Dream of the Black Sword by Flora-lass

Beleg stared in dismay at the figure lying crumpled on the ground, his bewildered senses sharpening as he took in the ravaged face, lank hair and 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 figure more closely. He was deeply asleep but appeared far from peaceful, in the grip of 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 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 softly 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 attack; 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 disturb 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 hand, 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 much 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 as well as 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. 

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!

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Gwindor hardly knew what was happening at first. After all the horror of the past - he could not remember how long - here was an Elf who reminded him of Finrod, giving him food which he somehow knew was safe to eat. And such food! After just one bite, if was as if something inside him came to life, like a tiny candle flame whose light made all the difference in deep darkness. And as he continued to eat, he felt warmth spread through his whole body, and hope return. He knew who he was again, and where he wished to be.

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Gwindor slept long, with no sign of nightmares, and Beleg was glad for him. But with every hour that passed, his fears for Túrin grew, and he despaired of ever seeing him alive again. 

‘He will find a way to escape, if anyone can,’ he told himself. ‘But in what state? If only I could keep him from Angband and not need to tend him as I have poor Gwindor here! And mortals are not made for such endurance…but he is not like other mortals…and I know I can do good here, and Túrin would have pity and would want me to…but oh, it is so hard not to be searching for him…’ And so his thoughts went in circles, until Gwindor finally stirred.

He was confused at first, and thought Beleg was Finrod - but calmly somehow, as though it were an ordinary time, before all their griefs had come upon them. He did not seem to be in pain, and Beleg hated to remind him of where they were and of how things stood. But at length he did so, and Gwindor appeared to shrink as the memory of his hurts returned to him. But he revived somewhat, once Beleg had again tended his arm and he had taken more lembas; and Beleg suggested he try to stand.

Gwindor managed this with little difficulty, but it seemed unlikely that he would yet be able to walk far. So Beleg advised him to sit for a while longer, and offered to do his hair.

‘It is not fit for you to touch,’ Gwindor sighed. ‘And I doubt it can ever be as it once was. When I think of how…’ His voice trailed off.

‘But I am a healer, and I believe it will help you,’ Beleg said. ‘Anyone who has been in Angband and escaped deserves all the care I can give, and there is no shame in needing it.’

Gwindor had not the energy to argue. He nodded silently, his face wretched, and Beleg carefully set to work. Gwindor's hair was indeed in a sorry state, and Beleg well knew how distressing this must be for him. At the same time, however, he thought of Túrin, whose hair he was so rarely allowed to tend - for Túrin had no wish to look any more like an Elf than he already did, and usually wanted nothing more than to tie it back out of the way. How Beleg longed to find him! - and feared he never would. But he also began to sense some easing of Gwindor's mood, and decided to encourage him to talk.

‘May I ask what you were about to say, just now? Were you perhaps thinking of someone who used to braid your hair - or admire it?’

‘It is hard to speak of her, though I long to,’ Gwindor said slowly, in a low voice. ‘I always felt unworthy of her (and now more than ever), yet somehow she returned my love. But I am become unfit to wed her…’

‘Say not so!’ Beleg said, and his heart ached for this once great lord of Nargothrond. ‘You will heal in time, and all the more with her help, I deem. If she is worthy of you, she will be proud! And she will have feared you dead, and will be overjoyed at your return.’

‘I do not dare to hope. And even if she were willing, I do not know what her father would say. For I was presumptuous enough to love Finduilas, the daughter of King Orodreth, whom I call Faelivrin…for her beauty is as the sunlight on the Pools, and her laughter is like the sound of the springs. And she loved to dance…would I ever be able to dance with her again, even if she wished me to?’

‘I beg you to have hope,’ Beleg said. ‘For the Pools bring healing, and I do not believe you named her in vain. And hope will sustain you as you journey home.’

‘It was because of her that I did not leave with my lord Finrod,’ Gwindor explained. ‘I would have gone with him, but he bade me stay and not break his niece's heart. Such guilt I felt, but relief also…and then I had no choice but to go to the Battle, and there I saw my poor brother…and I have surely broken her heart after all…’

For all Gwindor's grief, it seemed that Beleg's words, and his work, were having an effect. For as Beleg combed his hair and the braids slowly took shape, Gwindor sat up straighter and looked about him - and as he turned to the side, Beleg could see a new resolve on his face. Bur all the while, Beleg remembered Túrin in the hands of the Orcs, and considered what direction they might have taken, and which way he should go once he was free to seek him again.

And just as he came to a decision, they heard an unmistakable sound, and were forced to conceal themselves more deeply within the trees. But they had a clear view of the passing Orc-host - and there, among the many captives, was Túrin.

Beleg should have rejoiced that he was not yet in Angband - but somehow his heart misgave him, and his hands faltered as he put the finishing touches to Gwindor's hair.

‘That is the one I seek,’ he sighed. ‘You asked my reason for being here - and it is he, Túrin son of Húrin, Lord of Dor-lómin.’

Gwindor looked round at him in surprise. ‘Truly? More than ever do you remind me of my lord Finrod, if you have such care for one of the Secondborn. But your words fill me with dread, for it was rumoured in Angband that Húrin ever defies Morgoth, and his kin are thus ensnared. Tell me, if you would, how you come to be seeking him?’

So Beleg told of Túrin's coming to Doriath, and of all that had happened since. Gwindor had heard little news since his captivity, and he listened intently. But he did not miss what Beleg did not say, and at length he said:

‘I do not think you would have searched for so long, and endured so much, if you did not love him. Do I not strike near the truth?’

‘I wear my heart on my sleeve, it seems.’ Beleg had not realised how much he longed to speak of Túrin, but now the relief was overwhelming. ‘I know not how it came about, but I found that it hurt to be away from him, and I must always be searching until I found him again. He would rather we be apart than let go of his pride, but he seems glad when we are together…oh, how foolish this sounds!’ 

‘I fear for you, my friend,’ Gwindor said, sadly. ‘Seldom is it wise for one of the Eldar to love a mortal. For even were you to save him now, in a few short years he will be gone, and you would be left to grieve, with no hope of seeing him again until the end of the world. So my lord Finrod loved Béor, I believe. I am sorry…’

‘I know it well, but I cannot help my heart!’ Beleg cried, feeling his composure slipping away. ‘He would be lost to me already, were it not for his prowess with the sword, and that has not stopped me loving him! But now he is destined for Angband, and I can do no other than attempt to rescue him…’

Gwindor choked. ‘Do not go there, I beg you! It is better for one of you to be free, believe me.’

‘But how can I abandon him? I would rather share in his suffering…’

‘Listen to me!’ Gwindor urged. ‘As soon as your regard for one other became known, as it surely would, you would be kept apart out of spite at the very least. Or, as is more likely, each of you would be put to torment in full view of the other. It pains me to say this, but I have been there, and I know he will be better off without you.’

Gwindor spoke gently, but with certainty, and Beleg saw no reason to doubt him. And he knew what he must do.

‘Then I must save him before he reaches that dreadful place! It is the only way. But…’ Words failed him, as he fought back tears of despair.

‘But you are unwilling to abandon me?’ Gwindor asked, and Beleg nodded. ‘And yet you fear I would slow you down. I understand, my friend. But you are forgetting your own powers of healing, and the power of Queen Melian's lembas. I feel some strength returning, and I would not delay you further. I have said my piece; now let us go!’ 

‘I cannot ask this of you,’ Beleg said, unable to look at Gwindor and staring into the distance instead.

‘And you have not asked me. But I have my lamp, which will surely help us; and I believe I have some part to play in this endeavour, or we should not have met. For who am I to deny the bonds of love, or judge others for actions which seem rash?’

Chapter End Notes

Gwindor sometimes echoes Melian's words, without of course knowing he is doing so. I attribute this to his devout nature and the effect of the lembas.

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Gwindor watched in awe as Beleg silently shot wolf after wolf. He had not truly believed they could win their way into the Orc camp, but now Beleg turned and beckoned. Gwindor followed him, drawing alongside as they caught sight of a slumped figure tied to a tree. 

Dark as it was, Gwindor could clearly see that this was the one Beleg sought; every part of him conveyed grief, relief and love. They cut him loose and bore him away, as Gwindor wished fervently for greater strength and the use of both hands. 

The storm-clouds gathered, and fate was strong.

When they reached the thicket of thorn trees high above the camp, it was clear that Gwindor could go no further without rest. They carefully laid the still unconscious Túrin on the ground, in as sheltered a spot as they could find, and Gwindor sank down nearby, Thunder rumbled overhead. Beleg gazed at Túrin, hardly daring to believe that he was not badly hurt, but hating the fetters that bound him. Without further thought, he drew Anglachel.

Then came a dreadful flash of lightning. And Gwindor screamed.

Beleg started in alarm, and let the sword fall back.

Túrin seemed undisturbed, so after a last, longing glance at him, Beleg hastened to where Gwindor sat, apparently cowering in terror.

‘What is it?’ he asked, anxiously. ‘Is it the storm that troubles you?’

Gwindor shook his head, for the moment unable to speak. Beleg held his shoulders, as he trembled violently and fought for breath, until eventually he gasped: ‘The sword!’ And he shrank into Beleg's embrace, just as a frightened child might have done.

Beleg held Gwindor and thought of Túrin, whom he had once comforted thus when they had first met - and so seldom since, for all that Túrin had needed it. Perhaps this time he might allow himself that solace. Beleg watched Túrin through the lightning-flashes, yearning to rouse him and set him free. 

But Gwindor was recovering now. He sat back and stared at Beleg, his expression almost fierce. ‘That is the sword of my dream!’ he cried. ‘A black sword gleaming with a pale fire! I did not fully remember how it looked, until I saw it again. It would have killed you!’

Beleg stared at him, not understanding. ‘I am sorry for what I have put you through,’ he said. ‘I should not have involved you in this rescue, it was too much to ask…’

‘It was not!’ Gwindor would have shouted, had his voice not been exhausted by the scream. ‘I was meant to be here, I know it! And without my dream, you would be dead!’

‘What - what do you mean?’ Beleg asked, bewildered.

‘There is malice in that sword. And in his hands, it will terrify the enemy - and all the more so, now that this evil has been averted.’

Gwindor took a deep breath, and continued more calmly. ‘I remember my dream more clearly now. He and the sword became one - as indeed they almost will, in truth, for I foresee that you will give the sword to him. But as soon as you had cut his bonds, he would have awoken in terror and leapt up and slain you with it! And the remainder of his life would have been blighted by your death.’

Gwindor laid his good hand on Beleg's arm. Beleg could feel himself shaking now, as much as Gwindor had been. ‘I know you are desperate to free him,’ Gwindor said, ‘and who could blame you? But I beg you, do not approach him with such a weapon until he is fully awake, and knows you.’

Beleg gave a great sigh, at last comprehending. ‘My love has overcome my wisdom, as ever with him. With anyone else I would have known this well. But I could not bear to think of his torment, or see him so restrained…’

‘Sing to him, as you sang to me,’ Gwindor said. ‘Sit by him if you must, so he may hear you above the noise of this storm. But leave the sword in my keeping, at a safe distance. I will not fear it now.’

‘But I must not sing of Menegroth, for that would not please him…’ Beleg said faintly, trying to collect his thoughts.

‘Sing of your deeds together, and the songs you sang with your companions when times were good. This, in your voice, will surely reach him best.’

Beleg nodded, and then asked, in sudden concern, ‘But - are you well? I owe you my life, it seems!’

‘I am as well as may be, now that you are safe. And all I have done is scream, and dream - but it was enough, the Valar be thanked! And I even begin to feel something in my left arm, although not yet my hand. Now go and sing, for this mortal for whom you would risk all!’

Beleg slowly got to his feet, but hesitated. ‘We will see you safe to Nargothrond,’ he said. ‘You have my word on that.’

‘I will be very glad of your company for part of the way,’ Gwindor answered. ‘and I will never forget how you have cared for me. But my dream warns me that your friend should not enter my city. I believe things will go better for us all if he does not. I am sorry…’

‘I understand,’ Beleg assured him. ‘After what has taken place here, how could I not trust your wisdom in this? And in any case, I may at last persuade him to return with me to Doriath.’

So Beleg sang again, as Gwindor guarded Anglachel, and the rain fell in torrents. Túrin was slow to wake, however, and several hours passed, during which the Orcs fled the storm in fear and did not seek their escaped prisoner. 

When morning came, the storm abated at last, and Túrin stirred and cried out in alarm. But then his eyes opened and met Beleg's, and his face softened with an incredulous joy.

‘Beleg?’ he croaked. ‘I was certain you were dead, and I lost all will to live. But the Orcs would not slay me…‘

‘I live, dear one,’ Beleg whispered. ‘And the Orcs are gone, and you are free of them. We will fight side by side again.’

‘...and then I heard you singing, and I knew it must be a dream - and I did not wish to wake for fear of never hearing your voice again…’

Beleg laughed, through his tears. ‘Oh, Túrin, you were ever contrary! Here I have been, singing for hours in the rain in the hope of waking you, only to find that you wished to remain asleep! But, do you truly believe it is I? For I must cut your bonds with Anglachel, and first you must be sure that I do not mean you harm.’ 

‘I know you are Beleg,’ said Túrin, ‘for who else would go to such lengths to rescue me as you must have done? But if you would prove it, beyond all doubt…’

‘Only tell me how, and I will do it.’

‘Then - kiss me?’

Beleg gazed at him, with longing. ‘I should not, while you are yet bound. But once you are free, I will do so - oh, how gladly!’

‘Do it now,’ Túrin urged. ‘Please, do this for me now, and let it be proof of the trust between us.’

So Beleg kissed Túrin, and it was Life rather than Death which flowed between them that day. And thus was Morgoth's curse deflected, for a time.

But Beleg could not linger, for he had work to do. Wiping his eyes, he turned towards Gwindor, who rose and handed Anglachel to him.

‘He knows you now, I think?’ Gwindor said kindly, with a smile which Beleg rejoiced to see. ‘But you must still take care, my friend. Hold firm, and weep no more until it is done.’

Chapter End Notes

(The kiss is inspired by the early version of the tale, in which Túrin kisses Beleg after his death).

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Gwindor stayed close by, for as long as was needed to ensure Beleg's safety, and then rested at a more discreet distance, keeping watch and enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. So, finally, Beleg freed Túrin, who did no more than flinch at the sight of the approaching blade. But then it was Túrin’s turn to weep, as he flung himself into Beleg's arms and bitterly lamented the loss of all their companions. And Beleg wept again, as he told of Andróg's final, noble deeds, without which he should never have escaped from Amon Rûdh. 

But then Túrin asked forgiveness for his past failings, and made many promises - while Beleg only hushed him and stroked his hair. ‘For I know you well, beloved; we will speak of all this more calmly at another time, when you are no longer so pleased to see me,’ he said, fondly. So that storm too subsided, as the morning passed; and once they were simply talking quietly together, Gwindor thought it good to approach with water.

‘I am sorry to disturb you,’ he said, ‘but you should drink, son of Húrin, for you have endured much and slept long.’ He looked at Beleg. ‘And perhaps he should eat, also?’

Túrin accepted the water gratefully, though with some surprise. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘An escaped thrall only, whom Beleg met and comforted,’ Gwindor answered.

‘He is Gwindor, a lord of Nargothrond, in truth,’ Beleg said, firmly. ‘He has endured far more than either of us - and yet he is a far better healer in this moment than I! For he thinks of your comfort, while I can only gaze at you in wonder, so far do I forget myself. And he helped in your rescue, and has given me great comfort, too.’

‘Then I am very glad to know you,’ said Túrin. ‘And I thank you for your care of us both. Come, sit with us, if you will. For I think we are done with tears, for this day at least.’

‘And soon we must set out, in order that you may find your own reunion,’ Beleg added. ‘But first I will tend your arm again. And any other hurts that either of you bear.’

So Gwindor sat with them, and they shared lembas together. Túrin grimaced at first, but then received his portion without complaint, under Beleg's watchful eye; while Gwindor again felt his courage and strength renewed, and looked forward to the journey home. He dared, at last, to hope that Finduilas would come running to meet him, and that they would dance together once more, beneath Lord Finrod’s trees.

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