The Whole of the Law


Then Gwindor said to Túrin: 'Let bearing pay for bearing! But ill-fated was mine, and vain is thine; for my body is marred beyond healing, and I must leave Middle-earth. And though I love thee, son of Húrin, yet I rue the day that I took thee from the Orcs. But for thy prowess and thy pride, still I should have love and life, and Nargothrond should yet stand a while. Now if thou love me, leave me! Haste thee to Nargothrond, and save Finduilas. And this last I say to thee: she alone stands between thee and thy doom...'

...but the Orcs had at once cruelly slain their prisoners, and Finduilas they pinned to a tree with a spear. So she died, saying at the last: 'Tell the Mormegil that Finduilas is here.' Therefore they had laid her in a mound near that place, and named it Haudh-en-Elleth, the Mound of the Elf-maid.

- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion

ø

It had been years since they died, but they always visited Túrin at night, after he had fallen asleep. Some of the dreams were his: these scenes played before him as vividly as they had the day he lived them. But there were some dreams he had not recognized, dreams in which he was someone other than himself- yet these, too, were so clear that he felt sure they had really come to pass.

Visions, Brandir had called these latter dreams, and had offered a draught to ward them away. But Túrin had refused them. Dreams, visions, or something else entirely- it didn't matter. He did not deserve to be freed from them. He did not deserve to forget…

...that Orodreth, riding in the forefront onto the Field of Tumhalad, had been struck in an instant with so many arrows at once that the form of his body became indecipherable; the shafts protruded from his face, his chest, his limbs, in every direction and he tumbled from his mount, dead, a doll stuck full of pins; Orodreth who had trusted him and built the bridge that doomed them; Orodreth who had loved him…

Níniel stirred beside him, disturbed by his tossing in the oaken bed they shared. He softly stroked his wife's hair, and she murmured as she slept once more. Túrin pressed his cheek against the back of her neck. He, too was tired. He listened to her slow, steady breaths; his eyelids drifted closed…

Deep in the woods, away from the din of battle, the wounded elf shuddered and choked in his arms. Stumbling, Túrin half-carried, half-dragged him to the edge of the lake. He laid him down on the green. The pale eyes flickered open, and looked all around. At the sight of the setting sun on the water and rocks, he sighed in recognition and lay still.

"Túrin."

"My friend, you've been hurt. Rest here. You're safe now."

Gwindor took a shaking, painful breath. He gazed lucidly up at him.

"I'm going to die."

He said it so calmly, so certainly, that there was no doubt in Túrin's mind that it was the truth. When Túrin reached down for him, he realized his own sleeve, his shirt, his entire front was soaked in the Gwindor's blood: too much to fathom, too much to survive.

In that moment, Túrin, the greatest of mortal fighters, the strongest of his time, could do nothing but whimper like a child. He saw Beleg again, gentle and steadfast, mistakenly slain by his hand. He had thought it impossible he could feel as hopeless, as hateful to himself as he did then. But as always, fate had a different answer for him.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I'm sorry for all of it. You were right about everything; of course you were. And it should have been me, it should have been me… it should have been me!"

He barely knew what he said now in his half-sobbing whisper, as he wasted Gwindor's precious last moments pleading for forgiveness.

Gwindor blinked. As always, the twisted scar at the edge of his mouth gave him the odd appearance of smiling.

"Incredible, isn't it?" he said.

Túrin stopped speaking to stare, uncomprehending. But Gwindor spoke on, as though Túrin wasn't there.

"Incredible. All the countless battles. All the ravages of Angband, all the pain that's past. All the dreams, and fears, and wild thoughts I once had- all of the sorrow. It ends here, doesn't it? Here, by the Pools of Ivrin, with you, Túrin. Everything I ever spoke or thought."

He took another breath, slower and weaker than the last.

"It's beautiful, this waste that fate makes of all our desire. Even now, I wonder if the Halls of Mandos are real; if the Undying Lands are tales told to soothe children. If anything other than death is simply another dream."

Túrin swallowed. He wiped his drying eyes, sat on the grass by the lake, and looked out with Gwindor at the baffling world.

"You know, Gwindor," he said, "I've always wondered the very same thing.

Now Gwindor smiled, really smiled, and closed his eyes again.

"But dreams can be so real, can't they? The thoughts of what could be drive us, so much more than what is before our eyes. In the darkest hours, I saw her there. I've always seen things, you know. I could feel her when I was alone; I could taste her on my lips. She came to me in dreams, and I believed, more deeply than I've believed anything, that she was dreaming the very same. Yet when I saw her in the flesh- a living, breathing woman- I turned away. I thought she would suffer too much, wedded to a ruined wraith like me to the end of her days. I was a fool. If my Fae had just one minute left to spend in the world, I'd ask her to give it none but me. Save her, Túrin. Keep her safe. Keep her happy. It's all that really matters anymore."

"I'll take care of her, Gwindor," promised Túrin, laying his hand on the barely rising chest, "I won't rest until she's safe. As long as I live I will guard Finduilas with my life. I love her, Gwindor. And I love you."

But he was gone.

Túrin awoke again in the darkness of the bedroom. The pillow was damp and cool. Poor Gwindor. A good soul, a gentle guide. He had taken everything from him. Life. Love. All to kill a few more Orcs, all to feel the swing of Gurthang on the open field. And Finduilas, sweet Finduilas, whom he had vowed to guard with his life- she had been months dead when he finally came to the Crossings of Teiglin.

We tried to save them, Dorlas had said, but they killed the elf-maidens when we came near, and Finduilas they pinned to a tree with a spear; so she died...

There had been the knoll they raised over her: Haudh-en-Elleth, Mound of the Elf Maid. Túrin had knelt before the smooth mound, covered in pale yellow flowers. The color of her hair, that Gwindor had so loved. Had she suffered? Has she struggled, had she screamed when they pinned her to a tree like a little white partridge?

It was clear to him now, the cruel game of the world. The good and the innocent died: Lalaith, Beleg, Gwindor, Finduilas. Those who would die before they did a wicked deed, surely did so. And here he, Túrin, remained, the trail of blood ever widening in his wake. The good were; the ruthless grew ever stronger.

Níniel awoke now. She rose and put her arm around him.

"What is it, my dear?" she said, "You've been tossing and turning all night. Is it the dreams again? The bad ones; the-"

"Nightmares."

How simple, how odd, was this woman sleeping beside him: they had found her naked and scared upon the Haudh-en-Elleth; she hadn't known her own name, or the names for sunshine, or grass, or man, or woman: the women of Brethil had taught her, like an infant. And though she spoke so quickly now in her lilting voice, none knew from where she came.

Yet Túrin felt he knew her, from a long-forgotten dream, from some life in the past. He loved her so; he loved her all the more because she didn't know the things he had done. She knew him only as Turambar, the man of the woods, who hunted Orcs with a spear, and not with the black sword he now hated.

"That's right," said Níniel, smiling in recollection, "nightmares. Night-mares. Why do they call them that, I wonder? Mares are horses, the- the little ones. It must be because they run through your head in the dark…"

"Yes, darling," said Túrin, holding her close, "I'm sure you're right… horses…"

He saw them over and over again in his mind's eye: Gwindor. Finduilas. Orodreth. Beleg. Níniel scrutinized his face with her long-lashed, innocent eyes.

"You're still upset," she concluded.

"I am," sighed Túrin, lying down on his back, "I can't be awake, I can't be asleep, I can't be alone, and I can't be with company. I'm afraid I'm a bad man, Níniel. I'm afraid of what's going to happen to me."

Níniel rolled over and drew her legs upward, curling up like a puppy at his side.

"You're not a bad man," she said, "You're a very good man. You've killed so many Orcs. Brandir told me. They're afraid to even come near here, because of you."

When Túrin's brow remained creased, she touched it with her hand and ventured shyly: "Do you want to make love to me again?"

He silently ran his eyes over the contours of her breasts, the fullness of her mouth. It was a strange feeling he had sometimes when he was inside her; almost as though she weren't there at all, and that he lay there intertwined with himself. This he had mentioned to no one. Regardless, there was no desire in him now for her body; no fire or hunger or passion, just a cold and sick sense of dread.

"Not tonight, my love," he said, "It's late. I'm going to go sleep by the hearth. I'll keep you up all night, otherwise."

He kissed her absently and slipped out from under the blankets. He took his heavy rcoat from where it hung on the door. As he was about to leave the bedroom, he paused and looked back at her.

"What's the matter, Turambar?"

"Nothing. You remind me of my mother. That's all."

But Túrin did not curl up to sleep on the cold, dead hearth. Instead, when he was sure Níniel had finally fallen asleep again, he quietly opened the front door and walked out into the snow. It lay thick and white and pristine over the world in the starlight, and it was a shame for him to tramp through it. But he walked on, alone, along the banks of the freezing river. He did not mind the chill that seeped through his heavy coat and stung his face: the cold punishment, justice, a welcome reminder of his crimes.

At last, the familiar, gentle slope of the Haudh-en-Elleth appeared through the falling snow, smooth and sparkling white. As he had when he first laid eyes on it, he knelt down at its foot. His knees smarted on the frozen ground beneath. He shivered and breathed the cold air deep into his lungs.

"Finduilas," he said, "can you hear me? The world is so strange, and so cruel, without you in it. I'm so uncertain of what's to come, my friend. Everyone I touch comes to ruin. Everyplace I go turns into dust. If you can hear me, then help me. Please." He placed his hand gently in the snow, where it left a perfect imprint. "Help me, like I couldn't help you."

As if in answer, the nocturnal wind picked up, and the flurries of snow grew thicker, wilder, swirling across his visions until everything went completely white.

When he looked down, his fingers were no longer rough and strong, but smooth and slender. He felt lighter and wiser all at once, and when he reached up to touch his face, the jaw was smooth and delicate. But just he realized what these changes meant, and whose body he now lived in, a horrible, suffocating heat seized his chest and began to spread…

She reached to her chest and wrapped her fingers at the bloodied base of the Orc-spear. The sensation was so strange she momentarily forgot the pain.

"Run, Víressë," she sputtered, "they haven't seen you yet."

"I'm not leaving you!"

"But they'll kill you-"

"Then I'll die here by your side."

Finduilas twisted her neck to look into the dark, defiant eyes shining at her through the half-light. Víressë was crying, as Finduilas had seen her do only once before.

Crying for her.

"You can't, my love." said Finduilas. She reached out to put her hand on that young, brown face, "I'm going. To where you can't follow."

Víressë whimpered. In vain, she, too, wrapped her fingers around the weapon in Finduilas's chest and tugged, as though she could reverse the destruction it had done, as though by pulling it out of her she could stop her friend from leaving. But the spear was buried deep in flesh and bone and wood, and didn't move at all.

"Finduilas, I love you," she sobbed, "I love you more than I love anyone. How can you tell me to leave? You're the greatest friend I've ever had."

"And you were mine. You saved me when the men in my life all failed. You loved me when I wasn't worthy of your love."

Behind them, the shouting grew louder. In the distance, a fire was starting. Somewhere, a woman's scream split through the noise. They were running out of time.

"But, my dear Víressë," she said, "to die for his companion was your brother's bravery. To live- to fight on- that will be yours. Don't fear, and don't despair, do you hear me? You must be the strongest there ever was out of Nargothrond. For you will be the last."

Finduilas was right. She had to live. So she would live not a grieving and regretful half-life, but with passion, and with remembrance; with her whole heart.

Viressë muffled a last, grieving whimper with her hand and gave a single firm nod. Saying nothing, she took Finduilas's golden head in her hands and kissed her forehead, her cheek, her bloody mouth. Finduilas closed her eyes. Now her friend's face would forever be the last thing she saw.

"Go now, she whispered. The edges of her vision sparkled and blurred. Her mouth was thick with blood, "go north, and don't stop till you reach Doriath. Go now, my love."

A soft rustle, the patter of footsteps disappearing into the wood.

Then she was alone with the spear in her chest.

It was so simply, so crudely made; its purpose so clear. It had come here, all the way from Angband, to bury itself in her heart, to send her to sleep after this long, ugly nightmare.

Oh yes, there had been nice dreams, too. Dreams she and Gwindor once had; dreams that had led ever to despair, in spite of all they had struggled, all that they had fought for them. Now Gwindor was dead. No matter how hard she tried, she would always end up here, pinned to this tree, a struck bird thrashing her white wings at the last.

And yet.

Yet there was only one dream that had ever really mattered. This dream seized her now, singular and powerful like the point of a spear, so clear to she marveled she had never realized it before. It had taken parting, and grief, and now death, for her to see. The dream was simply to be with him, always. Young and strong, or bent and scarred; in the castle of Nargothrond or on the barren shores of some strange and unknown future- it was all the same, as long as Gwindor would be there. That was all, that was everything, she thought. To love was the whole of the law.

"Wait for me, my beloved," she called into her gathering blindness, "wait for me wherever you are, as I once waited for you. I won't ever be far behind."

It was thus they found her: still and cold, a trickle of blood on her chin, a faint smile on her lips. In those last moments, she had remembered his laughter. She had seen, in her mind's eye, a child of three, golden-haired like all the House of Finarfin, gazing into the river with crystal-blue eyes. And that child's father watched over her with eyes that were just the same, brimming with pride. But the man standing there was not Gwindor as he had been before the Nirnaeth, handsome and whole, but Gwindor as she had last seen him: subdued and humble, like a tree once struck down, his face cruelly scarred and lined, but smiling.

"Tell the Mormegil that Finduilas is here," she had cried out once in her spite, but as her life slipped away, she had already forgiven him. Túrin or no Túrin, in death or in life, before Angband or after- the past happened to them again and again even as the future unfolded, all at once; at any moment, she remembered it all as though it were happening right then: his voice in her ear, his hands in her hair, his body next to hers for the first time, inching closer.

As Finduilas took her last breath, the image of his eyes grew brighter and brighter as the rest faded away. Her fingers still weakly caressed the Orc-spear. She willed it to deliver her, swiftly as it had flown, to Gwindor, or else to eternal slumber.

The snow had stopped, leaving behind silent stillness. The air was clearer than Túrin had ever seen it. Though the vision was swiftly fading, he held fast to the image of the child with the crystal-blue eyes. He pictured the three of them together by the sea somewhere, far from where he could darken their lives again with the doom that hung ever over him. And that image shone as a bulwark against the foreboding within him, a little candle in the dark.

A faint, bright line appeared over the treetops and along the mountains on the horizon. The first morning birds were beginning to call. Túrin stood still for a moment before he turned and made his way homeward, to where Níniel awaited him. As he walked, he gazed over the Southward course of the river Teiglin. Somewhere, farther beyond, it would join with the Sirion, then the great Narog itself, and finally all the weary waters of the land would meet at the river-mouth somewhere, and together tumble safely into the sea.

They would be together now, in spite of him. They would find each as surely as the river flowed to sea. He had not the intention, nor the power, to stop them, at last. And of all the deeds he had done, this, he knew, would burden him no more.

"Thank you, Finduilas," he whispered up at the stars, "You always did know what to do, when the world made no sense at all."

After that night, the visions never haunted him again.


Author's note: Hey everyone! If you're still reading this, sorry for the ridiculous wait between chapters and THANK YOU for bearing with me. IRL got pretty nuts a while back and I abandoned this project for a while. But I hate to leave things unfinished, especially between Gwindor and Finduilas! So here you are, the next (and possibly last) chapter of this story. I hope you've enjoyed it, as I dearly loved writing it. Thanks for all your support!