The Waters of Memory
FYI re: the art - I know Gwindor is canonically one-handed, this image can be seen as artistic license or an AU where he either has both hands or uses a prosthetic [and quite frankly, I don't want someone with an amputee fetish rolling up on my DA asking me if I'll make them whatever]
Túrin did not speak.
Not when Gwindor found him staggering through the brush, blade slick with the blood of the one he had loved most. Not when Gwindor called his name, gently, again and again, as if he could will him back to himself.
Not even when he collapsed in the leaves, cradling Beleg’s body like a broken star.
He only wept — dry, heaving sobs that made no sound.
Gwindor buried Beleg beneath the trees with his own hands. Túrin would not help. Would not move. He knelt beside the grave for a night and a day, eyes empty, hands limp at his sides.
At last, Gwindor touched his shoulder and whispered, “There is a place. Come with me.”
Túrin followed.
He did not ask where, or why. He moved like a shadow that had forgotten how to cast light. Gwindor led him northward, through woods that sighed with early spring, through hills still silver with snowmelt. Once, he would have spoken of the trees, the birdsong, the way the sun broke through mist in shafts of gold.
But Túrin did not listen. So Gwindor said nothing.
After days of silent travel, they reached the edge of a high glade, nestled in the curve of the Ered Wethrin. And there, spilling from moss-clad cliffs, the waters of Ivrin leapt into the world — bright, pure, alive.
Gwindor paused at the edge of the pool. Mist rose around them, catching sunlight like spun glass. The water glittered as though a thousand stars had fallen in and never left.
“Ivrin,” Gwindor said softly. “Yavanna’s blessing to the wounded world.”
Túrin blinked, as if noticing the place for the first time. His lips parted, but no words came.
“Come,” Gwindor said.
He stepped into the shallows and waded toward a rock ledge where the waterfall met the pool. Golden motes shimmered in the spray. He turned, holding out a hand.
Túrin’s jaw clenched. For a long moment, he stood trembling on the bank, fists clenched at his sides. Then, as if something inside him cracked, he moved — stripping off tunic and boots with shaking fingers, stepping barefoot into the water.
It was cold. Clean. And with each step, it stole some of the poison from his bones.
When he reached the heart of the spring, he fell to his knees.
His scream was wordless — the first sound he’d made in days — raw and aching, torn from somewhere deeper than the wound.
“I killed him,” Túrin rasped, voice hoarse. “I killed him.”
Gwindor knelt beside him, silent.
“I thought he was the enemy. But it was him. It was Beleg.” Túrin’s hand gripped his chest like it hurt to breathe. “He found me. He loved me. And I—”
He could not finish.
Golden light rose from the pool around him, curling over his skin like smoke made of stars. The water glowed where it touched him. Gwindor placed a steadying hand on his back, and Túrin crumpled forward, sobbing.
“They never knew,” Túrin choked. “We hid it. We had to. But he was mine, Gwindor. And I—I was his.”
The Elf said nothing. Only let him cry.
And the water wept with him.
Time passed. Sunlight shifted. The falls roared on.
When Túrin finally lifted his head, the light in his eyes had changed. Still dimmed, still wounded, but no longer hollow.
He looked at Gwindor, and for the first time, truly saw him.
“Why did you bring me here?” he asked, voice rough.
Gwindor gazed at the pool. “Because I too have wandered lost in grief,” he said. “And this place reminded me that I still belonged to the world.”
Túrin bowed his head. “I’m not sure I do.”
“You do,” Gwindor said simply. “Because he loved you. And that does not die with him.”
The wind stirred. The mist glowed.
Túrin touched the water and whispered Beleg’s name.
And the Pool of Ivrin held it, gently — like a promise not to forget.
Not when Gwindor found him staggering through the brush, blade slick with the blood of the one he had loved most. Not when Gwindor called his name, gently, again and again, as if he could will him back to himself.
Not even when he collapsed in the leaves, cradling Beleg’s body like a broken star.
He only wept — dry, heaving sobs that made no sound.
Gwindor buried Beleg beneath the trees with his own hands. Túrin would not help. Would not move. He knelt beside the grave for a night and a day, eyes empty, hands limp at his sides.
At last, Gwindor touched his shoulder and whispered, “There is a place. Come with me.”
Túrin followed.
He did not ask where, or why. He moved like a shadow that had forgotten how to cast light. Gwindor led him northward, through woods that sighed with early spring, through hills still silver with snowmelt. Once, he would have spoken of the trees, the birdsong, the way the sun broke through mist in shafts of gold.
But Túrin did not listen. So Gwindor said nothing.
After days of silent travel, they reached the edge of a high glade, nestled in the curve of the Ered Wethrin. And there, spilling from moss-clad cliffs, the waters of Ivrin leapt into the world — bright, pure, alive.
Gwindor paused at the edge of the pool. Mist rose around them, catching sunlight like spun glass. The water glittered as though a thousand stars had fallen in and never left.
“Ivrin,” Gwindor said softly. “Yavanna’s blessing to the wounded world.”
Túrin blinked, as if noticing the place for the first time. His lips parted, but no words came.
“Come,” Gwindor said.
He stepped into the shallows and waded toward a rock ledge where the waterfall met the pool. Golden motes shimmered in the spray. He turned, holding out a hand.
Túrin’s jaw clenched. For a long moment, he stood trembling on the bank, fists clenched at his sides. Then, as if something inside him cracked, he moved — stripping off tunic and boots with shaking fingers, stepping barefoot into the water.
It was cold. Clean. And with each step, it stole some of the poison from his bones.
When he reached the heart of the spring, he fell to his knees.
His scream was wordless — the first sound he’d made in days — raw and aching, torn from somewhere deeper than the wound.
“I killed him,” Túrin rasped, voice hoarse. “I killed him.”
Gwindor knelt beside him, silent.
“I thought he was the enemy. But it was him. It was Beleg.” Túrin’s hand gripped his chest like it hurt to breathe. “He found me. He loved me. And I—”
He could not finish.
Golden light rose from the pool around him, curling over his skin like smoke made of stars. The water glowed where it touched him. Gwindor placed a steadying hand on his back, and Túrin crumpled forward, sobbing.
“They never knew,” Túrin choked. “We hid it. We had to. But he was mine, Gwindor. And I—I was his.”
The Elf said nothing. Only let him cry.
And the water wept with him.
Time passed. Sunlight shifted. The falls roared on.
When Túrin finally lifted his head, the light in his eyes had changed. Still dimmed, still wounded, but no longer hollow.
He looked at Gwindor, and for the first time, truly saw him.
“Why did you bring me here?” he asked, voice rough.
Gwindor gazed at the pool. “Because I too have wandered lost in grief,” he said. “And this place reminded me that I still belonged to the world.”
Túrin bowed his head. “I’m not sure I do.”
“You do,” Gwindor said simply. “Because he loved you. And that does not die with him.”
The wind stirred. The mist glowed.
Túrin touched the water and whispered Beleg’s name.
And the Pool of Ivrin held it, gently — like a promise not to forget.
