Dream of the Black Sword by Flora-lass

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Chapter 1

Gwindor is said to have lost a hand when escaping Angband. My version is a little different, but he is still badly injured - and confused.

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Beleg stared in dismay at the figure lying crumpled on the ground, his bewildered senses sharpening as he took in the ravaged face and badly wounded arm. If he read the signs aright, here was one newly escaped from Angband, whom Túrin was in grave danger of replacing. Beleg needed to be on his way.

But, he forced himself to reason, he might have altogether lost his way in that terrible place, had he not seen this stranger's lamp - and how could he just leave him here untended while, despite all that had befallen, he still had something to offer?

So he knelt, and studied the sleeper more closely. His sleep appeared far from peaceful, disturbed by dreams from which he was too exhausted to wake. Beleg would have preferred to let him rest a while longer, but deemed it better for him to be roused.

Beleg was skilled in healing and in approaching the wounded and the terrified; he knew that one such as this could easily turn on him, especially as he was armed (although he doubted that he would have the strength or the speed to do much harm, injured as he was).

So he sang quietly for a while, from a safe distance, and only then did he speak. ‘Wake up, friend. I come in peace, and would aid you.’

The Elf (for Elf it was, although he looked more as one of the aged among the Secondborn) seemed inclined to recoil rather than fight; he made to curl in on himself, and winced in pain, as he attempted to hide his face. So Beleg continued his song, until at last he opened his eyes - which confirmed his fear, and also revealed how young he truly was.

‘I am Beleg Cúthalion, of Doriath. Will you let me help you? I would not trouble you with much talk, but may I know your name?’

The voice was little more than a whisper, but he answered with certainty, at least at first. ‘I am Gwindor son of Guilin, of Nargothrond. Or so I was, once. I have come from…from…’

‘I know where you have been, alas,’ Beleg said. ‘Do not try and speak of it yet. But your name is known and renowned. May I give you water? And then I have lembas, the gift of Queen Melian, which will surely give you strength.’

Gwindor's eyes widened as he took this in, and after a while he said, ‘To receive such a gift I would need clean hands...’ An expression of horror passed over his face. ‘But now I only have one hand! When I fought my way out, a guard…oh…I fought as I entered and I fought as I escaped, and I never want to fight again...’

‘Hush now,’ Beleg said. ‘You do not need to fight here.’’ He indicated the bloodstained rag around Gwindor's arm, which had clearly been torn from the rough garment he wore. Receiving a slight nod, he unwrapped it, taking care to touch him as little as possible.

‘You have not wholly lost your hand,’ he said. ‘Do you not feel it? Your arm and your hand are badly hurt, and you have lost some fingers, but part of it remains.’

‘I cannot feel that arm at all.’ Gwindor would have groaned if he had had enough of a voice. ‘And there is mercy in that, for all else hurts. My head…’

‘Water first, then,’ Beleg said firmly, replacing the rag. ‘I have some skill in healing, although I come less well-provisioned than I would like. I will attend to your arm as soon as I may. And as for clean hands, we will see to that too. But for now I will serve you, and gladly.’

As he helped Gwindor to drink and eat, Beleg could feel him shaking. He cleaned and bound the injured arm and hand, and then bathed Gwindor's other hand, and his face. At this, Gwindor's eyes filled with tears.

‘Does it hurt you to be touched?’ Beleg asked. ‘Or alarm you? Neither would surprise me; indeed, I am surprised that you do not protest more.’

‘No, no…’ Gwindor gasped. ‘It surprises me, too. But I can tell that you mean me no harm. It is just that it has been so long since anyone was - kind. Truly the Valar must have sent you!’ He composed himself and then went on. ‘We captives did what we could for each other, of course. The forge-worker who gave me a sword took a great risk, and I would not have escaped otherwise. But there was little time for tending each other's hurts, or for more than fleeting glances of encouragement…but tell me, friend, how you come to be here? It is surely not by chance!’

‘I will tell you,’ Beleg answered, but it is too long a story to trouble you with now. First I think you should sleep again, and let the lembas do its work. We will make you as comfortable as possible, and you should feel stronger when you wake. Your voice is already stronger than it was.’

Beleg made Gwindor a pillow of dead leaves, and carefully spread his own cloak over him. Gwindor seemed about to cry again.

‘You remind me of my lord Finrod,’ he said. ‘He was always so kind, although a fierce fighter at need. Alas that he is gone!’

‘Alas indeed,’ Beleg said. ‘I know King Thingol mourns him greatly. And his brothers too, those who died in the Bragollach. But Orodeth still rules in Nargothrond.’

Gwindor began to say something, but changed his mind and lay in silence for a while.

‘I long for sleep, but I am foolishly afraid,’ he said at last.

‘Is it dreams you fear?’ Beleg asked. ‘That would be far from foolish, after what you must have endured.’

‘The dream from which you woke me was not - what you might expect,’ Gwindor sighed. ‘And I have never known anything like it before. It seems so absurd, that perhaps I should simply laugh about it and try to forget. But I have not laughed for such a long time, and I find I no longer know what I should laugh at. And in the meantime, I do not wish to dream it again…’

‘Do you wish to tell me more of it?’

‘You will surely laugh, even if I cannot, and however kind you are.’

‘My mood was already grim, even before I found you so afflicted. I will not laugh, I swear. And healers do not laugh at dreams, in any case.’

‘Well then,’ Gwindor began slowly. ‘I dreamed of a sword which came to life.’ He stopped again and looked hard at Beleg, as though expecting an expression of disbelief at least.

‘I am listening,’ Beleg said quietly.

‘It was not unlike the stories I have heard Men tell, when meeting them with my lord Finrod. They seemed to take pleasure in frightening themselves with tales of what they call magic, which they were inclined to believe we Elves could perform if we so wished. Even though the tales often had evil at their heart, and they knew King Finrod Felagund to be good!’

‘I have also heard such tales,’ Beleg said, and Gwindor, reassured, went on in a rush.

‘I do not know where the sword came from, but it became almost as one of us - it seemed to have a face and form, and it certainly had a voice. And yet it was still a sword, and deadly! I know it killed someone dear to me, although I cannot remember who. And it gained the trust of King Orodreth, and opposed me in everything! And…’ Gwindor covered his face with his good hand. ‘I can hardly bear to say it, but…it stole the heart of the one I love, and did not love her in return. And now you will say I have lost my wits, along with my hand!’

‘Indeed I will not,’ Beleg said. ‘But you have not lost your whole hand, remember. You may be able to make some use of it again, in time. But this dream seems to me to have been caused by pain, and lack of nourishment - and, perhaps, fear about what may have been happening at Nargothrond in your absence. And you escaped by means of a sword, and were injured by one, so they would have been uppermost in your thoughts.’

Gwindor sighed again, more deeply, and let his hand fall. Beleg could see that something in his face had eased. ‘At another time I might have been able to reason this out for myself,’ he said. ‘But not now. I thank you for this comfort. And for all the other comfort you have given me.’

‘I do not think this dream will return to trouble you, at least for as long as you partake of lembas. But I will keep watch, and wake you if you seem disturbed. Sleep now, if you can.’

But Gwindor was still not quite ready for sleep, exhausted though he was.

‘I begin to long for home,’ he said. ‘For so long I could hardly bear to think of Nargothrond, but now I dare to hope that I may see my lord Finrod's trees again.’

‘His carvings?’ Beleg asked. ‘They were inspired by Menegroth, so I hear.’

‘Yes indeed - but he had also known the Trees of Valinor, and called them to mind as he worked. Such an artist he was! I have known and loved them all my life. The name Felagund did not quite do him justice, although it was well-meant…’’

‘You should rest,’ Beleg said, gently. ‘Regain some strength, and you will reach your home the sooner. And I will give you all the help I can. But for now, may I sing a song of Menegroth? It may soothe you.’

So Beleg sang of lantern-lit beeches of stone, with birds perching on their flower-entwined branches; and Gwindor almost smiled. And then he slept, finally at peace for a time. But Beleg watched - and wept for Túrin's fate, whatever it might be. 

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Chapter End Notes

I'm grateful to my friend for suggesting that Beleg might sing in order to wake Gwindor. This caution turned out to be unnecessary - but if only he'd done the same with Túrin...

I'm also grateful for the lovely idea that Finrod, inspired by Menegroth, carved trees at Nargothrond.

I'm hoping there will be a Chapter 2. But I write very slowly, so I have no idea when - this is already well beyond my normal word count!