Forth Again, to Behold the Stars by feanorusrex

Chapter 1

She ran. Running was the beginning old her life- her old life as Níniel- and now the end. It was not raining now. It had been raining then. At least it had in the past days, and the Taiglin would be swollen and raging enough for her purposes.

She was clothed now, she had not been then, her whole body slick with water. She was clothed in her new memories, thick, and heavy, and inescapable. Turambar was her brother. Túrin was her husband. Never has she felt more wicked.

But I, we, knew it not! She screamed at the dark sky which seemed to glower down in judgement. But ignorance could not blot out her guilt. Only water could.

It was farther to the river than she had thought, and her need to absolve herself vied with her body, exhausted, pregnant, and tired from following on after Turambar.

His child curled up inside her would die as well, either from secondhand loss of air as she drowned, or with the force of being battered against the rocks. One way or another, the line of Húrin would end. She felt powerful as she ran- it would have been more fitting if she was barefooted, the souls of her feet slashed and bleeding across the ground in a final penance- but she was not. Clothes and shoes would drag her down into the water more quickly anyway.

The river rushed away from her, its noise deafening, frightening and munotionous, going on and on, never tiring for rocking, logs, boats, or bodies that blocked its path. Mayhap she would be carried out all the way to the sea- for all waters ended there. Her corpse would be found and buried my simple fisher folk who lived along its edges. Were there such people at the end of it? She did not know. Niniel had not concerned herself with the world beyond Brethil. Turambar had been her entire world, her savior. Níniel had a house, a husband, a baby, a nameless sorrow and that was enough. Niënor, the other woman that Glaurung had put into her head, like a branch grafted onto another tree, did not know either. At least Niënor knew what she was mourn for.

She could not jump from here, although she wanted to die, she wanted it done quickly, painlessly, not from a jumble of broken limbs on jutting rocks. She picked her way downwards, toward the river, her adrenaline fading, leaving her gasping, exhausted. The practical thoughts of suicide seemed vulgar, but she wanted to do it properly, a nice clean end to this doom.

Dying was what was expected of her, really. If the story of her parentage got around after her death, the village would mourn, of course, but their sorrow would be contingent upon her being dead, removed. Has she endured, gone back to Nan Girith and then on to Brethil, birthed the child on her own, been unrepentant for an accidental sin, she would not have received the lavish pity a dead woman would. These thoughts were harsh and cynical, not from Níniel, but Niënor had a harder mind and saw people through eyes tainted with suffering and her mother’s pride.

And the child, already distending her body as she herself had Morwen’s after her father went away? Close kin could not marry for undefined reasons, it was not permitted and it was disgusting, but had this not been enough explanation, there were stories of twisted children coming from such unions, unnatural like two headed calves. Would this child be such? Quickly smothered with blankets after its unfortunate birth or to live on as a grotesque reminder of their sin?

The rocks she was clambering down were slick with moss and she slipped, clutching at air falling, for a moment fearing that this was it, and she was going to go to her death by misstep, not by her own power, then feeling the welcome jarring of stone against her body as she landed safely. This would be a fine spot from which to leap, once she managed to stand up.

The weight in her stomach kicked her. This was not the first time she had felt such, the insistent tattoo produced as the child turned in its sleep. Or was it now awake, conscious of her intention, begging to be let out, freed from a dying woman? She stood, feeling again the kicking against the firm half circle of her belly, and the raw scrapes on the palms of her hands where she had landed. None of this was the child’s fault. She and this unborn baby were the last of Húrin’s house. She had seen Turambar die, and now remembered an older, sister her mother had seldom spoken of. Niënor’s memories did not hint at whether Húrin or Morwen were alive- but that must be beyond hope, with the doom that laid on their family.

What would her mother, the woman she has known, forgot, and now knew again from memory, say if she beheld her daughter now? Morwen did not think well on suicide, not even for those desperate or bereaved. Nienor had had an aunt, Rían, “a sweet women,” others in their household said. “A spineless fool,” said Morwen, even though it was her own dead sister that she spoke of. “Dying of sorrow from the loss of her husband. I bore you in sorrow, and such is your name, Niënor, but I did not let myself die with your father, as if I was merely a frail flower with no life apart from his. Never be as she was, for Rían rots with the slain at Haudh-en-Nirnaeth, but we yet live, although burdened by the same grief.” Niënor had been very young then, and the frightening image of rotting bodies had been the main thing that remained with her, but now she remembered the strength with which her mother had gripped her young shoulders, Morwen’s words sharp, proud, and cold, like steel.

If Morwen learned of her daughter’s deed, she would be ashamed, even from death, she would scorn her daughter, grudging that their bodies must lay in the same earth. “Niënor, a spineless fool,” she would say to Húrin, wherever their two souls might be. “A coward, her mind broken by a dragon’s magics and her own weakness, unable to bear up under horrors.”

The baby kicked again, as if trying to run and a breeze blew up from the dark water below. Again she was in the wild, alone, having run away, but this time there would be no group of hunters to find her. She must rescue herself and this baby, or follow through with this jump. The night was cold now, and she wanted to sit, crouched out of the wind, but that would mean that she meant to stay here, alive, still caring about the comfort of her body.

Jump, shouted her mind, but more weakly now. The voice could be from traces of the dragon’s magics, still upon her. She wanted something strong enough to compel her to action, to leap or to begin the long journey home, and she could find neither in her mind. But Glaurung was dead, his body cooling next to Túrin on, and while she could not rightly be held accountable for that she had done unwittingly, now, free from endorsements, the fault would be squarely hers. Would not her and the child’s deaths please him? His final action having riven her to complete despair and death?

Incest, a past revealed, a dead husband and brother, were these enough to balance out the scales of guilt? She stood on her toes, leaning forward, but found that she could not bend her knees to jump. Self preservation, the same thing that has pushed her to run from Glaurung when she first lost her mind now held her back.

Kick, kick, kick. The village would not have to know that she was Hurin’s daughter. She alone knew, and she would tell Brandir, of course, but secrets could be kept between two such as themselves. She would be a sadly widowed wife whose husband died a brave death, and she at least had a child to remember him by. She could go on being Niniel. Niniel could never have born such a burden, but Niënor could. “Never be as she was...and we yet live.”

Her scraped hands were bleeding from the fall, the blood a sticky, congealing substance on her palms. She wiped them roughly on her firm stomach, leaving stains, but she did not want to leave a trail of blood stains on the rocks that she used as hand holds to climb up. The baby was still, satisfied. It would not die tonight, nor its mother. She was stronger in this than Turambar, having beaten doom- for this night anyway. The ascent up the rocks was harder, easier to fall than to rise, but she did as the world began to shift its colors from deep black to washed out gray. She had forgotten that morning would ever come.

There was no need to run back towards the town. She was tired, in mind and body of flight, and walking gave her time to think, and prepare for the dead dragon and brother she would come upon soon.

As the great green hills of twisted dragon flesh rose into view, she was at first afraid to look at it, fearing that such a horrid thing could damage the child, for such things were known to happen, even when mothers were frightened by ordinary animals. But enough with fear. Glaurung’s death had been in vain if he continued to haunt her every action. And considering the circumstances under which it had been conceived, whatever defects it might possess were already acquired.

Approaching the body, she grasped a stone and hurled it at the scaly corpse with a wordless cry. It struck then bounced off and disappeared beyond the other side of the coiled body, producing a startled shout of pain. It could not been the dragon, for it was too human sounding, and then she saw Brandir emerge from behind it, looking wildly around him, perhaps believing that Glaurung had come to life again.

Now she ran, towards, not away. Brandir was the one she remembered, after Turambar, in the beginning of her new life, he who had healed her and taught her all the things of life that she had forgotten. It was he who should have named her, not Turambar. The former had been her true parent and tutor. But Turambar had taken her naming for himself, and Níniel, loving him, had accepted.

Reaching Brandir, she dropped to her knees and embraced him wordlessly forgetting for an instant the ill fates and revelations of the night. He was seated, for his foot, the working one had been gashed across the ankle, and the bones underneath seemed to protrude at wrong angles. He must have stepped on faulty ground, something that she had miraculously avoided in both of her flights through forests.

Turmabar’s body lay slightly away from from the dragon’s. It was covered by a cloak, so that the features of his face were obscured, showing only the barest resemblance of a human face. This was somehow more terrifying than a clearly shown dead body- was was under the blanket had the possibility to be anything- and she turned away, listening to Brandir speak. He had pursued her, slowed by his twisted leg and the rough ground, and the night. He had come upon Túrin, and Glaurung, and both had been dead and found her gone.

“I had fallen, injuring my good leg. I could not continue searching for you, not knowing which direction you had gone, but come morning, I swear I would have crawled back to Nan Girith and formed a search party-” He continued speaking, wanting to reassure that she would have been saved in much the same manner she had years before, only without Turambar this time. He had been delayed in his pursuit, because he had met Dorlas, the craven coward who had abandoned Turambar, and killed him- there were traces of blood on the sword that lay by him- and at the base of Cabed-En-Aras he had found the body of Hunthor, his kinsman, dead, his head smashed and broken. There were bodies strewn all about in this night.

Brandir cared about her welfare, and indeed, the only time she had heard him speak against Turambar was once as he prepared to go and search for and fight Orcs on the outskirts of Brethil, something he had sworn to her he would not do if they were wed. Brandir had confronted him, not knowing that she heard. His voice had risen and fallen sharply on the other side of her bedroom’s wall, saying that Turambar was causing her great sorrow, neglecting his promise to his wife and that there were other men that could fight, that this was needless heroism, not bravery. But Turmabar had gone anyway, not answering Brandir’s words.

She had been silent then, and she was now, listening to Brandir say that soon those from the Nan Girith must search for them soon, as it would be light and the danger would be counted as less. Then she could go home, and her husband’s body would receive a proper burial. She was not expected to say anything- Níniel had been silent in crises before, and at most other time as well, but she was not Níniel anymore, and when he said, ‘your husband,’ she was compelled to speech.

“I have not told you where I ran or why I did so, after finding Turambar and his foe,” she began. Staring at the lightening horizon, she forced herself to recount everything, what Glaurung had done to Niënor to make her forget herself, her search for Turambar, losing her way and her power of movement, then drawn on the Glaurung to bring her to himself, how she had found Turambar, laying dead, his body burnt from dragon venom, the restoration of her memory, her horror, flight, and decision to live. “So we were, both of us, the children of Húrin, wedded and kin. This cannot be spoken of.” She glanced at Brandir, finally, and his face held no pity or disgust. If he had felt such she could not have born it, but as it was, his expression was the same calm she remembered from the first dark days when she was Níniel and brought to him for healing.

“You are so brave, as befits a child of his line. And your child will carry on his lineage.” She wanted to believe this, but there were still months of her pregnancy to pass and even then both could perish in childbirth, who could say? And Brandir must know that she did not care for fates and continued lines, for he began to speak again, “Níniel-”

‘I am not she. Níniel died with these two tonight. Now if only to you alone, I am Niënor, the name from my mother, Morwen Eledhwen.” She no longer needed to bear the name given to her by Túrin. Her brother. She must get used to thinking of him as such.

“Niënor then. I am glad that you survived this night,” he said simply. She felt the same, for who would she turn to if Brandir had perished? Her secret would rot inside her, molding. But she could find no words to express this gratitude, for Morwen’s daughter was not without pride and reticence, so she simply sat with him, between slain friend and slayed foe, waiting for the searchers as the sun rose.