SCENE XXII

[Scene: on the banks of the Narog. There is a huge construction underway over the river. The bridge is nearly all built: there are many elven workers all around it, as well as architects, and the head of the architects, who seems to be the leader of the project, for he has all the plans laid out before him and is engrossed in discussing something with Túrin before the table. After a moment Túrin nods to him and leaves, walking towards the underground city. The next we see him he is entering the stables. Finduilas is in there, standing next to a tall white horse, brushing his coat, and looking rather sad. But Túrin appears deep in thought and does not notice her until he has nearly passed her by, and Finduilas sees him.]

Finduilas:

                Adanedhel!

                [He turns and sees her.]

Túrin: [with a smile]

                My lady. How are you this day? You look rather sad.

Finduilas:

                Oh, well, I am … I was just thinking about Gwindor, and …

                [She trailed off. Túrin looks concerned and attentive.]

Túrin:

                Is Gwindor not well? He was very well when I saw him.

Finduilas:

                Oh, yes, he is fine. I just …

                [she appears slightly reticent, but seeing the concern on his face, continues:]

I asked him if he wished to go riding with me today. You see, we used to go together quite often, when he was … before the War. But he – did not wish to. I thought, since he is no longer –

                [she hesitates]

                – forward in arms, he might wish to do this with me instead, and it would lift his spirits.

Túrin:

                But his spirits seem lifted ever so much more than they were when first we came here.

Finduilas: [nods]

Yes. He is just … so different. I mean, he is the same kind, generous person that ever he was, but … For instance, he has taken to helping the Steward, and others, with problems that they have around the city. You know, he seems to have such skill in those things now. He – he never did before…

                [She lowers her head. Túrin looks at her with pity.]

Túrin:

Perhaps that is a way for him to expend his time and energies, since he no longer is on the marches; and not a taint from his most recent years.

                [she nods, but still keeps her head down]

Finduilas:

                I was afraid maybe – he was remembering … his captivity, and re-living it.

                [she shudders]

Túrin: [softly, encouraging:]

I do not think so. He is one in the Council, and we go together. He gives sound and thoughtful advice, and has much experience. Because I do not agree with all his counsels does not make them any less. I think he has skills in certain areas, and wishes to put them to good use.

                [pause; she looks up at him]

Finduilas:

We used to do a lot of horseback riding together. Mostly here, in the days of peace before the War began. But we did many things in Valinor together as well, ere we came to Middle-earth.

                [Túrin looks at her gravely.]

His family was closely allied with Finarfin, my father’s father. They lived close to us upon Tirion, and so I saw him often. We were just very young then, but we did many things together. He was the greatest athlete in his family, and always beat me in faces or in any other challenge.

                [with a smile:]

But I remember one day – he challenged my Aunt Galadriel to a race. My father looked at Gwindor and said “Thou shouldst do no such thing,” with one eyebrow raised –

                [Túrin smiles at this.]

– but Gwindor just smiled, and said, “I have beat thee, thy daughter, and thy two younger brothers.” Father just shrugged. So he asked her to race, and she said, “How far?” he said, “Howsoever far it pleaseth thee.”

Túrin:

                That was a dangerous thing to say. Never give your opponent the advantage over you.

Finduilas: [nods]

Yes, I know. Gwindor realized that too late. So he let her choose the distance; I do not recall how precisely how long it was, but perhaps two or three furlongs. Galadriel wore her long golden hair tied back on her head, and when they lined up to race, we saw that she was slightly taller than he.

[Túrin smiles, seeing in his mind a picture of Húrin and Morwen standing side by side, Morwen at least three inches taller than her husband.]

My grandfather and grandmother came to watch, and Guilin, and some of Galadriel’s ardent pursuers. And I came, of course. They had lined up to race, and when they first began, I thought that perhaps Gwindor might have a chance.

                [shaking her head; with a smile:]

But no, about halfway through the race, she sped forward marvelously, and he was left far behind. He lost by nearly fifteen strides! He was so ashamed. He would not speak to anyone, but I went to him and tried to cheer him, I told him it was useless to be so sad: for everyone knew that Galadriel was one of the best athletes in Aman.

                [pause; a little wistfully:]

                Gwindor always said I looked like her.

Túrin:

                Do many in your family have golden hair?

Finduilas:

                No. My Un –

                [she looks troubled]

                My Uncle Finrod – had golden hair. And my Uncle Aegnor.

                [pause; smiling:]

But Gwindor always used to joke that the reason that Galadriel married Celeborn was that he was the only one who could beat her in a race.

Túrin: [smiles:]

                Indeed? I would have liked to have met him.

Finduilas:

                I have only met him once. He is very tall – as tall as she is.

Túrin:

                Well, King Thingol is –

                [he stops; she looks up at him]

Finduilas:

Yes, Thingol is extremely tall: the tallest person I have ever seen. I often wondered if they built the ceilings of Menegroth so high that he did not have to stoop when going through doors.

Túrin:

                Are the races of the Elves varied in height, as are the Houses of Men?

Finduilas: [thinking:]

                Some. There are no specific houses that are taller than others. Is it so among Men?

Túrin: [nods]

Some. The House of Bëor, and especially the House of Hador, are much taller; whereas the kin of the House of Haleth have less stature.

Finduilas:

Then I deem you are of the House of Hador, though your looks and demeanor tend more to the House of Bëor.

                [Túrin does not answer. Finduilas begins brushing the horse once again.]

Túrin:

                And when were you and Gwindor betrothed?

Finduilas:

Oh, that was after we had come to Middle-earth … just – just very recently, actually. It was just after the Siege ended, and we exchanged silver rings. But, we did not wed then because it is not the custom of the Eldar to wed during times of war, wishing to bear our children in safety and a nourishing atmosphere.

                [sighs]

                But, at times, some will do it.

                [turns away; softly, as if to herself:]

                Alas that we did not! Perhaps I could have restrained him from going to the War.

Túrin: [serious:]

                One should not restrain another from valiant deeds, even if she loves him.

                [Finduilas looks up at him, and sees the light of experience in his eyes.]

One does the thing that is necessary for the person one loves, no matter how much it might hurt.

[through his head he hears the echo of his words in his youth again: Morwen, Morwen, when shall I see you again? He flinches and turns away.]

                My lady, will you ride today by yourself?

Finduilas: [turning back to him]

                Yes. Gwindor does not wish to go …

                [she sighs]

Túrin:

I do not know if it is safe for you to go riding alone. Allow me to find someone to accompany you –

Finduilas:

Oh, no, it is well, Adanedhel. Thank you. My father says it is safe for me to go alone, now that the servants of Morgoth are driven out of all these lands, by the prowess of the Black Sword.

Túrin:

                It is the valour of many elven soldiers that labour for love of this city, Lady.

                [She smiles. He bows his head to her.]

I am sorry to depart, but I much speak to the Horse Master about the muster of the horseman.

Finduilas:

                Oh, no, that is well, Adanedhel. Farewell.

[With a polite bow he leaves her. She continues brushing the horse’s back, for several minutes, looking pensive, when two young elven rangers, one of them obviously an archer, since he carries a bow. They do not see Finduilas, and she cannot see them at the other side of the stable, but she can hear their conversation as they speak together.]

Archer:

                You have a break now?

Ranger:

                Yes. I am going to go riding.

Archer:

                You are going to ride with the scouts in your resting time?!

Ranger: [slightly annoyed]

                Yes. Why should I not?

Archer: [shrugs]

I would not. Let the Mormegil plan his own raids. I know not why you are so – fond of him and his tactics.

Ranger:

                You have not seen him at the head of the armies.

Archer:

                I have seen him wield a sword. He is, indeed, very good, but –

Ranger:

                He is the best. None can compare with him.

                [The Archer looks uncomfortable.]

Archer:

                He is a mortal –

Ranger: [waving his hand in dismissal]

                That means nothing.

                [looking at his companion]

Have you see the way he speaks to the soldiers – how they respond to him? His personality, his strength of will and – intensity, are so overpowering. He – almost resonates with it.

Archer: [eyebrows furrowed in doubt]

                He is so silent – I have never seen him passionate or overpowering.

Ranger: [shaking his head]

No, it is not that. He is quiet. He never tries to win us to his side, or to force us to follow him through fear, or aught else. He – it is his personality, his strength, his will, that we can sense when he talks, that show his nobility – that we can sense.

                [the Archer still looks doubtful]

Archer:

                I do not know – I have never spoken with him before.

Ranger:

I think – he cannot even help it, that he comes across that way. His intensity and strength of personality just draw us to him. And he is humble –

                [the Archer shrugs]

You do not believe me? Then hear this – and this is the greatest reason why I love the Mormegil – he saved my life on the marches the last winter past.

Archer: [looks up at him]

                He did? I did not hear of this. How?

Ranger:

                It was on one of the attacks on the roving orcs bands – the Captain told us to stay back –

Archer:

                The Captain just asks the Mormegil’s advice, and then does whatever he says.

Ranger: [defensive:]

                I know, but it is not the Mormegil’s fault that he is so intelligent.

                [the Archer smiles]

Archer:

                Go on.

Ranger:

So the Captain had ordered us to stay back, and wait until the orc band marched forward further; but it made me so angry to see them hacking and burning the trees as they went, I sneaked forward to spy on them. Well, I crept forward, but unknown to me there were two or three orcs outside the camp that came upon me in the woods. I was terrified, though I had seen them first, and tried to kill them, or at least one of them. But there were three of them, and I soon would have been overborne, and the others would have raced away to the camp to tell the others, when the Mormegil came through the trees with one other and slew them in nearly an instant.

                [he shakes his head]

The Orcs have come to fear that black sword, so that if they even see it they will flee in fear.

Archer:

                And did he upbraid you for leaving the company?

Ranger: [shakes his head]

He looked me in the eyes, and said, “Do not disobey your Captain’s orders, or many worse things might befall you.”

Archer: [shudders]

                Like the Lord Gwindor.

Ranger:

                What?

Archer:

                Oh, nothing. Is that all he said to you?

Ranger: [nods]

Yes. He said, “Let us return to the camp,” and no one said anymore of it; and I was so ashamed I have never done anything of the sort again.

                [shakes his head in amazement]

                The Mormegil really cannot be slain.

Archer: [cynical:]

                – Save by mischance, or an evil arrow from afar.

Ranger:

                No, they have given him Dwarf mail. He shall not be pierced.

Archer: [thoughtful:]

                Perhaps you are right about the Mormegil. No wonder all people here love him.

Ranger:

                Will you go riding with me then?

Archer:

                Perhaps I will.

[They get their horses and leave the stable riding together a moment later, leaving Finduilas looking pensive by her white horse. In a moment Celebrimbor rushes in and sees her.]

Celebrimbor:

                Ah, Finduilas! Have you seen Adanedhel?

                [she starts slightly at the name]

Finduilas:

                Just a moment ago, yes. Why?

Celebrimbor:

I have a question for him – about my theory. I need to know how the method of memory reproduction functions in mortals. Where is he now?

Finduilas: [still pensive:]

                Um, he went to speak with the Horse Master.

Celebrimbor:

                Ah, thank you so much! If you will excuse me.

[He speeds out. Finduilas stands there for a moment, still looking thoughtful, then sets down the horse’s brush, mounts the horse, rides out alone, looking thoughtful. Scene fades.]