Act IV – Finduilas

SCENE XV

[Scene: Gwindor and Túrin are again walking; this time Túrin is walking beside Gwindor, in his right mind, but still sad and silent. They walk from a great plain into some woods, where all on the sides is shadowed in trees. Gwindor slows down and turns to Túrin.]

Gwindor:

We shall come soon to Nargothrond, and they may welcome you as my guest. But I have not been there for many years, and it is not certain how they shall receive me –

[He stops, looking away through the brush. In a split second, they are surrounded by a troop of elven rangers, dressed in brown, yellow, and green, all with drawn bows pointed right at them. One stands forward, seemingly their Captain, and speaks to them:]

Captain:

                Do not move, or you shall be shot!

                [Gwindor and Túrin stop, and stare at the warriors surrounding them.]

                Now, who are you, and what are you doing in this land?

Gwindor: [stuttering:]

                Tel – Telemnar, do you not remember me? I – I am Gwindor. And you –

                [turning to one of the elven archers]

                 – Celvandil – do you remember me? I was your Captain, your leader, before – before –

                [He stops. All of them are looking at him curiously, especially the Captain.]

Captain: [cynical:]

Gwindor? Nay, he left years ago to the War and has not returned. Who are you, in truth? Do not lie to me! You are spies, I deem!

Gwindor: [shaking his head]

                No, no, if I were a spy, how should I know your names?

                [This makes the Captain even more suspicious.]

Captain:

                How indeed?

                [to the rangers:]

                Bind these two spies. We shall take them as prisoners to the King.

[Gwindor no longer disputes, but just looks bleak. Túrin seems too listless and sorrowful to care what happens to him, as they bind him as well.]

[Scene change: The soldiers reach a great stone gate, while soldiers standing there open for them, and lead Gwindor and Túrin in front of them, hands tied behind them, with spears at their backs, down into the underground halls, into the throne room. The architectural design is similar to that of the great hall in Doriath, but the stones and blocks are cut more sharply, and are more angled. It is also less bright. They do have many beautiful lamps, coloured and made of stained glass. But there seems a damper attitude about the place, which perhaps comes from the people there. There are many people in the hall (the King is obviously conducting some business right then). He sits on his throne on a dais three or four steps up. He has brown hair and white skin, and looks young, even for one of the Elves: young but weary; perhaps it is in his eyes. On his right hand there sits in another chair an elven woman, with long, wavy hair that glints like sunlight on gold. She looks curiously at the prisoners, just as the King looks grave as he speaks to the soldiers:]

Orodreth:

                Who is this you have brought before me, Captain?

Captain:

                Two prisoners we took on the Guarded Plain. They appeared to be spies, lord.

                [Orodreth looks at them closely, then speaks to them:]

Orodreth:

                What are your names? And why do you come here?

                [pause; neither speaks]

                It is death to all who pass the Guarded Plain without leave.

[Túrin looks up at him, but Gwindor lowers his head, miserable, unable to speak, perhaps for awe, perhaps for fear that they should not believe him again. Orodreth looks at them carefully.]

Speak!

[During this exchange, the woman at his side has been looking earnestly at their faces, especially at Gwindor’s. And at this point, something like recognition lights her face, and she gets up out of her chair and runs towards Gwindor, bursting into tears. Túrin, looking at her, sees a brief vision in his mind in which it is not an elven-maiden, but Lalaith running towards them.]

Finduilas:

                Oh Father! Father!

                [She looks back at her father:]

                It’s Gwindor! It’s Gwindor, Father!

[She takes Gwindor’s face in her hands and lays it on her breast, stroking it softly. She begins to weep again, and her tears drip down onto Gwindor’s disfigured visage. Wonder and amazement fill Orodreth’s face.]

Orodreth: [almost disbelieving:]

                Gwindor? Lord Gwindor?

Gwindor: [weakly:]

                My lord.

                [The hall has now become completely silent. Finduilas turns now angrily to the guards.]

Finduilas: [righteous anger:]

Release him at once! How came it that you would tie him up, and bring him hither as a prisoner?

[The Captain and the soldiers hastily cut the bonds and the Captain looks abashed.]

Captain:

Your highness, my deepest apologies. He – he told me who he was, I – did not believe him.

[He nods apologetically to Gwindor.]

Lord Gwindor.

[Finduilas begins to lead Gwindor over to the thrones by the hand, when Gwindor says to her:]

Gwindor: [softly:]

                My friend is also tied.

                [Orodreth hears this.]

Orodreth: [to the soldiers:]

Untie Lord Gwindor’s companion, and bring two chairs for them to sit on. Let word also be sent to Lord Guilin that his son has returned.

[In a moment two servants have brought chairs, and Gwindor and Túrin sit down. Finduilas indicates she wants to sit by Gwindor, but her father bids her kindly to sit down next to him. So she takes her place by Orodreth’s chair.]

Orodreth: [to Gwindor:]

Please forgive me, Gwindor. My eyes deceived me. It has been so long since you departed this land.

[Gwindor nods but appears too overwhelmed to answer.]

We rejoice that you have returned home at last.

Gwindor:

                Thank you, lord.

Orodreth:

                And who is this, your companion?

Gwindor:

                This is my friend, T –

                [But Túrin touches his arm, stopping him, and says to Orodreth:]

Túrin:

                I am Agarwaen, son of Úmarth, the Bloodstained son of Ill-fate: a hunter in the woods.

                [dead silence; they sure won’t be asking him any more questions]

Orodreth: [clears his throat:]

                You are welcome here – Agarwaen.

                [The name seems to pain him somehow.]

Túrin:

                Thank you, lord.

Orodreth:

                We will prepare a room for you right next to the lord Gwindor’s.

[Just then another Elf runs into the main door of the hall and all the crowd parts for him, as he comes up towards the dais. He stops just in front of the crowd and looks around almost frantically:]

Guilin:

                Gwindor? Gwindor? … Forgive me, sire, someone told me my son was here.

Orodreth: [nods to him]

                Lord Guilin.

[At this name, Gwindor turns around and looks into the eyes of the Elf. He gets up out of the chair and comes towards him.]

Gwindor:

                Father!

[The people in the hall look down, or away politely as they embrace. Tears spring to Guilin’s eyes, but Gwindor just looks overwhelmed.]

Guilin:

                I thought they were jesting when they told me to come down, for you had returned.

                [After a few moments:]

Orodreth:

You must be tired and wish for rest. My Steward will show you to your rooms. One is being prepared for you – Agarwaen.

Túrin:

                Thank you, lord.

[But Finduilas gets out of her chair and comes to them, clasping Gwindor arm to her side.]

Finduilas:

                I will go with Gwindor.

[She and Guilin walk with Gwindor down the hall, and Túrin follows after them. The people part for them as they go.]

[They reach Lord Guilin’s apartments. Gwindor points to the room next to him.]

Gwindor: [to Túrin:]

                This room is for you.

[Túrin nods and watches as Finduilas and Guilin go in together with Gwindor to his room, then goes into the room indicated to him, leaving the door open. Finduilas and Guilin sit down with Gwindor, both seeming slightly jealous of the other’s presence and wanting him to themselves.]

Finduilas:

Gwindor, Father is going to ordain a feast this evening for your return. You should get plenty of rest before then, though. You look so tired.

[She touches his deer-coloured hair gently. He smiles at her.]

Guilin:

We have left your things in your room, just as they were, so you should find everything easily.

[Gwindor waves his hand in laconic dismissal.]

Gwindor:

                Oh no, it is fine.

Finduilas:

                Would you like anything to eat, or do you need anything before you rest?

Gwindor: [shakes his head]

                No. Thank you – Faelivrin.

[She positively glows at this, and kisses him softly on the cheek. His father squeezes his hand and they both go toward the door. But before they leave, Gwindor stops them:]

 Gwindor: [suddenly:]

                What year is it?

                [Finduilas and Guilin look at each other for a moment.]

Guilin: [softly:]

                It is Sun Year 490, Gwindor.

[Gwindor looks choked for a minute, but says nothing. They look at each other concernedly, then depart, shutting the door behind them. Gwindor looks around him for a moment, as if trying to absorb his new surrounding, and then begins to cry softly into his hands, his shoulders shaking. After a moment the door opens silently and Túrin peeks his head through, then comes over quietly to Gwindor. Seeing him, Gwindor slowly ceases and looks at him as Túrin sits next to him on the bed, without speaking.]

Gwindor: [slowly:]

I have been gone for seventeen years. This no longer seems like my room, that these are my things. For seventeen years I was a slave, Túrin, and had nothing. They put us to work in the forges, making swords and hauberks and shields, and all manner of armour – all for Morgoth’s accursed armies, whom I had spent all my life fighting –

[looks up at Túrin]

Do you know how I was captured?

[Túrin shakes his head.]

It was at the beginning of the Battle of Unnumbered Tears – I was with the host of Fingon, and your father was by us. We were waiting behind the mountains for Maedhros’ signal before we went forward, and Morgoth sent his captain with a company to us. They … they had my brother Gelmir with them. He looked much as I do now, save that he was blinded.

[He shudders. Túrin looks at Gwindor sorrowfully at this description of himself.]

But the Orc captain said, “We have many more such at home, but you must make haste if you would find them; for we shall deal with them all when we return even so.” Then they … cut off his hands, and feet. And then his head. I could not take it. I rode forward, ahead of the host, and was separated from the main army. All my company was slain, but they took me alive.

[he looks earnestly at Túrin]

Seventeen years! It seemed longer than that. But life has gone on here without me: while I was in the mines making weapons for the Orcs. My cell was in a long row with many other captives’, and there were always guards there – even though we were chained to the wall of our cells. And when we worked we were chained as well, although there was no hope of escape. I could not rest, never being able to escape the agonized screams of the tormented, the smell of burning flesh, the pain and fear that haunted even my dreams. The darkness was interminable, an endless chain of despair: I lost count of days and months and years. I had always been there, I would always be there; there was nothing else. Only the screams, the terror, the torment, and the darkness.

[He puts his head in his hands. Túrin reaches over and puts his hand on his shoulder.]

Túrin:

                And yet your darkness is over now, and you may rise above it, and live as you once did.

[Gwindor looks up, and the darkness seems to disperse from his face.]

Gwindor: [slowly:]

                Yes, you are right. I am home now. All shall be well. In Finduilas’ light I shall heal.

                [pause; melancholy:]

                We have put you in Gelmir’s old room.

Túrin:

                I am honoured to be placed there, and to dwell near to you.

Gwindor:

                His clothes are in there as well. You may wear them for the feast.

[Scene fades into a new scene: The Hall of Hours, much brighter than the throne room, because in the slanted roof are glass windows, like stained glass of many different colours and designs. The floor is of white stone or tile, and white pillars on the sides of the hall uphold the roof. This is obviously the main gathering place of Nargothrond. There are many tables laid out there, prepared for the great feast, and at the far end of the hall, the musicians are warming up their instruments (harp, lute, flute…) There are many  people there already, fluttering about and socializing before the meal is served, all dressed in beautiful clothes. Túrin and Gwindor walk in together, led by Finduilas, who has her arm around Gwindor’s. Guilin walks up to them, and, seeing Túrin’s attire, leans over to Gwindor:]

Guilin: [whispering:]

                He is wearing Gelmir’s clothes!

Gwindor: [nods]

                I told him he could.

Guilin: [clasps his arm]

                Gwindor, tell me, please: is your brother still alive? Did you see him … there?

                [Gwindor lowers his head.]

Gwindor: [in a low voice:]

                I’m sorry, father. Gelmir is dead.

                [Guilin looks stricken and turns pale.]

Guilin: [anguished:]

                You saw him? How did he die? When?

[Gwindor does not answer. Finduilas touches his arm softly, and they walk over to the main table, that of highest honour, where her father is sitting. Orodreth rises politely to greet them.]

Orodreth:

                I am glad to see that you have rested well, and have found fit raiment.

                [to Túrin:]

We will have your measurements sent to the tailors, and they can prepare clothing for your needs.

Túrin:

                You are kind, lord, but that is not necessary. I have few needs.

Orodreth:

                And yet it is the custom here to treat guests well, and so you shall be treated.

                [As he sits down again he mutters to himself:]

                And may I be able to make up for Lúthien!

[The Steward, who sits near the King, helps the other four to their places, and Finduilas, Gwindor, Guilin, and Túrin all sit at that table. Soon the rest of the table is filled with various lords and ladies, as the feast begins. Thy try to make polite conversation to Gwindor and his friend: one lord and lady in particular who sits nearest them.]

Lord:

Lord Gwindor, it is such a joy to see you again! We have long missed you as the Head of Security.

[Gwindor bows his head to him.]

Gwindor:

                Thank you.

Lady:

                Will you be taking up your duties again, now you have returned?

[Gwindor looks uncomfortable and slightly abashed. Orodreth saves him from having to answer.]

Orodreth:

Lord Gwindor has just returned this day, and we have not yet had time to discuss such matters.

                [The Steward tries to pick up conversation after the awkward pause that ensues.]

Steward: [to Gwindor:]

I expect you must be longing for food from home, and so I have ordered the cooks to prepare all the delicacies that we offer here. You may choose from poached salt water trout from Himlad (which is in these days difficult to obtain since trade has become so difficult, as I’m sure you know); or roasted duck in mango sauce; a grilled venison with garlic and spicy chiles from Ossiriand –

Gwindor: [overwhelmed:]

                My lord Steward, anything is fine for me, really. Just something hot.

Steward: [looks stunned:]

                Anything for you? You have no special preference?

Gwindor: [suddenly weary:]

                No, it really does not matter.

[another awkward pause: the Steward blinks and clears his throat. Orodreth tries a new track, and addresses Gwindor’s companion instead:]

Orodreth:

                Lord Agarwaen –

                [almost wincing as he says the name]

– we are pleased to have you here. What sort of interests do you have? Boating? Astronomy? Music?

Túrin:

                I am a warrior. I hunt the servants of Morgoth wherever I go.

                [The Captain of the Guard, sitting down the table, seems delighted to hear this.]

Captain:

                Ah! A warrior! And what weapon do you most favour?

Túrin:

                The sword.

                [Then he frowns, in recollection.]

Lady: [to her husband:]

See? I knew he was a warrior from Hithlum. He must have survived the Unnumbered Tears and fled here: one of Fingon’s warriors.

Lord:

                No, dear, I told you: he looks like one of the hunters of the Fëanorions in the East.

Steward:

Nay, his accent is rather like one of Doriath – as the Lady Lúthien had. It is so much more rich and full than the woodland Sindarin.

Lord:

                In that case you could compare it with the accent of the Laiquendi in Ossiriand –

Lady: [shaking her head]

                Oh, no, that is so much different, a completely different language –

[Seeing this has gone a bit too far, Orodreth clears his throat. They stop, looking slightly abashed, at the object of their discussion. He, however, seems little interested in whatever they are saying, and is trying his wine with Gwindor, looking deep in thought.]

Steward: [to Túrin:]

Forgive us, lord, if we appear over-eager. It is not often that some visitor comes to us from different lands, and we so delight in tales of new realms.

[He seems eager for some tale of Túrin’s travels and background. Túrin sets down his glass.]

Túrin: [reticent:]

                I did spend some years of my childhood in Doriath.

Steward: [relieved, giving a look to the lord and lady]

                Ah, so I was correct.

Captain:

I guessed the same, seeing your arms when you first entered the Hall. Those are of Doriath as well?

                [Túrin’s face clouds.]

Túrin: [short and unencouraging:]

                Yes.

Captain: [turning to the others:]

It was made of some strange metal, the likes of which I have never seen before – black it was, like some sort of stone…

Lady:

                Obsidian rock, perhaps?

Lord:

But nay, that would shatter as soon as it collided with another sword. Very weak it would be – lest it were surrounded by a layer of iron –

Captain:

                And yet then ‘twould no longer be black.

Steward:

Ah! But if you added a minute element of firmly ground ash to the molten iron, ‘twould alter the colour to a black.

[Watching this, Orodreth once again tries to save the object of their discussion.]

Orodreth: [to Túrin:]

                Do you know aught of smithwork?

Túrin:

Some, lord. I – learned it, when I was a boy – the making of swords and the forging of helms and hauberks.

Finduilas: [trying to add to the conversation; politely:]

                That was in Doriath?

                [he nods]

I loved Menegroth when we went there. I have only been there once, but my father has gone there several times. It is truly lovely. We got to look around all the halls and passages. Two of the march-wardens, Mablung and Beleg, showed us around.

[Túrin does not answer, but looks pained and anguished, and turns away as she finishes. There is another awkward pause.]

Captain:

Ah – lord Agarwaen, how do they shape their blades in Doriath? Do they use the thicker claymore mold, or a thinner rapier? And do they use a forging hammer or a forging press?

Túrin:

They use mostly the thinner rapier blades, but I am not very familiar with the art of their forging specifically.

Captain:

                And how long is this black sword of yours? It fascinates me.

Túrin: [shrugs]

                Perhaps four and a half to five feet.

[The Captain and the others are baffled and awed, and looked amazed at Túrin. Túrin is saved from any further comment when the meal is brought out. Túrin takes this chance to have some conversation with Gwindor, seeing him looking weary:]

We may leave soon after the meal is complete, if you wish. You do not –

[But he is not allowed to get far, for the Captain is once again speaking to him, loudly:]

Captain:

                And what is the name of this mighty sword?

                [Túrin’s face clouds again.]

Túrin:

                Anglachel, Iron Flame, it was called. But I name it anew Gurthang, Iron of Death.

                [His face is so intense and serious they do not dare to ask him any more about it.]

Lord:

I remember the Lord Beren, when he was here, had a sword almost that length. I cannot recall his sword’s name, but it was nearly –

Lady:

                Oh, that was not of Elvish make, dear, I don’t think.

Lord:

                That makes little difference when the hand that wields it –

Lady:

Oh, dear, stop trying to be so chivalrous. Everyone knows that Men are inferior to the Eldar.

[At this, Túrin looks over at her, with eyes glinting like steel.]

Túrin: [eyes glinting]

                I am a Man.

[They all look abashed, especially the lady, who is also contrite, and scrambling now to make up for what she said. Orodreth puts his head in his hands.]

Lady:

                Lord, forgive me – you look so much like – I did not know –

                [Túrin looks away from her and does not answer.]

Lord:

Lord Agarwaen, you look so much like one of the Eldar, and your speech and bearing so belie such a connection, it would be impossible to think otherwise… Surely Agarwaen is not a fit name.

Steward: [proffering:]

                Adanedhel seems to me more appropriate: Elf-Man.

[While these apologies ensue, Orodreth leans over and whispers something to his daughter beside him. She, in turn, now gets up and goes over to Gwindor, taking his hand.]

Finduilas:

                It is time for the music to begin. Would you do a duet with me, as we used?

                [Gwindor shakes his head.]

Gwindor:

                No, Faelivrin. I cannot.

                [Finduilas tries to hider her disappointment.]

Finduilas:

                Very well. It is all right. I shall find another.

                [But seeing her downcast face, Gwindor gives in.]

Gwindor:

                Very well. I shall play with you.

[She smiles and takes his hand, and they walk forward together towards the front of the hall where all the instruments and musicians are. Gwindor, stooped, is now so much shorter than the golden-haired elf-maiden that it is strange to see. Seeing the Princess walking up towards the front, all the people hush to listen. She nods to the lead musician. He, in turn, stands up and speak to the diners:]

Musician:

The Lord Gwindor, at whose return we all rejoice, will once again play a duet with the Lady Finduilas, which we have so missed these passed years.

[One of them brings a tall golden harp to Gwindor. It is overlaid with pearls and gems and its strings ripple like silver.]

Gwindor: [softly, to Finduilas:]

                I don’t know if I can play any more.

Finduilas: [encouraging:]

                Of course you can, dear Gwindor. We’ll do as we used – you play and I sing.

[Gwindor sits, and for a moment plucks experimentally at the strings, then begins to play. It is fine for a few chords, but then there is a horrible cacophony of notes. Gwindor winces and tries to correct it, but it happens again, several times. Finduilas opens her mouth to sing anyway when he stops all together.]

Gwindor:

                I cannot play, Finduilas. It is not just that I have forgotten. My – my hands.

[He holds out his hands to her, and she sees that they are not only withered and wizened, but have been so worn and damaged that his fingers are little more than stubs. She takes them in her own and holds them up under her bent face, her tears falling on them. Soon she rouses herself, since all in the hall are now watching them in silence.]

Finduilas: [softly:]

                It is all right. I will play: you sing.

[He nods silently. She takes the harp, and her smooth, cream-white hands begin to ripple out a tune like a dream. After a few minutes, Gwindor begins to sing, and it is clear that his voice, at least, has suffered little injury in Morgoth’s pits.]

Gwindor: [singing:]

Under the gloom of dusk the stars
are shadowed by the threat of doom.
 The Dark One’s e’er pervading fume
shall choke and cease immortal bars

of music of the Light, ere gloom
descended to this troubled sphere;
the melody which few may hear,
and brightens senses as perfume.

The music ceased? The End is near?
And that to which in hope we clung
has flown, defeated, over wrung?
The world is broken, tarnished, sere

Forsake not hope, nor what we sung! –

[He breaks down and is unable to continue. Finduilas stops playing; and standing up, she takes his arm and leads him from the hall. Everyone is silent, until the musician stands and announces the next performer, his artificial cheer breaking the discomfort among the listeners. Túrin, at the table, stands up.]

Túrin: [to Orodreth:]

Forgive me, lord, if I seem to depart in haste, but I deem that I should follow Gwindor, for a friend’s aid might do much at this time.

Orodreth: [nods; wearily:]

                That is well – Adanedhel.

[Back in their rooms, Túrin looks weary and sad. He takes Anglachel, which he has just renamed Gurthang, and looks at it for several moments. Then he shudders, a shudder that seems to come from his heart, and holds the sword up as if he is going to cast himself upon it. Then he throws it down, and throws himself on the bed, almost cringing, and begins to weep, burying his face in the pillows. Through his anguish he cries one name over and over:]

Túrin:

                Beleg! Beleg! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Forgive me, Beleg! My brother! Forgive me!