Of Death and Duty (The Silmarillion/Children of Húrin)

[Namer]

The Last Words of his Last Friend​

Orodreth the King rode at the forefront of the van, and wherever his banner billowed beneath it rose the golden grimace of the Dragon-Helm of Túrin son of Húrin, and in their train came all the lords of the House of Finrod the Cave-Hewer, of fair faces and sabled standards and the joy of awaiting triumph in their eyes.

Behind them came the great war-host of Nargothrond, such that had never before issued from those hidden caves before. Not for the Bragollach, nor for the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Two-score thousand, clad in burnished steel hauberks that outshone the wan sun and silver crested helms mounted with white plumes. Banners were in the air – silver and sky, golden sun and rising dawn, bronze harp and red torch – and a song was in every warrior's mouth.

Darkness daunted them not. Doubt afeared them not. Terror touched them not. Never, while the King Orodreth ruled them, and Mormegil, the Black Sword, scion of Húrin Thalion, led them onwards.

Thus, high-hearted, the vanguard, all mounted in full array of war, tramped across the shallow ford over the Ginglith like a wild gale, taking the other bank in a furious storm. Their swords flashed as they rose and fell, cutting through the advance scouts of the host of Morgoth like wheat in harvest.

There Túrin and Orodreth assayed. The main host of Morgoth now beheld them. A wall of dark iron bristling with spikes, behind it engines of fire and machinery for siege, trenches and pits and traps dug into the earth, snarling, dripping fangs and cruel swords glistening with venom.

But only for a moment. With hearts raised they sang their songs of war and valour louder, higher, with such fervor that their foes quailed, and the wall became a fence, and they tramped over that fence with nary an effort. Orcs were cut down. Trolls fell bleeding from a dozen arrows. Wargs wailed as they were tramped. Drake and draugr alike were speared through.

And so it went, on and on.

And on and on. The songs faltered as voices grew hoarse. Yet the servants of Morgoth came on, their numbers seemingly undiminished.

"Mormegil!" came the cry. "We have slain many thousands, yet more foes lie ahead still. Our scouts marked this not!" Náhoron of Nargothrond spurred his horse to Túrin's side.

And Túrin responded, "What does it matter? Did you expect no trickery from Morgoth's hand? The Great Enemy is cunning-"

Gildor son of Inglor, the banner-bearer of Orodreth, stood at his other side. "We have left our forces too far behind. We are deep in their ranks. This is no time to tarry for debate."

"Aye. We must press on." Túrin took the banner, and with effort raised it higher, waving it back and forth. "Onwards!"

"Onwards!" Náhoron spoke in agreement. Those would be his last words.

The day pressed on, and the sun dimmed in the sky. The glory of the host of Nargothrond diminished. There Coinovo of Nargothrond fell, taken from his horse in the jaws of a great warg. There Náhoron of Nargothrond fell, a black-feathered shaft in his throat. There Oareldi the Wanderer fell, who would never see the sea again, mud in his eyes as the orcs dragged him from his horse.

The darkness crept in like a skulking shade yet all too swiftly. It was distant one moment, and at their throats seemingly the next. The ranks of the orcs grew deeper, and before they knew it they were enmeshed in a tide of foes. The charge faltered, and the Eldar found themselves at a standstill hacking downwards at their foes. The host of Morgoth seemed to swell like a great wave that parted before them, and the darkness rose higher into the sky.

A cry of dismay went up from the Eldar. "Ai! Ai! Aicaruive! Urulóki a túlie!" "The dragon comes!"

Out of the all-encompassing wall of smog and smoke the vast shadow emerged, its head taller than all the great Elf-Lords upon their steeds. It was a shadow all knew of, and the Eldar shivered from the dire memory of the Bragollach, the Sudden Flame, where countless of their kinsmen had perished in the great burning. Orodreth the King gripped his sword tight, for his father Angrod had perished in the Dragon's flame too. But the dragon paid little heed to the lesser elves. It only smiled wide, and rank vapour poured forth as the Golden Worm belched a great gust of flame.

But Túrin was not there. Before the flame came he hurled himself from his horse, and the stench of the burning came thick and drear into his nose. Upon his head the Dragon-Helm of Dor-Lomin glowed red in reflected flame. His steed reared in terror and fled.

He rose to his feet, hand fast upon Gurthang. But neither any Orc nor the Dragon leapt upon him. The Worm stood at bay, its deadly gaze fixed upon the prone form of Orodreth the King as he lay crushed under his horse. All about him were bodies, either dead or burned, or on the verge of it.

Then Glaurung Father of Dragons looked at him, and Túrin felt the full weight of his malicious gaze. "Hail Túrin son of Húrin! Well met."

Túrin lowered the visor of his helm, and raised his blade. Gurthang was a dull scarlet in the light of the fires, the star-metal shining as dying suns.

But Glaurung simply lowered his head, and taunted Turin. "Is that my likeness you bear upon your brows? Are you a worshipper of mine, then? Truly! What shall your king think of that, he who lies on his deathbed, driven to it by your hand? What shall your mother and sister think of that, between strokes of the lash, as they dwell as thralls in the ruins of your childhood home?"

The Dragon's taunts died in the air. The Dragon Helm of Dor-Lomin was of dwarf-make, wrought with runes of power and victory, strength and security. The spells of Telchar lay thick upon it. And perceiving it to be thus so, Glaurung the Golden put forth his full power against it.

"At least Húrin's son knows his place! At my master's feet your father knelt. You shall have a place at mine, if you so wish! Keep the helm on, and kneel!"

For one instant, Túrin's fury threatened to wash over him. His hand crept up, to rip the helm off.

"Do not hide who you are, Túrin, my Thurin. I do not wish you dead or burned, and the helm of your fathers will serve better than any dwarf-mask."

But Telchar's hand had already marred the Golden Worm once, and the dreadful dwarvish visage reminded Glaurung of the memory of pain. The great axes of Belegost striking tender scales. The agony of Azaghâl's knife in his belly. And another greater power lay upon Túrin himself, staying his hand. The spell of the Dragon withered and faded in the air. Glaurung reared back, raising the front of his body in rage and terror.

In that instant Túrin stepped forward. Gurthang, Iron of Death, gleamt like a stroke of ink, stabbed deep into the singular exposed wound upon the dragon's belly. It drank greedily.

Then Glaurung screamed with such unholy terror and power that Túrin stumbled back in dismay, pulling out Gurthang before its thirst was yet sated. The dragon roared and groaned and thrashed about, crushing and battering away orcs in his wake, and shot great waves of flame high above in the air. In the tumult of the Worm's fury the orcs nearby scattered and quailed, overtaken by fear. Then, without a glance back, the Father of Dragons fled, and beasts and drakes ran after him by the thousands.

The sun shone brighter, and Túrin heard the trumpets heralding the arrival of the rest of the host of Nargothrond, those who had been left behind the van in their charge. His heart rose, and he stood tall and straight, raising Gurthang aloft. "Ócombara! A nehtatet!" "To me! Kill them!

But the tide had not yet turned. Even with thousands fled, the remaining orcs still outnumbered them twice over. Thrice more Túrin brushed with death, before the day was done. Caked in dirt and blood, scarred and blistered, he doubted any would call him Adanedhel in such a state.

When the sun set at last, the battle drew to a close. There was none among the Elves who had not lost a dear friend or loved one.

They would sing songs of the Battle at Tumhalad but there would be little glory in them.

And amidst the blood-strewn battlefield, Túrin found his last friend, Gwindor son of Guilin, wounded to the death.

"Ah! Son of Húrin. I cannot fault you for the victory we have won. Yet I wish it had not come at such a cost!" Gwindor's weak fingers clutched at his face. "I love you, but I wish too that it had not been so between us, that your prowess had not taken my love, and now my life."

Túrin listened in silence, before answering. "I shall not apologise for what is done, my last friend! This day did not go ill, but it did go cruelly. The King is dead." Then Túrin laid his head down on his friend's chest, and wept.

Red ran in rivulets, seeping into the rivets of his gauntlet. Gurthang lay in the grass beside. With a sudden stroke, Túrin battered the sword away, lest it get a taste for the blood of the Eldar.

"Alas!" Gwindor rasped at last, breaking the silence once again. "Then it is Finduilas. Finduilas the Golden must rule Nargothrond. Have a care, Túrin! You have seen the power of the North, even though you prevailed today. We will win great battles no more. You must understand, not by the power left in the Eldar of Beleriand."

He paused to draw a shuddering breath, eyes staring at the clouded dark above. "If you love her, throw not Finduilas into the jaws of the enemy. This I say last of all to you: she alone stands between you and your doom!"

With those words, Gwindor's long torment ended.

The autumn leaves began to fall.

---

Of Death and Duty is something I've wanted to write for a decade and half, ever since I read The Children of Húrin for the first time.

I don't think I have it in me to write the same tragedy Tolkien did, so this story will probably be slightly nicer to some people. Túrin's story has so many divergence points where things could've gone just slightly better that it's tricky to pick one. But many of those divergences also are ultimately inconsequential, as there is only one way the War of the Jewels ends. This one, I hope, manages to avoid that in a way that makes sense.