This work requires knowledge of Tolkien’s Turin Turambar. Find commentary here.

“Evil have been all your ways, son of Hurin. Thankless fosterling, outlaw, slayer of your friend, thief of love, usurper of Nargothrond, captain foolhardy, and deserter of your kin. As thralls your mother and your sister live in Dor-Lomin, in misery and want. You are arrayed as a prince, but they go in rags. For you they yearn, but you care not for that. Glad may your father be to learn that he has such a son: as learn he shall.”¹

So spoke the dragon, and Turin heeded, and before him he saw written Thurin, Anadedhel that was, Mormegil even, in panoply of Hurin and deeds of outlaw garbed. He saw, and amidst this all the words which had followed him as he prepared his course returned, “Fear both the heat and the cold of your heart.” Cold words, they had seemed, and unnecessary to wit, but they had a taste different from the dragon’s speech. Fear the heat, the cold, he determined, and he forced the dragon’s words to rest all cold before him, that his heat might be chained aright.

Turin there stood, still frozen, and it came to his eyes that a dragon might speak truth, but it did so never in care. They will be lost, ere I reach, he said to himself, and seeing how his hold slipped, Glaurung made to speak again, but the thrall was too great, its opening half turned away by Melian’s power, and Turin heard not the dragon’s speech. Instead, he saw only that he must desert those before him, whose counsels he had usurped, and he could do so only for a fruitless quest, to save those already slain, already born captive. Aye, Morwen and Nienor, named in truth, a woman in darkness of mourning, bereft of aid.

His anger was roused, now, and he saw before him his counsellor, the wyrm, its fires a little cooled, its eyes immeasurably cruel, and he named Glaurung then Truth-bane, and Gurthang was in his hand to slay. Turin leapt, the orcs fleeing before him, their captives toppled, and Glaurung did not roar but hissed, his teeth growing hot and his bulk recoiling. Then they met, and Gurthang bit deep as Glaurung, white fire against red. Beneath them the bridge crumbled, dragon-lashed and smote with flame beyond bearing, and Turin pressed closer still. Beneath that wrack died many an elf-maid, of those who lived still, and fewer of the orcs, for they were not bound from fleeing.

Then Finduilas cried, and her maidens about her, and those elves who heard her the last, but her cry was not of terror alone or grief; a song she sang, the twining of trees about each other, beauty dirtied without defilement, grief for the noble gone, the lament of those remaining. And the words and the tune continued, being of an ancient craft and a new composition: a song of turning, of trembling, of strength late-found, of truth never dead though oft-trampled, of the old craft of Eru and Eru’s servants. Then beneath Glaurung, beneath Turin, beneath the travail of their clash, the water heeded her cry, attended to her words, and rose forth. To Turin, Eledhwen’s son, its touch was cool and soothing, of healing though it stopped his throat; to the wyrm, to Glaurung Morgoth’s get, it was shackles and quenching, a terror to his fire.

Yet Glaurung’s might was not so small nor his malice so little, and where he met the waters a steam rose, a stench and a cloud, and at its touch the orcs were unwrought, cowering without sight or sense, else fleeing in clinging clamber along the ground. Turin breathed it too, still warring against the waves which aided him, and his sword alone did he know the place of, so greatly did the river’s rising uproot him. So Glaurung, keen-eyed beyond elves, even as Thorondor, neared to his sharp-thorned prey, and Turin saw him not.

Then Gurthang, fire-hot and recking not the waves, struck against that which was not stone but lived, and Turin’s eyes were opened. Through the wrack he saw his foe. The wyrm’s great mouth had gaped, and in its center, fire grew, slow beneath the waves yet greater at that point than they could be, too sharp to smother. So the glow increased, and then, unlooked for, the water lifted high, reaching for the flame to smother it, bearing Turin in its grasp. Nor was Turin slow, and Mormegil struck true, for it clave through the mouth of Glaurung, up through its roof and to the spirit’s head-seat. So died Glaurung, bitten in truth but only once, and Turin held fast to his blade as the water receded.

Fire, once made, does not die with its maker, and so even with dragon-flame. Therefore the flame of Glaurung consumed his flesh as he died, his blood hot and enemy to life, his bones turned black. It burst out too from the wyrm’s throat to where Turin clung, embraced his hand and sword, and that sword it found a joy in, for it went no farther, diving down within its coldness. Thereafter, men said, Gurthang shone not mere white but ruddy orange, paling only as it struck or when full-sated.

Nor did Turin escape the sword’s changing, for the heat of the flame and of the sword’s changing wrought a change in his flesh, so that the hand which clasped it could not be unclasped, having melted around the hilt of Gurthang, inextricable. The stench of the burning was great about it, and yet it was not charred, being wrought differently by Gurthang’s purpose.

Then Turin drew his sword forth and was swept ashore by the river, and there Finduilas found him, having worked free of her bonds by a fervor which despair would not allow. He was drawn and pale and had but that one wound, and his eyes were open, staring upwards to the sky.

“Who are you?” she said, though she knew him, and he looked to her.

“Turin, son of Hurin, cursed and cursing,” he replied. He raised his hand, still bound to the sword. “Wielder of Gurthang, slayer of Beleg, spurner of Thingol, rightly brought low.”

“Nay, who are you?” she asked, and she knelt beside him.

“I have told you,” he said, and she touched him.

“Who are you, who slay the dragon, by whose hand we are freed?”

“Thurin,” he said at last, “for you have named me, and so shall I be till my time comes.” Speaking thus, he rose, removing his helm, and she with him, and he led her to where her kin, maids and mothers, only a few of children, were stood. There wept the last of Nargothrond, there on the shores of the Narog, and Turin alone could wield a sword.

A hundred there were, then, all which remained, the children of the West and their children; FInduilas stood before them and perforce Turin, when his pride had returned him. “Come,” he said, “the orcs have fled, dreading their own lord, and so we may live. Shall we forget ourselves to despair?” For he saw in their eyes the fragments of that which lived in Amon Ruadh before, under his command, the emptiness which needs filling lest all be broken. Yet his heart was vexed with the thought, for he knew that these were not such as could bear the sword, nor did the sight of Finduilas before him permit his heart to turn to the deeds of his dullness among the outlaws.

“To Doriath we must turn,” said Finduilas, and she turned to Turin as he said it. Yet his words stuck in his throat, and his mouth was open without sound, and at last he closed it. He looked to the north, then to the west, then to the east, and he knew, by all the skill Beleg had taught him, that to Doriath only could they hope to reach, of all refuges, for Cirdan lived too far and Turgon too hidden. Cursed he then Hurin’s fidelity, that he had no other refuge.

“To Doriath,” he said, “and yet my feet shall not set within it.”

Then the exiles set out, crossing the Narog by old resources long let waste, and they issued forth upon the plains east of Nargothrond and the Narog. Food they had, the provender of Nargothrond never used in siege, but little to carry it with, for all the beasts of burden were slain by the orcs or scattered too far to recover. So Turin bore much upon his back, and yet too little, and the same for each who was not sore wounded. Then too Finduilas cared some for Turin’s wound, his flame-smithed hand, and beneath her care, though bereft of ointment or medicine, it soothed, became less frozen to that hilt, so that he might sheathe sword and cease hold, though rarely did he do so.

For Turin’s heart was heavy and born down, and the words of Glaurung still appeared before him as truth. A thankless fosterling he knew he was, and a thief of love too, by the words of Gwindor condemned, and a deserter of his kin. It came upon him too that two other of those titles had strength: ‘foolhardy captain’ and ‘usurper of Nargothrond.’ For though Thurin they called him, to him had those two messengers come, Cirdan’s elves who brought rede of wisdom, and only by their demand had they seen the king. Did not, beside, Finduilas watch and set him forth before them? The daughter of Orodreth should not be so with one not of her blood, and yet he knew her to be wise.

Upon the second day, death came near them again, and it took many with it; each day another, a child or a mother or a maid whose kin had burned. Turin watched these all, his heart ever heavier, and at last he could bear it no more.

“Finduilas,” he cried, “daughter of Orodreth, cast your doom. I, Turin, Hurin’s son and Morwen’s, have greatly wronged you. Have I not given counsel unto death? Did I not call with loud voice that the bridge be built? Did I not issue forth like flame, and like flame raise smoke for the foe to find? By my hand is Nargothrond burnt, and by my hand do these few still fall. Who shall gainsay me?” So saying, he drew Gurthang, and it was hot in his hand, and said he, “By this blade I will turn your doom to work. Speak, therefore, and let it be done.”

Finduilas saw him, and as a fog clearing from his eyes he saw her, beautiful, a queen without crown or kingdom, worn and dirtied by their march, a beauty he would set alongside his mother, by Morwen and Melian alone equaled. She saw him, and she trembled, and he was overcome with fear, that she did not doom him.

“Speak,” he said again, and he bowed, Gurthang’s tip in the ground.

“Turin, son of Hurin, Thurin as I have called you,” she said, “beloved of Nargothrond, you call yourself too greatly. A lord you were among us and a captain, yet we had many such, whose arms were only a little less doughty than yours. Your words were words amongst us and not above, that we should bow to a god or a king not our own, and so your foolishness, where it has born bitter fruit, is our foolishness too. And shall I slay so many, when so few remain? Repentance, not death, is what I would have of you, o Turin son of Eledhwen, and your counsel humbled, not silenced.”

“Nevertheless,” he said as he rose, “should you seek it, you shall lay the just doom upon me when we reach Doriath, into which I may not pass.”

Then Finduilas was beside Turin as he led them upon the empty plain, ever east, and beside him as he dug each grave, though her arms held the dying, the dead, and not the shovel, for which alone Turin could bring himself in his waking to abandon Gurthang for long. And Turin saw her as she held the dead, and she wept before him, and her pride did not hold her stiff. So he marveled, for he could not think ill of it, and he called her Niniel in his heart, maiden of tears, for he had not seen his mother weep, though he knew her pain had been great, and he had not seen the grief of Melian which was to come. Then was his heart cracked, its strength matched, and he would turn from the sight lest he weep with her, so that the grave lay deeper than was needed. And he did not count this last an evil.

The first week passed, and though their numbers dwindled, their food being not lembas (for that store had the stench of Glaurung’s steam too greatly infected, seeking in some malice to do the worst), it dwindled faster. Worse, the same curse which had ruined utterly the waybread had tasted too the rest of their stores, and as each ate, hunger seemed only to grow within, lashing tight around the chest and pulling on the limbs. Yet upon that food they had lived a week, and now their hunger, by reason of their curse and their haste, was grown too great to be set aside.

Turin set out then in hunting, and being a woodsman of skill even among the Eldar he found a deer. So he struck it down amidst the copse, coming near by stealth, but he turned Gurthang so as to strike with the flat, for he would not have his blade’s curse upon the meat. Upon his return, bearing the beast, the party rejoiced, greeting him gladly. Yet he could not abide their joy or countenance it, and he turned away, when the beast was free of his shoulders, and Gurthang was still in his hand.

Then Turin sat before the water, gazing into its depths, and still the dragon’s words worked within him. A usurper and an ill captain he had confessed himself, and that doom would fall when it could. An outlaw he had long known himself, and in Nargothrond’s shadow he could not care. Beleg’s murderer, thus he had called himself in those days upon Taur-na-Fuin, and thus Gurthang spoke ever to him when he touched it, for it remember the first elf blood it had tasted, found that memory sweet torment to its steel.

The last title to which the wyrm’s speech had turned, its urging and its false mercy- for dragon’s mercy was ever false-, that title Turin could call neither finished nor false. Beleg’s blood cried, but it did so long-shed. The thralldom of Morwen, the terror of Nienor, the mourning and the darkness, they lived about him until he knew their end, though it be a grave of a decade’s aging, and so these words were true: deserter of kin.

There Finduilas found him, and her step was firm, though its speed spoke of night unslept and leagues hard-travelled. She knelt beside him, her eyes upon the water, and Turin looked to her. “Finduilas,” he said, “daughter of Orodreth, I ask again: cast your doom upon me.”

“Shall I do so? And yet you are my only support, the succor of my people and dear even to my own heart.” So saying, she did not look at him or touch him, but he recoiled nonetheless.

“To Thingol was my sword given, once, and now no longer. To Beleg, and still his blood cries for me. To Nargothrond, and it burns.” He stood, and his back was to her, and he clenched Gurthang tight as he spoke. “How long, Finduilas, till my passion takes me, till my heart cools, and then I shall not bend to your right as I have. Even now, I have heard that my mother, Morwen Eledhwen, and my sister, Nienor, for all laughter is dead, they are thralls to the merciless in Dor-Lomin. Death, perhaps, they have found, and I stand here, apart.”

Then she perceived in greater fullness the poison which worked in him, and yet she did not wholly fear it. “Leave then,” she said, and her voice trembled, “Leave and find those whom you name. Are they not your blood?”

He stood in silence awhile, and the sun set behind him, so that the shadow lengthened and his eyes were drawn to it. Another shape it seemed, than that which Glaurung had shown him, and he mistrusted it. This was a man, after all, well-formed and strong, fit to war and to virtue, and he knew that it was the truth of his limb, but he did not think it the truth of his heart. Yet, said he, am I to hope by deserting one to rescue another? The Lords of the West are cruel, but they do not speak so senselessly. Morgoth Bauglir, slave-maker and torturer, would speak thus, and a sob broke forth from him, though Finduilas watched, and he did not turn when she came before him.

At length, while they stood there, the sun died entirely, and the moon rose above, with all Varda’s lights around it, and Finduilas was clasped to him, though he did not remember when. Therefore he released her, and a step he removed himself, and his hand found Gurthang again to hold it. He knelt, then, his head low once more, and did not fear for Gurthang’s temper against the ground.

“An oath I swear,” he said, and Finduilas heeded him, still beautiful before him though he could see that she had wept, and he thought, to see her, that she had not yet found his purpose, saw only his turmoil and the choice he might have taken. “To you, Finduilas, I vow myself. To you shall my sword cleave, and till you rest, shall I ever rest? So mote it be.”

Then the daughter of Orodreth stood still, and she seemed again an ancient glory, a gem carved by Faenor with the life of Yavanna’s gardens, and agony within her chest broke in a moment too strong to be held. So she reached out to him, though he watched her in terror, and she held to his hand, and his oath was bound to her forthwith.

Much diminished these half-hundred reached to the edges of the Twilit Meres, the border of Doriath which was echo to the Girdle, and Turin knew that their sorrows, save his own, were near to an end. Long he had warred in Doriath’s marches, though seldom to the south, but he knew at least how to find a warden, and a warden found would not refuse those of Nargothrond, not while Thingol reigned or Melian’s wisdom held sway.

So he told to Finduilas, and so he did; Mablung he found, sent south for a watching, and not the first from Nargothrond was their party, though alone from Felagund’s halls were they numbered. The elf captain rejoiced to see him, but Turin would not tarry, and he led the wardens perforce to Finduilas, to her small gathering. There was joy then, in their words and their eyes, and Turin set his course to the west once more, away from Doriath to which he had sworn never to return.

“Turin,” cried Mablung, “son of Hurin, most welcome, will you not come with us?”

“A thankless fosterling I am,” Turin said, not turning, “Shall I not so be? Come, Mablung, you have known my tempering, and that Saeros gave me reason does not alter all which has been my course since. Does not my blade know Beleg’s blood?”

Then Mablung fell silent, for of that tale he knew nothing, save that Beleg’s grave was far off and of Turin’s digging. But as they spoke, Finduilas had come, and she stood before Turin so that he could not but look at her. “Come,” she said, “May not these be of aid to you?”

Turin saw her, and his heart was wrenched for her tears, and he sought as if straining against a gale to turn himself away. He did not desire to heed her, for though his pride, to remember the sight of Thingol looking down to him, would not rouse, the rancor it had born those long years still lived. Still he saw her and could not turn himself, nor loose his sword and listen. “I am Thurin,” he said, “Cursed be my name. Shall I bring my curse to another? No, let them lie where they are buried. I will not haunt them with my evil.”

“An oath you have sworn,” she said. “Shall you not fulfil it? See, I am not wholly at rest, still upon Doriath’s borders, nor shall I be till long within it, if ever the grief I have seen this year may be mended.”

Here too his heart wrenched, and the sword in his hand wavered, and he remembered it again. So he spoke. “I have the blood of Beleg Strongbow on this blade, which was his ere I slew him with it. What matters the oath you would renew? Shall I not fulfil it better by my absence, when you have enough of swords about you?”

“Yet no dragon-slayer,” Finduilas said, and she stopped the plea lest it finish, for she saw it flew awry. She approached him, near enough to touch, and her eyes met his, dark against grey, and he felt a different thrall now. “By your oath, then, I ask a duty: wherefore was the death of Beleg Strongbow? For I have heard of your grief, and it was not the grief of malice fulfilled.”

“He pricked me, as I slept,” Turin said, and he wished the words came from afar, but they were choked, restrained from tears only by the fixity between his gaze and hers. “I had been then very long in orcish keep, tight bound, and he cut me as he cut my bonds, so I rose, and in the night I slew him. His face I saw not then, save in death; I knew the sword only when it was bloodied.”

She touched him then, gently, and then withdrew, and Mablung came near.

“Still slew I Beleg,” said Turin, and a new certainty was in his voice, “Still is his blood on this blade. I will not enter Doriath so tainted, nor walk Menegroth despite.”

Finduilas stood before him now, and Turin saw that she was terrible, beautiful even unto his doom. “Turin, son of Hurin, rightful lord of the people of Dor-Lomin,” she said, “Thurin and Anadhel, Mormegil, slayer of Glaurung, I call you here to account. Speak and speak truly, as ought all of the Edain, and declare: do you think you honor one wronged by letting only the wrong keep life in you?”

Then Turin stood again like a man struck from stone, and again his sword was in his hand, and now hot and cold were in him together too tightly bound to be distinguished, fury and fear and awe altogether. Gurthang hung loose in his hand, but he could not release his hold.

At last he lifted his hands, laying Gurthang’s flat across an open palm though its edge branded him, and to Finduilas he tendered it. “My sword,” he said, “and the sign of my oath, the blood of Beleg Cuthalion set to work upon me. Your words are a doom to me, and I will heed them, as I have sworn. So let good come from ill.” And turning from Finduilas, not willing to see her smile, he approached Mablung, greeting him once more. “And a sword I must have,” he said, “for that which was Mormegil’s is in my hands no longer, though with it I slew the wyrm. I must journey to Dor-Lomin, for there are Morwen Eledhwen, my mother, and Nienor, the sister whose laughter I have never heard.”

Then Mablung clasped Turin’s shoulder, and deadly gladness was in his eye. “Nay,” he said, “I shall give you no blade, leaving it for another, and you shall not go to Dor-Lomin, if that is your intent. For, Turin, have not Eledhwen and her daughter lived these past years in Menegroth, to which I would bear you?”

There Turin was unmanned, his heart too full for thought, and it was for joy, this once, and not grief, as it was to have been aforetime. Thus is it said, by those who remember and those who list to them, that Turin dwelt long in Menegroth, as men count it, though a short season by the life of the Eldar, and of his hands came many works not great, as such things are accounted, but skilled and among the Edain to be wondered at. For Turin Turambar became then a craftsman, half-handed where he had been burned, and though he knew not the bow nor could wield the spear aright, though the sword was to him accursed, though he trained the arts of his fame only in preparation, his latter days were to him much greater than his former. Nor, it is said, could he altogether deny the love of Finduilas, Orodreth’s daughter, to their joy and grief.

So passed Turin, an old man and full of years.

Let it not be forgotten.

Footnotes

1. From Ch. 21 of The Silmarillion. This is a work derivative of Tolkien’s Silmarillion and The Children of Hurin. ↩︎