Season 6 Episode 1
PROLOGUE: Nirnaeth Arnoediad First Age Year of the Sun 472
(Recap of Huor’s death from Season 5 episode 2)
[Cut to the Men of Dor-lómin holding the rearguard and Turgon’s host is able to escape, vanishing into the mountains, as the eagles watch over them. Húrin and Huor rally their men and withdraw foot by foot, fighting all the way. Camera pan lower right as ground becomes marshy and Rivil Stream threads through the swamp. Camera cut to Huor and Húrin, resolute.]
Huor: [swings axe] I did not think your face would be the last thing I shall see.
Húrin: [stabs Orc] It will probably be something uglier.
Huor: I doubt that. [grabs an Orc’s spear, pulls Orc close. Kicks Orc in the groin, strikes with spear shaft.] Though I dearly wish it could have been my wife…I fear I shall not live to gaze upon the face of my unborn child…
Húrin: [grimly] Aye… I dare say I shall not make old bones either. [A great Orc roars behind him, and Húrin turns as it swings its bladed club at Húrin’s face. Húrin ducks, swinging his sword outward, and into the Orc. The blade is embedded in its belly, pinning the spilled entrails painfully in place. Húrin pulls the sword upwards and the blade cuts through the Orc's chest cavity, coming out of its right blade. It groans and falls to the ground. Seeing a chance to catch his breath, Húrin lowers his sword and looks to Huor.] My son may well grow up fatherless like so many others after this day is done. Even so, Morwen will take care of your Rían, you can be sure. Mayhap your new babe will ease her heart after the loss of our Lalaith…
Huor: [reaches out and grasps his brother’s shoulder in silent understanding then both turn once again into the fray. Cut]
*
[Camera shift to Gothmog, standing where Fingon fell. Balrogs spout flame, burning corpses around him. Gothmog’s Troll guards look lower right eagerly.]
Gothmog: [low roar, gesticulates towards the Men:] Go after them... Enjoy yourselves!
[Trolls exit lower right, grunting happily, lifting hammers and clubs. Camera pan 360. Orcs, Trolls, and Wargs surround the last stand of the house of Hador. Dead Orcs and Wargs lay in the marsh, beside dead Men and Elves. Water runs red with blood.as the bodies bridge the stream. The sun sets as the fight continues, the dark shadows of the Ered Wethrin growing longer.
Camera focus on Huor, fighting three Orcs. Camera cut to Orc Archer. Orc Archer fires. The arrow pierces Huor’s eye. Huor falls with a grunt. Orc hacks off his head and throws it at Húrin. Huor’s head strikes Húrin’s shoulder. Camera pan the field of dead and dying. Fade…]
* * * * * * *
[Scene opens on a cold night,a several months later… Autumn is waning towards winter and it is a cold night in the foothills edging the barren mountains of Mithrim. A woman, Rían , heavily pregnant, trudges along, stumbling until she falls, weary and sore. She lays where she has fallen and weeps beneath the light of the stars. Camera cut left to a small company of Sindarin Elves patrolling the borders of their territory. As they approach the mound of turf where the woman lies the leading Elf spots her and the group hurries over, and seeing her condition they are filled with compassion.]
Annael: Woman, how come you to be travelling in your condition? Have you no longer home or husband in these perilous times?
Rían: My Lord left long months ago…yet I have had no news of him since so I set out alone to search for him in country unknown to me. But now I am too weary to go any further.
Annael: [gently] Your travail over earth and leaf and stone does no good to your unborn child: you must seek rest and succour with us to recover your strength.
Rían: You are kind, my lord, yet the pain of my heart tortures me more than the lack of food and my aching body, for I fear in my heart that my husband has perished or been lost in the wild.
Annael: Nonetheless, soon destiny will cast a greater pain upon you: Your time approaches…let us give you food and shelter from the predators of the night. [Rían nods, reluctantly, and the Elves carry her through the silent hills and carried her with them to their home. Cut.]
* * *
[Cut to scene within the settlement around the shores of Lake Mithrim. Inside the stone dwelling of the Elven leader, Annael, we see Rían crying out in the first pangs of labour. Long and hard she toils deep into the night until at last she delivers a son with the aid of Annael’s wife, Enelyë. Smiling, she lays the child in Rían’s arms to suckle. Rían looks upon her child, tears welling in her eyes:]
Enelyë: He is beautiful, Rían! We had thought you would die with your son's birth so weak was your body. But the stars shine brightly at his birth, and you have lived. A good omen it has been for you and for him.
Rían: [eyes mist over with sadness] For him, indeed. [despondently] But for me another journey yet lies ahead.
Enelyë: [frowns.] You intend to leave?
Rían: [quietly] In a few months. When the little one no longer has need of me. I have fulfilled what I had to do and I am weary of shadow.
Enelyë: Do not speak so soon of it. For the time being you shall remain among us and you are welcome here. I am called Enelyë . It was my husband, Annael, and his companions who found you. [there is a knock at the door, and Annael enters.] Annael: I am glad to know that you and your son are well. My home is now yours, Rían of Dorthonion.
Rían: I thank you. My son is all that I have left of my husband. His eyes are the same pewter grey and the long, pale lashes are as fair as his father’s. [Rían looks solemnly at Annael who has come over to see the child.] His name is Tuor. That was the name his father chose if we should have a son, ere war came between us.
Annael: [eyes shadowed with sudden knowledge and deep grief] Which war do you speak of, my lady?
Rían: [turns her gaze away, her mouth tightening with sorrow] He went away seasons ago, when the call to arms came to stand with the Eldar against the Dark One.
Annael: [quietly] Pray, tell me his name,...
Rian: Huor… [she looks enquiringly into his face.] Huor of the house of Hador.
Annael: [Closes his eyes in pain. Softly:] Alas that I should be the sole witness to return and reveal this news: Huor fell at the side of Húrin his brother, and he likely lies in the great hill of the slain that the Orcs have raised upon the field of battle. [takes her hand in his.] You will not find him, Rían…I am sorry. [Rían falls silent and, laying the baby in his cradle the Elves leave her to her grief; Cut.]
*
[Cut to several weeks later. Rían has arisen and gathered her meagre belonging together. Placing her shawl around her shoulders she picks up Tuor from the makeshift cradle and carries him through to the living area of the Elves’ dwelling. Enelyë is preparing the dinner, her husband is fletching his arrows at a small workbench in the corner. He stands as Rían enters.]
Rían: [hesitantly] My friends…I thank you for your kindness to me, but I can stay here no longer. I must go in search of my husband’s body. I must know what has become of him. [Enelyë turns from stirring the pot over the fire and goes over to Rían.]
Enelyë: But the little one…he is too young for such a journey! How will you--
Rían: [shakes her head] --I am loathe to ask of you what I must. [traces her fingertips over the child's features as the silence is filled only with the sound of his sucking. Rían draws a shuddering breath and meets Enelyë’s gaze again, her voice breaking:] Take care of my little Tuor, I beg of you with all of my heart. Please foster him and keep him hidden in your care, for someday I feel some great good for Elves and Men will come from him… [Enelyë puts her arms around Rían to comfort her and looks to her husband who sighs and nods imperceptibly. Gently she takes Tuor from Rían’s arms.]
Annael: If we cannot dissuade you from your course then it is with a heavy heart that we accept such a treasure into our keeping. We shall take him as our own and care for him with much love and we shall sorrow at such time as our paths should part, for good or doom... [Rían clutches at Annael’s arm, her head bowed with grief, then hurries from the room. Fade.]
*
[Scene opens on clips of Rían passing alone through the land of Mithrim and coming at last to the the wretched hill of the slain of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad in the waste of Anfauglith. The foul haze of Thrangorodrim in the distance allows for only the thin light of a pale sun. She kneels upon the hill and leaning forward she places her hands on the mound with the last strength left in her. There her broken heart at last fails her and she expires beside the body of her husband upon the soil of the waste. Fade. ]
* * * * *
The History of the Silmarils - Season 6, Episode 1
The History of the Silmarils - Season 6, Episode 1
Last edited by Elentári on Sat Jul 27, 2013 8:52 pm, edited 1 time in total.
There is magic in long-distance friendships. They let you relate to other human beings in a way that goes beyond being physically together and is often more profound.
~Diana Cortes
~Diana Cortes
Gondolin, First Age Year of the Sun 473
[Scene opens in a great forge, within the Encircling Mountains that hide Gondolin from Morgoth’s eyes. Maeglin is watching steel take shape; even the smallest pieces of steel they cast now are as wide as an armspan, stronger than rock. The air is thick with steam and sweat which beads on his skin s he watches his creation emerge. Camera closeup on Maeglin’s face as scene shimmers and dissolves into a scene from Maeglin’s memory…
Maeglin is sitting in his workroom, sketching a design with charcoal on a piece of parchment. There are smudges of charcoal on his fingers and his cheek. He takes a slug from a goblet of wine beside him as the door bursts open and his friend Talagand, Lord of the House of the Harp, staggers in, obviously inebriated.]
Talagand: [slurring] Have you heard? The bards are already weaving songs and tales of the battle, and with typical Noldor melancholy are calling it the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.
Maeglin: [does not look up, merely grunts] What foolishness!
Talagand: [wanders over, puts arm around Maeglin’s shoulders] Yes, When the ground is littered with the bodies of your allies and you are choking on dust and blood and fear, sobbing your heart out is hardly the best way to ensure survival.
Maeglin: [shrugs his arm way] In any case, I care not about the memory of those who fell in the Nirnaeth. I doubt they would have wept over my death, had our positions been reversed.
Talagand: [eyes Maeglin thoughtfully] There is one in Gondolin who you would shed tears over, though, is there not?
Maeglin: [eyes flash, but he hides his inner turmoil] …and she has already made it more than clear that she has no interest in anything I might feel for her, whether it be rage, love, or grief. My response to this greatest of defeats will be more direct than tears or songs. [Holds up his drawing. Camera focus on design of a great steel gate with two high windowed towers, tapering in seven storeys to a turret of bright steel and between the towers s a mighty fence of steel with seven great pillars of steel ending in a spike as sharp as a needle. Between each pillar is seven crossbars and in each space is seven times seven rods of steel with heads like blades of steel. Above the tallest pillar in the middle is an image of Turgon’s crown set with diamonds. Dissolve back into present time.]
Maeglin: [to himself] The Seventh Gate…It will be a thing of myth and song; [turns to forge overseer.] I should be moving down to the edge of the Orfalch Echor, to make sure the fools who are supposed to be laying the foundations are doing it right. [turns and walks away. Camera focus on workers pouring molten steel into the moulds. Fade.]
* * *
[Cut to clips of the building of the new Gate. Workmen are arrayed across a scaffolding of taut ropes and wooden planks between the steel pillars. It is a blazing hot day …the sun reflects the heat off of the steel structure and all the workmen are sweating heavily. Camera focus on Maeglin moves from Elf to Elf, checking their work, and comparing the details with the designs in his hand. Pausing to wipe a greasy hand across his perspiring forehead, Maeglin finds the steel swims in a river of white before his eyes, and his gauge is unsteady in his hand. The sounds of the other workmen’s voices and hammering fade as he slips towards unconsciousness.]
Ecthelion: [calls up] Maeglin! You must stop! You have worked a fortnight without proper rest or food. You are in dire need of refreshment, and the King himself commands you to break fast with him. [Maeglin starts…he reaches down to place his gauge in his toolbelt and his legs tremble violently. He braces both hands against the pillar, leaning his forehead against the cool surface.]
Maeglin: [calls hoarsely] Ecthelion! I am coming down… [Maeglin drops to his haunches and grabs hold of one of the ropes, catching his legs around another one beneath, settling his weight against the strength of the ropes before abseiling down the steel fence. He descends, dropping some way off the ground, his feet hitting the dirt heavily and his legs giving way beneath him..
Ecthelion stands ready with arm extended, his armour blinding in reflection of the sunlight, and stoops to help Maeglin to his feet to face the King. Camera cut to Turgon, approaching, his eyes on the gate. He tests his strength against the fence, runs his hand against the smoothness of the pillars, stepping back to peer up at the tops of the two majestic windowed towers on either end of the gate. A servant stands ready behind him with a silver pitcher and tray of food.. Ecthelion stands at attention beside Maeglin.. Idril follows behind her father, and she too explores the gate. Maeglin stares at her hungrily, not caring that his intentions must be obvious to all.]
Turgon: [places hand on Maeglin’s shoulder, proudly] It is magnificent, this gate you have made! Never have I seen the equal of it.
Idril: [admiringly] It is well done, Maeglin.
Maeglin: Of course, it is not yet finished…just a few more day-- [he sways on the spot, head bowed.]
Turgon: [embraces him] Come Maeglin, refresh yourself now, or expire here at our feet. [motions forward the servant with the tray]
Maeglin: [feverishly] It will have need of a Guard: soldiers and archers in silver and steel armour--
Turgon: --It shall be done. Now, eat. Eat and come to my house to rest awhile. The Gate will be finished in time.
Idril: You need to take better care of yourself, Maeglin.... you frighten me! Always so absorbed in your work, brooding in those dark caves over fire and steel…
Maeglin: I will eat… [reaches for the tray as the servant pours from the pitcher into a goblet.] But I will not leave the Gate until it is finished…until Gondolin’s defence is secure.
Turgon: [smugly] There is no threat to the Hidden City. None shall ever find it.
Maeglin: Perhaps not…no, not yet. [Turgon's brow grows stern but Idril touches her fingertips to her father's arm in a wordless entreaty. He acquiesces and they leave. Maeglin dismisses the servant to go with them, retreating against the last pillar of the Gate where he sits and begins to eat. Camera cut to Idril and Turgon as they walk back arm in arm towards the city. ]
Idril: We cannot stay hidden forever, though Thorondor and Ulmo and all the powers of Beleriand try and protect us. Yet, should Gondolin be lost, if we should have to forsake the beauty of this life, where then will we go?
Turgon: [stares into the distance, his brow drawn.] My heart ever turns to the memory of Tirion across the Sea…. Whether by the sword or by ship, I hope that one day I shall return there.
Idril: You have already sent ships to seek the Path?
Turgon: They have not yet been sent. But Círdan the Shipwright builds them now, and when they are completed they will go.
Idril: [leans her head on her father’s shoulder.] My heart as well aches for the West, One day, the Valar shall pardon us, and we will return. [Fade.]
* * * * * * *
[Scene opens in a great forge, within the Encircling Mountains that hide Gondolin from Morgoth’s eyes. Maeglin is watching steel take shape; even the smallest pieces of steel they cast now are as wide as an armspan, stronger than rock. The air is thick with steam and sweat which beads on his skin s he watches his creation emerge. Camera closeup on Maeglin’s face as scene shimmers and dissolves into a scene from Maeglin’s memory…
Maeglin is sitting in his workroom, sketching a design with charcoal on a piece of parchment. There are smudges of charcoal on his fingers and his cheek. He takes a slug from a goblet of wine beside him as the door bursts open and his friend Talagand, Lord of the House of the Harp, staggers in, obviously inebriated.]
Talagand: [slurring] Have you heard? The bards are already weaving songs and tales of the battle, and with typical Noldor melancholy are calling it the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.
Maeglin: [does not look up, merely grunts] What foolishness!
Talagand: [wanders over, puts arm around Maeglin’s shoulders] Yes, When the ground is littered with the bodies of your allies and you are choking on dust and blood and fear, sobbing your heart out is hardly the best way to ensure survival.
Maeglin: [shrugs his arm way] In any case, I care not about the memory of those who fell in the Nirnaeth. I doubt they would have wept over my death, had our positions been reversed.
Talagand: [eyes Maeglin thoughtfully] There is one in Gondolin who you would shed tears over, though, is there not?
Maeglin: [eyes flash, but he hides his inner turmoil] …and she has already made it more than clear that she has no interest in anything I might feel for her, whether it be rage, love, or grief. My response to this greatest of defeats will be more direct than tears or songs. [Holds up his drawing. Camera focus on design of a great steel gate with two high windowed towers, tapering in seven storeys to a turret of bright steel and between the towers s a mighty fence of steel with seven great pillars of steel ending in a spike as sharp as a needle. Between each pillar is seven crossbars and in each space is seven times seven rods of steel with heads like blades of steel. Above the tallest pillar in the middle is an image of Turgon’s crown set with diamonds. Dissolve back into present time.]
Maeglin: [to himself] The Seventh Gate…It will be a thing of myth and song; [turns to forge overseer.] I should be moving down to the edge of the Orfalch Echor, to make sure the fools who are supposed to be laying the foundations are doing it right. [turns and walks away. Camera focus on workers pouring molten steel into the moulds. Fade.]
* * *
[Cut to clips of the building of the new Gate. Workmen are arrayed across a scaffolding of taut ropes and wooden planks between the steel pillars. It is a blazing hot day …the sun reflects the heat off of the steel structure and all the workmen are sweating heavily. Camera focus on Maeglin moves from Elf to Elf, checking their work, and comparing the details with the designs in his hand. Pausing to wipe a greasy hand across his perspiring forehead, Maeglin finds the steel swims in a river of white before his eyes, and his gauge is unsteady in his hand. The sounds of the other workmen’s voices and hammering fade as he slips towards unconsciousness.]
Ecthelion: [calls up] Maeglin! You must stop! You have worked a fortnight without proper rest or food. You are in dire need of refreshment, and the King himself commands you to break fast with him. [Maeglin starts…he reaches down to place his gauge in his toolbelt and his legs tremble violently. He braces both hands against the pillar, leaning his forehead against the cool surface.]
Maeglin: [calls hoarsely] Ecthelion! I am coming down… [Maeglin drops to his haunches and grabs hold of one of the ropes, catching his legs around another one beneath, settling his weight against the strength of the ropes before abseiling down the steel fence. He descends, dropping some way off the ground, his feet hitting the dirt heavily and his legs giving way beneath him..
Ecthelion stands ready with arm extended, his armour blinding in reflection of the sunlight, and stoops to help Maeglin to his feet to face the King. Camera cut to Turgon, approaching, his eyes on the gate. He tests his strength against the fence, runs his hand against the smoothness of the pillars, stepping back to peer up at the tops of the two majestic windowed towers on either end of the gate. A servant stands ready behind him with a silver pitcher and tray of food.. Ecthelion stands at attention beside Maeglin.. Idril follows behind her father, and she too explores the gate. Maeglin stares at her hungrily, not caring that his intentions must be obvious to all.]
Turgon: [places hand on Maeglin’s shoulder, proudly] It is magnificent, this gate you have made! Never have I seen the equal of it.
Idril: [admiringly] It is well done, Maeglin.
Maeglin: Of course, it is not yet finished…just a few more day-- [he sways on the spot, head bowed.]
Turgon: [embraces him] Come Maeglin, refresh yourself now, or expire here at our feet. [motions forward the servant with the tray]
Maeglin: [feverishly] It will have need of a Guard: soldiers and archers in silver and steel armour--
Turgon: --It shall be done. Now, eat. Eat and come to my house to rest awhile. The Gate will be finished in time.
Idril: You need to take better care of yourself, Maeglin.... you frighten me! Always so absorbed in your work, brooding in those dark caves over fire and steel…
Maeglin: I will eat… [reaches for the tray as the servant pours from the pitcher into a goblet.] But I will not leave the Gate until it is finished…until Gondolin’s defence is secure.
Turgon: [smugly] There is no threat to the Hidden City. None shall ever find it.
Maeglin: Perhaps not…no, not yet. [Turgon's brow grows stern but Idril touches her fingertips to her father's arm in a wordless entreaty. He acquiesces and they leave. Maeglin dismisses the servant to go with them, retreating against the last pillar of the Gate where he sits and begins to eat. Camera cut to Idril and Turgon as they walk back arm in arm towards the city. ]
Idril: We cannot stay hidden forever, though Thorondor and Ulmo and all the powers of Beleriand try and protect us. Yet, should Gondolin be lost, if we should have to forsake the beauty of this life, where then will we go?
Turgon: [stares into the distance, his brow drawn.] My heart ever turns to the memory of Tirion across the Sea…. Whether by the sword or by ship, I hope that one day I shall return there.
Idril: You have already sent ships to seek the Path?
Turgon: They have not yet been sent. But Círdan the Shipwright builds them now, and when they are completed they will go.
Idril: [leans her head on her father’s shoulder.] My heart as well aches for the West, One day, the Valar shall pardon us, and we will return. [Fade.]
* * * * * * *
Last edited by Elentári on Sun Mar 17, 2013 9:25 pm, edited 1 time in total.
There is magic in long-distance friendships. They let you relate to other human beings in a way that goes beyond being physically together and is often more profound.
~Diana Cortes
~Diana Cortes
Mithrim, First Age Year of the Sun 488
[Scene opens on the rocky mountainside above the plains of Mithrim. A youth of about 16, strong and tall, crouches low upon a rock on one of the high peaks of the mountains, his clothing of grey and brown leather seeming part of the stone with the hood of his cloak drawn up to cover his face. Beside him are two Grey-elves; neither of them speak or move a muscle. Their dark eyes are upon the plain below, surrounding the lake of Mithrim: moving through the green fields is a cluster of swarthy men, clothed in black, with curved swords. ]
Tuor: [whispers] Who are these men?
Annael: [whispers in return] Easterlings! Men from far regions whose kings long ago pledged their allegiance to Morgoth. Their hair and eyes are black, and their skin pale. Their swords are quick and their ways cruel, even among their own women and children.
Lagorthal: Rumour from the birds of Hithlum is that the Easterlings have broken their alliance with the Enemy, though most still serve him out of fear.
Annael: He has denied them access to the lands beyond his own, and so in anger they have been driven into the barren country of Hithlum, terrorizing the lands of Men and stealing their wives for their own.
Tuor: [aghast] And now they are coming here?
Annael: [touches his hand to Tuor's shoulder.] And so we must go. Even our cloaks may not hide us from so near a foe. Come…
[They climb cautiously up the slope over unmarked trails along the ridge of the hills toward a series of caves in the side of the western mountains of Mithrim. The natural formation of the land hides them from unsuspecting enemies. The three ascend the slopes carefully, bow in hand.]
Tuor: What could they possibly want? Surely the land is not valuable enough to warrant this.
Annael: We are caught between companies of Orcs and the stronghold of Angband, driven back into the mountains because of it, and now the Easterlings tramp their foul feet upon our earth! We must move our people before we are discovered and look for refuge further South.
Tuor: [angrily] Are we to run away and never fight back while they enslave the people of Hithlum?
Lagorthal: We are but a small company, Tuor. We alone cannot hold back the power of Morgoth.
Tuor: Yet my blood burns hot for the screams I hear in the night. Are they not my own people? [Lagorthal turns and meet his gaze with fierce pale eyes of his own.]
Lagorthal: And were they to hear you now and thrust an arrow through your chest from afar, what good would your tongue do for your people or us? They would no longer fear us if they knew our true numbers; indeed, precious few we are. Those who are not slain would suffer worse in Angband. [Tuor's eyes narrow but he nods in understanding and follows in silence until they come into the mouth of the largest of the caves of Androth. He casts back the hood of his cloak and we see his golden hair, in contrast to the darker tones of the Grey-Elves. He breathes a sigh that echoes all around him. Annael dismisses Lagorthal with a nod, and then beckons Tuor to follow. He does so obediently. They enter a smaller dwelling through a doorway in the rock between two caverns. Enelyë is sitting within, weaving on a hand loom, and a simmering stew pot is hanging over the fire. Annael greets his wife with a gentle embrace. ]
Enelyë: [picking up on his mood] Whatever tidings you have, I will wager it is not good news.
Annael: [sighs] There have been further sightings of Easterlings this side of the Mountains.
Enelyë: [darkly] The fear the Easterlings have for the Eldar has all but waned to a shadow. I foretell much darkness will come all too quickly.
Tuor: [takes stick and pokes at fire with frustration.] Ada! I cannot do nothing but sit idle. If I must starve because the Orcs have driven away all the food then I would starve fighting for the freedom of those who have none!
Annael: [lays his hand upon Tuor’s shoulder.] You are brave Tuor, and noble, that you care for their needs over your own. But I do not want you to do anything at this time.
Tuor: [stands again from where he has crouched beside the fire and cast the burning stick into the firepit as he does so.] Why?
Enelyë: [lips curl in faint smile] You are strong and valiant, Tuor, but you are young. If the might of the Eldar cannot hold back the fires of Angband, how might you, son of Huor?
Tuor: [lifts chin] I do not seek to cast Morgoth from the throne of Angband; I only seek to avenge the pain all around us!
Annael: [angrily] And I forbid it! I deem that your doom lies far from here, Tuor! This land shall not be freed from the shadow of Morgoth until Thangorodrim itself be overthrown. Therefore, we are resolved to forsake it, and to depart into the South upon the next waxing of the Moon; and you will go with us.
Tuor: But how shall we escape the net of our enemies? The marching of so many together will surely be marked.
Annael: We shall not march through the land openly, and if our fortune is good we shall come to the secret way which we call Annon-in-Gelydh, the Gate of the Noldor - made by the skill of that people long ago in the days of Turgon. There we will pass into the safer lands of our kin.
Tuor: [falls silent for few moments, digesting this information, then tentatively asks] Turgon... Who was he?
Annael: [nods to himself] I forget you know not our history…He is a son of Fingolfin, and is now accounted High King of the Noldor, since the fall of Fingon. He lives yet, most feared of the foes of Morgoth, having escaped from the ruin of the Nirnaeth when Húrin of Dor-lómin and Huor your father held the passes of Sirion behind him.
Tuor: [intently] He knew my father?
Annael: [bows his head once in a nod.] Your father saved his life, a debt I am certain that he has not forgotten in these few years.
Tuor: [looks at his hands then back at Annael] I will go and seek this Turgon… for surely he will lend me aid for my father's sake?
Annael: [sceptically] That you cannot, for his stronghold is hidden from the eyes of Elves and Men, and none know where it stands. Of the Noldor some, maybe, know the way, but they will speak of it to none. [He meets Tuor's gaze, then sighs, troubled.] Yet if you would have speech with them, then come with me as I bid you; for in the far havens of the South you may meet with wanderers from the Hidden Kingdom. [Tuor looks aside. Annael lays his hand on Tuor's shoulder and forces him gently to meet his gaze.] Abide with patience, Tuor, and your destiny will find you, wheresoever it might lead. For now, I ask only that you accept my decision.
Tuor: [bows his head with a sigh.] That I cannot with my whole heart…but for my love for you, I shall do as you say. [Camera focus back on Annael, who nods in silent gratitude. Fade.]
* * *
[Later that evening. We see Tuor emerge from the dwellings of Androth to look out across the far plains in the gathering dark. In the south, mountains rise jagged and purple, their rocky peaks flecked with snow in the light of the waning crescent moon. In the vale below Tuor glimpses several small golden lights flickering out of the blackness from the campfires of the Easterlings. The wind whistles a mournful sound across the crags. Tuor gazes down at the fires, and his fingers curl around the hilt of his sword as the desire creeps into his mind to slay the slave drivers. He hears his foster-mother approach, and his fingers relax again.]
Tuor: It still feels so cowardly to leave on the eve of destruction, and to abandon the Men of Hithlum – my own people, though I hardly know them. [looks to the night sky and points to one constellation in particular] Look, Naneth - Menelvagor: A token of good will to all warriors throughout the land: when The Swordsman shines from above it is believed by some to be a night of prosperous hunting, and that his light will hold Morgoth's servants at bay.
Enelyë: [softly] Even that token will not disguise the pangs of our bellies as animals grow scarcer in the northern plains and our enemies creep in upon us. [lays her head against his shoulder. Tuor wraps his arm around her.] Annael is right; the time has come to leave at last… [With a sigh Tuor nods and steps down from the rock, returning to the safety of their dwelling. Tuor strips off his boots and lies down upon furs close to the fire, his head resting upon his arm as he watches the dancing flames for a time until his eyes droop closed. Fade.]
* * * * *
[Scene opens at dusk 2 weeks later. As the shadows lengthen the Elves and Tuor creep silently from the caves of Androth. The Grey Elves move carefully through the sparse woodland. They are cloaked, and most carry large packs. Some few show weapons ready, but these are near the edges of the groups. The Elves travel in clusters of two or three families together. They are obviously moving with care to avoid discovery. As they climb stealthily down the foothills into the plain below the camera pulls back to a ragged ridge of rock.
Three small Wargs, lean and vicious, watch the Elves. The Wargs glance at each other, and the largest licks her lips. The Wargs exit right, quickly and quietly. Camera cut to a group of Grey Elves moving through rough brush.
Focus on Tuor, walking with two other Elves. Tuor carries a hunting bow in one hand, a quiver of arrows hangs at his hip. He has a light sword strapped to his belt, and an axe shoved between his pack and his back.]
Elf 1: [glancing up at the sky] The night will be clear for us.
Elf 2: All the better. We can make good time if we are not stumbling over our own feet.
Elf 1: All the better for those who watch us to observe what we are doing. I would prefer a darker sky.
Tuor: [short laugh] You would prefer to fall flat on your face.
Elf 2: [grins] I think that is your lot, son of Annael. It is you who have the feet of the Edain.
Tuor: Perhaps I do. Still, I think I am a match for either of you.
Elf 1: Shall we put that to the test? [glances left, grins at Tuor] What say you? The first to cross that rise–
Annael: [Enters right, quietly --Will be spending the next several days minding the children. [firmly] And if your noise attracts the ears of the Easterlings we are trying to avoid, I shall be most displeased. I could find you in a fog for all your talking. [to Tuor] Your mother would have you walk with her for a bit. I shall take your place here. [Tuor glances at the other Elves. They shrug, grinning at him. Tuor glares, not angry but obviously wanting to stay with his friends. Annael points firmly off screen middle right. Tuor exits, middle right. Annael motions to the other two Elves, who immediately become serious and exit upper left, moving silently. Camera shift right, follow Tuor. Cut.]
[Scene opens on the rocky mountainside above the plains of Mithrim. A youth of about 16, strong and tall, crouches low upon a rock on one of the high peaks of the mountains, his clothing of grey and brown leather seeming part of the stone with the hood of his cloak drawn up to cover his face. Beside him are two Grey-elves; neither of them speak or move a muscle. Their dark eyes are upon the plain below, surrounding the lake of Mithrim: moving through the green fields is a cluster of swarthy men, clothed in black, with curved swords. ]
Tuor: [whispers] Who are these men?
Annael: [whispers in return] Easterlings! Men from far regions whose kings long ago pledged their allegiance to Morgoth. Their hair and eyes are black, and their skin pale. Their swords are quick and their ways cruel, even among their own women and children.
Lagorthal: Rumour from the birds of Hithlum is that the Easterlings have broken their alliance with the Enemy, though most still serve him out of fear.
Annael: He has denied them access to the lands beyond his own, and so in anger they have been driven into the barren country of Hithlum, terrorizing the lands of Men and stealing their wives for their own.
Tuor: [aghast] And now they are coming here?
Annael: [touches his hand to Tuor's shoulder.] And so we must go. Even our cloaks may not hide us from so near a foe. Come…
[They climb cautiously up the slope over unmarked trails along the ridge of the hills toward a series of caves in the side of the western mountains of Mithrim. The natural formation of the land hides them from unsuspecting enemies. The three ascend the slopes carefully, bow in hand.]
Tuor: What could they possibly want? Surely the land is not valuable enough to warrant this.
Annael: We are caught between companies of Orcs and the stronghold of Angband, driven back into the mountains because of it, and now the Easterlings tramp their foul feet upon our earth! We must move our people before we are discovered and look for refuge further South.
Tuor: [angrily] Are we to run away and never fight back while they enslave the people of Hithlum?
Lagorthal: We are but a small company, Tuor. We alone cannot hold back the power of Morgoth.
Tuor: Yet my blood burns hot for the screams I hear in the night. Are they not my own people? [Lagorthal turns and meet his gaze with fierce pale eyes of his own.]
Lagorthal: And were they to hear you now and thrust an arrow through your chest from afar, what good would your tongue do for your people or us? They would no longer fear us if they knew our true numbers; indeed, precious few we are. Those who are not slain would suffer worse in Angband. [Tuor's eyes narrow but he nods in understanding and follows in silence until they come into the mouth of the largest of the caves of Androth. He casts back the hood of his cloak and we see his golden hair, in contrast to the darker tones of the Grey-Elves. He breathes a sigh that echoes all around him. Annael dismisses Lagorthal with a nod, and then beckons Tuor to follow. He does so obediently. They enter a smaller dwelling through a doorway in the rock between two caverns. Enelyë is sitting within, weaving on a hand loom, and a simmering stew pot is hanging over the fire. Annael greets his wife with a gentle embrace. ]
Enelyë: [picking up on his mood] Whatever tidings you have, I will wager it is not good news.
Annael: [sighs] There have been further sightings of Easterlings this side of the Mountains.
Enelyë: [darkly] The fear the Easterlings have for the Eldar has all but waned to a shadow. I foretell much darkness will come all too quickly.
Tuor: [takes stick and pokes at fire with frustration.] Ada! I cannot do nothing but sit idle. If I must starve because the Orcs have driven away all the food then I would starve fighting for the freedom of those who have none!
Annael: [lays his hand upon Tuor’s shoulder.] You are brave Tuor, and noble, that you care for their needs over your own. But I do not want you to do anything at this time.
Tuor: [stands again from where he has crouched beside the fire and cast the burning stick into the firepit as he does so.] Why?
Enelyë: [lips curl in faint smile] You are strong and valiant, Tuor, but you are young. If the might of the Eldar cannot hold back the fires of Angband, how might you, son of Huor?
Tuor: [lifts chin] I do not seek to cast Morgoth from the throne of Angband; I only seek to avenge the pain all around us!
Annael: [angrily] And I forbid it! I deem that your doom lies far from here, Tuor! This land shall not be freed from the shadow of Morgoth until Thangorodrim itself be overthrown. Therefore, we are resolved to forsake it, and to depart into the South upon the next waxing of the Moon; and you will go with us.
Tuor: But how shall we escape the net of our enemies? The marching of so many together will surely be marked.
Annael: We shall not march through the land openly, and if our fortune is good we shall come to the secret way which we call Annon-in-Gelydh, the Gate of the Noldor - made by the skill of that people long ago in the days of Turgon. There we will pass into the safer lands of our kin.
Tuor: [falls silent for few moments, digesting this information, then tentatively asks] Turgon... Who was he?
Annael: [nods to himself] I forget you know not our history…He is a son of Fingolfin, and is now accounted High King of the Noldor, since the fall of Fingon. He lives yet, most feared of the foes of Morgoth, having escaped from the ruin of the Nirnaeth when Húrin of Dor-lómin and Huor your father held the passes of Sirion behind him.
Tuor: [intently] He knew my father?
Annael: [bows his head once in a nod.] Your father saved his life, a debt I am certain that he has not forgotten in these few years.
Tuor: [looks at his hands then back at Annael] I will go and seek this Turgon… for surely he will lend me aid for my father's sake?
Annael: [sceptically] That you cannot, for his stronghold is hidden from the eyes of Elves and Men, and none know where it stands. Of the Noldor some, maybe, know the way, but they will speak of it to none. [He meets Tuor's gaze, then sighs, troubled.] Yet if you would have speech with them, then come with me as I bid you; for in the far havens of the South you may meet with wanderers from the Hidden Kingdom. [Tuor looks aside. Annael lays his hand on Tuor's shoulder and forces him gently to meet his gaze.] Abide with patience, Tuor, and your destiny will find you, wheresoever it might lead. For now, I ask only that you accept my decision.
Tuor: [bows his head with a sigh.] That I cannot with my whole heart…but for my love for you, I shall do as you say. [Camera focus back on Annael, who nods in silent gratitude. Fade.]
* * *
[Later that evening. We see Tuor emerge from the dwellings of Androth to look out across the far plains in the gathering dark. In the south, mountains rise jagged and purple, their rocky peaks flecked with snow in the light of the waning crescent moon. In the vale below Tuor glimpses several small golden lights flickering out of the blackness from the campfires of the Easterlings. The wind whistles a mournful sound across the crags. Tuor gazes down at the fires, and his fingers curl around the hilt of his sword as the desire creeps into his mind to slay the slave drivers. He hears his foster-mother approach, and his fingers relax again.]
Tuor: It still feels so cowardly to leave on the eve of destruction, and to abandon the Men of Hithlum – my own people, though I hardly know them. [looks to the night sky and points to one constellation in particular] Look, Naneth - Menelvagor: A token of good will to all warriors throughout the land: when The Swordsman shines from above it is believed by some to be a night of prosperous hunting, and that his light will hold Morgoth's servants at bay.
Enelyë: [softly] Even that token will not disguise the pangs of our bellies as animals grow scarcer in the northern plains and our enemies creep in upon us. [lays her head against his shoulder. Tuor wraps his arm around her.] Annael is right; the time has come to leave at last… [With a sigh Tuor nods and steps down from the rock, returning to the safety of their dwelling. Tuor strips off his boots and lies down upon furs close to the fire, his head resting upon his arm as he watches the dancing flames for a time until his eyes droop closed. Fade.]
* * * * *
[Scene opens at dusk 2 weeks later. As the shadows lengthen the Elves and Tuor creep silently from the caves of Androth. The Grey Elves move carefully through the sparse woodland. They are cloaked, and most carry large packs. Some few show weapons ready, but these are near the edges of the groups. The Elves travel in clusters of two or three families together. They are obviously moving with care to avoid discovery. As they climb stealthily down the foothills into the plain below the camera pulls back to a ragged ridge of rock.
Three small Wargs, lean and vicious, watch the Elves. The Wargs glance at each other, and the largest licks her lips. The Wargs exit right, quickly and quietly. Camera cut to a group of Grey Elves moving through rough brush.
Focus on Tuor, walking with two other Elves. Tuor carries a hunting bow in one hand, a quiver of arrows hangs at his hip. He has a light sword strapped to his belt, and an axe shoved between his pack and his back.]
Elf 1: [glancing up at the sky] The night will be clear for us.
Elf 2: All the better. We can make good time if we are not stumbling over our own feet.
Elf 1: All the better for those who watch us to observe what we are doing. I would prefer a darker sky.
Tuor: [short laugh] You would prefer to fall flat on your face.
Elf 2: [grins] I think that is your lot, son of Annael. It is you who have the feet of the Edain.
Tuor: Perhaps I do. Still, I think I am a match for either of you.
Elf 1: Shall we put that to the test? [glances left, grins at Tuor] What say you? The first to cross that rise–
Annael: [Enters right, quietly --Will be spending the next several days minding the children. [firmly] And if your noise attracts the ears of the Easterlings we are trying to avoid, I shall be most displeased. I could find you in a fog for all your talking. [to Tuor] Your mother would have you walk with her for a bit. I shall take your place here. [Tuor glances at the other Elves. They shrug, grinning at him. Tuor glares, not angry but obviously wanting to stay with his friends. Annael points firmly off screen middle right. Tuor exits, middle right. Annael motions to the other two Elves, who immediately become serious and exit upper left, moving silently. Camera shift right, follow Tuor. Cut.]
There is magic in long-distance friendships. They let you relate to other human beings in a way that goes beyond being physically together and is often more profound.
~Diana Cortes
~Diana Cortes
* * * * *
[Cut to Enelyë, walking with several Elf women and children. All are carrying packs, and some have children too young to walk far in their arms. Tuor enters left, looking disgruntled. Enelyë smiles, shifts her bundle, and pulls a cake of lembas from her pouch. Tuor smiles wryly as he takes the food.]
Enelyë: I thought you might be hungry. You did not eat anything before we left.
Tuor: [takes a large bite, talks with his mouth full] The thought of this journey set my stomach churning.
Enelyë: Your stomach seems to have settled now. [pats Tuor’s shoulder] I know you did not wish to leave the land of your fathers. This will tear you away from everything you have ever known.
Tuor: [nods, wraps the remainder of the lembas and tucks it into his tunic] The others talk eagerly of seeing the sea, and rejoining kin they have not seen in years. Most seem eager for the change.
Enelyë: What is it that you fear?
Tuor: [hesitates] That I might never return…
Enelyë: Would that be so terrible?
Tuor: Would it not betray my father? [Enelyë glances at him curiously. Tuor shakes his head quickly.] Not Ada… I mean the father that gave me birth I worry about, and all the line of noble ancestors who stand waiting for me to uphold their legacy. Will I not let them down if I leave this land? [sighs] Yet, if I do not go with you, I know I will disappoint the father and mother who nurtured me when my blood kin could not.
Enelyë: You feel caught between the two. That cannot be an easy load to bear.
Tuor: I know what you would have me do. Yet, as you and Ada are one side of the rope that is pulling me in two directions I cannot ask your advice.
Enelyë: You know I will give it, asked or unasked. [Tuor nods, smiling slightly] You have no need to follow the deeds of your ancestors, Son of my Heart. Your own deeds will write your legend. Unless I am much mistaken, you will leave a legacy for your descendants to sing of long after you have passed from this world. [The sound of a stream draws Tuor’s attention. He glances toward Enelyë, then looks at the ground, sheepish.]
Tuor: I . . I am going to get some water.
Enelyë: [soft laugh] Go on with you. Just do not tarry long. We know not who may be watching us.
[Camera follows Tuor as he exits lower left. Camera shift to stream, a fast moving spill of water deep enough to wade in. Tuor kneels and drinks from cupped hands. Camera focus on stream over Tuor’s shoulder. Ulmo’s face appears in the water, considering Tuor.
Starlight sparkles on the water. Tuor glances up. Camera follow Tuor’s line of sight into the dark, clear sky. Stars twinkle brightly. Menelvagor shines clearly, sparkling more brightly than the rest. Tuor sighs, shakes his head, drinks again, rises, and exits upper left.
Camera shift to stream. Ulmo’s face appears again in the water, then the Vala rises silently to watch Tuor’s back..]
Ulmo: [voiceover] He looks good. [camera shift to The Swordsman constellation in the sky.]
Oromë: [voiceover] Strong, clever, observant, and not too tightly bound by rules others set for him...
Ulmo: [voiceover] He is raw material yet. Good, yes, but not ready. Aulë would say he needs some tempering.
Oromë: [voiceover] Are you proposing that we oppose the Will of our brethren? This is a matter I cannot aid you in...
Ulmo: [voiceover] Nay, though maybe it is my part alone among them while I endure, to be a secret voice that gainsayeth, and a light where darkness was decreed.
Oromë: [voiceover] Then I will keep your counsel for now. [Camera pull back as Ulmo dissolves back into the water. Stream, woods, and sky stand silent except for normal night noises. We hear rough footsteps and low growling and snuffling of Wargs. Camera fade.]
* * *
[Camera cut to forest, early afternoon the next day. We hear footsteps before Six Easterlings enter from middle right, along with four Orcs. The Orcs are wearing mismatched armour they obviously took off of dead Elves, and their weapons are a mix of Elf, Dwarf, and Man-craft. The Orc Captain wears a bright sword shoved into his belt, without a scabbard. Three Wargs shadow the Orcs like hounds. Camera focus on Easterlings, clearly unhappy.]
Easterling 1: [mutters] Our hounds could track these wisps as easily as those mangy curs.
Easterling 2: [nods] I say we just put an arrow in these bastards here and now. [hand drifts to his quiver, full of wicked arrows] Nothing we could not afford to lose, there.
[Orc Captain grabs Easterling 1 by the hair, stretches his neck straight up, and beheads him with a quick slice from a beautiful sword. Camera focus on Orc Captain as he holds the sword vertical to allow the blood to run slowly down the blade. We see it is Elven made, and carries a star device worked into the blade and hilt.]
Orc Captain: [gruffly] Anymore of you get any ideas like that, you just let me know. [snarls] We could be covering ourselves in riches and glory, hunting down the last of that plague from the West; but the Master says we have to help you hold the land he gave you. So be thankful! [Easterlings flinch as Orc Captain licks the blood from the sword blade and shoves the sword into his belt. Wargs tear apart the dead Easterling.]
Orc Captain: [gruff, impatient] Now that we have their scent, let’s get this over with. I want some fresh meat tonight.
[Camera pan back as Orcs, Easterlings, and Wargs exit middle left. Trees seem to whisper in their wake. Camera cut.]
* * *
[Camera cut to Forest of Dor-lómin,at dusk: focus on Grey Elf camp. Tuor and the Elves are packing, taking down tents, rolling up bedding, and preparing for the night march. Annael scans the sky, frowning. Enelyë enters right, with a wrapped cake of lembas and a horn cup. Annael takes the food and cup, looks at the cup, and smiles wryly.]
Annael: We are moving through dark and dangerous woodlands, and you feel we must drink from a cup.
Enelyë: [shrugs] There is no reason to leave civilization behind, even as we move from one home to another.
Annael: [drinks, caresses her cheek with the back of his hand] Soon enough we will be with Cirdain’s people, dining with the music of harp and flute, and drinking from cups crafted of silver so fine they seem to float in the hand.
Enelyë: And you still will need reminding to wash your hands before you sit down to supper. [glances at the sky] What worries you?
Annael: I know not. All seems clear, yet something warns me that all is not well-- [Camera shift left. Something shrieks in pain. Tuor and Elf 1 scramble back into the frame, terrified. Elf 1 holds a long knife, while Tuor has his sword drawn. Camera cut to Annael, shocked. Camera shift left. Elf 2’s head bounces into the frame, a look of terror still on his face. A mixed force of Orcs, Easterlings, and Wargs emerge from the trees, eager for battle.]
Annael: [drops horn cup, draws sword. Shouts command] Do not stand here! Run!
[Elves gather their children and flee between the trees into the gathering night as the warriors among them use their hunting bows to buy time for them to escape. More attackers appear. Some Elves are quickly cut down. Some, unable to escape easily, place their backs to trees and prepare to fight for their lives. Camera focus on individual Elves, some determined, some terrified. Cut to Easterlings and Orcs as they close in eagerly.
The battle is short and brutal. Elves defend themselves well, but they are massively outnumbered. Wargs growl, Orc blades slash, blood spatters. A child is lifted on an Orc spear. Two wargs tear an Elf apart. Camera focus on Tuor and Elf 1, making a fighting retreat for the trees. Elf 1 catches his foot on a root and falls with a cry. Tuor stops to help him. Elf 1 tries to stand as Tuor kills an Easterling with his sword. Elf 1 falls, his ankle badly sprained. Tuor stands over him, resolute.]
Annael: [fighting to hold off two Easterlings; looks back] Tuor! [Tuor glances at Elf 1. Elf 1 shakes his head, resolved to his own death.]
Elf 1: [strikes at a Warg with his knife] Go, my friend! One is enough to die here this day. Go!
Tuor: Should I flee the home of my people, and abandon my friend to his death?
Annael: [urgently, while fighting toward the trees] Tuor! Come with us: we cannot stand against a stronger foe for the sake of righteous pride. Our only chance is to flee under the cover of night! You can still escape! Our eyes see better in the dark than these fell beasts.
[Warg catches Elf 1 as he defends against an Orc. Warg drags Elf 1 away from Tuor as Tuor struggles to defend himself and his friend. Elf 1 screams as Wargs tear him apart.]
Tuor: [shakes head, the battle rage upon him] This is the land of my father still. I will remain here. When I am done with these foul creatures that did harm to your people and mine, we will meet again, Annael, but not before. [glancing to where Elf 1 lies, speaks softly] And I will avenge you, my friend. [He races to face the foe alone.]
Annael: [calls after him sorrowfully] Tuor! I cannot sacrifice my people for the sake of just one, even one I love…forgive me! [He turns and flees into the darkness after the other Elves. Cut.]
*
[Camera cut to Tuor who blocks an Orc blade with his sword, but his sword shatters at the force of the stroke. Orc laughs. Tuor pulls his small axe from his belt and buries it in the Orc’s skull. Tuor kills a Warg with the same axe.
Camera focus on Tuor, covered with blood, sobbing as he battles. Camera pull back to show the Easterlings, Orcs, and Wargs surrounding him. Most simply watch, knowing that he is alone and in a hopeless situation.]
Tuor: [swings wildly] Come on! Cowards! Come and die!
[Camera focus on Lorgan, a richly dressed and armored Easterling who is obviously in charge. Lorgan watches Tuor thoughtfully. After a moment, Lorgan hands his sword and helm to the man beside him and steps forward, unarmed.]
Lorgan: [evenly] Look around you, boy. You stand alone, a moment from your death. Or you can live, if you lay down that hatchet now.
Tuor: [furious, exhausted] Why should I?
Lorgan: [steps closer, slowly] What difference will your death make to any here? Surrender, and you will have a warm bed and a full belly before the sun rises. [puts his hand on Tuor’s axe] Surrender and live, boy.
[Camera pull back as Tuor allows Lorgan to take the axe from him. Tuor is fettered and manacled as the latest of Lorgan’s slaves. Camera follow Easterlings as Tuor is led away, exit right. Orcs and Wargs close in on the dead. We hear bone cracking and meat tearing as Camera shifts to the first stars in the sky. Camera cut.]
* * * * *
[Cut to Enelyë, walking with several Elf women and children. All are carrying packs, and some have children too young to walk far in their arms. Tuor enters left, looking disgruntled. Enelyë smiles, shifts her bundle, and pulls a cake of lembas from her pouch. Tuor smiles wryly as he takes the food.]
Enelyë: I thought you might be hungry. You did not eat anything before we left.
Tuor: [takes a large bite, talks with his mouth full] The thought of this journey set my stomach churning.
Enelyë: Your stomach seems to have settled now. [pats Tuor’s shoulder] I know you did not wish to leave the land of your fathers. This will tear you away from everything you have ever known.
Tuor: [nods, wraps the remainder of the lembas and tucks it into his tunic] The others talk eagerly of seeing the sea, and rejoining kin they have not seen in years. Most seem eager for the change.
Enelyë: What is it that you fear?
Tuor: [hesitates] That I might never return…
Enelyë: Would that be so terrible?
Tuor: Would it not betray my father? [Enelyë glances at him curiously. Tuor shakes his head quickly.] Not Ada… I mean the father that gave me birth I worry about, and all the line of noble ancestors who stand waiting for me to uphold their legacy. Will I not let them down if I leave this land? [sighs] Yet, if I do not go with you, I know I will disappoint the father and mother who nurtured me when my blood kin could not.
Enelyë: You feel caught between the two. That cannot be an easy load to bear.
Tuor: I know what you would have me do. Yet, as you and Ada are one side of the rope that is pulling me in two directions I cannot ask your advice.
Enelyë: You know I will give it, asked or unasked. [Tuor nods, smiling slightly] You have no need to follow the deeds of your ancestors, Son of my Heart. Your own deeds will write your legend. Unless I am much mistaken, you will leave a legacy for your descendants to sing of long after you have passed from this world. [The sound of a stream draws Tuor’s attention. He glances toward Enelyë, then looks at the ground, sheepish.]
Tuor: I . . I am going to get some water.
Enelyë: [soft laugh] Go on with you. Just do not tarry long. We know not who may be watching us.
[Camera follows Tuor as he exits lower left. Camera shift to stream, a fast moving spill of water deep enough to wade in. Tuor kneels and drinks from cupped hands. Camera focus on stream over Tuor’s shoulder. Ulmo’s face appears in the water, considering Tuor.
Starlight sparkles on the water. Tuor glances up. Camera follow Tuor’s line of sight into the dark, clear sky. Stars twinkle brightly. Menelvagor shines clearly, sparkling more brightly than the rest. Tuor sighs, shakes his head, drinks again, rises, and exits upper left.
Camera shift to stream. Ulmo’s face appears again in the water, then the Vala rises silently to watch Tuor’s back..]
Ulmo: [voiceover] He looks good. [camera shift to The Swordsman constellation in the sky.]
Oromë: [voiceover] Strong, clever, observant, and not too tightly bound by rules others set for him...
Ulmo: [voiceover] He is raw material yet. Good, yes, but not ready. Aulë would say he needs some tempering.
Oromë: [voiceover] Are you proposing that we oppose the Will of our brethren? This is a matter I cannot aid you in...
Ulmo: [voiceover] Nay, though maybe it is my part alone among them while I endure, to be a secret voice that gainsayeth, and a light where darkness was decreed.
Oromë: [voiceover] Then I will keep your counsel for now. [Camera pull back as Ulmo dissolves back into the water. Stream, woods, and sky stand silent except for normal night noises. We hear rough footsteps and low growling and snuffling of Wargs. Camera fade.]
* * *
[Camera cut to forest, early afternoon the next day. We hear footsteps before Six Easterlings enter from middle right, along with four Orcs. The Orcs are wearing mismatched armour they obviously took off of dead Elves, and their weapons are a mix of Elf, Dwarf, and Man-craft. The Orc Captain wears a bright sword shoved into his belt, without a scabbard. Three Wargs shadow the Orcs like hounds. Camera focus on Easterlings, clearly unhappy.]
Easterling 1: [mutters] Our hounds could track these wisps as easily as those mangy curs.
Easterling 2: [nods] I say we just put an arrow in these bastards here and now. [hand drifts to his quiver, full of wicked arrows] Nothing we could not afford to lose, there.
[Orc Captain grabs Easterling 1 by the hair, stretches his neck straight up, and beheads him with a quick slice from a beautiful sword. Camera focus on Orc Captain as he holds the sword vertical to allow the blood to run slowly down the blade. We see it is Elven made, and carries a star device worked into the blade and hilt.]
Orc Captain: [gruffly] Anymore of you get any ideas like that, you just let me know. [snarls] We could be covering ourselves in riches and glory, hunting down the last of that plague from the West; but the Master says we have to help you hold the land he gave you. So be thankful! [Easterlings flinch as Orc Captain licks the blood from the sword blade and shoves the sword into his belt. Wargs tear apart the dead Easterling.]
Orc Captain: [gruff, impatient] Now that we have their scent, let’s get this over with. I want some fresh meat tonight.
[Camera pan back as Orcs, Easterlings, and Wargs exit middle left. Trees seem to whisper in their wake. Camera cut.]
* * *
[Camera cut to Forest of Dor-lómin,at dusk: focus on Grey Elf camp. Tuor and the Elves are packing, taking down tents, rolling up bedding, and preparing for the night march. Annael scans the sky, frowning. Enelyë enters right, with a wrapped cake of lembas and a horn cup. Annael takes the food and cup, looks at the cup, and smiles wryly.]
Annael: We are moving through dark and dangerous woodlands, and you feel we must drink from a cup.
Enelyë: [shrugs] There is no reason to leave civilization behind, even as we move from one home to another.
Annael: [drinks, caresses her cheek with the back of his hand] Soon enough we will be with Cirdain’s people, dining with the music of harp and flute, and drinking from cups crafted of silver so fine they seem to float in the hand.
Enelyë: And you still will need reminding to wash your hands before you sit down to supper. [glances at the sky] What worries you?
Annael: I know not. All seems clear, yet something warns me that all is not well-- [Camera shift left. Something shrieks in pain. Tuor and Elf 1 scramble back into the frame, terrified. Elf 1 holds a long knife, while Tuor has his sword drawn. Camera cut to Annael, shocked. Camera shift left. Elf 2’s head bounces into the frame, a look of terror still on his face. A mixed force of Orcs, Easterlings, and Wargs emerge from the trees, eager for battle.]
Annael: [drops horn cup, draws sword. Shouts command] Do not stand here! Run!
[Elves gather their children and flee between the trees into the gathering night as the warriors among them use their hunting bows to buy time for them to escape. More attackers appear. Some Elves are quickly cut down. Some, unable to escape easily, place their backs to trees and prepare to fight for their lives. Camera focus on individual Elves, some determined, some terrified. Cut to Easterlings and Orcs as they close in eagerly.
The battle is short and brutal. Elves defend themselves well, but they are massively outnumbered. Wargs growl, Orc blades slash, blood spatters. A child is lifted on an Orc spear. Two wargs tear an Elf apart. Camera focus on Tuor and Elf 1, making a fighting retreat for the trees. Elf 1 catches his foot on a root and falls with a cry. Tuor stops to help him. Elf 1 tries to stand as Tuor kills an Easterling with his sword. Elf 1 falls, his ankle badly sprained. Tuor stands over him, resolute.]
Annael: [fighting to hold off two Easterlings; looks back] Tuor! [Tuor glances at Elf 1. Elf 1 shakes his head, resolved to his own death.]
Elf 1: [strikes at a Warg with his knife] Go, my friend! One is enough to die here this day. Go!
Tuor: Should I flee the home of my people, and abandon my friend to his death?
Annael: [urgently, while fighting toward the trees] Tuor! Come with us: we cannot stand against a stronger foe for the sake of righteous pride. Our only chance is to flee under the cover of night! You can still escape! Our eyes see better in the dark than these fell beasts.
[Warg catches Elf 1 as he defends against an Orc. Warg drags Elf 1 away from Tuor as Tuor struggles to defend himself and his friend. Elf 1 screams as Wargs tear him apart.]
Tuor: [shakes head, the battle rage upon him] This is the land of my father still. I will remain here. When I am done with these foul creatures that did harm to your people and mine, we will meet again, Annael, but not before. [glancing to where Elf 1 lies, speaks softly] And I will avenge you, my friend. [He races to face the foe alone.]
Annael: [calls after him sorrowfully] Tuor! I cannot sacrifice my people for the sake of just one, even one I love…forgive me! [He turns and flees into the darkness after the other Elves. Cut.]
*
[Camera cut to Tuor who blocks an Orc blade with his sword, but his sword shatters at the force of the stroke. Orc laughs. Tuor pulls his small axe from his belt and buries it in the Orc’s skull. Tuor kills a Warg with the same axe.
Camera focus on Tuor, covered with blood, sobbing as he battles. Camera pull back to show the Easterlings, Orcs, and Wargs surrounding him. Most simply watch, knowing that he is alone and in a hopeless situation.]
Tuor: [swings wildly] Come on! Cowards! Come and die!
[Camera focus on Lorgan, a richly dressed and armored Easterling who is obviously in charge. Lorgan watches Tuor thoughtfully. After a moment, Lorgan hands his sword and helm to the man beside him and steps forward, unarmed.]
Lorgan: [evenly] Look around you, boy. You stand alone, a moment from your death. Or you can live, if you lay down that hatchet now.
Tuor: [furious, exhausted] Why should I?
Lorgan: [steps closer, slowly] What difference will your death make to any here? Surrender, and you will have a warm bed and a full belly before the sun rises. [puts his hand on Tuor’s axe] Surrender and live, boy.
[Camera pull back as Tuor allows Lorgan to take the axe from him. Tuor is fettered and manacled as the latest of Lorgan’s slaves. Camera follow Easterlings as Tuor is led away, exit right. Orcs and Wargs close in on the dead. We hear bone cracking and meat tearing as Camera shifts to the first stars in the sky. Camera cut.]
* * * * *
Last edited by Elentári on Sun Jul 28, 2013 4:16 pm, edited 2 times in total.
There is magic in long-distance friendships. They let you relate to other human beings in a way that goes beyond being physically together and is often more profound.
~Diana Cortes
~Diana Cortes
* * * * *
[Scene opens on Maeglin and Turgon in Turgon's private tower. They are gazing over the city: eyond the roofs of Gondolin the valley of the Tumladen is marked in squares by tillage, orchard, and pasture up to the foothills of the Encircling Mountains. It is a bright winter’s day, and everything is covered by a blanket of snow.]
Maeglin: [admiring the view Against the snow, city's heart stands exceedingly fair. Here, there is peace and plenty undisturbed. [turns back to his uncle.] You say we are foretold ruin and loss if we trust in the work of our hands and the devices of our hearts, but I do not see what we stand to gain if we abandon this city.
Turgon: [sighs.] You never knew Tirion, the White City. Fëanor made jewels, and Rúmil letters; but this is the memory of Tirion made anew in a song of stone. And thanks in great measure to you, it is made strong as well. [smiles wryly.] By your arts and wisdom we are armed with steel and warmed with coal. [Turgon rises and stands before one of the casement windows, looking down at the gold and silver ornamental trees that he himself created.] Were it I alone, I would not leave Gondolin. What of you?
Maeglin: Nay, my lord! [leans back in his chair] Besides, Ulmo’s prophecy spoke of the works of the Noldor, did it not? I am not entirely of that folk, with my Avari father. My works are entwined with your works. So can it truly be said that Gondolin is a city of the Noldor?
Turgon: [laughs harshly] Think you to riddle with the Valar, Maegin? Yet, it is true, with you at my right hand, none may say that the other kindred among us are not honoured to the fullest. [They both fall quiet for a moment.] I have sent out many vessels to seek a way through the Shadowy Seas and plead for the aid of the Lords of the West. None have succeeded so far. No…enough of my people have perished in the deep places or wander now lost in the shadows that have no paths; At the coming of next year no more shall fare to the sea, but rather will we trust to ourselves and our city for warding against Morgoth. [pats Maeglin on the shoulder then turns and walks past him. Cut.
* * * * *
[Camera fade in on Dorlómin, a scrub plain covered with rough brush, tall grass, and patches of dense trees. Camera starts high, then shifts down as early morning mist rises. Camera focus on a lone traveller shouldering a pack. The traveller is well cloaked but he looks as if he has been travelling for a long while. Camera shift close as the traveller buckles a sword belt and sheaths a good blade. Traveller turns toward Camera as he picks up a walking staff; we see it is Faervel. He turns his face toward the early sunlight, smiles, takes a long drink from a skin at his belt, and begins to walk toward top left. Faervel begins to whistle as he walks, clearly happy. Camera follow, cut before Faervel exits.]
* * * * *
[Camera cut to Lorgan’s Compound. Camera pan over Compound, and we see several buildings built of stone and wood, with roofs covered in enameled red tile shingles. The roofs shine in the soft sunlight. A high wall of sharpened tree trunks surrounds the Compound, and sentries walk the walls. Three bodies, two men and a woman, hang suspended from the walls. They are naked, have obviously been whipped bloody, and are a few inches from the ground. One man and the woman moan and twitch. The other man is completely still, possibly dead.
The Compound is busy, with men, women, and children working at one task or another. A smith works his forge, pounding metal into some useful tool. A plump woman kneads dough in a bowl so large it has to sit on the ground, while two others add fuel to fires inside domed ovens. Two men tend several horses in an open stable. Beyond the Compound we can see fields tilled and tended by men and women who work without raising their heads. Camera shift closer, and we can see that most of these people have heavy iron collars around their necks. Some wear shackles on their ankles.
Camera shift to the Kennels. We see Tuor approach from left, carrying a bloody sack. He wears the same collar as the rest of the slaves, and a pair of ragged breeches. Bruises mark his bare arms, back, chest, and face. Some are yellowed, others are fresh and dark. Tuor enters the Kennels. Lean tracking hounds and muscled mastiff-type dogs greet him, wagging and yelping. Clearly the dogs like Tuor.
Tuor puts down the sack and reaches inside. He pulls out hand-sized chunks of meat and begins feeding the dogs, patting and talking to each as he brings the food. Some of the dogs get bones with meat hanging on them. The dogs settle in their pens, happily eating as Tuor fills their water bowls.
Tuor reaches to the bottom of the sack and brings out a large, bloody mass of organ meat. He carries this carefully to the back of the kennel and opens a gate. A bitch with five new pups is in a separate enclosure. She lifts her head and growls softly when Tuor enters. He puts down the meat, checks her water, and approaches cautiously. He squats near the blind pups and examines them as the bitch continues to growl and thumps her tail on the floor.
Camera shift right. The Kennel Master enters upper left and leans on the edge of the stall. He watches for a moment , smiles, and shakes his head.]
Ardaric: Any other man would be lying on that straw, minus his head. She must like you.
Tuor: [stands] Why should she not?
Ardaric: Why should she? These hounds do not respond well to new faces. They take few into their trust, even after long acquaintance. Yet you seem to have a way with them.
Tuor: [shrugs] I accept them for what they are. I do not ask them to be anything other. [exits stall]
Ardaric: [lays a hand on Tuor’s shoulder. Tuor flinches] Mayhap you should try that tactic with people, lad. You have been here for nearly a month, yet you still resist the hand fate has dealt you. You show too much pride for a –
Tuor: [bitter] It was not fate that made me a slave. Nor was it the will of the Valar. It was the act of a man, and the acts of a man can be undone.
Ardaric: Do not even talk like that! Your life hangs on the Master’s will, and that will is as likely to turn on you as it is to favor you. Tread carefully or you will wind up no better off than the wretches on the wall.
[Tuor turns sharply, intending to leave. Uldin sighs. Camera shift right as Lorgan enters, dressed for hunting. Six armed men wait by the door, visible from the Kennel. They carry ropes, whips, bows, and sharp wooden prods. Lorgan walks toward Ardaric, looking both grim and eager. Ardaric bows. Lorgan turns towards Tuor and Camera follows. Ardaric nudges Tuor, who finally copies Ardaric’s bow.]
Lorgan: [commanding] Get me six of the best for tracking, immediately.
Ardaric: [nods] For what sport, Master?
Lorgan: Retrieve the slave. I want a couple of the big ones, too. Better if they have not been fed yet; it will make this sport more interesting.
Ardaric: [hesitant, deferential] I fear all have been fed this day, Master.
Lorgan: Well, no matter. Just the tracking hounds, and we will do for the wretch when we catch him. [Ardaric bows again, removes six leashes from a rack and hands them to Tuor. Tuor glares and hesitates.]
Ardaric: What are you waiting for, boy? Get the hounds for our Master. [Tuor glances from Ardaric to Lorgan. Lorgan glares impatiently. Tuor glances back at Ardaric, who waves him toward the stalls. Tuor assesses his chances, then reluctantly gets the hounds leashed and hands the leashes to Lorgan. As he hands over the leashes, Tuor gives Lorgan a brief, almost insulting bow. Lorgan glares, snaps the leashes, and exits upper right with the hounds. Camera shift to Tuor, glaring and clenching his fist with his free hand.]
Ardaric: You are young yet, lad. Grow up and realize what this world is. You will be the better for it.
Tuor: As you are? You have no problem with letting him use hounds to run down the helpless?
Ardaric: [sighs, passes a hand over his face] I never said I liked it, lad. I said that I cannot change the way this world is; nor can you. The quicker you make peace with that, the more easily your life will go. [hands Tuor a shovel] Now get to work. The stalls must be cleaned, and then we have other work. Do not think about what you cannot change.
[Camera pull back as Tuor begins cleaning the stalls. Ardaric watches him, thinking hard. Camera fade.]
* * * * *
[Scene opens on Idril crossing a sunny courtyard to escape the heat of the summer’s day. She is heading for her favourite spot, a shady arbour framed with climbing roses. As she passes the fountain in the centre of the courtyard she stops to trail her fingers in the cool water. She cups water from the stream that issues forth in her hands and brings the refreshing liquid to her lips. Sighing, she turns to continue towards the rose arbour, stopping abruptly as she sees a familiar figure sitting in the secluded bower... Maeglin is reading a book. She hesitates, wondering if she could turn away but he has already seen her...]
Idril: [uneasily] Maeglin? What are you doing here?
Maeglin: [puts the book down, leans nonchalantly against the stone column] I was reading, but something much lovelier caught my attention. Please, join me… [pats the bench beside him, smiling at her discomfort]
Idril: Did you follow me?
Maeglin: [truthfully] No.
Idril: [flatly] But you have been: Wherever I go, I find you there. Always as if by coincidence…
Maeglin: If I have followed you, it has been unconsciously. I mean no offence. Though we be kin, you have long been distant toward me. As to why, I cannot imagine. [Idril remains rooted to the spot, her eyes unable to leave his face.] I seek only your company and your friendship, Cousin. [softly, extending his hand] Can I not have that from you? [unable to refuse, Idril takes it and reluctantly sits beside him. She shivers involuntarily, looking for a way to escape.]
Maeglin: Idril? Why do you shiver? It is a warm day.
Idril: [coolly] The day is warm, certainly, but the spray from the fountain is chill. [Maeglin arches an eyebrow, and she quickly looks away.]
Maeglin: For years my father denied me the warmth of sunlight…. You have so much light, Idril, I can feel it, sometimes, when you are near . . . I feel it, and it is almost there, almost inside of me .
Idril: [clasps her hands tightly together in her lap. Firmly:] Maeglin - You cannot gain by taking from another.
Maeglin: [pleading] Can you not gain by giving to another?
Idril: [Stands] I cannot give to you what is not yours to have. [Maeglin reaches for her but she backs away from him.] Do not look at me like that! You always look like that. I am your cousin, Maeglin!
Maeglin: [with frustration] What of it? Are we children, obeying meaningless laws without thought? [earnestly] Idril - I am no fool, nor a child, infatuated with a goddess. I see you as you are – and what I see, I love.
Idril: [shaking her head] You do not love me. Maybe you think desire and possessiveness are the stuff of love, but I know otherwise. This desire is unwholesome. Leave me, and try and forget this passion.
Maeglin: [makes a choking sound in his throat, replies hoarsely:] I will have none but you!
Idril: Then I pity you, Maeglin.. [Staring at him in sorrow she shakes her head, then turns and walks away, leaving him alone again. Fade.]
* * * * *
[Camera cut to Lorgan’s Compound.. Camera focus on a group of slave women washing bedding and hanging the wet blankets on lines to dry in the sun. Several are young, and they talk and laugh as they work. Camera shift left and focus on Tuor, crossing the compound. Tuor glances at the women and smiles. They smile back, then hide behind the laundry, giggling.
Focus on Tuor, drawing water from the well and filling large buckets. Several guardsmen approach, laughing. Tuor glances at them, then continues with his work. Guardsmen gather around the well, ominous.]
Guard 1: We want a drink, boy.
Tuor: [glances at him, fills bucket] So? Get yourself one.
Guard 2: You get it for us.
Guard 3: That is why you are here, is it not?
Tuor: I tend the hounds.
Guard 1: There is hardly a difference between the slaves and the hounds…you both do what you are told.
[Guard 1 shoves Tuor back from the well. The well bucket falls back into the well as Tuor staggers and braces for the fight he knows will come.]
Guard 2: After all, you are nothing!
Guard 3: You are a filthy strawhead! [lifts one of the buckets Tuor was filling, dumps it out, drops it]
Guard 2: And if we say you are going to get us a drink, then you will get us one.
Guard 1: If I tell you to lick my boots, you will lick them!
Guard 3: And if I say I am going to shove my spear in you because I want to know how it feels, you will like it!
Guard: [1 dumps the other bucket Tuor has filled, laughs, and tosses it across the compound.] Now get that drink, boy!
Guard 2: He will have to jump down the well for the bucket.
Guard 1: Why not give him a hand!
[All Guardsmen move toward Tuor, laughing. Tuor waits until all are within reach, then throws a roundhouse at Guard 3 and follows with a swift kick to the groin. Guard 3 goes down, screaming. Tuor punches Guard 1 in the eye, temporarily blinding him. Guard 2 tackles Tuor, but Tuor seizes Guard 2’s wrist and twists his arm behind his back.
Camera pan compound. Guards are running toward the fight. Lorgan stalks out of his house, whip in hand, looking grim but not unhappy. Camera cut back to Tuor, backing toward Kennels with Guard 2 used as a shield. Camera shift to Ardaric, who comes out of the Kennels with a short club.]
Tuor: [firmly] Get back, or I will break his arm!
Lorgan: Do not be stupid, boy. I will not kill you if you drop this now.
[Tuor backs up another step. Ardaric swings the club, knocking Tuor unconscious. Guard 2 staggers away as Tuor falls. Other Guardsmen back up, now that the excitement is over. Lorgan approaches, turns Tuor onto his back with a kick.]
Lorgan: When he wakes, let him get the bucket out of the well and water my hounds. Then chain him to the wall. I will deal with him tomorrow. [exits left. Camera cut.]
[Scene opens on Maeglin and Turgon in Turgon's private tower. They are gazing over the city: eyond the roofs of Gondolin the valley of the Tumladen is marked in squares by tillage, orchard, and pasture up to the foothills of the Encircling Mountains. It is a bright winter’s day, and everything is covered by a blanket of snow.]
Maeglin: [admiring the view Against the snow, city's heart stands exceedingly fair. Here, there is peace and plenty undisturbed. [turns back to his uncle.] You say we are foretold ruin and loss if we trust in the work of our hands and the devices of our hearts, but I do not see what we stand to gain if we abandon this city.
Turgon: [sighs.] You never knew Tirion, the White City. Fëanor made jewels, and Rúmil letters; but this is the memory of Tirion made anew in a song of stone. And thanks in great measure to you, it is made strong as well. [smiles wryly.] By your arts and wisdom we are armed with steel and warmed with coal. [Turgon rises and stands before one of the casement windows, looking down at the gold and silver ornamental trees that he himself created.] Were it I alone, I would not leave Gondolin. What of you?
Maeglin: Nay, my lord! [leans back in his chair] Besides, Ulmo’s prophecy spoke of the works of the Noldor, did it not? I am not entirely of that folk, with my Avari father. My works are entwined with your works. So can it truly be said that Gondolin is a city of the Noldor?
Turgon: [laughs harshly] Think you to riddle with the Valar, Maegin? Yet, it is true, with you at my right hand, none may say that the other kindred among us are not honoured to the fullest. [They both fall quiet for a moment.] I have sent out many vessels to seek a way through the Shadowy Seas and plead for the aid of the Lords of the West. None have succeeded so far. No…enough of my people have perished in the deep places or wander now lost in the shadows that have no paths; At the coming of next year no more shall fare to the sea, but rather will we trust to ourselves and our city for warding against Morgoth. [pats Maeglin on the shoulder then turns and walks past him. Cut.
* * * * *
[Camera fade in on Dorlómin, a scrub plain covered with rough brush, tall grass, and patches of dense trees. Camera starts high, then shifts down as early morning mist rises. Camera focus on a lone traveller shouldering a pack. The traveller is well cloaked but he looks as if he has been travelling for a long while. Camera shift close as the traveller buckles a sword belt and sheaths a good blade. Traveller turns toward Camera as he picks up a walking staff; we see it is Faervel. He turns his face toward the early sunlight, smiles, takes a long drink from a skin at his belt, and begins to walk toward top left. Faervel begins to whistle as he walks, clearly happy. Camera follow, cut before Faervel exits.]
* * * * *
[Camera cut to Lorgan’s Compound. Camera pan over Compound, and we see several buildings built of stone and wood, with roofs covered in enameled red tile shingles. The roofs shine in the soft sunlight. A high wall of sharpened tree trunks surrounds the Compound, and sentries walk the walls. Three bodies, two men and a woman, hang suspended from the walls. They are naked, have obviously been whipped bloody, and are a few inches from the ground. One man and the woman moan and twitch. The other man is completely still, possibly dead.
The Compound is busy, with men, women, and children working at one task or another. A smith works his forge, pounding metal into some useful tool. A plump woman kneads dough in a bowl so large it has to sit on the ground, while two others add fuel to fires inside domed ovens. Two men tend several horses in an open stable. Beyond the Compound we can see fields tilled and tended by men and women who work without raising their heads. Camera shift closer, and we can see that most of these people have heavy iron collars around their necks. Some wear shackles on their ankles.
Camera shift to the Kennels. We see Tuor approach from left, carrying a bloody sack. He wears the same collar as the rest of the slaves, and a pair of ragged breeches. Bruises mark his bare arms, back, chest, and face. Some are yellowed, others are fresh and dark. Tuor enters the Kennels. Lean tracking hounds and muscled mastiff-type dogs greet him, wagging and yelping. Clearly the dogs like Tuor.
Tuor puts down the sack and reaches inside. He pulls out hand-sized chunks of meat and begins feeding the dogs, patting and talking to each as he brings the food. Some of the dogs get bones with meat hanging on them. The dogs settle in their pens, happily eating as Tuor fills their water bowls.
Tuor reaches to the bottom of the sack and brings out a large, bloody mass of organ meat. He carries this carefully to the back of the kennel and opens a gate. A bitch with five new pups is in a separate enclosure. She lifts her head and growls softly when Tuor enters. He puts down the meat, checks her water, and approaches cautiously. He squats near the blind pups and examines them as the bitch continues to growl and thumps her tail on the floor.
Camera shift right. The Kennel Master enters upper left and leans on the edge of the stall. He watches for a moment , smiles, and shakes his head.]
Ardaric: Any other man would be lying on that straw, minus his head. She must like you.
Tuor: [stands] Why should she not?
Ardaric: Why should she? These hounds do not respond well to new faces. They take few into their trust, even after long acquaintance. Yet you seem to have a way with them.
Tuor: [shrugs] I accept them for what they are. I do not ask them to be anything other. [exits stall]
Ardaric: [lays a hand on Tuor’s shoulder. Tuor flinches] Mayhap you should try that tactic with people, lad. You have been here for nearly a month, yet you still resist the hand fate has dealt you. You show too much pride for a –
Tuor: [bitter] It was not fate that made me a slave. Nor was it the will of the Valar. It was the act of a man, and the acts of a man can be undone.
Ardaric: Do not even talk like that! Your life hangs on the Master’s will, and that will is as likely to turn on you as it is to favor you. Tread carefully or you will wind up no better off than the wretches on the wall.
[Tuor turns sharply, intending to leave. Uldin sighs. Camera shift right as Lorgan enters, dressed for hunting. Six armed men wait by the door, visible from the Kennel. They carry ropes, whips, bows, and sharp wooden prods. Lorgan walks toward Ardaric, looking both grim and eager. Ardaric bows. Lorgan turns towards Tuor and Camera follows. Ardaric nudges Tuor, who finally copies Ardaric’s bow.]
Lorgan: [commanding] Get me six of the best for tracking, immediately.
Ardaric: [nods] For what sport, Master?
Lorgan: Retrieve the slave. I want a couple of the big ones, too. Better if they have not been fed yet; it will make this sport more interesting.
Ardaric: [hesitant, deferential] I fear all have been fed this day, Master.
Lorgan: Well, no matter. Just the tracking hounds, and we will do for the wretch when we catch him. [Ardaric bows again, removes six leashes from a rack and hands them to Tuor. Tuor glares and hesitates.]
Ardaric: What are you waiting for, boy? Get the hounds for our Master. [Tuor glances from Ardaric to Lorgan. Lorgan glares impatiently. Tuor glances back at Ardaric, who waves him toward the stalls. Tuor assesses his chances, then reluctantly gets the hounds leashed and hands the leashes to Lorgan. As he hands over the leashes, Tuor gives Lorgan a brief, almost insulting bow. Lorgan glares, snaps the leashes, and exits upper right with the hounds. Camera shift to Tuor, glaring and clenching his fist with his free hand.]
Ardaric: You are young yet, lad. Grow up and realize what this world is. You will be the better for it.
Tuor: As you are? You have no problem with letting him use hounds to run down the helpless?
Ardaric: [sighs, passes a hand over his face] I never said I liked it, lad. I said that I cannot change the way this world is; nor can you. The quicker you make peace with that, the more easily your life will go. [hands Tuor a shovel] Now get to work. The stalls must be cleaned, and then we have other work. Do not think about what you cannot change.
[Camera pull back as Tuor begins cleaning the stalls. Ardaric watches him, thinking hard. Camera fade.]
* * * * *
[Scene opens on Idril crossing a sunny courtyard to escape the heat of the summer’s day. She is heading for her favourite spot, a shady arbour framed with climbing roses. As she passes the fountain in the centre of the courtyard she stops to trail her fingers in the cool water. She cups water from the stream that issues forth in her hands and brings the refreshing liquid to her lips. Sighing, she turns to continue towards the rose arbour, stopping abruptly as she sees a familiar figure sitting in the secluded bower... Maeglin is reading a book. She hesitates, wondering if she could turn away but he has already seen her...]
Idril: [uneasily] Maeglin? What are you doing here?
Maeglin: [puts the book down, leans nonchalantly against the stone column] I was reading, but something much lovelier caught my attention. Please, join me… [pats the bench beside him, smiling at her discomfort]
Idril: Did you follow me?
Maeglin: [truthfully] No.
Idril: [flatly] But you have been: Wherever I go, I find you there. Always as if by coincidence…
Maeglin: If I have followed you, it has been unconsciously. I mean no offence. Though we be kin, you have long been distant toward me. As to why, I cannot imagine. [Idril remains rooted to the spot, her eyes unable to leave his face.] I seek only your company and your friendship, Cousin. [softly, extending his hand] Can I not have that from you? [unable to refuse, Idril takes it and reluctantly sits beside him. She shivers involuntarily, looking for a way to escape.]
Maeglin: Idril? Why do you shiver? It is a warm day.
Idril: [coolly] The day is warm, certainly, but the spray from the fountain is chill. [Maeglin arches an eyebrow, and she quickly looks away.]
Maeglin: For years my father denied me the warmth of sunlight…. You have so much light, Idril, I can feel it, sometimes, when you are near . . . I feel it, and it is almost there, almost inside of me .
Idril: [clasps her hands tightly together in her lap. Firmly:] Maeglin - You cannot gain by taking from another.
Maeglin: [pleading] Can you not gain by giving to another?
Idril: [Stands] I cannot give to you what is not yours to have. [Maeglin reaches for her but she backs away from him.] Do not look at me like that! You always look like that. I am your cousin, Maeglin!
Maeglin: [with frustration] What of it? Are we children, obeying meaningless laws without thought? [earnestly] Idril - I am no fool, nor a child, infatuated with a goddess. I see you as you are – and what I see, I love.
Idril: [shaking her head] You do not love me. Maybe you think desire and possessiveness are the stuff of love, but I know otherwise. This desire is unwholesome. Leave me, and try and forget this passion.
Maeglin: [makes a choking sound in his throat, replies hoarsely:] I will have none but you!
Idril: Then I pity you, Maeglin.. [Staring at him in sorrow she shakes her head, then turns and walks away, leaving him alone again. Fade.]
* * * * *
[Camera cut to Lorgan’s Compound.. Camera focus on a group of slave women washing bedding and hanging the wet blankets on lines to dry in the sun. Several are young, and they talk and laugh as they work. Camera shift left and focus on Tuor, crossing the compound. Tuor glances at the women and smiles. They smile back, then hide behind the laundry, giggling.
Focus on Tuor, drawing water from the well and filling large buckets. Several guardsmen approach, laughing. Tuor glances at them, then continues with his work. Guardsmen gather around the well, ominous.]
Guard 1: We want a drink, boy.
Tuor: [glances at him, fills bucket] So? Get yourself one.
Guard 2: You get it for us.
Guard 3: That is why you are here, is it not?
Tuor: I tend the hounds.
Guard 1: There is hardly a difference between the slaves and the hounds…you both do what you are told.
[Guard 1 shoves Tuor back from the well. The well bucket falls back into the well as Tuor staggers and braces for the fight he knows will come.]
Guard 2: After all, you are nothing!
Guard 3: You are a filthy strawhead! [lifts one of the buckets Tuor was filling, dumps it out, drops it]
Guard 2: And if we say you are going to get us a drink, then you will get us one.
Guard 1: If I tell you to lick my boots, you will lick them!
Guard 3: And if I say I am going to shove my spear in you because I want to know how it feels, you will like it!
Guard: [1 dumps the other bucket Tuor has filled, laughs, and tosses it across the compound.] Now get that drink, boy!
Guard 2: He will have to jump down the well for the bucket.
Guard 1: Why not give him a hand!
[All Guardsmen move toward Tuor, laughing. Tuor waits until all are within reach, then throws a roundhouse at Guard 3 and follows with a swift kick to the groin. Guard 3 goes down, screaming. Tuor punches Guard 1 in the eye, temporarily blinding him. Guard 2 tackles Tuor, but Tuor seizes Guard 2’s wrist and twists his arm behind his back.
Camera pan compound. Guards are running toward the fight. Lorgan stalks out of his house, whip in hand, looking grim but not unhappy. Camera cut back to Tuor, backing toward Kennels with Guard 2 used as a shield. Camera shift to Ardaric, who comes out of the Kennels with a short club.]
Tuor: [firmly] Get back, or I will break his arm!
Lorgan: Do not be stupid, boy. I will not kill you if you drop this now.
[Tuor backs up another step. Ardaric swings the club, knocking Tuor unconscious. Guard 2 staggers away as Tuor falls. Other Guardsmen back up, now that the excitement is over. Lorgan approaches, turns Tuor onto his back with a kick.]
Lorgan: When he wakes, let him get the bucket out of the well and water my hounds. Then chain him to the wall. I will deal with him tomorrow. [exits left. Camera cut.]
There is magic in long-distance friendships. They let you relate to other human beings in a way that goes beyond being physically together and is often more profound.
~Diana Cortes
~Diana Cortes
* * * * *
[Camera cut to Tuor, naked, chained to the wall in Lorgan’s Compound. A crowd stands around, watching, as Lorgan approaches. Lorgan carries a short whip with many tails. Lorgan eyes Tuor, then sticks the whip in his belt. Lorgan walks to a weapons rack and picks up a stout wooden staff, then returns to the wall.]
Lorgan: [firmly] Let this be a lesson to all of you. I am a gentle and generous master. You are all glad of this. But I will brook no defiance! [turns to Tuor Be grateful that I need you whole and healthy, boy. I should cripple you for what you did, but my hounds have never run so well as they have since you began caring for them.
[Camera focus on Lorgan as he swings the staff back and strikes Tuor across the back of the thighs. Camera focus on Tuor as the blow falls. Tuor stiffens and bites back a scream. Camera shift to Lorgan as the beating continues. Camera shift to Tuor, who grips his chains and bites his lip until it bleeds but will not cry out. Camera cut to Ardaric, clenching his lips and twisting his fingers together as he watches the beating.]
Ardaric: [whispers] Give it up, boy! Scream, cry, beg for mercy. Give him what he wants.
[Camera cut to Lorgan, who throws one more blow and then tosses the staff to the nearest guard. Lorgan wipes sweat from his face and holds out his hand. A slave brings him a cup, and Lorgan drinks.]
Lorgan: Let him hang there until nightfall. [exits right]
[Camera shift to Tuor, who sags in the chains. Camera pan back to show Tuor’s full injuries. Bleeding bruises cover his back, buttocks, and thighs. The staff has left welts that wrap around his sides. The sun sends waves of heat shimmering up from the ground beneath him. Camera blur, fade to black.]
*
[Camera fade back to Lorgan’s Compound, evening. Focus on Tuor, still hanging on the wall. Ardaric enters right and walks to Tuor, followed by a guardsman. The guard unchains Tuor, and Tuor crumples to the ground. Ardaric bends over him, concerned.]
Ardaric: [slaps Tuor’s cheek] Wake up, boy! I can brace you, but I cannot lift all your weight. [Camera focus on Tuor, who opens one eye. The other is shut by a swollen bruise. His face is nearly as badly beaten as his back.]
Ardaric: Can you stand?
[Tuor grunts and pulls himself slowly upright, unsteady but on his feet. He leans on Ardaric, who wraps an arm around his chest. Tuor grunts again in pain; he has several broken ribs. Ardaric guides Tuor toward the Kennels. Camera shift to Kennels as Ardaric and Tuor enter. The door swings closed behind them. Camera shift inside Kennels as Ardaric lays Tuor on clean straw in a stall.]
Ardaric: [to Tuor] There now. It is not so bad, is it? You will be back on your feet after a good night’s sleep, I have no doubt. [kneels beside Tuor, wets the towel, and begins bathing his back and legs.] This will help. [Tuor groans.]
Ardaric: [to Tuor] You are fortunate, you know. Our Master could have killed you. Nobody would stop him, least of all me. Your pride will get you a grave, if you are fortunate.
Tuor: Right now I need water more than wise council.
Ardaric: [chuckles] You have courage, I will give you that… [reaches for a cup of water] though it is misplaced for one in your position. Find yourself some peace, boy. [Camera pull back as Ardaric aids Tuor to drink. Camera fade.]
* * * * *
[Camera cut to Dorlómin, twilight. Shadows grow long and bare trees reach for the sky like treacherous fingers. Clouds threaten rain. Wind rises. Camera focus on Faervel as he shades his eyes with one hand, studies the sky, and grunts in annoyance. Faervel pulls his cloak more tightly around his shoulders, pulls up his hood, and turns his path toward a cluster of thick brush as rain begins to fall.]
Faervel: [voiceover, in Sindar, translated] The year turns at last. It is time I found my way home.
[Faervel slips into a cluster of small trees and thick brush that serves to block the storm. He props his pack against one of the sturdier trees, spreads his cloak on the ground, and settles himself comfortably. He rummages through his pack and pulls out a skin of wine, some dried meat, and a nice apple. Lightning flashes, and thunder follows quickly. Faervel settles himself to eat. A fox, drenched by the rain, slinks into the thicket and eyes him warily.]
Faervel: There is room for us both. [lightning flashes again, thunder shakes the ground] I would stay here, whatever the company, were I in your place. [chuckles But suit yourself. Your kind always do.
[Camera focus on Fox as it shakes water from its coat, eyes Faervel one last time, then pads over to his cloak. Fox snatches a strip of meat from Faervel’s lap and curls up on the cloak, happily chewing.]
Faervel: So I am good enough to dine with, am I? Well, then, a toast to us! [raises wine, drinks. Camera cut as thunder rolls.]
* * * * *
[Camera cut to Dorlómin, night. The storm has stopped, but leaves drip. Camera focus on Gizik, drenched but smiling evilly. A Warg crouches beside him. Camera shift left. Enelyë, with Annael and Lagorthal, and 3 other Grey Elves [one male and two female], and several children, have taken shelter under some trees. They have propped cloaks on branches to protect them from the storm. All Elves shelter together, taking comfort in each other. The Men are watchful even as the women pass waybread to the children. Camera shift to Gizik as he beckons with one hand. Orc Captain enters right. Eight Easterlings, five Wargs and fifteen Orcs follow him.]
Gizik: [whispers, points] Our quarry.
Orc Captain: Good. We will have supper tonight, and entertainment as well.
Orc 1: I likes the young ones.
Orc 2: [grunts] Tender flesh to tear.
Easterling 2: Our master wants slaves, not corpses!
Orc Captain: [growls] Your master will take what I give him. [pats nearest Warg] Let’s take them!
* * * * *
[Camera cut to Grey Elves. Annael lifts his head, startled. Orcs and Easterlings crash through the brush. Male Elf 1 sees them first. He points, screaming a warning and drawing a long knife as he stands. A Warg tackles him immediately and he falls, blood spraying as he stabs futilely at the monster. Annael and Lagorthal draw what weapons they have and join the fight. The Elf Women also draw blades and attempt to defend the children. Easterlings and Orcs growl and curse as they fight to subdue the Elves. Wargs snarl and snap.
Annael slashes at Easterlings with a long knife. Gizik steps back, draws his bow, and fires. Annael avoids the arrow, but as he does Easterling 2 grabs him and disarms him. Camera cut to Enelyë, fighting to hold off Orc 11 with her small knife.]
Enelyë: [screams] Annael!
[Camera shift to Annael, struggling with Easterling 2. Lagorthal stabs a Warg, killing it instantly. Lagorthal whirls and slashes at Easterling 2 with the bloody knife. Easterling 2 flinches back, giving Annael enough leverage to break free.
Annael dashes to help Enelyë, grabbing Elf Man’s fallen blade as he runs. Annael stabs Orc 11 in the back and he falls, screaming and spraying blood. Annael turns back to the fight to find seven Orcs facing him, grinning with malice.
Camera pan to Orc Captain as he thrusts his blade at Lagorthal. Lagorthal darts and dodges away, but Orc Captain follows relentlessly. Lagorthal’s shorter blade is no match for the long Noldor sword Orc Captain is swinging. Orc Captain laughs, driving Lagorthal toward Easterlings 3, 4, and 7.
Camera shift to Gizik as he draws his bow. Camera follow the shaft to target, Elf Woman 1 who has a small child in her arms. She has just slashed Easterling 6 across his face, blinding him. Gizik shoots, hitting the Elf Woman in the shoulder. She staggers, and a Warg moves in for the kill. Elf Woman 1 and Child both scream as the Warg nears them. Camera focus on Annael, outnumbered and desperate. Camera shift to Lagorthal, struggling against three Orcs. Camera shift back to Warg, stalking around fallen Elf Woman1 as if she were a cornered rabbit. Several Orcs move closer to her.]
Orc 1: No! At least give us the little one.
Orc Captain: There are plenty here, even for your fat gut.
[Camera focus on Warg as it lunges at Elf Woman 1. A knife flies from upper right, whistling, and buries itself just behind Warg’s skull, cutting the spine. Camera shift to Orcs, Wargs, and Easterlings, startled. Camera pan left as Faervel drops from a large branch above Lagorthal, slashing Orcs 3 and 4 with the knives he holds in each hand on his way down. Both Orcs fall. Lagorthal rams an elbow into Orc 7’s face. Orc 7’s nose explodes and Lagorthal wrenches free.
Annael, Enelyë, and Elf Woman 1 renew their defense as most of the Orcs, Easterlings, and Wargs turn on Faervel. Faervel dodges and slashes, efficient and ruthless. Gizik fires an arrow, and Faervel pulls Orc 2 in as a shield.
Remaining Easterlings and Orcs draw back, surrounding Faervel but cautious. Orcs 2, 8, 9, and 10, Easterling 2, Easterling 5, and two Wargs lay dead or dying near Faervel. Faervel is bleeding from several wounds, breathing hard, but still standing and ready to fight. Orc Captain growls and steps forward, brandishing his sword.
Camera shift to edge of trees. All mobile Elves have clustered together, forgotten for the moment as their attackers concentrate on Faervel. Camera pan to wounded Elf Woman 1 and Child, lying under the fallen Warg. Camera shift to Faervel and Orc Captain, glaring at each other.]
Orc Captain: Get back! This one is mine.
Orc 8: [spattered with black blood from dead comrades, grins] As you wish!
Faervel: [brandishes blades, both glowing brightly] Shall we dance, you ugly son of a Troll?
[Orc Captain growls at the insult, and slashes at Faervel. Faervel darts out of the way, moving closer to Orc Captain as he dodges. Orc Captain blocks one of Faervel’s blades so hard the knife snaps. Faervel throws the hilt at Orc Captain; Orc Captain laughs and moves in. Faervel feints with his remaining blade, then thrusts. Orc Captain avoids the blow and strikes Faervel’s wrist with the flat of his sword. Faervel drops the knife, and Orc Captain kicks it out of reach. Camera cut to Annael and Lagorthal weighing the odds of joining the fight.]
Elf Woman 2: [whisper] Let us get free while we can. You cannot help our rescuer now.
Annael: [whisper, firm] He risked himself for us. We can do no less.
[Orcs and Easterlings laugh as Faervel edges the circle, unarmed. Orc Captain brandishes the sword and backs Faervel over a small rock. Faervel stumbles, falls, and Orc Captain is on top of him. Camera shift to Annael who freezes just as he had begun to move. Lagorthal stumbles, catching himself as he was about to follow his friend.
Camera cut to Orcs as Faervel tries to twist away from Orc Captain. Orc Captain levels the glowing tip of his sword against Faervel’s face, holding Faervel still with the threat. Camera focus on Orc Captain as he smiles and draws the tip of his sword deliberately over Faervel’s right eye, leaving a trail of blood. Orc Captain chuckles. Gizik and Orc 6 laugh.
Faervel vaults up, seizes Orc Captain’s wrist, and smashes it over his knee. Orc Captain releases the sword with a roar of pain. Faervel grabs the sword and shoves it through Orc Captain’s jaw. The sword emerges out the top of Orc Captain’s skull. Camera focus on Faervel, half blinded, bloody, and grim.]
Faervel: [in Sindar, translated] Laugh at this, boot licker!
[Camera pull back as Lagorthal and Annael charge, slashing into the circle of foes around Faervel. Remaining Orcs, Easterlings, and Wargs break quickly and flee, exit right. Faervel falls to his knees, gasping for breath. He falls forward, catching himself on his hands. Camera focus on the blood dripping from his ruined eye and falling on the grass and on the blade of the Noldor sword he still holds in fat drops. The glow fades from the sword. Faervel whispers untranslated Sindar curses, then forces himself upright although he is still kneeling.
Camera blur trees as Faervel looks up. Camera focus on sky, but the stars are blurred and the right side of the screen is dark. Footsteps rustle from screen left. Faervel turns, Camera remains in his POV. Annael and Lagorthal approach slowly, moving so Faervel can see them with his remaining eye. Enelyë, Elf Woman 2, and children join them. The children are frightened, crying, and clinging to the adults. All Elves eye each other, uncertain.]
Enelyë: [pushes past Annael, impatient] You are hurt. [to Elf Woman 2] Find clean cloths to bathe him and something for a bandage. [to Annael] Do we still have some wine? [Annael nods] Then bring it, quicky! [to Lagorthal, motions toward Elf Woman 1 under dead Warg] Make yourself useful. See if they are alive. [Lagorthal quickly moves toward Elf Woman 1]
[Elf Woman 2 returns with a small child’s dress and some fresh leaves. Faervel braces himself as Enelyë rips the dress into strips, separating the long ones and bunching up shorter pieces. Annael enters left with a skin of wine and a cup. He hesitates as Enelyë spits on one of the shorter pieces and turns to Faervel, intending to wash the blood from his wound.]
Faervel: [reaches for the wine with his good hand] Before you begin, Lady, I think I will take that drink.
Annael: [hands Faervel the wine] I fear we are short of water, even for necessities.
Enelyë: Do not worry, Lord. I have cleaned many scrapes this way and they have healed quickly enough.
Faervel: [takes a drink of wine, hands skin to Annael] Lady, I have no complaints about your methods. My courage just needs reinforcement.
[Some of the children giggle at this. Elf Woman 2 and 3 gather them away from Faervel. Enelyë shakes her head as she cleans the blood from Faervel’s face, bruises the leaves, and binds the leaves over the ruined eye.]
Enelyë: I fear that is the most I can do here. I am no healer, and there is no place here for you to rest. [to Annael] Can we carry him with us?
[Camera focus on Annael, then shift to Elf Man’s body lying in the grass. Camera shift to Lagorthal, tying a bandage of torn clothing on Elf Woman 1’s shoulder. Lagorthal lifts the child she was carrying and Elf Woman 1 moves toward the group, steady but slow. Camera focus on Annael, looking grim.]
Annael: We had better. I will not stay here this night. Perhaps …
Faervel: [firmly] I can walk, at least for a time. I may need someone to lead me, but my legs are strong enough. [stands, unsteady] Let us leave this place before we rest.
Annael: [turns to the children] Elhedril, you will lead our rescuer. Take care with him.
[A slim girl who looks about 10 years old separates from the group and walks toward them. She hesitates, glancing at Faervel’s injuries. Then she draws a breath to steady herself and takes the hand he holds out to her. Elhedril puts Faervel’s hand on her shoulder, pats it as if he were a child, and looks to Annael for direction. Camera pan over Elves gathering scattered possessions. All look to Annael. Annael glances screen left, then to Faervel.]
Annael: Now we must find some place safe for rest.
Faervel: Where you lead, I will follow. [glances at Elhedril, gives a crooked smile. Camera focus on Elhedril as she smiles at Faervel. Enelyë joins Annael, who shoulders the last pack. All Elves cluster, carrying packs and cloaks. Annael nods to himself, leads Elves into the trees screen left. Elhedril leads Faervel carefully, taking her job seriously as they move through the trees.]
Elhedril: [concerned] Take care, Lord. The branches will strike your face.
Faervel: I am not worried. I trust you. [raises his free hand in front of his face. Camera pan over Elves, cut.]
[Camera cut to Tuor, naked, chained to the wall in Lorgan’s Compound. A crowd stands around, watching, as Lorgan approaches. Lorgan carries a short whip with many tails. Lorgan eyes Tuor, then sticks the whip in his belt. Lorgan walks to a weapons rack and picks up a stout wooden staff, then returns to the wall.]
Lorgan: [firmly] Let this be a lesson to all of you. I am a gentle and generous master. You are all glad of this. But I will brook no defiance! [turns to Tuor Be grateful that I need you whole and healthy, boy. I should cripple you for what you did, but my hounds have never run so well as they have since you began caring for them.
[Camera focus on Lorgan as he swings the staff back and strikes Tuor across the back of the thighs. Camera focus on Tuor as the blow falls. Tuor stiffens and bites back a scream. Camera shift to Lorgan as the beating continues. Camera shift to Tuor, who grips his chains and bites his lip until it bleeds but will not cry out. Camera cut to Ardaric, clenching his lips and twisting his fingers together as he watches the beating.]
Ardaric: [whispers] Give it up, boy! Scream, cry, beg for mercy. Give him what he wants.
[Camera cut to Lorgan, who throws one more blow and then tosses the staff to the nearest guard. Lorgan wipes sweat from his face and holds out his hand. A slave brings him a cup, and Lorgan drinks.]
Lorgan: Let him hang there until nightfall. [exits right]
[Camera shift to Tuor, who sags in the chains. Camera pan back to show Tuor’s full injuries. Bleeding bruises cover his back, buttocks, and thighs. The staff has left welts that wrap around his sides. The sun sends waves of heat shimmering up from the ground beneath him. Camera blur, fade to black.]
*
[Camera fade back to Lorgan’s Compound, evening. Focus on Tuor, still hanging on the wall. Ardaric enters right and walks to Tuor, followed by a guardsman. The guard unchains Tuor, and Tuor crumples to the ground. Ardaric bends over him, concerned.]
Ardaric: [slaps Tuor’s cheek] Wake up, boy! I can brace you, but I cannot lift all your weight. [Camera focus on Tuor, who opens one eye. The other is shut by a swollen bruise. His face is nearly as badly beaten as his back.]
Ardaric: Can you stand?
[Tuor grunts and pulls himself slowly upright, unsteady but on his feet. He leans on Ardaric, who wraps an arm around his chest. Tuor grunts again in pain; he has several broken ribs. Ardaric guides Tuor toward the Kennels. Camera shift to Kennels as Ardaric and Tuor enter. The door swings closed behind them. Camera shift inside Kennels as Ardaric lays Tuor on clean straw in a stall.]
Ardaric: [to Tuor] There now. It is not so bad, is it? You will be back on your feet after a good night’s sleep, I have no doubt. [kneels beside Tuor, wets the towel, and begins bathing his back and legs.] This will help. [Tuor groans.]
Ardaric: [to Tuor] You are fortunate, you know. Our Master could have killed you. Nobody would stop him, least of all me. Your pride will get you a grave, if you are fortunate.
Tuor: Right now I need water more than wise council.
Ardaric: [chuckles] You have courage, I will give you that… [reaches for a cup of water] though it is misplaced for one in your position. Find yourself some peace, boy. [Camera pull back as Ardaric aids Tuor to drink. Camera fade.]
* * * * *
[Camera cut to Dorlómin, twilight. Shadows grow long and bare trees reach for the sky like treacherous fingers. Clouds threaten rain. Wind rises. Camera focus on Faervel as he shades his eyes with one hand, studies the sky, and grunts in annoyance. Faervel pulls his cloak more tightly around his shoulders, pulls up his hood, and turns his path toward a cluster of thick brush as rain begins to fall.]
Faervel: [voiceover, in Sindar, translated] The year turns at last. It is time I found my way home.
[Faervel slips into a cluster of small trees and thick brush that serves to block the storm. He props his pack against one of the sturdier trees, spreads his cloak on the ground, and settles himself comfortably. He rummages through his pack and pulls out a skin of wine, some dried meat, and a nice apple. Lightning flashes, and thunder follows quickly. Faervel settles himself to eat. A fox, drenched by the rain, slinks into the thicket and eyes him warily.]
Faervel: There is room for us both. [lightning flashes again, thunder shakes the ground] I would stay here, whatever the company, were I in your place. [chuckles But suit yourself. Your kind always do.
[Camera focus on Fox as it shakes water from its coat, eyes Faervel one last time, then pads over to his cloak. Fox snatches a strip of meat from Faervel’s lap and curls up on the cloak, happily chewing.]
Faervel: So I am good enough to dine with, am I? Well, then, a toast to us! [raises wine, drinks. Camera cut as thunder rolls.]
* * * * *
[Camera cut to Dorlómin, night. The storm has stopped, but leaves drip. Camera focus on Gizik, drenched but smiling evilly. A Warg crouches beside him. Camera shift left. Enelyë, with Annael and Lagorthal, and 3 other Grey Elves [one male and two female], and several children, have taken shelter under some trees. They have propped cloaks on branches to protect them from the storm. All Elves shelter together, taking comfort in each other. The Men are watchful even as the women pass waybread to the children. Camera shift to Gizik as he beckons with one hand. Orc Captain enters right. Eight Easterlings, five Wargs and fifteen Orcs follow him.]
Gizik: [whispers, points] Our quarry.
Orc Captain: Good. We will have supper tonight, and entertainment as well.
Orc 1: I likes the young ones.
Orc 2: [grunts] Tender flesh to tear.
Easterling 2: Our master wants slaves, not corpses!
Orc Captain: [growls] Your master will take what I give him. [pats nearest Warg] Let’s take them!
* * * * *
[Camera cut to Grey Elves. Annael lifts his head, startled. Orcs and Easterlings crash through the brush. Male Elf 1 sees them first. He points, screaming a warning and drawing a long knife as he stands. A Warg tackles him immediately and he falls, blood spraying as he stabs futilely at the monster. Annael and Lagorthal draw what weapons they have and join the fight. The Elf Women also draw blades and attempt to defend the children. Easterlings and Orcs growl and curse as they fight to subdue the Elves. Wargs snarl and snap.
Annael slashes at Easterlings with a long knife. Gizik steps back, draws his bow, and fires. Annael avoids the arrow, but as he does Easterling 2 grabs him and disarms him. Camera cut to Enelyë, fighting to hold off Orc 11 with her small knife.]
Enelyë: [screams] Annael!
[Camera shift to Annael, struggling with Easterling 2. Lagorthal stabs a Warg, killing it instantly. Lagorthal whirls and slashes at Easterling 2 with the bloody knife. Easterling 2 flinches back, giving Annael enough leverage to break free.
Annael dashes to help Enelyë, grabbing Elf Man’s fallen blade as he runs. Annael stabs Orc 11 in the back and he falls, screaming and spraying blood. Annael turns back to the fight to find seven Orcs facing him, grinning with malice.
Camera pan to Orc Captain as he thrusts his blade at Lagorthal. Lagorthal darts and dodges away, but Orc Captain follows relentlessly. Lagorthal’s shorter blade is no match for the long Noldor sword Orc Captain is swinging. Orc Captain laughs, driving Lagorthal toward Easterlings 3, 4, and 7.
Camera shift to Gizik as he draws his bow. Camera follow the shaft to target, Elf Woman 1 who has a small child in her arms. She has just slashed Easterling 6 across his face, blinding him. Gizik shoots, hitting the Elf Woman in the shoulder. She staggers, and a Warg moves in for the kill. Elf Woman 1 and Child both scream as the Warg nears them. Camera focus on Annael, outnumbered and desperate. Camera shift to Lagorthal, struggling against three Orcs. Camera shift back to Warg, stalking around fallen Elf Woman1 as if she were a cornered rabbit. Several Orcs move closer to her.]
Orc 1: No! At least give us the little one.
Orc Captain: There are plenty here, even for your fat gut.
[Camera focus on Warg as it lunges at Elf Woman 1. A knife flies from upper right, whistling, and buries itself just behind Warg’s skull, cutting the spine. Camera shift to Orcs, Wargs, and Easterlings, startled. Camera pan left as Faervel drops from a large branch above Lagorthal, slashing Orcs 3 and 4 with the knives he holds in each hand on his way down. Both Orcs fall. Lagorthal rams an elbow into Orc 7’s face. Orc 7’s nose explodes and Lagorthal wrenches free.
Annael, Enelyë, and Elf Woman 1 renew their defense as most of the Orcs, Easterlings, and Wargs turn on Faervel. Faervel dodges and slashes, efficient and ruthless. Gizik fires an arrow, and Faervel pulls Orc 2 in as a shield.
Remaining Easterlings and Orcs draw back, surrounding Faervel but cautious. Orcs 2, 8, 9, and 10, Easterling 2, Easterling 5, and two Wargs lay dead or dying near Faervel. Faervel is bleeding from several wounds, breathing hard, but still standing and ready to fight. Orc Captain growls and steps forward, brandishing his sword.
Camera shift to edge of trees. All mobile Elves have clustered together, forgotten for the moment as their attackers concentrate on Faervel. Camera pan to wounded Elf Woman 1 and Child, lying under the fallen Warg. Camera shift to Faervel and Orc Captain, glaring at each other.]
Orc Captain: Get back! This one is mine.
Orc 8: [spattered with black blood from dead comrades, grins] As you wish!
Faervel: [brandishes blades, both glowing brightly] Shall we dance, you ugly son of a Troll?
[Orc Captain growls at the insult, and slashes at Faervel. Faervel darts out of the way, moving closer to Orc Captain as he dodges. Orc Captain blocks one of Faervel’s blades so hard the knife snaps. Faervel throws the hilt at Orc Captain; Orc Captain laughs and moves in. Faervel feints with his remaining blade, then thrusts. Orc Captain avoids the blow and strikes Faervel’s wrist with the flat of his sword. Faervel drops the knife, and Orc Captain kicks it out of reach. Camera cut to Annael and Lagorthal weighing the odds of joining the fight.]
Elf Woman 2: [whisper] Let us get free while we can. You cannot help our rescuer now.
Annael: [whisper, firm] He risked himself for us. We can do no less.
[Orcs and Easterlings laugh as Faervel edges the circle, unarmed. Orc Captain brandishes the sword and backs Faervel over a small rock. Faervel stumbles, falls, and Orc Captain is on top of him. Camera shift to Annael who freezes just as he had begun to move. Lagorthal stumbles, catching himself as he was about to follow his friend.
Camera cut to Orcs as Faervel tries to twist away from Orc Captain. Orc Captain levels the glowing tip of his sword against Faervel’s face, holding Faervel still with the threat. Camera focus on Orc Captain as he smiles and draws the tip of his sword deliberately over Faervel’s right eye, leaving a trail of blood. Orc Captain chuckles. Gizik and Orc 6 laugh.
Faervel vaults up, seizes Orc Captain’s wrist, and smashes it over his knee. Orc Captain releases the sword with a roar of pain. Faervel grabs the sword and shoves it through Orc Captain’s jaw. The sword emerges out the top of Orc Captain’s skull. Camera focus on Faervel, half blinded, bloody, and grim.]
Faervel: [in Sindar, translated] Laugh at this, boot licker!
[Camera pull back as Lagorthal and Annael charge, slashing into the circle of foes around Faervel. Remaining Orcs, Easterlings, and Wargs break quickly and flee, exit right. Faervel falls to his knees, gasping for breath. He falls forward, catching himself on his hands. Camera focus on the blood dripping from his ruined eye and falling on the grass and on the blade of the Noldor sword he still holds in fat drops. The glow fades from the sword. Faervel whispers untranslated Sindar curses, then forces himself upright although he is still kneeling.
Camera blur trees as Faervel looks up. Camera focus on sky, but the stars are blurred and the right side of the screen is dark. Footsteps rustle from screen left. Faervel turns, Camera remains in his POV. Annael and Lagorthal approach slowly, moving so Faervel can see them with his remaining eye. Enelyë, Elf Woman 2, and children join them. The children are frightened, crying, and clinging to the adults. All Elves eye each other, uncertain.]
Enelyë: [pushes past Annael, impatient] You are hurt. [to Elf Woman 2] Find clean cloths to bathe him and something for a bandage. [to Annael] Do we still have some wine? [Annael nods] Then bring it, quicky! [to Lagorthal, motions toward Elf Woman 1 under dead Warg] Make yourself useful. See if they are alive. [Lagorthal quickly moves toward Elf Woman 1]
[Elf Woman 2 returns with a small child’s dress and some fresh leaves. Faervel braces himself as Enelyë rips the dress into strips, separating the long ones and bunching up shorter pieces. Annael enters left with a skin of wine and a cup. He hesitates as Enelyë spits on one of the shorter pieces and turns to Faervel, intending to wash the blood from his wound.]
Faervel: [reaches for the wine with his good hand] Before you begin, Lady, I think I will take that drink.
Annael: [hands Faervel the wine] I fear we are short of water, even for necessities.
Enelyë: Do not worry, Lord. I have cleaned many scrapes this way and they have healed quickly enough.
Faervel: [takes a drink of wine, hands skin to Annael] Lady, I have no complaints about your methods. My courage just needs reinforcement.
[Some of the children giggle at this. Elf Woman 2 and 3 gather them away from Faervel. Enelyë shakes her head as she cleans the blood from Faervel’s face, bruises the leaves, and binds the leaves over the ruined eye.]
Enelyë: I fear that is the most I can do here. I am no healer, and there is no place here for you to rest. [to Annael] Can we carry him with us?
[Camera focus on Annael, then shift to Elf Man’s body lying in the grass. Camera shift to Lagorthal, tying a bandage of torn clothing on Elf Woman 1’s shoulder. Lagorthal lifts the child she was carrying and Elf Woman 1 moves toward the group, steady but slow. Camera focus on Annael, looking grim.]
Annael: We had better. I will not stay here this night. Perhaps …
Faervel: [firmly] I can walk, at least for a time. I may need someone to lead me, but my legs are strong enough. [stands, unsteady] Let us leave this place before we rest.
Annael: [turns to the children] Elhedril, you will lead our rescuer. Take care with him.
[A slim girl who looks about 10 years old separates from the group and walks toward them. She hesitates, glancing at Faervel’s injuries. Then she draws a breath to steady herself and takes the hand he holds out to her. Elhedril puts Faervel’s hand on her shoulder, pats it as if he were a child, and looks to Annael for direction. Camera pan over Elves gathering scattered possessions. All look to Annael. Annael glances screen left, then to Faervel.]
Annael: Now we must find some place safe for rest.
Faervel: Where you lead, I will follow. [glances at Elhedril, gives a crooked smile. Camera focus on Elhedril as she smiles at Faervel. Enelyë joins Annael, who shoulders the last pack. All Elves cluster, carrying packs and cloaks. Annael nods to himself, leads Elves into the trees screen left. Elhedril leads Faervel carefully, taking her job seriously as they move through the trees.]
Elhedril: [concerned] Take care, Lord. The branches will strike your face.
Faervel: I am not worried. I trust you. [raises his free hand in front of his face. Camera pan over Elves, cut.]
There is magic in long-distance friendships. They let you relate to other human beings in a way that goes beyond being physically together and is often more profound.
~Diana Cortes
~Diana Cortes
* * * * *
[Camera cut to Lorgan’s Compound. It is late-Autumn, leaves are falling in abundance. Breath steams in the air as slaves perform their tasks. Camera focus on Lorgan with Dengizich, a large Easterling. They are examining part of the wall. One of the Easterlings pushes against a post, and the wall wiggles.]
Dengizich: It is as I told you, my lord. The wood is rotting in the ground as it stands.
Lorgan: [sighs] That is because the ground here never dries. We must grow accustomed to it, I suppose, since we have conquered this place. [pushes wall again, watches it sway] This will not survive the winter as it stands. The north wind strikes this wall like a besieging foe, and I value my livestock.
Dengizich: We could move slave quarters here to brace the wall.
Lorgan: Do you think me both stupid and cruel? The slaves would push through this wall in a few nights and be off into the woods. There they would freeze and starve. We must mend the fence before the snow comes. [turns to Dengizich] Gather some strong backs you can rely on and go cut enough wood for the task.
[Dengizich bows. Lorgan exits left. Dengizich looks around the compound, Camera follow his line of sight. Camera pause at Kennel, where Tuor is bringing two buckets of water to the hounds. Despite the cold, Tuor is wearing rags and is barefoot. Dengizich starts for the Kennel. Camera follows.]
Dengizich: [commanding] Put those buckets down and follow me. We need strong backs with axes in the wood more than those dogs need feeding. [Camera focus on Tuor, who straightens with lips pursed. Camera shift to Kennel as Ardaric emerges, obviously having overheard. Ardaric hurries to take the buckets from Tuor.]
Ardaric: [urgent, whispers] Hear me now, lad! Unless you wish to spend you days in this place, caring for the hounds and avoiding our master’s notice, be smart. If you bide your time and wait until you are well in the trees, you can escape this day. [Camera focus on Tuor, both eager and hesitant. Tuor glances toward the fence, then at Dengizich, then back to Ardaric.]
Tuor: Why would you send me running to the forest? Do you want to watch me as I die on Lorgan’s spear?
Ardaric: [shakes head] Boy, you know me better than that. I could not love a son of my body more than you. But you are not meant to spend your life as a slave to a tyrant. Something great and terrible hangs about you. If you do not follow it now, it may draw you after it at a less wise time. Hear me, and go! Find your destiny while you have a chance to fulfill it.
Dengizich: [impatiently] Come on! Get some axes if you mean to stand around. Ten should be enough. Meet us at the gate before I grow more impatient.
[Camera focus on Tuor as he looks at Ardaric one last time, straightens, and bows to Dengizich.]
Tuor: Forgive me, master. I will be swift.
Dengizich: See that you are. [walks toward far end of compound, where several large slaves are splitting firewood. Motions to three Easterling guards, who join him.
Camera follows Tuor as he throws Ardaric a smile then exits left at a trot. Tuor heads for a large building near the gate. Camera pan to Dengizich as he leads a group of large slaves toward the gate. Like Tuor, the slaves are all ragged and barefoot in the cold. The Easterlings have warm clothing and good boots.Camera shift to gate as Tuor approaches it, carrying ten large wood axes. He is having trouble carrying so many, but he reaches the gate before Dengizich can lead the rest of the slaves to it. Dengizich glares.]
Dengizich: [barks orders harshly] Each of you take an axe. We will cut trees until dark, limb them, and prepare them for use. Tomorrow we will haul the trees we fell today. Get moving, you useless scum!
[The gate is hauled open, and all exit. Tuor carries his axe over his shoulder, and falls into line with the other slaves. The guards flank the slaves, watchful. Camera follows as they head for the woods. When they reach the woods, the Slaves immediately begin chopping trees while Dengizich and the guards supervise.
Trees begin to fall. Some slaves work to limb and strip the bark from the fallen trees, while others move further into the forest to continue cutting. This splits the guards, with two moving into the forest to try and keep track of the wood cutters while Dengizich and the remaining guard stay to monitor the slaves who are liming the logs.
Camera focus on Tuor as he moves through the trees. Dark clouds gather overhead. Tuor pauses beside a large tree next to a stream. He sets his axe for a swing, then glances about. The nearest guard has his back to Tuor, while the other is too far away to notice much. A tree falls with a loud cracking and crashing, and Tuor seizes his chance. He darts across the stream, with the splash covered by the crashing and cracking of the tree. The brush closes around him, and in an instant it looks as if he was never there.
Camera shift to Tuor, crouching in the brush. The axe is still in his hands, held defensively. Camera shift to Tuor’s line of sight. The guards are focused on the fallen tree and a second tree that is coming down. One of the guards turns as the tree falls, and notices that Tuor is gone. Guard shouts, and other Guards respond. Camera cut to Tuor, who freezes as Guards begin to search for him. Guards beat the brush with whips, startling birds and small animals. Dengizich looks enraged. ]
Dengizich: [furious, to Guards] Get the rest of these vermin back! We will return with dogs and search for him!
[Guards drive the rest of the Slaves off lower right. Dengizich glares at the brush one last time before following. Tuor rises, steps from the bushes, and exits upper left, moving quickly. Camera follows Tuor as he runs through brush.
Branches slap his face leaving bloody scratches; the ground climbs and falls beneath him, sharp rocks cut into his feet, and roots and stumps appear to throw him to the ground in spite. Time and again Tuor gets up and runs and runs. His breath frosts as he moves, and before long the sweat on his body is steaming in the cold. Tuor stops, exhausted and shivering. We hear hounds screen right.]
Tuor: [whisper, to himself] Oh, good friends! You will betray me unknowing.
[Camera shift right. Hounds dash through the forest, tracking Tuor and baying all the while. Easterling Guards on horseback follow.
Camera cut to Tuor, running through the forest again. Hounds catch up to him, wagging and jumping on him. They think this is a game. The Hounds knock Tuor down and close on him, licking his face and hands. Tuor pets them affectionately.
Easterling Guard crashes through the brush on horseback, wielding a vicious whip. He begins whipping the Hounds, who yelp with pain. Tuor rises, axe in hand.]
Guard: [to Hounds] You cornered the prey…. Now seize him! Hold him! [flicks whip at a large shaggy Hound. Hound yelps and looks confused.] Hold him! [Guard dismounts, pulls a rope from his saddle, and advances. Hounds close around Tuor. Clouds darken overhead and low thunder rumbles as Guard advances. Camera shift to Hounds, who do not move away from Tuor and block Guard’s path. Guard raises his whip with a vicious glare.]
Tuor: [firmly] If you strike them again, I will kill you.
Guard: Shut your mouth, you filthy scum… [Guard lashes the Hounds one more time. Tuor charges, swinging the axe. Guard twists his whip in the air, reaching for Tuor. Tuor throws himself to the side, rolling onto his knees as the whip cracks above his head.. Hr rears back up, lunging for the guard with his axe which strikes Guard’s throat, slicing through to the spine. Guard’s hat rolls away as he falls, gurgling. Blood pours out of the wound. Hounds back away from the body.
Camera focus on Tuor, standing over Guard and retrieving his axe. A rough coated dark hound approaches and sits beside Tuor, with the Guard’s hat in his mouth. When Tuor does not notice him, the Hound nudges Tuor with the hat. Tuor takes the hat, pats Hound, and smiles as he puts the hat on.]
Tuor: You are right, my friend. I need a thicker coat with the snow coming, and this fool has provided me with much that I can use. [serious] Now, you must leave me. Go! Do not give me away, but fly home and stay with Ardaric. He needs you more than I.
[Hounds do not move as Tuor strips the Guard. Thunder rumbles again. We hear horses moving closer, and other Guards shouting for the one Tuor killed. Snow begins to fall. Tuor glances up at the sky and groans to himself] Just what I do not need. This snow will reveal my tracks like a blazed trail. Do the Valar hate me too?
[Lightning strikes a tree near Tuor. Thunder rumbles, and lightning strikes again near the same spot. Hounds yelp and exit right, except for the shaggy brown one and the large dark one that brought the hat. These move closer to Tuor.
Camera shift to Easterlings. Horses are panicked by the lightning. Hounds enter, fleeing, from middle left of screen and exit right. Easterlings wrench their horses around and follow Hounds, just as terrified. Camera shift to Tuor, now dressed in the dead Guard’s clothing. Tuor examines Guard’s knife, slips it back into the sheath at his waist, and lifts his axe. Tuor turns to left, then glances at the two Hounds.]
Tuor: [sighs] Well, if you are bound to stay with me I cannot say I mind the company. Let us find some place to wait out this storm. [Tuor exits left, and Hounds follow. Camera pull back as snow continues to fall. We see Tuor and Hounds, small and distant as they move through the woods.]
* * * * *
[Camera pan over forest in Dor-lómin. Camera focus on Tuor, with snow settling on his shoulders and head. Both Hounds flank him, but their tails are down and they look anxious. Tuor glances at the sky, Camera follows. Snow falls thickly.
Camera shift down as something stirs the brush screen left. Tuor turns toward the noise. The snow seems less heavy to the left, as if a door was opening. Tuor pulls the dead Guard’s cloak more tightly around his shoulders and heads left, with the Hounds beside him. Camera follows.
Camera pan forward into a low opening in the side of a hill. Tuor has to duck low and enter sideways, as the opening is narrow. Hounds push forward and enter one at a time. Camera follow Tuor into a spacious Cave. The Cave is lit softly by luminous lichens growing on the walls. Water seeps from one side, dripping from several stalactites into a pool. Tuor’s breath and Hounds’ breath no longer fogs inside the Cave. Hounds go to the pool, sniff the water, and drink heartily. Tuor kneels beside the pool, cups his hand, sniffs the water, and finally tastes it.]
Tuor: [to Hounds] It is fresh. There must be a spring in those rocks. At least we will not die of thirst. [Tuor drinks deeply. Then he rises, brushes his hands on his clothes, and turns to explore the cave. Camera follows. Hounds lay down in a dry corner, apparently satisfied that the cave is safe. Tuor sighs and joins them, stretching his legs out and wrapping himself in the cloak. Hounds press close to him. Tuor pets them, relaxing at last. Camera cut.]
*
[Camera cut to Tuor’s cave, later. A fire is lit near the entrance, burned to coals. Tuor stands near the fire, sharpening a wooden spear with the knife he took from the Guard. Several more spears lay in the fire to harden. Tuor changes spears, hones the new one. Hounds lay near the fire, watching him. Behind Tuor, we see two piles of pine boughs, obviously beds.]
Tuor: Tomorrow we will find something to eat. I promise, we will not sleep hungry another night. [Camera pull back as Tuor and Hounds settle in. Camera fade.]
*
[Camera cut to snowy forest. Camera focus on a large rabbit, sinking slightly as it moves through the snow. Camera shift to Tuor, hiding in brush, spear in hand. Camera shift to rabbit, who stops to pull some ferns from the snow. Tuor rises, throws spear.
Camera cut to Tuor, pulling the rabbit from the spear. Two more rabbits are tucked into his belt. Hounds watch eagerly.]
*
[Camera cut to Tuor’s cave, some months later.. Hounds are curled on one pile of branches, asleep. Tuor sits on the other pile, now covered in skins, half asleep. A small fire burns brightly near the front of the Cave, and wind howls outside. Tuor’s hair and beard are tangled, and some of his clothing has been replaced with rabbit and deer skins. Camera focus on Tuor, as the shadows dance on the wall of the cave. Screen dissolves into his memories of sitting around a fire like this one back in Androth with his foster parents. Enelyë & Annael’s faces float before Tuor’s eyes as he remembers snatches of the conversation.]
Enelyë: ...if the might of the Eldar cannot hold back the fires of Angband, how might you, son of Huor? ...
Annael: ...Far hence, I deem, your doom lies Tuor...
Tuor: …how shall we escape the net of our enemies? ...
Annael: …we shall come to the secret way which we call the Gate of the Noldor ...
Enelyë: ...there we will pass safely into the lands of our kin….
[Outside, the wind moans as it swirls through the trees. Faintly we hear “Tuor… Tuor.” Tuor lifts his head, sleepy yet startled,]
Wind: [with Annael’s voice] Tuor….look to the spring…
Tuor: Ada? [shakes head, settles back. Camera fade.]
*
[Camera focus on Tuor, standing outside his Cave. He wears a long cap made of rabbit skins, and a deer’s hide for a tunic. More skins are stitched together to make trousers. He now has a full beard, and his hair falls below his shoulders in a tangled mass. Water drips from every branch and a lump of snow falls heavily. Tuor glances around, then up at the clear sky. Hounds whine.]
Tuor: Winter is passing fast. Lorgan will think to hunt for us again all too soon. We must move on… [Hounds seem pleased as he pats them. Camera pull back as Tuor exits, focus on melting snow. Camera fade out.]
* * * * *
[Fade into scene of Tuor walking west, following various streams, then turning away as they lead to dead-ends or turn eastwards. Mournful and exhausted, Tuor sits on a rock by a cave entrance, a small spring trickling forth from below the rock. As Tuor sits in despair, his head lowered. The spring begins to bubble and and overflow into a rill that runs noisily down the hillside. Tuor takes this as a sign and jumps up to follow it. For three days he follows the spring [condense this with brief clips of the stream growing as Tuor passes from the hills of Mithrim into the northern plain of Dor-lómin, westward to towards the ridge of the Ered Lómin which fences the coastlands from the interior. At dusk on the third day the stream runs down into a cloven bed and finally flows through an opening in a great wall of rock and is seemingly lost beneath the arch. Disheartened, Tuor makes camp and lights a fire, keeping watch among the rocks on the bank of the stream through the night. Fade.]
* * * * *
[Camera cut to Lorgan’s Compound. It is late-Autumn, leaves are falling in abundance. Breath steams in the air as slaves perform their tasks. Camera focus on Lorgan with Dengizich, a large Easterling. They are examining part of the wall. One of the Easterlings pushes against a post, and the wall wiggles.]
Dengizich: It is as I told you, my lord. The wood is rotting in the ground as it stands.
Lorgan: [sighs] That is because the ground here never dries. We must grow accustomed to it, I suppose, since we have conquered this place. [pushes wall again, watches it sway] This will not survive the winter as it stands. The north wind strikes this wall like a besieging foe, and I value my livestock.
Dengizich: We could move slave quarters here to brace the wall.
Lorgan: Do you think me both stupid and cruel? The slaves would push through this wall in a few nights and be off into the woods. There they would freeze and starve. We must mend the fence before the snow comes. [turns to Dengizich] Gather some strong backs you can rely on and go cut enough wood for the task.
[Dengizich bows. Lorgan exits left. Dengizich looks around the compound, Camera follow his line of sight. Camera pause at Kennel, where Tuor is bringing two buckets of water to the hounds. Despite the cold, Tuor is wearing rags and is barefoot. Dengizich starts for the Kennel. Camera follows.]
Dengizich: [commanding] Put those buckets down and follow me. We need strong backs with axes in the wood more than those dogs need feeding. [Camera focus on Tuor, who straightens with lips pursed. Camera shift to Kennel as Ardaric emerges, obviously having overheard. Ardaric hurries to take the buckets from Tuor.]
Ardaric: [urgent, whispers] Hear me now, lad! Unless you wish to spend you days in this place, caring for the hounds and avoiding our master’s notice, be smart. If you bide your time and wait until you are well in the trees, you can escape this day. [Camera focus on Tuor, both eager and hesitant. Tuor glances toward the fence, then at Dengizich, then back to Ardaric.]
Tuor: Why would you send me running to the forest? Do you want to watch me as I die on Lorgan’s spear?
Ardaric: [shakes head] Boy, you know me better than that. I could not love a son of my body more than you. But you are not meant to spend your life as a slave to a tyrant. Something great and terrible hangs about you. If you do not follow it now, it may draw you after it at a less wise time. Hear me, and go! Find your destiny while you have a chance to fulfill it.
Dengizich: [impatiently] Come on! Get some axes if you mean to stand around. Ten should be enough. Meet us at the gate before I grow more impatient.
[Camera focus on Tuor as he looks at Ardaric one last time, straightens, and bows to Dengizich.]
Tuor: Forgive me, master. I will be swift.
Dengizich: See that you are. [walks toward far end of compound, where several large slaves are splitting firewood. Motions to three Easterling guards, who join him.
Camera follows Tuor as he throws Ardaric a smile then exits left at a trot. Tuor heads for a large building near the gate. Camera pan to Dengizich as he leads a group of large slaves toward the gate. Like Tuor, the slaves are all ragged and barefoot in the cold. The Easterlings have warm clothing and good boots.Camera shift to gate as Tuor approaches it, carrying ten large wood axes. He is having trouble carrying so many, but he reaches the gate before Dengizich can lead the rest of the slaves to it. Dengizich glares.]
Dengizich: [barks orders harshly] Each of you take an axe. We will cut trees until dark, limb them, and prepare them for use. Tomorrow we will haul the trees we fell today. Get moving, you useless scum!
[The gate is hauled open, and all exit. Tuor carries his axe over his shoulder, and falls into line with the other slaves. The guards flank the slaves, watchful. Camera follows as they head for the woods. When they reach the woods, the Slaves immediately begin chopping trees while Dengizich and the guards supervise.
Trees begin to fall. Some slaves work to limb and strip the bark from the fallen trees, while others move further into the forest to continue cutting. This splits the guards, with two moving into the forest to try and keep track of the wood cutters while Dengizich and the remaining guard stay to monitor the slaves who are liming the logs.
Camera focus on Tuor as he moves through the trees. Dark clouds gather overhead. Tuor pauses beside a large tree next to a stream. He sets his axe for a swing, then glances about. The nearest guard has his back to Tuor, while the other is too far away to notice much. A tree falls with a loud cracking and crashing, and Tuor seizes his chance. He darts across the stream, with the splash covered by the crashing and cracking of the tree. The brush closes around him, and in an instant it looks as if he was never there.
Camera shift to Tuor, crouching in the brush. The axe is still in his hands, held defensively. Camera shift to Tuor’s line of sight. The guards are focused on the fallen tree and a second tree that is coming down. One of the guards turns as the tree falls, and notices that Tuor is gone. Guard shouts, and other Guards respond. Camera cut to Tuor, who freezes as Guards begin to search for him. Guards beat the brush with whips, startling birds and small animals. Dengizich looks enraged. ]
Dengizich: [furious, to Guards] Get the rest of these vermin back! We will return with dogs and search for him!
[Guards drive the rest of the Slaves off lower right. Dengizich glares at the brush one last time before following. Tuor rises, steps from the bushes, and exits upper left, moving quickly. Camera follows Tuor as he runs through brush.
Branches slap his face leaving bloody scratches; the ground climbs and falls beneath him, sharp rocks cut into his feet, and roots and stumps appear to throw him to the ground in spite. Time and again Tuor gets up and runs and runs. His breath frosts as he moves, and before long the sweat on his body is steaming in the cold. Tuor stops, exhausted and shivering. We hear hounds screen right.]
Tuor: [whisper, to himself] Oh, good friends! You will betray me unknowing.
[Camera shift right. Hounds dash through the forest, tracking Tuor and baying all the while. Easterling Guards on horseback follow.
Camera cut to Tuor, running through the forest again. Hounds catch up to him, wagging and jumping on him. They think this is a game. The Hounds knock Tuor down and close on him, licking his face and hands. Tuor pets them affectionately.
Easterling Guard crashes through the brush on horseback, wielding a vicious whip. He begins whipping the Hounds, who yelp with pain. Tuor rises, axe in hand.]
Guard: [to Hounds] You cornered the prey…. Now seize him! Hold him! [flicks whip at a large shaggy Hound. Hound yelps and looks confused.] Hold him! [Guard dismounts, pulls a rope from his saddle, and advances. Hounds close around Tuor. Clouds darken overhead and low thunder rumbles as Guard advances. Camera shift to Hounds, who do not move away from Tuor and block Guard’s path. Guard raises his whip with a vicious glare.]
Tuor: [firmly] If you strike them again, I will kill you.
Guard: Shut your mouth, you filthy scum… [Guard lashes the Hounds one more time. Tuor charges, swinging the axe. Guard twists his whip in the air, reaching for Tuor. Tuor throws himself to the side, rolling onto his knees as the whip cracks above his head.. Hr rears back up, lunging for the guard with his axe which strikes Guard’s throat, slicing through to the spine. Guard’s hat rolls away as he falls, gurgling. Blood pours out of the wound. Hounds back away from the body.
Camera focus on Tuor, standing over Guard and retrieving his axe. A rough coated dark hound approaches and sits beside Tuor, with the Guard’s hat in his mouth. When Tuor does not notice him, the Hound nudges Tuor with the hat. Tuor takes the hat, pats Hound, and smiles as he puts the hat on.]
Tuor: You are right, my friend. I need a thicker coat with the snow coming, and this fool has provided me with much that I can use. [serious] Now, you must leave me. Go! Do not give me away, but fly home and stay with Ardaric. He needs you more than I.
[Hounds do not move as Tuor strips the Guard. Thunder rumbles again. We hear horses moving closer, and other Guards shouting for the one Tuor killed. Snow begins to fall. Tuor glances up at the sky and groans to himself] Just what I do not need. This snow will reveal my tracks like a blazed trail. Do the Valar hate me too?
[Lightning strikes a tree near Tuor. Thunder rumbles, and lightning strikes again near the same spot. Hounds yelp and exit right, except for the shaggy brown one and the large dark one that brought the hat. These move closer to Tuor.
Camera shift to Easterlings. Horses are panicked by the lightning. Hounds enter, fleeing, from middle left of screen and exit right. Easterlings wrench their horses around and follow Hounds, just as terrified. Camera shift to Tuor, now dressed in the dead Guard’s clothing. Tuor examines Guard’s knife, slips it back into the sheath at his waist, and lifts his axe. Tuor turns to left, then glances at the two Hounds.]
Tuor: [sighs] Well, if you are bound to stay with me I cannot say I mind the company. Let us find some place to wait out this storm. [Tuor exits left, and Hounds follow. Camera pull back as snow continues to fall. We see Tuor and Hounds, small and distant as they move through the woods.]
* * * * *
[Camera pan over forest in Dor-lómin. Camera focus on Tuor, with snow settling on his shoulders and head. Both Hounds flank him, but their tails are down and they look anxious. Tuor glances at the sky, Camera follows. Snow falls thickly.
Camera shift down as something stirs the brush screen left. Tuor turns toward the noise. The snow seems less heavy to the left, as if a door was opening. Tuor pulls the dead Guard’s cloak more tightly around his shoulders and heads left, with the Hounds beside him. Camera follows.
Camera pan forward into a low opening in the side of a hill. Tuor has to duck low and enter sideways, as the opening is narrow. Hounds push forward and enter one at a time. Camera follow Tuor into a spacious Cave. The Cave is lit softly by luminous lichens growing on the walls. Water seeps from one side, dripping from several stalactites into a pool. Tuor’s breath and Hounds’ breath no longer fogs inside the Cave. Hounds go to the pool, sniff the water, and drink heartily. Tuor kneels beside the pool, cups his hand, sniffs the water, and finally tastes it.]
Tuor: [to Hounds] It is fresh. There must be a spring in those rocks. At least we will not die of thirst. [Tuor drinks deeply. Then he rises, brushes his hands on his clothes, and turns to explore the cave. Camera follows. Hounds lay down in a dry corner, apparently satisfied that the cave is safe. Tuor sighs and joins them, stretching his legs out and wrapping himself in the cloak. Hounds press close to him. Tuor pets them, relaxing at last. Camera cut.]
*
[Camera cut to Tuor’s cave, later. A fire is lit near the entrance, burned to coals. Tuor stands near the fire, sharpening a wooden spear with the knife he took from the Guard. Several more spears lay in the fire to harden. Tuor changes spears, hones the new one. Hounds lay near the fire, watching him. Behind Tuor, we see two piles of pine boughs, obviously beds.]
Tuor: Tomorrow we will find something to eat. I promise, we will not sleep hungry another night. [Camera pull back as Tuor and Hounds settle in. Camera fade.]
*
[Camera cut to snowy forest. Camera focus on a large rabbit, sinking slightly as it moves through the snow. Camera shift to Tuor, hiding in brush, spear in hand. Camera shift to rabbit, who stops to pull some ferns from the snow. Tuor rises, throws spear.
Camera cut to Tuor, pulling the rabbit from the spear. Two more rabbits are tucked into his belt. Hounds watch eagerly.]
*
[Camera cut to Tuor’s cave, some months later.. Hounds are curled on one pile of branches, asleep. Tuor sits on the other pile, now covered in skins, half asleep. A small fire burns brightly near the front of the Cave, and wind howls outside. Tuor’s hair and beard are tangled, and some of his clothing has been replaced with rabbit and deer skins. Camera focus on Tuor, as the shadows dance on the wall of the cave. Screen dissolves into his memories of sitting around a fire like this one back in Androth with his foster parents. Enelyë & Annael’s faces float before Tuor’s eyes as he remembers snatches of the conversation.]
Enelyë: ...if the might of the Eldar cannot hold back the fires of Angband, how might you, son of Huor? ...
Annael: ...Far hence, I deem, your doom lies Tuor...
Tuor: …how shall we escape the net of our enemies? ...
Annael: …we shall come to the secret way which we call the Gate of the Noldor ...
Enelyë: ...there we will pass safely into the lands of our kin….
[Outside, the wind moans as it swirls through the trees. Faintly we hear “Tuor… Tuor.” Tuor lifts his head, sleepy yet startled,]
Wind: [with Annael’s voice] Tuor….look to the spring…
Tuor: Ada? [shakes head, settles back. Camera fade.]
*
[Camera focus on Tuor, standing outside his Cave. He wears a long cap made of rabbit skins, and a deer’s hide for a tunic. More skins are stitched together to make trousers. He now has a full beard, and his hair falls below his shoulders in a tangled mass. Water drips from every branch and a lump of snow falls heavily. Tuor glances around, then up at the clear sky. Hounds whine.]
Tuor: Winter is passing fast. Lorgan will think to hunt for us again all too soon. We must move on… [Hounds seem pleased as he pats them. Camera pull back as Tuor exits, focus on melting snow. Camera fade out.]
* * * * *
[Fade into scene of Tuor walking west, following various streams, then turning away as they lead to dead-ends or turn eastwards. Mournful and exhausted, Tuor sits on a rock by a cave entrance, a small spring trickling forth from below the rock. As Tuor sits in despair, his head lowered. The spring begins to bubble and and overflow into a rill that runs noisily down the hillside. Tuor takes this as a sign and jumps up to follow it. For three days he follows the spring [condense this with brief clips of the stream growing as Tuor passes from the hills of Mithrim into the northern plain of Dor-lómin, westward to towards the ridge of the Ered Lómin which fences the coastlands from the interior. At dusk on the third day the stream runs down into a cloven bed and finally flows through an opening in a great wall of rock and is seemingly lost beneath the arch. Disheartened, Tuor makes camp and lights a fire, keeping watch among the rocks on the bank of the stream through the night. Fade.]
* * * * *
There is magic in long-distance friendships. They let you relate to other human beings in a way that goes beyond being physically together and is often more profound.
~Diana Cortes
~Diana Cortes
[Fade into scene of Tuor lying asleep on the bank as the sun dawns pale in the mists. He is awakened by the sound of voices. He sits up and looks down in amazement on two Elves, clad in bright mail under grey cloaks, wading in the shallow water of the steam As he watches the Elves climb up steps hewn in the bank which he had not seen the previous evening. Tuor stands up and calls to them, the hounds alert by his heels. At once the Elves draw their swords and spring towards him. The hounds immediately stand protectively round Tuor, growling softly. Tuor stands to his full height, unflinching, and when the Elves see that he has no weapon drawn, they sheath their swords also. Standing the hounds down, Tuor greets the Elves courteously in Sindarin. The conversation is subtitled..]
Gelmir: Do my eyes belie me, Arminas? Is this not one of the Edain of old that dwelt in these lands ere the Nirnaeth?
Arminas: Aye. Surely this is a man of the House of Hador. Is not his hair yellow as spun gold?
Tuor: [bows. Switches to Common tongue:] I am Tuor, son of Huor, son of Galdor, son of Hador.
Arminas: Gelmir and Arminas are we, of Angrod’s people. We thought that the House of Hador was utterly destroyed. How do you come to be here?
Tuor: I desire to leave this land where I am outlawed and kinless.
Gelmir : Then if you would escape and find the havens in the South, already your feet have been guided on the right road.
Tuor: So I thought, for I followed a sudden spring of water in the hills until it joined this treacherous stream. But now I know not where to turn for it has gone into darkness.
Arminas: [cryptically] Ah, but through darkness one may come to the light!
Tuor: Yet one will walk under the Sun while one may…but since you are of that people, tell me where lies the Gate of the Noldor, for I have sought it long, ever since Annael my foster-father of the Grey-Elves spoke of it to me.
Gelmir: The Annon-in-Gelydh? [laughing] Your search is ended. We have just come up from the gate. [Points behind to opening] There it stands before you. Come now! We will set you on your road, but cannot guide you far. For we are sent back to the lands we fled upon an urgent errand. But fear not. A great doom is written upon your brow, and it shall lead you far from these lands, far indeed from Middle-earth, as I guess. [Tuor follows the Elves down the steps and wades into the cold water. The hounds bound happily after them, tails wagging. They pass under the arch of stone and into the shadow beyond. Arminas brings forth a lantern containing a white crystal within which burns a blue flame.]
Arminas: Come, Huor’s son, this lantern shall light our path. It comes from Valinor, imbued with the light of the stars of Varda, and shall not go out. [He holds it up above his head. Camera pans round and shows the stream unning suddenly down a smooth slope into a great tunnel, bside which are long flights of steps leading on and downward into a deep gloom beyond the beam of the lamp. Gelmir nods and the three begin walking down the steps. When the reach the bottom of the stairs and the foot of the rapids, Tuor finds himself beneath a great dome of rock. There the water rushes over a steep fall that echoes in the vault. Before passing on again beneath another arch into a further tunnel. Here Gelmir and Arminas halt.]
Arminas: At the end of this tunnel is the Cirith Ninniach, the Rainbow Cleft which leads down to the Sea. Straight is your course; just follow the ravine. If you wish to find the Havens, your journey must be long, but continue south along the shoreline, and you will find it eventually.
Gelmir: Now we must return and go our ways with all speed, for matters of great peril are moving in Beleriand.
Tuor: [inquisitively] Is then the hour come when Turgon shall come forth?
Gelmir: [surprised] What would a son of Men know of Turgon and the Hidden City?
Tuor: Little, save that my father died to save him and his people at the Battle of the Nirnaeth, and that his hidden stronghold is the last hope for Beleriand against Morgoth. Ever the name of Gondolin stirs my heart. Perhaps one day I shall find it.
Arminas: Who shall say? The ways are hidden: I, too, have sought it long and yet never found it. There are no Men who know this. Only the few messengers of Turgon that come forth from the Mountains have this knowledge, and they will tell no-one, for fear that Morgoth will learn.
Gelmir: Yet I have heard that your House has the favour of the Lord of Waters. And if his counsels lead you to Turgon, then surely you will come to him, wherever you turn. Follow the road placed before you, and fear not, for you shall not long walk in the darkness.
Arminas: Farewell! And think not that our meeting was by chance; The Dweller in the Deep moves many things in this land still. May we meet again in a happier hour. Anar kaluva tielyanna [Quenya, subtitled: May the Sun shine upon your path!]
[The two Elves depart back through the tunnel. The hounds whine softly. Tuor stands silent, watching until the light of their lamp is lost. Left alone in pitch black he takes a deep breath and puts out a hand to the rock-wall on his left and tentatively starts to make his way along the passage beside the falls. After a long while he spots a light up ahead, which opens into a tall, narrow cleft. It is the ravine between the tall sheer sides of which the stream hastens on a course directly west into the setting sun. The golden evening sun shines into the ravine and kindled the sheer walls with yellow fire, causing the waters to glitter like gold as they break and foam on the many stones of the rocky bed.
Suddenly Tuor stops, and cocks his head a he hears seagulls now far ahead. With a light in his eyes he moves forward again, straining to catch a glimpse of the gulls above the narrow ravine. Eventually the ravine widens out and the walls lower as the river runs deeper and more strongly. We see glimpses of green hills on either side, and every now and then tributaries run down from them, splashing into the Cirith Ninniach over shimmering falls. Then looking up Tuor beholds three white gulls flying overhead; they beat down the ravine against the westerly wind and as they pass over him they wail aloud, their mournful cry speaking to his heart:]
Tuor: [to the hounds] What beautiful white birds!
[The hounds bark loudly and dart forward after the birds. Following the flight of the birds Tuor climbs up the cliff on his left hand until he reaches the top where the westerly wind rushes up and over him, stealing his breath and causing his hair to stream out behind him. He continues on in the direction the gulls have taken, this time above the ravine. Looking down he sees that the side of the cleft have drawn together again, and he comes to a narrow channel filled with a great noise of water, for at this point the waters of the sea rush up to meet the running river, and striving for domination, the waters rise up in a wall of waves almost to the cliff-top. As Tuor watches, the river is thrust back, and the incoming tide sweeps roaring up the channel. Tuor realizes that if he had not climbed up after the gulls he would have been drowned in the river bed.
Dismayed by the fury of the waters, Tuor walks on, coming to the crest of the cliff-top as the sun is settings. Since the edge of the cliffs slopes up higher than the inland stretch, Tuor is unprepared for the sight that greets him: the Great Sea of Belegaer, of which the Elves sing but no man had yet seen. As the sun goes down below the horizon we see Tuor standing motionless with his arms outspread, the sea-longing in his heart. Fade.]
*
[Scene shifts to beach as night, we see Tuor sleeping beside a fire, a hound either side of him. The breakers roll gently up the shore. Camera cut away from behind Tuor’s head to gull on rock which seems to be observing him. Gull turns head and flies away. Cut.]
*
[Cut back to daytime. Camera pans along the shore and we see, scattered along the tall, sea-hewn cliffs, many coves and sheltered inlets, with beaches of white sand among the black gleaming rocks. In places there are winding stairs cut into the living stone, and by the water-edge we see a ruined quay, built of great blocks that were once hewn from the cliffs. Cut to Tuor sitting on the beach, preparing a fishing line. The hounds are some way off, chasing the breakers as they hit the shore. Tuor hears the rush and wine of great wings, and looking up he sees seven white swans flying in a swift wedge southward. Yet as they pass above him they suddenly wheel and sly down alighting with a great splash and churning of water. The hounds spot them and come running, barking for all they are worth. Tuor rises and calls to the swans but they beat their wings and cry harshly at him as if they are angry with him, then with a great noise they rise again from the water and fly so closely above his head that he feels the rush of their wings like a whistling wind. ~They wheel in a wide circle, ascending higher and head off south. Tuor immediately climbs up the cliff to the top and makes to follow the swans, perceiving that they are another sign from the Valar..
We see clips of Tuor following the swans further and further along the coast. The cliffs lowering as he progresses south. Ahead of him he sees a line of great hills that seem to march westwards, barring his way, and ending in a tall mountain that rises above a green headland that thrusts out into the sea. Tuor halts, dogs at heel, and as he stares across the distance the camera picks out the distant outline of a ruined citadel nestled beneath the mountain slopes. Eventually Tuor comes to the ruins of a lost road, and he passes amid green mounds and leaning stones as he enters the ruins of Vinyamar. Tuor looks up at the old hall and its high and windy court. He turns and looks out across the glitter of the unquiet waters to the end of sight. As he turns beck again he sees that the swans have alighted on the highest terrace. They stand before the west-door of the hall, beating their wings as though they are beckoning him to enter…
Tuor orders the hounds to stay and climbs up the wide stairs, half-hidden in thrift and campion. He passes under the lintel into the high-pillared hall of Turgon. It appears empty but for a high seat upon a dais at the eastern end. Tuor paces towards it, conscious of his footsteps echoing around the pillared aisles. As he approaches to stand before the great chair the sinking sun draws level with the high window under the gable at the westward end of the hall, and a shaft of light the wall in front of Tuor, glittering upon burnished metal. Looking up, Tuor is amazed to see hanging on the wall a long, tapering shield of blue set with the emblem of a white swan’s wing. Next to it a great silver hauberk, that appears untarnished. a helm and a long sword in a sheath.]
Tuor: [softly, in awe] Who can have left these here – and for whom? [considers] Yet have I not been led here by seven swans…? And indeed, the swan is the emblem of my foster-father’s people… [in a firm voice which rings in the rafters] By this token I will take these arms unto myself, and therefore upon myself whatsoever doom they bear.
[He lifts down the shield, finding it surprisingly light, and arrays himself in the hauberk, girding himself with the black sheath and belt of the long sword, which fastens with silver clasps. Finally he places the helm upon his head. He turns and strides forth from Turgon’s hall, standing upon the high terraces of Vinyamar in the red light of the sun, gazing westward. As he steps down from the doors, each of the swans plucks a great wing feather which they proffer before him, laying their long necks upon the stones before his feet. Tuor takes the seven feathers and sets them in the crest of his helm. The seven swans arise and fly away north into the sunset. Camera drops to show hounds dozing below in the last of the sun’s rays
Camera shifts to show Tuor walking down the steps to the beach in front of Vinyamar. Suddenly there is the sound of thunder out over the sea and Tuor turns to gaze out on the Ocean. Shift to view from behind Tuor. We see a great black cloud coming up over the horizon; the setting sun is like a smoky fire behind the cloud. A heavy wind comes forth from the sea, and in the distance a great wave rises, rolling towards the land. As the wave nears him Tuor sees that its green peaks seem to be enshrouded by mist. Suddenly it curls up and breaks, rushing forward in long arms of foam, and as it does a living shimmering form of water rises up like a mighty king: The figure wears a tall crown of silver over hair that appears as foam glimmering about his shoulders. The figure casts back his misty cloak to reveal a gleaming coat of mail seemingly made of fish-scales over a green kirtle constructed from fronds of seaweed. The figure strides slowly towards the land. Tuor drops to his knees in reverence and fear. Ulmo, Lord of the Waters stops in front of Tuor, still knee-deep in the waters]
Ulmo: Arise, Tuor, son of Huor! Fear not my wrath. I am him whom the Noldor name Ulmo, Lord of Waters, Vala of the Sea. Long ago I instructed the elf-lord Turgon to leave the arms thou now bearest in Vinyamar. Long have I called thee to this place, and time grows short, for Winter draws near, and thy journey will be hard. A great evil creeps on the Valley of Sirion, and already a host of foes have come between thee and thy goal.
Tuor: [stands, confused] What is my goal, Lord?
Ulmo: That which thy heart hath ever sought. To find Turgon, and look upon the hidden city. For this reason I have arrayed thee as my messenger. Now thou must pass under shadow and peril. Tarry no longer. Wilt thou take up my errand?
Tuor: [nods] I will, Lord.
Ulmo: [Brings forth a cloak of mist and shadow from under his own mantle.] Thou must under shadow pass through peril: wrap thyself therefore in this cloak and cast it never aside until thou come to thy journey’s end I will set words in thy mouth to say unto Turgon. Doom is strong, and the shadow of the Enemy lengthens. The Curse is close to fulfilment and all the works of the Noldor shall perish and every hope shall crumble but one, and that lieth in thee.
Tuor: Then shall Turgon not stand against Morgoth, as all the Eldar yet hope? I am willing to do as my father and stand by that king in his need, though I be of little avail, a mortal alone among so many valiant High Folk of the West.
Ulmo: Do not believe that thy one sword is not worth the sending. I send you not for thy valour alone, but to bring into the world a hope beyond thy sight…a light to pierce the darkness. [as he speaks the storm intenses, the wind increasing and the sky as black as coal. Ulmos’ hair and garments stream out behind him like a flying cloud.] Go now, lest the sea devour thee! From the wrath of Ossë I shall send you a guide, a mariner from the last ship to seek the West before the rising of the Star. Go now, back to the land! [there is a rumble of thunder and lightning flares over the sea. Ulmo appears among the broiling waters as a tower of silver flickering with darting flames…]
Tuor: [trembling] I go, Lord! Even though my heart now yearns rather to the Sea.
[Ulmo lifts a mighty horn to his lips and blows upon it a single great note, and Tuor flees from the fury of the sea, the wind driving him against the cliff, and bending him almost to his knees as he climbs up the high terraces and into the shelter of the dark and empty hall. Fade.]
End of Episode 1
*************************************************************
Some Season 6 cast portraits for the principle new characters, and those that might have grown/aged...
Gelmir: Do my eyes belie me, Arminas? Is this not one of the Edain of old that dwelt in these lands ere the Nirnaeth?
Arminas: Aye. Surely this is a man of the House of Hador. Is not his hair yellow as spun gold?
Tuor: [bows. Switches to Common tongue:] I am Tuor, son of Huor, son of Galdor, son of Hador.
Arminas: Gelmir and Arminas are we, of Angrod’s people. We thought that the House of Hador was utterly destroyed. How do you come to be here?
Tuor: I desire to leave this land where I am outlawed and kinless.
Gelmir : Then if you would escape and find the havens in the South, already your feet have been guided on the right road.
Tuor: So I thought, for I followed a sudden spring of water in the hills until it joined this treacherous stream. But now I know not where to turn for it has gone into darkness.
Arminas: [cryptically] Ah, but through darkness one may come to the light!
Tuor: Yet one will walk under the Sun while one may…but since you are of that people, tell me where lies the Gate of the Noldor, for I have sought it long, ever since Annael my foster-father of the Grey-Elves spoke of it to me.
Gelmir: The Annon-in-Gelydh? [laughing] Your search is ended. We have just come up from the gate. [Points behind to opening] There it stands before you. Come now! We will set you on your road, but cannot guide you far. For we are sent back to the lands we fled upon an urgent errand. But fear not. A great doom is written upon your brow, and it shall lead you far from these lands, far indeed from Middle-earth, as I guess. [Tuor follows the Elves down the steps and wades into the cold water. The hounds bound happily after them, tails wagging. They pass under the arch of stone and into the shadow beyond. Arminas brings forth a lantern containing a white crystal within which burns a blue flame.]
Arminas: Come, Huor’s son, this lantern shall light our path. It comes from Valinor, imbued with the light of the stars of Varda, and shall not go out. [He holds it up above his head. Camera pans round and shows the stream unning suddenly down a smooth slope into a great tunnel, bside which are long flights of steps leading on and downward into a deep gloom beyond the beam of the lamp. Gelmir nods and the three begin walking down the steps. When the reach the bottom of the stairs and the foot of the rapids, Tuor finds himself beneath a great dome of rock. There the water rushes over a steep fall that echoes in the vault. Before passing on again beneath another arch into a further tunnel. Here Gelmir and Arminas halt.]
Arminas: At the end of this tunnel is the Cirith Ninniach, the Rainbow Cleft which leads down to the Sea. Straight is your course; just follow the ravine. If you wish to find the Havens, your journey must be long, but continue south along the shoreline, and you will find it eventually.
Gelmir: Now we must return and go our ways with all speed, for matters of great peril are moving in Beleriand.
Tuor: [inquisitively] Is then the hour come when Turgon shall come forth?
Gelmir: [surprised] What would a son of Men know of Turgon and the Hidden City?
Tuor: Little, save that my father died to save him and his people at the Battle of the Nirnaeth, and that his hidden stronghold is the last hope for Beleriand against Morgoth. Ever the name of Gondolin stirs my heart. Perhaps one day I shall find it.
Arminas: Who shall say? The ways are hidden: I, too, have sought it long and yet never found it. There are no Men who know this. Only the few messengers of Turgon that come forth from the Mountains have this knowledge, and they will tell no-one, for fear that Morgoth will learn.
Gelmir: Yet I have heard that your House has the favour of the Lord of Waters. And if his counsels lead you to Turgon, then surely you will come to him, wherever you turn. Follow the road placed before you, and fear not, for you shall not long walk in the darkness.
Arminas: Farewell! And think not that our meeting was by chance; The Dweller in the Deep moves many things in this land still. May we meet again in a happier hour. Anar kaluva tielyanna [Quenya, subtitled: May the Sun shine upon your path!]
[The two Elves depart back through the tunnel. The hounds whine softly. Tuor stands silent, watching until the light of their lamp is lost. Left alone in pitch black he takes a deep breath and puts out a hand to the rock-wall on his left and tentatively starts to make his way along the passage beside the falls. After a long while he spots a light up ahead, which opens into a tall, narrow cleft. It is the ravine between the tall sheer sides of which the stream hastens on a course directly west into the setting sun. The golden evening sun shines into the ravine and kindled the sheer walls with yellow fire, causing the waters to glitter like gold as they break and foam on the many stones of the rocky bed.
Suddenly Tuor stops, and cocks his head a he hears seagulls now far ahead. With a light in his eyes he moves forward again, straining to catch a glimpse of the gulls above the narrow ravine. Eventually the ravine widens out and the walls lower as the river runs deeper and more strongly. We see glimpses of green hills on either side, and every now and then tributaries run down from them, splashing into the Cirith Ninniach over shimmering falls. Then looking up Tuor beholds three white gulls flying overhead; they beat down the ravine against the westerly wind and as they pass over him they wail aloud, their mournful cry speaking to his heart:]
Tuor: [to the hounds] What beautiful white birds!
[The hounds bark loudly and dart forward after the birds. Following the flight of the birds Tuor climbs up the cliff on his left hand until he reaches the top where the westerly wind rushes up and over him, stealing his breath and causing his hair to stream out behind him. He continues on in the direction the gulls have taken, this time above the ravine. Looking down he sees that the side of the cleft have drawn together again, and he comes to a narrow channel filled with a great noise of water, for at this point the waters of the sea rush up to meet the running river, and striving for domination, the waters rise up in a wall of waves almost to the cliff-top. As Tuor watches, the river is thrust back, and the incoming tide sweeps roaring up the channel. Tuor realizes that if he had not climbed up after the gulls he would have been drowned in the river bed.
Dismayed by the fury of the waters, Tuor walks on, coming to the crest of the cliff-top as the sun is settings. Since the edge of the cliffs slopes up higher than the inland stretch, Tuor is unprepared for the sight that greets him: the Great Sea of Belegaer, of which the Elves sing but no man had yet seen. As the sun goes down below the horizon we see Tuor standing motionless with his arms outspread, the sea-longing in his heart. Fade.]
*
[Scene shifts to beach as night, we see Tuor sleeping beside a fire, a hound either side of him. The breakers roll gently up the shore. Camera cut away from behind Tuor’s head to gull on rock which seems to be observing him. Gull turns head and flies away. Cut.]
*
[Cut back to daytime. Camera pans along the shore and we see, scattered along the tall, sea-hewn cliffs, many coves and sheltered inlets, with beaches of white sand among the black gleaming rocks. In places there are winding stairs cut into the living stone, and by the water-edge we see a ruined quay, built of great blocks that were once hewn from the cliffs. Cut to Tuor sitting on the beach, preparing a fishing line. The hounds are some way off, chasing the breakers as they hit the shore. Tuor hears the rush and wine of great wings, and looking up he sees seven white swans flying in a swift wedge southward. Yet as they pass above him they suddenly wheel and sly down alighting with a great splash and churning of water. The hounds spot them and come running, barking for all they are worth. Tuor rises and calls to the swans but they beat their wings and cry harshly at him as if they are angry with him, then with a great noise they rise again from the water and fly so closely above his head that he feels the rush of their wings like a whistling wind. ~They wheel in a wide circle, ascending higher and head off south. Tuor immediately climbs up the cliff to the top and makes to follow the swans, perceiving that they are another sign from the Valar..
We see clips of Tuor following the swans further and further along the coast. The cliffs lowering as he progresses south. Ahead of him he sees a line of great hills that seem to march westwards, barring his way, and ending in a tall mountain that rises above a green headland that thrusts out into the sea. Tuor halts, dogs at heel, and as he stares across the distance the camera picks out the distant outline of a ruined citadel nestled beneath the mountain slopes. Eventually Tuor comes to the ruins of a lost road, and he passes amid green mounds and leaning stones as he enters the ruins of Vinyamar. Tuor looks up at the old hall and its high and windy court. He turns and looks out across the glitter of the unquiet waters to the end of sight. As he turns beck again he sees that the swans have alighted on the highest terrace. They stand before the west-door of the hall, beating their wings as though they are beckoning him to enter…
Tuor orders the hounds to stay and climbs up the wide stairs, half-hidden in thrift and campion. He passes under the lintel into the high-pillared hall of Turgon. It appears empty but for a high seat upon a dais at the eastern end. Tuor paces towards it, conscious of his footsteps echoing around the pillared aisles. As he approaches to stand before the great chair the sinking sun draws level with the high window under the gable at the westward end of the hall, and a shaft of light the wall in front of Tuor, glittering upon burnished metal. Looking up, Tuor is amazed to see hanging on the wall a long, tapering shield of blue set with the emblem of a white swan’s wing. Next to it a great silver hauberk, that appears untarnished. a helm and a long sword in a sheath.]
Tuor: [softly, in awe] Who can have left these here – and for whom? [considers] Yet have I not been led here by seven swans…? And indeed, the swan is the emblem of my foster-father’s people… [in a firm voice which rings in the rafters] By this token I will take these arms unto myself, and therefore upon myself whatsoever doom they bear.
[He lifts down the shield, finding it surprisingly light, and arrays himself in the hauberk, girding himself with the black sheath and belt of the long sword, which fastens with silver clasps. Finally he places the helm upon his head. He turns and strides forth from Turgon’s hall, standing upon the high terraces of Vinyamar in the red light of the sun, gazing westward. As he steps down from the doors, each of the swans plucks a great wing feather which they proffer before him, laying their long necks upon the stones before his feet. Tuor takes the seven feathers and sets them in the crest of his helm. The seven swans arise and fly away north into the sunset. Camera drops to show hounds dozing below in the last of the sun’s rays
Camera shifts to show Tuor walking down the steps to the beach in front of Vinyamar. Suddenly there is the sound of thunder out over the sea and Tuor turns to gaze out on the Ocean. Shift to view from behind Tuor. We see a great black cloud coming up over the horizon; the setting sun is like a smoky fire behind the cloud. A heavy wind comes forth from the sea, and in the distance a great wave rises, rolling towards the land. As the wave nears him Tuor sees that its green peaks seem to be enshrouded by mist. Suddenly it curls up and breaks, rushing forward in long arms of foam, and as it does a living shimmering form of water rises up like a mighty king: The figure wears a tall crown of silver over hair that appears as foam glimmering about his shoulders. The figure casts back his misty cloak to reveal a gleaming coat of mail seemingly made of fish-scales over a green kirtle constructed from fronds of seaweed. The figure strides slowly towards the land. Tuor drops to his knees in reverence and fear. Ulmo, Lord of the Waters stops in front of Tuor, still knee-deep in the waters]
Ulmo: Arise, Tuor, son of Huor! Fear not my wrath. I am him whom the Noldor name Ulmo, Lord of Waters, Vala of the Sea. Long ago I instructed the elf-lord Turgon to leave the arms thou now bearest in Vinyamar. Long have I called thee to this place, and time grows short, for Winter draws near, and thy journey will be hard. A great evil creeps on the Valley of Sirion, and already a host of foes have come between thee and thy goal.
Tuor: [stands, confused] What is my goal, Lord?
Ulmo: That which thy heart hath ever sought. To find Turgon, and look upon the hidden city. For this reason I have arrayed thee as my messenger. Now thou must pass under shadow and peril. Tarry no longer. Wilt thou take up my errand?
Tuor: [nods] I will, Lord.
Ulmo: [Brings forth a cloak of mist and shadow from under his own mantle.] Thou must under shadow pass through peril: wrap thyself therefore in this cloak and cast it never aside until thou come to thy journey’s end I will set words in thy mouth to say unto Turgon. Doom is strong, and the shadow of the Enemy lengthens. The Curse is close to fulfilment and all the works of the Noldor shall perish and every hope shall crumble but one, and that lieth in thee.
Tuor: Then shall Turgon not stand against Morgoth, as all the Eldar yet hope? I am willing to do as my father and stand by that king in his need, though I be of little avail, a mortal alone among so many valiant High Folk of the West.
Ulmo: Do not believe that thy one sword is not worth the sending. I send you not for thy valour alone, but to bring into the world a hope beyond thy sight…a light to pierce the darkness. [as he speaks the storm intenses, the wind increasing and the sky as black as coal. Ulmos’ hair and garments stream out behind him like a flying cloud.] Go now, lest the sea devour thee! From the wrath of Ossë I shall send you a guide, a mariner from the last ship to seek the West before the rising of the Star. Go now, back to the land! [there is a rumble of thunder and lightning flares over the sea. Ulmo appears among the broiling waters as a tower of silver flickering with darting flames…]
Tuor: [trembling] I go, Lord! Even though my heart now yearns rather to the Sea.
[Ulmo lifts a mighty horn to his lips and blows upon it a single great note, and Tuor flees from the fury of the sea, the wind driving him against the cliff, and bending him almost to his knees as he climbs up the high terraces and into the shelter of the dark and empty hall. Fade.]
End of Episode 1
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Some Season 6 cast portraits for the principle new characters, and those that might have grown/aged...
There is magic in long-distance friendships. They let you relate to other human beings in a way that goes beyond being physically together and is often more profound.
~Diana Cortes
~Diana Cortes