Disclaimer: I do not, or ever will, own any of Tolkien's wonderful creations, meaning Túrin, Beleg Cúthalion, Gwindor, Ëol, the Dark Elf's sword, or any of the Quenya or Sindarin that I use.

A/N: After I published this, I read the chapter of The Children of Húrin that's about this, and I realized I got the beginning totally wrong. So for all of you who thought 'WTF? What happened here?' here's the fixed version.


Where I Cannot Follow

The thunder booms around us, as Beleg and I carry the unconscious Túrin into the brambles. The orcs have not noticed their prisoner's escape; I hope they do not until we are far away. Gently, Beleg uses the black sword of Ëol to cut Túrin's bonds. Beleg drops the sword in his rush to care for his friend, and the blade nicks Túrin's foot. With an almost Elven agility, Túrin awakes, and as I watch, takes up Beleg's sword, and runs him through.

I do not think of who is at fault. I do not care at the moment that it was Túrin's hand that has caused this. I only care that my friend, my brother is there on the ground, dying. I sink to my knees next to my dying friend, whispering words of comfort in the High Tongue as he stares up at me with pain-filled grey eyes. I gather my dying brother at heart in my arms, his warm blood staining my rain-drenched, travel-stained clothes.

He opens his mouth to speak, but I shush him, and whisper to him, amidst the roar of the storm and the low keening of the human, "No, otorno, do not speak. Save your strength; you will pull through this." Empty words, I know, but I must say something, anything, to calm my own quaking heart.

A small, sad smile creeps onto his face. "No, Gwindor," he manages. "No, not this time, gwador nin; many adventures we have had together, but to the great realm beyond ours, I go first."

The light in his eyes begins to dim, and his breathing becomes ragged. Suddenly, his back arches and his hands claw at the blood-soaked clothes surrounding the wound, seeking solace from the pain. I hold his hands tight, next to my chest, and his thrashing subsides. He whimpers once, a heart-wrenching sound coming from the valiant warrior. His mouth opens in a silent protest to the burning pain, forming a perfect O. He suddenly goes limp, and life drains away from his body. I gently close his unseeing eyes, and I realize tears are streaming down my face.

"Namárië, Beleg Cúthalion, otorno, namárië," I whisper. He has passed on to the Halls of Mandos, the realm of Námo, where I cannot follow, not now.


Translations

Otorno: Brother in arms (Quenya)

Namárië: Farewell (Quenya)

Gwador nin: My brother; especially used of 'sworn' brothers that are not realted by blood (Sindarin)