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Chapter Text

Step. Another step. Keep going. Gwindor had learned how to continue moving when his strength and will were spent, and so little of him remained. It was a matter of sheer resignation. He focused without will, submerging himself in the task ahead of him as his awareness began to drift away from his afflictions. He did not have to be great or strong or wise or clever. He ultimately relied on a single basic ability: endurance. With his mind numb, he could survive and go on. He had done so in the mines of Angband for years, divorced from his experiences, but able to withstand them.

Gwindor's mouth was dry, his vision hazy. His wounds, old and new, ached. Especially painful was what remained of his left arm. The wound was not poisoned, and it was well-bandaged with strips of cloth. Of that he was glad, but the loss of his hand was difficult to bear. More than once, he forgot himself and tried reaching out with his vanished fingers, only to be confronted anew by their absence. He reeked of blood, but not only his own blood. Much of it belonged to the Man he brought with him and the Elf they had left behind.

The gray dust of Anfauglith clung to him, and to Túrin beside him. Gwindor would not waste time brushing it away. He knew from experience that it would cling to a living body for days, no matter what efforts were taken. It could not be easily escaped. Anfauglith was a place that took hold of you, no matter how long you spent there.

Gwindor had made sure the rites were followed for Beleg Cúthalion. Gwindor had known him for such a brief time, yet had considered him dear. The bright Sinda's good nature had lightened his spirits in the midst of a heavy darkness. Part of him could not be entirely convinced that Beleg was truly dead; he had been so vibrantly alive, so hopeful. The shock of his loss was too new and too terrible. If not for the fact that he had buried Beleg himself, Gwindor would have been tempted to deny what had happened to him.

Gwindor had taken up Beleg's heavy sword. Not only had it seemed too great a weapon to leave behind, but he had had the oddest feeling that it did not wish to be left behind. Its strange weight, like the weight of sorrow, added to his burden. He felt obligated to bear it, along with some other few possessions that had seemed useful or indispensable. Gwindor carried as much as he was physically able. He risked giving the rest to Túrin to carry on his back, in Beleg's bag.

There had been no question of taking Beleg's body away with them. This was a difficult enough trek for those who were whole and well. Túrin was weakened, and his mind was clouded. Gwindor's own power was dedicated to shepherding Túrin and keeping them both moving. One more step. If he considered walking as an inevitability, each new footfall was the consequence of the one before, and would happen because it must, rather than because he willed it. In this way, Gwindor gathered a kind of dull, mental momentum to keep himself moving. To keep them moving.

There was nothing overtly welcoming about the shadowy woods of Taur-nu-Fuin, but beneath the trees, there was ample shelter and cover. It was a dangerous land, but less so than the waste to the north. Upon the broken hills and ash fields of Anfauglith, there were fewer places to hide, and Thangorodrim towered over the horizon with all its dread. Gwindor tried to conceal their presence in the forest as well as he could, but he could not afford to expend the energy to make any great effort or alter their course too much for the sake of secrecy.

They were fortunate that the Orcs who had taken Túrin had fled, but now they had to rely partly on luck to avoid any other patrols and pursuers. Gwindor had no faith in luck. What he could rely on was the sheer size of Taur-nu-Fuin. To find any one person lost within it would be a demanding task. The deep shadows and the bleak winds that ceaselessly stirred the leaves made tracking more difficult. The very violence and malice of the Enemy, which had blighted this land, worked in their favor in that unforeseen way. Gwindor was not precisely grateful for it, for the cost had been too steep.

As they traveled southward, Gwindor still sensed the presence of the bodies beneath the ash to the north, those who had died on the dark day when the Enemy had sent forth his fires—and on other dark days that had followed. Taur-nu-Fuin was no refuge, but he was glad to leave that wasteland behind them and return again to a land of trees and other growing things. There was life in the wood, however shadowed.

It was a small relief to be surrounded by leaves and branches again after his long imprisonment. Whenever he inhaled, he took in the deep, green scent of the forest, not completely marred by Angband's creeping corruption. He was studying the leaves around him, reading the forest signs that Elven eyes knew well, when suddenly, Túrin started, as if waking from a dream. His body tensed, and he stopped short. Abruptly, he veered from their course, batting away Gwindor's guiding right hand. This was not the first time Túrin had attempted to leave him. Gwindor was able to rouse himself quickly enough to regain and tighten his grip on Túrin. "No, Túrin, no— Not that way." He put all the force he had into the words. "Stay with me."

Túrin moaned, but his protest abated. The stern words in Sindarin must have reached him through the veil of grief. Gwindor was relieved, because he did not know what he would do if Túrin truly broke away. How would he catch up to him?

Gwindor had no illusions about his frailty. He had barely survived his own escape, and orchestrating a second one had drained the rest of his depleted energies. It was a pure wonder that he and Túrin were alive, in the state they were in: one of the mysteries of this Age. What concerned Gwindor was the possibility that Túrin might recover a greater portion of his physical strength—without the accompanying strength of reason. He would be able to overpower and outpace Gwindor easily. If Túrin returned to Beleg's grave, he would be lost. Gwindor couldn't allow that to happen. If Túrin died, Beleg would have been slain for nothing.

Túrin, as if sensing Gwindor's thoughts, pulled away again, turning to look over his shoulder, back toward the waste of Anfauglith. He was facing the place, far behind them now, where Beleg lay beneath the earth—as deep as Gwindor had been able to dig with his one hand. Beleg's body rested empty in his shallow grave, beside his great bow.

It pained Gwindor all the more to see Túrin look back so longingly. It tugged on something within him—maybe a portion of his fëa that had been sickened by grief. Gwindor understood the wish to rejoin the lost one, the loved one. The impossible wish, to have him back.

"We cannot go there. Come with me, " Gwindor urged. Or we will die like Beleg. He thought, but would not say, Beleg's name. Túrin spoke of Beleg often enough himself, without saying a word. His wide, staring eyes spoke, and his gasping breaths were more eloquent than any fine speech.

Keeping words to a minimum for his own benefit and that of his charge, Gwindor addressed Túrin when he needed to move him on in the right direction, or to otherwise pierce the armor of his stupor. It was not that he had an aversion to Túrin or anger with him, but he could not be sure of the effect any particular words would have on him, so he took care. At times, Túrin did not appear to understand anything, and then a mere word would make him weep or fall to his knees. He was mad with grief, and Gwindor did not know how to speak to him through his madness. He would have had a greater understanding of how to help if Túrin were an Elf. He was a Man and a stranger, and his ways of thinking were unknown to Gwindor.

Túrin remained blessedly obedient for a time, keeping pace with him mutely again. The two of them made little sound as they moved through the deep forest. Both of them had been raised in lands where stealth was taught to children along with their letters. Though Túrin had been speechless since their meeting, Gwindor knew a little of him and his upbringing, because of Beleg, and how fondly he had spoken of Túrin.

When we meet in the Halls again at last, what will I say to Beleg? Gwindor wanted his actions to be worthy of report. He could not tell Beleg that he had failed Túrin.
He had met Beleg once before: on the most dreadful of days, the dawn of the day of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. He would not think of that horror, not now. Thoughts of that day could steal even his endurance from him. Gwindor had hoped, upon encountering the Sinda again, that he had met a dear friend. To encounter someone so hopeful and kind, after his long, hopeless years in the darkness—it had been his miracle. It was like a star had risen before him in the middle of a starless night. Sadly, the miracle and the light had been obliterated by a new nightmare.

Again, the image resurfaced in his mind of Beleg's bright mouth, spilling blood. Beleg's broken last words—not to him, but to Túrin: "Beloved—I— Do not—" His gaze had locked on Túrin's as the light faded from his eyes. His lips forced into a smile. "Blame—love."

It was a haunting memory. It had taken up residence in his mind greedily and maliciously, like a dragon in a cave. Túrin's lips were still dark with the blood from Beleg's lips, where he had kissed him. Túrin had wept into Beleg's hair. He had taken blood and given tears.

The shadows, already much deeper here than was natural, were stretching out beneath the trees. Gwindor and Túrin had traveled so long through the woods without incident that Gwindor's vigilance had begun to fade, lulled by the quiet and eroded by visions. He was not prepared when Túrin raised his shoulder sharply and his arm shot out. His hand struck Gwindor, a glancing blow that was likely accidental. Gwindor was pushed off-balance and struggled to keep his footing. Túrin was already turning on his feet to face the wrong direction. To face the shadow in the north. Before Gwindor could react, he was running back the way they had come, all too quickly.

Gwindor had no choice. He had to run after him, sprinting through leaves and branches, hoping to catch his wayward Man. Pain burned in his chest and down his sides, and throbbed in what remained of his left arm. Weakness seized his body in an iron grip and tried to pull him back sharply, but Gwindor kept running. Not fast enough, but he ran, his heart protesting, hammering against his ribs. No, no, this cannot be. He could not lose him. How long would Túrin run like this? Was he going to race all the long way back to where Beleg lay beneath the soil? The two of them would not survive such a journey. Not again.

Fortunately—if not painlessly—Túrin's run was so rash and reckless that after several minutes, a troublesome rise of root and a deceptive gathering of leaves conspired to bar his way. He tripped over the root, slipped on the leaves, and sprawled on the forest floor. Beleg's bag fell with a clang and came to rest beside its bearer. The metallic noise it made as it struck the ground was caused by the great helm. That was another object, like the sword, that was so ponderous with import and destiny, it was difficult for Gwindor to contemplate it for too long—so he did not.

He cared more for Túrin's safety than that of the helm, and he did not so much as glance at it as he rejoined Túrin haltingly. Gwindor's breathing was pained, his body burning. He sank to the ground slowly. He placed his one hand on Túrin again, as if that alone could hold him down. Once he regained control of his breath, he spoke. "You cannot go back. We cannot."

Túrin groaned in response, but he did not try to rise. He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the overhanging branches with a blank expression.

Gwindor, kneeling above him, gazed down on his companion's blood-smeared face with compassion. "I understand." Túrin's hair was a wild, dark frame for his face, curled around the leaves caught up in it. If not for the fact that his body did not hold the light of the Elves, Gwindor might have taken him for an Elf, for he was tall and his features were so fair. As Túrin grew calmer, Gwindor released him from the pressure of his hand. He reached out to one of the leaves trapped in Turin's hair and freed it from its prison.

Túrin flinched, but otherwise did not move.

"You do not want to live." Should he not speak so? He feared agitating Túrin, but he was beginning to understand him, after a fashion. The way he had raced back toward the Enemy, heedless of his own safety, his own life. Gwindor had done that. "I was once the same."

Túrin's eyes shifted, the unfocused gaze sliding toward Gwindor without meeting him. When Beleg had spoken to Gwindor of Túrin, he had told him, The curse of the Enemy lies on him, or so it is said. While there had been a note of doubt in Beleg's words, Túrin's aspect now— wild and staring, his face haunted by shadows—made it easier to believe he was cursed. True or not, Beleg had said, he believes he is accursed.

Gwindor did not know what to believe, but he knew what he wished, for both himself and Túrin, so restless with pain. "But I want to live now, and I want you to live. There is not much of me left, but I long to see my home once more. I may still do that. Or I can see the green, free forest once again and know a moment of peace. I want you to see it, too."

Túrin was watching him, his gaze starting to focus, if still expressionless. Gwindor added, on impulse, "If you do not want your life anymore, give it to me. I will take it." He did not know what inspired him to say such a thing. They were not words lightly said.

Túrin's body stiffened, his gaze suddenly snapping into sharp focus. Dark and bright; Gwindor felt those eyes look deep into him and all through him.

Túrin had responded to his latest words as he had responded to nothing else Gwindor had said—not with his voice, but with his full attention. Gwindor did not know if he had said the exact right words or the exact wrong ones. "If your life is mine, then you must come with me. Follow where I lead." If Túrin truly did not want his life, perhaps he would be glad to have someone else agree to take it on for him.

Túrin blinked. He did not speak, but he wore enough of an expression now that Gwindor could guess—not at the details of his thoughts, but that he had listened and understood what was said to him.

"Yes. Come." Gwindor did not want to rise to his feet. He would have liked to rest for a long, long time, and his body cried out for that. To rest and never rise again. Yet he rose. He had risen to his feet so many times when he had thought it impossible. It was still impossible, yet he did so nonetheless.

"Come with me now." He spoke to Túrin almost as if he were an animal to coax and beckon—but not. No, he's nothing like that. He has a greatness of mind and heart, but a shadow has fallen on him. If he is to come out of it, he will have to heed me. That is why I must speak directly to him. I must call for him, as over a great distance, with simple words, so he can hear me in that place that is so dark and far away.

Túrin had come of age where Quenya was forbidden, but Gwindor spoke Sindarin with ease, and it was the only tongue he had found that could reach Túrin: Beleg's language. Túrin did not speak, but Túrin rose. Túrin allowed Gwindor to settle the weight of the bag again on his shoulders. Túrin came with him all in willingness now, no longer protesting against his guidance. Gwindor was grateful for the compliance. It made this trial easier.

Gwindor was more perturbed by his own actions, for words had power, be they in Quenya or Sindarin, and he had said something irrevocable. What have I done? I cannot take on another's life, when I can barely survive my own.

Gwindor did not consider himself a leader any longer, but he led Túrin, for it was his duty. Once, Gwindor had led himself and his comrades into ruin, but that had been in another lifetime. It took all his power to focus on moving forward again, now that his strength had been tested further. Another step. Step.

He led them forward, to the limit of his endurance and beyond. His vigilance would not let them rest, not yet. He could not be sure they would not be pursued, so he wanted to gain as much distance as he could, as quickly as possible. His wariness might have been born out of his long captivity of fear or his own straightforward practicality. No matter its origins, it would be best for them to get as far as possible from that terrible place where countless horrors had found their home, as soon as they were able. Gwindor may have carried a sword, but he was unsure whether he could fight off attackers. He hoped he would not have to learn the truth of it.

"Another step," he murmured, to himself and Túrin. "One more, that's all."

And then there would be another, after that.

Chapter Text

Their journey was torturous, not only with dread, but in its sameness. Gwindor and Túrin walked without pause out of necessity. Endurance had become a habit, if an unhappy one. Gwindor's heart was too heavy to find beauty in the landscape, for they were too close to the darkness. They did not spy any encouraging or outstanding features in the wood. The trees cast their shadows over twisted roots and rocky earth as Túrin and Gwindor walked at their punishingly slow pace. The shadows here had their own life and moved in unexpected ways. More than once, their shifting made Gwindor start, in the fear that they had been discovered by the Enemy.

Gwindor kept a close watch on Túrin, looking for any signs of illness or pain. Exposure and hunger were as present as the shadows, especially for the mortal Man. Beleg had carried provisions with him, but much had been lost in the confusion, and Gwindor was sparing with what was left. Gwindor had scant time or energy to spare for foraging. If they came across edible plants, he would pause long enough to make Túrin eat and consume a small amount himself. He pulled up roots and stripped the bark from trees for them. Most of what he found by chance in this way was bitter to taste, but these bitter morsels, along with the spare rations, were enough to keep them from starving. There was also the pressing matter of water. So near the waste, the land was more arid than it should have been.

When Gwindor heard the soft voice of water from a distance, his spirits rose. A river. Gwindor's pace quickened with hope, and he knelt at its banks. He studied the current with care. He let his fingertips ghost over the surface of it, concentrating. Like most Elves, he could sense corruption if it were strong enough. If the water had been too much tainted at some point along its route, they could not drink it. He knew of water that was so poisoned, it would kill those who tasted it, or send them into a deep delirium. His senses told him this water was clean enough, so he scooped it up in his hand and drank. Túrin did not follow suit, but blankly watched him drink.

Gwindor beckoned, bidding Túrin to lower himself. Túrin crouched obediently, but would not get water for himself, so Gwindor scooped up water for him. It was only when the cupped hand brought water directly to Túrin's lips that he reacted. Blinking, he opened his mouth, then belatedly swallowed. Still, he would not lean down to drink or cup water in his own hands. Gwindor realized he would have to repeat the process a number of times. Though caring for Túrin presented him with such difficulties, the fact that Túrin had ceased attempting to escape made the extra effort seem bearable and possible.

Once they had refreshed themselves at the river, Gwindor decided they would follow it, as its course led both southward and westward. He was not familiar enough with this land to guess how long they could use the river as a guide, but it was a start, and it would be useful if they could remain close to a reliable source of water.

Not until he had reached the coldest, farthest limit of his endurance—when he was on the verge of collapsing—did Gwindor bid Túrin rest. He was not sure if Túrin would have thought to rest on his own. With words and gestures, he convinced Túrin to lie down on the softest part of the hard ground. It was not the best or safest place to sleep, but there was no best and no safety here. Gwindor was too weary to search for an optimal spot that might never appear.

Once he had finally allowed himself to stop moving, his body went limp. He could only hope no enemies would find them while they were in this state. How long had they been traveling this way? He no longer knew. For a time, he had been moving in a trance, roused from it now and again by necessity. He had not so much lost track of time as failed to keep track from the beginning. Why should he, when time did not matter to them anymore? They had passed outside of time. Sorrow and long toil had pushed them to a place apart from day and night, from minutes and hours.

They rested side by side for warmth. Gwindor could hear the river's soft and fluid song from where they lay. It was his solitary comfort. Gwindor remained still and silent, but Túrin shifted and muttered and moaned plaintively in his sleep, unable to find true rest.

Gwindor had aided Beleg, because all Elves were kin, in spite of their differences. He sorrowed for him, as he sorrowed to know that any Elf had died. Gwindor had met Beleg before, and he had known of his great deeds, but he had not known him as Túrin had, to grieve as Túrin did. Gwindor had encountered Beleg when the forces of the Elves had gathered for the battle that would come to be known as the Nírnaeth Arnoediad, but he avoided that haunted memory. Once before that he had glimpsed him—at the Mereth Aderthad.

The Mereth Aderthad was a far finer and brighter memory. Gwindor had not spoken to the Sinda then, but he had drawn very near to the representatives of Doriath. Later, tales would tell that only Mablung and Daeron had been sent from Thingol's forest realm, but Gwindor knew better. The silver-haired Elf who had been at Mablung's side had borne a strong and suspicious resemblance to Beleg. Gwindor, now that he knew Beleg's face so well, was certain Beleg had accompanied his compatriot to the feast without his lord Thingol's knowledge. It seemed very like something he would do—he had been so lively and so difficult to deter.

There had been many great Elves present at that feast, and all had been merry and full of hope. The landscape had been alive with flowers of violet and white, the trees bursting with green. Gwindor had heard the fierce and fair musics of Macalaurë and Daeron as they had played together—a display of musical skill and art unparalleled in the history of the Eldar. Gwindor and his party had received the grave blessing of Ñolofinwë himself. Gwindor—much to his joy and surprise—had been seated beside Nelyafinwë at the feast and had broken bread with him. As he had long admired the eldest son of Fëanor for his learning and his valor in battle, this unlooked for honor had shaken him deeply.

Nelyafinwë had been both kind and thoughtful, asking about him and his family with such interest. Remembering their conversation could still make Gwindor smile, even though he had passed beyond the realm of hope. Nelyafinwë, he was sure, would understand his current predicament, perhaps as no other could. He did not want to dwell too much on their similar experiences, remembering instead the way the sunlight had fallen through the leaves, and the way it had glittered on the surface of the Pools of Ivrin, more beautiful than any golden jewelry.

Gwindor had had the honor of introducing Nelyafinwë to Gelmir and Finduilas. For a brief time, the four of them had conversed gladly about music, the forest, and their hopes for the future. The memory of that conversation was more golden than the fall of sunlight. Gwindor's brother and his betrothed had remained close to Gwindor's side throughout the feast and the attendant festivities. Would that they were both with him still.

If Gwindor concentrated, he could hear the sweet sound of Finduilas singing. He could see the sunlight gleaming on her hair. He could hear Gelmir laughing, then raising his bow to join in one of the many contests of skill that were held at the feast. For weeks and months afterward, the three of them had spoken of little other than the Mereth Aderthad. That time would forever remain treasured and bright, in spite of the fire that came afterward. The fire that had robbed them of their joy.

Strange that he was returning to the Pools of Ivrin now—the site of that fair feast—under these dire circumstances, which he could never have dreamed of during those golden days. He was thankful he had not known of the shadow that lay ahead of him. He had been able to thoroughly enjoy the company of his fellow Elves, especially that of Finduilas and Gelmir. Yet he could not remain within that memory for long, as another one soon swept in to banish it.

What pained Gwindor greatly was that Túrin's grief was so deep, it brought his own loss repeatedly to mind. How he had believed Gelmir dead all those years. How he had not realized the bitter truth until the moment he watched Gelmir die before his eyes. The axe, the spray of blood. He had been unable to save him. It had not been possible by any means. Gelmir had been too far away from him, but Gwindor's heart had not believed it. In his mind, Gwindor was still crossing that distance: the space between himself and his fallen brother. Wind in his face, tears in his eyes, and curses on his lips.

His fateful charge in the battle had led his friends and companions to their deaths. He knew every detail of that distance. He could have measured it out, could have described at length every last centimeter of it. He knew the story of each grain of soil he had passed over. Over and over, that long charge ran through the back of his mind. Never was he able to stop it, no matter how he tried to ignore it or drown it out. It was a moment he could not leave, because a part of him lived within it.

Gwindor closed his eyes. In spite of the fact that he could walk and breathe and talk and reason, his experiences had brought him very near death. He and Túrin both were close to it now, but he had been so for years. When Elves approached death, they could see the world as a whole more clearly, because their spirits were on the verge of departing their bodies. It was not a matter of seeing the future. It was a growing sense of distance from one's body and life, which led to a deeper understanding of the world as separate from oneself. When a point of view was so expanded, beyond the personal, one realized things no one could know when bound tightly to life. In that detached state, you saw the present from far above. It became easier and more intuitive to predict the way events, even those physically distant from you, were likely to play out. That was why, before death, an Elf might make a proclamation like a prophecy, and their prediction would later come to pass.

My spirit is about to leave my body, said Gwindor clearly and calmly to himself. He had told himself the same many times over during his captivity. It was both comfort and torment. Elves could will themselves to die, if their will and need were strong enough and no force prevented them. Gwindor had that possibility of escape before him. There had been moments he had believed death his only likely escape—whether he chose it or had it forced upon him. In spite of his despair, he had not let himself fade. He had been tempted, but part of him had been too stubborn to admit defeat. He had always been stubborn.

Each time he had thought of his spirit flying free, Gwindor had next repeated to himself, Let my flesh keep my spirit. I must live. He was not ready to die. He had yet to redeem himself for his actions: for failing to protect his brother, and for leading so many brave, fine Elves to their deaths.

Not only did he wish for redemption, but as he had told Túrin, he wanted to see home again. He wanted to see those he loved, who yet lived. When he closed his eyes, he might witness that vision of the bloody death of his brother, but he might also glimpse Finduilas dancing on the shore of a clear pool, the light reflected from the water playing through her hair and across her skin. That was a fair sight, and one he would not care to give up. Now it was possible he might see it again, in this lifetime.

I must live. He had hoped the rescue of Túrin would lead him closer to redemption, yet it had gone so terribly. Túrin had been saved, but the cost had been too steep and too cruel. Was there a way he could have prevented the tragedy? He did not see how, but he wished he had. Unfortunately, he could not change what had happened; he could only do whatever was possible with what remained to him.

Gwindor was at last able to sleep, but lightly, rest disturbed by his own turmoil and the wood's least noises. Beside him, Túrin shifted in his sleep again. Gwindor tensed as an arm slid around his waist. Túrin’s cracked lips pressed against his cheek. His breath was hot and smelled of blood above all else. Metal and sharp, Mannish and Elven. Túrin was marked with Beleg’s blood, as well as his own. Gwindor had not had the strength to try washing him yet. Túrin did not truly smell like a Man any longer, so much as he smelled like blood. It was a worry, where predators were concerned, but not their greatest worry.

Túrin’s kisses against his cheek were almost painful in their softness. They were odd, but Gwindor oddly did not mind them. There was a chastity to them, and Túrin knew not what he did in his delirium. This affection was not meant for Gwindor.

When Gwindor had realized Túrin and Beleg were wed, it was with a growing sense of horror. Not because he objected to the union of those two, or of Man and Elf in general, but because the thought of any person slaying their own mate was unthinkable. It must be a pain beyond pain, and Gwindor did not know how anyone could endure it.

From one moment to the next, it was difficult to guess what Túrin was aware of, since he would not speak. It was possible he could mistake Gwindor for Beleg—though the two of them looked alike primarily in the sense that they were both Elves. That was why Gwindor did not fault him for these affectionate, gentle gestures. Perhaps it was wrong not to try to wake Túrin and disabuse him of his confusion, but Túrin seemed to derive a measure of comfort from the closeness. He had stopped moaning in pain and tossing in his sleep, if only temporarily. Gwindor chose not to deny him that. He needed to rest.

This ordeal would not last forever. Gwindor knew its limit, because from the beginning, he had one clear destination in mind. If they could elude the Enemy and misadventure, they would reach the crystal pools of Ivrin. There, their minds would be made as clear as the water, and their long torment would be eased. Perhaps the pools would even work some healing on him, securing his spirit more firmly to his body and ending the vague and haunting sense of the future that had haunted him for years.

Gradually, Gwindor became aware of a low, faint vibration in the earth. Túrin, perhaps sensing the same, restlessly rolled away from him, onto his side. Gwindor was unsettled too, and he sat up. He was so exhausted that he wanted nothing more than sleep, but he had to find the source of the vibration. He initially thought it came from the ground itself, but no.

His hand went to his waist. There was the sword, at his belt. As heavy as it was, he had grown used to its weight, and he had not had the presence of mind to set it aside. Its sheath was quaking, faintly yet unmistakably. It was so unsettling, he could not allow it to go on without investigating, no matter how he craved rest. To avoid disturbing Túrin, he rose and stepped away from him—though not so far that he was out of sight.

He touched his fingertips to the sheath of the sword, as he had to the river, searching for corruption in it. He found none, but there was something there— He felt a strong sense of presence, as of a person standing beside him. Slowly, he unsheathed the blade, then set it down on the ground before him. He knelt, to be closer to it. His hand went to his belt. He had a small pouch fastened there which contained something very special. He withdrew it slowly and carefully: a chain of crystals that gave off a beautiful, blue glow. It was a strand he had broken off from one of the Fëanorian lamps the Enemy hoarded. He had stolen it before his escape, so he would always have a light in the dark.

The lamps, which took the form of elegant crystal nets, were given to the Noldor by the Enemy to use while mining. They were well-secured when not in use—locked up and chained as if they were prisoners, too. Though they appeared delicate, the lamps were unusually strong, and the crystals could not be shattered, but Gwindor had managed to break off a strand of the one he usually used. It had taken luck, long planning and careful, subtle weakening of the net's structure. And—he sensed that, in a way, the lamp had wanted to assist him.

Gwindor felt a sense of relief as the light fell across his face. It was familiar and Noldorin, in this terrible, alien place. The wood's darkness was partly natural, but augmented by Morgoth's spite. The Fëanorian crystals would light any shadowed place, even if the darkness was of the Enemy's making. Their brightness made Gwindor's spirit a little brighter, too.

As he held out the crystals, Gwindor watched their light gleam across the surface of the blade. It was dark in color, and he could not identify the metal it had been made of. There was something unnatural and almost willful about the way the metal reflected the blue Fëanorian light. Gwindor had never seen another blade like this black sword. It was so cleverly made that the blade, guard, and hilt seemed to be all a single piece of metal, seamless and whole. The blade edge was so impossibly sharp that Gwindor's eyes could not quite discern where it ended.

As he examined the blade curiously, Gwindor suddenly seized up in fear, as a voice sounded in his mind, flat of tone but insistent:

Eöl, he made me
Beleg, he chose me
Gwindor, he saved me
But who will wield me?

It was as if the sword spoke—but how could a sword do that? He had heard of swords with power, but never a sword with a voice. He was inclined to believe it was true nonetheless, because the longer he gazed at the sword, the more difficult it was for him to deny the presence emanating from it.

Gwindor, he saved me. Was the blade aware of him in some way, and grateful? He had saved the sword, in a sense. It would have been much easier for him to leave it behind, along with the great helm. They were both burdens. In fact, it would have been far simpler for him to have left Túrin behind as well. Or to have refused to aid Beleg. He had not done what was easiest, but when had he ever done that?

Gwindor had barely begun to process his current situation, when the sword spoke again.

Beleg my master
Slain in the wasteland
When I awakened
Túrin his killer.

The sword was—it was almost singing to him. There was a rhythm to its words in his head. It was like a grave poem, and also a dirge. "He did not mean to," Gwindor felt compelled to say, in Túrin's defense. "It grieves him so greatly." He understood, then: the sword grieved, too. It was sorry for what it had done, and that was why its presence and its voice were so strong in his mind. It wanted, needed to be heard. "And you—you did not mean to, did you?"

The sword did not precisely respond to him, but there was brief delay before it continued into another verse:

Túrin, the bloodstained
Túrin, of ill-fate
Túrin, the Man-Elf,
Túrin will bear me.

"Yes, I—I will give you to him," said Gwindor. "I don't intend to keep you for myself."

Should he have been more surprised to find himself in conversation with a sword? For some time, the sense of being fated had hung on him. As painful as his own tale had been, it had become caught up within another: a tale of destinies and swords that spoke, of helmets and grim magic, and of deep sorrow. Gwindor was so tired of being caught up in a story. He wanted it to reach its end, so he could rest. As weary as he was, he was not as astounded by these events as another might have been, because that strange, Elven foresight had taken him over and changed him. He had lived too long in the shadow of death. He could not say when he would emerge from it again.

Gwindor waited for long minutes in the dark, but the sword had no more words for him. It must have said all it meant to say. No sword would speak lightly or idly. They must be sharp and direct, like the weapons they were. Gwindor could not say why the sword's brief verses made him feel like weeping. He did not resist the urge. Still kneeling, he leaned forward and wept. When had he last shed tears? When did he last have the water to spare?

Chapter Text

Shortly before he had encountered Beleg, the thought had come to Gwindor in the dark wood: I will meet someone soon. He had been half-unconscious and maddened with pain following his escape. He had not guessed who he would meet or how, only that they would arrive. The state of the air and the shape of his surroundings had shown him a coming change. He could not say why, or which particular detail had influenced his belief. Nonetheless, he had seen and known in his soul. Closer to the moment he had met Beleg, his certainty had narrowed to, An Elf will come to me.

The certainty, while accurate, had done him little good. He had not been able to see the future danger or avert it. That foresight, the sight that came near death, was not accompanied by the power to alter the future—or even, in most cases, to view it clearly. Certain powerful Elves could bring that state on intentionally, and could make predictions for the greater good, but Gwindor was not an Elf of great power. His irregular prescience was a glimpse, a dream. It was of no assistance to him. If anything, it was a frustration, a cause of unease.

Finally, Gwindor had shed the last of his tears, and he wiped them away. A few drops had fallen onto the blade, but it remained silent, and the sense of presence radiating from it had waned. Was it satisfied, or asleep? Gwindor knew little of the ways of magic swords. He would have preferred to avoid being caught up in a tale that contained such objects, but now that he was in one, he must navigate it to the best of his abilities. What else could he do?

He sheathed the blade. When he glanced up, he saw Túrin, crouching nearby, staring at him. He was not sure how long Túrin had been watching him, or if he had been able to hear the sword speak. He guessed Túrin would not have heard the sword unless it wanted him to. Gwindor did not know how to explain what he was doing, and he doubted that Túrin would understand. Túrin asked for no explanation. He only looked, with his wide eyes.

Gwindor rose to rejoin him, taking up the sword that was only temporarily his. "We should sleep, Túrin." When he was close enough, Túrin reached the bright thread of the crystal lamp, which was wrapped around Gwindor's hand. Oh, had the light drawn his attention? That was no wonder. There was a great and inexplicable purity to the light, and an endless wonder in it, because Fëanor himself had made it. It appeared to calm Túrin a little, because the tension in his expression eased when the light illuminated his face. Gwindor did not put the lamp away until Túrin lay down and closed his eyes again. He did not want to deny him any little comfort.

Gwindor tried to sleep again, but he could not. During his captivity, he had fallen out of the habit of sleeping through the entire night. In Angband, there was no such thing as a restful night's sleep. There was no day. Night was endless there, and at any time, the foul jailors might pull you from your sleep and force you to toil in the mine. When Gwindor drifted in sleep, he forgot his escape and rested uneasy, expecting at any moment to be shaken awake by a rough hand.

He lay quietly until morning, resting his body as he could not rest his mind. When dawn came, it was faint, but a faint dawn was far better than none. Any sight of the Sun's light was pleasing to an Elf as it was anathema to the Enemy.

Gwindor woke Túrin carefully and warily, standing as far back as he could and half-expecting an outburst of violence. Túrin had no weapon on him, but he was not harmless. Fortunately, Túrin only opened his eyes and rose mutely. He ate the food Gwindor presented to him and drank his water from the river. He remained still as Gwindor reassured himself that the Dragon-helm and the sword were still there. It was not that he thought they were likely to have gone missing, but they were such fated objects, how could he fail to check on them? Túrin, too, was fated. Entirely too much fate had gathered in this one place. Gwindor half-expected a startling event to occur at any moment, but this particular moment was quiet and uneventful. When Gwindor led Túrin away through the wood, he followed obediently.

Was Túrin's placidity the result of yesterday's words? Gwindor had taken responsibility for another's life, and that was no small thing. He had once felt responsible for his brother. He had felt responsible for Finduilas. He had lost the one and been severed from the other, and the sorrow of those separations was still a great weight upon him. He had failed them. Now he had taken on the burden of Túrin's well-being. It was unsettling, and he feared he would once again fail. The fear was so great, it made him hesitate. Was going to the Pools of Ivrin the right choice? Had he chosen the best route through Taur-nu-Fuin? The least error might mean their deaths. The thought made his chest tighten and his breathing more difficult. He felt the dark wood start to slowly spin around him.

Gwindor realized he had come to a halt, on the bank of the river. Túrin had also halted. Túrin was watching him. Gwindor may have been the focus of his attention, but Gwindor did not believe Túrin had regained his reason or understood where they were going, or why. There was no comprehension in his gaze, only pained resignation. He was still somewhere so far away, in a world unknown to Gwindor. On impulse, Gwindor reached out and took his hand. He focused on Túrin, as Túrin focused on him.

Túrin's expression did not change, but Gwindor gave his hand a squeeze and said, "I will not fail you." It did not matter if he might perish in his attempt; he could not falter. This Man relied upon him, and only him. There was no one else to do what had to be done. Elves did not abandon their friends. Nor did they allow the labors of their friends to be for nothing. This certainty sustained him.

It might have been easier at first, if Gwindor had left Túrin behind, but if he had not brought Túrin with him, he would likely have failed. If he had struggled through Taur-nu-Fuin alone, he would have had no guiding purpose, no greater good to consider. Only a wish to reach Nargothrond, somehow. The responsibility of Túrin, that was such a burden, was also a boon, as it drove him and gave his steps meaning. He might have given in to despair, without it. If he had not met Beleg in the wood, he might never have made it this far.

Beleg may have gone, but he remained with them in some sense. An Elf never truly departed from one they loved. It heartened Gwindor to remember the way even the faintest light had gleamed on the Sinda's hair. When he pictured him, he could feel Beleg's presence, as if he had recently stepped just out of sight behind the trees, but was watching them through the veil of branches. It would be so much better if Beleg were physically here, to guide and cheer them, but to have a measure of his spirit present was no small good fortune.

Gwindor released Túrin's hand. He started walking again, with the small river running on his left. Túrin stayed close. Even so close to the water, the soil beneath their boots was dry, and it made the faintest of sounds, like a sigh from the downtrodden earth.

Gwindor had reason to hope this route might yet take them where they needed to go. The river continued to lead both south and west, and the more distance they put between themselves and the darkened north, the clearer the sky would become at night, allowing him at last to navigate by the stars.

Every so often, Gwindor touched his hand to the sword at his side, feeling for any sign of its presence and will. The sword remained silent and still, like an ordinary weapon, and his memory of its unearthly speech felt like a dream or vision. Dream or no, Gwindor's greater sense of duty towards the sword was greater, as if it were no mere object, but another person he was guiding through the forest. Not his sword, but his charge.

What an odd association they were, none of the same kind, yet united—the Man, the Noldo, the speaking sword, and the spirit of a Sinda. And a helmet—though the helmet had not yet spoken to him, and Gwindor assumed it would not. However, if it did, he would hardly be shocked, not after all that had happened. He kept walking, absurdly conscious of himself as the leader of this most unlikely group of companions.

When Beleg had first appeared to him in the forest, Gwindor had thought him a shade already. In spite of his momentary foresight, the idea of meeting an Elf in that dark place had been incredible. Why would a lone Elf venture so near the Enemy's lands? It had taken Beleg mere moments to convince Gwindor that he was real. He was so solid and present, how could he have been anything else? Beleg, in response, had been visibly astounded that an Elf had managed to escape from Angband. That was the first time Gwindor had felt it was an accomplishment to be proud of. Until then, it had seemed like nothing so much as a great and heavy labor, with further labors in store.

When he gave Beleg his name, Beleg stared at him in surprise. "Gwindor? Of Nargothrond?"

It was a simple matter to guess Beleg's thoughts as the shock passed over his features. I thought you were dead. I would not have recognized you, you are so changed. Beleg did not speak any of those words. Instead, a smile banished the shock, and he exclaimed, "It is so good to see you once again! This is fine fortune indeed. We all feared you were lost."

Beleg did not once mention Gwindor's ill-fated charge on the day of the battle. There was not a trace of blame in his face or in his words, and Gwindor felt a deep relief at that All those years, he had harbored the fear that the Elves as a whole would blame him for the loss of the battle, and the ruination of Findekáno and Nelyafinwë's great strategy. No, Beleg offered him only gladness, and not a moment's criticism.

"Oh, but you are so hurt," murmured Beleg, as he moved in to embrace Gwindor with care. The quick and clever hands smoothed over Gwindor's hair fondly. "Let me see to your wounds." It was Beleg who tended to him and bandaged him. He used what healing arts were within his power to ease Gwindor's pain. He sang a song of the Sindar, soft and low, and the simple beauty of Elven-song worked its own magic on Gwindor's heart after its long captivity. Beleg's smile never faded as he worked.

That smile held fast, even as Beleg told Gwindor what had brought him to the blighted woods of Taur-nu-Fuin and the more dreadful waste beyond: the stolen Man and his plan to rescue him.

How Gwindor had tried to dissuade him from his plan, pleading, fearful that Beleg would not find his Man in the waste—but only death, for death was all that was there to be found. Beleg did not falter for a moment in his resolve or in his smile. "But I love him," he said, as if this were the only reason he needed.

He was right.

No other reason could have convinced Gwindor to assist Beleg in his dangerous endeavor. If Gwindor could have reached Gelmir in the waste, still living, would he not have gone to him, no matter what barred his way? Of course he would.

As he recalled their encounter in the wood, Gwindor glanced down at the bandages that still embraced his arm, so expertly applied. That dressing was one of the last works of Beleg Cúthalion. An act of kindness and mercy. Beleg's ultimate work, and the one that was most dear to him, walked beside Gwindor now. What a miracle Beleg had achieved in rescuing Túrin. Gwindor was glad of it, and he would defend Túrin with his life, yet he could not shake off his misgivings.

During their brief time together, Beleg had told him that Túrin was cursed by the Enemy, or believed himself to be, but he had not spoken of it in detail. Was it true? Gwindor had experienced falling afoul of the Enemy, and suffering by his will at the hands of his creatures, but he did not comprehend the scope and severity of a direct, specific curse. The Enemy was a curse upon the entire world, so what did it mean when he narrowed his focus to a single individual, and what did he gain by doing so?

He supposed it did not matter too much that he understood it completely, in that he could only deal with what he was given. He was responsible for his own choices and no others. As true as that might be, an eerie apprehension fell upon him when he remembered the curse, the same feeling he experienced when someone observed him from a distance. He glanced over his shoulder, but no one was there.

He and Túrin walked for leagues. They did not walk quickly, but they endured, and the sky grew brighter as the distance between them and Angband grew. Gwindor began to feel a little safer, but he did not drop his guard. Every now and again, that uneasy feeling returned to him, that sense they were being watched—although his eyes and ears told him that there was no one else in the vicinity.

When he told Túrin to eat and drink, Túrin did so, and he kept close to Gwindor most of the time—but now and then, Gwindor was obligated to pause, as a shadow passed over Túrin, and he became too disoriented to follow, regardless of his will. He seemed to lose the use of some of his senses at these times. Túrin would stumble and walk in circles, or he would stand still and weep. Gwindor would have to wait with him and speak to him calmly until he would walk again, or take his hand to guide him with a gentle pull.

Their progress had been slow, but it had not been insignificant. The terrain had slowly but steadily shifted as they traveled. The ground was rockier how, and the forest less dense. He and Túrin found themselves walking up an incline more often than not, and he could sense they were nearing mountainous country. Gwindor had not forgotten how treacherous the steep peaks surrounding Taur-nu-Fuin could be. There were few routes offering safe passage, especially for two injured travelers. Gwindor went over the locations and names of the mountain passes in his mind, hoping they could reach one of them safely.

As the night began to fall, Gwindor searched for a sheltered place for them to rest. They did not need to keep walking deep into the night tonight. While it was beneficial to gain further distance from the Enemy's stronghold, it was also more dangerous to travel at night, when the forces of the Enemy were more likely to be abroad.

Not far from the river, Gwindor found some stone outcroppings that provided some shelter from the mournful wind that shook the branches. He began to gather branches and leaves to make a more comfortable camp for himself and Túrin. He had scarcely begun his task when he froze, chilled—and that was not due to the wind, which had not dropped in temperature. It was not the recurrent feeling of being watched, either. More strange than either, it was the sense of the future pressing in on him, glimpsed from the troubled borders of his fëa, which was not completely sealed within his solid form.

Much like when he had been about to meet Beleg, Gwindor had the strong sense that he was going to encounter someone soon. He could not tell who it would be—or whether their intentions would be good or ill, but this time, he trusted in his intuition. He set down the branches he was carrying. In this region, they were far more likely to encounter the servants of the Enemy than any friends—it was not impossible that another Elf would come here, as Beleg had, but it was implausible.

Gwindor glanced up at the stone outcroppings ruefully. If they stayed here and attackers surprised them, their routes of escape would be limited. He did not like the thought of being cornered. Any stand they made against an enemy would be their last. The previous Gwindor, the warrior in bright garb, riding beneath the banner of Nargothrond, might have chosen differently, but this Gwindor, who had learned much and lost much, took Túrin's arm and led him away.

The faint sense of the future, given to him only by grace of his poor fortune, told him so little. He had to make his best guess. He did not return to the river's edge; he kept to the trees, where it was easier to hide their tracks, and where the branches provided more cover. He tried to walk faster, though he was already tired from the day's journey. Túrin did not share his sense of urgency, but he did not object to the quickening pace.

They are coming.

The certainty strengthened, although he had no proof it was true. Gwindor's heart beat faster. What good did it do him to know the future, when the future could not be avoided? When the choices he made in response to that knowledge might put them in greater danger? Perhaps there was no good choice, but he kept them moving. As his heart moved. So fast.

They will be here soon.

No, not soon. Now. Finally, Gwindor heard them, in the distance. They did not make it difficult. They traveled recklessly, heedless of broken branches and loud footfalls. He could even hear their voices, though he could not understand their tongue. This was what he had feared—they were being tracked.

He and Túrin could travel past the limits of their endurance, but Orcs from Angband would be stronger and faster; well-rested, well-fed, and uninjured. It could be that they had been sent out to find Túrin or Gwindor specifically, or they could be part of a usual patrol. Either way—if the Orcs had not picked up their trail already, they would soon.

Gwindor briefly considered hiding, but they were unwashed, and their scents would have stood out in this desolate place regardless. Anywhere they might hide themselves away presented a risk that they would be quickly cornered, if found. Túrin's ability to fight was uncertain in his current state. Gwindor was not sure how he would fare wielding the dark sword himself, and his confidence in his skills was fast fading as the Orcs approached. Gwindor could have chastised himself with a thousand things he might have done differently or better, but what he had done could not now be undone, so he forged ahead.

If both he and Túrin had been uninjured and unburdened, they would have had a chance of outpacing the Orcs and escaping them through sheer speed. Orcs were not as quick as Elves or Men of Túrin's strength and training. Unfortunately, their health was not ideal, and Gwindor felt the world and his fate closing in on him. He had gained a head start by not pausing, but would it be enough? He quickened his pace again, bringing Túrin with him. Túrin blinked in confusion and staggered, but quickly adapted and kept pace with him.

Túrin would be able to travel yet faster, faster than Gwindor could. From the beginning, Gwindor had realized that though the Man had lost his reason, his physical capabilities had not been so greatly reduced as Gwindor's own. There was no horror greater to Gwindor than the thought of being dragged back to Angband. Likely, if they tried to take him there, his fëa would loosen its grasp on his hröa for the last time and fly free. Yet he was more concerned for Túrin than himself.

I could tell him to run ahead. I could tell him to go on without me and keep running. No—Gwindor's sharpened sense of the world and its connections warned him that without guidance, Túrin would lose all sense of self and self-preservation. He might lose himself in these woods indefinitely—and great harm might come to him lost in the wilderness, even if he did escape the Orcs.

We must stay together. It is our only chance of survival. He was as sure of this as he had been sure that they would encounter someone in these woods.

Behind them, the Orcs raise their voices in a discordant chorus of shouts, calling out to each other. Gwindor did not need to question why. As had so often been the case in his life, he had no choice. There was only one option remaining to him. He broke into a full run, urging Túrin to follow. To his relief, Túrin, although he initially stumbled again, continued to match his pace.

The effort of running was too taxing. Gwindor's wounded arm ached. His chest ached. His bones rattled in their thin flesh cage. It was hard to breathe. He could not guess how long he could move at this punishing pace, but he had to keep to it. The alternative was that Túrin would be captured and he would die.

In the sky above, a handful of stars were shining, penetrating the gloom above the wood. Varda, preserve us. We need your guidance and your strength. The Noldor may have fallen away from the Valar's grace, but Gwindor would seek and accept any succor there was to be had in this world.

The Orcs made no attempts to conceal their pursuit. They were leagues distant, but Gwindor's ears were still as sharp as any Elf's; he could hear them from so far away, their voices growing louder as they closed the gap between them and their prey.

The greater the pain Gwindor experienced, the more distant he felt from his own body, and the stronger his vague foresight grew. He could see the racing Orcs, their eyes gleaming. He could see the shadow of Angband. Most strikingly, he saw—stretching out on all sides of him—faint filaments of light, like the glowing trails of spirits. Each one gave off light, but some were brighter than others. He had never seen such a sight before, but Gwindor sensed instinctively that each line of light was a possibility. The brighter ones may have been the most likely ones, or the most auspicious.

The sudden vision of this bright netting was so vast and so puzzling to him that he could not study all the connections and figure out what he should do. They shifted constantly, flickering in and out of existence with each step Gwindor made—and what was more, he grew conscious that they must have been vibrating, because they made sounds. Barely perceptible, but unmistakable, a faint but impossibly deep melody.

This is the Music! The notes of the Great Music. I can see it! He could see and hear, but not comprehend. He could appreciate the notes without understanding the language of the Ainur, because he was not an Ainu. In the midst of his terror, he had the beautiful realization that this must be how the Ainur saw the world: made up of singing, shifting strands of light and music. He wanted to weep, for more reason than one.

He could not read the music flickering and wavering around him, but one thing was clear to Gwindor: the lights that connected him to Túrin were the brightest ones visible within this wood, brighter than the threads trailing behind them that led back to the pursuing Orcs. And as for Túrin himself—the light pouring off of him was so bright, and the humming threads stretching out from him so numerous, it hurt to look at him directly, so Gwindor did not. These signs and sounds were a mystery to him, but they gave him hope.

The fact that Túrin glowed so brightly made Gwindor take a chance on letting the brightest threads lead him through the forest. It was possible that this was not the right choice—if they were more likely to die, then maybe the brighter threads led toward death? Gwindor chose to believe that the brightness meant Túrin was fated by the music, and that his fate was so bright because it was not yet near its end. It might have been another mistake, but Gwindor had little time to think, let alone carefully choose a path through the darkening woods around them.

The river was far behind them now, and the Orcs were nearer. The brightest line of the light threads led him through thickets and down inclines—then up again—around treacherous rocky areas, and through a bright stream he hoped would mask their scent and make them harder to follow. For a time, he used the stream as a road, wading down it to further obscure their track—but when the brightness led him up a rocky streambank, he followed, led much as he led Túrin.

Was this vision of lights solely due to his dire closeness to death? Gwindor had been almost as near death a number of times during the past long years, yet nothing like this had happened to him before. Perhaps it was Varda, reaching out in response to his plea, to lend him her vision for a short time. Or there may have been another reason, one that remained a mystery to him.

As Gwindor ran, his vision blurred, and he had no choice to follow the light of the humming threads, for that was all he could see in the darkness. His head was throbbing, along with every sore place on his body. His throat and mouth were dry, and he could hear his breath, so much louder and more rasping than the breathing of Túrin beside him. Still, the sound of their pursuers did not fade. They did not call out or make sound consistently, but when they did, he could approximate their distance. Elves and men in their strength might be faster than Orcs, but Orcs had great endurance, and their fear of their spiteful master could drive them well past their physical limits.

How much longer—?

Again, Gwindor reduced his progress to a matter of steps. One footfall was followed by another because it had to. Because there was no other option, even if each footfall brought a new pressure, a new pain.

"Túrin—Túrin, heed me." Gwindor mustered his will to speak. "If I should fall and can go no farther, then please keep going. Please. Escape."

Túrin did not answer. Gwindor did not expect him to. Would Gwindor ever hear him speak? Would Túrin ever speak again? He could only pray that Túrin would hear him and understand him.

How much longer until—?

The brighter lights led Gwindor up a hill that was difficult for him to ascend, the rough terrain made treacherous by loose rocks and soil. More than once, he nearly slipped. The mountains had to be close now. If they reached the mountains, what were the odds they would find a pass they could travel through? It was more likely they would be hemmed in between the Orcs and the impassible peaks.

The going was slower over this terrain. From the burning sensation in his chest, Gwindor could tell that he was nearing his limit. Would there ever again come a time he did not feel pain? It had become his constant companion—along with Túrin, now—no matter where he travelled. He could bear it. He had to bear it.

The terrain was more difficult, but Gwindor forced himself to move faster. It was full dark now, which aided their enemies. If they could make it through the night, they might be safe, but how could they make it through a full night of running after a long day's travels?

Gwindor continued to follow the strongest glow, and though it had led him so far, it finally led him astray. His foot hit a piece of loose rock and his ankle turned. He felt himself begin to fall. Time started to slow. For an instant, he believed he would be able to react in time to right his footing. In this moment that stretched out so far, he only had to shift his weight and correct his course to regain his balance. He tried to make the correction—but time had only slowed in his perception. Before he could react physically, he was sliding down a steep slope, along with a rain of stones.

How much longer until they—

"Túrin!" he cried out, loath to lose his Man after they had come so far together. "Where are you?"

He received no answer. He was lying at the bottom of a slope, staring up at the sky. He tasted blood. He must have split his lip. He could not see anything in the sky now, not even the faintest star. The lines of light surrounding him were faint, flickering. Beleg, I'm sorry. I tried so hard to save him. Will you forgive me? Perhaps his new perception was due to Beleg, who had, through the power of his will and his love for Túrin, sought to aid him from the place beyond death?

Or is it my doing? Have I done this, through sheer will? Gwindor suspected he would not learn the truth of that until he had gone beyond death himself.

He willed himself to rise, but he was stunned from the fall and exhausted from his flight. He was not sure how long it would take him to recover enough to rise again. The long fall might have made his position harder for the Orcs to reach, but it had also engendered new difficulties—such as where was Túrin, and how could they continue to flee after this setback?

He heard the Orcs' cries in the distance. He was not heartened by the sound. They were not as far away as he would have liked. Gwindor, trying to make his body move again, told the fingers of his remaining hand to curl. After a few moments, they did. Good. He moved his hand, his arm. He used his arm to steady himself. Slowly, he was able to school his body and rise into a sitting position. He would not give up. He could not. No matter what happened, he would fight until the end.

Anglachel was still at his side. While he had a sword and one hand to wield it, he could yet fight, as Nelyafinwë had fought in so many battles after his wounding. He was not Nelyafinwë, no, but he was Gwindor of Nargothrond.

The Orcs were so close, their voice louder, their rough cries in that foul tongue hateful and joyful. The night belonged to them, and they knew it. Gwindor tried to rise, but he could not. Not yet. He bit back a sob of frustration. He fought with his body until he rose up onto his knees, his ribs and legs aching in protest. Now he only had to stand. A simple act he had performed so many times in the past. He never would have thought it would become such a grave endeavor. His life depended on standing.

How long did he struggle so? He would never know. He was no longer aware of the passing of time, but of the pale threads of light sparking from him, their song swaying and shuddering, as if fate itself was shuddering, uneasy and pained as he was.

The cries and noisy passage of the hunting Orcs grew louder again.

How much longer until they are here?

Not long, it could not be long. They were too close. Gwindor thought he could hear their footfalls now. Orcs had great endurance, and in a short sprint, they could be surprisingly fast. Gwindor heard fast steps on the stony ground nearby and tensed, his hand moving to Anglachel's hilt. He would fight on his knees if he had to!

His grip tightened on the sword as the rhythm of running bore down on him, and he started to draw the blade—just as a bright, shining shape exploded from the darkness. Arms seized him, catching hold of him and lifting him up. Gwindor struggled against the tight grasp, but when he turned in his captor's arms, he saw—

"Túrin!"

It was the Man. Of course. Who else shone so bright with fate in this wood? Túrin's expression was strange, distorted, his teeth bared and gritted. His eyes were wide, his breath coming in gasps. His forehead was slick with sweat. He clung to Gwindor as if he were clinging to his own life, and he kept running. He had not even broken his stride as he'd swept Gwindor up in his arms.