My poor friend, where are you? I have been searching for you long and hard, yet there is no sign of you anywhere. Your men are dead, those men who for your sake would have fought armies. I cannot bring them back to you, but maybe I can bring you back to Doriath, where you can rest and heal.
Gwindor shakes his head at me as I bend in the turf, searching for the sign of your boot. "Surely you know that he is dead to you? Beleg, if you find him, you will but share his fate. Stay, and return home. You and your friend shall not again meet."
I answer him absently, saying, "Turin is a true friend to me; were I in his place, think you that he would not do the same for me? I cannot leave him to die at the hands of orcs. You know the tortures that are in store for him; you yourself have experience of their cruelty."
He sighs, but seeks no longer to dissuade me. I return my attention to the tracks of the orcs. Wait, is that-yes, there is the imprint of your foot. No orc-claw made this mark. I am nearing you, my brother. Soon you will be free.
There! An orc-camp. For once, the sight of those ugly beasts brings joy to my weary heart. I know that I will find you soon, Turin.
Once again, Gwindor tells me that this is folly, but I shake my head. I will find you, and I will set you free. I must bring you home to Doriath. You would do no less for me, I know, and so I must save you even at the cost of my own life.
I care not for the consequences.
Yellow eyes watch me out of the darkness. A wolf-sentinel has found me.
Gently, so gently, I draw back my bow. Silently death finds the wolf before he can sound the alarm. That was the last one; the rest have all made of themselves targets for my arrows. I slip silently toward the center of the camp, where prisoners are kept. If these orcs hold true to form, that is where I will find you, Turin.
I am not disappointed, though I am sore grieved. What have they done to you, O Turin Turambar? You are so worn and tired, and they have dared to wound you! O, my poor friend, my poor brother. I must get you away from this dread place.
Anglachel is sharp, and he has never failed me. He cuts your bonds as though they were but threads, and I can lift you into my arms. I haven't time to deal with your chains; I cannot take any chances with your life. Gwindor helps me, and we slip out the way we came. Silently.
I heave a sigh of relief when we reach the far hill, from which I saw your captors. Now, I can take the leisure to cut your chains. I lift Anglachel, to cut your bonds and let you take back your dignity. Sad is it when a warrior is unable to carry his own weight, and you are warrior indeed.
Now your hands are free, and I turn my attention to your feet. But, ill chance seems to be on my hands this night, for the blade slips, and you have yet another wound, this one on your foot.
Your eyes open, and you rise with a cry of anger.
Anglachel is wrenched from my grasp, something strikes me in the chest, and I find myself on the ground, staring up at my best friend. Turin, Turin, do you know me not? Your eyes are filled with the light of madness.
You stand there for what seems like an eternity, but I know you will recognize me.
I gasp in shock and pain; you have thrust Anglachel through my chest. Lightning flashes, your eyes widen in disbelief, and you give a cry of horror. It rings in my ears, as the lightning's afterglow fades, and I am once again enveloped in darkness.
This darkness is different from the night, cold and deep. It is a darkness I have never seen before. And when the pain of the wound in my chest suddenly stops, I know that it is the darkness of death.