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]

Go now, fosterson; and heed the counsels of the king. Yet I do not think that you will long abide with us in Doriath after the coming of manhood. If in days to come you remember the words of Melian, it will be for your good: fear both the heat and the cold of your heart.

[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 Man.

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.