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.]