SCENE XXIX

[Scene: The great bridge of Nargothrond from the gates of the city. The warriors of Nargothrond are marching forth, behind two tall leaders: Orodreth, and next to him, Túrin. Túrin is clad all in black, and the soldiers looks proudly at him as they march behind. He is wearing the Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin, which his mother sent to him in Doriath and Gwindor recovered for him, with a picture of a golden dragon engraved on the front. The field of battle: they are now on the great plain, and the orcs are massing against them. They fight all of them back, until, at last, a huge form comes through the trees, and a fire follows it. Then Túrin looks up, and sees Glaurung, the golden dragon (but note without wings). All the Elves fall back at the assault of Glaurung, and the orcs seem strengthened, and rush at them again. Many fall to the fire of Glaurung, and to the assault of the Orcs. Túrin leaves the side of Orodreth to go against the dragon, and he alone can withstand the flames, due to his helmet, but Glaurung avoids him, and before Túrin can get back, Orodreth has been wounded, and is lying on the ground. Túrin runs over to him.]

Túrin: [in distress:]

                My lord! My lord!

Orodreth: [with effort:]

                Please, Mormegil … go save Gwindor!

Túrin:

                Gwindor?

Orodreth:

                Yes. He is there … wounded. Farewell!

[He says no more, and Túrin looks over and sees Gwindor lying beside Orodreth, wounded in the side, still conscious. Without speaking, Túrin picks up Gwindor carefully, holding his poor bent body in his arms, and putting him on his horse, he rides out of the affray, away from the wreckage, and though some come against him, his wrath is too great to be withstood. He rides Gwindor over to a quiet place amid the trees, and lays him down on the grass. There are tears in his eyes.]

Túrin:

                Gwindor! Gwindor!

                [But Gwindor looks up at him, and speaks.]

Gwindor: [softly:]

Let bearing pay for bearing. But ill-fated was mine, and vain is thine; for my body is marred beyond healing, and I must leave Middle-earth. And though I love thee, son of Húrin, yet I rue the day that I took thee from the Orcs. But for thy prowess, and thy pride, still I should have love and life, and Nargothrond should stand yet a while. Now if thou love me, leave me! Haste thee to Nargothrond, and save Finduilas! And this last I say to thee: she alone stands between thee and thy doom. If thou fail her, it shall not fail to find thee. Farewell!

                [There are tears in Túrin’s eyes.]

Túrin:

                Gwindor! Gwindor!

[But Gwindor does not answer, and Túrin gets up, hearing the ruckus about him, and flees, going back towards Nargothrond as fast as he can.]

[The orcs have already gotten there before him. The battle is lost, and orcs are crowding over the bridge, going into the city, and carrying captives and booty out. Such is Túrin’s anger and strength that by himself, alone, he takes his black sword and cuts through all the host of orcs that crowds the bridge, and they flee away from him in fear. Túrin’s whole mind is set on reaching the captives, and so he barely notices when Glaurung issues from the great gates of the city, and stands at the other end of the bridge, right in front of the doors, his red serpent-eyes gleaming, and speaks to Túrin, in an evil voice:]

Glaurung:

                Hail, son of Húrin. Well met!

[Then Túrin turns about and sees him, and strides up against him with his sword all ablaze as with fire. But Glaurung does not spit forth his fire; he just looks at Túrin (Túrin, meanwhile, not looking anywhere near the dragon’s eyes, but only down at his feet, avoiding his gaze with his helmet).]

Thou wearest this helm because thou claimest my lordship, and thou as my vassal and retainer. Why else wouldst thou wear thy mater’s likeness on the crest of thy helm?

Túrin: [scornfully:]

Thou liest, and knowest it. For this image was made in scorn of thee; and while there is one to bear it doubt shall ever assail thee, lest the bearer deal thee thy doom.

Glaurung:

Then it must await a master of another name; for Túrin son of Húrin I do not fear. Otherwise is it. For he has not the hardihood to look me in the face, openly.

[At this taunting, Túrin looks up sharply from Glaurung’s feet, where he had been looking, and straight into the dragon’s eyes. The music becomes dark, rolling, and rather eldritch. He stands there as if he cannot move, and his eyes do not budge from the dragon’s, as if he is captured there, under a spell.]

                Evil have been all thy ways, son of Húrin. Thankless fosterling, outlaw, slayer of thy          friend, thief of love, usurper of Nargothrond, captain foolhardy, and deserter of thy kin.           As thralls thy mother and thy sister live in Dor-lómin, in misery and want. Thou art           arrayed as a prince, but they go in rags; and for thee they yearn, but thou carest not for   that. Glad may thy father be to learn he hath such a son; as learn he shall.

[Glaurung’s eyes hold him there, for several minutes, as all the captives are herded out before him. At this point, Finduilas’ theme (“Rise Up My Love” by Bill Douglas) once again is heard playing softly in the background, slightly above the noise of the captives and the battle. Finduilas is led out amid the captives. She is dressed in white, but her clothing is torn and muddy, and she is chained with the other captives, driven forward by the orcs with spears and swords. She sees Túrin and begins calling to him frantically, screaming at the top of her lungs:]

Finduilas:

Túrin! Túrin! Túrin please, help me! Túrin! Do you not see me! Túrin, why do you stand there? Túrin! Túrin! Túrin…!

[Túrin does not move; his eyes are still held by Glaurung’s. She passes away across the gate, still crying his name, and all the other captives pass, and the music fades. Then Túrin stirs, as if waking up from a bad dream, and springs at the dragon again. But Glaurung laughs at him, a cold grating sound, and says:]

Glaurung: [Note: Martin’s Shaw’s reading is perfect for this part:]

                If thou wilt by slain, I will slay thee gladly. But small help will that be to Morwen and      Nienor. No heed didst thou give to the cries of the Elf-woman. Wilt thou deny also the          bond of thy blood?

                [In anger, Túrin draws back and stabs at Glaurung’s eyes. But the dragon coils back and              towers above him, continuing:]

                Nay! At least thou art valiant; beyond all whom I have met. And they lie who say that we               of our part do not honour the valour of foes. See now! I offer thee freedom. Go to thy kin,     if thou canst. Get thee gone! And if Elf or Man be left to make tale of these days, then         surely in scorn they will name thee, if thou spurnest this gift.

                [Túrin looks into Glaurung’s eyes, and with a look of credulity, looks pensive, as if he      believes the dragon’s lies. Seeing this, Glaurung is pleased.]

                Haste thee now, son of Húrin, to Dor-lómin! Or perhaps the Orcs shall come before thee,               once again. And if thou tarry for Finduilas, then never shalt thou see Morwen again, and     never at all shalt thou see Nienor thy sister; and they will curse thee.

Túrin: [turns to go]

            I must depart at once!

                [He runs away from Glaurung, never looking back at the burning city. He runs and runs,               never stopping. The landscape flashes by, days passing, but in the background all Túrin         can hear is the screaming of Finduilas. Focusing briefly on his nightly camp, he lies away,               and through the darkness in the trees he looks out,  and hears Finduilas calling for his     aid. But he gets us, and, without sleep, passing on North. He comes at last to the               crystalline lake where Gwindor had brought him, and he was healed of his sorrow over   Beleg’s death. But it is frozen over, dark, dirty, and filled with mire. All the heath and            green around it is withered and dead, as if with flame and cold. He does not stay at the         sad place but continues on, in sorrow.]