face, and leaping up he takes a golden goblet that is sitting in front of him on the table, and hurls it as hard as he can into Saeros’ face, three feet away from him. It hits Saeros so hard, that it knocks him backward out of his chair onto the floor. All the elders at the table, and in the rest of the hall stop suddenly and look at them. Túrin stays standing, and draws his sword suddenly, but does not move. Mablung, who is sitting beside him, grabs his arm to restrain him. Saeros, after a moment, gets up onto his knees from the floor, kneeling before the table. His jaw is broken and displaced, and there is blood coming from his misshapen mouth, which is entirely caved in. He spits onto the table, and blood as well as pieces of broken teeth come out and spread across the board. Then Saeros speaks through his broken teeth and mouth, with difficulty and with obvious pain.]
Saeros: [slowly:] How long shall we harbour this woodwose? Who rules here tonight? The king’s law is heavy upon those who hurt his lieges in the hall; and for those who draw blades there outlawry is the least doom. Outside the hall I could answer you, Woodwose!
[Túrin does not answer, but suddenly turns cold, and sheaths his sword. Releasing himself from Mablung’s grasp, he goes around the table and leaves the hall through the main door. Saeros attempts to heave himself up from the table with his hands, and Mablung goes over and offers him an arm.]
Mablung: [with a tinge of anger:] What ails you tonight? For this evil I hold you to blame; and it may be that the King’s law will judge a broken mouth a just return for your taunting.
Saeros: [helping himself up; lethal:] If the cub has a grievance, let him bring it to the King’s judgement. But the drawing of swords here is not to be excused for any just cause. Outside the hall, if the woodwose draws on me, I shall kill him.
Mablung: [shakes his head] That seems less certain to me; but if either be slain it will be an evil deed, more fit for Angband than Doriath, and more evil will come of it. Indeed I think that some shadow of the North has reached out to touch us tonight. Take heed, Saeros son of Ithilbor, lest you do the will of Morgoth in your pride, and remember that you are of the Eldar.
Saeros: [as if he hasn’t understood at all what Mablung said:] I do not forget it.
[Mablung shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything, and leaves the hall to follow Túrin. He goes down a set of stairs, through a hallway, turns right to another hallway, and comes to Túrin’s bedroom on the left. The walls of the room are all of a light grey stone, and the floor is white marble, with a soft woven carpet on the floor. There is a beautifully carven wooden desk there, with papers on it (written on with the elvish cirth) and a chair. There is a small glass lamp on the table that is turned on, and a bed, which is covered with a beautiful quilt woven with bright coloured flowers and images of the forest, on the other side of the room next to the wall. Túrin is sitting on the bed, with his head on his hands, his sword on the ground. Mablung comes in silently, and walks over to Túrin, who does not stir or seem to notice that he is there. He is silent for several moments before he speaks:]
Mablung: [softly:] Túrin…
[Túrin looks up at him slowly.]
Túrin: Does some curse follow me wherever I go? Or why do I earn his hatred?
Mablung: He is a fool, and speaks as one who knows nothing.
Túrin: That I know well, and I care nothing for his praise or contempt toward me, but the scorning of –
[He stops, for emotion or anger Mablung cannot tell: but he seems cold, and not hot with ire.]
Mablung: The King will hear of this, and will certainly disprove of Saeros’ actions, and thereby he will command him to cease –
Túrin: [shakes his head] I shall return to the marches in the morning. I had looked for rest and healing in the city, but it is plain that none can I find here.
[sighs]
Now most do I know the bitterness of my exile. The laughter and light of the Elven halls cannot relieve it.
[Mablung frowns, troubled.]
Mablung: Yet though one may hate you, all others here love you, and hold you in honour; myself, Beleg, and the King and the Queen not the least.
[Túrin nods.]
Túrin: [ominous:] And yet the hate of one may rule the fate of many.
[Scene fades. New scene: Túrin leaves his bedroom at early dawn, and shuts the door behind him. He is clad in his woodland raiment, slightly better kempt than in the last scene: his hair is now combed and pulled back from his face, though his clothing is still worn. He is girt with a sword, and walks silently out of the halls, across the bridge and into the woods. He walks alone for several minutes, until he is out of sight of the elven halls. Then he slows down, looking out of the corner of his eye. That second, a figure hurls out of the trees from behind him, stabbing his sword at Túrin’s back. He would certainly have pierced Túrin through, had Túrin not seen him a split second before and leaped forwards out of the way, drawing his sword. As he turns around to face his attacker, he sees that the person has a white bandage wrapped around his jaw.]
Túrin: [upon seeing the person’s face, cries out:] Morwen! Now your mocker shall pay for his scorn!
Saeros: [spitting it out:] Now I shall kill you, woodwose!
[He throws himself at Túrin, too vehemently at first. Túrin leaps out of the way again and circles around him. Saeros leaps at him, thrusting his sword at him again and again at different angles, and Túrin parries them, not himself stabbing forward. Then he comes forward suddenly, crashing his sword in a mighty heave at Saeros’ shield, and cleaving it in two. Saeros now casts the useless defence aside, and runs at Túrin again: but too soon. Túrin has come forward and strikes, wounding his sword arm before he can recover. Saeros backs up and tries again to fight, but he has little skill with his left hand, and his right arm is too weak now to use, with a great wound running across it. His sword falls from his hand, and Túrin steps on it, and points the sword at Saeros, who now stands there defenseless.]
Túrin: Saeros, there is a long race before you, and clothes will be a hindrance; hair must suffice.
[Then he grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him to the ground. Grabbing Saeros’ shirt by the collar with his right arm, he pulls it as hard as he can, and with one stroke rips off all the clothing of the elf. Saeros, feeling Túrin’s strength, becomes white as death, and begins to tremble in fear. Then Túrin backs away from him to let him stand.]
Now, Run! And unless you go as swift as the deer I shall prick you on from behind!
[Then Saeros’ face becomes frantic, and he leaps up, as if in madness, and runs away as fast as he can. But Túrin runs right after him, and is never more than two or three paces behind, yelling every now and again, “Run! Run!” but never actually touching him with his sword. Saeros as he runs screams out wildly for help. It seems that some hear him, for several start to follow, but cannot keep up with their pace. Mablung is the fastest of these. We see his perspective as he is running:]
Mablung: [calling to Túrin:] Hold, hold, Túrin! This is orc-work in the woods!
Túrin: [calls back to him:] Orc-work in the woods for orc-words in the hall!
[Then, as Saeros and Túrin keep running, about 500 feet away appears the brink of the river, that runs in a deep cleft, about as wide as a deer could leap, with steep rocks on either side. As soon as Túrin sees it he stops running, but Saeros, not looking back or seeing his chaser stop, does not. Túrin calls after him:]
Saeros! Saeros! [But Saeros either doesn’t hear, or is too frantic with fear to know what it is he is hearing. Running up to the brink, he tries to jump over it. He reaches the other side, but his heel slips, and with a cry he falls backwards onto the rocks below. Túrin comes up and looks down into the gorge below.]
Túrin: [murmurs to himself:] Unhappy fool! From here I would have let him walk back to Menegroth. Now he has laid a guilt upon me undeserved.
[Just then Mablung comes up with several other Elves behind them, and stands on the brink. Túrin says nothing, and after several moments of silence:]
Mablung: Alas! But come back now with us, Túrin, for the King must judge these deeds.
Túrin: [looks suddenly afraid:] If the King were just, he would judge me guiltless. But was not this one of his counselors? Why should a just king choose a heart of malice for his friend? I abjure his law and his judgement.
Mablung: [with pity:] Your words are unwise. But you shall not turn runagate. I bid you return with me, as a friend. And there are other witnesses. When the King learns the truth you may hope for his pardon.
Túrin: [with fear:] I refuse your bidding. I fear to be held captive in the halls of stone; and I will not seek King Thingol’s pardon for nothing. I will go now where his doom cannot find me. You have but two choices: to let me go free, or to slay me, if that would fit your law. For you are too few to take me alive.
Mablung: [sighs] One death is enough.
Túrin: I did not will it, but I do not mourn it. May Mandos judge him justly; and if ever he return to the lands of the living, may he prove wiser. Farewell!
Mablung: [sadly:] Fare free! for that is your wish. But well I do not hope for, if you go in this way. A shadow is on your heart. When we meet again, may it be no darker.
[Túrin does not answer, but turns away, and departs from the woods, leaving them standing silently alone.]
Act III – The Outlaws
SCENE IX
Minstrel: Túrin, believing himself an outlaw that the King would pursue, did not return to Beleg on the north-marches of Doriath, but went away westward, and passed secretly out of Doriath, coming into the woodlands south of Teiglin.
[Scene: Several flash images of Túrin walking alone in the woods. Then Túrin walking through a small village, with various cottages and huts scattered on the sides of a dirt road. As he walks along, all the people in the street look frightened upon seeing him, and back away, and those people near their houses go inside and shut the door. Túrin looks puzzled by all this, and tries to go up to a boy of about twelve to speak to him, but the boy looks frightened and runs away like a hunted rabbit. Soon almost everyone is gone, except for an old man who sits by the side of the road, in the front of his house. Túrin walks up to him.]
Túrin: Excuse me, sir. Why do all flee from me in fear? Is my appearance so frightful?
[The older man sits up and looks at him.]
Man: Nay, son, ‘tis not that. Come in, and I shall tell you more.
[Túrin comes through the gate and up the steps to the porch where the man is sitting. He then notices that the man is leaning on a crutch, and his foot is shriveled and small. Túrin stops and looks at him for a moment with pity and reminiscence in his face, but the man does not seem to notice his fascination with his withered appendage. He gets up and leads Túrin inside, shutting the door behind him. The inside is one room, bare and dry, with only the bare necessities. A fire does burn on the hearth, but that is the only brightness in the entire room.]
Would you like some food, son?
Túrin: [nods] If it please you, sir.
[The man gathers a little loaf of bread and cheese on a wooden plate and hands it to him. The man sits down by the fire, and Túrin across from him.]
Thank you. Would you tell me, then, why all these flee from me, as if I were one of the Enemy’s minions?
Man: [nods] Yes. You see, we have had difficulty these last winters with a band that comes raiding into our village – and these are very like to the Enemy’s minions, though not orcs, as you would think. The Gaurwaith have been raiding all down the river all the winter.
Túrin: [curious:] The Gaurwaith? The Wolf-men?
Man: Aye, as little as you would think. These are a group of men – of outcasts, of bandits – either those that were exiled from their own lands and homes, or made outcasts from their own society. There are about fifty of them in this band, and they come into our land, during the winter, stealing our food, our tools and goods, and even our daughters and wives. We here live mostly by hunting and husbandry, and life is hard for us. We must defend our homes from them, and we hate them scarcely less than orcs. That is why we call them the Wolf-men.
Túrin: [slightly amused:] So will the men of your town come with their weapons then, to find me and slay me if they think me one of them?
Man: Nay, I would not worry about that. The Wolf-men never come openly into the town – they always creep secretly at night to steal. I knew that you were not one of them, for your raiment is not that of a hunted vagrant. Indeed, I deem that you come from an Elven realm, from your clothing, and your manner of speech, which is rich and beautiful.
Túrin: [with a wan smile] Then you have more wisdom than those others who flee from me.
Man: [smiling] You may stay here tonight, if you wish. I grow lonely here by myself. I lost my son in battle against the orcs two years ago, and you remind me somewhat of him.
Túrin: Gladly will I stay. Thank you.
[Scene change: it is morning. Túrin leaves the house of the older man, bidding him farewell at the door, and heading out once again into the wilderness. Some curious folk come to their doors to see him go, wishing for one last look at the majestic stranger. Túrin walks for a long time along, until he comes to a wood that is much greener than the others he has passed. He goes along for quite a while, until he comes into a wide open glade under the sky. Then, looking around, he sees that he is surrounded: a tight ring of men have circled about him, with bows bent straight on him. He stops. Before they say anything, he speaks. He shows no fear whatsoever.]
Túrin: Who are you? I thought that only Orcs waylaid Men; but I see I was mistaken.
[One of the company of men steps forward, evidently the leader. He is tall, a big man, with fair hair, his unsteady eyes hard and pitiless.]
Forweg: [harsh:] You may rue the mistake, for these are our lands, and we do not allow other Men to walk in them. We take their lives as forfeit, unless they can ransom them. [To their discomfort and surprise, Túrin laughs.]
Túrin: [laughing:] You will get no ransom from me, an outcast and an outlaw. You may search me when I am dead, but it will cost you dear to prove my words true.
[The circle tightens around him, and several of the men grumble and look angry. Túrin stoops suddenly to pick up a large rock on the ground by the stream, about the size of two human fists, and at that moment, one of the men in the group lets his arrow fly, and it goes right over Túrin’s bent back and into the trees beyond. Túrin, leaping up, throws the stone with all his strength at the one who had shot the bow at him. The man falls onto the ground, his skull broken with a sickening crack. Túrin turns to the captain.]
I might be of more service to you alive, in the place of that luckless man. If you are captain here, you should not allow your men to shoot without command.
Forweg: [shocked:] I do not, but he has been rebuked swiftly enough. I will take you in his stead, if you will heed my words better. I am called Forweg.
[All the outlaws then lower their bows, except two, who don’t seem to agree. One of them, a man of about fifty perhaps, says:]
Ulrad: [displeased:] A strange way to gain entry into a fellowship: the slaying of one of the best men.
Túrin: [turns to him] Not unchallenged. But come then! I will endure both of you together, with weapons, or with strength alone; and then you shall see if I am fit to replace one of your best men.
[He strides toward them, drawing his sword. The older man, Ulrad, backs away.]
Ulrad: [frightened:] No, no, I will not fight.
[The other man who had also disagreed, perhaps in his mid thirties, a dark scruffy-looking man, throws down his bow, and looks Túrin up and down, then says:]
Andróg: [shaking his head] I am no match for you. There is none here who is, I think. You may join us, for my part. But there is strange look about you; you are a dangerous man. What is your name?
[There is a pause; then Túrin says:]
Túrin: Neithan, the Wronged, I call myself. [Neithan pronounced ‘Nathan’]
Andróg: And I am Andróg, of Dor-lómin.
[at the name of that place, Túrin starts suddenly.]
Do you know it as well?
[Túrin does not answer]
Forweg: [to Túrin:] We are all outcasts here for a reason, some more dire than others.
Andróg: [as if unaffected by guilt or grief; almost flippantly:] I was driven forth from Dor-lómin for the slaying of a woman.
[then an older man, in his mid-sixties, says:]
Algund: I also fled form Dor-lómin, to escape the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.
[Túrin looks at them darkly and with some measure of disgust, perhaps thinking first of Morwen, then of Húrin.]
Ulrad: [to Túrin:] And what of your past? Why are you an outlaw and an outcast, as you say? You seem to have fallen from some high state – those arms that you have are made by Elven-smiths.
Túrin: [reticent:] I have suffered injustice. But I will say no more concerning it.
[pause]
Forweg: Nonetheless, if you can hold your own, you are welcome among this band.
Minstrel: Túrin did not yet dare to return to Dor-lómin, for the land was beset with enemies, and one man could not hope alone to overcome them and pass through. So Túrin abode for a time among the outlaws, and because he wished to live and could not be ever at strife with them, he did little to restrain their evil deeds. Yet at times pity and shame would wake in him, and then he was perilous in his anger.
[Scene change: the lighted hall of Menegroth. Thingol and Melian are sitting on their thrones, with a great company of people in the hall. Mablung stands right in front of the thrones, and seems to have just finished speaking.]
Thingol: [sighs] Alas! How has this shadow stolen into my realm? Saeros I accounted faithful and wise; but if he lived he would feel my anger, for his taunting was evil, and I hold him to blame for all that chanced in the hall. So far Túrin has my pardon. But the shaming of Saeros and the hounding of him to his death were deeds I cannot pass over. They show a hard heart, and proud.
[there is a long silence; then he speaks sadly:]
This is an ungrateful fosterson, and a Man too proud for his state. How shall I harbour one who scorns me and my law, or pardon one who will not repent? Therefore I will banish Túrin son of Húrin from the Kingdom of Doriath. If he seeks entry he shall be brought to judgement before me; and until he sues for pardon at my feet he is my son no longer. If any here accounts this unjust, let him speak.
[There is complete silence in the hall. Thingol looks around for a moment, then lifts up his hand and opens his mouth to speak. At that moment Beleg comes hurrying in the hall through the main door.]
Beleg: [cries out, in haste:] Lord, may I speak?
Thingol: [frowns] You come late. Were you not bidden with the others?
Beleg: Truly, lord, but I was delayed; I sought for one whom I knew. Now I bring at last a witness who should be heard, ere your doom falls.
Thingol: [frowning] All were summoned who had aught to tell. What can he tell now of more weight than those to whom I have listened?
Beleg: You shall judge when you have heard. Grant this to me, if I have ever deserved your grace.
[pause]
Thingol: To you I grant it.
[Beleg then hurries out of the hall again, and comes back a moment later, leading in Nellas by the hand. She looks tiny and insignificant in that big place, shrinking from the stone walls and all the people in the hall. She looks frightened as all the people look at her as she and Beleg pass up the hall to the King’s chair. Beleg stands beside her before the thrones, and she casts her eyes onto the ground, awed and overwhelmed.]
Speak, maiden. What have you to say that concerns this matter?
[It is several moments before Nellas can answer, opening her mouth to speak several times in vain. At last sounds come out:]
Nellas: Lord, I was sitting in a tree –
[Then she falters, in awe of speaking to the King. He smiles.]
Thingol: Others have done this also, but have felt no need to tell me of it.
Nellas: [taking courage from his smile:] Others indeed. Even Lúthien! And I was thinking of her that morning, and of Beren the
[Thingol does not answer, but his smile fades. Nellas continues:]
For Túrin reminded me of Beren. They are akin, I am told, and their kinship can be seen by some: by some that look close…
[Thingol is not amused and is losing his patience.]
Thingol: [annoyed:] That may be, but Túrin son of Húrin is gone in scorn of me, and you will see him no more to read his kindred. For now I will speak my judgement.
Nellas: [dismayed:] Lord King! Bear with me, and let me speak first. I sat in a tree to look on Túrin as he went away; and I saw Saeros come out of the woods with sword and shield, and spring on Túrin from behind at unawares.
[At this the hall becomes filled with murmuring, as people turn to one another in amazement and surprise. Thingol lifts up his hand for them to cease. They grow quiet.]
Thingol: [gravely:] You bring graver news to my ear than seemed likely. Take heed now to all that you say; for this is a court of doom.
Nellas: [nods; earnest:] So Beleg has told me, and only for that have I dared to come here, so Túrin shall not be ill judged. He is valiant, and he is merciful. They fought, lord, these two, until Túrin had bereft Saeros of both shield and sword; but he did not slay him. Therefore I do not believe that he willed his death in the end. If Saeros were put to shame, it was shame that he had earned.
Thingol: Judgement is mine. But what you have told shall govern it.
[Then he turns to Mablung, who stands by the thrones:]
It is strange to me that Túrin said nothing of this to you.
Mablung: Yet he did not. And had he spoken of it, otherwise my words would have been to him at parting.
Thingol: And otherwise my doom shall now be. Hear me! Such fault as can be found in Túrin I now pardon, holding him wronged and provoked. And since it was indeed, as he said, one of my council who so misused him, he shall not seek for this pardon, but I will send it to him, wherever he may be found; and I will recall him in honour to my halls.
[But suddenly, to his surprise and that of the others, Nellas bursts into tears and covers her face with her hands.]
Nellas: [weeping:] Where can he be found? For he has left our land, and the world is so wide!
Thingol: [softly, looking at her:] He shall be sought.
[Then Beleg takes Nellas’ hand, and leads her, still weeping, through the crowd and out of the hall, through the main gate of the city, and once again into the woods. There he stops and looks at her.]
Beleg: Do not weep, Nellas; for if Túrin lives or walks still abroad, I shall find him, though all others fail.
[She nods sadly, drying her tears, and walks away from him, disappearing into the woods. Then Beleg turns and goes back into the hall, where most of the people have now dispersed, and to the thrones where Thingol and Melian sit. He bows to them.]
Thingol: [speaks to him first:] Counsel me, Beleg; for I am grieved. I took Húrin’s son as my own son, and so he shall remain, unless Húrin himself should return out of the shadows to claim his own. I would not have any say that Túrin was driven forth unjustly into the wild, and gladly would I welcome him back; for I loved him well.
Beleg: [earnest:] I will seek Túrin until I find him, and I will bring him back to Doriath, if I can; for I love him also.
[Scene fades.]
Minstrel: Beleg departed; and far across Beleriand he sought in vain for tidings of Túrin, through many perils; and that winter passed away, and the spring after.
SCENE X
[Scene: the camp of the outlaws. It is now spring, and all things are green and bright. All the outlaws, except Forweg and Andróg, are idling about, under the trees in front of the mouth of a cave. Túrin is sitting by himself, apart from the others, with some paper in his hands, writing something. Ulrad and Algund sit together by the mouth of the cave, talking quietly together.]
Algund: [nodding toward Túrin] It seems that Neithan is learned in letters as well as in speech and lore.
Ulrad: I think so. I have seen him write much, when we have time free.
Algund: Aye, now that we wait deedless for Forweg to return. Where have he and Andróg gone?
[Ulrad shrugs.]
Ulrad: I do not know. I hope it is not for some evil deed.
[At Algund’s questioning glance.]
Neithan – is kind, and seems to care little for himself, and yet – I think that Andróg was right – he is a dangerous man. I fear him in his sudden angers, which I seldom understand.
Algund: [nods] Ah! I see. Indeed. And yet I trust him. He is honest, and generous, giving of all he has to others.
Ulrad: Perhaps that comes of the injustice that he spoke of that he suffered.
Algund: [shrugs] I would not know, for he will not speak of it.
Ulrad: [pursuing:] But he always seems open to others’ tales of injustice as well.
Algund: [nods] And yet I think he does not approve of much of what we do. Do you recall, when he found out that Andróg had killed that old lame man from the village nearby to steal his cattle, how angry he was? – I have never seen anyone so fell as he in that moment. I feared he would kill Andróg, if Andróg had not run from him, and the captain had not stopped him.
Ulrad: Yes, I remember. I think I felt more fear then than Andróg did, so perilous did Neithan seem.
Algund: Yet all the other men praise him and revere him. He is by far the best warrior among us, and is valiant and exceedingly strong.
Ulrad: [adding:] And he has more skill in the woods than any other that I have seen.
Algund: [perplexed:] Indeed. And yet I cannot fathom him. I do not understand him. Some tragedy or darkness in his past lies heavy upon him. He seems wise and experienced for one of his years.
Ulrad: [curiously:] I think he has been in some elven city. His speech is rich and beautiful, and his arms and clothing are that of an elven prince; though they are worn now. Perhaps he has been exiled from some high state.
Algund: [shrugs] I do not know. I wish Forweg would return! Where has he gone? We have been here overlong. Now that spring is come the men of the village yonder may come against us with arms, and hunt us out. We have not the strength to withstand them.
[Behind them, Túrin gets up from where he is sitting under the tree, and speaks, to all the outlaws, in a general question:]
Túrin: Why does Forweg not lead us away South, where there is more food and game, and no Men? Why do we linger here? And where have he and Andróg gone?
[Then some of the outlaws laugh. One of them answers him:]
Outlaw: They are away on business of their own, I guess. They will be back before long, and then we shall move. In haste, maybe; for we shall be lucky if they do not bring the hive-bees after them.
[Túrin looks around him at the sun shining on the bright green leaves, and then wanders away from the camp of the outlaws, into the forest. They don’t seem or notice or care that he’s gone, and he walks for a long time, and he suddenly murmurs to himself:]
Túrin: That squalid camp irks me, and the rough company of the men …
[Then in his mind he hears the echo of a female elven voice, and the memory comes to his mind of Nellas, sitting with him in the ‘secret glade’ in Doriath, telling him all the names of the plants around them.]
Nellas: Dorn … neldor … galbreth … elanor …
[Túrin smiles in sad reminiscence, as the names continue, and he hears in his mind Nellas’ voice pointing out all these to him:]
… regorn … niphredil … el …
[All of a sudden his recollections are broken when a young maiden comes breaking through the trees, running. Her clothing is torn from the branches and she seems to be extremely frightened. At the same time Túrin sees and can hear another coming right behind her through the trees, and he sees, in a flash, not the young maiden running towards him, but Lalaith, his sister. She trips on a log and falls onto the ground, gasping. Túrin springs forward, drawing his sword, and when the maiden’s pursuer comes shooting through the trees after her, he takes his sword and hews him down before he even sees who it is. Then looking down, he sees the man’s face, and it is Forweg’s. He stands there for several minutes, not moving, just staring at the blood on the grass. The maiden still lies several feet away, gasping. In a moment, Andróg comes running through the trees as well, and stops, astounded, seeing Túrin standing there with his drawn sword dripping with blood, and the dead Forweg on the ground.]
Andróg: [becoming angry:] Evil work, Neithan!
[He draws his sword to fight him. But Túrin, now turned cold, just looks at him.]
Túrin: [coldly:] Where are the Orcs, then? Or have you outrun them to help her?
Andróg: [scornful:] Orcs? Fool! You call yourself an outlaw. Outlaws know no law but their needs. Look to your own, Neithan, and leave us to mind ours.
Túrin: [ice:] I will do so. But today our paths have crossed. You will leave this woman to me, or you will join Forweg.
Andróg: [laughs harshly:] If that is the way of it, have your will. I make no claim to match you, alone; but our fellows may take this slaying ill.
[The young woman, who had been lying there, listening, now gets up and comes over to Túrin. She looks at the blood on the ground, lays her hand on Túrin’s arm, and then looks up into his fair face, her eyes shining.]
Maiden: [encouraging:] Kill him, lord! Kill him too! And then come with me. If you bring their heads, Larnach my father will not be displeased. For two ‘wolf-heads’ he has rewarded men well.
[Túrin does not answer her, but turns to Andróg.]
Túrin: Is it far to her home?
Andróg: [shrugs] A mile or so, in a fenced homestead yonder. She was straying outside.
[Túrin turns back to the woman.]
Túrin: Go then quickly. Tell your father to keep you better. But I will not cut off the heads of my fellows to buy his favour, or aught else.
[He sheaths his sword. To Andróg:]
Come! We will return. But if you wish to bury your captain, you must do so yourself. Make haste, for a hue and a cry may be raised. Bring his weapons!
[The woman looks disappointed, but she gets up, and looking wistfully back at Túrin, slips away through the trees back the way she came. Túrin walks away, back toward the camp, without saying anything else. But Andróg stands there for a moment, looking after him, and he frowns, as if pondering some riddle in his mind.]
[Scene: Túrin returns back through the trees into the camp. He finds the men standing about, murmuring in displeasure to one another, seeming restless. When they see Túrin they come towards him.]
Outlaw: Neithan, you have returned! Where is Forweg? Have you seen him?
Ulrad: [displeased:] Forweg runs hazards to our own cost, and others may have to pay for his pleasures.
Túrin: Then choose a new captain! Forweg can lead you no longer; for he is dead.
Ulrad: How do you know? Did you seek honey from the same hive? Did the bees sting him?
Túrin: No. One sting was enough. I slew him. But I spared Andróg, and he will return soon.
[All the men gasp and look at each other in wonder. Túrin explains to them:]
I was walking in the woods, thinking, when a young maiden ran through the trees, pursued by some menace, and when her chaser ran through the trees, I slew him, ere I even saw who it was. Then Andróg came through the trees, and the maiden bid me slay him also, but I sent her home to her father –
[as he speaks, Andróg walks through the trees into the camp, bearing Forweg’s weapons in his arms]
Andróg: [to Túrin; with a smirk:] See, Neithan! No alarm has been raised. Maybe she hopes to meet with you again.
Túrin: [looks at him with a glint in his eye] If you jest with me, I shall regret that I grudged her your head. Now tell your tale, and be brief.
Andróg: [to the company:] What Neithan says is true; for I heard his tale as I came up toward the camp. But what business he had there I now wonder. Not ours, it now seems. For when I came up, he had already slain Forweg. The woman liked that well, and offered to go with him, begging our heads as a bride-price. But he did not want her, and sped her off; so what grudge he had against the captain I cannot guess. He left my head on my shoulders, for which I am grateful, though much puzzled.
Túrin: [to Andróg; fiercely, and with heat:] Then I deny your claim to come of the people of Hador in Dor-lómin. To Uldor the Accursed you belong rather, and should seek service with Angband.
[Andróg looks frightened; Túrin turns to the other men:]
But hear me now! I give you these choices: you must take me as your captain in Forweg’s place, or else let me go. But if you wish to kill me, set to! I will fight you all until I am dead – or you!
[some of the men growl and lay their hands on their weapons, but Andróg steps forward]
Andróg: [crying to them:] Nay! The head that he spared is not witness. If we fight, more than one will die needlessly, before we kill the best man among us.
[nodding towards Túrin. Then he laughs.]
As it was when he joined us, so it is again. He kills to make room. If it proved well before, so may it again; and he may lead us to better fortune than prowling about other men’s maidens.
[Túrin is thoughtful for a minute. Then he looks up at Andróg and Algund:]
Túrin: Home, you say? Tall and cold stand the Mountains of Shadow between us and Dor-lómin. Behind them are the people of Uldor, the Easterlings, and about them the legions of Angband. If such things do not daunt you, forty-nine men, then I may lead you homeward. But how far before we die?
[No one answers. There is silence for several moments, then Túrin speaks again.]
Do you take me as your captain? Then I will lead you first away into the wild, far from the homes of Men. There we may find better fortune, or not; but at the least we shall earn less hatred of our own kind.
Algund and Andróg: I will take you as our leader.
Ulrad: I also.
[The others nod and give their assent, less vehemently perhaps.]
Túrin: Very well. Come then, we shall leave this country at once.
[Scene fades.]
Minstrel: A year had passed since Túrin had fled from Doriath, and Beleg still searched for him in the wild, with lessening hope. Then the marches of Doriath were overrun, for their two great captains, the Dragon-helm and the Strongbow, had departed, and the armies of Morgoth were heartened, and their numbers increased, roaming far and ravaging the borderlands.
[Scene: Beleg is walking in the woods by himself, looking depressed and discouraged. He keeps walking until the trees thin, and he comes upon a small village (the same village where Túrin went in Scene IX). He begins to walk through silently, with his head down, not speaking to anyone. But people are drawn to the majestic warrior, who is so obviously of Elf-kind: he is at least a head taller than the tallest man there. People come out of their doors to look at him, and especially at his great bow, which is almost as tall as he is; and some of the most curious begin to follow him. He does not seem to notice them at first, then he looks up and sees that there are people all around him, looking curiously at him. He turns to one closest to him, a man of about forty.]
Beleg: [mildly:] Greetings. Is there aught that I may do for you?
[The Man takes off his hat, and begins wringing it in his hands, as he speaks.]
Man: [nervously:] Oh, no lord. I was just wondering…if there is anything we can do for you. Strangers do not often come through this town, and especially not one so –
[Beleg gives a small smile.]
Beleg: [finishing for him:] Not one so strange, eh?
[The man looks dismayed for a moment. A woman standing beside him tries to recover for him.]
Woman: Oh, no, sir, not at all. He meant that –
Beleg: [smiles:] I know, lady. Do not fear. Even if he meant it not that way, our kind are indeed rather strange. Especially solitary hunters as I am.
[The people around him begin to smile, more comfortable once they see that he has a sense of humor and is not all iron and steel.]
Man: Is there aught we can do for you, lord?
Beleg: Please, I am as much a lord as this small child is here –
[He motions to a boy standing by and smiles kindly at him.]
I am Beleg, the march-warden of Doriath. I have been long time seeking one who is my friend, but it has been a year now and still I have not found him. Thus I return now to my home, with sorrow and disappointment.
Woman: What sort of man was this, lord?
Beleg: [smiles:] I am not a lord; but this was a very tall Man, with dark hair and piercing eyes.
[One of the men nearby seems to recognize this description.]
Second Man: I think I know who it was! There was a man who came here, just a little less than a year ago, seeking shelter, and we did not know him, and he appeared tall and lordly, so we fled from him. But an old man who dwelt here, who was crippled, took him into his house and kept him for the night. He departed in the morning.
Beleg: [brightening:] Where is this man, that I may speak with him?
Second Man: Alas, he is dead. He was slain by the Wolf-men in the last spring, protecting his cattle from their thievery.
[Beleg looks down, disappointed and ponderous. But now the first man speaks, annoyed, since he has been trying to get a work in since the second one spoke:]
Man: [addressing Beleg:] I was going to say, that there have been even more recent tidings of one of such bearing. There is a man here, Larnach is his name, and his daughter was rescued by one such a man from the Gaurwaith, the Wolf-men. He was a tall and lordly man, or maybe even an Elf-warrior, as some say.
Beleg: [looks up at him, encouraged:] Can you bring me to that man’s house?
Man: Yes, I will take you.
[The Man, obviously now thinking himself important for leading an Elven warrior to his neighbor’s house, strides in front, leading Beleg, and the other onlookers, now doubly curious than before, follow at a safe distance. Down the road, they reach Larnach’s house, and the important man knocks at the door. Another man, of about fifty, opens it.]
Man: Larnach, this Elf-warrior has come seeking you.
[Larnach comes out, looking at him curiously.]
Larnach: Yes?
Beleg: [nods to him] Sir, I seek one that others here tell me may have rescued your daughter from the … Wolf-men.
Larnach: [looks surprised:] Indeed? That may be. Will you not come inside? My daughter will be able to tell you more.
[Beleg nods and steps inside, the door shutting behind them, leaving the disappointed crowd looking longingly at the closed door. Once inside, Larnach calls for his daughter, and in a moment, she comes out from the back rooms. It is the same young woman that Túrin saved in scene IX. She stops and looks at Beleg with wide eyes.]
Maiden: Hello, lord.
Beleg: Greetings. I am seeking one that the men of the town tell me may have been your rescuer. Will you tell me more of this man?
Maiden: [nods] Gladly, lord.
[She sits down by the fire and Beleg sits down across from her. The father stays standing.]
He … he was very proud, with bright eyes that scarcely deigned to look at me. Yet he called the Wolf-men his fellows, and would not slay another that stood by, and knew his name. Neithan, he called him.
[There is silence for a moment, while Beleg appears thoughtful.]
Larnach: [to Beleg:] Can you read this riddle?
Beleg: [looking up at him] Alas, I can. The Man that you tell of is the one whom I seek.
[He stands up.]
Thank you for your aid. Be warned that there is evil gathering in the North. Soon the Orcs will come ravening in this country in strength too great for you to withstand. This year at last you must give up your freedom or your lives. Go to Brethil while there is time!
[Larnach looks grave at the warning.]
Larnach: Thank you. Men will heed your words.
[Then Beleg, in haste, leaves the village, and disappears once more into the woods.]
SCENE XI
[Scene: Túrin and the outlaws are all running together, with their packs, Túrin urging them on:]
Túrin: Come! Swiftly, or the woodman shall be after us!
[Then another image of their all sleeping in a camp at night around a dying fire, with a single watcher. Switch to the dawn, Beleg running through the woods, and coming into an open glade, and finding there their deserted camp, which they have apparently just left. He sighs and goes on. Switch to Túrin and the outlaws walking swiftly.]
Túrin: Come! We must go north!
[Then an image of Beleg stopping by another homestead, next to a stream. He stops a man there with a horse, plowing his fields.]
Beleg: [in haste:] Have you see a company of men, of outlaws pass this way?
Man: [thinking:] Well, yes, I think I did.
Beleg: When?
Man: It was nigh on three days ago. They passed north, about fifty of them. I saw them through the woods.
[Beleg speeds off. Then another image of him running through the forest, then stopping suddenly, and running back. Stooping down, he picks up a small piece of cloth, that looks like an old brown shirt, that was left there. He puts it in his pack and goes on, looking heartened. Next, another image of him, at night, this time creeping up to a glade, where he obviously expects to see something. He sneaks behind a tree, and then comes suddenly from behind the trees. All there is is a deserted camp, with no living thing to be seen anywhere. He looks agitated and frustrated:]
Beleg: [with eyebrows knotted:] Alas! Too well did I teach this child of Men craft in wood and field! An Elvish band almost one might think this to be!
[Switch to Túrin and the outlaws. It is evening in their camp by a stream. Ulrad comes running towards the camp, panting and red.]
Ulrad: [to Túrin:] Neithan, the pursuing shadow still follows us!
[Túrin looks up sharply at him.]
Túrin: You have seen it?
Ulrad: [shakes his head:] Nay. None of us has ever been able to see it, or who it is. Yet it still comes behind.
Túrin: [murmurs:] And I thought we had shaken off all pursuit! This makes me uneasy. We will leave again right away. Prepare your things!
[Show again Túrin and his companions traveling, then their camp again. This time it is in the woods, by a cave. Some of them sit within the cave, some outside. The scouts of the outlaws come through the trees, and one of them speaks to Túrin:]
Orleg: Neithan, the orcs have crossed the river!
Túrin: [eyebrows raised] What has that to do with us? We shall continue on our way –
[he stands up.]
Orleg: Nay, Neithan, they bear great booty of plunder, and captives.
Túrin: [looks at him sharply:] So you would save the captives, would you?
[Orleg does not answer.]
Andróg: Do not be a fool. It is the booty we want.
Túrin: [looks at him darkly:] It is perilous to reveal ourselves to the Orcs.
Orleg: Then we will go by ourselves. We have need for many things in the wild –
Túrin: [sighs] Very well. But we cannot reveal ourselves to the orcs, until we at least know how many there are. Therefore, I will go spy upon them, and determine their numbers. Will one go with me?
Orleg: I will go.
Túrin: I give command of the band to Andróg while I am gone. See that you lie close and well hid while we are gone.
[They take some things with them, and depart from the camp. They make their way towards the river, until they can hear the orcs through the trees. They are very loud, and abrasive noises, and Túrin and Orleg crawl through the tall grass and peer out from behind a log. There are over two hundred orcs, and they have captives with them, tied with chains and rope: mortal women and men, tired and desperate. Some of the orcs are not paying attention to them, speaking together or doing other things; but some of them are taunting the captives and treating them cruelly. Túrin and Orleg lie watching this, Túrin, at least, with sorrow and compassion, when suddenly three orcs come out of the trees right behind them. They do not see the two men lying there, and so stumble over them, cursing, and fall onto the ground. Túrin and Orleg both spring up, as quickly as they can, as the orcs do, and swiftly they slay two of the orcs, but the third runs away through the woods, yelping:]
Orc: Golug! Golug! Noldor! Noldor!
[Túrin turns at once to his companion.]
Túrin: There is no hope now of escape. They shall come after us. We must deceive them and lead them away from the hiding place of the men. Come!
[They leap away through the trees, and run, and run, and run. The orcs come swiftly after them through the forest, cutting down everything in their way. They continue to run, dodging and running diagonally and in zigzags, trying to ward off pursuit, until they reach the end of the forest, where a road runs across it. They stop for a moment, in consternation, then sprint across. The orcs can now finally see them, and shoot a rain of arrows at them. One hits Túrin’s back but bounces off from his Elvish mail. Orleg, however, falls and does not get up again. Túrin looks back at the body, with many arrows in it, then speeds away through the trees on the other side of the road. Scene fades out.]
[Scene change: the outlaws’ camp. The men are restless, wandering around the camp with their hands in their pockets, muttering to one another.]
Ulrad: [aloud to anyone who will listen:] Where are Neithan and Orleg? It has been three days since they set out! I say we move from this cave, and depart elsewhere.
[Several of the other outlaws nod their agreement.]
Outlaw: Aye, let us depart from this place!
Andróg: No, we shall not. I am captain while Neithan is gone, and I counsel we should wait for him.
[While he speaks there is a shadow moving among the trees behind them. Silently it moves into the clearing, a tall figure, cloaked in grey. He has no weapons in his hands, and holds them out in token of peace, as he speaks to them.]
Beleg: Greetings! I am come –
[But before he can say anymore, they all leap around in fear, and the ones closest grab him. Andróg takes a rope and puts a noose around him, pinioning his arms to his sides. Beleg looks surprised and slightly annoyed.]
If you do not wish for guests, you should keep better watch. Why do you welcome me thus? I come as a friend, and seek only a friend. Neithan I hear that you call him.
Ulrad: [sharply:] He is not here. But unless you have long spied on us, how do you know his name?
Andróg: [darkly:] He has long spied on us. This is the shadow that has dogged us for so many miles. Now perhaps we shall learn his true purpose. Tie him to a tree!
[The men do some, not gently, and with some difficulty (he is very tall). They drag him over and, roughly and very tightly, bind his hands and feet to the tree. Then they all stand around him threateningly, and begin asking him questions:]
Andróg: Who are you? Where have you come from?
[Beleg says nothing.]
Ulrad: How long have you been spying on us? How do you know Neithan’s name?
[pause; no answer]
Another Outlaw: [menacing:] Answer us, Elf!
Beleg: I have been a friend to this Neithan since I first met him in the woods, and he was then but a child. I seek him only in love, and to bring him good tidings.
Andróg: Let us slay him, and be rid of his spying!
[He is looking over at Beleg’s great bow, and lust for it gleams in his eyes.]
Algund: Nay! The captain may return yet; and then you will rue it, if he learns that he has been robbed at once of a friend and of good tidings.
Andróg: I do not believe the tale of this Elf. He is a spy of the King of Doriath. But if he has indeed any tidings, he shall tell them to us; and we shall judge if they give us reason to let him live.
Beleg: I shall wait for your captain.
Andróg: You shall stand there until you speak.
[They all leave him and go over to their things and start taking out food and eating it right in front of him. Then several scenes of time passing. It is dark, they are all sleeping, but Beleg is still tied to the tree and one can see his open eyes glinting in the dark like a cat’s. Then a picture of another evening. Beleg is still tied to the tree. His face is white, he looks very weak, and is sagging. Andróg looks over at him.]
Andróg: [evilly:] Will you still not speak, Elf?
[Beleg doesn’t answer.]
For if you do not, I don’t think you can go another two days without food.
[The other outlaws grumble their agreement, fingering their weapons, ad coming menacingly towards him.]
Outlaw: [fearful:] Let us slay him and be gone! It is five days now since Neithan and Orleg departed.
Second Outlaw: [angry:] Yes, let us depart!
[Ulrad takes a brand from the fire and holds it up, bringing it up close to Beleg’s face. Beleg is too weak to offer any resistance. Just then Túrin creeps through the trees towards the camp, looking weary, muddied, his clothes torn. Coming silently through the trees he sees the face of Beleg, lit by the fire that is inches from his face. Tears spring to his eyes and run down his face, as he springs forward at once into the glade towards Beleg.]
Túrin: [through his tears:] Beleg! Beleg! How have you come here? And why do you stand so?
[All the outlaws stand aside as Túrin frantically grabs his knife and cuts the ropes loose. Beleg, unable to stand on his own, falls forward into Túrin’s arms. Túrin turns angrily to the outlaws.]
What is this? Why is my friend treated this way?
Andróg: [wide-eyed:] He came upon us at unawares two days ago, and would tell us nothing of his business, so we tied him to the tree.
Túrin: [anguished:] And he has been tied to the tree for two days?
[He sits down, and Beleg, still resting in his arms, sinks with him. But Túrin no longer pays any attention to the men, and only cares for Beleg. He gets his pack and begins to get out herbs, ointments, and pieces of cloth, and cleans the wounds on his wrists and legs, where the ropes were so tight they had cut into his skin. Then he gets out some bread from his pack, and gives some to Beleg, and some water from his bottle. Only when it looks like Beleg is recovering, and he has regained colour and can move around, does he turn again to the outlaws, who are still standing around.]
Túrin: [bitterly:] You were cruel, and cruel without need. Never until now have we tormented a prisoner; but such a life as we lead has brought us to such Orc-work. Lawless and fruitless have all our deeds have been, serving only ourselves, and feeding hate in our hearts.
Andróg: [defiant:] Who shall we serve, if not ourselves? Whom shall we love, when all hate us?
Túrin: At least my hands shall not again be raised against Elves or Men. Angband has servants enough. If others will not take this vow with me, I will walk alone.
[At this, Beleg at last opens his eyes, for the first time.]
Beleg: [weakly:] Not alone …
[Túrin turns and looks at him, and tears spring once again to his eyes.]
… Now at last I can tell my tidings. You are no outlaw, and Neithan is not a fit name. Such fault as was found in you is pardoned. For a year now you have been sought, to recall you to honour and service of the King. The Dragon-helm has been missed too long.
[Túrin does not answer right away, but looks thoughtful.]
Túrin: Let this night pass. Then I will choose. However it goes, we must leave this lair tomorrow, for not all who seek us wish us well.
Andróg: [looking darkly at Beleg] Nay, none.
[Scene: it is morning. Beleg and Túrin have gone a stone’s throw from the camp, and are talking. The outlaws in the camp look after them curiously.]
Beleg: I looked for more joy at my tidings. Surely you will now return to Doriath?
[Túrin looks doubtful.]
The return of the Dragon-helm and Bow is needed there, Túrin. The Orcs have increased in Dimbar on the borders, and our soldiers, some of them young and inexperienced, are disheartened and driven back. The forces of Morgoth are flowing in like rivers. It is for your return that they wait. Let us return and drive them back together!
[But the more he speaks, the more Túrin seems to hang back from doing what he urges.]
Túrin: [changing the subject:] How did it come to pass that I have received King Thingol’s pardon?
Beleg: I came back from the marches to find you, and found that your trial was nearly over; so I hastened to the hall with Nellas, who had seen Saeros spring upon you at unawares. She told all she knew, and the King pardoned you.
Túrin: Then Mablung proved my friend, as once he seemed?
Beleg: The friend of truth, rather, and that was better in the end. But why, Túrin, did you not speak to him of Saeros’ assault upon you? All otherwise things might have gone and –
[he looks back towards the camp and the men sprawled near the mouth of the cave]
– you might have held your helm still high, and not fallen to this.
Túrin: [shrugs] That may me, if fall you call it. But words stuck in my throat. There was reproof in his eyes, without question asked of me, for a deed that I had not done. My Man’s heart was proud, as the Elf-king said. And so it still is, Beleg Cúthalion. It will not yet suffer me to go back to Menegroth and bear looks of pity and pardon, as for a wayward boy amended. I should pardon, not receive it. And I am a boy no longer, but a man, according to my kind; and a hard man by my fate.
Beleg: [troubled:] What will you do, then?
Túrin: Fare free. That wish Mablung gave me at our parting. The grace of Thingol will not stretch to receive these companions of my fall, I think.
[he motions to the outlaws]
– but they have taken me as their captain, and I will not part with them, if they do not wish to part with me. They are of my own kind, and there is some good in each that might grow. I think that they will stand by me.
Beleg: You see with other eyes than mine. If you try to wean them from evil, they will fail you. I doubt them, and one most of all.
Túrin: How shall an Elf judge of Men?
Beleg: As he judges all deeds, by whomsoever done.
[pause]
You say fare free, Túrin, my friend. What do you mean?
Túrin: I would lead my own men, and make war in my own way. But in this at least my heart is changed: I repent every stroke save those dealt against the Enemy of Men and Elves. And above all else I would have you beside me. Stay with me!
Beleg: [troubled:] If I stayed beside you, love would lead me, not wisdom. My heart warns me that we should return to Doriath.
Túrin: Nonetheless I will not go there.
Beleg: [striving once more:] Yet we have such need of your strength and valor in King Thingol’s service on the north-marches. There are now new in-roads of the Orcs, coming down into Dimbar from Taur-nu-Fuin by the Pass of Anach.
[Túrin just shakes his head.]
A hard man you have called yourself, Túrin. Hard you are, and stubborn. Now the turn is mine. If you wish indeed to have the Strong bow beside you, look for me in Dimbar, for thither I shall return.
[Túrin is silent for several moments, brooding in thought: perhaps striving with his pride. But after several minutes he awakens as if from a reverie and asks:]
Túrin: The Elf-maiden whom you named: I owe her well for her timely witness. Why did she watch all my ways?
[Beleg looks strangely at him.]
Beleg: [in surprise:] Why indeed? Túrin, have you lived always with your heart and half your mind far away? You walked with Nellas in the woods of Doriath, when you were a boy.
Túrin: [recognition coming to his face:] Ah, Nellas! Yet that was long ago – or so my childhood seems to me, for a mist is over it – save of the memory of my father’s house in Dor-lómin. Ever in that place my heart and mind dwell. But why should I have walked with an Elf-maiden?
Beleg: To learn what she could teach, maybe.
[sighs]
Alas, child of men! There are other griefs in Middle-earth than yours, and wounds made by no weapons. Indeed, I begin to think that Elves and Men should not meet or meddle.
[Túrin does not answer, but looks for a long time at Beleg’s face – as if trying to understand what he is saying. Scene fades.]
[Scene: Beleg returning to Menegroth, through the woods towards the bridge and the gate. He stops hearing someone whisper his name.]
Beleg!
[he stops, then comes over to the sound where a white face peers through the trees.]
Beleg: Nellas!
Nellas: Beleg, has Túrin returned with you?
[Beleg shakes his head sorrowfully.]
Beleg: No, I am sorry, Nellas. He would not come –
[But Nellas has run away from him into the woods, hiding her face in her hands, weeping. He calls after her:]
Nellas! Nellas!
[But she does not answer. With a sigh, Beleg trudges on, until he reaches the gate. The soldiers there salute him with joy and look very happy to see him. He passes in to the hall and comes to the thrones of Thingol and Melian. They both look surprised and happy to see him.]
Thingol: Welcome, Beleg! For too long you have been missed from these halls! What news do you bring us? Have you found Túrin?
Beleg: I did find him, lord. I came upon the camp of his companions by night, and though he was not there, he returned two days later. But, alas, he would not return with me. I fear that his Man’s heart is too proud.
Thingol: [sighs] What more would Túrin have me do?
Beleg: Give me leave, lord, and I will guard him and guide him as I may; then no man shall say that elven-words are lightly spoken. Nor would I wish to see so great a good run to nothing in the wild.
Thingol: I give you leave to do as you wish, Beleg Cúthalion! For many deeds you have earned my thanks; but not the least is the finding of my fosterson. At this parting ask for any gift and I will not deny it to you.
[Beleg looks thoughtful for a moment.]
Beleg: I ask only for a sword of worth; for the orcs come now too thick and close for a bow only, and such blade as I have is no match for their armour.
Thingol: Choose from all that I have, save only Aranrúth, my own.
[Scene switches to Beleg down in the armouries (where he and Túrin were practicing in Scene VII). There is a whole row of swords hung up on the wall. All of them are beautifully crafted and engraved with runes, set with jewels, sparkling silver metal: save only one of them, and that is a black sword, made of some other metal that seems unearthly. It is not beautifully adorned, and looks rather like a blight on the wall amidst the glory of the others. But Beleg takes it off the wall and examines it closely. Next we see him standing once again before the thrones of Thingol and Melian in the great hall.]
Thingol: Which sword have you chosen, Beleg?
Beleg: It is Anglachel, the Iron Flame.
[He holds the hilt towards them, and as Melian looks closely at it, we can see into her mind, and there is a flash there, of a stooped elf, almost like a hunchback, bending over his metalwork in a dark smithy. His hair is black, and his eyes, as he looks up, are dark, and glint with a nefarious light. There is an image of a dark-haired elven maiden, clothed in white, riding through a dark forest, and she gleams like light. Then this fades, and leaves Melian looking with a frown at the sword hilt.]
Melian: There is malice in this sword. The dark heart of the smith still dwells in it. It will not love the hand it serves; neither will it abide with you long.
Beleg: Nonetheless, I will wield it while I may.
Melian: Another gift I will give you, Cúthalion, that shall be your help in the wild, and the help also of those whom you choose. These are lembas, which no mortal Man yet has tasted.
[She holds out a package to him, which he accepts gratefully. The package seems to be wrapped with leaves of silver, and the threads that hold it together have a seal on it of white wax, that is shaped as a single flower of dark green and silver. Beleg bows to her.]
Beleg: Thank you, my Queen.
Thingol: Fare well, Cúthalion! And may we meet again soon!
[Scene fades.]
Minstrel: Then Beleg departed with these gifts from Menegroth and went back to the north marches, where he had his lodges, and many friends. Then in Dimbar the Orcs were driven back, and Anglachel rejoiced to be unsheathed; but when winter came, and war was stilled, suddenly his companions missed Beleg, and he returned to them no more.
SCENE XII
[Scene: Túrin and the outlaws are sitting huddled together in the grey evening, trying to hide from the rain under some thorny holly bushes. They are right next to the edge of an open treeless space, where many rocks lie tumbled together in a huge mess. None of them is moving, and all are resting quietly, when a watchman who stands to the side calls to them, to look out into the clearing. They leap up, and see three grey, hooded shapes, creeping around the stones. They are leaping through rapidly, even though they each have a large pack on their backs.]
Túrin: [cries out to them:] Halt! Halt!
[But they do not stop, and the outlaws run after them, but the figures move swiftly away, and they cannot catch them. Two of them vanish into the evening, and Andróg shoots an arrow after them, but the third one lags behind, perhaps because it has a bigger pack. Ulrad and another race up to him and throw him down, and the other outlaws come over and hold him down. Then Túrin comes up to them.]
Túrin: [reprovingly:] Do not be so harsh to the creature! What have you there? What need to be so fierce? It is old and small. What harm is in it?
[Andróg looks angry, and shows him his hand, which is bleeding.]
Andróg: It bites. It is an Orc, or of Orc-kin. Kill it!
Ulrad: [has taken the sack and is looking through it] It deserved no less, for cheating our hope. There is nothing here but roots and small stones.
Túrin: Nay, it is bearded. It is only a Dwarf, I guess. Let him get up, and speak.
[The Dwarf stumbles up onto his knees, kneeling before Túrin’s feet.]
Mîm: [with his hands clasped before him] I beg you to spare my life, lord. I am old, and poor. Only a Dwarf, as you say, and not an Orc. Mîm is my name. Do not let them slay me, lord, for no cause, as would the Orcs.
[Túrin looks at the Dwarf with pity.]
Túrin: Poor you seem, Mîm, though that is strange in a Dwarf; but we are poorer, I think: houseless and friendless Men. If I said that we do not spare for pity’s sake only, being in great need, what would you offer for ransom?
Mîm: [wary:] I do not know what you desire, lord.
Túrin: [looks around him bitterly, the rain in his eyes] At this time, little enough! A safe place to sleep out of the damp woods. Doubtless you have such a place for yourself.
Mîm: I have; but I cannot give it in ransom. I am too old to live under the sky.
[Andróg steps forward with a knife in his unbitten hand.]
Andróg: [with a growl:] You need live no older. I can spare you that.
Mîm: [terrified:] Lord! If I lose my life, you will lose the dwelling; for you will not find it without Mîm. I cannot give it, but I will share it. There is more room in it than once there was: so many have gone forever.
[Then he begins to weep, whether in fear or sorrow they don’t know.]
Túrin: [with compassion:] Your life is spared, Mîm.
Andróg: [malicious:] Till we come to his lair, at least.
[Mîm cows under his dark stare. But Túrin turns upon Andróg in anger.]
Túrin: If Mîm brings us to his home without trickery, and it is good, then his life is ransomed; and he shall not be slain by any man who follows me. So I swear.
[Then Mîm clasps his hands around Túrin’s knees.]
Mîm: [obsequious:] Mîm will be your friend, lord. At first I thought you were an Elf, by your speech and your voice; but if you are a Man, that is better. Mîm does not love Elves.
Andróg: [looking around him in the rain] Where is this house of yours? It must be good indeed if Andróg is to share it with a Dwarf. For Andróg does not love Dwarves. His people brought few good tales of that race out of the East.
Mîm: Judge my home when you see it. But you will need light on the way, you stumbling Men. I will return in good time and lead you.
Andróg: No, no! You will not allow this, surely captain? You would never see the old rascal again.
Túrin: It is growing dark. Let him leave us some pledge. Shall we keep your sack and its load, Mîm?
Mîm: [looks troubled and falls down onto his knees again; pleading:] If Mîm did not mean to return, he would not return for an old sack of roots. I will come back. Let me go!
Túrin: I will not. If you will not part with your sack, you must stay with it. A night under the leaves will make you pity us in your turn, maybe.
[They lead him over to their camp under the holly bushes, and Mîm is muttering in some strange language, that seems harsh and filled with hatred. Then they sit him down and put rope around his arms and legs so he won’t run away, and he suddenly falls silent. Then they all go to sleep, but one can see, throughout the whole night, the bright eyes of Mîm glinting in the dark like a cat. In the morning, he is still sitting there. They all get up and start getting there things together, and Túrin looks down at Mîm.]
Túrin: There is light enough now.
[Mîm opens his eyes and points at his bonds, not speaking. When the men release him, he speaks fiercely and angrily:]
Mîm: Learn this, fools! Do not put bonds on a Dwarf! He will not forgive it. I do not wish to die, but for what you have done my heart is hot. I repent my promise.
Túrin: [hard:] But I do not. You will lead me to your home. Till then we will not speak of death. That is my will.
[He bends down and looks into Mîm’s eyes, and his eyes are so intense and set in will, that Mîm soon looks away. Then he stands up.]
Mîm: Follow me, lord!
Túrin: Good! But now I will add this: I understand your pride. You may die, but you shall not be set in bonds again.
[They begin walking, Mîm leading them, until they get to the place where he was captured, and then Mîm points away across the western horizon.]
Mîm: There is my home! You have seen it, I guess, for it is tall. Sharbhund we called it, before the Elves changed all the names.
[They look over to where he’s pointing, and away in the distance they see Amon Rûdh, the Bald Hill, with a bare head, very tall.]
Andróg: We have seen it, but never nearer. For what safe lair can be there, or water, or any other thing that we need I guess that there was some trick. Do men hide on a hill-top?
Túrin: [optimistic:] Long sight may be sager than lurking. Amon Rûdh gazes far and wide. Well, Mîm, I will come and see what you have to show. How long will it take us, stumbling Men, to come thither?
Mîm: All day until dusk.
[Later that day: the men are still following Mîm across the landscape towards the hill, first through woods and now over rocky highlands. The land is empty and quiet, and they begin to climb rocks upward, until they finally catch a glimpse of the hill, much closer and bigger now to their sight, a full thousand feet in height. At the top of the hill, upon the stone that mantles it, there are thick clusters of red flowers all across it, from side to side. As the evening sun casts its westering light upon it, it looks almost like blood seeping off the bald stone.]
Andróg: [ominous:] See! There is blood on the hill-top.
Túrin: Not yet.
[It is now early night. They have climbed up almost the entire hill, and come up to the mouth of what looks like a cave, in the side of the mountain, behind a stone door. Mîm stands aside and motions for them to come in.]
Mîm: Enter Bar-en-Danwedh, the House of Ransom, for so it shall be called.
Túrin: That may be. I will look first.
[He goes in with Mîm, and the others, seeing that he has no fear or apprehension whatsoever, follow behind. Mîm claps his hands, and a light comes around the corner from a passage in the back. It is another Dwarf, holding a lamp in his hand. He speaks in a harsh language to Mîm, and they both dart off down the passage and disappear.]
Andróg: There they go! Let us attack first! There may be a hive of them; but they are small.
Túrin: [unconcerned:] Only three, I guess.
[He follows Mîm down the passage, and the others go after them. They come at the end of a hall to a dimly lit room, and in the middle, on a table, lies a third dwarf. Mîm is weeping wildly, kneeling before the table, and tearing at his beard.]
Mîm: Khîm! Khîm! Khîm!
Túrin: [turns to Andróg:] Not all your shafts went wild. But this may prove an ill hit. You lose shaft too lightly; but you may not live long enough to learn wisdom.
[He comes in silently and stands behind Mîm.]
What is the trouble, Mîm? I have some healing arts. Can I give you aid?
[Mîm turns and looks back at him, a red light gleaming in his eyes.] Mîm: [bitter:] Not unless you can turn back time, and then cut off the cruel hands of your men. This is my son, Khîm, pierced by an arrow. Now he is beyond speech. He died at sunset. Your bonds held me from healing him.
Túrin: [filled with pity:] Alas! I would recall that shaft, if I could. Now the House of Ransom shall this be called in truth. For whether we dwell here or no, I will hold myself in your debt; and if ever I come to any wealth, I will pay you a ransom of gold for your son, in token of sorrow, though it gladden your heart no more.
[Mîm stands, and looks at Túrin for several moments. At last he speaks:]
Mîm: I hear you. You speak like a Dwarf-lord of old; and at that I marvel. Now my heart is cooled, though it is not glad. My own ransom I will pay, therefore: you may dwell here, if you will. But this I will add: he that loosed that shaft shall break his bow and his arrows and lay them at my son’s feet; and he shall never take arrow nor bear bow again. If he does, he shall die by it. This curse I lay on him.
[Andróg looks frightened at this pronunciation, but he looks at Túrin.]
Andróg: Surely you will not make me do this, captain?
Túrin: [nodding] Do even as he says.
[Then Andróg looks darkly at Mîm, and grudgingly he takes his bow and arrows and snaps them all in half, then lays them on the ground before the dead dwarf. Then all the men turn and leave the chamber, and as Andróg goes out into the corridor, he mutters evilly to himself:]
Andróg: May he lack a bow at need!
[Now several scenes showing the passing of the seasons. Then it is spring again, and we see Túrin walking on the top of the mountain, from side to side, and ever and anon looking up northwest, to the Shadowy Mountains beyond which lies his home. And as he looks he hears in his mind echoes of the words of his father, when he was a boy:]
Húrin: I will not leave you, my son, for any long period of time again. Do not fear. Come, sit with us. … Marrer of Middle-earth, would that I might see thee face to face, and mar thee as my lord Fingolfin did! … It is all right, Túrin. I am not angry. You live yet, my son, and so I cannot mourn overmuch.
[Then out of the shadows he hears other voices of his past, speaking:]
Túrin: What is fate, Labadal?
Sador: [slowly:] As to the fate of Men, you must ask those wiser than Labadal. But we weary soon and die; and by mischance may meet death even sooner. But the Elves do not weary, and they do not die save by great hurt. It is not so with us.
Túrin: … I wish, Labadal, that I were an Elf. Then Lalaith would come back, and I should be here, even if she were away for a long time.
Túrin: Then I think that Father is dead, for no one could keep him from coming back to us, if he were alive.
Morwen: Yes, over the Mountains, away south, to the kingdom of Doriath – that way there may lie some hope. But I did not say we, my son. You must go, but I must stay…. It is hard, Túrin, my son. Not hard for you only. It is heavy on me in evil days to judge what to do. But I do what I think is right; for why else should I part with the thing that is most dear to me?
Sador: Hey now! Where is Húrin’s son? For I heard him say, not long ago: I will go as a soldier to an Elf-king one day, as soon as I can.
Túrin: Morwen, Morwen, when shall I see you again?
[Adult Túrin, standing on the height of Amon Rûdh and waking from his memories, sighs, and, blinking back tears, looks away from the mountains of his home, and goes inside the cave.]
[Scene change: All the outlaws are sitting together in the main hall, around the fireplace, which is built into the stone wall. Mîm sits there with them; it is evening and they are eating their supper. They are all speaking softly together, when suddenly the light from the main door is blocked, and they look over to see a huge shape standing in front of the door, like a man of great height and girth, cloaked in white, and a hood covering his face. All the men leap up, and grab their weapons, frightened, when the figure laughs, a silvery, soothing sound, and casts back his hood. Then Túrin, looking at him, sees the face of Beleg. Beneath his cloaks he holds a huge pack. Túrin springs towards him.]
Túrin: Beleg! Beleg! What joy it is to see you again!
[Beleg laughs again, in delight, and they embrace.]
How did you find us? Whence do you come? Here, sit with us.
[Beleg comes over with him and sits by the fire. The other men greet him politely, though they don’t look overly-excited to see him. But Mîm, sitting by the fire, backs away into the shadows, with a look of death and hatred at Beleg, saying nothing.]
Beleg: [to Túrin:] I rejoice to see you again as well! I have come from Dimbar, on the marches of Doriath. I have sought for you these past two months, and came upon the tracks of your men leading up to this hill.
Túrin: How came you to find the door to this hiding?
Beleg: I lay in wait nearby until I saw two of your men entered, then slipped in behind them silently.
[Túrin can’t help but smile at this.]
Túrin: Ever you were crafty, not to be ousted in woodcraft by any.
[Beleg smiles.]
Beleg: I have brought gifts for you as well.
[He reaches into his big pack, and takes out something quite hideous-looking that glints like metal in the firelight. As he pulls it out, it looks like a face with jagged teeth and glinting eyes.]
The Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin. The Helm himself cannot return without his namesake.
[Túrin takes it in wonder and looks at it once again, with the engraving of a dragon on the forehead.]
Túrin: [softly:] Thank you.
[louder:]
Behold! I take a new name for myself! I shall no longer be Neithan, the Wronged, but Gorthol – the Dread Helm! Many shall fear once again the Bow and the Helm! Let the hosts of Morgoth beware!
[Beleg smiles.]
Beleg: Long have I awaited this meeting, and to hear you say those words. It is time for you to rise up, above the petty company that now –
[But he stops, for Túrin, seeing the glint of what looked like silver leaves, red as blood in the firelight, interrupts him, his eyes darkening.]
Túrin: What have you there?
Beleg: [bringing the pack out so he can see them] The greatest gift that one who loves you still has to give. Here is lembas, the waybread of the Eldar, that no Man yet has tasted.
[there is a pause]
Túrin: The Helm of my fathers I take, with good will for your keeping. But I will not receive gifts out of Doriath.
Beleg: [a bit brusque:] Then send back your sword and your arms. Send back also the teaching and fostering of your youth. And let your men die in the desert to please your mood. Nonetheless, this waybread was not a gift to you but to me, and I may do with it as I will. Eat it not, if it sticks in your throat; but others here may be more hungry and less proud.
[At this Túrin looks embarrassed, and with an apologetic nod, takes one of them from Beleg, and begins to eat it.]
Túrin: [soft:] Thank you.
[pause]
Come, let us go to the summit of the hill and look out together.
[They stand up together, and go out of the main hall. As they exit, Mîm’s face appears from out of the shadows, and he looks at Beleg’s retreating figure with a dark countenance of hatred. Beleg and Túrin walk together to the summit of the hill, and there sit down together, looking out over the long leagues of Beleriand spread out before them.]
Túrin: [looking at Beleg with gladness:] Now that you have returned, my friend, we make war together upon Morgoth – long have I awaited this time.
Beleg: I would be by you also, and yet my heart bids us both return to Doriath. Do you not wish to rise above the leader of a petty company?
[There is a long pause; Túrin seems to be thinking.]
Túrin: I wish to battle with you, Beleg, wherever that be. But I do not wish to return to Doriath. Therefore, if I had my will, I would have you stay here with me. Then the Bow and the Helm may fight side by side once more.
[There is another long pause. Now Beleg is the one to think for several minutes in silence. At last he says:]
Beleg: If I remained, it would be in yielding to my love against my wisdom.
[There is another pause. Túrin waits, looking at him silently.]
I will stay here with you, and I will labour with you for the good of your company.
[Túrin smiles and grasps his hand, and Beleg smiles back at him.]
Minstrel: Túrin put on again the Helm of his fathers; and far and wide across the land the whisper went, under wood and over stream and through the passes of the hills, saying that the Helm and Bow that had fallen in Dimbar had arisen again beyond hope.
[Several quick scenes follow. First, two elves sitting together; they have bows, but don’t have any metal armour or any other arms. They are speaking together softly. One younger is speaking to the elder.]
Younger Soldier: Have you heard that the Bow and the Helm have returned?
Soldier: [surprised:] I thought they had fallen.
Younger Soldier: Nay, they have returned. The two captains are calling all soldiers who go without leaders, or who want to make war upon Morgoth, to come to them and follow them. Gorthol, the Dread Helm, he is called, and Cúthalion, the Strongbow.
Soldier: And where do they reside?
Younger Soldier: On the height of Amon Rûdh. But their camps stretch all down the North and South, where many of their followers hold the forts.
Soldier: What news you give me! Now I understand why the Orcs have been so much less in this region of late.
Younger Soldier: [nods] The two Captains of Dor-Cúarthol have driven them back. And I wish to follow their leadership.
Soldier: Dor-Cúarthol?
Younger Soldier: Yes, that is the name of the land from whence they have now driven all the servants of Morgoth back – the land of the Bow and Helm. Will you come with me?
Soldier: Yes, we shall go together.
[Next: two Men come together into the great hall of the lordship of Brethil. These are men of the Haladin, who dwell in Brethil. They come into the hall where their lord, a lame man who sits in the great chair with a crutch beside him, welcomes them.]
First Man: Lord Brandir, the news has come that the two great Captains, the Bow and the Helm, are triumphant in this last battle. They have driven all the host of Angband back, and the Orcs will not now venture even near to the crossing of Teiglin.
[Their lord answers them:]
Brandir: That is good news that I hear. Thus we are protected in our woods and may withdraw in safety.
Second Man: Nay, lord, this is what we came to ask: if we have your leave to go forth to the land of Dor-Cúarthol, and follow Gorthol, the Helm, and Cúthalion, the Bow.
[pause; Brandir sighs]
Brandir: You have my leave. But I wish rather for our people to withdraw in safety and defend our homelands when we have the need, rather than to go forth and seek battle. But you have my leave to depart.
Men: [bow to him] Thank you, lord.
[Then they leave the hall in haste. Scene change: some of the outlaws come into the great hall of Amon Rûdh, and they are carrying with them on a stretcher a tall figure. Beleg and Túrin are following after.]
Beleg: [extolling the men:] Set him down carefully, or the wound will bleed yet more!
[They do so, and Beleg kneels next to the figure: it is Andróg, and he has an arrow protruding from his right breast. He has fallen unconscious, but is still breathing. Beleg points to where his things lie in the corner.]
Get my pack for me. I need my healing ointments, and the lembas.
[One of the outlaws, Ulrad, goes over and gets it, and gives it to him.]
Ulrad: Do you need any help?
Beleg: No, thank you. I merely need time, and silence.
[Ulrad goes over and sits by Túrin, near the others who have also come in.]
Túrin: Do not fear. Beleg is a master of healing. He will heal him – even though the arrow was poisoned.
Ulrad: [shivers:] When Andróg took up his bow again, it seemed he did it in defiance of Mîm’s curse – and yet it seems to have come back on him; for he has not been wounded seriously since we came here; and never by arrow, since I have known him.
[And in the background, Mîm is looking out from the shadows at Andróg, seeming pleased.] [Next scene, we see the image of a great white tower, a beautiful city shining like silver on a green hill in the midst of a plain, which is surrounded by mountains. Sitting out on the balcony of this great tower is King Turgon of the Hidden City, from Scene II. His nephew, with dark hair, is sitting by him, and his daughter, with golden hair, is sitting on his other side. Turgon is speaking now with his nephew.]
Turgon: [pensively:] The Helm and the Bow you say, Maeglin? The Helm makes me think of …
[He stops. His daughter offers a suggestion:]
Idril: The Lord Húrin?
[Turgon nods.]
Turgon: [sighs] I think ever of Húrin, as we sit in these halls in peace, and of the sacrifice that he and his people made for us. Could it be that he has risen again?
Maeglin: I think not, lord. Rather it seems to me that it is his son, Túrin.
Turgon: [sighs again] Yes. I think you are right. And yet I think of Húrin much. I know not what ever became of him…
[Scene change: Mîm is lying back in his chamber, moaning, when some of the men come back to him.]
Algund: What is the noise? What troubles you, Mîm?
Mîm: [moaning:] Ah! I am so ill! Please, do you have any herbs to comfort me? Or bring the healer to me!
[The men leave and a moment later come back with Beleg. He looks kindly at Mîm.]
Beleg: What is troubling you?
Mîm: Ah, I am ill to the death! It is my stomach! Please, give me something to comfort me!
[Beleg reaches in his pack and pulls out some leaves and herbs, and tries to give them to Mîm, and as he does so, a package of lembas slips out onto the ground. Mîm looks at them greedily and says:]
Nay, those herbs will not aid me. Those – those are what I need.
[He points to the lembas. But Beleg frowns.]
Beleg: Nay, those I will not give you. Those are mine to give to whom I will. Yet I doubt they would help you even if your heart were kind enough to receive them.
[Then Mîm gives him a look of death, gets up from the table, spits on the ground in front of Beleg, and stomps off.]
[Scene switch to the deep halls of Nargothrond, the Elven City of Orodreth, the King. He is standing in the royal chambers next to his desk, sorting through papers. His steward stands next to him, and seems to just have finished asking him a question.]
Orodreth: [shaking his head] No, I will not send any soldiers to these two Captains, the Bow and Helm.
Steward: But, sire, the people, and especially the arches and warriors on the marches, have begun murmuring against you, saying that if an Outlaw could do such hurt to the Enemy, what could you, as the King, not do? They are eager to go forth to open battle.
Orodreth: I will not now change my counsels, which I hold to be wise for the protection of my people. If we go to open war, Morgoth will destroy us, even if we hold out for a little while before.
Steward: You will allow none to go to Gorthol?
Orodreth: No. None shall go with my leave. I hold still with the counsels of King Thingol, that secrecy and stealth will guard us more from Morgoth than going openly to battle.
Steward: [face brightens, as if he sees an opening:] But, my lord, I have also a message from King Thingol. He asks you, from the friendship and kinship that are between you, that you will aid the great Helm in all ways that you can.
Orodreth: [looks surprised] That is a strange thing. Why would King Thingol support an outlaw from the wild?
Steward: [shrugs] Perhaps he has some connection with him that we do not know.
Orodreth: Very well; I will aid him: but not with any force of men. I will send him a store of arms and of provision; but also, I will have you send a message to him saying that he shall not set foot in the land of Nargothrond, nor drive any Orcs here.
Steward: [writing this down] Yes, lord.
[Then the scene changes to Beleg and Túrin sitting together inside the main hall of Amon Rûdh. They are silent, and Beleg seems thoughtful.]
Túrin: [turning to him] Why are you sad, and thoughtful? Does not all go well, since you returned to me? Has not my purpose proved good?
Beleg: All is well now: our enemies are still surprised, and afraid. And good days lie before us; for a while.
Túrin: And what then?
Beleg: Winter. And after that another year, for those who live to see it.
Túrin: And what then?
Beleg: [looking at him] The wrath of Angband. We have burned the finger tips of the Black Hand – no more. It will not withdraw.
Túrin: But is not the wrath of Angband our purpose and delight? What else would you have me do?
Beleg: [looking at him] You know full well. But of that road you have forbidden me to speak. But hear my now. The lord of a great host has many needs. He must have a secure refuge; and he must have wealth, and many whose work is not war. With numbers comes the need of food, more than the wild will furnish; and there comes the passing of secrecy. Amon Rûdh is a good place for a few – it has eyes and ears. But it stands alone, and is seen far off; and no great force is needed to surround it.
Túrin: Nonetheless, I will be captain of my own host; and if I fall, then I fall. Here I stand in the path of Morgoth, and while I so stand he cannot use the southward road. For that in Nargothrond there should be some thanks; and even help with needful things.
Beleg: And yet his power may whelm against us soon, and force the path, and our frailty shall not stand against his might.
Túrin: [trying to clarify:] I wish to rule a land; but not this land. Here I desire only to gather strength. To my father’s land in Dor-lómin my heart turns, and thither I shall go when I may.
[At this Beleg smiles.]
Beleg: And there I shall help you to go.
[Just then Andróg comes in.]
Andróg: Captain, the men await you outside.
[As they leave, Mîm comes out from hiding in the hallway and looks after Beleg and Andróg with malice in his eyes.]
Mîm: [murmuring to himself, fiercely:] The accursed Elf has all the love of Gorthol, which he has taken from me. And he has undone the curse I laid upon the fool Andróg. But it will bite again.
[Scene fades.]
SCENE XIII
[Scene: Mîm and his son Ibun are out once again amid the rocks, searching for roots and putting them into their bags, when through the clearing comes the loud noise of an Orc band passing through. Mîm motions to his son and they both hide behind the rocks as the Orcs come into the clearing. They are a big band, and it takes a while for them to go through. Once they have almost passed by all the way, Mîm and his son try to sneak away in the opposite direction, but the Orc captain seemingly sees them, for he calls back to the others, and they race after Mîm and Ibun, grabbing them ungently, and cursing as Mîm and the other try to bite them and do all they can to escape. But the Orc captain comes over to them, sneering.]
Orc Captain: You shall not escape now, old greybeards!
[to his soldiers:] Take them and –
Mîm: [pleading with him:] Please, do not slay me! I am old, and no threat to any such as you.
[as if he has a new thought:]
I will give you a ransom, if you will not kill me.
[The Orc captain smiles suddenly.]
Orc Captain: What will you give as a ransom? What do you have, old dwarf, poor as you look?
Mîm: A great fortress and dwelling place. I will bring you there.
Orc Captain: And where is this place?
Mîm: [forestalling:] Uh… well…
Orc Captain: Tell us or we shall kill you now!
[He gets his knife out.]
Mîm: [terrified:] Please, lord! It is on the height of Amon Rûdh!
[Suddenly the Orc laughs.]
Orc Captain: Ah ha! You shall take us there!
Mîm: [wringing his hands, in desperation:] But please, first, before I take you there, you must swear that the Dragon-helm will not be slain!
[The Orc laughs again, a hideous, grating sound.]
Orc Captain: Assuredly, Túrin son of Húrin shall not be slain.
[Scene change: There is tumult in Amon Rûdh. The Orcs have come upon it at unawares and are attacking through the main gate, where Mîm has led them. The outlaws, led by Túrin, Andróg, and Beleg, are running into the back hall, and find a secret door that leads to a stairway, a way of escape up to the brow of the hill. But when they come out into the darkness of night on top of the hill, they find that more Orcs are waiting up there for them, and spring upon them with a cry. They fight desperately, but one by one they all fall, until only Túrin, Andróg, and Beleg are left. They are surrounded by it seems hundreds of Orcs. Andróg falls with a arrow piercing his eye. Beleg continues to fight, out of the view of the camera. Túrin is so fierce and fell, that none of the Orcs can come within five feet of them, or they are hewn down, or their limbs cut off. It gets to the point when no one will even come near him. The Captain booms forth to fight him, but within fifteen seconds he too is dead. Túrin is swinging his sword around in circles, and no one can come near him. But suddenly, a huge net is cast over him, and drags him down. He is tangled in it, and then they laugh and pile themselves on top of him, and he is taken.]
[Scene change: it is now morning, and the sun is just gleaming over the western horizon, so that the top of the hill is gleaming red as blood. Mîm creeps up the back stair and emerges up onto the roof. Nothing there is moving. There are bodies everywhere, of Men and Orcs. Mîm looks around at all of them, all dead, but stops when he looks and sees that a pair of eyes are returning his gaze. It is Beleg. He is covered in blood, and sorely wounded, but cannot move. Mîm gives a growl of hatred, and comes towards him. He picks up Beleg’s black sword, Anglachel, that lies next to an Orc that lies dead beside Beleg, and makes as if to stab him with it. But at that moment Beleg stumbles up, seizes the sword, and thrusts it back at Mîm. In terror, Mîm turns and flees down the hill, wailing.]
Beleg: [calling after him:] The vengeance of the House of Hador will find you yet!
[Then, clasping the wounds on his side, arm, and chest, he sinks back down onto the ground again. After a few moments of breathing very hard, he grasps the grass with his fingers, and begins to drag himself towards the secret opening at the top of the hill. He has to stop in order to breathe, and takes a piece of ripped clothing that lies on the ground, tying it around his arm as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. Then he starts singing to himself quietly, in an undertone, in some other beautiful musical language. After several minutes of this, he drags himself towards the hole again. We see him next in the main hall of Amon Rûdh, dragging himself still across the floor, with his pack, taking out herbs and patching up his wounds, singing quietly to himself all along. Then, once he is able to move better, he gets up and walks painfully to the height of Amon Rûdh again, looking around him at the strewn bodies in bitterness.]
Beleg: [bitterly:] And his body must lie among these foul carrion orcs. Let me find him to bury him.
[He blinks back tears, and begins looking among the bodies, trying to find Túrin’s. After nearly an hour, he stands up again, looking frustrated.]
He is not here! Where have they taken him?
[Then enlightenment comes to his face.]
They have taken him alive! Oh...
[He bows his head in dejection.]
They will take him to Angband! I must be off!
[He grabs his pack, taking all his things, and speeds off as fast as he can, still limping and clutching his wounds. Then several images of Beleg running, with his bow and pack, across empty fields, and over hills and through trees. Then night time, and all the orcs are settling down in their camp, dragging their prisoner with them, and going to sleep: but Beleg, in the dark night, is still running and does not stop. Show again the Orcs getting up in the morning from their camp, and Beleg still running. He keeps running, and he comes to tumbled rocks, and looking up, sees mountains before him. He starts to sprightly jump over them, and wade his way through. The Orcs, coming out of the mountain passes, come suddenly into a land that makes them stop, and mutter to themselves nervously. The captain turns annoyed to the following Orcs:]
Orc Captain: What? What is the problem?
Orc: [nervously:] We – we are not going through Taur-nu-Fuin, are we?
Orc Captain: Of course we are. It is the quickest way to Angband.
[All the Orcs start to mutter again to themselves. The Captain cracks his whip at them.]
Come, you slugs! Or I shall take the prisoner back myself and leave you in this haunted place!
[This seems to inspire them more; and grumbling, with wary glances, they take up their things and follow after him. Then we see Beleg, stumbling through the mountain rocks, and emerging at last on the edge of that dark forest. He stops for a moment, looking at it in disgust or fear, then walks in. As he moves inside the trees, the shadows seem to close about him, and shut him in. The sun is obscured there, and there is a vespertine mist hanging over the marshes and bogs, which are strewn everywhere. Flies are swarming about them, and there are sounds of demon wolves howling in the distance. Still Beleg goes on. The entire landscape is completely destroyed, there is no sign of any living thing, except flies and stinging gnats, with nothing left but the charred remains of a civilization extinct, burned with black scorched trees and marshes, endless marshes of sickening, noisome oozing black streams, and poisoned water. The divers trees that are strewn endlessly in a dazzling fainting maze are twisted and scorched as if a great burning hand had roughly grabbed them and bent and twisted them for their torment. There is a noise like the haunting of ghosts amid the black pools, and Beleg goes warily, always looking about him, following the tracks of the orcs. ]
Beleg: [to himself:] The Orcs move quickly here: they do not wish to remain in this haunted place.
[He moves on, creeping stealthily under the trees, then stops suddenly, peering through the mist. He looks closely for several moments, then moves forward again to where an inert form lies beneath a tree, its naked branches dripping eerily with slime. When the person sees him, he sits up and looks at Beleg. Beleg looks at him with pity in his eyes: he is the mere shadow of what was once an Elf, and it is a while before we can even tell that it is an Elf. He is stooped, like a hunchback, and his clothes are in rags and tatters. His face is wizened and wearied like that of an old man, and his hands are so mangled and worn that they are almost stubs, gnarled and torn. His feet are the same. Beleg comes up to him.]
Beleg: Greetings, my kinsman.
[The other Elf just looks at him for a moment, as if he might be an apparition. It is a moment before he speaks. His voice is not at all damaged, but still has an Elven ring:]
Gwindor: Greetings. Who … are you?
Beleg: I am Beleg Cúthalion of Doriath. What is your name, and how have you come to be in this wretched place?
[The Elf blinks back tears again, and there is a pause.]
Gwindor: I am … Gwindor, son of Guilin. I … I went to the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, and … was captured, and made a slave. I have just escaped, just… but I have become lost in this accursed forest.
[He looks up at Beleg, his eyes haunted.]
His spirit – Sauron’s spirit, haunts the forest, and … I have been visited by disturbing dreams and could not rest. There was no one else here, no one but the dark phantoms that dwell in the wood. I … got desperately lost, and have been wandering for days, going in circles … following paths that led to midge-infested bogs, or copses of black haunted trees. I … thought I would never escape. I will wander in this ghostly land of haunting ghouls until the end of Arda, or until I lose my mind.
[Beleg looks at him with pity, and offers him his hand.]
Beleg: You shall not be lost now. Here are some lembas, that will aid and strengthen you.
[He brings the wafers out of his pack, and Gwindor’s face brightens seeing them.]
Gwindor: Lembas! I have not tasted these for … years!
[He eats them hungrily.]
Beleg: I am glad I have stumbled upon you, my friend. Taur-nu-Fuin is no pleasant place to wander alone.
[He shudders; then continuing:]
I am searching for my friend, a tall Man with dark hair, strong and proud. He was taken captive by Orcs.
[Gwindor’s eyes widen.]
Gwindor: Yes! I have seen him. A great company of orcs passed a little while ago burdened by such a one. But I thought he was an Elf. He was strong, and unwilling to be mastered by those toward whom he had obvious bitter hated. He struggled against them, and so strong was he that I thought he might burst his bonds…. But obviously the orcs had had experience with his strength before, and they had him bound fast, with a gag about his mouth. But that did not stop the death glances that he gave to his captors that seemed to burn them.
Beleg: [sighs] That was Túrin. A fine Man, and proud.
Gwindor: He is a Man, you say?
Beleg: Indeed. The son of Húrin Thalion. He dwelt in Doriath as a boy after his father was taken to Angband alive and never seen again. Túrin is a valiant warrior, like his father, more greatly skilled than many an Elf. But I will tell you his story as we go on, for I mean to follow him.
[at Gwindor’s look of surprise:]
That is, if you wish to come with me.
[Gwindor looks frantic.]
Gwindor: [desperate:] You cannot go! lest you wish to share in his torment in the deep tunnels of Angband! I know! For I have been there!
[Beleg looks at him with compassion in his eyes.]
Beleg: Nonetheless, I will rescue him if I may. You need not come with me. But I shall go now, or I shall not catch up with them.
[he makes as if to go]
Gwindor: [looks torn for a moment] Wait! I shall go with you.
[He grabs onto the tree and tries to stand up. Beleg holds out his hand and helps him, with a smile.]
Beleg: True heart. Come, you shall show me which way they went!
[They head off into the woods together, Gwindor pointing the direction. The next time we see them, it is night. They are walking silently through the woods, with only the moon and starlight by which to see. They come up to an open place amid the trees, where hordes of orcs lie about the dying fire, all asleep in a drunken state. Beleg and Gwindor peer together out into the camp. All the Orcs are asleep: there seem to be no watchmen on duty. But when Beleg takes out his great bow of yew, then we see the gleaming eyes of the wolf sentinel. There are half a dozen of them at least across the dell, their white teeth gleaming. Looking over by the side of the camp, Gwindor and Beleg see Túrin, tied to a tree on the side of the dell. The ropes around his arms and legs are so tight that there is blood seeping through the bands. But there are also chains around both of his legs together, and both of his arms, apart from the ropes that hold him to the tree. He is unconscious, from pure exhaustion. All around him on the tree are black knives that had been thrown at him and are stuck now in the bark. Beleg looks anguished, seeing him there, and he pulls out his great bow, strings an arrow, and aims it at one of the wolves, closest to Túrin. Gwindor looks like he’s about to touch his arm and say something to him, when the arrow springs free and hits the wolf, right between his two forelegs, piercing him in the heart. It crumples down onto the ground without a sound. Gwindor turns to Beleg. ]
Gwindor: [mindspeech:] How does it make no sound?
Beleg: [mindspeech:] It is a special vine that I discovered and used in Doriath to make it silent.
Gwindor: [mindspeech:] Ah.
[Beleg then turns back, and proceeds to aim at the next wolf. There are six of them throughout the dell. Each one of them he hits right between its two front legs, and they crumple to the ground without a sound.]
Beleg: [mindspeech:] Do you see any more?
Gwindor: [mindspeech:] No.
Beleg: [mindspeech:] Let us go in and get him.
[He creeps forward out of the brush, silently, into the dell where all the orcs are dead asleep. Gwindor looks terrified, but comes after him. They crawl over to Túrin, who is still asleep. Beleg takes out his knife, and begins to cut the ropes. As he cuts the last one, Gwindor says to him:]
Gwindor: [mindspeech:] Catch him: he shall fall!
[Túrin does fall forward into Beleg’s arms as the last rope is cut, and there is a moment where the two elves stand silent with the unconscious form, not daring to breathe, fearing that the Orcs will wake.]
Beleg: [mindspeech:] Help me carry him.
[Gwindor takes up Túrin’s feet, with some effort (Túrin is a huge man), and they both struggle to carry him out, without making a sound. They move very, very slowly. The Orcs still do not move. There is complete silence throughout the dell. They move him over to the thickets where they had been hiding before, moving with painful care so not to make a scratchy noise in the brush.]
Gwindor: [mindspeech:] I cannot carry him any farther. He is too heavy.
Beleg: [mindspeech:] Stop here.
[They stop right behind the brush and lay him down, as quietly as they can. Still there is no sound from the dell, and the Orcs do not awake. But overhead, there is suddenly the sound of thunder. Beleg and Gwindor look up at the sky. Mindspeech:]
It is going to rain.
Gwindor: [mindspeech, desperate:] How shall we get his chains off?
Beleg: [mindspeech:] I have a sword that can cut through any metal.
[As he pulls out Anglachel, his black sword, small drops of rain start to fall on them. It thunders again, much louder this time. Beleg takes his sword and cuts the chains off Túrin’s hands, so that they are free. Then he begins to cut the chains off Túrin’s feet. He has trouble cutting at first, since the sword keeps slipping off the slick metal. He keeps trying, attempting to hold the sword down firm on the metal. It thunders again, even louder. Gwindor is looking around, especially at the orcs, in terror that they will wake up. Beleg at last, with a strong stroke, cuts through the chains, but the sword slides off the slick metal, and cuts Túrin’s foot slightly.]
[Túrin is lying in a deep sleep. We see his dreams as he lies asleep: he is tied in chains on the ground, in the dell in Taur-nu-Fuin, and orcs are all around him. They are fingering their knives and swords, and standing around him threateningly. He looks at them with hatred, but they just laugh at him. Some of the Orcs speak to him in his dream:]
Various Orcs: You won’t be able to get away now … we have you, son of Húrin… There won’t be much of you left by the time you get back to Morgoth…
[They circle around him, menacingly, and he is powerless to do anything. One of them brings the knife up close to his face, pretending like he’s going to cut him. Then another one takes his knife and puts it towards Túrin’s legs.]
Orc: You won’t be able to walk far!
[With a swift stroke, he stabs the sword into Túrin’s foot. Túrin wakes up suddenly at this, sweat breaking out on his forehead, gasping. The first thing he sees when he wakes up is a dark shape bending over him, with a sharp drawn blade that glints in the moonlight. With anger and hatred he leaps up.]
Túrin: [crying:] So the Orcs have come back to torment me again, have they!?
[The thunder rolls again, and the orcs, in the glade nearby, at last wake up, and look in fear at the storm. They are shouting at each other, in tumult, not seeming to notice their prisoner is gone.]
Orc: Let us go, now! I will not wait in this forest any longer!
Orc: The Lords of the West have sent the storm against us!
[At that moment, away in the thickets behind the glade, a huge flash of lightning lights the sky, and Túrin, in that light, looks down, and sees the face of Beleg Strongbow, lying dead on the ground, his eyes still open, a trickle of blood coming from his mouth. Túrin’s face is so terrible, filled with such anguish and grief, that Gwindor, seeing it, cowers down onto the ground, covering his head with his hands. The thunder rolls so violently that the orcs begin to go crazy from fear. Loud sounds start to come from the dell nearby. They obviously have discovered that Túrin is gone.]
Various Orcs: Where is the prisoner?... You lazy lubbers, you have slept on the watch!... He’s escaped!... Ah! The thunder comes nearer!... It is the Lords of the West! They are wreaking their vengeance upon us! Let us go now!... No! We must find the prisoner first!...
[Túrin does not seem to notice the din coming only from about twenty feet away. He just sits there, his eyes glazed over, not really seeing anything, or hearing anything, evidently. Gwindor gets up and comes over to him, and takes his arm.]
Gwindor: [in a hissed whisper:] Come, we must go, now! The Orcs shall find us!
[Túrin does not move, or even seem to notice that he is being touched and spoken to. He just sits there, looking at Beleg’s moveless face, not saying a word.]
Quickly! We must go now!
[Túrin does not answer. Gwindor can hear the voices of the Orcs in the dell nearby:]
Orcs: What? You think the prisoner will be nearby? He is long gone by now! … Let us escape from this accursed place while we can! … The Lords of the West are pouring out their anger upon us! Behold the storm!
[The thunder is raging violently now and the thunder flashing in almost constant succession, the rain pouring down heavily. The Orc captain seems too frightened himself to not listen to the words of his company, and they pack up their things in a frantic fear, trying to get out of there as fast as they can. Still Gwindor is urging Túrin to leave with him, but Túrin does not move or answer, and just stares at the face of Beleg, still unweeping. The Orcs move off, and leave Túrin and Gwindor sitting alone beside the body of Beleg in the raging storm.]
Minstrel: Thus it came to pass that the Orcs returned to Morgoth emptyhanded, and left behind them the son of Húrin, who sat crazed and unwitting on the slopes of Taur-nu-Fuin, bearing a burden heavier than their bonds.
SCENE XIV [Scene: it is morning in the dell. The sun is just gleaming over the mountains and lighting the sharp bracken with red and yellow light. Túrin still sits there, staring at Beleg, unmoving, and unweeping. Gwindor lies nearby, and then wakes, and sits up, and looks at Túrin, still sitting there. Pity is in his eyes, and he touches Túrin’s arm softly.] Gwindor: [gently:] Come. Let us bury him. [With Gwindor’s guiding touch, Túrin stands, unthinking. Gwindor brings some sticks from nearby, and goes into the dell and finds some pieces of metal and left-over tools that the Orcs left behind them in their haste. He hands them to Túrin, and Túrin, moving like an automaton without thought, helps him to dig a hole in the ground. Then, once they have a hole about two feet deep, Gwindor lifts Beleg slightly, and slides him into the grave. Túrin sits there, looking at Beleg’s face, as Gwindor covers the body with dirt, and as it is slowly covered, until none of his body is left visible. Still Túrin looks at the place where he could once see Beleg’s face, and doesn’t move. Gwindor buries Beleg with his great bow, but takes the black sword, Anglachel.] Gwindor: [muttering to himself:] It is better to use this sword for vengeance against Morgoth, than to lie useless in the ground. And the lembas I shall take also, to strengthen us in the wild. [to Túrin; softly:] Come, let us go, Túrin. [He puts his hand around him arm, and slowly raises him. He puts him arm around Túrin, and walks away with him, while Túrin walks like a machine, his eyes glazed, unseeing, totally witless and lost in mind.] [As they travel, Gwindor leads him the entire time by the hand, as if he were a child, or with his arm around Túrin’s. They move slowly, since Gwindor must lead him on. They walk away through the dark forest of Taur-nu-Fuin; but Gwindor no longer looks frightened of the trees, or of getting lost, but walks with confidence, for all his attention is now on Túrin, who still does not speak or seem to see anything. When they stop for the night, they have just come through the forest, and are now facing the great rocky lands that Beleg had to come through to get there. When Gwindor stops, he says:] We will stop here for the night, Túrin. [He helps him sit down, and Túrin lies down, but does not seem to sleep, and just lies there, still seeming frozen in time. Gwindor sighs, and sleeps restlessly. In the morning he gets up, takes Túrin’s hand, and with soft words, helps him get up and leads him on again, this time through a pass in the mountains, and down into a green valley, where a an island, in the midst of which is a broken rubble of stones, that looks like it was once a building or a tower. He leads him on past this, and we see them stop again for the night, with Túrin still acting the same way, and Gwindor still as his guide. Then several images pass of their walking, Gwindor still leading Túrin, through fields and open spaces, going through trees, and hiding as Orcs go past. Then their crossing several rivers, Gwindor still leading a seemingly witless Túrin. At last, after many days, Gwindor, with his hand in Túrin’s, leads him up onto a great stone hill, and looking over he sees a beautiful shining like, like crystal and diamonds, diaphanous in the shining sunlight. Gwindor smiles, catching his breath, and with joy on his face leads Túrin down the mountain slopes, until they reach the foot of the hill and come to the edge of the lake. Green trees surround it, and it is like a shining mirror of crystal and gold. Gwindor takes Túrin up to the very brink of the lake.] Gwindor: [to Túrin:] See here, is Lake Ivrin. Now, awake, Túrin son of Húrin Thalion! On Ivrin’s lake is endless laughter. She is fed from crystal fountains unfailing, and is guarded from defilement by Ulmo, Lord of Waters, who wrought her beauty in ancient days. Drink from her water! [Túrin kneels down, and taking some of the water in his hands, he drinks the crystalline liquid. He sits for a moment, unmoving, then, all of a sudden, tears come into his eyes, and he casts himself down onto the ground, and begins to weep wildly, violently, without any restraint, curling himself onto the ground, and his tears flow down his face. Gwindor looks on with compassion, but does not move or touch him.] Gwindor: [aside:] Alas, it is grievous to see: but at the least his tears are loosed, and he is healed from his madness. [It is some time before Túrin can get up again, but when he does, he is still weeping, though not so violently. He gets up on his knees, and through his tears, says aloud:] Túrin: I will make a song for Beleg: and it shall be called Laer Cú Beleg: The Song of the Great Bow! [Then, without heed of drawing enemies or of anything else, he begins to sing at the top of his voice, through his tears:] I.
In you was all the good in me. You knew Forgive me now, my brother! Please forgive O Beleg! Beleg! Brother of my heart!
‘Neath Doriath’s boughs we dwelt in all my years O Beleg! Now my greatest friend hath fled, [Then he begins to weep again. Gwindor comes over to him.] Gwindor: [with compassion:] Túrin, do not weep. He is now at rest. [Túrin turns and sees Gwindor for the first time. He looks surprised that there is someone else there. Gwindor takes out Anglachel, and gives it to Túrin.] Here is Beleg’s sword. I have taken it for you to keep. [Túrin takes it silently, his tears falling on the black hilt. Its edges are blunt and its blade black and dull. He looks up at Gwindor, who says:] This is a strange blade, unlike any that I have seen in Middle-earth. It mourns for Beleg even as you do. But be comforted; for I return to Nargothrond of the House of Finarfin, and you shall come with me, and be healed and renewed. Túrin: [looking at him] Who are you? Gwindor: [shrugs] A wandering Elf, a thrall escaped, whom Beleg met and comforted. Yet once I was Gwindor son of Guilin, a lord of Nargothrond, until I went to the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, and was enslaved in Angband. Túrin: Then have you seen Húrin, son of Galdor, the warrior of Dor-lómin? Gwindor: [shaking his head] I have not seen him. But rumour of him runs through Angband that he still defies Morgoth; and Morgoth has laid a curse upon him and all his kin. [pause] Túrin: That I do believe. [Scene fades black.]
Act IV – Finduilas
SCENE XV [Scene: Gwindor and Túrin are again walking; this time Túrin is walking beside Gwindor, in his right mind, but still sad and silent. They walk from a great plain into some woods, where all on the sides is shadowed in trees. Gwindor slows down and turns to Túrin.] Gwindor: We shall come soon to Nargothrond, and they may welcome you as my guest. But I have not been there for many years, and it is not certain how they shall receive me – [He stops, looking away through the brush. In a split second, they are surrounded by a troop of elven rangers, dressed in brown, yellow, and green, all with drawn bows pointed right at them. One stands forward, seemingly their Captain, and speaks to them:] Captain: Do not move, or you shall be shot! [Gwindor and Túrin stop, and stare at the warriors surrounding them.] Now, who are you, and what are you doing in this land? Gwindor: [stuttering:] Tel – Telemnar, do you not remember me? I – I am Gwindor. And you – [turning to one of the elven archers] – Celvandil – do you remember me? I was your Captain, your leader, before – before – [He stops. All of them are looking at him curiously, especially the Captain.] Captain: [cynical:] Gwindor? Nay, he left years ago to the War and has not returned. Who are you, in truth? Do not lie to me! You are spies, I deem! Gwindor: [shaking his head] No, no, if I were a spy, how should I know your names? [This makes the Captain even more suspicious.] Captain: How indeed? [to the rangers:] Bind these two spies. We shall take them as prisoners to the King. [Gwindor no longer disputes, but just looks bleak. Túrin seems too listless and sorrowful to care what happens to him, as they bind him as well.] [Scene change: The soldiers reach a great stone gate, while soldiers standing there open for them, and lead Gwindor and Túrin in front of them, hands tied behind them, with spears at their backs, down into the underground halls, into the throne room. The architectural design is similar to that of the great hall in Doriath, but the stones and blocks are cut more sharply, and are more angled. It is also less bright. They do have many beautiful lamps, coloured and made of stained glass. But there seems a damper attitude about the place, which perhaps comes from the people there. There are many people in the hall (the King is obviously conducting some business right then). He sits on his throne on a dais three or four steps up. He has brown hair and white skin, and looks young, even for one of the Elves: young but weary; perhaps it is in his eyes. On his right hand there sits in another chair an elven woman, with long, wavy hair that glints like sunlight on gold. She looks curiously at the prisoners, just as the King looks grave as he speaks to the soldiers:] Orodreth: Who is this you have brought before me, Captain? Captain: Two prisoners we took on the Guarded Plain. They appeared to be spies, lord. [Orodreth looks at them closely, then speaks to them:] Orodreth: What are your names? And why do you come here? [pause; neither speaks] It is death to all who pass the Guarded Plain without leave. [Túrin looks up at him, but Gwindor lowers his head, miserable, unable to speak, perhaps for awe, perhaps for fear that they should not believe him again. Orodreth looks at them carefully.] Speak! [During this exchange, the woman at his side has been looking earnestly at their faces, especially at Gwindor’s. And at this point, something like recognition lights her face, and she gets up out of her chair and runs towards Gwindor, bursting into tears. Túrin, looking at her, sees a brief vision in his mind in which it is not an elven-maiden, but Lalaith running towards them.] Finduilas: Oh Father! Father! [She looks back at her father:] It’s Gwindor! It’s Gwindor, Father! [She takes Gwindor’s face in her hands and lays it on her breast, stroking it softly. She begins to weep again, and her tears drip down onto Gwindor’s disfigured visage. Wonder and amazement fill Orodreth’s face.] Orodreth: [almost disbelieving:] Gwindor? Lord Gwindor? Gwindor: [weakly:] My lord. [The hall has now become completely silent. Finduilas turns now angrily to the guards.] Finduilas: [righteous anger:] Release him at once! How came it that you would tie him up, and bring him hither as a prisoner? [The Captain and the soldiers hastily cut the bonds and the Captain looks abashed.] Captain: Your highness, my deepest apologies. He – he told me who he was, I – did not believe him. [He nods apologetically to Gwindor.] Lord Gwindor. [Finduilas begins to lead Gwindor over to the thrones by the hand, when Gwindor says to her:] Gwindor: [softly:] My friend is also tied. [Orodreth hears this.] Orodreth: [to the soldiers:] Untie Lord Gwindor’s companion, and bring two chairs for them to sit on. Let word also be sent to Lord Guilin that his son has returned. [In a moment two servants have brought chairs, and Gwindor and Túrin sit down. Finduilas indicates she wants to sit by Gwindor, but her father bids her kindly to sit down next to him. So she takes her place by Orodreth’s chair.] Orodreth: [to Gwindor:] Please forgive me, Gwindor. My eyes deceived me. It has been so long since you departed this land. [Gwindor nods but appears too overwhelmed to answer.] We rejoice that you have returned home at last. Gwindor: Thank you, lord. Orodreth: And who is this, your companion? Gwindor: This is my friend, T – [But Túrin touches his arm, stopping him, and says to Orodreth:] Túrin: I am Agarwaen, son of Úmarth, the Bloodstained son of Ill-fate: a hunter in the woods. [dead silence; they sure won’t be asking him any more questions] Orodreth: [clears his throat:] You are welcome here – Agarwaen. [The name seems to pain him somehow.] Túrin: Thank you, lord. Orodreth: We will prepare a room for you right next to the lord Gwindor’s. [Just then another Elf runs into the main door of the hall and all the crowd parts for him, as he comes up towards the dais. He stops just in front of the crowd and looks around almost frantically:] Guilin: Gwindor? Gwindor? … Forgive me, sire, someone told me my son was here. Orodreth: [nods to him] Lord Guilin. [At this name, Gwindor turns around and looks into the eyes of the Elf. He gets up out of the chair and comes towards him.] Gwindor: Father! [The people in the hall look down, or away politely as they embrace. Tears spring to Guilin’s eyes, but Gwindor just looks overwhelmed.] Guilin: I thought they were jesting when they told me to come down, for you had returned. [After a few moments:] Orodreth: You must be tired and wish for rest. My Steward will show you to your rooms. One is being prepared for you – Agarwaen. Túrin: Thank you, lord. [But Finduilas gets out of her chair and comes to them, clasping Gwindor arm to her side.] Finduilas: I will go with Gwindor. [She and Guilin walk with Gwindor down the hall, and Túrin follows after them. The people part for them as they go.] [They reach Lord Guilin’s apartments. Gwindor points to the room next to him.] Gwindor: [to Túrin:] This room is for you. [Túrin nods and watches as Finduilas and Guilin go in together with Gwindor to his room, then goes into the room indicated to him, leaving the door open. Finduilas and Guilin sit down with Gwindor, both seeming slightly jealous of the other’s presence and wanting him to themselves.] Finduilas: Gwindor, Father is going to ordain a feast this evening for your return. You should get plenty of rest before then, though. You look so tired. [She touches his deer-coloured hair gently. He smiles at her.] Guilin: We have left your things in your room, just as they were, so you should find everything easily. [Gwindor waves his hand in laconic dismissal.] Gwindor: Oh no, it is fine. Finduilas: Would you like anything to eat, or do you need anything before you rest? Gwindor: [shakes his head] No. Thank you – Faelivrin. [She positively glows at this, and kisses him softly on the cheek. His father squeezes his hand and they both go toward the door. But before they leave, Gwindor stops them:] Gwindor: [suddenly:] What year is it? [Finduilas and Guilin look at each other for a moment.] Guilin: [softly:] It is Sun Year 490, Gwindor. [Gwindor looks choked for a minute, but says nothing. They look at each other concernedly, then depart, shutting the door behind them. Gwindor looks around him for a moment, as if trying to absorb his new surrounding, and then begins to cry softly into his hands, his shoulders shaking. After a moment the door opens silently and Túrin peeks his head through, then comes over quietly to Gwindor. Seeing him, Gwindor slowly ceases and looks at him as Túrin sits next to him on the bed, without speaking.] Gwindor: [slowly:] I have been gone for seventeen years. This no longer seems like my room, that these are my things. For seventeen years I was a slave, Túrin, and had nothing. They put us to work in the forges, making swords and hauberks and shields, and all manner of armour – all for Morgoth’s accursed armies, whom I had spent all my life fighting – [looks up at Túrin] Do you know how I was captured? [Túrin shakes his head.] It was at the beginning of the Battle of Unnumbered Tears – I was with the host of Fingon, and your father was by us. We were waiting behind the mountains for Maedhros’ signal before we went forward, and Morgoth sent his captain with a company to us. They … they had my brother Gelmir with them. He looked much as I do now, save that he was blinded. [He shudders. Túrin looks at Gwindor sorrowfully at this description of himself.] But the Orc captain said, “We have many more such at home, but you must make haste if you would find them; for we shall deal with them all when we return even so.” Then they … cut off his hands, and feet. And then his head. I could not take it. I rode forward, ahead of the host, and was separated from the main army. All my company was slain, but they took me alive. [he looks earnestly at Túrin] Seventeen years! It seemed longer than that. But life has gone on here without me: while I was in the mines making weapons for the Orcs. My cell was in a long row with many other captives’, and there were always guards there – even though we were chained to the wall of our cells. And when we worked we were chained as well, although there was no hope of escape. I could not rest, never being able to escape the agonized screams of the tormented, the smell of burning flesh, the pain and fear that haunted even my dreams. The darkness was interminable, an endless chain of despair: I lost count of days and months and years. I had always been there, I would always be there; there was nothing else. Only the screams, the terror, the torment, and the darkness. [He puts his head in his hands. Túrin reaches over and puts his hand on his shoulder.] Túrin: And yet your darkness is over now, and you may rise above it, and live as you once did. [Gwindor looks up, and the darkness seems to disperse from his face.] Gwindor: [slowly:] Yes, you are right. I am home now. All shall be well. In Finduilas’ light I shall heal. [pause; melancholy:] We have put you in Gelmir’s old room. Túrin: I am honoured to be placed there, and to dwell near to you. Gwindor: His clothes are in there as well. You may wear them for the feast. [Scene fades into a new scene: The Hall of Hours, much brighter than the throne room, because in the slanted roof are glass windows, like stained glass of many different colours and designs. The floor is of white stone or tile, and white pillars on the sides of the hall uphold the roof. This is obviously the main gathering place of Nargothrond. There are many tables laid out there, prepared for the great feast, and at the far end of the hall, the musicians are warming up their instruments (harp, lute, flute…) There are many people there already, fluttering about and socializing before the meal is served, all dressed in beautiful clothes. Túrin and Gwindor walk in together, led by Finduilas, who has her arm around Gwindor’s. Guilin walks up to them, and, seeing Túrin’s attire, leans over to Gwindor:] Guilin: [whispering:] He is wearing Gelmir’s clothes! Gwindor: [nods] I told him he could. Guilin: [clasps his arm] Gwindor, tell me, please: is your brother still alive? Did you see him … there? [Gwindor lowers his head.] Gwindor: [in a low voice:] I’m sorry, father. Gelmir is dead. [Guilin looks stricken and turns pale.] Guilin: [anguished:] You saw him? How did he die? When? [Gwindor does not answer. Finduilas touches his arm softly, and they walk over to the main table, that of highest honour, where her father is sitting. Orodreth rises politely to greet them.] Orodreth: I am glad to see that you have rested well, and have found fit raiment. [to Túrin:] We will have your measurements sent to the tailors, and they can prepare clothing for your needs. Túrin: You are kind, lord, but that is not necessary. I have few needs. Orodreth: And yet it is the custom here to treat guests well, and so you shall be treated. [As he sits down again he mutters to himself:] And may I be able to make up for Lúthien! [The Steward, who sits near the King, helps the other four to their places, and Finduilas, Gwindor, Guilin, and Túrin all sit at that table. Soon the rest of the table is filled with various lords and ladies, as the feast begins. Thy try to make polite conversation to Gwindor and his friend: one lord and lady in particular who sits nearest them.] Lord: Lord Gwindor, it is such a joy to see you again! We have long missed you as the Head of Security. [Gwindor bows his head to him.] Gwindor: Thank you. Lady: Will you be taking up your duties again, now you have returned? [Gwindor looks uncomfortable and slightly abashed. Orodreth saves him from having to answer.] Orodreth: Lord Gwindor has just returned this day, and we have not yet had time to discuss such matters. [The Steward tries to pick up conversation after the awkward pause that ensues.] Steward: [to Gwindor:] I expect you must be longing for food from home, and so I have ordered the cooks to prepare all the delicacies that we offer here. You may choose from poached salt water trout from Himlad (which is in these days difficult to obtain since trade has become so difficult, as I’m sure you know); or roasted duck in mango sauce; a grilled venison with garlic and spicy chiles from Ossiriand – Gwindor: [overwhelmed:] My lord Steward, anything is fine for me, really. Just something hot. Steward: [looks stunned:] Anything for you? You have no special preference? Gwindor: [suddenly weary:] No, it really does not matter. [another awkward pause: the Steward blinks and clears his throat. Orodreth tries a new track, and addresses Gwindor’s companion instead:] Orodreth: Lord Agarwaen – [almost wincing as he says the name] – we are pleased to have you here. What sort of interests do you have? Boating? Astronomy? Music? Túrin: I am a warrior. I hunt the servants of Morgoth wherever I go. [The Captain of the Guard, sitting down the table, seems delighted to hear this.] Captain: Ah! A warrior! And what weapon do you most favour? Túrin: The sword. [Then he frowns, in recollection.] Lady: [to her husband:] See? I knew he was a warrior from Hithlum. He must have survived the Unnumbered Tears and fled here: one of Fingon’s warriors. Lord: No, dear, I told you: he looks like one of the hunters of the Fëanorions in the East. Steward: Nay, his accent is rather like one of Doriath – as the Lady Lúthien had. It is so much more rich and full than the woodland Sindarin. Lord: In that case you could compare it with the accent of the Laiquendi in Ossiriand – Lady: [shaking her head] Oh, no, that is so much different, a completely different language – [Seeing this has gone a bit too far, Orodreth clears his throat. They stop, looking slightly abashed, at the object of their discussion. He, however, seems little interested in whatever they are saying, and is trying his wine with Gwindor, looking deep in thought.] Steward: [to Túrin:] Forgive us, lord, if we appear over-eager. It is not often that some visitor comes to us from different lands, and we so delight in tales of new realms. [He seems eager for some tale of Túrin’s travels and background. Túrin sets down his glass.] Túrin: [reticent:] I did spend some years of my childhood in Doriath. Steward: [relieved, giving a look to the lord and lady] Ah, so I was correct. Captain: I guessed the same, seeing your arms when you first entered the Hall. Those are of Doriath as well? [Túrin’s face clouds.] Túrin: [short and unencouraging:] Yes. Captain: [turning to the others:] It was made of some strange metal, the likes of which I have never seen before – black it was, like some sort of stone… Lady: Obsidian rock, perhaps? Lord: But nay, that would shatter as soon as it collided with another sword. Very weak it would be – lest it were surrounded by a layer of iron – Captain: And yet then ‘twould no longer be black. Steward: Ah! But if you added a minute element of firmly ground ash to the molten iron, ‘twould alter the colour to a black. [Watching this, Orodreth once again tries to save the object of their discussion.] Orodreth: [to Túrin:] Do you know aught of smithwork? Túrin: Some, lord. I – learned it, when I was a boy – the making of swords and the forging of helms and hauberks. Finduilas: [trying to add to the conversation; politely:] That was in Doriath? [he nods] I loved Menegroth when we went there. I have only been there once, but my father has gone there several times. It is truly lovely. We got to look around all the halls and passages. Two of the march-wardens, Mablung and Beleg, showed us around. [Túrin does not answer, but looks pained and anguished, and turns away as she finishes. There is another awkward pause.] Captain: Ah – lord Agarwaen, how do they shape their blades in Doriath? Do they use the thicker claymore mold, or a thinner rapier? And do they use a forging hammer or a forging press? Túrin: They use mostly the thinner rapier blades, but I am not very familiar with the art of their forging specifically. Captain: And how long is this black sword of yours? It fascinates me. Túrin: [shrugs] Perhaps four and a half to five feet. [The Captain and the others are baffled and awed, and looked amazed at Túrin. Túrin is saved from any further comment when the meal is brought out. Túrin takes this chance to have some conversation with Gwindor, seeing him looking weary:] We may leave soon after the meal is complete, if you wish. You do not – [But he is not allowed to get far, for the Captain is once again speaking to him, loudly:] Captain: And what is the name of this mighty sword? [Túrin’s face clouds again.] Túrin: Anglachel, Iron Flame, it was called. But I name it anew Gurthang, Iron of Death. [His face is so intense and serious they do not dare to ask him any more about it.] Lord: I remember the Lord Beren, when he was here, had a sword almost that length. I cannot recall his sword’s name, but it was nearly – Lady: Oh, that was not of Elvish make, dear, I don’t think. Lord: That makes little difference when the hand that wields it – Lady: Oh, dear, stop trying to be so chivalrous. Everyone knows that Men are inferior to the Eldar. [At this, Túrin looks over at her, with eyes glinting like steel.] Túrin: [eyes glinting] I am a [They all look abashed, especially the lady, who is also contrite, and scrambling now to make up for what she said. Orodreth puts his head in his hands.] Lady: Lord, forgive me – you look so much like – I did not know – [Túrin looks away from her and does not answer.] Lord: Lord Agarwaen, you look so much like one of the Eldar, and your speech and bearing so belie such a connection, it would be impossible to think otherwise… Surely Agarwaen is not a fit name. Steward: [proffering:] Adanedhel seems to me more appropriate: Elf-Man. [While these apologies ensue, Orodreth leans over and whispers something to his daughter beside him. She, in turn, now gets up and goes over to Gwindor, taking his hand.] Finduilas: It is time for the music to begin. Would you do a duet with me, as we used? [Gwindor shakes his head.] Gwindor: No, Faelivrin. I cannot. [Finduilas tries to hider her disappointment.] Finduilas: Very well. It is all right. I shall find another. [But seeing her downcast face, Gwindor gives in.] Gwindor: Very well. I shall play with you. [She smiles and takes his hand, and they walk forward together towards the front of the hall where all the instruments and musicians are. Gwindor, stooped, is now so much shorter than the golden-haired elf-maiden that it is strange to see. Seeing the Princess walking up towards the front, all the people hush to listen. She nods to the lead musician. He, in turn, stands up and speak to the diners:] Musician: The Lord Gwindor, at whose return we all rejoice, will once again play a duet with the Lady Finduilas, which we have so missed these passed years. [One of them brings a tall golden harp to Gwindor. It is overlaid with pearls and gems and its strings ripple like silver.] Gwindor: [softly, to Finduilas:] I don’t know if I can play any more. Finduilas: [encouraging:] Of course you can, dear Gwindor. We’ll do as we used – you play and I sing. [Gwindor sits, and for a moment plucks experimentally at the strings, then begins to play. It is fine for a few chords, but then there is a horrible cacophony of notes. Gwindor winces and tries to correct it, but it happens again, several times. Finduilas opens her mouth to sing anyway when he stops all together.] Gwindor: I cannot play, Finduilas. It is not just that I have forgotten. My – my hands. [He holds out his hands to her, and she sees that they are not only withered and wizened, but have been so worn and damaged that his fingers are little more than stubs. She takes them in her own and holds them up under her bent face, her tears falling on them. Soon she rouses herself, since all in the hall are now watching them in silence.] Finduilas: [softly:] It is all right. I will play: you sing. [He nods silently. She takes the harp, and her smooth, cream-white hands begin to ripple out a tune like a dream. After a few minutes, Gwindor begins to sing, and it is clear that his voice, at least, has suffered little injury in Morgoth’s pits.] Gwindor: [singing:] Under the gloom of dusk the stars
[He breaks down and is unable to continue. Finduilas stops playing; and standing up, she takes his arm and leads him from the hall. Everyone is silent, until the musician stands and announces the next performer, his artificial cheer breaking the discomfort among the listeners. Túrin, at the table, stands up.] Túrin: [to Orodreth:] Forgive me, lord, if I seem to depart in haste, but I deem that I should follow Gwindor, for a friend’s aid might do much at this time. Orodreth: [nods; wearily:] That is well – Adanedhel. [Back in their rooms, Túrin looks weary and sad. He takes Anglachel, which he has just renamed Gurthang, and looks at it for several moments. Then he shudders, a shudder that seems to come from his heart, and holds the sword up as if he is going to cast himself upon it. Then he throws it down, and throws himself on the bed, almost cringing, and begins to weep, burying his face in the pillows. Through his anguish he cries one name over and over:] Túrin: Beleg! Beleg! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Forgive me, Beleg! My brother! Forgive me!
SCENE XVI
[Scene: Orodreth is in the royal apartments, sitting at his desk with piles of paper in front of him. There is a knock and the Steward enters, standing by the door.]
Steward: Forgive me, sire, for disturbing you.
Orodreth: Yes? What is it?
Steward: Two things: first, there seems to be a – slight problem with the water system.
[Orodreth raises his eyebrow. The Steward clears his throat.]
There is a blockage in the water system that is not allowing the heating system to warm the water – and so the Eastern Wing is receiving only cold water.
Orodreth: And why do you come to me with these troubles?
Steward: Ah, yes, you’re right, sire. But, you see, the architect of the water system is gone, as you recall, to the Mouths of Sirion for the Balar project.
Orodreth: Yes, I recall. Are there no workers about that could solve this problem?
Steward: Ah, right you are, sire. But, alas, all of the laymen are ignorant of the workings of the metals and pipes and their correlation to the entire water system of Nargothrond.
Orodreth: [sighs] Very well. I will come down with you to see if we can find anyone that knows aught of this.
[motioning to the papers on his desk]
So many plans and paperwork I have to do – the layout for the archers in the defense of Talath Dírnen. I must speak to the Captain about it. Very well – what is the second thing you wished to ask me?
[The Steward suddenly looks abashed and reticent.]
Steward: Well, sire, it is …
Orodreth: [eyebrows raised] Yes?
Steward: It concerns… a matter of utmost importance to the safety of Nargothrond …
[he stops]
Orodreth: Come, come! I am busy and have things to do –
[he stands up to go]
Steward: [hastily:] Sire, it concerns the Lord Gwindor’s return.
[Orodreth suddenly stops and looks at him.]
Your majesty knows the law of this city, that none who escapes from Angband may return to –
Orodreth: [waving him to silence] Yes, yes, I know.
[He sits down wearily, holding his hand to his forehead. Muttering, as if to himself:]
May we not forget the law this once?
[The Steward waits patiently, looking rather sorry.]
Steward: [gently:] Forgive me, my lord. But it is a necessary measure. Should this one be favoured only because he is the trothplighted of the Lady Finduilas, when others have been turned away?
[Orodreth shakes his head, looking very weary.]
Orodreth: Nay, not for that. But – I do not think he is … enchained to the will of Morgoth.
[He almost winces as he says this. Then he continues:]
He … is a slave no longer.
Steward: [earnest, but carefully:] Yes, but, sire, how can we be sure?
[Orodreth looks up at him at last.]
Orodreth: He played my brother’s song.
[At the Steward’s confused look:]
Last night at the feast – the song he played … was Finrod’s song.
[The Steward looks down.]
Steward: [softly:] Yes, I recall.
Orodreth: [fiercely:] Shall we betray this one too?
[The Steward doesn’t answer. Orodreth continues more calmly:]
Such a mind that remembers my brother and that song, and remembers our betrayal of him, through all his years of torment, is not a mind enthralled. Nay, he is not overcome.
[He stands up. In a tone indicating that the past discussion is now over:]
We will speak no more of it. Come, let us go down and we shall find someone to correct the water difficulty.
[Scene change: Gwindor and Túrin walking together towards the Great Hall. Finduilas, coming from the other direction, sees them and runs toward them.]
Finduilas: Gwindor!
[She walks by him, and asks him in a low tone:]
Are you feeling better?
Gwindor: [nods] Yes, thank you.
[louder:]
I was just showing – Agarwaen, around Nargothrond, since he has never seen it before.
[Finduilas nods her head politely to Túrin.]
We are going to the Hall of Hours –
[to Túrin:]
– which you saw last night, but it should be empty now, and more open.
[They enter the hall – it is much more open. With most of the tables gone, we can now see many fountains running on the sides of the hall (in a way like the great hall of Menegroth), as well as the ornate stained glass on the roof , and carven designs on the columns and walls. The Hall is mostly empty, except for some people chatting at the other end, and a lone Elda, who is over by one of the fountains, seemingly working on something. They walk over to him, and stand by him for several moments, but he does not notice they are there, until Finduilas gets his attention.]
Finduilas: [softly:] Cousin…
[At this he looks over at them, and sits up. He is wearing some sort of magnifying lenses over his eyes, like an ancient form of thick glasses.]
Celebrimbor: Ah, greetings! Forgive me, I was working and did not notice you.
[turning to Gwindor:]
It is good to see you returned, Gwindor.
Gwindor: Thank you. I want to introduce you to my friend – Agarwaen.
[Celebrimbor winces and shudders at the name.]
Celebrimbor: [to Túrin:] Such a name is not proper for one such as you. Have you not another?
Túrin: Last night at the feast I was called Adanedhel.
Celebrimbor: [looks relieved:] Very well, I shall call you that.
[Then, as if realizing something:]
You are a Man?
[Túrin nods his assent. Celebrimbor looks delighted.]
Túrin: Yes, but I have not yet learned your name.
Celebrimbor: Forgive me. I am Celebrimbor.
Túrin: [polite:] And, do you have any family here as well?
[Celebrimbor’s face suddenly becomes clouded.]
Celebrimbor: No. I no longer have any close kin in Middle-earth.
[pause]
Finduilas: [trying to encourage him:] Of course you do, Celebrimbor! You have father and me.
[He smiles at her.]
Celebrimbor: Of course. I meant any immediate family.
[turning to Túrin:]
I am sorry I could not meet you last night at the feast. I could not come.
Gwindor: [knowingly:] Were you – working?
Celebrimbor: Yes – well, I am teaching a class on gem-making and the quarrying of stone, so I was preparing for that. But also, I got distracted on a theory I have been working on for some time now; although I suppose you know about it, since I started it before you – departed.
Túrin: What sort of work do you do?
Celebrimbor: I work mostly with silver and smithwork, although I do other things as well.
[pointing to the fountain:]
Just now I have been re-tuning this fountain, for the water was sounding a bit hollow.
Finduilas: What is this theory, Celebrimbor? I have forgotten.
Celebrimbor: [getting excited:] It is an idea that my – that Fëanor had originally, that the protection, safety, peace, and stability of a land could all be stored in one body, to not merely preserve it, but it keep those virtues so that they would resonate and continue to be used, if one with enough strength could use their power to utilise it. My gr – Fëanor attempted this, but all that resulted were some glass-like stones in which one could see the memories of such times and places, but it could not call them back again.
Túrin: [fascinated:] – But how would this be possible? How would one fashion such a thing?
Celebrimbor: [shrugs:] That I do not know; and that is the problem. I do not know in what form these virtues would be stored.
[getting into lecture mode:]
But as for how it is possible: these virtues are not merely ideas and fancies that one cannot grasp. They are powers tangible and real that the Eldar may call forth, with all stable conditions, of course, and –
Gwindor: [leaning over and whispering to Túrin:] You do not know your peril. He has been known to go on for days like this.
Celebrimbor: [doesn’t seem to notice that the other has spoken:] – that is what interested me so when I learned that you were mortal; for I have little experience with mortals, as is true for many in Nargothrond, and I am very curious to know, if the Edain have the ability as well, to call forth peace and stability in times of strife, and obtain the power to keep that in memory and call it forth again.
[There is a pause. Túrin’s face becomes clouded and troubled.]
Túrin: No – no we do not have that power.
[He turns away. Celebrimbor looks concerned. In an undertone:]
Celebrimbor: [in an undertone:] I am sorry if I have said something wrong.
Finduilas: [softly:] Do not worry. I think they both need time for healing together –though I know not what lies so heavily on the other.
Túrin: [turns back to Celebrimbor:] Forgive me, lord. I hope that you may progress in your theory.
Celebrimbor: Thank you, Adanedhel. I hope you may find peace in Nargothrond.
Túrin: [smiles sadly, and a bit grimly] Perhaps.
Finduilas: Farewell, Celebrimbor.
Gwindor: I hope to see you again soon.
[They take their leave of him, and begin to walk out of the hall. When they are far enough away that Celebrimbor can no longer hear them, Túrin says:]
Túrin: If my asking is not presumptuous, will you tell me who is his family? And what grievance does he have against them?
[Gwindor sighs and looks sad. Finduilas answers him.]
Finduilas: His father is Curufin, and he and his brother Celegorm were living here in Nargothrond for some time.
[Túrin’s eyebrows knit together in displeasure at these names.]
Túrin: Curufin the son of Fëanor?
[They nod.]
I have heard of them –
[he stops]
Gwindor: In Doriath?
[Túrin nods]
Finduilas: Yes, Thingol has a grievance against the sons of Fëanor –
[aside:]
– for which I do not blame him.
Túrin: And Curufin is Celebrimbor’s father? And he has repudiated his father?
[they nod]
Gwindor: [careful:] And you know … what happened – here …?
Túrin: [nods] Yes. I learned of that as well.
Finduilas: My father forced them to leave Nargothrond, after my – after…
Gwindor: [finishing for her:] But that was after the damage had been done.
[sighs]
The city has never been the same since then. We – we have fallen from our high place among the great Elven cities. And we are to blame…
Finduilas: [urgent:] Gwindor, no – it is not your fault.
Gwindor: Faelivrin, it is over now. Our King is no more. If we might rise up to the city we were before, things would be greatly improved…
[Túrin says nothing, but look thoughtful. Scene fades.]
[Scene change: Gwindor and Túrin are wandering in a long empty hall, looking lost.]
Gwindor: I knew it was the third left after the second north corridor. But they put a new stairway in and renovated the second hall – and I have no idea where are.
Túrin: [touching his arm:] Look over there, Gwindor. There is a map.
[They go over to where the hallway turns at a ninety degree angle, and there in the corner is a huge map, from a bird’s eye view, of the tunnels and halls of Nargothrond. It looks like a highly complicated maze. Gwindor takes his finger and follows the lines.]
Gwindor: This is where we are; and we came down here and – this is where the new stair is, I suppose.
[He throws his hands up.]
I do not know. The forge used to be on the third level in the South corridor. Perhaps they have moved it.
[He looks dejected and depressed. Túrin keeps looking at the map.]
Túrin: Perhaps we can find someone to lead us there.
[Gwindor sighs. Just then Orodreth comes around the corner, speaking to the Steward, and almost runs into them.]
Orodreth: Gwindor, Adanedhel. Forgive me, I was in haste.
Túrin: [bows his head to him] My lord.
Orodreth: And where were you two going?
Gwindor: To the forge; but I’m afraid we … have lost our way. Things have changed since … I was last here.
Orodreth: Of course! I should have had someone lead you around. We did put a new stairway in the north side. Actually, you may come with us: we are going down now to the third level to fix a problem with the water system.
Gwindor: [aside:] So it is where it used to be.
[to the Steward:]
What is the problem with the water system? Is Berion still doing that?
Steward: He is, but he is gone now to the mouth of Sirion on the Balar project.
[Gwindor looks confused at this allusion. The Steward passes it over.]
We are trying to find someone else to fix it – there seems to be a problem with the heating system that is blocking hot water from the Eastern wing.
Gwindor: [brows furrowed in thought] Have you attempted realignment of the lower cog wheels? At times those can becomes misplaced and cause an alteration of the water flow. You are possibly receiving twice the amount of hot water to another wing.
Steward: [looks delighted] No, no one has yet looked at it. We could find no one.
Gwindor: I would be happy to look at it, and see if I can fix it.
Steward: My deepest thanks to you.
[to Orodreth:]
Your majesty?
Orodreth: Yes, yes, that is well. Go ahead.
Gwindor: [to Túrin:] I shall meet with you soon, at the forge.
[Túrin nods. The two walk away, still discussing the workings of water systems. Orodreth sighs and looks away]
Orodreth: [weary aside:] He never knew how to do such things before.
Túrin: He learned much in his captivity.
[Orodreth looks at him earnestly.]
Orodreth: Tell me: has he told you much – about …?
Túrin: He has told me some. But for most of the time we were together in in our travels I was witless, and unmanned, and he was my guide and healer… I believe there is healing for him here; especially in some few.
[Orodreth nods silently and blinks. Then he moves onto a new track:]
Orodreth: Have you found all that you need here, Adanedhel?
Túrin: You are kind, lord. I have few needs. I wish only for the resharpening of my sword –
[He points to the black sword in its sheath at his waist.]
– And I wish to be a warrior in your service, and fight upon the marches against Morgoth.
Orodreth: [looks moved] I honour your request. Mostly those who come here only – want books, diversion, clothing, and comfort. I shall send someone right away to go with you to the forge and – we shall provide you with fit mail and armour. Ah, and here is just such a one to take you.
[He motions to the Captain, who is just now hurrying down the hall towards them. He stops before them, and bows.]
Captain: Your majesty.
[Then, seeing Túrin, his face brightens.]
Lord Adanedhel! I –
Orodreth: [with one eyebrow raised] Captain – is there something you needed to speak to me about?
Captain: [hastily:] Oh, yes, sire. I have come directly from the front. the army of orcs that we saw two days ago from the East has actually now come North. I suppose they must have crept around the hillside. Should we still ambush them/ I know not what else to do.
[Orodreth looks pensive fore a moment, and is about to speak, when Túrin says:]
Túrin: Excuse me, sire. If I may offer a suggestion?
[Orodreth turns to him.]
Orodreth: Yes?
Túrin: Do not wait, and ambush the entire company at once. Wait, rather, until the first third have come through, then attack them suddenly from three sides, crushing their vanguard and surrounding the remainder of their force.
Captain: [blinks] Brilliant thought! Your highness?
Orodreth: Yes, yes! Right away!
[The Captain bows to them, grinning, then heads off down the hall. Orodreth looks relieved to see him go. He turns to Túrin:]
Thank you. The Captain of our forces, ever since my brother, and his captain left –
[he shakes his head, but leaves the description unsaid]
You are most welcome among my forces. I am certain the Captain will be happy to have you as well.
[He begins walking.]
Come, I will have someone take you to the smithy.
[They walk away down the hallway together. Scene fadeout.
[Scene change: Túrin and Gwindor in the smithy – a back door leads outside, and most of the light in the forge comes from thence, though there are some sconces hanging on the walls. They stand by the walls while the Elven smiths are pounding out his black sword, and sharpening it. Then one of them turns to him.]
Smith: What name shall we engrave on your sword?
[pause]
Túrin: Call it Gurthang – Iron of Death.
[The smith nods, and they go to work engraving. Scene fades.]
SCENE XVII
[Scene: Orodreth and Guilin are in the royal apartments, Orodreth sitting at his desk, Guilin in the midst of imparting some unfortunate circumstance to him:]
Guilin: …breach in security. A warg seems to have broken through and gone on a rampage down the Narog. Berendor, the head of Security … missed him, I suppose.
[Orodreth sighs and looks tired.]
Orodreth: Is the … breach now quelled?
Guilin: Yes: I think Adanedhel went in with a small squad of elves and trapped it. It is dead now. I think he killed it – with his black sword.
[pause]
Sire, this is another of the multiple problems we have head with the Head of Sec-
Orodreth: [looks cross] Yes, yes. I know.
[he sighs again; pause]
Guilin: [tentatively:] Sire, Gwindor was ever so much more effective; before he left to the Unnumbered Tears.
[Orodreth looks up at him.]
Orodreth: Yes… well do I know it. I had to put someone in haste, when he left – and Berendor seemed like a good choice.
[he smiles grimly]
I was wrong about that, as I know see. A more incompetent head of Security I have never experienced. We need someone with ability and intelligence there again.
[pause]
I will consider it, but say nothing to Gwindor as yet.
Guilin: Thank you, lord.
[The door opens and Finduilas comes in, and looks surprised to see someone there.]
Finduilas: Oh, excuse me, lord Guilin.
Orodreth: No, it is all right, Finduilas. Come in.
Guilin: I was just leaving –
[Finduilas curtseys to him and he nods as he departs and shuts the door behind him. Finduilas comes over to her father’s desk.]
Orodreth: So what have you been doing today, dear?
Finduilas: Out walking the grounds with Gwindor. The snow is melting now, and it is so lovely…
[she pauses, looking troubled]
Father, I am concerned about Gwindor. He – he seems so sad often, and I try to comfort him, and he smiles at me and calls me Faelivrin still…
[she turns slightly pink at this last part]
Orodreth: [slowly:] Well, Finduilas … he was in Angband, for a long time.
[tears come to her eyes, and she nods, biting them back]
Finduilas: I know … That’s why I want so much for him to get better. I think if he had some vocation or work to do it would turn his mind from his sorrow.
Orodreth: [nods] Yes. That is why lord Guilin came here. I have been considering asking Gwindor to take up his old job as the Head of Security – he always was very astute and thorough at it.
[Finduilas looks delighted.]
Finduilas: Oh Father, he would be so pleased if you would ask him! I know it would help him so much.
Orodreth: Indeed, but I do not know if he will assent.
[Finduilas’ delight is cut short.]
Finduilas: But – why would he not?
Orodreth: [shrugs] I am not saying he will not; but there is always that possibility.
Finduilas: He is looking slightly better than he did when he first came here – less pale. I think once we begin to set up plans for the wedding –
[Orodreth looks up at her sharply.]
Orodreth: Wedding?
Finduilas: [wide-eyed] Yes. I think he felt too shy, or perhaps – uncertain, to speak to me of it again; but I still wear my silver ring and I showed it to him, and told him I had worn it all these years, waiting for him: and why should we wait any longer?
[she lowers her head and speaks softly:]
Tears came to his eyes when I said that and he clasped me to him.
[shaking her head]
I am so much taller than he now.
Orodreth: [gently:] Finduilas, you do not have to. Do not feel like you must –
Finduilas: [turns on him, affronted:] Father, how could you say such a thing? Of course I do not do it because I must. I love him just as much as ever I did before. He has not changed – he is the same person inside. Just because he looks different means nothing about his true self.
Orodreth: [sighs; softly:] He is different, Finduilas. I do not know if he shall ever be the same.
[pause]
His time in Angband has left scars on his mind –
[This makes Finduilas angry.]
Finduilas: He is not a spy of Morgoth! How could you even say –
Orodreth: I did not say it, and I do not; for I do not think it. I mean that he still holds memories of that dark place in his mind, and it is difficult to erase. He has lost his sense of humour; he seems listless and unconcerned…
Finduilas: [miserable:] Yes, and his gloomy friend does not help anything either. He is so dark and sad…
Orodreth: [smiles sadly] I think Gwindor will heal in time. Wait, and help him, and I think that time will come.
Finduilas: Well, I hope you will ask him soon about his position.
Orodreth: Actually, I will speak with him now. Would you bring him here?
Finduilas: Yes, and I would like to continue with the marriage preparations where we left off when he left.
Orodreth: [quiet:] Very well, dear. It is your decision.
[Finduilas nods and leaves the room.]
[Scene change: Gwindor and Túrin are walking down the hall together.]
Gwindor: Here. The library should be down here.
[They turn a corner and enter two great doors. Behind them is a huge marble room, filled with books and scrolls from floor to roof. It is a very bright room, since there are glass windows all across the very high ceiling.]
You should find what you are looking for in here.
[Túrin looks around him in awe. Finduilas and Guilin are already in the library looking at things. When she sees them she comes over to them.]
Finduilas: Gwindor! Adanedhel –
[nodding to him; then turning back to Gwindor:]
I was looking for you.
Gwindor: [smiles] Adanedhel and I were talking in my room, Faelivrin.
Finduilas: Well, I wanted to ask your opinion about something my father and I were discussing, and could not agree on whether…
[They walk off together, and Túrin goes over to where Guilin stands nearby.]
Túrin: Lord Guilin, could you tell me where I might find a book on the war tactics of mortal northern tribes?
Guilin: [looks up at him:] Ah, greetings, Adanedhel! Yes, just over here.
[He leads him over to the other side of the room, and points to a shelf full of books.]
This is what we have. Sadly we are lacking in that area since… few tales have come to us of late of the mortal tribes of the North.
[He looks awkward. Túrin nods but says nothing, and begins looking at the books.]
The most we have concerns the Bëorings, for – Finrod, the – the King’s brother, dealt much with them. But we have less concerning the people of Hador and Haleth.
Túrin: Thank you.
[He takes a book from the shelf and sits down on a bench nearby, and begins to read it. He is left in peace for a little while, but in a moment Guilin comes over to him again.]
Guilin: [softly:] Adanedhel, may I speak with you for a moment?
Túrin: Certainly.
[He sets his book down and moves over to make room. Guilin sits beside him.]
Guilin: I notice that my son seems very close to you, and … I am concerned about him. These past few weeks he has seemed much better than he once did: he has more strength, and colour, and seems more vibrant and joyful; and I think that is much due to Finduilas –
[he looks over and they see Gwindor and Finduilas talking at the other end of the library, and laughing together]
– the Valar bless her. But I am afraid he is holding all of his memories inside himself. He has spoken to me of naught that has befallen him in his time away.
[pause; he seems to be waiting for Túrin to answer]
Túrin: He has spoken to me of his life these past years; but it is very hard for him to speak of it. I do not think that he wishes to hide anything from you: rather, he wishes to guard you from pain at the description of his experiences.
[Guilin looks thoughtful.]
Guilin: And when you found him – or he found you, I know not which it was – how was he? Is he much improved from that time?
[There is a pause; Túrin looks away]
Túrin: [troubled:] I … I know not. I … do not recall much of that time. I was not…
[he stops. Seeing his troubled countenance, Guilin does not press it.]
Guilin: I … his brother, Gelmir, suffered the same fate, save that Gwindor tells me – he was slain. But Gwindor will tell me no details of his escape, and I do not wish to press it. Has he told you aught that you are willing to tell me?
[Túrin looks at him with pity.]
Túrin: He told me … that he was forced to labour in the mines, forging swords and mail and armour for the armies of Morgoth. He always had in his mind plans for escape, but could never execute them for … he was watched at all times. Yet one day, in the forge, he met another Elf of Hithlum, who also desired to escape. They spoke together in mind speech, and slew the Orcs that guarded them with the hammers that they used for work. With their scalding brands they cut loose the chains about their legs, and followed the labyrinthine tunnels, with which they had become very familiar in their years there. Thus Gwindor escaped onto the plains of Anfauglith, but I believe his companion was slain ere he could flee.
[There is a long pause. Guilin is looking down and Túrin cannot see his face.]
Guilin: [slowly:] I had wondered. He is so altered from the way he had been when he left for the War – tall, strong, valiant in battle.
[He shudders.]
I had wondered why he declined the position of Head of Security that once he had, that the King offered him once again.
Túrin: [softly:] His strength is less than it used to be. He is weary, and wishes for no more war.
[Túrin looks over at Gwindor’s bent form at the other end of the room with pity in his eyes. Guilin nods but does not answer. Just then the door of the library opens and the Lady from the feast in Scene XV, followed by a male Scholar, evidently her friend, enter the library. In a moment they see Túrin and she flutters over to them.]
Lady: Lord Adanedhel.
[to her friend:]
This is the mortal that I was telling you about, whom I met at the Lord Gwindor’s return feast – Adanedhel.
Scholar: [looking at Túrin as if he were some science project] Fascinating! He looks just like one of us – of the Noldor of Fingolfin’s House, maybe.
Lady: That is just what I thought at first; and then he told me he was a Man and I was so amazed.
Scholar: And he is the warrior, too, with the black sword?
Lady: Oh, yes; he talked about that at the feast, too. We thought it might be some sort of obsidian rock, mixed with iron and ash…
[As they continue to talk about him as if we were not there, Guilin, looking embarrassed for them, gets up and gets another book from the shelf, handing to Túrin, who sits there with a mild, slightly amused expression on his face.
Guilin: [to Túrin, trying to divert him from the conversation, clearing his throat:] This book concerns the people of Bëor, and their war tactics after the Dagor Bragollach. It might interest you –
[The lady and her friend stop speaking.]
Scribe: [to Guilin, covertly patronizing:] Lord Guilin, do not embarrass him. He probably cannot read.
[Guilin lifts one eyebrow and gives him a look.]
Túrin: [mildly:] Do not worry. I learned both the runes of Daeron and of Fëanor in my youth.
[The scribe appears both surprised and please at hearing him speak.]
Scribe: Excuse me, lord. I misjudged you. But what a lovely accent you have. I have studied the various pronunciations and accents among the peoples of Beleriand, and it reminds me of the Doriathrin.
[Túrin does not answer. The Scribe turns to his friend.]
– Very similar to the lilt of the Laiquendi, I found, though it has branched off from it considerably…
[While they continue their discourse on the various tongues of Beleriand, Guilin nudges Túrin, who takes this opportunity to sneak away with his book, leaving Guilin to hold them at bay. Túrin finds Gwindor and Finduilas at the other end of the library. Seeing him coming:]
Gwindor: [to Túrin:] Ah, T – Adanedhel, Finduilas has told me that she is going to have a party – two months from now, I believe.
Finduilas: [nods] You are invited as well, if you desire to come.
Túrin: [bows his head] Thank you.
Gwindor: There shall be music and feasting and much dancing as well. You should prepare a song to play for us.
Túrin: [smiles sadly] I am sorry, I do not play.
Gwindor: That is well. You may listen, as do the others.
Finduilas: Gwindor, you and I may just listen to the music; there is no need for us to play.
Gwindor: [rueful smile] I do not think I shall be dancing much either.
[Finduilas does not answer, but looks sad. She tries to smile at him, and clasps his gnarled hand in hers.]
[Scene change: Orodreth and the Steward talking together in the Council Chamber. It is a large room with marble walls, and a long carven table in its midst. They are alone; the Steward is sitting at the table, Orodreth is walking back and forth beside it. The Steward looks shocked.]
Steward: I – I had not thought that he would refuse the position.
Orodreth: [sighs] I had thought he might. Perhaps it is better that way.
[The Steward looks at him warily.]
Steward: You do not think that…?
Orodreth: [waving his hand in dismissal] No, no, and I have already told you to say no more of it.
Steward: [nods] Yes, sire.
Orodreth: I merely think … Gwindor seems to weary so much more easily now. He is not forward in arms. I think the elves on the marches would accept him for love of him, and welcome in back; but his authority among them would soon wane, merely because of his – physical condition, and his ability to fight well anymore, than for aught else. But … he is one of our best leaders, or was. I asked if I might ask him again in a year, if he would consider the position at that time.
[pause]
Steward: And what did he say?
Orodreth: He said yes, I could ask him again in a year.
[sighs]
I suppose Berendor will be all right until then, if we continuing monitoring every move he makes. I have asked Lord Guilin to help me with that. If only I had known he was so incompetent before I placed him there…
Steward: We were in such haste, lord, to find a replacement when Gwindor did not return.
Orodreth: I know. ‘Tis same with Telemnar, the Captain, when… my brother left.
[sighs]
Well, we must do out best ‘til we can find another. Come, I have some plans to show you.
[He heads out of the hall, the Steward behind him. Scene fades out.]
SCENE XVIII
[Scene: the apartments of Lord Guilin’s household. Finduilas is standing before the door, dressed in a lovely, flowing dress of light blue and silver, her hair pinned back from her face, and small blue jewels arrayed throughout it. She wears earrings like diamond tear drops, and a thin, veil-like white cloak over her shoulders, with lace like snowdrops across it. She knocks at the door, waiting. Guilin opens it.]
Guilin: Ah, my dear. I am sure you are here for Gwindor.
Finduilas: Well, yes. The party is beginning, and I didn’t see him there. Is he all right?
Guilin: Ah, well actually, dear, he has not been feeling well. He is very tired today.
Finduilas: [concerned:] May I see him?
Guilin: Certainly.
[He stands by to let her pass, and she enters the living room of the apartments, following him back to Gwindor’s room, with Túrin’s beside it. Guilin motions her to Gwindor’s room, the door of which stands open. She comes quietly up, and sees Túrin sitting by Gwindor, speaking quietly to him. Gwindor’s head is lowered, but Túrin sees her enter and nods to her.]
Finduilas: [softly:] Gwindor…
[Gwindor looks up, hearing his name, and tries to smile.]
Gwindor: Faelivrin…
[She comes over and sits next to him, clasping his hand.]
Finduilas: Are you all right, dear?
Gwindor: [with a wan smile] Yes, I am fine. Just a bit weary today.
Finduilas: I was worried about you, when you came not to the place that we had said.
Gwindor: [realizing:] Oh, your party. Faelivrin, I am so sorry. I was supposed to meet you, and you must have been so worried. I … I am sorry. I think I am too tired to go.
Finduilas: [concerned:] Perhaps I should stay with you, Gwindor. I do not want to leave you here by yourself.
Gwindor: [earnest:] Oh no, no. You must go or I really will be upset. I shall not ruin the festivities. Please do go.
[Seeing her downcast countenance, he turns to Túrin with a pleading look; in an undertone:]
Would you go with her? I feel so badly I cannot go with her, and I do not wish her to be disappointed.
[Túrin nods and stands up, offering his arm dutifully.]
Gwindor: [to Finduilas:] Adanedhel will go with you, my dear, instead.
[Finduilas tries to hide her disappointment, and looks around for a way of escape; but none is forthcoming, and she resigns herself to her fate. She takes Túrin’s proffered arm with a small sigh, and looks back at Gwindor wistfully.]
Finduilas: I shall return as soon as I can, to see how you fare.
[Gwindor tries to smile, and as they leave, lies down on his bed. Guilin smiles at them on his way to Gwindor’s room. They walk side by side down the hall in silence, not looking at each other. Túrin is taller than Finduilas, who is already a tall elf-woman; and Túrin, glancing at her from the corner of his eye, sees a flashback in his mind once again, of Lalaith, running in her blue and silver dress through the grass. He turns away.]
Finduilas: [still not looking at him; chilly:] You know, I do not think your presence is good for Gwindor: your silence and gloominess make him weary and sad. That I do not appreciate.
Túrin: I am who I am despite others.
[She sniffs and does not answer.]
On the contrary, Gwindor seems to me to be doing much better since I first met him.
Finduilas: [cold:] And I suppose you deem that is due to you?
Túrin: No. I was just going to say that I think it is due to your attentions.
[She looks away to the other side of the hall as they continue walking. They do not speak again until they reach the doors of the Great Hall, which are standing open. There are many people in the hall already, standing about and talking in groups, and musicians playing at the end of the Hall. Orodreth comes up to them as they enter.]
Orodreth: [nodding to Túrin:] Good evening, Adanedhel.
Túrin: Good evening, lord.
Orodreth: [to Finduilas; in an undertone:] People were worrying when their hostess did not come. I have held them at bay for you.
Finduilas: Thank you, Father.
Orodreth: [looking around them:] Gwindor did not come, dear?
Finduilas: [sighs] No, Father. He was not feeling well.
[She turns away from Túrin; to her father:]
I should go look after my guests.
[Before she can escape, people begin to gather around her and Túrin, as people will gather around interesting figures in little groups at parties. The Lord and Lady flutter over, with their friend the Scholar, as well as the Captain of Nargothrond’s troops. They bow/curtsey to the Princess and the Man, greeting them.]
Finduilas: [graciously, trying not to sound weary/ annoyed:] I am so glad you all could come tonight.
Lord: Thank you, Princess. We have just been discussing your now composition, “Starlight Rain:” absolutely lovely.
Lady: We are so eager to hear it. We would be delighted if you would play it tonight.
Finduilas: [hesitant:] I do not think so. I am rather weary tonight.
Scholar: Oh, but we would all so enjoy it. I can have someone fetch your harp for you.
Finduilas: Oh, no thank you. Besides, I need a second part to accompany me.
Lady: [glancing at Túrin:] Oh, but I am sure Adanedhel would be happy to –
Túrin: [shakes his head] I am sorry, I do not play an instrument.
[pause; the Captain clears his throat]
Captain: Well, you look lovely this evening, my lady.
Finduilas: Thank you.
Captain: And how is the lord Gwindor this evening?
[Finduilas’ brow clouds a little but she conceals it quickly.]
Finduilas: He is resting. He was – a bit tired today.
Captain: I am sorry to hear it. He was looking a bit tired out on the marches today. I think the strain was too much for him –
Túrin: [interrupting him in a timely manner:] Captain, I had a question about the second legion of archers, which I was considering earlier today.
[The Captain looks pleased at having Túrin ask him a question about military affairs.]
The second strong, when you released them, did not seem like an appropriate time. Perhaps if you had waited another quarter of an hour for them, and send the fourth string first, it would have been a more efficient attack.
Captain: [thoughtful:] Perhaps you are right…
[Finduilas looks relieved at having the attentions taken off her and Gwindor. As Túrin and the Captain speak together, Celebrimbor comes up into the circle.]
Scholar: Greetings, Lord Celebrimbor.
[Celebrimbor bows to them.]
Finduilas: I am so glad to see you could come tonight, cousin.
Celebrimbor: Thank you. Your father practically dragged me away from my manuscripts. He said I had to come.
[He winks at her, and she smiles. The Lord, Lady, and Scholar look uncomfortable at this camaraderie, perhaps feeling as if they are being left out.]
Scholar: [clears his throat:] Lord Celebrimbor, I am eager to hear about your new theory on the preservation of memories.
Celebrimbor: [sighs] Actually, I have taken a rest from that since I have not as yet had any new insights, and am working on a new idea.
Lady: [interested:] And what is that?
Celebrimbor: [pleasantly:] I am exploring the idea of a key word, for hand-built edifices, that can, if one with enough power exerts their strength upon it, can loose stone from stone and shake its core foundations – as the Lady Lúthien did on the isle of Minas Tirith.
[This makes the three even more uncomfortable than before. There is a long pause. Fortunately just then Túrin seems to have completed his archery discussion with the Captain and turns back to the group. Celebrimbor speaks to him.]
Celebrimbor: [amiable:] Adanedhel, it is pleasant to see you again.
Túrin: Thank you, and to you as well. You have a rest now from your labours?
Celebrimbor: [smiles] Yes, I have come to a hard place in my calculations and thus must take a break for a time.
Lord: Lord Celebrimbor, surely you will play something for us tonight?
Celebrimbor: I could, but I have nothing prepared.
[Just as the Lady is about to extol him to play anyway, they are saved by two young elven soldiers running up (as gracefully as they can) and standing before their Captain, pointing to Túrin and speaking together quietly.]
Soldier: Look, I told you: it is the Mormegil!
Second Soldier: Where is his Black Sword?
Soldier: Do not be foolish: he would not wear it to a feast.
[They stop, looking embarrassed, when they see that the others are looking at them. The soldier tries to explain himself:]
Excuse us, we just came to meet the Mormegil.
[to Túrin; quickly, as if nervous:]
Greetings, sire. My – my friend here wanted to see you and I have never met you and we so admire your ability with the sword and skill in battle and your intelligence with military matters and so we wanted to tell you so and –
[he stops to take a breath; Túrin takes this opportunity to step in:]
Túrin: Thank you. I do not know if I have seen you on the plains. What are your names?
Second Soldier: I am Manendil, lord, from the Havens of Brithombar.
Soldier: And I am Celvandil. I was born in Nargothrond.
Captain: They are both in the third legion on archers on the South bank.
Túrin: [brightens slightly:] Ah, you are archers! I had a friend who –
[but he stops, his face becoming clouded and upset. During the pause that ensues in which the others are waiting for him to continue, Celebrimbor rescues him:]
Celebrimbor: [to the soldiers:] Why did you call him “the Mormegil”?
Captain: [glad to be of service:] Ah, all the soldiers have begun to call him that, mainly because of the Black Sword that he wields with such deadly accuracy.
[Finduilas then speaks up, wearily, while looking over to the other end of the hall.]
Finduilas: If you will excuse me, lords, I really must see to my other guests, and the music.
[She curtseys to them and speeds away before Túrin can follow or the others can stop her. Celebrimbor looks up at Túrin as he attempts to walk after her, after the manner of an escort, but the people standing there won’t let him leave.]
Lord: Adanedhel, won’t you please tell us more about your work on the marches?
Soldier: Yes, we are so excited to hear! How did you learn so much about the sword?
Second Soldier: Could you teach us?
Captain: As you see, Adanedhel, my soldiers are so eager to learn from you.
[Before Túrin can answer, lord Guilin comes up.]
Guilin: Adanedhel, I was looking for you. Do you have a moment? There is something I would like to speak with you about.
Túrin: [looking at him gratefully:] Yes, lord: all the time you desire.
[The Lord, Lady, Scholar, Captain, and soldiers look disappointed. When they glance back over to where Celebrimbor was standing, they find that he has slipped away too. He, in fact, has followed Finduilas, who is not sitting down by the table of drinks near where the musicians are, with her hand to her forehead.]
Celebrimbor: You look weary. Here, have some wine.
[He pours a glass of red wine and hands it to her. She accepts it gratefully.]
Finduilas: Thank you. I just so weary of all the talk of “the Mormegil.” Do they forget that Gwindor was once their leader?
Celebrimbor: [gently:] No. But he is no more, Finduilas. And that is not a bad thing. Do not slight the Man because he has skills that Gwindor now has lost.
Finduilas: I do slight him, no matter how unjust [wrong] it may be. I cannot help it.
[She turns away, wiping her eyes.]
Celebrimbor: And yet he is humble. He wishes for their praise as little as you do, I believe. He reminds me in some ways of Beren.
[Finduilas shakes her head]
Finduilas: No, he is nothing like him.
[pause]
I must go set up the music for the evening. Excuse me.
[She stands and goes over to the musicians. Celebrimbor stands there still, getting himself some wine, and the King comes over.]
Orodreth: I overheard you.
[Celebrimbor nods]
I think Adanedhel, or Mormegil as they are now calling him, is much like Beren: strong and fearless in battle, strong, valiant.
Celebrimbor: [nods] Yes. They both have a sadness about them; though perhaps that comes from being of mortal kind, and losing so quickly what ever they gain on this Earth.
Orodreth: And yet … there is a darkness, a deeper sadness that lies upon this Man than did lie upon Beren. Beren had a sense of humour, and saw a sort of fatalistic bright side of life. Adanedhel … seems more often silent, and withdrawn. He speaks little, though when he does it is with firmness of will and intensity.
Celebrimbor: They seem to me to be akin somehow.
Orodreth: Perhaps they are. I know nothing of Adanedhel’s past.
[They look over to another part of the hall where Túrin stands speaking with Lord Guilin. They seem deep in a conversation.]
Túrin: [earnest, pitying:] I think that it shall not last long. He went with us today on the hunt, which is the first in which he has taken part since he returned; and it wearied him, I think.
[Guilin sighs and is about to speak, when two elven maidens comes fluttering up together, blushing and curtseying. Both of them have dark hair and are shorter than Finduilas, but are dressed in clothing no less elegant. They speak to Túrin:]
Maidens: Greetings, Adanedhel. I am Míriwen, and this is my companion, Alassiel.
[He bows his head to them politely.]
Second Maiden: We wanted to meet you, for we wanted to see if you were like Beren, who is the only other mortal that ever we have met.
[Túrin is trying to appear interested.]
Túrin: Indeed? I would be honoured to hear that I am.
[Hearing him speak, the maidens giggle and turn towards each other.]
Maiden: Oh, his accent is so quaint!
Second Maiden: I love it!
[turning back to him:]
Maiden: Well, lord, he was so much shorter than you are – you are so much taller!
Second Maiden: The Lady Lúthien was taller than he … And you are so much more fair that he was.
[They blush. Túrin looks unmoved.]
And you speak so much better than he did.
Maiden: [hastens to add:] We do not mean to say he did not speak well. His Sindarin was easy to understand, but … his Northern accent was quite strong.
[pause]
Túrin: Indeed? I hope that I may measure up to his strength and ability, and his nobility as one great among mortal kind.
[The maidens stop, hearing the musicians tune up, and the people clearing the center floor. They look delighted.]
Maiden: Oh, look, they are clearing the floor for dancing?
[coquettish:]
Will you dance, Adanedhel?
Túrin: [austere:] No, thank you. I do not dance.
[she looks disappointed]
Maiden: [rallying:] Well, perhaps Manendil will dance.
[They curtsey again to Túrin.]
Lord Adanedhel.
[He bows to them and they glide off; but as they go, the maiden’s friend says to her:]
Second Maiden: It surprises me that you thought he would dance. He looks too proud and serious to do anything of the sort.
[Hearing this, Túrin gives a mellow smile. Finduilas begins to play with the other musicians, and Lord Guilin and Túrin move over to the table of refreshments where Celebrimbor stands, and smiles at them.]
Guilin: [to Túrin:] Will you have a grapefruit? We shipped these in last winter, but they should still be sweet.
Túrin: [takes it] Thank you.
Celebrimbor: [to Túrin:] Adanedhel – Mormegil –
[stops]
– Which do you prefer to be called?
Túrin: [shrugs] Either is well for me. I take what names are given to me.
Celebrimbor: Mormegil, then; tell me: do your people have any experience with memory retrieval and preservation? I am not familiar with the mortal capabilities of such things.
Túrin: My people … do not forget things easily.
[Through his mind runs the image of he and Lalaith playing and laughing outside, and Morwen sitting by, smiling at them. Then he sees himself, and Beleg, hunting together in the woods, speaking and jesting together. To Celebrimbor:]
We remember all joys, and all grievances against us –
[he clenches his fist]
Therefore our hatred for Morgoth is ever the more bitter. We will never forsake our war with him.
[His face is strained with intensity, his fists clenched.]
Celebrimbor: [nods] Yes. Yes, that is true: even with the Elves. The Enemy has spread into the minds of – even my close family. That is why we make war upon him.
Túrin: And yet this mode of stealthy warfare, hiding in the shadows and lurking like voles – this is no valiant way to defend the great strongholds of Elves and Men.
Guilin: And yet we must be careful going to open battle, Adanedhel, or the forces of Morgoth will whelm against up and discover the secret place where Nargothrond lies.
Túrin: Not if we fight them back; they will never come close enough to see its doors.
Celebrimbor: I do not doubt you. But I do fear the Great Worm of Angband, and what he might do.
Túrin: [interested:] The Great Worm? Glaurung?
Guilin: Yes. You know of him?
Túrin: Yes, the image of him is graven on –
[he stops]
Celebrimbor: On what?
Túrin: A piece of armour I – my father had, and gave to me. But we should not fear Glaurung. Did not King Fingon and his archers drive him back to Angband with shame, too weak to suffer the darts of his host?
Celebrimbor: Even so. But he has grown much these past years in Angband, nursing his malice.
Túrin: I do not fear the Worm.
Guilin: [shaking his head] Then you are a more valiant man than I.
Túrin: [shaking his head in turn] It has naught to do with valiance: I wish to make war upon Morgoth to drive the forces back, and free the lands from evil, so that I may return North to –
[he stops again]
– to make the lands free for all peoples.
Guilin: I wish that also.
Celebrimbor: And yet the darkness of Morgoth may work even amongst us, as we have seen with my – with the Oath. We must beware the guile of Morgoth, whose purpose is always other than he reveals.
[the others nod]
Túrin: Indeed.
[aside:]
That I know well.
[Finduilas and the musicians have finished their song, and the current dance is over, so she comes over to the table to get some refreshment.]
Celebrimbor: That was lovely, cousin.
Finduilas: Thank you, Celebrimbor.
[facetious:]
Have you been bothering Lord Guilin with all the facets of your theory again?
Celebrimbor: [smiles:] No, we were just speaking with the Mormegil about Glaurung, the Dragon of Morgoth.
[Finduilas frowns at the mention of Mormegil, and looks away from Túrin]
Finduilas: [to Celebrimbor:] Glaurung has returned? We thought that cousin Fingon had driven him back.
Celebrimbor: Yes, but he came back in the Dagor Bragollach, and more recently in the Unnumbered Tears, when Azaghâl the Dwarf lord sent a knife into his belly and he went fleeing back to Angband.
Finduilas: Ah, yes. I had forgotten. It almost seems to me that as soon as one threat is taken away Morgoth sends another. Now that Sauron is defeated, he sends Glaurung back.
Túrin: You are right; but do not think that Sauron is vanquished: he is only exiled. He still weaves his spells of horror about Taur-nu-Fuin. It is a dreadful place. Even the trees are accursed.
[He shudders. Finduilas ignores him, but Celebrimbor and Guilin look at him in amazement.]
Celebrimbor: [his mouth hanging open] You have been to Taur-nu-Fuin?
[Túrin nods gravely.]
Guilin: Whence? When? How did you come there?
Túrin: I … do not remember much about it. At that time I was not fully … aware of what passed. Gwindor helped me to escape but what happened at that time I … do not recall.
[Finduilas’ ears perk up at the mention of Gwindor, but she still does not turn to look at him or acknowledge he’s speaking.]
Guilin: I … cannot imagine. Forgive me, it is perhaps painful memories that I awake.
Túrin: [smiles sadly:] They will live forever in my mind.
Celebrimbor: Finduilas, was your father ever in Taur-nu-Fuin?
Finduilas: Well, before it became the Deadly Nightshade, yes. He went there to visit his brothers in Dorthonion.
Celebrimbor: Ah, that is right: I had forgotten. Did you ever go there with him?
Finduilas: No. I stayed in Hithlum with cousin Fingon.
Celebrimbor: [thoughtful:] Your father must have more experience with mortals than I realized. I think he had met Beren’s great-aunt Andreth.
Finduilas: [nodding] Yes, he did. I recall him telling me about that.
Celebrimbor: [to Túrin:] The King and I were discussing earlier how you remind us of Beren. We thought that you might be akin.
[pause; he seems to be waiting for Túrin to affirm or negate this]
Túrin: [ambiguous:] Do we look alike?
Guilin: Somewhat, I think. Your hair and eyes make us think of the House of Bëor, and you seem moved more often to pity than to laughter.
Túrin: Then I am honoured to me called one among them.
[Finduilas looks slightly annoyed by this conversation.
Finduilas: But Beren was certainly not so haughty or proud.
[she curtseys to them]
If you will excuse me, lord.
[with that she glides off]
[Scene change: The party is nearly over, and most of the guests are leaving or have left. Túrin is standing by the door next to Finduilas as she bids her departing guests farewell. He does the same politely but concisely. Then when she is ready to go, he turns to help her put on her cloak, but she has already flipped it on around her.]
Finduilas: [not looking at him] I am ready.
[They go out the Great Hall doors, leaving the servants there to clean up behind them.]
Túrin: I shall walk you back to your rooms.
Finduilas: [not looking at him, chill:] I do not need an escort.
Túrin: [insisting:] Gwindor wished me to accompany you.
[Finduilas becomes angry at this.]
Finduilas: Gwindor? What do you care of Gwindor? You have stolen the love of his soldiers, his honour on the field, his – his –
[she cannot continue for emotion]
Túrin: [gentle:] My lady, forgive me if it seems that I do. I do not wish it. I desire for Gwindor to return to life, love, and happiness –
Finduilas: [angrily:] You do not love Gwindor. You could not.
Túrin: [looks at her; earnest:] I love Gwindor as my guide and healer, when my wits were gone and my sanity had fled. He led me when there was no one else to help me. And I am filled with pity for him, for I see the torment he must have undergone and can imagine the way he once was. He is the closest friend I have now; and I do love him, in my own way. He has a tender heart and kind, and it is grievous to see that his body can no longer match the flame of his spirit.
[At this, she turns and truly looks at him, for the first time since he has come there. But after a moment tears fill her eyes and she turns away.]
Finduilas: [softly:] Good evening, my lord.
[She turns and walks away down the hall, her face in her hands. Túrin watches her go with sadness in his eyes. Scene fades black.]
SCENE XIX
[Orodreth is sitting once again in his office, behind large stacks of paper. There is a knock on the door, and Túrin comes in.]
Túrin: The Lord Guilin told me you wish to speak with me, your majesty.
Orodreth: Yes. Please sit down, Adanedhel.
[He comes over and sits down on a chair in front of the desk.]
I want to ask you about your work on the marches.
[pause]
I just received news that this morning the Head of Security was killed, as you probably already know.
Túrin: Yes, sire. I was very concerned with his plan of attack. He decided not to send the dogs out first to smell out the Enemy, and went ahead first, rashly, I thought. He was caught in a marsh and surrounded by the Orcs before we could get to him.
Orodreth: You went after him?
Túrin: Yes. He had ordered us to stay back, and I questioned him when he laid out the plans to the rangers; but – he did not seem inclined to listen to my advice.
Orodreth: Alas that he did not.
Túrin: He told us to stay back, but when he did not return, I crept out on my own, telling the troops to stay behind. But by the time I found him, they had already slain him.
[pause]
The Orc legion is now destroyed.
Orodreth: [sighs] It is probably for the best, hard-hearted though I may seem. I assigned him the position in haste, over a dozen years ago, when Gwindor did not return from the War.
Túrin: You heard no tidings from any of his company?
Orodreth: [shakes his head:] No, none returned: save only Gwindor.
[pause]
When Gwindor did not return, I had quickly to assign one the position and … made a poor choice. The same happened when … when my brother left. Our Captain also went – went with him; he had been aligned with out House for many years, and we knew him well. When they left, I – had not had power for long, and did not know the ways of the Kingdom. So I gave the position to Telemnar, not knowing …
[he stops]
Túrin: [nods] I understand, sire. But at least – the Captain is not malicious, and bears no ill-will to any who have – greater knowledge than he.
Orodreth: [aside:] Nay, he has not enough wit for that.
[to Túrin:]
And did the Security Head bear you ill-will?
Túrin: [shrugs] It was minor. He resented my presence and experience, perhaps.
Orodreth: Yes. I think the Steward mentioned something like that.
[sighs]
Perhaps in his foolhardy pride he has learned his lesson. Well, Adanedhel, so I need a new Head of Security. I have consulted the council and they have chosen you unanimously.
[pause, he looks up at him]
Will you accept? It has been so long since we have had someone competent in charge of the troops.
Túrin: [bows to him] I would be honoured, your highness.
Orodreth: [sighs] Thank you. That takes a weight off my mind.
[chuckles suddenly to himself]
The Captain will be delighted to work with you. He has been nearly begging me to put you in the position.
Túrin: [bemused:] Indeed?
Orodreth: Yes, he says you give him good advice about battle tactics.
Túrin: [shrugs] He asks my advice, and so I give it.
Orodreth: [grim smile] Well, I am sure he can use your experience.
Túrin: … And what does this position involve?
Orodreth: Oh, well we meet in the Council to discuss our military layout every few months. So we will meet again in a few weeks. You should have your report ready for us them.
Túrin: That is well: I have a few suggestions for improvement.
Orodreth: [sighs] Well, we need it.
[he looks up at him]
You do know about – my brother, King Finrod?
Túrin: [nods] Yes, lord.
Orodreth: He – I have never really … recovered from his departure. It was my fault, partly: I should not have abandoned it.
Túrin: [simply:] It was not your fault, lord: the true malefactors have departed from Nargothrond.
Orodreth: [nods] Partly. I try to rule this kingdom with the wisdom that I have (which is, alas, very little). When Finrod departed, the rule was thrust upon me, undesired, and I – had very little experience. My only experience was from – Tol Sirion.
[he winces]
– I try to follow King Thingol in all his policies: as my kinsman and as a ruler I have great respect for him.
Túrin: [confused:] Your kinsman, sire?
Orodreth: Yes. He is the uncle of my mother.
Túrin: Oh, I see. These relations somewhat confuse me: and I have forgotten that.
Orodreth: [nods] Yes. But why am I bothering you with these tales? I am certain you have your own troubles that concern you.
Túrin: It is no matter, lord. I am glad to be of aid.
[he stands up]
Orodreth: Thank you, Adanedhel. I look forward to seeing your report for the plans on Security next week. I will send the Steward to show you what all the job entails.
Túrin: Yes, lord. Good evening.
Orodreth: Good evening.
[Túrin leaves, shutting the door behind him. Orodreth sighs and goes back to work on his papers. After a moment, the door of the adjoining room in the apartments opens, and Finduilas appears. Orodreth looks up and sees her.]
Finduilas: You have asked Adanedhel to take his place?
Orodreth: [stating:] You were listening.
[She does not deny it.]
Finduilas: I could not help but hear. Why did you ask him?
Orodreth: [sighs] Finduilas, he is the best one to do it. Gwindor will not, and cannot, even if he would. I think you have misjudged Adanedhel: he is proud, yes, but not haughty, and humble of his gifts; and he is merciful.
[pause]
Finduilas: [quiet:] Perhaps you are right.
[pause]
Orodreth: What do you have against him?
Finduilas: I – I … I do not know. I do not like him.
Orodreth: [softly:] Well, let me tell you what I think about it: you wish that Gwindor were different than he is, that he were as he used to be. You are angry with yourself for wishing that and wish you would not wish it. Adanedhel is a physical embodiment of how Gwindor used to be; and so you turn your anger upon him instead, as if it is his fault that he is as Gwindor was; and that it is his fault that you wish Gwindor were not as he is.
[long pause; Finduilas looks at him blankly for a moment, then sinks into a chair nearby, her face in her hands]
Finduilas: [voice choked with tears:] Yes: I suppose you are right, Father. I … I … How can you see such things that I cannot even see about myself?
Orodreth: [smiling sadly] Much experience of emotional turmoil myself, dear.
Finduilas: Excuse me, Father.
[She gets up and goes back into the adjoining room, shutting the door after her. Orodreth sits for a moment, sighs, then returns to his paperwork.]
SCENE XX
[Scene: Túrin sits in the library at a carven table, with paper in front of him, and a pen, and he is reading a book that is open beside him. Gwindor is over at the other end of the library with his father Guilin, looking at books and reading. Several others stand around the library, silent. Finduilas comes in the main door, dressed in a silver white dress, and looks around for a moment, as if seeking someone. She sees Gwindor and waves and smiles at him. He smiles back and comes over to him. They speak for a few minutes, then Finduilas walks over to where Túrin sits. He still has not noticed her entrance, when she stands before him.]
Finduilas: [quietly:] Lord Adanedhel?
[He looks up and sees her.]
Túrin: Lady Finduilas.
[He is about to get up when she says:]
Finduilas: May I sit with you for a moment?
Túrin: Certainly.
[she sits down across from him at the table; there is a pause]
Finduilas: I wish to apologize for my conduct at the party –
Túrin: [dismissive:] That was long ago, lady – nearly a month past.
Finduilas: Yes, but I still wish to give my apologies, for my conduct was rude and inappropriate. I – misdoubted you, and I believe I took you for someone you were not.
[pause]
Túrin: Thank you, lady; though I could understand your grief at the time.
Finduilas: [shaking her head] Any grief should not come in the way of courtesy to my guests, or to my escort. I – acted wrongly and ask your forgiveness.
Túrin: There is no need, lady.
Finduilas: Thank you. And you may call me Finduilas, as all others do in this realm.
[Túrin smiles]
Túrin: Very well.
[pause; Finduilas looks thoughtful]
Finduilas: [slowly:] I perceive now that some grief lies on you, as it does on Gwindor; and perhaps I took that at first for haughtiness, and cold disdain.
Túrin: [shaking his head] I care much for Gwindor, and wish only for his healing and joy.
Finduilas: [sighs] Yes…
[She looks sad and thoughtful. After a moment she rouses herself. Pointing to Túrin’s book:]
What is it you are reading there?
Túrin: [looking at the book] This is a record of the battle tactics employed by the lords of Dorthonion before the Battle of Sudden Flame.
Finduilas: [nods] I see. And why are you studying that?
Túrin: I am researching for my report to the Council in the next few weeks.
Finduilas: [looking carefully at the tome:] Yes, that is one of the few that was saved from the flames.
Túrin: [curious:] How did they rescue some of them?
Finduilas: The – the exiles that fled thence to Hithlum, some of them my Uncle’s people, some of them of House Bëor, brought them with them, those that they rescued in haste.
[Túrin lowers his head but says nothing, seeing in his mind a picture of Morwen and her cousin fleeing from burning houses, with a group of others, and traveling wayworn to Dor-lómin. Finduilas notices that he looks troubled; but not knowing what of her words brought them on, turns to a new topic, pointing to something that sits on the table nearby. It is a wooden board of octagonal shape, a little over two feet in diameter. Within the octagonal frame is a raised circle, two feet in diameter, with a hold in the middle, about an inch across.]
Finduilas: That is one of the traditions that was preserved in Hithlum. Have you ever seen one of these before?
Túrin: [looking at it] No, I do not think I have. What is it?
Finduilas: It is a game that I learned from cousin Fingon when we visited him in Hithlum.
Túrin: [bemused:] Cousin Fingon?
Finduilas: [surprised that he doesn’t know:] Yes. He is my father’s cousin –
[she winces]
– he was.
[Túrin smiles sadly and gives an understanding nod.]
Túrin: [bringing her back] And you learned of this fame from Fingon.
Finduilas: Yes. He thinks – thought it originated with the Bëorings, originally. He learned it on some of his visits with Angrod and Aegnor when they came from Dorthonion.
[Túrin starts suddenly at this.]
Túrin: I think I do recall that game.
[he looks over at the board]
Yes – there are three circles here, two smaller ones in the larger, and around the centre hole are pegs placed slightly apart. Yes, I recall this. I – my mother taught it to us when we were children. I – used to play it with Labadal…
Finduilas: [smiles, giggling slightly:] Labadal? “Hopafoot”?
Túrin: [smiles sadly] He was a servant of our household.
Finduilas: [drawing the board between them] Would you like to play it again?
Túrin: Certainly. I have not heard of this game in years. You shall have to remind me how to play. I forget also what it is called?
Finduilas: Well, I do not know the mortal name for it, but we call it ______sarni [A Hundred Stone]. Here, you may use the tan pieces, and I shall use the black. Each of us gets twelve.
[She hands him the small wood pieces, like little discs, just less than an inch in diameter, and about a centimeter tall.]
Túrin: Why it is called “One Hundred Stone” when there are twelve pieces?
Finduilas: I am not certain, but I believe it is a combination of two things: one is supposed to play to a hundred points, although we may just play one round, if you wish; and also I believe the original inventors of this game played just with stones instead of wooden discs.
Túrin: [nods] Yes, that is how we played it. I had never seen such an elaborate board as this before; that is why I did not recognize it at first. We used stones, and drew lines in the dirt, and used sticks for the pegs around the centre hole.
Finduilas: [understanding] That is probably because they were fleeing, in a time of war, and had to find ways of entertainment with few resources.
Túrin: Yes.
[pause]
Finduilas: Here, I shall begin, and show you how to do it.
[She takes one of the discs in her hand, and sets it on the edge of the largest circle.]
You must keep the piece on the line of the outermost circle, and try to hit it in the centre hole, like so.
[She flicks the discs with her finger, and it goes inside the centermost circle, between the wooden pegs.]
Now, since I did not make it into the ole, which would give me twenty marks, you must try to hit it out, into the gulf surrounding the largest circle.
Túrin: Ah, yes, I recall this now.
[He takes one of his tan discs and hits it inside the pegs where it collides with her black one.]
Finduilas: Very good. Now I go again.
[She hits another black one: this one it rests inside the second circle. Then Túrin takes his turn.]
Túrin: It is so much easier to play on this flat wooden surface, than the stones on the soil the way we used to play.
[Finduilas hits her piece and it goes straight into the centre hole.]
Finduilas: Ah! There it goes.
Túrin: I have forgotten what that signifies.
[Finduilas removes the piece and sets it aside.]
Finduilas: Getting it in the hole merits twenty marks.
[As they continue playing, Túrin sits thinking and frowns.]
What is it?
Túrin: This makes me think of the War, I know not why. All the pieces battle against each other to reach one centre goal – but so soon as any does achieve the goal, they are removed.
Finduilas: [pensive:] You mean … like my uncle Fingolfin? And my Uncles?
Túrin: [nods] Like Beren. And Lúthien.
[Finduilas stops, fingering the wood chip in her hand.]
Finduilas: [suddenly:] Are you of the kin of Bëor?
Túrin: [ambiguous:] Do I look it?
Finduilas: Somewhat, though I have seen less of that House. I have mostly been to Hithlum and through Dor-lómin –
Túrin: [interested:] You were in Dor-lómin? When?
Finduilas: [thinking it through] It must have been – two Great Years past, before the Unnumbered Tears…
Túrin: [looks disappointed:] Oh.
[Finduilas looks at him curiously.]
Finduilas: We went to visit Fingon. It is a beautiful land…
Túrin: Yes.
[There is another pause. It appears this topic is not open to discussion. Away across the library, Gwindor and his father look on Túrin and Finduilas playing together with a smile.]
Guilin: I am glad to see they have made friends.
Gwindor: Yes; I do not know what grievance she had against him, but she seems to have made it up.
[Guilin nods.]
Finduilas: Did you … ever speak much with my Aunt Altariel when you were in Doriath?
Túrin: [looks confused] No, I do not think so …
[Finduilas looks confounded for a moment, then realization lights her face.]
Finduilas: Ah, of course! They would refer to her as Galadriel there. Altariel is the Quenya form of her name.
Túrin: [bemused:] I see. I never learned Quenya. She is … the wife of the King’s nephew?
Finduilas: Yes! The Lord Celeborn.
Túrin: I think I have heard their names before, but I never saw them or met them.
Finduilas: [frowns] That is strange. That is where they dwelt…
Túrin: I heard – from a friend, that they had gone East over the Blue Mountains some years ago.
[Realization hits her at this. She looks slightly embarrassed.]
Finduilas: Oh, yes, of course. I was … confused. I forgot you were mortal and … time passed differently for you.
[pause; curious:]
If you do not mind my asking – how old are you?
[Túrin looks pensive, then shrugs.]
Túrin: I am not certain. The last birthday I remember … was my eighth.
[He stops. An image flashes through his mind of his father, standing before his men, kneeling down to Túrin’s level and giving him a knife, and he hears voices from the past:]
Túrin: What is it, Father? Is it for me?
Húrin: Yes, Túrin; it is your birthday present.
[Túrin sighs. Finduilas looks at him from across the table.]
Finduilas: [trying to be sympathetic:] I am not exactly certain how many years I have either; I only know approximately.
[Túrin looks up at her.]
Túrin: And how many is that?
Finduilas: [shrugs] Perhaps … fifty Great Years.[1] I was born just before the Return.
[At this, Túrin hears past conversations echoing in his mind:]
Túrin: Labadal, was Lalaith really like an Elf-child, as my father said? I have never seen any Elves. And what did he mean when he said she was – briefer?
Sador: She was very like, for in their first youth, the children of Men and Elves seem very alike. But the children of Men grow more swiftly, and their youth passes soon. Such is our fate.
[Túrin does not answer Finduilas, being in thought. She keeps trying to find topics that will be of interest:]
Finduilas: It was my Aunt Galadriel that we went to visit in Doriath.
Túrin: [bemused:] Your aunt?
Finduilas: [patient:] Yes, my father’s sister. She – it was strange the way she and Celeborn just got up and decided to leave the land – some people went with them, but we did not even find out they had left – until we got a message form them. They had sent Beleg, Thingol’s marchwarden.
[Túrin looks pained and does not answer. Finduilas either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t know what has pained him.]
He – and Mablung, occasionally – used to take all messages from King Thingol here to us. We used to see him quite a bit.
[thoughtfully:]
But – recently, we have not seen him at all. My father wonders what happened to him. Since you have been in Doriath, have you heard news of him?
[Túrin winces and turns away, actually standing up, and puts his hand to his forehead, shuddering. Finduilas looks surprised and concerned.]
Finduilas: I am so sorry, Adanedhel. I – may I help you?
[she begins to stand up but he turns back to her, his face now impassive]
Túrin: Do you have the time, my lady?
Finduilas: [still troubled:] Yes – it was three hours past the Opening Hour when I left.
Túrin: Then, if you will excuse me, I must go or I shall be late. I was to meet the horse-master at four hours past.
[He bows to her, and she curtseys, still looking concerned, as he departs. Scene fades black.]
SCENE XXI [Scene: the Council Chamber. The Steward already sits at the table, as well as the Captain, Guilin, and three others: the horse-master (a male) and two ladies: one a Scribe, the other the Head of Intelligence. Others are still coming in, and Gwindor and Túrin walk in together, discussing something, and sit at the table next to each other. Lastly Orodreth comes in, sitting at the table with a weary sigh and trying to get the councilors to be quiet.] Orodreth: Well, well, let us begin now. [They become quiet.] Firstly, has the problem with the skiffs on the River been corrected? Head of Intelligence: Well, not exactly, your highness. We have still been having difficulties with passing the wards over the Narog – the skiffs are too weak for the strong current of the Narog, and we – Steward: Can you just build bigger boats? Intelligence: [explaining patiently:] No. In order to build larger boats, one needs more supplies; in order to obtain these supplies, and to build new ships, one needs more willing to work in that area. At present we have too few – all are taken on the marches and in battles. Also, what we are shipping over is the armour and weapons of the soldiers, which is already nearly too heavy. Orodreth: You need to speak to the Boat Master – Intelligence: I have, sire. He is even more frustrated than I with the situation. He has very few that want to help him with that kind of work. All not want to follow the Mormegil. [Orodreth sighs] Orodreth: [to the Steward:] Will you please speak to the Boat Master? I know not what else to do about this. Túrin: My lord – [Just then the door opens and Celebrimbor comes running in, a stack of papers under his arm, and a set of tools still hanging about his waist. He sits down at the table with the others, his face flushed from running. Orodreth looks at him with one eyebrow raised.] Celebrimbor: Forgive me, lord. I was working on the Great clock in the Halls of Hours – the water gage that tolls the coming of each hour, seems to have been broken somehow – and lost track of time. [pause; Orodreth lowers his eyebrow] Orodreth: Very well. You are just in time to give us your update. [Celebrimbor looks blank] – On … the hounds? Celebrimbor: [flurrying around in his papers] Oh – oh yes. Well, I – have mostly completed this, although I got a bit sidetracked along the way and started calculating the strength of the bark of each hound – none of them has any bark at all like to Huan’s – that was so loud it could make the ears bleed … [he trails off, everyone looks at him; he clears his throat] Yes, well. The problem is that I really know nothing at all about dogs. I – had to take over the duty quickly when my – when Celegorm left here – [Orodreth winces visibly at this] A – and I know just as little about them now as I did then. So perhaps … I should have responsibility for this job anymore. [pause] Orodreth: [eyebrow raised] You are resigning your post? Celebrimbor: Technically no, since I never really was assigned the post in the first place. [pause] Guilin: My lord, if I may make a suggestion? [Orodreth looks at him.] Perhaps our Horse Master would be willing to take on the duty. Horse Master: Oh, no, sire. I know nothing about dogs. Celebrimbor: [muttering:] How much easier it was when Huan was here. Orodreth: Well, it does seem to fit … Horse Master: [expostulating:] My lord, I – the hounds should be left to the Hunters, not the Riders. I have no experience… Captain: Perhaps – the Mormegil would be willing. He is a hunter, as he told us when first he came here. [Everyone stops. Túrin does not change expression or respond.] Orodreth: Well, Adanedhel? What experience do you have with hounds and hunting? Túrin: Some, sire. Orodreth: Are you willing to … work with Celebrimbor and the Horse Master, in organizing the packs? Túrin: [nods] Yes, I am willing. The training of hounds is part of the security of the realm. [Celebrimbor looks infinitely relieved.] Celebrimbor: Thank you, Mormegil – [Orodreth nods.] Orodreth: Yes, well, that should now be added to your report. Scribe: Sire, should I make not of this change for the records? Orodreth: [slightly annoyed:] Yes, yes, of course. [sighs] Now that we have that complete, Adanedhel, I would hear your report on Security? Túrin: Yes, lord. All thing go better since the Orcs were driven back over the River Narog, but the Intelligence commission is correct when they say that the passage of arms has grown difficult. Guilin: Do you have a suggestion for how to improve this? Túrin: Yes. We must build a mighty bridge over the Narog, to the Doors of Felagund. [There are several exclamations of surprise through the group at this.] Gwindor: A bridge? But, we cannot do that! Túrin: How else can we have a safe passage of arms over the river? This lurking among the reeds and fens does good for none of us. Gwindor: But, thus we are kept in secrecy from Morgoth. Orodreth: [sighs] I must agree with Gwindor on this, Adanedhel. Túrin: First hear me, lord, and then judge what you shall do. As of now, the archers of Nargothrond do not go forth into battle, but hang back, allowing the dark forces to go up and down the river, and in all the lands west and east of this land. If we do not assail Morgoth, the orcs shall come to our very door, banging on them and seeking entrance. Intelligence: And how will a bridge aid our war against the orcs? Túrin: If we lurk in hiding, Morgoth shall find us all one by one, and destroy us. If we seek now to go forth, valiantly, with strong force of arms, we will drive all the servants of Morgoth out of this land, so that none will dare to come near. Gwindor: [shakes his head] We may drive them back for a time, but thus we shall reveal our stronghold, and Morgoth shall discover the hidden entrance of this land, and send greater force against us. Túrin: [shaking his head] Not if we build a great bridge – there we shall have a swifter passage of our armour and weapons; and defending that bridge and the Doors of Felagund none shall pass through. Gwindor: Not lest Glaurung come. Please, hear me: I have been in Angband; I have seen its power. The Black Hand, finding where we reside, will drive us out. I have seen the powers of the Dark Fortress! [His face is drawn and peaked. There is silence. At last Orodreth speaks.] Orodreth: I tend to agree with Gwindor on this matter; but … let me hear first what the rest of you think of this plan. Steward: [relieved that he shall not have to now talk to the boat master:] I think it is a very good idea. This takes care of our problem with the skiffs. Intelligence: Yes, but where shall we amass the resources for such a large project? Scribe: Take the workers from the shores and move them to worn on the bridge instead. Intelligence: Yes, but where shall we get the stone for such a large bridge? Celebrimbor: Finding stone is simple: we are surrounded by it! I can get my quarriers and smiths to work with chipping the stone free from the mountain. Horse Master: I, also, am inclined to the idea. We have had such troubles getting our horseman over the river: the water is in places too deep to wade and the horses fear the rocks and the lashing of the water. Captain: I support, as always, all counsels that the Mormegil offers: and I believe, in this case especially, that we do need such a bridge. Leading the rangers across the Guarded Plain, through marshes, and briar patches, is so difficult: if we could have a bridge, with what ease and greater force we could attack the servants of Morgoth! Orodreth: That is yet to be seen. [pause; he sighs] Very well, since most of you seem to support this idea: please raise your hand if you are in favour of building a bridge over the Narog. [He watches, without voting himself, as everyone at the table raises his hand except Gwindor, who just sits there, looking dejected. Guilin, seeing his son, lowers his hand. Orodreth sighs.] Orodreth: [weary:] Very well. [to the Scribe:] Take note of this: I want the head of the Engineers, the Mathematicians, and the Architects to meet in my chambers with me, the Steward, and Adanedhel, in two weeks’ time, with their plans for the bridge. Celebrimbor, you come as well. You can help with the stone. [Celebrimbor nods.] Scribe: Yes, lord.
SCENE XXII
[Scene: on the banks of the Narog. There is a huge construction underway over the river. The bridge is nearly all built: there are many elven workers all around it, as well as architects, and the head of the architects, who seems to be the leader of the project, for he has all the plans laid out before him and is engrossed in discussing something with Túrin before the table. After a moment Túrin nods to him and leaves, walking towards the underground city. The next we see him he is entering the stables. Finduilas is in there, standing next to a tall white horse, brushing his coat, and looking rather sad. But Túrin appears deep in thought and does not notice her until he has nearly passed her by, and Finduilas sees him.]
Finduilas: Adanedhel!
[He turns and sees her.]
Túrin: [with a smile] My lady. How are you this day? You look rather sad.
Finduilas: Oh, well, I am … I was just thinking about Gwindor, and …
[She trailed off. Túrin looks concerned and attentive.]
Túrin: Is Gwindor not well? He was very well when I saw him.
Finduilas: Oh, yes, he is fine. I just …
[she appears slightly reticent, but seeing the concern on his face, continues:]
I asked him if he wished to go riding with me today. You see, we used to go together quite often, when he was … before the War. But he – did not wish to. I thought, since he is no longer –
[she hesitates]
– forward in arms, he might wish to do this with me instead, and it would lift his spirits.
Túrin: But his spirits seem lifted ever so much more than they were when first we came here.
Finduilas: [nods] Yes. He is just … so different. I mean, he is the same kind, generous person that ever he was, but … For instance, he has taken to helping the Steward, and others, with problems that they have around the city. You know, he seems to have such skill in those things now. He – he never did before…
[She lowers her head. Túrin looks at her with pity.]
Túrin: Perhaps that is a way for him to expend his time and energies, since he no longer is on the marches; and not a taint from his most recent years.
[she nods, but still keeps her head down]
Finduilas: I was afraid maybe – he was remembering … his captivity, and re-living it.
[she shudders]
Túrin: [softly, encouraging:] I do not think so. He is one in the Council, and we go together. He gives sound and thoughtful advice, and has much experience. Because I do not agree with all his counsels does not make them any less. I think he has skills in certain areas, and wishes to put them to good use.
[pause; she looks up at him]
Finduilas: We used to do a lot of horseback riding together. Mostly here, in the days of peace before the War began. But we did many things in Valinor together as well, ere we came to Middle-earth.
[Túrin looks at her gravely.]
His family was closely allied with Finarfin, my father’s father. They lived close to us upon Tirion, and so I saw him often. We were just very young then, but we did many things together. He was the greatest athlete in his family, and always beat me in faces or in any other challenge.
[with a smile:]
But I remember one day – he challenged my Aunt Galadriel to a race. My father looked at Gwindor and said “Thou shouldst do no such thing,” with one eyebrow raised –
[Túrin smiles at this.]
– but Gwindor just smiled, and said, “I have beat thee, thy daughter, and thy two younger brothers.” Father just shrugged. So he asked her to race, and she said, “How far?” he said, “Howsoever far it pleaseth thee.”
Túrin: That was a dangerous thing to say. Never give your opponent the advantage over you.
Finduilas: [nods] Yes, I know. Gwindor realized that too late. So he let her choose the distance; I do not recall how precisely how long it was, but perhaps two or three furlongs. Galadriel wore her long golden hair tied back on her head, and when they lined up to race, we saw that she was slightly taller than he.
[Túrin smiles, seeing in his mind a picture of Húrin and Morwen standing side by side, Morwen at least three inches taller than her husband.]
My grandfather and grandmother came to watch, and Guilin, and some of Galadriel’s ardent pursuers. And I came, of course. They had lined up to race, and when they first began, I thought that perhaps Gwindor might have a chance.
[shaking her head; with a smile:]
But no, about halfway through the race, she sped forward marvelously, and he was left far behind. He lost by nearly fifteen strides! He was so ashamed. He would not speak to anyone, but I went to him and tried to cheer him, I told him it was useless to be so sad: for everyone knew that Galadriel was one of the best athletes in Aman.
[pause; a little wistfully:]
Gwindor always said I looked like her.
Túrin: Do many in your family have golden hair?
Finduilas: No. My Un –
[she looks troubled]
My Uncle Finrod – had golden hair. And my Uncle Aegnor.
[pause; smiling:]
But Gwindor always used to joke that the reason that Galadriel married Celeborn was that he was the only one who could beat her in a race.
Túrin: [smiles:] Indeed? I would have liked to have met him.
Finduilas: I have only met him once. He is very tall – as tall as she is.
Túrin: Well, King Thingol is –
[he stops; she looks up at him]
Finduilas: Yes, Thingol is extremely tall: the tallest person I have ever seen. I often wondered if they built the ceilings of Menegroth so high that he did not have to stoop when going through doors.
Túrin: Are the races of the Elves varied in height, as are the Houses of Men?
Finduilas: [thinking:] Some. There are no specific houses that are taller than others. Is it so among Men?
Túrin: [nods] Some. The House of Bëor, and especially the House of Hador, are much taller; whereas the kin of the House of Haleth have less stature.
Finduilas: Then I deem you are of the House of Hador, though your looks and demeanor tend more to the House of Bëor.
[Túrin does not answer. Finduilas begins brushing the horse once again.]
Túrin: And when were you and Gwindor betrothed?
Finduilas: Oh, that was after we had come to Middle-earth … just – just very recently, actually. It was just after the Siege ended, and we exchanged silver rings. But, we did not wed then because it is not the custom of the Eldar to wed during times of war, wishing to bear our children in safety and a nourishing atmosphere.
[sighs]
But, at times, some will do it.
[turns away; softly, as if to herself:]
Alas that we did not! Perhaps I could have restrained him from going to the War.
Túrin: [serious:] One should not restrain another from valiant deeds, even if she loves him.
[Finduilas looks up at him, and sees the light of experience in his eyes.]
One does the thing that is necessary for the person one loves, no matter how much it might hurt.
[through his head he hears the echo of his words in his youth again: Morwen, Morwen, when shall I see you again? He flinches and turns away.]
My lady, will you ride today by yourself?
Finduilas: [turning back to him] Yes. Gwindor does not wish to go …
[she sighs]
Túrin: I do not know if it is safe for you to go riding alone. Allow me to find someone to accompany you –
Finduilas: Oh, no, it is well, Adanedhel. Thank you. My father says it is safe for me to go alone, now that the servants of Morgoth are driven out of all these lands, by the prowess of the Black Sword.
Túrin: It is the valour of many elven soldiers that labour for love of this city, Lady.
[She smiles. He bows his head to her.]
I am sorry to depart, but I much speak to the Horse Master about the muster of the horseman.
Finduilas: Oh, no, that is well, Adanedhel. Farewell.
[With a polite bow he leaves her. She continues brushing the horse’s back, for several minutes, looking pensive, when two young elven rangers, one of them obviously an archer, since he carries a bow. They do not see Finduilas, and she cannot see them at the other side of the stable, but she can hear their conversation as they speak together.]
Archer: You have a break now?
Ranger: Yes. I am going to go riding.
Archer: You are going to ride with the scouts in your resting time?!
Ranger: [slightly annoyed] Yes. Why should I not?
Archer: [shrugs] I would not. Let the Mormegil plan his own raids. I know not why you are so – fond of him and his tactics.
Ranger: You have not seen him at the head of the armies.
Archer: I have seen him wield a sword. He is, indeed, very good, but –
Ranger: He is the best. None can compare with him.
[The Archer looks uncomfortable.]
Archer: He is a mortal –
Ranger: [waving his hand in dismissal] That means nothing.
[looking at his companion]
Have you see the way he speaks to the soldiers – how they respond to him? His personality, his strength of will and – intensity, are so overpowering. He – almost resonates with it.
Archer: [eyebrows furrowed in doubt] He is so silent – I have never seen him passionate or overpowering.
Ranger: [shaking his head] No, it is not that. He is quiet. He never tries to win us to his side, or to force us to follow him through fear, or aught else. He – it is his personality, his strength, his will, that we can sense when he talks, that show his nobility – that we can sense.
[the Archer still looks doubtful]
Archer: I do not know – I have never spoken with him before.
Ranger: I think – he cannot even help it, that he comes across that way. His intensity and strength of personality just draw us to him. And he is humble –
[the Archer shrugs]
You do not believe me? Then hear this – and this is the greatest reason why I love the Mormegil – he saved my life on the marches the last winter past.
Archer: [looks up at him] He did? I did not hear of this. How?
Ranger: It was on one of the attacks on the roving orcs bands – the Captain told us to stay back –
Archer: The Captain just asks the Mormegil’s advice, and then does whatever he says.
Ranger: [defensive:] I know, but it is not the Mormegil’s fault that he is so intelligent.
[the Archer smiles]
Archer: Go on.
Ranger: So the Captain had ordered us to stay back, and wait until the orc band marched forward further; but it made me so angry to see them hacking and burning the trees as they went, I sneaked forward to spy on them. Well, I crept forward, but unknown to me there were two or three orcs outside the camp that came upon me in the woods. I was terrified, though I had seen them first, and tried to kill them, or at least one of them. But there were three of them, and I soon would have been overborne, and the others would have raced away to the camp to tell the others, when the Mormegil came through the trees with one other and slew them in nearly an instant.
[he shakes his head]
The Orcs have come to fear that black sword, so that if they even see it they will flee in fear.
Archer: And did he upbraid you for leaving the company?
Ranger: [shakes his head] He looked me in the eyes, and said, “Do not disobey your Captain’s orders, or many worse things might befall you.”
Archer: [shudders] Like the Lord Gwindor.
Ranger: What?
Archer: Oh, nothing. Is that all he said to you?
Ranger: [nods] Yes. He said, “Let us return to the camp,” and no one said anymore of it; and I was so ashamed I have never done anything of the sort again.
[shakes his head in amazement]
The Mormegil really cannot be slain.
Archer: [cynical:] – Save by mischance, or an evil arrow from afar.
Ranger: No, they have given him Dwarf mail. He shall not be pierced.
Archer: [thoughtful:] Perhaps you are right about the Mormegil. No wonder all people here love him.
Ranger: Will you go riding with me then?
Archer: Perhaps I will.
[They get their horses and leave the stable riding together a moment later, leaving Finduilas looking pensive by her white horse. In a moment Celebrimbor rushes in and sees her.]
Celebrimbor: Ah, Finduilas! Have you seen Adanedhel?
[she starts slightly at the name]
Finduilas: Just a moment ago, yes. Why?
Celebrimbor: I have a question for him – about my theory. I need to know how the method of memory reproduction functions in mortals. Where is he now?
Finduilas: [still pensive:] Um, he went to speak with the Horse Master.
Celebrimbor: Ah, thank you so much! If you will excuse me.
[He speeds out. Finduilas stands there for a moment, still looking thoughtful, then sets down the horse’s brush, mounts the horse, rides out alone, looking thoughtful. Scene fades.]
SCENE XXIII
[Scene: the Halls of Menegroth in Doriath. Mablung is standing before Thingol and Melian, seemingly in the middle of a conversation.]
Mablung: No, lord.
Thingol: Then why have all the troops withdrawn?
Mablung: [shrugs] There is no longer any need. All the orcs are driven back from the confines of the Guarded Plain, all the way from Narog to Sirion in the East to the Nenning River in the West, and the Falas by the Sea. They will not even come near the borders of Doriath.
Thingol: [frowns] Why is that? A stemming of the tide of our foes?
Mablung: It is the Black Sword, as I hear, that dwells in Nargothrond. All enemies flee before his face.
Thingol: [interested:] The Black Sword? Do you – do you think it may be Beleg? But why should he be in Nargothrond? Who is the Black Sword?
Mablung: None knows, lord. His identity has not been revealed. But … if it is Master Beleg … why has he not returned here?
Thingol: Perhaps Túrin is there with him.
Mablung: I do not know, lord. I do not know why he has not returned. He has been gone for … years.
Thingol: [sighs] I hope he has found Túrin, wherever he went.
[Scene change: Dor-lómin, an old-broken down house that once used to belong to Húrin, the Lord of Dor-lómin. The house is now desolate of any riches or light, and all around it are shacks and houses set up of the Easterlings, who rove about freely nearly. Morwen sits there, in her old chair. She looks at beautiful as she ever did, but sorrow and poverty have become graven on her face, and she is older now: perhaps forty. A young woman sits beside her, of about twenty-one years, very beautiful, and with long golden hair like her father, and like her sister, Lalaith. They both are speaking together quietly when there is a knock at the door. Morwen stands up sharply and stands behind the door before she answers it.]
Morwen: Who is it?
[A soft voice comes from outside:]
It is Aerin.
[Morwen quickly opens the door, and a woman in her mid-forties enters, with golden hair flecked with strands of white. Shutting the door Morwen brings her inside.]
Morwen: Aerin, you should not be here. What if Brodda discovers it?
Aerin: He shall not. Morwen, I come to warn you, and to give you good tidings.
[The golden-haired young lady comes to the main room and speaks.]
Nienor: Aunt Aerin.
Aerin: Nienor, this concerns you as well. I must speak quickly.
[They sit down.]
I heard in the hall, from Brodda and another, that Lorgan – another chief of the Easterlings, has – seen the beauty of Nienor wishes to have her for his wife.
[Nienor looks dismayed. Morwen looks terrified.]
Morwen: No! None shall have her!
Aerin: [shaking her head] He will take her by force if he can. But, hear me. I bring good news: you have heard news of the Black Sword of Nargothrond.
Morwen: Some.
Aerin: The prowess of the Black Sword has made all the lands clear North of Sirion.
Nienor: You mean …?
Aerin: It is a time for you to escape. The foes of Morgoth are driven back, and no longer surround this land. So you may pass through, and come at last – to Doriath, to see Túrin again.
[Morwen sits there for a moment looking stunned; but her daughter turns to her with delight:]
Nienor: Oh, mother! Now I shall get to meet my brother at last!
[Morwen then turns to her, and holds her in a tight embrace, tears springing to her eyes.]
Morwen: Yes, we will go. Thank you, Aerin. We will leave as soon as we can.
Aerin: Leave tonight.
Nienor: Yes. Thank you! Now go, Aunt Aerin, before Brodda finds you.
[Aerin nods, gets up and goes to the door.]
Aerin: [softly:] Farewell, Morwen.
[Then the door clicks shut behind her.]
[Scene change: The library of Nargothrond. Gwindor and Finduilas are sitting together on a bench in the midst of the books. Gwindor is sitting as if in a sort of pleasant dream, listening to Finduilas reading from a book in her hand.]
Finduilas: [reading:] Farewell now here, ye leaves of trees, your music in the morning breeze! Farewell now blade and bloom and grass that see the changing seasons pass; ye waters murmuring over stone, and meres that silent stand alone! Farewell now mountain, vale, and plain! Farewell now wind, and frost, and rain, and mist and cloud, and heaven’s air; ye star and moon so blinding fair that still shall look down from the sky on the wide earth, though Beren die – though Beren die not, and yet deep, deep, whence comes of those that weep no dreadful echo, lie and choke in everlasting dark and smoke.
[But as she is in the middle of reading the door opens and she sees Túrin walking in, dressed in his black battle garb. Without seeming to notice anyone he goes over, and begins looking in books, and sits down at a table across the library from them. Finduilas watches him, and thus her reading becomes slower, and distracted, as she goes on. At last, Gwindor looks up to see what is impeding her reading, and notices that she is looking at Túrin. He looks at Túrin, and the back at Finduilas, with a look on his face that is first thoughtful, then sad.]
Gwindor: [softly:] Faelivrin, are you all right?
Finduilas: [looks at him] Oh, oh yes, I am sorry. I was thinking and got distracted. Where were we? Ah, here:
Farewell sweet earth and northern sky,
[She reads very slowly, and becomes more and more thoughtful and appears more troubled the more she reads. But now Gwindor does not lean back, but watches her carefully, out of her sight. When she comes to the last line, her equilibrium appears disturbed. She lays the book aside.]
Finduilas: That is enough of that. Shall we do something else now instead, Gwindor? How about visit Celebrimbor in his class? Or what would you like to do?
[She stands up and offers him her hand.]
Gwindor: [quiet:] No, that is well, Faelivrin.
[He takes her hand and they walk out together, she trying very hard not to glance back at Túrin as they exit. As they leave, the Lady from earlier in Act IV, her friend the Scribe, are standing at the other end of the library, watching them, and whispering covertly together.]
Lady: You know, that is such an interesting situation.
Scribe: What is?
Lady: Between the Lord Gwindor and Lady Finduilas.
Scribe: Oh, in truth? I know they are betrothed, and that Gwindor was gone for quite some time.
[The Lady nods, with the look of one who has superior knowledge.]
Lady: Yes, but, you know, they were going to be married ere he went to the war?
[the Scribe nods]
Well, and the Lady Finduilas spoke of still having the wedding plans made ready. But … the Lord Gwindor has been back for over three years, and I have not seen any wedding preparations being made.
Scribe: Now that you mention that, I have not either. And – the Lady Finduilas seems to look sad, and wan of late. And the Lord Gwindor …
Lady: [nods] Yes. He was coming out of his darkness, but he seems to have slipped back into it again.
Scribe: I wonder why.
Lady: I can tell you what I think.
[she nods over to Túrin where he sits at a table nearby]
Scribe: The Mormegil? What has he to do with it?
Lady: [shrugs] I know not. But let me ask you this: how could any maiden not fall in love with him?
[The Scribe looks pensive, and does not answer. Scene fades black.]
[Scene change: the great hall in Menegroth. Mablung comes in, leading two wayworn travelers in behind him. They both have mud-stained cloaks on, and look tired as they stand by him before Thingol and Melian.]
Mablung: Sire, Morwen and her daughter Nienor have come at last to Doriath. I found them wandering in the Maze and led them hither.
[Melian looks delighted at seeing them. Thingol smiles.]
Thingol: Well done, Mablung. Welcome, Morwen.
Morwen: Thank you, lord.
Melian: And welcome, Nienor.
Nienor: Thank you, lady.
Thingol: You are welcome here, and shall be honoured here as guests of the King. We shall have rooms prepared for you, and new raiment.
Morwen: Thank you, lord; we are blessed, for the way hither was made free by the Black Sword of Nargothrond.
Thingol: I have heard of him.
Morwen: But, lord, the most pressing desire on my heart right now is to see Túrin, my son. Would you summon him to us?
[pause; Thingol stops. He looks over at Melian and something seems to pass between them in that sad glance. At last, Melian speaks:]
Melian: [gentle:] I am sorry, Morwen. Túrin departed from this land, and though we have searched long and for several years, we have not found him. And Beleg, our march warden, left to see him, and has not returned.
[pause; Morwen’s eyes lose all light and fire, and her face turns pale like death]
Thingol: [soft:] I am sorry.
[Morwen turns and goes from the Hall, as if in a trance, Nienor following her worriedly. Mablung stays by the thrones at a sign from the King and watches them anxiously. Morwen makes it all the way out of the Hall before she stops and bursts into tears, leaning against a pillar, and burying her face in her hands. Nienor comes up to her, distressed.] Nienor: Mother, do not weep! Perhaps he shall return…
Morwen: [through her tears:] Where has he gone? O, Túrin! O my son!
Nienor: Do not grieve. My heart feels that we shall see him again. And they say they had sent their marchwarden to find him. He might bring him back.
[But Morwen dries her tears and stands up straight and proud.]
Morwen: I shall weep no more. I shall bear it all – in silence.
[Scene fades.]
SCENE XXIV [Scene: Húrin’s house in Dor-lómin, as it was in Scene I. Húrin sits by the Laughing Stream, Nen-Lalaith, near their house, with his daughter Lalaith splashing in the water, and a young Túrin, of six or seven years, sitting with them. Húrin has a thing long piece of wood in his hand, and a string, and seems to be showing Túrin how to do something. Morwen is sitting in rather distant propinquity in a chair with a book in her hand, watching them and smiling.] Húrin: See, Túrin, then you tie the string at the end of the stick here. [Túrin follows his lead.] Then, with the hook at the end, you can fish properly! [Túrin smiles and they put their fishing poles in.] Túrin: Will the fish bite soon, Father? Húrin: Well, you shall have to wait and see. Patience – always be patient, and wait, Túrin! and the time will come to achieve what you desire – whatever it may be. [Lalaith bursts into a fit of laughter and comes over to Húrin with her hand held out to him.] Lalaith: Look what I found, Father! Húrin: [looking in her hand] Oh, some lovely stones! Lalaith: They are for Mother! [She runs over to Morwen, who receives her with a smile and picks her up, setting her on her lap.] These are for you, Mother! Lovely stones! Morwen: [laughs] Thank you, Lalaith! I shall keep them forever! [Suddenly, this vision fades to a feminine voice speaking softly nearby:] Adanedhel! Adanedhel! [And Túrin looks up, broken from his reverie. He is sitting on a stone bench in one of the gardens of Nargothrond. There are pillars nearby, twined with ivy, and flowers growing up them, with butterflies and birds whizzing around: all very colourful and bright. Túrin looks up, still rather in a mental fog and daze, at the face of Finduilas, who is trying to act like she is surprised to see him there. Note: During this scene Finduilas' Theme is playing ("Rise Up, My Love," by Bill Douglas).] Finduilas: I did not expect to find you here. [Túrin does not answer, being still rather bemused. She notices this.] Are you all right, Adanedhel? Túrin: [making an effort:] Yes, I am well, thank you. Just thinking. Please, sit down, my lady. [He motions politely to the space on the bench next to him. She does so.] Finduilas: [curious:] What were you thinking about? [Túrin shrugs] I am curious because you seem so often to be deep in thought, and I wonder … what it is … you are thinking about. [she ends rather wistfully] Túrin: [suddenly:] I was thinking – of my sister, Lalaith. You remind me of her, in many ways. Finduilas: [fascinated:] Your sister? I did not know you had any family. Túrin: [nods] She – had golden hair, and a bright face – and a merry laugh. And for that reason we all called her – Lalaith. [the name he utters almost as if it is some holy thing that is seldom named] She – she and I would play together; although mostly I watched over her from afar, to protect her. She was too – bright and joyful for such a somber child as I was. Finduilas: What was the cause of your sorrow? Túrin: I was not sad, but quiet, as my – as my mother was. And thoughtful. I understood her better than I did my father, whose speech seemed to me flighty, and too quick for comprehension; but I loved them both – very much. [he turns away; in a wrenching aside:] Too much. Finduilas: Is your sister younger than you? Túrin: She was younger, yes. We had many joyful hours together in my father’s house, when I was a child. [he sighs] Finduilas: [quiet interest:] And how was it there, in that land? Túrin: Oh, it was beautiful. We lived in the shadow of the Sh – of the mountains; and it was a fair land: the grass was rich and green – though it was rather cold there in the winter. My father’s house was made of wood, and we had a strong fireplace, so we stayed warm during the cold seasons. And our house was in the midst of a green glade, with many trees about. I loved the trees. [He falls silent, thoughtful.] Finduilas: Yes, I love trees; and I miss them here, underground in these caves. That is why I love the gardens so. Túrin: [nods] Yes. It reminds me somewhat of – my home. [He smiles suddenly, and turns to her.] There was a stream that ran by my house; and it was a happy stream, I think, for it laughed. It was called Nen-Lalaith. Finduilas: Even as your sister was named? Túrin: Yes. The people all called her Lalaith, because she was such a joyful spirit. [a bit wistfully:] All people there loved her, and she brought happiness to many sorrowful lives. I was loved less. I was more thought and silent, and laughed little: not from lack of joy, but from a hiding of emotion. Finduilas: Why did you hide them so? Túrin: [shrugs] It has always been so. My mother was such, and I am very like her, in many ways. My father was a more joyful spirit, like Lalaith. He laughed much, and grieved, sorrowed, and rejoiced without shame. Finduilas: [slightly troubled:] But, I do not see why any one should love you less, because you are thoughtful, or silent. I, for one, do not, nor do any here in Nargothrond. Túrin: [unconcerned:] It did not bother me. It is the way it has always been for me. I find friends seldom, and when I do – [He stops and turns away, closing his eyes, with tear drops glistening on them. Finduilas notices his distress, though not his tears, which he hides.] Finduilas: [cheerfully:] And yet Lalaith was your friend; and still is, I daresay. And I am, and – [Túrin turns back to her.] – Gwindor. Túrin: Alas, Lalaith died, when she was only a young girl – not even four years old, when a black plague came from the North. [she looks shocked and surprised at this revelation] Finduilas: A plague? Do Men indeed suffer from such maladies, even at so young an age? Túrin: Even so; though the Eldar do not. I recovered from the Black Breath, though she did not. It was my fate, maybe, to live on. [sighs] But Lalaith was a child, a yellow flower in the green grass of spring; and had she lived she would now, maybe, have become dimmed with grief. That is why I speak of her to you, for you remind me of her. But you are queenly, and as a golden tree; I would I had a sister so fair. Finduilas: [earnest:] But you are kingly, even as the lords of the people of Fingolfin; I would I had a brother so fair. [pause; he does not answer. Then she says suddenly:] And I do not think that Agarwaen is your true name, nor is it fit for you, Adanedhel. I call you Thurin, the Secret. [he starts at this last name] Túrin: [hastily:] That is not my name; and I am not a king, for our kings are of the Eldar, as I am not. [long pause; Finduilas sighs sadly] Finduilas: Were there many of the Eldar where you lived in your boyhood? Túrin: [nods] Yes, there were many to the North of my father’s house, but I saw them seldom. Yes, I only ever saw the Elven host once: they came by our house, and my father rode away with them. They were glittering all in silver and white. Finduilas: [smiles] You never spoke with them? Túrin: No. I never spoke with the Elves until – I was older. [His eyebrows furrow as he sees in his mind the form of Beleg coming out of the trees in the forest of Doriath, looking at him and the two servants curiously.] Túrin: Are you an Elf? Beleg: [laughs] Indeed, I am. [He comes out of his reverie when Finduilas speaks again:] Finduilas: Then you learned of them from your mother and father? Túrin: Yes; and from Labadal – he was an old servant of our household. Finduilas: [nods] Yes, you have mentioned him before. Túrin: He was lamed from an accident with an axe, cutting wood. Finduilas: [shudders; carefully:] Is it – is it easier – for Men to – have accidents, like that? Túrin: [not offended:] More than for the Elves, yes. Sador, or Labadal, as I called him, told me many tales of the great battles when he was boy. Finduilas: [interested:] Which battles? Túrin: The Dagor Bragollach, mostly. Labadal told me, “That was a great battle, they say. I was called from my tasks in the wood in the need of the year; but I was not in the Bragollach, or I might have gotten my hurt with more honour. For we came too late, save to bear back the bier of our lord, who fell in the guard of King – of the Elf-King. I went for a soldier after that, and I was in the great fort of the Elf-Kings for many years; or so it seems now, and the dull years since have little to mark them.” Finduilas: Are the days of Men in Middle-earth so dreary? Túrin: Our life is filled with sorrow, and so it is all our days. As Sador said, “Alas! my love of battle was sated, for I had seen spilled blood and wounds enough; and I got leave to come back to the woods that I yearned for. And there I got my hurt; for a man that flies from his fear may find that he has only taken a short cut to meet it.” [it is several minutes before Finduilas answers; then she turns to him] Finduilas: [earnestly:] You speak of ill chances, and that is what I fear for you, Adanedhel. I fear when the armies go out to battle, that they, and you, shall not return. [Túrin looks thoughtful, and his brows furrows] Túrin: I have noticed that you seem more sorrowful; and that your footsteps grow slower. I perceive now that the words of Gwindor have set fear in your heart of what might come to pass. Do not let his words affright you. He has suffered in the darkness of Angband; and it is hard for one so valiant to be thus crippled and backward perforce. He needs all solace, and a longer time for healing. Finduilas: [turns away; sadly:] I know it well. Túrin: But we shall win time for him! Nargothrond shall stand! Never again will Morgoth the Craven come forth from Angband, and all his reliance must be on his servants; thus says Melian of Doriath. They are the fingers of his hands; and we will smite them, and cut them off, till he draws back his claws. Nargothrond shall stand! Finduilas: Perhaps. It shall stand, if you can achieve it. But have a care, Adanedhel; my heart is heavy when you go to battle, lest Nargothrond be bereaved. Túrin: Never have I been reckless. But do not fear. We will hold back the forces of Morgoth, and give Gwindor time to recover; for I love him as well. [she turns away] Finduilas: [in agreement; sadly:] Yes.
SCENE XXV [Scene: Orodreth sitting in his chambers behind his desk and ever-overflowing papers. Finduilas sits in her chamber next to it, with the door open, playing her harp. It is beautiful music, but Orodreth, looking at something with eyebrows lowered in confusion, interrupts her.] Orodreth: Finduilas, has Adanedhel spoken to you about the bridge, or anything concerning the armies of the North? [the music stops. Finduilas’ voices comes from the other room:] Finduilas: [calm:] No, Father. He never speaks to me of battle or any such thing. Orodreth: I was not sure. You speak with him much more now than you did. I am glad you have overcome your grievance against him. [pause; no answer] Well I do need his advice on this. It is an important matter. Finduilas: [voice coming suddenly from the other room] Do you ask his advice on all matters? Orodreth: [one eyebrow raised] Yes. Why should I not? He is my best counselor. Finduilas: Oh, no reason. I just wondered. Orodreth: He has so much more experience and skill, it seems, than my other counselors. I do not know who he is or where he has come from, or where he has learned so much. Finduilas: [weakly:] Even more than Gwindor? [At this, Orodreth face softens, and he gets up and goes to the open door, and sees Finduilas sitting by the harp, her arms hanging by her sides, her face wan.] Orodreth: [softly:] My dear … I understand your sorrow. Gwindor is – he was a valiant defence to Morgoth, before the War; but, not due to any fault or shame of his own, he can no longer be in that way – as once he was. [Finduilas nods, looking away, and says nothing.] Now his … his strength is small, and he is no longer forward in arms. He – none in the Council agrees with him any longer. Finduilas: [with tears in her eyes, looking away] He has fallen into dishonour. Orodreth: [comes over to her] No, Finduilas, he is still – Finduilas: [continuing:] And it is all my fault! Oh, why could I not be content! [She bursts into tears. Orodreth looks surprised by this sudden reaction.] Orodreth: [trying to make her see reason:] No, of course it is not your fault in the least that Gwindor is falling back into his darkness and sadness. It is the effects of – his captivity. Finduilas: [through tears] But – it has been over four years since he returned! Orodreth: I think it is because he is over opposed to Adanedhel in the council, and it disheartens him. [Finduilas shakes her head, but does not answer. Seeming to decide something:] I know how to cheer you! I need to speak to Adanedhel; would you mind finding him for me and bringing him here? [she suddenly stops all movement; pause] Finduilas: No, Father. Please, you go find him. [Orodreth shrugs and sighs, as if he doesn’t know what else to do.] Orodreth: Very well. [He sighs again, then turns away from her, still sitting at her harp, and leaves her, shutting the door softly behind him. She sits there for a moment, drying her tears, then begins to pluck erratically at the strings of her harp. After a moment, a tune begins to form, and she sings, making it up as she goes along. You can find the words of the song, by Thorsten Renk, here. If you would like to hear me singing it with harp, please email me. After the first two stanzas, there is a soft knock on the outer door, but Finduilas doesn’t hear it, and the door opens softly, revealing Celebrimbor. He stops, hearing the music, and listens, until the end of the song. As she begins to sing the last stanza again, he goes out again, shutting the door behind him. Then he knocks again, much louder this time. The music stops abruptly, and Finduilas lays aside her harp with a flush on her face.] Finduilas: Who is it? Come in. [Celebrimbor opens the door and reveals himself. She looks slightly relieved to see that it is he.] Celebrimbor: Ah – hello, cousin. I had a question for your father. Finduilas: Oh, he is not here now. I am sorry. Celebrimbor: That is well. I will wait for him. Is that all right? Finduilas: Oh yes, that is fine. [Celebrimbor sits down by her on an embroidered chair.] How was your class on mineralology today? Celebrimbor: [frowns] Well, although my students seem to be learning much, it takes so much of my time away from my own studies… Finduilas: You should have fewer students, and spend more time on your theories. Celebrimbor: [sighs] Perhaps; but I also need to learn from others, which is such an important factor. Finduilas: [nods] Yes. I think you are right: I have learned so much – so much about … [she stops] Celebrimbor: [nods] Yes, I have learned a lot from Adanedhel as well. [at her surprise:] That is who you were speaking of, is it not? Finduilas: [confused:] It was – maybe – I thought – how did you – ? [shaking her head] I do not know. Perhaps. Celebrimbor: [softly:] Finduilas, I think you and I might learn from each other. Finduilas: [eyebrows lowered in thought / confusion] What do you mean? Celebrimbor: [gentle:] You know that … I long held … a regard for your kinswoman, although she … did not return that sentiment, and chose instead the Tree Lord. [Finduilas is silent, but he perceives that her lip trembles, and she does not look at him.] Finduilas: I do love Gwindor. Very much. Celebrimbor: [softly:] I know; and he loves you more than he could say. [tears spring to her eyes and she turns her face away from him, so he cannot see it] Finduilas: [with a slight sob sticking in her throat:] I know. [Celebrimbor lays his hand softly on her shoulder] Celebrimbor: [consoling:] But I was not speaking of Gwindor, as I think you know. [pause] I know – you feel he can understand you, and you understand him; you are drawn to him somehow, perhaps because of his silence, and your nurturing nature. [her pale cheeks flush slightly, but she does not look at him or answer] You feel you have an affinity with him, and you admire him – for many reasons. [Finduilas leans down and puts her face in her hands, her shoulders hunched wearily] Finduilas: [brokenly:] He can understand me. He – he is the only one I could, can talk to about Gwindor; no one else truly comprehends how he has changed. They all still recall how he was – but Adanedhel has only known him as he is … He – he knows. Celebrimbor: I see you hold a regard for him, as do many in this city; and rightly so, for he is noble, valiant, high-hearted, and … well, has the skill of leadership. That was born in him, as I see. Finduilas: [nearly a whisper:] I know. [then, turning to him, earnestly:] You see into my heart, cousin; you know my thoughts. Tell me now how faithless and cruel I have been! Celebrimbor: [looking at her gravely:] I can place no such judgment on you. What does your heart say to you? [she looks down at her hands, thinking, for several moments, then her gaze goes back to him again] Finduilas: I know it is wrong of me, and I am miserable, for I cannot help it! [she looks into his eyes; earnestly:] I love him, Celebrimbor! I love him more and more as each day passes and I cannot help him. I have tried to squash it; I have tried to crush those feelings since they first began. I determined not to see him. But then … I would come across him someplace, and I could not forbear to stop and speak with him, seeing the sorrow in his face, or the shadow of some memory from long ago. I long to know what he is thinking, what goes on within his mind. What could such a skilled and intelligent mind dwell on for so long? Celebrimbor: There is some shadow in his past of sorrow. Finduilas: Yes, and he told me, just a few days past, for the first time, somewhat his childhood and this father’s house in his growing years. And I – I do not even know his name! Celebrimbor: It seems he enjoys your company as well: he will seek you out at time, and speak with you. Perhaps you comfort him. [she turns away, shutting her eyes from the eats that come to them] Finduilas: I would it were not so! I would that I had never seen him. Then I should be content. I shall never be content now. And I have deeply hurt one that I love. Celebrimbor: Does Gwindor know of this? Finduilas: That is my misery, that I should betray him! He is so sad and silent now, and I think he – has seen something, that others have not. He has lost the joy that he once had again gained here. Celebrimbor: His eyes are sharp, and full of wisdom. He knows possibly more than you think. Finduilas: [anguished:] But why do I tremble when he enters a room, and my heart flutter when he speaks to me softly in his deep, flowing voice? And why does my heart melt when he smiles – one of his rare, beautiful smiles? Why is his face so fair? [she stops and puts her head in her hands. After a moment she looks up at him again] Against my will, I keep thinking of Beren, and Lúthien. But he is not like Beren! He does not scorn me, and is glad in my company. Celebrimbor: [hesitant:] And – does he love you, as well? Finduilas: [looks away] Not, I do not think – he has not love of the kind that I wish. [she sighs; sadly:] His mind and heart are elsewhere, by rivers in springs long past. [there is a long pause; Celebrimbor looks grave and pensive] Celebrimbor: That I see. But, my dear cousin, I fell that you must speak to Gwindor concerning this, hard as it may seem. You cannot hide this form him. Finduilas: [anguished:] Shall I pain him more? Celebrimbor: [regretfully:] He sees much already, and your honesty would aid him more than silence. [pause] Finduilas: I can think of no such thing now – perhaps later I may. I – I will try, Celebrimbor. [He smiles at her sadly. Just then the door to the apartments opens, and Orodreth comes in, with Túrin behind him. The King sees them sitting there.] Orodreth: Ah, greetings, Celebrimbor. Were you waiting for me? Celebrimbor: I was. I have a question to ask you, if you have a moment. Orodreth: Yes, just bring it over here. [He goes over by his desk. Celebrimbor stands up, laying his hand in one more consoling gesture on Finduilas’ shoulder, gets up and goes over with him. As soon as Túrin entered the room, and Finduilas saw him, a red blush flushed her cheek. She gets up after Celebrimbor leaves her, and Túrin seems to notice her. He turns to look at her.] Túrin: My lady. [her face turns pale, and she tries to walk around him to exit] Finduilas: Adanedhel – excuse me, please – I must leave. [she skirts past him, and goes out the door in an agitated flurry, shutting it behind her, and leaving Túrin looking slightly confused. After a moment he goes over to where Celebrimbor and Orodreth are talking.] Celebrimbor: So then I do not need to take charge of the problem on the South bank. Orodreth: [shaking his head] No. I will have – Adanedhel take care of that. Celebrimbor: [looking relieved] Oh good. Thank you, Orodreth. My eternal thanks to you. Orodreth: [with one eyebrow raised] Flattery will do you no good, Master Smith. Celebrimbor: [with a hopeful smile] No, but it could make you not assign me to the Balar project. [Orodreth smiles at this] Orodreth: Perhaps. Celebrimbor: Well, I had best go: theories to work on, you know. Túrin: [interrupts him before he can leave:] Celebrimbor, do you know by chance why Lady Finduilas seemed so agitated? She looked troubled. Orodreth: I have noticed it as well, but I am not sure why. Túrin: I have tried to assure her of the safety of Nargothrond, that she does not worry. [Celebrimbor looks thoughtful for a moment.] Celebrimbor: Well, I had best go. I shall see you soon. Orodreth: Farewell, Celebrimbor. [Túrin nods to him. Celebrimbor leaves the room, looking troubled at his thoughts and shuts the door behind him. Scene fades.]
SCENE XXVI [Scene: The Chamber of Council, the same room as in Scene XXI. The same lords and ladies from that scene are coming in, speaking together and taking their seats. Gwindor is already sitting there, alone and silent. Celebrimbor sits by him, and is about to attempt polite conversation, when Túrin comes in and sits next to Gwindor.] Túrin: Greetings, Gwindor. How are you? I did not see you this morning and thought something might be amiss. Gwindor: [looking away] No, I left the apartments early, to – take a walk alone. Túrin: [kindly:] I hope you will not neglect to ask me next time. I enjoy our walks and our speech together. Gwindor: [shrugs] You have many things to do, and thus are very busy. [Túrin looks concerned and is about to speak when Orodreth bustles in with the Steward behind him, and sits down at his chair with a sigh. The Steward also takes his place.] Orodreth: [hurried:] Well, so here we are again, yes, all here? Very well then, let us begin – Head of Intelligence: [interrupting him:] Excuse me, lord, I have a question, ere we begin. [Orodreth looks up at her with one eyebrow raised] Orodreth: Yes? What is it? Intelligence: I have been speaking with the boat master, and he mentioned to me that there seems to be a rise in the cost of the resin of the oak trees that we have been purchasing from the mouths of Sirion. [pause; Orodreth blinks] Orodreth: [expectant:] Yes? And? Intelligence: [slightly discomfited:] Well, my lord, I wondered if we should continue purchasing them for such exorbitant amounts of gold – I do not know if Nargothrond can afford such expenses. Orodreth: [eyebrow raised] Tell me, can we do without the oak resin? Intelligence: Well … no, lord. Not really. Orodreth: Then by all means keep purchasing it. Túrin: Excuse me, lord, but if I recall rightly, the resin of oak trees can easily be replaced by birch, which has similar properties and can accomplish the same purposes. As I recall, one can obtain that from many closer sources, perhaps for less cost. Celebrimbor: He is correct, Orodreth. I had not thought of that. Orodreth: [delighted] That is wonderful news to hear! Thank you, Adanedhel! [to the Scribe:] Make a note of that. Have a message sent out to ask about the birch resin. [the Scribe begins writing furiously] Now that that is settled, we may move on. [he sighs with relief] Adanedhel, would you now give us your report on the movement of the troops? Túrin: [nods] Yes, my lord. Two things I have observed: the Orcs have withdrawn from this land, and the Enemy will not dare to venture near. But I think that is but a feint of Morgoth, and that he will come back in greater force than before. Orodreth: [brow furrowed] What do you suggest that we do? Túrin: I think, lord, that we should gather all our force, and drive them out of this land, so they will not dare to return. Orodreth: [looking at the others] How shall we go about this? When should we be ready? [There is a pause, then Gwindor speaks:] Gwindor: [rather tentatively:] My lord, I am, once again, concerned about this aggressive way of action. I advise caution, in all cases. Túrin: And if we do not fight them, what shall we do? Gwindor: [shakes his head] Petty victories will prove profitless at the last, for thus Morgoth learns where the boldest of his enemies are to be found, and gathers strength enough to destroy them. I have been in Angband, and know somewhat of the strength of Morgoth. All the might of the Elves and Men united sufficed only to contain him, and gain the peace of a siege; long indeed, but only so long as Morgoth bided his time before he broke the leaguer; and never again can such a union be made. In secrecy only now lies any hope … until the Valar come. Túrin: The Valar! They have forsaken you, and they hold Men in scorn. [he turns to the others:] What use to look westward across the endless Sea? There is but one Vala with whom we have to do, and that is Morgoth; and if in the end we cannot overcome him, at the least we can hurt him and hinder him. For victory is victory, however small, nor is its worth only in what follows from it. But it is expedient also; for if you do nothing to halt him, all Beleriand will fall beneath his shadow before many years are passed, and then one by one he will smoke you out of your earths. And what then? A pitiable remnant will fly south and west, to cower on the shores of the Sea, caught between Morgoth and Ossë. Better then to win a time of glory, though it be shortlived; for the end will be no worse. You speak of secrecy, and say that therein lies the only hope; but could you ambush and waylay every scout and spy of Morgoth to the least and last, so that none come ever back with tidings to Angband, yet from that he would learn that you lived and guess where. And this also I say: though mortal Men have little life beside the span of the Elves, they would rather spend it in battle than fly or submit. The defiance of Húrin the Steadfast is a great deed; and though Morgoth slay the doer he cannot make the deed not to have been. Even the Lords of the West will honour it; and is it not written into the history of Arda, which neither Morgoth nor Manwë can unwrite? Gwindor: You speak of high things, and plain it is that you have lived among the Elves. But a darkness is on you if you set Morgoth and Manwë together, or speak of the Valar as the foes of Elves or Men; for the Valar scorn nothing, and least of all the Children of the One. Nor do you know all the hopes of the Elves. It is a prophecy among us that one day a messenger from Middle-earth will come through the shadows to the Blessed Realm, and Manwë will hear it, and Mandos relent. For that time shall we not attempt to preserve the seed of the Elves, and of Men also? And Círdan dwells now in the South, and there is building of ships; but what know you of ships, or of the Sea? You think of yourself and of your own glory, and bid us each do likewise; but we must think of others beside ourselves, for not all can fight and fall, and those we must keep from war and ruin while we can. Túrin: Then send them to your ships, while there is yet time. Gwindor: They will not be parted from us, even could Círdan sustain them. We must abide together as long as we may, and not court death. Túrin: All this I have answered. Valiant defense of the borders and hard blows ere the enemy gathers; in that course lies the best hope of you long abiding together. And do those that you speak of love such skulkers in the woods, hunting always like a wolf, better than one who puts on his helm and figured shield, and drives away the foe, be they far greater than all his host? At least the women of the race of Men do not. They did not hold back the men from the Unnumbered Tears. [An image runs through his mind of Morwen, bidding Húrin farewell as he stood in front of his men in the sunlight.] Gwindor: But they suffered greater woe than if that field had never been fought. Túrin: [softly:] Indeed. [He sees in his mind Morwen in the broken-down house in Dor-lómin, holding a golden-haired baby in her arms.] [pause] Orodreth: Very well. Since there seems to be a difference in opinion, let me see what you think of it. Raise your right hand if you support Adanedhel’s plan. [Everyone, except Gwindor, raises his right hand. Guilin looks at his son sorrowfully but does not lower his hand.] Intelligence: [in an undertone; to the Scribe:] It is not as if the Lord Gwindor’s vote means anything, after all. [the Scribe nods] Orodreth: Very well. We will adopt that plan. Captain, I will depend on you to work with Adanedhel on this, and you, Arcalimë – [to the Head of Intelligence] Intelligence and Captain: Yes, lord. Orodreth: [sighs] Forgive this cursory meeting, but I have much work to do. I hope to hear more news soon. [He gets up and leaves quickly, the Steward scurrying after him. The rest of them begin to get up, and start speaking together. Gwindor looks weary and sad, and gets up quickly to leave by himself, but Túrin stops him.] Túrin: Gwindor, will you not have dinner this evening with me? I have greatly missed your company. Gwindor: [slightly chill:] No, thank you. Túrin: Oh, well would another time be better for you? Or we could go to the library now together. That is where I am going. Gwindor: No, not another time. Excuse me. [He then hastens out of the room, leaving Túrin looking confused and concerned. He is about to follow him when Celebrimbor, who has watched this exchange in silence, arrests his attention.] Celebrimbor: [touching his arm] Mormegil – [Túrin turns to him] I too have noticed that Gwindor seems troubled of late. Túrin: Do you know why? I do not know. At first the woes and horrors of Angband had begun to be lifted from him, now he seems to slip back into care and sorrow. [troubled:] It may be that he is grieved that I oppose his counsels, and have overcome him. I would it were not so. For I love Gwindor as my guide and healer, and – am filled with pity for him. Celebrimbor: [quietly:] Perhaps you should ask him. Túrin: [nods] Yes, I will. Thank you, Celebrimbor. [he goes out of the hall and down the passage quickly, until he overtakes Gwindor, limping down the hall alone] Túrin: Gwindor! Gwindor! [Gwindor stops and turns as Túrin comes along stride with him. Túrin clasps his gnarled hand in his own; kindly and softly:] Gwindor, dear friend, you are falling back into sadness; do not so! For your healing will come in the houses of your kin, and in the light of Finduilas. [Gwindor just stares at Túrin, saying nothing, and his face becomes clouded] Túrin: [confused and concerned:] Why do you look upon me so? Often your eyes have gazed strangely at me of late. How have I grieved you? I have opposed your counsels; but a man must speak as he sees, nor hide the truth that he believes, for any private cause. I would that we were one in mind; for to you I owe a great debt, and shall not forget it. [Gwindor still stares at him, and pulls his hand out of Túrin’s grasp] Gwindor: [chill:] Will you not? Nonetheless your deeds and your counsels have changed my home and my kin. Your shadow lies upon them. Why should I be glad, who have lost all to you? [He turns and limps away quickly down the hall, away from Túrin. Túrin is about to follow him, but stops, looking confused and upset.] Túrin: [speaking aloud to himself, pensive:] I do not understand him. I can only guess that he begrudges me my place in the heart and counsels of the King… [As he walks away slowly, looking thoughtful and troubled, the scene fades black.]
SCENE XXVII [Scene: Gwindor walks through the doors of the Hall of Hours with his unsteady gait, and seems to be looking for someone. When he sees Finduilas at the other end of the hall, he goes slowly towards her. She is sitting on a bench of marble beside a bright fountain, reading a blue book with silver binding, and silver letter in the Elvish runes on the front. She sees him as he comes closer to her.] Finduilas: Gwindor! How are you this day? Gwindor: [sadly, almost wistfully:] Finduilas… Finduilas: Here, come sit beside me. [She takes his arm and leads him to sit beside her. There is silence between them for several moments, and they do not look at each other. Both of them look miserable, but Finduilas is concealing it better than Gwindor.] You … you do not look well, dear. [pause] Gwindor: No. Nor do you. [Finduilas gnaws her bottom lip miserably and tries to take his arm. He pulls it away from her.] Finduilas: [upset:] Gwindor, why do you withdraw your arm from me? Gwindor: Why indeed? [long pause] You know, Finduilas, and yet you will not speak of it. Must I, then? [Finduilas’ face turns white. There is a pause] Finduilas: [desperately:] Finduilas! Why do you call me Finduilas? Why do you no longer call me Faelivrin, Gwindor? Why? [At last he turns to her and looks into her eyes, with such a deep sadness that she looks away.] Why? Gwindor: [softly:] Finduilas, I know the secret of your heart; you need not fear revealing it to me. [Finduilas turns back and looks at him.] Finduilas: [anguished:] Gwindor – [He puts up his hand] Gwindor: Let me finish – please? [there is such gentleness in his voice that she acquiesces instantly, nodding] I wish for no grief to lie between us; for though Morgoth has laid my life in ruin, you still I love. [she shudders, as if a sob is rising in her, and turns her face away from him. He continues softly:] Go whither love leads you; but beware! It is not fitting that the Eldar Children of the One should wed with the Younger – [she shakes her head] – nor is it wise, for they are brief, and soon pass, to leave us in widowhood while the world lasts. Neither will fate suffer it, unless once or twice only, for some high cause of doom that we do not perceive. But this Man is not Beren. [her shoulders shudder again, and she puts her face in her hands] A doom indeed lies on him, as seeing eyes may read in him, but a dark doom. Enter not into it! And if you will, your love shall betray you to bitterness and death. For hearken to me! Though he be indeed agarwaen son of úmarth, blood-stained son of ill-fate, his right name is Túrin son of Húrin, whom Morgoth holds in Angband, and whose kin he has cursed. [earnestly:] Doubt not the power of Morgoth Bauglir! Is it not written in me? [her shoulders are shaking and her face is in her hands. For several minutes she sits there and does not respond; then, when she seems to have gathered herself, she turns to him, and tears are on her eyelids] Finduilas: [miserable:] Your eyes are dimmed, Gwindor. You do not see or understand what is here come to pass. Must I now be put to double shame to reveal the truth to you? For I love you, Gwindor, and I am ashamed that I love you not more, but have taken a love even greater, from which I cannot escape. I did not seek it, and long I put it aside. But I have pity for your hurts, have pity for mine. Túrin loves me not; nor will. [Gwindor turns away] Gwindor: [bitter:] You say this to take the blame from him whom you love. [turns back to her, still bitter:] Why does he seek you out, and come ever more glad away? Finduilas: Because he also needs solace, and is bereaved of his kin, as he has told me. But what of Finduilas? Now is it not enough that I must confess myself to you unloved, but that you should say I speak in order to deceive you? [Gwindor looks pained and weary, and turns away from her; pause] Gwindor: [sighs] No… a woman is not easily deceived in such a case. Nor will you find many who will deny that they are loved, if it is true. Finduilas: [grieved:] If any of us three be faithless, it is I: but not in will. But what of your doom, and rumours of Angband? What of death and destruction? The Adanedhel is mighty in the tale of the world, and his stature shall reach to Morgoth in some far day to come. Gwindor: [shakes his head] He is proud. Finduilas: But also he is merciful. He is not yet awake, but still pity can ever pierce his heart, and he will never deny it. Pity maybe shall be the only entry. But he does not pity me. He holds me in awe, as were I both his mother and a queen! Gwindor: [softly:] Perhaps it is better that way. Finduilas: Yes, my dear Gwindor: can you forgive me? Forgive me for the wrongs I have done you and the pain I have caused you? [He does not answer for several moments, and it is only when he at last speaks that she notices he is crying softly.] Gwindor: Yes, Finduilas: I forgive you … but I cannot call you Faelivrin ever again. [He gets up and starts limping away, and she tries to follow him, calling his name, but he says through his tears:] No, do not follow me – please! [and goes from the hall, leaving Finduilas sitting on the marble, looking after him through eyes blurred with tears. Scene fades.] [Scene change: the library of Nargothrond. Finduilas is listlessly looking through books, trying to find something to interest her, but her mind is too restless and upset to focus on any one thing. Her face is pale and her eyes lack the luster of past scenes, but seem dull and cold. As she looks carelessly through the books, Túrin comes up in between the two shelves where she’s standing, with a book in his hand.] Túrin: My lady – [she turns around hearing his voice, a momentary flush coming to her cheeks] I want to return the book you lent to me. [he holds the book out to her] Finduilas: Oh … thank you. [she takes it from him] Did you enjoy it? Túrin: Yes, very much. I want to thank you for recommending it. There were two poetic forms that especially interested me. Finduilas: Oh? What were those? Túrin: [thoughtful:] One of them I had heard of before; but I cannot recall what it was called. Its rhyme scheme was strange, but beautiful. Finduilas: I am not certain … Túrin: I am trying to remember what it is named … Ann … Anth… Finduilas: Ann-thenath? Túrin: [pensive:] Yes, I think that was it. Finduilas: Oh yes, that is lovely. [she begins looking through the various pages of poetry] Ah, here is one written in this style. [she begins to read:] Long was the way that fate them bore [Her reading becomes softer and slower as she goes on, and she eventually stops, in consternation. Túrin doesn’t notice her reaction, being in thought.] Túrin: Yes, that was it. It is a lovely style of poetry. Finduilas: [faintly:] Yes. What – what was the other – you enjoyed? Túrin: Oh, it was another more traditional poetic form, but the wording was so beautiful. It – it reminded me of the house of my childhood – where I long to return. [she looks up at him] Will you not sit down, my lady, so I may show you from the book? Finduilas: [nods] Y – yes. [He goes through the rows of books and sits down on a bench at the end of it, facing the open centre of the library. She sits down beside him, and hands him the book.] Here you are. Túrin: [taking it] Thank you. [he looks through the pages for a moment, then comes to it] Ah, here it is! I will read you the last stanza, which is my favourite. [as he begins to read, his voice is smooth and deep, perfect for reading poetry, which he does well, and with emotion] Than Middle-earth more fair and free, [He stops, and notices that Finduilas is stiffing and wiping her eyes. He looks at her with concern.] But what is wrong, my lady? Finduilas: [shakes her head] Oh, no, it is just – such a beautiful poem – and you read it so well! Túrin: [serious, and concerned:] You seem aggrieved of late, and for all my thought I cannot discover what is the cause of your sorrow. Why are you grieved? I pray you will not worry for Gwindor, for he will heal in time – Finduilas: [interrupting him:] No, no, ‘tis not that. [She turns away from him, still wiping her tears away. Túrin frowns, as if in thought. There is a pause.] Who wrote that poem? It is lovely – and you read it – so well. Túrin: This says it was written by Pengolodh of Tirion. Finduilas: Yes. That sounds right. He was always a wonderful poet. I remember, we use to tease him about his poetry, and Gwindor would say – [she stops, and bites her lip, trying to hold back tears, still not looking at him] Túrin: [concerned:] My lady, if there is any way I can lend you aid, I bid you tell me at once, for I will do anything I can to ease your comfort. Finduilas: [smiles sadly:] No, Adanedhel, there is not. [to herself; aside:] The one thing I would have you could not give. [aloud, angrily:] Oh, for shame, for shame, Finduilas! Have you no control over your own feelings?! [Túrin seems shocked by this angry self-denunciation] Túrin: [troubled:] My lady, I am deeply sorry if any action among my conduct has caused you grief. I pray you, please to tell me what has offended you, and I shall amend it. [At this point Finduilas seems to have gained control over herself. She finally turns back to him.] Finduilas: Forgive me, Adanedhel. I am well. That poem evoked emotions that have long lain hidden. They shall not arise again, and I pray you shall pardon me. Túrin: [still slightly troubled:] Of course, my lady. Finduilas: But, I wonder if you would permit me to ask you a question. Túrin: Certainly. Finduilas: [gently:] Thurin Adanedhel, why did you hide your name from me? Had I known who you were I should not have honoured you less, but I should better have understood your grief. [pause; Túrin looks at her in confusion] Túrin: What do you mean? Whom do you make me? Finduilas: Túrin son of Húrin Thalion, captain of the North. [At this Túrin stands up in shock and stares at her in consternation.] Túrin: [voice trembling:] Who told you? How do you know? Finduilas: Gwindor did. But, Túrin, what do you fear? [she stands up] Túrin: Nothing but my own doom. Finduilas: But – Túrin: Please, please excuse me. I – I must go – [He speeds out of the library, and leave Finduilas standing there, looking slightly confused.] [Scene change: Lord Guilin’s apartments. Túrin comes in quickly to the sitting room, where Guilin sees him.] Guilin: Hello, my boy. Is all well? Túrin: Yes, yes. Is Gwindor here? Guilin: Yes – in his room. [Túrin goes to Gwindor’s room, which is next to his own, and knocks on the door. Then, hearing an affirmation from the other side of the door, comes in. Gwindor is sitting at his desk.] Gwindor: [softly:] Yes? What is it? Túrin: [looks at him angrily:] In love I hold you for rescue and safe keeping. But now you have done ill to me, friend, to betray my right name, and call my doom upon me, from which I would lie hid. Gwindor: [softly:] The doom lies in yourself, not in your name. [With a frustrated sigh, Túrin sits on the bed. Gwindor gets up and goes over to a wooden chest that sits next to the wall, and gets out of it a huge helm – with the symbol of a dragon on it – and brings it over to Túrin.] Túrin: [amazed:] The Dragon-helm of my fathers! Where did you get this, Gwindor! Gwindor: When you were captured by the Orcs in Taur-nu-Fuin, and they fled in fear of the storm, they left many of their spoil behind them, perhaps being too heavy for the road. Before we departed I – went and found it, and brought it back with us. Túrin: Thank you. [He takes it from him and looks at it for several moments in awe. Then he sets it on his head, and very fierce he looks now.] I shall no longer hide in the shadows. The Helm shall return, and Glaurung, the Worm of Morgoth, shall come to fear my Black Sword! [Scene fades black. Scene change: Orodreth’s chambers. Orodreth is behind his desk, and the Steward is standing by him. The Steward is looking at the king in disbelief.] Steward: What? What is his name? Orodreth: Túrin son of Húrin. Steward: How do you know this, your majesty? Orodreth: Finduilas told me. [the Steward stops in amazement] This is great tidings. I must speak with him. Steward: It all makes sense now! Orodreth: Of course. Had I known who he was … [pause] Why did he keep his name hidden? Steward: [shrugs:] I know not, sire. Orodreth: Bring Túrin hither. I wish to speak with him. Steward: Yes, lord. [He bows and goes out, still looking dazed. As he is leaving, Celebrimbor is also coming in the door.] Celebrimbor: Ah – sorry to bother you. Orodreth: No, no. Come in, Celebrimbor. I am just waiting for Túrin. [Celebrimbor stops] Celebrimbor: Túrin? Son of Húrin? Where –? How did he come here? When? [Orodreth looks at him.] Orodreth: Túrin son of Húrin, my dear cousin, is Adanedhel, the Black Sword of Nargothrond. [pause; Celebrimbor looks stricken with surprise] Celebrimbor: The Mormegil … is … ? [he seems to come to a resolution suddenly] Orodreth, we need to talk about your daughter. I must tell you, I am concerned – Orodreth: [eyebrow raised:] What, you have a proposal of marriage? This was rather abrupt. Celebrimbor: Do not be ridiculous – Orodreth: I was just joking you, cousin. No harm done. Celebrimbor: [looking at him under his eyebrows] I hope so. Orodreth: [shrugs] Some say she looks like her aunt. [Celebrimbor turns and is on his way out of the room. Orodreth goes up after him and takes his arm.] Celebrimbor, forgive me, I was cruel. I only meant it as a joke. [The smith turns back to him.] Celebrimbor: [coolly:] Very well. [He goes back over towards the desk with Orodreth, who remains standing.] I am concerned about your daughter - [pointedly:] – who is many years my younger – who may be enmeshing herself in some doom of which she knows nothing. [Orodreth looks at him seriously] Orodreth: Has she said anything to you? Have you spoken with her? Celebrimbor: I have; but I do not wish to betray any of her confidences without her permission. It concerns the Black Sword of Nargothrond, whom you name as Túrin son of Húrin. A curse is upon him! Orodreth: [looks thoughtful and serious] I known not what lies behind your words. Celebrimbor: Rumour comes from Angband that Morgoth has laid a curse upon Húrin and all his kin. Orodreth: And what has Finduilas to do with this? Celebrimbor: That I pray you might ask her, if my hints have not done enough to tell you. Orodreth: I wish you would tell me, Celebrimbor, what it is – [Suddenly there is a knock on the door and the Steward comes in, followed by Túrin.] Steward: Excuse me for interrupting, your highness. Orodreth: That is well. Túrin: You called for me, lord? Orodreth: Yes, I did, Túrin son of Húrin: for so my daughter tells me you are named. Túrin: Yes, sire. Orodreth: Why did you not tell me of this before? I wish you had, for I would have given you great honour. Túrin: What does a name mean, sire? It was mine to keep or to share. Orodreth: Indeed. But now that I know it, I shall give you great honour, and you shall be second-highest in the kingdom, save only myself! Túrin: [earnest and distressed:] Please, lord, do what you will; but I pray my name will not be spoken abroad. I wish that my abiding place should not be discovered! Orodreth: [thoughtful:] Very well; if that is your wish, Túrin, I will honour it. Túrin: [relieved:] Thank you, lord. Orodreth: Now, I wish for your counsel. Túrin: Yes, lord? [Orodreth goes over to his desk, and shows his different things on the map. The Steward and Celebrimbor go out, talking together (Celebrimbor still looking slightly worried). ] Orodreth: As you know, we received news that great armies are massing in the North, and are coming down the mouths of Sirion, towards Nargothrond. And … Glaurung the Dragon is at their head. They shall be here in a week’s time. Túrin: We should not back down, sire, now that we have revealed ourselves. We cannot. Orodreth: Then we should go out to meet them? Even with Glaurung at their head? Túrin: Yes, lord. There is no question. If we drive this greatest army back, no other shall return to plague us again. Orodreth: [looks relieved:] Thank you. I knew you should have the right advice. When should we begin marshalling the troops? Túrin: Right away. As soon as possible. We only have a week. And we shall need every able-bodied male in this Kingdom. Orodreth: [nods] Yes. I shall give orders concerning that right away. [Scene fades out.] Author's Note: The two poems in italics are by J.R.R. Tolkien: the first is from the Fellowship of the Ring, the second is the last stanza of "The Nameless Land" which is in The Lost Road and Other Tales. I changed a word in the first line, from "Tir-nan-Og" to "Middle-earth" because Tir-nan-Og is a place in Irish legend, and didn't make sense in a Middle-earth context, as far as I saw.
SCENE XXVIII
[Scene: the Throne Room of Nargothrond, from scene XV. The throne is empty, but on the chair to the right of the throne Túrin sits, with guards about the hall and behind him. The Captain comes in a moment later, leading two Elves behind him, looking travel-stained.]
Captain: [to Túrin:] My lord, I found these two Elves on the marches. They name themselves Gelmir and Arminas, of the people of Finarfin.
[but one of the Elves, looking at Túrin, turns to the Captain]
Gelmir: We asked to speak to the lord of Nargothrond.
Captain: [motions towards Túrin] This is he.
Gelmir: It is to Orodreth, Finarfin’s son, that we would speak.
Túrin: [to the captain:] Send for the King right away.
[The Captain shrugs, nods, and leaves the hall. He comes back a moment later, trailing Orodreth, who is sighing.]
Orodreth: Was it this urgent? I left the Mormegil to handle all problems –
Captain: Your highness, these Elves say they wish to speak only to you –
[Orodreth sighs as he sits down on his throne]
Orodreth: Very well.
[He looks at the two wandering Elves]
Who are you? And what do you seek in this land?
[One of them steps forward again to speak:]
Gelmir: Lord, we were of the people of Angrod, your brother, and have wandered far since the Battle of Sudden Flame; but of late we have dwelt among Círdan’s following by the Sea. And on a day he called us, and bade us go to you; for Ulmo himself, the Lord of Waters, had appeared to him and warned him of great peril that draws near to Nargothrond.
[Orodreth looks wary.]
Orodreth: [cautious:] Why then do you come hither out of the North? Or perhaps you had other errands also?
[the other Elf speaks now]
Arminas: Lord, ever since the Battle of Unnumbered Tears I have sought for Gondolin, the hidden kingdom of Turgon, and I have not found it; and in this search I fear now that I have delayed our errand hither over long. For Círdan sent us along the coast by ship, for secrecy and speed, and we were put shore in Drengist. But among the sea-folk were some that came south in past years as messengers from Turgon, and it seemed to me from their guarded speech that maybe Turgon dwells in the North, and not in the South, as most believe. But we have found neither sign nor rumour of what we sought.
Orodreth: Why do you seek Turgon?
Arminas: Because it is said that his kingdom shall stand longest against Morgoth.
[Orodreth looks annoyed]
Orodreth: Then tarry not in Nargothrond; for here you will hear no news of Turgon. And I need none to teach me that Nargothrond is in peril.
Gelmir: Be not angered, lord, if we answer your questions with truth. And our wandering from the straight path hither has not been fruitless, for we have passed beyond the reach of your furthest scouts; we have traversed Dor-lómin and all the lands under the eaves of the Shadowy Mountains, and we have spied out the ways of the Enemy. There is a great gathering of Orcs and evil creatures in those regions, and a host is mustering about Sauron’s Isle.
Túrin: I know it. Your news is stale. If the message of Círdan was to any purpose, it should have come sooner.
Gelmir: [to Orodreth:] At least, lord, you shall hear the message now. Hear then the words of the Lord of Waters! Thus he spoke to Círdan the Shipwright: “The Evil of the North has defiled the springs of Sirion, and my power withdraws from the fingers of the flowing waters. But a worse thing is yet to come forth. Say therefore to the Lord of Nargothrond: Shut the doors of the fortress and go not abroad. Cast the stones of your pride into the loud river, that the creeping evil may not find the gate.”
[Orodreth’s face darkens at this, and he turns to Túrin, troubled]
Túrin: My lord, I mistrust these messengers. What does Círdan know of our wars, who dwell nigh to the Enemy? Let the mariner look to his ships! But if in truth the Lord of Waters would send us counsel, let him speak more plainly. For otherwise it will seem better in our case to muster our strength, and go boldly to meet our foes, ere they come too nigh.
Gelmir: [bows before Orodreth] I have spoken as I was bidden lord.
[He turns away, but Arminas steps forward]
Arminas: [to Túrin:] Are you indeed of the House of Hador, as I have heard said?
Túrin: [proudly:] Here I am named Agarwaen, the Black Sword of Nargothrond. You deal much, it seems, in guarded speech, friend Arminas; and it is well that Turgon’s secret is hid from you, or soon it would be heard in Angband. A man’s name is his own, and should the son of Húrin learn that you have betrayed him when he would be hid, then may Morgoth take you and burn out your tongue!
[Arminas falls back in dismay at Túrin’s black wrath.]
Gelmir: [to Túrin:] He shall not betray us, Agarwaen. Are we not in council behind closed doors, where speech may be plainer? And Arminas asked this thing, I deem, because it is known to all that dwell by the Sea that Ulmo, the Lord of Waters, has great love for the House of Hador, and some say that Húrin and Huor his brother came once into the Hidden Realm.
Túrin: If that were so, then he would speak of it to none, neither the great nor the less, and least of all to his son in childhood. Therefore I do not believe that Arminas asked this of me in hope to learn aught of Turgon. I mistrust such messengers of mischief.
Arminas: [now angry:] Save your mistrust! Gelmir mistakes me. I asked because I doubted what here seems believed: for little indeed do you resemble the kin of Hador, whatever your name.
Túrin: And what do you know of them?
Arminas: Húrin I have seen, and his fathers before him. And in the wastes of Dor-lómin I met with Tuor, son of Huor, Húrin’s brother; and he is like his fathers, as you are not.
Túrin: That may be, though of Tuor I have heard no word ere now. But if my head be dark and not golden, of that I am not ashamed. For I am not the first of sons in the likeness of his mother; and I come through Morwen the Elf-sheen of the House of Bëor and the kindred of Beren the One-handed.
Arminas: I spoke not of the difference between the black and the gold. But others of the House of Hador bear themselves otherwise, and Tuor among them. For they use courtesy, and they listen to good counsel, holding the Lords of the West in awe. But you, it seems, will take counsel with your own wisdom, or with your sword only; and you speak haughtily. And I say to you, Agarwaen Mormegil, that if you do so, other shall be your doom than one of the Houses of Hador and Bëor might look for.
Túrin: [even angrier now:] Other it has ever been. And if, as it seems, I must bear the hate of Morgoth because of the valour of my father, shall I also endure the taunts and ill-boding of a runagate, though he claim the kinship of kings? I counsel you: get you back to the safe shores of the Sea.
[Then, with the shallowest bows possible, Gelmir and Arminas walk briskly out of the chamber.]
SCENE XXIX
[Scene: The great bridge of Nargothrond from the gates of the city. The warriors of Nargothrond are marching forth, behind two tall leaders: Orodreth, and next to him, Túrin. Túrin is clad all in black, and the soldiers looks proudly at him as they march behind. He is wearing the Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin, which his mother sent to him in Doriath and Gwindor recovered for him, with a picture of a golden dragon engraved on the front. The field of battle: they are now on the great plain, and the orcs are massing against them. They fight all of them back, until, at last, a huge form comes through the trees, and a fire follows it. Then Túrin looks up, and sees Glaurung, the golden dragon (but note without wings). All the Elves fall back at the assault of Glaurung, and the orcs seem strengthened, and rush at them again. Many fall to the fire of Glaurung, and to the assault of the Orcs. Túrin leaves the side of Orodreth to go against the dragon, and he alone can withstand the flames, due to his helmet, but Glaurung avoids him, and before Túrin can get back, Orodreth has been wounded, and is lying on the ground. Túrin runs over to him.]
Túrin: [in distress:] My lord! My lord!
Orodreth: [with effort:] Please, Mormegil … go save Gwindor!
Túrin: Gwindor?
Orodreth: Yes. He is there … wounded. Farewell!
[He says no more, and Túrin looks over and sees Gwindor lying beside Orodreth, wounded in the side, still conscious. Without speaking, Túrin picks up Gwindor carefully, holding his poor bent body in his arms, and putting him on his horse, he rides out of the affray, away from the wreckage, and though some come against him, his wrath is too great to be withstood. He rides Gwindor over to a quiet place amid the trees, and lays him down on the grass. There are tears in his eyes.]
Túrin: Gwindor! Gwindor!
[But Gwindor looks up at him, and speaks.]
Gwindor: [softly:] Let bearing pay for bearing. But ill-fated was mine, and vain is thine; for my body is marred beyond healing, and I must leave Middle-earth. And though I love thee, son of Húrin, yet I rue the day that I took thee from the Orcs. But for thy prowess, and thy pride, still I should have love and life, and Nargothrond should stand yet a while. Now if thou love me, leave me! Haste thee to Nargothrond, and save Finduilas! And this last I say to thee: she alone stands between thee and thy doom. If thou fail her, it shall not fail to find thee. Farewell!
[There are tears in Túrin’s eyes.]
Túrin: Gwindor! Gwindor!
[But Gwindor does not answer, and Túrin gets up, hearing the ruckus about him, and flees, going back towards Nargothrond as fast as he can.]
[The orcs have already gotten there before him. The battle is lost, and orcs are crowding over the bridge, going into the city, and carrying captives and booty out. Such is Túrin’s anger and strength that by himself, alone, he takes his black sword and cuts through all the host of orcs that crowds the bridge, and they flee away from him in fear. Túrin’s whole mind is set on reaching the captives, and so he barely notices when Glaurung issues from the great gates of the city, and stands at the other end of the bridge, right in front of the doors, his red serpent-eyes gleaming, and speaks to Túrin, in an evil voice:]
Glaurung: Hail, son of Húrin. Well met!
[Then Túrin turns about and sees him, and strides up against him with his sword all ablaze as with fire. But Glaurung does not spit forth his fire; he just looks at Túrin (Túrin, meanwhile, not looking anywhere near the dragon’s eyes, but only down at his feet, avoiding his gaze with his helmet).]
Thou wearest this helm because thou claimest my lordship, and thou as my vassal and retainer. Why else wouldst thou wear thy mater’s likeness on the crest of thy helm?
Túrin: [scornfully:] Thou liest, and knowest it. For this image was made in scorn of thee; and while there is one to bear it doubt shall ever assail thee, lest the bearer deal thee thy doom.
Glaurung: Then it must await a master of another name; for Túrin son of Húrin I do not fear. Otherwise is it. For he has not the hardihood to look me in the face, openly.
[At this taunting, Túrin looks up sharply from Glaurung’s feet, where he had been looking, and straight into the dragon’s eyes. The music becomes dark, rolling, and rather eldritch. He stands there as if he cannot move, and his eyes do not budge from the dragon’s, as if he is captured there, under a spell.]
Evil have been all thy ways, son of Húrin. Thankless fosterling, outlaw, slayer of thy friend, thief of love, usurper of Nargothrond, captain foolhardy, and deserter of thy kin. As thralls thy mother and thy sister live in Dor-lómin, in misery and want. Thou art arrayed as a prince, but they go in rags; and for thee they yearn, but thou carest not for that. Glad may thy father be to learn he hath such a son; as learn he shall.
[Glaurung’s eyes hold him there, for several minutes, as all the captives are herded out before him. At this point, Finduilas’ theme (“Rise Up My Love” by Bill Douglas) once again is heard playing softly in the background, slightly above the noise of the captives and the battle. Finduilas is led out amid the captives. She is dressed in white, but her clothing is torn and muddy, and she is chained with the other captives, driven forward by the orcs with spears and swords. She sees Túrin and begins calling to him frantically, screaming at the top of her lungs:]
Finduilas: Túrin! Túrin! Túrin please, help me! Túrin! Do you not see me! Túrin, why do you stand there? Túrin! Túrin! Túrin…!
[Túrin does not move; his eyes are still held by Glaurung’s. She passes away across the gate, still crying his name, and all the other captives pass, and the music fades. Then Túrin stirs, as if waking up from a bad dream, and springs at the dragon again. But Glaurung laughs at him, a cold grating sound, and says:]
Glaurung: [Note: Martin’s Shaw’s reading is perfect for this part:] If thou wilt by slain, I will slay thee gladly. But small help will that be to Morwen and Nienor. No heed didst thou give to the cries of the Elf-woman. Wilt thou deny also the bond of thy blood?
[In anger, Túrin draws back and stabs at Glaurung’s eyes. But the dragon coils back and towers above him, continuing:]
Nay! At least thou art valiant; beyond all whom I have met. And they lie who say that we of our part do not honour the valour of foes. See now! I offer thee freedom. Go to thy kin, if thou canst. Get thee gone! And if Elf or Man be left to make tale of these days, then surely in scorn they will name thee, if thou spurnest this gift.
[Túrin looks into Glaurung’s eyes, and with a look of credulity, looks pensive, as if he believes the dragon’s lies. Seeing this, Glaurung is pleased.]
Haste thee now, son of Húrin, to Dor-lómin! Or perhaps the Orcs shall come before thee, once again. And if thou tarry for Finduilas, then never shalt thou see Morwen again, and never at all shalt thou see Nienor thy sister; and they will curse thee.
Túrin: [turns to go] I must depart at once!
[He runs away from Glaurung, never looking back at the burning city. He runs and runs, never stopping. The landscape flashes by, days passing, but in the background all Túrin can hear is the screaming of Finduilas. Focusing briefly on his nightly camp, he lies away, and through the darkness in the trees he looks out, and hears Finduilas calling for his aid. But he gets us, and, without sleep, passing on North. He comes at last to the crystalline lake where Gwindor had brought him, and he was healed of his sorrow over Beleg’s death. But it is frozen over, dark, dirty, and filled with mire. All the heath and green around it is withered and dead, as if with flame and cold. He does not stay at the sad place but continues on, in sorrow.]
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