CHAPTER 6: FORGIVENESS, PART 2    

The elven father leaned against the carved headboard of his son’s bed and kissed the crown of the silently weeping elfling in his arms, using one hand to rub his back soothingly. His other hand parted the elf-child’s hair – still moist from his evening bath – to study the small bruise on the fair skin between his left eye and his temple. It would be gone by tomorrow, and it hurt the feelings of the little elfling more than it did his skin; of that, his ada was certain.

“Who was at fault, ion nin?” the elf asked gently, tilting his head to peer at the face half-hidden in the folds of his father’s tunic.

At the question, small, slender hands clutched the tunic tighter and the face pushed itself further into the folds. 

“Tell me, tithen pen,” the father coaxed. “Who was at fault?”

“Both,” came the muffled reply.

His father smiled. At least his son was being honest. When the crying elfling had been brought home by his older brother, no one could say for certain what had happened except that he had been in a little scuff with his playmate, the same elfling who had often shared his bed and bedtime stories and many days and nights of laughter.

The father smiled again. His son was probably also hurting more from his squabble with his good friend than from the bruise.

“I called him Chestnut,” the elfling volunteered from within the folds of the tunic. “He did not like it.”

Ada suppressed an urge to chuckle and kept his voice as steady as he could when he posed his query: “Why did you call him that?”

“He is too fond of roasted chestnuts, and he eats the most!” the elfling replied candidly as part of his face reappeared. “We call him that all the time, but today, it made him angry.”

“Well then, perhaps it is time you ceased to tease him by that name,” his father suggested, catching the elfling’s chin and tilting it so that their eyes met.

Long lashes, wet with tears, lowered to hide the child’s eyes. “I will not call him that again,” he said remorsefully, “but… but he should not have… ”

And the elfling hid his face again, sobbing quietly and wetting his father’s tunic.

“He should not have… what? What did he do?” the father coaxed again, knowing that his son needed to talk about it. 

“Thruwerchshntheme!” the elfling cried sorrowfully, or as sorrowful as a muffled little voice swathed in cloth could sound.

His father’s brows knitted in confusion. “What?”

“Hethruwerchshntheme! Anitwezhebiwentoo!” the elfling said again, frustrated that his ada could not understand something he was expressing so loudly and clearly.

His father groaned and finally forced the elfling to release his face and lips from their confinement so that he could repeat what he had mumbled. Pushing the hair back from the smooth face, Ada asked gently: “I know not in what language you just spoke, ion nin, but can you say that again in Elvish, please?”

 Missing the teasing sarcasm, the elfling protested: “But I was speaking Elvish, Ada! I said: he – threw – a – chestnut – at – me – and – it – was – a – big – one – too! It hurt! See?”

The elfling pointed a slender finger at the very mild bruise on the fine, delicate skin on his head – most likely caused by the jagged edge of a huge chestnut shell – but what his father saw was a bigger dent in his son’s pride.

“Well, he must have been angry at you then, for you hurt him, too,” the older elf said gently, and watched his son lower his face. “I hope you did not fight with him after that?”

“No, Ada,” the elfling said meekly. “I wanted to throw a chestnut back at him, but…”

Ada waited, glad that his son had exercised restraint. “But…?” he prompted.

“But I had no more chestnuts,” the elfling admitted.

His father sucked in a breath and shook his head, not knowing whether to laugh or lament. “Oh, ion nin,” he sighed. “Would you have done it if there had been more chestnuts?”

The elfling kept his head bowed as he pondered the question.

“Maybe,” he said in a small voice, to his father’s disappointment. “But I would have regretted it,” the elfling added, and his father sighed in relief. “If he does not like the name, I should not use it. So I – I was partly to blame.”

The elven father hugged his son tightly then, proud of the elfling’s willingness to see things from his friend’s point of view. 

“Then you can both forgive each other, tithen pen,” he said. “What happened was but a small… um… error. There have been far more serious mistakes for which good friends have forgiven each other.”

The father had the elfling’s attention now, and the elf-child uncurled himself to his full length to lie against his father’s torso and thigh. “What mistakes, Ada?”

“Well… I have not yet told you how the tale of Beleg and Túrin ends,” his father replied. “But when the story has been told, you will know to what lengths of forgiveness good friends can go.”

The elfling listened in rapt attention as his father began.

As the fame of the Two Captains grew, Dor-cùathol – the Land of Bow and Helm – became known to the spies out of Angband, and Morgoth laughed, for he now knew where the Dragon-helm, son of Hùrin, had his stronghold. Before long, the dark forces had ringed Amon Rûdh and Bar-en-Danwedh where Tùrin lay in hiding.

In the waning of the year, orcs tricked a dwarf into revealing the location of Bar-en-Danwedh and stormed it at night, taking Tùrin and Beleg and their companions unawares. Some were slain as they slept, but many held their defence to the last, staining the stones with their blood where they fought till they, too, fell. Tùrin alone was captured when a net was thrown over him, and he was borne north by the orcs, towards the ShadowyMountains. Thus ended the band of men that Tùrin had gathered and lived with to fight the forces of Angband, with Beleg at his side. 

Beleg lay among the slain – but, as grievously injured as he was, he was not yet dead. When the dwarf found him alive, he tried to kill him out of a hatred he had long harbored towards the elf. But Beleg was the swifter, and he thwarted the dwarf’s stroke and sent him fleeing and wailing as he ran. The elf cast curses upon the fleeing figure, for he was furious and grief-stricken, thinking Tùrin slain.

Failing to find the body of his beloved friend, he used his great skills to heal himself so that he could go in pursuit, though he felt it would be a pursuit of little hope. With a great will, he followed the trail on which his friend had been taken, and was soon not far from where the captive was, for the orcs that had taken Tùrin had not the endurance of Beleg, nor the depth of his love that had kept him going without sleep or rest.

“It was on that trail that Beleg came across Gwindor,” the elven father said.

“Who was he?” the elfling asked quietly, his face still streaked with his drying tears.

“He was an elf,” came the reply, “although, when Beleg found him, he was but a bent and fearful shadow of the strong and noble elf he had been, for he had been taken prisoner in Angband and had escaped. But Beleg helped him regain his strength, and told him about his pursuit of the adan. To his surprise, Gwindor said he had seen the man being dragged into the dreadful woods of Taur-nu-Fuin – almost at the gates of Morgoth’s bastion – and the weakened elf tried to dissuade Beleg from following suit into a place where there would be little hope of rescue and great risk of meeting the same dire fate as his friend.”

“But… Beleg went on despite the warning?” the elfling guessed.

“Quite right, ion nin,” his father answered, smiling and stroking his child’s hair. “You are now able to tell how the noble Beleg would have acted. Indeed, the Strongbow would not abandon his friend even though he felt despair, and through his own courage, kindled hope in Gwindor’s heart as well. So the pair went on, pursuing the trail deeper into enemy territory. And as they traveled, Beleg spoke to Gwindor of his friend, so that it was from Gwindor that some parts of the beautiful but tragic tale of Beleg and Tùrin was later passed down to other elves.”

The elven father’s face took on a distant and sad expression at the recollection, but he was brought back to the present when his son voiced a question: “Why was it tragic, Ada? What happened after that?”

His father looked at him, wondering for a moment whether his son was still too young to learn of so awful an end to so great a friendship, but he decided that he would have to learn to live with death and sorrow throughout his long, immortal life, and it was better than he learn from this tale the preciousness of life when one still had it. Having decided thus, the elven father took a deep breath and continued.

Beleg and Gwindor eventually came upon a dell where the enemy had made camp, and Beleg’s heart was moved both with joy and pity when he saw Tùrin where he lay fettered. Knives had been cast at and around him, embedded in the wood of the tree to which he was now tied, and he was sleeping from great weariness. The orcs had set wolf-sentinels around their camp and began carousing. As a great storm came rolling in, the elves used the darkness and sound of thunder to cover their stealthy movements as they stole towards the prisoner, in great peril of being discovered. Beleg shot the sentinels one by one, and when they reached Tùrin, they cut him loose from the tree and bore his sleeping form away quietly from the camp.

But they only managed to get to a thicket of trees where they had to lay the man down, for he was still unconscious, and the storm was coming very near to them so that they needed shelter. Beleg’s joy and gratitude at having found his friend again knew no bounds, and with shaking hands, he drew his sword Anglachel to cut loose the fetters that still bounds Tùrin. 

Alas for the ill-fated friends, for great sorrow had been written on the sword. Beleg had learned of this even as he asked for the sword to be given to him before he left Doriath, and Queen Melian had warned him of some grievous consequence that the sword would bring, but he had taken the weapon nonetheless.

This day, Gwindor bore witness to the dreadful truth of Melian’s words: for, as Beleg was cutting the shackles from Tùrin’s feet, the accursed sword slipped and pricked the man’s foot. The sudden sharp pain brought Túrin back to awareness, and he sat up.

The dark and the cloud-covered sky – or perhaps fate – blinded Túrin that night, and in his state of fatigue and bleariness, he saw only the outline of someone looming above him – with a sword in his hand, a sword that had a moment ago brought injury to his foot. In desperation and blind panic, and with some reserve of strength he did not know he had, the man got up faster than his elf friend could have anticipated and grappled with the figure in the dark, thinking him one of his hated orc captors.

Fate also stopped Túrin’s ears that night, for the man’s cry of fear and the harsh wind drowned out Beleg’s desperate attempts to tell his friend who he was: he who had followed the man through fire and snow and near-death, he who would have been the last person in Arda to cause the Dragon-helm harm.

Not seeing and not hearing a Truth that would have lent longer years to one of the greatest friendships in the history of Elf and Man, Túrin wrested the sword of Death from the elf who could not have hurt the man even to save himself, and with one fatal stab, the man took the life of the friend who had come to save his. 

It had all happened too fast for Gwindor to do anything, and in horror now did he see the Strongbow fall. In the next instant, a terrible streak of lightning, coming too late, lit the stage on which Túrin son of Húrin stood, for him to witness – to his own heart-stopping and unbelieving horror – the scene of death that had just been played out, in which he had been the main actor, the untainted blood of a noble friend still fresh on his hands.

When Túrin beheld the ugly truth and realized the cruel error, he was first muted by utter shock and his limbs became useless as he sank to the ground. For long minutes ensuing, he became as one possessed and tore at his hair, for here he was kneeling before one who had given up his home and kin, left the safety of his kingdom, and changed the course of his whole life to remain at the side of his proud, stubborn friend – and here he lay dead, smitten by the hand of that friend, he whom he most loved. 

Turin prostrated himself before the still form, first laying his head on the chest that would rise and fall no more, then at the feet of the elf that had traversed so many journeys to find him, and having found him, to fight his battles with him. The distraught man then placed his tearful face against the brow of his friend, begging and pleading for forgiveness from lips that would no longer speak. Long moments passed before Turin let out one long, terrible cry of painful remorse and self-reproach into the wind and rain. And after that terrible cry, he fell dumb.

Gwindor watched this whole scene, cloaked in grief himself at the tragic turn of events, and now shivering with fear for this man whom Túrin had given his life to find and aid. Shaking himself out of a dazed stupor, Gwindor made himself move to calm and comfort the man, receiving only the cold, hard looks of a living corpse in return.

The elven father stopped his narration at this point, and both storyteller and listener sat in silence for some moments, feeling the pain of a remorseful adan across the centuries.   

“It was a mistake,” the elfling whispered, breaking the silence and jolting his father into awareness. “He did not mean it.”

“Aye, it was a terrible mistake,” his father agreed. “But it was the biggest one of his life, and it turned his heart to stone. He grew hard and bitter – mainly with himself – and it was a long time before Túrin could even mourn and let his tears out. It took… it took… well, Gwindor had to help him.”

“Túrin, I cannot pretend to know your pain” the elf said one day when he saw the man brooding silently again. “But I can tell you what Beleg told me, and what he would say to you at this moment.”

Still distraught, Túrin listened nevertheless as Gwindor told him that Beleg had spoken to him about his friendship with the man and about all that had happened since Túrin’s arrival in Doriath.

“It seemed strange to me that he should have taken to the wilds and lived among men and some dwarves solely for your sake, and I am not ashamed to say I did question the wisdom of his choices,” Gwindor said honestly, looking Túrin in the eye, “and I asked why he would still remain with you when your stubbornness and pride had cost him much that was precious to him.”

Túrin looked and felt even greater guilt at those words, and wondered why Gwindor chose to tell him this when he already hated himself, but before he could make any protest, the elf continued. 

“These were his words of response to me, adan: ‘I would do anything for him – gladly yield my life, and even if that should be the cost, I would still absolve him of blame, for he is a good man who has been met with an unkind fate, and I love him.’ ”

Clearly could Túrin envision such words from his dead friend, for, even if they had not been uttered, the elf’s every action bore testimony to what Gwindor claimed he had said.

“That is how I know, son of Húrin, that he would forgive you even for this… this sad deed…for it was unwittingly done,” the elf continued softly. “His was the truest of friendships – his a love that knew no bounds. And you insult him greatly if you think he is not capable of such forgiveness; you do him an injustice if you think he would not have understood.”

The elf saw at last some small change come over the dark, stony countenance of the man before him as they sat by a lake. It was as the slow but sure thawing of bitter cold ice under a brightening sky, and the eyes that had been glass orbs now softened, flecked with dim, moving points of light.

“Free yourself of this shackle of grief, son of Húrin, even as he died trying to free you of the shackles that bound your feet,” Gwindor urged kindly. Pointing to the lake, he continued: “It is said that the water of Ivrin’s lake is kept pure by Ulmo himself, he who is Lord of Waters. Drink of it, adan, and after that, remember Beleg, and do deeds in his name, for by doing so, you bring honor to his sacrifice.”

At the elf’s coaxing, Túrin drank from the lake, and as he did so, he felt the melting and draining away of layers of remorse that he had carried since the discovery of his cruel mistake. And the son of Húrin suddenly broke down then, loosing the tears held back by the madness of his grief and weeping freely. Heedless of peril, he sang aloud the Song of the Great Bow that he made by the shores of the lake, in honor of Beleg Cúthalion, truest of friends.

“The Strongbow probably looked upon Turin from the Halls of Mandos after his death – and whispered his forgiveness to his friend, if only Turin had taken the time to listen and feel,” the storyteller finished.

The elfling was stunned into silence at the tragic end of the tale. Moved by the tenderness in his young heart, his eyes shone with fresh tears – now of pity and sorrow – which trailed down his fair cheeks when he blinked. His father wiped them off gently and held him close.

“So you see, my sweet child,” the elf said, “calling a friend a name and getting hit by a chestnut – are the smallest of hurts when you think about what Beleg and Túrin went through. How much easier it should be for you and your friend to overlook the things you have done wrong and to forgive each other, tithen pen. That is what true friendship is about.”

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That is what true friendship is about…

“Grandfather?” a small voice called.

And it lives in any age…

“Grandfather!”  Louder now, and Aragorn realized with a start that he had been quietly reflecting on the tale of Beleg and Túrin. He looked down at the curious eyes of his granddaughter and grandson.

“I was thinking about Beleg and Túrin,” he said, smiling apologetically. “You see, Túrin also made a very grave mistake which Beleg forgave him for.”

“What mistake? What did he do?”

Aragorn studied the young, innocent faces awaiting his answer, and decided that it was perhaps not the right time to tell them of the tragic slaying of the elf, so he said carefully: “When you are older, you can read about it, but for now, it is enough to know that when Túrin was captured by orcs, Beleg looked for him and came to help him, for he would not abandon his friend. But Túrin… he… er… hurt Beleg very badly. It was an accident… a sad mistake. I believe, though, that Beleg forgave him.”  

“Because true friends forgive each other’s mistakes,” Greenpea supplied, and Aragorn looked at him with pleasure and pride.

“Yes, Greenpea, they do,” the grandfather affirmed. “The knowledge of Beleg’s forgiveness brought some measure of peace to Túrin.”

Then a smile reached his eyes as he added:  “I know Legolas’ forgiveness gave me mine.”

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Peace was what the elven father saw on his son’s face at the close of the tale, even though the ends of the elfling’s lashes were still glistening. The child looked into his ada’s eyes.

“I will seek him tomorrow to tell him I am sorry,” he said in a small voice. “And I will forgive him for hitting me with the chestnut.”

Ada smiled in gladness. His little son was learning much from the bedtime stories.

The elfling lay his head down on his father’s chest again and breathed slowly, a sign that he was growing sleepy. “Ada…” he said quietly and paused.

“Yes, ion nin?” Ada queried softly, stroking his child’s hair.

“I just wish his aim had not been so good,” the elfling lamented through a yawn. Then he fell asleep to the sound of quiet laughter rumbling in his father’s chest.