Now No Way Can I Stray by losselen

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Now No Way Can I Stray

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Farewell my liege. Now no way can I stray
Save back to England. All the world’s my way.

-Richard II, Act I, scene 3

 

 

 

I.

 

Look, young Túrin. Look up. See how the stars wheel, how they wander the mists of the shoreless sky. And what subtle flames are they that hold the substance of Arda unmarred? For they were made in the timeless days beyond even the memory of the Elves, and in their courses was already set the prelude to the world. See yonder Menelvagor, rising sword-first from the earth to pierce the skies. And see the turning of the Great Sickle’s handle, for it tells you both hour and season. These, the Elves say, are ever the signs of the final defeat of the Enemy, though they tremble far above the woven world.

Let us away from the City, and go to woods where I make my home. I shall show you the mantle of the summer dawn kindled between blue boughs of elm. I shall show you how to shoot an arrow so as to pierce another arrow.

—

The sun had set again.

The cold air wound its way through his cloak and tunic. Thus ever the wind lays the autumn branches bare. It was barely winter yet, but snow was already on the gorse at the wood’s edge and frost slipped its traceries over all the stones. This second day he spent again in shackles against the great ash tree without food or water.

The trees trembled with fear. The beasts fled before the Men, afraid.

The trail had been bewildering, and deftly covered, yet not so deftly as cannot be read by an Elf in the woods. He had made himself known, for he believed the Men would show themselves and thus perhaps so would Túrin himself, yet often as his own tracks drew near the company’s would as soon vanish. Are they the company that he sought? But who else would be such ill-favored outlaws, one one among them wood-crafty beyond compare?

For lo! even now from afar Beleg heard the sound, familiar and quiet.

He fell slack in his bonds. Though his hands were numb, his head still throbbing in pain in places where he was struck, and his knees aching from kneeling, all these Beleg bore gladly if he would find what he sought.

Soft the footfalls. Soft, like whispers.

The Men about him heard them not, not the creak of leather nor the rustle of heavy linen. Not the pale breaths, the sly steel, or the shape that darkened the wood.

So it was that Túrin returned to camp from hunting in the southern wilds nigh the walls of Andram and stole upon the company at unawares, save Beleg alone. But Beleg did not stir—did not stir until suddenly Túrin was in their midst and the Men around jumped, yelping and grasping at their weapons though soon they set them down again as they saw Túrin more clearly.

“Hark, Neithan returns!” the Men about him cried.

One of them drew his blade, the one who was eager to slay him, and held it at Beleg’s collar. “Make no move, Elf, else I shall not stay my hand again.”

Then the one witholding him spoke loudly in the Mannish words of Dor-lómin, which Beleg could not much understand. “Neithan, this Elf we found at our trails—indeed it was he who has haunted our steps. True enough he would not bring orcs to us, but still we trust not the Elves and would not deal with them. I say that he is a spy of the Elvenking seeking to hinder us. And I say we slay him, or turn him out in a manner to never trouble our woods, for he said naught of his purpose.”

And the Men looked around themselves, whispering, “Aye, aye! But let Neithan judge this fugitive.”

But Túrin paid little heed to them. His brows were drawn as if in great wariness, and doubt was as a dark veil over his fair face as he stared down on Beleg, unmoving as stone.

Thus Beleg Cúthalion beheld again Túrin son of Húrin whom he loved, standing within the flickering light of the fire while around him the band’s murmur died into a tense stillness. He was now aged one and twenty and little did Beleg recognize him by sight. For Túrin had grown within the year, in stature and in beauty, and he was now come to the bloom of manhood. Tall and beautiful he was, even as a lord of the Eldar in their youth, though now he stood grim and unshaven beneath the shade of trees, the bright lights of his eyes like desolate stars and the wintry wilds in his hair and on his raiment. About him cast the cloak of Elven-grey, the same he had in Menegroth when he fled the night, now barbed and stained.

Turin strode forward. The outlaws parted before him as he, too, drew his sword.

And in a voice clear and cold he spoke in the ancient tongue of the Elves of Doriath to the amazement of all others gathered there. His swordpoint was to Beleg. “Dauntless Elf. What errand hast thee? How comest thou here, lost in these masterless woods?”

At this Beleg laughed, raising his head to meet Túrin’s gaze, though the move pained him as the sword bit into his neck. His shirt was torn, and strands of his hair fell from his face, cut by the blade. “Masterless are the woods—and masterless are you. And masterless am I, too, as some have called me. But I am not lost, for I know all the woods from Mithrim down to Taur-im-Duinath, and I am the greatest woodsman of my age. And if indeed the forest is wildered, then may I not travel here of my own accord, at my own peril—or do you claim its lordship?”

Túrin held his sword firmly in hand, its blade glinting. “No lord these woods have! Yet peril thou may find if thou art caught by the wolves that hunt under eave.”

“And what manner of wolves are they that hunt errant-less Elves?”

“We hunt the servants of Morgoth.”

“Do I seem as such to you?”

For a while Túrin was silent, as if in judgment.

Then he said, “No indeed.” And speaking now in Mannish words,“For I know thee, Beleg Cúthalion, Marchwarden of Doriath.”

A murmur rose among the rest of the gathered Men.

The swordhand at his collar tensed. “Elves are no friends of ours, Neithan. Why do you speak to him thus, in the strange tongue of the Hidden Wood?”

“Aye, no friend is he to you, that is plain enough. Yet I speak thus, for thus I have spoken before.”

“But you’ve long said yourself to trust not the Grey-elves.”

“Nevertheless, I will release him.”

So saying Turin stooped down, turned the sword in his hand, and cut Beleg from his bonds.

—

After, in a secluded part of the wood far away from camp, the two friends sat again next to each other.

Túrin suddenly embraced Beleg, crying, “I pray that you forgive my hard words, dearest of friend. Seeing your face unlooked for in amongst the rabble-band I was overthrown by doubt. I thought it was a device of the Enemy, trying to ensnare me with a face that I love. How come you here so sudden, as if summoned by a calling in my heart? For I have thought of you often in these wilds.”

Túrin took up Beleg’s limbs where the hurts of cruelty and bondage lay on his fair hands. “And for yours wounds,” Túrin said with tears in his eyes. “I rue all my words, to you and to the men.”

So young did Túrin look now where before he looked fell and stern, as one come early to grim lordship. Pity rose in Beleg’s heart, and he brushed away dark strands of Túrin’s hair with his hurt hand.

“You have changed, young Túrin. And perhaps you are young no more, though that is strange to me who have lived years long beyond your memory, that you can grow so fast.”

“I know not how fast or slow, save that I have changed since I left Menegroth a wronged man. Hard are these days. Not the least because of my exile. The cold and the hunger I can endure. But the wild is lonely to one such as I, even among a company of others, for their coarse companionship is little balm to me. Ever have you been my keeper, and you are as beloved in my heart in these days of exile as you had been under the trees of Neldoreth. Will you not stay?”

“Stay here in the wilds with you? Nay, Túrin. For that is not my errand.”

At this Túrin drew back and stood, and turning from Beleg he looked into the dark forest, and was silent. At length he spoke, “So you do come in errantry.” And then wheeling in his disquiet he asked proudly, his eyes glinting as if his grievances lit anew, “Do you come at the behest of the King?”

“Nay, I come of my own will, though blessing I had from he and the Queen. A merry band you’ve found yourself in.”

“They are not trusty, I will admit, though I have come to like their company, after a fashion. They ask no questions of me, and neither do I them.”

“Why do they name you Neithan?”

“Because that is what I am, and it is as I named myself.”

“Then hear the news that I bring, for it is the doom of Thingol. Full pardon he grants you, having heard of Saeros coming to you in arms in provocation, and his ill-words said against your kin.” And so Beleg recounted the tale of Nellas, and the judgment of Thingol, and the favor of Queen Melian at his parting.

“And care the King sends, for he would that you returned to Doriath where you are best kept safe as he had promised Morwen your mother.”

But Túrin blanched, “Safe? Kept? What use is safety to me who can yet do deeds of arms to thwart the Enemy? I am not a babe or a maid! I do not understand, Beleg, why the Elves are ever thus, keeping to the shadows. For you know not how the days burn within me, knowing that my father sits in chains and torment in the dungeons of the Enemy and my mother—” at this Túrin faltered.

“You know not, Beleg. That we Men age, and we age fast, and I feel ever the turning of the days within my limbs. How many days, indeed? Before I come to my mastery, and how many days until it is spent? And I’ll not spend all the years of my youth behind the Girdle, never to try my sword or do aught against the Foe.”

For you are mortal, Beleg thought but did not say. So indeed had Túrin changed, and was young no more. And perhaps it was not that he had changed, merely that he was now come full to what he always had been, and the fey fire now burned within him like swift flame over dull grass.

They were silent for a time.

“Túrin—” Beleg began.

“No, do not mention that name! That name is the Heir of the House of Hador, that now is in ruin and waste, and on whom the doom lies. Let it lie ever. But to Doriath I will not go, like a recreant receiving mercy when ill was done to me unjust.”

“Then you speak poor in your bitterness. What justice is it to not face those who raised you as son with the truth of the matter? You cannot both be son of Húrin and yet not Túrin! Unjust you say? Yet did I not hunt root and rock in the wilderland unbidden to find you, only to be bound for slaughter by your allies like a boar in the woods? And still I sought you, for my love of you, not heeding the errors of your company. For my love of you, I say, but not only mine.”

And Túrin looked on Beleg’s face, which was now hard-set in dismay, and he would have grown angry in turn save that he saw also the sadness in Beleg’s eyes and was ashamed, and said no more.

They returned to camp and Beleg left ere daybreak, and little more Túrin said to him. But Túrin grieved, though no sign or word he showed, least of all to the Wolf-men.

So Túrin and the Gaurwaith returned to their days of raiding and hunting, though in his shame Túrin commanded rather that they more hunt the orcs that marauded the woods, so looting what they looted, and sometimes returning what belonged to the folk of the land, for the words of Beleg burned in his heart ever, and the wretchedness of his companionship weighed on him.

But at night beneath the risen stars as he lay on the hard ground in camp, he would often think of the face of Beleg as he found him in bonds, his face upturned in the firelight, kneeling with a sword at his neck and his hair in disarray. It flashed like a pain, a wound in his heart. The face of one he loved. Like a brother, he would have said, but it was not so, for Túrin had none and few boys were left in Dor-lómin in the waning days of the House of Hador.

 

 

 

II.

 

In Menegroth the minstrels can make alive the words of their lays, and make real such memory as flesh. If I am of the Eldalië, and if aught of that power is within me, I would make you see it, though my music is not in song. The bow, the arrow, the mark. This trinity of things that has held me under spell. I will make it sing within the silent stillness. The sinew of the draw. The respite of the open. The thrum of the release. This is as music to me, who they call Cúthalion.

Slow down, Túrin. Still your breath. Still your hand. Look ahead of you. The arrow in suspension, hanging by a single thread. The tension as your arm bends the bow and string. Let your draw hand hover at your cheek, but do not seek to hold. Let your fingers release, but let them release as if surprised they were holding anything at all. Only from stillness can your arrow fly true.

This is the way of the bow. Its heart is not in the aiming but in the stilling. It is not the blow and parry of the sword that always seeks flow and escape. The bow is cessation. The bow is patience. The bow shall wait, and wait, and wait, until the time is apt. For thus the Sindar hunt their foes in the dark woods. We hunt them not with force, but with time.

—

Almost a year to the day it was that Beleg came again to Túrin unlooked for on the hidden steps of Amon Rûdh. And he was wary this time, taking care that no man could bind or hinder him. “For thus you said, Túrin, on that day when I departed. ‘Look for me in Amon Rûdh.’ And thereby I come.”

Túrin finding Beleg almost fell to his knees in his gladness, for though all the Men about him followed him willingly, in none there could be found a companion close to his heart. “By happy contrivance twice you return to me, and twice beyond hope though hope looked for you, dearest of friend!”

“Ever I return to you, like Dailir to the string.”

“And what enemies we shall thwart together, my friend, now that we have met again. Let the orcs that creep in these plains beware!” And so saying Túrin drew his sword, and its tip he pointed towards the northern sky in defiance, for the return of Beleg raised his heart above doubt. And he knew even without word that Beleg would stay this time, and the thought of Beleg’s companionship was sweet succor to his spirits. And with his sword piercing the North he said a stave of malediction for the Enemy:

Curse on thee, cruel King of Iron

Curse on the steel of your sword

Wrought of the woe of slaves in depths unguessed
Curse on thy life forever
Of Men I shall make Wolves and we shall prowl in the valley
Until all your servants are driven before us!

May iron beget iron and curse beget curse!

He seemed to all who looked on that day as a lord young and hale, with skill in his limbs and power in his voice unmatched, but hearing his words Beleg was dismayed, and by the grim fires that now burned in Túrin eyes Beleg knew already that the curse of Morgoth lay all about them.

But not all were so glad of the return of Beleg. Andróg, the Man who first wanted to slay him in the woods, blanched at the reunion of Túrin and Beleg, and withdrew and sat apart in the caves thereafter, and would seldom join them with words of greeting if Beleg was present.

“Why do you linger yet in this company?” Beleg asked one day upon the shelf of Amon Rûdh as they sat together among the crimson seregon turves on morning watch.

“I linger because they have no other leader. Lowly are their hearts, you would say. And for some that is true enough. But if they would aid in the slaying of orcs even in these times of defeat, then they are to me as high as the gathered armies that rode to battle with the Elven-host, for at least they made a try of it.”

Of the Nírnaeth Arnoediad Beleg would say naught, though he thought that Túrin’s words made light of a heavy memory. But he did not admonish Túrin son of Húrin, for he knew of Túrin’s last memory of his father. “And what of the Dwarf? Some love he has for you, after his fashion. But none for me. He holds me in great resentment though I have done him no harm. I fear some mischief from him, Túrin.”

“As do I, at least toward thee. And I say, have a care! But I would not any ill come to him, for he has lent us shelter in a hard season, but moreso I pity him and the fate of his kindred who live in exile thus, and I rue the arrows of my men. But did the Elves not slay the Dwarves in days past, thinking they were mere beasts, when they and their folk first lived far and wide in Beleriand and delved its bones, even in ancient Nargothrond? For he told me so in our speeches at night, when he would tell me somewhat of Dwarf-lore from olden days.”

At this Beleg’s heart grew troubled, remembering the great huntings of the Elves who learned the art from Oromë under Twilight, and their debate on the strange creatures they thought were so unlovely when they came upon the Nogrim in shadowed caves, and the rash among them would let fly arrow and sword, saying that they were at best mere beasts but at worst some fell creatures of the Great Shadow, and thus the larger part of the Sindar were satisfied. And though Beleg thought otherwise, he had said naught.

“Forsooth you say, though I never partook in the deed. And yet I am not blameless, as I could not stop my kindred, and so we are all ensnared by the cruelty.”

So Beleg mentioned the matter no more, for he also knew that Túrin saw his own bitter exile in the wretchedness of Mîm and the Nibin-Nogrim, and Beleg loved him greatly for his pity and the depth of his gentleness beneath the fierceness of his words. My sorrow for the Man should slay me, he thought. As should my love.

—

And so began the years of Dor-Cúarthol, when Bow and Helm met again. Under sky or under eave, the servants of Morgoth knew no peace or quarter, and the power of Túrin and Beleg grew great while they themselves remained hid.

One day neither Túrin nor Beleg returned to Amon Rûdh, for they went north in pursuit of a company of orcs that trespassed the northern edges of that land. While the Sun yet held they marched the length of ravine-rifted Taeglin, along orc-tracks on stony grounds where rusty iron feet bruised the dark heath. Silently they walked the western bank, talking only with their eyes and hands, for though no sound carried in the wide margins of that land, Túrin had learned such skill of Beleg that little words they needed.

But when the Sun dropped low and the cold night winds stirred from the north, they made a camp by the curve of the Taeglin that bent east to divide Brethil. For though they were not near their own strongholds, the forest of Brethil was held yet by the folk of Haleth and near its marches their wariness was lessened. They took refuge in the lee of a circle of lonely trees that stooped over a low hollow in the land shielded from view from the plains.

They fetched clean waters from the shallows of Taeglin and made a low fire. In the far distance in the east rose the grey misted woods of Doriath, and Beleg sat long on a boulder that looked eastward.

Túrin spoke. “Oft have I wondered, how long I would have lived, had you not found me by chance that day in western Neldoreth. What would have become of Gethron and Grithnir? For our rations had run out and one of the horses was lame. But above all the very wood bewildered us, and I had never seen Men so uneasy.”

“By the word of Queen Melian I was bade to go west though she said naught to me of your party. Doubtless she knew all that went in and out of the Girdle.”

“When I was a child I did not marvel that the King of Doriath should foster me so, for it was all that I knew. Like a son, or so all said.”

Beleg climbed down and sat by Túrin. “Verily like a son. Even I, far away from Menegroth, have marked it, for the King loves you, Túrin, whether you would or no.

“When Beren came to Doriath, and all of the court was in stir, I went to Menegroth and saw Men for the first time. I thought him strange and fey, for his speech was rough and bold beyond my ken. Little love he had from Thingol and his councilors. Yet he had the marvel of all the marchwardens, for he slipped our fences where none else could, and that alone made plain to me that he had the favor of the Queen.

“But when he and Lúthien returned to Doriath beyond all hope, I first knew that Thingol rued his hard words at their first meeting. For he loved Tinúviel better than all of Doriath, and I think he understood then that the loss of her was not as a gem stolen from the treasury in hoard, but like an arrow. The further he pulled back, the faster she would away. On the bridge of Menegroth he said to me, ‘Alas, Beleg, that my words are like arrows from your bow. How fast they flew from me that day! And I can recall them no more than you.’ So saying we rode to hunt the wolf. But we all loved Tinúviel, whose song was the heart of Doriath. She was strong, in the end, stronger than any of us knew, save Queen Melian herself who is divine. And if it were not for Beren, would we have known how strong, or indeed, would she? Yet it was a bitter price.

“And so you, Túrin. When I found you astray in the woods of Neldoreth, I saw in you the same. Though you are not in the likeness of him, you have a fire in you. That fire I love, for it is unlike any of the Eldalië. Maybe it is the fire that lives in the soul of all Men, though I see it not among the band of outlaws that you name wolves. It was not only for the love of Húrin Thalion that Thingol took you in foster, and perhap the King saw in you one who he first spurned.”

Túrin listened in silence, and replied. “Of him my mother would sometime mention, for her father was the nephew of Barahir. Strong and valiant she called him, and of that there is no doubt. But little more would she say of him, nor of Ladros which now lies in darkness.

“But oft had the name of Beren One-hand come to me in Doriath, and more often it was meant ill, whispered beyond my ears or thrown in my face like a curse. Whatever changes in Thingol’s love, few others in Menegroth shared it, or it seemed to me. But what does that matter now? To that way I will not go. And the world is changed since Beren walked among Elves and Men, though little time that may seem to you. Perhaps our fates draw more alike, for Dor-lómin, too, has fallen into darkness.”

At this, a shadow of grief passed over Túrin’s face. Of Morwen Eledhwen Túrin would mention seldom, and yet Beleg knew that his gaze often strayed northward from the high shelf of Amon Rûdh, lingering ever on the far horizon as if the leagues to the House of Hador Lórindel could be unmade by the keenness of eyes or the eagerness of hearts. And what did he see? What further evils did he fear for the folk of Hador? But thither he would not go. And of what fears Túrin had for the fate of his mother, he said little, even to Beleg.

The small fire crackled beside them.

“Your beard is grown,” Beleg said after a long silence.

At first Túrin was confused by the words and looked at Beleg, but then he laughed, and in his laughter the grimness of his face suddenly wore away and he seemed as young as his age. Fair he wore his mirth. “True enough.”

“Wild especially are these hairs,” Beleg said, smiling, fingering the coarse wires along Túrin’s jaw.

“These are the thickest, and hardest to see. For I have no mirror with which to shave.”

“And none to shave you.”

“Aye, for I trust none of the Gwauwaith with the blade, even if they had the skill. My beard must seem strange to you—it did me when I was young, if you remember.”

“That I do. Though we knew of the beards of Men, and very few among the Eldar in their old age also grow them. But in Doriath none save Beren’s I had seen, and there was no one to teach you the art of shaving.”

“Instead I often made do with this knife,” so saying Túrin fetched from his belt a small knife, silver-edged and gold-bound. Beleg needed no token to know that it bore the rayed Sun of the House of Fingolfin.

“A gift from Húrin.”

“Aye, a gift.”

But Turin grew grave again, as if an old memory came to him.

“A mirror and a serving man. None of these can be found in the wilds. We are far from the splendours of Menegroth, or the watchtowers of the marches, or even the small comforts of the land of my youth.”

But Beleg now tenderly took Túrin in by the chin, and stroked along his jaw, and along his cheek, and along his temples.

“I could do it for thee,” he said softly.

Túrin bent his head and laid it on Beleg’s.

Long they sat together thus, head in head, heedless of the danger. Dusk fell like a veil. The full Moon rose high and wan above the wooded margins within the blue shell of the sky. And suddenly Beleg took Túrin’s face into his hands and kissed his hair, and his brows, and stroking his beard he kissed each of Túrin’s eyes still closed. And when Túrin opened his eyes, Beleg kissed him on his mouth, and Túrin was first abashed and seemed to endure it, but slowly he returned the kiss and grew bold, pressing in and cradling Beleg’s head. Long Túrin beheld him within the Elven-grey light of his eyes.

“Would you, Beleg, take me thus into your arms? In the wilds of the world as animals?”

“I would, son of Man, if you would have me, for otherwise I would not have come as love bade me. Thus did the Elves in the ancient days of Twilight, when unstained were the fair lands of the North. Nowhere else would I have you, for you are nowhere else in the world.”

And Beleg drew him into his embrace once more, and Túrin folded his long limbs about Beleg’s body, and in the settling cool of the night by the hollow between boulder and copse they lay with each other, entangled, while the wild song of the Taeglin rushed by and dusk retreated before the watery moon. And slow above them opened the silver fires of the Huntsman, and his light was as a cold trembling frost on a field of yellow whin, and in the plains wide about the valley the red heather of the moorland seemed to stretch out, as dark as the sea.

—

This bow, Túrin, for which I am named, it was made in Mithrim in the days of Twilight, from a great yew that stood in the chalky downs in the uplands in view of the lake. I ranged far and wide in those days ere came the fire and shadow to Beleriand. I walked in Dimbar, and Núath, and the Falas, and I asked tidings far and near of the wind, from the South where it strewed the salty foams of the Sea, to North where it rode downslope like the steeds of Oromë to gladden the plains.

The world was asleep then. Only the starflowers grew, and only the woods of Doriath woke under the song of Lúthien the Fair. But when I walked by the grey waters of Mithrim I saw with wonder that a yew tree by the lake was not under the sleep of Yavanna but stood with leaves on its limbs and stars in its crown. It was young then, standing hale with red berries drooping on its boughs, and I talked to it, blending my thoughts with its, and when the Sun rose and it came of age, it gifted me a limb of itself that was fashioned to my hands while still living. From that limb I carved this bow. So born was Belthronding, who shall ever be with me. Dailir its mate I made from the yew’s branch. Ever shall they return to each other while I draw breath.

And that yew I love, though in Mithrim the Elves walk no more, and the Onodrim have fled its valleys, and all the clear waters of the lake lie under smoke, and the woods are tortured by fire. Where does the tree stand now? The Shadow falls between us, and to the North I shall not go again. It must be old if it has not come under axe. I think of it often in waking and sleep, and when I bend Belthronding in my hands the ancient song of its life stirs in the sinews of the wood. Alas, Túrin, that the fair things that were in Beleriand are no more, and never can I show thee all the woods of my love.

—

Often they scouted out together, and found comfort in trysts without the Dwarf-caves, such as they could, for they distrusted their company. And little love grew between Beleg and the Wolf-men. Many of the old company were deserters or stragglers of the Nírnaeth Arnoediad who resented the Elves utterly for their mustering of the Houses of the Edain that were now all but overpowered and broken. And they would whisper amongst themselves at night in the caves of Mîm: Have the Elven-lords not their own retreats in wood and cave where they hide and lick their wounds, while we who have not such fastnesses are left to scatter in the wind? Yet they let us not into their succor, Men who have gathered our arms to them and paid with lives uncounted! And now the Elf steals among us, and has bewitched the captain.

This and more Beleg heard, for in the caves even the smallest sound carried in echoes many fold, though they tried to hide their voices. But he heeded it not for he was strong and wary, and unless the heart of Túrin should hearken to them, the Men had no power over Beleg.

But even so were they not right? The folk of Men now were hard pressed on all sides, dwelling out of the Girdle without fence and march. And of the Gates of Nargothrond one could only guess where it lay hid. And of Gondolin there was but a distant rumour.

And now the bare land around them was woken. Folk gathered to them, hearing name of Gorthol. For a season more should it last, this spell we have woven, so said Beleg in his heart, for he knew their circumstance to the point of precarity, that though Túrin was high-hearted and valiant, a single sword, even a fell captain amongst a company of a hundred fell swords, could not turn the tide against the fortress of the Enemy.

And some nights when he stood on the shelf of Amon Rûdh in the waking sleep of the Elves, he would remember his last conversation with Mablung as he set forth from Doriath, after he sought the leave of the King and Queen, where in the throne-room of Menegroth he stood alone before their majesty, and Anglachel he took from the treasuries.

But to Mablung he said, “I go now, friend and captain. I come to bid you farewell, for I fear that to Doriath I should return never again unless the doom of the Children of Húrin is otherwise.” The words of Melian the Blessed haunted his thoughts.

Mablung looked hard on him, and read much of what Beleg meant.

“Why do you go, then? I suppose for love.”

“I go for love, for I fear that without love I shall perish. And if perish I will, I would rather with love than without.”

And Mablung embraced him, and spare bowstrings and arrows newly fletched he brought to him, and before the gates of Menegroth by the great bole of Hírliorn Mablung said the words of blessing to Beleg as for an Elf that goes to war.

—

And so it was. That one day Beleg woke and found the spell had broken, for he found Túrin upon the high shelf of the House of Ransom that looked northward, as was his wont. And by the set of his shoulders Beleg read that the mood had changed in him.

That day the Sun was hid behind leaden clouds, and a thunder was in the air, and the mighty sky pressed low over all the land as if it could stir up the moorland with its windtorn hands.

The restlessness comes again, Beleg thought. Was it the thought of Húrin his father or Morwen his mother? Was it the blaze of his mortality that runs now afire in his veins, or was it the black curse working the warp and weft of our doom?

“Beleg, you come.”

“I come. What lies yonder North that you see with your eyes, Túrin?”

“All of my life. All my life lies yonder, my mother, my father, and all the remaining folk of my people. Save you, what have I here? But what should I do, for I cannot go thither to dash on the walls of Angband, or return to Dor-lómin when my mother has not called for me. I would that I can gather more to me, and build here a stronghold of Men that can stand open against the raiding beasts of the Enemy.”

“Here we fight the marcher’s skirmish, that the Enemy gives little heed. But if more you would gather to you, then all this would be for naught.”

Túrin wheeled now, agitated in his speech. “Wherefore say you? Once you counseled me to take up my name, that I cannot be both son of Húrin and not Túrin. And on Túrin lies the curse of exile that shackles his hand and heart. And my heart calls for battle and vengeance, by any way which my arms can deliver!”

“But in truth how would you hold this land, for by strengthening it you draw the eye of the Enemy. And if the host of Morgoth comes—a host of a thousand, ten thousand, what strongholds can you build? These plains grow no wheat and harbor no game. Even if an army comes to pay you allegiance, of what wood would you build halls to call your own?”

Then Túrin said bitterly, “So you say that I am here trapped once more though no walls or girdle constrain me. And maybe you also say without words that all my deeds are rash and foolish.”

But Beleg stayed Túrin with a hand on his shoulder. He looked up into his eyes, and his face, and slowly he turned about his fingers Túrin’s dark hair, as if a handmaid braiding the long tresses of a beloved mistress, but his voice was neither soft nor commanding.

“Hear me, Túrin. All who know you well love you, for you are fair. Your heart is fair, and it knows wrath as high as the sky and pity as deep as the Sea.” And Beleg places his palm on Túrin’s breast, where he felt the sure beats. “For this and more do I love you, Túrin son of Morwen. But counsel I will give you whether you hearken to them or no. Do no talk of army-building or of war, for you know not the true strength of the Enemy. If I had my way, then I will hold you like an arrow held in check in the dark eaves of Neldoreth, and you should abide here still, in secrecy.”

Yet Túrin took up that hand, and clasped hard between his own. “I have heard this often, and I will hear it no longer. Though I love you, dearer than life, I would not draw back if Men breathe that would defend their lives. And if they come to me and would hold me as lord, I shall let them. And if by their coming that all be undone, then still I would rather that we stood against the Enemy in defiance.”

If Beleg heard him, no outward sign he showed. Slowly he closed his eyes and his breath seemed to still. But suddenly he breathed in deep, and when he opened his eyes again they were bright and grey, and a cold wind now ran up the eastern cliffside, and his long hair streamed out like a fan of silver. “Then so be it! I know full well it is futile to gainsay you. I go with you still.”

“Come then, Beleg, fellow exile, and speak no more of secrecy! For here we are gathered in the wilds, foe-beset with untrusty company beside. And yet I would not trade it for the fairest elven-flowers that bloom in the groves of Region. For here is my doom. And here I go, hunting ever the servants of the Enemy beneath the open sky.”

Beleg drew him into his embrace, and all about them the seregon flowers rocked in the wind like waters meandering under stormwinds in the Great Sea beyond the western shores, while the lovers stood still on a lone islet, beset on all sides by foundering waves.

—

Grey the deer runs. Silver her flanks. Silver her hoofs. She tosses her head in the night. Where is her mate, where is her fawn? Speed now the arrow, and speed now its mark, for thus hunters eat in the dead winter, with blood upon the snow.

 

 

 

III.

 

And at the last, when at last they met again, when time slipped back on its chain, when Mîm the Dwarf told his tale and treachery was rewarded with treachery, when the curse twitched its fingers on the fate of the children of Húrin, and reeled back the lines, and worked its dark poison like fell dew on silver threads, in that black hour when Anglachel drank deep the blood of Beleg, and stole the deeds of woe unto its bitter skyborn heart, when Beleg lay dying as Belthronding lay lifeless at his side, arrowless and unstrung, if Beleg could have said aught beneath the eaves of wildered Taur-nu-fuin, as the darkness pressed down, as Gwindor stood in horror dumbfounded, as Túrin hovered over him, his hair a veil of wild grief, bewitched into stone, what would he have said?

—

The arrow shoots straight, but in the brief arc of its flight, it flexes ever this way and that, undulating in the air as if straining against the bonds of its mark. And yet what mark it finds, it finds, and strays not from its fate, and so do you, Túrin, in all your struggles, bend ever toward your doom.

Do you remember, Túrin, when in the woods of Neldoreth the ancient stars leap into fire, and like jewels upon the raiment of the sky they shake, stirred by the clear breath of Fanuilos from faraway? Those woods you once loved, though you return to them never again. And in the plains of Dimbar at eve, when the pale dusk lingers at the world’s edge in a rim of vapor, do you know that the dusk is as it ever was in the long days of my youth, on these Hither Shores in the unnumbered years before we tasted evil? Nay, you know them not, for you were not yet made in the world.

Son of Man! How fair you’ve grown, how quick, and how brightly you will burn! And what will you do, I wonder, at your end, at the world’s end, what deeds fair or fell, though the days have dwindled to woe by the bitter malice of the Enemy.

For your doom is as the doom of all Elves and Men who live east of the Sea. To see all that they’ve wrought come to ruin, and all their deeds end in sorrow. For here we are, and here is my end. Yet I rue not the deeds for the bitterness of their end, Túrin beloved. You and I made music in the wide woods, and helm and bow sang for a season, brief and bright. And the love of thee for a season is to me as a joy of all my life. I held thy hands as thou hast held mine. Thy touch and thy kiss, may they linger in my memory ever, and may the sweetness of ours lay on the land, if only awhile! If only awhile.

Túrin, think you still that the curse lies on your name. Nay, it lies on your person utterly. When I tried to teach you love, I found there was naught to teach, for you gave your love openly, willingly. But when I tried to teach you patience, but found that you could not bear its bonds, and would not see its strength, and ever strained its checks. Alas, that I could not make you see the patience of love. For I love you, yet I know now that I cannot save you, not by my love nor any of the Eldar’s.

If by misfortune and by thy selfsame hand, then it shall be how my eyes darken. I go now to the Halls of Waiting. Alas, Túrin. This parting is bitter. For the Seas sunder us beyond the utter end. There will be no choice for me as there was for Lúthien, for I have not her song. Farewell, child of Húrin, farewell!

—

But Beleg said not, and he died in that hour in Túrin’s arms, and the like of him was never again seen in Middle-Earth by Elves or Men.

---

Chapter End Notes

1. Much liberty was taken with the exact scene of Túrin and Beleg’s reunion as it was recounted in The Children of Hurin.

2. The kernel of this idea that stillness is the heart of Elven bowmanship is taken not from English bowmanship, which in modern days still favors practicality, but Japanese bowmanship (弓道, kyuu-do), which has been polished to a religious fineness. Though this ritualistic practice is perhaps no longer optimized for practical hunting or warfare, its emphasis on inner grace and beauty is nonetheless pleasingly Elvish in mode.

3. I was particularly struck by Gwindor’s last words to Túrin: “[Finduilas] alone stands between you and your doom”. What did this mean? What is meant by ‘save’, when Gwindor knew full well that Finduilas was taken thrall and in any case had no power over the doings of Niënor or Glaurung?

Of course, it could be read in a narrow sense that only in going to Finduilas could Túrin have circumvented the timing of meeting Niënor after her bewitching, and thereby postpone his fate.

But you can read it in a broader sense: the secrecy which shielded Túrin from Morgoth’s gaze was what stayed the power of tfew he curse, and this secrecy was a labor maintained by the Elves. In particular, it was the Elves who truly loved Túrin. They with their knowledge of him (Nellas, Beleg, Gwindor, Finduilas) went out of their way (and often putting themselves at harm, witting or unwitting) to save him—Nellas by recounting her story, Beleg by aiding Túrin’s exile with might of arms, and Gwindor and Finduilas by their counselling Túrin against the revealing of Nargothrond, all to their respective failures and sorrows. And yet, remarkably, none resented him in the end, though he was often “at fault” for at least his ignorance and obstinancy. And so it was not love itself, but the labors borne out of love; these labors only the Elves could have done, as they with the long wisdom of time came to know Túrin best, whereas other Men may not have known his heart as clearly nor have seen far enough to know what he needed. And that in the end, because of the greatness of Morgoth, not even the Elves could have saved Túrin utterly.

4. The malediction of Túrin is adapted from a combination of The Curse of Iron (IX. Origin of Iron) and Kullervo’s Curse (XXXII. Kullervo as a Shepherd) from the Finnish saga Kalevala. Of course Kullervo was the initial germination of Túrin Turambar as a character. Translation by John Martin Crawford, 1888.