‘Is it dauntless Hurin,’ quoth Delu-Morgoth, | |
‘stout steel-handed, who stands before me, | |
a captive living as a coward might be? | |
Knowest thou my name, or need’st be told | |
what hope he has who is haled to Angband – | 55 |
the bale most bitter, the Balrogs’ torment?’ | |
‘I know and I hate. For that knowledge I fought thee | |
by fear unfettered, nor fear I now,’ | |
said Thalion there, and a thane of Morgoth | |
on the mouth smote him; but Morgoth smiled: | 60 |
‘Fear when thou feelest, and the flames lick thee, | |
and the whips of the Balrogs thy white flesh brand. | |
Yet a way canst win, an thou wishest, still | |
to lessen thy lot of lingering woe. | |
Go question the captives of the accursed people | 65 |
I have taken, and tell me where Turgon is hid; | |
how with fire and death I may find him soon, | |
where he lurketh lost in lands forgot. | |
Thou must feign thee a friend faithful in anguish, | |
and their inmost hearts thus open and search. | 70 |
Then, if truth thou tellest, thy triple bonds | |
I will bid men unbind, that abroad thou fare | |
in my service to search the secret places | |
following the footsteps of these foes of the Gods.’ | |
Then Thalion was thrust to Thangorodrim, | |
that mountain that meets the misty skies | |
on high o’er the hills that Hithlum sees | |
blackly brooding on the borders of the north. | 95 |
To a stool of stone on its steepest peak | |
they bound him in bonds, an unbreakable chain, | |
and the Lord of Woe there laughing stood, | |
then cursed him for ever and his kin and seed | |
with a doom of dread, of death and horror. | 100 |
There the mighty man unmovéd sat; | |
but unveiled was his vision, that he viewed afar | |
all earthly things with eyes enchanted | |
that fell on his folk – a fiend’s torment. | |
Lo! the lady Morwin in the Land of Shadows | 105 |
waited in the woodland for her well-beloved; | |
but he came never from the combat home. | |
No tidings told her whether taken or dead, | |
or lost in flight he lingered yet. | |
Laid waste his lands, and his lieges slain, | 110 |
and men unmindful of his mighty lordship | |
dwelt in Dorlómin and dealt unkindly | |
with his widowed wife; and she went with child, | |
who a son must succour now sadly orphaned, | |
Túrin Thaliodrin of tender years. | 115 |
Then in days of blackness was her daughter born, | |
and was naméd Nienor, a name of tears | |
that in language of eld is Lamentation. | |
Then her thoughts turnéd to Thingol the Elf-king, | |
and the dancer of Doriath, his daughter Tinúviel, | 120 |
whom the boldest of the brave, Beren Ermabwed, | |
had won to wife. He once had known | |
firmest friendship to his fellow in arms, | |
Thalion Erithámrod – so thought she now, | |
and said to her son, ‘My sweetest child, | 125 |
our friends are few, and thy father comes not. | |
Thou must fare afar to the folk of the wood, | |
where Thingol is throned in the Thousand Caves. | |
If he remember Morwin and thy mighty sire | |
he will fain foster thee, and feats of arms | 130 |
he will teach thee, the trade of targe and sword, | |
and Thalion’s son no thrall shall be – | |
but remember thy mother when thy manhood nears.’ | |
Heavy boded the heart of Húrin’s son, | |
yet he weened her words were wild with grief, | 135 |
and he denied her not, for no need him seemed. | |
Lo! henchmen had Morwin, Halog and Gumlin, | |
who were young of yore ere the youth of Thalion, | |
who alone of the lieges of that lord of Men | |
steadfast in service staid beside her: | 140 |
now she bade them brave the black mountains, | |
and the woods whose ways wander to evil; | |
though Túrin be tender and to travail unused, | |
they must gird them and go; but glad they were not, | |
and Morwin mourned when men saw not. | 145 |
Came a summer day when sun filtered | |
warm through the woodland’s waving branches. | |
Then Morwin stood her mourning hiding | |
by the gate of her garth in a glade of the woods. | |
At the breast she mothered her babe unweaned, | 150 |
and the doorpost held lest she droop for anguish. | |
There Gumlin guided her gallant boy, | |
and a heavy burden was borne by Halog; | |
but the heart of Túrin was heavy as stone | |
uncomprehending its coming anguish. | 155 |
He sought for comfort, with courage saying: | |
‘Quickly will I come from the courts of Thingol; | |
long ere manhood I will lead to Morwin | |
great tale of treasure, and true comrades’ – | |
for he wist not the weird woven by Bauglir, | 160 |
nor the sundering sorrow that swept between. | |
The farewells are taken: their footsteps are turned | |
to the dark forest: the dwelling fadeth | |
in the tangled trees. Then in Túrin leapt | |
his awakened heart, and he wept blindly, | 165 |
calling ‘I cannot, I cannot leave thee. | |
O Morwin, my mother, why makest me go? | |
Hateful are the hills where hope is lost. | |
O Morwin, my mother, I am meshed in tears. | |
Grim are the hills, and my home is gone.’ | 170 |
And there came his cries calling faintly | |
down the dark alleys of the dreary trees, | |
and one who wept weary on the threshold | |
heard how the hills said ‘my home is gone.’ | |
The ways were weary and woven with deceit | 175 |
o’er the hills of Hithlum to the hidden kingdom | |
deep in the darkness of Doriath’s forest; | |
and never ere now for need or wonder | |
had children of Men chosen that pathway, | |
and few of the folk have followed it since. | 180 |
There Túrin and the twain knew torment of thirst, | |
and hunger and fear and hideous nights, | |
for wolfriders and wandering Orcs | |
and the Things
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