Dor Cúarthol Week

He opens his eyes when he hears the soft clink of metal on stone. Gwindor steps back from where he has placed a small dagger on the floor before the wall bearing the plaque.

“Beleg gave that to me as I followed him through peril, back towards the dreaded place from which I fled. Never did I think I would return one step in that direction, yet his words gave to me the courage and hope I had lost.”

Túrin stares at it. The he leaves without a word.

It does not take him long to find the scrap of leather, but he spends more time than he is truly conscious of looking at it in his hands, one foot over the threshold of his room.

Gwindor is still waiting calmly when he returns.

It seems strangely small next to the dagger, on the floor.

Beleg had had many such strands of leather for binding and braiding his hair. This one had dropped to the floor of the Echad and Túrin had picked it up, intending to give it back to him. It was still in his pocket when the orcs took him.

The light shines on the objects and Túrin’s throat is very tight.

It has been two years since Beleg’s death. He showed Gwindor the wood carving a few days ago, as they confirmed they would come to the room again this year.

The Elf had not understood what the carved symbol signified, and Túrin had struggled to explain it to him, growing frustrated as he could not remember his mother’s words. He had first seen the horizontal line with a circle centred below on a rock by Nen Lalaith. His sister was burned, not buried, to avoid contagion, but his Aunt Rían had told him that the marker must still be placed somewhere. ‘To protect the dead on their journey from this world and to give us strength in our grief.’

He waits for Gwindor to put down a small bag of dried hyacinth petals, their faded purple colour still just recognisable.

He rests the small wood carving on the floor beside it. It was done in secret, as he deeply did not wish to explain its purpose and even less its meaning to any more Elves.

He moves his right hand from shoulder to shoulder, drawing it across his collarbone, then makes a fist over his heart, mirroring the lines etched into the wood.

Morwen’s voice echoes in his ears: ‘Andreth told me we began to do this gesture as soon as we crossed Ered Luin. It is a sign to remind us of the strength of our people and what we overcame. The line is the mountains, the darkness we escaped from once and will do again; the fist, the heart and power of our folk.’

Beleg was no Man, and his soul needs no protection. It is in the dominion of the Valar themselves now if their stories are true.

But as Túrin stands there, focusing on keeping his breathing even, he stares at the symbol until it burns into his eyes, and he tells himself he comes from a people who are masters of grief. He will survive this feeling. He will.

Túrin touches his left shoulder, draws his hand across to the right, and makes a fist over his heart.

It has been three years since Beleg’s death. The room smells lightly of the lavender cakes Gwindor has brought, and Túrin breathes in deeply. This year he has no offering, yet his body and mind are weary. Long has he laboured, ever since the weather turned and he realised what he had to say.

As he speaks the words aloud and they fill the small room, it is clear his craft is lacking. They are unpolished, and his voice is hoarse, unsure, stammering in a way it has not done so since he was a small child.

But he says them.

“I love you. I love you, Beleg. Thank you for saving me. Not just – thank you for all the times you saved me, body and soul. Perhaps it would have been a better ending if you had not done so, that final time. If we had died together, or if you had outlived me as you always should have. You do not deserve to be a midpoint in my story. You are – you are the centre of it, Beleg. I hope you knew that.

I love you. And I am sorry. I am – so very sorry.” 

It has been four years since Beleg’s death. Túrin had not been entirely sure Gwindor would come and indeed he does not enter the room until the hour is late. He has not been present at council meetings since all voices but his called for war.

When Túrin places down an arrow that had passed clean through an orc’s skull, he glances at Gwindor and sees his eyes are shadowed, his mouth set in a grim line as he looks at it.

He makes no offering but speaks. “Be healed in the Halls of Waiting and receive Nienna’s pity. May you tell the Valar of our suffering and let them hear you and relent.”

Túrin scoffs.

It has been five years since Beleg’s death. Gwindor is already there when Túrin arrives, a necklace of small green stones resting on the floor. The Elf is standing, looking at the plaque.

“That is a fair gift, my friend.”

Gwindor makes no answer, and his expression is cold.

Túrin sighs and bends down, reaching into his bag to bring out the cloth.

The fine threads catch the light as he sets the embroidery down. Finduilas’ work is intricate beyond words, the leaves she has wrought shimmer every shade of green imaginable.

He smiles. It brings to his mind now as it had when she had given it to him, how Doriath’s tree canopy would look from below, as he and Beleg lay on the soft grass.

“Does she know this is how you make use of her skill?”

Túrin’s face darkens, but the anger passes swiftly, pity settling in as he sees the pain in Gwindor’s eyes.

“She would take great joy in creating a piece for you, I am sure. Why, you should ask her to, such beauty will help escape the sadness in which you still tarry.”

Gwindor only shakes his head. “I will ask her for nought, it would not be fair.”

Túrin watches him leave and frowns.

It has been six years since Beleg’s death. The room is very dark when Túrin arrives, his Mannish eyes must squint to find Gwindor’s shadow.

He had not been sure if he would come at all. His days are endlessly busy now, with strategy meetings, accounts of supplies, and war-making. He has brought no offering; the blood which has coated Gurthang repeatedly this year seems sometimes the only gift that would truly honour the dead.

And if these recent reports are true, if the final battle is soon to be at hand – well, no greater deed could there be done in Beleg’s name.

Túrin looks down at the tunic Gwindor has placed before the plaque. Its colour is hard to distinguish in the low light, but it is a far larger size than would fit the Elf beside him, even in what Túrin imagines was his great stature before his capture.

They both stand there, utterly silent for many long minutes, and Túrin is close to leaving, he has nothing left to say to his friend, no words he can conjure that will make a difference, when Gwindor speaks.

“I will fight. When the Elves of Nargothrond ride out for the last time, Gwindor, son of Guilin, will go.”

The words are hard and rough, and it takes a few moments for them to truly sink into Túrin’s mind. But as he understands, the grief and the wrath rise like a wave.

“Do not be so foolish. You have not the strength to wield arms. Do not – intentionally throw your life away because you are angry at me, because you grieve her. Where is the hope he instilled in you?” He gestures wildly at the plaque. “Has it gone in so few years, from one that lasted fourteen in the pits of the Iron Hell?”

When Gwindor laughs it is an ugly sound, and the awful blackness spills from it. He makes no other answer.

Túrin’s head begins to throb, and the words pass his lips without examination.

“You should not fight. You must not. Stay and protect the people, protect –

“There is nobody left to save.” Gwindor’s voice is ragged.

“They are all dead, Túrin. This is a city of corpses. Perhaps it always was. Have you not noticed the darkness, my friend? Our doom has found us, and we cannot see for how close it presses. It is over.”

Do not call me that name, he wants to cry, but he knows it will only make Gwindor laugh in that terrible way again.

“You should not speak so. While the maiden of Nargothrond still lives, this city will not fall.”

Gwindor’s breath catches, and he turns away.

“Of her, of her… I can only hope… Oh, Finduilas.” He begins to weep and leaves.

Túrin turns back towards the stone and presses his palm against Beleg’s name.

He does not let himself think about whether or not they will return next year.

He tries not to see the blood seeping from his hands and the way it pools in the carved letters.

The ground here is rough and sharp and his feet are bloody. He has walked for so long. Since Amon Rûdh he has walked, on the trail of the Orc pack that held the dearest thing to him in all the world. But they are ever one step ahead of him, and he cannot catch them. In the forests of Dorthonion he lost track of them, but it does not matter. There is only place they would bring Túrin, dead or alive, and so now he has come to the gates of Angband themselves. 

He is alone. He has only Belthronding, Anglachel lost in the dark woods of Dorthonion, Dailir broken in two. Only death could possibly await him inside those walls. 

Death, and Túrin.

But Beleg cannot not turn back now, even as dread sinks further into his bones. As Lúthien had done so will he. He has no song and no magic, but his love for Túrin was as great as hers, and he will succeed.

Somewhere in the dark cells, he imagines his lover beaten and bloody. He imagines the cruel sting of torment at the hands of the horrors that lurk here. And his sweet Túrin is stubborn and proud. He will not hold his tongue for the sake of saving himself. Beleg despairs. 

Somehow, he reaches the dark throne room alive. Is it good luck, or simply that he has some other, pre-ordained, doom? He doesn’t think the difference matters anymore.

The doors are five times as tall as the ones that guard Menegroth’s throne room, but they open without a touch and without the slightest sound. The hall is so dark even Beleg’s sharp eyes cannot see. But he takes a step. Another and another, until out of the darkness a shape rises. 

“Thou hast reached us at last, hunter.”

His legs tremble. The voice is light with amusement, yet full of malice, the pure power in it threatened to overwhelm Beleg, as if Morgoth could command him to die with a single word. His doubts swim to the front of his mind: run, run now and live and leave Túrin to whatever awful fate awaits him.

No. No. He stands firm. It is better that he dies with a clear conscience. He turns his gaze up to see Morgoth’s face, but in the glittering glow of the remaining Silmarils, he can only see the void of his eyes. 

“Hast thou misplaced thy voice?”

“I have come for the life of one whom I love. Túrin, son of Húrin.”

Morgoth laughs; Beleg thinks he can hear more laughter, shriller, and he wonders what else - who else - lurks in the darkness. 

“Is that so?”

Beleg hears the challenge in the words: Morgoth thinks him a fool for coming here, for daring to make demands of a Vala. Beleg agrees with him. He is a fool, but he is a fool driven by love. This is the kind of quest that songs are made of - whether he succeeds or fails, his trying was testament to the strength of his love, and that was what would be remembered. He swallows the fear in his throat.

“I do not mean to deceive you - I am no enchantress like those who have come before me. I will make a trade.”

It is a fair trade he means to offer. A life for a life. The thought of his own death does not frighten him. He has lived many long ages. Túrin has so little time; Beleg will gladly trade his eternity so that Túrin might live to see his own years to their full height, whether they will number ten or fifty.

Morgoth is silent. There is the clanking of chains, a soft, pained groan and the grunt of someone lifting something heavy. The room explodes into red light, torches bursting to life at Morgoth’s desire.

“Túrin!” He wants to run to his side, but he is rooted to the spot. He does not know if it is fear or enchantment that holds him in place. But Turin is there, chained and unconscious. There is blood on his face. Beleg’s heart constricts. But he is alive. “Oh, Turin.”

All doubts cease. Beleg’s faith is renewed; as Lúthien has done, so will I. Though his heart is set, his mouth is still dry, tongue heavy as he reluctantly turns his gaze back to Morgoth. His words fight their way out.

“I have no jewel to offer; no dance or song to entertain or enchant you. But I will offer something else - myself, in his place. If it is a prisoner you want, surely one of the Firstborn is a sweeter prize than a mortal boy.”

Morgoth laughs again  and the sound freezes Beleg’s blood. He tries to not choke on it. 

“So quickly thou offer thyself. I might almost call you eager. Thou art no prize, Cúthalion, only a soldier playing at nobility.” Morgoth gloats. One hand, grey as ash, stretches out and curls a clawed finger under Túrin’s chin. Túrin groans, and a dribble of blood drips from his mouth. “But thou art amusing in thy arrogance. I will keep thee. Kneel.”

Relief floods him. He expected bartering, begging, pleading. He expected Morgoth to demand more, to ask for something terrible. He has hunted Túrin too long to give him up so easily.

But Beleg is not ungrateful. Perhaps Elbereth’s light shines on his luck.

So he kneels.

It is done. A deal is made and he cannot go back.

Morgoth raises his ashen hand, and chains drop from Túrin’s arms. The guard beside him lets him fall to the floor, and binds Beleg’s hands with the shackles instead. The metal is so cold. 

“Give him a kiss, elf. It will be your last.”

Beleg cannot stand with the weight of the chains, but he crawls instead, gathering Túrin’s body in his arms. He is pale, bloody, and when he opens his eyes, he looks up at Beleg without recognition. Elbereth, what have they done to him?

“Túrin…” He leans down and brushes a dark curl from Túrin’s face. Then, tender as the dawn, he brushed a kiss against his lips.

Túrin dissipates in his arms. Morgoth’s haunting laughter echoes through the hall, then more laughter; the hall opens up to reveal the host of Angband’s generals, watching in glee as Beleg stares at his empty arms, his heart sinking. He should have known: it was all too easy.

“Enjoy thy new home, Cúthalion. Let us hope thy lover is not as rash as thee.”