[Disclaimer: Much as I'd love it, Turin is not mine. Drat that Niniel. Gwindor isn't mine either, nor is poor Beleg (I wouldn't mind owning him, either. Yummy elf archer. I have unusual lust objects, don't I.)]
I stand over the body of my best friend in the world, weeping for what I've done. Beleg's eyes stare up at nothing, a look of confusion still frozen on his face. He is dead. My faithful friend is dead and I murdered him. I deserve to die a thousand times over for this alone.
Time passes. I cannot remember the last time I took any care of myself. Not the last time I ate, not the last time I drank, not the last time I bathed. I am a walking dead man.
A voice intrudes on me, calling my name again and again. I remember this voice. It belongs to . . . belongs to . . . I know who it belongs to, I do. I just cannot call up a name at the moment.
"Turin? Look into the water, Turin."
That is new. I had begun to think that the voice only knew how to say my name. I think it is my name. I am not certain of anything anymore.
"Look into the water, Turin. Look at yourself."
I am tired of the voice. I want it to go away; I want to sleep. It becomes a sing-song chant and the words blur together in my head. IwannasleepIwannasleepIwannasleep . . .
I rock back and forth. Part of me realizes that I am quite mad, but that is a very small part. If I am mad, I do not have to live with what I did.
What did I do? Something very bad, I think. Something terrible and awful and horrible and bad and I should be very ashamed. Only I cannot remember what terrible, awful, horrible, bad thing I did. So I am not ashamed. I was ashamed, once. I think.
"Turin." A hand touches my shoulder, hesitantly. I shrug it off. It returns and I let it rest. I do not really care.
"Turin, I know you are more than this. Beleg Cuthalion saw something in you. He died for you. I cannot believe that this foolish infant before me is the man Beleg gave everything for. Wake up!"
That was the most the voice has ever said to me. I almost understand. Almost. That name . . . I should know that name. Beleg . . . Who is Beleg?
"Beleg . . ." I slur.
"Yes, Beleg. Come, Turin. Remember. Remember who you were. Look into the water and see what you have become."
I lean over the bank, curious now. A man's face looks up at me. I watch it, fascinated. Is that me? He is gaunt and sad-looking. His hair is filthy and hangs in strings around that face I seem to recognize.
"Is that . . . me?"
I do not wish to look like that. I am dirty and ugly. I look like an Orc.
Orcs . . . Something I should remember about Orcs. Something important.
They killed all my men. All those men who looked to me to be wise and keep them alive. They are all dead. All of them.
They killed them and they tied me with their filthy ropes and loaded me with chains. They beat me and they spit on me and they starved me.
But someone came in the night and carried me away and cut the ropes and broke the chains. Beleg. Beleg saved me.
And I killed him.
"I killed him!" I dash my hand against my reflection, shattering the image and sending it away. I look up at the Elf.
"I killed Beleg. I took his sword and put it through his noble heart. Why did you not leave me to die?"
"Agarwaen. Son of Umarth. I am no longer Turin, son of Hurin and Morwen. That man is buried beside Beleg. Where he belongs."
Gwindor bows his head. "Agarwaen. Beleg knew he could die trying to save you. He accepted it. You should accept it as well."
"Beleg accepted that Orcs might slay him. But they did not. I did."
Truly, I am cursed.