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.]