SCENE XXVII

[Scene: Gwindor walks through the doors of the Hall of Hours with his unsteady gait, and seems to be looking for someone. When he sees Finduilas at the other end of the hall, he goes slowly towards her. She is sitting on a bench of marble beside a bright fountain, reading a blue book with silver binding, and silver letter in the Elvish runes on the front. She sees him as he comes closer to her.]

Finduilas:

                Gwindor! How are you this day?

Gwindor: [sadly, almost wistfully:]

                Finduilas…

Finduilas:

                Here, come sit beside me.

[She takes his arm and leads him to sit beside her. There is silence between them for several moments, and they do not look at each other. Both of them look miserable, but Finduilas is concealing it better than Gwindor.]

                You … you do not look well, dear.

                [pause]

Gwindor:

                No. Nor do you.

[Finduilas gnaws her bottom lip miserably and tries to take his arm. He pulls it away from her.]

Finduilas: [upset:]

                Gwindor, why do you withdraw your arm from me?

Gwindor:

                Why indeed?

                [long pause]

                You know, Finduilas, and yet you will not speak of it. Must I, then?

                [Finduilas’ face turns white. There is a pause]

Finduilas: [desperately:]

Finduilas! Why do you call me Finduilas? Why do you no longer call me Faelivrin, Gwindor? Why?

[At last he turns to her and looks into her eyes, with such a deep sadness that she looks away.]

                Why?

Gwindor: [softly:]

                Finduilas, I know the secret of your heart; you need not fear revealing it to me.

                [Finduilas turns back and looks at him.]

Finduilas: [anguished:]

                Gwindor –

                [He puts up his hand]

Gwindor:

                Let me finish – please?

                [there is such gentleness in his voice that she acquiesces instantly, nodding]

I wish for no grief to lie between us; for though Morgoth has laid my life in ruin, you still I love.

[she shudders, as if a sob is rising in her, and turns her face away from him. He continues softly:]

Go whither love leads you; but beware! It is not fitting that the Eldar Children of the One should wed with the Younger –

                [she shakes her head]

– nor is it wise, for they are brief, and soon pass, to leave us in widowhood while the world lasts. Neither will fate suffer it, unless once or twice only, for some high cause of doom that we do not perceive. But this Man is not Beren.

                [her shoulders shudder again, and she puts her face in her hands]

A doom indeed lies on him, as seeing eyes may read in him, but a dark doom. Enter not into it! And if you will, your love shall betray you to bitterness and death. For hearken to me! Though he be indeed agarwaen son of úmarth, blood-stained son of ill-fate, his right name is Túrin son of Húrin, whom Morgoth holds in Angband, and whose kin he has cursed.

                [earnestly:]

                Doubt not the power of Morgoth Bauglir! Is it not written in me?

[her shoulders are shaking and her face is in her hands. For several minutes she sits there and does not respond; then, when she seems to have gathered herself, she turns to him, and tears are on her eyelids]

Finduilas: [miserable:]

Your eyes are dimmed, Gwindor. You do not see or understand what is here come to pass. Must I now be put to double shame to reveal the truth to you? For I love you, Gwindor, and I am ashamed that I love you not more, but have taken a love even greater, from which I cannot escape. I did not seek it, and long I put it aside. But I have pity for your hurts, have pity for mine. Túrin loves me not; nor will.

                [Gwindor turns away]

Gwindor: [bitter:]

                You say this to take the blame from him whom you love.

                [turns back to her, still bitter:]

                Why does he seek you out, and come ever more glad away?

Finduilas:

Because he also needs solace, and is bereaved of his kin, as he has told me. But what of Finduilas? Now is it not enough that I must confess myself to you unloved, but that you should say I speak in order to deceive you?

                [Gwindor looks pained and weary, and turns away from her; pause]

Gwindor: [sighs]

No… a woman is not easily deceived in such a case. Nor will you find many who will deny that they are loved, if it is true.

Finduilas: [grieved:]

If any of us three be faithless, it is I: but not in will. But what of your doom, and rumours of Angband? What of death and destruction? The Adanedhel is mighty in the tale of the world, and his stature shall reach to Morgoth in some far day to come.

Gwindor: [shakes his head]

                He is proud.

Finduilas:

But also he is merciful. He is not yet awake, but still pity can ever pierce his heart, and he will never deny it. Pity maybe shall be the only entry. But he does not pity me. He holds me in awe, as were I both his mother and a queen!

Gwindor: [softly:]

                Perhaps it is better that way.

Finduilas:

Yes, my dear Gwindor: can you forgive me? Forgive me for the wrongs I have done you and the pain I have caused you?

[He does not answer for several moments, and it is only when he at last speaks that she notices he is crying softly.]

Gwindor:

                Yes, Finduilas: I forgive you … but I cannot call you Faelivrin ever again.

[He gets up and starts limping away, and she tries to follow him, calling his name, but he says through his tears:]

                No, do not follow me – please!

[and goes from the hall, leaving Finduilas sitting on the marble, looking after him through eyes blurred with tears. Scene fades.]

[Scene change: the library of Nargothrond. Finduilas is listlessly looking through books, trying to find something to interest her, but her mind is too restless and upset to focus on any one thing. Her face is pale and her eyes lack the luster of past scenes, but seem dull and cold. As she looks carelessly through the books, Túrin comes up in between the two shelves where she’s standing, with a book in his hand.]

Túrin:

                My lady –

                [she turns around hearing his voice, a momentary flush coming to her cheeks]

                I want to return the book you lent to me.

                [he holds the book out to her]

Finduilas:

                Oh … thank you.

                [she takes it from him]

                Did you enjoy it?

Túrin:

Yes, very much. I want to thank you for recommending it. There were two poetic forms that especially interested me.

Finduilas:

                Oh? What were those?

Túrin: [thoughtful:]

One of them I had heard of before; but I cannot recall what it was called. Its rhyme scheme was strange, but beautiful.

Finduilas:

                I am not certain …

Túrin:

                I am trying to remember what it is named … Ann … Anth…

Finduilas:

                Ann-thenath?

Túrin: [pensive:]

                Yes, I think that was it.

Finduilas:

                Oh yes, that is lovely.

                [she begins looking through the various pages of poetry]

                Ah, here is one written in this style.

                [she begins to read:]

                Long was the way that fate them bore
                O’er stony mountains cold and grey
                Through halls of iron and darkling door
                And woods of nightshade morrowless.
                The Sundering Seas between them lay,
                And yet … at last … they met once more …

[Her reading becomes softer and slower as she goes on, and she eventually stops, in consternation. Túrin doesn’t notice her reaction, being in thought.]

Túrin:

                Yes, that was it. It is a lovely style of poetry.

Finduilas: [faintly:]

                Yes. What – what was the other – you enjoyed?

Túrin:

Oh, it was another more traditional poetic form, but the wording was so beautiful. It – it reminded me of the house of my childhood – where I long to return.

                [she looks up at him]

                Will you not sit down, my lady, so I may show you from the book?

Finduilas: [nods]

                Y – yes.

[He goes through the rows of books and sits down on a bench at the end of it, facing the open centre of the library. She sits down beside him, and hands him the book.]

                Here you are.

Túrin: [taking it]

                Thank you.

                [he looks through the pages for a moment, then comes to it]

                Ah, here it is! I will read you the last stanza, which is my favourite.

[as he begins to read, his voice is smooth and deep, perfect for reading poetry, which he does well, and with emotion]

Than Middle-earth more fair and free,
Than Paradise more faint and far,
O! shore beyond the Shadowy Sea,
O! land forlorn where lost things are,
O! mountains where no man may be!
The solemn surges on the bar
Beyond the world's edge waft to me;
I dream I see a wayward star,
Than beacon towers in Gondobar
More fair, where faint upon the sky
On hills imagineless and far
The lights of longing flare and die.

[He stops, and notices that Finduilas is stiffing and wiping her eyes. He looks at her with concern.]

                But what is wrong, my lady?

Finduilas: [shakes her head]

                Oh, no, it is just – such a beautiful poem – and you read it so well!

Túrin: [serious, and concerned:]

You seem aggrieved of late, and for all my thought I cannot discover what is the cause of your sorrow. Why are you grieved? I pray you will not worry for Gwindor, for he will heal in time –

Finduilas: [interrupting him:]

                No, no, ‘tis not that.

[She turns away from him, still wiping her tears away. Túrin frowns, as if in thought. There is a pause.]

                Who wrote that poem? It is lovely – and you read it – so well.

Túrin:

                This says it was written by Pengolodh of Tirion.

Finduilas:

Yes. That sounds right. He was always a wonderful poet. I remember, we use to tease him about his poetry, and Gwindor would say –

                [she stops, and bites her lip, trying to hold back tears, still not looking at him]

Túrin: [concerned:]

My lady, if there is any way I can lend you aid, I bid you tell me at once, for I will do anything I can to ease your comfort.

Finduilas: [smiles sadly:]

                No, Adanedhel, there is not.

                [to herself; aside:]

                The one thing I would have you could not give.

                [aloud, angrily:]

                Oh, for shame, for shame, Finduilas! Have you no control over your own feelings?!

                [Túrin seems shocked by this angry self-denunciation]

Túrin: [troubled:]

My lady, I am deeply sorry if any action among my conduct has caused you grief. I pray you, please to tell me what has offended you, and I shall amend it.

[At this point Finduilas seems to have gained control over herself. She finally turns back to him.]

Finduilas:

Forgive me, Adanedhel. I am well. That poem evoked emotions that have long lain hidden. They shall not arise again, and I pray you shall pardon me.

Túrin: [still slightly troubled:]

                Of course, my lady.

Finduilas:

                But, I wonder if you would permit me to ask you a question.

Túrin:

                Certainly.

Finduilas: [gently:]

Thurin Adanedhel, why did you hide your name from me? Had I known who you were I should not have honoured you less, but I should better have understood your grief.

                [pause; Túrin looks at her in confusion]

Túrin:

                What do you mean? Whom do you make me?

Finduilas:

                Túrin son of Húrin Thalion, captain of the North.

                [At this Túrin stands up in shock and stares at her in consternation.]

Túrin: [voice trembling:]

                Who told you? How do you know?

Finduilas:

                Gwindor did. But, Túrin, what do you fear?

                [she stands up]

Túrin:

                Nothing but my own doom.

Finduilas:

                But –

Túrin:

                Please, please excuse me. I – I must go –

[He speeds out of the library, and leave Finduilas standing there, looking slightly confused.]

[Scene change: Lord Guilin’s apartments. Túrin comes in quickly to the sitting room, where Guilin sees him.]

Guilin:

                Hello, my boy. Is all well?

Túrin:

                Yes, yes. Is Gwindor here?

Guilin:

                Yes – in his room.

[Túrin goes to Gwindor’s room, which is next to his own, and knocks on the door. Then, hearing an affirmation from the other side of the door, comes in. Gwindor is sitting at his desk.]

Gwindor: [softly:]

                Yes? What is it?

Túrin: [looks at him angrily:]

In love I hold you for rescue and safe keeping. But now you have done ill to me, friend, to betray my right name, and call my doom upon me, from which I would lie hid.

Gwindor: [softly:]

                The doom lies in yourself, not in your name.

[With a frustrated sigh, Túrin sits on the bed. Gwindor gets up and goes over to a wooden chest that sits next to the wall, and gets out of it a huge helm – with the symbol of a dragon on it – and brings it over to Túrin.]

Túrin: [amazed:]

                The Dragon-helm of my fathers! Where did you get this, Gwindor!

Gwindor:

When you were captured by the Orcs in Taur-nu-Fuin, and they fled in fear of the storm, they left many of their spoil behind them, perhaps being too heavy for the road. Before we departed I – went and found it, and brought it back with us.

Túrin:

                Thank you.

[He takes it from him and looks at it for several moments in awe. Then he sets it on his head, and very fierce he looks now.]

I shall no longer hide in the shadows. The Helm shall return, and Glaurung, the Worm of Morgoth, shall come to fear my Black Sword!

[Scene fades black. Scene change: Orodreth’s chambers. Orodreth is behind his desk, and the Steward is standing by him. The Steward is looking at the king in disbelief.]

Steward:

                What? What is his name?

Orodreth:

                Túrin son of Húrin.

Steward:

                How do you know this, your majesty?

Orodreth:

                Finduilas told me.

                [the Steward stops in amazement]

                This is great tidings. I must speak with him.

Steward:

                It all makes sense now!

Orodreth:

                Of course. Had I known who he was …

                [pause]

                Why did he keep his name hidden?

Steward: [shrugs:]

                I know not, sire.

Orodreth:

                Bring Túrin hither. I wish to speak with him.

Steward:

                Yes, lord.

[He bows and goes out, still looking dazed. As he is leaving, Celebrimbor is also coming in the door.]

Celebrimbor:

                Ah – sorry to bother you.

Orodreth:

                No, no. Come in, Celebrimbor. I am just waiting for Túrin.

                [Celebrimbor stops]

Celebrimbor:

                Túrin? Son of Húrin? Where –? How did he come here? When?

                [Orodreth looks at him.]

Orodreth:

                Túrin son of Húrin, my dear cousin, is Adanedhel, the Black Sword of Nargothrond.

                [pause; Celebrimbor looks stricken with surprise]

Celebrimbor:

                The Mormegil … is … ?

                [he seems to come to a resolution suddenly]

                Orodreth, we need to talk about your daughter. I must tell you, I am concerned –

Orodreth: [eyebrow raised:]

                What, you have a proposal of marriage? This was rather abrupt.

Celebrimbor:

                Do not be ridiculous –

Orodreth:

                I was just joking you, cousin. No harm done.

Celebrimbor: [looking at him under his eyebrows]

                I hope so.

Orodreth: [shrugs]

                Some say she looks like her aunt.

[Celebrimbor turns and is on his way out of the room. Orodreth goes up after him and takes his arm.]

                Celebrimbor, forgive me, I was cruel. I only meant it as a joke.

                [The smith turns back to him.]

Celebrimbor: [coolly:]

                Very well.

                [He goes back over towards the desk with Orodreth, who remains standing.]

                I am concerned about your daughter -

                [pointedly:]

– who is many years my younger – who may be enmeshing herself in some doom of which she knows nothing.

                [Orodreth looks at him seriously]

Orodreth:

                Has she said anything to you? Have you spoken with her?

Celebrimbor:

I have; but I do not wish to betray any of her confidences without her permission. It concerns the Black Sword of Nargothrond, whom you name as Túrin son of Húrin. A curse is upon him!

Orodreth: [looks thoughtful and serious]

                I known not what lies behind your words.

Celebrimbor:

                Rumour comes from Angband that Morgoth has laid a curse upon Húrin and all his kin.

Orodreth:

                And what has Finduilas to do with this?

Celebrimbor:

                That I pray you might ask her, if my hints have not done enough to tell you.

Orodreth:

                I wish you would tell me, Celebrimbor, what it is –

                [Suddenly there is a knock on the door and the Steward comes in, followed by Túrin.]

Steward:

                Excuse me for interrupting, your highness.

Orodreth:

                That is well.

Túrin:

                You called for me, lord?

Orodreth:

                Yes, I did, Túrin son of Húrin: for so my daughter tells me you are named.

Túrin:

                Yes, sire.

Orodreth:

Why did you not tell me of this before? I wish you had, for I would have given you great honour.

Túrin:

                What does a name mean, sire? It was mine to keep or to share.

Orodreth:

Indeed. But now that I know it, I shall give you great honour, and you shall be second-highest in the kingdom, save only myself!

Túrin: [earnest and distressed:]

Please, lord, do what you will; but I pray my name will not be spoken abroad. I wish that my abiding place should not be discovered!

Orodreth: [thoughtful:]

                Very well; if that is your wish, Túrin, I will honour it.

Túrin: [relieved:]

                Thank you, lord.

Orodreth:

                Now, I wish for your counsel.

Túrin:

                Yes, lord?

[Orodreth goes over to his desk, and shows his different things on the map. The Steward and Celebrimbor go out, talking together (Celebrimbor still looking slightly worried). ]

Orodreth:

As you know, we received news that great armies are massing in the North, and are coming down the mouths of Sirion, towards Nargothrond. And … Glaurung the Dragon is at their head. They shall be here in a week’s time.

Túrin:

                We should not back down, sire, now that we have revealed ourselves. We cannot.

Orodreth:

                Then we should go out to meet them? Even with Glaurung at their head?

Túrin:

Yes, lord. There is no question. If we drive this greatest army back, no other shall return to plague us again.

Orodreth: [looks relieved:]

Thank you. I knew you should have the right advice. When should we begin marshalling the troops?

Túrin:

Right away. As soon as possible. We only have a week. And we shall need every able-bodied male in this Kingdom.

Orodreth: [nods]

                Yes. I shall give orders concerning that right away.

                [Scene fades out.]

Author's Note: The two poems in italics are by J.R.R. Tolkien: the first is from the Fellowship of the Ring, the second is the last stanza of "The Nameless Land" which is in The Lost Road and Other Tales. I changed a word in the first line, from "Tir-nan-Og" to "Middle-earth" because Tir-nan-Og is a place in Irish legend, and didn't make sense in a Middle-earth context, as far as I saw.