SCENE XXIII

[Scene: the Halls of Menegroth in Doriath. Mablung is standing before Thingol and Melian, seemingly in the middle of a conversation.]

Mablung:

                No, lord.

Thingol:

                Then why have all the troops withdrawn?

Mablung: [shrugs]

There is no longer any need. All the orcs are driven back from the confines of the Guarded Plain, all the way from Narog to Sirion in the East to the Nenning River in the West, and the Falas by the Sea. They will not even come near the borders of Doriath.

Thingol: [frowns]

                Why is that? A stemming of the tide of our foes?

Mablung:

It is the Black Sword, as I hear, that dwells in Nargothrond. All enemies flee before his face.

Thingol: [interested:]

The Black Sword? Do you – do you think it may be Beleg? But why should he be in Nargothrond? Who is the Black Sword?

Mablung:

None knows, lord. His identity has not been revealed. But … if it is Master Beleg … why has he not returned here?

Thingol:

                Perhaps Túrin is there with him.

Mablung:

I do not know, lord. I do not know why he has not returned. He has been gone for … years.

Thingol: [sighs]

                I hope he has found Túrin, wherever he went.

[Scene change: Dor-lómin, an old-broken down house that once used to belong to Húrin, the Lord of Dor-lómin. The house is now desolate of any riches or light, and all around it are shacks and houses set up of the Easterlings, who rove about freely nearly. Morwen sits there, in her old chair. She looks at beautiful as she ever did, but sorrow and poverty have become graven on her face, and she is older now: perhaps forty. A young woman sits beside her, of about twenty-one years, very beautiful, and with long golden hair like her father, and like her sister, Lalaith. They both are speaking together quietly when there is a knock at the door. Morwen stands up sharply and stands behind the door before she answers it.]

Morwen:

                Who is it?

                [A soft voice comes from outside:]

                It is Aerin.

[Morwen quickly opens the door, and a woman in her mid-forties enters, with golden hair flecked with strands of white. Shutting the door Morwen brings her inside.]

Morwen:

                Aerin, you should not be here. What if Brodda discovers it?

Aerin:

                He shall not. Morwen, I come to warn you, and to give you good tidings.

                [The golden-haired young lady comes to the main room and speaks.]

Nienor:

                Aunt Aerin.

Aerin:

                Nienor, this concerns you as well. I must speak quickly.

                [They sit down.]

I heard in the hall, from Brodda and another, that Lorgan – another chief of the Easterlings, has – seen the beauty of Nienor wishes to have her for his wife.

                [Nienor looks dismayed. Morwen looks terrified.]

Morwen:

                No! None shall have her!

Aerin: [shaking her head]

He will take her by force if he can. But, hear me. I bring good news: you have heard news of the Black Sword of Nargothrond.

Morwen:

                Some.

Aerin:

                The prowess of the Black Sword has made all the lands clear North of Sirion.

Nienor:

                You mean …?

Aerin:

It is a time for you to escape. The foes of Morgoth are driven back, and no longer surround this land. So you may pass through, and come at last – to Doriath, to see Túrin again.

[Morwen sits there for a moment looking stunned; but her daughter turns to her with delight:]

Nienor:

                Oh, mother! Now I shall get to meet my brother at last!

                [Morwen then turns to her, and holds her in a tight embrace, tears springing to her eyes.]

Morwen:

                Yes, we will go. Thank you, Aerin. We will leave as soon as we can.

Aerin:

                Leave tonight.

Nienor:

                Yes. Thank you! Now go, Aunt Aerin, before Brodda finds you.

                [Aerin nods, gets up and goes to the door.]

Aerin: [softly:]

                Farewell, Morwen.

                [Then the door clicks shut behind her.]

[Scene change: The library of Nargothrond. Gwindor and Finduilas are sitting together on a bench in the midst of the books. Gwindor is sitting as if in a sort of pleasant dream, listening to Finduilas reading from a book in her hand.]

Finduilas: [reading:]

                Farewell now here, ye leaves of trees,

                your music in the morning breeze!

                Farewell now blade and bloom and grass

                that see the changing seasons pass;

ye waters murmuring over stone,

and meres that silent stand alone!

                Farewell now mountain, vale, and plain!

                Farewell now wind, and frost, and rain,

                and mist and cloud, and heaven’s air;

                ye star and moon so blinding fair

                that still shall look down from the sky

                on the wide earth, though Beren die –

                though Beren die not, and yet deep,

                deep, whence comes of those that weep

                no dreadful echo, lie and choke

                in everlasting dark and smoke.

[But as she is in the middle of reading the door opens and she sees Túrin walking in, dressed in his black battle garb. Without seeming to notice anyone he goes over, and begins looking in books, and sits down at a table across the library from them. Finduilas watches him, and thus her reading becomes slower, and distracted, as she goes on. At last, Gwindor looks up to see what is impeding her reading, and notices that she is looking at Túrin. He looks at Túrin, and the back at Finduilas, with a look on his face that is first thoughtful, then sad.]

Gwindor: [softly:]

                Faelivrin, are you all right?

Finduilas: [looks at him]

                Oh, oh yes, I am sorry. I was thinking and got distracted. Where were we? Ah, here:

Farewell sweet earth and northern sky,
for ever blest, since here did lie
and here with lissom limbs did run
beneath the Moon, beneath the Sun,
Lúthien Tinúviel
more fair than mortal tongue can tell.
Though all to ruin fell the world
and were dissolved and backward hurled
unmade into the old abyss,
yet were its making good, for this –
the dusk, the dawn, the earth, the sea –
that Lúthien for a time should be.

[She reads very slowly, and becomes more and more thoughtful and appears more troubled the more she reads. But now Gwindor does not lean back, but watches her carefully, out of her sight. When she comes to the last line, her equilibrium appears disturbed. She lays the book aside.]

Finduilas:

That is enough of that. Shall we do something else now instead, Gwindor? How about visit Celebrimbor in his class? Or what would you like to do?

                [She stands up and offers him her hand.]

Gwindor: [quiet:]

                No, that is well, Faelivrin.

[He takes her hand and they walk out together, she trying very hard not to glance back at Túrin as they exit. As they leave, the Lady from earlier in Act IV, her friend the Scribe, are standing at the other end of the library, watching them, and whispering covertly together.]

Lady:

                You know, that is such an interesting situation.

Scribe:

                What is?

Lady:

                Between the Lord Gwindor and Lady Finduilas.

Scribe:

                Oh, in truth? I know they are betrothed, and that Gwindor was gone for quite some time.

                [The Lady nods, with the look of one who has superior knowledge.]

Lady:

                Yes, but, you know, they were going to be married ere he went to the war?

                [the Scribe nods]

Well, and the Lady Finduilas spoke of still having the wedding plans made ready. But … the Lord Gwindor has been back for over three years, and I have not seen any wedding preparations being made.

Scribe:

Now that you mention that, I have not either. And – the Lady Finduilas seems to look sad, and wan of late. And the Lord Gwindor …

Lady: [nods]

                Yes. He was coming out of his darkness, but he seems to have slipped back into it again.

Scribe:

                I wonder why.

Lady:

                I can tell you what I think.

                [she nods over to Túrin where he sits at a table nearby]

Scribe:

                The Mormegil? What has he to do with it?

Lady: [shrugs]

                I know not. But let me ask you this: how could any maiden not fall in love with him?

                [The Scribe looks pensive, and does not answer. Scene fades black.]

[Scene change: the great hall in Menegroth. Mablung comes in, leading two wayworn travelers in behind him. They both have mud-stained cloaks on, and look tired as they stand by him before Thingol and Melian.]

Mablung:

Sire, Morwen and her daughter Nienor have come at last to Doriath. I found them wandering in the Maze and led them hither.

                [Melian looks delighted at seeing them. Thingol smiles.]

Thingol:

                Well done, Mablung. Welcome, Morwen.

Morwen:

                Thank you, lord.

Melian:

                And welcome, Nienor.

Nienor:

                Thank you, lady.

Thingol:

You are welcome here, and shall be honoured here as guests of the King. We shall have rooms prepared for you, and new raiment.

Morwen:

Thank you, lord; we are blessed, for the way hither was made free by the Black Sword of Nargothrond.

Thingol:

                I have heard of him.

Morwen:

But, lord, the most pressing desire on my heart right now is to see Túrin, my son. Would you summon him to us?

[pause; Thingol stops. He looks over at Melian and something seems to pass between them in that sad glance. At last, Melian speaks:]

Melian: [gentle:]

I am sorry, Morwen. Túrin departed from this land, and though we have searched long and for several years, we have not found him. And Beleg, our march warden, left to see him, and has not returned.

                [pause; Morwen’s eyes lose all light and fire, and her face turns pale like death]

Thingol: [soft:]

                I am sorry.

[Morwen turns and goes from the Hall, as if in a trance, Nienor following her worriedly. Mablung stays by the thrones at a sign from the King and watches them anxiously. Morwen makes it all the way out of the Hall before she stops and bursts into tears, leaning against a pillar, and burying her face in her hands. Nienor comes up to her, distressed.]

Nienor:

                Mother, do not weep! Perhaps he shall return…

Morwen: [through her tears:]

                Where has he gone? O, Túrin! O my son!

Nienor:

Do not grieve. My heart feels that we shall see him again. And they say they had sent their marchwarden to find him. He might bring him back.

[But Morwen dries her tears and stands up straight and proud.]

Morwen:

                I shall weep no more. I shall bear it all – in silence.

                [Scene fades.]