Stories about different things

Daughter of a Noldorin smith and a Sindarin mother.

A craftswoman, jeweler, gardener, keeper of old memories, and wife of Celegorm.

Born in the years before the Sun and Moon, she survived the ruin of Beleriand and carried fragments of lost histories across the Ages. What began as notes, names, and family records eventually became one of the most complete surviving genealogical chronicles of the Eldar.

Though known for her work with metal and gemstones, Beryl is just as often found among berry bushes and herbs, speaking softly to plants as if they were old friends.

Her hands are the hands of a smith: strong, steady, scarred by honest work. Yet those same hands are known for restoring beauty, preserving memory, and offering healing through the green stone Elessar.

She never quite became accustomed to being called a princess.

She still prefers workshops to courts, gardens to ceremonies, and a quiet evening at home with her husband, a growing collection of animals, and far too many unfinished projects.

But if you ask those who know her, they will tell you that wherever Beryl lives, a house becomes a home.

I have fought kings who came against me in shining armor and called it valor. I have watched walls collapse, watched stars go out in the eyes of those who, only a moment before, had sworn to stand until the end. I have heard the final prayers of warriors, the whispers of traitors, the ragged breathing of commanders who realized their armies were nothing but sand in the palm of darkness.

I know the power of the sword.

I know the power of fire.

I know the power of fear.

But there are battles even the one who bears the name of terror does not enter.

Because some duels are not lost when you fall to your knees. Not when blood touches the earth. Not when your enemy is stronger.

But when your enemy begins to sing.

And if I were asked whom I would never, under any circumstances, face in a singing duel, I would answer without hesitation:

A mother singing over a cradle.

Not a great bard. Not a minstrel whose name is carved into the halls of kings. Not an elven lord whose song can make mountains remember their youth. Not a temple choir, not the voice of the sea, not those who can weave into music spells older than steel itself.

No.

A mother.

The one who sits in the half-dark when the whole world has fallen silent.

The one whose hands smell of bread, hearth-smoke, and weariness. The one with no army at her back, no throne beneath her feet, no crown upon her brow. The one whose kingdom is a little room where a floorboard creaks, where the wind scratches at the shutters, where a child breathes in sleep so softly that the night itself seems afraid to wake them.

She does not know her song is a weapon.

And that is precisely why it is more terrifying than all others.

I have seen songs forged with intent. Songs created for glory, power, victory. They have order. They have purpose. They can be studied, twisted, broken, enslaved. Any song born for triumph already carries within it a crack: the pride of the one who desires to win.

But a lullaby desires no victory.

It does not even acknowledge the battle.

It does not step onto the field. It issues no challenge. It does not demand to be heard. It simply sounds — quietly, almost unnoticed, like warm light beneath the door of a house past which a starving winter walks.

And therein lies its horror.

For darkness knows how to devour fear, hatred, envy, the hunger for power. All of these are familiar food. All of these can be kindled, swollen, turned into a chain. A person who fears is already half mine. A person who hates reaches for my hand of their own accord. A person who dreams of ruling already hears my whisper in their blood.

But what is to be done with a voice that asks for nothing?

What is to be done with a song that does not wish to be great?

What is to be done with a woman who sings not for the world, not for the gods, not for the memory of descendants, but only so that the small heart beside her may beat calmly?

I would not enter a duel with her.

Because the moment she began to sing, the battlefield would vanish.

My towers would become mere stones. My banners — black cloth in the wind. My armies — a multitude of lonely creatures, each of whom was once a child. Even my forges, where metal screams beneath the hammer, would for one instant remember another sound: a spoon against the rim of a bowl, footsteps in a corridor, someone’s voice behind a wall.

And that is more dangerous than any blade.

There are songs that call men to battle. They raise the blood, make hands grip weapons tighter, promise glory, vengeance, immortality. Against those, I would contend. I would drown them beneath the thunder of drums. I would sink them in the roar of horns. I would make every verse a march toward ruin.

There are songs of love. They are strong, but pain lives within them. And pain is a door. Through it, one may enter. Love fears loss, grows jealous, waits, doubts. It can be poisoned. It can be turned against itself.

There are songs of faith. They are lofty, but faith often needs proof. Give it the silence of heaven, and it begins to tremble. Give it ashes instead of a miracle, and it becomes a question. And a question is easily turned into despair.

But a lullaby…

A lullaby does not prove. Does not promise. Does not argue. Does not persuade.

It simply says: sleep, I am here.

And in those few words there is more power than in any ring.

For every tyranny is built upon one secret knowledge: no one must ever feel safe. No one. Everyone must fear losing home, name, bread, loved ones, the future. Everyone must remember that above them there is an eye, a hand, a law, an execution, a debt. The world must become a corridor without windows, where the steps of the pursuer can be heard even in dreams.

And a lullaby does the impossible.

It creates a little circle where fear dares not enter at once.

Not forever. No. I am not so naive. Morning will come, and the world will open its jaws again. But for a few moments, for a few breaths, a mother takes from darkness its rightful claim. She lays a hand upon a child’s brow — and all my fortresses retreat beyond the horizon.

How could one fight that?

Shout louder?

Absurd.

Darkness can be deafening. But a child does not fall asleep to thunder. A child falls asleep to trust.

Summon a storm?

The storm would only press them closer to their mother’s shoulder.

Show her visions of ruin?

She already knows the world is cruel. She sings not because she is ignorant of horror. She sings precisely because she knows it. In her voice there is the weariness of those who have seen calamity and still light the lamp. There is the courage of those who do not know how to speak of courage. There is tenderness that, every night, performs an ancient and mad rite: guarding life from the endless night.

I could order legions to advance.

She would sing more softly.

I could close the sky with smoke.

She would turn the child’s face toward her own.

I could speak the names of every fear.

She would speak one name — the name of her child.

And that would be enough to make my army slow for a single instant.

And in a true battle, an instant is eternity.

That is why I would not face her.

Not out of mercy. Not out of nobility. Not because pity suddenly awakened in me, as fools love to imagine when they believe in the redemption of monsters.

No.

I would not face her because, in a singing duel, what matters is not volume. Not skill. Not the ancientness of the words.

What matters is the truth carried by the voice.

And her truth is terrifying.

She sings that the world does not yet wholly belong to me.

So long as, somewhere in a dark room, someone bends over a cradle; so long as someone’s lips whisper a melody with no witnesses; so long as a small human being falls asleep believing that warmth is near — darkness is not complete.

Not final.

Not almighty.

Cities may be burned. Crowns may be broken. Sages may be made to lie, heroes to betray, kings to bow their knees. Gold may be melted down, gates sealed, nations taught to speak in whispers.

But one cannot defeat a song sung without any desire to win.

And so I would choose another opponent. Anyone. The proudest. The most renowned. The most certain of their own strength. I would face a singer who shines before a crowd, a voice that waits for applause, a talent that knows its worth.

But not the one who sings in darkness, thinking no one hears her.

Because I hear.

I hear such songs better than anyone.

They pass through the night like thin threads. They rise above rooftops, above fields, above roads where wolves prowl and men worse than wolves. They do not glitter. They do not thunder. They demand no place in chronicles.

But each of them is a small, unconquered flame.

And I know too well the price of a fire that does not wish to become a blaze.

It is the hardest kind to fight.

So no.

I would not enter a singing duel against a mother by a cradle.

Let others call it weakness.

I call it knowing one’s enemy.

Because a sword can be knocked from a hand. A fortress can be besieged. A king can be bought. A prophet can be silenced. Even a hero can be worn down.

But while, in the darkness, there sounds that quiet: “sleep, I am here,” somewhere in the deepest part of the world there remains a place where my shadow does not fall completely.

“Did you reunite after your return? Or did you quarrel for good? Was your conversation pleasant?”

In those questions, I always hear the hope for a simple tale: here is death, here is rebirth, here is the light of Aman’s shores, here is the woman I left behind, and here we meet — and everything becomes as it was before the departure. As though no time had passed. As though bitterness had not had time to take root. As though love, once named love, were obliged to meet us at the gates unchanged, obedient, and radiant.

But no true song is ever so simple.

I did see Amarië after my return.

Yes.

And no, we did not quarrel for good.

But to say that we simply “reunited” would be untrue, too smooth a word for a living heart.

When I was returned from the Halls of Mandos, the world was the same — and not the same. The light of Valinor was pure, as it had been before, but I looked upon it with the eyes of one who remembered darkness beneath the earth, the iron of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the stench of wolves’ breath, and the songs of Sauron breaking the will. I remembered the faces of those I could not bring back. I remembered Beren, for whom I gave everything, and I remembered my companions, falling one by one. I remembered Nargothrond — not as a palace full of music, but as a home I had founded and left to another fate.

And I remembered her.

Not as a reproach. Not as a consolation. As a wound that no longer bleeds, yet changes the way one walks.

Amarië did not follow me from Aman. Many know this. They speak of it in different ways: some with judgment, some with sympathy, others as though it had been a simple choice between love and fear. But those who speak so rarely understand that love is not always expressed by following. Sometimes love remains upon the shore because it cannot bless a road that leads to blood, to oaths, to doom, to pride.

I was young. Yes, even I, whom Men later called wise, was young. Young not in years, but in the certainty that if the heart burned brightly enough, it would illumine any abyss. I went with Fingolfin, with my people, with the dream of lands where one might build, rule, create, fight, and be free from the shadow of another’s power. I did not swear the Oath of Fëanor, but the flame of those days touched me as well. We all spoke then of justice, of loyalty, of duty, of honor. And we were far from always able to tell where honor ended and stubbornness began.

Amarië saw what I did not wish to see.

She was no coward. Let no one say that.

She was one of those who do not mistake loyalty for running after the beloved into the abyss. She loved me, but she did not wish to become part of an exile in which the crack could already be heard. She did not wish to walk a road already darkened by disobedience, anger, and blood at Alqualondë. She did not wish to build love upon a land to which we came not only with hope, but also with guilt.

I did not fully understand that then.

I accepted her refusal with dignity — outwardly. I did not curse her, did not demand, did not plead. But in my heart there was that silent suffering which easily pretends to be nobility. I told myself: she has made her choice, and I have made mine. I told myself: each of us has our own fate. I told myself many reasonable things.

But beneath them lived pain.

And perhaps a measure of pride.

When I returned, I did not seek her out for a long time.

That, too, is true.

Not because I did not wish to see her. But because I feared seeing too much at once: her face, my own past, that shore upon which I had left not only my beloved, but also that part of myself which still believed a path could be chosen without loss.

Rebirth does not erase memory. It does not make you what you were. In the Halls of Mandos, much falls away: falsehood, haste, self-justification. But memory remains — cleansed, heavy, inexorable. You can no longer tell yourself the old beautiful tales about your own decisions. You see where you were noble, where blind, where brave, where vain, where you loved, and where you wished love to serve your destiny.

I thought of Amarië often.

I wondered whether she had waited. I wondered whether she had any right to wait. I wondered whether I had any right to hope that, after all of it, she would receive me as the same Finrod who had left her in the radiance of youth. I did not return as a victor. Yes, my death was not in vain. Yes, from it came hope that I myself could not then see in full. But I did not return wearing a crown of joy. I returned with silence within me.

Our meeting did not happen solemnly.

There was no hall full of witnesses, no songs, no tearful rush into an embrace of the kind minstrels love to tell. We met in a garden where trees grew that had been planted after my departure. To me they were new. To her they had long been familiar. It seemed to me a just image of all that had happened between us: I had returned to a place that had continued to live without me.

She stood by the water.

I remember how the wind touched her hair. I remember how she turned before I spoke her name. Among the Eldar there is recognition that needs no sound; yet in that moment I still had to say:

“Amarië.”

She answered:

“Ingoldo.”

Not “mine.” Not “beloved.” Not coldly, but carefully. In that one name there were so many years that I almost could not bear it.

I had wanted to say many things. I had thought in advance what words would be worthy: of forgiveness, of memory, of what I had understood, of how I did not blame her. But when the hour came, all those words seemed too smooth.

So I said only:

“Forgive me.”

She looked at me for a long time. Not with anger. Anger would have been easier. Anger gives pain a shape, lets it speak loudly. In her gaze there was something else: the weariness of long waiting, restrained tenderness, and the knowledge that no “forgive me” can restore lost time.

“For what?” she asked.

And that was not a refusal to accept an apology. It was a question that had to be answered honestly.

I said:

“For leaving as though my road were the only worthy one. For believing, in my heart, that your remaining was the lesser courage. For not understanding your fear — no, not fear, your wisdom. For the part of me that wanted you to follow me, even if it would have destroyed you.”

She lowered her eyes.

“I must also ask forgiveness,” she said.

I wanted to object, but she raised her hand, and I fell silent.

“Not for staying. For that I do not ask forgiveness. I could not go. Not like that. Not after what had happened. Not under that shadow. But I ask forgiveness because in my heart I sometimes wished you failure — not death, no, never death — but return. I wanted the world to prove you wrong and me right. That was unworthy of love.”

Then it truly hurt me.

Not because she had confessed to something terrible, but because I understood: we had both been alive. Not beautiful images from a song, not symbols of faithfulness and loss, but living souls who had loved and erred. She had waited — but not always meekly. I had suffered — but not always purely. There was no villain between us. And therefore there was no simple judgment.

Was our conversation pleasant?

No.

Not in the sense in which music at a feast is pleasant, or light conversation beneath flowering trees, or the meeting of friends who have nothing to forgive.

Our conversation was difficult. It was slow. Sometimes such silences rose between us that it seemed entire ages were passing again. We spoke of my departure. Of her remaining. Of rumors that had reached Aman. Of tidings from Beleriand, which came rarely, distorted, and too late. Of Nargothrond. Of Beren. Of my death.

She asked me whether I had been afraid.

I answered: yes.

Not immediately. Not during the duel of songs. There it had been more a tension of will, a clarity, almost a cold fire. But afterwards — in the dungeon, when my companions died one after another, when the darkness grew tighter, when hope shrank to a single Man whom I had promised not to abandon — yes, I was afraid.

She wept when I said that.

And I understood that she did not need tales of valor. She needed to hear that I had not become a monument to my own sacrifice. That I was still someone who could be mourned, not only sung of.

I asked her whether she had been happy.

The question was cruel, though I had not intended cruelty. She smiled — with that sorrow immortals have when they speak of time.

“Sometimes,” she said. “And that, too, was difficult.”

I understood.

There is a particular guilt in those who remain alive. Guilt for joy that comes after another’s departure. Guilt for the morning light that is still beautiful. For songs one still wants to hear. For the fact that the heart does not die completely, though once it seemed to you that it ought to.

I told her I would not have wanted her to be unhappy through all those years.

She answered:

“Part of me knows that. Another part long believed that if I ceased to suffer, I would betray you.”

This is what songs rarely speak of: after a long separation, love needs not only faithfulness, but mercy toward what the other has become without you.

Amarië had become someone else.

So had I.

We could not simply return to the old promise as to a book marked with a dried leaf. The leaf would crumble in our hands. We had to decide whether there was between us not only the memory of love, but a new love — one that saw before it not the young prince departing eastward and not the maiden upon the shore, but two people who had passed through different griefs.

We spoke for a long time.

Not everything was said that day. Some words require many meetings. Sometimes we parted in peace, but without relief. Sometimes I went away thinking: it would be easier if she were angry, easier if she said it was over, easier if she gave me a clear wound instead of this difficult hope. Sometimes, I think, she watched me leave and saw not a returned beloved, but all of Beleriand standing between us.

But we did not quarrel.

No.

We did not hurl accusations at one another that could never be taken back. We did not try to win an argument over the past. When people ask “who was right,” I do not know what to answer. She was right to stay. I was right to go — insofar as my road led me to faithfulness toward Beren and, through him, to hope for many. We were both wrong whenever we thought the other’s pain was smaller than our own.

That is perhaps the hardest thing in love: to admit that your wound is not the only one.

After my return, many expected light from me. They wanted to see in me proof that death had been overcome, that sacrifice had been crowned, that all bitterness had become part of a great design. And in a sense, it was so. But I could not at once be a joyful sign for everyone. I had to learn again how to be myself.

Amarië did not demand radiance from me.

For that I am more grateful to her than I can say.

She did not ask me to tell everything. She did not ask me to forget. She was not jealous of mortals, though she might have been. For Beren, a Man whom I had known only briefly by the measure of the Eldar, entered my fate forever as deeply as only those can enter for whom one dies. She did not understand this at once. Nor did I at once understand how painful it was for her to hear that my final earthly loyalty had been turned not toward her, but toward a friend, toward an oath, toward a hope she had not shared with me.

But one day she said:

“I was afraid you had returned to a place where there was no room for me.”

I answered:

“I was afraid of the same.”

For the dead, when they return, bring with them countries that no longer exist.

Within me there was Nargothrond. Within me there were caverns, torches, voices, the echoes of a harp in halls of stone. Within me were the Men of the House of Bëor, their brief lives and the strange, sharp beauty of their hope. Within me was the memory of how mortals look upon the world — as though every dawn might be the last, and therefore worthy of love without delay.

Amarië had to become acquainted not only with me, but with all this.

And I had to become acquainted with her long solitude, with her life in Aman, which had not been an empty page. She had not stood motionless at a window waiting for my silhouette. She had lived. Learned to rejoice again. Grown angry. Prayed. Fallen silent. Listened for tidings. Sometimes hoped, sometimes forbade herself to hope. And all of that was her path, no less real than mine.

Our drawing near was not a blaze, but a cautious dawn.

At first we only spoke. Then we walked together. Then the silence between us ceased to be a wall and became a place of rest. One day she laughed — truly, lightly, as before — and I felt such pain from happiness that I nearly turned away. For I understood: I had feared not her reproaches, but the fact that joy was still possible.

And joy was possible.

Not the old joy. Not an innocent joy. But a deep one.

We did not become what we had been before my departure. And praise Eru that we did not. That love was beautiful, but there was much young light in it, a light that did not yet know its own shadow. Now there are fewer words between us spoken from pride, and more spoken from compassion. Fewer promises pronounced before the future as though it were obliged to obey. More gratitude for every day that is given.

People ask: did she forgive me?

Yes.

But forgiveness is not a door through which you pass once and find yourself in a clean room. Forgiveness is more like a garden. It must be tended. Sometimes old roots catch at the earth again. Sometimes pain returns suddenly — in a word, in a song, in the name of one who died, in someone’s careless question. Then we choose again not to wound each other with what has already been wounded.

People ask: did I forgive her?

Yes.

Though now the expression itself seems strange to me. For what was I to forgive her? For not going against her conscience? For not making my fate the measure of her own? No. Rather, I forgave within myself that young Finrod who once did not know how to accept her choice without secret pain. And in her I forgave not guilt, but the human — no, the elven, the living — imperfection of love, which can also fear, take pride, and suffer.

Was our first conversation pleasant?

No.

But it was good.

There are conversations after which one does not wish to sing, yet breathes more easily. There are words that do not caress the ear, but remove iron from the heart. There are meetings where no one wins, and precisely because of that, hope appears.

That was our meeting.

Not a tale of love conquering everything with one embrace.

Not a tragedy of pride parting us forever.

But something more difficult and perhaps more true: we sat on opposite sides of long years and began to build a bridge.

Sometimes I think that this is what true reunion is. Not a return to what once was, but a willingness to know each other anew. Not the demand, “be the one I lost,” but the plea, “let me see who you have become.” Not the denial of pain, but the decision not to make pain the final word.

Amarië is beside me.

Not as the shadow of a former love. Not as a reward for suffering. Not as the beautiful ending of a song in which all notes have at last resolved into peace.

She is beside me as a free soul, who once remained when I departed, and chose me again when I returned.

And I am beside her not as a prince, not as a hero of songs, not as one fallen and reborn, but as one who understood too much too late — and yet was granted the mercy of saying it aloud.

So I will answer plainly.

We did not quarrel for good.

We did not simply reunite.

We forgave. We spoke. We were silent. We learned. Sometimes we suffered. Sometimes we laughed. And we continue to choose one another — no longer from the blind flame of youth, but from a light that knows what darkness is, and therefore burns more quietly, yet more faithfully.

Was the conversation pleasant?

No.

It was honest.

By the roadside, where travelers first catch the moon’s reflection in the dark water, stands Aman’s house. Its windows glow with warm gold even when the night is cold, and the wind brings down from the mountains the whisper of ancient trees.

Here, no needless questions are asked. Here, the weary are welcomed, water from the lake is offered, flowers are set upon the table, and a light is left by the door for those who have lost their way.

Aman knows that the lake holds more than the reflection of stars. In its depths live the songs of the first light, forgotten names, and the quiet clarity that comes only to those who know how to listen.

Each evening she goes down to the water. She fills a golden bowl, gives thanks to the shore, returns home with a basket of flowers, and prepares the house for the coming of guests.

I was asked:

“Imagine you had a meeting with Túrin, because of whom the kingdom of Nargothrond fell. What would you hit him with?”

Let me say at once: this is a difficult question. Not because I do not know what with. But because the list of options is longer than Finarfin’s genealogy, and about as painful when read aloud in public.

But let us begin in order.

First of all, I, Finrod Felagund, son of Finarfin, founder of Nargothrond, the person who literally dug an underground kingdom so that it would be hidden, protected, and not situated on the main road to Angband, would like to clarify one small point.

I did not hire the finest masons, befriend the Dwarves, design secret passages, hidden gates, fortifications, a defense system, and all that underground splendor just so that years later some gloomy Man with a curse on his shoulders could show up and say:

“Let’s build a bridge.”

A bridge.

To Nargothrond.

Open.

Convenient.

Direct.

For an army.

For a dragon.

For fate, which was already standing around the corner holding a sign that said “things are about to go badly.”

What would I hit Túrin with?

First — with a look.

Not a sword. Not a staff. Not a harp. A look.

That very look of an elder Elf who has lived long enough to witness the Flight of the Noldor, the Oath of Fëanor, the deaths of friends, the intrigues of Sauron, the fall of countless hopes — and still was not prepared for the phrase: “We abandoned secrecy because it was more heroic.”

I would simply stare at him for ten minutes.

Silently.

Very elvishly.

In such a way that even Túrin’s curse would, for one second, think: “Perhaps I overdid it.”

Then I would take a map of Beleriand.

A large one.

Beautiful.

With neat labels: Angband, Doriath, Nargothrond, all dangerous directions, the routes of Morgoth’s armies, the places where catastrophes had already happened, and the places where catastrophes were only getting ready to happen.

And I would hit him with the map.

Not hard. But methodically.

Each blow — for one strategic miscalculation.

First blow: “A hidden kingdom is called hidden not because we are shy about guests.”

Second blow: “If the enemy does not know where you live, do not build him a road to your living room.”

Third blow: “When Ulmo sends a warning through Gelmir and Arminas, that is not ‘an outside opinion’; that is, you know, the divine department of emergency management.”

Fourth blow: “Glaurung is a dragon. A dragon. Not a large lizard with self-esteem issues. Not an opportunity for heroic posing on a bridge. A dragon.”

Fifth blow: “Orodreth was not the most decisive king, but even he did not have to be driven into architectural suicide.”

After the map, I would move on to the next weapon.

The sign saying ‘I told you so.’

Yes, I know, in life I did not personally say it to Túrin, because I was busy dying for Beren, while, incidentally, remaining faithful to an oath of friendship and not destroying anyone else’s underground capitals.

But as the founder of Nargothrond, I have the full moral right to a posthumous “I told you so” in an expanded edition.

I would hit him with that sign gently, but with feeling.

Not in the face. In the pride.

Because fate, Morgoth, Glaurung, chance, family tragedy, and his own stubbornness had already hit him in the face. I fear there is no room left there.

But the pride — that needs attention.

Túrin, in general, is that kind of person: enormous sword, resounding name, tragic fate, heavy gaze, catastrophic decisions. And all the time there is this feeling that somewhere nearby common sense is standing, waving its hand and saying:

“Túrin, don’t.”

And Túrin replies:

“I shall call myself by a new name and do it anyway.”

So the next object would be the list of his names.

Neithan. Gorthol. Agarwaen. Mormegil. Turambar.

And with each name — on the forehead.

Not physically, of course. Symbolically.

“With this name, you hid.” Smack.

“With this name, you won glory.” Smack.

“With this name, you tried to escape fate.” Smack.

“With this name, you decided you could master doom.” Smack.

“And with this name, everything you were running from caught up with you anyway.” Smack.

You see, the problem with Túrin is not that he is bad. He is not bad. And that is the most irritating thing.

He is brave. He is loyal. He knows how to love. He knows how to fight. He evokes compassion. He truly suffered. He was cursed by Morgoth, and that is not a minor inconvenience or a “difficult personality.”

But, my dears, suffering does not make you a good urban planner.

A tragic fate does not give you the right to turn a secret fortress into a public thoroughfare.

And the ability to stand beautifully with a black sword does not replace the counsel of people who were building kingdoms before your ancestors had learned to look confidently toward the sunset.

So next I would take a stone from the walls of Nargothrond.

Not to throw it.

No.

I would place it in Túrin’s hands and say:

“Hold it.”

Let him feel the weight.

Not the weight of a sword. Not the weight of glory. Not the weight of a curse.

The weight of a home.

The weight of a city.

The weight of those who lived there.

The weight of Elves who did not all want a great battle, a loud song, and a tragic legend. Some simply wanted to work in the forge, listen to music, preserve books, teach children, argue about silver lamps, and live in a place that Morgoth would not find.

Nargothrond was not scenery for your fate, Túrin.

Not a stage on which Mormegil could make a beautiful appearance before the final catastrophe.

It was a home.

My home.

The home of those who trusted stone, silence, the river, and secrecy.

And you, with all your pain, all your valor, all your “I will decide for myself,” helped turn it into a tomb.

At this point, perhaps, I would stop hitting him.

I would sit down opposite him.

Because, honestly, hitting Túrin is useless. His life has already beaten him so thoroughly that any contribution from me would look petty.

With Túrin, one must do something more frightening.

One must talk to him.

Calmly.

In detail.

With elven endurance.

For hours.

I would make him listen to a full report on the concept of Nargothrond’s hidden defense.

With appendices.

With diagrams.

With memories of how we chose the location.

With a separate lecture on the topic: “Why Bridges Are Useful When You Are Not Hiding from Absolute Evil in the North.”

With a seminar: “How to Distinguish Courage from the Desire to Die Dramatically.”

With a practical exercise: “What to Do When Messengers of the Valar Tell You: ‘Destroy the Bridge.’”

With a final exam.

And until he passed with honors, he would not be allowed out.

That would be Finrod’s true revenge.

Not with a sword.

Not with a fist.

Not with a harp, though the harp is tempting. Especially remembering that I once contended in song with Sauron, so my musical-pedagogical strike is well-practiced.

But no.

I would hit Túrin with responsibility.

The heaviest weapon for heroes of his type.

Because a hero is used to answering for his sword, his duel, his honor, his tragedy.

But for the consequences?

For the people who believed in his confidence?

For the kingdom that became too visible?

For the warning that was ignored?

For the pride that was mistaken for wisdom?

That is what one must hit him with.

Carefully.

Without malice.

But in such a way that it gets through even the armor of the curse.

And if a specific, material object is still required, then my choice is this:

I would hit Túrin with the plan of Nargothrond, rolled into a tube.

First, it is symbolic.

Second, it is non-lethal.

Third, every smack would sound like a small architectural accusation.

Smack: “Here was the secret entrance.” Smack: “Here were the halls.” Smack: “Here lived people who did not ask to become part of your legend.” Smack: “Here the dragon later lay upon the treasure.” Smack: “And here, Túrin, is where common sense should have been.”

And at the end, I would probably sigh.

Because I am Finrod, not Fëanor. I do have some inclination toward mercy, even when I want to smack someone’s self-confidence with a scroll.

I would say:

“Túrin, you are not the only one to blame. Morgoth’s curse hung over you. Orodreth yielded. Gwindor did not warn forcefully enough. The people of Nargothrond also wanted glory and open war. Glaurung was not merely a beast, but an instrument of darkness. The world in general is arranged so that the best intentions often arrive at the worst gates.”

And then I would add:

“But the bridge, Túrin. The bridge.”

And I would smack him with the plan again.

Because mercy is mercy, but I am not ready to forgive the bridge yet.

So, the final answer:

I will not hit him with a sword. There were already far too many swords around Túrin.

I will hit him with:

a map of Beleriand — for strategy; the plan of Nargothrond — for architecture; the sign saying “I told you so” — for ignoring warnings; the list of his names — for trying to run from himself; a stone from the wall — for the memory of home; and, most importantly, a long lecture on how heroism without wisdom is sometimes worse than cowardice.

And if he asks: “Finrod, do you truly hate me?”

I will answer:

“No, Túrin. I pity you. But that does not mean I cannot wholeheartedly whack you with the rolled-up master plan of Nargothrond.”

Because some lessons must be learned.