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.]