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.