Passage by Agelast

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Chapter 1

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Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose garden.

T.S. Eliot, 'Burnt Norton'

 

The Princess of Nargothrond called his name -- his real name, for when he and Gwindor, bearing the wounded Beleg between them, had come desparate to the gates of the city, Túrin had not the presence of mind to think of fitting pseudonym -- and he looked up at her, startled from his dark thoughts.

Finduilas smiled. "We have some of the best healers in Beleriand here -- one who attended to the bedside of Maedhros Fëanorion, whose wounds were greater even than Beleg's are now. Come away, and let them do their work."

It was true that the healers had labored for many days, in saving Beleg, but Túrin had been numb to it, and to all things but his own pain and despair.

His body did not want to work. He tried to stand, but his knees would not support him. Finduilas helped him up -- she was stronger than her slight figure would attest. He knew she was Gwindor’s beloved -- he would sometimes call her name in his sleep. She walked on, expecting him to follow, and so he did.

He expected to be lead to his rooms, or perhaps another council chamber where he would state his business again, or perhaps more pointedly, to the bathhouse. Instead, Finduilas led him down a series of hallways, and then up a flight of stairs. She paused in the middled and turned to ask him if he was tired. "I have heard that mortals tire very quickly." She looked at him, her eyes bright and curious.

"I am not tired," Túrin said, ignoring how much his feet ached.

"Good," Finduilas said, and mounted what would be the last flight of stairs. On top, there was a large, ornate doorway, carved richly with roses and inscriptions that Túrin supposed must be in the forbidden tongue of the Noldor. Finduilas turned the lock that was in the middle of the door. "This was my uncle's most favorite place."

The opened the door, and a rush of warm, humid air greeted him. Túrin blinked in surprise, for he saw that on the other side of the door was a rose garden. He walked blinking into the sunshine. He had missed the warmth of the sun. He looked up and and it seemed to him that there were thin lines that cut through the sky. "It's glass!" he said, astonished.

"Yes," Finduilas said. "My uncle devised it so that from above it looks only like rocks and dirt. But from here, we can see the stars."

"He grew roses here?" Túrin looked around. Red rose bushes great next two huge white drifts of climbing roses. There were pink roses, yellow ones-- every shade imaginable and some that were not. He was not knowledgeable about plants that could neither kill nor cure (though he remembered vaguely that Beleg had used wild roses in his own healing) -- but before him seemed that there was more variety in color and shape than he had ever seen, even in the gardens of the Queen Melian.

"It is said Amarië of the Vanyar was a great lover of roses," Finduilas said dreamily. "I do not know. But there are times where one can seek this place out and spend a day here. It is open to all. Perhaps when Beleg recovers, you will bring him here?

At the mention of Beleg's name, Túrin felt shame gather in the pit of his stomach, acidic and hot. He had almost killed Beleg. He would have killed Beleg, if not for Gwindor's quick thinking in knocking the accursed black sword from his hand. He did not think Beleg would go anywhere with him. But he looked at Finduilas, who was awaiting his answer. If he had not known that she was a great lady, and royalty to boot, he would have thought her like a young girl, anxiously waiting for the answer of one whose opinion she had cause to value.

He did not know why this should be -- she was a great lady, far beyond him in age and birth. But still, Túrin picked his words with more care than he was wont, when he said, "I will, Princess. I thank you for showing me such a beautiful sight."

Finduilas accepted his thanks with murmur, and left him in silence, looking at the roses.

*

They did not know what to do with with him, Túrin decided. He had Gwindor to vouch for him, but Gwindor was an escaped thrall, and Túrin knew well enough how trusted they were -- in Dor-lómin, or Doriath, and now in Nargothrond. Beleg had been a friend to Felagund, it was said, and Finduilas had spoken true when she said that all that could be done for him was being done for him.

He was given a cell-like chamber, not far from the Houses of Healing where Beleg was being kept. It was only cell-like due to the lack of windows -- otherwise, he was provided with every luxury. The bed was soft and vast, cool, fresh air flooded down from the vents on the ceiling, there was even a little wash-room on the side, where he could lift a lever and receive a stream of water into the marble tub. He could pull a cord for hot water, as well.

For the first time in his life, Túrin found himself without a plan. His plans were usually doomed to failure, but he had never been so disheartened that he simply did not have one.

He knew he could not return to Doriath, and that if any of his band of Men survived, they would be too scattered to regroup and mount another offensive. His thoughts turned anxiously to the fates of his mother and sister. Did they still abide in Dor-lómin, in penury, while he was surrounded by every luxury?

He longed to go, to find them if he could. But he had promised himself that he would be there when Beleg woke from his sleep, to beg forgiveness from his oldest friend, if he could. Túrin had been the bane of Beleg's sickbed, until Finduilas and her father, and Gwindor too, had kept him in long council-meetings debating what should be done about the rapidly worsening situation outside the city's gates.

Túrin had not spoken with Gwindor very often after they had reached the city, though he had seen him sometimes. Gwindor walking with his father, Guilin, made a strange sight -- their roles seemed switched, the son far older than the father.

Gwindor had not spoken to him often since the day Túrin had almost killed Beleg. Looking into his eyes, Túrin wondered if he would see condemnation there, the very thing that he knew he deserved. But Gwindor did not often look at him either.

It was just, Túrin knew. What could one say to a person who tried to kill his best friend?

*

Túrin, troubled as he always was by restless dreams -- he often remembered the dead in his dreams, and there were new faces to remember now -- left his comfortable bed and dressed. It was difficult to gauge the time in Nargothrond, but given the stillness and quiet of the halls, he thought it must be late -- or early.

He was not free to wander here -- silent, watchful guards would appear at the corner of his eyes, but disappear as soon as he turned his head -- but he went along, unmolested until he came to the House of Healing, and found himself at Beleg’s door. He thought of scratching at it, like a helpless dog, but remembered himself in time.

Turning the knob, he found it unlocked and went in.

Beleg was sitting up, waiting for him. His eyes were bright, as if he had a fever, and he did not reply to Túrin’s subdued greeting.

“Come here,” he said instead, holding out his hand. “I know when you have hatched on to a mad new plan. Tell me about it.”

“I have no plan,” Túrin said, knowing already that was a lie. He came to the side of Beleg’s bed and let himself be pulled down. He landed awkwardly, heard Beleg take a loud breath, not quite a gasp, and moved so he was not hurting him. Beleg was not as tall as he, Beleg was not tall at all. But laying together like that, they could look at each other, eye to eye.

“Beleg,” Túrin began to say, then lapsed into silence. He did not have as much to say as he thought. Instead, he looked at Beleg, as if with new eyes.

He looked small, did Beleg, small and contained in himself, his arms folded across his bandaged chest. His eyes were pools of dark water, bottomless. Beleg cleared his throat suddenly and then said, "Where is the sword?”

“I left it there,” Túrin said, “once I saw what I had done.” Túrin felt shame, hot and corrosive, running through his body. It had called to him, that sword. It recognized him as kin, even when Gwindor had knocked the sword from his hand and Túrin realized what he had done. He left the sword in that place, and he did not say that the moment in between taking the sword and pushing it into Beleg’s unresisting body, he had felt such wild triumph that he could still feel it now, resting ghostlike against his skin.

If Gwindor had not stopped him, then Túrin was sure he would have the sword with him still.

Beleg reached out and touched Túrin’s forehead, a cool touch that lingered. “Sleep.”

And Túrin did.

*

He woke up to the sound of singing, and the words were already on his lips. Beleg was up already and smiled, but Túrin felt like shouting. “You should be resting!”

“How can I? You are taking up most of the bed,” Beleg said, as he cast around for clothes. He found only a light robe, which he wrapped around himself, before he turned back to a dumbstruck Túrin.

“You should have sent me away, Beleg,” Túrin said, getting up from the bed. “It was not my intent to put you out from your own sickbed.”

“I am almost healed,” Beleg said briskly. “But if you had annoyed me enough, have no doubt that I would have let you know.”

“So old and such a liar still,” Túrin muttered, as someone knocked on the door. Beleg opened it and let in a serving girl, carrying a breakfast tray. She seemed surprised to see them both there, but was equal to to it. She set down her tray and darted out again, coming back with another plate and cup, and another spoon and knife.

Túrin took the tray from Beleg, and brought to the bed. “Sit,” he said sternly.

Beleg, looking amused, sat. But he could not quite hide a wince when he sat down.

“Not entirely healed, then,” Túrin said drily.

“Hush, you,” Beleg said. “At least I can feed myself.”

“Of course you can, better than I can. But --” Túrin said, and shrugged. He mixed a spoonful of stewed apples together with the porridge. He had not actually tried to feed anyone, ever, except once when his sister Lalaith had been just a babe. He had made such a mess of it that his mother had forbidden him from doing it again, though Lalaith had laughed so much that she had made herself sick.

But Beleg obediently opened his mouth and Túrin fed him a spoonful of porridge and apple. Then Beleg swallowed and pushed Túrin’s hand away. He grabbed a hunk of bread from the tray and ripped it in two, stuffing it into his mouth and then into Túrin’s.

“And they say Elves are such delicate creatures,” Túrin said, between mouthfuls.

“Who says that?”

“Oh -- Men. Other Elves perhaps. I doubt the Princess would eat in such a way.”

“That is your mistake, then,” Beleg said, with a horrible smile, small hunks of bread poking out of his mouth like extra teeth. “I have never been royalty.”

Túrin surprised himself by laughing, and surprised himself even more by reaching over and kissing Beleg, with his terrible table manners and all.

There was a frozen moment between them, before Túrin pushed himself away, muttering nonsense as he got up and walked -- not ran -- to the door. He was about to go when Beleg called him back, a wry look on his face.

“What a time for it, Túrin,” Beleg said. “You could not have kissed me when we huddled together like rabbits under the shady eaves of Doriath?”

“I did not like the feeling of being watched there,” Túrin said, as sullen as he was earnest.

“Are you watched less now?”

“I care less now,” Túrin said. “I saw a glimpse of my life without you, Beleg, and it was darkness upon darkness.”

After a long moment, Beleg said at last, “And yet, the natural way of things seems dark to me as well.”

Then he nodded, as if he had decided something. He crossed the room in a few paces and threw his arms around Túrin. Túrin was nearly rocked off his feet by the force of Beleg’s hug. “Túrin! You know that I love you!”

“Beleg, Beleg, please,” Túrin cried, unable to contain himself any longer. “How can you stand it, how can you stand to touch me? I would have killed you if Gwindor had not stopped me. Do not touch me, I am not worthy of it.”

“Túrin, let me be plain. I knew the risks when I came for you, I had seen what they had done to you. I thank Gwindor for staying your hand, but I do not blame you --”

Túrin shook his head. “Though you should. It was my hand on the sword --”

“Túrin, you were tortured.”

“It should not matter, when my men captured you, you did not kill me when I cut you loose.”

“Túrin, I forgive you.”

“You cannot!” Túrin found himself shouting, wondering how all of this had come to pass. He pushed against Beleg, who still had not let him go. “I cannot.”

“Hush,” Beleg said calmly. “Accept whatever wisdom I have, and listen to me.”

“I cannot forgive myself,” Túrin said at last, looking at Beleg with dry eyes. Beleg looked as if he was in pain -- whether it was his wounds, unsettled by his quick movements, or because of Túrin’s words, Túrin could not say.

“Then go, and remember what I said.”

With those words, Beleg let him go.

*

They stayed many months in Nargothrond. Túrin, despite his desire to find what had become of his mother and sister, had no desire to go to Doriath again. Nor would Beleg go without him. Orodreth the King seemed eager to keep them there as well, and he looked on Túrin with especial favor, inviting him (and Beleg too) to sit on the council, and debate solutions on the gravest troubles that plagued Nargothrond. Túrin had many ideas on the subject. He held that while Nargothrond was strong in their caution, the world outside was being torn, limb by limb.

It was heartless, he said, to shut up one’s heart from the sufferings of others outside their own walls.

Gwindor spoke against him, more often than not. This did not surprise Túrin over-much. But when Beleg stood and agreed with him, Túrin felt as if he had been struck. Finduilas, sitting besides him, turned to give him a quick look, but Túrin’s eyes were on Beleg.

Orodreth called for quiet, and a messenger came to him and whispered into his ear. Even as he spoke, however, rumors began to circulate around the room, which was as hot and close as an large, airy space like this could be.

“There are messengers come from Círdan's folk,” Finduilas whispered to him. “They bring news of my -- brother. But also grave warnings for us.”

“Let them speak their warnings aloud,” Túrin said, vexed. “We shall judge it.”

Gelmir spoke first. He had the same name as Gwindor’s murdered brother, and the crowd stirred before he began to speak, restive already. Túrin had never seen Gwindor’s brother, nor Gwindor when he had been a proud and brash Elf-lord of old, but it was clear that the appearance of this Gelmir, once of Dorthonion, exposed old wounds. Finduilas, especially, was in tears at the end of it.

When Túrin asked what was wrong, she only shook her head.

After Arminas had his say, Túrin stood to speak again, but Beleg rose too, and begged leave to address the room. Orodreth granted his wish -- he was more of a moderator than an king now, but it was a role he seemed happy in.

*

That night, Túrin found Beleg and backed him carefully against the wall. Beleg was healed almost completely now, the only sign that he had ever been on the brink of death was a silver-colored scar that neatly bisected his belly. Túrin pressed his hand against it and looked into Beleg’s eyes.

“Why are you doing this?” He did not bother to keep the desperation from his voice.

“Because as much as I love you, you are also wrong,” Beleg said. “A bridge, for Eru’s sake, Túrin! If Melian had put through a way through the Girdle, Doriath would now be a smoking wreckage.”

“This is not Doriath. We do not have a Maia looking after us.”

“No, we do not.” Beleg smiled, his face a serene mask in the dim light of his room. “Did you know what Felagund said when his sister told him that one day the river would eat through the heart of the city?”

“Not all of us can afford to see time the way stones can, love.”

“That is what I am trying to say. The end is coming for Nargothrond. I suggest we try to save as many people as we can.”

“The end is coming to Nargothrond, but I will be there to see that it is a glorious one.”

“Remember the people of Dor-lómin. Remember your mother and your sister.”

“I do not forget them.” Túrin closed his eyes and sighed. “Beleg, I do not know what to do.”

Beleg put a worn hand on his cheek. “None of us do. But we go on, and try.”

 

*

It was Finduilas, of all people, who swayed her father’s mind. She declared that all who wished to follow Gelmir and Arminas, to find safe passage to the Havens should do so. The population of Nargothrond, though once the largest in all the cities of the Noldor, had fallen drastically in the years since the Dagor Bragollach. Still, one could not mistake how much emptier the halls looked now, as family by family disappeared. Finduilas would not leave, however, despite her father -- and Gwindor’s -- pleas. Túrin sometimes looked at her, in ill-disguised awe, and wondered that he had once thought the Princess of Nargothrond to be such a gentle -- and weak -- soul.

But he had his own work to do. Those who chose to stay were of a mind similar to his. They would defend their home, even if the worst came. The soot-covered son of Curufin came up from his forge one day and shoved into Túrin’s hand an unwieldy package wrapped in a soot-covered blanket.

When Túrin unwrapped it, he could not help but gape at the sword in his hand. It was as plain as any sword wrought by an Elf-smith, so, not very -- it was heavily jeweled and the sigils of the House of Hador and Bëor were etched into its blade, but it was also broad and brutal, meant to kill.

“But not forged from galvorn,” Celebrimbor muttered, “I had none, I’m afraid -- although -- oh, how I wish I did.”

“It is extraordinary,” Túrin said, taking a small, experimental swing.

“Careful,” Celebrimbor said, as the blanket fell away, in pieces.

 

*

Túrin was showing Beleg the rose-garden when he felt it, the ground shaking under him. He looked up at Beleg, a question already on his lips. Beleg nodded and they went to muster their forces for what would surely be their last stand.

The battle was quick, and brutal in ways that defied description. Early into it, Túrin was felt someone grab his arm. Before he could shove him away, Túrin saw the wild eyes of Orodreth staring at him. "Where is Finduilas?"

"She rode out with the with last of the refugees, my lord."

"You must find her," Orodreth shouted, before letting go and throwing himself back into the battle. Túrin looked around, Beleg's name on his lips when he saw the dragon slithering toward him, his scales obscenely bright in the light of the sun.

The dragon spoke.

Túrin fell.

*

Túrin woke, with a terrible pain in his right leg. He tried to move but the pain flared up even more and he could not help but cry out. It was so dark, he thought he had gone blind. But no, after a few minutes of desperate blinking, he began to discern shapes, moving in the dark.

Suddenly, a black-hooded figure loomed over him and Túrin felt panic rise his chest.

He sat still, but all the while, he felt around for a knife, anything that he could use. Túrin knew he would not be taken again. He could find nothing but a stone, the size of his fist. It would have to do. With a sign of his hand, Túrin beckoned the shape closer, ready to strike, and die, if he could.

But then he heard a voice, strange to him, and yet, achingly familiar. "Are you all right?"

"I --" Túrin paused and knew that he did not know. "Who are you?"

"A friend," said the figure, and crouched down next to him and pulled away the hood, revealing the face of a mortal woman, young and yet seemingly worn by care. Her fair hair escaped from her hood, into her face, and she pushed it away with some impatience. "I do not know this country, my horse bolted and I became lost. But we found you -- though until this moment, I had given you up for dead."

"I am doomed to live yet," Túrin said grimly, and let the stone drop. The woman winced, though she did not see what he did, or perhaps did not under its meaning.

Sharply, she said, "Be thankful for it. Many do not have that luxury."

After a moment of hesitation, Túrin nodded. "Thank you, you have saved my life."

"Not I," said the woman, and then turned and called to her companion. Túrin could not believe his eyes, but it was Finduilas who came now, battle-stained and weary. She greeted Túrin with a cautious nod, but to the woman she gave a radiant smile.

She got up and embraced Finduilas quickly, causing Finduilas to drop the rabbit that she was holding. They laughed a little before the woman picked up the rabbit and dusted it off.

"I will skin it for you," she said, retreating a little, leaving Finduilas and Túrin alone.

"Túrin," Finduilas said quietly. "I will not ask you for news of the others. I have seen with my own eyes the devastation that the worm has wrought."

"Your father was alive, when I saw him last," Túrin said.

"But no longer," Finduilas said. "I cannot feel Gwindor's presence in my mind either -- though I had not, for all those long years he was lost to me."

"What of Beleg?" Túrin said desperately. "Have you received any tidings from him?"

Finduilas shook her head.

"How long has it been, since the battle?"

Finduilas hesitated and said, "Almost half a year has gone by."

"I remember nothing," Túrin said, "between the great worm coming toward me and waking here."

“We thought that you came under the dragon's spell and strayed in the wilderness, but Niënor and I sought you, and we found you close to here, wounded, less than a fortnight ago." Finduilas sighed. "I have no great talent for healing, but I tried the best I could for your leg."

"Nienor," Túrin murmured. "But surely it cannot be --"

"I did not know if I should have told her who you are. She guessed, I think, but you are so -- particular about your name."

"Tell her, tell her everything." Túrin's voice shook. "I have never seen my sister's face before."

*

Their meeting was different than the one Túrin had imagined for these twenty long years. Nienor looked at him with half-suspicion and half-hope, and clutched at Finduilas' cloak. In halting tones, she described Morwen and their lives in Dor-lómin, the daily hardships and the degradation. Her tone lifted a little when she spoke of the bravery of their kinswoman, Aerin, who had aided their escape from the Easterlings. Her color rose when she spoke of her time in Doriath, and her decision to strike out and find Túrin for herself.

"I do not like to sit idle," Nienor said defiantly. "The Elves of Doriath were very kind, but --"

"If I did not know you for my sister before, I surely would now," Túrin said. "I know every meaning in that 'but'. Kindness without understanding cannot fully touch one's heart. Only Beleg --"

He sobered, thinking of his friend.

"I did not mean to say that all Elves cannot understand Men," Nienor said, with a quick look at Finduilas, who laughed.

"I think other Men would have some difficulty understanding the ways of the children of Húrin. I do not mind, dear heart."

"Now that we are together, we must find our mother," Nienor said suddenly.

"Is she not in Doriath?" Finduilas said, incredulous. "It was my understanding that she is kin to the king."

"Lalaith-- Nienor -- is right. Morwen is as likely to be in Doriath as we are," Túrin said, his voice brisk to hide his embarrassment.

"But why would she have left?"

Túrin and Nienor exchanged glances.

"Better call us the children of Morwen and be done with it," Nienor said with a smile.

*

Much later, Nienor rolled over, still half-asleep and muttered, "It is all right, you know."

Túrin, beside her, stirred. "What is?"

"I never knew her, or our father. But they tell me that the two of them were -- bright. Happy. When I was young, I wished so much that our places were switched -- so she could have brought joy when I only brought sorrow."

"Lalaith," Túrin said, his heart tearing. "Our sister. I loved her best of anyone. But I would not replace you with her, Nienor."

Nienor was quiet for some time before she managed to say, her voice muffled, "Oh, go to sleep, Túrin."

 

*

The grass was waist-deep, the wind moving through it like a wave. Túrin limped toward the dark line of trees to Doriath. He could feel Melian's magic humming against his skin, testing his mettle, resisting his steps ever so slightly.

The Girdle of Melian was not merely mists and twisted paths, but a place where the very mind of the Maia was present, pouring through one's thoughts like water through a sieve. Finduilas had passed through as if she was still walking through an open field, and Nienor was with her, holding her hand.

But Túrin, the Girdle delayed. The mists grew deeper around him, enveloping him in its damp embrace. Túrin felt a cool hand on his face, and he looked up to see the Queen of Doriath looking down at him. She was taller than any child of Ilúvatar, on a scale several times larger than Túrin. She could have shrunk herself down, but she did not.

"Túrin, child," said his foster-mother. "You look weary."

"It is only mortality, your majesty, nothing else."

"You lie," she said, simply. "Why have you come back? Not claim my husband's pardon, I wager."

"No. For the slaying of Saeros, I only regret the sorrow that it caused, not the act."

"I have no doubt that is true," said Melian with a dry chuckle. "But as you say, you did not come here to atone for that. Beleg has not returned to Doriath, and even I cannot say wither he wanders."

Her words were like blows to his heart. Only now would Túrin acknowledge the simple fact that he had returned to Doriath to find Beleg if he could. But that way, it seemed, was lost to him too.

"But another you look for is here," Melian said, after a while.

"My mother?" Túrin asked, hardly believing it.

"It was her will to go, and her intention, but in the winter she developed a sudden weakness in her lungs. She grows old, Túrin, though her will is as strong as ever. She defied the healers and set out. But Mablung retrieved her -- I think he grows tired of collecting wayward members of your family. You must thank him for it, later."

"I will," Túrin promised.

 

*

Morwen's eyes were still bright when they alighted on him for the first time in nearly thirty years. He touched her hand, tentatively, but she clutched at it. She looked to him and then to Nienor.

"Mother," Nienor murmured. "I have found you your son."

For the first time in Túrin's life, Morwen said nothing, only wept.

*

It was another year on, when Túrin felt a presence in the forest. He was not in Doriath, but rather on a mission to rally the woodmen of Brethil to make any defense they could against the work of the Enemy, and the growing depredations of the worm that still made its lair in the bones of Nargothrond.

The forest was still, around him. No bird sang, and even the wind did not rustle the leaves. All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing. He moved at the same time that an arrow shot past him, embedded itself into the tree in front of him. Túrin's eyes widened when he recognized the fletching of that arrow.

He looked around, wildly, and shouted Beleg's name. The fourth time, Beleg dropped from the trees, silent.

He raised his brow and said, plaintively, "Túrin, haven't I taught you better than that?"

"You --!" Túrin ran and embraced Beleg, nearly lifting him up from the ground in his joy. "I thought you were dead."

He kissed Beleg, in the mouth, on his check, his neck. Everywhere he could reach.

"In truth, I thought the same of you," Beleg said, letting himself be mishandled. He pulled away after some breathless moments and blinked, his eyes suspiciously bright.

"In the battle -- I did not see you, after --"

"My group was driven back into the city -- I remembered late that Celebrimbor was still there."

"No! He was?" Túrin felt shame that he had mourned more for the loss of the sword Celebrimbor had made him, in the heat of the battle, than he had for its maker.

"Yes, in the deepest delving -- taking samples of this and that. I cannot remember. He did not even know that the city has fallen. Orcs and other foul things began to come down, even to the lowest levels -- Celebrimbor knew a secret way through the caves, but by the time we came to the surface, the battle had been lost.”

“What did you do then?”

“I looked for your body, but I could not find you. Gwindor though, I found dying.”

“Did you,” Túrin said, distracted. He pulled them to the shade of a large oak tree, where they sat together, their limbs tangled together.

“He died well. He had been a valiant soul."

Túrin nodded dumbly. He had known that he would never have a chance to make things right with Gwindor -- but it gladdened his heart to know that Gwindor died with honor.

Beleg spoke again. "Túrin, do you remember anything of when you were under the dragon’s spell?”

“I remember nothing, but it haunts me still,” Túrin looked down at his hands and found that they were clenched together. “But wait, Beleg, how did you know that?”

“You and I have been missing each other, this entire time. I looked for you long, dragging poor Celebrimbor along the way! Almost a year we spent, seeking you. Finally, Celebrimbor begged me to leave off the search and make our way to the Havens, thinking that perhaps you had escaped and brought Finduilas there. But when we arrived, and no one had heard from any of you and all feared that you were dead.”

Túrin leaned hard against the tree and watched the sunlight turn the paleness of Beleg’s hair into gold. “Did you believe it?”

Beleg looked at him. “I did not.”

“And you came at last to Doriath at last and found that I was here.”

“And I came at last to Doriath, and found you were here.”

Túrin nodded, deep in thought.

Finally, he said, "Beleg, my dear, I wondered if you would like to slay a dragon with me?"

With a gleam in his eye, Beleg said, "I thought you would never ask."